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goblinontour · 11 days

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Gaps Of Sunlight

where you don’t see him

part 1

warnings: angst, death (implied suicide), grief, flashbacks

word count: 3.8k

He could never forget that night. It was etched into his memory, like a scar that hadn’t healed right, always pulling at the edges of his thoughts, aching when he least expected it. It felt like the beginning of the end. Your end.

You were sitting across from him on the couch, the same one where you’d spent so many nights curled up together. But tonight, the distance between you felt different. You were close enough to touch, but he could feel something pulling away, something slipping out of his grasp. He hated how aware of it he was, like the air between you had become too thick to breathe.

He watched you as you stared at the floor, your eyes tracing some invisible line in the carpet, avoiding his gaze. You were quiet. Too quiet. And even though you hadn’t said it yet, he knew. He could feel it in his bones, in the heaviness of the silence.

You were leaving.

The words hung between you, unspoken but so loud they drowned out everything else. He should’ve said something then, anything to stop it from happening. To pull you back. To remind you of the way things had been before whatever had come between you. But he couldn’t find the words. Instead, he just sat there, feeling the tension coil tighter, his mind screaming at him to reach out.

But he didn’t. He just watched you, watched as you pulled further away even while you stayed in the same room. He hated himself for that. The way he let the moment slip by. How could he have let you go like that without fighting for you?

You finally spoke, your voice quiet but sharp. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

He flinched at the words, like you had just struck him. His throat tightened, and for a second, he couldn’t even breathe. But still, he didn’t say anything. The regret was already forming in his chest, the weight of it sinking deeper with every second of silence that passed. You were waiting for him to respond, waiting for him to give you something that would make you stay, but he just sat there, frozen in his own fear and confusion.

“Talk to me.” you said, your voice breaking a little as you finally looked at him. Your eyes were pleading, desperate for something he wasn’t giving you. “Please, just talk to me.”

He’d tried to talk to you so many times before, countless times when you had stood in front of him just like this, eyes wide, full of pain, pleading for something he never seemed able to give. He had tried. God, how he’d tried. But every time, the words had come out wrong. They’d twisted in the air between you, losing their meaning as soon as they left his mouth. No matter how much he explained, how much he opened up, it never felt like it was enough. You needed something more, something deeper, something he didn’t know how to give.

And now, standing there in that moment, he couldn’t find the words anymore. He had exhausted them all, worn out every way he knew how to say “I love you. I’m here. Please, just stay.” He had twisted and rearranged them so many times, trying to make them sound new, trying to say them in a way that might finally reach you. But none of them had worked, and now there were none left. He felt empty, drained of anything meaningful to offer, his voice caught somewhere deep in his chest, locked away with everything else that had gone unsaid.

What good would it do to talk again? What could he possibly say that would make a difference now? The silence between you felt like a chasm, wide and unforgiving, and he didn’t know how to bridge it. Not anymore. He was tired. Too tired to try and find the right words when they had always failed him before.

He should have. He knew it then, just as he knew it now. You were reaching out to him, giving him a chance to fix things, to pull you back from the edge. But he felt paralyzed, trapped in his own mind, unsure of what to say, how to fix what was already unravelling between you.

“I’m trying.” he finally managed, but the words sounded hollow even to him. They weren’t enough. They never had been.

“Are you?” You stood up then, pacing the room as if the movement might shake something loose, might force him to meet you where you were. “Because it doesn’t feel like it. It hasn’t felt like it….”

He swallowed hard, feeling his chest tighten. “I am.” he insisted, though the doubt in his voice was too clear. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince you or himself at this point.

You stopped pacing, turning to face him, your arms crossed over your chest. “I don’t know what to do anymore.” you admitted, and the rawness in your voice nearly undid him. “I don’t know how to reach you.”

And there it was. What you had been trying to say all along. You were losing him, and it terrified you. He could see it in your eyes, the way your lips trembled as you spoke. But instead of rushing to reassure you, instead of closing the distance between you and holding you, he stayed where he was, his mind spinning with everything he should be saying but wasn’t.

“I’m here.” he said weakly, the only thing he could come up with in the moment.

You stared at him, your eyes searching his face for something that wasn’t there anymore. “No.” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not.”

The silence stretched between you, long and unbearable. He wanted to break it, to take back every moment he’d let slip by without telling you how much you meant to him. He wanted to beg you to stay, to promise you that things would get better. That he could be better. But the words stuck in his throat, and all he could do was sit there, watching as you slipped further out of reach.

You let out a shaky breath and turned away from him, walking toward the door. And that’s when panic set in, crashing over him in a way that made his chest feel like it was caving in. He stood up, taking a step toward you, finally breaking free of the paralysis that had held him back all night.

“Wait.” he called after you, his voice rough with emotion.

You paused, your hand on the doorknob, but you didn’t turn around. “What is there left to say?” you asked quietly.

Everything. There was so much left to say. So much he hadn’t told you. How much he loved you. How sorry he was. How terrified he was of losing you, even though you had been pushing him away for so long. But none of it came out. Instead, he just stood there, watching your back as you waited for something he couldn’t give.

After what felt like an eternity, you opened the door, stepping out into the night without another word. The door clicked shut behind you, and the sound of it echoed in the silence of the room.

And that was it. You were gone.

He sank back onto the couch, his hands trembling as he buried his face in them, the weight of the moment crashing down on him. He had let you leave. He had let the love of his life walk away, and he hadn’t even tried to stop you.

The regret had been instant, burning in his chest like acid. But it was too late.

Until it wasn’t.

The next day, you came back.

He hadn’t expected it, not really. He had spent the night wide awake, staring at the ceiling, mind running through every moment, every word that had passed between you. The regret hung heavy, suffocating him, keeping him in this state of restless dread. He wasn’t sure if he would see you again, wasn’t sure if there was anything left to salvage.

But there you were. Standing in the doorway, looking at him with those eyes that were always too full of something. Something he could never quite grasp but always felt.

“I’m sorry.” you whispered, your voice fragile and breaking, like it was costing you everything to say the words.

He knew.

You didn’t have to say it, but you did. Maybe you needed to, maybe you thought that apology was what would fix the cracks between you, the ones you both had spent months ignoring, pretending they weren’t there, widening with every unspoken word, with every misunderstanding.

“I didn’t mean it.” you added, your voice trembling, your hands twisting together like you didn’t know where to put them.

“I know.” he said softly, his voice raw, his heart clenching at the sight of you. He did know. Somewhere deep inside, he had always known you didn’t mean to hurt him. It was never about that.

You stepped closer, uncertain at first, and then suddenly you were in his arms. His arms came around you without thought, like they had been waiting for this moment, for you, since the second you walked out. He held you tight, tighter than he ever had before, like he could keep you from slipping through his fingers again if he just held on hard enough.

By the time the night fell, you ended up crying together.

He hadn’t meant to cry. He didn’t even know why he was crying at first. But once the tears started, they wouldn’t stop. It wasn’t like when he cried alone. This was different. There was something in you that broke open the dam inside him, that brought out the flood of emotions he didn’t even realise he had been bottling up. He wasn’t just crying for himself. He was crying for you, too. For the both of you. For everything that had gone unsaid, for the way you were both hurting and couldn’t seem to find a way out of it.

And you cried because…well, he didn’t know. He could never quite figure out why you were crying. You never told him. Maybe you didn’t even know yourself. But you cried into his chest, your body shaking with sobs, and all he could do was hold you, stroke your hair, and try to pretend like this was enough. Like his love was enough to heal whatever it was that was hurting you.

Maybe that’s why he hadn’t cried after you. After you were gone for good. Maybe he had cried so much with you, so often for you, that by the time you left this world, he was hollowed out, his tears dried up like some empty well. It sounded stupid, cliche even. Like something out of a song or a story. But it felt true. As impossible as it seemed, he felt like you had taken all his tears with you when you left.

He didn’t understand you. Not really. And maybe that was what had started to break him. Because he could see it, he could feel it every time he looked at you. The way you were hurting. There was this deep well of pain inside you that you never let him touch, never let him understand.

He wanted to so badly. He wanted to crawl inside your mind, your heart, your soul, and understand every part of you, especially the parts you kept hidden. He wanted to know what haunted you, what kept you up at night, what made you flinch when he touched your hand too softly, what made you cry when you thought he wasn’t looking.

It hadn’t always been like that.

If he let himself remember, if he allowed the memories to come through without the weight of regret and loss clouding them, he’d realise how much more there had been. More light, more laughter. It wasn’t always tense, wasn’t always full of hurt. He wouldn’t have put himself through it for nothing. He loved you, for you, for everything you were. He loved how you could make him laugh when he thought he had forgotten how, how your laugh alone could pull one out of him even when he didn’t see it coming.

But now, thinking about the good times was dangerous. It was like looking at small gaps of sunlight through the cracks in the walls, those moments of brightness that felt too far away, too distant to reach. Remembering the good made him miss you more than anything.

He could still see you, so vividly, sitting cross-legged on the floor of your small living room. It was much smaller than his and so full of things, pointless, useless things that weren’t really pointless at all. Books stacked in piles on the floor because you never bothered to put them on a shelf, plants that were a little too wild because you said they had their own way of growing and who was he to tell them otherwise? Trinkets and little souvenirs that you’d collected from markets, from friends, from who knows where.

At first, it had overwhelmed him. The clutter. It wasn’t how he lived. His place was neat, organised, everything in its place. But your place…it was chaotic, in the best way. It was alive. Every little thing had a story, a reason for being there, and he’d come to know them all by heart. That statue you found on a trip with your sister, the one you said was supposed to bring good luck, even though you never really believed in it. The old record player you rescued from a charity shop because “it still had some life in it”, even though half the time it would skip in the middle of a song.

He loved it there.

It felt so you. And being there with you, in your space, surrounded by everything that made up your world, it felt like home in a way his place never had. He would have moved in with you in a heartbeat if you’d let him. He was ready for that, but he knew you weren’t, not yet. So, he didn’t push. He was willing to wait, to be patient, because being with you was enough.

“Do you think it’s haunted?” you asked, out of nowhere, breaking the quiet as you stretched out on the floor, your head resting on a pillow you’d pulled from the couch. He looked at you, confused, not sure where the question had come from.

“What, the apartment?” he asked, a half-smile already forming on his lips.

“Yeah.” you said, dead serious, though your eyes sparkled with that mischief he loved. “Sometimes I think there’s a ghost here. Like, maybe a little old lady who used to live here and just forgot to move on. She probably hates that I haven’t dusted in weeks.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Well, if she’s here, she’s probably furious about that pile of laundry in the corner.”

You grinned, your smile widening as you looked over at the mountain of clothes you had promised to fold at least three times that week. “Nah, I think she’s cool with it. She’s probably sitting on it, judging me from her perch.”

He couldn’t help but laugh again, harder this time. The way you talked, the way your mind worked, it never failed to catch him off guard, in the best way. He loved that about you, how you could take something as mundane as laundry and turn it into some bizarre, hilarious scenario.

You turned your head to look at him, propped up on the couch, watching you with that soft look in his eyes, the one he didn’t always realise he was wearing. “What?” you asked, still smiling. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing.” he said, shaking his head. “You just…you make me laugh.”

“Oh, that’s my goal in life.” you teased, rolling over onto your stomach to face him. “If I can make Alex Turner laugh, then I can die happy.”

“I mean it.” he said, leaning forward a little, his smile softening. “I don’t laugh like that with anyone else. Just you.”

You paused then, your teasing smile fading into something warmer, something softer. You held his gaze, the two of you sharing a moment of quiet that stretched between you.

“I’m glad.” you finally said, your voice quieter now. “I’m glad I can do that.”

He didn’t say anything, just smiled and reached out, gently brushing a piece of hair from your face. You closed your eyes at the touch, leaning into his hand just slightly.

You sat up then, before it could get too sweet, crossing your legs under you, and looked around the room, a thoughtful look on your face. “What do you think? Should we get rid of the ghost? I feel like maybe she’s had enough of us by now.”

He laughed, leaning back against the couch, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Nah. I think she likes us. Besides, I’m pretty sure you’ve charmed her.”

You smiled, that wide, bright smile that always made his heart feel like it might burst. “Yeah, I think you’re right. She’s probably living vicariously through me.”

The two of you laughed together then, the sound filling the room, echoing off the walls that held so many of your shared memories. In that moment, everything was perfect. Easy, light, full of love. You were both so far from the darkness that would come later. So far from the tension and the hurt. It was just you and him, laughing about ghosts.

After the initial shock, after the numbness that froze him in place when he first heard the news, there was a hollow stretch of time where he couldn’t think at all. He couldn’t even let the words sink in because they didn’t feel real. They couldn’t be real. You’d killed yourself in that very room. The room where you had laughed together, where you had laughed about ghosts and joked about that little old lady who might be haunting the place.

But once the shock started to wear off, once the numbness cracked just enough to let his thoughts seep in, they didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. He couldn’t understand how he hadn’t seen it, how you had slipped so far from him without him noticing, without him being able to stop you. The disbelief twisted into something darker, something more painful, and suddenly, he found himself wondering if maybe you had meant it all along.

Had it been planned? Even back then? In those quiet moments when you seemed at peace, when you were laughing, were you just fooling him? Were you taking advantage of the fact that he was so in love with you, so wrapped up in you, that he couldn’t see what was really going on? Had you been hiding it from him the entire time, right under his nose, and he was just too stupid to notice?

It seemed impossible, but then again, how else could he explain it? He had felt it. Your pain, your darkness. But you had never let him understand it, never let him in. He knew you were hurting, but he had convinced himself that you would tell him if it got bad, that you trusted him enough to share the weight of it. He had been ready, so ready, or so he thought, to bear it for you if he had to. To be there for you, no matter what. But you hadn’t let him. You had kept it all locked up inside, and now…now… you were gone.

He wondered if you had been telling him all along. In your own way. In the only way you knew how. The ghost. Maybe that was just an extension of you. Maybe you were talking about yourself, about what you would become.

It made him sick to think about it, but he couldn’t stop. The thoughts kept spiralling, twisting into knots he couldn’t unravel. Had you been trying to warn him, and he had been too blinded by his love for you to see it? Maybe the jokes about the ghost, the imaginary hauntings, had been your way of preparing him. Preparing him for what would come, for what you were planning all along.

And now, he wondered if you were that lady. That ghost you used to laugh about. Were you haunting the place now, too? Did whoever lived there now talk about you, joke about the spirit of a woman who lingered in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to make herself known?

The thought made his chest tighten, his throat constricting with a pain so deep it felt like it might crush him. He imagined someone else living there, in your space, unaware of what had happened, of what you had gone through. Of what had happened to you. And maybe, just maybe, they’d talk about you. The way you used to talk about that ghost.

Maybe they’d say “Do you think the place is haunted?”

and they’d laugh, like you used to laugh, without any idea what had really happened in that room. Without knowing that it was your laughter that used to fill those walls. Without knowing that your pain still echoed there, silent and unseen, but always present.

He hated himself for thinking it. For wondering if you had been planning it from the start. For even entertaining the idea that you had been hiding this from him on purpose. But the questions wouldn’t stop. They circled around his mind, relentless, picking apart every memory, every moment the two of you had shared. Was there something he should have seen? Some sign, some clue that he had missed?

He replayed that night over and over. It had seemed so innocent then, so sweet. But now…now it felt tainted. It felt like there had been something more behind your words, behind your smile, and he had been too blind to notice.

He couldn’t stop wondering if you were haunting him, even now. Not just the apartment, but him. Haunting his mind, his heart, making him question everything. Making him doubt every moment you’d shared, every piece of happiness he thought he’d given you.

Had you really been happy with him? Or was he just another thing you’d been trying to escape?

The guilt gnawed at him, unrelenting. He couldn’t help but feel like he had failed you. He had tried so hard to be what you needed, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing he did was ever enough. And now he was left with nothing but questions and a hollow space where you used to be.

a/n: idk. it’s just a bunch of words.

#alex turner #alex turner x reader #alex turner x you #alex turner angst #alex turner fic #alex turner fanfic #angst #goblinontour

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justice4gyeongsu · 1 month

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━━━ 'CHAPTER NINE' [WHEN DAWN BREAKS]

SYNOPSIS ➢ music and forgiveness dont really go hand in hand as you'd expect.

PAIRING ➢ lee suhyeok x male!reader

AU ➢ enemies-to-lovers au!

CONTENT WARNING ➢ this chapter contains; flashbacks, near death experience, alot of angst, mentions of bullying, depression, some fluff, mentions of puking, reoccuring ptsd, exclusion, mentions of gore, blood, cannibalism [let me know if i missed any!]

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determination had fueled their attempt to break into the 'instrument room', but now, defeat settled in. daesu slumped against the unyielding door, his breath escaping in a frustrated sigh. "shit, it's no use." joonyeong's voice broke the silence, his stomach growling in protest. "i'm starving," he said, dropping into the chair beside daesu. the two groups sat in a face-off, a circle of chairs on either side of the room. namra positioned herself by the doors, ever vigilant, with suhyeok at her side. earlier, she had given him permission to intervene if necessary, but a reassuring word from you had eased her concerns. for now, everything was settling.

you crouched down, your eyes scanned the drawers beneath the chalkboard, searching for anything of value. your stomach growled, a gentle reminder of your hunger. you hoped to stumble upon something edible, but the first drawer revealed only a knotted mess of wires and extra outlet boxes. undeterred, you methodically explored each drawer, your fingers tracing the contours of the tangled cords, your mind focused on the task at hand. the silence was punctuated only by the soft creak of the drawers as you opened and closed them, your search fueled by a glimmer of hope.

suhyeok's gaze lingered on you, his eyes fixed from a short distance away. positioned strategically, he was close enough to offer assistance if needed, yet also within reach of namra, ready to intervene if the situation took a turn. his thoughts, however, drifted to a different time and place - the school hallways, where you had once been a fleeting presence, a whisper of a person, barely perceptible. your quiet nature had allowed you to blend into the shadows, your existence slowly fading from notice. but now, suhyeok's mind was consumed by the weight of a shared past, a dreadful day that had left an indelible mark. he couldn't help but wonder how he would ever find the courage to face you again, to reconcile the ghosts of your shared history.

as you took the smooth wires from the drawer, your gaze drifted to the right, drawn to namra's fixed stare on the door beside her. her intensity was noticeable, and you felt an inexplicable pang of unease. your eyes darted back to the wires, then returned to namra, your mind weighing a suggestion that instantly felt wrong. something about it seemed cruel, inhumane. sensing her awareness of your gaze, you quickly looked away, feeling a flush rise to your cheeks. instead, you tucked the wire into your pants pocket, thinking it might prove useful someday. the gesture was a distraction from the uncomfortable moment, a way to shift your focus away from the unspoken tension.

as you rummaged through the adjacent cupboard, a treasure trove of guitar picks and sheet music lay before you, a seemingly endless supply. suddenly, a presence materialized beside you, and you turned to find suhyeok squatting next to you, his arms crossed over his knees. his face was a mask of solemnity, his gaze piercing as he looked at you. for a moment, you locked eyes with him, drowning in the depths of his dark caramel irises. then, you broke away, your focus returning to the cupboard's contents as you continued to dig through the clutter, the silence between you thick with unspoken emotions.

suhyeok's eyes remained fixed on yours, his gaze burning with an unspoken desire to connect, to bridge the gap that had grown between you. he wanted to talk to you, to ask how you were, to know what you were thinking, but the words caught in his throat like dry leaves. his mind was a jumble of emotions, a tangled web of regret, concern, and longing. he shifted his weight, his eyes darting to the floor, then back to yours, searching for a spark, a hint of what to say. the silence stretched out, a canvas waiting to be filled with words, but suhyeok's brush remained poised, unsure of where to begin. he cleared his throat, a faint sound, a prelude to speech, but still, the words wouldn't come, frozen in his chest like winter's snow.

you pushed the cupboard door shut, the soft click echoing through the room, a punctuation mark to your fruitless search. standing up, you stretched your arms over your head, arching your back in a gentle stretch. as you turned to move on to the next cupboard, your path was blocked by suhyeok's crouched form. he remained frozen, his eyes still fixed on your prior form, his expression a mixture of longing and uncertainty. his position, though unintentional, was a physical manifestation of the emotional barrier between you. you hesitated, unsure of how to navigate this unexpected obstacle. suhyeok, sensing your pause, slowly rose to his feet, his movements slow but fluid. his eyes try to meet yours, his gaze a gentle plea for connection, for understanding. the air was thick with unspoken words, the silence, a breathing entity that pulsed with unease.

as suhyeok shifted out of the way, you continued your search, moving downwards to the next cupboard. the door creaked softly as you opened it, revealing a neatly stacked array of small boxes, each adorned with labels in precise handwriting. curiosity piqued, you began to remove the boxes one by one, placing them down beside you on either side, creating a small assembly line of mysterious containers. the labels read like an odd inventory: "winter songs", "forgotten songs", "popular melodies", and "drafts". the boxes themselves were brown, their lids closed with a tiny click. as you arranged them, the silence between you and suhyeok remained, but your focus on the task at hand created a sense of purpose, a distraction.

suhyeok squatted beside you once more, his movements quiet as he positioned himself closer than before. his eyes fixed on the boxes, and he began to pick them up one by one, examining their contents with an air of curiosity. you didn't acknowledge him, your focus still on the cupboard's depths, but you were aware of his proximity, his shoulder almost touching yours. as he delved into the boxes, a faint rustling sound filled the air, accompanied by the occasional soft whisper of surprise. meanwhile, your hand closed around something unexpected in the back of the drawer - a hammer, its handle worn, its head heavy with use. you pulled it out, the tool feeling solid in your grasp, a contrast to the delicate boxes and their mysterious contents. suhyeok's gaze remained fixed on the box in his hands, but you sensed his awareness of the hammer, his attention piqued by the unexpected discovery.

suhyeok's fingers unfolded the paper he found in the box labeled ‘drafts’, his eyes scanning the contents with a mix of curiosity and reverence. as he read, his expression transformed, a softness creeping into his features. the paper was a letter, but not just any letter - it was a song, the words dancing across the page in a harmony of apology and longing. music notes were scribbled in the margins, a melancholic melody that seemed to match the rhythm of suhyeok's heartbeat. his voice, barely above a whisper, began to recite the words, the lyrics pouring out like a gentle stream:

"in the silence, i hear your voice

a whispered sorrow, a heartfelt choice

to let go, to move on, to find

a way to heal, to leave the past behind"

as he read, the words seemed to take on a life of their own, filling the space between you with a sense of yearning. the apology was raw, honest, and beautiful, a poignant expression of regret and hope. suhyeok's eyes never left the paper, but you sensed his gaze reaching out to you, his heart speaking directly to yours. the hammer in your hand felt heavy, a tangible weight compared to the ethereal beauty of the song. the moment hung suspended, a delicate balance of emotions, as suhyeok's voice faded into the silence, leaving only the echoes of the apology.

you rose to your feet, your focus swiftly shifting away from suhyeok and the emotional intensity of the moment. the hammer, still clutched in your hand, seemed to grow heavier as you walked towards the desk, its surface a blur of wood and scattered papers. with a quiet thud, you placed the hammer down, the sound a punctuation mark to your deliberate dismissal of the tender moment. the desk's edge was cool beneath your fingertips, a stark contrast to the warmth of suhyeok's words, still lingering in the air like a gentle breeze. you didn't look back, your gaze fixed on some invisible point beyond the desk, as if willing yourself to move forward, to leave the vulnerability of the moment behind.

as you stood there, lost in thought, your gaze drifted upward, and you noticed jimin sitting in a corner of the room, her eyes fixed on a small video camera she had discovered. the camera's lens was pointed at her face, and she was speaking in a soft, introspective tone, as if sharing secrets with an old friend. her words were directed at the camera, but they seemed to be meant for whoever might find the video in the future. "to whoever is watching this," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "i hope you're doing okay. i hope you're finding what you're looking for." she paused, collecting her thoughts before continuing. "i'm leaving this here in case...in case things don't work out. in case i'm not around to explain myself." her eyes dropped, her gaze falling to the floor as she struggled to find the right words. "i just want you to know that i tried. i tried to make things right, to fix what was broken." the camera captured every nuance of her expression, every tremble of her lip, as she spoke from the heart. you watched, transfixed, as jimin's words hung in the air, a message in a bottle, cast into the unknown.

jimin's eyes flashed with a hint of determination, her voice taking on a slightly harder edge as she continued speaking to the camera. "if you're watching this, and you're one of those who left us here...who abandoned us without looking back..." her words trailed off, as if she was collecting her thoughts, choosing them carefully. "i want you to know that i remember. we all remember. and i hope...i hope that someday, somehow, you'll face the consequences of what you did." her gaze seemed to bore into the lens, as if she could see the faces of those who had wronged her and the others. "punish them," she whispered, her voice dripping with a quiet intensity. "punish them for leaving us to rot in this place. punish them for not coming back for us." the camera captured the raw emotion on her face, the pain and the anger, as she spoke words that seemed to be torn from the very depths of her soul.

while jimin's words faded away, hroryeong gently took the video camera from her hand, her eyes filled with a deep sadness. she turned the camera towards herself, the lens focusing on her face as she began to speak in a soft, trembling voice. "mom...dad..." she whispered, as if the camera was a portal to the past, a way to reach the parents she had lost. "i'm sorry...i'm so sorry..." tears began to well up in her eyes, her voice cracking with emotion as she spoke to the camera as if it were her parents. "i remember the way you used to smile at me...the way you used to hold my hand. i remember everything." her gaze dropped, her eyes fixed on some point beyond the camera, lost in memories. "i wish you were here...i wish you could see me now. i wish you could tell me everything is going to be okay." the camera captured every tear, every quiver of her lip, as hroryeong poured out her heart to the absent parents, her words a poignant expression of love, loss, and longing.

you couldn't bear to watch anymore, the emotions raw and overwhelming. you turned away from the group, your gaze falling upon the last drawer, still unopened. your hand reached out, almost mechanically, and pulled it open. the contents were shrouded in darkness, a mystery waiting to be uncovered. as you peered into the drawer, the sounds of the group's confessions, their last words to the world, faded into the background. you felt a sense of detachment, as if you were observing yourself from afar, going through the motions. the drawer's interior revealed a blank empty cupboard. staring at it in defeat, you sigh and stand up with a small curse, “shit.”

you stood there, lost in thought, until suhyeok approached you once more, his footsteps quiet on the dusty floor. he stood beside you, his eyes fixed on the empty drawer, before turning to face you. his gaze was soft, his voice barely above a whisper, as he finally spoke to you. "i'm sorry," he said, his words simple, yet profound. "i'm sorry for not being able to save you." his eyes searched yours, as if seeking forgiveness, understanding. the air between you seemed to vibrate with tension, the weight of unspoken emotions, as suhyeok's words hung in the balance, waiting for your response.

suhyeok's voice cut through the silence, his words a gentle plea. "i need you to understand," he said, his tone soft, yet urgent. "i know i made a mistake. i know i let you down." he took a step forward, his eyes locked on yours, searching for a glimmer of forgiveness. "i was scared, ...but that's no excuse." his voice cracked, a hint of emotion seeping through. you scoff, “you were scared, huh?” you look away. "i should have been stronger, i should have been there for you." he paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. "i know i can't undo what's been done...but i need you to know that i regret it. i regret not being able to protect you." his words hung in the air, a heartfelt confession, a desperate attempt to bridge the gap between you. the silence that followed was heavy with tension, as if the very fate of your relationship hung in the balance, waiting for your response.

you shook your head, a slow, deliberate motion, as if trying to clear the words from your mind. "stop," you said, your voice firm, but barely above a whisper. "just stop." you raised a hand, a clear gesture of dismissal, as if trying to physically push the words away. "i can't forgive you," you said, the words tumbling out, a harsh truth. "i don't know if i ever can." suhyeok's face fell, his eyes dropping to the floor, as if the weight of your words was crushing him. "look its..," he whispered, but you cut him off. "stop talking," you said, your voice rising, a hint of anger creeping in. "just stop. i don't want to hear it." the silence that followed was oppressive, a heavy blanket that suffocated the room, leaving only the echoes of your words, a stark reminder of the chasm between you.

as you and suhyeok stood there, locked in a tense moment, neither of you noticed namra staring by the doorway, watching you both with an intent gaze. she was a silent witness to the emotional exchange, her expression unreadable. you and suhyeok were too caught up in your own emotions to notice her looking there, frozen in silence.

onjo appeared beside you, her gentle smile a stark contrast to the tension that had filled the room just moments before. she held out the camcorder, its lens still warm from onjo’s earlier confession. "here," she said softly, her eyes locked on yours. "i think it's your turn." her voice was a gentle invitation, a nod to the unspoken understanding that each of you had a story to tell, a truth to reveal. the camcorder seemed to hover in mid-air, a symbol of the trust and vulnerability that had been shared among you. you felt a sense of trepidation, a hesitation to bare your soul, but onjo's gentle smile reassured you, encouraged you to take the next step. the camera seemed to wait, patiently, for your story, your truth.

you sat next to the open window, the warm sunlight spilling in, casting a gentle glow on the room. the camcorder felt heavy in your hands, its weight a reminder of the responsibility that came with sharing your truth. you fiddled with the camera, your mind racing with thoughts of what to say, or if you should say anything at all. the silence was oppressive, a physical presence that pressed upon your skin, making your heart feel heavy. you looked out the window, watching as the sunlight danced through the leaves of the trees, wondering if you had the courage to reveal your own story. the others had shared their truths, their confessions, their regrets...but could you do the same? the camera seemed to stare back at you, its lens a constant reminder that this was your moment, your chance to speak. but the words wouldn't come, and you were left sitting there, frozen in uncertainty.

you took a deep breath, your finger hovering over the record button. you glanced around the room, ensuring no one was watching, before pressing the button and holding the camera up to your face. your voice was barely above a whisper as you began to speak. "hello, to whoever finds this. you may not know me, my name is..." you paused, a slight hesitation before continuing. "y/n l/n." the words felt strange on your lips, a formal introduction to an unknown audience. you took another deep breath, your eyes drifting out the window as you continued. "i'm not sure where to start, or what to say. i'm not even sure why i'm doing this." the camera's lens seemed to bore into your soul, as if urging you to reveal more. you hesitated, your thoughts racing, before finding the courage to continue. "i guess i just want to leave something behind, something true." the words felt fragile, vulnerable, but you pressed on, the camera's gentle hum a reminder that you were sharing your story, your truth.

your voice remained soft, but a hint of vulnerability crept in as you continued. "i'm the son of a mother who suddenly vanished..who couldn't bare to live the life that she had. i barely have any memories of her." the words felt like a confession, a revelation of a pain you'd long carried. "i remember pieces of her...a smile, a laugh, a warm embrace...but they're fading, like a dream i can't hold onto." you paused, collecting your thoughts before speaking again. "and i'm the son of a father who was consumed by debt...who thought staying down was needed to survive." a hint of bitterness seeped into your tone, a resentment towards the circumstances that had shaped your life. "he just let it happen, let them take everything from us." your eyes dropped, as if the weight of those memories was too much to bear. "i grew up with nothing...no stability, no security...just a constant sense of uncertainty." the camera's lens seemed to hold your gaze, as if urging you to confront the pain head-on. you took a deep breath, the words still flowing, like a river finally undammed.

your voice cracked slightly as you continued, the memories still raw. "i was a victim of bullies...relentless, merciless...they saw my weakness and pounced." your eyes flashed with a hint of defiance. "but i fought back...many times...i refused to stay a victim." despite the bravado, your tone betrayed a hint of sadness. "but it didn't matter...i was still an outcast...still alone." the words hung in the air, a poignant reminder of the pain and isolation you'd endured. "i tried to fit in...to be like them...but i couldn't...i wouldn't." your gaze dropped, as if the shame of those memories still lingered. "i was a ghost in my own life...invisible, insignificant...." the camera's lens seemed to hold your gaze, a silent witness to the anguish you'd faced. you took a deep breath, the words still flowing, a cathartic release of the pain and hurt.

"no one will help you but yourself," you said, a fierce determination etched in your voice. "i'm the only one who showed up for me every single day that i woke up...i was there for me when i felt like this life was no longer worth living." your eyes shone with a quiet strength. "i was my own savior, my own caretaker...i learned to love myself, even when the ones i wanted couldn't." a hint of sorrow lingered, but it was tempered by a sense of triumph. "i learned to fight for myself, to the very end...to hold on to hope, even when it seemed like a distant dream." your gaze locked onto the camera, a fierce intensity burning within. "i am my own hero, my own refuge...i will not wait for someone else to save me, because i know that i am enough." the words hung in the air, a powerful declaration of self-love and resilience. "i will fight for myself, every day...and i will love myself, even if it's the only love i ever know."

a single tear fell, rolling down your cheek as you spoke, your voice trembling with emotion. "i will never be a victim again," you whispered, the words a solemn vow. "even before this outbreak, i was a survivor..” you trail off, “and i will continue to be for the ones that couldn't be.” you slowly reached out and pressed the stop button on the camera, the recording coming to an end. your gaze lingered on the device for a moment, as if ensuring the words were truly captured. then, with a solemn expression, you turned away from the camera and looked out the window. the sunlight streaming in seemed to fade into the background as your eyes drifted off, lost in thought. your face reflected a mix of emotions - determination, sadness, and a hint of hope.

you felt a gentle touch on your shoulder, a soft pressure that seemed to convey a sense of understanding. you knew it was namra without looking, recognizing the thin, long fingers that rested on your shoulder. you didn't turn to face her, instead, you simply raised the camera, offering it to her. the hand on your shoulder hesitated for a moment before namra slowly took the camera from you. her fingers brushed against yours, a fleeting touch that seemed to convey a sense of solidarity. without a word, namra turned and walked back to her chair by the classroom doors, the camera clutched in her hand. you watched her go, still gazing out the window, lost in thought. the silence between you was palpable, yet somehow, it felt less heavy, as if sharing your story had created a sense of connection, a sense of understanding. namra's presence seemed to linger, even as she returned to her seat, a quiet witness to the emotions that still swirled within you.

suhyeok's gaze lingered on your tired figure, his eyes filled with concern. he seemed to debate whether to walk over to you again, to offer some semblance of comfort. he couldn't hear anything you said to the camera which made him curious. but before he could make a move, namra's sudden action caught his attention. she quickly walked towards the long red curtains that kept out the zombies, her movements swift and purposeful. suhyeok's curiosity got the better of him, and he followed her, his footsteps quiet on the floor. as he approached, namra turned to him, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and urgency. "i can hear something," she whispered, her voice barely audible. suhyeok's brow furrowed, his head cocked to the side as he listened intently.

the others quickly got up from their seats, their faces filled with concern, and walked towards namra, who stood frozen by the curtains. onjo approached you, her brow furrowed with worry, and asked, "are you okay?" her voice broke through your reverie, and you turned to her, still trying to process what was happening. you stood up, your movements slow, and followed the others towards namra. as you approached, namra turned to the group, her eyes wide with alarm.

"i think i hear someone...puking," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. the group exchanged uneasy glances, their faces filled with a mix of fear and confusion. suhyeok took a step forward, his hand on the curtain, as if ready to pull it back. "what do you mean?" he asked, his voice low and cautious. namra's grip on the curtain tightened. "i don't know, it sounds like...retching, gagging..." the group fell silent, their ears straining to pick up the sound. but nothing occured.

namra's eyes darted around the room, her gaze sweeping across the space as if searching for something. her expression was tense, her brow furrowed in concern. "guys, i think we should leave," she said suddenly, her voice low and urgent. "this room feels...weird." she hesitated, as if trying to find the right words.

cheongsan halted, his hand on the door handle, and turned to face the group. "we can't just leave," he said, his voice firm. "we need to figure out what's going on." daesu groaned, throwing up his hands. "this is all because we didn't head to the roof when we had the chance...when the music was playing." onjo's eyes lit up with a sudden idea. "we do have music," she said, a sly smile spreading across her face. she turned to namra, who still clutched the camcorder. "namra, can you play back the recording?" namra looked confused, but onjo continued, her excitement growing. "we can use the music to lure them in...build a tall barricade and funnel them into a trap." the group stared at her, unsure of what to make of her plan.

onjo's voice was filled with determination as she outlined her plan. "once all of them come in through these doors," she said, pointing to the left doors, "we can make a run for the backdoors and head to the roof." her eyes locked onto yours, her gaze intense. "every infected person will be in the room on this floor...we have to make it to the roof once theyre all in." she paused, her chest heaving with excitement. "we can do it." you nodded, a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins. the plan was risky, but it was their best chance of escape. suhyeok and daesu nodded in agreement, their faces set with determination. namra and cheongsan exchanged a nervous glance, but they too nodded, ready to put their trust in onjo's plan. with a deep breath, the group steeled themselves for what was to come. they knew it wouldn't be easy, but they were ready to fight for their survival.

with a sense of purpose, the group sprang into action, beginning to set up the barricade. suhyeok and daesu started dragging heavy tables and chairs towards the left doors, their faces straining with effort. namra and cheongsan worked together, piling up stacks of books and furniture to reinforce the barricade. onjo directed the operation, her eyes darting back and forth to ensure everything was in place. you joined in, helping to secure the barricade with ropes and weights. as you worked, the retching sounds grew louder, more insistent, and the group's sense of urgency increased. they knew they had to be ready before the infected broke through the doors. sweat dripped down your faces, and muscles ached, but no one complained. they were driven by a shared determination to survive. finally, the barricade was in place, a sturdy wall of furniture and debris blocking the left doors. onjo stepped back, her eyes scanning the barricade, a nod of satisfaction on her face. "it's ready," she said, her voice firm. "let's get into position." the group moved to the backdoors, their hearts racing with anticipation. they knew what was coming.

cheongsan volunteered to stay behind, his voice firm. "someone has to open the door on the other side to let them in." suhyeok hesitated for a moment before jumping back over to join him. "i'll go with you," he said, his eyes locked on cheongsan's. the two of them positioned themselves by the barricade, ready to open the doors and lure the zombies in.

meanwhile, you and horyeong worked together to secure the chairs with rope, your hands moving in tandem. "you're brave," horyeong said suddenly, her voice soft. your gaze dropped down to hers, your eyes questioning. "what did you say?" you asked, your voice low. horyeong's face flushed pink as she looked up at you, her eyes shining with sincerity. "you're brave...and i hope you know that." she finished tying the knot, her hands moving quickly. you blinked, your ears heating up with shock, as you processed her words. no one had ever called you brave before. you didn't know how to respond, your mind racing. “um, well-i-yeah-.. im..” you stammer. she only looks at you and laughs, “you're welcome.”

meanwhile, cheongsan and suhyeok were engaged in a hushed conversation, their voices barely audible over the creaking of the barricade. cheongsan's eyes narrowed, his expression puzzled. "what did you just say?" he asked, his tone laced with curiosity. suhyeok's response was a low, throaty laugh, his eyes glinting with amusement. "i said i like someone else," he repeated, his smirk growing wider. "you don't need to worry about me and onjo. so treat her right, and not like a guy, moron." cheongsan's stare intensified, his gaze boring into suhyeok's. "who is it?" he pressed, his voice low and urgent. suhyeok's hesitated, his eyes darting towards you before snapping back to cheongsan. the same fear that had gripped him when myungwhan's arm had wrapped around his shoulders, while you were being assaulted, threatened to overwhelm him. he couldn't bring himself to say it, his voice caught in his throat. instead, he looked back at you, his gaze lingering on the glimpses of you he could see through the cracks between the chairs. "i'll tell you later," suhyeok said finally, his smile strained, his eyes betraying a mix of emotions.

suhyeok playfully elbowed cheongsan, gesturing for him to get back behind the barricade. "go, go!" he whispered urgently. cheongsan nodded and scurried back to safety. suhyeok took a deep breath, grasped the door handle, and slid it open. he didn't hesitate, dashing forward and using the wall to propel himself back behind the barricade. the zombies tumbled into the room, their feet tangling in the chairs set on the ground, causing them to trip and stumble. joonyeong, positioned by the camcorder, grinned mischievously as he pressed play. the loud music blared to life, echoing off the walls and drawing in more zombies. they shambled towards the sound, their moans growing louder, more insistent. the group held their breath as the zombies poured into the room, their numbers swelling. the barricade creaked and groaned under the pressure, but held firm. suhyeok landed hard on the floor, his chest heaving, and grinned at cheongsan. "that was close," he whispered. cheongsan nodded, his eyes fixed on the horde beyond the barricade. "too close."

the group strained against the barricade, their muscles trembling with effort, as the zombies pushed and clawed at the makeshift barrier. joonyeong, meanwhile, continued to turn up the volume, the music growing louder and more intense, drawing even more zombies into the room. onjo darted between the windows, peeking through the curtains to check the hallways. each time, she shook her head, her expression grim. "still too many out there," she whispered to suhyeok, who nodded curtly, his eyes fixed on the barricade. cheongsan, you, and daesu were pressed against the barrier, their faces set in determined lines, as they struggled to hold it in place. namra and horyeong were positioned at the edges, their eyes scanning the room for any signs of weakness. the zombies continued to pour in, their numbers seemingly endless, as the music reached a deafening crescendo. the barricade creaked and groaned, threatening to collapse at any moment, but the group held firm, their lives depending on it. onjo checked the windows again, her heart sinking as she saw the hallway was still filled with zombies. "we can't stay here," she whispered urgently. "we need to be louder, daesu!"

daesu's face turned red with rage as he shouted at the top of his lungs, "die zombies, fucking die!" his voice echoed off the walls, drowning out the music for a moment. the zombies, already frenzied, became even more agitated, their moans growing louder, more urgent. they pressed against the barricade with renewed strength, causing it to slide further towards daesu's side of the room. the group stumbled backward, their feet scraping against the floor as they struggled to maintain their position. the barricade creaked ominously, its stability precarious. "daesu, again!" onjo yelled, her voice panicked. "one more time!" daesu continued to shout, his voice hoarse, his eyes blazing with fury. the zombies kept coming, their numbers seemingly endless, as the barricade shrank, trapping the group in an increasingly smaller space.

the others, not holding the barricade, grabbed whatever instruments they could find - guitars, drums, maracas - and began playing them with reckless abandon. the loud sounds were ear-piercing, a chaotic mix of clashing notes and rhythms that grated on the nerves. namra was banging away on a drum set, her face contorted in a mixture of fear and determination. hroryeong was strumming a guitar with wild, slashing motions, the strings squealing in protest. joonyeong was shaking a pair of maracas with a frenzied intensity, the beads rattling out a maddening beat. the music was a far cry from the harmonious melodies they had played earlier, now it was a jarring, discordant noise designed to attract every zombie within earshot. and it worked. more and more zombies stumbled into the room, drawn by the cacophony, their eyes fixed on the group with a hungry gleam. the barricade creaked and groaned, the group's position becoming increasingly precarious. but they didn't stop playing, their faces set in grim determination, as they fought to survive.

your arm began to ache, a burning sensation spreading from your shoulder to your wrist, as you strained against the barricade. you gritted your teeth, pouring all your strength into holding it back. the zombies pushed and clawed, their relentless pressure threatening to overwhelm you. sweat dripped from your brow, stinging your eyes, as you dug deep, finding reserves of strength you didn't know you had. your legs trembled, your back screamed in protest, but you refused to yield. the barricade creaked, groaned, and shuddered, but you held firm, your arm a rigid bar of muscle and bone. the others played on, their music a wild, savage counterpoint to the zombies' moans, as they fought to keep the horde at bay. but you knew it couldn't last. the barricade was weakening, the zombies too numerous, too strong. you felt it slipping, inch by inch, the weight crushing down on you like a physical force. your vision blurred, your breath came in ragged gasps, but still you pushed, your arm screaming in agony, as the barricade teetered on the brink of collapse.

cheongsan's voice cut through the din, "wujin, now! we need to go, now!" but wujin, still gazing out the window, shook his head, his expression grim. "we can't go yet! not yet!" he shouted back, his voice laced with urgency. cheongsan's eyes widened in alarm, "what do you mean? we can't hold this much longer!" wujin's gaze remained fixed on something outside, his jaw clenched. "there's too many out there...we'll never make it...just a little longer, please!" the barricade shuddered, the zombies' pressure intensifying, as if sensing their prey's desperation. the group's cries of exertion grew louder, their faces contorted in effort, as they fought to maintain their position. suhyeok's eyes darted to wujin, then back to the barricade, his mind racing with the implications. "what's out there, wujin? what are you seeing?" but wujin just shook his head, his voice barely audible over the chaos. "just...hold...on..."

"it's gonna fall!" you shouted, your voice hoarse from exertion, as the barricade creaked ominously. you winced in pain, your shoulder aching despite using the other one to push. the strain was taking its toll on your body, but you refused to yield. everyone was fighting, pushing, and shoving, desperate to keep the zombies at bay. in the midst of the chaos, your gaze met suhyeok's, and for a fleeting moment, you locked eyes. it was as if time stood still, and all that existed was the two of you, connected in a shared struggle for survival. the eye contact seemed to inject new energy into your weary muscles, and you pushed harder, fueled by a renewed sense of determination. suhyeok's expression mirrored yours, his eyes burning with a fierce resolve. together, you fought on, your movements synchronized, as if driven by a single heartbeat. the barricade groaned, the zombies clawed, but you stood firm, united in your defiance. in that instant, you knew you could face anything, as long as you had each other.

"clear! we have to go now!" wujin yelled, his voice piercing the chaos, as he slid open the door to reveal an empty hallway. the sudden reprieve sparked a frantic scramble for escape. one by one, the group members abandoned their stations and sprinted towards the door. you glanced at daesu, who gestured urgently, "go already!" you nodded and took off, your heart racing, as you dashed towards the door. looking back, you saw cheongsan hesitating, then turning to run back to daesu. he grabbed daesu's arm, pulling him along, as they both sprinted towards the door. they were the last two to leave, and as they reached the threshold, the barricade behind them gave a final, ominous creak before collapsing under the crushing weight of the infected horde. the sound of shattering wood and screams filled the air, but you didn't look back. you kept running, your eyes fixed on wujin, who was leading the group down the hallway, their footsteps echoing off the walls. you knew you had to keep moving, to find a safe haven before the zombies overwhelmed you once more.

you ran side by side with joonyeong, your feet pounding the floor in unison, as you both stayed tucked in the middle of the group. the girls - namra, horyeong, jimin and onjo - flanked you, their faces set in determined lines, their breathing ragged. wujin and cheongsan led the charge, their long strides eating up the distance, as they navigated the twisting hallways. daesu and suhyeok brought up the rear, their eyes scanning the surroundings, ready to defend against any stragglers. you heaved, your lungs burning, as you struggled to keep pace. the group's formation was tight, a cohesive unit, as you all fought to escape the zombie-infested school. the hallways blurred together, a never-ending maze, but wujin's lead kept you moving forward. sudden turns and sharp corners made your stomach lurch, but joonyeong's presence beside you was a steady comfort. you glanced over, meeting his gaze, and saw a flicker of fear, quickly replaced by a determined glint. you nodded, and he nodded back, your bond forged in the heat of survival.

you all thundered up the first staircase you saw, your footsteps echoing off the walls. wujin led the charge, his eyes fixed on the top, as you ascended higher and higher. at each landing, you turned right, following a zigzagging path through the school's upper floors. your one-armed gait made balance a constant struggle, but joonyeong stayed glued to your side, offering a steadying hand whenever you stumbled. his support was a lifeline, helping you navigate the treacherous stairs without falling behind. the others pushed on, their breathing growing more labored with each floor. daesu and suhyeok still brought up the rear, their eyes scanning the stairs below, ready to defend against any zombies that might appear. as you climbed, the sounds of chaos and destruction grew fainter, replaced by the creaking of the old school's wooden framework and the group's ragged gasps. finally, you reached the top floor, the stairs ending at a door marked "roof access".

the door to the roof access loomed before you, its metal surface gleaming in the dim light. wujin grasped the handle, pushing and pulling with all his might, but it wouldn't budge. cheongsan joined him, their combined strength straining against the unyielding door. but it remained stubbornly shut, the lock unyielding. the group's collective anxiety grew, their impatient whispers and shifting feet echoing through the corridor. "come on, come on!" daesu urged, his voice low and urgent. "we can't stay here!" suhyeok added, his eyes scanning the stairs below, as if expecting a zombie horde to appear at any moment. joonyeong stayed close to you, her hand on your arm, her gaze fixed on the door. "what's wrong?" namra asked, her voice trembling. "why won't it open?" wujin stepped back, his face grimy with sweat, and examined the lock.

daesu, frustration etched on his face, growled, "move!" and positioned himself before the door. he took a few steps back, then launched himself at the door, shoulder first. the impact was loud, but the door held firm, barely budging. daesu recoiled, wincing in pain, his shoulder likely bruised. cheongsan, meanwhile, had moved to the side, where a keypad was mounted. he studied it for a moment, then began entering a password. the keypad beeped, and a flashing red light signaled "incorrect". cheongsan's face contorted in anger, he punched the keypad with a curse, "come on, shit!" the group's anxiety spiked, their eyes darting between the door, the keypad, and the stairs below, where the zombies could appear at any moment. "try again!" wujin urged, his voice low and urgent. cheongsan's fingers flew across the keypad, entering another sequence. the beep sounded once more, followed by the same flashing red light. "no, no, no!" cheongsan shouted, his fist clenched in frustration. hroryeong’s grip on your arm tightened, her eyes wide with fear. "what if we can't get out?" she whispered.

joonyeong pushed daesu aside and began pounding on the door, his fists making loud thuds. "is anyone there? anyone?" he shouted, his voice hoarse from screaming. he banged the door again, desperation etched on his face. you remembered the hammer in your pocket, the one you'd saved from the music room. "joonyeong!" you called out, tossing him the hammer. he caught it mid-air, his eyes flashing with determination. she began hammering the metal door handles, trying to break them off. the clangs echoed through the corridor, accompanied by joonyeong's grunts of effort. you glanced down the staircase, still seeing no signs of zombies. but you knew that could change any moment.

namra's eyes locked onto yours, her expression grim. "they're coming, a bunch of them," she whispered, her head cocked to the side, as if listening to a distant sound. you strained your ears, but heard nothing. yet, you trusted namra's instincts over your own. you hurried to cheongsan, who was still trying to hack the keypad. "cheongsan, namra says a horde is coming," you warned him.

he nodded curtly, not looking up, and motioned to suhyeok. the two of them positioned themselves at the top of the staircase, eyes fixed on the floor below, waiting for any zombies to emerge. meanwhile, joonyeong continued to hammer at the door handles, but soon groaned, his hand hurting from the reverberation. wujin took over, his face set in determination, and continued to strike the same handle. slowly but surely, it began to loosen, the metal creaking in protest. a faint crack appeared in the door, and you knew they were making progress. the sound of wujin's hammering echoed through the corridor, a rhythmic clang that seemed to match the pounding of your heart. suddenly, suhyeok's voice cut through the din, "wait, do you hear that?" he whispered, his eyes fixed on the staircase below.

the sound of zombies crawling and tripping up the staircase grew louder, their moans and snarls filling the air. suhyeok and cheongsan stood firm, using a thick wooden art placer and a metal tripod to push back against the horde. the wooden placard cracked and splintered, but held firm, as they desperately tried to hold off the zombies. "fuck, it's not opening?" you cursed, glancing back at wujin, who shook his head, his face grim. the hammering had stopped, and the crack in the door seemed to have reached a plateau. panic began to set in, as the reality of your situation sank in. you were trapped, with no clear escape route. the zombies would soon overwhelm suhyeok and cheongsan, and then you'd all be doomed. jimin’s eyes met yours, wide with fear, as she whispered, "what do we do?" namra's voice trembled, "we can't stay here..." horyeong and onjo clung to each other, their faces pale. the group's cohesion began to fray, as desperation took hold. wujin's gaze darted around, searching for an alternative, but there was none. you were running out of time, and options.

namra tapped you on the shoulder, her eyes locked on yours, and pointed to a huge blue tarp next to her. you quickly grabbed it, understanding her plan. "everyone, help!" namra shouted, as she began to unfold the tarp. "we need to cover the balcony, block the zombies from coming up!" the group sprang into action, grabbing the tarp's edges and rushing to the balcony. you heaved the tarp over the railing, and the others helped to spread it out, covering the stairs below. the zombies, undeterred, continued to climb, but the tarp blocked their ascent, trapping them below. the group breathed a collective sigh of relief, but knew it was only a temporary solution. the tarp wouldn't hold forever, and you still needed to find a way out. wujin turned back to the door, hammer in hand, and resumed his efforts to break through. joonyeong joined him, and together they hammered away, trying to widen the crack. suhyeok and cheongsan stood guard, ready to defend against any zombies that might breach the tarp. you looked around, assessing your situation, and knew you had to keep moving. the roof was still your best bet, but you needed to get through that door.

just as you thought the tarp would hold, a figure emerged from behind it. gwinam, his eye bloody and swollen, walked calmly past the zombies, who didn't even flinch in his presence. his gaze was fixed on the group, and his expression sent shivers down your spine. it was almost...evil. the group exchanged nervous glances, unsure what to make of gwinam's sudden appearance.

gwinam's evil smile fixed on cheongsan, who stood frozen, tripod still clutched in his hand. cheongsan, trying to protect himself, swung the tripod at gwinam, but it was like hitting a brick wall. gwinam didn't flinch, didn't even acknowledge the blow. your mind racing, memories of gwinam's torture in school came flooding back. you were that terrified kid again, unable to move or escape. onjo's shout broke the spell, "keep holding the tarp!" you snapped back to reality, but your body trembled with fear. gwinam's grip on cheongsan tightened, his smile growing wider. "give me your eye, yeah?" his words made your blood run cold. namra, however, sprang into action. with a strength that belied her slender frame, she grabbed gwinam by the throat, holding him over the ledge. gwinam's eyes widened in surprise, his grip on cheongsan faltering. namra's gaze burned with intensity as she gritted out, "why don't you just die?" and with a swift motion, she threw gwinam down the staircase. the tarp, still clutched by the group, was dragged down with him, leaving you all exposed once more. the zombies, now free to climb, began to pour up the stairs, their moans growing louder.

onjo's yell cut through the chaos, "we got the door open! come on!" the group sprinted towards the doorway, desperate for escape. as you emerged into the bright sunlight, you felt a sense of hope. but, you didn't forget your friends still fighting off zombies. you turned back, seeing suhyeok and cheongsan struggling to hold off the horde. "guys, come on!" you shouted, rushing back to help. you grabbed cheongsan's arm, pushing him towards the door. "go, go, go!" suhyeok followed close behind, zombies mere steps behind. wujin and joonyeong helped pull them to safety, as namra and hroryeong stood guard, ready to defend against any stragglers. finally, everyone was through the doorway, gasping for breath. you looked around, taking in the rooftop's expanse. the sun shone brightly overhead, a welcome change from the darkness below. but, you knew the zombies could still follow. you needed a new plan, and fast. "we need to find a way down," wujin said, echoing your thoughts. "or a way to block the door," suhyeok added, still catching his breath. the group began to brainstorm, desperate to survive.

the door creaked and groaned, but suhyeok and cheongsan held firm, their faces strained with effort. you gazed up at the helicopter, its rotors whipping the air into a frenzy. the wind stung your eyes, making it hard to keep them open. but then, you saw him. cheolsu, the one person you forgot about. he sat in the helicopter, looking down at you with a mixture of guilt and relief. your mind reeled as you whispered, "what...?" cheolsu's eyes met yours for a brief moment, before he looked away, closing his eyes in comfort. the betrayal cut deep, a second knife to the back. you felt like you'd been punched in the gut, all the air sucked out of you. how could he? why was he there, safe and sound, while you fought for your life? the questions swirled, but the answers remained elusive. the helicopter began to lift off, leaving you and your friends to fend for yourselves. you watched, numb, as cheolsu disappeared into the distance, leaving you to face the undead hordes alone.

suhyeok sprinted alongside the helicopter, waving their arms and yelling, but it was too late. the helicopter vanished into the distance, leaving you all behind. you took suhyeok's spot, holding the door with cheongsan, feeling the undead pounding against it. for a moment, you thought. then, you remembered the wires in your pocket. "wait," you said, digging into your pocket and producing the wires. you handed them to cheongsan, who quickly got to work. he tied the wires to the door knobs, securing them with a sturdy knot. "okay!" he exclaimed, slowly lifting his weight off the door. you did the same, and to your relief, the door held firm. the zombies on the other side continued to pound and moan, but the makeshift barricade kept them at bay. for now, you were safe. cheongsan let out a sigh of relief, and you shared a nod of triumph. but, you knew it was only temporary. you needed a new plan, and fast. the group gathered around, looking at you for guidance. "what's next?" wujin asked, his eyes scanning the rooftop. you took a deep breath, thinking. the city stretched out before you, a vast expanse of unknown dangers. but, you had to keep moving. "we need to find another way down," you said, "and fast."

the helicopter vanished into the distance, leaving you all behind. hroryeong's sobs echoed through the rooftop, a heartbreaking sound. cheongsan, exhausted, collapsed to the ground, his chest heaving. you knelt beside him, concern etched on your face. "hey, it's okay. take deep breaths," you said, patting his legs to prevent cramping. cheongsan nodded, still panting, as you sat beside him. you took a moment to catch your own breath, feeling the weight of your situation. all you wanted was to go home, to shower, to sleep in your own bed. but that was a luxury you couldn't afford. not now, not yet. you were stuck on this rooftop, trapped with your peers, surrounded by the undead. the reality was crushing.

but for now, you just sat, trying to gather your strength, trying to process everything that had happened. the silence was broken only by hroryeong's sobs and cheongsan's heavy breathing.

you and cheongsan exchanged a nervous glance as the door began banging hard, the sound echoing across the rooftop. you knew it was gwinam, trying to get in. the metal doors shuddered under the impact, but held firm. for now. everyone gathered around, watching in silence as the door continued to shake. one burst, two, three... but after the fourth, the banging stopped. an unsettling quiet fell over the rooftop. you waited, expecting another burst, but nothing came. the silence was oppressive, heavy with tension. "what's going on?" wujin whispered, eyes fixed on the door. "is he...?" joonyeong trailed off, his voice barely audible.

you shook your head, unsure. cheongsan slowly got to his feet, his eyes locked on the door. "i don't know, but we need to be ready." suhyeok nodded, positioning themselves beside cheongsan. the group formed a semi-circle around the door, waiting, watching. the quiet stretched out, punctuated only by horyeong's sniffling. you held your breath, bracing for what might come next.

namra's voice broke the silence, her words barely above a whisper. "he's gone." suhyeok turned to her, confusion etched on their face. "who's gone?" but namra's gaze was fixed intently on the door, her head cocked to one side, as if listening for something. "gwinam," she said, her voice firm, confirming what everyone was thinking. the group exchanged nervous glances, unsure what to make of namra's declaration. cheongsan took a step forward, his eyes locked on the door. "are you sure?" he asked, his voice low. namra nodded, her eyes still fixed on the door. "yes, i'm sure. he's not trying to get in anymore." the silence that followed was oppressive, heavy with uncertainty. what did it mean? had gwinam given up? or was he planning something else? you couldn't shake the feeling that you were all just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

#all of us are dead #allofusaredeadfanfic #angst #enemies to allies #lee su hyeok #male reader #suhyeok x male reader #suhyeok x reader #all of us are dead x reader #bxb #gay #lgbt #male writers #all of us are dead x male reader #fluff

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gorchards · 1 month

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Time Without Consequence - Yuuta Okkotsu x Reader

Part 1.5 of Love Lines!

word count: 1,851

a/n: Just a little building block/flashback chapter to bridge the gap between Love Lines and the Next one :) Toge is a very very patient friend and I love him for that. Not much of Y/N in actuality, they're mentioned a lot by Yuta tho. ofc <3

Yuta strode his way up to his dorm with a skip in his step- which wasn’t something he normally did, but today? He had seen you. He’d seen you in person for the first time in four years.

As he climbed up the stairs, every moment of your little meet-up replayed in his head. Your laugh echoed in his ears. The look on your face when you handed him your new number burned in his mind. He almost couldn’t believe it. You actually wanted to see him again.

Everything else in his life, even you, had told him that there was no chance you could ever reunite. No chance that he could ever see you again.

Yuta had spent every day since the break-up praying for your return. He would spend so much time just thinking about you- especially when you first broke up. You were all that he could think about.

Well, He had tried to move on from you more than once. He thought that would be the right thing to do- the kind of thing that you would have wanted. But it was an impossible task for him to even attempt. Every time he worked up the nerve to download a dating app or to try and pursue someone in his classes, he just couldn��t ever go through with it. Just when he would think he was ready, something would happen and he would fall right back into the endless memories he kept of you.

Even though his heart was clinging to the string of hope that you would come back (at the very least, as his friend), he didn’t want you to come back and find him just the same as he was before. He feared that you wouldn’t be able to bring yourself to stay if he didn’t take this time to improve. So he had done his best to do better for himself day by day, for both his own happiness and the potential of your return. And that had caused several suitors to become attracted to him- all of whom he would end up turning down.

The first person who expressed interest in him after you had ended surprisingly well, though. Roughly a year after you two had broken up, Toge Inumaki had approached him after a shared class, and invited him to lunch via a piece of notepaper.

Of course, Yuta had agreed! It was exciting, the prospect of a new friend. And it had gone very well, to his utter delight. And so they went out to lunch, again and again.

As the weeks passed, Yuta grew downright giddy about his new friend. Toge Inumaki was selectively mute, but they had managed to communicate over coffees and lunches with a little bit of work from the both of them. It was strange for Yuta to talk so much, but he did his best for the sake of his new friend. In the back of his mind, though, you were ever-present. He often wondered what you might have thought of Toge. He could imagine that you would have shared in his joy over this- that you would have wanted to meet his new friend. He thought they had a lot in common, so perhaps you would have liked him- but not too much, he hoped.

He knew that Toge would have loved you. After all, who wouldn’t? He imagined that if the three of you had had lunch together, it would have been even better than it currently was! You always knew what to say, and how to make just about anyone feel comfortable and included.

He wondered what new people you were meeting, what new friends you had. He wondered what you might be doing with them. It wasn’t hard to picture you surrounded by people who loved and cared about you, and he hoped that he and his new friends could one day be among them. He wanted to make sure you could feel that love.

And then the thought would come that you would never meet each other's friends again.

That you would never celebrate another thing together again.

That he would have to love you in longing for the rest of his life.

It crushed him. Heavy, the thought would weigh on his mind whenever he would meet up with Toge. The thought would linger, and cause him to space out occasionally, to Toge’s concern. Still, it didn’t weird his new friend out enough to scare him away.

One evening, Toge had walked Yuta to the bus. It was just the two of them, so they sat down for a little chat. “Thanks for hanging out with me today, Toge.” He said with a soft smile. “I always have fun with you.”

Toge nodded and began to sign. Yuta had picked up a little bit- trying to learn for his friend.

“You…too?”

Yuta looked up at Toge for approval. To his delight, he was smiling and nodding in approval.

He started smiling even wider. “Hey, I understood that!”

Toge chuckled slightly and patted his shoulder. Again, he signed. “Good job!”

Yuta’s eyes lit up in excitement. “It’s so cool how you can communicate like that. I’ll do my best to catch up with you but…well, you’ve got a pretty serious headstart on me.

Toge took out a notebook and scribbled on it. “It will come with time. But I will always be ahead of you.”

Yuta nodded. “You’re right…but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.”

Suddenly, Toge shifted his weight slightly and took a deep breath.

“Is…everything okay Toge? You look pretty serious all of the sudden.”

“Read” Toge signed. Then, he handed Yuta a letter.

In confusion, Yuta looked it over. A plain envelope with his name signed on the back.

Immediately, his mind fluttered to you. You had done something similar before, for your one-month anniversary. But the envelope was covered in hearts and stickers- a thought that made him smile even now. So much care and thought had been put into it.

So had Toge, he was sure. Whatever this was though, put a sinking feeling in his stomach. He wasn’t sure why.

Slowly, he opened it.

“Yuta Okkotsu - I have had a wonderful time with you these last few weeks. I admire your ability to try and include me in group discussions, and to converse with me over our meals. You are an amazing person, and I am happy to have become your friend.”

This made Yuta smile ear to ear. Short, but sweet in an upfront way. He appreciated the praise, but really he should be thanking Toge for helping him ease back into socializing.

Ah, but there was more.

“However, I must be upfront and honest with you. You see, the reason I was originally drawn to you is that I find you quite cute.” Oh?

“And I would like to ask how you would feel about going on a date.”

Oh.

Yuta’s smile cracked awkwardly. “Uhm…”

Toge tilted his head, eagerly waiting for a response.

“Toge, I’m sorry but…Well, I’m just…I’m not ready to date again. I’m sorry but…I have to turn you down.” With sweaty palms, he handed back the letter.

Toge was quiet for a moment, looking down at the ground.

Yuta could feel it. This would be the end. That’s how it was, in his experience. Once you had broken up with him, you couldn’t stand to even be around him anymore (at least, so he thought.), and had left him. Now that he had turned down Toge, he was sure that he would leave too.

“Again?” Toge signed.

“What?” Yuta said, snapping out of his thoughts.

Toge took the back of the envelope and wrote on it. “You said again. You’ve dated before? You don’t give off that impression.”

Yuta had to laugh a little bit. It’s not like he wasn’t right. “...I used to date this girl in high school. Her name was Y/N L/N and…well, she was my best friend.”

Yuta went on and on about you. How kind you were, how beautiful you were. Endlessly talking about the little moments he had with you that he treasured dearly, starting from the moment you first met as kids. Getting stuck in a tree together, birthday parties, your awkward middle school years. Your confession, your first date, dancing in the rain, lending you his sweaters. He couldn’t help himself. He had talked so much that they had both missed the bus without realizing it.

As cringeworthy as he initially found it, the more that Yuta talked, the more that even Toge found it oddly sweet. He got the feeling that you two would either find your way back together in some mushy gushy reunion, or you might have ruined Yuta for any other potential partner.

So three years later, when Yuta burst through the door of their apartment with the brightest smile he had ever seen on the man, Toge had a feeling that he knew what it was about.

Toge snapped twice to get his attention. “You look happy.” He said.

Yuta flushed. “I do?” Well, he shouldn’t have been so surprised. The joy of reuniting with you would of course be felt vibrating off of him like heat radiates from a fire. You were the love of his life in every way that someone could be.

“Did something good happen?” Toge asked.

“Well…” He scratched the back of his neck, unable to hide the pure joy that was pouring out of him. “Do you remember Y/N?”

“Your ex, Y/N?” He replied with a sigh, giving Yuta a look.

“Uhm…Well. We kind of ran into each other today…and she wants to see me again.”

Toge pursed his lips with a nod, and sat up in his seat. He patted the spot next to him, and Yuta complied quickly. Then, Toge grabbed his friend's shoulders. “Under absolutely NO circumstances will you text her without me reading it over first.”

Yuta laughed nervously, feeling Toge’s intense stare barrel into him.

“I’m serious. If I have to hear you talk about Y/N in the past tense for the next fifty years you WILL regret it.” Somehow, over the last few years, Yuta had never once shown even an ounce of resentment toward you. And Toge would always be the one to hear about it whenever the grief of missing you became too much. He didn’t want to make Yuta feel bad for his emotions, but… he didn’t feel he could react so empathetically for much longer.

“Okay, okay! Message received! But…well, I was going to ask for your help anyway. You always know what to say and I…I really don’t want to mess this up.” He said, slumping down in his spot on the little couch. “I…I’ve missed her so much, Toge. You have no idea how happy I am right now.”

Toge cracked a little smile. “...Well, I am happy for you regardless. Tell me about it. I’m all ears.”

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#gorchard writes മ◡മ #jjk fanfic #yuta okkotsu x reader #yuta okkotsu x y/n #yuuta okkotsu x you #not as many tags as usual bc it's just a bridge for what's to come :)#took a while to make the picture for this bc life has started to ramp up latley. exciting!

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bloodlessbelmounte · 1 month

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Eternity Will Bring You Near - Chapter 1

Masterlist

Summary:

Wade understood that Logan was from a world where Alpha, Beta and Omega were everyday terms, not exclusive to red-pilled incel fuckheads who kept inventing new performative male genders. Wade would've been classified as a Beta. Logan, however, was an Alpha - Wade's read enough fanfiction and yaoi manga to know what that means. Though it doesn't explain why Logan keeps sniffing him.

Pairing: Alpha!Worst Wolverine/Deadpool

Genre: A/B/O, Smut, Domestic-ish

Warnings: A/B/O Dynamics, Blood, Mild Gore/Body Horror, Masturbation, Additional warnings to be added as more chapters are uploaded.

Beginning Note: This was originally meant to be a crackfic but the bitch decided to become a multichapter project instead. I never thought I would get brain rot this severe over a movie of all things. The toxic old man yaoi really is a hell of a drug.

Cross posted to AO3

Heya kiddos- well actually no I hope you’re not kiddos. The following events aren’t exactly G-rated. Scratch that, not G-rated in the slightest. See the author’s girlfriend asked them if they had written anything gay before because and I quote “You’re the type of person I imagine would – you are very gay” and was very surprised to find her partner had, in fact, not written gay porn for a rabid audience (though they once wrote reader insert smut for one of the most rabid fan-bases – BTS anyone?). Lucky for her, the author’s autistic ass is currently hyper-fixated on my movie and has watched it twice. Now I know what you’re thinking: another re-imagining of the icon and highly erotic Honda Odyssey scene that the Tumblr girlies are going feral over? Sadly no, there are over a hundred-and-sixty interpretations of that situationship on AO3 already and the author is not up to that task. Self-conscious and insecure fuckface they are. Oh b-t-dubs, this will have mixed perspectives. So without further ado, let’s fucking do this. Maximum effort.

Deadpool didn’t imagine his epic team-up with his hero of heroes to end this way. With his noble self-sacrifice, blue anti-matter coiled around his wrist, coursing through his veins and dismantling him atom by atom and him helplessly reaching for the matter contained on the other side of this fucking bridge. No, to be honest, he imagined it ending with maybe a few drinks in a bar to celebrate victory before trying to convince Wolverine to hate fuck him. When have things ever gone his way?

You will never save the world. Ya couldn’t even save a relationship with a god damn stripper.

“Not now, flashbacks.”

Grunts of effort and pain as he was on the verge of dislocating his shoulder to just fucking reach the other fucking side. He had to save them. Give Peanut the restart he deserved. Give this world the hero it deserved. Madonna’s ‘Like a Prayer’ was ringing through his ears as he knew he needed a miracle. And just like a prayer answered, Wolverine was right there with him, gripping tightly to his reaching hand and bridging the gap. He had a few precious seconds to appreciate the washboard glistening abs that were explosively -gloriously- exposed to his greedy eyes before Madonna and the pain crescendoed. Oh, what he would’ve done to at the very least get a bit of frottage from that meal of a man. Deadpool and Wolverine’s shouts of agony as energy tore through them intermingled, part of the chorus only he could hear.

White. Everything was white. Burning hot and blinding. Then there was…

Nothing. No pain. No heat. Just weightlessness.

Until his body collided with a wall with a thunk and sprawled onto the ground. He couldn’t get up immediately, his healing factor working overtime to patch up the spider webbing network of atomised damage. Once the pain was tolerable enough, Deadpool stumbled up to his feet with gritted teeth. What did people say? Pain lets you know you are still alive. Well, he was definitely alive then. The smoke and debris in the air made it hard to breathe let alone see through his mask, that wouldn’t do. Ripping the miraculously intact material off, Wade idly wondered why his clothes were fine. Did the universe decide he was too much of an eyesore to strip? Or more logically, Logan’s metal skeleton made him more conductive. Shit.

Wade scanned the destroyed room, trying to catch a glimpse of neon yellow. Panic seeped in when he couldn’t immediately spot the older mutant. Please don’t be vaporised.

“Wolvie? Peanut?!”

A groan came from across the other side of the wreckage. Groaning was good. Groaning – in this case – meant pain or annoyance, which meant functional nervous system. Good. Good. Now, how to get across. Bridge is out of the question, it’s royally fucked. Which left clambering over crumbled walls that blocked the walkways. Goal set, Wade navigated his way over to roughly where he heard the groan emanate from, muscles protesting the whole time. Bright yellow peaked out from underneath the rubble. Logan’s knee to be precise. Wade sighed.

“Maximum effort.”

Wade got to work, moving aside the bricks that had landed on top of his partner, revealing a barely lucid Wolverine and- Holy shit. Big fuck off piece of metal shelving right through the stomach. Wade was pretty sure the only reason Logan wasn’t bisected was because of those metal bones of his.

“Take a deep breath, Honey Badger, this is going to hurt worse than the reviews for the Borderlands movie. Can you believe they’ve gotten a nine percent critics score on Rotten Tomatoes while we have a seventy-eight? They weren’t too happy about all the rectal stabbings. Have they not heard of queer allegory? Though we’re ninety-five from audiences. Must be all the sexual tension between us.”

As Wade was prattling on – partly running his mouth as always and partly to distract Logan – he unsheathed his katanas and slotted them into the wound and wiggled them under the metal.

“The fuck are y’doing, Bub?” Logan seethed through gritted teeth, trying to sit up only to be pushed back down again by the merc.

See Wade wasn’t always an idiot- “Hey I take offence to that.” -but he could have a smart idea every once in a while, such as now. Knowing that he did not possess the strength to pull out - “My pull-out game is strong I’ll have you know.” - the sheet of metal, a proper application of force would allow him to lever it out. Taking turns with what katana he pushed down on, he eventually worked the shelf out far enough for him to straddle the other man’s lap and rip it out the rest of the way with a wet squelch. Next to come out were his beloved weapons which he wiped in his elbow crease then re-sheathed.

Immediately Logan’s thatched lickable abs started to knit themselves back together. And Wade couldn’t stop his hands from wandering; tracing up his chest and neck to grab those blowjob handles, lean down, and finally kiss the crotchety old fuck like he’d been dying to for the past seventy-two hours. Because in for a penny in for a pound, who knows if he’d see him again when all is said and done. Logan went stiff beneath him and Wade froze in place, knowing in his bones that he was going to get pushed off. But then Logan relaxes and his arms wrap around Wade’s waist to pull him closer, his tongue sweeps across the seem of scarred lips asking for entry. Which is enthusiastically granted. Blood and iron assaults Wade’s taste buds as teeth knock and tongues dance. Of course, being over two hundred would make Wolvie a great kisser, the man wasn’t contractually allowed a flaw under Disney. As much as Wade would have loved to carry on sloppily making out and maybe slip his hand down what remains of Logan’s suit, he knew that even though he wouldn’t mind beating the crap out of a bureaucrat with a raging hard-on, the man beneath him probably would. And so semi-reluctantly Wade broke away with a sigh, Logan’s hands shifting to lightly grasp his hips.

“We should show that motherfucker upstairs just how alive we are.”

Of course, you gays, gals, and non-binary pals know what happens after that. We march our asses up to those pencil pushers resulting in two iconic lines – one of which is an Oscar-worthy delivery of my favourite word. There were some extreme levels of sexual tension between B-15 and Peter, Logan and I regenerate my timeline meaning my plan fucking worked and Logan got to stay here. We also got a fat stack of compensation each for our efforts. Now we cut to shawarma and see things from a grumpy puppy’s perspective.

Logan knew to expect some differences between this universe and his original such as there still being living X-men. And he knew that there was the fundamental difference of a lack of secondary sexes here but the distinct absence of pheromones everywhere made the air here seem… cleaner? Almost overwhelming in its purity. The scent of pollution, of food being prepared, of dog piss on the pavement undiluted. No Alphas peacocking. No Omegas trying to suppress and get by. Just “average” people living average lives. Like what was happening in front of him.

Logan, with arms crossed over and leaning against a wall, watched in amusement (not that he’d ever admit to it) as Wade went to place his order at the shawarma place he had led him to.

“I’ll have one beedo beedo, a chocobo supreme, and a mountain boo bah. What would you like Honey Badger?” Wade asked his elbow on the counter top, head resting on his hand as his body was turned to face his partner, ignoring how the server was looking at him like he’d grown three heads.

“Sir, this is a shawarma joint, we only do shawarma here. I have no idea what a beedo beedo is-” The kid behind the counter tried to inform the ADHD-riddled regenerator only to be met with a finger over his lips as he was promptly shushed.

“We do the talking sweetums, you just be a little patient. Wolvie? Anything in mind?”

Some rest would be a good start, then a shower and bottle of whiskey. An explanation on that kiss back there. But food was a good start.

“Ignore his ramblings, he’s had multiple head injuries over the last few days. We’ll have two beef and one chicken, all the salad. Obviously tarator sauce in the beef and toum in the chicken. As for drinks, give us whatever beer y’d recommend.” Logan noticed Wade’s jaw drop out the corner of his eye as he rattled off a proper order. The kid behind the counter pushed the finger on his lips away and nodded, inputting the order and printing off the details to pass to the cook. “What? Did y’think I’d never had this before?”

Wade blinked at him, “Well… uh… to be honest yeah. Didn’t take you for the adventurist foodie type.”

“Need I remind y’of just how old I am, Bub? I was around when immigrants introduced this to the country.”

“Oh, so you’re the original trendsetter for your universe. Speaking of, I’ve seen the fanfictions and read the yaoi, did your world have fated pairs and heat cycles? Do male Omegas just have a dick and ass or do they have a vagina too? Or did they just have a vagina? Did you have to take suppressors for your ‘Alpha Ruts’ to reign in your primal instincts?” Wade’s eyes shone with curiosity as he fired off questions, “Oh are we going to have to deal with those now that you’re in residence here? Maybe I should ask that TVA lady to get you like an inter-dimensional prescription.”

Logan sighed and rubbed his face, he had been expecting this line of questioning. Honestly, he had expected them to occur in the Void after Wade got offended for being called a beta-

“What in the Andrew Taint bullshit is that? They have toxic masculinity red-pillers in your world too? And you’re one of them? For shame Logi Bear. That’s why you’re the Worst Wolverine.”

-and the subsequent misunderstanding was cleared up. At least in the Void, there were fewer witnesses.

“In order: Yes to both. Dick and Ass. Yes, it’s a pain to get by without them or a partner. And that’s all I’m telling y’because it doesn’t affect you.”

“That’s no fun. I need the juicy deets,” Suddenly Wade gasped and pointed at him, “Do you knot?! Bite on the nape of the neck? Oh, I think I might just pop a chub at this rate.”

Logan growled standing straight and emitting his pheromones on instinct, “Enough. As I said it doesn’t affect y’so y’don’t need to know.”

Silence. Finally silence. And the faintest smell of something sweet.

“Order up.”

Logan took his two beef and handed the chicken to Wade alongside a beer, his own stuffed into a jacket pocket. They sat outside the shop in silence and in the time it took for Logan to wolf down one and a half of his order, Wade had only finished half before he started talking again.

“You know, the Avengers discovered shawarma in the sacred timeline.” He said, mouth still full.

Logan glanced over at him, “They’d be lucky to have y’.”

Wade had a considering look in his eye as paused chewing then nodded. The guy still probably had his insecurities and self-doubt that Logan definitely exacerbated in the Honda. Just as they were about to take another bite, barking and the sound of scampering paws were heading right at the pair. It was that fucking dog.

“Oh~”

“Come on,” Logan groaned, head falling back.

“Fuck!” Wade threw his half-eaten wrap on the ground and began the daintiest clap Logan had ever seen done by someone other than a white girl, “Come over here my little munchkin! Yes, it’s you~. You’re a survivor.” Wade picked up the ugly little thing, squeezing her tight and kissing her on the head. “Oh, all is right in the world. Yes, it is.” Wade turned to him, eyeing him up and down, “So what are you going to do next?”

Logan shrugged, “I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

“That right? I’ll probably see you around,” A small smile was playing on his lips as he continued to gauge his response.

An impulsive thought wormed its way into his head, before he knew it he found himself quirking an eyebrow at the merc and proceeded to lie.

“Probably not. See y’, Bub.”

With that, he stood up and walked away as Wade continued to pet Dogpool. He threw the remains of his meal onto a table. A waste really. But all part of the plan. His pace was slow and measured, he was waiting. And when he heard the call of:

“Logan!”

He stopped, a small smile unable to be contained as Wade finally called him by his name. Not one of those childish nicknames. This had been what he was waiting to hear. He turned to face Wade, his expression schooled into a neutral facade.

“Stay with me- us.” Wade offered, pointing between himself and the dog.

Logan walked back over to him, “I thought y’shared a one-bedroom apartment with a lovely blind woman named Althea. Doesn’t sound like y’have much room for me.” Not much room in the apartment or his life. He wasn’t part of Wade’s world.

“There’s always room for one more. We have a pull-out sofa you can use. Not much privacy but it’s home. I only share a bed with Blind Al because I’ve been incredibly touch-starved since the breakup and need my bedtime cuddles.”

Logan huffed a chuckled, “That’s why I had to tie y’up, Bub.” A lie. In reality he had been planning to abandon Wade in that car. “Well, I’m not one to turn down a free roof over my head until I can sort out something more permanent.”

Before he knew it, he was following Wade to his home which was a lot closer to the TVA base and, subsequently, the shawarma shop than he had expected. Just down the street really. Meeting Al was sweet, it almost felt like being introduced to a parent back when he was a young man. And much like a mother, she swiftly turned in ire to Wade and slapped him on the arm with such precision Logan almost doubted her disability.

“Wade W. Wilson, you disappear after blowing out your birthday candles only to return with havoc in the streets and a man on your arm. You could have told us you were dating again. Peter was worried sick about you.”

It had been his birthday? The merc had spent his birthday trying to save his friends -his world – and was rewarded with a thorough verbal dressing down and a night of carnage in a car.

“Oh well, you know, it was the usual. I got abducted, told our universe was dying because someone had to go and nobly sacrifice themselves for the next generation of mutants. So then I hopped through multiple universes to find me a Wolverine who wouldn’t stab me on sight. Found this fella right here and got sent to the universal (not the studio) trash heap. Where I then proceeded to get my brain finger fucked by a bald long-nail-bedded bitch. Seriously they began at like her knuckle. Props to the costume department for that mildly disturbing detail.” Al’s inability to see didn’t stop Wade’s wild gesticulations as he described the events that happened to him. “And after a daring escape from her clutches, I had the best birthday car romp in a while. Became a real pin cushion for ‘im.” Wade sent Logan a wink.

Logan cleared his throat and avoided eye contact, a slight heat taking root in his ear at the implication behind those words. Al gagged.

“Wade, what I’m about to say is without a hint of homophobia: I don’t need to hear any more about your repulsive sex life. It’s bad enough I can hear you choking the chicken in the bathroom.”

Wade was laughing to himself as he meandered away from his now two room-mates and it was only slightly awkward until he returned with sweatpants and a tank top in hand. He shoved them into Logan’s chest along with a towel.

“Shower is through that door there,” He pointed to his right, “You reek of alcohol, blood, and Marvel H Christ knows what else. I doubt I smell much better – not like the Void had personal hygiene products lying around – but your odour can only be described as one of my twenty-eighteen suicide attempts from the second movie before I rewrote the events that triggered that spiral.” Wade looked off to the side, “You readers know which one I’m on about.” He mimicked an explosion sound as he ballooned his hands apart.

Logan was taken aback for a moment, processing that the seemingly always chipper buffoon had tried to kill himself at some point. However, he decided against acknowledging the trauma dump by just grunting his thanks. He took the offered clothes and beelined for the bathroom.

Alright fuck-os let’s focus on me again.

Shut up, Wade. I’m trying to write here.

Oh sure you are. I saw you reading other fanfics and some of my comic runs. And aren’t you on vacation now? I didn’t say you could take a break.

Sigh. Anyway…

Wade placed Mary Puppins on the floor and then immediately flopped onto the sofa, energy levels depleted and a deep set ache in his muscles. He waited for the sound of the shower starting before speaking.

“We’re not dating.”

“Not yet,” Al responded, somehow managing to give him a pointed look despite a) being blind and b) wearing sunglasses so he couldn’t see her eyes.

“The man hates me. Stabbed me many times on many occasions – not that I didn’t enjoy it.” Wade grumbled, sinking further into his seat.

“So why is he here?”

“He had nowhere else to go. I couldn’t just let him wander the streets after I abducted him. Not after he saved me.”

“So Vanessa announces she has a new boyfriend after you’ve been separated for two years and you went and kidnapped one for yourself. That’s a new kind of fucked up, even for you Wade.”

“Yeah I know, I’m a bigger fuck up than Ryan Reynolds accepting that Green Lantern role. I don’t need reminding. Again, we’re not dating. Manage to get your hands on some White Girl Interrupted while Feige’s attention was on the Void?”

“You might not be but you like him. You haven’t introduced someone to me like that since Vanessa. I still don’t know who the fuck Feige is but yes I did.”

“Good because I need some right now. I’m guessing you’ve put it in your sex toy drawer in an attempt to deter me but Al you always fail to remember very little disgusts me.”

Wade slapped his lap as he got up, signalling the end of the conversation. He went back to the bedroom and immediately opened the aforementioned drawer, sticking his hand in he rifled through dildos and vibrators of various shapes and sizes until he found a rectangular packet. Bingo. Oh, he was so going to build a snowman. Oh wait, this is fanfiction, not a movie, Feige has no control here. Wade can just say cocaine.

You guys are going to have to use your imagination here because the author doesn’t know how to write cocaine usage because they’re a pure little munchkin who only ever smoked weed like five times and sniffed poppers once.

Hey stop interrupting or I’ll make this a T rating.

Suitably buzzed and the throbbing ache of his muscles dulled, Wade grabbed a towel and a set of PJ’s to change into after his turn in the shower. His timing was seemingly perfect as he entered the living area just as Logan stepped out of the bathroom towelling his hair roughly, a steam plume framing him in a haze with the lighting hitting just right. The clothes lent to him a tight fit as they clung to the man’s muscular frame, hugging spots that weren’t completely dry yet. Dear lord, was that a dick print? Look at the size of that thing! He needed to French kiss whoever invented grey sweats. Whoever they are or were, he hoped they were getting laid six ways to Sunday. Wade found himself thanking whatever foresight he had since the white tank went near translucent in places like the dips of Logan’s abs and the swell of his pecs. He quickly wiped away the drool on the corner of his lips.

“Nice milk cans you got there, Wolvie. Hope you didn’t use up all the hot water,” Wade commented, eyes still roving over the other’s effortlessly erotic form. That’s the World’s Sexiest Man 2008 for you.

Logan slung the towel around his shoulders, a flush to his cheeks – from heat, Wade’s comment, or ogling who knows – as he seemingly took a moment to study the merc’s face.

“Is… Is that cocaine in y’nose? Y’pupils are dilated. Are y’high?” Logan scoffed in response, eyebrows pinched together.

Wade wiped his nose, “Did you know your pupils can dilate as much as fifty-five percent when you look at something or someone you love? Because I’m loving what a feast for my eyes you are.” He approached the grouchy man and rubbed a thumb between his eyebrows, which was swiftly slapped away with a grumble, “You shouldn’t frown so much, it’ll age you faster. As much as I am all for our old man yaoi dynamics I don’t want you looking like the Old Man Logan who shotgun blasted me.”

Wade patted Logan on the arm as he squeezed past him to get entry into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He chucked the towel and change of clothes onto the bathroom’s counter top, knocking over the toothbrush pot and a few other bits. He then stripped off the red leather suit, having to peel it away as dried blood and various other bodily fluids had acted as fucking glue. Bare as the day he was born, Wade turned the shower on and fiddled with the taps to get the temperature just how he liked it. Steamy, the same way he liked his homoerotic fight scenes.

Stepping in, Wade rolled his shoulders and took a moment to let the water ease his tight muscles.

“That’s the good stuff,” he moaned softly, tilting his head back eyes closed.

After what felt like a suitable amount of time had passed, he grabbed his loofah and body wash and went to town on getting the caked-on grime off of his scarred skin. The water flowing down the drain was a murky burgundy as sand, old blood, and who knows what else was washed away.

When the water turned clear Wade decided to focus on… other things. Mainly the beefcake wearing his clothes at that very moment, the walking wet dream he was. Visions of those sweaty tits floated through his mind, making his cock – which had already been at half-mast – twitch in interest. God, he had been dying to rub one out since he woke up tied against The Wolverine. He grasped himself firmly and gave a few tugs to get fully hard before teasing over the tip. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth as tried to stifle his whimpers. He worked over his shaft as he recalled how Logan had smiled during their scuffle in the Honda, how his blood had dripped onto the older man’s cheek and into his mouth – on those fangs. Logan had licked the blood off with an almost feral look in his eyes before launching him through the sun roof. Fuck. He wasn’t going to last with how pent-up he was. His grip tightened as he sped up his ministrations. He remembered the kiss after saving the multiverse as he came with an embarrassingly desperate groan. Logan had kissed him back. Had held him close. Yet when all was said and done, he had been ready to leave Wade behind. What a confusing, grumpy hunk. With a shaky exhale he turned off the shower.

Wade towelled off and got dressed. His chosen PJ’s for the night were lavender shorts and a Hello Kitty crop top. Hey – crop tops were invented by male bodybuilders to get around gym attire rules, so never let anyone tell you men can’t wear crop tops. With dramatic zeal, Wade threw open the door and strutted out of the bathroom. He was not expecting to have two pairs of hazel eyes looking right at him. One in disdain and one in… appraisal?

Laura. Laura was on his sofa. Why was she here? Oh god… did Laura hear him jerking off?!

“Oh.” Wade squeaked, mortified as his body tinged a dark red. “Hi there.”

The girl, so much like her father, grunted in response and turned away. Speaking of, Logan had yet to tear his eyes away and if Wade saw correctly, he seemed to be… sniffing?

“Enjoy y’shower, Red?” The smirking fucker asked, then gestured towards Laura, “The TVA just dropped her off. She has nowhere to crash so Althea kindly offered her y’spot on the bed.”

Wade gasped and marched round to stand in front of the pair, “What? Where am I supposed to sleep? On the floor?”

“I’m not going to make y’sleep on the floor in y’own home, Wade. Y’ll be bunking with me on the sofa.” Logan patted the free space next to him.

Wade stiffly sat down in the offered seat and whispered incredulously to the older man, “What about my bedtime cuddles?”

“I’m sure y’can make do without.” Logan deadpanned but that infuriating smirk was still plastered on his face.

It was quite the jump from it just being Wade and Al in the shitty one bed apartment to there now being four people in the space of a few hours.

Wade huffed and crossed his arms, “We need to find a bigger apartment… Anyone feel like Chinese food?”

There was a chorus of agreement. Wade took Al’s phone off the coffee table and opened up the delivery app he used most, his favourite Chinese take-out was top of the recommended list. He put in what he and Al usually ordered then passed the phone to Logan. His former eyebrows shot upwards as the bi-centenarian successfully navigated the menus and selected what he wanted. It was Laura who seemed perplexed by the menu and the food listed. It was a sweet moment, watching Logan awkwardly explain what everything was when asked. Despite being virtually strangers, there looked to be a genuine connection forming already. Kin recognising kin on that instinctual level only Wolverines can experience. Wade took the time to tell Al and Laura all about the epic battle in the streets and how they saved the world with the power of hand holding as they waited for their food to arrive.

“You know Peter will have told everyone by now that you’re back with company,” Al remarked, petting Mary Puppins who had situated herself on the elderly woman’s lap. “They’ll be over tomorrow, I just know it.”

Wade felt Logan go rigid beside him, was he worried about Negasonic and the other X-men in his makeshift family? Oh, that was going to be a weird meeting wasn’t it. Not because they’d be seeing a ghost of their Wolverine, no. Their Wolverine was still alive and kicking, after all it’s twenty-twenty-four at the moment not twenty-nine which was when his timeline’s Logan was scheduled to die. See, Wade had used that TVA device to jump forward in time and exhume his remains because for the TVA all timeline events are happening simultaneously. So these X-men would be seeing a stranger who looked like their Logan, and Logan would be seeing the faces of those he had already lost in his world knowing he was going to lose them here too. Wade made a silent vow to keep Negasonic, Yukio and Colossus away from Westchester when the time comes. He liked those ones.

…Wait. All that timey-whimey stuff meant that Paradox, the dickhead, was going to set off the Time Ripper five years before this timeline’s OG Logan was meant to die. Was he really so impatient to ‘prune’ the timeline that he wasn’t willing to waiting for the self-sacrificing fuck to actually do the thing?

“Everyone except Weasel – his actor has multiple sexual assault allegations against him and that’s not a good look for us,” Wade interjected in a most likely misguided attempt to lighten the mood. All it got him, however, was Laura and Logan staring at him. “Hey, I don’t keep people like that in my social circle. I’m a good boy. Consent is sexy and if someone doesn’t take no for an answer, stab ‘em. Solves everything.”

Laura nodded at the sagely advice then looked towards the door and stood up seconds before knocking resounded from the entry way. Wade handed her the tip money as she walked by to answer. Food secured, Wade stood up, washed up some cutlery that would be needed and handed them out as Logan helped Laura to sort out the food and Al turned on the TV – Golden Girls was already playing. They mostly ate in silence whilst Wade made comments about the episode that was met with “Shut up” from various people. It wasn’t long until Al was retiring for the night and taking Laura with her to sort some things to wear. The girl was briefly sent out with bedding, blankets and spare pillows for the sofa.

“We should probably get the bed set up, sounds like we’re in for a long day tomorrow,” Wade suggested while clearing away the take out containers.

“We should… but we still have those beers from the shawarma place. In the fridge, if y’d like to have them now,” Logan offered, collecting up the dirty cutlery to put in the already overflowing sink. He grunted at the sight of it.

Wade retrieved said beers and handed one to Logan who released a single claw and used it to pop the cap off. He then did the same to Wade’s, who found that all too attractive, he had to think of puppies being kicked to stop himself from popping a boner then and there.

“Cheers. To saving the world!” Wade toasted, clinking his bottle against Logan’s.

“To saving y’world,” Logan grumbled, immediately taking a deep swig.

“Any particular reason you wanted to share a drink with me, Peanut?” Wade asked, sitting back down on the cushion he had previously occupied, eyes following Logan as he sat on the opposite side of the sofa with legs spread. Slut.

“Deserve it after the shit we’ve been through. Not everyday people like us nearly die.” Logan answered, gesturing between them.

“Thank you, by the way, for not letting me face death alone in the end. Despite the noble sacrifice, I wasn’t lying when I said I was scared,” Wade said, shifting in his seat to bring both his feet up. It just never felt right to have them on the floor.

Logan growled, “Couldn’t exactly let y’. As I said, I had nothing left to live for. Would have left me stranded here with no fucking clue who anyone was if y’had succeeded. Asshole move on y’part.”

Wade nursed his beer as Logan spoke. Truthfully, he hadn’t thought that far ahead in his rushed plan to save everyone. He placed his drink on the coffee table and tried looking anywhere but at the man casually spread across his sofa. Candid moments came as naturally as bottoming to him. Not at all.

“In that moment, when you offered yourself up and held that picture, I thought I needed to save those I cared about. Apparently, in the three fucking days we’ve known each other for, you became the tenth person in my world. Saving everyone meant saving you too – despite the stabbing each other.”

The silence that came afterwards made him uncomfortable, had him reaching for his beer to keep his mouth busy. He could hear Logan gulping down his before hollow glass clinking on MDF resounded through the room with an accompanying sigh. Wade finally looked at the other man, who just seemed tired. Ready to call it a night.

“What’s done is done, Bub. Just glad we both survived to see another day.” Logan pointed to the mostly full bottle in Wade’s hands, “Y’gonna finish that?”

“Oh, uh yeah. Hang on.” In a similar display to what Logan had done in that dive-bar he dragged him out of, Wade necked the bottle of beer, some of the liquid dribbling out the corner of his mouth. He impressed himself with how he managed to chug it down without needing to breathe – he thought those binge drinking muscle memories had long since faded. Once empty, Wade lowered the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His gaze drifted over to Logan whose eyes, which were darker than usual (but that may have been down to the lighting), were locked on Wade’s throat.

“You good there, Honey Badger?”

Logan blinked a couple of times and shook his head, “Yeah just… just lost in thought. Let’s get the bed set already.”

Wade nodded and picked up their bottles, depositing them in a plastic bag that contained other used glass items. He then manoeuvred the coffee table out of the way so Logan could pull the bedframe and mattress out. It all felt rather domestic; pulling the bottom sheet into place, setting up the blankets and pillows together. The lights were turned off and the two men got under the covers. Wade really did try to go to sleep but for all his effort he was left tossing and turning.

“Will y’quit it? Is your ADHD so severe you can’t stay still even in your sleep?” Logan groaned, arm slung over his face.

“I wasn’t lying about needing bedtime cuddles, Logi Bear,” Wade hissed back.

Logan huffed and threw the arm closest to Wade over the younger man, “Fine. Y’can cuddle this arm. But just the arm.”

“Yay!” Wade cheered, eagerly rolling onto his side and wrapping his limbs around the offered arm like it was a tree to be climbed. “Goodnight, Wolvie.”

“G’night, Bubba.”

Did he just fucking call me Bubba?!

Wade was out like a light, the physical contact anchoring his racing thoughts enough to drift off peacefully.

That’s where you’re gonna leave it? I thought we were going to Pound Town?! THIS IS RATED E DAMMIT!

This was getting too long for a oneshot Wade. You’ll still get your trip to Fuckville don’t worry. It’s not tagged slowburn. Now go the fuck to sleep and I’ll see you next chapter.

#deadpool and wolverine #poolverine #deadpool x wolverine #deadclaws #deadpool

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notiddygxthgf · 11 months

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★ pairings: suguru geto x satoru gojo, satosugu

★ synopsis: Suguru Geto struggles with letting people in after leaving a three-year-long abusive relationship. Enter Satoru Gojo, the boy who doesn't seem to take no for an answer.

★ c.w.: slow burn, mutual pining, explicit sexual content, dub con elements, implied/referenced rape/non-con, mahito is a real abusive asshole, past relationship(s), past abuse, recovery, hurt, comfort, vent fic, based on my shitty ex, my therapist told me it'd be a good idea idk, im a good writer I swear, brought to u by the bch who wrote best friend's brother!choso, sexual tension, new love, fluff, angst, smutt, graphic, psychological trauma, theres a happy ending in here I swear, angst with a happy ending, psychological trauma, PTSD, idiots in love, sexy smut I swear.

★ a/n: NGL I kinda hate how this turned out. but! it had to be done! I had to get it out of the way. the way I think this is gonna work is past flashbacks first, present time next. it's gonna prob alternative between the two for a while. comment your thoughts! let me hear u! feel free to slander mahito... he plays the shitty ex.

★ w.c.; 3.4k

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𝐔 𝐍 𝐅 𝐎 𝐑 𝐓 𝐔 𝐍 𝐀 𝐓 𝐄 𝐀 𝐈 𝐋 𝐌 𝐄 𝐍 𝐓

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

PROLOGUE

2019. MONTH UNKNOWN.

I WAS ONLY 12 YEARS OLD the first time I tried to kill myself. In retrospect, I can’t possibly imagine what could have been so important to little me that he firmly believed he would rather die than live without it. I wish I could say that I had a difficult life. That simply was not the case. I grew up with two loving parents and a kind brother, in a small town where every friend I’d ever had was within a mile of me at any given point in time. We weren’t rich, but we most certainly weren’t poor. I had everything a child could ask for and so much more.

Again, I wish that I could say I had a difficult life, but that simply was not the case.

It’s just that I’ve had these… thoughts for as long as I can remember. An unfortunate ailment, if you will. No matter what I did, there always seemed to be something missing. Something I felt I would spend my whole life searching for – or at least trying to supplement.

At 12 years old, I planned my first attempt.

It didn’t work.

So, now, faced with the unbearable burden of deciding what I was going to do for the rest of my life, I chose to pursue a childhood dream of mine. I wanted to go to school to become a doctor. I didn’t know what kind, per se, but I knew that I wanted to heal.

Maybe I thought, I don’t know… that if I healed enough people, I may have been rid of the ailment – healed, myself.

So I left my small town, enrolling in an academy 30 minutes away from the house. I got into their Healthcare program. Again, what more could a kid want?

Yet the void inside of me only grew larger, more ravenous. I lost touch with all of my small town friends – one by one. I had no one.

But I was pursuing my passion, right? Why wasn’t it enough?

It was in that godforsaken academy that I met him.

“Pick a card,” he asked me. His grey eyes were so sharp, even then. “Any card.”

I glanced down at the fanned-out deck in his pale hand, eyes crawling over the many different suits and shapes before eventually settling on an ace. I pulled the card out.

Ace of spades. I tried to memorize it. I also, coincidentally, tried my best to ignore the incessant thrum of my racing heartbeat against my veins, my arteries, my chest. He was sitting so close to me.

It was just the two of us in the hallway. Just me and him and the infinite space between us, the small gap between my right shoulder and his left.

I handed it back to him. “What are you doing?” I asked.

He slipped the card back into the deck without looking. He shuffled it once, twice, three times. Made a bridge with his hands and let the cards fall back into place. I watched with a remarkable sense of interest.

“Is this your card?” He tucked a stray blue hair behind his ear, producing a card.

I furrowed my brows, about to say something, when I noticed something off about the card. It was different. Where there once was a large blue spade, there now was a small, torn piece of lined paper taped to the surface. The gray lettering on the handwritten note read,

WILL U GO OUT W/ ME?

My eyes went as wide as saucers. My mouth lolled open, lips shaped around his cursed name, “Mahito, I…”

I thought of my parents. I thought of my religious father. What would he say? What would he say if he found out his 14-year-old son was a homosexual?

I thought of my parents, and I bit my lip, “I don’t know if I can… I don’t know. What if my dad finds out?”

Mahito tucked the deck of cards neatly into the pocket of his black cargo pants. His hoodie was rolled up to his elbows, revealing intricate stick-and-poke linework over his forearms. He shrugged, humming, “Who says he has to?”

The tardy bell rang. We were late for first period.

My mouth opened by itself again. At fourteen, I wasn’t so sure I was ready to lie to my father about something so serious. Not yet.

Seemingly sensing my hesitance, Mahito laid a hand on my stiff shoulder. “Hey,” he muttered softly. “Think about it. Give me your answer after school, yeah? We’ll meet here at 3:30.”

And then he slipped away with a quiet, ‘See ya’.

Without confirmation.

In his absence, I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat.

2019 February.

Mahito ran away from home two weeks into our relationship. Ran away without so much as a notice or a warning. Ran away and left me there to assume the worst. He didn’t live in the best area. Perhaps he was staying with a friend? If not, was he dead in a ditch somewhere?

There was no way to tell.

He could have at least told me, I had thought. Then again, would I have tried to stop him? Undoubtedly.

They issued a missing persons alert the day after he didn’t show up. I remember seeing the poster all over my social media, all over the streetlights and posts.

It didn’t seem real. Even as I held the missing poster in my trembling hand, I remember feeling numb. I remember feeling as if this were all some sort of cruel prank, that he would be back just in time for our after-school walk with a smile on his face.

But there he was, smiling up at me from the page in my hand.

MISSING PERSON: MAHITO

Height: 5’8

Weight: 150

Eye color: gray

Hair color: blue

Remarkable features: tattoos on arms

Last seen: February 14th.

I crumpled the piece of paper up, tossing it across my messy bedroom with a sigh. I hadn’t slept last night, and I wouldn’t have slept tonight either.

I sunk into myself, curled into a ball on my twin-sized mattress – the same one I’d had for as long as I could remember – and cried. I was utterly inconsolable. I cried until my voice was hoarse, until there were no more tears left to cry.

Until my phone buzzed.

I assumed it was another homework notification. I didn’t check. What did it matter? In my eyes, my world had stopped spinning. It had stopped the moment he ran away.

But it buzzed again, and again.

It was then that I realized I was getting a call. Begrudgingly, I picked my phone up off of the bed. I turned it over. The screen was lit up with the words ‘NO CALLER ID’.

I wanted to hang up. Desperately. Wanted to save myself a shred of peace and dignity and move on with my night – in hindsight, I probably should have just hung up when I had the chance. But, no, I felt something in my gut call out to me.

Against my better judgment, I answered, “Hello?”

The line crackled. “Suguru?”

Suguru.

My heart leapt up into my throat. With wide eyes, I answered again, “Who’s this?”

“Suguru, it’s me, Mahito,” He sighed with relief, like he hadn’t expected me to pick up. Truth be told, I hadn’t expected it either. “I’m sorry I couldn’t call you sooner, my love. I’m calling you from a phone booth right now.”

My love. The nickname sounded like honey coming from his lips, but I knew it was laced with venom. Still, as would seem to be the trend, I was weak for it.

My eyes began to water again, somehow. “Where are you?”

I knew better than to call him ‘baby’. Not when my father was sleeping in the room next to mine.

“I can’t tell you that right now,” He answered. Of course, he couldn’t. There always seemed to be something he was hiding from me. I didn’t see it that way back then. “Look, I don’t have much time to talk, I–”

“I’ve been worried sick about you, Mahi,” I spoke again. I felt numb. So numb. “Please, just–”

“I stole ten grand from my mom,” He cut me off. “I’m running away from home. The abuse, it’s just– I can’t. I can’t, anymore.”

His mother was a real piece of shit. I knew that. She never wanted Mahito, not as a single mother. So she tried multiple times to be rid of him – beating him senseless with hangers and wires and even going so far as to attempt to poison him on his birthday.

Still, ten grand was a lot of money.

Stolen.

“I’m on the run from the cops, I– I think they’re trying to find me,” He panted into the microphone. “You can’t tell anyone, okay? You gotta lie for me.”

I felt sick. Sick to my fucking stomach.

“I’m sorry, I…” I trailed off, holding back vomit. “Hold on.”

I ran to the bathroom and promptly emptied the contents of my stomach into the sink. I had just eaten mac and cheese an hour or so ago, and the vomit was tinted yellow. I could still see a few noodles here and there, only partially digested.

It made me want to hurl again.

“You okay?” he asked me.

“Am I– No, I’m not fucking okay, Mahito! First, you run away without–” I had to swallow bile a second time. I felt it burn as it slid back down my throat. “You could have fucking warned me , or something, and now you’re calling me at eleven at night to tell me you’re fleeing the fucking cops?”

He paused. “I know,” he said. “I know, I’m sorry. You know I love you.”

And immediately, like some sort of magic trick, I felt my exterior soften. I didn’t even care that we were only a few weeks into our relationship. He was my first. It was like he knew the effect he had on me.

“Suguru,” he said again. “I love you.”

His words were like honey. I took a spoonful.

“I love you, too,” I sighed into the receiver.

“You’ll keep quiet about this for me, right?”

I was weak for him, as always.

“Okay,” I said.

I found myself sitting at my desk in the middle of the day, struggling to concentrate on the lesson. The classmates at my table – more like a group of desks placed together – were talking about the missing boy.

My missing boy.

They were talking to me, actually, but I had long since tuned them out. It was all a blur for me – a blur of faces and voices and words I didn’t want to hear.

“He’s a freak,” The boy across from me, Choso Kamo, remarked. “If I were you, I’d break things off before it’s too late.”

Choso’s critical words sent a sharp pang right through my rotten heart.

“Exactly,” My friend, Shoko, chimed in. She was a pretty thing, about a few inches shorter than me with brown hair up to her chin. She always looked so tired . I wonder if she recognized that I felt the same. “He’s got some serious issues. Guys like that rarely make for healthy relationships.”

Choso leaned in, leaned over the desk to offer more of his thoughts, “You can’t just ignore the fact that more people are catchin’ on, either. What if your dad finds out? You know he thinks that… kind of stuff is wrong.”

Choso was Shoko’s friend. He wasn’t homophobic. A little misguided, but he had the spirit. Hell if he weren’t a raging heterosexual, I might have even gone for him instead. He had that look I liked – sleepy, downturned, dark eyes framed by messy bangs. He never wore colors. He was content to make a statement in black. Black eyeliner, black shirt, black doc martens, black hair done up into two messy pigtails.

It was his signature look.

Our classmates didn’t take too kindly to ‘emos’ like him, though. He was an outcast. Hell, we all were. That’s why we sat together, after all.

The harsh opinions of my classmates threatened to erode my self assurance. I knew people were talking – people always talked. I knew the hushed whispers of my name as I walked past people and cliques in the mornings on my way to class weren’t a hallucination.

I knew I had to stand by my boyfriend. I knew I had to stand by Mahito, but the weight of their disapproval put a strain on my shoulders. Does anyone want to hear that their friends don’t approve of their partner?

Admittedly, he wasn’t a very good partner. He had demonstrated that much in the first few weeks of our relationship. I knew he wasn’t good for me, but, fuck, I wanted to try. I wanted to make things work so badly that I ached for it. Everyone else knew he wasn’t good for me, too.

But, fuck, was I naive to wish I could prove them all wrong?

In my eyes, he was only misunderstood. The ghosting, the red flags, the alarming behavior… I could see past it all because I loved him. My first love. No one understood him the way I did. How could I blame them for their concerns?

It didn’t matter how many voices I had in my ear telling me it was wrong. Soon, he would come home to me, and I would feel his skin against my cheek as I hugged him hello. That’s all that mattered.

How could that be wrong?

“It’s not wrong. How could it be?” I kept my gaze trained on my desk. My vision was blurry, unfocused. My mind felt numb and detached. I muttered. “I love him. He loves me, too. He told me he did.”

He did.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Choso and Shoko exchange a dubious look.

They didn’t understand him the way I did.

“He told me he loved me,” I repeated the words like a mantra, like a reminder to myself that I was fighting for something.

That as long as I was loved by him, I would be okay.

He called again that night. Earlier, this time, at nine o’clock.

I was in the shower at that time, curled up on the floor, sobbing into my arms. The water streamed past my shoulders, my arms, my nose. I glanced over at the screen through blurry eyes.

NO CALLER ID.

I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath.

Then, I let the call ring.

Current Day.

[12:13 PM]

[Automated]: you have 3 new messages. Play back?

[USER] Selected:

[NO] ...

... [View Inbox]

...

[ Last 6 Years ].

[REPLAY>>] Message from 'Blocked Number'.

Transcription:

" Suguru, this is me, Mahito. I don’t know if you can hear me or not– I don’t know if anyone can hear you or not, so please use headphones, or something, I don’t know. I just wanted to call and make sure you’re okay. I’m gonna try and call you later. Right now you seem to not be answering your phone for some reason. Doesn’t matter, though. I’m not in a really good place, right now, I’m… surrounded by a lot of people. So, um.. I just wanted to say that I love you, and I’ll call you a little bit later, okay? Bye– kisses…….”

[End of Transcription]

[Automated]: Would you like to play the next message?

[ Yes. ]

“ Suguru, is this– this is me, Mahito. Um.. I just wanted to say that I’m okay. Nothing has happened to me yet. I’m perfectly safe. I’m in a laundromat somewhere. And, uh, I said I love you… I don’t know why you’re not answering my calls… You know that I always try to text you whenever I can– and try to… call you, but… I don’t know, maybe you’re too depressed, or some shit. Maybe you’re mad at me. I understand. I– what I did was wrong, I… What I did was idiotic, and what I did was stupid, and shitty… And I understand if you’re mad at me and you don’t wanna answer my calls. So, yeah, I gues… I’ll try to call you again tomorrow.

If you’re hearing this voicemail, but you probably won’t, um… I just want you to know that I love you. And I’m trying to do my best just… to see you again. You like pizza, don’t you? How about we do a pizza date sometime, yeah? Somewhere around next week, maybe. Huh? How about that? Sounds cool, right? Yeah, yeah it does. Um, anyway, I… gotta… I gotta go. I have to… do some things. Uh… uh… at least I love you.

And, I– I might not have brought much with me, but I have the little stuffie that you gave me. It’s in my book bag. Not gonna take it out because people are gonna know what my things look like. I’m always gonna keep these memories close to my heart. I don’t care what anybody says. Even if I go to prison, I’m taking this shit with me. Alright? Um, I guess that’s it. And… last thing? I love you.

Please, answer me. If you’re calling, that means you actually care, but if you don’t, then… it’s fine. Don’t recall this number. I’m not gonna respond. This is just some random guy’s phone. Okay? Um… I love you, and please stay safe. Please don’t worry, I’m still alive. I miss you. Okay, bye, I love you.”

[End of Voicemails Received on February 18th, 2019].

[Automated]: Would you like to replay the messages?

[ No. ]

[ Delete ] > [ All messages from {Blocked Number}]

[Automated]: Are you sure?

[Yes]

[Automated]: Deleting all messages from {Blocked Number}.

THE WIND BLEW IN HEAVY from below, sending a plethora of leaves flying out in all directions. As I knelt down to test the current with my fingers, my boots sank deeper into the muddy riverside.

I sat on the bench in front of the riverbed. Wiping my fingers dry on the fabric of my denim jeans, I took a moment to take in my surroundings. The park was mostly empty, save for a few teenagers

The water always looked pretty this time of year. For a few moments, you stood there drinking in the sight of it.

In the present, I sat alone in front of the serene lake, surrounded by the picturesque beauty of nature. Lush green trees lined the shore, their leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. The scent of damp earth and the distant call of birds created a peaceful atmosphere, contrasting with the turmoil in my mind.

I watched as groups of carefree teenagers ran around, their laughter and joy a stark contrast to the heavy weight I carried in my heart. A deep sigh escaped my lips as I averted my gaze towards the shimmering water.

I wished for the water to possess the power to cleanse me, to wash away the burdens that weighed on my soul.

The sound of the water rushing past was almost deafening, drowning out the laughter of the teenagers. It consumed my thoughts, leaving me with an overwhelming feeling of dread and isolation. I yearned for the water to offer solace, as if it held the key to absolution and a fresh start, but it remained an unsettling reminder of my own inner turmoil.

I had a vision every time I came here for some peace of mind. It was the same vision every single time. It plagued me every time I found myself in front of the water. It was an image of me, standing at the water's edge, and then, with a deep sense of despair, throwing myself into it, sinking into the abyss and drowning.

As I sat there, the scenery around me seemed to blur, and the vision of my drowning self played on a loop in my mind, a relentless nightmare that I couldn't escape. The lake, which should have been a source of tranquility, had become a symbol of my pain and a relentless reminder of my inner struggles.

It seemed to call to me. I could almost hear the wind carry my name.

Suguru.

The water always looked pretty this time of year. I sat there watching it for a moment too long, wondering what it would feel like to be enveloped by the cold current, to feel it wash me away.

And, again, the sound of the current grew louder. Deafening. Consuming me.

a/n: l comment and lmk what u think pookiesss

comments + reblogs are greatly appreciated!!

I obviously do not own jjk or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

taglist: @missphanosaur18 , @bontensbabygirl, @megumissunshine, @chocoyanchan, @littlelovebug98, @lucisimpongod, @xochyw, @jaegerstan222 , @electro-supremacy, @mellytheteddy, @clover0310 , @soraya-daydreams, @priussy, @insanehumantinker, @staygoldsquatchling02, @nonksity, @hinata7346, @chososwhoresblog, @mindurownbussines , @hearts4sid , @simplefools , @ynjimenez

wanna join the taglist?| mlol; chapter index

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bonefall · 9 months

Note

I think Nightcloud's Thaw (assuming you keep that title) is a great idea not only because your Nightcloud is so interesting and because she as a character deserves more spotlight, but also because it would be interesting to see Crowfeather begin to change from her perspective. After all, you said it was a surprise he offered to help save Breezepelt at all- and what better way to show that than for us to not be inside his head when he makes the decision to offer to help?

I'm feeling more and more confident about it. I think BB!Nightcloud is absolutely the best choice of a character to observe the events of "Crowfeather's Trial," now Nightcloud's Thaw.

Nightcloud's Thaw is an okay title for now, but I want to bat around some more names.

It's meant to invoke the way her life begins to turn around, after Crowfeather's exile; beginning with that reveal, how Crowfeather's behavior reaches a breaking point in the Clan, her reputation turn-around, and finally accepting Crowfeather's help in aiding Breezepelt.

So "thaw" is one way to put it... but if I could capture something more related to the change of seasons or time, that would be good too. Nightcloud's Daybreak, Nightcloud's Horizon.

We can go through Nightcloud's process of unlearning with her.

The dread and fury at the reveal, the shock when Crowfeather actually sees a consequence, and the way that suddenly the Clan is sympathetic towards her in a way they'd never been

How this newfound empathy feels somewhat insulting to her, but, how it helps her start to realize that she DOESN'T deserve how Crow treats her.

Makes it easy to truncate most of OotS, can quickly be described as "they stayed together slightly longer, but if it wasn't dead, their relationship was quickly dying."

And really get to the meat of the story with how Crowfeather deflecting the blame of their son's Dark Forest training on her was the LAST straw. For everyone. Including Crowfeather himself.

(I think I'll actually change around the fight in the BOTTE to be Breeze attacking CROW, and Lionblaze STOPS him. Because killing his pathetic dad, in the end, wouldn't fix anything and would ruin his life forever. Really change it to stress that no one likes Crowfeather because of how he keeps treating people. If Crow wants to turn that around, he has to CHANGE.)

(Plus, something just feels nice about letting the two have a bond. Something about how they were both pulled out of the dirt at the Kitty Olympics and washed clean by Nightcloud, starting this deep, brotherly bond somehow. I'll have to revisit this.)

Nightcloud alone can link the way that Crowfeather is trying to change himself, AND the way Breezepelt is getting worse, in the way I want

She's cautious of Crowfeather, for good, obvious reasons. He hurt her, and has only ever used her good faith as leverage against her.

And she's charitable to Breezepelt, because she knows exactly what pain is behind his rash, emotional behaviors.

SO I can frame them both in the way I want through her eyes.

Plus, I need a place to put her childhood. If it's not here, I wouldn't have a good spot to put it.

I could link all the flashback segments with having Addersong pass away, since he would be VERY old at this point. It could be very bittersweet for her

She spent so much time away from her beloved mentor, who taught her so much.

She could have had so many wonderful years with him, his advice, and his songs. But now he's an elder in his last moons

All because she let her heart be hardened after the death of her family. Pain lead her astray so many times...

I'll probably rework a LOT of the stoat stuff. I know right away there's a lot of actions in CT I want to rip away from Crowfeather and hand over to Breezepelt; a lot of the loud, openly argumentative moments he has with Onestar for example. SHOW the way that Breezepelt interprets Harespring/Darkseeker's diplomatic responses as "sniveling and traitorous" to him.

Have Nightcloud be trying to bridge this gap between Breezepelt and his Clanmates with her new reputation, and it just not working.

Maybe shuffle Nightcloud's disappearance near the end of the book, around the time that the Kin appears. Show that his mother being suspected dead was a BIG reason Breezepelt made such an emotional choice to join the Kin, and bring his other allies with him.

#Nightcloud's Thaw #Better bones au #In the Tunnel Rescue of BB!AVOS I have a CLEAR scene in my head where they're all escaping #And Breeze is harangued by a 'bully' character who antagonizes him all series long in the Kin #And just as he's forced onto his back in the leaf litter in a brawl #Nightcloud SURGES out of the tunnel-- the first of Harespring's team-- and CLOCKSS that bully #TAKEN OUT BY THE WORD GO #ANNOUNCER CHEERS #ITS NIGHTCLOUD WITH THE STEEL FIST #She can be the only cat on the screen EVER who punches another cat and knocks them CLEAN outcold LMAOO #And then the others stream out and reveal the Rescue Team which was Heather and Hare's plan all along #But Nightcloud gets to be the first one out #Sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel is an oncoming train #And sometimes it's Nightcloud #Same thing.

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zacki0gaming · 3 months

Text

My TPC Circubit’s Reoccurring Memory Deeper Analysis

Hey Everyone! I want to try and go a deeper analysis on the “Circubit's Reoccurring Memory” short video! ^_^

Firstly, let’s analyze the key elements of this short.

Key Elements

1. Circusic’s Desperation:

Circusic: "Huh? W-where is it!? It was right here!"

In the beginning of the video, it first shows a sense of urgency and panic coming from Circusic’s confusion and alarm state, indicating him being in a critical situation here. This was because of him trying to find some unknown item that has been taken or moved, which escalates his desperation.

2. Iris’s Father’s Accusation:

Iris’s Father: "I knew it. You were only here to take what's precious to this castle.":

Circusic: "No! Th-that's not true! You got it all wrong, j-just let me ex-":

After Circusic noticing this “item” that he is trying to steal here, Iris’s father showed up an accuses him for trying to take what is precious to the Royal Castle. This accusation shows significant conflict here between the relationship of Circusic and Iris’s father.

I think Circusic’s attempt to explain here suggests that he is trying to portray himself of being misunderstood and falsely incriminated. He appears that he is wanting to try and lie his way out of this accusation as quickly as possible, but regardless, I don’t think that would be enough in this type of situation.

3. Punishment and Judgment:

Iris’s Father: "QUIET! There is no excuse for this! We all trusted you!":

Iris’s Father: "You need to pay the price. A dastard like you don't deserve to live.":

When Circusic was being unjustly accused or likely lying he’s way out of his interaction Iris’s father for his actions here, Iris’s father’s anger and authority are evident, showing him alongside his family feels deeply betrayed. His refusal to listen to Circusic indicates a rigid stance and possibly a history of mistrust or conflict.

Iris’s father’s harsh judgement underscores the gravity of the situation in hand. Not only that he calls Circusic a “dastard”, it implies him being cowardly and stupidly enough to treacherously come inside the Royal Castle, thereby risking a death sentence at the hands of the royal family, from the king himself.

4. Circusic’s Plea:

Circusic: "Wait! p-please wait!! STOP!!!":

Circusic’s frantic pleas for mercy indicate his fear and desperation, highlighting his vulnerability and the life-threatening danger he faces as a consequence for coming to steal something so precious that belongs to the royal family.

Wait a minute… I’m not done let for this section…

The Aftermath Of Circusic’s Plea

I would like to present one of the artworks from Season 2 that I captured through a screenshot before the episode's premiere in October 2023. In this artwork, it depicts Circusic being wounded by Iris's father and subsequently attempting to escape through the front entrance of the royal castle while bleeding profusely (his blood is seen clearly seen pouring out of him onto the castle’s floor). Eventually succumbing to his injuries, Circusic is presumed to have passed away shortly thereafter. This artwork serves to bridge the gap between the events of the "Circubit's Past" and "Circubit's Reoccurring Memory" short videos within Circusic’s past so far, directly following Iris's father's assault on him.

5. Flashback and Present Connection:

Shift to Circubit

Circusic: "Geez, is this gettin worst?":

After Circusic gets supposedly killed by Iris’s father, the scene transitions to the present time, focusing on Circusic’s corrupted counterpart, “Circubit”, who is experiencing a terrifying flashback from his pure counterpart. Circubit’s reaction from this indicates worsening conditions involving reoccurring flashbacks of Circusic, when he said this final line of dialogue in this video: “Geez, is this gettin worst?”

My Thoughts On Circubit’s Reoccurring Flashback Ability

About this power, it is unclear that Circubit sees different or the exact same memories from his pure counterpart, possibly only traumatic ones. However, this strange ability has further proves to be uncontrollable for Circubit and periodically activates in certain instances throughout the series such as from what we’ve seen in this short and his boss level in Season 2, Episode 2. “A power that something that Circubit can’t seemed to control”.

Symbolism: One thing I like about this mysterious ability is that it symbolizes someone who has PTSD. “Circubit receives a haunting memory from his pure counterpart, Circusic’s demise that appeared to startled him after visiting through it.”

Conclusion/Main Conflict

This short's story concludes its mark by the dramatic shift from Circusic's desperate situation in the past to his corrupted counterpart, Circubit’s present state. It reveals about the lasting impact on the relationship between Circusic and the Royal Family, including Iris’s father, the king in this video.

The main conflict in this short is the confrontation between Circusic and Iris’s father, which centers around deeper underlying themes of accusations of betrayal and the consequences of lost trust. This video sets up the audience, like myself, questioning the true nature of Circusic's actions here and the fairness of Iris's father's judgement.

Was Circusic truly trying to steal something precious, or was there a misunderstanding about his actions?

Theories

I can only think of one, but if you guys have new theories about this short or Circusic’s character that you’ve ever said let, I would generally appreciate to hear it if you ever have the time to do so.

1. The Crown Theory

So my hypothesis may become glaringly evident if proven true, indicating that Brittany Robinson might be intentionally integrating plot elements from the upcoming (shitty and no one gives a fuck about) spin off series, "Iris's Story," into the non-canonical continuation. To begin our analysis, let us examine the artwork featured in the Circusic's Art video. Notably, in the artwork video, pay attention to the item adorning Circusic's head – a crown.

I’m theorizing that when Circusic used to have a better and dependable relationship with the royal family, signifying his significant status within their circles. I can support this by the presence of the crown itself on his head from the artwork video, suggesting that crown belonged to Circusic himself or was previously associated with Iris as a possible replacement.

Subsequently, upon the royal family's discovery of Circusic's transgressions, his reputation and trustworthiness eroded, prompting his desperation to reclaim his standing by attempting to steal back the crown as depicted in the "Circubit's Reoccurring Memory" video. However, Circusic's efforts to recover the crown failed him, potentially due to Iris's father preemptively taking possession of it before Circusic could execute his own theft.

Anyway, thank you guys for listening to another TPC deeper analysis from me!^_^

#the pink corruption #tpc #pink corruption #brittcorruption #jsab tpc #tpc long post #tpc deeper analysis

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questforgalas · 10 months

Text

Now that I've played the MW campaign and am even more unhinged about the MW3 campaign, here are my completely unasked for thoughts on how Activision should've mapped out the games for an at least 6 game story arc

Absolutely no changes. Kyle is a precious muffin. Price is a precious muffin. Alex is a precious muffin. Farah is a queen.

Interesting campaign. Diverse levels. Dynamic and well thought out storyline.

MW2

My baby. The love of my life. My most precious muffin. That campaign? That storyline? Chef's kiss. Ale and Rudy? The best additions. Valeria?? Fucking wonderful. That plot twist?? Grasping my pearls

No changes

MW3

More 141 levels, make the intro levels 141 as a well oiled machine, digging up the intel telling about the prison break. Give more background to what Farah is in the middle of instead of dropping right in especially with fucking Graves suddenly chilling on the comms, bridging that gap between MW2 and here. Take out a good chunk of the Makarov cut scenes and give more levels chasing intel, letting the player put together the pieces with every cold trail Makarov leaves behind, getting frustrated along with the team. Keep the flashback once the team reaches boiling point, but make Ghost less inclined towards Johnny to keep more inline with their reluctant start in MW2.

Shepherd and Graves go off the grid after they give their intel, they disappear. Makarov is making moves in Urzikstan so 141 goes to help ULF (did I mention more 141?). It was a distraction, they uncover Makarov's plans for London, scramble back, it plays out, Price ends up dead (it's a military game, people are going to die, and Price dying had the most potential impact. Come along, I'll explain), Makarov gets away.

Final cut scene is a funeral send off Price deserves, montage of the boys back on base dealing with the aftermath, and Laswell finding Ghost, explaining how he's the Lieutenant, he's the obvious next choice to take up the mantle and Ghost simply says "I'm not the obvious choice" and the final scene pans on Gaz, the Robin to Price's Batman.

The levels will be meatier, longer, and at least 5 more added to deepen the story. Diversity of the play style will be more than just standard campaign and online-layout. The Makarov plot will be discovered by the player, not told to them, adding more intrigue to the character. The final level will be multi tiered, hopping between the two pairs. Actually 8 hours of gameplay instead of the measly 3 they gave us (yes, the MW3 campaign is 3 hours of gameplay compared to MW and MW2s 8 hours each)

MW4

Open to 141 arriving on mission, Soap tapping Gaz on the shoulder and says "Ready when you are, Captain" with that cheeky smile. Makarov's gone dark, eerily quiet the past couple months, but they have a lead on Shepherd and Graves so they're going in. It all points back to Mexico, Graves accepting his military career is fucked after Las Almas and turning Shadow Company into full mercs instead of PMCs now, specializing in weapons dealings. He recognized the advantage a deal with Valeria could have and they've been working together.

CUT TO LOS VAQUEROS/141 REUNION. More Alejandro and Rudy background (just let Alain Mesa, the BAFTA Game Award Nominee for this freaking role, fucking shine). Dive into the Valeria background, make the raid mentioned during her interrogation a flashback level in Valeria's POV. The team has to go undercover to get close to the intel, Rudy gets picked, gathers the intel, but gets compromised. Now its a race to rescue Rudy. Ale and Gaz go after Rudy while Soap and Ghost follow the lead Rudy got them. Ale and Gaz raid a cartel base/prison, let Ale take Gaz under his wing recognizing the young captain's feeling the pressure, some banter, some advice, wholesome Ale and Gaz bonding.

Soap, on the other hand, is barely being contained by Ghost. He's in full attack dog mode with Graves scent nearby and Ghost has half a mind to let the demolition expert go completely feral, but the lieutenant part of him keeps his sergeant in check. Further their dynamic, more banter balancing right on the edge. They clear out the compound, find a gold mine of intel around the dealings, and Johnny gets to put the bullet right between Graves' eyes.

One line in the intel catches their eyes - Makarov

MW5/6

Make the Makrov storyline a 3 game storyline - MW3 intro and back-to-back MW 5 and 6. Now with ties in Mexico and ULF, all established teams and beloved characters can be brought in in some aspect throughout both games to take him down.

Ale and Rudy are cleaning up El Sin Nombre's ties in Las Almas, cutting each line of Valeria's arms dealings, trying to cut off the courier of Makarov's destruction.

Farah continues to lead ULF to free Urzikstan, Makarov taking advantage of the dissent and chaos and placing a foothold there, ultimately dividing forces and efforts from his background machinations.

With Makarov's trail warm again, the 141 are out for blood. Could take the plunge and make GhostSoap canon through subtle dialogue options or touch gestures in cut scenes. The end is possibly near, they're all allowing themselves to think about the future, why not take the plunge Activision? Or they stay vague/platonic and the dynamic is further developed. Dialogue options and cut scenes show further bond with Gaz as well who's stepped into being Captain a little more, easing into the shoes.

MW5 is cat and mouse. Makarov leaves little treats and traps and the team is chasing after their tails, always 3 steps behind him. Give Makarov more scenes, not telling the player his plan but let his character development fly. Let the unhingedness flourish.

Finally, they catch a break at the end of the game and MW6 is the final chase. 8 hours of them hunting down Makarov. Ale and Rudy cleaned up Las Almas and can join them, bringing the whole gang together internationally (bonus points to make one a cold weather mission and the two Mexicans are just bitching the whole time just for Soap and Ghost to tease them back about payback for having to deal with the Mexican desert for a whole week). Two characters would die (not in one game, over the course of the two) - Farah (she's been a fighter her whole life, it would be a full circle for her to heroically go out with a gun in her hand) and either Ghost or Soap.

Soap dying here would be so much more impactful. He'd be more established as a character, have deeper relationships with all members of the game, and it's highly possible to have a situation where a charge isn't going so he's the only one who can pull it off (reminiscent of Hevy in TCW). Going out in a blaze just like he's always imagined.

Ghost dying would be another full circle option with his canon (it would be a sacrificial choice, dying on his own terms as his own choice) and with his long career, it would be heartbreaking but understandable. This also leaves the 141 in the hands of the two youngest, the Captain and the new Lieutenant, tasked with bringing in the next generation of the best soldiers.

And if there just happens to be a cut scene where Johnny has an extra pair of dog tags and a modest ring dangling from his chain? Then you know I infiltrated the Activision writers' room.

Oh what happened to Shepherd you ask? End credits role on MW6 and another cut scene begins. A lone cabin in the middle of nowhere in the woods, smoke trailing out of the chimney. Cut interior, a haggard Shepherd bent over a desk, mumbling to himself, scribbling on something. He tacks the paper on the board in front of him, revealing Gaz and Soap's pictures amidst a mess of strings and maps and notes saying "Traitors". Then it cuts black

Boom, there you go Activision. Enjoy all of your awards and record breaking sales. It could've been that easy

#call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #alejandro vargas #rodolfo parra #farah karim #alex keller #ghostsoap

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amywritesthings · 1 year

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silver underground. / chapter three.

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x F!Reader (Attack on Titan / Shingeki no Kyojin)

Word Count: 3.5K

Chapter Summary: Three months have passed since awakening from your coma. Erwin Smith has finally come to visit Trost to discuss your future in the Scout Regiment.

Warnings: Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, Eventual Romance, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Flashbacks, Friends to Enemies to Lovers

( Read on AO3 )

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

CHAPTER THREE.

Three months come and go.

Pieces of what once was before — what you think your life might have been — come crawling towards your subconscious in abstract visions.

Day dreams, lucid dreams, nightmares — every time you hold an object in your hands that should feel foreign; every time you savor a food that was never new in the first place; every time you step outside to greet the morning sun, you can feel it in your mind’s eye:

A life just out of reach.

You insist on spending as much time outside of the medical wing as Doctor Rini will allow. At first the reluctant agreement from the older man rides on your willingness to use a wheelchair in case of an emergency dizzy spell. They come and go in waves for the first week, but after that initial wave, it never comes back. In no time you switch to an assistance cane, but it barely gets any use.

When you prove you can be steady on your feet then you’re cleared to stay outside for as long as you like.

You bask from morning light to sunset.

The sun glitters over the leaves of trees. It illuminates the stone walls of Trost. It warms the wooden benches you sit upon and cools them in its absence.

You never want to forget what the sun feels like again.

You refuse to.

Albeit abstract, two distinct memories have played like a broken record on repeat, chipped at the edges and worn from time. Over and over the record plays until blurry details become sharper. The feelings become images, the images become clearer, and soon?

Just like Captain Levi’s voice in your head, you hear them — the conversations, the laughter, the voices of people you once knew buried somewhere at the base of your neck, their significance filed away in your bones.

Memories of the Underground City are fleeting but, so far, remain the strongest.

For the first few weeks, you spend your time focused on that one feeling discovered in tandem with your conversation with Commander Erwin: damp. The feeling of cold, chillingly so; disembodied shouts of strangers and the ache of bruised knuckles disrupt your slumber.

Every time the yelling gets too loud, you wake.

Until he appears.

One night a boy — small and meek and faceless — materializes in a dream. He's the first tangible object to look at after a month of colors and sounds.

The little boy sits beside you on a wooden bench floating in a vat of darkness, head-bowed. His mangled dark hair cascades his face from view.

He never looks up.

At first you think it's a fluke, but then he shows up a second time. A third.

You’ve tried talking. You’ve tried shouting.

You never hear your voice echo in this space.

From that point forward, the boy always shows in your dreams about the Underground.

Most of the time he sits without anything in his bruise-battered hands. Sometimes he’ll hold a potato, half gone and rotting. He doesn’t eat it.

But there is that one time: once where he held a loaf of stale bread in an outstretched hand, bridging the gap between you.

This time you’re standing, not sitting, on the bench.

“Can I… sit?” you ask as he leans in to take a timid bite of the bread. The boy pauses, face still obscured from view.

Contemplating.

He slowly nods as if that’s all the energy he has left, so you sit beside him. You cautiously take the loaf of bread from his hands to break it in half.

For what feels like hours you sit beside this strange quiet boy, happy not to be alone in this dream-like state. He continues to eat his portion, plucking pieces with slender, skeleton-like fingers. You can’t look away.

Until a shout scares the both of you out of your skin. A masculine voice rings out, singing a languageless drinking song at the bar eons away. You can only make out the fact that he’s tall.

“Is… that your dad?”

You’re not sure why you asked.

You’re not sure why you assumed.

The boy continues to pick apart what’s left of the little loaf.

You turn your chin to squint towards the drunk tirade, determined to make a new discovery of another solid body, until—

“Is that your mom?” the boy asks in a small croak.

You whip your attention back to him, but the boy no longer exists.

A grotesque woman has taken his place at your side, her face haunted with sullen sockets and thinned teeth.

You jolt in your cot, gasping for air as the darkness surrounding you thins from its thickness to the reality you’re left in: the private room Doctor Rini has moved you to adjacent to the medical wing, plain and cool and safe.

You never see that woman ever again.

The boy leaves for a little while, too, but not all of your dreams are so lonely.

Sometimes there’s laughter, too. Lots of it. Cheering and singing from blurry faces burrowed in a crowded room makes your days feel safe.

Albeit faceless, you note little things: someone fixes their glasses a little too much when they talk; the fiery mop of hair resting on your shoulder as you clean dirty dishes; the touch of a reassuring hand on your arm.

These melodic voices only call you by your last name — is that a cognitive coincidence? Did everyone used to only call you by your last name?

You can’t tell if the people you see are from the Underground or the Scouts, but in these daydreams you can recognize yourself, if only a little: the pride in your face, youthful and headstrong while staring into the mirror where an emerald green cloak encases your body. Ivory trousers. Never-ending swirls of brown leather straps.

The Scout Regiment emblem.

Although Doctor Rini refuses to unearth you your original uniform — he claims you're not ready, even if you could never wear the thing again after how battered the accident left it — your body itches for the tan jacket to cover your back.

(Like the wings of freedom belong there.)

By the second month, you start to run. In circles, up and down stairwells, wherever you’re allowed; Trost District is vast, and despite your limitations on where you’re sanctioned to go, you push and push and push—

You want to keep going.

Beyond Trost.

Beyond Wall Rose.

Beyond the Walls.

(You start to wonder if, in another life, that was all you ever wanted.)

Your hands itch to do something — to hold the handle of a freshly-drawn sword, to tinker with the mechanics of ODM gear, to venture into the stables and grasp the reins of a horse.

Sitting idle and wondering when your memory will return is no longer a viable option. Not when doing, seeing, feeling, produces your best results.

Maybe nothing in this world makes complete sense. Maybe you’ve only built the corner of the puzzle’s outline in your mind’s eye. Maybe you’ll never fill in every gap ever again.

Still — you want to try.

By the third month, you ask Doctor Rini for the location of Commander Erwin Smith’s office. To your dismay, Erwin and his army are nowhere to be found. They’re off visiting what could be the potential pool of candidates of the 104th Cadet Corps.

The good doctor, however, was kind enough to send word to Erwin of your request to meet with him when he’s able.

It takes two agonizing weeks for the Scout Regiment to return to Trost.

“James!"

It’s Nurse Phillipa’s voice that greets you in the courtyard, a place where you’ve taken a liking to exerting yourself during the daytime. Here you’ve trained by yourself for weeks now — between running drills and trying to remember hand-to-hand combinations against malnourished trees, you think your practiced pitch to the Commander may have a leg to stand on.

(A pitch, really, that only an insane person would come up with.)

"He’s back," she adds, sweet and soft.

You stop dead in your tracks, out of breath and drenched with sweat.

“The Commander?”

Nurse Phillipa nods with a gentle smile. “You may wish to clean up before you visit him.”

Your wrapped hand pushes matted baby hairs from your face. “How much time do I have to meet him?”

“Well,” the older woman begins, “I’m not quite sure. Commander Erwin is a busy man—”

“I’ll go now,” you decide, hopping down from your makeshift training perch to walk towards the entrance of Trost headquarters.

“Go now?” she repeats, aghast. “But you aren’t decent!”

No, you’re not, by any stretch of the imagination — you’re dressed in a dirty, drenched tank top and a pair of borrowed trousers. Your boots are scuffed with dirt from the courtyard field and laced with little care.

You cannot find a reason to care.

“I can’t run the risk of missing him.”

“At least clean up a little before—”

“James.”

Your name on the edge of a deep, familiar voice causes you to freeze. Spine straight and shoulders square, you turn on a heel and lift your chin with immediate respect. A tall blonde man stands on the opposite end of the courtyard in a full-length, forest-green trench coat, both hands hidden in deep its pockets.

It takes every ounce of willpower not to smile.

“Commander, sir.”

“At ease.” Erwin Smith hums with approval, removing his left hand to raise and gesture towards you. “You look well.”

“Thank you. I feel well. Better than the last time we met.”

“I'm sure that feels like a lifetime ago.” He nods his chin towards Nurse Phillipa. “Good afternoon, Nurse Phillipa. I received Doctor Rini’s letter and came as soon as I was able."

"I only just notified her of your arrival," Nurse Phillipa tells him.

"Yes, she seems rather preoccupied.”

He means you. Your shoulders drop a fraction in height. “I was trying to make use of my time before your arrival. They said it would take two weeks for you to return to Trost.”

“Your time was meant to be spent resting,” Erwin reminds.

“And I did,” you reassure. “I rested. A lot. I was cleared by Doctor Rini to train. Movement felt better than sitting around doing nothing, sir.”

Erwin regards you with a sidelong glance as he turns on the heel of his boot.

“Do you mind taking a break, then, to converse with me in my office?”

“Now?” You’ve never unraveled your hand wraps so fast. “Sure. Yeah. I can meet with you now.”

“Good.”

You can feel the horrified gaze of Nurse Phillipa creeping up your sweat-slicked back, but you don’t give her a moment’s rest. Head bowed, you quickly follow Erwin as he steps towards the building and down an empty hallway. You wipe the sweat from your brow and pocket the hand wraps, mindful of the hair clinging to your face in a hasty brush before clasping your hands behind your back.

This, by no means, is how you saw this meeting going.

That being said, you can’t imagine the Commander of the Scout Regiment would be wholly sensitive to prim and proper attire when there are bigger fish to fry.

He keeps his back to you, wordless as he walks, and eventually settles his hand on one of two large oak doors. Erwin pushes wide, stepping into a sterile office space. You follow suit.

“Close the door, please.”

You oblige, detaching your hands to press the wooden door to a clicked close.

“You were training quite hard out there,” Erwin says, dropping into a leather chair behind a desk. He gestures briefly with a hand towards the smaller chair sitting opposite of him.

Quickly you cross the room to accept his offer. “I… wanted to be prepared for your return. Doctor Rini told me you were observing the 104th Cadet Corps?”

“I was.” Erwin’s elbows gently kiss the surface of the mahogany desk. “Our newest batch of recruits in the Southern Branch appear promising.”

“That’s good news.”

“Whether they join the Scouts is another subject entirely. Garnering numbers can be difficult.”

“I’m not surprised,” you tell him, shifting in your chair with an honesty you’re not quite sure you should offer. “From what I remember, everyone always used to think the Scouts were just the adrenaline junkies looking to get killed.”

Erwin’s brow quirks. “And what did you think?”

“About the Scouts?” He nods his chin once. “I’ll admit, I… don’t remember my time training in the cadet corps.”

“I imagine you wouldn’t,” he reasons, and you sit up taller, “seeing as you never trained with them.”

Your eyes round ever so slightly. “I didn’t?”

“James, may I ask how much of your memory has returned since we last spoke?” he asks instead, bypassing your question with his own.

Another mystery for another day, it seems.

Your tired hands settle in your lap. “Considering the window of three months, sir, I would say a lot has returned. Emotions, images, though candidly I will admit nothing substantial fits quite yet. I have a lot of pieces, but I just need that spark to put the framework together.”

It’s likely not the answer he wants to hear, but you can’t lie. Not when he knows you.

(When he knows so many people who may be able to corroborate your truths.)

“I see,” he says. “I must say your status within the Scout Regiment has been widely debated on our latest expedition.”

Your fingers toy and fidget over one another out of nerves. “My status, sir?”

He hums. “Whether or not you would be inclined to join, or if you would even want to after going through such a traumatic experience.”

“Commander Erwin, I—”

“I’m inclined to discuss honorable discharge.”

Before you can seal off your emotions from the naked eye, your face falls.

Honorable discharge means you’re stuck behind the Walls forever. Honorable discharge means you can live a quiet life, a full life, when yours almost got cut entirely too short.

Safe.

You may not remember much, but you know one thing: you don’t want safe.

Erwin’s chair squeaks when he shifts it just so, breaking you from your spiraling worry. “But… it appears my theory rings true.”

Wait.

“Your theory, sir?” you return in a small croak.

“I had a feeling you would dislike such a suggestion.”

Your eyes round.

A chance.

He’s giving you a chance to argue your final plea.

“Greatly,” you admit in a rushed breath, and he smirks. “Actually, Commander, I have had a lot of time to think about what it means to once have been a Scout and the life I used to lead and had a suggestion of my own, sir — if you’re willing to listen.”

Then he says the most wonderful thing in his deep, baritone voice.

“I’m all ears, James.”

Showtime: whether he appreciates your plan is neither here nor there, but the Scouts have so little to wager. Erwin cannot stand to lose.

(Just like you. Just like the rest of the Scouts.)

“Put me through training again.”

There is an indiscernible glint in the commander’s eye.

“Again?” he clarifies.

“Yes.” You lean forward in your chair, gripping the arm rests. “You said I didn't go through traditional training? For whatever reason it was chosen to be that way, fine, but we have a chance to do it properly this time." You draw in a short inhale for your speech. "The memories that have come back to me revolve around only two things: where I grew up and where I ended up. I’ve been sitting on the sidelines with Doctor Rini and Nurse Phillipa who know next to nothing about me. The Scouts, however, do. We served together. I almost died for them. Theoretically, it would make the most sense to put me back through training like any other recovering soldier still fit for action. Start from scratch with the cadets, make it modified, whatever you see fit, but it could work.”

(It could give you your entire life back.)

It’s a hopeful, perhaps even a foolish crusade, but you want to try.

Once the silence settles Erwin hums, neither positive or negative, and leans back in his chair.

“What if putting you through training only worsens your health?”

“Then you discharge me and I’ll figure it out from there,” you tell him, “but starting small sounds like the best place to start — sir.”

He sighs, soft and short, before standing. You quickly jump to your feet to follow, shoulders squared and chin tall.

“I’ll give you one thing, James: you have guts.” Erwin tilts his head. “Most soldiers would take the offer of an honorable discharge after going through something as traumatic as memory loss. I’m glad you remain the person I was proud to serve with.”

Warmth floods your system, but you forcefully swallow the smile threatening to project your pride at his statement. Proud to serve with; you were honorable.

(You were worth something.)

“May I ask you something?” he asks after a beat has passed.

You nod. “Anything, sir.”

Erwin looks you dead in the eye.

“Has Captain Levi come to visit you since our initial visit?”

Your blood, once thrumming with praise, runs cold.

Captain Levi — one of the alleged keys to your recovery — has never once stepped foot in this hospital. No letters, no mentions in passing, no walk-by’s from the open door of the wing. In the last three months, the only visitors to your bedside have been Doctor Rini, Nurse Phillipa, and Erwin Smith.

Yet you remember him in detail to the point of scary accuracy, as if your mind won’t let him go.

“No, sir,” you answer, dropping your gaze to the desk.

“Hmm.” As if Erwin expected to hear the opposite. “We returned over two weeks ago from the expedition. I assumed he would have at least attempted once.”

“You were surveying the cadet training, sir.”

“I was,” Erwin confirms, “but he wasn’t.”

You ignore the droplet of sweat dragging down to the slope of your neck. “I don’t think he finds it beneficial to his busy schedule, Commander.”

This is a waste of time.

Levi’s voice still echoes like a ghost possessed to you.

“Well, I do have someone who is interested in seeing you,” Erwin states, leaving the captain to rot on an abandoned file in your mind. “Several, actually, have been asking.”

You perk at the good news, blinking up to the tall blond. “Several?”

“Your old squad. If you’re interested in meeting them, then we can look into starting from the basics. Once we find you a temporary cot and discuss your enlistment — in this case, we’ll use the advantage of the cadet training camp — then go from there.”

Erwin pauses, sliding a manilla paper with a monochrome painting of a bright-eyed woman.

“For the time being, your handler will be Petra Rall. Petra was a close ally to you when you served with the Scouts and has already volunteered to be your guide should you return to the Survey Corps. We can rendezvous at the old scout headquarters so you can meet her and get your bearings, then cart you to train with some of our future potentials.”

You drag the file towards you with two fingertips, curious. Petra’s face feels… inviting. Happy. You smile at nothing in particular when you look at her.

(Is that a sign? Will it all flood back when you meet?)

“—I will be forward with you, James: this will not be easy,” Erwin continues. “Your aptitude tests for dexterity and ODM gear handling must be superb. You’re already ahead of where I would have liked you to be for combat training. Hand to hand, weapons, familiarizing yourself with new technology and titan-repellent devices. I’m going to need you to show to the Commandant that my bet on you is not in vain.”

This is really happening.

You beam proudly at the Commander, smiling widening with every passing beat.

“I won’t let you down, sir,” you promise with everything in you.

“I know,” is all Erwin replies. He blinks to the office door. “Pack any belongings or items approved by Doctor Rini to bring with us. We leave at sunrise tomorrow. You’ll ride with me.”

You could take another lap, perhaps several, around the courtyard.

“Sir. Yes, sir.” Your hand raises to salute him, but you falter before you can reach your chest. “I’ll get started right away with that and meet you in the morning.”

“Good.”

Erwin doesn’t dismiss you beyond that, so you leave his office composed long enough to round a corner. As soon as you're out of sight, you sprint down the hallway with a shining grin on your face.

Hope.

For the first time in three miserable months, all you focus on is this feeling of hope.

Author's Note: Erwin is such a babe. I promise Levi comes back in the next chapter -- and we get to meet some familiar Scout faces! I appreciate anyone who has liked, reblogged, or sent me a message about this story. I've enjoyed writing it so much, and I hope you enjoyed this update!

#levi ackerman #attack on titan #shingeki no kyoujin #shingeki no kyoujin fanfiction #levi ackerman x female reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #attack on titan fanfic #attack on titan fanfiction #wip fic #fanfiction #fanfic #fic: silver underground.#silver underground #amywritesthings

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sweatersexual · 2 months

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I find it really interesting how the one Windrunner ability that Kaladin doesn't have much innate talent for is Adhesion. In RoW we see him improve on using it more in combat situations, but he's also been improving on the spiritual aspect of Adhesion for the whole series.

Adhesion is about binding people together as well as objects. From the WoK flashbacks we can see that as a child Kaladin is terrible at it. Part of it is because his family's postion as the only second nahns in town does isolate them somewhat, but twelve-year-old Kaladin also does not naturally have the social graces it would take to bridge that gap. He's a loner by nature, and he never really forms connections with the people of Hearthstone outside his family. This is partially due to the drama happening with Roshone, but we also see that behind the scenes Lirin and Hesina are able to maintain good relationships with their neighbors despite this. Kaladin is only starting to understand how that works when he leaves Hearthstone to join the army.

Kaladin becomes a squadleader offscreen, so we don't see how he developed into a leadership role aside from what he learned from his sergeant Tukks. We also know he put a lot of work into mastering the spear and that there was a shortage of competent officers in Amaram's army. He and his squad clearly cared for each other, but we don't see how those relationships developed.

By the time he decides to build relationships with Bridge Four, we can see that he's used to interacting with others in a military setting. He tries to use his authority as a bridge leader to make them do strength training, and only after that fails does he realize he can't order people to become a team. And not just any people, these are slaves under a death sentence who have hardly anything to live for.

I think the miracle of Bridge Four wasn't just that those men survived. It was that they formed such strong bonds with one another under such horrible circumstances. Yes, life-threatening situations can bring people together, but they can also make them incredibly risk averse. TWoK shows the mental obstacles they had to overcome too. And I wouldn't be surprised if at least part of the reason they were able to become such a cohesive group was due to the surge of Adhesion. Kaladin came into his own as a leader, but it was also magically enhanced, I think.

I predict that we're going to see Kaladin tap into this power more consciously in Wind and Truth, and it will be key in helping to rehabilitate Ishar. It'll also be really powerful to see this ability that's been among Kaladin's weakest become a massive strength for him. I'm definitely looking forward to seeing it.

#kaladin stormblessed #stormlight archive #bridge four #wat predictions #depressed tall nightmare man

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literallyjustanerd · 10 months

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Snippet Sunday! (Codywan fluff)

Here's a flashback scene from Chapter 5 of Dear Fellow Traveler, a post-Order 66 Codywan fic I wrote because I refuse to let this man's story end off-screen. It also works as a short one-shot on its own, and I am extremely impatient, so you get to read it before the rest of the chapter is done!

The moment the last trooper files out of the war room, Cody makes his move. In three short strides he bridges the distance between them, impatience turning his steps sharp, echoing off the durasteel walls. They had agreed before the briefing to stand back, to let Commander Tano take charge. That alone would have prolonged the affair, but, as usual, General Skywalker was less willing to restrain himself. Shocking. Their bickering had dragged them ten miserable minutes overtime, and eaten into the already minuscule gap they have between meetings. Still, the noise Obi-Wan makes when Cody presses him against the console makes all the waiting worth it. Obi-Wan turns within the cage of Cody’s arms, his hands falling easily into their usual places; one on Cody’s shoulder, the other cupping his cheek.

“Do you pretend to be surprised, just to humour me?” Cody asks, a smirk tugging his brow high. “I thought nothing could get past a Jedi’s intuition.” Obi-Wan laughs, a soft little hum like bees among spring blossoms. Cody wants to kiss him then and there, wants to swallow that perfect sound, but Obi-Wan speaks before he can move.

“I’m afraid this Jedi is suffering the effects of too little sleep and too much…” He trails off, nose crinkling as he looks for a fitting end to the sentence. Even exhausted, even alone with Cody, still determined to maintain his eloquence. Cody can’t help his grin.

“Too much General Skywalker?” he offers. Obi-Wan gives him a shrug and a resigned smile.

“I found another one this morning,” he says, like a petulant child, and it takes Cody a moment to realise what they’re talking about. Once he does, he feels a laugh bubble up from deep in his chest. Again, he leans in, but Obi-Wan swats playfully at his chest before their lips meet.

“It isn’t funny!” he protests. “There’s more of them by the day.”

Cody rather reluctantly lifts one hand from Obi-Wan’s hip to comb through his hair. Sure enough, he finds a few more strands of silver among the auburn. Up this close, Cody can follow the lines worn in Obi-Wan’s brow and around his eye, deeper with his frown. He’s let his beard grow out longer than it used to be. Not that anyone aside from Cody has noticed. It, too, now has one or two greys peppered through it.

“Old man,” he teases, just for the scandalised reaction it gets from his general.

He’s never been able to understand Obi-Wan’s aversion to his own ageing. As far as the clones were concerned, it was a point of pride and a privilege to live long enough to notice signs of age. Besides, as far as Cody is concerned, Obi-Wan only looks better like this. More experienced, more refined. The lines on his face are a tapestry, a testament to years of battle, years of life. He wants to tell Obi-Wan that. To let him know that each grey hair he finds is just proof of another day that Cody falls more in love with him, that every time he smiles all Cody can think about is kissing the creases that grow at the corners of his eyes. But he’s never been as eloquent as his general. And in the moment he hesitates to look for the right words, the chance is stolen from him by the chirp of his commlink.

“Sorry,” he says instead, letting go of the air he had wanted to use to sing Obi-Wan’s praises. His head falls forward, their foreheads pressed together. “Rex is expecting me. New batch of shinies need orientation, and–”

“I understand, my love. It’s alright. I really ought to be going, too. I’m already late for a council meeting.”

Silence falls. Reality is an ambush predator, jumping at its chance, stealing the room. Cody feels its claws sharp in his sides. Heavily, he lifts himself away from the console, forcing his posture straight as Obi-Wan adjusts his robes. They are not unused to this routine of stolen seconds and unfinished conversations, always cut short by their duties. It’s unavoidable, unchangeable, as rigid and unyielding as the armour on Cody’s chest. It’s how things are. It’s how they have to be. Cody can't expect Obi-Wan to shirk his duty to the Jedi, just as Obi-Wan would never dream of keeping Cody from his men. Their love can exist only in whatever gaps the war cares to leave them. A flower growing between jagged rock faces, sparse but stubborn, stealing the raindrops that slip between the cracks and straining to snatch glimpses of sun.

Silently they walk to the door. For a moment, both pause, unwilling to be the one to break the seal and invite the world back in. Obi-Wan finally moves, reaching for the control panel, but Cody grabs his hand instead, making the decision in a split second. He pulls Obi-Wan in by his waist, gripping tight the thin fabric of his tunic. Whatever question was poised to spill from Obi-Wan’s parted lips is stolen when Cody kisses him, deep and driven and sure. Determined that Obi-Wan should feel him there for the rest of the day. His general softens within his arms, melting into the embrace, though his grip on Cody’s forearm is vice-like. They're both breathless when Cody finally decides his job is done. Before he pulls away, though, he chances one final kiss, quick and fleeting, to the crow’s feet at Obi-Wan’s eye.

“You're gorgeous like this,” he says, lips ghosting across skin. “I love you like this.”

Up this close, he can feel the sharp, trembling breath Obi-Wan lets out, hot against his neck. Speechless at last. Cody grins, gives himself the indulgence of a few more seconds to bask in the sun. Then, he moves. Lifts his hand from Obi-Wan's waist. He puts a strategic foot of distance between himself and his general, clears his throat, rolls his shoulders, and opens the door to let the world pull them apart once more.

#codywan #codywan fic #codywan fanfic #codywan fluff #sw tcw #obi wan kenobi #commander cody #drabble #sw tcw fanfic

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xalygatorx · 7 months

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Unbound | Chapter 20, "Oathbreaker"

Áine Ts'sambra—a wayward half-drow bard with a painful past—has her world upended when she's snatched up by a Nautiloid ship and furnished with a tadpole to the brain. In her journey to remove the infestation before it can turn her and her newfound companions illithid, she not only finds that their solution has more layers to parse through than she can count, but that a particular vampire in her party does as well.

Unbound is an ongoing generally SFW medium-burn romance based in the world of Baldur's Gate 3 between Astarion and a female OC. Any NSFW content will be marked in the Warnings section. Contains angst, fluff, explorations of trauma, spice, graphic fantasy violence, and a guaranteed happy ending.

For anything additional on what to expect (and not expect), check the preface post.

Summary: Áine explains her past connections to Moonrise Towers and Ketheric Thorm to their companions as her anxiety mounts at the prospect of returning. She’s met with pushback from Wyll, which triggers her into anger before she can stop it. Áine meets with Jaheira again privately, explaining her hesitation to face Ketheric again and how she fears that she might sabotage the mission if he somehow recognizes her. Considering making the journey alone to spare her loved ones, Áine finds herself in a conversation with Halsin as he tends to the comatose Flaming Fist. The former Archdruid offers her comfort and perspective.

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC

Warnings: Angst; descriptions of feeling triggered and trauma-based anxiety; forced shared flashbacks via the tadpole connection by the illithid tadpoles (it’s an assault on the group but primarily on Áine); fragmented traumatic flashbacks that imply past violence, abuse (physical and verbal), and include grief (Áine); descriptions of pain and blood; suicidal ideation if you squint; lightly proofread

Word Count: 8.3k

Listening to: Funeral Bell - PHILDEL

A/N: The section that includes the forced flashbacks is written in a way that may be, but hopefully isn’t confusing (and if it is, I’m sorry). It’s meant to convey when Áine is fighting the connection and managing to break through while we’re experiencing the vision along with the others. She regains control toward the end of the flashback sequence, which is why the text interruptions go away. (I like to mess with the format in stuff I write, so I'm just back on my bullshit really.)

I was going to wait to post this because it's only been a couple of days since the last post, but I have a horrible headache and I could use the dopamine. That said, the next chapter will take more time since I haven't even started it yet.

Every moment between her confession to Astarion and the next time their companions roused was spent restless and uneasy. At times, even panicked. It was both too familiar and entirely new, this crushing, leaden weight in her chest.

She only noticed her heartbeat had started to pick up again when her beloved vampire stirred beside her from a light reverie he’d only just slipped into. Guilt ate into her stomach when he woke and studied her in the muted light that worked its way through the canvas draped around them. Áine met his eyes, her lashes fluttering as he brought a hand up to smooth her hair from her face and his fingertips left cool, soothing trails against her cheek.

“Sleep, darling,” Astarion murmured encouragement as he leaned in, a breath away from her lips. He brushed his nose against hers and she instinctively leaned in closer, secured in the cradle of his arms.

“I’m sorry I keep waking you,” Áine whispered back, bridging the gap to kiss him gently. “You can rest, love, I’m okay.”

“Not without you,” he grumbled, dropping his head forward and nuzzling into her neck. Áine smirked, carding her fingers through his curls and letting her hands brush the tips of his ears. A soft groan eased from Astarion’s throat, lost amidst her pearly strands. “I know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t know what you mean, little star,” Áine murmured back unconvincingly, kissing his crown as she continued her gentle ministrations through his locks.

Instead of arguing with her, he chuckled. “I do rather like that, you know,” he mumbled and she could swear she heard a bloodless blush in his tone.

Áine smiled. “The endearment or me playing with your hair?”

“Both,” Astarion admitted, a content sigh fanning across her neck. “Would you like to know what else I like, darling girl?”

“What else?” she asked.

“When you endeavor to rest those lovely eyes,” he said as he leaned his head away from the curve of her neck to peer down at her again, bending his elbow up to prop his head on his hand. “Instead of trying to lull me back into meditation so I stop fretting over you.”

The bard gave him a small frown. “I can’t sleep. There’s no reason we should both suffer for that.”

“I’m not suffering to stay up with you, Áine,” Astarion sighed. Despite his frustration, he couldn’t help but admire the little doe-eyed look she got just from hearing him say her name. “What can I do?”

“You can let me lull you back to reverie so you stop fretting over me,” Áine teased him.

“Darling, I truly don’t know how I’m supposed to do that,” he pointed out, getting a little annoyed. “You hardly touched your dinner and you aren’t—”

“Can you blame me?” Áine asked point blank. “After what I’ve told you, wouldn’t it be stranger if I slept peacefully and made merry without a care?”

Astarion’s lips thinned. “You seemed to be doing fine earlier, all things considered,” he mused, wondering if he was just not as talented at reading her as he’d thought. Then again, he hadn’t known quite what to look for earlier before he’d known what these lands meant to her. He’d had little more than her upset heartrate to read during their talk with Jaheira.

“Fighting out there came back like second nature. I didn’t have time to overthink it,” Áine said. “And this inn, these people… They’re new to me. It hadn’t sunk in yet, I guess.”

“And now?” Astarion asked.

“Now…,” she murmured, her gaze flickering down from his to consider his question before she met his eyes again. “...I’m scared.”

“You?” Astarion mused, a doubtful crease forming between his brows. “You’re the bravest person I know.”

“I don’t know that fear and bravery are mutually exclusive,” Áine said. “At least they never have been for me. Astarion, I’m… I’m terrified.”

“Of?” he urged.

Áine’s throat worked as her features pinched in a feeling he knew immediately and intimately—shame. He frowned when her eyes left his again, favoring his collarbones so she didn’t have to see whatever she was afraid to see in his stare. The vampire sighed and adjusted their blanket more snugly around her, scooping her closer until he had her nestled against his chest. Only when he felt her relax a little did he urge her again. “Talk to me, dearest.”

“You have enough on your heart without me adding to it,” she mumbled against his chest.

“What heart?” he teased her, earning a disapproving grumble from the woman he held. “How many times have you suggested I do the same—that I talk to you—while assuring me that my baggage imposes nothing on you?”

He still didn’t quite believe her when she said that. His trauma followed him like one of the wraiths they’d fought. More nefarious than an ordinary shadow, wailing and clawing at any spark it could snuff out. Someday she would realize he wasn’t worth it, but she seemed to not have discovered that just yet. He’d enjoy it while it lasted.

“A few,” Áine relinquished in a muffled tone.

“Then afford me the same,” Astarion instructed, resting his chin atop her head.

Her warm sigh sank into his skin as she let her arm that wasn’t angled beneath her rest across his waist. “It’s not the same thing, not really,” Áine said, “but this, to me, feels like being back at Cazador’s front steps would to you.”

Astarion couldn’t help the way his body stiffened at her words, but he gently shushed her when she started to apologize for bringing it up. “No, it’s… That certainly puts it into perspective,” he said. Something in him flared just at hearing his sire’s name on her voice, at knowing how frightened she must be if that were the case. He was mulling over the logistics of just keeping her bundled up in here with him for an eternity when she spoke again.

“Do you think they’ll hate me?”

His brow bunched and his eyes flickered down toward the top of her head, but he didn’t pull back to look at her. “Who?”

“Our friends,” she replied. Her voice was small but steadier than before and completely serious. He couldn’t fathom it.

“Why would they hate you?” Astarion asked.

Áine exhaled a breath she’d been holding and it felt like her words started spilling out with it. “Because I’m not the bard they thought they met,” she said, her quiet voice cracking. “I’m not who they signed up to follow into this mess. I’m not ‘good,’ I’m not a hero, and I’ve done…terrible things.”

“You’re also a liar.” Áine tensed at his words, but the patterns he was tracing along her back didn’t cease. “You’re lying to yourself right now, for example.”

“Astarion, I’m—”

“Serious?” he finished for her, rolling to his back and pulling her with him. She lay atop him and he cupped her face in his hands. “I know you are. It baffles me.”

“What baffles you?” Áine asked.

“How you could possibly think anyone would hate you, my love,” he murmured, smoothing the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. “Have you met our friends? Everyone has something categorically wrong with them. If anything, it makes me feel a little better about tricking you into being with me to know you have a few skeletons of your own.”

She scoffed. “You didn’t trick me.”

“Keep thinking that, darling,” he purred, pulling her down to kiss her forehead, then her nose and her cheeks. He spoke in jest, but wasn’t that what he did? Wasn’t that why this little slice of peace he’d been afforded wouldn’t last?

“I don’t know how you don’t hate me,” Áine admitted.

Astarion snorted. He couldn’t help it. It was all he could do to not throw his head back and laugh in her beautiful face. “I’m sorry, my sweet,” he snickered when he met her eyes. She was embarrassed and exasperated that he didn’t seem to be taking her seriously again. How could he take her seriously though? It was the most absurd statement he’d ever been obligated to respond to. It was the very statement he should be presenting to her, but was too selfish to point out the obvious lest she see the light and go.

When she tried to shift off him and escape his teasing, he hemmed her in with the frame of his legs, tightening them on either side of her hips. Astarion gave her a scolding look and nodded. “Well, go on. Why should I hate you?” he prodded.

He could see that he’d disarmed her. Áine hesitated, worrying her lower lip. “Well, I… I gave you the wrong impression, too.”

“What impression is that?” he asked.

“That the version of me you met is all there was,” Áine supposed, her brow pinched with the effort to put her anxieties into words, to make them sound remotely rational. Her wide amber eyes bore into his as she said, “I meant it when I said I’d done awful things, Astarion. I… What if I’m no better than…”

“Than?”

“Than the people who hurt you?”

As soon as the words were out, he felt the shudder run through her frame like her body was an extension of his. Astarion sighed and tucked her against him, rubbing her back as he felt her tears dampen his shirt. “On your worst day,” he murmured, “you couldn’t come close.”

“You don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be that person again. And she feels so close here.”

“Shh, shh,” he hushed her soothingly again, content to hold her while she cried. Gods, she’d managed to soften his heart in their time together. It overwhelmed him to realize it at times. It was ever less terrifying, but unnerving all the same. When she quieted some, Astarion murmured against her hair, “Neither of us had a true choice in the end. But especially not you. You must know that.”

“Sometimes I do,” she murmured, sniffling. “But sometimes it feels like I could’ve done so much more than I did to get away.”

“You can’t punish yourself forever, darling, even if that’s true,” Astarion sighed. “I would be curled against the floor of my tent every night if I clung to every awful thing I’ve done, every mistake I’ve made, every time weakness won over.”

“It’s different for you,” Áine said, her voice kind as one of her hands came up to trace along his jaw. “You had no choice at all. You were compelled.”

“And you were a child, Áine,” Astarion said in a hard voice not meant for her, but for the world that hurt her. That hurt them both. “Children aren’t meant to know what’s ‘best’ or ‘good,’ that’s what parents are meant to teach. You’re casting judgment knowing what you know now and not considering all you didn’t know at the time.”

Áine pondered his words. “Is that how you think of yourself, too? Even if it’s different?”

“Yes,” Astarion said. “Granted, I don’t have the moral compass you do to misguide me, but anything I actually feel sorry for in that time falls into the same line. I did what I had to do to survive and so did you. They’re not our sins.”

Cautiously, Áine snaked her arms around him again, almost as if afraid he’d disappear. He could relate to that feeling, that need, that fear. He tightened his arms to try to help extinguish it. Astarion felt her breath on his neck when her lips parted, but she thought better of whatever she’d been about to say, burying her face against his shoulder instead.

Finally, when she did speak, she said only, “Thank you.”

Astarion didn’t hate her. He forgave too much when it came to her, in her opinion, but she supposed she was the same with him. She adored him. How could she fault him for anything he’d done before just to endure the hell he’d suffered? She supposed she should just be grateful that he looked upon her with that same forgiveness.

Áine guessed that the others wouldn’t be so understanding. She was soon to find out.

She and Astarion had stayed up when she still hadn’t found sleep, quietly talking until they heard their companions stir. That leaden feeling had returned to her gut the moment she heard them rouse and her lover had distracted her momentarily with kisses when he felt her heart start to hammer.

“And you’re wrong, by the way. You are the bard we met. This is who you’ve chosen to be, not what you were made to be. Weren’t you the one who told me something like that, darling? Afford yourself your own advice.”

The corner of her mouth quirked a little as she ran his words through her tired mind a few more times. She stared into the dancing campfire flames for a few moments more, listening to the hum of conversation around her, before she forced herself to speak. “I have something I need to clear up,” Áine said.

The crosstalk quieted and she felt eyes on her. That had been the goal, but now that they were there, she felt every burning stare. Any gusto she’d drummed up wilted like the flora outside the moon shield. It was already starting. The end of what she’d built. All because of what she’d been born into, what she’d existed within and endured for her first 45 years of life. Because of all she’d done before she’d known things could be different.

No going back now.

Áine cleared her suddenly dry throat. “Ketheric Thorm,” she said, the words poison in her mouth. “I know him.”

The silence stretched for what felt like an age. Finally, Karlach broke it. “What do you mean you ‘know’ him?” she asked.

The bard shifted through her discomfort at Karlach’s wary tone. She scraped through the nausea in her gut to find her voice again. “I was born into the covenant he keeps, that he uses,” she explained, already finding it more difficult to explain the truth of her past to all of them than it had been to explain it to Astarion down by the lake. She wasn’t surprised, but she was finding it quite tough to even get the words past her lips. “I was oathbound. Just like the rest of my family. And now I’m not. But I’m telling you this because I’m still concerned. There’s a very real chance that he may recognize me if we come face-to-face with him at Moonrise. Or at least put two and two together. Half-drow aren’t exactly common as far as I know.”

“So you were a paladin then?” Gale asked, seeming more like he was just trying to get his facts straight than that he was doubting her. She still occasionally caught him tiptoeing around her, careful not to fall into her poor favor a second time, but she didn’t think that was why he was being careful now. This just felt like Gale being Gale. When she nodded, Gale asked further, “And now you’re oathbroken? Is that where your power came from in the Underdark? That you used to defeat the spectator?”

Áine nodded again. “That’s right,” she said, appreciating the understanding look in his eyes, holding to it like a lifeline. “That’s also why we’ve had a knight hanging around camp. He’s…well, he’s sort of the authority over broken oaths. Mine reinvigorated when I used its power and brought him back to me.”

“You know that makes a lot of sense,” Gale mused, chuckling. “I’m embarrassed to not have put that together.”

“How long ago were you oathbound?” Halsin asked, his features twisted with concern.

“I left ten years ago,” she said, “and before that…well, I served for about 20 years in all.” Gale’s straightforward curiosity had reminded her that not all questions equated doubt. Of course they would have questions. That rationale helped her more quickly recognize the source of Halsin’s concern and she added, “Long after you would have fought him if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Praise Sylvanus for that,” he sighed emphatically, looking aggrieved. Relief lanced through Áine that she was correct. “Even if you’d been on the opposing side, I feel nothing but relief to know you weren’t somewhere on that battlefield.”

Áine smiled, her gaze shifting when a small, kind-looking Flaming Fist approached Halsin, asking if he’d come with her. Áine supposed it had something to do with the unconscious fellow in the inn when he excused himself to follow her. He couldn’t be too concerned or suspicious of her if he was content to leave their circle now, Áine figured.

“So the fear of being recognized is paramount?” Shadowheart asked, looking only somewhat concerned as Áine met her eyes.

Áine nodded. “I’m going to speak to Jaheira as well, I think, about that,” she said. “I’m afraid of sabotaging our infiltration if he knows my face. I want to say that it’s unlikely as I would have only been in front of him for my initiation in a group of other new blood, but there exists the possibility. It’s also possible that someone I’m related to or that I trained with could be there, too.”

“And how likely is that do you think?” Shadowheart asked.

“Given what we were used for, unlikely,” Áine speculated. “If operations are the same, he has his own separate guard for Moonrise. Or maybe he’s using cultists for that now, too.”

“There’s always a disguise spell,” Gale suggested. “Although I would be shocked if there weren’t wards around Moonrise to unravel such enchantments. Maybe if we—”

“And you are truly oathbroken?” Wyll asked, interrupting Gale’s ramble. Áine missed the edge to his voice but Astarion, lingering nearby and listening, caught onto it and bristled.

“I am,” Áine said simply and without a sliver of doubt.

“You did well to separate yourself from such an evil,” Lae’zel commended her, unbothered by Áine’s past and far more concerned with their next move. Áine cast her an appreciative look.

Wyll’s tone was not missed by the bard a second time. “I find it…hard to believe if I’m honest.”

The remaining party stilled, curious glances cast sideways at Wyll. Shaken by the sudden statement and confused by his meaning, Áine dumbly asked, “...What?”

“Hear me out,” he requested. With a gesture toward the horns protruding from his skull, Wyll said, “As we’ve all gathered by this point, I am also pacted. It’s a different situation, it’s true, but the base of it is the same. And I know how constrictive these agreements are. How hard it is to escape it, let alone find oneself again.” He rose from his seat, his hands resting against his hips as he looked down at Áine. Even if he didn’t mean to cow her, he was succeeding in her current headspace. “And I’m just not so sure that it could be possible to do that under this supposedly invincible undead entity that is General Thorm.”

“On what grounds?” Áine asked, a dangerous waver in her tone as she also stood, hurt by Wyll’s claims and unwilling to sit while he loomed over her.

“It would have a horrific cost,” Wyll said with absolute certainty, not noticing how much he’d triggered her with his words. He gestured first at himself again and then at her. “A cost that, frankly, unlike me, you don’t appear to bear.”

Áine barked a cold, humorless laugh. “Not all of us get off as easy as a set of horns, Wyll,” she snapped, something unhinging within her. She tried to keep it hemmed in, horrified when the reciprocating spark of hurt and anger she saw flare in his good eye felt almost gratifying. “You… You would really doubt me? After everything we’ve been through?”

“Now, we’ve no need to fight amongst ourselves,” Gale imposed cautiously. His eyes darted between Wyll and Áine but also fleetingly to Astarion, who looked more prepared to intercept by the second.

Ignoring him and the tension in their circle, Wyll pushed further. “It’s not you, I doubt, Áine. Not really. But you’re not exactly doing much in the way of convincing me otherwise, are you,” he said, his question not a question at all. “Though I hate to say it, it’s more suspicious that you—”

He was plucked from his tirade and his train of thought as a sensation akin to a hard tap thudded within his head. The disturbance sent a ripple through all their tadpoles. The only one who didn’t look confused was Áine, who instead looked shaken to her core. Wyll took in her expression and began to ask, “What’s wr—”

He couldn’t get the words out before it happened again. The next intrusion was shattering. Wyll rocked back on his heels, his hand going to his head as he steadied himself. The shockwave of the vision that bled open in his mind’s eye reached the rest of the group with lesser force. For an instant, they feared the takeover of the Absolute or an onset of ceremorphosis. However, the sights that filled their minds were somehow even less familiar.

At least, they were at first.

The feelings came first. Unfathomable grief. Barely contained rage. Survivor’s guilt in its most basic form, sometimes an echo and sometimes a squall. Abject terror. Shame. A horrible, ever-present emptiness. All of it washed along the branches of their intertwined minds, traceable from what could’ve only been Áine’s memories, her heart, spilling over.

The bard clutched her head, her nails digging painfully into her scalp as if she could claw inside and dissuade the parasite behind her eye from its onslaught. The feelings, the memories, the panic had hit her like that gnoll back on the Risen Road, knocking the air clean out of her lungs until all she could do was scrape her breath back inside and try to keep her footing. She’d not anticipated this, hadn’t given a single thought to the damn worm, and her tadpole wriggled as if it knew, thrumming with the energy of her mind’s attack, and it had latched onto the others before she could conceive of how to stop it.

All she could do was drag back anything within her reach and augment the pieces that would hurt her most, the ones she would rarely let herself see clearly, much less the ones surrounding her, their parasites feasting on her memories as they bubbled to the surface unbidden.

Suddenly, no one present was themselves. No one save for Áine, who in that moment would have been anyone else. Behind her, as she struggled to stay standing and not sink to her knees, Astarion’s sight, too, was blanketed by memories not his and swept into this shared vision he shouldn’t have been privy to and yet couldn’t resist. Dully, he could feel Áine’s will flex against the tadpoles’, but her attempts to stop the illithid violation of her mind held all the power of a fish flopping against dry land, drowning in air.

It wasn’t Astarion alone who wanted to help her, who wanted this to stop, but none of them could move, could resist. Instead, they bore witness while their unwilling performer swallowed her screams.

Stonework underfoot studied by a bowed head. The tip of your worn boot is where your eyes focus because to raise the head is to look upon the oathsworn and it’s simply not done. You’re a worm beneath his feet and you will acknowledge the ground from which you’ve come while you swear your oath on your knees.

Your voice—her voice, younger and strained—aligns with the other initiates’ intonations in the memory. You are numb. In this war, there has never been golden propaganda or the promise of glory for a bit of your blood. This is expectation incarnate. You were born to do this, only this, to serve and die for your general. There was never a moment of ‘giving up’ because you were never provided an alternative to flee to. You’ve no notion of freedom to relinquish.

“I swear fealty to the undying general and those who faithfully follow, my life for the Thorm bloodline, my bloodline for his.

“I will uphold the laws beset by my oathsworn master. I will be a bastion to he who would see unjust gods fall to ruin. I will suffer no charlatans, none who may interfere or prevent our cause. None who would rise against his final word.

“No one will stand in the way of my fulfillment of my oathsworn’s will, be they beast, monster, or noble. I take responsibility for ensuring the return of Ketheric Thorm and his bloodline to its previous glory.

“My life for the Thorm bloodline, my bloodline for his. I will bear the brunt of any chaos that this task creates. He speaks, I obey.”

The scene changes. The years blur as they wind back and fly forward in this vision. It’s the vision’s manifestation of Áine fighting her tadpole and theirs as well for control and losing. Áine’s nose started to bleed and they could all feel the warm runny trail, could smell the sickly sweet copper when it hit the cupid’s bow of her lips. Despite no sound passing her lips in the physical plane, they can all hear her scream in their minds when her tadpole burrows deeper, sinks its teeth, and twists.

Battles rage wherever you go. Big and small. Ceaseless. Between your allies scraping for respect or with your ordained enemies fighting for their lives. Selûnites. Sharrans. Any who have wronged the general are at your disposal. You are at his disposal. Your life is forfeit if you refuse. You have grown up under the unnegotiable teachings that to break your oath is to die, slow and horribly and in dishonor. No gods will claim you. You will be a far-flung soul to be plucked from painful purgatory by hungry, greedy devils bound for Avernus. You will suffer. Better to live and suffer and have some semblance of control over your agony.

The doubt begins to sink in much sooner than the resolve to flee. Oathbound, the underbelly of your family’s dealings is no longer hidden from you if it ever was at all. It’s not as if you ever had a choice in your “decision” to swear fealty. It becomes clearer as you age why you were born, half-elf cannon fodder for a selfish cause that traces back to one man who refuses to stay buried. Who refuses to let his family rest. Who rallies against every deity that refuses his twisted, blasphemous demands and purges their acolytes in retaliation.

Something shifts when you turn 45. The specifics are clawed back, leaving notable gaps, but you’ve been in service for 20 years and something finally snaps. You must leave. There’s no other option. You know that you will die trying—your oath will kill you when it breaks if your family or even Thorm himself doesn’t kill you first. But you must.

You can hear your breaths loudly in your ears in the quiet of the field you run through. The scenery is blurred but you can see the skyline of Baldur’s Gate in your periphery. The sky is milky with dawn. It’s a far cry from the cursed lands you just left behind. You might just make it past the outskirts before your oath’s bonds begin to be tested. You’re doubtful you’ll make it much further, but it ultimately doesn’t matter.

You hear the arrow before you see it, but it takes that long to realize what it is. There’s someone with you for just a second, but the bearer of the memories uses her depleting strength to rip them away. The arrow sinks into the ground where they would have been running. You keep running, hoping it’s a staggering shot and no more, but you know the truth. It was meant for you and it missed—it wasn’t meant for you, it never missed—and you keep running. The pounding of your heels is a lone staccato now. It always was.

You feel your oath begin to shudder. It feels as though your ribcage is being hinged apart. You slow, hearing a shout, hearing threats. You’re not worried about yourself. There’s not much point now anyway. It’s over. You feel yourself give up like you’re a visitor in your own body.

You turn to look back. It’s a mistake. The figure of a hulking drow male stands at a distance, another smaller male that could be one of his brothers near him. The larger of the pair holds the bow, another arrow already knocked into place. It’s aimed at you. He calls you back like a wayward animal.

Your eyes fall to the ground near him. A human woman sits in the grass, something nothing slung in her arms no no no no no no no

You steel yourself to return if it means he won’t hurt her. She looks so unbearably small. Heavy streams of tears fall down her face and splash onto what she’s holding. You refuse to study it because, if you don’t acknowledge it, it won’t be true there’s nothing there, STOP STARING AT IT!

She looks up at you. You anticipate blame. It’s your fault that he’s dead gods he’s dead she’s going to die too why can’t you save her you tried to run, knowing what would happen. And you still went.

Her lips part on a scream. It’s a scream that haunts every nightmare you have. That haunted you when your broken oath reached out to you through the Weave when you were practicing magic with Gale. Sometimes it comes to you while awake, sudden and sharp and senseless and spurred by nothing.

“ÁINE, RUN!”

You don’t turn away before the archer commands the other drow to slam his sword through her back. But the instant you see it, the instant you hear it, you run. Faster than you ever have. It’s a miracle you can even move, that you have the clarity to follow her instruction. Your pace is breakneck and would result in injury if you misstep even once. You don’t care. You’d rather die than be placed back in formation now. There’s no going back. You have nothing to return to. Death is preferable. You’d realize it always has been if you were ever honest with yourself, but you’ve been too scared, always too scared. You had something to lose back then. The fear dissipates with your worldly attachments, the only ones that have ever mattered.

The first arrow finds its home in your shoulder. The second hits closer to your heart and almost sends you to your knees. You do double over, but your legs don’t lose the pace you’ve set. Your built momentum keeps them loping forward until you regain enough of your focus to start surging them forward on your own again.

Your shoulder is broken, there’s no doubt. The muscles are shredded around the carved flint heads. They’ve skewered through your flesh and are protruding out your front. You clutch your useless, injured arm and keep it drawn against your side so it doesn’t slow you down. Adrenaline postpones some of the pain, but not all of it. You feel like you’re burning alive.

You have the frame of mind to duck down and change position and it’s only because of that that the third arrow misses. You fell into old battle maneuvers without thinking, perhaps triggered by your injury, and you’re surprised it works against the drow hunting you. The arrow impales the ground where you would have been otherwise. That one may have been the one to kill you.

Instead, you think your oath might do that.

You buckle your knees and skid down a slope that descends into a curve that goes past the treeline. You curl into the dirt as you fall, briars scraping the back of your neck and your scalp as you disappear beneath them. You’ll hide there until you’re sure they no longer pursue you. Or you’ll be found and dragged back. Your shoulder screams when you fall on it and you almost bite through your tongue to remain silent. You’ve stomached worse pain before but not many times, not like this.

Your oathbreaking is a different pain. It’s a wretched, angry thing that held heavy in your chest for the past two decades and now comes undone like a lightburned wraith. It rages in your bones, ravaging your insides and making your mind feel as if it’s melting from your ears. Distantly, you hear the male drows’ voices bark more threats and then a quieter exchange. They’re fading. They’ve lost you in the thicket or they assume you’ll die there, wherever you’ve ended up. If you survive your injuries and your oath, perhaps you’ll survive it all. But for what purpose now?

You shimmy out from under the bracken an indeterminable amount of time later, your teeth grinding as you can’t help but snag the arrows on the roots, against the soil. You ache to get them out of where they’ve torn you asunder, but logic and years of training remind you that you need to wait until you can staunch the blood flow. Right now, the arrows are all that keep you from bleeding out and you need to appreciate that they’re of use to you for the time being, no matter how much they hurt.

The twisting agony still rages in your chest and you stagger to your knees when it finally reaches its peak. Just as swiftly as it riled and ruptured in your chest, it dissolves like splintering ice. Not just broken, not quite, but almost melting. Collecting. Reforming into something new.

“You have broken your oath, paladin.”

The gravelly voice startles you. Your first thought is the drow, but you’ve never heard a voice like this before. Your eyes lift by an increment to find blackened pewter boots decadently laced with gold patina and travel upward into the incandescent stare of something far beyond your understanding. It’s a knight, you think. But it’s unlike any knight you’ve ever seen.

He inclines his head to you, fire blazing within metal. “We have much to discuss.”

The vision shattered as Áine finally wrenched herself from the connection, breaking its center with her hard-fought departure. Freed as well, her companions each in turn shook their heads as if the vision could be cleared more quickly that way. Eyes instinctively wandered back to the half-drow near the fire who was staring into nothing as silent trickling streams of tears and blood grew stale on her face.

The first to push through their daze and act was Wyll. “Gods, Áine, are you—”

“Leave me alone,” the bard whimpered hollowly, blood under her nails as she finally withdrew them from her hair and quickly stumbled to separate herself from them.

When she hurried past where Astarion stood, rooted to the spot, he instinctively reached out to catch her in his arm. She dodged around him without a second’s hesitation, her gait quickening as she disappeared past the inn.

“Leave her be, she’lak,” Lae’zel hissed to Wyll when he tried again to call Áine back. The pain she’d felt through Áine’s memories still lingered like a specter in her chest and repeatedly triggered a vicious “fight” instinct that she was trying to stamp back into submission. “She will return when she is ready.”

“Lae’zel is right,” Shadowheart decreed despite looking desperate to follow the bard, herself. Her eyes shone with grief-born pain, an interesting expression for a true Sharran to wear. “Did you… Did any of us cause that?”

“No,” Wyll said with complete certainty, heads shaking to echo the same sentiment around him. “I don’t even think she did it. It almost felt like she was fighting it the entire time.”

“Then the tadpoles just…did it on their own?” Karlach asked, her brows creasing at their middle.

“So much for having a ‘guardian’,” Gale remarked. It held the air of a quip, but genuine suspicion sharpened his tone into something that bordered an accusation.

Their aforementioned guardian remained uncharacteristically silent.

The icy water off the shore of Last Light was all that pulled Áine back inside herself. She’d undergone a lot in her life, most of it physical, but that had been a new level of the Hells she’d experienced. She felt turned inside out and violated, like she’d had hands all over her and inside her, too, pulling out whatever they could the moment they’d smelt blood.

Áine let herself sink just enough below the lapping tides’ surface to unleash the scream she’d felt building in her for the better part of an hour now. It ricocheted in her ears, muffled, and expelled where no one else could hear or be perturbed. For the briefest moment, she considered not resurfacing. Even so, she’d hardly finished that dark thought before she was swimming back up.

Her head broke the surface and she cupped the water to clean her face, idly wedging the dried blood and skin from her scalp from under her nails as she walked back up the shore. She’d just reached up to wring the water from her hair when she spotted just the person she’d earlier intended to speak to.

“Jaheira?” Áine called, getting the High Harper’s attention. “Do you have a moment?”

Jaheira regarded her with curiosity as she approached, taking in her soaked appearance but also the look in the younger woman’s eyes and the defensive hunch of her shoulders. “You should ask instead if I have a towel,” she quipped before raising her hand. With a small flourish, the moisture left Áine’s clothes, leaving them perfectly dry and her hair just a little damp. Áine murmured her thanks and Jaheira inclined her head. “I assume though that wasn’t what you needed?”

“Not exactly,” Áine said, winding her wet locks into a haphazard bun at her nape.

“Then I have more than a moment. Some even say I have a few moments,” Jaheira said with an edge of humor, nodding for Áine to walk with her. They made their way inside the inn, found stools at the nearly vacant bar, and sat down. The building was filled with the hum of several conversations punctuated by the strum of Alfira’s lute. “What’s on your mind?”

Áine did her best to summarize everything she’d just told the others, from the covenant sworn under Ketheric to her former station in it and then to her concerns about how it would affect their infiltration of Moonrise Towers. Jaheira remained silent throughout, nodding occasionally to indicate that she understood what Áine was saying and she was listening as intently as she seemed to be. Jaheira had known about the covenant, but she had not known that it was part of—but not all of—what fed into his life force.

“Surely it must be more than the covenant,” Jaheira suggested as Áine paused to take a drink of the water she’d been served by one of the tiefling children playing bartender for kicks and the occasional coin. “Your bloodline is many but their binding would not create the power that I saw at the gate.”

“It wouldn’t,” Áine agreed. “There were whispers of some sort of relic that he kept. That it was the primary source of his immortality, maybe the healing you saw too. But we were never privy to what it was or where it was. That was always handled far away from any of our dealings.”

“I see,” Jaheira said, her mind already flying through possibilities. Coming up short, she turned her attention back to Áine and her predicament. “Well, you are right to be concerned,” Jaheira reasoned. Áine felt palpable relief that she was hearing her and hadn’t jumped to any conclusions. If anything, it made their newly established alliance feel less tenuous after their talk the day before. “However, it may not be such a bad thing.”

“No?” Áine inquired, encouraging her to continue.

“You have that parasite in your head, after all,” Jaheira said. “By all accounts, you should be under the Absolute’s control. Perhaps his ego would be his undoing. Picture—in the instance he does recognize you, he rests on his laurels thinking that someone who disobeyed him, who broke the oath they took to his cause, has been dragged back by a worm. It may disarm him even further than we anticipated.”

Áine had to admit that she hadn’t thought of it like that, but she was right. It was certainly a possibility. Jaheira smirked. “Tread carefully, of course, but I will be most interested to hear how he reacts,” the druid said. “Or better yet, what he accidentally gives away.”

“I understand,” Áine said, absently nodding as she pondered Jaheira’s points. She gave a more certain nod when she went to stand back up. “Thank you, Jaheira.”

“Thank you,” Jaheira said, inclining her head to Áine before taking their half-pint bartender up on his second-time-offered tankard of mead.

Áine retreated from the bar, not quite ready to return to camp but needing to come to terms with what her next steps would be. Jaheira was right—it almost behooved them if Ketheric recognized her, if he was smug over his regained control over one of his oathbroken. Perhaps his only oathbroken. She wasn’t sure if anyone else had done the same before or after her. But it did make their arrival to Moonrise that much more dangerous as well.

In truth, she remained terrified. Of being back where her darkest memories originated, in Ketheric’s shadow, and also for the safety of her newly chosen family. Then again, maybe the unexpected way her parasite had regurgitated her trauma into their brains would have dissuaded them from carrying on with her. The thought was irrational, but it did pick firmly at her brain from the moment of its inception. Áine’s eyes wandered into the side room as she passed it en route to the entrance of the inn, wondering if Halsin was there. The lure of a friendly face who hadn’t just seen some lightly edited replays of her worst memories unfold was more than enough to alter her path.

He was indeed still there, seated by the unconscious man from the Shadowfell and leaning in close as if to hear something the man was speaking in his sleep. Áine wandered into the room and to Halsin’s side.

“How is he?” she asked as she drew near, not wanting to startle the druid.

“He simply won’t wake,” Halsin sighed. “It’s a miracle from the Oak Father Himself that he’s even alive. That he’s coherent.” He looked up at Áine, but only slightly—seated, he was nearly eye-level with her. “There must be a way to wake him. He dreams of Thaniel, the very spirit and heart of this land. He may know what’s happened to him if we can find a way to rouse him.”

“Do you have any leads?” Áine asked, glancing between Halsin and the lingering Fist who’d come to fetch him from their circle earlier.

“Only what was on his person when we found him wandering the wilds,” the Fist said, “which wasn’t very much, I’m afraid.” The man began mumbling again and his barely discernable words almost sounded like a poem. Áine’s brows creased at the middle with pity.

“Would you mind if I looked through it?” Áine asked. The Fist presented her with a tattered rucksack and a couple of bits and pieces she had to assume were in his pockets. As she parsed through it all, she found a faded missive that she had to study hard to make out. She saw a name—Art McCullough—and something else. “...Where is the ‘House of Healing’ relative to here?”

The Fist pulled out her map and carefully spread it out on the end of the bed. Áine passed the missive to Halsin for him to read while the Fist showed her where they were and then where the House of Healing was. Áine committed the route she showed her to memory. She’d add it to her own map once she retrieved it with her rucksack before she set out.

Halsin’s hope looked rejuvenated by her findings and Áine felt apprehensive of this turning out to be a dead end. It was the only lead she could find, but she hated the idea of disappointing him.

“It’s on the path to Moonrise, so there’s no reason not to take a look one of the times we’re en route,” she said, scratching the back of her neck as she retrieved the missive from his outstretched hand and pocketed it.

“Thank you, my friend,” Halsin emphasized. “You have the whole of my gratitude and my aid if you should need it. You and our companions, both, but that goes without saying.”

Áine’s lips pursed and her eyes found the floorboards when they began to burn at the corners. How could she possibly have more tears left? “I… Well, I might be going to Moonrise alone,” she said. “Regardless, I will try to find something to bring back if I can nail down where these orders took him.”

A deep fissure formed between Halsin’s scarred brows and Áine nearly lost her composure when his first instinct was to take her hand and pat it. His huge palms engulfed hers and she, not for the first time, was awed at what a feeling of safety he emitted without even trying. “Why would you need to do that?” he asked. The Fist stepped away to give them some privacy as Áine’s eyes threatened to spill over. She couldn’t look him in the eyes.

Áine finally sighed, some of the moisture falling from her eyes and, to her embarrassment, hitting the back of Halsin’s hand. “I… I got into a bit of a row with Wyll over what I told you all earlier and something happened with the tadpoles. I don’t think I did it and, if I did, I didn’t mean to, but…,” she mumbled, sniffling against her free hand, which had come up to shield her shame. “It was never to be a safe venture to find the source of these things, I know that, but this… These circumstances make it even less so and I can’t have that on my head.”

Halsin listened patiently, absently patting her hand and measuring her grief. “It was likely a lot to handle, and more is soon to be handled. But handle it, we will,” he reassured her. “That is what friends do.”

“I made them see my memories, Halsin,” Áine insisted, his sympathy painful to her guilty heart. “It wasn’t me at first, it was the parasites, but they were still my memories, and toward the end, when I regained control… I didn’t stop it.”

“You must have needed to show someone then,” Halsin reasoned, offering her a kind smile when she finally found it in herself to meet his eyes. He was right in a way. She’d wanted them to feel her oath break since they were already there in her timeline. She’d wanted them to understand. “Which is nothing short of understandable, given that you’re being made to face it all again. By the worms and by being here. We both have tremendous agony attached to these lands, you and I. This time, neither of us need face it alone.”

Áine was at war with herself. She knew in her heart that she wouldn’t want Halsin to face any of this alone. She’d just agreed to help him try to heal the nature here, after all, by helping Art. Yet she couldn’t find it in herself to afford herself the same generosity. And she certainly couldn’t put her friends and her partner at the heart of something she already knew with horrible intimacy to be a sanctuary for pure evil. Just the prospect of it made her eyes well again and she parted her lips to argue only to have her voice crack on a stifled sob before she could get a word out.

Halsin squeezed her hand, holding her trembling fingers in a much surer grip. “Do not make an outcast of yourself, Áine. You’re in pain and you’re clutching your wounds. The instinct is to run away, but you mustn’t. Trust me,” he told her gently. His words brought back her recently revisited memory of actually running and clutching her broken shoulder. The phantom pain between her scars flared almost in answer. Her gut twisted. It twisted further when she finally accepted that he was right. “You needn’t hide from those who would help you heal.”

Áine sniffled softly and swallowed hard. “Would you come with us?” she asked in a quiet voice, his offered comfort a needed tether in her vulnerability. If they even stay, a dark voice reminded her, that inner voice harsh against the ache in her chest. And why should they?

Halsin smiled and shook his head. “I’m needed here. Just for now,” he told her. His eyes shifted briefly over her head before they returned to her flushed, tear-streaked face. “But you have me. That didn’t end with the Grove. It won’t end here either. You will be alright.”

“Don’t worry, Halsin,” came Shadowheart’s voice from behind Áine, startling her. “We’ll take care of her.”

“You’re godsdamn right,” Karlach agreed, appearing in Áine’s line of sight as she stopped near Halsin’s chair. She was almost embarrassed to be caught in such a teary state in front of the rough-and-tumble tiefling warrior, but the embarrassment was short-lived as Karlach gave her the most affectionate “Mama K” smile she’d yet seen.

Áine swallowed against the lingering lump in her throat as a familiar pair of cool, strong arms slipped around her shoulders. Astarion kissed her blotchy cheek as he drew her back against his chest.

“I’d like to see you try to leave me behind,” he whispered like a challenge near her ear.

Next chapter: Chapter 21, "Her Nightmare Revisited"

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