#everything they say about the greens applies to their team as well

[capsiclesteebrogers]

not only are team bl*ck stans incapable of intelligent literary analysis, shitting on the cast because they refuse to give into their nonsense and try to explain why things are portrayed the way they are (you know, the people who actually did research to portray these characters), incapable of seeing their team as also being in the wrong (because in "the dance of the dragons" there were no heroes and villains, both parts were equally wrong), they are also hypocrites. because how do they say that we shouldn't judge the show by modern standards and in the same breath... judge the show by modern standards? it's either one or the other, not both!

[daechwitatamic]

cherrybomb || csc

(banner by @sailorrhansol)

cherrybomb seungcheol x afab reader || angst smut fluff || exes2lovers, pacific rim universe NSFW - minors DNI

Summary: Piloting a jaeger requires a rare ability called drifting - a neural connection with your co-pilot. You and Seungcheol are masters of the drift... until you have something in your head that you don't want him to see.

wc: 19.5k

warnings: language, heavy angst with happy ending, fight scenes, fight scenes written by an author with zero fighting or martial arts knowledge lmfao thus they are vague as possible, feelings heavy plot light and smut light, kissing and pretty generic (and brief) p in v smut

Author's note: thank you for @sailorrhansol for 1) accidentally sparking this idea, 2) agreeing to collab with me, 3) reading this along the way and hyping me up, and 4) beta-ing my mistakes, a million smooches for you ily

This fic takes place in the Pacific Rim universe but I honestly don't think you need to know the lore, everything you need to know should be explained. If you think something is unclear without prior pacific rim knowledge, shoot me a message privately and I'll make some edits and credit you for the insight!

Also in this universe: storm breaker by @/sailorhansol

Teaser:

“Marshall, with all due respect, I don’t know why you’re calling me,” you admit. “You were there. You saw what happened. Seungcheol and I can’t drift anymore.”

“You couldn’t then,” he points out. “That was three years ago. Things that were once too painful to carry into the drift… they’ve had time to mellow.”

He’s wrong, and you want to tell him so. Nothing has mellowed. You love Seungcheol just as much today as you did then.

“Have you talked to him about this?” You’re afraid of the answer. 

The Marshall’s voice hardens, and you can just picture his eyes narrowing. “Mr. Choi will follow orders,” he says evenly, “and so will you. Asking is really just a courtesy.”

“You can’t order us into being able to drift again,” you snap, pulse suddenly pounding in your arms, your hands, your face, your chest. 

“No,” the Marshall says, and any previous friendliness is gone from his voice now, “but I can - and will - order you to try.”

Playlist: you're the smoke in my gun, blowin' like cherry bombs...

The first time you ever saw Choi Seungcheol, he was flipping a man four years his senior over his shoulder and slamming him into the ground. Satisfied, he staggered backwards, chest heaving from exertion, eyes narrowed in preparation for the next move.

That’s what Seungcheol did - he leveled whatever was in front of him, and he started watching for what was coming next before the body could even hit the ground.

That’s what made him a great jaeger pilot. Not the brute strength - strong men are dime a dozen, always have been - but the watching.

You’d marked him as your first choice.

You were both nineteen. You’d grown up in the Shatterdome, the only child to a couple who piloted a neon green jaeger named Charron’s Revenge. You knew everything about how jaegers and their teams worked by the time you were nine. You started training to fight years before that. There was never a question that you would follow in your parents’ giant, mechanical footsteps one day. You just needed the right partner.

You needed Seungcheol.

The jaeger program didn’t turn away recruits - everyone could do something - but there was an organized process to match up compatible pilots. Applying recruits would fight before an audience of previously-accepted but currently-unmatched potential pilots. The pilots would rank the fighters, choosing their top five based on perceived potential for compatibility.

Then, the roles would switch. The applicants became the audience. The audience became the show.

When it was your turn to fight, you silently pleaded with the universe that Seungcheol would mark you high as well. This was the only guarantee that you’d get a chance to spar with him, to test it out before the Marshall, who would make the final call.

Let him see, you begged. Let him see how perfectly we’d work together.

And, by some miracle, he did. In fact, he rated you first, as well.

Your sparring match went exactly how you expected - he barreled at you, and you dodged every move. He could easily take you out with a single blow, but he couldn’t get his hands on you, not when you used his own inertia against him at every turn. What you didn’t expect was your own inability to land a shot. For the whole fight, you were unable to move out of the defensive - keeping out of his reach took all of your effort.

It was a draw - the first sign of strong compatibility.

You didn’t talk after the match - your father whisked you away to recover before your second-rated match, and you didn’t see Seungcheol for the rest of the day.

The second-rated match was a dud. But you already knew, even then, that it didn’t matter.

You’d met your co-pilot. You’d found your partner.

—

He found you in the mess hall that night, dropping into an empty spot on the other side of the table, his tray in his hands. His black hair was loose and wavy, and his right arm sported a sizeable bruise that he definitely didn’t get from you.

“I know who you are,” he said by way of greeting. You raised a brow at him, waiting. “Your parents piloted Charron’s Revenge.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “That better not be why you picked me.”

He gave his head an annoyed little flick. “Of course not. I picked you because you’re fluid - and I’m not.”

Appeased, you felt your hackles settle back down. “That’s true,” you allowed. “You’re not fluid. But you’re purposeful, and-”

You were interrupted when Yoon Jeonghan dropped into the seat to your left, chuckling under his breath as he fixed his long, dark hair into a spiky ponytail at the back of his head.

“Cherry, did you hear?” he asked you, ignoring the new-comer. “The crew for Fatal Rapids got called back in for misconduct.”

“Choi Seungcheol, Yoon Jeonghan,” you said, introducing the two young men. “Hannie does more than gossip, I promise. He’s one of the pilots for Devil’s Advocates. Their drop stats are insane.”

“In practice only,” Jeonghan demurred. “For now.”

“Cherry?” Seungcheol parroted, raising a dark brow. “That’s not what I wrote on my paper earlier.”

“Just a nickname,” you explained. When you were very small, you’d struggled with the name of your parents’ jaeger, calling it Cherry’s Revenge instead of Charron’s, and the crew - who doted on you like their own - started the habit of calling you Cherry. Somehow, it had spread, and stuck. “Only my parents use my real name. But you can call me whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“No,” he said, frowning as if deeply considering his options. “I like it.”

You folded your arms on the table, leaning in to peer at Seungcheol. “So, what’s your story? You’ve heard of me. I haven’t heard of you.”

He shrugged, glanced around, then decided he could talk freely. There’s something about being in a room that’s positively teeming with people and conversation - it gives you privacy without feeling too intimate. You’re not alone.

“Not much of a story, not like you,” he admitted. “I grew up thinking I’d take over my dad’s business. We lost my dad… then, we lost the business. I have no marketable skillset, and university was out of the question. But…” He trailed off, then met your gaze firmly. Something in his look demanded you forgo any pity or sympathy, demanded you take him seriously. “I’m strong. So I came here. I came to fight.”

You sidestepped the bruises he’d bared. “Not like me,” you repeated with a bit of a scoff. “I hate to disappoint you, but my parents are the pilots - the story is theirs. I don’t have one, not yet.”

Something playful glinted in his eyes, the first true sign of personality you’d seen. “So all the rumors about the Princess of the Shatterdome aren’t true?”

Your jaw dropped. You’d heard the nickname before - it was never meant nicely. You tried to ignore it as best you could - people could think what they wanted. When you had a crew, when you had a jaeger, you’d be able to prove them wrong. “What rumors?”

“You’re spoiled,” Jeonghan supplied, having decided he was part of the conversation after all. “Entitled.”

You spluttered as Jeonghan stood, giving you a cheerful pat on the shoulder. “And bitchy! That’s just what I’ve heard. Of course I know better. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Love ya!”

You stared incredulously after him as he disappeared, your face burning with embarrassment and your heart hammering with adrenaline. Fight, your systems told you.

If only you could.

Seungcheol bit back a smile, reaching out to pat your arm placatingly.

“I don’t…” you started to say, but your voice caught in your throat. You cleared it, tried again. “I don’t think I really deserve all that.”

He nodded, lips pushed into a semblance of a thoughtful pout. “What I’d heard,” he said calmly, “is that you’re a hell of a fighter, scary smart, and that you take no shit. Unless it’s from your friends, apparently.”

This made a bitter little laugh bubble from you. You still simmered with humiliation, feared that maybe he’d decide he didn’t want to co-pilot with you after all.

“I think it’s up to you which story gets told,” he said finally.

“Yeah,” you said, nodding. “That’s what I always said. So… let’s get started.”

—

You and Seungcheol lucked out - the team that had been recalled for misconduct were terminated from their posts in the weeks following the sparring trials, and their jaeger Fatal Rapids had been disassembled, the parts up for grabs.

You and Seungcheol repurposed Rapids’s main frame, your crew working to individualize the bot to your needs as best they could. You splurged on quad-processors for her legs to allow your jaeger to keep up with how you move - quick and lithe. Seungcheol lobbied for (and won) some extra power in the top half, and you compromised and chose a mix of red and blue sections for her paintjob.

Duellona Fury, you named her. Duellona for you, the destroyer. Fury for Seungcheol, because that was where his fight came from.

You got to know Seungcheol’s fury very well. Especially when you started trying to drift.

None of it happened fast - not the building of your machine, nor your neural handshake. In fact, you didn’t pilot Duellona Fury together for a whole calendar year.

You started with physical compatibility - you sparred almost all day, every day. You fought - with each other and against each other - until all you could do was lay on the ground and pant, blinking to make the ceiling stay in focus.

Seungcheol may not have grown up training in the Shatterdome the way you did, but he kept up without complaint. You learned his way - force and strength - and he learned the way you favored - to weave and dodge.

The fighting was the easy part.

You had never drifted with someone you had true drift compatibility with. Seungcheol had never drifted at all. The Marshall wouldn’t even consider hooking the two of you up to the machine until you went through the proper training.

On the day you and Seungcheol were officially declared as co-pilots-in-training, you both stood below the half-built shell of your towering jaeger, sparks flying and drills screaming as the crew worked on her.

Your Marshall looked seriously at his new team-in-training. “Starting tomorrow, you’ll meditate together. Talk to each other. Get deep about it. If you’ve talked about it out here-” he swept an arm across the deck, “-it won’t take hold so strongly in there.” He’d jabbed a finger in the upward direction of Duellona Fury.

Seungcheol didn’t look at you, nor the Marshall. Instead, he kept his eyes on Duellona's unfinished frame, stories above you. “Yes, Sir,” he said steadily.

Your parents weren’t technically retired yet, the year you and Seungcheol started training together. Charron’s Revenge still sat in the well below the Shatterdome. They still lived on the base, still took part in daily training. They hadn’t been called into a fight in years, though; the assignments went to the younger crews.

You took dinner in their quarters instead of the mess hall, that night.

“Congratulations,” your father said warmly from across the table. “You worked hard to get here.”

“Thank you,” you said, feeling shy beneath the praise. “I hope the drift will work for me and Choi Seungcheol.”

“What do you think of him?” your mother had asked, her sharp eyes honing in on you, watching your reactions.

“I think he’s a great fighter,” you said. “The rest… I guess I’ll have to learn.”

“Do you trust him? Can you trust him out there, when the sea and the wind are trying to knock you down, and hell itself rises up from the depths?”

You swallowed. She’s right for her intensity - they will be putting their daughter’s life in her co-pilot’s hands, every time there’s a fight. You knew firsthand how terrifying it was to stand in the tech bay and wait, not knowing if your loved ones will make it back.

You thought about how you and Seungcheol fight together in the sparring rooms. You thought about how you weaved and your opponent followed your movement, only to be knocked sideways. You thought of how Seungcheol followed your motion backwards, ducked in tandem with you to avoid a hit, and how you followed his momentum forward and up to attack. Your bodies followed each other like they were magnetized. And Seungcheol was always watching for the next hit.

“Yes,” you said, so quietly that you cleared your throat and said it again. “Yes, I trust him.”

“Then we wish you luck,” your father said, and raised his glass. “To Duellona Fury.”

“To Duellona Fury,” you echoed.

On your way out of the quarters, later, you slowed as you passed the wall where they hung their accolades and awards, the newspaper clippings, photos, and medals. Before your eyes they aged - the photographs changing through the years, no longer showing a bright, fiery couple, instead displaying proof of passing time: a baby bump, then a toddler, then a child beaming alongside them as if she’d done what they had done; greying hairs, softening bodies, deepening of wrinkles. Then the pictures stopped.

You never asked them if they missed it.

—

You and Seungcheol started meditating together the next morning; it seemed logical to begin at the easiest step. In an empty sparring room, you sat facing each other, knees touching.

“Have you done this before?” you asked, as you both settled in, shifting weight and adjusting ankles.

“Not with someone else,” he admitted, lips protruding in a bit of a pout. “Only alone.”

You nodded. You’d grown up learning all of this - the right way to fight as a team member, how to be in tune for a neural connection. It led to you teaching Seungcheol often - yet when you fought together, any leadership fell away.

“Normally,” you explained, “you focus on your breath, keeping your mind clear. But for our practice, you want to focus on our breath. We breathe together. And when your mind wanders, your awareness should be coming to peace with my presence there. Like, making a path for the neural connection - for later. So there’s no resistance.”

“Have you done this before?” Seungcheol asked.

You wobbled your head around - not yes, but not no. “I’ve practiced it - I’ve done the meditation with partners. But I’ve never moved forward to an actual drift with anyone.”

This seemed to appease him, and he settled his weight backwards, letting his hands rest near his knees.

You let your eyes float closed and inhaled, listening and feeling for Seungcheol’s inhale to end, letting your breath out when he did. It took no time to match your breaths, to let your mind go blissfully quiet. You focused on feeling open, readable - any thought that floated through your mind, you pretended he could hear, too. You tried to feel and release any defensiveness, any urge to close off.

When the timer went off, it surprised you. You opened your eyes, and the feeling that struck you was this -

It was surprising to see Seungcheol before you. It hadn’t felt like he was beside you. It had felt like he was you.

You meditated, you fought, and finally, you talked.

Laying on the sparring room floor, your head somewhere near Seungcheol’s shins, he asked you, “Where do you wish you were right now? If you weren’t here.”

You laughed at yourself before answering, knowing how silly you would sound. “In a tree.”

A disbelieving smile played on his lips, almost as if he wasn’t sure you weren’t making fun of him somehow. “A tree?”

“No, really,” you insisted, still smiling a little. “There’s not a lot of nature here, in case you didn’t notice. I grew up in the Dome - never got to leave, much.”

Seungcheol didn’t respond to this, just nodded like he understood, his small smile going a bit tight around the edges.

You frowned, reading him exactly. “You think I’m sheltered,” you observed. It wasn’t a question. He couldn’t say no.

He looked at you, then. “You were sheltered,” he said, voice low. “But when I say it, I don’t mean naive. I just think… there’s a lot of world out there. A lot of things to see. You won’t see any of it if you spend your entire life under the Dome.”

You nod, accepting this. “I won’t see any of it if it gets destroyed, either. There’s a lot of world out there - that we’re trying to keep safe.”

Seungcheol watched you intently for a moment, lips downturned and gaze heavy. Then, he asked, “Have you ever seen a kaiju? I mean - in person?”

“Sort of,” you mumbled.

He’d rolled from his back to his front, closer to you, putting you shoulder to shoulder. “Kind of seems like a yes-or-no question.”

Your lips twisted. “Then, no. But I’ve stood in the bay and listened to Mission Control talk my mom and dad through a fight dozens of times, watched Charron’s Revenge on the screens and prayed I wouldn’t see her get sawed in half.”

You stopped, trailed a finger through the thin layer of dirt on the floor. “I know it’s not the same as looking one in the face myself,” you whispered. “But the fear… shouldn’t that fear count, shouldn’t it feel the same?”

Seungcheol swallowed, trailed his own finger through the dirt until his fingertip just barely touched yours. It felt like energy sizzled in the centimeter between your pointer and his.

“When Menaceclaw attacked,” he said, “he missed my home by one block. We watched him go by from the sidewalk. I wasn’t even as tall as his foot. But even with him towering over the buildings, taking them down without even trying, I don’t think what I felt was afraid. I think I just felt resigned. Like I knew, at seven, that even though we survived this one… nothing was going to be… the same, or okay. I don’t know.”

“You knew what you lost,” you said quietly. “Part of you did.”

He looked up at you, nudged his finger into yours. “You never knew anything different. It wasn’t a loss. The fear was just always part of the deal.”

You rolled sideways, laying your head on your bicep for a pillow, regarding the dark-eyed, dark-haired young man across from you. His face scrunched in a laugh, brows furrowing and lips pouting.

“What?” he asked through the quiet laugh. “Why are you looking at me?”

“What else?” you mused. “What else am I going to find when we go tiptoeing through your memories?”

He smiled faintly and then mirrored you, laying his head on his arm, his eyes swimming as he thought.

“A lot of my family, probably,” he said. “A lot of fighting. Menaceclaw. Probably some very mid sex.”

You laughed without meaning to. “My condolences?”

He grinned at you, pleased. “Eh, what can you do? I try to treat everything like a learning experience.”

You laughed again, and his smile grew, gums showing. “What about you?” he asked off-handedly.

“Mid sex?” you asked, eyebrows raising. “I hate to inform you, Choi Seungcheol, but I don’t do anything mid.”

“No,” he protested, laughing, reaching out to gently shake your shoulder. “I meant - what will we see when it’s your turn?”

“The Dome,” you said, half-joking - but it was true. “Training. My parents. Their fights, their accomplishments.”

And, as a true drift partner should, he understood what you weren’t saying.

“We’ll have our turn,” he promised, pushing himself to sit up, then stand, reaching down to help you up. “We’re gonna be fucking unstoppable. Let’s go again.”

Fire sparking behind your ribs, you nodded seriously, then reached up to take his hand.

—

Weeks of sparring melded into months of meditation and talking. The next phase of training co-pilots was learning to drift in one of the simulators - but not in a jaeger. Not yet.

You and Seungcheol finished training in one of the sparring rooms shortly before dinner would be served in the mess hall.

“Meet you there?” you asked, still half-breathless, your body starting to ache as the adrenaline from a fight melted away.

“Sure,” he agreed, and you disappeared into the changing rooms, scrubbing the sweat and dirt away as quickly as you could. You changed into something clean and made your way to the mess hall.

You scanned for familiar faces, frowning when your normal table seemed to be occupied by a team of new recruits that you didn’t know.

Seungcheol appeared at your elbow, frowning dramatically. “Our table,” he whined.

“There’s Chan and Wylie,” you said, nodding to another corner where your friends sat practically on top of each other. Chan and Wylie had never understood personal space, not when it came to one another. They barely noticed when you and Seungcheol plopped onto the benches next to them, but Seungkwan did.

“You’re bleeding, Cherry,” he said, before inhaling an entire mouthful of rice.

You started to scan your arms - you didn’t feel pain anywhere - but Seungcheol found it first, gingerly swiping his thumb along your cheekbone.

“Sorry, Cherry,” he murmured. “I should’ve pulled that punch.”

“No you shouldn’t have,” you grumbled, swatting at his hand and wiping roughly at the spot, your hand coming away with a small smear of red - nothing to be alarmed about. It would stop on its own. “You pull shots in practice, you’ll hesitate in the field.”

“She’s right,” Chan said from his physical tangle with Wylie. “What you practice will show up in your muscle memory. You’ve got to mean it, every time.”

Wylie reached across his arms and took a bite from his plate, then asked, “Did you guys see the new jaeger?”

“I did,” Seungkwan said eagerly. “Chaser Supernova, or something like that? She’s smaller, but she’s supposed to be fast.”

“Is that her team at our normal table?” you asked dryly, shooting the rookies a dark look over your shoulder. Seungcheol jostled you playfully, sending you a smile that brought you back.

The bench dipped to your left, and you turned to see Soonyoung - one of Seungkwan’s two co-pilots - settle in.

“Talking about Supernova?” he asked, hands busy opening his drink. “They seem okay - they’re a trio, like us.”

“Where is Seokmin?” Seungkwan asked, scanning the room. “I haven’t seen him in like two hours.”

“Talking to Jihoon, I think,” Soonyoung answered absently, focused on his meal. “He lost another co-pilot today.”

“Not again,” you and Seungcheol both blurted, matching levels of exasperation.

“That was freaky,” Wylie said, just as Chan told you, “You two are acting like us, now.”

“We do not need another Chan-and-Wylie,” Seungkwan said seriously, shaking his head.

Seungcheol sent you a sideways, sheepish grin.

“We won’t be,” he promised the group, but his eyes were still on you.

—

The simulators were built to be exact replicas of the conn-pod, so that trainees could get used to the feeling of being strapped in, of moving with the gear. But the real purpose was to practice the neural handshake without risking damage - to the jaeger, to the tech bay, to each other.

“Don’t be nervous,” you told Seungcheol as the tech team worked around you both like a choreographed dance.

“I’m never nervous,” he said, suddenly cocky.

If you could reach his hand from where you were strapped in, you would have. If you understood anything about Seungcheol - if any part of him mirrored you - it was the way he showcased bravado, the way he used it as his most-familiar mask.

“It’s only practice,” you reminded him. “And it’s only me.”

He licked his lips quickly, eyes darting to the side and then back to you. Then, he gave you a small nod.

“Normally,” your chief tech - a beautiful woman with jet-black hair named Nainsi - told you, “right now, you would be ready for the drop. In the simulator, we skip that step because we aren’t dropping onto a jaeger. Instead, we’ll engage the pilot to pilot connection protocol sequence.”

You and Seungcheol nod in tandem.

“You’re all good?” Nainsi checks. “Then I’m going back into the tech bay - you’ll hear me through the intercom.”

Alone in the simulator, you met Seungcheol’s gaze and couldn’t help the excited grin that spread across your face. Finally, finally you were here. Once you could do this successfully, the next step was to fight in your own jaeger - to drop into Duellona Fury and walk into the sea.

He didn’t return your smile, instead giving you a tight nod, expression serious.

Over the intercom, you said clearly, “Ready and aligned.”

Nainsi answered, “Prepare for neural handshake.”

You took a deep breath and steeled yourself as the artificial voice of the simulator’s tech system spoke around you, 3… 2… 1… neural handshake initiating…

At first, you thought something went wrong. Everything went red behind your eyelids, and you blinked, instinctively trying to clear it away.

The red faded, and you found yourself in Seungcheol’s childhood home. You didn’t know how you knew that - you just knew. It was as familiar to you, inside the drift, as your own. You knew that to your left was a small kitchen with two broken floor tiles; you knew - without having ever seen it - that to your right was a narrow hallway that led to a bathroom and two small bedrooms.

Two small boys played on the carpet; rather, the smaller one played with some toy cars while the other watched the television with rapture. Behind them, at the kitchen table, a woman typed busily on an outdated laptop, bags heavy under her eyes.

Somewhere around you, a voice floated by, telling you, neural handshake strong and holding.

You could see Seungcheol in your periphery - the adult Seungcheol, the Seungcheol of now - as he looked at his mother, his brother, himself.

“It’s not real,” you reminded him gently. “It’s just a memory.”

“I know,” he said back, voice hushed, as if he might scare them away. “It’s just… good to see them.”

The house evaporated as gently as morning dew under a mid-morning sun; you stood in a schoolyard. Seungcheol, the small one, had a bloody lip and a mean swing.

You felt a rush of affection for him - him, the child, face contorting with misplaced anger, using strength as a bandage. You wanted to stand in front of him, between him and the anger, him and the other kids, and let him take a breath. You wanted to tell him to step with his punch to get more power. You wanted to put a hand on his shoulder and tell him, you’re going to be fine.

And he knew all of it, because he was in your mind.

Seungcheol - your Seungcheol - walked away from the swarm of children egging on the fight and opened a door. You followed.

Inside was not the school, but a hospital room. Your body jolted forward, distracting and alarming. You heard, faintly, a series of beeps, that robotic voice needling in your ears, saying, calibration failure… recalibrating in 3… 2… 1…

“It’s only a memory,” you said again, but the warning beeps were coming stronger, louder, more clearly. The hospital room looked opaque, and Seungcheol walked backwards towards you, away from it, herding you both out of the room. The room - a bed, a pulled curtain, a lot of white - flickered, like a glitch, and then vanished, leaving you standing in the simulator.

Neural handshake disengaged…

“Seungcheol!” you yelled, pulling your helmet off and wheeling on him as best you could with most of your body still strapped in. “What the hell was that? You pushed me out!”

He was breathing hard, eyes a little wild. “Not that,” he said, a little ragged. “I’ll let you in but - not that.”

“You don’t get to choose!” you snapped. Part of you knew this was just growing pains, he’d never drifted before, he was learning. But the rest of you smarted and stung - both from his rejection and from your failure to train, to succeed, to check off this final step before you could get inside your jaeger. “It’s kind of an all-or-nothing thing!”

He let out a billow of air, reaching a hand up to rub at his face. “Sorry. I’ll… let’s try again.”

You didn’t answer, fuming silently instead.

“I’m sorry, Cherry,” he said. “The stuff with my dad…”

“You can’t cherry-pick what we see and what we don’t,” you fired back. His eyes shot to yours and his mouth quirked and you read the joke all over his face. “Don’t you laugh, Seungcheol, it’s not funny!”

But you were laughing through the scolding.

“Stop,” you whined.

Your anger defused, he looked at you again, taking a bracing breath. “It’s not about you,” he tried to explain. “I’m not keeping you out. I’m keeping me out.”

“Don’t chase the rabbit,” you told him, shaking your head. “See what it wants you to see and move on. Find the next door. If you stand there and let your hurt - or your, I don’t know… grief - rise up… that’s when we’re going to have trouble.”

“Find the next door,” he repeated, eyes on the floor. “Got it.”

“You can’t push it away,” you reminded him, “but you don’t have to stay in it, either.”

He nodded, eyes already lighting up, ready to go again.

The second time, you saw him steel himself before opening that same door, watching carefully as he shuffled inside, only looking sideways at the hospital room that materialized around you.

“Seungcheol.”

He turned to look at you, wide-eyed, but you hadn’t called him. The voice, weak and hoarse, had come from the other side of the fluttering curtain.

The glitching started almost immediately - the image around you flickering like a bad wall projection. Something rocked beneath your feet, an earthquake only inside your minds.

You opened your mouth, started to tell him, you don’t have to stay, to remind him that he could move forward. Instead, you heard yourself say, “I’m here.”

The tremors under your feet quivered to a stop. You watched with trepidation and Seungcheol closed his eyes and took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. Then, he held his hand out, waiting.

You slipped your hand into his, and then he turned and continued walking, ignoring his father’s memory calling out to him. The flickering stopped, the picture you were part of brightening again as you found the next door, stepped through, left his pain behind.

—

It got easier quickly. Seungcheol’s ability to press on, to maintain focus, strengthened.

The strolls through your mind went easier - you’d had years to practice maintaining focus, waiting until after to let the emotions hit you.

Seungcheol learned to be ready for you, after. He’d sit with you, silent, and breathe in tandem as you worked to let go, to release the images of Charron’s Revenge on the tech bay screen, the sounds of your parents’ frantic communication as they fought together, the fear crawling its way up your legs every time until someone in the bay said, “Charron’s Revenge, cleared to return.” The loneliness of being the only kid in the Dome, having no outlet except fighting. Everything that threatened your mind while you piloted, everything that you had to save for later - save for him.

You were both freshly turned twenty when you got green-lit to drive.

“Seungcheol!” you called across the mess hall, practically racing to your table. He turned, eyebrows raised, as you crossed the large room.

“We’re approved to drop!” you told him excitedly. It churned in you - finally, finally you could fight, you could prove what you could do, you could help. “We’re on the drop schedule for tomorrow!”

His grin was unfettered, unfiltered, just for you. He reached up a fist and you bumped it enthusiastically. You were too excited to eat, too excited to sleep. You tossed and turned, imagining experiencing a drop for the first time, imagining striding through the mighty sea like it was nothing, imagining staring down hell itself and bringing it to its knees.

You were still awake when you heard the alarms down the hall. Yours didn’t go off, because you weren’t on duty, weren’t approved to fight.

Down the hall, there was a flurry of commotion - shouting, rushing, people pushing past you as they pulled on boots and jackets.

“Cat-3 in the west bay,” someone shouted.

“Deploying Devil’s Advocate!”

You reached the tech bay, trying to stay out of the way but not unseen. When the Marshall strode by, you stepped sideways.

“Let us drop,” you said quickly, knowing time was precious. “It’ll be like practice. We can be back-up. We’ll hang back.”

“Absolutely not,” the Marshall said, already moving to work past you. “You’re not approved yet. We don’t need a liability right now.”

“We’re scheduled for tomorrow!” you protested, and then you felt a hand on your shoulder.

“We’ll get our turn,” Seungcheol told you quietly. Of course he’d come out, of course he found you.

You deflated. “It could have been us. We are hours from approval.”

He gave your shoulder a tiny shake. “We’ll get our turn,” he repeated. “Don’t make trouble.”

You glowered, but you knew he was right. “Fine,” you grumbled as Joshua and Jeonghan slinked past you in matching jackets and matching shit-eating grins. You stayed out of the way as they prepared to drop.

You stayed through the fight, listened to the control room buzz and chatter, until you heard, “Devil’s Advocate, cleared to return.”

Only then did you try to go back to sleep. Seungcheol gave your shoulder one more squeeze.

“Tomorrow,” he promised.

“Tomorrow,” you repeated.

—

Some people feel God at church. The history of tradition and the sanctity of ritual speak to them, help them feel part of something, help them feel that unnameable swell of something spiritual.

Some people feel God in nature. The patterns of the universe, the way math exists without human touch, the harmonies and patterns that seem too intricate for coincidence help them believe in a planner’s touch. The beauty of the outdoors allows them to wonder, to feel like they belong as a piece of this clockwork.

But you - you felt God when you stood before your jaeger, marveling at the power, the beauty, how it feels like yours, how it feels like Seungcheol before you’re even inside it. Duellona Fury promises you power, promises you purpose.

That hand was on your shoulder again, and it slid down to the center of your back before removing itself.

Beside you, Seungcheol stared up at your glorious machine.

“She looks sick,” he said, the grin taking over his face.

“I can’t wait to fuck shit up,” you murmured, your reverent tone at odds with the flippancy of your words.

“Ready?” the Marshall asked you, coming up to your left. “We’ll get you calibrated and dropped, and then you’ll do a lap of the bay. We’re sending out Pretty Savage just in case you run into trouble.”

The defensiveness rose in you quick, like a snakebite.

“We don’t need a babysitter,” Seungcheol said, voice hard. You reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze - a reminder to watch it, just as his hand on your shoulder frequently did for you.

“It’s just safety protocol.” The Marshall was unphased by the outburst. “Have fun, you two. Enjoy your first joy-ride.”

You screamed when you dropped, the exhilaration rushing out of you as Duellona Fury fell story after story before slowing and attaching to your jaeger’s mainframe.

Goosebumps raised along your arms when the Shatterdome’s sea-doors slid open, shudders traveling your body as you and Seungcheol stepped together, Duellona Fury stepping with you, her gigantic, metal form following every movement.

For the first time in your whole, careful life, you felt powerful. Your jaeger cut through the ocean waves like they were nothing, making an easy perimeter of the bay. In your head, you could somehow both hear and feel Seungcheol’s delight, his low-simmering desire to fight, to do something a perfect mirror of your own.

“How is it?” Soonyoung’s voice crackled in your ears, reminding you that Pretty Savage wasn’t far behind you.

“Incredible,” Seungcheol answered him, at the same time that you said, “It’s everything.”

It didn’t matter that you came from a family of pilots. It didn’t matter that you were raised in the Dome, training since you were young. None of that mattered. You were born for this - born to fight for your planet, born for Duellona Fury, born for Choi Seungcheol.

—

The west bay became Duellona’s playground; you and Seungcheol were often assigned to patrol there.

It was only a few months in that you faced a kaiju for the first time.

“Come in, Duellona Fury,” Nainsi’s voice came through. “We have a reading just a few miles north of you. Cat-2. Approaching at -”

Duellona Fury was turning due north before the command was even given.

“Are you ready for this?” you shouted to Seungcheol as Duellona slid through the water, the adrenaline singing in your system already.

“You know I am,” he answered, something hard in it, and the thrill in your stomach sparked.

When the sea split in half, the kaiju rising from the depths with an unearthly roar, you sank into a defensive stance, feeling Seungcheol move beside you, doing the same.

“Let’s fucking go,” Seungcheol said darkly, and launched forward, your arms rearing back for momentum before the first swing. The punch landed solidly, your whole body shaking once as the kaiju faltered backwards a few steps.

It opened its mouth and you glimpsed three rows of teeth bigger than a cow before it was lunging at you; Duellona Fury lurched. You tried to duck sideways as Seungcheol tried to move towards your opponent.

The moment of indecision cost you - the kaiju got its teeth on Duellona’s shoulder, knocking you back several steps. Beside you, Seungcheol roared as sparks flew near the bite.

“Are we breached?” you yelled, trying to steady your balance again.

“Not yet!” he yelled back, and you swung again, a hit landing hard enough to knock the kaiju loose, spitting it back into the sea.

You tried to move into a defensive crouch again; again, the jaeger faltered.

“Cherry!” Seungcheol yelled, desperation laced in his voice. “Cherry, don’t fight me!”

“Move with me!” you answered, and he did, miraculously, Duellona dodging left before an incoming attack.

Don’t fight me.

You rocked forward with Seungcheol as soon as you were clear of the kaiju’s trajectory, just as you’d done in practice thousands of times. Back in sync, Duellona Fury landed a kick to the kaiju’s middle that sent it stumbling.

“We’ve got him,” you said, feeling a win.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Seungcheol warned you. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the kaiju exploded from the dark ocean, limbs flailing as it flew towards you.

Duellona’s arms came up and locked it in battle, the impact shaking you so hard that your teeth chattered against each other. You groaned with exertion as you tried to match its strength.

“I don’t think we can hold it,” you managed through grit teeth.

“We’ve got this,” your partner promised, and with a mighty shove, you managed to flip the beast over your shoulder and beneath the waves.

“Drop the bombs and head for the east side,” you said quickly, already moving. Duellona Fury followed your command, turning and starting an easy run through the bay’s churning waters, away from where the kaiju was struggling to its feet, furious and vengeful. As she ran, she dropped three small explosives, about sixty feet apart. The explosives slipped into the ocean depths.

“Ready?” Seungcheol asked, a little breathless. “Are we far enough away?”

“Light him up,” you replied. Seungcheol reached up and tapped the button; somewhere behind you, the ocean exploded.

—

“How’s your shoulder?” you asked, later, in the med bay.

“Not that bad,” Seungcheol said, but you could see the blood-stains on the bandaging.

“It won’t happen again,” you promised. “I think I just… practiced alone for so long. I forgot to listen. I’m sorry.”

Seungcheol shook his hand, eyes finding yours. “There’s nothing to forgive, Cherry. Forget about it.” Then, he brightened. “You know what I want to do?”

“What?” you asked, not entirely past feeling guilty.

His smile was devilish. “I want to go celebrate our first fucking kill.”

– 

You marked the passing of two years in statistics.

Three hundred and forty-six explosives detonated.

Two hundred and eighty-three drops. Two hundred and eight-three kills. 

Seventy-two mainframe repairs.

Twenty-eight achievement awards.

Nine television interviews.

Six upgrades.

One ill-informed “vacation” during which you both itched with anxiety, spending the whole time messaging your friends back in the Shatterdome desperately, praying you wouldn’t miss a fight in which you were needed.

Seven hundred and thirty days of living in and around Seungcheol’s mind and heart. But that stat should’ve gone first.

It was a good high. Your team had a good run.

It wasn’t a kaiju that reduced it to ash, not an attack that took your team out of the rotation of main fighters and sent your jaeger to gather rust and dust below the Dome. It was your own stupid heart.

There were a lot of moments that could have been it. Each time you walked into a fight knowing the danger, each time he ended up in the med bay reeking of antibacterial ointment and resentment. Each time you slid into your place beside him - space he saved only for you. Each time his voice bidding you goodnight from the bottom bunk was the last thing you heard at the end of the day. Any of these moments might have been the one to make you stop, gasp, suddenly slammed with understanding. That you loved him, that he was everything you couldn’t bear to be without, that he was part of you. But they weren’t.

There was no moment of realization at all.

Instead, it slowly seeped into your consciousness, as gently and naturally as morning dew collecting on pre-dawn petals. The knowledge clung to you, as impossible to ignore as damp feet after running barefoot through the yard just after sunrise.

If you knew something, that meant your co-pilot would know it, too.

Unless you tucked it away, pushed it down deep and cast his attention elsewhere, a mental sleight-of-hand. Look here instead. 

You were twenty-three, on a routine patrol, when Mission Control radioed Duellona that there was a reading in the bay.

“Looks like it’s only a Cat-1,” Mission Control told you.

“On it,” you told them, feeling your body already mirroring Seungcheol’s as Duellona picked up her pace, striding through the waves. 

You glanced sideways at him, and immediately wished you hadn’t. He was already zoned in, eyes focused and jaw sharp as he concentrated. 

He caught your gaze for only a second. “Focus, Cherry,” he cautioned. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I would never,” you retorted, and he laughed. You were both cocky; you both knew it.

For a second, things felt better. 

The fight was almost easy, when the ocean seemed to split in two and the waves fell away like wrapping paper to reveal the kaiju you’d been sent for. 

You swung and ducked, dropping explosives strategically, Seungcheol moving in unison with you. There was something graceful about it - something beautiful in the sync, something holy in the way your muscles mimicked each other’s. 

This is what happens when sunlight hits morning dew: it warms, lifts, makes the air humid and sticky until it burns away. 

It rose up in you, your love for him, infusing the air around you, infusing the neural handshake that he was deeply imbedded in.

No. 

You panicked, tried to do several things at once - tried to shove the feeling down, tried to think of something else, tried to push Seungcheol’s consciousness out of yours.

Duellona Fury lurched around you, shuddering. 

“Cherry!” Seungcheol screamed to your left, and then the kaiju hit, its full weight slamming into Duellona’s mainframe.

You both staggered, trying to right yourselves, as the machines around you blinked and beeped and rebooted. 

Seungcheol grunted under the neural weight of driving alone as you gasped and closed your eyes, trying desperately to fix it. Around you, you heard the floating words - recalibrating.

“Recalibrate faster!” you shouted, glancing sideways to see your co-pilot struggling to hold the monster in place, his face contorting with effort, arms straining against the machinery. He bared his gritted teeth, exhaling in a hiss between them. 

You gave yourself a shake, bouncing on the balls of your feet, desperate for the connection to take again so you could pick up your half, take the literal weight from him. As soon as you felt the neural handshake, you gave a mighty shove and Duellona flipped the monster backwards, the ocean receding and then coming back to slam her shins, swallowing the monster whole.

You both sank into a defensive stance, ready for the beast to rise again.

“What was that?” Seungcheol demanded, later, as he sat in the med bay, waiting for his nosebleed to stop. The nosebleed you’d caused by letting him carry a neural load meant for two.

“I don’t know,” you lied, still panicked and desperate. 

“Bullshit,” Seungcheol countered, eyes narrowed. He reached up and pulled the cotton away from his face, examining it. “I’m fine now,” he announced, and tossed the wad into a nearby trash bin, standing.

You fought the urge to cower, knowing he’d never let it go if you did. You followed him silently out of the med bay and back towards your dormitories. Halfway there, he slowed, then stopped.

Then, more calmly this time, he asked, “What happened, Cherry? You pushed me out.”

There was a slight pout to it, a sliver of hurt, and it sliced through you like something tangible, like you were actually wounded from it, like it might actually bleed.

“I don’t know,” you repeated. Guilt poked at you until you relented, gave him something that was at least partly true.  “I got scared.” 

“That can’t happen, and you know it,” he said seriously, his large frame casting a long shadow to your left as he leaned into your space. “You can’t keep secrets - that’s piloting 101. We’ve got to handle it. You know what’s at stake here.”

You did; you did, and that was entirely the problem. It wasn’t just feelings, it wasn’t just your relationship with Seungcheol at stake. It was your relationship with your co-pilot - your ability to fight was at stake, your ability to keep others safe. Your legacy.

Your parents’ wall of pictures flashed in your mind.

“I’m going to my mom and dad’s for a while,” you said quietly. 

He nodded, let you run away - trusted you to come back to him when you were ready, trusted you to let him in.

You weren’t sure if he was right or wrong, as you walked away and left him behind.

You didn’t go to your parents’, though. Instead, you went to the tech bay and sat, watching Duellona undergo simple repairs from her fight. You stayed there, the metal cold beneath your thighs, watching the tech team buff over a scratch on your jaeger’s torso, until someone dropped into the spot next to you, bumping their shoulder roughly into yours.

“Where’s Seungcheol?” Wylie, who co-piloted Fury Striker with Chan, was your closest friend in the Dome besides Seungcheol. 

“He’s pissed at me,” you answered, looking sideways, because the question had really meant, why isn’t Seungcheol with you? 

You weren’t sure she’d understand what you were going through - she and Chan had been obsessed with each other since they were kids. Neither of them had ever had to fear that their love for each other would mess anything up. It had been part of their deal from the start.

“What’d you do?” Wylie demanded, turning her full, unfettered attention on you. You wanted to shrink from the intensity of it - but that was always how Wylie worked: full wattage, all the time.

“Almost got us killed by a fucking Cat-1 tonight,” you muttered, angry at yourself, angry at your heart.

Wylie smacked your arm hard enough to send you sideways. “Cherry!” she scolded. 

“There was something I didn’t want him to see.” You said it in your head first, weighed the words, then forced them through your teeth. You hoped she’d just know what it was, hoped you wouldn’t have to force those words past muscle and bone, too.

Wylie’s face dropped into irritation. “Cherry,” she repeated, disappointment dripping from the two syllables.

You looked up at Duellona Fury again. 

“You can’t do that,” she told you, giving your ankle a little kick for emphasis. “You know you can’t do that.”

You can’t love him? Or, you can’t keep secrets from him?

You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to know the answer.

Seungcheol was waiting up for you when you finally returned to the dorm. You opened the door to find the first room - an entryway and kitchen, both - dimly lit. Beyond it, in the small sitting space, Seungcheol sat facing the door, his chin in his hand.

You knew the look on his face. You knew it so well that you almost ran from it, almost turned right around and went back out to the hallway.

Brows slightly furrowed, mouth a straight line, jaw tight. Eyes focused, locked in. It was the face he made in training before he bodied someone. It was the face he made in the field before an offensive strike. It meant he had his sights on a target, a problem, and he was about to throw everything he had at it.

And right now, you were the problem.

“Hey?” you tried meekly.

He nodded. Licked his lips. Stood. 

He’s pissed at me, you’d told Wylie. The energy radiating from your co-pilot was much more complex than that, the air around you palpably tense and teetering.

“How was it at your parents’?” he asked, voice low. 

You took one tentative step closer. “I didn’t go,” you admitted. One lie between you was already more than you wanted. “I watched them patch up Duellona instead. Talked to Wylie a little.”

He nodded, eyes still on you. Nervousness coursed through you, but it would be a lie - another one - to say it wasn’t laced with a little excitement. He was stunning, always, but like this - it almost took your breath away.

If he was in your mind right now, there’d be no question. He’d know all of it. The attraction, the desire, the fear, the affection, the love, the need. All of it. 

His eyes caught on a bruise peeking out from the short sleeve of your top. “You should’ve had them look at that,” he said, reaching out like he wanted to run his fingers over the dark splotch, but he was just too far away, fingertips closing around the air just an inch or two away. 

You shook your head. “You needed attention first. You carried the neural load alone.” Because of me.

“Only for a minute.”

“A minute too long. I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

It hung between you. You don’t know if you’d inched forward or he had, or both, but you were close enough to touch now when you hadn’t been just seconds ago.

He lifted his eyes, his gaze locking on yours. In the dim room, his eyes shone black. “You pushed me out.”

It was an accusation, but it was also a question.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated, barely able to say it, your voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. “Seungcheol, I was scared.”

Maybe he was in your head. Maybe he did know all of it.

“Don’t be,” he told you. “Don’t be scared.”

His arms were around you though you didn’t see him move. It wasn’t the first time you’d let him embrace you - after a fight, in relief, or in victorious delight, or sometimes just in sleepy affection at the end of a long day. It was far from the first time that you’d found comfort in the space between his arms, strong and capable around your frame, your forehead pressed against his sternum as his heart beat directly into your bones. 

But it was the first time that his fingers, confident and sure, tipped under your chin, guiding you to look up at him, guiding your mouth to meet his.

You don’t know if you melted or exploded - it was somehow both at once. You gripped his back, feeling the muscles move beneath his t-shirt, relaxing into his hold and focusing on the feel of his full lips firm and hungry against your own. This was everything - everything you’d wanted, everything you were afraid of, everything you needed, everything that could rip your life apart.

You didn’t mean to whine, but it slipped up your throat and into the gasped space between your lips and his as you tried to pull in a desperate breath. He responded with a grunt, walking you backwards until the edge of the kitchen counter jutted into your lower back. His hands traveled, up to the back of your neck, back down to the slight curve of your waist, around to the back of your ass. He tugged your hips against his roughly, and you let your head fall back, panting, head spinning.

“Cherry,” he breathed against the newly bared stretch of your neck, his lips close enough to drag against your skin as he spoke.

Your hands found the back of his neck, gave the slightest tug upwards, and he followed, bringing his mouth back to yours. His tongue pressed yours briefly, your moan muffled entirely by his mouth as you tried to press him closer, closer, as if you wanted your rib-cages to meld, to slip together like fitting puzzle pieces. 

His hand slipped lower from your ass and wrapped around your thighs, taking only a second to lift you onto the counter behind you. You wrapped yourself around him immediately, pulling him into the space between your legs, arms around his neck, pulling him in, wanting to feel every bit of him against you. 

His hands found the hem of your shirt and lifted; you raised your arms in compliance and felt the cotton slip over your head and your hands.

“Yours,” you murmured, but he had already reached back between his shoulder blades, his own top joining yours on the floor.

Your hands found him on their own, sliding over his skin, fingers dipping between muscles, thumbs sweeping over shadows.

You kissed until you turned liquid, molten, your fingers wrapped in his hair. His fingers mapped every inch of your skin, as if his job was to report back on every previously unknown dip, every rough circle, every beauty mark or blemish. His fingers traced them all, his hands passing over you reverently.

The brush of his bare chest against your own was torturous; delicious until you were full, until you couldn’t take it anymore, until the electric-sharp thrill became uncomfortable. You tilted backwards, creating more space between your torsos but pushing your hips firmly into his.

You both groaned at the contact. You could feel the heat and weight of him now, and everything instinctual within you urged you to shift further, to bring that heat and heaviness closer to the part of you that ached for it. 

He pressed his hips into you without reservation, your core clenching in response to the movement and the friction. 

Then he leaned back, his hands gripping the edge of the counter, his arms bracketing you on either side, his chest heaving as he struggled to control his breathing. He drank you in, his eyes as molten as you felt. You leaned back on your elbows and met his gaze.

The moment expanded; nothing existed but his eyes and the pant of his breath and the way he smelled like he’d just finished a fight and the way he felt between your thighs, unmovable and steady.

Neither of you was connected to jaeger machinery, but you may as well have been, because you knew without a shadow of a doubt that your minds were connected, the drift be damned. Your eyes locked, you knew he felt everything you felt - the gravity of what you were doing, the love that drove you, the fire coursing through you. If there was going to be hesitation or questioning, this was the moment, this was the pause. But you were one, your minds were one, and there was none of that. 

His unvoiced question definitively answered by the certainty that flowed between you, Seungcheol moved to lift you again, taking you easily from the countertop into the dark of the room you share, settling you on your back on his bottom bunk.

Above you, mostly shadowed, was your other half, the only person who knew and understood every cobwebbed corner of your consciousness, the only person who had walked through your mind and found himself mirrored in every way that mattered. He was beautiful in the fractured light, his expression serious and gaze intense. 

You reached up to slide your thumb along his jaw and his eyes fluttered closed, his breath leaving him as in relief, as if you’d made some kind of admission. 

Making love to Seungcheol felt like drifting. His eyes on you as his fingers pulled you apart felt the same as the careful way he’d watch you when your memories got emotional, like he was watching for any sign that you weren’t okay, that you needed more or less or him. 

The way his breath and shoulders shuddered when he pressed into you for the first time felt the same as when he faltered in face of his father’s memory; both times, his fingers laced through yours and held tight until you could both breathe again.

He felt how you’d always known he would. Perfect - a perfect fit for you, a physical compatibility you had never tested but had always trusted would be there. He took you apart without even trying, and all you could do was hold onto him, feel all of him, feel all of it, and try to remember to breathe.

You didn’t speak as you moved together in the dark; the only sounds in the tight room were muted gasps, tiny moans muffled against necks, skin on skin, the obscene squelching sounds that accompanied each snap of his hips. You didn’t say the words that your lips tried to form - it’s so much, go slow for a little, Seungcheol, I love you, more - please, don’t stop. Maybe he heard them. Maybe this was a different way to drift, one that didn’t need wires.

You did your best to hold his gaze, losing sight of him only when you strained up to kiss him, when you nuzzled your face into the warmth between his neck and shoulder and gasped against a wave of sensation, when you couldn’t help but close them as they rolled back, your toes curling. 

He pressed his forehead to yours when he finished, your name slipping out of him, as if it had been literally squeezed from his lungs. “Cherry… Cherry…”

You lay together in silence for a long time, feeling your hearts slow, your skin cool. Your thumb traced his jaw again and again, slow, worshipful. “Cheol,” you whispered. My Cheol. My everything. You didn’t say the rest as you lay together in the quiet, in the dark, your heartbeats competing. 

You didn’t know that you’d drifted together for the last time. You didn’t know that your ability to neural connect could be broken.

–

The wind whips around you, stinging your face. You barely flinch. When you’d first relocated here, three years ago, the cold had made you literally cry during your first month. Just from having to walk from the door of the dormitory across the yard to the mess hall dorm, the intensity of it had sent you spiraling into misery - damning the circumstances that had sent you here, away from everyone and everything you knew and loved, to a place where the air hurt. 

You were sure it would hurt, this intensely, forever.

But time eased the sting, and despite your doubts you did adjust. Now the early morning wind feels bracing and refreshing rather than painful. You’ve adjusted to a lot of things since relocating to a small training center in Alakanuk, Alaska: the climate, the food, the no-frills campus you lived and worked on. Being away from your parents, from Wylie and Chan and Seungkwan and Jeonghan and all the other pilots you were friends with at the Shatterdome.

Being away from Seungcheol. Being partnerless, a half instead of a whole. 

Being unable to pilot, unable to fight. 

Being brokenhearted.

Just like the cold, the pain of your losses was the same - the sting of heartbreak and loneliness and homesickness faded to something ignorable, something you could keep tucked tight in the back of your mind. 

You can hear the noise from inside the mess hall before you even cross the courtyard. There are short of fifty girls ranging from ages seven to eighteen being housed here, but from the noise you’d swear it was at least a hundred. 

The buildings are single-storied, painted with a heavily-chipping grey-blue that sometimes seems to belong to the mist you often get rolling in from the ocean. When you’d first come, you’d legitimately thought they were painted that way as camouflage, meant to blend in with the sea. The other trainers had a good laugh about that. 

As you cross the courtyard between the trainers’ dorms and the mess hall, you breathe deeply, eyes on the birds alight above you. After a lifetime in the Shatterdome, you don’t take for granted the fresh air you’re afforded as you pass between buildings, outside, the sky open and changing above. You don’t take for granted the rhythm of the ocean, the cries of the gulls, nor the distant treeline.

It was Seungcheol who had noted that you were sheltered, having never lived outside of the Dome. 

It was Seungcheol you could blame - at least halfway - for your relocation here, where there wasn’t a jaeger or even a city for hundreds of miles. 

When you pull open the flimsy door to the mess hall, the noise triples. Several of the girls call out to greet you, and you give them a quick wave as you head to the table where the staff eats.

“You’re later than normal,” one of the other instructors notes as you reach for a piece of bread.

You shrug lightly, unbothered. “Still have plenty of time before the first class. What day is today, Thursday? I’ve got the little ones first, right?”

The all-girls training center is meant to teach fighting and the groundworks for drifting, but no jaegers are housed here, no teams launch into the icy bay. The girls here will grow up to pilot - if they get selected, if they get paired with a partner. 

You’re mostly here to teach them to fight, the way you trained in the Dome, but you do plenty more. Help brush hair in the mornings, console tearful faces, teach games and sports, mediate arguments. You also got sucked into running one literacy class a week, though you still haven’t figured out how that happened. 

It would be a lie to say this wasn’t fulfilling, that you didn’t love the girls you cared for, that you weren’t happy here with the ocean and birds and trees and laughter. In many ways, the seclusion of this training center is exactly what you needed to get back on your feet, to find strength in yourself, to heal with distance and time.

But, god, what you would give for a real fight. What you would give to feel both loved and threatened by Wylie, to rib at the guys, to hug your mom. What you would give to hear Seungcheol’s teasing pout, to catch his gaze across the span of your jaeger and know what his body and yours will do, to feel his fingers just barely graze your back when he knows you need to be reminded to focus.

The final time you’d tried, the neural connection never took. It was like trying to connect with a stranger. It had simply been still, a thing that was never alive.

“Don’t do this,” Seungcheol had begged, and that had been the nail in the coffin.

Don’t do this, he’d said. It had landed like blame. Like everything was your fault, and only yours. Like you had broken the connection on purpose, were keeping him out, barricading your mind from his when you desperately wanted everything to go right back to normal.

After that failure, you didn’t tell him you were asking to be reassigned. You didn’t want to give him the chance to say don’t do this a second time.

You’ve just ended a class, the girls starting to filter out through the training room’s side door towards the mess hall for lunch, when the center’s Administrator calls your name from the door.

“There’s a call for you on my line. I have them holding.”

A call? 

Adrenaline races through you; it has to be an emergency. Your parents and friends can reach you on your own device, which is tucked into your back pocket. To call the mainline here at the center means this is a base-to-base call, not a personal one.

You’ve only been in this office a handful of times in your few years here, and you shuffle awkwardly around the desk and pick up the receiver that sits abandoned on the chipped, wooden desktop. 

You greet the person on the line with your real name. 

“Cherry?”

Your Marshall - your old Marshall, from the Dome - sounds unsure if he has the right person on the line. No one has called you Cherry in three years. Even your parents have used your given name the few times they’ve said it on your weekly calls home.

“It’s me,” you affirm. “Is everything okay? My parents?”

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, and you heave a relieved breath. “Everyone is fine. This is official business. I want to call you in.”

You shake your head, frowning, well aware that he can’t see your reaction. Your body has said no, but you force yourself to ask, “Me? Why?”

“We’re down a few teams,” the Marshall says. “And -”

“You’ve got more recruits than places to put them,” you counter before he can finish. “Call one of the new teams up. Call three new teams up. You don’t need me.”

“We do - we need teams with experience, teams that are ready. Not rookies bumbling around looking for mistakes. We need precision. We need Duellona Fury.”

Your Marshall lays out the situation: the teams that are out, the problems they’re having at the breach - less time between attacks, more monsters at once. You’ve seen this before, you all have, and there’s protocol in place - protocol that starts with all hands on deck. 

You shake your head again. From the door, the Administrator of the center watches you seriously, like she knows you’re being taken away. 

“Marshall, with all due respect, I don’t know why you’re calling me,” you admit. “What can I give you? I can’t pilot Duellona.”

Not anymore. 

The Marshall sighs, like he knew this argument was coming and didn’t have a good response. 

“I think you can,” he says finally. “I’m not saying it will be easy, and I’m not saying it will happen quickly or without effort. But I think you can.”

“No,” you say, the first time you’ve voiced it. “You were there. You saw what happened. We can’t drift anymore.”

“You couldn’t then,” he points out. “That was three years ago. You’ve both had a lot of time to…. You’ve both had a lot of time since then. Things that were once too painful to carry into the drift… they’ve had time to mellow.”

This blow knocks you into silence. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, eyes steadfastly on the warped wood of the desk, fingers toying absently with the Administrator’s pen. 

He’s wrong, and you want to tell him so. Nothing had mellowed. You love Seungcheol just as much today as you did three years ago. The splitting ache in your chest that you’ve felt every day since you became aware of loving him has only worked its way deeper with time. 

And Seungcheol’s anger? The anger and betrayal he’d leveled at you, when he was sure you were keeping him out of your head on purpose? You couldn’t speak for him, but if you had to guess, there weren’t enough years in a human life to let that hurt mellow into something safe enough to drift with.

“Have you talked to him about this?” You’re afraid of the answer. 

The Marshall hesitates. “Not yet.”

“You might want to do that first,” you point out. “Before flying me back only to have him refuse.” 

The Marshall’s voice hardens, and you can just picture his eyes narrowing. “Mr. Choi will follow orders,” he says evenly, “and so will you. Asking is really just a courtesy.”

“You can’t order us into being able to drift again,” you snap, pulse suddenly pounding in your arms, your hands, your face, your chest. 

“No,” the Marshall says, and any previous friendliness is gone from his voice now, “but I can - and will - order you to try.”

The girls cry when you tell them you’re leaving, and it makes you want to cry, too. You hold it together as you give them hugs, hold it together as you pack your single bag of belongings. You hold it together in the passenger seat of the center’s only beat-up van, waving out the back window as the training center fades away.

It’s standing on the deck of the ferry, the coast receding and the sea wind clawing at your face, that you let it go. You bury your face behind your hands and feel it release behind your ribs. You cry for all of it - for leaving the girls behind, for leaving a place that had sheltered you like a sanctuary. For the time you’d lost at the Dome, for the fights you’d sat out, for the years with your parents and friends that had slipped away like sand between your fingers. For your fear that Seungcheol will turn you away, just as hurt and angry as he was one thousand and ninety-five days ago. 

You’d been so determined to keep him from walking through the depths of your love for him, in the drift. You were so scared it would be too much, too intense, too much emotion for the drift. You’d been scared it would be too much for him - that the weight of it would inherently ask for more than he could give you in return. You’d been scared it would ruin your partnership, your compatibility, your capability to co-pilot.

But that had happened anyway. You almost have to laugh. 

As furiously as your tears begin, they peter out quickly. You take a few deep gulps of salty air, use the backs of your hands to wipe at your cheeks and beneath your nose. As you calm down, you keep your eyes on the horizon, your hands tight on the ship’s railing, and you let your mind wander back to Seungcheol. Here, thousands of miles away, you let yourself think back to those last weeks before you left the Shatterdome. You let yourself wonder, for the first time, what exactly caused everything to crumble.

You’d been so afraid to let Seungcheol into your head once the loving him had taken over. Why had it scared you so badly? As you keep your eyes on the grey of the horizon, you puzzle it out in your mind.

Had it been the uncertainty? That had certainly played a part. Did Seungcheol love you, back then? If he didn’t, everything between you could have changed - your friendship, your partnership, your ability to drift. It hadn’t seemed worth the risk to lose it all - his presence in your life, your ability to fight together. 

But maybe he had. If he did love you, back then… that would have changed things, too. What if starting something romantic affected your drift? There were too many maybes, too many variables. It had seemed safe to push it all down, to try and keep him away from it. To try and keep things the same.

Of course, you’d lost it all anyway.

Even if he did love you three years ago, you think as the sea air whips around you, did he love you the way you loved him? What if it had been too much - the way you could breathe once he was with you, the way you kept each other in check - what if he had loved you, but not that much?

Had it been a mistake to keep him out? Maybe. But it could have been just as catastrophic to let him in. There was no way to know, now.

You turn away from the ship’s railing, away from the horizon and the sea, away from your mistakes. There’s no use looking back like this. You can’t change it. You aren’t even sure you can fix it.

You were hoping to sleep on the plane, but you’re woefully awake well after take-off. Determined not to keep ruminating on what had happened before you left, instead you wonder what awaits you now.

The most-likely scenario, you think, professional and polite - but cold. Like you, he takes duty and responsibility seriously. The airplane bumps, a pocket of air jostling the small craft, and your hands find the armrests and cling tight until it stops.

The best case scenario, of course, would be that enough time has passed that Seungcheol’s hurt has faded. Maybe, you think, maybe he’s moved on from harboring that anger. Maybe he’ll greet you warmly, maybe you’ll pick up right where you left off.

This hope, this day-dream, aches, so much that you blink it away and turn to watch the clouds through the window, a desperate distraction. You crave Seungcheol - you crave feeling safe with his arms around you, you crave the elation you’d feel when he entered the room you were in, you crave the peace that comes with two minds engaged in neural handshake - the peace of someone’s mind interlaced with your own, understanding you, operating with you, picking up half of your mental lift.

You crave his giggle when you say something stupid in the dark of the dorm before bed, his pout when he feels like he isn’t getting enough attention, you crave his voice echoing in your head long after he’s gone asleep because you heard him talk to you all day long. 

You crave his lips on yours, his teeth on your neck, his hands on your body, even if you only had it once. You’ve craved it ever since.

You crave closing your eyes and pressing your forehead to his sternum, feeling safe and quiet and like you belong. You miss the sanctuary of that space, chest to chest with him, something sacred in the way it exists only for you.

You know you can’t have it - any of it. The daydream isn’t real. Your curse will be to crave it forever, alone.

When you arrive at the Shatterdome, it’s your parents who greet you just inside. For a moment, you’re happy to be back, overcome with emotion as you hug them tight. They’ve aged in these three years. You’ve missed them awfully. You only tell them the latter. 

They walk with you to the Marshall’s office, where you’re meant to report upon arrival. 

You hesitate, covering the moment by tugging your duffle’s strap higher on your shoulder. Your mother reads you anyway, reaching out and giving your shoulder a squeeze. 

“It will be okay,” she whispers. 

Your father catches on. “You’ve faced down worse,” he reasons. 

You disagree. There’s no monster in the sea bigger than your love for Seungcheol, no wounding possible that could hurt more than losing him has. But you appreciate the sentiment, so you give them each a grateful nod, tell them you’ll visit after dinner, and turn to knock on the door.

“Come in,” the Marshall’s voice carries through the door, and you turn the knob and step inside. 

All you see is Seungcheol; the Marshall, the office furniture, the flickering screens on the walls all snap into nonexistence in the presence of your former lover. He’s the only thing in the room that comes into focus. Everything else is just fuzzy noise.

His face wavers for a moment when your eyes meet his, the muscles rippling as he fights to get them under control. 

You don’t know what reaction he’s fighting. You don’t know if he’s feeling happiness or hatred. You don’t know if he’s fighting a smile or a scowl.

You give him a quick bow in greeting, and he returns it. His face is stone, now, his mouth tight and eyes flat. 

He turns to face the Marshall, to receive orders, so you do the same.

“I trust your travel went well?” the Marshall begins.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Even the single syllable of yes will come out of your mouth like gravel and dirt and sand, getting everywhere, leaving a trail.

“Your orders,” he says then, a bit of a sigh on his tone - as if he knows the uphill battle this will be, “are to reconnect as best you can. You’ll follow your old schedule. You’ll spar, you’ll meditate, and you’ll talk. After some time, we’ll try the drift again, see if the connection has recovered any.”

Seungcheol’s voice startles you when he speaks. “How long do you imagine it will be before we try?” he asks, just cold enough to have a sliver of sarcasm in it. 

The Marshall’s eyes narrow, just slightly, as if he’d caught it. “That’s entirely up to you two,” he says evenly. “When you were young and hungry to fight, you trained yourselves into exhaustion. You spent every waking second trying to cultivate the bond that would carry you into your jaeger. With the same intention and drive, I imagine you could be piloting Duellona within the week.”

You fight to keep your chin up, your eyes on the Marshall, instead of ducking your head and watching the floor. The Marshall lifts his arm and glances at his watch. 

“Your allotted time in Sparring Room 7 begins on the hour,” he says. This is his way of dismissing you.

In the hallway, you pause. “I’m just going to drop my bag in the dorm,” you say quietly, not looking at Seungcheol. 

He gives a tight nod. “Fine,” he says, and turns to go the other way, towards the sparring and training rooms. Clearly he intends to meet you there. You heave a deep breath, and turn back towards the wing with the dorms.

Stepping into the dorm you used to share with Seungcheol hits you harder than you thought it would. You’re not sure what you expected - to feel like coming home, maybe, or perhaps to be slapped with the memories of you and Seungcheol together, dancing around each other as you hurried to get dressed for a drop, lazing around in the sitting area after a full day of training. And, of course, the single night you’d spent together.

Neither thing happens. You aren’t overcome by a feeling of nostalgia and love, nor are you inundated by memories of what you’ve lost. Instead, the room feels exactly as it is: empty and still.

Your footsteps’ echoes taunt you as you walk through the kitchen, the sitting area, and into the bedroom. It’s pristine to the point of detriment; it feels like no one lives there. You set your bag on the floor near the foot of the bed - you can unpack later, after training - and turn to go.

Strangely, it’s stepping into the training room that slams you with memory and nostalgia. The wood cool beneath your feet, the vague smell of sweat and citrus-y cleaner, the sounds of punches landing and grunts of effort from the training rooms on either side - they all cocoon you in history, making goosebumps rise on your arms as the emotions surround you.

It makes sense, you think, as Seungcheol glances over his shoulder at the sound of your arrival. He doesn’t speak to you, just swaggers to the center of the room and takes a stance you recognize from Form One. Your body leads you opposite him, muscle memory guiding you into the first form you ever learned with him. It makes sense that this would be what felt like home - your minds going empty together, your bodies following the steps in unison. The sparring forms are the closest you can get to drifting without an actual neural connection.

Well, that and sleeping together, but you don’t see that on your agenda.

You stare at him across the invisible circle between you and try to read him. His face is cold and empty, but that already tells you so much about what he’s feeling. Seungcheol was never cold with you. When you fought together he slipped into that mode you loved so much - ready to level anything, chin lifted, eyes narrowed, confident and so very strong. But it was when you were together outside the fights that you had loved him best - often pouting, lips protruding, voice lifting into a whine. And the best of all - that smile, dimples creating shadows that beg for your thumb to press them, eyes squeezing shut with happiness or laughter.

Something must show on your face, because you watch the muscles in Seungcheol’s upper body untense, as if he’d been ready to fight and recognized that you weren’t.

“I’m good,” you mutter quickly, before he can ask. It feels better to lie to him before he actually asks you, like that’s somehow less dishonest. “Let’s go.”

Form One is basic - no hits, no fancy moves. At the training center, you’d teach it to the littlest ones until they had it memorized. It was really about control and communication - precision and alignment with your partner. You had to breathe together as your feet traced opposite circles across the knots in the wooden floor. You had to rise and bend in unison. It was about watching and listening.

You and Seungcheol could - literally, you’d tried more than once - do it blindfolded in perfect step with one another. Before. You don’t know if you still can. But, now, unblindfolded, it’s too easy.

You move through forms one through six without incident - both of you flowing as easily as water.

Form Seven is the first form that incorporates actual hits and blocks. You’ll have to touch for the first time, even if it’s forearm to forearm or ankle to shoulder. You move right as he moves left, crouch and circle as his right foot flies over your head, stand and punch where you know his open hand will be waiting to stop you.

It is, and you press your fist against it for just a second before spinning away to continue the form. You ache, even as your body continues following the steps, to have him entirely again - to meet his eyes and smile the way you both used to, because you were pleased with what your bodies could do. Because you had each other, completely.

After the tenth form, you bow, turn, and walk out of the ring. You drink some water, your back to him. Years ago you’d have used this break to chat, but you don’t know what to say to him. You’re scared that he’ll shut down anything you say, whether you choose small talk or go straight for the heart of the problem, and you honestly don’t think you can shoulder his rejection right now. So you stay quiet.

After a few short minutes of rest, you return to the center of the room. This is when you’ll spar for real.

You and Seungcheol had done this for years before things went wrong. You’d long ago adjusted to how hard you should hit, how to dodge his moves, how to make this a dance as much as a fight. Now, you feel like it’s your first time again.

Seungcheol attacks as you’d expect - all offensive, pushy, succeeding in herding you backwards even as you dodge each blow. You know his goal is to flip you, and normally you can avoid that by forcing him to go on the defensive as he avoids your own hits. Simply dodging won’t be enough - eventually he’ll cage you in unless you distract him.

You throw yourself into a summersault and manage to get behind him - an opportune moment to strike. You shift your weight to follow the blow as you twist your hips to send a kick towards his unprotected head. He turns just too late - the blow will land.

You can’t do it. You freeze, your core working to keep you upright as you fight your own momentum, halting the kick inches from his temple.

You know immediately that pulling the hit was a mistake. His eyes narrow, and he sweeps his foot at the ankle you’re balancing on. You crash to the ground, heaving a breath and taking quick inventory.

You aren’t hurt. Not this time.

“Get up, Cherry,” he says darkly, moving back to the center to start again. “And don’t do that shit again.”

He comes at you full force in the next match, too. You dodge and weave, but you don’t try to strike. You know he knows it; this isn’t how it used to work. You can almost feel him get angrier as you fight, but you can’t make yourself hit back. You want him to knock you down, you deserve to take some shots.

You take two blows to the back and one to a shoulder; you fall back unsteadily but manage to find your footing and roll away from his next kick.

The match continues - you taking a handful of blows, though none with the force to level you, and Seungcheol with his lip curled in fury.

“If you’re not going to fight, then leave,” he spits.

“Would if I could,” you retort without thinking. You mean that you don’t want to be here like this - not talking, cold, at odds. But you know it reads as not wanting to be here at all.

It seems like everything you say and do only hurts him more.

“I didn’t mean -” you start, and Seungcheol takes your arms and flips you over his shoulders.

“Don’t waste my fucking time,” he says, brushing his hands together and stepping back to give you room to pick yourself up.

“Don’t curse at me,” you answer, pushing yourself to your hands and knees, pausing to catch your breath before rising fully again.

He shakes his head, rolls his eyes a little.

You hate this side of him.

You know you deserve it. For pushing him out. For leaving him here. For loving him, messing everything up, when he never asked for that.

“Seungcheol,” you say, but he ignores you, pacing a few steps and then turning to face you, lowering himself into a defensive stance, ready to spar again.

“Cheol,” you try again. “Listen to me.”

“Marshall scheduled us time to talk later,” he says flatly. “Right now we’re scheduled to fight. So fight me, Cherry. Let’s go.”

The rest of the hour continues the same. By the time it’s over, Seungcheol storms out without speaking to you, furious over every single pulled punch.

You don’t know what to do to make it all better.

You shower quickly, dressing in dry linens, and then re-emerge for the hours you’re scheduled to meditate together. You hope that maybe this will help the situation - maybe not talking will be good for you, give you a chance to feel your connection without the chance to fuck it up with words.

You’re wrong; trying to meditate together is just as desperately fruitless as sparring had been.

You can’t focus at all - can’t shift your attention to your breath, to your body, to the earth beneath you, to the energy of your partner.

Your partner is the distraction, though he sits perfectly still, eyes closed. He might as well be yelling. His shoulders are tight, his jaw still clenched. Anger radiates off him so strongly that it makes your stomach hurt, makes you want to cower from it. You can’t stop watching him, hoping you’ll see him relax, hoping you’ll see the moment that he lets go.

He doesn’t.

“Your eyes are supposed to be closed,” he murmurs, and you feel your face heat, embarrassed that he knew you were watching him.

“I can’t,” you admit. Maybe, you think, you should just be brutally honest, starting now. It’s not like you could make this worse. “I can’t stop noticing how angry -”

“Then stop pissing me off,” he snaps, eyes opening. “Just a suggestion.”

“Don’t talk to me like that!” you cry, and push yourself to stand. You’re not sure why - maybe just to pace. “You never used to talk to me like this. Who are you?”

He looks at the floor, the first sign of guilt you’ve seen since you came home.

“Fine,” he finally bites back, and you know it’s as close to sorry as you’ll get. “I’ll reign it in. Sit back down.”

You shift your weight, arms crossed defensively across your chest, and close your eyes, deciding.

“Sit down, Cherry,” he repeats, and it’s gentler now. That’s what makes you cave, and you settle back across from him.

He’s less tense this time, so you eventually manage to close your eyes and count your breaths. But you’re still feeling for him, reaching for him in your mind, and coming up with nothing between you fingers. Touching him is as possible as touching the fog that used to blanket the training center, thick enough to blind you but impossible to grasp.

The pain feels like a cramp, except it’s behind your ribs instead of in your muscles. The pain grips and tightens, takes over. You want him, you want to be his again, you want to be inside these walls - where you used to fit comfortably. The fact that you’re out here, without him, aches so badly it makes you nauseated.

You want to beg him - let me in again, let me back in, let me be close to you again.

It won’t do any good, and you know it.

He was yours - you had him, you knew him, you could reach out to him and he’d pick you up. You’d taken it for granted, and you’d run away from it. You’d chosen to let it go, and now all you get is this: Seungcheol, cold and closed. Seungcheol, hating you for everything that happened.

—

Dinner is just as bad.

You go to the mess hall eager to see Wylie and Jeonghan and Seungkwan and all the other friends you haven’t seen in years. Wylie screeches like a banshee when she spots you, crossing the mess hall in a blur and hugging you so tightly that you both stagger, off balance, until Seungkwan joins the hug and rights you again.

“I missed you both so much,” you whisper, the only vulnerability anyone’s going to get out of you today.

“Then don’t leave again!” Wylie snaps, but you know the admonishment is full of love.

“I can’t promise,” you admit. Honestly, you’ve already made up your mind - you want to go back to Alaska. You’re not wanted here, not by the person who matters. What good are you, taking up a bed, if you can’t drift?

You’ve already given up hope that he’ll come around.

Seated at the table, you listen while your friends fill you in on what you’ve missed in three years - the fights in the bay, the new teams of pilots, the illnesses and injuries. You almost don’t notice Seungcheol silently takes a seat on Jeonghan’s other side, but something in you prickles, like you’ve sensed him.

The tension around the table heightens; the conversation goes a little stilted. When it’s apparent that he’s going to ignore you two seats down from him, Wylie slaps her hand flat on the tabletop.

“Come on, Seungcheol,” she scolds, and you’re sure no one wonders what she means.

His face goes dark so quickly it’s alarming. “Don’t,” he tells her darkly, one finger coming up to point at her in warning.

Her own eyes narrow and dart to her fork. Beside her, Chan’s eyes pingpong between them. He’s probably wondering if he should hold her back or join her.

“It’s fine,” you mutter, grabbing your tray and making to rise. “I’ll go.”

“Cherry, no,” Wylie protests, and then turns a glower onto your ex-co-pilot as if to say see what you did?

“It’s fine,” you repeat, standing. “I told my mom and dad I’d come by.”

You slink out before anyone else can argue.

You can’t even be mad at him - you did this by pushing him away. You hammered every last nail in the coffin by requesting to transfer. You pushed him out and you left him behind and now you have to face the reality that you can’t have him anymore. He isn’t yours, not anymore.

When you return to your dorm, he’s already in bed, the lights out. He’s facing the wall so you can only see his back, can only see the angry, tight shoulder poking out the top of the sheets. It tells you everything you need to know.

You don’t try to talk to him. You just go to bed.

—

You spend four days identically - fighting while sparring, not meditating, and avoiding Seungcheol’s ice-out. On the fifth day, your Marshall loses patience and changes your schedule. Your entire day is blocked to working on Duellona’s mainframe - buffing, repainting, greasing, and anything else you’re able to handle on your own.

“Since you can’t do anything else useful,” he adds, and you avoid Seungcheol’s eyes, ashamed.

Standing under Duellona’s unlit frame fills you with guilt. It feels like you’re letting her down, disappointing her by letting her rust here, failing your half of the bargain. You run your hands gently over the metal, finding the rough spots that need attention. Somewhere to your left, you can hear the telltale sounds of Seungcheol tightening bolts.

You work in silence for hours.

Eventually, you crack. You’re not sure if it’s the monotony of the task, the tension woven into the silence between you too, or being so close to your jaeger but unable to fight in it - maybe a combination. Something pushes at you from the inside, like a balloon trying to inflate under your skin and running out of room.

You flop backwards on the metal walkway, the grooves digging into your back. “What are we doing?” you ask, and you hear the tool Seungcheol had been using cling loudly as he sets it down.

“Following orders?” he says, stepping around Duellona’s side to look at you. “Fixing up the jaeger?”

“Fixing up the jaeger we don’t get to pilot?” you ask, sitting back up to look at him better.

“Is that what you’re here for?” he asks, the sudden ferocity of it surprising you. “To fight? Is that why you came back?”

You reach up to the walkway’s railing and pull yourself up. You feel yourself frowning at his question, at the heat behind it. 

“I’m back because the Marshall gave me an order,” you say slowly. 

“And that’s it?” he demands. 

You stare at him. You feel sure there’s more to the question, more that he’s asking. You feel sure, after knowing Choi Seungcheol down to the last molecule, that he’s really asking, you didn’t come back for me?

And it confuses you. You try to think about your split from his perspective: you’d shut him out, then slept with him, and then vanished. You’d made a lot of assumptions about his anger since then. You assumed he was angry at you for pushing him out of your head. You assumed he was angry at you for sleeping with him and then leaving. You assumed he was angry with you for ruining your drift, for ripping him away from the ability to fight. You assumed he was angry because he never knew why - never knew what it was that you were so desperate to hide, never knew why sleeping together had made things so much worse that the neural connection had fizzled into nothing altogether.

Is there more to it, his anger?

Should you call him on it, should you ask?

You take too long deciding. Seungcheol scoffs, like he’s disgusted with you. “I should have known,” he says coldly. “Princess of the Shatterdome, I should have known you only cared about piloting - about your legacy.”

This is something you’ve never said to him - that your desire to shine as brightly as your parents has weighed on you. This is something he’d pulled from the drift, something he only knew from tiptoeing around your mind before a fight. 

“That isn’t fair,” you say, your voice hard. “Is there another reason I should have come back? I’d love to hear it.”

He hears the challenge as it is - you didn’t ask me to come back, the Marshall did. You let me go.

He has nothing to say for himself, just stares back at you, eyes narrowed in anger, chest moving too quickly as he battles with his temper.

“Exactly,” you say curtly. The victory stings. It doesn’t feel like a win at all. “The bottom line is I’m here now, and we can pilot again if we can get our shit together.”

He shakes his head. “You left,” he says finally. “That’s the bottom line. You decided you were out, you decided you didn’t want me in your head, and then you left.”

He watches you, waits for you to say something. When you don’t, he lets out a derisive little laugh. “We’re both wasting our time here. The drift won’t work. We aren’t going to fix it.”

For the first time, fear slices through you like steel. “You can’t know that,” you say. You hear the fear in the way your voice comes out low and rounded, barely sounding like you at all.

“I can,” he retorts. “You know how I know? Because I don’t want to. You wanted me out of your head so badly? You got it. Can’t turn back now.”

He heads for the ladder, swings around and finds the third rung down with ease.

“So that’s it?” you ask his retreating form. Your heart is hammering and you’re starting to get tunnel vision. 

The only answer he gives you are his feet hitting each new rung with a clunk and a vibration that rattles up your legs.

—

You go to the training rooms alone and run through the forms just to do something; your mind turns the problem over and over as your body goes through the motions. After, you take a longer shower than normal, letting the water run hotter than you normally would.

After, you go to the Marshall’s office, determined. Or maybe resigned.

When he opens the door, he already looks irritated, like he knew exactly who would be on the other side.

“Requesting an audience,” you say flatly, fighting the instinct to cross your arms defensively.

He glances at his watch. “Five minutes.”

You step inside but leave the door open.

“I’m requesting transfer back to Alakanuk,” you tell him as evenly as you can manage. You’re sure he’s not surprised. “Seungcheol has made it very clear that we won’t be fighting together again. If that’s the case, then I can’t do anything useful here. But in Alakanuk I can.”

You pause, looking to see if you can read anything on the Marshall’s face - any hint that he’s considering what you’re saying, or that it’s a lost cause. He gives you nothing.

“Please,” you say. “Those girls need me. If I can’t help here, I can help them.”

The Marshall tilts his head just slightly. “Surely anyone can teach little girls the forms.”

You shake your head. “It’s more than that, and you know it. It’s not about the forms. I love those girls. I came back here to follow orders, and I tried. But if it isn’t going to happen… Please, don’t make me waste time here if I can be with them instead.”

The silence when you stop speaking seems to last for hours. Your heart pounds, and you work on keeping your breathing even. If he tells you no, you might just lose it, just give up entirely.

Finally, he takes a breath and seems to consider you. “If,” he says, and your eyes widen with hope, “your co-pilot agrees, then I will reassign you back to Alaska. But only if he will agree.”

“No problem,” you say quickly. Seungcheol was the one who said it was over. He should have no problem letting you leave.

When you step out of the Marshall’s office, Seungcheol steps out of the shadows. You should be surprised to see him, but in the Shatterdome it feels right that he just is wherever you are. That’s always how it was, before.

You look at him disdainfully. “I assume you heard that conversation?”

He nods, once.

“So?” you ask. “Will you tell him you approve, so I can go?”

For the first time since you returned, Seungcheol smiles, tight and sarcastic.

“No,” he says easily, like it’s kind of funny.

Fury erupts inside you; you can’t even pinpoint where in your body it stems from. “Why?” you demand. “Because you feel like I took something from you, so you want to take something from me?”

He doesn’t respond to this. You know you’re right. You know him. You know his mind.

“I hate to fuck up your narrative,” you spit at him, “but I’ve lost out here just as much as you have. You’re not the only one who lost the ability to fight. You’re not the only one who lost their partner.”

You wish you could tell him the rest - you’re not the one who spent three years with a broken heart on top of it. He had lost you as a partner and a friend - you had lost him in the same ways, and you’d had to harbor your broken heart.

He shakes his head. “Poor baby,” he bites sarcastically, and then takes off down the hallway, into the dark.

—

You stop sleeping at the dorm. Sometimes you sleep at your parents’, sometimes on Wylie and Chan’s tiny couch, sometimes in bed with Seungkwan, who kicks at you and whines that you take up too much space. Sometimes you sleep inside Duellona Fury, sitting up, your back against her metal frame.

The Marshall seems to have taken some pity on you. He schedules your mornings training the Dome’s recruits, and lets Seungcheol get back to what he was doing in your absence - which seems to be on track to move up in rank, to maybe become a Marshall himself, someday. It isn’t quite the same as being back with your girls, but training recruits feels at least somewhat fulfilling. And it keeps you and Seungcheol busy - separately - until afternoon.

Then, he schedules you to spar.

In your first week, you’d been unwilling to hit Seungcheol. You’d been feeling guilty for hurting him, sad for your time apart, hopeful that if you were soft to him, then he’d be soft back to you.

Now, you’re fucking furious.

For the first time, when the match begins, you hit him first. He’s surprised for only a second, eyebrows shooting up as he stumbles for balance, and then you watch something delighted and devilish fall over his face. Like he knows exactly what dance this is, and he’s been learning the steps in secret.

The match is brutal, reminiscent of your very first one, when you were both nineteen. You throw hit after hit his way; he blocks or dodges all of them. But he can’t get a hit on you either - you’re too quick, spurred on by fury. You’ve been angry in a fight before. But you’ve never been angry at him.

You spin and throw up a kick, expecting his forearm to rise and block it. Instead, you knock him in the jaw.

He grunts, hand flying up to cover his mouth, and you drop your stance with a gasp.

“Shit!” you cry, hurrying closer. “I’m so sorry! Are you bleeding? Let me look.”

“‘M fine,” he mutters thickly from behind his hand, but you ignore him. For a second, things are how they used to be between you. He lets you peel his hand away, lets you gingerly turn his head this way and that, even opens up so you can check his teeth.

“You’re gonna have a fat lip,” you tell him regretfully. “But nothing’s bleeding. Teeth look okay. Anything loose in there?”

He pokes around his teeth with his pinky. “Nope.”

You take a step back, cowed. “I’m really sorry.”

He laughs a little, wryly. “I bet you feel better, though.”

You bite back a smile. “Actually…” you say, and he laughs again. You both do.

Somehow, this seems to be the thing that cracks the anger you’ve both been encased in, unable to move forward or backward. You feel melted, and you wonder if he feels freer now, too.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you say. You mean the kick, but the words land heavy.

He avoids your gaze. “I need some water,” he says, turning and heading to the side of the room.

You do the same, sitting heavily on the bench where your water waits for you.

“Hey,” he says, and you look over, brows raised in anticipation. “Tell me about Alaska.”

You can’t help but smile.

“It’s so beautiful,” you tell him. “God, Cheol, the ocean there. And the birds, and the snow…”

He’s watching you, listening, but while he listens he stands and heads to the center of the ring, settling into a starting form. With a small smile, you follow, standing opposite him. He starts an easy match that’s mostly just following the eighth form. It includes some hits and blocks, but you both do them gently, easily, circling each other slowly.

“So you liked it?” he asks. You can hear how hard he’s working to make it sound casual.

“It was so beautiful,” you admit before ducking below a kick. “But it was also… really hard.”

“What was the best part?” he asks.

You smile, block a hit. He almost gets his hands on you for a flip, but you dodge around behind him. He turns to follow you. “Weirdly, it was taking care of them outside of class. We - the instructors - we kind of their moms, away from home, you know? I’m the one who knew Yejin won’t sleep unless someone sits by her bed for a while. I’m the one that knew that Farrah and Salome only argue because they’re competitive. I’m the one that knew that Maria and Anjali don’t know their times-tables, that Ximena can’t brush her own hair, or that Iseul is allergic to fish. I loved them. I loved knowing them.”

He looks at you for a long time. “Maybe you should go back,” he says finally.

It feels like a trap. 

You look at the floor, at the wall, then finally back at him. “If you’ll do this for real,” you say carefully, “then I’d rather be here. If we’re actually trying, then I don’t want to go.”

He’s quiet for a long time. Finally, he swallows hard, not looking at you.

“What was the worst part?”

There’s only one answer.

“Missing you,” you say. “Losing you.”

He manages to get both of your arms and hauls you over his shoulders. You land on your back so hard that the air is knocked out of your lungs and your eyes close protectively. For a second, you lay there panting, waiting for the pain in your back to settle down, waiting for the stars behind your eyelids to calm.

When you open them again, the ceiling coming into focus above you, the room is empty.

–

You have a hunch on where you can find him, and you head to the jaeger bay. Sure enough, he’s sitting below Duellona, knees to his chest, staring up at her.

You sit next to him and he doesn’t get up and leave, which you take as a good sign.

“I can’t do this if you’re not all in,” he tells you without looking at you. “You walked away from me once. I can’t let you back in my head if there’s any possibility you’ll walk away again. If you’re with me, I need you to be with me.”

Something prickles in the back of your head. You feel like you’re starting to realize something - the seed of an understanding is pushing delicately through the dirt, but hasn’t yet spread out its leaves under the warmth of the sun yet.

Something about his hurt. Something about why.

“I think we should try to drift,” you tell him.

This seems to startle him - he forgets to be cold, turns to look at you, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“I can tell you how much I missed you,” you reason, “and tell you about how I spent every minute just… steeped in regret. Or we can walk through it - you can see for yourself.”

You know what you’re risking. If he gets into your head now, he’ll see it all - he’ll know everything, he’ll be able to feel for himself the depth of your loss, the height of your love. 

But what’s the harm, now? You can’t lose him twice. Maybe it’ll be enough for him to realize you hadn’t left him because you didn’t care about him. Maybe it’ll be enough for his forgiveness. 

Maybe then, he’ll tell the Marshall to let you go back to Alakanuk. 

It’s Seungkwan you bother, since he’d been in mission control before finding his team of co-pilots. The sideways look he gives you as he walks to your conn pod is withering, but you know better than to take it personally.

You buzz with nerves. The last time you’d tried this, the neural handshake hadn’t even connected. There had just been nothing.

The second you hear neural handshake initiating, you almost sob with relief. You can’t even pay attention to the memories - Seungcheol’s memories - floating around you; you want to collapse, to press your palms to the ground and thank the universe for letting you back in.

His first memories are a breeze - the ones you’ve jogged through together hundreds of times: his first home, his school, his father’s hospital room, the Dome. Then you slow your pace, because this is new.

You’re facing the landing dock on the Shatterdome’s roof. Seungcheol stands with his back to you, watching through the glass walls as a helicopter waits, the pilot talking into his headset.

You watch yourself walk towards the chopper’s open door. You watch yourself leave, remember how hard it was to not look back.

You hadn’t known that Seungcheol had been there, that he had seen you go.

The pain that accompanies the memory hits you like you’re drowning, like it’s too deep and you can’t feel the bottom, and you feel the machinery falter around you.

“Hey,” you say quietly. “I’m with you.”

He nods, still doesn’t look at you. But the beeping stops, the connection holding. 

There’s knowledge in this memory, knowledge in this pain. Seungcheol’s thoughts in this moment read in your head as clearly as if he said them aloud - I did this. I pushed her too far; I made her run.

You can’t stay here, can’t let him wallow in the memory of pain. You had to move forward - that’s how the drift works. Reluctantly you step towards the door, glancing over your shoulder to see if he’s following. 

He is. His jaw is tight and fists are clenched, but he is.

When the next memory - not in order of chronology, clearly - appears before you, you want to vanish into the floor. You’re watching yourselves in Seungcheol’s bed. Thankfully, you’re sleeping - this was after. But in the memory, Seungcheol is awake, laying on his side, his eyes drinking in your sleeping form.

The emotions and the knowledge come with it in an instant. The tenderness and the love he felt in that moment surround you now in the memory, unignorable, impossible to mistake. 

He had loved you. He had known you loved him, and he was showing you how he felt. The understanding slams you so hard that you think you stop breathing.

“Seungcheol,” you whisper. Around you, the scene begins to flicker, the connection starting to react to the oversaturation of emotion.

“We can talk about it after,” he says, voice hard. “Don’t stay in it. Find the next door.”

Your eyes find the door, but you feel frozen. You want the connection to drop, you want to unlock yourself from the stupid drive-suit and throw yourself into his arms, you want to apologize for leaving him thinking he’d pushed you away, thinking that he scared you into running.

“Cherry,” he warns. “The drift can’t -”

You know. 

And you owe him your side of the story.

You take a steeling breath and head for the door. You don’t take his hand. You don’t know if you deserve to, if he’d want you to.

When you step through the doors, you’re confused - you’re still in your dorm. Your bodies are both in the bed.

Now, though, Seungcheol sleeps, and you - the memory of you - sits on the edge of the bed, your head in your hands. 

You feel the emotion the memory holds, which means Seungcheol does, too.

Fear. It’s still fear - fear that he’ll know, fear that what you just did together will make it worse, make it harder to hide. 

Beside you, Seungcheol’s eyes go wide. 

“We have to move on,” you tell him. He looks at you, then back at the memory. 

“You -?” he starts to ask.

“After,” you tell him firmly. “We’ll talk after.”

You open the door, and you’re suddenly outside, surrounded by white.

Alaska.

The emotion knocks you over with the fury of an ocean wave - even though you know you’re not supposed to let it. This was how you had felt every day that you were gone, and it screams at you now, determined to be heart, determined to be felt. The loneliness, the regret, the despair and heartbreak all rise up in you, overtaking you, as snow falls gently and silently around you.

And the love. That never went away. That never mellowed, as the Marshall had put it.

If he didn’t know before, he has to know now. There’s no way he couldn’t.

Seungcheol squeezes your hand, and you almost jump. You look down at your linked fingers in shock, then up at him, eyes wide.

“We should go back and talk about this,” he tells you, but his grip on you is firm, assuring.

“Okay. It’s this way,” you tell him, trying to breathe, and you lead him by the hand through the snow. The fog strengthens as you walk, until you can’t see anything but grey, can’t see anything but Seungcheol’s hand in yours.

You continue on. You know where to go. When you step through, the fog vanishes as if it was never there, nothing gradual about it. With the fog gone, you can see clearly where you are - inside Duellona Fury’s conn-pod.

As you begin to work on the straps, you call through the intercom, “Kwan? We… need some privacy. We’ve got to talk - alone.”

His voice crackles back at you. “Yes, I’m leaving, I’m already gone. If you hear popcorn crunching, no you don’t.”

Seungcheol gives you a flat look. “Let’s go home and talk,” he suggests.

Home.

You are so afraid and so hopeful. You don’t know how to juggle both.

Back in your small living space, you sit like you’re meditating.

“Let’s figure this out,” he says. “No lies.”

“No lies,” you agree. Your knees touch, and you reach to take his hands. He lets you, giving your fingers a squeeze.

“You knew,” you say first, bordering on accusation. “I was trying so hard to hide how I felt about you… but you knew.”

He nods, his eyes on you. “And you,” he says slowly, “didn’t… know? That I knew?”

You shake your head, confirming. “I didn’t know. I thought I hid it.”

He smiles at you, a little placating. “Not as well as you would have liked.”

“And you…” You chicken out, swallow, force yourself to be brave. “You… loved me, too?”

He nods. “I did.” 

The air leaves your lungs so forcefully that you bend over, pressing your forehead to the tops of your hands. He pulls his hands from yours and you feel his touch, firm and reassuring, cupping your shoulders and rubbing his thumbs along them.

“We felt the same,” you echo into your shins. “You loved me.”

“Cherry,” he says above you, his voice like a plea. “I don’t understand why - when we… when I… I felt like once I forced you to look at it, it was too much. You ran.”

You sit with this for a minute, stunned and processing. His hands are back in yours, which you take as a good sign. 

“You thought… wait. You thought, after that night, that I knew how you felt, too?”

He nods. “I thought you knew,” he says, confusion still present in his tone. “I thought we both knew. I thought if it was out in the open, the glitch in the drift would be fixed.”

You wipe at your face, trying to breathe. “And instead,” you realize, “we couldn’t even connect, because I was still trying to hide it from you, and then you were hurt. I thought it was broken. I thought we really broke it forever.”

He looks at you in wonder. “That’s why you left,” he breathes, and you know he’s understanding this for the first time. “You thought we made the problem worse.”

It’s your turn to nod. “After we…I mean, I knew if I couldn’t hide it from you before that night, there was no chance I’d be able to hide it after. I kept you out in the first place because I… was afraid. I was afraid for you to see how much I loved you. It seemed… hopeless to keep trying.”

The words lay bloody between you, but his grip on your hands is strong, and you take another breath.

You push on, adding, “I was afraid it would be too much. I was afraid everything would change.”

Which it did, you think. He nods, like he hears this, like he agrees.

He releases you and leans back, blowing out a loud breath. “We’re so fucking stupid,” he says, and you splutter out a laugh.

“We really are.”

“I can’t believe we lost three years over that,” he says.

“I can’t believe you thought it was your fault that I left.”

“I can’t believe you left in the first place.”

This makes you smile, guilty. “That’s fair.”

You push yourself to stand; Seungcheol mirrors you, as if you’re already in the neural handshake, bodies working in tandem. 

“Cherry,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “It could never be too much. I love you. I’m crazy about you. I’m only me when I’m with you.”

You remember him, the night you’d slept together, telling you, don’t be afraid. He’d told you, after all, and you’d missed it entirely.

You close the distance between your bodies and kiss him hard. His arms circle your waist immediately, like they were waiting for you. He kisses you back hungrily. His mouth meets yours eagerly, his tongue stroking yours confidently before he shifts his attention to your jaw, your neck, then your mouth again. His hands don’t wander this time - instead he holds you so firmly it almost hurts, like he won’t let you move an inch, won’t let you out of his grasp ever again.

You cradle his face between your hands, let your teeth gently scrape along his bottom lip. “Cheol,” you whisper, then kiss him again. “You’re everything.” It’s what you should have said aloud the night you’d slept with him.

When the kiss breaks, he presses his lips to the top of your head and holds them there, melting around you a little. You give his middle a squeeze, revel in his heartbeat surrounding you like music.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I didn’t just say it.”

“Me too,” you tell him, holding him just a little tighter. “I should never have tried to hide it from you in the first place.”

He kisses your temple, and you hold each other, silently, each grappling with the time you’d wasted apart. 

You’re interrupted by a knock. You break apart, puzzled. You’re even more puzzled to see your Marshall at the door, and Seungkwan literally bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement.

“I’ve heard your drift is working again,” the Marshall says dryly. 

You look over your shoulder at Seungcheol, grinning. “Seems like it.”

“There’s a Cat-1 reading in the bay. I was about to alarm for Pretty Savage to drop, but Savage’s team insisted I give you the opportunity first. They can follow as backup. How do you feel?”

Seungcheol is at your side. He looks at you, his face open and raw. “Well?” he asks you. “Are you in, or are you out?”

“I’m in,” you tell him seriously. “I’m with you.”

You thrum with excitement as a tech team helps strap you into the drive-suits, and you can’t help but shoot Seungcheol a wild grin, your happiness alive and unbounded. 

You tell mission control - Nainsi, probably, just like the old days - “Ready and aligned.”

Mission Control - definitely Nainsi - responds, “Prepare for neural handshake.”

The artificial voice bounces around you - 3… 2… 1… neural handshake initiating…

Around you, the machines flicker busily. Neural handshake strong and holding. Now calibrating…

You’re crying, but you ignore it. You beam through tears, looking sideways at your co-pilot. His eyes dance as he smiles back at you. You want to unstrap yourself to the drivesuit and go kiss his dimples, the dimples you hadn’t seen in years. You resist the urge.

“Ready to drop?”  He looks sideways at you, sly. 

You scoff at him, your own grin cocky and sure, like you’re twenty again, like nothing had ever been broken between you. “Been ready. Let’s light ‘em up.”

– end

thank you so much for reading!!!!

stay tuned for more fics in this universe! Wylie and Chan will get their own fic written by @sailorrhansol, as will Woozi! I'm also planning a Vernon x Reader in this universe, too! Should be a fun time!!

[thevoidstaredback]

So, I assume cores are like a ghosts version of autistic special interests, and assumedly not everyone becomes a ghost?

But what if Jack does, his core could be ghosts itself, and is one of the strongest fresh ghosts to be out there, one worthy of rivalling king Danny.

Oo! I like this. I haven't gotten too far into any world building, but let's see if we can do this some justice. I haven't ever written Jack, so this might be absolutely horrible. Also, most of my knowledge is purely fanon or what I made up on the fly.

Idk if this is what you wanted, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. <2

Jack Fenton had always loved ghosts. His parents read him ghost stories and myths and legends when he was growing up, his sister was very into the dark and macabre, and his brother even took him ghost hunting a few times!

Yes, the Nightingale family had been witch hunters, but an interest change came with the name change. It was a package deal, really. One that know one really registered until much later down the line.

At the end of his senior year, Jack meet Madeline. If you asked her, it was love at first sight. If you asked him, it was love at first fight.

Maddie, as she liked to be called, had been raised by her grandmother. The woman taught Maddie everything she knows about the supernatural, claiming to be a medium. No one ever believed her.

Jack had a friend throughout high school named Vlad. Vlad was, in every sense of the word, paranoid. He had measures against everything supernatural, metaphysical, real, ect. If you could think of it, he probably had something to counter it.

The three made quite the team in college. Maddie and Jack had applied to the same colleges, only going to the one that accepted them both. Vlad followed after them, saying that he didn't trust Jack to leave him on his own.

"Ridiculous!" Jack had whispered to Maddie, "He just doesn't like being alone."

Ghosts were the common interest between the three, having grow up around some kind of exposure, so when someone offhandedly mentions a theoretical way that a living being could enter the Realm of the Dead, well, they had to see if it was actually possible.

Which leads them to nearly twenty-three years later. Their research had gotten Vlad hospitalized, so he wasn't there to share in the success, but that hadn't stopped Jack and Maddie. They'd worked for years to build a portal into the Afterlife for the opportunity to study a real life ghost.

Their research, of course, had been shunned in many occult circles, but that's okay. Those guys were all quacks and crazies anyway. Who needs their approval?

Ghosts were the emotions of a formerly living being that had imprinted themselves on ectoplasm. The proof? There was a ghost attack on their college during their junior year. Everyone thought they had staged it because no one saw the ghost, but Jack, Maddie, and Vlad knew. They had gathered the small bit of glowing green goo to study it.

That glowing green goo had been what had powered up the portal when they got it build. They used it like a battery.

So why hadn't it worked?

Well, it worked eventually, but why had it taken nearly four hours after the initial activation of the portal?

Regardless, they had been right and now Amity Park was full of proof to prove themselves to everyone that had ever laughed at them! If only Vlad could've shared in the glorious moment. He's not dead! They just...lost contact shortly after Danny was born.

Jumping forward almost two decades, Jack and Maddie were sat down by their children, Jasmine and Danny. Apparently, Danny had been the one to activate the portal by dying. It was...a lot to process, but they were happy he had come to them, even if it had taken two years.

It made them rethink a lot of their thoughts over the years. But, you can't really teach an old dog new tricks, no matter how much you explain and demonstrate it.

They didn't hurt Danny! God, no. They'd already done that enough.

No, Jack and Maddie redoubled their efforts to study ghosts with the added intention of understanding them.

Everyone in Amity Park know that there's at least a 90% chance they'll become a ghost when they die. That is quickly lowered to a 50% chance when the understanding that intent matters in all situations, even death. Those who want to rest won't come back as a ghost. Those who have something to finish or do have a bigger chance of coming back. Maybe not with all their memories, but they might.

Maddie, when she died of a combination of radiation - because ectoplasm is barely radioactive, but consistent exposure for most of her life doomed her - and old age, wanted to rest. She had done enough in her life, so she was ready to leave it behind.

Jack, when he died of the same combination with the addition of pneumonia, wanted to be with Maddie. But he also wanted to finally finish what he and Maddie and Vlad had started all those years ago.

Upon his death, Jack remembered a conversation he'd had shortly after Danny had come clean about being Phantom.

"Dann-o?" Jack had asked one morning.

"Hey, dad," Danny had tried to smile, but he seemed so tired. He was always tired. Had he always been this tired? Was this a new thing? Jack was horrified that he didn't know.

Jack had sat down next to his son on the couch, not too close as to be imposing, but close enough to be comforting. "What's wrong?"

Danny took a very long time to answer, words seeming to fall apart in his mouth. "Are you and mom going to keep trying to capture ghosts?"

Jack blinked. Why wouldn't they? There was still so much to know! So many theories to prove or disprove! So much locked potential that no one was ever going to look into again simply because no one else thought it possible!

"I mean-" Danny scrunched his nose in thought, trying to piece the words together in a way that someone who couldn't read his thoughts or be in his head could understand. "You and mom have worked to study ghosts for basically your whole lives. But, now that you know I am one, are you going to stop? Like, are you going to stop hunting them - us - down? Are you guys going to keep trying to hurt us?"

Oh. Oh. He's- Danny, he's- he's worried that they'll hurt him? "Oh, Danny," he said, "It was never our intention to hurt you."

"But-!"

"But we can't just drop everything. We've been doing this our whole lives almost, like you said. What are we supposed to do if we stop it all?"

Danny didn't say anything. In fact, he looked devastated. Why..?

Oh. Oh.

"It's not like that!" Jack was quick to say, "We're-we're not going to hunt ghosts any longer. If anything, we'll probably just want to ask some questions? I don't really know. I'll have to talk to your mom about it some more, but- We don't want to hurt you, Danny. It was never our intention."

Danny had been very quiet and a bit distant for the rest of the week after that. Unless, he'd always been like that? But he opened back up a little while later.

Jack and Maddie had never really completed their research on ghosts, so it's no surprise that one of them would come back as the thing they spent their lives after. But now came the question of what Ghost!Jack's obsession is.

It's usually seen as insensitive to ask a ghost what their Obsession is. But, if you know what their Obsession is, most are beyond thrilled to share it with you, basically info dumping everything they know about the subject, sharing related items, and learning more with you. It's a fun experience for all involved, especially if two or more ghosts have the same or similar enough Obsessions.

Really, it shouldn't have been a surprise that Jack Fenton's Obsession was Ghosts, considering his life.

Once that was a widely known fact, though, some began to wonder what his core and powers would be. Aside from, of course, the basic power set that all ghosts get when they become a ghost.

Cores and powers go hand in hand with a ghost's Obsession. Sometimes they amplify one another, sometimes they compliment one another. Very rarely are they the same thing.

For example, King Phantom's core is ice, his Obsession is protection, and his powers relating to that of ice, mostly offensive and defensive focuses. Ember's core is fire, her Obsession music, and her powers are similar to those of the sirens of myths.

You get the idea.

Then again, the Fenton Family has never been normal, has it? Not even as far back as when they were the Nightingale Family.

King Phantom had figured out one day what his father's powers were, and, consequently, his strength. It was an accident, really! They hadn't seen each other in a while, and Jack's hugs were already monstrously strong before he'd become a ghost-

Who knew that ghosts could get shattered spines?

Jack Fenton, upon becoming the very thing he'd spend his life dedicated to, gained the ability to copy another ghost's power via manipulation of his core.

While most ghosts' cores were a single solid substance like ice or fire or shadows, Jack's core was ectoplasm. Able to change and adapt to his needs, not set in any one way.

Phantom was beyond glad his father, who became known as The Professor, was on his side.

Storyboard

[seospicybin]

SEOSPICY'S UPCOMING POST.

REWIND PREVIEW.

Seungmin x reader x Hyunjin. (s,a)

Synopsis: As a part of a research team that works on a memory-erasing machine, you work alongside the professor whom you greatly admire and a computer geek who relentlessly flirts with you. But the one that you want is the one that you can't have.

Preview under the cut!

...

Noticing that the meeting has come to a final decision, you stop talking and fix your sitting position. You watch as the board members take votes on whether Seungmin can continue with the test or not and all hands are raised in favor of Seungmin.

"With all members approving the selected test subject, Professor Seungmin is allowed to continue with the procedure that will be held on the agreed upon time and place," the board leader announces.

Even in his triumphant moment, Seungmin remains calm and still, you can't remember the last time he smiled, even out of courtesy. Ha he always been like this? Honestly, you can’t remember.

"The board members will watch closely the process, before and after the test. We also demand follow-ups and thorough datas on every detail of the test," they warn once again even though it's not the first time Seungmin has run the test.

Everyone scatters around once the meeting has finished, you wait outside of the meeting room knowing that Seungmin will likely stay to chat with the other professors. Rina is still here as well, holding her tablet close to her chest and not-so-subtly staring at Hyunjin

"You should ask her out," you mutter at Hyunjin, subtly hinting the subject of the talk with your eyes.

Hyunjin doesn't even look up from his phone when he flat-out rejects the idea, "No, thank you."

"Why not? She's pretty and she's your age," you point out all of the obvious facts why he should be seducing her, not you who's a couple of years older than him and not having a shiny, healthy hair.

Hyunjin lets out a scoff, then shoves his phone into the pocket of his hoodie, "You're prettier and older," he says with a sly smile plastered on his face.

Whether he tries to compliment you or try to offend you, you feel like you need to check if there's something wrong with him. You poke his side with your pen and he yelps in pain.

"What's wrong with you?" He sharply gasps.

"You are what's wrong," you answer, poking him on the other side this time.

He laughs and leans against the wall facing you, slightly slouching so he can be on the same eye level with you. "Dating older women is hot, you know," he coyly remarks.

You give him a repulsed glare at his words, shaking your head as you look away from him.

"And you're hot so dating you would be ticking two boxes at once," he adds with his sly smile growing wider on his angular face.

Besides your actual job, you have to deal with this 5'10" man bursting with youthful charm and testosterone, you wouldn't complain if you get double paychecks for it. You aim his stomach next and poke him with your pen again, hoping a little violence would put some sense into his small head.

"One more test, huh?" Professor Hale says, patting Seungmin's shoulder as they walk out of the meeting room.

It feels like your body is accustomed to getting on your perfect posture whenever Seungmin walks into your radar, you stop moving altogether and stand up straighter.

"I'll see everyone on Friday!" Professor Hale says one last time, he also smiles at you and Hyunjin before turning to leave.

Now that the team has earned the green light, everyone is going to get busier to prepare everything. Seungmin lists the things he wants you to do as he walks back to C building and you jot down everything on your notebook. He stops by the main lab and gets Hyunjin on the job, ordering him to run a diagnostic test on the MNE-Machine, checking for any issues.

It's one of those times when you can see how passionate Seungmin is about his work.

He's the reason why you applied for the job, not only because you can work directly with him but also because you admire him, his brilliance, his work ethic, and most of all, him as a person.

There are so many things you learned from working for him for the last three years and your admiration toward him only grows bigger with time. And out of that admiration, something else grows, something that makes you excited to go to work, makes you happy at the sight of him and wanting to always be close to him.

Sensing that someone is watching him, Seungmin turns around to find you still standing there, "Don't you have things to do?"

You gulp air before asking, "Uhm.. Professor?"

He starts walking with his hands shoved inside his lab coat pockets, "Yes?"

You half jog to keep up with his wide strides, "Professor Hale said one more test and I thought we're only on our fourth test?"

You wait for his answer while quietly admiring his wide shoulders from the back while struggling to keep up with his fast walks.

All of a sudden, he turns on his feet and then he looks at you, the eye contact doesn't last longer than a second until he looks away, "Notify the test subject first and make sure they make the time for the interview tomorrow!" He orders instead of answering your question.

"Will do, Professor," you respond.

You manage to finish a few things before it's time to go home, the rest on the to-do list are meant to be done tomorrow though. As you're about to get your coat, Seungmin walks out of his office and swings his briefcase on his side.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he says without looking at you.

"Have a great—" You don't even get to finish your sentence as he disappears into the elevator.

Only a dozen people are working in the C building and there are only five people working directly with Seungmin. Professor Lee who worked together on MNE-Machine with Seungmin is being called to give lectures out of the country and taking his assistant with him, so that leaves you and Hyunjin. The rest of the employees are working maintenance on the lower level of the building, you only meet them when you either enter or leave the building.

"Are you sure you don't want to grab drinks with me?" Hyunjin asks, unlocking his car but not getting in yet.

You toss your bag onto the passenger's seat before getting inside your car. It's actually tempting to say yes, you could use it to blow some steam off to prepare you for the busy days ahead.

But you don't want to give Hyunjin the satisfaction. No, not yet.

"No," you answer with a playful smile.

Hyunjin tosses his backpack inside and comes up to your car, he bends down to look at you through your rolled-down window.

"Come on. It'll be fun," he persuades with a smile that is mischievous and seductive at once. You bet this is how he puts anyone under his spell.

You turn your head at him and smile, "You know what would be fun?"

He tips his head to the side and asks, "What?"

"Me running you over with my car," you jokingly say as you turn on the car engine.

“Ooo… feisty,” Hyunjin hisses then slowly, he steps away from your car.

That's how most of your days usually went, dealing with two men who are the opposite of each other. One gives you not enough attention and the other gives you way too much. One is cold and nonchalant, the other one is warm and attentive.

Sadly, the one that you want is the one that you can't have.

...

Full fic will be posted tomorrow!

[xenomorphicdna]

So what goes into managing an iterator?

Because when you think about it, managing a massive semiorganic sentient ai that you depend on for practically everything, might not be easy.

While iterators aren't brought online as children per se, from broadcasts in game we can assume that young iterators probably start out fairly stubborn with their thinking. And while iterators are far more complex and developed than our current good ol' chat algorithms, I think that trying to tell a machine designed to not make any errors, that it is wrong, may come with at least a bit of back and forth arguing.

There'd be a lot that would go into managing a machine as is, even more into one with feelings and opinions.

I believe the ashy green pearl mentions how there's a parental relationship between iterators and ancients (this might not apply to all ancients and iterators but for the sake of the argument I'm going to keep going with this). It also mentions how it's important to keep good relations with their iterator - they are reliant on them after all.

Booting an iterator up and instantly expecting them to perform perfectly how you need them too may not be entirely accurate. Perhaps more mechanical tasks are good from the get-go but more social tasks would certainly require behaviours that would have to be learned. There would have to be someone to teach them that emotional maturity and social skills.

So, going back to what does it take to manage an iterator. I think it's a lot of things, a large team effort of multiple people of different specialties.

Alright let's talk about the food chain here now ey?

Iterator administrators would rank at the top. The administrator title would probably be assigned to two or three house councillors. The role would come with being the voice for whatever iterator matters the public would need to know. They probably make decisions of, hey this important thing needs to be done by our iterator. But I doubt they have any real knowledge on the iterator ins and outs.

That would go to the people just below, the chief technicians, mechanics, programmers, architects, the folks that manage the more machine parts of an iterator. But of course iterators aren't all metal, they're semi organic too. So there would be those who specialise in the biological parts of iterators. And there would be psychologists as well to make sure our beloved machines with feelings are doing ok.

I'm not exactly sure where the common trope of ancients being horrible heartless assholes to iterators comes from. I certainly didn't get that impression from the texts. ?

I think the iterators were certainly respectable members of the community. I think many people cared about them too. The whole ashy green pearl talk about how they have parental obligations. They say how the discourse about five pebbles' construction displeases him. They literally say, hey stop being mean to our iterator, and go in to defend him. Even tho pebbles didn't exactly find the discourse upsetting, they still wouldn't tolerate insults at their iterator. You can't tell me that the ancients - even those at the top - didn't care.

Iterators were created as gifts to word. Five pebbles received drawings from kids. They had sky-sail festivals.

Moon did state her general dislike of her citizens, she calls them parasites with opinions. But I cannot imagine managing an entire city would be easy, and even despite that, she still calls them her parents. They were flawed, yes, but clearly there was enough love there for Moon to apologize.

[cdragons]

Truce Part 1

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 Pairing(s): Ikaris x Persephone!Reader ft. Druig x Hecate!Reader Word Count: 2.7k Prompt/Summary: Ikaris and Druig have a discussion about the women in their lives (AKA: Ikaris is an idiot who thinks your best friend is a demon, and Druig is super in love with said demon). Warning: Slight mentions of death (no major characters tho), neurodivergent reader is neurodivergent, Hecate!Reader bestie is her own warning Note: Thank you to everyone who takes the times to read my writing even through it is likely way too self-indulgent to be considered in-character! Special thank you to the most amazing and incredible beta editor in the world, @valeskafics! If you have not, please go check her works! She mostly does HOTD, GOT, anything Ewan Mitchell, and literally EVERYTHING she writes is incredible!

It was safe to say that Ikaris was a confident individual.

This was a fact that applied to many aspects of his life.

He was confident in his abilities as an Eternal. He was confident in his faith in both his leader Ajak, and the Celestial that created him and his team members, Arishem. He was especially confident in his capability as a leader. This included carrying out missions, eliminating Deviants, and saving and “caring” about the fragile humans’ lives.

No matter what Druig implied.

But the one thing he could not say he was completely 100% confident about… was… understanding how he placed amongst the rest of the Eternals.

That wasn’t to say he wasn’t well-liked or even appreciated… but… he didn’t exactly know how some members “felt” about him.

He was more than well-received by certain members – Kingo and Sprite are the first Eternals that come to mind. He had earned the respect and trust of most of the group – as was shown by the trust Ajak put on him, along with the close bond he shared with Sersi. Thena and Gilgamesh certainly respected him as a fighter – but they never idolized him. In their eyes, he was more of a younger brother that they could share a drink and trade banter. He was on amicable terms with Makkari. Phastos and him never particularly bonded with each other, but the latter still trusted Ikaris’ judgement.

With Druig and Katelyn, both outright dismissing him most of the time –

No…that was putting it lightly…

Take the words “outright dismissed him,” and replaced them with “liked to act like bratty little shits and make him look like a fucking idiot;” along with the words “most of the time,” and replace them with “since they all left the goddamn Domo.”

…But he had no idea where he stood with you.

Sephia, the Eternal blessed by Arishem with the ability of absolute control of plants and the Earth. While Sersi made efforts to connect with the humans, you almost did everything in your power to avoid them. But no matter how you tried to avoid them, humans always adored you. They longed to catch a quick glimpse of the beautiful being that brought them aid whenever their crops were unable to bear fruit.

It was not only your powers that attracted them to you, but also the image you presented yourself to them. You were…heaven-sent – is how the humans saw you. Although fairly quiet, it was obvious to him that you were brilliant. Not only that, but you were fairly regimented in your diligence to your duties- something Ikaris greatly appreciated in a team member. You and Sersi worked together to only present them with their new crops, explain the various uses that would fit their lifestyle, show them how to properly harvest the crops and take a section of the seeds to replant, and then demonstrate how to properly plant them in a way that would yield the best results.

…It also helped how the sun would bring out that lovely flush to your skin in your demonstrations.

To them, your kindness and shy demeanor… along with your overwhelming beauty that was only further brought out from your flowing pink tunic with green twining and brass patterns… presented the very image of a Springtime Maiden.

You carried out your duties flawlessly, and always with so much efficiency that you always managed to have more than enough free time to go off on your little adventures to study the wildlife you had not created. You were curious as to how certain natural environments resulted in different lifestyle choices. You insisted that in studying the world around them, you would be able to better understand the humans’ lifestyle. A thought that was supported by Ajak whole-heartedly.

And it wasn’t only your duties to the humans that you carried out well – you even used your ability to control the plants that surrounded you to attack Deviants in desperate times. Sprite would spin tales of how the Sweet Spring Maiden Sephia could turn a little flower into a giant vine that could pierce through the skull of any deviant that came your way.

You were…different. That wasn’t to say you were strange…if anything…your differences made you…charming. Admittedly, he hadn’t paid much attention towards you at the beginning as he was initially attracted to Sersi’s kind demeanor. But he would always see you with her, and she would always insist on the two of you bonding. Your encounters with one another were awkward to say the least. But soon, he genuinely bonded with you…

Now, you were just the most fucking adorable being in the universe; which brought up the dire need to know where he stood in your life.

He just hoped that your “guardian angel” wasn’t with you at the moment.

“Well,” thought Ikaris, “demon would be a more accurate term in describing her.”

Kaetlyn was a different topic of conversation to say the least. Simply put, her abilities allow her to manipulate shadows and darkness. In battle, she would first scope out any areas that had Deviants to gain any information that would be an advantage. She would do this by either sending her shadows out, or just traveling through any shadows herself. Ikaris loathed to admit it, but her affinity for intelligence-gathering was far superior than the rest of them. Not only that, but she was a more than capable fighter. She would aim her dark arrows to the Deviant’s weakest point, and let the shadows embedded in it sink into their bodies to tear them from the inside out.

After its confirmed death, she would use her shadow portals to transport them to her personal laboratory at the Domo to “study” their anatomy and physiology. And if that wasn’t enough, Ajak just- just- ALLOWS IT! Even going so far as to ask for your assistance at certain times!

Ajak was one matter – after all, the Prime Eternal served as a maternal figure to everyone, including him – but he was more shocked at your eager involvement in the dark assassin’s hobbies. He could never forget how brightly you smiled when you ran towards him in excitement at your realization that encasing the decaying specimens in a mixture of various alcohol solutions and formaldehyde created a much more effective embalming methods than encasing it in an alcohol solution with herbs and spices.

You went on for hours about how you discovered the gas during one of the fires that nearly destroyed the village a few months back. Luckily very few of the villagers died, but you noticed how the victims who only died through exposure to the smoke decomposed much slower than normal. You then ended up trying to explain the process of precipitating the gas into a liquid solution, along with how to properly categorize it so that it wouldn’t be accidentally ingested. You and he ended up talking for so long that you ended up completely missing the feast held in celebration of the harvest that year. Ajak was quite cross with the both of you – Ikaris especially since he is usually so punctual with social engagements – but how could he be upset after having hours of your sole attention? You too were not put off by your leader’s slight scolding. On the contrary, you were more than relieved considering how much you hated these events.

You were kind and thoughtful; she was argumentative and crass. You were radiant brilliance; she was unhinged madness. You brought light and its hopeful beginnings; she oozed out darkness and all its mad chaos. You were life; she was death. So why did you latch onto her as if she was your only tether to the ground?

…You were being controlled by her- that had to have been it. Ikaris refused to believe that someone as wonderful and kind as yourself would willingly subject themselves to that-that-that- hell spawn!

“Y’know,” an annoyed voice broke his thoughts, “I’d really appreciate it if you’d didn’t call the love of my life a ‘hell spawn’.”

“For the love of Arishem,” thought Ikaris, “anyone but him.”

Taking a deep breath, he turned to find Druig.

“And I’m more than certain that our sweet Sephia wouldn’t exactly be ecstatic in knowing how you referred her very favorite person in the world that particular term either.” The mind controlling Eternal finished off with that damned trademark smirk of his.

Gods, Ikaris wanted nothing more than to shove that face a thousand feet in the ground right now. But he didn’t want to afford to lose his temper now. Not when he still hoped to find you.

“Pretty sure Ajak made it a rule for you not to use your powers on your fellow Eternals,” he snapped, “considering your habit of using it on the humans already.”

“Please,” he quipped back, “you’re the one pacing and muttering like a mad man in the middle of the courtyard.” He slightly cocked his head to the side in a facetious manner, “Anything I could help with?”

Ikaris didn’t want to tell Druig his plans…he wanted less for Druig to know about his plans with you. But Druig was close to you…even only through mutual association by Kaetlyn.

“Why are Sephia and Kaetlyn friends?” He blurted out.

“…Seriously?” Druig asked, “that’s what making act so crazy?”

“Just answer the damn question Druig.”

“…Why do you want to know?” The mind controller asked, very sure he wasn’t going to like Golden Boy’s response, but felt it necessary for his own peace of mind.

“…It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“Excuse me?” His tone was growing colder with each passing second.

“Druig, I understand that you are incapable of being objective towards your… lover,” Ikaris started, “but even you have to admit you found their friendship to be unusual?”

“I can’t say that I have,” Druig answered, “I happen to think my angel as a lovely individual. A sentiment also agreed on by most members of the team- even your biggest fan Kingo adores her. Unconventional views? Maybe. Relentless tenacity? Absolutely. But that is exactly the foundation my beautiful Kaet’s adoration of Sephia, and vice versa.”

“I don’t- wait- I don’t understand?” Ikaris interrogated the besotted Eternal, “All she does is question Ajak’s authority, and commit senseless acts of childish rebellion! How does that lead to her being close with someone -”

Druig’s blank stare was almost terrifying.

“What Ikaris?” he asked, “Someone like Sephia? And how do you see our Sephia? Someone dutiful? Beautiful? Kind? Sweet? Perfect? How wretchedly mundane and so very one-dimensional- even for you.”

“That’s not it,” Ikaris was getting angry, “stop putting words in my mouth-”

“It’s not exactly a hard thing to do with you, my friend. But you and Sephia aren’t particularly close. She may be cordial with you, but she’s like that with everyone. So why the interest?”

“…I know that…Sephia is considered…different,” Ikaris began, “from a behavioral standpoint – but- tha- that’s not- I don’t think of her any less because of it.” This was much harder than he expected.

Druig lifted one of his eyebrows, signaling for the taller Eternal to continue.

“I like her ‘quirks’ – I can’t say I understand what they are, but – I know that-that they are a part of her, and not in a way that her powers are hers. But I also know that, that they don’t make up who she is as a whole.” Why was his throat closing up? “And…I like that she sees me.”

“…Yeah, no shit genius, it’s not like you can turn invisible. Believe me, not seeing your face would be a great improvement to my life.”

Ikaris scowled while turning so he could fly far from the black-clad armored telepath, “Forget it, I don’t know why I thought to share this with you of all people-”

“You don’t feel judged around her, is that it?”

Ikaris stopped, and once more faced Druig. The shock on his face was almost hilarious…if only Druig wasn’t about to completely expose himself at the moment, then he could at least properly enjoy the dumbfounded look on Ikaris’ face.

“Do you feel like you can talk to her about anything? That you could trust someone with something so humiliating? And then you’re angry because once you actually said those, you’ve realized that you’ve given someone full ammunition of yourself for them to use against you?”

The silence between the two powerful immortals was stifling.

“But then time passes,” Druig continues on, “and even after you pushed them away, they still accept you. Because they saw you, not an image other people projected on to you. And despite all reason, they decided to stand beside you.”

Ikaris’ eyes were bulging out of his head, “How- how did you know-?”

“I know, because I’ve been there,” Druig’s eyes softened just a tad, “with Kaety.”

…What?

“…Well, if you’re so curious about their companionship, I suppose the best way would be to ask directly from the source.” Druig reasoned as he pointed his head to two figures walking towards them.

You, in a soft white tunic with a long pink skirt with some brass jewelry. Today, you decided to let your hair loose with a few braids. Ikaris thought it was a bit curious on how you detested the humans’ worship of you, yet you still preferred their clothing options as opposed to your armor that showed your Olympian origins. However, armor or not, you still glowed a soft and heavenly aura unique only to you. You were in deep conversation with Kaetlyn, who wore a simple white linen dress with a patterned dark blue border skirt and a silver chained belt, and styled her hair in a loose braid.

Noticing the figures in front of them, Kaetlyn immediately pulled a look of just absolute disgust at the realization that Ikaris of all people was interrupting her peaceful day. Curious to your friend’s strange reaction, you turned your head and let out a warm smile and waved enthusiastically to the two men. You were well-aware of your friend’s distaste of the taller Eternal, but he was always kind with you. Besides, if you could occasionally put up with Kingo’s hubris, Kaety could certainly tolerate Ikaris’ company for a few moments.

Druig stepped in view, and Ikaris saw how quickly your feral companion’s expression changed at the sight of her lover. She lightly jogged to meet him in the middle as she threw her arms around his neck. Looking the strange sight, Ikaris noted that when she genuinely smiled, she looked almost…approachable? Druig took Kaetlyn in his arms, and the two pressed their lips together in a tender kiss. And just like that, the spell was broken and Ikaris was inwardly cringing from disgust as he turned his head away from the sight.

As a result, he was unable to see Druig lean forward and softly whisper to her ear of the plight that their mutual grey-streaked hair irritation was experiencing. Wanting to dismiss it immediately, Kaetlyn recalls all the times your cheeks lightly flushed in Ikaris’ company. And despite her obvious distaste for the man, she could tell that he at least wanted to genuinely understand her best friend. And she was more than positive that you were feeling “something” for him; however unaware you were of it yourself. Taking pity on the man, she walked over to you and explained how Druig wanted to explore the area for hidden caves. As a result, you and her would have to continue your discussions of how to properly develop the Punica granatum and its nutritional benefits for expectant mothers at another time. But luckily, Ikaris would be more than happy to escort you back to the Domo.

Before walking away, Ikaris felt a sharp pinch to his side, and looked down to find Kaetlyn’s shadow pinching his? Annoyed, he looked up to reprimand her, but his blood ran cold meeting the shadow Eternal’s gaze.

“Do anything that causes her discomfort,” her eyes seemed to shout, “and I will make your own shadow tear you apart bit by bit.” Quickly turning her head, the dark wisps quickly reattached themselves to their mistress. And the two Eternals were left alone with only themselves for company.

Looking back at you as you basked in the daylight, its golden light only enhancing the glow from your softness. Ikaris had only one thought in his head as he tries his damnedest to not reach out and press your suppleness against his hard frame.

“Fuck.”

Tagging: @its-actually-minicika, @spacetalbot, @siempre-bucky, @beananacake, @ethereal-athalia

[kozykricket]

havent been very active on tumblr, for no reason in particular. anyways, as a risk of rain fan, i must clarify my opinions on the SOTS release

i think we can all agree on "the dlc is great content"

but anyways, its clear to me that the devs are people who care and are passionate about ROR as a series and about keeping ror2 going as well. i mean, hopoo and ghor have said as much! and their community manager seems nice i really dont blame the actual DLC team, because like. its always rude to just point fingers at the people who are just doin' darn good work. point fingers at the executive decision makers i think uh, the unification of console and pc code is... well, ill miss the old codebase, but honestly? the fact they've rewritten the games code from the ground up basically... tells me that they're in it for the long-ish haul. that they dont want to just drop ror2. they want to make their own basis that they can cleanly work on and continue this game into its second life of sorts i guess its like a soft reset of development - everythings jank like early access now. but itll get better is the current ror team the best at making decisions for the game? maybe not, but i really dont think they're malicious

its funny though, because the 2 things i was worried about was "oh gearbox is totally gonna mess up the lore with weird inconsistencies and it wont feel right, and they'll add powercreep" but honestly. imma be real, knowing some stuff ghor has said about his intentions behind the lore (shoutouts to Ghor btw, hes done so much for both the lore and the... well, the creation and foundation of risk of rain 2s codebase as a whole. the more i look into ghor, the more i realize he truly is mr ror2) anyways knowing his intentions with certain things, i can say... the Anniversary Update and SOTV actually messed up lore more than SOTS has, lol. the lores well done in SOTV. the non-lore-important logs kinda suck though, they're clearly unfinished. but i think... what they lacked was Time. Time, to complete the clean unification of code ... and for general polish. so i say we give them what randy pitchfork didnt. lets give them time, aight? im not super happy with the idea of a ror2: bedrock edition future, but... i think if the right balancing tweaks are done, then things can look pretty bright. and they do seem to want to listen to the community (though i doubt randy pitchfork wants them to. heck CEOs)

and as for powercreep? lmao we got the opposite, the items are almost too underpowered.

AS for the dlc content, i think seeker is goated. really fun character to play. chef is... undercooked tbh, jank m1. still havent gotten the third survivor, though i know who it is, and seems pretty well done minus the lack of visual and audio feedback / game-feel i think the stages are fantastic, the music is as always banger, and honestly the items are like. really CLOSE to being interesting. like noxious thorn? a green item that plays with debuffs? very cool. but why is it "on taking damage" and. i dunno, instead of adding more stacks of debuffs, i'd make it spread those debuffs to more enemies! knockback fin should be turned into a void of stun grenade if you have both DLCs on, tbh. so yeah, im. cautiously optimistic for the future. dont fall for all of the doomerisms that the youtubers are trying to spread - they're doing that to apply pressure to gearbox, mostly. which is fair, but its also fearmongering kinda. and like actual devs dont seem too concerned for the games future im just hoping that everyone who has been involved with ror2... has a good future. i dont want gearbox to just cut off the ror2 team, and i hope ghor can find whatever he needs

[77gigabytes]

Welcome Home {Kuroo x Reader}

Secret Agent! Kuroo x Dispatcher! Reader

So, this, uh, somehow, uh, like, quintupled in length from my original note, I don’t know how, but I guess my fingers slipped? Oops?

|| Masterlist ||

Kuroo, Bokuto and Iwaizumi are Team 1

You, Akaashi and Oikawa are their dispatchers, respectively

The six of you share a communication channel, but you have a separate one with Kuroo similar to how Akaashi and Bokuto have one, and Oikawa and Iwaizumi have one

Kuroo always teases you through your comms even when the others are listening. You never fail to say something snarky back to him or completely ignore him altogether—

“If I return successfully on this mission, will you give me a welcome back kiss as a reward, Y/N-chan?”

“Tch, as if.”

“Argh, get a room, you two lovebirds, you have a separate channel you know.” Cue Oikawa fake gagging.

– but he always somehow gets sweeter and more sensual when talking on your private channel:

It's super late into the night. Akaashi and Oikawa have gone to sleep and you're borderline dozing off. Your chair is fully reclined and your feet are propped up on the desk.

“Y/N? You still there, sweet?”

You jerk up, your chair almost folding you in half with how fast you tried to straighten it.

Hands flying to the keyboard, looking at each screen you have of their info, vitals, location, supplies, etc., “Yeah? Yeah, what do you need? Are you guys okay?” you make sure everything is still green

“Yeah, we’re good, I just wanted to hear your voice, Kitten.”

Kuroo was always a little more straightforward when it was late at night.

You hum and the heat travels to your cheeks as you recline

You can see him through the CCTV cameras Akaashi got into.

“Talk to me, Y/N-chan… So I don’t fall asleep on these snoring fools.” He chuckles and you see him crossing his hand across his chest.

His voice was much softer than his usual strong and commanding one, but it was nice in your ears, so you closed your eyes and took a breath

“Hmm,” You lean back into your chair, “Did I ever tell you how much I hated you—”

“—I think you say that every day. In fact, sweetheart, at this point, I think you mean I love you.”

You sputter out a disbelieving laugh, “I was going to say how much I hated you for always somehow being higher in rank than me!” You try to defend, “Always beating me by a few points even though I gave my 110 per cent!” your voice slowly rose as you finished the sentence.

Akaashi turns in his temporary futon on the floor between yours and Oikawa’s

Your hand whips to your mouth, but luckily, he’s still fast asleep and Oikawa’s sleeping like a log, sheets ruffled and tangled all sorts of ways around his legs.

“Well, it’s what I like about you.”

You frown, “What? That I can never surpass you?”

You hear his deep but soft rumble of a laugh, “No, sweetheart, the fact that you always give it your all. It’s why I put my full trust in you as my partner behind the scenes. Speaking of which, why did you apply as a dispatcher, anyway? You definitely had the points and the commendations to be out here with me, Kitten.”

“Please, we’d be at each other’s throats if I was out there with you.” You reply without thought, but then mumble into your hand, “Who else was going to watch your back.”

“What was—” static cuts him off

Then a sharp ring in your ear has you whipping the earpieces out of your ears and bouncing on the desk where they eventually roll off to the floor

Even though he teases you so much, you can’t help but worry when you suddenly lose contact with him

“Kuroo? Hey! Do you read me?” All the text on your screen starts turning orange, red and flashing, “Kuroo!”

You shake Akaashi awake and throw a stress ball at Oikawa’s head but eventually have to kick him awake, “Hey, hey, wake up, we’ve lost them, get Ki-chan, Kenma and Kunimi-kun.”

Oikawa’s up and almost sliding the door off of its hinges to get them

Kiyoko-chan, Kenma and Kunimi-kun are assigned to the Intelligence team

they start working on why you’ve lost contact with them, hair all messy from just waking up and eyes half-lidded with sleep

It’s been a full five days since you lost contact. They weren’t even meant to be out there for longer than two days.

Before they left, you optimised their supplies so they wouldn’t be slowed down by the weight.

You know for sure that they’ve probably burned through it by now.

You were just about ready to barge up to the big bosses’ room, pretty much ready to gear up and go out there yourself. More than qualified to do so, too.

Akaashi was holding you back mumbling all sorts of arguments trying to convince you to stay put.

“Y/N! Where’s Y/N?!” Kenma’s voice echoes through the hallways, “Comms are back on! We’ve got contact!”

You’re rushing to your dispatcher’s room in no time and stuffing the earpiece in, “Kuroo!”

It’s not Kuroo’s voice that goes through, it’s Iwaizumi's.

“L/N-chan, we’re still looking for him, we got separated.”

“What? What do you mean ‘You’re still looking’? You mean he’s been gone for… how long?”

“A couple of hours after we lost contact, we got split up. We have his earpiece, it’s how I’m talking to you, mine was smashed to pieces.”

“Find him, find him, you need to find him!” you plead.

You jump when you feel a hand on your shoulder and meet Oikawa’s eyes, “L/N-chi, they’re doing the best their can, let’s do our best here too, okay? Breathe, Chibi-chan.”

You suck a deep breath, close your eyes, and then exhale, “Yeah, yeah.” You say and press the button to speak with Iwaizumi, “Sorry, Iwa-kun… Oikawa and I can check all the cameras and check the data in all of your black boxes. In the meantime, update Akaashi on your supplies, find water, and…stay safe… Find him...please.” Your voice breaks as you plead to him.

“Bokuto-san and I will do everything we can, L/N-chan.”

For the next couple of hours, you’re all cooped up in the dispatch room, tracing their movement, hypothesising where Kuroo might have gone, you map out the area knowing that he’d have gone to find water at some point.

It was a few hours later that you hear Bokuto yelling into the microphone, “We found him! Kuroo! Over here.”

You couldn’t even let out a breath before he’s saying something that makes your stomach drop to the floor

“Oh my God, Kuroo! Iwa-chan, we need your med kit! Quick! Kuroo, hey, stay with me.”

“Bo, Iwa-kun, what’s going on?” you plead.

“L/N-chan, I’m giving the headset to Kuroo, keep talking to him, keep him awake.”

You hear some shuffling and then a spluttering cough, “Keep the pressure, Bokuto! Here…gauze, bandage!”

You blink, stuttering out your breaths, he’s bleeding somewhere, you deduce, if he’s coughing up blood, chest wound? Internal bleeding?

“Ki—urgh—Kitten?” He heaves.

“Yeah, yeah,” You fix the small devices in your ear, “I’m here, I’m here. You need to stay awake, Kuroo.”

He only hums in response.

“Kuroo, you—you idiot! What were you thinking, what happened? I… I hate you, you know..”

He lets out a chuckle but then winces

“Y/N-chan, I’ve got visual!” Oikawa shouts and pushes the screen to you. You can hear Akaashi dispatching Team 2 (Daichi, Ushijima and Atsumu – weirdest combo you’ve seen, but somehow, they work well)

You see Bokuto and Iwaizumi hunched over Kuroo, they’ve got gauze, bandages and even Bokuto’s shirt pressed onto his right side and chest.

It’s soaked red.

Keep talking to him, keep him awake. Iwaizumi’s words bounce around in your head.

What do I talk about? What do I say? Usually, he’s the one talking, I… I only ever give instructions, Kuroo, Kuroo, what do I do to keep you awake?

“I…Kuroo, I… What’s, uh, your favourite colour?”

You hear him breathing heavily into the headset and faintly hear Bokuto and Iwaizumi working in the background. Your eyes are set on his figure on the screen, his chest is barely moving, and his eyes are half-lidded.

“Pink. Red. Or something.”

Your brows furrow, “Pink?”

“Yeah,” he coughs again, and you see blood splutter from his lips.

Red. Bright red. Even on his black uniform.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever colour you blush –urk—is my favourite colour.”

You collapse on your knees to the floor. “I…I really do hate you.” You shake your head. Even as he’s in a situation like this, he’s teasing you. Even in a situation like this, he’s thinking about you.

“I love you, too, Kitten.” You see him close his eyes and smile.

You don’t even recognise what he said, too on edge, especially when you see he’s paling quickly.

“Oi! Kuroo!” You stand up, pulling the screen closer to you, “Open your eyes! Please!”

“I’m not going anywhere, Kitten. Not until I get that welcome back kiss from you.” He breathes out a chuckle

Team 2’s entering the camera’s view and Daichi pulls out another med kit, water bottle and IV bag. Expertly, he’s fixing the bandages and inserting a cannula into the crook of Kuroo’s elbow. He attaches the tubing to the bag and hands it to Bokuto who holds it up.

Ushijima and Iwaizumi have unfolded a stretcher turning Kuroo one way and then the other to slide it under him without having to lift him

Soon after, they’re making their way out and your fingers are flying on the keyboard trying to follow their movement through the CCTV cameras.

“L/N-chan…L/N? Hey…”

You don’t stop even though you hear Oikawa calling for you.

Not until Oikawa swivels your chair to face him, “Hey…L/N-chan, it’s okay. I can take over from here.”

“No, no, He—”

“—He’s safe, Chibi-chan.” Oikawa reassures.

Akaashi comes up to you and places a tentative hand on your head, “You need to rest; you’ve been awake all day and all night.”

Oikawa nods, “Mmm, we can take over from here.”

“But I—"

“You trust us, don’t you? I promise you; I’ll make sure he comes back home to you, L/N-san.”

You nod and Akaashi leads you to your futon on the floor and tucks you in.

Before he stands up to get back to his chair, you take hold of his wrist, “Promise me, you’ll wake me when he gets here.”

When you wake up, there’s no one else in the room. Your head is heavy and pounding, but you sit up, with a hand at your temples

As you do, the door slides open.

You look up and see Akaashi with a food tray, “Oh, perfect, you’re awake, L/N-san.”

You blink up at him. Akaashi… 

Kuroo!

“Kuroo-san’s recovering if you’re wondering.” He sets the tray down on the floor next to you, “He’s in the infirmary. Stable, but still sleeping.”

You flick the covers from your body and move to get up, but you’re stopped by Akaashi.

“L/N-san, it’s okay. Eat first.”

“I need to go see him.”

“Eat first, he’s not going anywhere, he’s safe. You need to take care of yourself, too, L/N-san. For Kuroo’s sake, as well.”

You clench your hands and as if seeing your inner turmoil, he sighs and picks up the tray and walks to the door.

Your brows are pinched as he stops in the threshold to look at you, “You coming? You can eat in Kuroo-san’s room in the infirmary.”

When you get to his room, you see him you see him in a seated position on the hospital bed

If you hadn’t known what happened, you would’ve thought he was simply asleep.

“I’ll set your food here, L/N-san.”

You turn to Akaashi as he exits, “Thank you, Akaashi-kun. Really.”

He offers the smallest of smiles and nods before closing the door behind him.

You turn back to Kuroo, taking a few steps forwards to take one of his hands in both of yours.

There are small cuts on his hand that you run your thumbs over.

“Kuroo.” You whimper and your vision is blurring over with tears, “Kuroo, Kuroo, Kuroo.”

As if hearing you call, Kuroo’s eyes flutter open

You don’t see through the tears, but you feel him squeeze your fingers.

“Hey there, sweet.” He rasps.

Your head whips up to his face, “Kuroo! Kuroo…” you pull his hand up so that his fingers are touching your forehead.

He says something that you can’t hear

“Huh?”

“Come here.” He says a little louder. You shuffle closer to him, and he releases his hand to cup your cheek

“What do you need?” you ask him.

“Can I…”

“Hmm?”

“Can I have my welcome home kiss, now?”

You pull away and you see him with a small smile, “Idiot! How can you joke in a time like this?” You slap his shoulder, and he winces.

“Ah, sorry, sorry,” You cover the area with your hand, “I…” then you grab his hand again, holding back your tears, “I almost lost you, Kuroo. Hahhhh,” You look up at the ceiling to stop the tears from flowing, “I hate you. I hate how much you affect me.”

When you look at him again, he’s already looking at you with the softest of smiles. You quirk your lips and then lean in to press your lips to his.

“Welcome home, baka. Don’t do that again.”

As you go to pull away, you feel his hand at the back of your neck, pulling you back to him, “I’m home.” He says and then pecks your lips once more.

I had a lot of fun writing this. I really didn't intend for it to be this long hahaha, but I hope you liked it :3.

As the title says, If you guys want and if I'm feeling it, I might turn it into a full one-shot (Or even a mini-series with how long it ended up)

Anyways, have a good day!

|| Masterlist ||

This is Seven, signing off :)

[syncopein3d]

Left Alone 11: Silencers 3

Big weekend update, so I split it up!

Tropes/content warnings/ spoilers: M for mature themes overall. vampire whumpee/caretaker, male whumpee/caretaker, non-binary whumpee/caretaker, general morbidity, and in this chapter, mind control and death by noncon vampire bite, two male victims, one described in a way I would describe as subtextually sexual.

There will be a lot of play with, and discussion of, the concept of consent in this series, as it applies to many topics. There will be angst. Vampire biting can be painful, platonic, or NSFW and I'm not sure what direction that will take as the story goes on.

If you would like to be added to, or removed from, the tag list of this series, please let me know!

Part 10: Silencers 2

“Kitchen clear. I’ve got static from Mads,” Liam whispered into his radio as he stood by the kitchen door. “Mads is down,” said Michael’s voice, taut even through the distortion. “Say again?” “Madison is dead. Augury confirms her soul has departed. Cause unknown. Sit tight and keep that door secure, we’ll come in that way.”

“Target?” “Alive. Below and on your three. There’s probably a basement.” “Understood.” He put his back to the wall by the door, the L2 Lunex rifle trained on the doorway to the little hallway off the vestibule. This was no longer a two in, two on backup mission. Somehow Arden Telep, medicated to suppress his abilities, a complete civilian with no training in the Gifts, had killed a Silencer operative. That meant either their information was incorrect, or someone else was here. He might have doubted Chase’s expertise with the words of augury, but Michael had never scried and been off. They couldn’t check for a second target without a name, which meant –

He never saw where the man came from. His finger had only begun to reflexively tighten on the trigger at a movement when a hand closed over the barrel and pushed it to one side, and now he was looking into a pair of green eyes under shaggy pale eyebrows and the world suddenly felt soft. Liam felt as if he were falling into cotton as smothering warmth piled up around his brain. A taloned hand carefully reached for the radio on his shoulder and switched it off, cutting off Michael's urgent query in his ear. There was blood on the man’s breath as he spoke.

"Put your weapons on the floor," said a voice. It was the most beautiful voice he had ever heard, the voice of a father he'd never known, the voice of something more and better than human. On some level he knew he shouldn't obey, but his hands were already briskly at laying down his gun, flicking out his sword and bamboo and laying them out as if for inspection.

Afterward he stood up, and a hand lifted his chin so that he looked into the eyes again. Everything made sense. Everything was fine. Somehow that relaxed, fulfilled feeling coexisted with the awareness that the mission was fucked because their intelligence had been bad. No one had expected a vampire.

“What is your name?”

 “I’m Daniel Schwartzman, face-name currently Liam.”

"How many others are here?" The vampire asked.

"Madison is dead. Michael and Chase are coming in." He answered without the slightest ability to refrain.

" Why are you here?"

"To kill Arden Telep and retrieve a Level 4 constructed artifact, the Eye of Rule."

"If you do not return, how long until someone else comes?"

"Maybe two hours to scramble a team with a pact," Aidan said. “The nearest Exalted is Painmother Nguyen in Bremerton.”

"You’ve done very well, Liam. You’re going to feel no pain. It will all be very nice, and then you will go to sleep."

It was a feeling like being drowned in pillows, soft and nice and inevitable, and then the man took him into his arms and Liam helped him get the helmet off and unfasten his collar. Why wouldn’t he? It seemed like the polite thing to do. A distant part of him knew he was about to die, but no part of him really cared. There was a little tickle at his throat, and then a warm swell of peaceful well-being, and then he felt heavy and he leaned into the arms of the stranger and slept.

Daniel Schwartzman had not quite given all he had to give, little spurts of blood still rewarding Tolly’s questing tongue, and he was very distracted by this, which is why he was shot several times from the kitchen doorway by the first man through. Tolly stumbled backward, arm fruitlessly raised against the rain of agony and noise – even silenced weapons were loud this close - and then he grabbed the dying man and threw him into the others. The room wasn’t big enough to easily avoid it. One man was knocked back into the doorframe as the other ducked and rolled, and Tolly snatched at that one as he started to come up and then he broke the man’s neck with an audible SNAP. More bullets tore through the wall and ceiling where Tolly had just been, but he was paying attention now and they were well behind his trajectory as he kicked off the other counter and rammed his knee into the survivor’s shoulder. The man stumbled, and then Tolly grabbed him by the front of his vest and looked him in the eyes.

It was over very quickly after that. Tolly dropped the body on top of the others, staring down at the ruin of his tee shirt as his flesh pushed flattened bullets out. A couple had gone through him entirely, but with the blood of three people to burn he could have healed much more severe injuries than he presently had to. He lapped away the bite marks just in case. Then it was a matter of under a minute to run all the bodies back out to their vehicle and stuff them inside so Arden wouldn’t have to see them. There was blood on the kitchen floor, but all of it was his own, very red and bright because it was what he had taken from Daniel and Madison.

He ran to the basement door, tapped on it politely, and then opened it.

“Arden, it’s safe for the moment, but we have a problem.”

Part 12: Drive

@fleur-a-whump, @bitchaknso, @valravnthefrenchie, @thewhumpcaretaker

[callsigngrim]

Fuck canon and other ramblings

Please note these are just theories done for enjoyment. Tw mentiones of blood. Character death.

(I had to rewrite this so many times so I kept it short and sweet because my brain did not want to work with me)

Ok so lets get into the gun Makarov possibly used to shoot Soap with

This is the X13 auto glock which is modeled after the the G17. This gun is listed on the official C.O.D wiki as one of the guns Makarov used. And it's also the closest one that resembles the gun used in the shooting scene. So not 100% guarantee that its the correct one. But it's as close as I could get. (moving on)

The gun uses 9mm ammunition. Dangerous yes but there have been reported cases of people surviving being shot with a 9mm.

OK so I did some digging on possible ways that Soap could have survived the gun shot wound to his head and one of the things I found was the Valkyrie program. Now the Valkyrie program was created to allow for on site (on the battlefield) blood transfusions, this comes in a kit that allows for collection of blood. And then that blood can be used for a blood transfusion to the injured soldier/person.

I have added the link if anyone is interested in reading about it in more detail please be warned that it does show explicit images containing blood and needles.

Now there are various other programs that allow for a soldier to receive blood quickly to avoid severe blood loss or even death. I touched on these very lightly but if you have any questions please feel free to ask!

Now the next one is very simple Price is a smart man and I really doubt he would have gone in blind. So the moment the dust settled the medics where there stabilizing Soap and getting him out of there to receive the right medical attention he needs.

The list of physical and mental problems is going to be a long one but he would have survived.

Now those are the more realistic theories. And I highly recommend you read @moronic-validity post linked here:

Now onto the more crazy theories. (Aka a fanfic I will be writing because I haven't done angst in a while)

In Kingsman they brought back one of the agents using alpha gel. "Alpha-Gel is a substance used by Statesman that can protect the brain from a headshot wound. After the Alpha-Gel is applied, the agent is brought back to the laboratory, where nanites are used to repair tissue damage in the brain."

What if they used something like alpha gel to help Johnny? But just like the alpha gel it causes severe amnesia. Soap forgets everything and everyone from 141. He spends months in recovery. Simon is there every day trying to get Johnny to remember the team (him) but nothing is working.

Or

After being declared KIA.The CIA got involved with a revival project and the first subject that showed promise was former Sergeant John Soap Mactavish.

Entry #1: Test subject 114 is responding well to chemical ****** no further deterioration has been detected. Subject has remained mute during first session. A green glow has been detected in the subject's eyes. Close observation will continue.

Entry#2: Subject seems stable and is taking orders. No indication that test subject 114 has any recollection of former team members. Subject only responds to previous call sign ****

Entry#14: Subject has been training for *hours a day. It has been noted that the subject has increased stamina. Upon further observation it has also been noted that the subject has episodes of extreme emotional outbursts. The dosage of chemical*** will be increased to ***milligrams every *hours. Observations to continue.

[jooheonspinky]

Trivia: Love Part 3

Characters: Namjoon x Female Reader

Genre: idol!au, angst

Warnings: set during the COVID pandemic, mentions of COVID tests

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Part 3

Word Count: 3.7K

November 29, 2021 (continued)

“Is it that time again?” I whine playfully at Mr. Choi. 

“Yes, Ms. Y/LN.”

“You’re always so formal with me, even after all these years,” I pout. He nods, and with the mask, I can’t tell if he’s smiling, but I’d like to think that he is. “Welp, let’s do this.” I take the long cotton swab and insert it up my left nostril. Mr. Choi watches as I swirl it around the inside of my nose five times before I follow the same process on the right side. This was our new norm. Myself, as well as the BTS members and staff, had to test once a day just to be sure none of us had contracted COVID. It didn’t bother me, and though it was a short visit, it was nice to see and talk to another person whenever Namjoon was out.

“Thank you,” he says as he takes the swab and continues the test. I watch him set the timer. “Now we wait. And while we wait, I wanted to ask that you please move to the bedroom before 4 and lock the door.”

Wrinkling my brow, I question, “Shouldn’t be a problem, but can I ask why?”

He nods. “At 4, a cleaning crew will enter the suite. They will make sure everything out here is clean, along with the balcony. A catering company will come promptly after to set the table and lay out the food. We would just like to keep any…gossip from spreading.”

“Ah, I see,” I nod. “Well, I’ll keep to the room and stay as quiet as possible. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I know I don’t.”

The timer on his phone goes off, and we both glance down at the test. 

One line. 

Negative.

“Great,” I beam up at him.

“Ok. Well, I’ll go ahead and go, but I’ll return later to make sure everything is set up properly before the members arrive. I’ll text you so you know it’s ok to come out.”

“Sounds good.” I smile as I walk him to the door. “I’ll see you later then.” 

Once I close up, I gather all the materials used for the test and discard them. Lathering my hands with soap, I can already feel the excitement of the day washing over me. 

I’d taken a shower early, wanting to be done before the cleaning and catering persons arrived. As they prepped the area outside of the room, I stayed in the bathroom, being as quiet as possible, while I continued to get ready. 

I wasn’t sure what to wear for tonight’s get-together. Namjoon had made it seem as if it was something casual, but what if it was a bit fancier? I hadn’t brought much, but after going through everything, I managed to pair up black skinny jeans with an olive green v-neck shirt. I layer it with a caramel-colored oversized cardigan and slip on a pair of taupe ankle boots. I add a few rings to my fingers that I’d worn when I first arrived and leave on the necklace Namjoon had gifted me. After scrolling through my phone looking for hairstyles, I decide on space buns and call it a day. Once I finish applying makeup, I look over myself in the mirror and nod approvingly.

The sound of my phone as it vibrates on the bathroom sink draws my eyes to it and I see that it’s a message from Mr. Choi.

Mr. Choi: Room is clear. You can come out now.

Me: Perfect. Thanks.

Spritzing on a bit of perfume, I step out into the living room just as there is a knock. Hurrying over, I look through the peephole and open it up once I see who it is.

“Thank you,” Mr. Choi nods as he walks in and makes his way over to the dining table and kitchen. As he looks over everything, he lets me know, “The team is on the way with the members. They should be here in about 15 minutes.”

“Oh good.”

I follow behind him as he inspects the food and beverages. It all smells good and my stomach gives a little twinge of protest as we walk away.

“It all looks fine, so I’ll go now,” he informs me. “Remember, you can text me if you need anything.”

“Will do, thanks.”

Now that I have the suite to myself again, I decide to sit in the living room area and watch TV. I scroll through the channels and settle on a baking show, losing myself in the anxiousness of the bakers as they compete to impress the judges.

Namjoon’s POV

His hands swipe up and down his thighs, as he stares unseeing out the window at the passing buildings and people walking along the sidewalks. He is anxious to get back to the room, needing to see Y/N before the guys show up. Yesterday still weighs heavy on his mind and he is still filled with confusion and uncertainty. He can feel their dynamic changing. Wonders exactly how he let it happen, but is pretty sure that it has been happening for quite some time now. He just didn’t notice until after the pandemic began. 

Their time apart had stretched on and on, and he had felt his insides gnawing at him, his thoughts a chaotic cacophony between his ears. Namjoon hadn’t realized why then. Why her absence affected him so much, but he is starting to understand it now. His Nabi, and yes, he couldn’t even deny it anymore, he thought of her as his, Y/N had become more to him than just someone who took care of his carnal needs on occasion. Namjoon had grown to care for her, to want to pass the time with her and not just in his bed.

But they had made an arrangement.

And that arrangement becomes difficult to abide by when Y/N looks at him the way she did last night. It ignites a hope in him that he knows he has no business allowing himself to feel. He is finding it difficult to compartmentalize his own feelings and if he’s being honest, he really doesn’t know what to do about it. All he knows is that when he is around Y/N, the constant noise in his head dulls and he feels at ease and he’s not ready to let go of that just yet. 

Is it delusional of him to wish for things to stay the way they are? 

The van he’s traveling in pulls into a side entrance of the hotel. He and the rest of BTS are escorted to their floor. They go their separate ways to shower and get ready for the get-together. As his bodyguard escorts him to the door he thanks him before walking in.

Y/N turns to look over her shoulder at where he stands and…there it is. The quiet that reaches all the way to his soul. She looks beautiful, and cute even with those buns on top of her head. He quirks a smile and she stands to meet him halfway as he walks forward.

“Hey,” he smiles softly down at her.

“Hey,” she whispers back, her eyes roaming his face. 

He hugs her, inhaling deeply of her calming scent as he does so. He only has her for a few more days, and he tries not to think too much about what he’s going to do when he finds himself without her again.

Pulling away, he drops a brief kiss on her tinted lips but still keeps her close.

“I’m gonna take a shower. The guys will be here soon.”

“Ok,” she nods.

Reluctantly he releases her and makes his way into the bathroom to shower. He doesn’t take long, and soon he’s slipping into black cargo pants, the bottoms cuffed to hug his ankles while the rest is loose, offering ease of movement. He decides on a red and black button-up plaid dress shirt. Donning a black cargo jacket over it, he then sits on the bed to tie on a pair of dark grey low-top Converse sneakers.

Out in the living room, he finds her back on the couch watching TV. She smiles, patting the sofa cushion. He wastes no time in taking up the offer and settles down next to her. Her warmth seeps into him, and he can’t help but smile when she rests her head on his shoulder. He allows himself the liberty of threading his fingers with hers and doesn’t miss the soft sigh she lets out. 

It’s not often he has moments like this. His time is always filled with dance practice, writing, and producing. Only when it’s time for bed is everything turned off except his mind. It continues providing ideas, suggestions, and criticism long before it, too, eventually fizzles, and he’s able to pass out for a few hours only to do it all again the next day. 

But it’s not like that when he’s with Y/N. Every time she comes to visit, the minute they decide to go to bed, he is able to fall asleep almost instantly. He wonders if it’s the same for her. Does he provide her with the same sense of comfort? He hopes so.

A knock at the door interrupts their quiet viewing of the baking show and Y/N sits up excitedly.

“Can I get it?” her eyes glitter as they plead with him.

Nodding, he adds, “Just check the peephole to make sure it’s only the guys before you open the door.”

She scurries over to the door and Namjoon can’t help but chuckle as he follows behind her.

Y/N POV

After taking a peek through the peephole I open the door with an, “Ayyy!”

A chorus of “ayyy’s” greets me back before each member offers me a brief hug as they step into the suite. Namjoon has turned off the TV and synced his phone up to the speakers. Lo-fi music begins to play as he ushers everyone towards the dining table. I help him move the hot food from the stove to the table then settle into the seat to his right.

Namjoon stands and clears his throat.

“I just want to say that it’s not often lately that we get to have a night like tonight where we can hang out with no cameras, so enjoy it. Thank you to Y/N for coming out to visit after so much time. We always appreciate your support.” My face warms as he raises his glass to me, bringing everyone's eyes my way. “And thank you all for your hard work on this tour. Geonbae!”

“Geonbae!” we all shout, raising our shot glasses filled with soju.

Everyone drinks at the same time, smiling as we set the glasses down.

“Ok,” Namjoon claps his hands together. “Let’s eat!”

There is no hesitation. As soon as he announces it’s time to eat, everyone begins to reach over each other or walk around to fill their plates with various Korean cuisines. After adding rice, beef, and kimchi to mine I peer around for the lettuce so I can make myself a small wrap. I glance over to Namjoon, but he’s already in a deep conversation with Hoseok. Nibbling on my bottom lip, I await a good moment to interrupt.

“What do you need, Y/N?” Jungkook asks from beside me.

I look over to see Jungkook’s concerned face waiting for me to tell him how he can assist.

“Uhm,” I smile crookedly. “I can’t seem to find the lettuce. You know, the one you can put the food in and roll it up?” 

My hands mimic folding the lettuce ball and bringing it to my mouth.

“Ah,” he nods in understanding. With a grin, he slides over a bowl with some sort of leaf in it. I cock an inquisitive eyebrow at him. That did not look like lettuce to me. “You do the same,” he tells me. I stare back skeptically. That’s edible? I’d never eaten a leaf before. “Like this.” He picks one up with his chopsticks and places it on his plate. He swiftly transfers a little bit of rice, meat, kimchi, and bean sprouts to it before folding it up and popping it into his mouth. “See,” he mumbles through a full mouth.

“Yes. OK.”

With determination, I make an attempt to grab a leaf from the top of the small pile with my chopsticks. No matter how hard I try, I can only get multiple between the ends of my chopsticks. By my fifth attempt, I was so frustrated and ready to give up.

“OK, ok,” Jungkook laughs. “I’ll help.”

 I watch as he easily peels one off the top with his chopsticks and lays it on my plate. He lays another atop it, but off center so I can still grab it from the edge.

“Seriously?” I look up at him, amazed.

He giggles cutely before asking, “How many?” “Three,” I answer. “Three is good.”

He lays another one on my plate and I smile at him appreciatively. I begin to load food onto my leaf when Yoongi calling Jungkook’s name brings my eyes up. Yoongi cocks a bemused brow at the youngest member; his lips pursed in a quiet warning.

“What?” Jungkook asks, but the tone insinuates he knows exactly what Yoongi is bringing his attention to.

They both glance over at Namjoon and I can’t help but do the same. The leader's hands are folded together, his lips pressed against them, a guarded look to his eyes as they meet mine. I feel chastised somehow and swallow thickly before focusing on my food. The chatter around us resumes and I eat quietly until Jin begins telling jokes. I can’t help but laugh along with the others, the awkwardness from moments ago falling to the background.

Once everyone is full and we are through with dinner, we migrate to the living room. Earlier, we had all decided to watch a thriller. When Namjoon opts for the left side of the long couch, I sit down next to him. Jin chooses to sit on his own on the single cushioned chair to Namjoon’s left. Yoongi and Hoseok plop down unceremoniously in the two-seater to our right. As Namjoon turns on the TV and loads up Netflix from the Menu, I watch as Jungkook, Tae, and Jimin head our way. Jungkook grins at me before sitting down next to me. Taehyung squeezes into the last bit of space on the couch next to Jungkook causing everyone to be pressed in tightly to each other. Jimin opts for the floor, leaning against the couch between Tae’s legs.

With the movie beginning, everyone quiets down. Namjoon’s hand comes to rest on the inside of my knee and it’s difficult to ignore the pleased flutter in my heart. Like this, it’s so easy to imagine us being a real couple and not just lovers who see each other only a few times a year.

The movie is intense, and my heart is in my throat the majority of the time. I find myself jumping at various points which pull amused giggles from Jungkook. He offers quick side hugs of reassurance, even as Namjoon squeezes my knee to let me know he’s there, too. By the time the movie is over, my head is resting on Namjoon’s shoulder, my arm loose across his abdomen. Jungkook has snuggled up against my side with Tae cozied up against his other side.

As the credits begin to scroll up the screen, I hear various people stretch and yawn. I glance over to find a dozing Yoongi, his arms folded over his chest. My lips turn up fondly at the sight and I have to fight the urge to get up and cover him with a throw.

“I gotta go to the bathroom,” I whisper to Namjoon, pecking his cheek before I stand.

“Sure,” he nods, standing as well.

I head to our bedroom so that everyone else can use the guest bathroom. This night has turned out to be a much-needed break for the guys to be together in camaraderie versus for work purposes. It’s nice to see them outside of a promotion or concert, the guys relaxed and socializing as if they were just the average group of guy friends. I love being a part of it, even if it’s just a very tiny part of it. It makes me happy to see them happy.

As I finish up and then wash my hands, I startle when I hear the bathroom door open. Turning around swiftly, I relax when I see that it’s just Namjoon.

“Hey, I’m done here if you need to use it,” I tell him as I dry my hands, then step past him to give him privacy. He darts his hand out and clasps onto my wrist, pulling me back to him before I can get too far. “Wha-”

My exclamation is cut off by his lips possessing mine in a deep, unhurried kiss. Namjoon pins my arm behind my back, using it to keep me flush against his body. My other hand, having found purchase on his chest, fists into his shirt. When he pulls away, I’m left breathless and craving more. Eyebrow cocked high, wordlessly, his gaze roams my face. 

“Namjoon?”

The eyes that look over me, though definitely filled with desire, have a hint of uncertainty in them and I have to wonder if he is second-guessing everything. “Namjoon?” I repeat, my own voice sounding unsure of what is happening when he doesn’t answer.

“You should go back before they start wondering what we’re up to,” he says quietly as he releases me.

“But…”

“It’s fine. Go,” he insists.

“OK,” I sigh deciding, right now is not the best time to push.

Instead of heading back to the festivities, though, I sneak onto the patio when Namjoon closes the bathroom door. I’m grateful for the cardigan as the brisk night air wraps itself around me. It is much cooler than I expected, but I don’t plan on being out here too long. I just need a minute before I can gather myself enough to go back inside to make casual conversation again.

I am beginning to worry that Namjoon might actually be upset with me. He said he wasn't mad the other night, but I can feel that something is different since then. What if he’s not feeling this arrangement between us anymore and is just too nice to outright say that he’s done with it…with us?

“괜찮아요 (gwenchanayo)?” 

A voice calls softly from behind me, and I turn to find Jungkook and Jimin sitting at the patio table, drinks in front of them. I had been so lost in my thoughts I didn’t sense them at all when I came out.

“네 (ne),” I nod, offering a small smile.

The two look at each other, unconvinced.

“Come,” Jimin calls me over. “Sit with us.”

Sighing, I accept the offer and take a seat across from them.

“What’s wrong?” Jungkook probes.

I glanced over at the doors I had come out of as if I could see Namjoon through them.

“I don’t know,” I drag on as I return my gaze to the two before me, unsure if I should say anything.

Did I even have the right to gripe about my and Namjoon’s situation?

“What we say here stays here,” Jungkook encourages me to confide in them. 

I nod, inhaling deeply.

“Things have been a little…off between us since yesterday and…” I shrug. “I don’t know. I have the feeling that maybe he’s kinda done with this…thing.”

My hands flutter between us as I struggle to officially name what Namjoon and I have going on. Jimin’s face holds a bit of surprise before he masks his emotions. 

“No,” he shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“I mean, have you ever listened to ‘Tokyo’?” Jungkook’s wide doe-like eyes stare back at me intently.

“Of course, I have,” I smile. “I really like that one from Namjoon’s Mono mixtape.”

“And what about “‘Trivia:Love’?” Jimin probes.

“Yes, we cannot forget about “Trivia:Love!”” Jungkook nods, his lips pressed to thin lines as his eyes widen even more.

“Yes, I’ve heard that one, too,” I chuckle, as my eyes flick from one to the other, wondering where they are going with this. “I love that song.”

Jimin shifts, drawing my attention back to him. “But have you listened listened to them?” he urges, eyebrow quirked up.

I tense as I play back the songs in my mind and what I can remember of the translations. The more I remember, the straighter I sit up in my spot and the wider my eyes get. I look from Jungkook to Jimin.

“I think you get it now,” Jungkook nods, offering a pleased smile.

“There’s no way…” I start with a nervous laugh. “He’s not talking about…me.”

Jimin breathes out heavily, “You two are the most hard-headed people I know.” He shakes his head.

“But the songs were released a long time ago,” I protest, even as my heart thumps wildly behind my ribcage. “He couldn’t possibly still feel that way.”

“Do you?” Jimin deadpans. My mouth closes instantly, my ears warming up at his bluntness. “There you go,” he smiles knowingly.

“We should get back inside,” Jungkook suggests even as he stands. “It’s cold out here, and we don’t want you to get sick.”

“Ay! There he is,” Hoseok announces and all eyes turn to Namjoon who is just exiting the bedroom. 

“Finished dropping the kids off at the pool, bro?’ Jin teases as Jungkook closes the doors after we enter.

Namjoon’s brow furrows as he shakes his head, “What?”

I cover my mouth with my hand to hide my amused smile as I step further into the room. Jin claps Namjoon on the back as he laughs boisterously.

“I’m just messing with you,” Jin quiets down, but tears of mirth still twinkle in his eyes.

“Man,” Namjoon sucks his teeth at him.

Jin and Hoseok pull him into a conversation, but not before Namjoon sneaks a look my way. He dips his head when our eyes meet, his hands sinking deep into his pockets before he turns his full attention to the guys.

Something is definitely troubling him.

“Wanna play a card game?” Taehyung asks from the couch I’m standing next to.

“I don’t really know any games,” I admit with an apologetic smile.

“I’ll teach you,” he smiles, patting the seat next to him.

“Ok.” I drop onto the couch Taehyung is sitting on and let him pull my thoughts away from Namjoon.

Credits:

Text Divider by @xxbimbobunnyxx

Moodboard by me.

For moodboard, used:

InCollage for layout, title, butterfly and photos.

Except Namjoon’s photo. Credit to RM x GQ Korea, Vogue Korea 2021

Motionleap was used for the movement within the moodboard.

I'm sorry to cut it off here, but I didn't want to make the part too long. I really appreciate you taking the time to read my work. Feel free to comment, like, and reblog. Part 4 is out now..

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

[mysticstars02]

KW: Miscellaneous (RAW)

this is the best image i could use for this blog. ik there's one i really luv to use (it's the huge collab art made by yumikosudou where they transform YW characters into those gegege no kitaro art style characters you see in the right). Buuut i think it's safe to use this image here haha

Featuring two collabs with actual stories! And also some stuffs I find that Idk if it'll fit or I never seen these before lol

Cells at Work! Collab

(ngl i did not expect this to collab a series i barely know of. I don't watch but the concept looks cool!)

GeGeGe no Kitaro: Great Yokai War (?) Collab

most pure thing i ever seen. it's like seeing the interactions and the epic fights...but in chibi style XD

The Great Trial of Challenges

OH THIS ONE! I really wanna talk about this cause i think this is a pretty cool feature they add. Sadly I didn't get the main gist of this buuut I'm pretty sure this feature requires a shit ton of your playtime experiences and some competitive thinking (rambling warning btw lol)

How it works is that you have those green keys you can spend ONLY on the Great Trial and let me tell you: the Great Trial...is srsly a trial. Y'know those competitive features in the YW mainline games where you can set the rules only to specific rank of youkais (Like set the rule to an only Rank A or C battle), the Great Trial of Challenges is kinda like that...except it's very mean (It may be easy if I have some translation skills but it may be not haha XD).

Let's set up a real example coming from a KW player: If I remember, the trial is set up by 3 stages. Each stage contains restriction and certain aspects for tribe AND rank.

The 1st stage is free-for-all style meaning no restriction/rule, just put out your best team.

The 2nd stage gets a bit harder. There are now rules and restrictions. Let's say the rule for this stage says you can only use Rank A or lower youkais (I believe this also applies to Gunmashin/War Demon God's Rank???) AND you cannot use this following tribe: Enma and Kaima tribe

Now comes the 3rd stage, this time it's serious. I believe they add more rules and restriction to this stage so now, you can still use Rank A or lower BUT you are forced to use them from this tribe like you can use Rank A-C but only from the Slippery tribe. This also will go for the Gunmashin as well (You can only use the demon god's from this specific class)

Sometimes the rule will keep you using Rank Sho but you can't use Rank Paradise/Heavenly Rank youkais

Very challenging but it's also pretty cool! You may think that this looks like it's worth to try it out...yet I haven't mention why this feature is very mean. I haven't gone that far yet I also forgot how many challenges I clear (I think I clear at least 50???) BUT...there is a challenge that will forever be a wall to me before this game announce to go defunct. What challenge is that I struggle the most?

On the 3rd stage of the challenge I was on (again Idr what it is exactly), there is one rule...that is so mean idk how the f- am I suppose to do. These are the following restrictions: Rank Sho, Any tribe is acceptable, Gunmashin is allowed, you are forced...to use one youkai

Yeah

A rule said to use one youkai against a team of 5 Rank Sho youkais

Part of me thinks that maybe with quick summoning, instant collision damage and bulky stat could work right? Ngl, I got my ass kicked like so many times on this freakin 3rd stage of the challenge I was stuck on (I tried to use Rank Sho Rinne on this challenge, 3 seconds later and he immediately got his ass kicked asksa)

Again, pretty cool feature for challenging players and huge props to the user responsible for the Heavenly Rank's stories (bc I'm pretty sure you unlock those scenes by completing certain amount of trials. I'm very positive you have to beat EVERYTHING and my poor brain is not enough :'''>)

Never-see-before events (well for me lol)

I found a few of these videos coming from the user who's responsible for the Heavenly Rank stories. I actually don't remember seeing these events during my KW playthrough (I might have misremember it but yeah)

More interaction with Gunmashins? Part I

More interaction with Gunmashins? Part II

[aegons-queen-rhaella]

It's funny, I read your post about fangirls making excuses for Daemon's terrible acts.

But as someone who is part of fanboy circles - being a fanboy myself. I gotta say that the Daemon fanboys are just as bad as the Daemon/Matt Smith girlies.

I brought up my theory that before "Blood & Cheese" that Daemon is gonna go after Daeron in Oldtown first - seeing as how Daeron is to Alicent what Luke seemingly was to Rhaenyra (her baby boy that she likes to cuddle, hold hands, and kiss) and that will herald Daeron's entry into the story and the war by either being recalled by Alicent and Criston for his own safety or by wanting some pay back on Rhaenyra/Daemon.

And I postulated that it wasn't going to go well for Daemon, and that Daeron would get the better of him and drive him off. Which tracks to me, because, Daeron is stated in the book as one of the greatest knights of his age and Daemon has always been more slippery and clever as an assassin rather than a fighter. Thus, Daemon and Rhaenyra will end up choosing soft targets after realizing that Daeron ain't some scrub little kid like Luke.

And you would've thought that I insulted their mom the way the Team Black fanboys came at me, angry and outraged that I suggested that Daeron was a better fighter than Daemon, or that Daemon wouldn't take Daeron serious in a fight till it was too late.

All their arguments have absolutely no basis in fact or in source material. In fact, Daemon is known to run from and avoid fights as much as possible, unless there was some clear advantage in it, or if he strikes when the opponent is weak. Where as Daeron spends his life and his military career getting into tense situations. The dude squared up against Hugh Hammer and backed him down. Something Daemon would never have done.

Anyway, my point is that in the fanboy circles it is perceived that because GRRM loves Daemon, it means that he is the "Bestest Evaer!" at everything, and that no one can beat him and there's some weird 4D morality to everything he does.

It's fucking insane the levels of idolization and cope that this character gets from both sides of the genders.

That is absolutely wild that people, fanboys and girls, equate Daemon being the best because GGRM said Daemon was his favorite. Daemon is a coward and doesn't have as much balls as Daeron and even Aegon II.

Even HOTD shows that Daemon is a coward when he beheaded Vaemond from behind. Striking weak aoppenents and ones with their backs turned will forever be a cowards move.

I like your theory that Daemon would go after Daeron before going after J&J. It would make sense that Daemon would think Daron is like Luke but he underestimated the youngest Green.

This would be a banger of a way to introduce Daeron and Tessarion and show that they will not go down without a figth and also set him up to go against Hugh Hammer.

I am team Green ofc but even I can acknowledge and not excuse the shit behaviors that members of team green have done.

Fanboy spaces are something I stay away from for a reason and I don't want to be in there and get attacked because I said something based in reality.

All the facts about these characters are stated in the book and if people want to read too much fanfiction and apply it to reality they need to take a break read the book again and assess.

[starzzach]

this is jaytim brainrot bleeding into charlos bc it seems like the only pairing I'm capable of writing, i'm sorry <3

---

Carlos plugs into the open comm line before anyone else can try it.

“Hi princesa,” he says into the little mic in his helmet, taking another gun out of the firearm cabinet to take apart, clean, and put back together. There is a peaceful kind of quiet in this part of his work, that he cannot find anywhere else. “What do you have for me?”

“Hood,” Red Robin replies irritably, and Carlos can barely just suppress the grin that tugs at his mouth. Red – princesa – otherwise known as Charles Leclerc. They do not get along. A few scars littered across little Red’s body, as well as the healed slit on his throat, can attest to that. “Is anyone else there?” his voice comes through the filter again.

He pouts as if Charles can see it. “Why? Am I blacklisted from helping you?” he asks innocently, hanging the bait deliciously into his reach. Carlos can hear the annoyance in Charles’ sigh, and for a second he feels bad. “We’d make such a good team,” he continues, sprinkling salt into an open wound.

In reality, the last time they tried working together, Carlos had killed around five people and Charles had been shot in the crossfire. If Carlos had to guess, Charles is still holding a grudge because while Carlos was no longer a Bat, Charles did not have that pleasure and was so unfortunately benched. 

Red Hood would say he was glad not to hear his replacement whining about his plans on the comms every night. (But Carlos would say that it was the best part of patrolling.)

But. It is not fair that Carlos can love someone he tried to kill. Someone whose blood he used to paint the walls of Titans Tower. Someone who would work with fucking Marko before him.

“Fine,” Red finally replies, sounding defeated. “I’ll send you the details. Meet me at the address.”

“See you there, little Red.” Carlos clicks off before Charles can bite back.

—

“Holy fucking shit. Cabrón, you’re wearing lipstick,” is the first thing that comes out of Carlos’ mouth.

It is not the only… product Charles is wearing. There is an ample amount of dark and glittery eyeshadow highlighting his eyes, blush applied heavily high on his cheeks. And in the centre of it all, the very first offending product of dark red lipstick coats Charles’ lips. 

If it is truly even possible Charles’ cheeks get even darker, annoyance flashing across his features. “Didn’t you read the file at all?” he demands, accepting a glass of champagne with a fake smile. It vanishes as soon as the waiter disappears, a scowl replacing it. “I told you everything–”

“I skimmed through it,” Carlos cuts him off, forcing boredom into his voice. He eyes Charles up and down with a lewd smile. “Didn’t see anything that read that you would show up looking like Nico.”

Carlos is playing a dangerous game, and he knows it. Before he can add anything else, Charles grabs his hand and wraps it around his waist, hissing through his teeth, “Act like you love me.”

It is– not a hard ask at all. There is a part of Carlos that loves Charles, because of course there is.

Carlos is too well-versed in this side of vigilante shit to need more than a second to adjust, looping both arms around Charles and pulling him in. He hovers his lips over Charles’ before dipping his head down into his neck, inhaling sharply. Carlos has to fight not to tighten his grip because he recognises that scent, and he is definitely going to break into the Manor and destroy every bottle. If Bono does not find him first. (But Carlos will never be able to associate it with anything other than his good life.)

Charles must have gotten what he needed out of the exchange, whispering, “Enough, chéri,” into his ear and pulling away. Carlos tries not to look away too quickly.

He passes his half-full glass of champagne off to Carlos, doing a quick sweep over the club. His eyes are a different shade of green, which must mean he has his contacts in (Carlos knows this only because he has access to Bat files. Absolutely not because he spends too much time staring into his eyes, memorising every detail). Charles instructs him to wander around and fulfil his part of the mission.

Carlos bites back a cocky reply of why should I listen to you, too tongue-tied to say anything. Charles starts to walk away, but he stops in his tracks, and turns back.

“What?”

Charles hesitates, a second too long, and reaches up to leave a kiss on Carlos’ cheek. “Go find the target,” he says stiffly with a cough, abruptly turning away, and Carlos considers cutting his hand off if that can stop him from touching the place where Charles has left his imprint.

—

It is not until the next morning when he gets out of a bloodied suit and unlatches and removes his helmet that he realises Charles’ lipstick is still on his cheek, perfectly untouched, a memory he refuses to let go.

Daniil nearly howls with laughter when Carlos picks up his call, scowling.

[valleyfthdolls]

By the time Michael Afton was sixteen, he’d come to accept that all promises made of the most optimistic outcomes were bullshit.

It was a thought process he knew was justified, yet one he held little memory to. There were gaps in it, parts left in fog that he couldn’t clear. Sometimes he found himself looking down at his hands like just because he remembered having a body didn’t mean it was real. A sheer lack of understanding that dominated his mind.

But he wasn’t an amnesiac. He had a clear trajectory of his shitty life. He could remember almost everything. There were gaps missing over roughly a year, but not much else.

That year must have been why he felt the way he did, because he knew what he felt was real. He remembered how he had been lied to like that. Four times between 1982 and 1983. By ‘84, he’d come to the conclusion it was a bullshit lie.

It was 1987 now. Michael Afton was nineteen, not that it made a difference. And his best friend was reassuring him nothing bad was going to happen if he applied at the restaurant both of their siblings had died at.

That was it, he supposed. His siblings were gone, and he had been lied to about it. And now Jeremy was lying to him as well. “What’s the worst that could happen?” He laughed, rolling a plastic straw between his teeth that sort of made it sound like a whistle. “I get bored out of my mind and bash my head in?”

His smile dropped as he pretended to give the prospect serious thought.

“I mean, maybe.”

Another whistled laugh.

Michael rolled his eyes, resting his chin on one hand and snatching at Jeremy’s can of coke. Condensed around the outside, the can was ice cold in his hands, and made them feel wet and misty like he was somewhere he wasn’t- a dark forest in winter, maybe.

He took a tired sip from the can, the cold popping of the soda on his tongue combatting the heat of the autumn sun against his dark, thick, wavy hair. It was October. Halloween decorations were everywhere Thanksgiving decorations weren’t, and the sun was beating against the back of his head like it was trying to cook him. Having refused to not wear his usual attire of full length jeans, high tops and a sweatshirt, Michael really did feel like he was in an oven.

He pushed the can over to Jeremy, whose green windbreaker jacket was wrapped around his waist, leaving his tan arms free under his white short-sleeved shirt. “Not kidding when I say that place is a death curse,” He deadpanned. “Wouldn’t want to be there this November, that’s for sure.”

“What’s this November?” Jeremy raised an eyebrow, dropping his straw back into what was really supposed to be his own soda, not Michael’s to share with him.

Michael stifled a soft chuckle. “Friday the thirteenth’s this month. It’s hell enough already. I can’t imagine what it would be like that time of years. Ever wondered how many ways you can get maimed at an animatronic pizzeria?”

“Mike,” Jeremy started, his tone sounding joking, but Michael picked up on the hint of concern. “Nothing’s gonna go wrong, man. You’ve gotta stop overthinking. I’ll just be in and out for a while until my knee gets better and I can go back to the team.”

“Right.”

It was another lie. Optimistic at best. He would just be in and out and everything would be fine, on the fucking night shift at the place that killed his siblings and took Jeremy’s own little sister away. Nothing more safe and idyllic than that.

There was no way in hell Jeremy was going to be okay. Michael knew that for a fact. He was injured already and taking a shifty, risky ass job to cover for his apartment until he could get back to his college football team. If Jeremy thought he was going to be fine, he was an idiot. There was no truth to that optimistic, everything’s gonna be okay promise and Michael had learned that years ago.

First they said they’d find Charlie. Then they said Lizzie would turn up. Then they said Cassidy would wake up but it would likely take a long time- two months was their estimate. Then the optimistic date of his awakening became the date of his death. Then a few months became a few weeks, a few weeks only lasted a few minutes before it became a few days, and Cassidy died the day Michael was told he wouldn’t live to the end of the week.

All he remembered from it all was that it was bullshit.

But Jeremy smiled, his teal-painted nails tapping the coke can as he offered it over to Michael again, and Michael’s willpower crumbled. Jeremy was his light, in a figurative and literal sense. He dressed lighter than Michael, always picking green, blue and yellow for his clothing instead of Michael’s black, grey and purple, and while he was close to being as tan as Mike, he was still lighter, with coarse blonde hair flowing down his shoulders. When Michael looked at him miserably, Jeremy grinned, shaking the can gently, and warmth seemed to radiate from him, so Michael let himself fill the growing pit that his constant sense of dread had dug in his stomach with ice-cold, syrupy soda, and relented in his insistence.

Wasn’t that stupid of him.

[charlesanthonybruno]

Please talk to us about wine and the domaine Tariquet?! And about your job if you want to? It sounds dope!

Woopsie, late reply, apologies!

All right, I would love to, but the funniest thing about all this is that, yes, I work for a wine estate, but no, I can’t talk to you about wine because I have zero practical or personal experience with it. I have been working there for years now and I *drumroll* ………don’t drink alcohol *applause, crowd cheering*

See, I used to work in hospitality and it was….not great. So, I took a week off and I decided that during that week off I’d find another job. Found an ad for a wine estate looking for someone who spoke english and knew how to spell. It sounded doable, so I applied. I’d never heard of Tariquet before, didn’t know shit about wine, had never worked in an office doing anything sales related, had no clue what the position would entail except what was written in the ad. Went to the interview with an amount of confidence that I have never been able to replicate since and somehow, long story short, got hired and have not been fired yet. And you know what? I love it there.

I started in the administration section of the export sales dpt, had to learn everything from scratch: the job itself and everything related to the making and selling of wine and just. Wine in general. (I like tea and hot chocolate, what can I say.) We also make and sell Bas-Armagnacs, so I had to learn about that too. Am also now working in marketing as part of a team, so more things to learn! (using photoshop and indesign and illustrator as part of my job?? 😍😍😍 hello yes, I am living the dream)

I cannot stress how great it is to find a place that will hire you even though your profile is not at all what they would usually go for, that will give you a chance to try and prove yourself instead of dismissing you out of hand. And I love learning things, so I guess it worked out.

Anyway, it turns out that while I’d never heard of it, Tariquet is actually quite big and famous? Which is hilarious because we are in the middle of nowhere, Gers, south-west France, where you wouldn’t expect anything to be, yet here we are. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a lovely region, nicknamed the Little Tuscany (which, in hindsight, should have been a hint), all rolling hills and open skies, but it’s also one of the only two « départements » of the country with no highway and I don’t have enough hands to count the number of times I got stuck behind a tractor or another kind of agricultural vehicle on the road. It’s very rural. (I love it. the night sky over my house is gorgeous.) So yeah, it is quite big and famous and has wines and Bas-Armagnacs and bees?? so we even make a little bit of honey as well, which is dope. I mean, the estate is in the middle of vineyards and forests and meadows and things, it’s all very green and lovely and so nice. The view from the window of my office is lovely, it’s trees and vines and a part of the castle.

Anyway, um. I’m part of the lucky people who love their job. It is horrendously stressful at times and of course I wish I worked less and spent more time with Marcus (who is getting bored and looking for mischief as I type this. I see you, Marcus) but the work is interesting, my coworkers are great and have come to accept me and my idiosyncracies (there are a lot and they have been a source of issues in the past, so it wasn’t a sure thing), and the general atmosphere is the healthiest I’ve ever encountered in a work place.

…this is a lot longer than I anticipated, i am so sorry.

tl;dr: i couldn’t tell you whether Tariquet wines are good or not but I can tell you that working there is great :D (now I just hope this post won’t show up on any search or google alert or thing like that because if my bosses were to find this dumpster fire of a blog i’d be mortified 😅😅😅)