#Through the storm God never leaves us... 😭

[kithtaehyung]

yoongi's interlude: fugue pt. ii (3tan) (m) | myg

title: yoongi’s interlude: fugue pt. ii (m) pairing: 3tan!yoongi x reader(f)  series: masterlist | three tangerines | fireworks | house party | basketball |  stay |  sidewalk talk | friends | dalo | like that | anytime | sundress season | yoongi’s interlude | forfeit | flutter | video call | busted | broken pt. 1 | broken pt. 2 | fugue pt. i rating/genre: m (18+) ; angst , smut ;  brother’s best friend au, implied age gap au summary: he would do anything for you, even if that means leaving your light... to venture into his dark. note: fugue—in music, a compositional procedure characterized by the systematic imitation of a principal theme in simultaneously sounding melodic lines ; a state or period of loss of awareness of one's identity, often coupled with flight from one's usual environment. note 2: if you haven’t read them or haven’t read them in awhile, i highly recommend rereading busted, broken pt 1, and broken pt 2 before diving into this one. note 3: yes. this is where i will hold hands. warnings: language, flashbacks, time skips, angst, heavy isolation, brain fog, fugue state experiences, ruined instrument, depression allusions, alcohol mentions and consumption, fight scenes, spice from yoongi’s pov????, trauma, bro is a real one, drugs mention/use, the demons are being fought y’all, among other things😔, blood, yoongi please get up😭😭, darkness, jimin being his ride or die self, surprise reader cameo?, anxiety, ptsd reflexes, the ex is getting screen time🚶‍♀️‍➡️, friendship is truly power, yoongi just needs a gd hug😭, dark thoughts, tension, the ending.. oh god the ending<33 ; nsfw warnings: under the cut! drop date: july 1st, 2025, 9:57pm est word count: 21.1k wtfffff

smut warnings: YOONGI SMUT POV!!!, ch*king, head/hair tugging, reader has a pain kink and yoongi knows it, penetr*tive s*x, chains but come on now, protective s*x, cowgirl, or*l (m/f rec), edg*ng a ha ha, thro*tf*cking, kissing :’))), kissing D:, hitting from the b b back, yoongi king of consent sheesh, multiple org*sms, spitting lmfao, sl*t/wh*re mentions, yoongi jfc lol, the aftercare y’all already know!!

“How do you even call this work? You don’t do shit!”

—

—

When you’re in the eye of a tempest, you don’t see the danger surrounding all sides. You feel the calm. The temporary peace—when really your mind is constantly on the run. 

But from the outside looking in, no one can reach you through the darkness. If they get too close, they risk getting hurt. Swept in the chaos and shut out from where you stand in false hope. 

They’ll scream for you to leave. Beg for you to run. But only you can make that choice once you have the chance to hear them. And why would you? If you don’t see any issue with what’s in front of your eyes? 

They will try, and try, and try. Their voices will run repetitive until distant. Pleas will fall on deafer and deafer ears. Try as they might to step into the rush of fury, they’ll only get pushed away because you can’t deal with the cacophony of disappointment. 

Pretty soon, nobody wants to brave that cyclone. Nobody will come save you from the wrath because all it does is make them burn. 

You’re happy, right? Why can’t they be happy you’re happy where you are? Safe. Comfortable, like you’ve never been before? They don’t see it like you do. They don’t understand what you have. 

Slowly but surely. One by one—even the best one. No one except your storm will be there beside you.

And when it abandons you to drown in the ocean it created?

Only then will you realize all your lifelines are long, long gone.

—

—

The sky is dark again.

From the dips of his sofa, Yoongi awakes to pitch black, watching the ceiling flash sinister grins with lightning white teeth.

Ah. Back to the beginning. 

Not that he’s surprised, of course. Everything always goes back to the way it was. Back to the way it’s supposed to be. Because it’s all he deserves. 

Right? 

When thunder crashes into the night, Yoongi flinches in knots, memories jagged at the edges piercing his head violent. 

You know not to—

—shitty day to—

Seriously?

—knew this would—

Prove it.

—only gonna end up alone. 

—

—

Thunder booms once more.

But Yoongi wakes in a memory.

“Why don’t you just stay?”

He looks to his side, seeing a face that has been with him for more days than anyone else’s lately. 

No one has ever asked him to stay. At least, not during the morning after when there’s not much left to talk about. With everyone else, it’s been a quick one in the nearest bathroom or him bouncing before the sun comes up. 

It’s his fault for sleeping this long. He should’ve at least gotten woken up by—

Thunder cracks outside, catching Yoongi’s attention before he finds himself still hesitating. “You sure?” 

“At least until the storm stops. Then you have to go.” 

A bit of morning attitude does feel nice. And at least he remembers her name. He should, though, since this is the fourth time he’s been over. 

“Uhm.” The only complication is that… Yoongi has a thing. A pretty important thing, since his friends are finally all in town again and planned to spend the day together. He’s surprised his phone isn’t blowing up right now, which is what he expected to be woken up by.

He shifts. Oh. It’s dead. 

Yoongi hears a snort behind him before an arm snakes around his bare torso. “It died a long time ago, you know.”

Interesting. “You didn’t charge it for me?”

Another smug laugh crawls along his spine. “I could’ve.” When the hand on his stomach slithers lower, Yoongi’s body responds on instinct, his eyes closing and his heart bumping just a bit louder. 

And he doesn’t yet know it. 

“But I wanted you all to myself.”

Yoongi turns. “Is that so?”

But this stormy day from years past is significant. 

Lashes bat at him with shimmering lust as he’s lured away from his still-uncharged phone. Away from his plans. Away from his awaiting, concerned as hell friends. “Find out for yourself.”

And Yoongi’s gone before the next groan of thunder ends its roar. “Fuckin’ plan on it.”

It’s not a cleanse. Not a relief.

But an omen. 

—

—

Time passes as he’s thrown back to the present.

But Yoongi doesn’t know how long it’s been. Hours? Days? …Weeks? 

It’s dark again. 

But his phone is alive. Barely there across the room, a light blue screen is all he can make out. Someone could be texting. Or calling. Or whatever else he’s gonna ignore. 

How did it get all the way over there?

Whatever. Not like he cares. He’s not gonna need it for awhile anyway. 

The last thing Yoongi remembers is clutching your words in his hands, but apparently Namjoon and Hoseok found him eerily sick. Practically kicked him out of the studio to force him to get better, not knowing how painfully ironic that would become.

The endless rot coaxed a slow descent into his warring mind, corroding from the inside. Seeping defeat along his veins. 

Pelts pelts pelts against the windows hit him like punches, weakening his resolve to even stay awake. It’s all too much. His brain is too battered and bruised to fight right now. 

So he plummets from the sofa back into the past. 

—

—

“That one looks like you.”

From a ways behind, Yoongi watches his younger self, seeing vibrant hair shaking in a laugh before sweeping his pensive gaze along the hazy, deep orange skyline. 

He remembers this hilltop, benches and trees overlooking the city life below. How can he forget when he passes it every time he goes to practice with the guys? Well, every time he went. He doesn’t think he’s gone anywhere in a minute. 

At least he’s observing this memory from a distance this time. Yoongi assumes this is his mind’s way of coping. Because reliving the memories from his own point of view was too much to bear. 

The air carried a certain hue of pink that day. And his hands can still recall the stickiness of the popsicle he held as stickier lips get caught in another kiss. 

Right. This is where it happened. Where Yoongi fell in love for the first time. 

At least, that’s what it felt like to him. He felt wanted for more than his body, understood on a level that no one else had before. Be it his yearning for companionship or for simply being needed, Yoongi felt something beat in his chest that day, spurning him to embrace new emotions never before experienced. 

But something feels off as he relives it on the sidelines. She says those words so differently than how he remembered before. 

“I love you.” 

Yoongi turns away before he can watch himself react. Because he doesn’t need to witness the light in those eyes, a light that would soon be squashed and smothered to the point of nothingness. 

Because in the end, it wasn’t love he received. Love doesn’t come with terms and conditions that don’t go both ways. Love doesn’t make someone second guess everything they’ve ever said and done. 

Love doesn’t make someone want to end it all. 

But what did he know back then? All he saw was someone making him feel good. Great, most of the time. What he didn’t think about, though, was why they were on the hilltop in the first place. 

Right now, that Yoongi doesn’t know about this girl skipping out on work to hang out with him. He doesn’t remember shirking responsibilities to meet her in her bed, caught in his feelings enough afterwards to blow his friends off yet again. 

How many times did he do that at this point? Were they already annoyed with him? Or was this when they started asking if they’d even get him back?

Sighing deep, Yoongi stuffs both hands in his hoodie as he watches another kiss unfold, grimacing at the way she tries her best to swallow him whole. Months down the line, she accomplishes that. He’ll feel trapped with no way out in no time. 

He needs to get out of this nightmare. The sunlight is fading and so is his control. 

Then he watches himself get up, begging to not get in that car. To not leave. To just run. 

Fuck, he wants to haul himself away with everything in his bones. The fact that he can’t stop any of this from happening is what hurts the most, feeling like he can save himself yet knowing it’s impossible. All he can do is watch. 

As she yanks on his younger arm to haul him back down to the bench, Yoongi flinches where he stands, triggered by all the times he tried to leave his own fucking place just to be guilt-tripped into staying. Every time. So many times so many times so many fucking times. 

Get out of here. Either version, get the fuck out of this timeline and into any other. He’s damn near ready to beg and sacrifice anything with a squeeze of his eyes. 

And when he opens them, Yoongi meets a different orange hue on his speckled ceiling, blinking before turning his head into a pillowcase that smells like… You. 

Thank fuck. 

Wait, how’d he get here? Wasn’t he just on the couch? Whatever. Doesn’t matter. 

Relieved, he burrows a cheek into your lingering presence, inhaling short to preserve the one thing that makes his apartment feel like a home. It’s such a comfort that he feels remorse in his chest, right before something leaks slow from his eye.

Even in your absence, you save him once again. There’s nothing Yoongi won’t give you when he gathers himself again, because you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to something good. 

Guess going back to sleep is not an option. Maybe he’ll finally try to work on some tracks again. 

—

—

A boom of thunder jolts him conscious, and Yoongi winces at the crick in his shoulder before grabbing it in a rub. What the hell? When did he fall asleep? 

Checking his dimmed screen, he squints when the brightness blooms and curses at the many, many, many errant notes displayed on his workspace. Because of fucking course he fell asleep on his keyboard. 

The instrument track is deleted without another thought. 

But after a brief stare, Yoongi undoes the action and goes to the very beginning of the timeline, just to see if he had an idea to start with before descending into a dreamless symphony. 

Nope. Delete.

Failure wisps down his chest before he rubs both eyes. This has got to be the most disjointed he’s ever felt. Yoongi doesn’t even know when he last ate something, much less spoken to somebody or taken a fucking shower. 

Disgusting. He needs to do that last one. It’s the only productive thing he does before falling face first into his bedsheets, wondering when he last washed them before succumbing to sleep again. 

—

—

��Wow, about time you finally brought her!” 

“Ah, yah, he’s back out from hiding!” 

Yoongi can visibly see his hand squeezed with apprehension, and he remembers nails digging into his skin hard enough to crunch his smile. 

Throughout the house, multiple people greet them both as they pass, and even Yoongi shifts as if he isn’t just a ghost of a bystander. 

This party. This night. This very house witnessed the moment when everything started going to absolute shit. 

For once, she agreed to come with him to a party. It wasn’t at Jimin’s, since she never wanted to be there—red flag stupidly ignored—but at another acquaintance’s across town. 

Yoongi was simply relieved, happy to be able to see everyone he cared about in one place. But it soon became harder and harder to hold conversations without being pulled somewhere else, being told to go elsewhere, feeling bad about not making it a good time for her. 

As his younger self follows her to a room upstairs, Yoongi prods his cheek. Because unlike sneaking around with your shy smile, this was to hash out a petty argument about nothing. Nothing. 

But he cared about her so much that he took the harsh statements behind closed doors. He listened as she expressed that she felt ignored the whole night. He hated himself for making her feel that way because that wasn’t his intent at all. 

Poised against the wall just outside the door, Yoongi hangs his head, hearing the same painful words from the other side and sending his past self all the love he didn’t have before. 

And he watches as the same door bursts open, his ex rushing for the stairs and his bright hair bolting after her.

Soon, he’ll chase her down the stairs, calmly try to reason with her but failing miserably. People will stare. People will talk. 

But they’d already be in a car and silently driving away. 

—

—

Another day. Another thunderstorm.

Somehow, Yoongi always ends up in his living room when this happens. Like his bedroom feels too sinister when it rains—unless you’re in there filling it with your sunshine. 

He hopes you still know how beautiful you are. How wonderful, how mesmerizing he finds you, no matter where in space and time he resides. Are you finding ways to be happy? Are you out there conquering whatever you want simply because you can? 

Can he send himself to your dreams instead? 

No. Even in dreams, he doesn’t deserve to see you right now. 

And there’s his same problem again. The shadow standing over him. Whether this is due to his past mistakes, or the darkness in his mind, Yoongi fully believes he isn’t yet worthy of your light. 

Besides. As he feels the guitar standing in its same place, he hears it speaking. Reminding him of all the things he’s done wrong. 

When lightning strikes, Yoongi counts the seconds. And four counts later, he flinches at the boom before blanking again. 

—

—

“Who’s that?”

“No one.” 

“You know not to tell me that. Who is it?” 

Ah. He knows why this memory is still taking up space in his mind. Yoongi takes a spot along the wall of her living room, remembering how clean it was and knowing that’s one of the reasons he liked her in the first place. 

Settled on the spotless couch, his younger self with undyed hair turns his head. “The studio guy I was talking to before. Wants to bring me in so I can see what’s up.” 

She gets up with a pout, “Awhh, does it have to be today?” 

He remembers being excited as hell for this. But no one would be able to tell based on his response, “Uhh, I think so. Is that okay?”

“Umm.. I mean, I guess.” 

Truthfully, there were many reasons Yoongi liked this girl. But there were also warning signs, and he must have ignored them in favor of bliss and companionship. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Walking up to his knees, she starts to mount his lap. And this is when Yoongi softly thumps his head back on the other side of the room. 

“I just wanted to hang out today.” 

“Well.. I practically live here now.” When he watches his younger hands skirt along her legs, no feeling rushes into his veins. It’s all evaporated. There’s nothing where everything used to be. “We can when I get back?”

“You don’t live here officially,” she tuts, slinging arms around his neck and bringing him into her chest. And again, his current self is repulsed. “Are you sure you need to go? What are you even gonna do?” 

She fucking knows what she’s doing. Red flags are everywhere for eyes unblinded by infatuation. 

“It’s not that I need to, but I really fucking want to. It sounds really sick and I think I can work there with them.”

“With who?” 

“The.. Studio guys?” 

This is more painful on the other side. 

Because that boy doesn’t know what’s coming. He doesn’t know the pain that will splay out from his inability to see what’s happening to him. Those arms will tighten and tighten around his neck in due time, suffocating like mad. 

But for now, she agrees to let him go, dismissive of the main reason and having ulterior motives. “Fine, but you’re bringing me back food.” 

“I got us,” he readily agrees. And Yoongi can just feel the rush in his chest. Incredible, considering he recalled zero emotion from her earlier touch. “Just let me know what you want.” 

This is when it hits again. This feeling in his gut is not because of the food they ate when he returned. But from preparing for what’s coming next. 

And he dreads the next time he can’t stay awake anymore. 

—

—

Yoongi eyes the molded tangerines in his bowl.

And his heart walks away before he does. 

—

—

Hail comes down in sheets as Yoongi watches himself haul ass to the apartment corridor. Right behind him, growls and angry yells erupt, “I told you it would be a shitty day to do this.”

“It’s my only day off,” he reiterates, steadying a box with the door as he jingles in the key. “Been busy as fuck lately.”

“At that studio again?” 

Waiting as they bustled inside an empty unit, Yoongi’s jaw locks right up. Right then and there he should’ve walked away from that dangerous precipice, new place be damned. So slippery with condescension. So littered with malice and passive aggression. 

But they both took that step from beyond the bounds of friends with benefits, and with those benefits also came the ones of his doubt. Because Yoongi dealt with the jabs. He could handle those, though he shuns his own naivety of liking instead of loathing them. How did he ever let himself be subtly shot down so many times?

It continued to happen all throughout the day. Even when they both waited out the hailstorm and came out to their cars dented to hell, all he’d really hear were complaints about his hobby—his hobby?—taking up so much time. 

It’s when they’re almost done that she drops a heavy hit, with Yoongi watching them from the hall. “Just think about it, okay? You’re spending all this time and money on it and aren’t really doing anything.”

Maddeningly, it’s hard to really tell someone a hobby is actually your entire life. Especially when you haven’t got anything to show for it other than a couple self-produced tracks and one producer credit on a local, aspiring singer’s album. Man, that guy was an asshole. He needed to learn how to move sessions along even with artists bickering the whole way or else—

“Are you even listening?”

“Sorry,” Yoongi mumbles, adjusting the moving box in his arms that’s holding a deconstructed bar cart. “Work shit again.”

“Seriously? Can you not for like two seconds? I just wanna get everything done with and shower. I feel gross.”

“You aren’t supposed to shower during a—”

“Don’t care! I do not care. Let lightning strike me the fuck down while I scrub my asshole.”

Yoongi snorts as he struggles to open his door once again, noting in the far, far back of his mind that the person with a free hand could’ve held it open but didn’t. That should’ve told him enough. But of course, he gave her everything, including way too many chances to redeem herself. 

As they stumble inside, Yoongi follows, remembering how, despite moving someone in, he felt so… Alone. 

His music equipment gets shoved over for more desk space; his shoe collection stuffed in cramped spaces to make room for smaller kicks; his kitchen groaning with boxes and bins with no organization that was slowly but painfully driving him up and through the nearest wall.

Watching this dreary day play out from a distance, Yoongi observes his younger self with abject misery, sweeping his gaze across a cluttered living room and noting the obvious slump in his shoulders. Shoulders that bore the weight of his brash decision of a relationship. 

What were his friends doing that day? Were they watching a basketball game together? He remembers it was the end of the season, so a lot of them were gathering for watch parties and cook-outs. Get togethers he had turned down for weeks in order to spend time with her. 

If only he had asked himself one question. One question should’ve been enough to tell him everything he needed to know.

If he ever had the chance to tell his younger self not to get hung up on one mistake in his life, he would pick this one. Because this one fuck-up set him back years, and became the first splotch of grey in his shrinking, shrinking universe. One question he could’ve asked himself. One answer he could’ve gotten to immediately. 

Why didn’t anyone help him move her in.

—

—

There’s nothing in the fridge Yoongi can eat. And there’s a severe lack of food in his pantry, even though he remembers it being stocked but not taking any of it out. So for the first time in awhile, he forces himself to go outside for sustenance. 

Yoongi shuts his door before locking it, also noting that very empty bowls lie next to his shoes. 

“Oh! There you are.” 

Who the fuck? Who’s even out at this hour? Sluggish, Yoongi turns, noticing the elder lady next door watering the plants along her welcome mat. What was her name again? He thinks it starts with a vowel. But when he tries to answer with a hello, his voice cracks and dies on his tongue. 

Holy shit, when’s the last time he’s even spoken? 

“You okay, sugar? I haven’t seen or heard you in a long time.” 

Wait. Even the neighbors are getting nosy now? How long has he been away from the world? Attempting speech again, Yoongi swallows before rasping out, “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Don’t lie to me, boy. Where’s that nice girl that’s been coming over?” 

Oh. He thinks that’s a pulse in his chest before he answers, “At her place.” Where you need to stay. Far, far away from him.

“Oh… Well, I hope she comes back over soon.” She sets her watering pail on the windowsill. “You two have the best time when she’s here. Hah! Those laughs I hear when I don’t have my dramas playing.. You two give an old lady hope.” 

…What? Yoongi can’t even form a coherent thought. 

Did… Did you really make his laughs so hard his walls couldn’t contain them? The concept seems so obvious yet so foreign, because he can’t even recall the last time he used muscles in his face to smile. Let alone expel joy. 

Suddenly, he sees rain on a cloudless night. Where is he? He doesn’t even fucking know anymore. 

“I’ll be waiting,” the lady continues, breaking through his haze again. “You look like you’re about to tell me something. But I know you aren’t done with her yet.” 

Closing his mouth, Yoongi blinks before nodding his tired head. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Good! And tell her Miss Dion says hello, okay?” 

Yoongi hasn’t spoken to you in awhile now. But he doesn’t have the heart to tell her that. “Yes, ma’am.” 

—

—

This memory doesn’t reveal much other than onyx static. But it morphs and twists until it sprouts edges, and it sends him into shakes. Fuck. This is the night he always dreads. The night that transcends time, showing itself like a specter no matter the time of day. The night he said those three words that have him fucking tethered to his living room corner. 

The night of his twenty-first. 

It happened all those years ago, with only the two of them because she wanted it to be special and waved off his desire to have his friends there. For a milestone that should have been celebrated with whoever he fucking wanted. 

And he remembers being completely fine with the isolation. Because despite all the studio shade, all the music dismissal… She got him a brand new guitar. A real one. Not just some rented instrument he had to keep returning, but a true, beautiful black guitar. 

She got it for him because music was his hobby. His hobby. 

Not his life, not his dream career. But a hobby. The gift was laced with malicious intent and he didn’t see it until months later. When everything was becoming crystal clear and frightening. 

Yoongi wedges himself in the corner so strongly he can actually feel the scrap of his walls, watching with short breaths as his younger, ignorant self takes it from its case with admiration. Breathe. This isn’t real anymore. Fucking breathe. 

He will always hate this memory. He wants it to burn, to break, to shatter into pieces just so he can’t witness it any longer. But it’s always there. Taunting him when he’s close to healing, whipping around his arms when he’s close to feeling okay again. You’ve done every fucking thing you could, but even you aren’t strong enough to fight this one for him. 

Only he can conquer this. And he’s only succeeding in failing. 

Yoongi’s head drops when he hears himself say those three little words again, eyes pinching tight at the reaction he gets back. 

“You got there,” she says through manufactured tears. “I knew this would do it.” 

Get him the fuck where? Hell? The abyss? In the middle of the fucking ocean? 

Hair slides in front of his eyes as he has to hear her cry again, feeling his heart sag knowing he’s tugging her in for a hug. “And I’m there forever,” he mouths along with his past self. 

Her grin is still piercing. Sharp. Striking. “Forever.” 

Get out. Get out, get out, get out. 

Forcing himself out of the nightmare, Yoongi shoots from his bed, unsurprised his head is pulsing hard. 

Fuck this. He’s got to get out of here. Your house. Your bed. Your arms. God, the yearning for any of those claws at his chest and bangs against his ribcage. But the studio is his safest place that doesn’t have you in it. So he hastily grabs his keys, heading to the door to slip on his shoes. 

Aiming an offensive finger at the guitar in the corner. The same one that will be waiting for him when he returns. 

—

—

“You’re seeing someone else.” 

“What? Why would I be?” 

“You were seeing someone when you saw me.” 

Yoongi’s stomach lurches at this particular memory. Because hearing that accusation from her lips crushed his heart and slid it across their apartment floor. “First of all, that’s not what happened.” 

“Looked exactly like how it happened. And you won’t even admit it.” 

If she was willing to be down with that, then she was no better. But why would she ever put herself in the wrong? Her aversion to ownership was something else. 

Yoongi watches from the kitchen this time as she taps her utensils on the table. At least she’s not digging lines in it this time. His words across the wooden surface sound completely unlike her ire, “I said I wasn’t good for her. And I left before we got serious.” 

“Well why aren’t you serious about us now?” 

That was a goddamn stretch and they both knew it. It took everything to not slam on the gas, crashing into the window next to his shoulder. “What makes you say that?”

“You don’t make time for me anymore.” 

Because no matter how upset he got, Yoongi could never find it in him to shout. That was her thing. He vowed to never make it his. Explaining soft, he moves food around his plate. “It’s the only time that studio space is free. And I picked that place because it’s the closest one, like you asked.” 

“You’re so cheap.” Both versions of himself feel the same deep pang. “But whatever. Why aren’t you answering my calls lately?” 

When he watches himself sigh, Yoongi flexes both hands at his sides. “Phones are out when we’re in there.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“Are you gonna believe anything that I say?” 

“I’ll believe it when you actually make time.” Every memory seems to be harder to watch than the last. 

“Okay,” his younger self relents, knowing this is how all the arguments end. “I’ll try. But I’m making progress so as soon as I’m done with this mix—” 

She laughs while slamming the utensils down, the dining table screaming in pain. “Of course!” 

“Of course what?” 

“Another excuse, Yoongi,” she grits out, leaning back to fold angry arms. “You don’t even bring that guitar with you, either.” 

“Cus it’s staying here.” 

The way she could slip between the monster and the victim makes him squirm. Her eyes grow wide, brows creasing with a practiced pleading that makes him grimace. “Why? You don’t like it?” 

“I don’t wanna break your gift.” 

“Oh.” 

He holds his hand out, and Yoongi slides his jaw knowing what he does here. Taking her by the hands, the younger him offers a moment of peace, “You really think I’m not in this for real?” 

“It’s more like.. I feel like I’m competing with your job and your.. thing. And losing.” 

His thing. Yoongi loves his thing. He is genuinely enjoying creating and analyzing and experiencing music that he can’t wait to go back. It’s all he can think about when he sleeps, when he wakes. But now he feels bad because he may need to do it less to spend time with her. “I’ll prove it.” 

“Prove what?” 

“That you aren’t.” 

“Okay,” she sighs, gripping his hands. “You better.”

Voices that aren’t his or hers leak into his slumber. And the memory starts to fade into dust on his tongue.

“Let him sleep.” 

“He’s gonna wake up as soon as we start anyway.” 

“Why’d he sleep in here and not the back room?” 

Yoongi slowly opens his eyes, blinking away sleep as blurred shapes come into focus. Mm. He made it to the studio. And he’s definitely on the couch, based on the awkward slant of his back. Lolling his head sideways, he watches all three of his coworkers bustle around the console, flipping on different switches and wincing at the loud hum of the CPU. When Hoseok glances back to see his eyes in squints, he tuts to the others, 

“Ah, see? He’s already awake.” 

“Mmph,” Yoongi grunts out as they all turn, struggling to a sitting position and kneading his eyes. “Don’t wait, I’ll get up now.” 

“When’d you get here?” Jungkook suddenly asks, his bright hair flopping as he pulls off his jacket. “You finally feel better?” 

“Awhile ago,” he sleepily responds, a yawn swallowing his last syllable. “And yeah.” Joints popping at his upward rise, he grimaces while Namjoon cuts through the youngest one’s laughs, 

“I dunno about that, old man. Is it like that every morning?” 

Your favorite nickname for him echoes lovingly through his mind. Like a rush of water to soothe the burn of his terrors. “Pretty much.” 

Hobi can’t help but chuckle with a finger point, the company to his misery. “I’m getting like that, too. It’s only a matter of time for you, Joonie.” 

The tallest in the room sighs before everyone locks into work mode, “Looking forward to it.” 

— 

—

Ah. Back here this time? Looks like his younger self needed him to drop into this one, if only to give him support from another celestial plane. 

“How can you call this work? You don’t do shit!” 

“We’re working on a project—”

“We? Are you even on it?” 

The roll of his chair bumps into the bed frame behind him. “I’m… Making some of the decisions, but—”

“So you aren’t even in charge? What are you gonna get for this?” Not a lot. But his silence answers before he can give a true amount. “Exactly. So ridiculous, you need to get a real job that gives you real money to pay for all this shit.” 

Yoongi was doing just fine when it was just him. But taking care of someone that has a bit more refined taste, too? It’s draining him to the point of alarm. “We can cut our spending, too, you know.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“We don’t have to get food all the time. We can just cook here.” 

“But… Ugh, doing all that work just to eat and then clean?” 

Well. Yes. That’s the order of operations. From his leaned position in his bedroom doorway, Yoongi shakes his head. Even cooking was an issue? He did it all the time when he was alone. It’s not hard. What the hell did he get himself into? How did he not see any of this from the jump? 

“My uncle might be hiring. I can ask him to get you an interview or something, but you cannot fuck it up.” 

“Where at?” 

“Does it matter? It’s a job.” She sighs while sliding hair down her shoulder. Oh, how he’s been tricked by that move too many damn times. “It’s downtown.” 

Fuck. That’s way too far from the studio he’s working at. There’s no way he’d be able to work both… And she knows it. Goddamn. “You really want me to quit?” 

She gives him a look, and he can’t tell if she’s stricken or annoyed at the question. “I mean, not… Really. It’s just…” A sigh. “I’d rather you get a real job now and make music when you’re more stable.” 

Even now, Yoongi gets that. But at the same time, nothing else truly called to him. Music is his real job, the very thought of doing anything else makes him anxious. He doesn’t want to commit to anything that he’ll dread going to every fucking day of his life. But if that’s what she wants, he’ll at least try because he cares about her. Enough to lose a part of himself along the way? Guess so. 

Guess so. 

“Yoongi?” 

His head jolts from the memory as he’s positioned in the middle of a studio. The very current studio that’s only a few doors down from the job he ended up getting years ago. Several pairs of eyes are staring as he takes in his surroundings. Shit, when did he wander off? How did that even happen this time? Why is he looking at a very familiar band he’s listened to for years? 

“You okay, man?” One of them asks, a guy with such a relaxed look that just seeing him makes Yoongi’s shoulders loosen. “It’s just us, no need to be scared or anything.” 

“I dunno, Sammy, you look kinda rough around the edges in person.” 

“Do not?” 

Beside him, Hoseok claps Yoongi on the back, his grip both comforting and telling him to get it the fuck together. “He’s fine! We’ve just been busy, and this guy’s been working hard to get everything ready for you guys.” 

“Give him a sec,” Namjoon agrees, shaking all the band’s hands while Yoongi continues to buffer. “But yeah, we’ll give you a quick look inside and see if it works for you?” 

“Works for us,” Sammy agrees with a smile. “Lead the way.” 

All four members walk through the recording room door after Joon, thanking Jungkook for keeping it open before he heads inside, too. Leaving Yoongi with a very concerned Hobi, who turns to him with furrowed brows. “Hey, you good?”

“Yeah,” he finally forces out, throat scratched. Fuck. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

“If something’s up, tell us.” Hoseok watches the silent movements and conversations happening through the studio glass. “Your gut’s the one I trust the most.” 

Oh. Wait. That’s not nearly what Yoongi’s got on his mind. Even though he’s snuffed out flaky musicians and artists before today, that isn’t the current issue. That’s not what’s sticking to his mind like a parasite and feeding him random haunts from his past. “Nah, it’s not that. I’m just shocked they’re here.” 

“Right! When Jungkook said it’d be a surprise, he wasn’t kidding. I might damn near faint.” 

“Don’t do that just yet,” Yoongi warns. “We can’t have two of us out of it.” 

They both puff out laughs at his previous blanking. And they fall silent with folded arms when Woosung—Sammy—picks a guitar off the wall for hopeful inspection, nodding and smiling at a doe-eyed Jungkook. 

The kid knows how to develop connections, that’s for sure. He needs to start doing that, too. 

“But seriously…” Yoongi looks at Hoseok, met with a stare that he only gives when wanting nothing but the truth. “Anything bothering you? You looked… I don’t even know.” 

“I’ll be fine, Hob,” he breathes out in a sigh. “Just got some things on my mind.” 

The look keeps going, and going, and going. But there’s no more scrutiny when Hobi finally turns forward with an unconvincing, “Okay.” 

—

—

Embers crackle while sparks float to a darkened sky. Yoongi can still smell the metal of the train tracks, still feel the dirt under his shoes as he tips a bottle for another sip. 

A bunch of them were gathered that night. And he wasn’t gonna miss this no matter what, already expecting the onslaught of terror waiting and pacing the cage he calls his apartment. 

Since he got that job downtown, he’s been trying his best to do the work and head across town to the studio to finish things there. But that effort wasn’t taken pleasantly. Apparently, she wasn’t asking him to make music a hobby; she was telling him to give it up—for now, of course. Always for now. And he ended up leaving it far, far behind. 

After he gave that up, everything else followed. Every time he made plans to hang out, he got yanked back into the apartment, whether by a desperate arm or a scathing, manipulative scowl. His whole life was being stripped away. Nothing was his anymore. 

But this night? He finally got away. And Yoongi watches as his younger self faces the heavens with a wide smile. 

Your brother’s there, along with some friends he hadn’t seen in ages. Even a younger Jungkook tags along, watching as they push each other in abandoned shopping carts and fling random stones in open spaces. All of them in questionable fits, his hair as vibrant as a polarizing ice cream flavor, everything defines this pocket of time and no other. 

Watching them like this? Yoongi almost buckles from the pang of nostalgia seizing his chest, wrapping its roots around his heart in a bittersweet embrace. It reminds him of a balcony. It reminds him of you. 

This is the night he chose to not go home. Because his home is here with his friends.

Fuck everything. Fuck life. Fuck love. It was all he could say and express as all of them stuck middle fingers to the world, as if doing so would banish all the troubles in their lives. Every single conversation he had that night was cynical in a freeing way. Because nothing mattered. They were all infinite. Infinite and infinite. 

With each bottle chucked into a blazing fire, his eyes droop lower to the ground. Without much effort, his head lolls, mirroring a few others around him until they’re a heap of buzzed freedom and youth. And honestly, he doesn’t remember much beyond this. He doesn’t even remember who drove him back to your place. 

They were infinite—

A vacuum sucks Yoongi out of his dream so fast he flinches, muscles seizing and locking at hard angles. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck is happening? Focus on something, anything. Is this his room? Okay, he’s in his bed. 

Raking sweaty fingers through his hair, Yoongi closes his eyes, centering himself as he slowly raises to a sitting position. His room. His desk. His television. Even his sheets look fine other than his crumpled side of the bed. What the fuck was that. 

He’s never experienced something like that. Sure, he’s been yanked from a dream while in free fall, or when he’s almost slammed into something. But he wasn’t even doing anything that time except lulling to sleep? So what the fuck was that about? 

Shit. The whole fucking point was to get this shit under control. To fight the memories and the dreams and shove them out of his mind to make room for his own. For yours. Yours and his, his and yours. So why hasn’t he even been trying? 

Panic starts to rush up his throat, clogging it and jamming and amalgamating into something so thick he can’t even breathe. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, get the fuck up. 

He hasn’t had to do this in so long he’s almost embarrassed to reach for what he’s beelining for in his kitchen, perched on top of the fridge behind an unopened case of water bottles. Water bottles. Yoongi clings onto a familiar memory with you yet again. You, you, you. 

The bag crinkles as he rips it open, some wrapped pieces pinging onto linoleum. As he hastily opens one of the candies, he pops the sour coated lifeline on his tongue, slowly closing his eyes and sagging against his refrigerator. 

Shaking, shaking, sour apple, stop fucking shaking. Breathe. In out in out in out in out. Eat another one. Breathe. Silence. Clear head. Sour cherry. Nothingness. 

Breathe. 

Sliding down chilled aluminum, Yoongi feels his ass hit the cold ground, his arms immediately coming up to rest on tired knees. After a minute goes by, he lets more pass. Then another. And another. And another. 

It’s not fun knowing the panic’s back. 

As much as Yoongi wants nothing but your concern crossing kitchen tile, he’s thanking the universe that you haven’t ever seen him like this. Your brother has, but you don’t need to. Ever. But if his demons have all the power again, he might be too far gone.  

—

—

He should feed the cat.

Never mind.

The food from two days ago is still there. Which means she left him a long, long time ago.

—

—

What day is it. Is that the sunset or a new day. 

Doesn’t matter, does it? Even music doesn’t call to him now. 

And that single, damning fact slathers his whole brain in shadow. 

—

— 

A knock sounds at the door. Which Yoongi completely ignores until it erupts into straight banging. 

“Fuck, hold on,” he rasps in a cracked whisper, falling off his couch before his arms crumple, every muscle in his body creaking with lack of use. Pain jolts through his limbs as he lies there for a beat, jump-starting his mind into sudden, bleary awareness. 

What day is it? How did all these bottles get on the floor? How fucking long has it been this time?

More knocks break through the fog of Yoongi’s brain before a voice pierces the door, “I swear to god if you don’t let me in—!”

A sigh escapes in the dark. Jimin. 

Shit, Yoongi doesn’t wanna be seen. Not now. Not when he can’t even recall the past however many hours. But knowing this particular guest, the door will be kicked down if he doesn’t answer soon. 

Hissing, he slowly gets up, stumbling to the door a few steps away before resting shaking fingers on the doorknob. Breathe. Just fucking breathe. 

“Alright, you motherfucker, I’m breaking this fucking door—”

Yoongi cracks it open a tad, a sliver of his unkempt hair and stubbled chin the only things he’s willing to show. His eyes squint as bright light spills into his apartment, but all he can see are the telltale shoes of his best friend. 

“...Yoongi?” 

When he finally looks up, his heart clenches and erupts all the way up to his ducts. The first emotion he’s felt in the sludge of time he’s been chained to his dipping, sagging sofa. 

Because Jimin is staring right at his face. Eyes so rubbed they’re rimmed red. “I thought… I didn’t… No one knows where you are,” he starts, shaking the words out of puffed lips. “And when your phone kept going to voicemail, I—I couldn’t think of anything except coming here so when you weren’t answering the door, I thought—” 

As soon as Jimin breaks, Yoongi slowly closes his eyes and rests his forehead on the door’s edge. Nothing can get him like this other than the tears of a select few. If you had been the one crying at his doorstep, he probably would have given everything up.

But his mouth is so dry he can’t form words, arms so numb he can’t move them to swing the door. There’s dust where his tongue sits, shadows at the edges of his fingers. Anything he tries to say is swallowed, adding to the lump in his scratchy throat. Instead of a tempest of rage, this is the other way to lose control. The subtler, scarier, sinister way to let go. 

Yoongi says nothing. Because he can’t think of anything to say at all.

“Are you listening to me?”

Unmoving, Yoongi breathes, long hair falling onto his paling cheek. He doesn’t even know what month it is. And that scares him so bad he doesn’t hear the next sentence. So Jimin says it again,

“Let me in.”

“Gimme a sec,” he croaks. 

“Now.”

A sigh. Yoongi knows he lost the second he heard Jimin’s voice through wood. So he slowly wills his body to move, stepping—swaying—to the side to let his friend into a dark, blacked out space.

“Holy fuck,” Jimin curses, stepping through a sea of glass bottles before wrenching open the curtains. Light bursts around his silhouette and, for a split second, Yoongi thinks he sees an angel in his living room. 

“Yes. Okay.” With hands on stern hips, Jimin nods to himself before inspecting the litter around his feet. “Yeah, I’m staying here now.”

—

—

“You don’t have to do this,” Yoongi drones while his best friend scuttles around his apartment like a roomba. Clinks of trashed bottles and shifts of trash bags rattle next to the front door, and he sighs before looking out the window. “I’m up now.”

“You don’t get a say in it,” Jimin blithely responds, hauling another groaning trash bag from the kitchen. “And stay there, I’m almost done.” 

“Where the fuck would I go.”

“Anywhere but here?”

Yeah. Right. Where else would he even go right now? Your room is the only place he wants to take residence in—the room in which he said goodbye without knowing when the next hello would be. 

When’s the last time he’s even texted you? Shit, he really has left you behind completely and he feels like a fucking idiot. 

Determination thumps to the door, with a little more force than necessary, though understood. Jimin rarely gets this mad, so when he does, molten emotion rolls off of him in reddened waves, “Couldn’t even fucking call? Text? Do you ever think about what that does to all of us?” 

Yoongi buries a hand in his hair. “Listen, I—”

“Shut the hell up. You don’t get to have excuses this time. Last time this happened you scared me to death and I am not letting it happen again.” 

“You see me. I’m alive. So you can go home.”

Jimin whirls at the door before slamming it behind him, eyes wide in shock as he stomps to the kitchen. “If you think you can get me to go home, you’re an idiot. What else hasn’t been cleaned in a week?”

…A week? Fuck. Maybe it is better if Jimin stays. 

His friend wrings his hands in water before drying them, moving to sit in the chair you usually occupy. Used to occupy. Yoongi’s head sags. 

Jaw ticked, Jimin sits and rests elbows on his knees, brows up in a way that leaves no room for arguments, “Tell me what the fuck is going on.”

With a sigh, Yoongi closes his eyes, shifting his own jaw in the hopes he can find enough courage to do this. Because even though Jimin knows most about what happened before, he’s been the one pushing him to move forward, not backward. Which means Yoongi is in for a verbal beatdown. 

But before he can say anything, Jimin urges again, “Start talking.”

Fuck. “Go home.”

“No. Try again.”

It’s back. The anxiety. Making him vacate his seat and slink against his bedroom door. “I’m not doing this right now.”

Jimin rockets out of his chair right after, getting all into his space. “Tough fucking shit. Tell me. Now.”

He can’t. The words won’t come out. “It’s nothing.”

A bubble of caustic laughter flings out of Jimin’s throat before he outright shoves Yoongi against his door. Slight pain erupts from his back, branching out and alerting his body with adrenaline. But he’s so numb he doesn’t even say anything. Nothing. Just… pain. 

“Is that it? Not even gonna say anything?”

Silence. Yoongi can only serve silence. A lighter push at his chest doesn’t do anything either, neither do the grips at his shoulders before he’s shoved against wood. Is this all he has left? Pain? He can’t feel anything else. Why? What’s happening? Why is he so… drained? 

“Yoongi…” The words wobble. So soft now. So pleading. “…What’s wrong?”

Like a burst of shock, that jumpstarts something deep.

A thousand things. Three thousand things. All of them having to do with him and his inability to deem himself worthy of the one thing he wants most. His shameful weight of the past barring him from everything good, and bright, and healing. 

You would ask him the same question. Yoongi knows it in his heart. But here you are, giving him the space he asked for and trusting him with your feelings because that’s just… You. And he has done absolutely nothing to show for it.

A whole week passed and he didn’t know it? He still doesn’t even know what day it is. How long has he kept you in the dark? How long will he keep failing you because this isn’t fair to you at all. You deserve better. 

…Is this when he lets you go?

Dark, painful throbs in his chest let him know he’s barely alive. But if he’s been radio silent with no explanation, who fucking knows what you’re thinking now. About him. About yourself. Fuck, the panic is rushing in again and his breaths are short, short, short—

A hand warms his shoulder, prompting him to look up and notice that blurred, wavering red eyes are staring back at him. 

And the only thing Yoongi feels after that is a hot trail of regret down his cheek. 

“Fucking hell, man—” The pull yanks at Yoongi’s heart as strong arms wrap tight around his shoulders, and he buries searing eyes into his friend’s familiar cologne, drowning it in heaves of sobs that burn his lungs and spread fire into his throat—burning, burning, burning. His heart is on fucking fire. 

But Jimin is there, hugging tight and trying his best to smother the flames, choking on his own sobs and apologizing for anything. Everything. Nonsense, but it’s Jimin all the same. 

“I can’t fucking win,” Yoongi chokes out, finally setting all the fears free. “She’s always here. I can’t… Fuck.”

Jimin grips tighter. “You can,” he says with a rasp. “I promise you can.” 

“How do you know.” He can’t even recognize his own voice. “You don’t know what it was like.” 

Jimin flinches before holding on even tighter. “Because you won’t do it alone this time.”

Yoongi feels a vice clamp his chest.

“I’m… Shit, I’m really sorry for not trying harder before. We all are. We were young, and stupid, and should’ve paid a lot more attention instead of…” His friend sighs to the ground. “Instead of letting her slowly kill you.” 

It’s a gut punch. Reliving all those memories is confirmation enough. 

Jimin chokes out his last vow, and it tugs at Yoongi’s very being. “So. Yeah. I’m not leaving until you know you have someone. Even if it’s just me.” 

Now Yoongi feels like an asshole. All that time, he’s been so lost that he didn’t even think of his friends. The self-deprecation devolved into self-isolation, squeezing him inside a smaller and smaller box until he couldn’t breathe. He owes Jimin more than his life. 

Hands slowly raise, hope and promise lifting them to his friend's shoulders. There’s a million words he can say to this man, but the only thing that comes out is a mere, “Thanks.”

“You’re thanking me now, but. Even if you get annoyed, I’m not leaving.”

A knock comes at the door, and Jimin finally leans away before smiling. “We’re gonna fight this, yeah? You got us. So get used to it.” 

Yoongi nods. But then gives his friend a scowl. “Who the fuck did you invite to my place.”

Is it your brother? Is it you? Fucking hell, Yoongi would give anything for you to be on the other side. 

But Jimin smirks at his reaction. “It’s not her, but I like the look on your face.” 

A glare is shot while his friend walks to open the door. 

While Yoongi’s heart deflates, he still gives a shake of his head when he sees the newcomer. “If you’re both staying, I’m booking a hotel.”

Taehyung stands affronted while Jimin laughs behind his broad shoulders. “Excuse you? I’ve just been sent here to bring food.” 

Are those bags of groceries? Fuck, he already can’t thank them both enough for what they’re doing. His stomach hollows at the thought of food, which is a good sign because that means he’s ready to eat again. 

“Ah ah, tell him what else.” 

Yoongi tilts his head as he goes to help. “What else is there to do here.” 

Jimin already stormed through like an unstoppable force to clean everything and take out the trash. Ironically, the clouds outside seemed to clear when his apartment did. 

Thumps of vegetables and fruit litter his counters before the newest guest smiles soft, “I’m here to update you on what the love of your life has been up to.” 

Yoongi blinks at paper bags before slowly turning to meet his gaze. Long, speechless, and so fucking relieved. 

“But only if you cooperate.”

—

—

You got the job. And he fucking missed the opportunity to congratulate you. 

Neither Jimin nor Tae judge him for needing a moment to himself. 

—

—

This memory is one he hasn’t visited yet. But Yoongi recognizes it immediately, and he steps aside as his younger self bolts from your brother’s room. It was the morning after they all defied the world. And frankly, he doesn’t remember how they got here but knows for a fact he didn’t drive. Following himself into your familiar foyer, he winces at his own freak out, his tousled hair sticking in all directions. 

But both versions of him freeze when he sees you, standing with a spatula in the kitchen he’ll eventually end up kissing you in years later.

This happened right before you left for university, heading to a really good one according to your brother. He didn’t doubt that at all, either. Both of you look so much younger, living completely different lives. 

You barely get out a nervous smile and hello before he quickly comes up to hold your shoulder, noting how softly nice you smell before reassuring, “Hey, he’s fine. But check on him in like an hour.” 

He whizzes away as soon as you ask, “You okay?” 

But he doesn’t have time to explain. You’ll understand. You’re a pretty, smart girl—Wait. Pretty smart girl. Right. 

Yoongi doesn’t know why he looks back, but he remembers seeing you standing in your doorway, watching him open his car door with nothing but concern.

Standing on your porch, his current self remembers that tug in his chest. It was small, but it was there. Regardless, he chalked it up to the anxiety telling him to get home now. So he gives you one more look before shoving into his car and driving off, not knowing he was going backwards that whole time. 

Like a dream, the scene change is abrupt, dumping him in the middle of the fight that happened minutes later. Shards of glass litter the kitchen floor as the bar cart once full of alcohol lies shattered and bleeding potent fumes. 

“You lying mother fucker!” 

“I was helping—” 

“Didn’t even tell me? Didn’t even think to say something?” 

“I was focused on keeping him alive?” Keeping him alive and home safe. Something that your brother had done for him multiple times. He’s with him until the end. End of story. “Are you gonna ask me if I’m okay? Do you even care?” 

Yoongi should’ve recalled that you did. But not right now. He doesn’t think about anything until later. But watching from this side, you were the only one that asked. 

“You’re here, right? That tells me enough.” 

Yoongi stands there. So broken, so distraught. “What if I wasn’t?” 

“Don’t even ask stupid things.” 

“I’m serious. I’d look everywhere for you.” 

She can’t answer. And Yoongi knows exactly why. He loved someone that never loved him back. This is the karma he gets for all the hearts he broke. The people he played with. It’s all rearing its head and kicking him straight in the teeth. 

This was the final straw. He was done feeling like shit in his own home. With one look at the glass pieces at his feet, he loads finality into his tone. “If you can’t answer me, we’re done.” 

“No, babe, please—” 

“Don’t.” 

“…What?” 

“You do this every time.” His younger self’s finally gonna do it. He’s gonna stand up for himself, and Yoongi hates what he’s gonna hear next. “Cut the bullshit.” 

“I’m not, I just—” 

“If you’re gonna answer, answer.” 

“Don’t rush me. You putting this back on me now?” 

“Cool.” He opens the door, signaling for her to leave and never come back. “You’ve already moved or broke a bunch of your shit, so. This should be easy.”  

This is the moment. The singularity that forever sucks him back into the dark.

“Useless piece of shit.” And here it all comes undone. “What a joke. After I bought you all this shit and you don’t even use it.” 

He has. She’s just never paid attention.

“Fucking loser. I gave you the world and you gave nothing. Nothing.”

He gave up everything. 

“It’s sad, really. How you’re only gonna end up alone.” 

That will be true. This is when he decided that, right? To be done with this shit. Done with love. 

“How did I even let you keep me this long?” 

Yoongi stops, his fingers shaking. Him? Keeping her? It’s so twisted that his vision still jangles. He’ll never forget that feeling, being blamed for the exact same thing she had been doing to him the whole time. 

“Forget it. You’re just gonna fuck up until you have no one left. And I can’t wait to see you end up all by yourself.” 

Yoongi doesn’t respond to her wrath, walking to the corner of the room and grabbing the guitar he was gifted. But he’s halted by a pointed finger. 

“Keep that. Cus you’re gonna remember this. You’re gonna realize I’m right and there won’t be a thing you can do to fix it.”

“Are you done actually? Or is this another stunt?” 

“A stunt? The only one that does that is you.”

It’s his turn to unload. And he makes it a point to say everything he needs to. “I don’t do anything. I don’t go anywhere. See anyone. Or whatever the hell you’re accusing me of. I stay here, or go to the studio. That’s it.”

“Some studio you got there. Haven’t even heard one single thing you’ve done this entire time.”

“You’ve never asked.”

“Huh?”

Ah. Yoongi remembers this. Right then, he was finally, finally done. “You never asked about anything I’ve worked on once.”

“Well, you never cared to share.” Acid bubbles from her throat, hair tossed back in an unforgiving laugh. “A fuck-up and now a screw-up? Why did I ever think I deserved you in the first place?” 

Yoongi stares for what seems like the final time. And he couldn’t be happier. “Hope you find someone that you do.” 

And the door shuts right as he’s flung from deep sleep, thrown over any perception of reality and taking in the voice at his face. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay—” 

“Give him space—”

Yoongi shudders, breathing ice cold fire and chilled by the air ghosting over his sweaty back. Front. Legs. Fuck, he’s drenched. 

“Yoongi?”

Gulping air, he flicks his eyes between Jimin holding him steady with shaky hands, and Taehyung on the other side of the bed, watching him with eyes locked and one knee making a hard divot in the comforter. 

Shit. This isn’t like the other night he fell asleep in his kitchen. This is a whole other level of frightening.

“Please say something,” Jimin squeaks out, lightly rubbing him on the shoulder and providing much needed warmth. “Anything. Please.”

“Let him breathe, babe,” Tae softly orders, to which Jimin snaps his head at but calms. 

Tae’s right. Breathe. Breathe deeper. It was just a dream, just a memory, just the past. Fuck. Yoongi thought having people over would help. But that was a terrifying reminder that he was wrong yet again. 

Head dumped in his wet hands, he notices his hair’s new length before raking it back. Looking straight at his desk, he takes it all in, quietly reminding himself that it’s filled with equipment. 

That’s it. Nothing else. Just his equipment, his notepads, his writing utensils. No traces of broken keyboards, cracked monitor screens, snapped wires. Nothing except your light touches which he will take any day over what occupied it before. In his whirlwind of thoughts, he wonders if anything else of yours on that desk would look nice—Ah. He’s truly losing his mind. 

“I’m good,” he croaks, startling everyone in the room including himself. “What the hell happened.”

Taehyung answers first, “We heard a lot of noise, so..”

“We checked in and saw you,” Jimin finishes, his eyes holding back multitudes. 

“Saw me what.” 

“Thrashing.” Taehyung holds his gaze unflinching. Because one of them has to be level headed, and Jimin is clutching Yoongi like he’ll sink into the bed. Maybe he would have. 

“It looked painful,” Jimin rasps out, voice sagging with melancholy. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he looks Yoongi in the eyes before whispering, “Does this happen a lot?”

“Not in a minute.” And for once, he’s honest about this. “It’s only the second time recently.” 

He thanks every star above that you’ve avoided seeing both. This is exactly why he shunned himself, isn’t it? Until this is dealt with, he doesn’t think he can be with you on a clear conscience. 

Taehyung’s fully sitting on the sheets now, hair looking like he was yanked from a deep sleep, too. “Have you told anyone about it?”

“No.” 

“You should.”

“Maybe.”

“Tae’s right,” Jimin whispers, his expression filled with grey. It’s a look Yoongi decides he doesn’t ever wanna see on that face. “I think you need that, too.”

Something very close to discomfort creeps along Yoongi’s bones, making him shift in his seat. His very moist seat. God, if he doesn’t shower now he’s causing a riot. “Lemme wash first,” he offers, barred from swinging out his legs until Jimin gets up. When he gets to his bathroom, he flips on the switch inside before deciding, “Then I will.”

Tae stays still as Jimin walks up to his side of the bed. The closer side to the bathroom. “You sure you’ll tell us?”

“Yeah.” Yoongi looks down before heading in to shower, saying one more thing as he shuts the door, “But you won’t see me the same after I do.” 

—

—

He tells them everything. All the memories plaguing him for years. The things they don’t know and some of the things they do. While they listen, Jimin’s eyes blink the least, not wanting to miss a single second. 

Taehyung’s hands grip the couch cushions harder with each passing moment. But neither of them judge. Neither of them offer pity. If anything, they’re ready to pick up swords they don’t have to attack someone that doesn’t exist to him anymore. 

Lies. If she didn’t exist to him, none of this would be happening. 

So therein lies Yoongi’s problem. He needs to get rid of anything that still ties him to her, the biggest one being the guitar watching all of them right now. 

“Why didn’t you tell us. Tell me,” Jimin asks through fresh tears. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“I thought about that for a long time.” Yoongi hangs his head between his knees before lifting. “Turns out, I was just.. Ashamed. I dunno.” 

“Does anyone know all of this?” 

Well. “Just one.” He doesn’t have to elaborate for them to know who it is. 

“I didn’t wanna bother anyone with it,” he finally admits. “Didn’t feel like you guys needed to hear how fucked up I am.” 

“Yoongi.” He raises his gaze to meet Jimin’s. “That’s exactly what we want to hear. Because we’re friends.” 

“You’d say the same to us,” Taehyung adds. “And to her. Who, if I’m being completely honest, would lose her shit if she knew.” 

Yoongi doesn’t doubt that. “I know.” 

“No, you don’t. I’m not saying because of the reasons. I’m saying because she would offer to do exactly what we’re doing now.”

Burns sear around his eyes. Because deep down, he fucking knows that. He does. And yet, he still can’t accept how selfless you are when it comes to him. How good, and reckless, and understanding. And a revelation pierces right through his bruised heart. 

He’s lived in his dark for so long that he’s afraid of your light.

Fuck, his admittance scratches every inch of his mouth on the way out. His heart takes collateral damage, seeping out of his eyes, “I think I have to let her go.” 

In an instant, both pairs of eyes gloss over to match his. 

“I’m doing all this for her,” he rasps out. “Everything, for her. But I can’t fucking do it and she deserves someone that isn’t so fucked—” 

“Yoongi—”

“My ex was right. Back then. Now. She was right.” His voice lulls to a dull thrum. “I’ll just end up alone.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” His head snaps to Jimin’s at the same time as Tae’s. “Are you alone right now? Hmm?” 

No. But he doesn’t say a damn thing. 

“I’ll answer for you since you’re being an idiot. No, you’re not.” That’s not the point, but— “And even if we weren’t here? You’re never alone unless you decide that, not some fucked up ex. And the Yoongi I know? Is too smart to do something so stupid.” 

Ouch. But fair. “That’s not what I mean and you know it—”

“So what? You wanna talk about relationships? Let’s talk about the one you’re in—because yes, you’re in one—and how you’re fucking it up because of some bullshit.” 

“Jimin—”

“No, I’m tired of this shit! Why can’t you see what’s in front of you? Why can’t you see all the good shit you do? Why can’t you just be happy—”

“I’m trying all of that for her—”

“You need to do it for yourself!”  

Jimin stands rigid as his words pulse around the room, eyes swimming and unblinking as Taehyung dons a similar look. 

“This isn’t about her. This isn’t about anyone else.” He shudders out a breath. “Right now? You need to get your shit together to pull yourself out.” 

Shit. 

Yoongi completely lost the point along the way. Didn’t he think like that when all this started? When did it all become so muddled? Did part of him always know this, deeper down? And that’s the part of him that he had left behind first? When he tries to speak, he can’t. No words, no thoughts, no sounds escape the desert of his mouth. 

“And you can do it. I’ve seen you do it before,” Jimin whispers. “But now, you have two people—three people—to fight for this time.” 

Ah. But one of those people still doesn’t know the truth. Doesn’t know why Yoongi’s done this to himself in the first place. A sour laugh leaves his lips before he stares at nothing. “He’s trusted me with everything. And I’ve told him nothing.” Lifting his head, he shudders out, “Say I do all this. Once I tell him the truth… I’m losing him. I know it.” 

“You don’t know that.” Jimin sounds very unconvinced. 

“Hah.. Right.” Yoongi sighs. “We all know he’s gonna kill me.” 

“Well.” Taehyung is the one that finally interjects, and Yoongi shifts his gaze before the man correctly and accurately assumes, “You’d die for her anyway. What’s the difference if he knows.” 

Oh. Well, that’s…

There’s a ping of silence before Jimin blurts a puff of amusement. 

Then Yoongi breaks into a smile as Taehyung’s sudden laugh joins the fray, all of them grinning and laughing because it’s all so fucking simple. Really, really fucking simple. And for the first time in weeks, Yoongi feels like things are gonna be okay. 

Coming down from the broken ice, Jimin reiterates the whole point, “You’re not gonna lose her. But you will if sulking is all you’re gonna do.” 

A nod. “I know.” 

“So what are you gonna do?” 

Yoongi looks at them both, then sweeps his gaze around the living room before landing on his coffee table. Warmth fills the divots in his cheeks as he allows himself to grin, not caring if he gets peculiar looks at his first order of business. His highest priority. 

“Gonna move some books.” 

—

—

The loudest roar of thunder signals the end of a storm. And in following that same pattern, the rest of Yoongi’s week goes by dreamless. Calm. Merciful. 

And he cannot thank Jimin enough. 

He helps him when he cooks, drags him out for walks in the afternoon, and even Taehyung drops by to show him a bunch of movies that he is appalled he’s never seen before. 

Yoongi even goes back to the studio on the regular, earning looks of relief and mild annoyance, which he fully expected. But with minimal questions, he throws himself back into work, urging himself to eventually tell them what happened. 

When Taehyung stays over, too, all three of them simply… Talk. About anything and everything, deeper and deeper conversations the more he gets to know them. Yoongi doesn’t talk as much as they do, but he does divulge a lot more about his past than he ever has. Both of the guys present never judge him for any of it, which makes him feel seen. Feel not so alone. 

Because he’s learning that these experiences are universal. The true danger lies in not knowing how to handle them. How to be accepting of those parts of his life when he’s all he’s got.

Now that he’s got his priority straight, he knows he can get there. He can find that door to himself again, no matter how long it takes. Yes, for you. Yes, for his best friend.

But, first and foremost, for himself. 

—

—

To his complete shock, the cat comes back. And in the quiet, radiant night, Yoongi’s eyes gloss over when his heart tells him her name. 

She’s gonna be yours. For getting the gig. The idea itself breathes life into his soul, and he can’t fucking wait to get everything ready for the day he gets to surprise you.

Finally, Yoongi has something to look forward to. Just wait for him. He hopes you can hold out just a tiny, tiny bit longer. 

Filled with joy and excitement, he sends Tae to the store for some food, supplies, and a new set of bowls, barely noticing Jimin watching his detailed orders with a newfound sense of relief. 

—

—

One day, Jimin comes back from work and asks if Yoongi is ready to see people. When he asks why, he talks about his brilliant idea of bringing the parties to him. When Yoongi continues to ask why yet again, it’s to fill his apartment with even more life. Maybe even a certain person will come, too. 

Nah. You probably won’t. 

But if you do? Yoongi won’t be able to contain himself. And just knowing that he’s okay with feeling that way is a step in the right direction. 

—

— 

Three months.

Based on the date on the studio monitor, it’s been three months since he left. Way too long, and the remorse in his stomach is acidic. 

Three months. How many seconds is that? You would know. You’re brilliant and know everything except the dark secrets he can’t tell you yet. 

And it’s the deepset shame lining his bones that won’t allow him to go see you, as much as he fucking wants to. Letting it all out for his friends did lift an astronomical amount from his shoulders, but now he’s embarrassed as hell for taking this long to do something so simple that he’s still unsure. Unsure of when he can show himself to you again and is terrified at how you’ll perceive him. 

But just because he doesn’t know about seeing you. Doesn’t mean he can’t at least talk to you.

And he’ll make that call last the entire night. Jimin and Tae have given him space for a little while now, both of them back in their respective places, so he has the apartment to himself and your voice. If you give him another chance. 

It’s that one solid loophole that has him rushing out of the studio and eager to finally ring you up. The uneasiness is getting beaten out by excitement, pouring over from the news they all received about the album release party. 

Things are finally, finally, finally looking up. He’s feeling better. Not enough to face you, but enough to not feel worse than complete shit. But all of that freshly blossomed energy sweeps into a torrent of worry as soon as he’s greeted with silence on the line. 

“Hello?” 

He can’t blame you for hesitating. Fuck, you’re probably over him and are just answering out of pity. You aren’t saying anything. Shit, he fucked all the way up. 

But your silence isn’t because of anger. Or annoyance. Because you make the smallest, most desperate noise he’s ever heard in his life. 

And the intention to burn the rest of the world shatters every shackle he’s placed on himself, fierce sparks igniting his body to go wherever the fuck you are and deal with anything awaiting his wrath, “Where are you.” 

He’s coming to you no matter what. 

—

—

Is that you? Are all those bags chips? 

Holy fuck, that’s the funniest shit he’s seen in months. 

He’s so fucking in love. 

—

—

He wants this drive to last for hours, if only to maintain this expansion in his chest that lets his lungs breathe. 

Being in the car with you? Your pretty voice singing along to all his favorite songs? This will always be one of his favorite things, long after he’s too old to operate even the slowest vehicle in existence. 

Remembering the mountain of bags in the backseat, he selfishly tuts, “You still have to gimme chips.” And he also selfishly glances over your chest when you reach behind to get a random flavor. Goddamn. You’re still perfect. 

“You really made me get these just for you, huh? Are you eating?”

“Yes, my love. And I never said that.”

…Did he just say what he thinks he said? Well. No taking it back now. Especially when it felt like the most natural thing to call you. An oath. A reminder. To himself, more than anyone else. 

It takes you awhile to respond as you open the bag. And Yoongi assumes your comment is to brush off the same sudden shock he still feels, “Such a smartass.”

“You’re the smartass.”

“Don’t act like you aren’t smart, too,” you laugh before pulling down your dress. Wait, are you cold? “I know you are.” 

He doesn’t know how to take that compliment, reaching into the bag and watching you shiver, wondering why you’re just dealing with the chill. “Why?” 

Yoongi is so thrown off by your reason that he laughs after you say it, “I just… You read.” 

His cheeks strain as he lowers the fans, the music now commanding most of the air space. The way you’re turned away is so cute, and you immediately stop fidgeting with your tiny dress. “I’m smart cus I read? How do you even know?”

“You have books under your coffee table. And you don’t have decor just to have it, so…”

Did he ever tell you that? He doesn’t remember saying it, so did you just accurately read him again? Who’s the avid reader now? But speaking of those books… You don’t know what he did with them, or why, and that curves his mouth up a tad. “I moved those, by the way.”

“Em”—you cough—“Embarrassed?”

“Proactive.”

“Huh? For what?”

Perfect. You lead him right where he wanted you to. Proudly telling you why, he says it all through a smirk, “The next time you decide to fuck up my place.” 

“Oh, bullshit!”

You’re tickling him while he’s driving? That’s unfair as fuck! “You soaked—aish—my whole apartment!”

“That was you!”

“No?”

“Yes? I was nice and only got your head wet!”

Mm. That sounds like a damn good idea. The visual in his mind is nowhere close to appropriate, and Yoongi’s enjoying your squirm in his passenger seat. Elated you’re back in it in the first place. But you’re almost out of reach again. And he’s dreading the next rolling stop. 

At least he gets to hear your huffs again. Those are his absolute favorites. “Ugh. Whatever… I’m right.” 

You haven’t changed a bit. Still the same person he left behind, and his heart pangs from the need to do it once again. 

But your quick resistance halts his brain. Screeches it to a stop. Fuck, you’re begging him not to do it and he doesn’t want to do it but it’s the right thing. He’s trying to do the right thing but god, does he want to just veer off the goddamn street. He can’t. He can’t he can’t you can’t— “Babe… We can’t.” 

“I don’t care.”

“I was only gonna bring you back.”

“Baby, please.”

“He’s home—”

“Do you still miss me?” 

…What? Yoongi stills, mind resetting and going blank. 

Still miss you? He’s never fucking stopped. 

Suddenly, Yoongi abandons any sense of restraint. All control he previously held onto falls away and crumbles to dust. You have his full attention. And you rip his soul to shreds with every word you say,

“Because I get it if you don’t. I do. But I really… I really fucking miss you. And not just because of, whatever. But I consider you a friend and fun as hell to be around, and I haven’t…” The shake of your exhale rattles his eyes. “I haven’t been this happy in weeks. And we aren’t even doing anything.” 

God, he feels the same. You could both sit in silence and he’d be filled with joy just looking at you. 

“I know you said I wouldn’t see you. But after getting to know you? The real you? …That sucks.” 

Shit. 

“I’m not gonna make you change anything, just. Telling you what’s on my mind. Like you said. I’m gonna do that a lot more now.”

Yoongi doesn’t say a word as a tear cuts one of your cheeks, and you’re brave enough to look his way again. “But it’s been three months, Yoongi,” you whisper. “Is that still not enough for you?”

Every brick. Every wall. Every fortress he’s built around his mind crumbles into stardust, shards pinging around his ribs and cutting into his beating, beating, beating heart. 

A day was enough for him to miss you. And these three months have felt like three years. 

There’s no denying it. He fucking needs you. 

Of course. That’s the only reason he sped down here to pick you up and pinned you against his car as if you’d flee. You’re his oxygen, his inhale, his breath of life and hope for new beginnings and goddamn if he lets you go now you’ll never know it—

“Stop.” 

Just tonight. He’ll allow himself one night. Does he deserve it? Probably not, but you sure as fuck do for laying your dying heart in his withered hands. 

And Yoongi decides with a lock of his jaw. Following where his own broken heart points and peeling out into the street.

—

—

Once he gets his hands on you, Yoongi can’t fucking stop. From the car to the walls of his apartment, his fingers can’t decide where to stay, raking down your sides and tugging you close before finally shoving you against his bedroom door. 

God, your touch. Your lips. Your little sounds of pleasure. Why the fuck did he deprive himself of the one person that makes him whole? Yoongi’s so lost in you that he barely remembers his pain, and he loves the way you laugh in the face of it. So fucking hot. 

Closer. He needs to be closer and it’s driving him mad how he’s limited to pressing against your front. Hitching your leg up, he shoves himself forward, the rush of blood tightening his groin and emptying reason from his head. 

This is already too much. You’ve already taken things too far. But goddamn, he’s not stopping even if the entire complex broke down his door. “Shouldn’t be fucking doing this—” 

You moan and he’s a goner again, the next twitch in his pants straining against your soft pelvis. When a plea leaves that pretty mouth, Yoongi’s ready to give you the world. All you have to do is say it and it’s yours and yours alone. “Please what.” 

The tug of his hair makes him groan, but it’s your words that drag his soul across coals, “Choke me. Use me. I don’t care, do it all.”

“Huh?”

What did you fucking say? 

Nah. Yoongi needs to hear that again because he cannot forgive himself if he’s hallucinating all of this, too. Yanking you forward, he strains his ears just to be bombarded by your demands, 

“Don’t be nice. Spit in my mouth. Make me beg like a fucking slut, I need it.”

You’re gonna be the fucking death of him. “The fuck.”

Any hesitance Yoongi had before flings out the door. The whole time he’s trying to do the right thing, here you are spewing everything good and wrong and he’s enraptured. You’re clearly not holding back, so why wouldn’t he match that chaos like his life depended on mania? You give and give and give, and Yoongi makes it his mission to reciprocate. 

Soon, he’s everywhere, swallowing you devouring you inhaling you like his last meal of his last life. Busting into his bedroom, the hot rush of adrenaline magnifies his darkest thoughts. But you don’t even give him the chance to say them out loud because what the fuck he’s in his chair now? “Babe—”

What the fuck? What’s gotten into you and what can he do to suspend this moment in time? You’re sin incarnate at his feet, dropping to your knees and attacking him, undressing him with a force that downright startles him through. 

It borderline scares him because he’s never seen you like this. Shit, he can’t shake an icky feeling off now and he can’t fully immerse himself in the moment if he’s correct. “Are you su—”

“Let me do this,” you plead upward. And Yoongi lets those sparkling eyes lure him down. 

Fuck, fuck, focus. The way you hold his cock is heavensent and the feeling will never get old and he can’t help but groan at the feel of your fingers. But the feeling is still there. The question is still occupying his mind. 

So Yoongi utilizes every single ounce of control to stop you, saying your name for the first time in weeks. When you shoot him a look of rejection, his heart breaks in two, because your mind is like his when it defaults to the worst possible scenario. 

All he wants to do is kiss you. So he does just that, keeping it tender to calm your potential buzz. Voice soft, he asks through the dark blue of night, “You drank tonight, yeah?” 

“Yeah…?” 

Ah. He was right. Fuck, if you aren’t lucid enough, this has to stop right now. No matter how fucking bad he wants to tear you apart. 

But you reach out to palm his cheek, as if you knew exactly what he was getting at without asking. “I’m not drunk, baby. I just missed you.” 

Please be telling the truth. He won’t live with himself if you aren’t telling him what’s really going on. 

“I’m not,” you reassure through a smile that he’s missed so fucking much. Once again, Yoongi kisses you, because he can’t bear not feeling those puckered lips on his for another second. How strange it is, being able to breathe best when his mouth is smothered by yours. 

“So are you gonna fuck my throat or nah?”

Holy fuck, you can’t do that. You can’t just say shit like that and get away with it. It’s infuriating in the best way and Yoongi will worship this new, unbridled attitude of yours. What an honor to say he knew you had it in you all along. Yoongi never doubted your skyrocketing appeal for a second. “What are you doing to me.”

“This.” You don’t even give him the mercy of a warning. All Yoongi feels next is those angelic, sinful lips around his tip, eyes fluttering shut as his head kicks back in a moan. 

Euphoria. You’re his beginning and end, the middle and the rest. Nothing else in the world can bring him to his knees like this, and he can’t imagine being anywhere except at your feet. He’s in trouble. You’re not going home for a long while. 

Every swirl you make zings light along his limbs, and he opens soul-sucked eyes to you tugging your dress down fuck. 

He tastes himself when you kiss him, the wet of your efforts slathering around his mouth but he doesn’t fucking care. Reaching out, Yoongi smacks at your perfect tits, laughing to himself knowing how lucky he is. “Get the fuck back down there.”

And the smirk you send his way makes him fall in love ten times over. 

Yoongi doesn’t even know where he is. And this time, he counts that as a win. Because your licks and sucks are sending him into space, straight past the stars and into the next galaxy over. When the fuck did you get this good? It’s spurning the competitive side of him that vows to not lose to you even though he perpetually will. “Holy fuck.” 

His back muscles strain between arching and collapsing, the squeak of his chair the choir to your sinful symphony of sounds. Unbelievably hot. He may as well pass away from how good you’re milking him down.

Then he feels the back of your throat and then some. And something ignites in his core that causes his hands to find your head. 

Fuck, your eyes. They’re molten. “So fucking filthy...” 

Your laugh around his cock sends him into another frenzy. “Don’t do that.” 

But you disobey like the good girl you are, unsheathing your mouth just to swallow his balls oh goddamn. “Fuck!”

It’s over. It’s over for him. All you have to do is tell him what you want and he’s shoving the world aside to make it happen. Your insecurities? He’s banishing. Your wants and needs? He’s providing. There’s no one else but you and his chest is heaving with shallow shallow shallow breaths. 

When you let him push you closer, Yoongi groans, tapping that pretty cheek with his length and savoring the way you suck him back in like an addiction. 

He’s addicted to you, too. And after tonight, he doesn’t think he can ever get enough. The withdrawals will hit like no other, and he’ll shake and tweak until the next time he can steal you away. “So perfect… So fucking perfect… There will never be anyone else.” 

Can you even hear him? You’re so goddamn loud. 

“Fucking hell, baby,” Yoongi praises, thrusting into the heat of your mouth and shivering at the sensation you’re willing to give every time. “Missed that fuckin’ mouth.”

You’re already a beautiful sight around his cock. But when you come up for air, erotic effort dripping from your mouth and sloping down in strings to your bare chest? That’s when you’re mesmerizing. And Yoongi doesn’t dare to look away from your face. 

What the fuck, you’re going in again? Fuck that. You’re gonna make him bust before he gets the chance to ruin you. 

Gathering sweaty hands under your arms, Yoongi yanks you upward, tossing you onto his bed and growling with pride. After he’s through with you? You’ll never doubt where he stands anymore. And quite honestly, he’s damn near scared you’re gonna realize you’re much better than him, in every aspect of your promising life. 

Because you’re radiance personified, laughing up at him as if he never left you in the dark. How he played with your light, Yoongi won’t ever forgive himself. But you already have. And his heart lurches forward to worship you. 

“Take this off,” he commands into your chest. Because he needs it all. Everything, everything, everything. “No more hiding.” 

He helps you with shaking hands as you strip the dress for him, breath ragged with excitement and relief to have you here again. When you question your shoes, Yoongi immediately interrupts, because this is a fantasy he’s had from the fucking jump. “What about my—”

“Don’t.” He grips your pliant thigh. “I’m fucking you with them on.” 

“Oh, fuck.” 

That’s right. You’re getting all of him—the good, the bad, and all the forbidden thoughts he’s kept locked away. All of it’s now unleashed, unlocked by your ability to finally tell him what you want. 

When Yoongi smacks the side of your ass with a possession he’ll think about hours from now, the sound you make launches him to the edge. And when he wrenches your legs apart, his eyes blow obsidian at the sight between them. 

Yeah. He’s wrecking your shit tonight. And you’ll feel so good he might cry. 

“Please fuck me, baby,” you whisper soft, a far cry from your uninhibited demands from earlier. 

But the feeling inside Yoongi’s chest renders him even softer. Because yes, he’s going to. But there’s so much he didn’t get to do, so many things he’s been wanting to give but tore apart every chance. 

You deserve more. A whole lifetime more than what you’re asking for. And Yoongi can only summarize how he feels with a single sentence, “I’m gonna do a lot more than that, doll.” 

You don’t truly understand. But that’s okay. All you need to do is sit back and let him cherish you, starting with the smooth skin of your ankle that he brings in for a soft kiss. 

There’s no way to deny anything anymore. Here you are ready to be used, and Yoongi’s taking precious seconds to plant kisses on your leg? Of fucking course he’s too far gone. He’s been too far gone for months. If there’s one way to show you how he feels without words, he’s gonna take it. Because those three syllables are too profound to be said in a mere tryst under moonlight. 

So he pries your legs apart with passion taking the reins, growling out safer thoughts that praise you, “So fucking perfect.” 

“No, you,” you counter with a pout, and he cups your cunt to shut that shit down. “Hey!”

“None of that,” Yoongi orders with finality. “Not after all that shit you said at the door.” 

“I dunno what happened there,” you admit, now shy and looking more like yourself. It strikes his heart so hard a confession flows right out of his mouth, 

“Almost made me come.” 

“Be for real.” 

“Damn serious.” Goddamn, that grin. Yoongi has found a new obsession. 

“Then I should keep going?”

“Uh huh.” Perfect. Spill everything from those shining lips, break him down like you did two times tonight already. “Tell me.” 

Yoongi thinks you aren’t gonna do it again. You usually spark like a flare, simmering down after your initial fire then defaulting back to that adorable shyness again. So when you surprise him? All bets are off. Nothing is off limits. 

“Fuck me like you missed me.” 

And that’s when Yoongi fucking snaps. 

He launches for your throat first, feasting on your succulent skin and forcing you up his bed. When his dick brushes against your soft center, his name expels from your mouth at the same time he groans like mad. “Careful,” he finally sends you a warning about your last demand. Because he needs you to know what’s about to happen in this room. “You won’t leave if I did that.”

“I don’t want to,” you hastily respond, gripping his hair just how he likes it. “Wanna stay.”

Stay. He wants nothing but you to do that, too. It’s why he’s wrapping himself around you, latching onto every inch of your skin and grasping at anything he can get his fingers on. 

Of course, reason weasels through his brain again, seeping from his mouth without his permission. “You shouldn’t even be here, babe.”

“Just tonight.” Fuck, you sound deflated already. “But if you really don’t want this then please kick me out before—”

“Fuck that.” Yoongi tweaks your chest before rolling hard against you, relishing in the feel of your cunt and defying all sense of morals. “Fuck all of that.” 

Kick you out? You’ll learn to never say that again. “Don’t move.”

Yoongi drops to his knees, nudging your legs aside and promising dark and dangerous thoughts against your thigh. Fuck, you smell like heaven. He’s painfully hard and it will take everything in his soul to not come on his bedroom floor. 

What are you flinching for? What did he fucking say? “I said. Don’t move.” 

“But—Yoongi!” 

Patient, he shifts your slick thong sideways, breath heady as his tongue flattens completely against your cunt. And the taste, holy fuck. This is his favorite place and he’ll keep eating until you’re a shuddering, shivering mess on his sheets. The most exquisite mess he’s ever had the pleasure to make. 

A dark chuckle rumbles as you instinctively clamp your legs together. And he will always be willing to punish for that because your little whines in response are his guilty pleasures. “Uh uh.”

You taste so fucking good. All essence pooling from your folds coats his mouth in layer after slick layer, his tongue basking in the warmth of your core and lapping over, and over, and over. Greed is too light a word to describe his thirst, and he sucks at the spot he knows you love until you tremble. 

Gripping his cock with slicked fingers, Yoongi pumps himself slow, moaning as he keeps licking, sucking, penetrating your cunt with his tongue and deciding that’s not enough for him. He wants you losing your goddamn mind because you made him lose his. He wants you thrashing on his sheets and locking those beautiful muscles for hours. 

Your sounds tighten his groin impossibly hard, mingling with the squelches of his feast and the slide of his fingers along his length. Nothing beats this. Nothing will ever compete because you both sound so fucking obscene.  

The neighborhood gets to hear you again, and that thought carves a prideful grin into Yoongi’s features. You’re back, and they’re gonna know it. For as long as he can make you scream. 

When he inserts a finger to join his tongue, the sound you make almost makes him come  oh fuck. Say his name like that again and he will. Days from now, he may even bust off that singular memory alone. 

When you grab at his hair, he knows that’s when you’re close. And it spurns him into his next twisted fantasy that has his stomach fluttering. 

“Yoongi—I’m—” Nope. You’re not getting there yet. And your response curls his mouth into something ominous. “No no no! Please, fuck—”

Unbothered, Yoongi swats your sopping cunt, completely ignoring your cries for release, “What’d you say?” 

“Plea—Baby!” 

“Huh?” 

Such a terrible listener. What a shame he wouldn’t have it any other way. Because every fucking time you speak, he gets to shush you with a wet tap. And every time you decide to be a smart ass, he rewards you with no hope of reaching the edge you so fiercely crave.  

And this goes on for minutes. 

Yoongi has time. In fact, he has all the time in the world when it comes to breaking you down. You’re gonna spiral for him, you’re gonna unwind under his tongue. Because this is what you wanted and he’s nothing but incredibly thorough. 

Your thighs are quivering by the time he’s ready to reward you release, and he kisses them lovingly as you prattle off complete and utter nonsense above his sweaty head. Standing, he roves his gaze over his sheets, satisfied to hell how he’s made you a mess among them. 

And Yoongi is far, far from done with you. Sliding his dick along your folds, he hums, “This is what you wanted, huh. You gonna be a good little slut?” 

That obedience you give sets butterflies free in his chest. Because Yoongi knows you hold all the power here, him nothing but a vessel to carry out your every whim. “Then fucking beg.” 

When his cock pats your pretty pussy, your reaction has him fraying at the seams. So fucking beautiful when you twist like that. He can’t believe you gave him all these chances to see you at your most vulnerable because this is when you can’t hide a single thing from him. Your mouth betrays you in the best ways, your soul speaks to him when your brain can’t find the courage to. 

And Yoongi preens when you shower him with nothing but praise and a sailor’s barrage. His lips find yours after way too long, and when you tug at his shirt his heart pulls taut with it. 

“Please,” you finally beg. “I need you.”

“Need you, too.” He does, he does, he does. 

Quickly getting up to grab a condom, Yoongi smirks at the way you keep spouting nothing and everything, as if a dam inside burst with no hope of being stopped. Fully stripping himself, he slips the protection on before finding solace between your twitching legs, kissing you once again because fuck he cannot get enough of you tonight. Ever. No matter what lifetime he meets you in.

When you whisper his name, he takes it in his mouth, and the innate need to have you completely makes a mess of his hands. 

This is what will destroy him every time. This connection with you is what he will remember long after everything else fades away. There will never be another soul that embraces his so fully, and that truth is a belief so deep rooted it’s unshakeable. No matter what branches he cuts off, no matter what decisions he has to make. He will always, always come back to you. 

Because you’re it for him. And he can’t thank his past self enough for walking onto that balcony.

You like it best when he starts slow, especially since it’s been awhile since the last time. When Yoongi knows for a fact you haven’t seen anyone else, either, his heart grows a size, making his breath shudder while he slides further and further inside. 

He’ll wait. As always. But you don’t take long to feel comfortable, your hands lifting up to softly pull at his chains. Yoongi’s shoulders relax as you slide up to hold them for support, and he almost can’t look into those eyes he’s so afraid of.  

Bliss. This is exactly what he’s been fighting for. This is exactly why he’s going to make a much better effort—now, tomorrow, and forever. 

“I’m ready, baby,” you whisper. 

And Yoongi lets himself loose completely. 

Fuck, you feel better than he remembers, wrapping around him just right and pulsing against every ridge. If he could stay inside you every second, he would. There’s only one thing he can think of that would feel better than this, and just imagining that has him vibrating. The warmth enveloping him buckles both arms at your sides, and he crumbles to an elbow to smush his body against yours. 

“Look at me,” he commands, and he gives you a light pat on the cheek before squeezing your jaw. “Open up.”

When you do, spit flings from his mouth into yours, and his eyes blaze and twist at the primal dragon laying claim to you in his chest. Because you’re his, and he’s yours. This is all he ever needed to know. 

“Fuck!”

Fuck, that was too fucking hot. If he doesn’t control himself now he’s spilling inside of you in seconds. “What do you say?”

“Me?” you pant, hissing when he grips your chin once again. “Thank—” 

He’s thrusting inside you too hard you can’t think. But Yoongi doesn’t relent. Because he knows you can fucking take it. He knows how strong and relentless you can be, reckless just for him and pulling those same commitments from his core. 

And you prove him right yet again. “Thank you.”

“Now swallow.” As soon as he shoves inside, your obedience is his unraveling. Watching your eyes roll and your mouth part in release drags him down the shoreline with you, and he can’t fucking save himself because your tugs are too goddamn dominant. Fuck, you’re unbelievable. He will never, ever get enough of you. 

“Such a whore for me,” Yoongi praises, smiling lopsided when you remember exactly what he’s referring to. That first night you hustled the shit outta him and left him with a mind so jumbled he didn’t know what to do. God, that was ages ago. He’s not even sure he’s the same person anymore.

But you are. Just a lot more confident. At your core, you’re still the same wonderful woman, and the light in your eyes has not faded even one shade. “Love when you do that,” you admit, and he laughs when you shake your head. “Don’t know why.” 

“Me neither.” He spears you again with a cheeky lip bite. “But it’s so fucking hot.” 

Your grin can’t be contained, and this is where you wanna be. Right here. Nowhere else in the fucking universe. 

“I’m ready.” When Yoongi regards you with curiosity, he gets blindsided yet again by your forthcomingness. “Fuck the shit out of me.” 

Oh. Tonight is his last, it seems. “Goddamn, this isn’t good for me.” 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” Sitting back on his knees, he gathers your pretty ankles in a bunch. “Hold these pretty legs up for me. There you go.” It’s his turn to not give you a warning. Because you’re slick enough to handle what’s coming and he’s determined to make you do the same. 

Driving hard and fast, Yoongi unleashes his energy, slamming into your pussy again and again and relishing in the way you mewl and moan and whine. Keep doing that. He wants to hear you. It’s fuel for him to keep going and give you exactly what you want and need. If you felt insecure around him before tonight, he vows to erase all of that worry until it’s wiped from existence. You’re his world. You’re his everything. 

“Feel so good—”

More. More, more, more, he needs fucking more. When he leaves your cunt, you mewl before he grunts, “Fucking—Get up.” Raising you up by the arms, Yoongi leads you to the edge of his bed before swiping a firm arm to clear his desk. Knowing what he’s about to do, his cock twitches like mad. 

Fuck, you already look divine facedown on the surface, your legs teetering on those heels and making him grit out a groan. 

He cannot come. Not before living out one of his deepest fantasies. Fucking you on his desk? His workspace where he works on his other love? Yoongi’s already shaking before he even grips your quivering hips, shoving your thong away and letting it rest useless on one side of your perfect ass. Fuck. 

“Yoongi—”

He finds home again in an instant, pushing your bowing spine down when you habitually flinch, “Uh uh. Stay like that.” 

“I wanna—” Your words are cut off with his spank. “Fuck!”

“There you go.” The rock of the desk is so strong that every bang against the wall booms loud, equipment sliding back and forth and teetering just like you had on your high heels. Just the mere sight of you like this makes him spiral. And Yoongi can’t help but whoosh out a raspy laugh. “Goddamn.” 

He grabs your hands, shoving you even flatter against his desk so he can pin your arms against your slick back. Possessive? Yes. Unsatiable? Even more so. 

Your moans fling out as he doesn’t let up, and Yoongi moans at the way you squeeze and milk his cock—relentless, uncompromising, just how he fucking wants it. 

More. He still wants more? Fuck. “Come here.” He gathers your wrists in one palm before reaching around your chest, hauling you up and pinning you against his body by the throat. It’s so sweaty under his touch, glistening and tempting to be sucked until he mars you with lust. 

“Never fucking kicking you out.” His next stroke is intentionally harsh, and those moans will take residence in his mind for years. “Don’t even think about saying that again.” 

Your weight falls on his arms when he shoves into you again, feet scrambling for solid ground and wobbling your legs into jello. 

But Yoongi doesn’t give a shit. “You hear me?” When you let out a breathy confirmation, he still isn’t satisfied. A hand pats your cheek before he asks again, “Say it louder.” 

“Yes!”

“Good.” That’s all you get before he jumps into a frenzy, pistoning as fast and as hard as he can possibly manage. When he brings you back down to his desk, Yoongi takes advantage of the position, thrusting and thrusting and thrusting into your heavenly velvet. 

This is exactly what he needed. What you needed. Of course you both yearned for the same blue flame, ripping each other apart and rebuilding each other again. 

You’re close. Yoongi can feel you. So he menacingly decides to prolong your release yet again—

You shove him so fast he can’t react, thumping onto his bed and cackling like mad when you leap onto his frame. Fuck, your eyes are so blown and vicious they set him on fire, and he’s gripping your sloping hips and shoving you against his length before he can fully taunt, “Let’s go then, pretty bitch.”

“You already fucking know.”

“Show me what I’ve been missing.”

“Don’t fall in love.” 

Right. He’s already groaning when you take your throne, regal and royal and showing him exactly why he already has. But when you swing your pelvis and take him even deeper, Yoongi reminds himself that he can always fuck you like he doesn’t. And that’s both of your favorite ways to sin. “Fuck.”

His head kicks back, eyes squeezing shut in lust. He’s so tight that he might hurt you, so his hands grapple his sheets instead and tense his muscles indefinitely. 

You feel good. Way too fucking good. If you’ve been practicing with those secrets you have in your bedside drawer he can damn well fucking tell. Soon, his hisses devolve into groans, and he snaps his head back up to slap your breasts—one after the other before gripping your hips with force. “Fuck, I missed this pussy,” he confesses with husk, and you whine in response as you lower yourself to kiss him deep. 

“It missed you, too.” You’re extending yourself up his body now, upping his heartbeat until it races to catch up with his feelings. But everything unholy fills him to the brim when you arch your tits to his face. It seems you figured some things out while he was gone. 

A dark chuckle leaves as he suckles on one of your nipples, lolling around and drawing whines right out of your lips. It’s adorable to feel you frozen around his waist, too distracted by his tongue that you can’t multitask both ends. 

It’s okay. He can do that for you. Grabbing the back of your neck, Yoongi thrusts himself up into your heat, marvelling at the way your mouth flops open to say his name. “Uh huh.”  

Before you can talk again, his other hand joins in to choke you from the other side, and his eyes engulf in black when yours roll impossibly far back. 

Fuck. He’s not gonna last much longer. But you’re gonna reach bliss a thousand times before he worries about himself. “You gonna come?”

A frantic nod.

“Then come.” 

As soon as you hear the words, you do exactly that, windpipe released just as you pulse around him so hard he hisses out a curse. Shit, shit, his release is right behind yours. The way you tug at his cock proves too much, and he stutters out words of encouragement when spilling out his own release inside latex. But you’re inundating around him even after he comes, and Yoongi selfishly commands you with a rasp, “Again.” 

To his shock, you obey immediately, crying out and arching so far back Yoongi feels himself close again, too. Has he come more than once in awhile? He doesn’t remember the last time that happened, if at all. But he knows it can happen with you. There’s no doubt he can get there with you, because he loves you so fucking much. 

Fuck. Fuck, did he just say that last confession out loud? No. No, he didn’t. There’s no fucking way. 

Sitting up, he waits as you sling arms around him, leaning back and smirking at the way the new angle makes you moan. Confident you can do it a fourth time, he repeats, “Again.” 

Your head shakes before your arms lock around his neck, and one tilt of his hips pushes you over the edge. And god. Damn. This reaction you have to your own body sends Yoongi to a higher plane. He stares in awe as your eyes roll again, drinking in the sight of you and questioning what the hell he’d done to deserve a front row seat.

You’ve both come so far. But Yoongi is more proud of you for finding your sensuality in perfect stride and pace. This is wholly you, losing yourself and baring your soul to him in full. Despite what you’re doing, you radiate such an angelic aura, and Yoongi has pricks at the corners of his eyes. 

He has his guardian angel back. And he would burn the universe without a second thought if it kept you safe and warm. “So fucking perfect.”

“For you,” you wisp out. “Only you.” 

How you decided to stay with him, Yoongi will never be able to fathom. But you came back effortlessly. You welcomed him back like the promise of a nostalgic summer.  

Lowering you to his sheets, he positions you to where you’re most comfortable. When he asks if you’re okay, you can only nod, and he plants another kiss on your temple before sliding off his protection. It doesn’t take him long to trash, and he makes his way back to the bed to take full advantage of your body heat. 

There’s complete silence now. But for the first time in months, Yoongi’s more than fine with that. Because it’s nothing but comforting, with your occasional nudge against his chest and soft breaths warming his chains. 

Soothing your back with circles, something walks into his brain, and he can’t hold it in any longer as his mouth spreads wide into a grin, “I need to re-up this damn cat’s food.” 

That squeal is so fucking worth the surprise. 

“I knew it!” Yoongi pretends to be annoyed when you figure him all the way out. “Tried to hide it from me all these months? Somebody’s getting soft.”

“First off.”

“Uh huh.”

Someday, one day soon, he’s gonna take you shopping for her. You’re going to run through his entire wallet, but Yoongi doesn’t care because he’s gonna be at his happiest picking toys and things out for you. 

He can even buy you storage for some of your clothes, too. 

Maybe that can be your next surprise. 

“I’m her favorite.” 

Your scoff is immediate, and Yoongi watches as you attempt to tower over him. “Only because you gatekeeped her.”

Gatekeeped? Is that even a word? A soft disagreement precedes a more prominent, “Won’t even matter.” Because she’s definitely going to warm up to you more. He’s gonna take pride in the small amount of time he’s the favorite before being recognized as the lowly food and water boy. 

Something softens in your stare. And he’s wondering what’s floating around in that attractive mind of yours. “You took care of her.”

He did. Because she came back when he was himself again. And if that wasn’t a sign for good things to come, Yoongi will make it one anyway. “She was gonna be your surprise,” he finally murmurs. “For getting the gig.”

Your eyes still before you offer a smile that stops his heart. When you lean down to give him a kiss, the same organ beats in double time when you plant love on his forehead right after. 

Oh. That was… 

“Come here,” Yoongi whispers, wrapping you against his side as you lie back down. Calling it what it is, he’s simply too shy to look into your eyes right now. “How are you gonna get home?” He’s fine taking you. But there’s a lot of risk there if your brother is awake or driving up at the same time. And—

Shit. You still have those shoes on. They can’t be comfortable while lying down, especially after you took him like a champion.

“I’ll call a ride in the morning. He’ll be out cold until noon at the earliest.” 

“K.” 

“Did I keep you from anything?”

A puff flies out his nostrils. Of course you’d still ask that after commandeering the rest of his night. “Kinda late for that, huh.” 

“True. Sorry.”  

“But no, we were finishing up when I called.” 

“Okay… Did I scare you?” When Yoongi can’t confess out loud, he lets his eyes speak for him. Which makes your voice heavy with apology, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” 

“S’ok.” 

“I just… It hurt tonight.” Fuck. “Really hurt.” 

He knows exactly what you mean. It’s been hurting like this ever since he left. Which means he  has to make up all that time. Grappling onto this chance you gave like a lifeline, he’s gonna right all his wrongs and fully commit. No matter how many shadows are in this damn apartment, because he now knows you’ll help chase them away.  

After a light squeeze, Yoongi gently shifts his weight, resting his head exactly where your hand clutches your chest. When you move your fingers, he kisses that same spot, hoping you understand what he means. “How about now.” 

Fingers meek, you clutch his head with a broken response, “Maybe try that one more time.”

He’ll do it as many times as you ask. 

Yoongi can feel the shudder in your chest. And he knows what that usually means. So he decides to run from your expression one more time, trying something else to hopefully comfort you. Sliding to the edge of his bed, he gently lifts one of your ankles onto a leg, back fully facing you as he undoes the meticulous leather straps. “I always do, babe.” 

When you’re silent, he slips one heel off before clarifying. “Miss you.”

“I just… Wasn’t sure.” 

He hates the waver in your voice. Hates how he’s the sole cause of it and fighting hard to not hurtle down another hole. “That’s my fault.” 

Throat small, you’re swift to reassure him. “No, no. I need to just suck it up. I’m sorry.” 

After freeing your other foot, he rubs it without prompt, finding comfort in massaging your exhausted soles. If he allows himself to dream, it would be to end each and every night just like this. Driving you to release before soothing your tired bones as you talk about whatever’s on your mind, working toward his dream while you drift off and get lost in yours. 

Can he have that? Will the universe let him have a future despite his past? “Just a little bit longer, doll,” he says, turning to look at the floor. “I’m sorry.” 

“You gave me tonight.” When he swallows, you reassure him with all the support you can give, “A little longer is nothing.” 

Of course. How could you be any less than perfect? A moment passes before he shifts, and this is when he finally spots the ocean of littered pens and papers on his floor. 

Is his smile that obvious? It doesn’t take you long to call his ass out. “You liked whatever happened over there, huh.”

Immediately, Yoongi’s shoulders bob with a laugh before he admits, “Fucking you on my desk? I’ve wanted to do that for months.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Going through all the other scenarios he’s thought of—one that occurs a little far from here—he grins. “There’s a lot of shit I’ve wanted us to do for months.” 

“Oh? Like what?”

He looks over his shoulder, and you scoff in frustration at his answer, “What’s the fun in telling you?”

“Ass!”

—

—

Yoongi does his damned best to keep that smile on your face. After a shower that proves steamier than usual, he offers to make you dinner when your stomach roar makes him double over in laughter. And while he whips up a meal from the last batch of groceries Taehyung brought, Yoongi peeks around the bar to watch you discreetly open his front door. 

Wearing a shirt he used to wipe his own tears weeks ago. He’s been an utter, complete fool. 

“Is she there?” He calls out, to which you turn with a prominent pout on your lips. 

“No.” When you huff and puff to the kitchen, his eyes crease tight. “Whatever, I have plenty of time to become her new fave.” 

Over dinner, your laughs mix with his own as you tell him all your work stories. And Yoongi quickly realizes that this could’ve been the whole night and he’d be just as happy. Just as fulfilled. What does that tell him? Nothing he doesn’t already know. 

It’s when you both settle into bed that things simmer. And as Yoongi lies on your hearth of a chest, you tell him everything that happened with Jungkook. How you met, when your brother went from protectiveness to approval, up until the night he broke your heart. 

Yoongi doesn’t say a word. But he does encourage you to keep talking about your new job. Because it seems like the perfect fit for you, which is the complete opposite from where you were before. 

“Oh, wait,” you suddenly stop during a story about office decorating, “What did you call about?”

“Huh? Tonight?” 

“Yeah.” 

Now that it’s his turn to speak, Yoongi feels shy. You’ve been experiencing so much while he was away, and it’s relieving to know you didn’t lose most of your spark. “We finally have a confirmed date. For that album,” he murmurs. “I was gonna invite you to the release party.”

You tense. “Me?”

A laugh flows out, warming his cheek. “Yes, you. All of y’all.” 

It takes a second for you to ask what he suspects you would, “That won’t be weird?” 

“Nah. You can bring anyone you want, so. I was assuming you’d bring your friends.” 

“Ah, I see.”

Nope. There’s that insecurity again. And he’s already there to push it away, planting kisses along your skin, your neck, and landing home on your lips. “It won’t be the only one,” he promises. “We got time.”

“Duh,” you giggle. “And I’ll be at all of them. Whether you like it or not.” 

Oh. Yeah. He loves you more than words could ever convey. 

But he doesn’t feel like he can tell you just yet. That’s the last hurdle he has to clear, and he finds himself eating shit every time he attempts. But it’s okay. There’s still time. Because you chose him again, you gave him another chance, you’re here. 

Finding his spot on your chest again, Yoongi immediately feels at peace. All the nights he dreaded, and all the nights he doesn’t remember—every single one can’t touch him now. Because in you, he finds a safe haven, the rolling hills of your limbs and the valley of your breasts shining and warm under your smiles. 

He’ll find a way to do this. He’ll find a way to set things straight with your brother and his past. Soon. Maybe. Hopefully. 

Yoongi starts to lull as you glide gentle fingers through his hair, something else that lends him the solace he’d been seeking for months. God, all he needed was you. And you’re the only thing he left… behind…

You’re humming. 

Ever the curious musician, Yoongi perks his ears to figure out what you’re singing. Is it something he can recognize? Is it a song he doesn’t know? No. You aren’t humming anything in particular. Which makes this performance unique and only for him, and your soft lilt tugs on every single string of his heart. 

Forget everything he had said before. This is how he wants to end every night, floating amongst your stars while your voice dips his mind in a stream of gentle song. 

God. You’re composing and don’t even know it. The way you stop before trying something different, the small grunt you make before going again to make a phrase better. It’s not unlike his own creative process, and that connection yanks tears straight from his soul. 

What did he ever do. What did he ever do to be with you.

“Shit, was I too loud?”

Yoongi just shakes his head, holding you closer and hoping you don’t notice the droplets through his tee. “Not at all.” 

So you keep going, humming more familiar tunes and phrases, moving on to a drumline on his head that makes him huff in pure delight. 

But Yoongi commits that moving line you liked to memory, remembering every note and already weaving it into the fabric of his own making. A breakthrough sparks new life into his eyes, and Yoongi squeezes them tight while his lungs silently burn and burn. 

It’s what he had been fucking missing.  

You were the key this whole time. 

And he waits until you fall asleep to let out grateful, heavy sobs into your chest. 

—

—

The day after you left is one of the most stressful ones of his life. From the whirlwind of a morning to the moment of bravery in the studio to handling your brother, Yoongi needs a whole week of no brain activity. 

But that call with you long after night fell just changed his whole perspective on the time he’d been gone. 

You sounded so broken, so fragile, so defeated. It didn’t matter to have that one night of reunion. He fucked up the next day by falling asleep and leaving you worried yet again. 

You asked if he was done with you. And from the way you asked it, you already believed it to be true. 

And Yoongi never, ever wants you to question where he stands again. Not when there’s three words he wants to say to you every fucking day. 

When the phone cuts, Yoongi’s hand falls, his stare shifting straight to the living room. Right towards the corner that stares back. “You’re nothing to me anymore,” he vows, walking to the guitar that almost shies away. “I’m done.” 

Keep saying it. Keep believing it. Keep focusing on the present and grasping that instead. And one day, these words will be truer than true. 

Reaching for the case, Yoongi stops midway, his hand unable to go any farther. 

All he has to do is throw it out. That’s it. Just take it, walk to the nearest dumpster, and discard. Years of toxins will fester somewhere else, and he’ll finally be rid of the dark. 

In the end, he still can’t do it. But that won’t stop him from showing you he’s better now. Showing himself he’s better now. 

Because he is, he is, he is. 

“For us.” 

-

-

tbc in fugue, pt. iii

-

so... thoughts before part 3? | join the server! | fugue pt. iii

a/n: this was the part that i couldn't write until i knew yoongi was fine. it was always the plan to have him isolated, but to see real life yoongi go through all that last summer.. i couldn't find it in my heart to write his self-isolation and self-deprecation without my soul hurting. it just didn't feel right. but as soon as i saw him okay? 3tan yoongi came back again. and my fingers flew. a/n 2: thank you again, everyone. i hope you all love all the parts of fugue in equal amounts! any support, love, or encouragement means the whole world to me. again, i'm sorry for taking so long to update the main storyline, but i am back. for real. love you guys so much. ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist  ⇥ three tangerines masterlist

[aventurineswife]

Hihiii !!

may i request a Phainon x reader where as hes using his ult form whilst in battle, the reader gets injured (it can be anything !! like a broken ankle or they sprained their wrist handling their weapon) and Phainon insists on carrying them either still in battle even still in his ult form or after he finished obliterating the opponents that caused the injury in the first place? I dunno, but surprise me ! !(^o^)!

Feel free to ignore this if you don't want to write it, and take care of yourself!!! 🫶

A Sovereign’s Vow

Summary: During a fierce battle in the Okhema Wastes, you suffer a sudden injury that leaves you vulnerable on the battlefield. As chaos erupts around you, Phainon unleashes his ultimate form—Demiurge—becoming a celestial embodiment of light and shadow. After obliterating the enemies responsible, he finds you and insists on carrying you to safety, revealing the quiet, unwavering depth of his devotion beneath his godlike power. Between divinity and vulnerability, a bond between you shines through.

Tags: Phainon x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Battle Scene, Injured Reader, Protective Phainon, Demiurge/Ult Form, Soft!Phainon, Carrying Scene, Divine Imagery, Mutual Care, Romantic Tension, Fluff Amidst Chaos.

Warnings: Battle violence (non-graphic but intense atmosphere), Injury (sprained/broken ankle, mild pain described), Supernatural combat themes, Mild language, Emotional intensity / power imbalance themes.

A/N: HE'S BARELY OUT Y'ALL!!! 😭🙏

The air cracked with celestial energy.

Swords clashed with shadow as Phainon's Demiurge form illuminated the battlefield. One half of him burned like the heart of a star—golden and searing—while the other whispered with the void, wings of shadow curling like smoke around his form. Every movement he made carved silence into the chaos, obliterating the Titanspawn that had broken through the city walls.

And then you screamed.

You hadn't meant to—gods, you never wanted to be a distraction—but the wrong pivot, the weight of your blade, and a cruelly placed fragment of rubble wrenched your ankle at a sickening angle. You hit the ground hard, dust clouding your vision, fingers scrabbling at the uneven stone. Pain radiated up your leg, white-hot and pulsing.

Your weapon skittered a few feet away. Useless.

But they were coming. The ones who had flanked you—the Strife-bound, writhing with corrupted energy—were closing in, their snarls a cruel melody above the thunder of war.

And then everything stopped.

A wave of divine pressure swept the field. The enemies froze—not from fear, but from raw, oppressive awe.

Phainon landed between you and them in a shock of light and shadow, the impact fracturing the ground in a radiant burst. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

The next instant was a blur of annihilation.

Golden strikes that flared like sunfire tore through flesh and metal, while sweeping arcs of indigo carved silence where once stood fury. He moved like a deity who had forgotten mercy—a perfect storm of power and purpose.

And then, only the wind remained.

You winced, trying to rise.

“Don’t,” came his voice—ethereal and layered now, like it echoed from both heavens and abyss.

You blinked up through the dust. Phainon stood before you in his Demiurge form, radiant and terrifying. Yet when his eyes met yours, they softened. Still piercing, but grounding. Still divine, but real.

“I told you not to push yourself alone,” he murmured, kneeling.

“I—I didn’t mean to—” you stammered, guilt washing over you.

He silenced you with a look. “You’re hurt. That’s all that matters right now.”

You tried again to stand, but he reached out—carefully, reverently—and scooped you into his arms. Even in this form, his touch was gentle, warm where the golden armor brushed your skin, cool and comforting where the indigo embraced you like dusk.

“You’re still glowing,” you said softly, half-laughing through the pain. “You’re going to blind me.”

“And yet, you still manage to tease me.”

You rested your head against his shoulder as he rose into the sky, wings of shadow fanning out, the halo above him casting ripples across the clouds. His long coattails flowed like a royal banner, divine and defiant.

“You came for me,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut.

“I always will,” he replied, voice a harmony of solemn vow and unspoken ache. “Even if I have to burn the stars and shadow the sun.”

As he carried you beyond the broken field, his power receded slowly—but he never let you go.

Not through the pain.

Not through the silence.

Not even when the battle ended.

[wchswift]

hiii there againn linaa!! i hope you're fine!!

ugh, i hate asking this but i can't help. i'm in need of some heavy angst and comfort 😭 please help in writing a HEAVY angst and comfort fic about old man logan 🙏😞 (i've had an argument with my bf but nvm not going to trauma dumping here)

— where it hurts the most

mdni 𖤐 18+ old man logan x reader

Logan pushes you away the only way he knows how—cruel words, distance, and a lie that cuts deeper than any wound. content! angst & hurt/comfort, heavy angst, emotional hurt, self-destructive behavior, arguments, confessions, soft comfort, angst with a happy(ish) ending, mentions of physical injuries (bruised/bleeding knuckles), emotional vulnerability. word count: 1.2k

notes: zayn hiii!!! I love receiving your requests, always feel free <3 and my apologies for the delay, really! I'm sorry to hear that and I hope everything is okay now dear, but know that my dm is always open if you want to talk, okay?? despite that, I hope you like it and that I do justice to your request 🫶

The fight is ugly. Worse than the others.

Logan is breathing hard, shoulders taut, veins standing out along his forearms from where his hands are clenched into fists. His eyes are wild—storm-dark, sharp with something too tangled to name.

You don’t move from where you stand. You’ve seen him like this before—worn down, pushing, clawing for distance like it might save him. But tonight feels different. The air is heavier, the silence stretching like a wound, raw and open.

“You don’t get it.” His voice is rough, a snarl that barely holds back a deeper tremor. “You never have.”

Your heart hammers, throat tight. “Then help me understand, Logan.”

But he just shakes his head. There’s something in his expression—something close to fear, buried beneath the anger.

“You wanna understand?” He exhales sharply, a bitter, exhausted sound. “Fine. I don’t love you.”

The words cut through you like a blade.

You're used to the "you should leave," "you deserve better." talk. But this, this is unexpected. You know he doesn't mean it, that it's something new to push you away for good, but you can't stop the pain.

Your breath catches. The whole world stutters to a halt.

“…What?”

His gaze flickers, jaw tightening—but he doesn’t take it back. He doesn’t soften. He doesn’t let himself.

“You heard me,” he mutters, voice low, dangerous. “I don’t love you. I never did.”

It’s a lie. You know it’s a lie.

But it still hurts. So bad.

You force yourself to breathe past the tightness in your chest. “Say it again.”

His nostrils flare, his fists trembling at his sides. “Don’t make me—”

“Say it again, Logan.” Your voice shakes. “Look me in the eye and say it.”

Something cracks in his expression. But he forces it down, swallows it back.

“I never loved you.”

The pain is instant, burning deep, settling into your ribs like something sharp and unrelenting. Your fingers twitch at your sides, nails digging into your palms to keep yourself steady.

He’s lying. You know he is.

But he’s also trying to break you. Trying to push you so far away you won’t find your way back.

And God, it almost works.

Your throat bobs, something sharp clawing its way up. You force it back.

“I don’t believe you,” you whisper.

Logan exhales roughly, turns away like he can’t stand to look at you.

“Don’t.” His voice is hoarse, worn thin. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what?” You step forward, hands trembling at your sides. “Don’t stay? Don’t care? Don’t love you when you clearly—”

He moves before you can finish.

Not towards you—away. Shoulders stiff, back turned, head lowered. Like he can’t bear to let you see him like this.

Like he can’t let you see him break.

“I don’t want you here,” he mutters. “You should go.”

You inhale sharply, chest burning. “Logan—”

“Leave.” His voice is nothing more than a rasp. “Please.”

That’s what shatters you. The ‘please.’

You stand there, hands trembling, something cracking in your chest. Then, slowly, you step back.

The silence stretches, unbearable.

Then—

The door clicks shut behind you.

Hours pass. You don’t know how long.

You don’t know what makes you go back. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something heavier, something impossible to sever.

But you find him exactly where you feared.

Collapsed against the porch railing, bottle shattered at his feet, blood smeared across his knuckles like he went looking for a fight and lost. His breath is uneven, his eyes dull and rimmed with exhaustion.

Something in your chest caves.

“…Logan?”

His head lifts slowly, sluggish. His gaze lands on you but doesn’t focus. It’s distant, dazed. Like he’s not all there.

A sharp inhale. Then you’re kneeling in front of him, hands framing his face, forcing him to look at you.

“Logan.” Your voice wavers. “Jesus Christ, what did you do?”

His eyes flutter shut. “Nothin’.”

Bullshit.

You glance at his hands—faintly trembling, bruised knuckles split from where he must’ve hit something. The bruises are already forming. He doesn’t heal like he used to.

You swallow past the lump in your throat. “I know what you were doing.”

A slow, shuddering exhale. Then, barely above a whisper—

“I don’t know how to stop.”

Your breath hitches. “Stop what?”

A pause. Then—

“Destroying everything I love.”

And there it is. The real truth, stripped bare and broken.

Your fingers tighten in his hair. Your own vision blurs. “You didn’t destroy me, Logan.”

“I had a dream.” His voice is hoarse, scraped raw.

You don’t move. Just listen.

His throat bobs as he swallows, still not meeting your gaze. “It wasn’t a good one.”

A beat of silence. Then he exhales, shaking his head. “It’s always the same. Always ends the same.”

His voice is quieter now, like he’s unraveling, like the fight has drained out of him.

Carefully, you reach out, your fingers brushing over his wrist—light, tentative. He doesn’t pull away.

It’s enough.

“You don’t have to tell me,” you say softly. “Just let me stay.”

Something in his shoulders sags, the last of his resistance crumbling.

He lets you guide him inside, where the air is warmer, where the quiet isn’t so lonely. Lets you press a damp cloth to his knuckles, cleaning away dried blood, gentle but firm.

His hands tremble when you hold them in yours. His fingers twitch like he’s torn between pulling away and clinging to you.

“I’m still here,” you murmur, your thumb tracing slow, grounding circles over his skin. “I’m always gonna be here.”

Logan exhales, something breaking in his expression. His breath shudders, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself lean into your touch.

Lets himself stay.

And you take care of him.

You ease him onto the couch, helping him sit, helping him breathe. He’s exhausted, the fight in him burned out, leaving behind something hollow, something aching. You run your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing, the strands coarse beneath your touch. He exhales shakily, pressing into the warmth of your palm like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

When you move to pull away, he catches your wrist. His grip is weak, but the intention is clear.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart clenches.

“I’m not.” You adjust, shifting so you can tuck yourself closer, wrapping an arm around his broad shoulders. He’s solid and warm and so, so tired. “I’m right here.”

For a moment, he’s still. Then, hesitantly, he leans into you, letting his forehead rest against your temple. His breath fans warm over your skin, uneven but steadying.

“I don’t deserve this,” he mutters, almost too quiet to hear.

You close your eyes, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Too bad,” you whisper. “You’ve got me anyway.”

A shaky exhale. His grip on your wrist tightens for just a second before going slack, but he doesn’t let go.

And in the quiet, in the dim light and the warmth of your touch, Logan finally lets himself rest.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

taglist: @blossomingorchids @logaenhowlett @cruel-as-sin (let me know if you want to be added or removed <3)

[speaknow-sw]

•| ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ |•

Content : angst (a lot), light fighting, slapping, mentions of pregnancy, weapons.

A/N : tbh filler chapter bcs I’m struggling to write guys 😭 I had a blank plot and I’m not really satisfied with this chapter. But I figured out a plot for the next chapter so it should be easier to write. Enjoy 🫶🏻

• | ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴠɪ: ʀᴏᴍᴇ’ꜱ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ꜱᴀᴄʀɪꜰɪᴄᴇ |•

Anakin is falling.

The darkness wraps around him like the arms of the underworld, weightless and infinite. He cannot feel his body, cannot tell if he still has one. He does not know if he is breathing.

All he knows is the falling.

The air is thick with whispers. They slip through the void like snakes, curling around him, voices both familiar and foreign. They speak in tongues he does not recognize, in languages that have been buried beneath the dust of centuries. Some are cries, others are murmurs. Some speak his name.

But what is his name?

"Anakin."

A voice cuts through the noise.

"Anakin, wake up."

Yours.

It is faint—just a thread of sound in the vast blackness—but it is real. He reaches for it, desperate, straining, trying to hold on. But his fingers grasp at nothing. You are slipping away.

And then—

The world shifts.

The darkness shatters like glass, and suddenly, he is not falling. He is standing.

No—he is someone else.

Not Anakin. Remus.

The sun is bright, the air thick with the scent of earth and stone. His hands are calloused, dirt under his fingernails, sweat dripping down his back. He turns his head, and beside him stands his brother.

Romulus. Obi-Wan.

They are not wearing armor, nor are they warriors yet. They are young men with fire in their veins, standing before the land they have claimed. Before them, Rome is nothing but an idea—a dream made of stone and sweat and blood.

He knows this. He remembers it.

"We will build something eternal."

Romulus speaks with certainty, eyes alight with purpose.

Remus—Anakin—does not answer. His gaze drifts, searching, drawn toward something else.

Drawn toward you.

You are there, standing among the workers, the sun catching in your hair. His brother’s betrothed. You wear the marks of nobility, of the divine, and yet—you look at him as if he is the one who commands your heart.

The air is heavy between you. He does not know what he feels, not yet. But he knows he is drawn to you, and that it is dangerous.

The memory fractures. Time bends.

The scenes flash too fast—like a storm of moments he cannot control.

He sees you at night, in the gardens, when the moon is the only witness to your crime. Your hands touch his face, his chest, tracing him like he is something holy. He grips your wrists, voice low with warning. "You cannot keep coming to me."

"Then tell me to leave."

He does not.

He never does.

Your lips find his, and the world ceases to exist.

Another flash.

An argument.

"I am tired of hiding!" His voice is raw with frustration. "Why must I be your secret? Do you love him?"

"Do not ask me that."

"Why? Because you are afraid of the answer?"

"Because if I say it out loud, the gods will hear me."

“I don’t care !”

“Don’t tell me to say it out loud when every pulse of my heart scream it to the world, every pumps, every breaths in body screams that I belong to you and only you.”

He remembers the way you touched his face then, as if memorizing it—as if you knew you would not be able to touch it for much longer.

And then—

Romulus.

Watching.

He knew.

The memories slow, sharpen, become something unbearable.

Rome stands, its foundations laid, its people celebrating.

Remus stands before his brother, sword in hand. His heart is pounding, but he does not know if it is from anger or heartbreak.

"Why?" his voice is hoarse, pleading like a little boy. "Why do you seek to cast me aside?"

Romulus is calm. Too calm.

"Only one of us can rule."

"We built this together." He looked at his brother hurt, betrayal seeping through his veins like a venomous snake’s bite. His eyes widens and his heart breaks for his other half, for he has been poisoned at the root of their bond. The strand linking him to his brother breaks. 

"No. You built it on weakness. On your love for an impure."

The air turns cold. Remus grips his sword tighter. He should have seen this coming.

"She is not impure."

"She is not meant for mortals. And neither are you."

He sees it then, in his brother’s eyes—the decision has already been made.

The sword slashes through him.

The pain is instant, a fire in his chest. He gasps, staggers, the ground rushing up to meet him.

He falls into the mud, like a pig, his blood seeping into the soil that will become Rome.

He reaches out.

You are screaming.

He tries to hold on. Tries to touch you one last time.

But it is too late.

The world is gone.

There is only darkness again.

But this time, he does not fall.

He floats—somewhere beyond life, beyond death. He is Remus. He is Anakin. He is both and neither.

And then—

A voice.

Deep. Cold. Ancient.

"You have always been Remus."

The words coil around him, suffocating.

"You have always died, only to rise again."

The voice is not kind. It is not forgiving. It is a sentence, a curse.

"This is your destiny."

"No." He fights—he does not want this, he does not want to be a ghost of the past.

"You cannot escape what you are."

Blood. Betrayal. Death.

“The creator”

His skull split.

"You are Rome’s first king."

"And its first sacrifice."

The darkness pulls him under again.

He drowns.

And then—

Nothing.

The first thing Anakin feels is pain.

It is deep, aching, lodged in his very bones. His body is heavy, sluggish, as though he has been dragging it through centuries of time. His head throbs. His chest feels hollow, emptied of something vital.

And yet, he is awake.

His eyes blink open. The world is dim, flickering with candlelight. The scent of herbs lingers in the air, mixed with the faint trace of something familiar—you.

You are there, sitting beside him, carefully unwrapping the bloodied bandages from his wounds. Your fingers are gentle, precise, but there is something hesitant in your movements. As though you fear waking him.

Too late.

He exhales sharply. The sound makes you freeze.

Slowly, your eyes lift to his.

For a long moment, there is silence.

Then—

"How long ?" His voice is raw, deeper than before, filled with something old.

You blink. "You’ve been unconscious for six days."

"That’s not what I meant."

You look away. He watches your throat bob as you swallow, your fingers tightening around the bandages. You know exactly what he means.

"How long have you known?"

Silence again.

Anakin’s jaw clenches. The memories are there, burning behind his eyes like an open wound. The past. The truth. The betrayal.

"You should not be alive." His voice is low, edged with something dangerous. "I remember everything now."

His past life. His death. You.

You shift uncomfortably, resuming your work, carefully pressing fresh cloth against his wound. "I thought you might."

"You thought?" He laughs, but there is no humor in it. It is hollow. Bitter. "So it was only a matter of time before the great Remus remembered how his brother murdered him?"

Your hands still.

He watches you, gaze sharp despite the exhaustion dragging at his limbs. He sees you. Not just as the woman before him, but as something more. As something ancient.

"What are you?" His voice is quieter now, but no less intense. "You bled ichor. You are not mortal. Were you ever?"

You meet his gaze, and for the first time, you do not look away.

"Yes."

His stomach turns. He should have known. He should have realized it long ago. The way you moved, the way your presence wrapped around him like a force beyond human comprehension. He loved you before he even knew your name.

Just like before.

Just like always.

"So it was all a lie."

"No." Your voice sharpens, firm, but there is something fragile beneath it. "Nothing was a lie, Anakin."

He scoffs. "You let me fall for you. Again."

You flinch. Because it’s true.

His hands curl into fists. "Tell me, did you know from the beginning?"

"Yes."

He exhales sharply, chest rising and falling with the force of it. Anger coils in his veins, but beneath it—something else.

"And you said nothing?"

"Would you have believed me?"

He wants to say yes. But he cannot. Because he knows, deep down, that he wouldn’t have.

Because the truth is too cruel.

Because he was never meant to live.

"This is my curse," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "To die and rise again. To be nothing but a shadow of what should have been."

"No." Your hand is on his now, gripping his fingers tightly. "You are more than that."

He stares at your hands, at the way his calloused fingers fit between yours. His breathing is heavy, uneven. His heart pounds—too fast, too alive.

"Then tell me what I am."

The silence stretches between you like an open wound.

Anakin waits, his blue eyes sharp, unrelenting. His breath is uneven, chest rising and falling beneath your touch. He wants an answer—demands one.

You exhale softly, your fingers still gripping his. And then, finally, you tell him the truth.

"You are my love."

His expression shifts—something flickers in his eyes, something raw, something that nearly undoes him. But he does not recoil. He does not scoff, nor sneer, nor push you away.

Instead, he only stares.

"That’s what I am?" he murmurs, voice hoarse.

"Yes."

A shaky breath escapes him. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment as if the weight of your words is something he cannot yet bear.

When he looks at you again, his hands tighten around yours.

"Then tell me how to end it."

You frown. "End what?"

"This." His voice hardens. "This curse. This fate. How do I break free from it?"

You hesitate.

His fingers twitch—he notices your pause, your silence, the way your throat bobs as you struggle for words. He knows. He already knows.

"The only way out," you whisper, "is through the gods themselves."

His grip tightens.

"You’re saying I must confront them."

"Yes."

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. "And if I don’t?"

"Then you will die again, and again, and again." Your voice does not waver. "They will never let you rest, Anakin."

His jaw clenches. Anger flashes behind his eyes—not just at the gods, not just at you, but at the entire order of the world. At Rome, at fate, at history itself.

"So that’s it." His voice is low, edged with something dark. "The gods will never let me go unless I take the fight to them."

You nod.

Anakin exhales slowly. When he speaks again, his voice is steel.

"Then let them try to stop me."

Anakin’s breath is shallow, his body still weak, but his mind—his mind burns.

The truth unfurls inside him like a sword being unsheathed, like an altar stained with the blood of a slaughtered lamb. Except he was never the lamb. He was the sacrifice.

He grips the sheets beneath him, fingers curling into the fabric as the revelation strikes him—hard, merciless.

"I’m Rome’s first king," he whispers, half to himself, half to you. His voice is distant, as if speaking it aloud makes it real.

But then his expression darkens, his eyes shadowed by something deeper, something furious.

"But I am also her first offering."

He sees it now. How his blood was the foundation upon which Rome was built. How his name was torn from the mouths of men, how his brother stood over his broken body, sword dripping with the life they once shared.

"Rome was never his." His voice is hoarse, laced with something almost unbearable. "It was mine. It was always mine."

He exhales sharply, running a hand over his face, pressing his palm into his temple as if trying to silence the echoes of his past.

"And now I walk her streets like a ghost, wearing another man’s name."

His gaze finds yours. A terrible understanding settles between you.

You reach for him, your fingers gentle as they trace over his arm, over the bandages wrapped around his wounds. "You were never just a man, Anakin. You were a myth before you were even born."

He swallows, his throat working around the weight of his thoughts.

"I don’t want to be a myth," he mutters, voice low, almost resentful. "I just wanted—"

He stops himself.

You wait. But he does not finish.

Because he knows the truth: it does not matter what he wanted. It never did. The gods shaped his path long before he had the chance to carve his own.

But maybe—just maybe—he can carve it now.

The months pass in a blur of steel and whispers, of restless nights and long days spent preparing for a war no mortal army has ever waged.

Anakin trains relentlessly, pushing himself to the edge of exhaustion. He sharpens his blade, over and over, as if he could carve his own fate into the steel. He learns everything he can—of the old gods, of their weaknesses, of the wars they have waged before. He gathers men, allies, those who have suffered under divine cruelty and wish to see the old order crumble.

And you—

You carry a secret heavier than any sword.

It was the Fates who told you. Three months ago, in the quiet of the night, when the world was caught between dusk and dawn. You had gone to them, seeking guidance, demanding to know if there was another way. A way to break Anakin free from his fate without waging war on the heavens.

They had given you no comfort.

"The threads are woven, child. But another now weaves beside them."

You had not understood—until they had placed a hand over your stomach, their touch like ice, like eternity itself.

"You carry the son of Remus."

The words had struck like lightning, burning through you with the weight of what they meant.

"His destiny is not yet fulfilled. But the one you bear—"

Their pale, lifeless eyes had stared into yours, unblinking.

"He is destined for great things. He will rise where others have fallen. He will reshape the world in ways even the gods cannot predict."

Your hands had trembled over your abdomen. You had not known—not yet. But now you did, and there was no undoing that knowledge.

The Fates had disappeared into the dark, leaving you alone with the truth.

You had told no one. Not yet.

Not even Anakin.

Because how could you? How could you look into his eyes, knowing that he had already been condemned by prophecy, and tell him that another fate had already been written in the blood of his unborn child?

So you said nothing.

Instead, you fought. You planned. You prepared. You stood at Anakin’s side as he gathered his strength, as he gathered his army. You watched him transform into something more than a man, into something both mortal and divine, a warrior who carried the weight of history on his back.

And all the while, life grew inside you. Silent. Waiting.

Anakin watches you more closely than ever.

At first, he doesn’t know what it is. There’s something in the way you move—your steps a little slower, your hand lingering over your stomach when you think no one is looking. He catches the flicker of hesitation in your eyes, the way you sometimes stare at him as if you want to say something, but never do.

He’s always been good at reading you. Too good.

And now, as the war drums beat in the distance, as the weight of destiny presses down on both of you, he finally speaks.

It happens in the dead of night, in the quiet of his chambers. He stands by the window, sharpening his gladius with slow, methodical strokes, but his gaze keeps flickering to you. You sit on the edge of the bed, your hands clasped together, shoulders tense.

“You’ve been hiding something from me.”

His voice is low, measured. But there is something beneath it—something sharp.

You stiffen but don’t look at him. “That’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not.” He sets the blade down, turning fully to face you. “You think I haven’t noticed? You’re different. You’re holding something back.” He steps closer, eyes narrowing. “What is it?”

You shake your head. “It’s nothing, Anakin. You’re imagining things.”

He scoffs, unimpressed. “Don’t lie to me.”

His words slice through the air, cutting too close. You try to stand, to move away, but he catches your wrist before you can. His grip isn’t harsh, but it’s firm—demanding.

“Tell me.”

You meet his gaze, and for the first time in weeks, you see it—the storm in his eyes, the desperation hidden beneath the anger. He doesn’t just want to know. He needs to.

You swallow hard.

“It’s not important right now,” you whisper.

He exhales sharply, his jaw clenching. “Not important? We are preparing for war against the gods, and you’re keeping secrets from me?” He shakes his head. “No. I won’t allow it. I won’t let you carry something alone when it’s our battle to fight.”

Your chest tightens.

This is Anakin—stubborn, relentless, yours. And he will not let this go.

So you take a breath.

And you tell him.

Anakin stares at you, unblinking.

For a moment, the words don’t sink in. They hang in the air between you, heavy, unspoken truths finally given shape.

His son.

His hands tremble. His breath falters. He almost doesn’t dare to believe it.

And then—

“What did you just say?”

His voice is quiet, but it carries a terrible weight.

You swallow hard, your fingers tightening in your lap. “I saw the Fates,” you whisper. “They told me—I’m pregnant. With your child.”

Silence.

A moment stretched so thin it feels like it might snap.

But then his expression shifts. His brows furrow, his eyes darkening—not with shock, not with joy, but with rage.

“And his fate?” His voice is low, a dangerous edge creeping into it. “What did they say about his fate?”

Your hands shake. “They said he was destined for something great.”

His laugh is sharp, bitter. “Destined?” He paces away from you, hands in his hair. “Just like I was? Just like you were?” He turns on you, fury radiating from every inch of him. “You mean to tell me that the gods have already claimed him? That before he’s even taken his first breath, they’ve woven chains around his future?”

His fury is wildfire—hot, all-consuming.

“They have no right,” he growls, his fists clenched. “No right to condemn him the way they condemned me.”

You flinch at the storm in his voice, at the way his body trembles with barely restrained wrath.

“Anakin—”

“No.” He cuts you off, his chest heaving. His blue eyes burn with something primal, something feral. “I won’t let them do this. I won’t let them take my son the way they took me.”

You watch him, your own heart pounding.

You understand his fury. Because it is yours, too.

But fate is not so easily broken.

The words leave your lips before you can stop them. "You can’t defeat the gods, Anakin."

His head snaps toward you, eyes blazing, jaw tightening. The room feels too small, the air charged with something volatile.

His voice is sharp as a blade. "I can’t?"

You swallow, standing your ground. "No one can."

His expression twists into something dark, something wounded. "Is that what you think?" His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "That I’ll fail? That I’ll kneel like every mortal before me and accept the chains they’ve forged?"

"Anakin—"

"No." His voice cracks like thunder, his anger unfurling like a storm. "You don’t believe in me. You never did."

"That’s not—"

"Then say it." He takes a step closer, his fury searing. "Say you believe I can end this. Say you believe I can kill the gods."

You can’t.

Because you know the truth. The gods are not men. They are not beasts of flesh and bone, bound by the same rules. They are eternal. Unyielding.

And yet—so are you.

He sees it in your silence. The flicker of doubt in your eyes. And then—

He laughs. A bitter, humorless thing. "You think I can’t win because you are one of them."

"Anakin—"

"You are a goddess." His voice is hoarse, seething. "And if I can beat you, then I can destroy all of them."

You barely see it coming. The moment his words strike, something inside you snaps.

Your hand flies before you can stop it—

A sharp crack echoes through the chamber as your palm connects with his cheek.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. Just stands there, breathing hard, his head slightly turned from the force of the blow.

You stare at him, your own hand trembling.

And then you run.

You don’t wait for him to call you back. You don’t look back. You just run, the lump in your throat unbearable, the world spinning around you.

Because you knew this day would come. The moment he realized plainly what you were.

You just didn’t think it would hurt this much.

Your feet pound against the earth, breath ragged as you push yourself forward. The wind whips through your hair, but you don’t feel it—you feel nothing but the burn in your lungs, the ache in your chest. You just run.

You don’t know where you’re going. You don’t care. You just need to be away. Away from the fury in his voice, the betrayal in his eyes, the terrible, undeniable truth that he will never stop fighting—not even for you.

But you hear him behind you.

"Wait!" Anakin’s voice is raw, desperate. "Damn it, stop!"

You don’t.

You don’t want to hear the remorse in his voice, don’t want to turn around and see him reaching for you like he always does—because you’ll let him. You always let him. And if you let him, you’ll forgive him. You’ll let yourself believe that this love is enough to stop the war that’s coming.

But it isn’t.

"I didn’t mean it!" he shouts, his voice breaking. "Please, just—just stop running!"

He’s gaining on you. Even weak from his wounds, even after all these months of healing, he is still Anakin. A warrior. A force of nature.

You push yourself harder, faster—your heartbeat a drum in your ears.

And then—

A hand grabs your wrist.

He yanks you back, and you collide into him with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs.

You struggle, twisting in his grip, but he won’t let go. His arms come around you, holding you close, holding you too tightly—like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

"Let me go!" you cry, voice hoarse, but his fingers only dig deeper into you.

"No!" he snaps, voice trembling. "No—I won’t. Not again."

You shove at him, but he won’t move. "Damn you, Anakin—"

"I know." His forehead drops against yours, breath ragged, uneven. "I know, I know, I know. Just—just stop running from me."

You shake your head, eyes burning. "You don’t understand—"

"Then make me understand." His voice is desperate, his hands trembling where they clutch you. "Tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix this. Tell me how to fight them without losing you in the process."

You close your eyes, the weight of his words pressing into you.

There is no answer.

And the worst part is—you think he knows that, too.

Anakin’s hands clench into fists at his sides. "You’re younger than me," he says, his voice rough, barely contained. "You don’t understand what you’re up against."

You glare at him, fury boiling under your skin. "Don’t patronize me, Anakin."

"It’s not patronizing—"

"Yes, it is!" You take a step closer, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. "I may look young, but I have lived for decades, for centuries! Do you think I don’t know war? That I don’t know suffering?"

His nostrils flare, his jaw tight as he stares you down. "You’re carrying our child," he grits out. "This fight is no longer just about us."

"And you think that makes me weak?" you snap. "That I should just sit back and watch you throw yourself at the gods alone?"

Anakin exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "It’s not about weakness. It’s about—"

"You think I can’t fight?" You step forward, shoving against his chest. "That I won’t fight?"

His breath is ragged, his shoulders heaving as he looks at you. "I think you shouldn’t have to."

That stop you.

Anakin grips your shoulders, his eyes wide with desperation. "You can’t fight," he pleads. "Not now. Not like this."

You shake your head, chest heaving, but he tightens his hold, forcing you to meet his gaze. "I won’t risk you. I won’t risk our child."

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your child. His child. A life caught between fate and war, a soul not yet born but already marked by the gods.

"Anakin—"

"They’ll come for you," he cuts in, voice thick with fear. "You know they will. If you fight them, they won’t just punish me—they’ll punish both of you. I won’t let that happen."

His hands lower, one sliding to press gently against your stomach. A protective touch, a silent promise. "If I fight, I fight alone."

A chill skates down your spine. "You can’t."

"I have to." His jaw tightens. "I’d burn the whole world down before I let them take you from me."

"And what about you?" Your voice cracks. "You think I can just stand back and watch them destroy you?"

His lips part, but before he can answer—

The world shifts.

A sudden sharpness in the air, as if the sky itself is gasping. The wind dies. The ground beneath you turns wrong, like something hollow and ancient is stirring beneath your feet.

Then—

Blackness.

It erupts around you, thick and endless. Not just darkness—something alive, something hungry. It curls around your legs, your arms, slithering up your body like living shadow.

"No—!" Anakin lunges for you, but the darkness surges between you like a tidal wave, throwing him back.

"Anakin!" You reach for him, but the shadows coil tighter, devouring you, dragging you into the abyss.

His scream is the last thing you hear before everything disappears.

Consciousness returns like a tide, slow and inexorable.

Your body is light, weightless, as if it does not belong to you. The air around you hums, thick with something ancient, something beyond mortal comprehension. The scent of aged parchment and burning incense fills your lungs as you slowly open your eyes.

You are no longer in the temple.

Before you, seated at a loom that stretches beyond sight, are the Moirae. The three sisters of fate, weavers of destiny, the arbiters of life and death.

Clotho, the Spinner, her delicate fingers guiding the spindle as she spins the raw essence of existence into form. Lachesis, the Measurer, gliding her hands over golden threads, feeling their weight, calculating their course. And Atropos, the Unavoidable, her shears gleaming in the dim light, poised over the fabric of eternity.

They are waiting for you to speak.

"Where am I?" Your voice is hoarse, as though you have not used it in years.

"Beyond the reach of men," Clotho answers without looking up, her hands never ceasing their delicate work.

"Beyond the reach of gods," Lachesis murmurs, running a finger along a silken thread.

"For now," Atropos finishes, lifting her gaze to meet yours.

You push yourself up, your limbs unsteady. "Why am I here?"

"Because you were dying," Clotho says simply. "And your child cannot be allowed to die with you."

Your breath catches. Instinctively, your hands fly to your stomach. "The child…"

"Lives," Lachesis confirms, her expression unreadable. "For now."

You swallow, trying to steady your pulse. "What happened?"

"The Cult of Romulus," Atropos states, as if the name itself is a blade. "They came for you. For him."

Memories slam into you like a tidal wave—the argument, Anakin’s voice raised in frustration, the blackness that swallowed you whole. But before that…

"Anakin—" You push to your feet, panic rising. "Where is he?"

Clotho’s gaze remains on her spinning. "Still fighting."

Lachesis watches you carefully. "Still breathing."

Atropos tilts her head. "For now."

Your heart pounds. "You saved me but left him there?"

"We did not save you," Clotho corrects. "We saved what grows within you."

Lachesis gestures to the loom, where a new thread glows faintly amidst the others. "A fate has been woven that must not be unraveled."

"Your child is more than a son," Atropos says, eyes gleaming. "He is an axis upon which the future turns."

A chill runs down your spine. "What does that mean?"

Lachesis leans forward. "It means we did not pull you from death out of kindness."

"We did it because your son must live," Atropos finishes. "No matter the cost."

The weight of their words settles on you like iron shackles. The fate of your unborn child is already written in their tapestry, and the gods themselves have taken notice.

But what of Anakin? What of the war that now rages in your absence?

You clench your fists. "Send me back."

The Moirae exchange glances.

Clotho sighs, as if already knowing the outcome.

"So eager to return to ruin," Lachesis muses.

"So desperate to fight what has already been decided," Atropos says.

But you do not care.

Anakin is still fighting. You will not leave him behind.

Whatever the Moirae’s plans are, whatever destiny they have carved into stone, you will not let them dictate your future.

Your child’s future.

"Send me back," you repeat, voice steady. "Now."

Clotho does not stop spinning. Lachesis does not stop measuring. Atropos does not lift her shears.

They do not budge.

"Send me back," you demand again, louder this time, stepping closer to them. "Now."

But the Moirae are as immovable as the fates they weave.

"You ask for what cannot be given," Clotho murmurs, her fingers never faltering as she spins another strand of silk into existence.

"What cannot be changed," Lachesis adds.

"What has already been decided," Atropos finishes.

Frustration claws at your throat. "I do not care what has been decided." You shake your head. "I will not let them take everything from me."

"They have already taken everything from you," Atropos says simply. "And still, you have not learned."

The words are a curse, a prophecy, a cruel truth.

But before you can argue, the loom shifts, the threads part, and suddenly—

You see him.

Anakin.

He stands at the heart of the battle, a storm of steel and fire, cutting through men like a force of nature. Blood splatters across his skin, his golden hair damp with sweat, his chest heaving.

He is wounded, but he does not stop.

You built this together—these three months of secrecy, of careful planning, of whispered oaths in the dark. And now it is all burning before your eyes.

The Cult of Romulus is relentless. They come in waves, clad in crimson and gold, their banners snapping in the wind. They are fighting for a god that was never theirs, for a history built on a lie.

And Anakin is alone against them.

Your hands shake as you reach toward the image, as if you could tear through the veil, as if you could touch him, help him.

But there is nothing.

You are stranded here, in the timeless void of the Moirae’s domain, forced to watch.

"Let me go," you whisper, voice breaking. "Please."

Lachesis watches you with something almost like pity. "You do not understand yet, do you?"

"What am I supposed to understand?" you snap, eyes still locked on the battle, on Anakin as he swings his blade in a deadly arc, his enemies falling at his feet. "That you have already decided how this ends?"

"That there is no victory in war," Clotho murmurs. "Only survival."

"And survival is never without a cost," Atropos finishes, her shears glinting.

You shake your head violently. "No."

Anakin stumbles. His left knee buckles, just for a second. The opening is small—but enough.

A spear is thrust forward.

"No!"

Your scream echoes in the endless chamber.

But the Moirae do not react.

They do not save him.

And neither can you.

For the first time in your long existence, something inside you shatters.

Power surges through your veins, raw and untamed, a force beyond your understanding. The Moirae’s loom trembles, the threads quivering as if they sense the shift in fate. The three sisters look up in unison, their expressions unreadable, but you do not stop to decipher their meaning.

Time slows. No—time stops.

The battlefield freezes before your eyes. Anakin is caught mid-motion, his muscles taut, the spear mere inches from his side. The Cult of Romulus is suspended like statues, their mouths open in silent war cries, blood droplets hanging in the air like shattered rubies. The wind itself has halted, the smoke of burning banners curling in unnatural stillness.

You do not hesitate.

The void collapses around you, and in the next breath, you are there.

The scent of iron and death fills your lungs. The air is thick with the remnants of war, and though the world remains frozen, you can still feel the heat of battle radiating from Anakin’s skin. He is alive—but only because you have bent the rules of existence to make it so.

Your hand clasps his wrist, fingers digging into his pulse point, anchoring him to you.

And then—

Time crashes back into motion.

The spear drives forward, but it finds only empty air. Anakin is no longer there. Neither are you.

In a blink, you are far from the battlefield, the two of you collapsing onto the cold marble of an abandoned temple. Your breath is ragged, your body trembling from the force of what you have done.

Anakin gasps, gripping his chest, his wide eyes darting around in confusion before locking onto you. His gaze is wild, furious, disoriented.

“What—” His voice is hoarse. “What just happened?”

You swallow, still struggling to catch your breath. “I saved you.”

His hands find your shoulders, shaking you, demanding answers. “How?” His eyes search yours, his fury barely contained. “What happened ?”

The power is still humming beneath your skin, a new force you do not fully understand.

But one thing is clear.

The Moirae were wrong. Fate can be changed.

The realization settles over you like a tidal wave, crashing into the very foundation of your existence.

You have always been powerful. You were born of myth, shaped by destiny itself. You are the goddess of legends—your words have breathed life into heroes, your whispers have shaped empires. But for centuries, your power has been shackled, caged by the will of the gods who feared what you could become.

Until now.

Your hands tremble as you press them against your stomach. The power that surged through you, that allowed you to stop time, to tear yourself from the Moirae’s grasp—it is not foreign. It is yours. But for the first time in your long, endless existence, it is unleashed. And it is because of him.

Anakin is watching you, his breathing still uneven from battle. “What is it?” His voice is gruff, but beneath it, there is something softer. Concern.

You look up at him, your lips parting, but the words take a moment to come. “My power,” you murmur. “It’s been locked away for so long. The gods—they sealed it.” You exhale shakily. “But now… I can feel it. Flowing through me. Through him.”

Anakin’s gaze flickers downward, toward your stomach. A shadow passes over his face. “You’re saying—”

“He’s letting me channel it,” you whisper. “I am powerful, but he makes me whole.”

The silence between you is thick, heavy with meaning.

Anakin takes a step closer, his eyes dark and stormy. “So this is their plan.” His jaw tightens. “They didn’t just curse me with this fate. They bound you. And now they’re trying to use our son as a vessel for something greater than us both.”

You shake your head. “No, Anakin. This is our power. Not theirs.”

His fingers twitch at his sides, as if restraining himself. “Then why does it feel like a trap?” His voice is low, dangerous. “They let you have your power back, but only because of him. Because they need him.” He swallows hard. “They want our son for something, don’t they?”

You hesitate.

And that hesitation is enough.

Anakin’s face twists in fury, in heartbreak. “They want to make him another sacrifice,” he growls. “Just like me.”

The words cut deep.

Because you know he is right.

The sobs wrack through you violently, your body trembling under the weight of your grief. It spills out in broken, rambling whispers—words of failure, of weakness, of the unbearable truth that no matter how powerful you are, you cannot even protect your own child.

"I'm a useless goddess," you choke out, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. "I—I was meant to shape legends, to guide heroes, but I can't even keep my own child safe. What kind of mother am I? What kind of god am I?"

Anakin doesn't say anything at first.

But then, strong arms wrap around you, lifting you effortlessly off the ground, cradling you as if you weigh nothing at all. His warmth is overwhelming, his hold steady and unyielding. You bury your face against his chest, sobbing into the fabric of his tunic, gripping onto him like he is the only thing anchoring you to this world.

"Stop," he murmurs, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Don't say that."

His hands—those hands, rough and scarred from war, yet so heartbreakingly gentle with you—stroke the top of your head, fingers threading through your hair with surprising care. He holds you tighter, as if trying to press his strength into you, as if willing his own resolve into your trembling body.

"You’re not useless," he says. His voice is firm, almost stubborn. "You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. You’ve spent centuries defying the gods. You’ve built something real, something worth fighting for." He pulls back just enough to tip your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. "And you sure as hell aren’t weak because you’re scared for our son. That makes you his mother."

Your breath catches in your throat.

"I know I’m not good at—at this," he mutters, glancing away as if embarrassed. "Comforting people. Saying the right things. But I know one thing." His fingers tighten on your waist. "I won’t let them take him from us. I won’t let them take you from me."

His words settle deep in your chest, pushing back the crushing weight of helplessness. You sniffle, gripping his tunic tighter, pressing yourself against him.

"You promise?" you whisper, your voice small.

Anakin exhales, pressing his forehead against yours. "I swear it," he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips.

And for the first time since you learned the truth, you believe him.

Vesta appears before you, her presence like the steady warmth of a hearth in the dead of winter. She does not arrive with thunder or blinding light—there is no grand display of power, only the quiet radiance of something eternal, something that has never once flickered out.

You step back instinctively, still raw from your breakdown, from Anakin’s fierce promises and the lingering tremble in your hands. But Vesta merely watches you with knowing eyes, the firelight in them dancing like the embers of an ancient flame.

“I have something for you,” she says, and when she raises her hand, a gladius materializes in her grasp.

It is unlike any weapon you have ever seen. The blade is dark, forged from something older than Olympus itself, the hilt bound in leather that looks worn with age. It hums in her hands, as if alive, as if it recognizes you. As if it wants to be wielded by you.

You stare at it, then at her, suspicion creeping into your voice. “This can wound a god, can’t it?”

Vesta inclines her head. “It can do more than that.”

Your fingers twitch. You want to take it. You need to take it. But something holds you back—logic, or perhaps distrust. She is a goddess. She is one of them.

Your jaw tightens. “Why are you helping me?”

Vesta’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in her gaze. “Because I have no place in war,” she says, voice soft but steady. “I am the flame that warms, not the one that destroys. But my siblings—they are cruel, and they will not stop. They do not tolerate defiance.”

Her eyes land on your stomach, where life stirs within you, fate woven into the very fabric of your unborn child’s existence.

“I have seen what is to come,” she continues. “The gods will not allow this child to live. They will see it as a threat. You must be ready.” She extends the gladius toward you. “And you must be willing to strike first.”

You hesitate. “You would betray them?”

“I would see the world change,” Vesta says simply. “I have watched mankind build and burn, rise and fall. I have kept my fires lit through it all. But you—he—” her gaze shifts briefly to Anakin, resting just beyond the threshold, unaware of the conversation unfolding “—are different. He was always meant to shape the world, but the gods never expected you to fight alongside him.”

She steps forward, pressing the gladius into your hands. “So fight.”

The weapon is cold, impossibly so, but as your fingers curl around the hilt, heat surges through your veins. The gladius hums again, this time in recognition, in acceptance. It is yours now.

Vesta watches you carefully. “The gods will not be merciful,” she warns. “Not even to one of their own.”

You lift the blade, feeling its weight, feeling the shift of destiny in your grip.

“Neither will I.”

Vesta watches as you test the weight of the gladius in your hand, but she does not look reassured. If anything, there is something grave in her expression, something unfinished.

"You will need more than a blade," she says at last.

You frown. "What do you mean?"

Her gaze drifts past you, toward where Anakin stands outside, arms crossed, his face hardened by war, by fate. By the inevitable battle that will come.

"He is mortal," Vesta murmurs. "And mortals break."

Your grip tightens around the hilt of the gladius. "I won’t let him die."

"Not by will alone," she counters. "The gods will strike at him first. He is their greatest threat. You may have the blade that can wound them, but he needs something that can withstand them."

She raises her hands, and suddenly the air crackles with something ancient, something powerful. The flames around her shift, dancing wildly, and in the flickering light, a vision forms—a shield, battered but unyielding, its surface marked with symbols older than Rome itself.

Your breath catches. "Where is it?"

Vesta’s eyes burn as she recites:

"Neither sky nor soil cradle its weight, Not in the hands of the just nor the grip of the damned.

Taken by shadows, bound by debt, Where the past weeps in silent lament,

And the future spills in crimson tides. The unbending shall not wield it,

The unworthy shall not find it. Only the forsaken, May call it by name and claim its fate."

The vision fades, the fire settling back into a quiet glow.

You stare at her. 

Vesta only offers a small, knowing smile. "I have given you what I can. The rest is yours to uncover."

You exhale sharply, mind racing. "And this shield—"

"—can withstand even the wrath of Olympus," she finishes. "If you can claim it. The Flectere"

Your heart pounds. A shield bathed in the blood of gods. A relic lost to time, waiting beneath the bones of the first wolf.

Anakin's only chance.

Vesta turns, already fading into the light.

"Find it," she says, her voice echoing in the quiet. "Before the gods find you."

Anakin grips the gladius, testing its weight in his palm. The blade hums with an eerie resonance, as if it knows it was forged for something greater—something beyond mortal hands. He swings it once, a sharp, clean arc through the air, and the edge glows faintly as it slices through the space before him.

You watch him, your arms wrapped around yourself, as if holding yourself together. The past days have been a storm, an unraveling of everything you once knew, yet here he stands—solid, unshaken, the only thing that feels real in this chaos.

He catches you staring and smirks, lowering the blade. "What?" His voice is softer than usual, teasing, but with an edge of something deeper.

You shake your head, stepping closer. "Nothing. Just... you."

His brow furrows, his expression unreadable for a moment before he exhales, setting the gladius down. "Come here," he murmurs, reaching for you.

You don’t hesitate. You step into his arms, pressing yourself against him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. His hand comes up to tangle in your hair, cradling the back of your head as if you might slip away from him.

“I hate that they did this to you,” you whisper against his skin, your fingers curling into his tunic. "That they wrote your fate in blood before you even had a chance to live it."

His lips press against your temple, a lingering warmth. "They didn’t," he mutters. "Not really." He pulls back just enough to look at you, brushing his thumb across your cheek. "I’m still here. I still choose."

Your throat tightens, a storm of emotions rising in your chest. "And what do you choose?"

A pause. Then, his lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smirk, something softer. "This," he says simply, leaning down until his forehead rests against yours. "You."

You close your eyes, feeling his breath mingle with yours. For a moment, there is no war, no gods, no fate—just the two of you, caught in a fleeting, fragile moment of peace.

You can break a man's body, shatter his bones, steal his future—but the fire in his soul will burn through the darkness.

[k-hotchoisan]

hii it’s me again with another request (sorry)

Could you write smtg based off the song agora hills by doja cat? whatever member u prefer is fine 💕💕

anywayssss i love you smmm and u are an amazing person!! 💕💕🤭🧎‍♀️

omg that is such a cute song (if you squint hard enough past the public sex HAHAHAH)

Please never apologise for coming back for a request, you know I’ll always welcome you with open arms 🥰

Always thank you for being so sweet vic (if it’s okay to call you that~) and for giving me inspiration + pushing me write out of my boundaries. I genuinely appreciate it.

AND I LOVE YOU TOO 🗣️🩷😭

Where you and Seonghwa have a fight before his Grand Prix finals, but he still wins, and loses his fucking mind when he sees you still cheering for him despite that.

Genre/Warnings: racer au, smut, semi public sex, you fuck Seonghwa in his racer gear, IF YOU SQUINT HARD ENOUGH THERES LIKE ANGST (it isn’t heavy don’t worry), creampies, mild dacryphilla, unprotected sex, sweaty sex

You storm past your partner into the hotel room, trying to let the anger dissipate. Seonghwa is trying to get to you, explaining what you saw. You know that it couldn’t be helped, but feel the thorns prickling your heart when you couldn’t even approach him when you caught one of his overly zealous and nepotistic fans with her hands over him during the after party. Nothing much could done because;

a. He couldn’t do anything about it because the relationship between the both of you had to be kept a secret, his management did not like the thought of entertaining Seonghwa in a relationship when his career is at his peak;

b. The Grand Prix finale was tomorrow. A lot of stakes were in place, and Seonghwa knew better than to fuck it up, especially when he’s worked so hard to get where he is now. He’s so close.

He’s also so fucking close to just wanting to let the world know how possessive he is over you.

“You know it’s not like that right?” and he goes on and on. You know that it’s part of his job—to network, get more sponsors, even if it meant letting other women get a little too close to him. You understand, you do, but oh god, it gets so fucking exhausting. You just wanted time for yourself to clear your head and process the whole thing, and potentially stabbing that nepo baby at least sixty times in your head.

Your arms are crossed. Arguing with him is the last thing you want to do right now, especially when the both of you barely escaped getting caught sneaking into his hotel room. All that for a fight to erupt between the both of you after a long and tense day on the track. You glare at him with a pout.

“I’m going home.”

Seonghwa whips his head so fucking fast, his eyes piercing right into you. He looks absolutely dumbfounded.

“Are you serious?”

You nod. “I’m sorry that I overreacted, but now, I’m not risking us getting caught when tomorrow’s the finals.”

Seonghwa wants to fucking pounce and cage you in. Before he even attempts to deflect your words, you cut him off-

“-and especially when you’re not the one dating someone who needs to keep a relationship a secret.” You sigh. “Please get some rest, Hwa.”

You pull the hotel door open, and leave promptly. Seonghwa stands there, his brows furrowed as frustration bleeds into him. He wants to so badly chase after you, but he knows you wouldn’t let him, not when there could be a chance to risk getting caught by anyone from his team.

As the cab pulls away further from the hotel, your phone is spammed by Seonghwa, and he’s explaining himself. You purse your lips, reading over his texts, but you only decide to reply a curt reiteration of what you told him earlier at his hotel room, and a “love you”, before unlocking your door to finally wash up.

A ping of guilt courses through you—you know you shouldn’t misunderstand or be jealous, but if anything, it was but how it made you feel, and it wasn’t pretty. You didn’t mean to show a perturbed expression when his eyes glanced at you after he barely managed to shake his little fan girl off him, but it was just automatic. And if anything, Seonghwa is just as possessive as you are, if not worse, especially when he sent death glares to your direction when another male had approached you, and periodically touched you up on your arms, which kind of caused the argument to even start in the first place.

Your eyes flutter close, exhausted, as sleep drags you in deeper, the last thing in your mind being Seonghwa.

The morning sun leaks through the windows of Seonghwa’s room. He’s already up, albeit half awake, getting ready for another whole day of racing. His mind was set on going all out for the finals, but something still remains at the back of his mind, and he doesn’t want to push it away. He thinks to himself, he wants to do it for you.

You only send Seonghwa a short text of encouragement, and he doesn’t reply. Then again, he is wrapped up with interviews over interviews, training and the finale would only start when dusk sets. You don a body con dress, paired with one of Seonghwa’s racer jackets you stole, might as well surprise him a little bit.

On the cab to the event, Seonghwa’s gorgeous face is plastered all over the Grand Prix news, as one of the rising stars. He looks absolutely stunning, no doubt, and it gets your heart racing too because you cannot believe he’s yours.

You take a seat amongst the noisy crowd around you. The atmosphere was getting really riled up, especially when the racers all appear on the big screen as they walk back stage to their cars. Your eyes are glued to the screen as Seonghwa appears in his racing gear, and he winks at the camera, a slew of fangirl screams burst around you, and you cover your mouth to suppress a giggle. All the hard feelings the night before faded off, and you heart felt full yet anxious for Seonghwa.

It takes awhile for the warm up and safety check to be cleared, but before you knew it, the checkered flags are raised and lights turned green, cheers roar across the tracks as the loud screeches of the cars overpower them.

Throughout the laps, Seonghwa falls in between 3rd and 4th place, you bite your lip, praying that he’s able to catch up. As the laps close in to its final rounds, Seonghwa slowly climbs up the position to first, and he maintains, amazingly. The night continues to burn with anticipation as the final lap commences, with Seonghwa neck to neck with another racer, switching between first and second.

The final corner becomes the make or break—as Seonghwa drifts, effectively overtaking just slightly before fully taking the spot for first.

And he speeds into the finishing line, winning championship.

You jump from your seat, your fingers clasped from the tension as the announcer is proclaiming Seonghwa’s win, and the screen flashes his winning race in slow motion. Your heart is pounding in your ears as the screams are blocked out. You are so proud that nothing leaves your lips as you fight the tears from falling as you clap. The screen flickers to the car cam, and you see Seonghwa pumping his fist in victory as he rides through another victory lap.

The barricade has fans screaming Seonghwa’s name as he leaves the car and pulls his helmet off. He looks so fucking amazing even when he’s sweaty, and you can’t help but feel your heart skip a beat. You decide not to squeeze with the fans near the barricade, opting to stand further away.

Well, now where does this relationship go? He’ll probably be even further from you now.

A huge group of reporters swarm him, and he looks overwhelmed, that is until his eyes scan the crowd and lands on you, just when you’re ready to turn to leave.

Seonghwa’s heart skips a beat, his eyes are only tunnelling you as he pushes past the crowd, jumping past the barricade to where you are. You have a small smile on your face because you know he deserves all of this.

A tight grip on your hand halts you in your tracks, shocking you, as you turn around with wide and confused eyes. He pulls his goggles off. Before you could even process it, Seonghwa has his jacket that you’re wearing in his fist as his hands travel up cup your jaw—and he pulls you in for a deep kiss.

Your eyes shut as the kiss scatters fireworks beneath your eyelids, with Seonghwa’s lips right pressing against yours. Your mind is fuzzy, as your ears blocks out the loud screams of his fans. He pulls back after what feels like an eternity, before bowing politely at the group of fans and reporters in front of him as he leads you away.

From the circuit track to his hotel room, he never once let go of your hand, probably only gripping it tighter the closer he got to his room. He doesn’t say a damn thing either, probably because he still has the adrenaline pumping in his veins. Nonetheless, you still can’t tell what he’s thinking, and you’re wondering if he’s still upset.

At least not until the moment the door closes behind you.

Because he turns his heels right at you as devours your lips, not letting go at all, even as peels off his jacket, then yours.

He finally pulls back, giving you a breather. His eyes look absolutely wild as he tugs his jacket off you, exposing the way your dress hugs your curves, and his breathing becomes heavier.

“Fuckin hell. You don’t know how much it drives me insane when you’re wearing my jacket over something fuckin slutty like this. Fuck,” he groans, kicking his shoes off. You stare at him breathlessly as you remove your shoes as well, but your gaze never leaving how Seonghwa looks so fucking good with a compression shirt on—the way it hugs his biceps, the way it pulls taut against his chest and abdomen, the gorgeous bounce of his fucking tits every time he shifts his arms. He doesn’t remove his top before pulling you right back into his arms, his hands snaking up to grab your braless tits, which makes him groan again.

“Fuck, you’re not even wearing a bra. Are you fucking kidding me?” His erection presses hard against your thigh, and you’re working through your brain to find and answer amidst being trapped by pleasure. “And where did you think you were running to, looking like that?”

“N-nowhere! I thought you’d be caught up with the report-“ he cuts you off with another hungry kiss. God, he’s so desperate that you can’t help feel the heat pool between your legs. It doesn’t help that he had pulled your dress down past your chest, and his hands are all over your tits, sending sparks down your your spine, right to your pussy. Seonghwa pulls away once more, licking the string of spit that connected the both of you.

Seonghwa hums. “Mmm. Shouldn’t have asked. I’d still fuck you dumb anyway.” Your grip on his arm tightens. His fingers snake under your dress, tugging on your panties as he pulls the pair down, and pockets the pair of panties. The wet patch of slick doesn’t go unnoticed by him. His gaze locks onto yours as he makes sure you watch him cover his fingers with spit before his fingers head south. His fingers meet your slick that covered your cunt and scoffs.

“You’re already so fucking wet already”. He doesn’t give you a chance to answer as his fingers begin rubbing your clit. You lean forward and sigh as you use his shoulder to lean your head on. He lets you for a moment, adoring the way you’re beginning to squirm underneath him. Then he’s grabbing your waist and then dumping you right on the couch, pushing your legs open for him. Your cunt glistens with slick right for him, and Seonghwa is more than ready to dive in, giving a lick before fully immersing his tongue right into your sex, flicking his tongue against your clit, his hands squeezing your thighs. Your fingers are tangled in his hair and your head is thrown back as you tug his slicked back hair. If you weren’t seeing stars, you’d be seeing the fucking heavens.

Seonghwa hits a pace where you’re beginning to see white spots beneath your eyelids and the knot tugs hard in your stomach. Your thighs contract immediately, but Seonghwa keeps them apart, because he knows that’s the sweet spot. He knows it makes you tingle and it gets him so fucking excited. His tongue works even quicker on your clit and your orgasm builds so fucking quick and your whines climb up in octave, music to Seonghwa’s ears.

“There, there. Oh fuck. I’m cumming. Oh my fucking god”, leaving your lips like a mantra, alongside more whines of his name as your orgasm tingles through your body in waves. His tongue presses against your clit and he sucks on your clit, causing you to jolt, tears already streaking from the overstimulation. Seonghwa’s moaning in your wet cunt, making sure he devours every part of your orgasm as his ego inflates. A broken cry leaves your lips as you release his locks, your hands slumping against the couch. Seonghwa presses a wet kiss against your cunt with a smile. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand as he towers over you, his erection staining his pants already. Oh god, you love the way your arousal is all over his plump lips nonetheless. He was made for eating you out. He leans in for another ravenous kiss—and he swears he can never get enough of it. Before you realise it, your dress is pulled back up past your tits.

His fingers gently intertwine with yours as he pulls you up, and leads you to-

“The balcony?” You question, your heart hammering in your chest. Seonghwa cracks a smile as he leans in.

“Yeah. I wanna show the world my girl. I’ll fuck you so good that I’ll make sure the world knows.”

“But-“

“It’ll be fine. I’m serious. We’re so high up and we’re clothed, well kind of ”, he comforts. You bite your lip, because fuck, it was definitely exhilarating to be fucked on the balcony. You wanted the world to know that he’s yours too and the thought of it only heats you up even more.

He leads you the beach chair at the side, where he makes you sit and hang your legs on either side of the arm rests, and he’s about to remove his compression top but your hands stop his before you realise it. He looks at you, concern flashes over his face for brief second.

“Fuck me with your racer gear on.”, you blurt out, curling your fingers against the taut fabric. Seonghwa’s expression immediately switches over to one of a smirk. “What have you been fantasising about, darling?” He pokes, looming over you with a cocky smile.

You can’t escape, the only thing that does is a small whimper. Seonghwa doesn’t push for an answer, because he’s busy yanking his pants down past his thighs, and his cock springs out, hitting his lower abdomen. He sighs as he gives his fat cock a couple of pumps while looking at you with your legs spread wide open for him, your pussy just salivating at the thought of him pounding into you into the next week.

He lines himself to your entrance and doesn’t warn you before he enters, and a squeal leaves your lips, then a soft cry as he pushes more inches into you—every inch going thicker and thicker as he goes down to the base, until he’s snug in your cunt.

“That’s my good girl. Warm and wet, just how I like it”, he whispers into your ears, as he strokes your thighs gently. More sobs leave you, your fingers pressing onto Seonghwa’s arms.

Just when you thought you couldn’t fit any more of Seonghwa, the sudden thought of him right now, fucking you in his uniform somehow swallowed more of his cock, earning you the most gorgeous moan from Seonghwa as his eyes roll back and his eyebrows scrunched.

“Baby-fuck!-just what are you thinking about? Squeezing me like this? Oh god”, his knuckles are whitening from his grip on the arm rest. He pulls out before starting a pace to fuck you with, and soon enough it’s only the sounds of skin slapping, both of your moans and the feeling of Seonghwa’s cock just pounding right into the perfect angle of your cunt that exists in this damn universe. You wouldn’t ask for more.

Your brain was becoming pulp, only soft sobs every time Seonghwa’s balls deep into you. You could only focus on how his biceps tensed against the fabric as his tits fucking bounced every time his slams his cock into you—which you definitely see it too—the way his pants hang just at his lower thighs, and his cock is just disappearing into your pussy, drawing out squelching sounds that were borderline obscene. Drops of sweat splatter onto your dress as he leans in to rest his forehead onto yours.

“So good. So fucking good to be inside you like this”, he curses, trying to not the feeling of his orgasm overpower him. As you were gradually losing yourself to the pleasure, he suddenly pulls back completely, and instructs you to face the night scenery with your ass out. He crumpled your dress to your waist, and his cock enters you again, causing you to draw a sharp breath. He doesn’t let you adjust—he just starts fucking you raw like that, leaving your mouth agape and eyes blown out from the pleasure.

He’s able to reach even deeper part of your pussy now, and he makes sure you fucking cry for him. “H-Hwa!”, you try to speak in between sobs. “Oh god, oh god. I can’t. It’s so deep.” Your hands barely have the strength to hold onto the rails as he is railing you from behind.

“That’s my pussy. Milk me dry baby”, Seonghwa grunts, his fucking becoming more erratic, admiring the way your ass bounces off his cock so naturally. “I’m cumming all the way in baby. Be a good girl and take it, yeah?”

And a drawn out moan fills your ears as his cum floods your abused hole, and you cry out as your second orgasm hits you, clenching his cock even more. A loud slap reverberates into the night as his hand lands on your ass, causing you to flinch and squeal.

“That’s it, baby. Oh, you’re such a good girl”, he hums, holding your hips as far as his cock would let him drive into you, letting cum dribble down your inner thighs. He pulls out slowly, admiring the way your cunt convulses, small loads of his cum and yours leak out of you. You release your grip from the railings and fall right into his arms, as he plants a loving kiss on your temple before whispering,

“I promise you’re the only one for me, baby.”

[lonefloric]

To warm the soul ✿

An installment of the intertwined souls mini series

Sanemi x female!reader

sanemi was used to feeling icy cold, it was a normal feeling ever since he was a child. Now he has to deal with being scorching hot after saving a mere village girl.

There's still 10 hours on the poll but Mr. Nemi is winning and I just had to finalize this before posting it so I'll post the second most popular vote next. This is also the first time I've written only sanemi by himself so be easy on me 😭🙏

Sanemi was used to being deathly cold since he was a child. It started one morning after he woke up, he went from being cozy and warm to ice cold and freezing.

Fearing he might be sick he went to tell his mother, who only smiled and patted his head. "My dear, that is your soulmate connection. The closer you are to them the warmer you will feel, but the farther you go the colder you will be."

The comfort didn't last long before it turned into a nuisance. As he aged he cared less and less about finding his soulmate, more focused on eradicating demons. Winter quickly began his least favorite time of year, the cold of the snow and the cold of his body hindered him slightly which pissed him off to no end.

/

Sanemi's feet pounded on the snow as he ran through the thick forest. The demon he had been chasing somehow kept evading him everytime he got close. The snow flurries caused by the wind and the thick layers of snow building up did not help the situation at all, instead angering him even more.

A scream in the distance caught his attention. God dammit. He turned in the direction of the scream and pushed himself to run faster, the possibility of the demon attacking a civilian fueled his rage as he tightened his grip on his sword. Breaking through the tree line he now was in a large clearing.

A few feet ahead of him the demon he had been tracking had a young woman pinned in the snow. You tried kicking and shoving the demon off of you but the immense strength of it you were able to move at all. Sanemi readied his blade in his hand and lunged. The demon above you was flung away by the sheer strength of the blow. You hadn't even realized someone else was there.

Sanemi glared at the body of the demon as it disintegrated, it's hands wildly waving at where it's head once was. Once the body was entirely gone he turned his gaze to you, who he now was looming over. You still laid in the snow shocked and looking at the man. He was beautiful in a unique way, you though. You had never seen someone with so many scars.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" his low voice broke you out of your thoughts. "Why are you in a forest in the middle of a snow storm?"

you glared back at him. "Why are you in a forest in the middle of a snow storm?"

"I have a reason to be."

"So do I!"

"Playing in the snow like a child is not a reason." you gasped taking a handful of snow and throwing it at him.

"I am not a child! And I'm not playing in the snow!" you both glared at each other for a few moments before he sighed and his shoulders dropped.

"Give me your hand."

"What?" he glared at you with a I'm not repeating myself look.

"I know you can feel it too," he held out his hand, "now give me your hand." now that you thought about it, you did feel boiling hot. Neither of you had felt it in the heat of the moment but now that it was all done, your skin felt like it was boiling off, the snow actually felt nice.

"And if I don't want to?" you crossed your arms.

"Then I'll leave you here."

"No you won't." his eyes narrowed, turning on his heel he began to walk away.

"Wha- wait-! Don't leave me here!" you sprung up from the snow attempting to chase after him but your foot got lodged in the snow tripping you. Arms looped your wait effectively catching you, but now you were chest to chest with Sanemi. Your face warmed at the proximity.

"You live in the village near by, don't you?" you shyly nodded at his question. "Then let's go. I'll take you home."

"Will you tell me your name?" you asked.

"Only if you earn it, so be good."

[beloveds-embrace]

Tbh I'm starting to suspect that most of my asks for you are just going to be me affectionately yelling at you.

Because you've given me so many ideas???? And now I'm faced with the constant "LEMME GIVE THIS READER A FRIEND PLEASE LET ME BE HER FRIEND"

Dukedom AU? Congrats, Reader now has a friend who's father was Riley's and Price's general and while she has no doubts about Reader's husband, they haven't seen each other since Reader's parents practically forbid it in their teens and- actually, isn't Duke Riley still friends with Duke Price? And unmarried? ... She has a letter to write. Short and simple should do it. (And maybe her and Reader resume their queerplatonic relationship- the Friend is devoted to the Reader like a cat returns to the same home that lets it chase the rats)

Shifter AU? Here, Reader's friend is a demigod (Zeus' kid who begged for Hera's forgiveness and bound herself to the goddess in blood and ink) who works nights and lets it known exactly how she feels about her friend being taken without letting her know first via lightening storm over the whole fucking city until she knows Reader is safe. (And maybe she's slowly becoming a minor deity herself. Maybe Soap gets a whiff of hair bleach when she's pissed, or tattoo ink when she's cackling, or antiseptic when she's offering comfort).

Fertility God AU? The deity of death visits sometimes, calm and quiet and peaceful- a reminder that it is dying that's painful, while death itself is nothingness. She never picks the plants herself, merely grabs the flowers Reader picked already and uses that to tap noses. Okay I might actually just take the idea of 141 serving their war god and the war god being slowly brought to his knees and going a whole other direction with it.

Just. Let me give these soft Readers Fierce Friends who'll take one look at these military men and be like "Bitch you still have an Achilles tendon, I will cut you down if you hurt them." And maybe that's a turn-on for a couple of them, idk it could happen.

So. Many. Ideas. And I'm like, buzzing with insecurity about writing them because they weren't mine to start with and tbh Tumblr is really the only way I know these characters? And also I appreciate it if you made it this far through my word vomit thank you for your time and have a good day!

As long as the yelling comes from a place of love who am I to complain? 😌💕

Also omg yes every reader needs a friend. A good, dependable friend that lessens the angst just a little.

Also omg yes?? If Friend manages to even convince Simon to marry her, with the promise that she wants nothing romantic with him just a way to be close to you again, then she’d also solve the rumors that still spread about Simon’s unmarried status even with the general fear of him. And you get your darling Friend close again! Win-win, and the 141 get to see you exceptionally happy and excited.

Friend looked away for just a short while and then returns to learn your shitty boyfriend has cheated on you with your other shitty friend she never liked, you aren’t anywhere in your home and you haven’t gone to work and you have been kidnapped by some pack of shifters- personally, anyone would be fucking pissed too ngl. Friend probably smells the loveliest when she’s with you, though, when she sees you happy at last.

Now the Fertility god au I’m gonna need more from you babes you can’t just leave me hanging here 👁️👁️ /nf

And yes. Like I said all readers deserve a fierce friend it’s not a law but it should be and yes to that too i need them to blur the lines between friends and lovers just a lil too. Life’s more that way, me thinks.

Also no please don’t worry, fandom spaces are shared and new writings are always welcome 😭🫶🏻 i haven’t laid a single finger on any of the games im just rawdogging it too dw so you should absolutely write if you want to without fear!! Thank you for this wonderful ask I loved reading it!

[groversimp]

need “hits different”!😭😭😭

Hits Different

part one (Nothing Has Ever Felt So Wrong)

part two (Hits Different)

part three (The Way I Loved You) || not out yet!

part four (Foolish One) || not out yet!

decided to be a good author and answer these requests for Hits Different because it’s been FOREVER 😿

warnings: ANGST, bruh reader needs to stop mourning, also we’re bringing in an oc dude, I love love love Shiloh 😽

You hated Clarisse La Rue.

You hated her stupid her, her deep-brown eyes. You hated the scarred hands you once held in yours, the ones you used to cherish. You’d kiss her palms and tell her she’s not a monster. Not to you.

Yet, you were the one left burned. Scarred and blistering from the scalding touch of her soul.

Her and Silena sit on the benches only a few, short feet from you. Weaving bracelets together at their arts n’ crafts lesson, the initials of the other carved into the beads.

You mope with your siblings, firmly avoiding Silena’s pointed and snarky looks. She wasn’t a bad person, you knew that. She was just in love.

You were just in love.

It was sickening. You had tried and tried to wash yourself clean of her- to allow the flowing rain to make yourself new, but it only left you rugged and dripping, a walking storm cloud. The midnight rain you sat in did little to heal the gaping wound in your heart, beating like a war-cry of Clarisse’s.

“Hey, Y/N.” You hear a voice, smooth and soft like the cooling tide of the lake.

You’ve never really noticed Shiloh, the boy who had just approached you and taken the liberty to sit next to you. A son of the minor god, Dinlas.

Most would think he’d be rough and hateful, but he was honestly very sweet. Carrying himself with nothing but loyalty and understanding- though, the Greek-fire burned beneath his green eyes to not challenge him.

“Oh,” you say quietly. “Hey.” Your voice is just as soft, but quieter. You don’t take up any space, just uselessly flowing like a spring shower.

You two continued to talk, the fierce glare sent his way from Clarisse went unnoticed by him. And the butterflies you got from her two-second attention were too addicting to not give into. Spurring the conversation on and on, it almost felt natural.

He walked you back to your cabin, leaving you with a kiss on the cheek and a sinking feeling in your stomach. The cabin door quietly shut behind you- how dare you? He shouldn’t have been that close to begin with, now this?

You can almost feeling the punches Clarisse would throw at him, wincing at the idea of faux injuries.

Would she still do that for you, would she care?

You cared, you thought as you climb into your bed. Not bothering to clean up for campfire or looking up as your siblings file into the cabin.

The only thing that felt right was to sob into the stuffed bear Clarisse gave you for your 5-month anniversary. The weak punches your fist throws to the bed are pitiful; they’d make a puppy laugh. But, how can you bring yourself to be strong when you feel so deeply?

The bed dips and you don’t need to look up to know who it is- your sister, Astilbe, shushes you softly and places a hand on the small of your back. It reminds you of Clarisse, caring and possessive. You only cry more.

“Y/N,” she says- voice chipper as the morning birds, though the pity is evident. “Love is a lie, you’ll be alright.”

A sob wrecks through you again, almost like a quiet scream.

“She was good, Bee.” You tell her. “There was good in her.”

You pay no mind to her disagreements, only sitting up to place your face in the small of her neck and crying harder.

This wasn’t normal, this wasn’t right. You’ve aways been one to move on quickly, staining your exes with a maroon, star-painted sky. You leave with only the memories and their dignity.

That was who you are. Over-confident, ‘manic pixie dream girl’, draining Y/N.

But that’s why she loved you. Ever-burning, violent, dangerous Clarisse.

That’s why she chose you. Why you chose her.

You’d go insane if you kept thinking like this, but for her- you’d do it all.

[thirstingfortoxicmen]

Can I request an Ominis Gaunt x Male Reader? Where the reader is really pent up and just needs a break and Ominis gladly helps reader turn his brain off. (Dom Ominis and Sub Reader) please

Yes absolutely 👍 just a warning ive never done sub reader so... we shall see how this goes! (also it deleted my progress so this is me starting over😭)

(oneshot) 🔞🔞🔞

You feel so Beautiful🔞

Dom Ominis x Sub male Reader

(not my photo)

---

“ughhhhhh…” WHAM! my head hits the desk, rather hard but alas still not enough to swindle my headache. Unfortunately, I had woken up with a headache and people have been feeling extra dumb today, which was not helping. I squeeze my eyes tightly closed and hope to Merlin everyone goes away so I can pass away… swiftly… please? I quickly realize there is no god as i get a rude tapping on my shoulder. I take a deep breath in and raise my head from my desk only to find… the godstones kid again.

Dear Merlin I swear if thi- she interrupts me before I can spit my thoughts out, “I need your help, some kids took my gobstones again.” I deadpan.

“Have you even looked yourself, because last time i helped you it took me no less than 5 minutes, basic magic, and simple common sense.” I ask, headache brewing up a storm of death and suffering.

Her face flushing at the (accurate) accusation, “I- well its just- umm… no.” She practically mumbles the last part, she starts shuffling her feet back to the door she marched through feeling so courageous just a second before.

“yeah that's what I thought,” I mutter to myself, as she swiftly leaves the room.

“That was rather odd, what did she want?” I hear Ominis ask. He takes his seat next to me,

“Sebastian being out sick has made me realize how many bothersome people beg for my attention, her for example, wanting me to find her gobstones… again,” I sigh as I say it. Ominis chuckles at my frustration.

“That's true, Sebastian is a great guard dog that is for sure.” Ominis’s hand finds my thigh and he starts caressing it gently, sliding me closer to him. I rest my head onto his shoulder, headache dissipating slowly but surely. Also slowly but surely I feel Ominis creep his hand higher up my thigh.

“Ominis… class just started dont start teasing me now,” as I whisper that into his ears I feel his smirk grow across his face.

“Whatever could you mean,” the sarcasm audible in his voice. I see him flick his wand slightly and as I was about to ask what he'd done I felt a disillusionment charm wave over our laps. My eyes grow wide for a moment only to force my face back to normal so as to not draw attention. My cock twitching against my pants as Ominis teases me. My face had bloomed into a bright shade of red as Ominis pretends all is normal.

“Ominis please…” I beg softly, thanking Merlin that we sit at the back of the class.

“Professor, could I please be excused to Madam Pomfry’s my eyes seem to be bugging me.” Ominis speaks up.

“Yes of course Mr. Gaunt, here let's have someone help you there. hmmmm, Mr. L/n how about you help Mr. Gaunt to Madam Pomfry’s.” the professor declares.

“Yes Professor,” I manage out. My lower half now throbbing with anticipation. I quickly gather our stuff and pretend to guide Ominis to the hall, door shutting behind us. I follow Ominis as he leads me to the Undercroft. He grabs my collar pulling me close.

“Just let me do everything, alright.” Ominis all but demands. He pushes me lightly against a wall, grabbing my chin with one hand the other pressing against my erection. I exhale at the pressure, hearing that Ominis pulls me in and we kiss deep. His tongue working his magic. His hands float down below, freeing his member first then mine. Both of us red at the tips, after almost 30 minutes of teasing. Precum leaking onto the floor as Ominis grabs us both, the action causing me to groan into his mouth. We part for a breath of air. “Accio desk,” Ominis pants out. A desk from nearby pulling up behind me, he sits me on it. Slowly he starts stroking his one hand stroking both erect, leaking cocks. My hips stuttering into his hand as I grow close to the edge.

“Ominis please!” I moan out, his hips stuttering when he hears it. “I'm getting close!” We start making out again, his tongue now scouring my mouth.

“God you feel so beautiful,” Ominis groans into my ear. Like a switch flipping my eyes flutter and I moan out softly, holding onto Ominis’s shoulders I cum. Ominis looking frustrated and on the verge triggering me to hop off the desk and down to my knees. I move Ominis’s hand off his cock and take him into his mouth, he grabs my hair and forces me down. Gagging on him I look up at his face and see a flushed face. Tears welling in my eyes I hear, “C-cumming!” I wait until he finishes before removing my mouth and swallowing. “You did so amazing my dove,” Ominis says. Helping me to my feet I cast a cleaning charm, the mess vanishing. “We should probably go back to class now,” Ominis says whilst holding my face in his hand.

“Ugh, don't remind me.” I say over exaggerating my face. Ominis laughs, having felt my face move.

“Darn…”

“What?”

“It seems my eyes still hurt,” A smirk growing across Ominis’s face.

[constantlymusing]

Hiii tell me about FAGGOT FAGGOT FAGGOT FAG FAG FAG AAAAAAAAAA and She deaded :( PLEASE?????

OKAY HAHHAAHAAAA LETS GO

OKAY SO!!! Both are small snippets from my whole story (Chronophilia), and they're like specific works dedicated to two of my characters, Mel and Diana

Loooong story turned shallow—

[CONTEXT— the whole setting is NOT in our modern world, it's fantasy(-ish) with a lot of political themes]

Diana is a kind person who wants to help everyone, her mother was an abusive asshole who valued her only for her achievements and used religion as punishment, and she has a shit ton of internalized homophobia

Mel is bright and warm and cares too fiercely about everything, and it hurts her almost as much as it helps her

(there's sm more to them both!! But this is supposed to be a summary so)

They met when they were young and immediately became closer than ever, and they supported each other through everything. Mel was how Diana slowly learnt that her mother was manipulative, and Mel was the one who tried to help her over many many many years to get away from her mother

Forward to when they're both in their mid twenties, Diana's mother still controls her daughter, and Mel is tired but still trying. Diana has been trying (and promising) to cut off her mother ever since she could leave the house, but she never went through with it, because she did love her mother. Mel and Diana had a huge discussion on how she would finally stop letting her mother decide her life for her

IMMEDIATELY after that conversation, Diana is forced/manipulated into going to a faraway city to study her religion, something she had grown to hate, but her mother loved. Diana doesn't tell Mel until just after she is about to leave. Mel and Diana have a fight over Diana not resisting, and it ends with Mel storming off angrily and leaving Diana for the first time. Mel didn't know that Diana was to leave immediately after, and they never got to say goodbye.

Diana had moved overseas. It was nearly impossible for Mel to meet her again, because there was really high political tension (but moreso because Mel thought Diana needed space from her)

Mel wrote every single day, for MONTHS, yet never got a response. She took that as a sign that Diana wanted nothing to do with her anymore.

Going to Diana's side of the story— she was terrified. Scared that she had managed to make to make the one person who cared HATE her. And since ignorance is bliss, she never checked her letterbox. For a little over a year.

Until she finally does. She finds everything Mel had ever written (along with waayyy too much shit from her mum)

And she has a whole ass mental breakdown 😛 anyway uh this leads to her throwing her life away by putting her education in religion to use, and doing some slightly insane shit (setting out to find an artifact that swore the user one thing of their heart's desire) (she had no clue if it was real or not, no one who seeked it had survived)

Surprise surprise, she finds it, wears it, gets possessed‼️ and now she's trapped in an eternal limbo in her mind, while the thing possessing her body is busy killing people as a tool for its god

BACK TO MEL. Mel depended on Diana as much as Diana depended on Mel, and she had never been the same. Always on edge since she lost Diana, she had grown apart from everyone once close to her. She cut off almost everyone, worried that if she loved again it would end in pain once more, and she did this by JOINING THE FUCKING MILITARY 😭

One day, news gets out of a massacre. A mass murderer (cough cough, wonder who this is) had attacked the place where Diana once stayed. Zero survivors. Mel found out, and LOST IT COMPLETELY. She wholeheartedly believed Diana was dead. And now all she cared about now was avenging her by killing the murderer

"She deaded :(" — Mel mourning Diana

"FAGGOT FAGGOT FAGGOT FAG FAG FAG AAAAAAAAAA" — Mel's letters to Diana

TY FOR THE ASK ADJSJA!!! The story is deeper than it seems I swear 😭

[epic-kotlc-crossover]

Six Hundred Strike

last chapter of the vengeance saga! we won't see you again until Ithaca comes out 😭 -rania

we're so glad you all read this!! -cricket

@ham-cheese-toastie @myfairkatiecat @bookwormgirl123 @myfairkatiecat @justalunaticfangirl

@thesfromhms

When Fitz emerged from the water, he felt renewed. As though he’d died and become something more. “I don’t think so you seem to get it!” He shouted at Poseidon. “I can’t afford to die, 'cause I will get back to Marella! And I will get back to my WIFE!”

He felt a power surge through him, and he somehow rose up out of the waves, floating in midair. Then he realized that the wind bag from Hermes was wide open, spilling gusts into the air. Oh well. Might as well use this to my advantage.

He flew up until he was eye-level with the sea god, then shouted,  “I’m doing this for my friends! Every one of my comrades, almost all of whom were slaughtered by your hand!” When he said that, he could almost hear the sounds of his crew: battle cries, laughter, weapons clanking together, and late-night stories of monsters. 

“You idiot,” Posiedon growled. “Can’t you see your mistake? You’ve already lost, all because you opened that bag. Hermes told you to keep my storm trapped, but you didn’t listen. Now you’ll never get back to your home!”

Rage burned Fitz’s eyes, making him see red. “You’re going to call off that storm.” It was an order, not a request. 

Poseidon barked out a laugh. “Or what? You can’t kill me.”

“Exactly.”

Fitz gestured to the fallen trident. "You dropped this." And, before Poseidon could do anything, he snatched it up.

Flying over to him, Fitz kicked the god in the chest and forced him onto the ground, a loud oof escaping him. He got the trident in position, aimed, and...

“How does it feel to be helpless?” Fitz stabbed the god, relishing in the scream he let out. Pulling out the trident felt oddly satisfying, and he stopped to think for a moment.

How far had he gone that he was kind of enjoying this? Dex would… Fitz shook his head sharply and focused on the droplets of ichor running down the prongs. Dex had been dead for a decade. Fitz was still alive.

Fitz had to live.

“How does it feel to know pain? I watched all my friends die in horror!” Fitz’s voice cracked. “Crying and calling their captain—me—in vain,” Poseidon let out another ear-wrenching scream, blue hair splayed behind him.

“Look what you’ve turned me into,” Fitz’s breath shuddered. “Look what I’ve become.” He gestured to the trident embedded in the god’s chest, covered in golden liquid. “You’re trying to kill me.” Fitz’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Haven’t I suffered enough?”

"Stop!"

Poseidon lifted a shaking hand, eyes so wide in his desperation that Fitz could almost see his reflection in the god’s inky black eyes. “Stop…please.”

Fitz cocked his head, a surge of power going through him. Poseidon, a god, was begging him, a mortal, for mercy.

He grinned and pushed the trident deeper. Poseidon's arm slackened and he cried out in pain. “You didn’t stop when I begged you. Told me to close my heart! Weren't you the one who said that ruthlessness is mercy?” As he lifted the weapon out, the god let out another cry of pain. 

“You... monster…” Poseidon’s breath became shallow.

Fitz moved to push the trident down again, but the god interrupted him. “Alright! Fine.” His eyes screwed up like it physically pained him to admit defeat-or maybe it was the wounds. Fitz smiled. “I’ll call the storm off.”

Satisfied, Fitz dropped the trident on the ground. The sea god had dozens of wounds, bleeding golden ichor into the ocean. He looked like he should be dead, given how sliced up he was. But gods can't die.

Fitz finally, finally, turned towards the direction of Ithaca. Home. At last.��

“How will you sleep at night?” Poseidon’s voice, dark with pain and anger, made Fitz stop. He turned back to the god and flashed a cocky smile, lifting one eyebrow.

“Next to my wife.”

He continued rowing back to his kingdom, leaving Poseidon to bleed out behind him.

[twoidiotwriters1]

Almighty (Leo Valdez xFem!Oc)

A/N: Once again I got caught up with the chapters and I gotta speedrun the writing i hate myself 😭 -Danny Words: 1,703 Series' Masterlist Previous Chapter // Next Chapter Listen to: 'Cherish the River' -by Jasper Wilderness

XLII: I Am Once Again Making Problems for Others

Ara decides that if Leo is willing to face the possibility of her turning into an obnoxious minor goddess that acts just like Aphrodite, she can go to sleep and face whatever that brings.

As soon as she closes her eyes, Ara gets sucked into visions. Some are so fast she can't even make sense of them: fights in alleys, children running through wide expanses of grass—a girl, scowling at a nonsensical paragraph and praying for divine help to come and get her out of her test... Suddenly, a hand closes around her wrist and yanks her backwards. 

I land on the pitch-dark floor of the Hades cabin. "What the—"

Nico crouches next to my head. "Where the Tartarus were you?"

I sit and look around. "This is a dream?"

"Yeah, mine," Nico tilts his head. "I felt you... all over the place. All the demigod dreams I jumped through... you were there. I called out for you and you showed up here."

I examine my hands. "The voices..."

"What?"

I tell him about Will's offerings and all the stuff that I'd gone through since leaving camp. I even tell him about what happened at the cave and while fighting Commodus.

"That explains why you've got white streaks in your hair," Nico raises a brow. "You're something else now."

I look at my hair, no one had pointed it out until now, and I hadn't seen it. "I'm sorry, Nico."

He shakes his head, taking the news with surprising calmness. "I'm glad. I could sense you sometimes, your mortality blinking on and off. Turns out you were only breaking out of the mortal cocoon."

"Don't say it like that," I make a face.

"Should I tell the others? Chiron and Lily... they should know. Maybe that's why Mr D isn't around, you'll take his place and Lily takes yours."

"I don't think that's what's happening," I pause, getting an idea. "Hey, can't you summon Lily here, too?"

"Want me to?"

"Please."

The boy gets up and leaves the cabin for just one second, I still find it weird that he follows my orders so easily nowadays. The door slams open and Lily storms in, wrapping me in a hug. "You're alive!"

I hug her back, letting out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Hi, Lils..."

The girl holds me by the shoulders. "Tell me everything."

Lily's expression is hard to read during the first few minutes, probably because everything is pretty standard for a quest—until I reach the events at the Zoo. My feverish crisis, and all that came after, and Lily gets very quiet.

"Nico..."

"I'm here."

"You heard about the offerings, didn't you?" Lily looks at him. "Because I... I did it too."

I couldn't have been more surprised if Lily had admitted to sleeping in an owl onesie. "You... what?"

"Well, it's like Will said. The gods have forsaken us. But you haven't. We've been so difficult to you, Queen B," Lily holds both of my hands. "We question you, and you've taken each blow with grace. You love us."

My eyesight blurs with unshed tears. "I thought you'd be angry at me."

"Angry?" Lily huffs. "Never."

"Why not? This isn't what we wanted, and you know it's not good news..."

"I was angry when you were arrogant. You had a good-natured interest in others and then you changed, got dismissive and acted like we owed you everything. I know you were in a lot of pain, and I'm sorry I couldn't see it... But you've never stopped helping others while getting nothing in return, and I'm happy knowing my best friend is going to last me a lifetime."

Lily cups my face and I cry like a little kid. "All our hard work paid off," I press my hands over Lily's. "No more kids left to their luck. I'm gonna look after all of them."

"I know."

"I'm scared."

"I know," Lily's lower lip quivers. "I'm sorry if our offerings sped up this thing—but you got this. You always do."

Nico gets on one knee next to us, pressing his hands to our shoulders. "We'll keep camp safe, and if you don't come back after helping Apollo... we'll understand why."

Lily sniffs. "Would be better to have our communications, we could call you sometimes..."

"You can call me," I squeeze her hand. "Burn offerings, it works. You'll always be on my mind."

We hug again, and then Nico snorts. "Drew is gonna be livid..."

Ara opens her eyes and sees daylight. She packs her stuff and walks out of the room, the Waystation opening paths for her with ease. In the kitchen area, she spots Emmie cooking, Lester and Meg seated across from Georgie, coloring and immersed in her own little world.

Jo is focused on a project while Calypso tries not to strangle Leo while he fools around unpacking all she's packing for him on the kitchen counter. Lit is next to Apollo quietly eating breakfast.

"No one woke me," Ara speaks up.

Leo's smile widens. "Morning, Sunshine, we all agreed you needed the catnap."

"What time is it?"

"Barely dawn," Calypso flicks her wrist and a wind spirit sends a fresh glass of orange juice at her. 

Ara drinks, glad that it tastes good. "Thanks." She approaches Lester and Meg, both getting up the moment they see her to get ready to leave. 

Lit looks at her and Lester, holding his coffee with both hands. "Thank you. For the second chance."

"I believe in them," Lester smiles. "And third and fourth chances. But I only forgive each person once a millennium, so don't mess up for the next thousand years."

"Couldn't be me," Ara smirks, patting Lit's back a tad too harshly. "I'm a pampering guardian. Unless you're a pirate. Please never become a pirate, those guys smell weird and I love killing them."

"I will keep that in mind," he retorts with a weak smile.

Lester nudges her and points to the outline of Agamethus, standing next to a window. The teens approach him. "I'm glad you're still here," Lester says. "You know what happened at the Cave of Trophonius, you know he is gone."

The figure moves in agreement.

"Your brother asked me to tell you he loves you. He is sorry about your fate. I want to apologize, too. When you died, I did not listen to Trophonius's prayer to save you. I felt you two deserved to face the consequences of that robbery. But this... this has been a very long punishment Perhaps too long."

Ara speaks. "You could've grown bitter like your brother, you could've done a lot of damage, yet you decided to show the way to other demigods. That is something I respect and relate to."

"If you wish," Lester adds, "when I attain my godhood again, I will personally visit the Underworld. I will petition Hades to let your soul pass on to Elysium." Agamethus hands the boy his Magic 8 Ball. "Ah. What is your wish, Agamethus?"

I WILL GO WHERE I MUST. I WILL FIND TROPHONIUS. TAKE CARE OF EACH OTHER, AS MY BROTHER AND I COULD NOT.

Just like that, he's gone. Ara stares at the golden speckles that float around as the only proof he was there. "You know, Lester, we'll all fade one day. That will be my comfort."

Lester hums, looking at her softly. "Strange comfort."

"Is it?" She looks at him with the same tenderness in her eyes. "Give your time to others, Apollo, that is how the gods help," she chuckles, "and is the only thing we have in abundance."

"So... what is your plan?" Lester crouches next to Meg. "Why the roof? If we are seeking the Labyrinth, shouldn't we be on the ground floor?"

"We need a satyr."

"Yes, but... How do you intend—?"

"Shhh."

Lester purses his lips and stands, leaning in to complain at Ara. "Let's lose her in the labyrinth."

"Don't even joke about it," Ara gets goosebumps. "I want you as close as possible at all times, I'm not trusting that place even for a second." The tomato patch splits open and something starts to come out of it, big and breathing... "Holy goats!" She gasps.

"This is one of the more important satyrs, a Lord of the Wild," Lester says in awe. "How did you find him?"

Meg points at Ara. "General Jackson gave me a name and said he was good. Is this him?"

"It's Grover!" She beams.

Hearing his name, the satyr wakes up abruptly. "I didn't eat them! I was just..." He blinks. "Birdy? Wait... this isn't Palm Springs. Where am I?"

"Hello, Grover Underwood," Lester says happily. "I am Apollo. This is Meg. And you, my lucky friend, have been summoned to lead us through the Labyrinth."

Ara drops to her knees and hugs the satyr. "Mighty Pan, I'm so happy to see you!"

The satyr is still groggy, but he chuckles. "You got taller. Again. What's going on?"

The girl glances at Apollo over her shoulder, then back at the satyr. "I think we should feed you first."

"What? Why?"

"There you are!" Leo walks up to them with his duffel bag over one shoulder. "Can't go without my good luck kiss!" He stops and spots the satyr. "Is that Grover?"

"Leo Valdez," Grover stands and helps her up, patting her shoulders to clean her, only getting more dirt to stick. "You're back? Good! Birdy was worried sick about you."

"He came back two months ago, G-Man," Ara frowns. "You haven't gone to Long Island since last year?"

He blushes. "That's what I'm trying to tell you, but... we can talk later."

Ara goes over to Leo and the boy waves at the satyr. "Nice to meet you, dude! Let's meet sometime and eat enchiladas! Bye, guys!"

The girl takes him away from the group. "Ready to go?"

"Yup. Got it all here." He pats his bag. "You got your satyr, so you're ready too, right?"

"Yup," she eyes him. "Hey, if you need to talk, you can burn an offering."

Leo laughs, then he sees her expression and stops. "You're serious?"

"About 95%," she grins. "Or you could just dream of me."

The boy pulls her closer. "Now that's a given..." He kisses her and mumbles. "I know you're immortal and everything but that doesn't mean you can't get hurt, so be careful..."

"Mind your business," she pecks his lips, steps out of his embrace, and shakes his hand firmly. "Masters of unlikely?"

"All the way, Sunshine." Leo winks. Festus comes into view and the boy jumps over the ledge, landing on the dragon swiftly. "See you soon!"

Next Chapter –>

Taglist.

@siriuslysirius1107 @ask-giggles1303 @im-planning-something-look @bandshirts-andbooks @coolninjapaper @thewaterlily @whenisthefall @1randomcomic @you-bloody-shank @sunflowergraves @owlalex44 @taylordaughter @typicalsolangelolover @writingmia @espressopatronum454 @slytherinnqueen @orbitingpolaris @obxstiles @ellipsisspelled @thepixiechicksh @ebony-reine-vibes

[rodolfoparras]

from the rdr2 ask

r is reader akssjsjs 😭 and rdr2 is like 1899 wild west cowboys set in usa (for context)

I'm thinking r gets up on his horse (who's actually a horse of one of the men he killed), he looks back once again, the white of his eyes standing out in the blood covering his face, and catches gaz's eyes. it's a silent goodbye, but not one on a good note. r gallops away from where the 141 has set camp, not knowing where to go next or even where he's going to get a meal or sleep tonight. honestly he fall asleep right now from how exhausted he is from the fight and the lack of sleep the last few days, but he keeps riding till he's certain no one has followed him, then finds a nice tree to pass out under.

meanwhile, back at the camp, gaz is at a loss of words. people he considered family, people that Are his family lied to him about you. worse than that, they left you out to die, after gaz had been the one to save you. when they first met you, you were apprehensive of tagging along w them, not wanting to be a burden, and gaz reassured you it's okay. and all he can think of now is how you must think that gaz's promises meant nothing. and he knows you'd be right to think so when the people he trusted the most have betrayed him like this. he asks them one simple thing, "why?" he didn't shout or look angry, but everyone knew better than to think he wasn't. he was fuming.

"kyle, you can't expect us to just up and trust some stranger. you know we have plans in motion, plans that we can't risk anyone else getting the wind of..." price spoke up.

"so you left him to die? if that is what we are now, I want no part of it," gaz said, and he could almost see soap's eyes bulge out at the insinuation of leaving. they might be wary of outsiders, but they still love gaz dearly. and gaz loves them too, and deep down he knows he could never really leave them.

"i wasn't going to wait for him to slit our throats in our sleep, yeah?" soap said in frustration and a second later price and ghost had to break gaz's grip on his throat, pushing them apart.

"why do you even care so much, eh? in love w the lad or what?" soap coughs out, and the look on gaz's face says everything. first the knowledge of gaz possibly caring about this stranger sinks in, then comes the dread of what they did to the man gaz cared about, their heads now hanging low. ghost tries to say smth, but it's too late and gaz is storming off, trying to find some place to be alone.

he settles down near the stream, he tells himself he has to accept the fact that he might never see you again. that is if you're alive. he's so worried about you, wondering how you manage the injuries all on your own, just one horse to keep you company, the blood soaked clothes on your back, and not much else. by god, he's so worried about you he could cry. and he knows even if he sees you again, you'll want nothing to do w him. he can't go after you. he can't bear to see the faces of his family, the people he asked you to trust, after they've all but stabbed you in the back. so he sits alone, and thinks and think and thinks.

he thinks about how you must've felt, when left alone in the middle of an already unfair gunfight. he can't imagine what that feeling of being completely alone in the middle of certain death must've felt like. but then he thinks about how you made it out anyways. always fighting death. he thinks of how he's seen you survive against all odds, cheating death twice in the time he's known you. he hopes that you live through the aftermath of the fight too. and he hopes to find you again some time. he hopes he can get the chance to apologize and maybe, just maybe you'll believe him. he wants to hold you, he wants to tell you all the things he wasn't brave enough to in the 10 weeks you travelled w them. he hopes he hasn't missed his chance.

-❕️

SUGAR THIS WAS SUCH A BEAUTIFUL READ IM BEING SO SERIOUS THIS IS SO WELL WRITTEN I LOVED THIS you can genuinely feel how sad gaz is for reader and how torn he feels being in the position that he is in it’s also very clear he absolutely loves reader please 🧎🏻‍♂️ BUT WHY ANOTHER CLIFF HANGER IM GOING TO SCREAM

[readyforthegarden]

I saw your post and say this prompt: "your morning voice is so hot." [laughs] "what?" and immediately said DANNY!!!

Allie my love, here is a sweet little blurb for you and Danny (god I bet his voice is so deep and raspy in the mornings 😭)

💖💖💖

You were always a heavy sleeper. Throughout your life you’d slept through numerous thunderstorms, parties, and even a late night car chase through your old neighborhood. But last night was one of the first nights every sound woke you from your slumber.

Being in bed with Danny wasn’t new, in fact it was something that happened regularly. Neither of you had been looking for anything serious. A casual hook up here and there turned into a friends with benefits situation as the two of you got closer over time.

But now, things were different. A bad storm had rolled through last night, taking out power lines, winds so strong the tornado sirens had gone off a few times. Just your luck you’d been at Danny’s place, getting ready to leave after one such netflix and chill session, when the first sirens blared.

“I didn’t realize how bad it was getting,” you moved towards the window in Danny’s home, glancing out at the storm as lightning flashed across the sky. You felt a hand encircle your wrist, and you were dragged back softly.

“Best not to be so close to windows with the tornado sirens going off,” Danny informed you softly. “Come on, let’s move somewhere a little safer.” Following him down the hall of his apartment, you let him lead you into his bathroom, where there were no windows. “Safest place we have, usually we’d climb into the tub and huddle up.”

“You’ve been through tornados before?” you asked, trying to hide the fear in your voice. Truth be told, where you grew up you never had to worry about them. There weren’t common enough to even have drills about them in school.

“Growing up in a rural area, at the end of tornado alley, yeah, I’ve had a few run ins.” Danny shrugged. “Nothing too bad; we were always really lucky it was only a few shingles off the roof or some hail that cracked a window, and never anything more serious.”

“That’s still terrifying.” The wind blew against the building, almost screeching against the siding, and you found yourself climbing into Danny’s bathtub. Holding back a chuckle, Danny climbed in too, sitting behind you. His long legs rested on either side of you, and you felt more at ease. When the lights flickered, you jumped, and felt his arms encircle you, gently pulling you back against his chest until you were positively snuggled into him.

“Wanna hear a funny story?” Danny asked softly. You nodded, willing your nerves to stop getting the best of you in this storm as the power fully went out, the bathroom in pitch darkness as the storm raged outside. “This one time on tour, the venue we were in didn’t have dressing rooms for all of us. So Josh, our singer got the only one so he could meditate and do his warm ups and everything, the rest of us had to get ready on the bus.”

“Josh sounds like a diva.”

“Oh he is,” Danny chuckled. “But anyway, the venue was pretty secluded, so there wasn’t any chance of anyone really seeing us go back and forth. I thought I’d brought back my whole outfit, but it turns out, I left my pants in the venue.”

“Oh no,” you giggled, already envisioning Danny looking around in just his underwear for his clothes.

“Oh no is right,” he continued. “So I had my shirt on, you know the silver mesh? And nothing but my boxer briefs. And I thought I was being so sneaky and so fast, running from the bus into the venue. But it turns out, I wasn’t. I heard some whistles and saw some fans that had gotten to the venue late that saw the whole thing!” Danny laughed, his chest rumbling against your back.

“You probably made their lives, honestly.” you joked back. “Your ass is amazing.”

“Yeah?”

“I have no complaints.” you replied, shifting slightly in his arms as your leg had fallen asleep. The two of you chattered on quietly, Danny succeeding in taking your mind off the storm completely. After a while, the two of you realized how quiet it had gotten, and you cleared your throat.

Moving away from Danny, he let go of you without protest, letting you stand and stretch your legs, holding onto the nearby edge of the sink as you stepped out on pins and needles in your feet from being tucked away too long. Pulling your phone from your pocket, you squinted at the bright light from the screen, your eyes had adjusted to the dark in the bathroom.

“It sounds like the storm is over, I think it’s safe for me to head home.” you said quietly. Danny stood up from the bath, exiting it much more gracefully. There was a silence between the two of you, as neither of you really wanted you to leave.

“Y-you know it’s probably a mess out there.” Danny cleared his throat. If the power is out, some of the traffic lights are also out, and I’d hate for you to be driving so late and have to deal with that.”

“Oh, it’s not a big deal.” You hadn’t thought of the traffic lights being out, and with how people drove in the area, it was a whole new wave of anxiety.

“I insist,” Danny reached out, taking your hand. “They’ll be working all night to get the power back on, you can stay here and leave in the morning so at least there’s some daylight to help you see.”

“O-okay,” you nodded and agreed.

“Good, now help me find some candles, and we’ll get ready for bed.” the two of your scrounged his apartment, only finding three decent sized scented candles to light. You carried the vanilla cinnamon bun one around with you, placing it on the bathroom sink as Danny found a spare, unused toothbrush from a dentist visit and gave it to you to use before bed. The two of you brushed your teeth together in the candlelight quietly and you couldn’t help but notice how Danny’s olive skin radiated the warmth of the candle glow. You longed to touch him again and feel it, be wrapped up much like you were earlier.

Once done with your night routine, or what you could do of it with Danny’s products, you left the bathroom, heading for the living room, planning to camp out on the couch.

“Where are you going?” Danny’s voice stopped you. Turning with your candle, you shrugged, nodding towards the sofa.

“I was gonna sleep out here…”

“Why?”

“Don’t you think sharing the bed is a little….” you regarded Danny with wide eyes, shrugging again. “Intimate?” you expected him to agree, or make a sarcastic joke that you’ve both been more than intimate with one another, but all he did was smile warmly.

“No, I don’t.” those three words had you up all night. You laid in Danny’s bed, next to him, thinking about them. You would drift off occasionally, and a quiet rumble of thunder would wake you, or Danny’s shifting in his sleep, disturbing the sheets. At one point the thought keeping you awake was how you were wearing one of his old shirts he had cut into a tank top as a sleep shirt, and it still smelled like his cologne mixed in with his detergent.

Finally, sleep caught you in its grasp, though not long after, you were being woke by the sounds of birds chirping outside the window. Soft sunlight beamed through the blinds, Danny still snoring softly next to you. Thinking this was as good a time as any, you slowly got up, moving as little as possible so you didn’t wake him. You were halfway through tugging your jeans back on when his voice stopped you.

“What are you doing?” Danny’s voice was lower than you’d ever heard it, sleep laced through it making it rasp as he lifted his head up from the pillow.

“I was gonna head out,” you smiled sheepishly, finishing fastening the button on your jeans. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“Fuck that,” Danny reached out towards you, and without thinking you moved to the bed, sitting down on the side you slept on. “You’re not leaving, not until we have breakfast, at least.”

“Danny-“

“I’m tired of the bullshit,” Danny told you, blinking the sleep from his eyes, though his voice still held traces. “I want to be with you. I don’t want to be casual anymore, I like you, and I want to have something with you. What do you want?”

You took a few moments to register what he was saying, but once it hit, you couldn’t help the grin on your face.

“I want that too, Danny.” you nodded. Danny sat up in the bed, bringing one of his large hands to the back of your neck and pulled you down to him in a kiss. He kept leaning back until you were practically on top of him, giggling as he kissed you. “Does that mean I get to stay over more often?”

“Every night you want to,” Danny whispered back.

“Good, I liked waking up next to you.” he smiled at the comment, and you continues. “And your morning voice is so hot.” Danny laughed, the sleep gone now, but the sound was still etched in your brain.

“What?”

“Seriously! It’s the hottest thing I think I’ve ever heard.” Danny, knowing he was fully awake now, tried to lower his voice, but couldn’t quite get the rasp again. “It’s okay baby, how about you try and wake me up later tonight with it?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

💖💖💖

[destinygoldenstar]

I Don’t Ship These Two. You Have No Proof. *Reaction Compilation Part 3*

<< Part 2 Of The Lack Of Proof

💗🍉Cuties, that's what they are🍉💗

There's no Jam emoji so I'm using watermelon instead.

I've jinxed how many people now with these headings?

This time, I'm kind of expecting Tom to go this episode. I'll be surprised if he's not. So like, at least I can CONTROL the jinx I guess?

Whatever. They're happy. That's what matters. They're leaving the show, somber goodbye after this elimination, and after the show they're gonna get Chinese and watch the sunset by the lake.

But yeah, I think this heading is jinxing their separation due to elimination. Fiore and Alec are DEFINATELY finding an idol, and that's gonna get Tom out. And Jake and Ellie, being good friends, are gonna agree "We gotta take them out."

That's my prediction, anyway.

(Oh how I called it)

***

"From what I've seen, Jake isn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed."

OOOOHHH...

Oh NOW I know what they're gonna do.

And they KNOW Jake is gonna fall for it because of said trauma being ignited...

You two are BALLSY for PERSONALLY SCREWING WITH SOMEONE'S PTSD.

(I saw it coming)

***

"Miriam, these cupcakes are delicious!"

THOSE DON'T LOOK APPETIZING.

But look at them! Look at them being so cute!

(The calm before the storm)

***

"I didn't come here to play the game, but I'm glad I did cause I got to meet Jake."

Aw, that's sweet.

Yeah, Tom's not gonna take it personally if you vote him off. He's not winning anyway.

He will gladly give this idol to save Jake, any day.

(I hate myself)

***

"You talk to Jake a lot, you must have noticed how insecure he is."

"If you can trick him by telling him some lie about Tom, he'll surely believe it."

SHE'S NOT GONNA DO THAT.

JUST STEAL THE IDOL. YOU KNOW WHO HAS IT.

(I think I made a meme with this)

"But how would they steal the idol?"

Just tell Tom and Jake to go hang out and be all cute, like go swimming or something. Tom will have to leave his stuff behind for that. And when they're gone, STEAL THE IDOL.

"But he'll notice"

MAKE A FAKE ONE AND SWAP THEM.

Ellie KNOWS what these idols look like. Gabby used one for her!

YOU DON'T HAVE TO HURT JAKE.

"Is that gullible idiot's friendship worth losing a million dollars? And for what? To go back to the same pathetic life again?"

😬

Goddammit Fiore...

She's gonna do this? Isn't she?

Well this is FIORE'S plan, so I can't really blame Ellie...?

So yeah, the hate goes to Fiore. Ellie's just trying to survive.

"There's no other way Ellie."

I CAN THINK OF SEVERAL OTHER WAYS AT THE TOP OF MY HEAD-

"SHUT UP GOLDEN, VILLAINS DON'T LISTEN TO YOU."

...I'm gonna save this till the end.

Cause YES, this is A LOT of ways she can survive and NOT do this.

"If I do this, I want something in return."

"I want two necklaces."

I mean what makes the difference if Ellie gets immunity? She's not a target for the other guys right now.

"If I win immunity, I'll vote for whoever you tell me."

And so she's turned...

Goddammit.

I do understand WHY though... I don't agree with it, but I understand WHY she'd want to do this.

"I'll also make sure Jake never trusts Tom again."

WHAT?! NO!!!

YOU DON'T HAVE TO GO THAT FAR!!!!!

JUST STEAL THE IDOL FROM TOM AND FLIP

I FEEL LIKE I'M GONNA SAY THIS ALL THROUGHOUT THE EPISODE

YOU DON'T HAVE TO DESTROY SOMEONE'S RELATIONSHIP!!

Oh god...

This is totally why they're targeting Jake as well because they KNOW he'll get paranoid.

I don't care what anyone says. I WILL say it. Whatever happens for the rest of this episode. NONE of it is Jake's fault.

(Me getting overprotective)

***

AWWWWW 😢💗

OH THAT'S SO SWEET, OMG

DON'T DO THIS TO ME. THEY WERE WORKING THINGS OUT! THEY WERE DOING WELL!!

LEAVE THEM ALONE

I don't want them to be pissy again 😭

***

Oh boy...

Guys, I already KNOW this is gonna BREAK me. So HEADS UP.

We're not even halfway through the episode. This is gonna be UGLY.

"I heard something I shouldn't have... I'm sorry Jake, this may not be the right time, but..."

*DREAD*

"Have you seen that Tom has a radio?"

"I saw him using it in private. I heard him talking to his... boyfriend."

*DREAD*

I HATE IT CAUSE THAT'S SO PERFECT TO MAKE JAKE PARANOID WITH...

GODDAMMIT

"He said some horrible things about you. Things I can't repeat."

YEAH THIS IS GONNA TRIGGER SOME SHIT FOR HIM

(I don't think I need to tell anyone this, but for morality sake. DON'T EVER DO THIS. If you aware someone has PTSD and anxiety, and you know their specific triggers. Don't ever trigger it. For any reason. You are screwed up if you ever think this is a good idea to use on people. You can SERIOUSLY HURT the person in one way or another.)

"The second this season ends, he'll be out of all our lives."

*DREAD*

That's what Tom said about his spy mission too...

"No... he wouldn't say that. Maybe you heard wrong."

Oh?

He's NOT gonna believe it??

Okay I didn't expect that. I expected him to be stupid and fall head first into it. But he's ACTUALLY QUESTIONING this.

"Trust me Jake, you're my friend, and I'm only saying this because I don't want you to get heartbroken."

OOOOOWWWWWW...

"Tom is a scumbag. You can't trust him."

GODDAMMIT ELLIE. DON'T MAKE ME HATE YOU. I WAS LIKING YOU. DON'T DO THIS.

Why Jake, man?! I get he's an easy target. Why him?!

*coughs laughter*

Okay you can't make that up.

"Tom's a scumbag."

"I got breakfast!!" 💗😄

"Jake, those fish are poisonous! He's trying to KILL YOU!"

"Fish? Is that really what you were up to?"

Oh boy, here we go...

"Don't you get tired of lying to my face?!"

Goddammit...

"...huh?"

*snicker*

"HUH?"

Oh god... I get it though. I get why Jake would believe this.

"Jake's being his usual self."

That's his usual self? He yelled ONCE before, AND apologized for it MULTIPLE TIMES.

"Jake's so gullible! He believes everything he's told! After all this time, you'd think he'd at least talk to me about it!"

Okay, I'm gonna defend here. I'm sorry if this annoys you.

(Me being a Jake Apologist)

When Grett told Jake Tom was a spy, he actually DIDN'T instantly believe that. He thought it was a joke. It was only when Tom blew his own cover and said the wrong thing that he realized she was telling the truth.

That is the ONLY incident throughout the season that MIGHT imply Jake as this 'gullible moron'. And even THEN, 'gullible moron' implies he believed that shit right away, when he DIDN'T.

And I'm not using a headcanon. There's TEXT PROOF.

2) He JUST yelled at you and Ellie dragged him away. "You'd think he'd talk to me about it". Yeah. He WOULD.

IF HE IS GIVEN THE CHANCE.

BUT CURRENTLY, HE IS NOT.

3) Jake DIDN'T instantly believe Ellie. She had to gaslight it further for it to work and had to drive home some personal shit to get him to snap. Which, snapping like that, IS a PTSD response to a trigger.

If Ellie ONLY said "Tom cheated on you lol" and that was all it took, then YES, YOU'D HAVE A POINT.

Look, if THIS is the episode that is supposed to trigger me to despise Jake or something, IT'S NOT WORKING.

I mean, WHY would he believe a FRIEND over TOM?! THAT MAKES NO SENSE. TOM DIDN'T LIE ABOUT SHIT TO JAKE AND HAS BEEN COMPLETELY 100% HONEST WITH HIM THE ENTIRE TIME.

OH WAIT.

THIS IS A GASLIGHTING PLOT. PLAIN AND SIMPLE. AND YOU'RE GONNA BLAME THE PERSON BEING GASLIT?!

Okay. Sure.

Look, I'm not saying Jake is flawless. Hell no. And I'm not even saying he's doing the right thing here. HELL NO. I'm saying it's believable he'd act this way given what we know about his character, and it's not the fault of him, it's the fault of the people gaslighting him to act like that.

If he acted this way WITHOUT their help. That'd be a different story.

But he's not. So... am I supposed to hate him now??

"I know Jake can be dense, but he's a good boy."

"You keep on saying that, but he never learns!"

Learn WHAT?

To talk to people and tell them everything that's happening? He's been doing that throughout the season FAR MORE THAN YOU, TOM.

I'm not hating Tom, btw. Just making a point.

If he's gotta learn something, then teach him "Choose who you trust." "Don't let your emotions get the better of you." "Don't let other people take advantage of your paranoia and anxieties to control you." "Sometimes the problem is you and you have to apologize and make things right." "Don't be stupid."

Just so you can't say "Golden is completely ignoring Jake's flaws." NO I'M NOT.

And "NEVER" learns? THIS IS THE SECOND TIME. WHAT DO YOU MEAN "NEVER"?

"Does my care and affection mean nothing to him?"

Aw, Tom. I'm sorry.

It means the world to him! JUST TALK.

"Every day I'm here, I like being around Jake less and less..."

What?

You guys kissed last episode. You spent a month in a zombie apocalypse together.

Where the hell is this coming from?

He yelled at you TWO TIMES. And the first time he tried to make it up to you.

And it just cuts. Okay. Sure.

"Yeah! Fuck Jake! He's a piece of shit! I guess..."

Are we seriously gonna say this whole thing is ALL Jake's fault?

Cause um... NO.

"Why do they always see me as an idiot they can lie to?!"

"I don't know."

Ellie says as she treats him as an idiot she can lie to.

"I should confront Tom."

SEE?!?!?! WHAT HAVE I BEEN SAYING?!?!?!?!

"But last time, I promised he we had problems, we would talk things through. Something's not right. Tom would never do this to me."

ATTA BOY.

HE'S AT LEAST 'TRYING' TO THINK STRAIGHT.

He's still not, but that's on Ellie for gaslighting him to not think straight.

If she wasn't gaslighting him to think irrationally. It would be a different story.

"He's been lying to you, and you're worried about keeping your promises? He's cheating on you Jake. It seems like he's been cheating for a long time."

🔥"Lemme just uh, casually ignite some more fuel to this fire. Hey Jake, remember when you got cheated on in the past? Remember how much that HURT you and DEVASTATED you? Doesn't it HURT BEYOND BELIEF?! DON'T YOU WANT TO BUILD YOUR WALLS AND NEVER TALK TO ANOTHER GUY AGAIN?!?!"🔥

"So he's been making me make these promises so he could keep me under control?"

***

"Jake, we need to talk."

"Fine. I guess I should give you a chance to explain yourself."

PLEASE. PLEASE TALK.

NOOOOO DAMMIT

Don't break them up, please... 😭🙏

(Prayers don't get answered)

"I don't know what's wrong with Jake this time, but I'm sure it was your fault."

YES. YES IT WAS.

So they are voting Jake...

So they're gonna keep their mouths shut and not worry about the idol?

I mean if they don't know Jake's in danger, they can't play the idol, right?

I THINK that's what they're doing.

"Wait. I have something to say to Tom."

...what are you doing?

"It's about Jake and all the drama surrounding him."

What are you doing? I thought you were gonna keep your mouth shut.

What's your plan? You WANT Tom to realize you're using Jake?

"Oh wait, shit! It wasn't Jake's fault this time! Welp, guess our alliance is back!"

But they already voted, so... goddammit...

"I care because it was all a lie."

"Ellie told Jake that Tom has a boyfriend and he was cheating on him. She kept them from speaking to each other all day."

WHAT IS YOUR PLAN HERE?!?!?!?

WHAT WAS THE POINT OF GASLIGHTING JAKE THEN?!?!?!?!

"Wait, what?! Is this true?!"

Oh shit now he realizes.

"Goddammit Jake, you promised you would talk to me this time!"

DID YOU NOT HEAR HER?! ELLIE WAS PREVENTING HIM FROM DOING THAT!!!!

IF HE COULD, HE WOULD HAVE.

WHY ARE YOU GETTING MAD AT JAKE?!?!

"Tom, I didn't know! I tried to talk to you, but Ellie told me not to!! Please you have to believe me!!!"

HONEY NO...

"Why are you listening to her?!"

"I thought I could trust her. I'm sorry Tom..."

"And you didn't think you could trust me?! After everything we've been through?!"

💔

I mean, okay, that is valid. That is on Jake.

"Children, children, stop fighting please!!"

Aw Miriam 💔😢

"Wait, this doesn't end here."

OH MY GOD WHAT NOW?!?!?

"Tom, we know about your totem."

WHAT IS YOUR PLAN HERE?!?!?! I DON'T UNDERSTAND.

DO YOU WANT TO GET ELIMINATED?!?!?

"Alec, Ellie, and I voted for Jake. So if you don't use your totem to save your little dumb boyfriend, he's gone tonight."

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?!?!?

SO YOU'RE ASKING TOM TO USE THE IDOL. WHY?!???!! THAT SCREWS YOU OVER.

Unless she's lying and she and Alec flipped...

But THAT WOULD BE EVEN WORSE.

You betray Ellie, YET AGAIN. You LOSE HER as an ally.

Unless you're trying to boot her and have her be 5th place. BUT THEN YOU HAVE JAKE AND MIRIAM AS AN ALLIANCE TO WORRY ABOUT.

YOU DON'T NEED TO DO THIS. YOU DON'T NEED TO GASLIGHT JAKE. YOU DON'T NEED TO SAY ANY OF THIS SHIT.

Just convince Ellie to be on your side to get her to flip, vote for who you want out, convince Tom & Jake to go do something that forces Tom to leave the idol behind...

AND THEN. STEAL. THE. MOTHERFUCKING. IDOL.

THAT IS THE EASIEST AND CLEANEST SOLUTION TO ALL YOUR DAMN PROBLEMS.

AND YET YOU CHOOSE TO DESTROY THESE PEOPLE INSTEAD AND MAKE THINGS TOO BLOODY COMPLICATED.

WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM?!?!?!?!?

"I'm sorry, I just can't leave here 4th place. I know if I stuck with you guys, I'd never make the finals."

"And you decided you'd mess with my personal trauma just to get further in the game?!"

YESS!! BE PISSED!!!!!!! CALL HER OUT!!!!!

"You're screwed up Ellie. You need help!"

"Actually... yes."

*snicker* Okay, that was good.

"I don't ever want to talk to you again!"

"No need to yell like that."

UM, LET'S BE HONEST. I THINK JAKE DESERVES TO BE VOCAL HERE. HE WAS GASLIT BY YOU GUYS.

"Times running out Tom. What'll it be?"

Don't play it Tom.

They're tricking you. Don't play it.

Though that's kinda bad on his end, cause that'd be him saying "Nah, fuck you Jake. Go to the bus and drive it to hell."

"Tom, please, I know I've been bad, but I promise, if you save me, we can talk tomorrow and work things out!!"

I don't think that's gonna happen...

He's begging so bad here 😭

You screwed up Jake. You screwed up...

"What's stopping you from believing another lie they tell you tomorrow?"

Insert my rant before here.

"Tom, I get that you're mad at Jake, but if he goes, you and I will go right after."

No I don't think that's how it's gonna work...

My heart is HURTING right now btw. I'm actually shaking.

"Why are you so relaxed?! If Tom plays the idol on Jake, we're screwed!"

EXACTLY. WHAT'S YOUR PLAN HERE?!??!?!?! IT MAKES NO SENSE.

"Can I please read the votes people?!"

The host is just done with it...

"I'm going to use my totem to save Jake."

Aw....

Even after everything he loves you... 😭

No...

They flipped. They HAD to have flipped...

Oh no...

*I'm burying my face in my hands to hold back wet eyes*

They flipped.

She's so unbothered. They flipped.

They flipped.

*DREAD* THEY FLIPPED.

Is the next one Tom?

I KNEW IT

I KNEW IT OH NOOOOOOO...

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO😭

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH

I have a bad feeling... Jake voted Tom cause he was mad.

He was trying to throw his vote on Tom to save the trouble, AND IT BACKFIRED HORRIBLY.

(That is still my firm belief on what happened here. Jake would never side with Fiore and Alec if he knew they were voting Tom as well. The whole point of this was that they DIDN'T know Fiore and Alec flipped to Tom)

*Buries face in hands again*

I can't... I can't... no...

"I wonder whose fault that was."

Yeah...

"Tom, I'm sorry, please, you have to forgive me-"

"SHUT UP."

"YOU AND I ARE DONE. DON'T EVER SPEAK TO ME AGAIN."

💔😭💔

Oh my god...

Oh my god no...

No...

Oh god...

(I physically CANNOT watch this Tribal Council. IT HURTS.)

So... I'm not welling up bawling or anything...

But I am SHAKING.

I am SCREAMING.

I am on the verge of CRYING.

I fell nauseous, so add THROWING UP on that list too.

I'm so upset.

I mean I get it, villains gotta villain, but holy shit...

They were doing so well too. They could've been so great together!

THEY COULD'VE GOTTEN CHINESE TOGETHER LIKE THEY WANTED

GODDAMMIT...

This is some shit Heather would do.

And did.

I mean... compare that episode to this episode as much as you'd like. I don't really care.

My heart is actually sunken right now.

That hurt.

I think this elimination broke me.

WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST WATCH?!

***

Awww Tom 😭

I'm so sorry Tom. YOU DID NOT DESERVE THAT.

I SHOULDN'T HAVE PUT THEM IN THE HEADING.

I SUNK THE SHIP.

I wish I could give you a virtual hug but I'm out of images... 😭

I WOULD be happy to see Gabby again, but also... I'm too upset right now 😂😭

Oh my god...

You know, I compared that to the TDI Episode for a reason. I see the similarities. The one where Trent gets booted.

And THAT was my least favorite episode of that season too!

...okay I mostly just hate THIS episode because of the feels. So it's completely subjective. Objectively I'd have to think about it.

I mean at least in this one there wasn't any sexual harassment involved. So that's a plus.

***

🔥OPERATION GET REVENGE ON ELLIE IS A GO🔥

And at the end of last episode Jake said he wanted revenge, so YEAH. I'M SUPPORTING HIM WANTING THAT.

I don't hate Ellie, but what she did was screwed up. Gaslight your friend with their personal trauma and ruin their relationship with someone, all for your own personal benefit? Yeah. YOU BETTER BE SLEEPING WITH ONE EYE OPEN TONIGHT.

SHE BETTER PAY

***

WAIT.

OMG.

LOOK.

THERE'S A HEART CARVING ON THE WALL❤️😭

Guys.

Guys.

Episode 10 is not canon. Okay? That was some leftover recycled content from the Beta that OddNations accidentally put in that playlist. That's Beta content. The remake is canon. That episode is not canon. It is not official. Tom and Jake are FINE. They're FINE. THEY WORKED THINGS OUT. THEY'RE OKAY. THEY'RE HAPPY TOGETHER AND WORKING THROUGH THEIR ISSUES TOGETHER. NOTHING HAPPENED BETWEEN THEM. THEY'RE AT THE MOTEL RIGHT NOW CUDDLING AND BEING HAPPY AND ORDERING CHINESE FOOD.

THEY ARE FINE. NOTHING HAPPENED. ALRIGHT?!?!?!?!

Goddammit, they're not even here anymore. What am I even saying?

But I swear to god, whether it's this season or Season 3. It better end with Jake and Tom getting that Chinese Date.

I will FLIP OUT if that's actually what happens.

***

Aw, Jake! ❤️

"I haven't talked to Tom since we got kicked out... We've bumped into each other a few times at the hotel, but he doesn't want to talk to me."

Yeah... 😔

I can't say I'm surprised though. Tom DID say he didn't want to talk to Jake ever again, so...

HE GOT THE MOST PTSD FROM THIS GAME. POOR THING.

"I know I deserve it."

😭💗

HONEY. NO...

"What did I learn? Well if you have a job to do just do it, without falling in love with some silly boy who ends up ruining your future!"

DAMN...

DAMN THAT'S COLD.

Yeah, those two are not talking after this show. They're done.

There is no hope for this ship anymore.

I'm eating Toxic Yaoi for dinner tonight.

***

JAKE IS THE ONLY ONE DEPRESSED, AWWWW...

I'm telling y'all, this experience is gonna make him an asshole in season 3 season and make so many enemies out of it.

I mean that would explain why my feed has had a bunch of people despising Jake so much. I'M CHOOSING TO SUPPORT HIM IF HE WANTS TO HATE EVERYONE.

(As a character direction, not 'excusing every bad action ever')

*gets coffee creamer ad*

I guess that's one way to act in a depression episode.

"Ima go down a coffee and overstuff it with cream so I have the energy to CRY MY EYES OUT 24/7. WHAAAAAAAAAA, NO ONE LOVES MEEEEEEEE..."

"Jake maybe don't drink that much, you're shaking."

"I WAS GETTING KINDA USED TO BEING SOMEONE YOU LOOOOOVVVEEEDDD..."

(Why do I enjoy doing my whiny Jake impression?)

"Can someone knock him out? I'm getting concerned."

***

"I choose Tom."

OH. REALLY.

Actually, that makes sense cause Tom is more physically capable.

Yeah, I understand that.

"Good decision, Miriam."

Awww

XD

THE FACE.

"YOU DARE COMPLIMENT ME?!?! OH THAT DOES IT!!! YOU WILL NEVER HEAR FROM ME AGAIN SIR!!!!"

Tom hates Jake so much now. It's so sad.

***

"Well Tom, how are things with Jake?"

"What do you think? I hate him now! He fell for someone gaslighting him! That's completely his fault!"

"We haven't talked. I'm still a bit upset about what happened."

A BIT?

"You have every right to be. But I think you'll feel better if you both just listen to each other. Don't let it end on a bitter note."

Awww.

I don't know if Tom will do that, though?

Are they gonna make up?

Please?

"What would I gain from that?"

"Better to have no regrets Not talking to him and never seeing him again after this could leave you feeling terrible about this entire experience."

I mean, I do agree with Miriam, but...

Are they gonna be on good terms at the end? I don't know.

"I know you two are both good people. Trust me as woman who's had many regrets in her long life, if you have an opportunity to change things, you should take it."

👏

***

"Where's Tom? Is he okay?!"

OH JAKE NO

This is why Jake's horrible in Season 3.

He doesn't even get to make amends with Tom because Tom DIED.

They ended things on awful terms and then he died...

***

Oh Jake...

"I'm glad you're okay, Tom. Sorry, I just thought you didn't want to talk to me."

Oh he actually is talking. Okay?

"It's okay... I think everything happens for a reason."

"What do you mean?"

"We were both fools, Jake. I know I was harsh with you and the truth is... I'm not innocent in this. We both acted impulsively. We made mistakes. But I don't regret it. You helped me learn from those mistakes."

Awwwww don't do this to me 💗

"Will you still talk to me?"

Imagine if he said NO.

"Nah, fuck you. Bye. Gonna go live it up in the cop world now!"

"I think we should take some time and grow as people."

Oh he actually DID say no... oh...

So they're distancing themselves from each other?

Not saying that's a bad idea, but damn.

"We'll see where we are later on."

In Season 3 I guess, if they are keeping distance.

"I agree... no matter what, I'm glad I met you Tom."

💗

OH COME ON DON'T DO THAT TO ME 💗

You know what? GOOD. GOOD FOR YOU FOR CHOOSING THE DISTANCE ROUTE. Y'ALL GO WALLOW IN ISCOLATION. YOU DON'T DESERVE EACH OTHER. I DON'T CARE. I DON'T SHIP THIS. NOPE. NOPE. MM MM. NO I DON'T.

YOU HAVE NO PROOF I SHIP THIS. YOU DON'T.

(Edit: Uh, Golden? Your reactions say otherwise... people are gonna bully you for this)

I have entered my denial stage of grief. Good lord.

If this is followed up by me going through the five stages of grief, good lord, I don't want to be on this ship anymore...

(TOO LATE)

So In Conclusion...

I DON'T SHIP THEM AND YOU HAVE NO PROOF

[cuubism]

Crossed Blades (16660 words) by cuubism Chapters: 3/3 Fandom: Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Kaladin/Adolin Kholin, Kaladin/Leshwi (Stormlight Archive), Adolin Kholin & Sylphrena Characters: Adolin Kholin, Kaladin (Stormlight Archive), Leshwi (Stormlight Archive), Sylphrena (Stormlight Archive), Teft (Stormlight Archive), Dalinar Kholin, Venli (Stormlight Archive), El (Stormlight Archive) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 05: Wind and Truth (Stormlight Archive), Explicit Sexual Content, Politics, Kaladin's canonical savior complex, Trauma, Near Death Experiences, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Battle, Major Character Injury, Established Relationship, Polyamory, POV Outsider Series: Part 3 of They Carried Gravity Summary: The ceasefire with Odium is meant to guarantee peace for one thousand years. But Kaladin isn't satisfied with a form of 'peace' that still gives Odium dominion over half the population of Roshar. Especially when it leaves an old comrade-in-arms trapped under his thumb.

--

I'm still so painfully obsessed with writing for this universe 😭 god I can't stop, help me

--

Teft waits at the Oathgate platform for Kaladin’s little strike team to return from Thaylenah. Perhaps he’s being overbearing. But Phendorana’s loss is still a raw and aching wound inside him and he can’t bear to lose anyone else. Not and keep his meager sanity. Kaladin taught him that, indirectly. Helping others helps.

Phendorana may be gone, but the oaths remain. Protect. He can’t protect his friend in the skies—no one can protect Kaladin there, he’s a better spearman than any of them—but he can watch out for him on the ground. Which is really where Kal needs a set of watchful eyes on him anyway.

Kaladin’s team doesn’t reemerge through the Oathgate. They land instead, flying directly over the mountains. Drehy and Skar seem to be lashing all four of them, which immediately sets Teft on alert. He’s glad he still carries infused spheres, even if he can’t use the stormlight.

Kaladin stumbles as they land, though Adolin catches him by the arm. Almighty, they are covered in blood, though neither looks mortally wounded so Teft restrains himself from rushing forward too abruptly.

Kaladin waves Skar and Drehy away before they start hovering, then lifts a hand to Teft in a weak greeting. Teft just shakes his head. Storming insane man had to go be a hero again. Couldn’t let peacetime lie. But he wouldn’t be Kal if he could let anything lie without trying to improve it.

“Look—” Kaladin starts, as Teft reaches them, but Teft just pulls him into a rough embrace.

“Storming hero again, hm?” he says.

“I’ll tell you all about it over a meal sometime, if he doesn’t,” Adolin says.

That’s been a weird thing to get used to. Those two together.

Everyone who’d left Urithiru as part of the last defense of the allied nations against Odium’s forces had come back from it changed, and for their part Kal and the princeling had returned from Azir joined at the hip. They’d pretended otherwise in public, at first, but Teft knew Kaladin better than that. He saw it.

Teft didn’t know what exactly had happened, and Kaladin had been tight-lipped about it except to say, “I almost lost him, Teft,” with such buried agony that Teft had let anything else he might say or question about the relationship drop.

Adolin’s a good lad, anyway, deep down. Once upon a time Teft would have said he was just naive and a little spoiled—but after what they’ve all been through these past few years, there’s really no such thing as spoiled, not anymore. Hard to call a princeling who nearly met his demise defending a city that wasn’t even his own spoiled.

And Teft could never imagine Kaladin drawing anyone who didn’t shine as bright as the sun.

“Don’t make it more than it was,” Kaladin says now, as Teft releases him.

“Nah, I think the prince’s version of the story might be more entertaining, especially with the way he moons over you.”

“Hey,” Adolin protests.

Closer, Teft can tell that the blood is Kaladin’s. He’s got a nasty-looking wound in his chest, visible under his open tunic. It’s partially healed over, but still darkly bruised. Teft barely wants to think about what could have caused it. Probably one of those horrible anti-stormlight weapons that had killed Phendorana.

“Give me your spheres, lad,” Teft says. Kaladin hands him a dun ruby broam he had apparently been drawing on. Teft swaps him a few infused garnets, and Kaladin starts glowing faintly.

The bruising around the wound retreats marginally. The garnet marks go dun. Storms, that injury is hungry.

“I should report to Dalinar,” Kaladin says, starting to walk off—

Adolin stops him with a hand on his shoulder before Teft can. “I’ll talk to my father. You go rest.”

“I’m fine,” Kaladin says.

“I’ll believe it when you stop devouring stormlight like you’re starving to death.” Adolin turns to Teft. “Teft, can you make sure he actually goes home?”

“Oh, with pleasure.”

“I don’t need to be minded!” Kaladin exclaims. But truthfully he looks utterly exhausted. Teft is getting this story out of him, that’s for sure.

Adolin moves to head off— and stops. He turns back around and pulls Kaladin into a kiss.

Kaladin makes a startled sound, but then leans lightly into the kiss. Teft looks away, giving them a meager illusion of privacy. He’s loved before, he knows that feeling.

He may not understand exactly what’s going on here, but he knows Kaladin deserves someone who looks at him like that.

Adolin heads off to make his report, then, after briefly tucking his forehead in against Kaladin’s cheek.

Teft lays a hand on Kal’s back and steers him towards the Tower. Kaladin winces and pulls away.

Teft stops him and pulls down the collar of his open tunic. “Let me see.”

“Are you actually undressing me right now in the middle of the Oathgate platform?”

“You’re the one who’s not wearing a shirt.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth as he takes in what must be the entrance wound, a brutal red mark under his left shoulder blade. A slight change in angle and the strike would have gone right through the heart. “Almighty.”

“He wasn’t trying to kill me,” Kaladin says.

“Sure looks like it, kid.”

“El is not an amateur with the blade. He could easily have aimed better if he wanted to be sure of it,” Kaladin says, shrugging his tunic back on. “Though my death was an acceptable possibility.”

“Why, then?”

Kaladin shrugs. “Curious what would happen, I guess.”

That’s somehow more chilling than a straightforward attempt on his life. “Change of plans. Medical wing. Come with me.”

“I really don’t think there’s anything my father can do for this that stormlight can’t,” Kaladin says.

“Maybe it’ll make me feel better, did you think about that?”

Kal’s lips curl up in a half-smile. “Alright.”

Teft walks him down to the medical center, and takes a moment to be grateful that Kaladin is so storming hard to kill, and that this time, he doesn’t have to lose anyone else.

--

Dalinar receives word that Kaladin and Adolin’s team is back from Thaylenah before Adolin arrives in his sitting room, so he’s not surprised when his door opens. But he drops the book he’s holding when he actually sees him, because Adolin’s shirt and hands and arms are coated in dried blood.

Dalinar rushes over to him, stricken. He’d promised himself, he’d promised after the final battle that he wouldn’t let anything happen to his sons again. And now here they are. “Son.”

Adolin looks down at himself. Touches the bloody front of his shirt as if he’d forgotten, as if he hadn’t just walked through all of Urithiru looking like he was bleeding out from a mortal injury. “Sorry. It’s... not mine.”

Then— “Is—”

“No, Kaladin’s alright now.”

Alright now. Storms, if he’s sent his best men to be decimated again—

He tries to calm himself. He can’t control everything. Kaladin and Adolin had made their own choices. He has to try to be okay with them making their own choices.

Adolin looks… surprised, almost, by Dalinar’s reaction. And storms, that hurts.

“I told him to go rest,” Adolin continues. “It was—” he scrubs a hand through his hair, distress flashing across his features. “It was. Bad. One of the Fused had an anti-light weapon and those things are much more potent than I realized and—” He steels himself, straightening his shoulders. “Anyway. It’s alright now.”

“You were right to send him to rest, I will speak with him later,” Dalinar says. “For now, sit with me. Tell me what happened.”

Adolin sits, and gives his report.

It is… definitely an unfortunate outcome, and Dalinar hopes they haven’t started another war before they're ready for one. But based on the strange behavior of that Fused leader, El, he thinks perhaps it might not escalate—or at least, not immediately, not in the way they’d expect. And the interaction between Kaladin and the Heavenly One, Leshwi… the reaction of the other Fused and Singers to them, that is interesting. There is something there.

Adolin is definitely shaken, though, and Adolin doesn’t shake easily, doesn’t show that he’s shaken easily, at least not to Dalinar. Dalinar is trying to be more perceptive about those things. He’s missed so much. He’s assumed so much.

After that meeting, early on after the ceasefire, when Adolin had fallen outside the council chamber, Dalinar had drawn him into his sitting room to talk. Kaladin had left them be, though Dalinar suspected he was waiting nearby to make sure Adolin got back to his rooms okay afterward. And so Dalinar asked what he’d wondered for some time now. “Son. What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Kaladin?”

Adolin had stiffened, and Dalinar raised a hand. “I’m not judging. I am only asking.” Almighty knew Dalinar had no more high ground when it came to relationships.

It was likely that, had this development occurred some years earlier, Dalinar would have had misgivings about Adolin courting another man. But it was hard to care much about that now, knowing that had fate taken a slight left turn, he could have lost one or both of his sons in just the past few weeks. Details fell into perspective during moments like that.

Neither Adolin nor Renarin had asked his opinion about the matter either, and for once Dalinar had had the presence of mind not to offer it.

Still looking a bit guarded, Adolin said, “We’re... together. I think I’d prefer not to discuss details. Shallan knows about it, if that’s why you’re asking. I wouldn’t go behind her back.”

“I know, son. I am not trying to criticize. I only want to understand what’s going on in your life.”

Adolin still looked a bit untrusting, but eventually eased. “Alright.”

“Are you... okay?” Dalinar asked. It had been so painful to watch him fall. Of course he’d understood that Adolin had been injured, but seeing the aftereffects firsthand had been a knife to the gut. If he’d worded the contract better so there was no war in those ten days— if he’d found some other solution earlier— if he’d sent more troops to Azimir in the first place—

Instead he’d let this happen to his son. 

Adolin hesitated again, then gradually seemed to unravel. “I can’t—” he said, “I can’t. Shake it.” He clenched his fists in the tails of his coat to stop them from trembling. “Those ten days… got in me more than all the years of battle before. I didn’t realize how much until after.”

Even during times when he did not revel in it, Dalinar had, almost as a rule, been too callous about warfare. Desensitized to it. All Alethi were, but he especially. He had tried to pass it on to his sons, just by instinct, and he had succeeded at it with Adolin more than he ever had with Renarin. It was more jarring, then, to see the crack widen in Adolin’s composure, to see the blade that compounded warfare had driven deeper and deeper into his son over all these years finally catch on a bone and break it.

“I was ready to die there,” Adolin said. “I thought I was going to die there. I thought Kal was going to save my life and then have it be for nothing.”

Dalinar had read the reports, with equal parts horror and pride, and had, many nights since, woken with the thought of returning from the Spiritual realm on that final day, solution in hand—and having lost his son while he was gone.

Once again, he owed Kaladin a great deal.

“Not for nothing,” Dalinar said firmly. “It would never be for nothing. And you did well. You both did.”

He hadn’t said that to Adolin enough. Not nearly enough.

“We still almost lost the city,” Adolin said.

“After none of your support materialized,” Dalinar said. “Impossible odds. Don’t sell yourself short.” He hesitated then, not because he didn’t want to say it, but because he didn’t know how Adolin would receive it. “I’m proud of you.”

Adolin himself didn’t look like he knew quite how to receive it. “Thank you,” he said at last, quietly.

Dalinar nodded firmly.

“Please don’t treat Kaladin differently,” Adolin said. “Because of— well, for any reason, really.”

“As far as I’m concerned, I ought to award him a medal,” Dalinar said, and Adolin’s lips twitched up in a half-smile.

“He wouldn’t accept it.”

“He wouldn’t,” Dalinar agreed. They were silent for a moment, then Dalinar asked, “Has he been helping you with your injury? I know he has medical training as well.”

He hadn’t known how to broach the subject of Adolin’s wounded leg. Hadn’t wanted to, but he was trying to be less of a coward about those things.

“As much as he can,” Adolin said. “It doesn’t respond much to stormlight.”

This, too, another development. Adolin’s own strange form of Radiance. He called it being ‘Unoathed.’ Dalinar wasn’t certain how that was meant to work, but nevertheless.

“Good,” Dalinar said. “And your Blade… you were able to communicate with it?”

“Her,” said Adolin, and picked up the staff he’d been leaning on for balance as he came into the room, laying it across his thighs.

Dalinar started. He hadn’t even realized. But then, Adolin had been wearing a prosthetic earlier, which had since vanished. If that was the case, he’d managed to incorporate his Blade, and his spren into his life more thoroughly than most, ‘unoathed’ or not.

“I’m impressed,” he admitted, and Adolin grinned. “Very well, tell… her that she has my thanks for all she has done to help you.”

“She can hear you,” Adolin said confidently.

He had always been strange about that Shardblade…

Dalinar was curious about all that, the lack of Radiant oaths, the way he manipulated his Blade... but he had let Adolin go soon after that. He wanted his son to rest. He was worried, still, by the effect the injury would have on him—mental as much as physical. But less so knowing that Kaladin would be near him. If nothing else, that man was determined not to let anyone he cared for come to harm.

Dalinar did owe him some kind of medal.

He hadn't reached out to touch Adolin that day after the fateful council meeting. He'd been too uncertain where they stood. But now, Dalinar does reach out to his son, his son who's come back covered in blood and shaken up from nearly losing someone very important to him, even if he'll barely admit to himself how much he's shaken. Before Adolin leaves, Dalinar lays a hand on his shoulder. Adolin doesn’t brush him off, and that’s progress. “I’m glad you’re safe,” he says. “Get some rest. You did well.”

Adolin ducks his head, but pushes lightly into his hand. “Thanks. You should tell Kaladin, too. When you see him.”

“I will, son.”

With that, he lets Adolin go, accepting the small amount of progress for what it is.

--

Adolin feels a bit shaken after his conversation with his father—but strangely relieved, too. For the first time in a very long time, they’d spoken and, he felt, come away from it more on the same page rather than less.

He’s lost in thought as he walks back through the halls of the Tower, on his way to go find Kaladin who is hopefully actually resting, and nearly runs directly into Rlain and Renarin, walking in the opposite direction.

Renarin grabs him by the shoulders, looking panicked, and Adolin remembers again belatedly that he’s still wearing his shirt that’s covered in blood. He should just take it off honestly; wandering the halls completely shirtless would probably be less alarming.

“Oh, no, I’m okay!” he says, guilty. “Just. Need to change.”

Renarin releases him, pushing his glasses up his nose from where they’d slipped. “Stormfather. You look awful.”

“Thanks.”

“You really should go change,” Renarin continues, looking at him critically as if not fully believing he’s not mortally wounded somewhere. “And go lie down.”

“I’m alright. I won’t keep you.” He’s about to brush past them again when a thought occurs. “Rlain. Can I ask you something?”

Rlain looks confused, but says, “Yes?”

“What does this rhythm mean?” Adolin attempts to mimic the way Leshwi had been humming when she told Kaladin she thought they were a warpair. Based on Rlain’s expression, he completely butchers it.

But Renarin says, “That’s Longing. One of the old Listener rhythms.”

Rlain turns to him, seeming surprised but pleased. “You are getting good.”

“I pay attention,” Renarin says, blushing. “Adolin, where did you hear that?”

“From Leshwi,” Adolin says.

Now Rlain looks startled, attuning a rhythm that Adolin can only assume means surprise, or something. Renarin hums too, though his sounds more curious. Storms, that’s still weird to listen to.

“Fused cannot hear the old rhythms,” Rlain says. “Are you sure it sounded like this?” He starts humming a slow, wavering tone.

“That’s it,” Adolin says. “Venli looked surprised, too.”

“What was Leshwi doing?” Renarin asks.

“Talking to Kaladin?”

Rlain and Renarin look at each other, having a silent conversation.

“What?” Adolin says.

“Longing… can mean a number of things,” Renarin hedges. “I mean. I guess it depends… but it can be kind of… personal?”

“Personal?” Adolin echoes.

“I mean,” Renarin says, looking to Rlain for help but Rlain just gestures him to go on. “You could feel longing for lots of different things, I guess. Like. A person, for instance.”

He says it like he thinks Adolin will be devastated, but Adolin honestly isn’t that surprised. It’s kind of what he’d been assuming. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Thanks?” Renarin echoes. “That’s all?”

“I just wanted to know what it meant. That’s it.”

“I thought you might be upset.”

“I’m already married to one person,” Adolin tells him, “and courting another. It’s a little late to start getting particular about these things.” He claps a bewildered Renarin on the shoulder. “Thanks.”

As he turns to go, Rlain calls out, “Adolin.”

Adolin turns back to him. “Yeah?”

“Be careful,” Rlain warns. “Some of the Fused might be turning from Odium, but I still don’t know if they can be trusted. They are ancient, and do not follow the laws we know.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Adolin promises. Then heads off to finally go find Kaladin, and hopefully get some storming rest.

--

He finds Kaladin in his room. He seems to have washed and changed at some point while Adolin’s been gone, and is now dead asleep, curled up on his side on the bed, faintly glowing with an infused diamond broam in his hand. Adolin doesn’t wake him.

He gives himself a cursory wash as well, in the adjoining washroom, getting all the blood off. Puts on some fresh clothes, goes back to the bedroom intending to slip into bed beside Kaladin and just pass out, when—

“Adolin?” Syl pokes her head up from where she’d been slumped in the crook of Kaladin’s neck and shoulder. Adolin hadn’t even seen her there—or maybe she’d just been invisible before.

“Yeah?”

She floats up and flies towards the balcony doors. Adolin follows her.

He sits down in one of the balcony chairs, looking out at the dark mountains. Syl actually lands on his shoulder, and sits there, legs swinging. Adolin waits until she decides to speak.

She doesn’t, and when she’s been silent for a very long time, Adolin says, quietly, “How are you doing?”

“Tired,” Syl says. “He. He almost.”

“I know,” Adolin says. He closes his eyes in pain at the thought, then steadies himself. “I know.”

Syl hunches over on herself, shivering.

“If that. If the anti-light had. If it had killed him.” Adolin really doesn’t want to think about it. “Would it have killed you, too?”

“No,” says Syl. “I don’t know what would have happened to me, exactly. But I would have survived.”

Survived, but been changed, and Adolin knows what that’s like.

“I couldn’t do anything,” Syl says. “I didn’t think that much about it, until today. If he’s down, there’s little I can do to protect him, in the Physical realm.”

“I can’t protect him very well either, Syl. Not anymore.”

“What do we do, then?”

“I don’t know. Our best?” He holds tight to the edge of the chair to steady himself, pained. Helpless.

“I don’t want Kaladin to die,” she says, voice small.

“He won’t. Look. We’ll work together, yeah? As long as either of us has strength left, we’ll stand and fight and we won’t let anything happen to him. I promise.” He feels a bit like a horse promising to protect a highstorm, but he says it anyway.

“Promise,” Syl echoes.

“I’ll help you,” Adolin says. “I’m pretty invested in this too, you know.”

“I saw.” Now there’s a bit more cheer in her voice. More optimism. “You trusted me. When I let you wield my blade. You let me lead.”

“Why wouldn’t I trust you?” he asks.

“Adolin,” she says, insistent. “You would have closed your eyes and let me take control. In the middle of a battle.”

“I kind of wanted to try that out, actually.”

Syl huffs, floating in the air and hovering in front of him so he’s forced to look her in the eyes. “I’m a spren. People always think that we are just accessories to the Radiants. But you let me lead.”

He finds himself smiling, just a bit, at the awe in her tone. “I think you’ve more than proven yourself, Syl.”

“I could have steered you wrong— or gotten you hurt—”

“Look. The thing is, being in an actual battle isn’t like dueling. It’s not a solitary test of skill, it’s a mess. You have to trust the people you’re fighting with to have your back. If you don’t trust them, why are you fighting by their side in the first place?” He smiles at her. “So, I trust you. Besides, I think we can do better for Kal together than we can alone.”

Syl takes his face between her small hands. “You’re a good man, Adolin Kholin,” she says.

“You’re a good spren, Sylphrena,” he says, mimicking her tone.

She grins, then spins away from him again, floating in the air. “We’ll stick together. You’re my Radiant-in-law.”

“I’m your Radiant-in-law?”

“Yup! Like when humans are married, so their relatives—”

“Yeah, I figured that part out,” says Adolin.

Syl spins again, seeming more joyful. “I want to try out the closed-eyes-mind-control-fighting thing,” she says. “It might make Kaladin jealous, though.”

“Well, you’re my spren-in-law, so he’ll have to cope.”

She giggles.

“Serves him right anyway,” Adolin adds.

“Ooooh, is this because Leshwi said they were a warpair?”

Adolin groans.

Syl laughs. “Ha!”

Adolin buries his face in his hands. It’s really stupid to be embarrassed in front of a spren, and yet.

“Don’t worry.” She pats his cheek. “You’re doing a different sort of pairing. It seems a bit more fun, to be honest.”

“Syl.”

“I mean, I don’t really understand it, but I think if I was a human I would rather be doing kissy kissy faces than beating people with sticks.”

Adolin gapes at her. “Says someone who can turn into a stick.”

Syl just laughs.

Her laughter is still ringing out when Adolin hears footsteps behind him, and Kaladin leans in the doorway. ��Are you stealing my spren?”

“I think I’m the one being stolen,” Adolin says.

“I like him, he’s mine now,” Syl says. She wraps her arms around a lock of Adolin’s hair.

“I should have known, you two are always plotting something,” Kaladin says.

“You love our plots, don’t deny it,” Syl says.

“I’m denying it.” Kaladin sits down heavily in the chair next to Adolin’s. Almighty, he still looks drained. “What exactly are you plotting now?”

“We’re planning how I’m going to borrow him for sparring practice so he doesn’t feel left out about you fighting with Leshwi,” Syl says.

Adolin buries his face in his hands, mortified. “Syl! I thought I could trust you!”

“Nope!” She giggles, flying around Kaladin’s head in dizzying circles. Despite the embarrassment, Adolin’s glad to see her more cheerful. “It’s all part of my plot.” She ruffles Kaladin’s hair, then says. “I am going for a flight. I will see you later.” And she zips out over the balcony, giving them a wink as she goes.

Kaladin watches her go. “Is she okay?”

“I think so.”

“Are you okay?”

Adolin gives him a sidelong look.

“So that’s a no,” Kaladin says.

“Hey.”

Kaladin’s lips tug up in a half-smile. “Were you actually jealous of Leshwi?”

“Stop. And why are you smiling?!”

“You’re always telling me to smile more, now you’re upset about it?”

“Kal.”

Kaladin’s smile only widens at the admonishment. “I don’t know, maybe because the most desirable man in Alethkar is jealous of me spending time with someone.”

That successfully derails Adolin’s train of thought. He leans closer to Kaladin. “Most desirable, hmm?”

Kaladin laughs, actually laughs out loud. “Great, now I’ve fed your already massive ego.”

“Feed it. Keep feeding it.” He leans his head on Kaladin’s shoulder, and groans. “Ughh. You two looked beautiful together though.”

He can’t see it, but he can imagine Kaladin’s raised eyebrow. “Beautiful?”

“I can be jealous and appreciate some excellent spear work, okay?”

Kaladin chuckles. “Alright.”

Adolin’s quiet for a while, then admits, “It’s not really about Leshwi. I just wish I could fight like that with you.”

Kaladin wraps his arm around Adolin’s shoulders.

They had had a few moments like that in the past, fighting in sync. It would have been even better now, Adolin thinks. Except Adolin doesn’t think he can keep up with him.

Kaladin says, “Why not, though?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why not fight like that?”

“Kaladin.”

“In training I mean,” Kaladin persists. “We spar against each other all the time. So why not with each other?”

It would be nice, Adolin thinks wistfully. “I—”

“I’ll work around you,” Kaladin promises, and Adolin feels suddenly choked up.

“You really would do anything for me,” he says, and it feels much less like a joke than it did earlier.

Kaladin ducks his head. “You hold your own better than you think, even now,” he insists. “Don’t act like you’re some novice, okay?”

Adolin knows that. It just feels that way, every time he reaches for his usual skill and it's not quite there.

“We’ll try, then,” he says. It will probably be fun.

Kaladin hums in agreement. “You looked good with Syl,” he says.

“You’re not jealous?”

He shakes his head. “If she wants to fight with you, that’s her choice. Besides, I think I’d probably be dead if she didn’t. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it happen before, though, with a living blade. Normally they only accept their own Radiant.”

“Syl’s a trendsetter,” Adolin says. “I think we might be friends, sort of?”

“That’s good. She should have friends other than just me. So long as you two don’t spend too much of your energy plotting against me.”

“No promises.” Adolin yawns, then, exhausted. “Almighty, what a day.”

“Should get you to bed,” Kaladin says, standing and drawing Adolin up by a hand.

“Get me to bed?”

But he follows Kaladin inside.

Kaladin climbs back into bed, lying down tiredly. Adolin lets Maya fade back into mist and, before collapsing face first onto the bed, goes to finally take that painrial off his leg—

“Don’t,” Kaladin says.

“What?”

“Don’t take it off. Just wait until tomorrow morning. Give it the night to rest.”

“But—”

“Adolin.” Kaladin’s face is creased in pain, as if he knows exactly how much Adolin’s leg is going to hurt the moment he stops muting it. “Don’t. Consider it surgeon’s orders if you have to.”

“Alright, fine.” Adolin falls into bed, beyond exhausted. “Thought you said it’s not good to wear all the time.”

“It’s not, but only because you won’t realize when you’ve pushed too hard if you can’t feel it. That ship has kind of sailed already.” In his ‘surgeon’s’ voice, he says, “Pain is bad for the body.”

Adolin waits, face mushed into his pillow. One second. Two seconds. Three. “I hope you’re reflecting on what you just said.”

Kaladin groans.

“I’ll allow the hypocrisy,” Adolin says, turning on his back and stretching his arms above his head.

“How charitable,” Kaladin gripes. “Does it help if I am, under extreme duress mind you, using some of that salve I gave you for your leg?”

“Actually, yeah,” Adolin says. “It does. Did you go see your father, then?”

“Teft made me.”

“Teft is my best friend now,” Adolin says wistfully, and Kaladin pokes him in the shoulder.

“As I told him beforehand, there is nothing traditional medicine can do to heal a wound caused by anti-light,” Kaladin says. “But we took notes on the effects, which I am sure Navani will want to interrogate me about later.”

“What were the findings?”

“We don’t really understand how exactly stormlight itself works,” Kaladin says. “Syl thinks that it holds more onto your soul than onto your body. So my father was theorizing that the anti-stormlight eats away at your soul in a way that requires huge amounts of stormlight to repair. That’s why it heals so slowly.”

“Ouch,” Adolin says.

“Yes,” Kaladin says dryly. Then he turns on his side and, with a heavy sigh, rests his head on Adolin’s shoulder.

Adolin hardly dares to move, afraid to spook him. Kaladin is like an old, grumbly axehound—he’ll let Adolin curl up on him if he thinks it’s what Adolin needs, but he rarely does it himself. Adolin stays very, very still.

“You’re making it weird,” Kaladin says, against his shoulder.

“Sorry.”

So instead Adolin wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulls him closer. Tucks Kaladin in against his side. Doesn’t get much further than pulling a blanket over them before sleep is pulling him down, the exhausting day finally catching up with him for real.

He doesn’t fight sleep. Just holds Kal close, and lets it pull him under.

--

Adolin wakes to the feeling of the bedsheets twisting and whipping away from him, and startles upright, half-convinced he’s going to find invaders in the Tower—

just in time to see Kaladin vanish out onto the balcony, steps tripping and overly-hurried.

Well, shit. He should probably have guessed this would happen.

“Kal—” Adolin levers himself out of bed, scavenging up one of the crutches he keeps leaning against the wall, and limps out after him.

He half-expects Kaladin won’t even be there, that he’ll have just flown off— but when he gets out on the balcony, Kaladin is sitting on the stone floor, back to the wall, knees pulled up to his chest. Adolin’s heart breaks.

“Kaladin—”

“Wasn’t trying to wake you,” Kaladin says quietly. “Sorry.”

Completely ungracefully, Adolin slides down the wall to sit beside him on the floor. Up close he can see that Kaladin’s hands are trembling, that he’s pressing one to his chest, rubbing unconsciously at the skin.

Adolin wraps his arms around him, pulls him close. Kaladin tucks his face into his throat, and Adolin cradles the back of his head, tangling his fingers in his hair. It’s something he does for Shallan, and it works here too—Kaladin melts against him, wrapping his arms around Adolin’s waist and holding tight. Almighty, he’s shaking hard.

“I thought you might go for a flight or something,” Adolin says, lips pressed to the top of his head. “Seems to calm you.”

“I’ve already used half the stormlight in the Tower healing that wound,” Kaladin says, voice muffled. “If I use any more I think I will actually throw up.”

Now Adolin wonders if at least part of his shaking is an effect of that. He hadn’t thought it was possible for Radiants to overuse stormlight, but then, it’s possible to overuse pretty much anything.

“Is that what’s got you awake?” he asks.

Kaladin shakes his head. “No. Just… going over everything, again and again.”

More like reliving it, Adolin thinks. Kaladin might act unaffected most of the time, but there’s really no way to not be affected by being stabbed through the chest.

Kaladin starts rubbing unconsciously at his chest again. Adolin takes that hand in his own and holds it close. “Tell me?”

“I can still sort of feel it,” Kaladin says softly. “How it felt… the warlight.”

“Like phantom pain?” Adolin asks.

“Like phantom… joy. Warlight… I don’t know if that’s really the right name for it. But either way, it doesn't really feel strange, or wrong, it feels like something that should have always been there was finally set right." He pauses, thinking about it. "I didn’t understand what Navani meant when she talked about the tones of Roshar. Now I do. We aren’t meant to be in conflict. We’re meant to be… in balance. Complementary.”

“You’re becoming very philosophical.”

“Maybe. I don't know."

Adolin studies him in the dark, the weight of his body against him, the continued subtle shaking. With some pain, but no more jealousy, he says, “If you really feel like that about Leshwi, you should tell her.”

Kaladin sounds surprised. “That’s not what I—”

“Isn’t it?”

“But—”

“Kaladin. You should tell her. Don’t live with regret.”

After a long moment of thought, Kaladin asks, “How do I tell her that?”

“Well, how did you tell me?”

“I didn’t.”

That’s… true actually. With them it had just kind of happened.

Adolin doesn’t push him to say it now. He doesn’t really need Kaladin to say it.

“It’ll come to you when you need it,” Adolin says. “Or just show her. Maybe she already knows.” He thinks again of Renarin’s explanation of the Rhythm of Longing.

“Hmm,” Kaladin says. “I doubt it will go over well. In general.”

“When’s that ever stopped you from doing something?”

Kaladin huffs. “I suppose.”

“Is that all you were thinking about?” Adolin asks.

Kaladin doesn’t respond.

But then, he is like that sometimes. Private. Tight-lipped. Uncertain he’s allowed to be otherwise, that it’ll be received. And the thing is, he’s so kind. And he shows it so obviously. Kaladin doesn’t think he’s obvious about it, but he is. He’s so obvious. Always there with a hand on one’s shoulder, with a meal, with a spear braced in defense. But then he’s always surprised to get it in return.

“Hey.” Adolin digs his fingers deeper into his hair, holding the nape of his neck. “Come here.”

It doesn’t take much force at all to draw him in, to coax him to crawl into Adolin’s lap, settle on his thighs, wrap his arms around Adolin’s shoulders and press his face into his neck. He lets out a heaving breath, warm on Adolin’s skin.

“You’re okay,” Adolin murmurs. “I got you.”

Once, Kaladin would have bristled at him for saying something like that. Now, he just sags further into Adolin’s body.

He needs this, Adolin thinks, even if he has a hard time admitting it. And Adolin doesn’t know where else he would possibly get it. The men of Bridge Four are very good friends and Adolin thinks Kaladin could probably talk to them more openly and be well-received, but he’s not going to do this with them because at the end of the day they are still his men, even if he’s no longer officially their commanding officer. And sometimes Adolin wishes they could have gotten here years ago, because Kaladin needed this then, too, maybe even more—except he knows it couldn’t have been this way between them, then, not yet. Something about that final ten days trapped together in Azimir had cracked them enough that their edges were finally able to lock together.

“Did we make things worse?” Kaladin asks. “By going to Thaylen City?”

“I don’t know,” Adolin says. “I think… I think you might have opened a door. Where it leads, though… that I don’t know. We’ll have to figure it out as we go, I guess. And,” he promises, “we will.”

They sit there for some time, quiet. The night air is chill, but the floor is warm under them, and the stone wall at their backs. Another quirk of the Tower.

“I want to figure out what to do with warlight,” Kaladin says eventually. “Something in there is the key to stopping all of this.”

After watching the way Kaladin and Leshwi had fought together, Adolin thinks he agrees. “If anyone can make true peace happen, it’s you, Kal.”

And Kaladin, curled up small in Adolin’s lap, hands still shaking, says, “I’ll try.”