#for them to actually believe it and to not lay the blame at the feet of other entities

[scuderiahoney]

All You Got

Charles Leclerc x teammate!reader

Masterlist

Summary: You hate Charles Leclerc. The feeling is mutual. He’s made that clear from the very beginning. enemies to lovers anon I hope you’re still here and I hope I got this right!

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: alcohol/intoxication, mild swearing, mild car crash (everyone is fine), panic attacks, comments about sexual activities (but no actual sex/smut)

Everyone in the entire world seems to love Charles Leclerc. Honestly, you can’t blame them. Objectively, you get it. He’s the total package- good looks, kind, generous, rich. They fall at his his feet, and they worship the ground he walks on.

Everyone except for you.

To you, everything he does rubs you the wrong way. Charles Leclerc annoys you to no end. You can’t even pinpoint what it is, just- you can’t stand him. Which is becoming a problem, seeing as he’s your teammate, so you have to deal with him constantly.

Charles was a constant thorn in your side when you were just competing against each other from separate garages. Now he’s your paddock next door neighbor, your supposed collaborator, and the only person who you can truly be compared to. Equal machinery and all that. The truth is, he’s good at what he does, which only makes it so much worse.

You’re having a good season, a great one, even. You’re not a rookie, but it’s your first year with Ferrari, your first year with a car that isn’t a tractor. It’s just that you’re constantly being compared to and overshadowed by him. It’s awful and exhausting and you sit in the briefing before the race glaring daggers at the side of his head.

He’d slowed you down in Q3. You were on a flying lap and he got in the way, left you starting in 9th when you were on track for your best qualifying yet. He’d said it was an accident, and everyone else believed him. Including your own race engineer. You think maybe if you stare hard enough you could actually light all the product in his hair on fire. Then he has the audacity to come up to you after the meeting, to lay his hand on your upper arm softly. You wrench yourself out of his grip, turn to him with a snarl. He must take it as surprise rather than what it really is, because he has a soft smile on his face.

“I’m sorry, again, about quali,” he says, and you spot a camera over his shoulder and fight the urge to roll your eyes. “I’ll find a way to make it up to you, yes?”

“Crash out at the start,” you tell him, raising one brow. There’s a smile on your face and venom in your words. “And take Max out with you.”

“Anything but that,” he says.

He winks before he breezes past you, and if there hadn’t been so many people around, you think you may have actually slapped him this time.

…..

You collapse into a chair in a swanky restaurant that night, resting your chin on closed fists, elbows on the table. Lily, jumps when you do. Alex is sitting across from you, doing a bad job of hiding a laugh behind his hand.

“I’m gonna kill him,” you tell them, knuckles digging into your cheeks. “I’m going to pass all the cars between us tomorrow and ram him into the wall.”

“No, you’re not,” George says as he sits down, Carmen following behind. “Because when you do pass all those cars tomorrow, you’re going to want to stay in the race.”

“I was going to qualify second,” you groan. “I was, seriously-“

“I know,” George says, patting your shoulder. The waiter has appeared at the end of the table.

Alex points at you. “She’ll have a shot of tequila, please.”

“She has to drive tomorrow morning,” Lily reminds him.

“And we have to sit through dinner tonight,” George says.

You slap his shoulder, glaring daggers at him, now.

“Did he apologize?” Lily asks.

“Of course!” You snap. “Because he’s fucking Charles Leclerc, and-“

Before you can launch into one of your tirades, Lily waves her hand. “Forget I asked. Never mind. This subject is banned until the weekend is over- we’re all here, this is supposed to be a nice dinner.”

You sigh and slump into your chair. “Okay, mom.”

Once the conversation starts, though, and you have your shot of tequila, you forget about Charles. You’re here to spend time with your friends, not worry about your teammate. It’s the first time in a while that both of their girlfriends have been able to make it to the same race. You’ve been looking forward to it all week, and you refuse to let Charles sour it. Besides, they’ve all heard it before, they don’t need to hear you complain again.

The next day, when you take 5th and Charles takes first, you don’t let him see you cry. You sneak out of the celebrations as early as you possibly can and head back to the hotel.It’s just so frustrating. You’re trying so hard, giving it your all, and it’ll never be enough. You want the podiums, the trophies, the champagne spraying in your face. You want it all, everything Charles has. He takes it for granted.

When you open your hotel room door, there’s a giant bouquet of flowers on the dresser. For a moment, you think maybe it’s from your family, or maybe George and Alex, a sympathy present for a race that held so much potential. You slip your finger under the flap of the envelope and pull the card out of the white flowers.

Sorry about Quali,

CL

You throw the flowers and the note in the trash and cry yourself to sleep.

…..

Lily tried to convince you that the flowers were actually supposed to be an apology, but you’d refused to see it as anything other than what it was- a way to get in your head. So at the next race, you leave it all on the track. You manage to qualify 4th- not the best you’ve ever done, but you feel pretty good about it. You feel even better that Charles is starting in 7th. He’ll be stuck in the midfield, in the dirty air, while you fight with the big dogs. You’re on cloud nine, floating around the garage, thanking your crew and your engineers and offering drinks on you if you get a podium on Sunday. It wouldn’t be your first, but it would be your first in a while, and it would really crush Charles, you just know it.

“Congrats,” he says, standing next to you in the media pen.

You think he waits to talk to you until there’s cameras around. It makes him look good, being nice to his teammate. You can play the PR game too. You plaster on a bright smile. Behind Charles, Alex raises his brows at you. You tone down the smile and he gives you a thumbs up.

“Thanks,” you say, shrugging slightly. “Sorry about seventh.”

He shrugs. “Could be worse.”

You head into the lion’s den just after that, hit with a barrage of questions about every aspect of the weekend. How does it feel to be starting fourth? Good. Do you feel good about your chances tomorrow? Yes. How’s the car feel? Good. Are you hoping for a podium? Always. What did you give Charles to convince him to let you qualify higher than him this weekend? What?

The reporter who asked it is sneering at you. Your media handler balks at the question, fumbles to grab your arm. She’s afraid you’re going to snap, but to be honest, you’re too dumbfounded to find the words. Maybe he doesn’t deserve a response anyways.

“She didn’t give me anything,” Charles says, grabbing the microphone from your hand, and now you’re seeing red for a different reason. “She didn’t need to. She did it all on her own.”

Which is true, and nice of him to say. Objectively. But he’s not saying it because it’s true, or because he wants to be nice. You can already picture his devoted fans, clipping the video and making TikTok edits that make him look like a saint. He is, in their eyes. In everyone’s eyes.

You leave the microphone with him and stalk back to your driver room.

You run into Charles in the hallway later, when you’re slinking your way to catering to try and find something good to eat. He’s just- there, all of the sudden, broad shoulders taking up all the space. You try to slip around him, but he moves with you.

You look up at him, raising your brows and throwing your hands up. “What, Leclerc?”

He raises his brows, too. “Just wanted to say sorry. For what he said. It’s not true, you know.”

“Yes, Charles, I know I didn’t… blow you or whatever to get you to let me qualify better,” you say, and he rears his head back. “Can you move?”

“Hey,” he says, voice soft. “Look, I just wanted to say-“

“I think you’ve said enough,” you snap. “You said it all, live on camera. The whole world heard it.”

“I was just trying to stand up for you.”

“I can stand up for myself,” you say, throat feeling tight. “I’ve been doing it my whole career. No need to step in now. And honestly, we both know you get off on being the savior, so cut the shit.”

You finally find a gap and slip around him. You walk out of the garage and all the way down to Williams. Nobody stops you when you head to Alex’s room- he’s there, and George is too.

“We were wondering when you’d show up,” George says, as Alex holds his arms out wide. “Fucking bullshit, the whole lot of it.”

You nod and collapse into Alex’s chest. Neither of them comment on your tears.

“At least Charles stood up for you,” George says brightly.

“Fuck off,” you say, and Alex slaps his shoulder for you.

…..

They call a red flag three laps in, and your team calls you into the pits before you can even figure out what’s going on. You’re in third, having moved past Lewis in the opening chaos. Your heart sinks, knowing that when the race restarts you’ll have lost the lead you’d built up. You search the big screens as you pull into the pit lane, trying to figure out what’s happened, and then your heart sinks even more.

It’s a Mercedes, crumpled against the barriers. They only show it for a second, and you can’t hear any of what the commentators are saying. You hadn’t caught the number or the helmet, and- it’s either Lewis or George.

As much as you like Lewis, you’ve been friends with George since you were little. He and Alex had taken you under their wings, accepted you when a lot of the others wouldn’t. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest as they help you climb out of your car.

You flip your visor up and look to the nearest mechanic. “Who is it?”

He stares, blankly, and you already know.

“Who is it?” You ask, louder, looking around the room frantically.

“S’George,” someone finally answers.

“Is he-“

“We don’t know yet,” someone says, gently. “Just-“

The panic claws at your chest. You haven’t felt like this a long time, not since Lily called you from the hospital when Alex had appendicitis. You can’t breathe, can’t see, can feel your fingers.

There’s a ripple of noise, applause from the crowd. You look at the TV, see George, standing strong and holding up a thumbs up. It should be a relief, but the panic doesn’t fade. Suddenly someone’s hands are on your shoulders, guiding you into the hallway. Fingers brush against your jaw, unbuckling your helmet and wiggling it off your head. You gasp for air, and strong hands hold you steady.

“Breathe, breathe, it’s okay, he’s okay,” Charles says.

You should be shocked it’s him, but right now all you can feel is panic. You grab onto his wrists, looking for an anchor in the storm. He doesn’t let go, just holds onto you, squeezes your shoulders until you start breathing slower and slower. He only drops his grip when you drop yours. You wipe tears and snot and sweat from your face and sigh.

Suddenly it hits you- it’s Charles, holding onto you, witnessing your panic attack. You take a couple steps back.

“It’s okay,” he says again, reaching out. You brush him away. “Hey, how about we go sit, yes? Have some water?”

“I’m fine,” you sniffle.

“You’re not.”

“Why do you care?” You ask, tears springing to your eyes again.

“Because you’re my teammate,” he says. “Because your friend crashed and you are upset.”

You roll your eyes. Charles has the audacity to look confused. Like he doesn’t know.

“You don’t have to act like you like me, Charles. There aren’t any cameras around,” you snap.

Charles blinks once, then again. “What?”

“You can drop the act,” you say as you cross your arms over your chest. “I already know you hate me, you don’t have to pretend. You can go.”

Charles looks utterly and completely perplexed. For a moment, you falter. He hates you. Why does he seem so confused? It’s not that difficult to understand. Why had he even come back here with you in the first place? He could’ve let one of your crew members help you, or left you to deal with it alone. What the hell is going on here?

“I don’t hate you,” he says, voice soft. “Why would you think I hate you?”

“You’ve hated me since I got here,” you remind him. “Actually, since before I even signed the fucking contract.”

“What are you talking about?”

You stare at him, wide eyed. Is it possible he doesn’t even remember? Maybe he hates you that much.

“When I came to the factory for contract negotiations,” you start, “you made it very clear I was the last possible person you wanted as your teammate.”

You’d been leaving the factory. He’d stopped you in the hall. Sounds like you might be my new teammate, he’d said. Hopefully, if it all goes well, you’d replied. Any advice?

He’d looked around, checked to see that nobody was there. Then, voice low and serious, arms crossed, he’d said, this is the last place you belong. If you know what’s best for you, you will not sign that contract.

You’d left that day heartbroken and with a vendetta against him.

Charles’ eyes go wide when you repeat his words back to you. “I did not say that.”

“I think I’d remember,” you tell him, trying again to shove past him.

“No, no, I mean- I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, insistent, grabbing onto your arm gently. “I- that was before they hired Fred, yes?”

“Yes?” You answer, furrowing your brows at him.

“And before they changed the staff, before they-“ he sighs. “I had a shit year. I was worried the next was going to be the same. I was trying to warn you.”

Now it’s your turn to blink once, then again. “No, you…”

“I swear,” he says. “On my life, I swear.”

He draws a tiny cross with his finger, right over his heart. You take a step back and drag a hand down your face. Your head is spinning, tilted on an insane axis.

“You thought I hated you, all this time?” He says, brows furrowed. “I sent you flowers, after the quali thing-“

“I thought you were playing mind games!” You cry out.

He’s reaching for your arm again. This time you let him. His fingers dig into your skin pleasantly- not enough to feel bad, just enough to know he’s there. It’s like the fight has suddenly left your body. He doesn’t hate you. He sent you flowers because he really was sorry.

And you threw them in the trash.

“So when I stood up for you with that reporter, you thought…” he trails off, then laughs. “What, you thought I was- this is why you reacted so badly. This explains so much.”

“Yes!” You say, nodding. “Why are you so fucking ominous with your warnings? Why were you so cryptic?”

“English is not my first language and I had to be careful about how I said it, there could have been people listening!” He says, laughing again. “You didn’t listen, anyways.”

“No, because then I wanted to prove to you that I could handle myself, that I deserved the seat!”

“Of course you deserved the seat,” he says, wide eyed. “That was never a question.”

The two of you stare at each other for a beat. Then you double over in laughter, tears streaming down your face for a different reason. Charles joins you, his laughter mixing with yours for the first time ever. The noise of it sends a jolt through your heart.

He doesn’t hate you. How crazy is that?

…..

When you run into Alex in the paddock later, he’s staring like you’ve grown a second head. Actually, with the intensity of his stare, you think you may have grown two extra heads. Maybe even a third eye. He comes to a stop in front of you, and you cock your head at him.

“Hey, Al,” you greet him. “Have you seen Georgie? He’s not at Merc.”

“Yeah, he’s… he’s at the stewards, doing a debrief,” Alex says. “He said he’d meet us at the driver briefing.”

“Oh, cool,” you say. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s fine,” Alex says, eyes flickering across your face.

“That’s good. I’m glad,” Charles says from his spot next to you.

His arm is slung around your shoulders, his race suit tied around his waist, just like yours. You take it in from Alex’s viewpoint- the proximity, the fact that you’re even letting him touch you, and the look on his face makes sense.

“Hey, did you know Charles doesn’t actually hate me?” You ask Alex, and next to you, your teammate laughs.

“I told you that a million times,” Alex deadpans.

“Huh. Weird.” You shrug. “We should go, the briefing starts in five minutes.”

Alex trails behind the two of you, quiet the whole way there. Charles peels off when you arrive and stops to say hi to Max. George is already sitting down in a chair near the front. You sit down next to him, eyes tracing over him like you’re looking for injuries. Alex sits on his other side.

“I’m fine,” George says, nudging your shoulder lightly.

“Excuse me if I’m worried,” you say with a roll of your eyes.

Alex opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, someone sits down next to you and elbows you lightly. It’s Charles, a cold water bottle in hand, extended towards you. You take it eagerly. His knee nudges against yours, and you nudge him back. You thank him, opening the water bottle and taking a drink.

“Mate, I think I hit my head harder than I realized,” George whispers to Alex.

“Nope, you’re seeing correctly,” Alex says, holding his hands up when George turns towards him. “I don’t know either!”

…..

It turns out that when you’re not busy thinking Charles hates you, and hating him back, he’s actually pretty fun to be around. The two of you have nearly everyone else bewildered for the next few races, because you’re suddenly attached at the hip. You’ve always been civil in public, but this is a different story.

In briefings, Charles saves you a seat, and Alex and George have to fight over who gets to sit next to you. You eat lunches and dinners together in the paddock, out in the open at a patio table. Charles brings you coffee in the mornings, and you bring him pastries. During breaks, the two of you can often be found hunched over your phone, watching YouTube videos together. You have a surprising amount in common. You wonder how you never saw it before.

Charles even takes you with him to play padel one morning, brings you a half hour early to try and show you how. When George and Alex show up to play against you, they stare at you in confusion for a solid thirty seconds.

“You don’t understand,” Alex says over lunch with you and Lily later that day. “He had his hand on her waist.”

Lily is the only one who hadn’t been surprised. She shrugs.

“He was correcting my posture,” you say. “Alex is just mad that I beat him.”

“Charles beat me, you were just on his team,” Alex corrects. He’s not exactly wrong. “Come on, like, two months ago she hated his guts. Tell me this isn’t crazy, Lil. I think we need an intervention.”

“You know, I don’t think you’re supposed to talk about the intervention in front of the intervention-ee,” you say, stirring your pasta. “Intervention-ette?”

“She’s fine,” Lily says, smiling at you. “She’s just finding out that hate and love are a lot more similar than you’d think.”

You drop your fork, wincing when it clatters. “I don’t love him.”

Lily cocks her head at you. You freeze. Alex is looking back and forth between the two of you like it’s a tennis match. You can feel your face growing hot.

“I don’t,” you repeat. “We’re friends, that’s all.”

Lily blinks, feigns surprise. “I never said anything about romantic love.”

You swallow. “Yeah, but that’s what you meant-“

“That’s what you assumed I meant,” she says, and you blink.

There are butterflies in your stomach- where did those come from? You definitely don’t love Charles. Like Alex said- two months ago, you hated him. Well, you hated that he hated you. You hated the way you thought he was treating you. But now, in a different light, his actions seem a bit endearing. You’re just swept up in the new friendship, that’s all. Lily’s reading too far into it.

You tell her as much, and she drops the subject. Alex seems happy to move on, a bit unprepared to handle the whole conversation. But Lily watches you, and you can’t help but feel like maybe she knows something you don’t.

…..

It sticks in your head, is the thing. Hate and love are a lot more similar than you think. And to be honest, it sort of makes sense. Both very strong emotions, both making your chest feel tight and your cheeks feel hot. You’re not in love with Charles, though. You can’t be. He’s just- a friend. He’s a friend, and it’s new, and of course you’re going to spend time together. You’re getting to know each other! This is normal, this is teammate bonding like you were supposed to do when you joined the team.

It’s not weird that Charles introduces you to his family when they come to one of the races. It’s not weird that you’re inviting him out for drinks when you go out with George and Alex after a race. It’s not weird that you start actually playing padel and asking him to help you practice- it’s fun, and he’s good at it, that’s all.

Then you’re out at a club in Monaco one night, surrounded by other drivers. You go to leave, Lily tugging on your hand. The two of you are having a sleepover without Alex. You’re saying your goodbyes, waving and smiling and-

Charles grabs onto you, hauls you into a hug. He’s a little tipsy, you think, but not drunk. You laugh and lean into the hug, wrap your arms around him, breathe in the smell of his cologne and laundry detergent. Then he pulls away, puts his hands on your shoulders, and kisses both of your cheeks.

Butterflies erupt in your stomach. Lily has to drag you away as you giggle before you make a fool of yourself. Charles waves and smiles brightly when you turn around. You burst out onto the sidewalk and cover your face in your hands. Really, it means nothing. It’s just his way of greeting people or saying goodbye, it’s a thing he does. But your chest feels warm and your head is swimming, and it’s not the alcohol.

“Oh, shit,” you say to Lily, who’s smiling at you.

“Love and hate,” she reminds you.

…..

You swear Lily to secrecy, and though she loves Alex, she would never sell you out, thank god. You’re determined to act like everything is normal. You can’t be in love with your teammate. That would be crazy. It would be awful. It would be everything that everyone has ever said about female drivers, all confirmed. You’d get torn apart on the internet.

It’s not easy, though, because it’s Charles. Because he’s sweet and kind and handsome, and he cares about you. He doesn’t hate you. He wants to spend time with you, all the time. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but you think they’ve got it backwards. Maybe there’s a second part- presence makes the heart go crazy.

When you qualify in pole position for the first time in your F1 career, you have a panic attack. It’s a massive one, one that has your legs giving out and leaves you hyperventilating. It’s bad enough that Charles almost goes and gets George or Alex, but you beg him to stay with you, so he does. Eventually, he just wraps you up tightly in his arms and holds you there until you can breathe again.

“I’m not going to be able to do it,” you sniffle, as he runs his hand over your hair and rocks you from side to side. “I’m gonna crash on the first turn and then everyone is gonna be right, and I’ll lose my seat, and then-“

“No, amour, that is not going to happen,” Charles soothes, chest rumbling against you. “It is not. You are going to do just fine.”

“But what if I don’t? What if I can’t win, what if I don’t do it-“

“Then you will try again next time,” he says, so sure of it, like he can see the future. “You are starting on pole tomorrow. It’s scary, I know. But it’s just another race. You just… go out and give it your all. The same way you do every weekend.”

“You’ll keep them away from me?” You ask. Charles is starting third.

“No,” he scoffs, a laugh bubbling up from his lips. For just a moment, your heart breaks. Then, he says, “I will not need to. You will be so far ahead you’ll forget anyone else is even there.”

You laugh, press your teary face into his chest. “Shut up.”

…..

You check your rear views before the race starts, something comforting running through your veins when you see Charles behind you. You can’t see his face, can barely see his helmet, but you see the red. Then the lights go out, and he disappears in a blur. Give it all you got, you hear, unsure if it’s your race engineer or you or a voice in your head. You hold your breath for the first few turns, maybe for the whole first lap. And then your race engineer is talking about gaps and clean air and tire management, and you’re looking ahead, trying to see what car you need to try and pass next, trying to tell if you’re in DRS range, and then-

There’s nobody in front of you. Clean air. You’re in first. You’re leading the Grand Prix.

When you come careening over the line at the end of the race, when you see the checkered flag first, when you spot your crew on the pit wall, you swear your heart is going to beat out of your chest. Your race engineer is yelling in excitement. You think you’re yelling too, but you have no idea what you’re saying. It doesn’t matter.

You pull the car into the first place slot and climb out. You have to wrack your brain to remember what you’re supposed to do- it’s been so long since you’ve won a race, back when you were still in F2. Hug the team, get weighed, shake hands, grab the hat- Someone grabs your arm. You spin around and come face to face with Ferrari red. Charles.

He pulls you into a tight hug. Your helmets knock together. He’s saying something, over and over again.

“-told you, I told you, I knew you would do it,” he says. “I’m so proud of you.”

Charles takes your helmet and balaclava for you when you finally get them off. He takes his off too, and his face is red, dimples deep as he grins at you. He’s finished 7th, he tells you. Got passed in the first lap and never recovered.

“-told you you didn’t need me defending,” he says, and you’re laughing, shoving his shoulder. “You did so fucking good-“

The butterflies are going crazy in your stomach. You want to kiss him. The helmet has left a little indent on his cheek- you want to run your finger over it. But there are so many cameras and people watching, and suddenly you’re being pulled away from him, sent to the cool down room. Then it’s shaking hands with Max and Lewis again, watching the race highlights, basking in the excitement of it all. There’s the podium, the champagne, the trophy that you don’t let go of until you get back to the Ferrari garage. The giant group photo with the trophy, more champagne dumped over your head, Charles lost in the sea of red somewhere. It’s all such a blur.

You finally stumble back to your driver’s room, in a rush to change out of your race kit and grab your stuff. Someone has rented out a bar- they apparently did it when you qualified on pole, and didn’t tell you for fear of jinxing it. You text George and Alex, tell them where to meet you. With your stuff in hand, in a pair of sweatpants and a Ferrari sweatshirt, you finally stop and look in the mirror.

F1 Grand Prix winner.

There’s a knock on the door. You open it and find Charles standing there, in a very similar outfit. The line on his face has faded, but his hair is still a mess. You step back from the door and give him room to step inside. He’s staring at you, a soft look on his face. You’re holding your breath again. It’s the first lap. You just have to make it through the turns, get out ahead into clean air. His lips are parted, eyes wide and sparkling.

His hands are shaky when they cup your face. Yours are even shakier when you fist your hands in his sweatshirt. But the kiss he pulls you into is steady and sure and true. You melt into him, shoving your hands under his sweatshirt as he pulls you close with an arm around your waist. You reach up, thread your fingers through his hair, let his tongue slip into your mouth.

When he pulls away, his eyes are wild.

“We have to go,” he says, squeezing your hip. “You have a party to be at. Also, you are so pretty.”

You can remember the way he looked at you at the start of the season. How you thought the fire in his eyes was going to burn you alive. You’d stoked your own fire to burn him up first. Now you’re blazing, and you never want the fire to go out.

“I can’t believe I thought you hated me,” you say, muffling a laugh into his chest. “You’re coming to the party, right?”

“Of course,” he says. He cups your face in his hands again and presses another kiss to your lips. “And tomorrow, you are coming on a date with me, right?”

You laugh, his thumbs brushing your cheeks. “Of course.”

“Perfect,” he says, kissing your forehead and then letting you go. “Come on, winner. You have so many people waiting to buy you drinks.”

…..

When you walk into the bar hand in hand with Charles, Lily slams her hand down on the table.

“Pay up, boys,” she says, a wide grin on her face.

“Never in a million years did I see that coming,” George says.

“I’m never betting against Lily ever again,” Alex adds.

Max leans down over the table, holding his hand out, too. George and Alex groan and start pulling cash from their wallets.

“Hate and love,” Max says, a smirk on his face. “Very thin line, huh?”

woo! enemies to lovers, classic trope in the bag! come say hi and let me know what you think. send me a dm or drop me an ask to be added to the tag list!

taglist: @4-mula1

[mikkomacko]

responding to the call…

can we see reader’s reaction to Nico doing skin on skin time with his newborn twin babies?🥹

Ok I am gonna drop the name of the twins rn but keep in mind they might change because I don’t know how attached to them I am lol

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’re exhausted.

Sore almost everywhere on your body, even in places you had no idea could be sore. It’s only been a few hours since the twins were born and you feel sticky with dried sweat, drained to the core but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Even though you’ve been told to sleep when the babies do, to rest up for the journey home from the hospital tomorrow, you can’t sleep.

You don’t want to miss a minute of Bella and Luna’s lives.

Or a minute of Nico meeting them.

He’s been quiet since the moment they handed you two pink swaddles, more quiet than you’re used to him being. He just…watches them with this look on his face you can’t quite place.

It’s like he can’t believe they’re here, in front of him for the first time after nine months of feeling them kick, of satisfying every craving they sent your way, of baby proofing ever corner of the house, of Nico wrapping his arms around you and lifting your ballooned belly even for just two minutes. Two minutes he got to carry them for you because two babies in one belly was hard.

And he’s got those big, sturdy arms, made like they were meant to hold and comfort your girls.

Just as they do now.

You blink slowly, stirred from your nap by the sound of Nico getting up from the hospital chair. He’s quiet as he moves, but in the dark and still room, you can still hear him. Now that they’re here, it’s like you’ve got a sixth sense for any movement around them, like your body is ready to jump up and get to them at the slightest disturbance.

Nico must have it too, because they girls have barely made tiny noises of complaint before he’s standing over their bedside, his back to you as he looks over the two of them tucked together in one bed. Neither of you wanted to separate them, not after they’ve been side by side for months and only in the world for a few measly hours.

You can’t imagine ever separating them actually.

Staying still, you watch Nico’s arms move, careful but sure as he reaches into the crib. One of the babies let out a lone cry, quickly shushed and soothed by Nico. In the light of the muted hospital tv, Nico swiftly tugs his shirt over his head, draping it over his left shoulder and you fight back a sleepy grin.

He’s been waiting so long to do this, read every article and dad book about bonding with newborns. He never said it, but you knew he was worried about creating the same gap his father created with him.

Despite his shy behavior all day, he looks perfectly at ease as he leans over the bed and manages to scoop both babies up in one arm, immediately shushing them with little bounces when they complain.

Something raw and sensitive inside your chest throbs as he turns, carefully peering down at them snuggled together in his left arm and he makes his way back to the chair on soft feet. He don’t look to you, too caught up in looking at them and you can’t blame him.

They’re the most beautiful little things you’ve ever seen.

He lowers himself into the chair, and you calculatedly turn your head to keep watching him. He’s unwrapped them from their swaddles and clothing, tiny pink bodies clad in just little diaper.

As if he’s been doing it for years, Nico maneuvers the girls until they’re lying on either side of his chest, curled into him on their bellies like they’re trying to fuse together with him. You’d imagine it’s how warm he is, how comfortable that exact spot on his chest always is. You know that all too well.

Steadying them with a large hand splayed over both their backs, Nico shrugs off his discarded shirt and lays it over them like a blanket, completely wrapping them up in his scent.

Maybe you lied, you think, maybe he’s the most perfect thing you ever seen. Hair falling over his forehead, chin tilted down to look at them sleeping on his chest as he takes calming breathes.

Startlingly, you realize you’re crying and you sniffle, quickly swiping at your cheeks with the hospital bed blanket but the damage is done. Nico looks to you, a closed lip smile spreading across his face.

“S’perfect,” you whisper, voice cracking just a bit and he chuckles through his nose, but at least he doesn’t comment on your roller coaster emotions. “They look like they belong right there.”

He nods, dark eyelashes touching the apples of his cheeks as he looks back down at them. “Yeah, they do.” He agrees, spreading a hand over each of their backs.

Then, as if he’s worried you don’t believe him, he continues in a quiet, soothing voice. “They’re warm, but they can’t regulate themselves yet ya know? They’re just too small still.

“But they learn if you hold them like this. They’ll match your breathing and your heart rate and body temperature too.”

It’s sweet, him reciting the information to you. Even if you already knew it and even if he doesn’t have to explain himself. He’s reassuring you and him, proving to himself that he knows what he’s doing.

“Yeah,” you murmur wetly. “And they’re safe there. It must be so scary, leaving all they’ve ever known.”

Nico hums. “They know us, baby. At least you but now…”

“Now they’ll know their daddy.”

He smiles, all dimples and moony eyes. “Yeah they’ll know their daddy. And they’ll know that I’ve got them.”

[feyascorner]

10 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. “The damage you’ve done to my stomach is plenty. Thank you, darling,” he frowns. “And if I may: It isn’t completely fair to place all the blame on me, is it? I might’ve been intoxicated, but I wasn’t deranged enough to miss the way you kissed me back. Aggressively, might I add?”

You roll your eyes. “I was trying to bite your lip off.”

“I would believe you if you hadn’t made such teasing sounds when I bit back.”

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, tav reader is a bard, italics are flashbacks, suggestive content!!!! (new warning hehe)

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. actual????? communication????? after 45k words?!?!?!?!?!? or is it...this chapter is literally them being loser teenagers i love them

To you, his touch is like a drug.

His breath, cool against your hot skin, presses against the shell of your ear as something dangerously close to a whine escapes your lips. You can feel him grin as he lowers his head and places a long kiss on your collarbone. His slender hands slide up your back, grinding you even closer than you already are as he mouths at every nook and cranny of your body. It’s almost like he wants to consume you whole. To drink you until all that’s left is a shuddering mess, your body still begging for his own.

White curls tickle your chin as the strings on your shirt finally come undone. His tongue brushes against the peak of your bare breast, and your eyes meet him in a lust-clouded haze, lips pursed as you swear you could reach your peak just by the way he looks at you. It’s so intimate, so vulnerable, so pleasurable that your eyes half close when the palm of his hand smooths against your clothed core.

He stills, lifting his head to kiss his way up to your neck again. As much as you want to beg him to resume what he’s been doing, he doesn’t let you. Instead, his fingers bring your face to his.

“Don’t hide from me.”

You shudder. You think you know plenty with how flushed your face is, but he doesn’t seem to care. He lowers back down your chest, grinning as he lays his cheek on your skin teasingly.

“If you look away, I’ll stop, my love.”

“Are you insane? Of course, he’s staying here!”

You lurch up from your pillow as the earth-shattering reality of the morning sun blares you awake. Cheeks burning, you rub at the bags under your eyes, humiliated in the face of nobody but yourself, as you hear more voices from downstairs. None of which even try to keep it quiet. You stare down at your legs, lips pursed.

Only still half-awake, you can practically feel his hands on your waist.

Curses. What are you? A prepubescent teen?

With a loud groan, you force yourself onto your feet. Considering how your dreams will only add to your stress, you might as well.

“Oh, thank gods you’re here. Tell him we’re not taking Astarion with us to the celebration, will you?” Shadowheart hisses as you descend the stairs, still half asleep. “Our wizard seems to have gotten the wrong idea about the leech upstairs.”

You swear Lae’zel snorts.

“It was only a suggestion. I wasn’t sure if we’d want to leave him alone here…isn’t that merely an invitation for him to run away?” Gale rubs his temple with his thumb, clearly exhausted.

You’re fully aware of Astarion’s nightly escapes into the city, but you don’t tell them that. It’s better not to cause a panic.

Shadowheart shrugs. “We’ll tie him to the counter. Hells, we can just lock him into the basement.”

Gale sighs. “He’s not a dog.”

“He acts like it,” Lae’zel grumbles, sinking her teeth into an apple.

“We could ask the Duke to spare some of his soldiers for the night. Make them keep watch while we’re at the party,” Shadowheart offers. “Anything to keep that dirtbag here instead of there. Isn’t that right, Tav?”

Gale’s eyes meet with yours. There’s a sort of expectancy in them that makes you squirm in your shoes as they bore straight into your soul as if he’s aware of your deepest secrets. There are bags under his eyes, surely from having to balance Astarion’s less-than-likable presence with all his other responsibilities in rebuilding the city. A part of you feels guilty for the work you’ve dropped on him, but both parties know it’s for the best.

It’s been made glaringly obvious that you and Astarion shouldn’t be anywhere around one another. It’s only a recipe destined to end in a yelling match or…

Your cheeks flare. Last night was a mistake. It won’t happen again.

“We’ll keep him here. Lock him in his room like Shadowheart said,” You finally blurt. “Can you send the invitation back with everyone who’s going? I have someone to visit in a few minutes.”

“Very well,” the cleric smiles, obviously pleased with your decision. Gale only frowns. “I’m glad that’s settled.”

So are you.

You hear the door of Astarion’s room open upstairs and decide you shouldn’t stay any longer. After rushing goodbyes to your companions and another questioning glance from Gale, you scramble to fly out of the house, barely grabbing your bag in the process. The contents weigh more heavily than they usually do, and for good reason. Hopefully, younger vampires feed less than fully grown ones because otherwise, the squirrel you found the night before won’t be able to satiate Berry’s appetite.

It’s hard not to wonder how she’s doing for most of your day. You were initially planning to visit her last night until the unfortunate ambush Petras released onto your already sore limbs. Even now, you constantly rub at the ache of your thighs and arms. The healing potions did plenty, but they couldn’t do everything.

She must be starving, you think. You grit your teeth.

Fortunately for you, however, when you arrive at the Highberry residence, Berry seems perfectly fine. In fact, she’s helping her adopted siblings arrange decorative plants around the house, likely to liven up the place after what’s been happening the past few months. There’s a sense of calm here that doesn’t currently exist in your own household. The scene makes a soft smile pull at your lips, which is more than welcome.

“You didn’t visit last night,” the young girl finally says when you’re with her by the window, far enough from the siblings to be out of earshot. She looks up at you sheepishly. “I thought you might’ve gotten attacked.”

She picks at her fingers.

“Were you worried?” you stifle a laugh, and she shrugs, albeit flustered. “I brought you some—prey. You must be hungry.”

“Not really,” she still takes the worn sack and clutches it close to her. “I went out to find food by myself.”

At this, your eyes widen. “What? You left for the forest? You know that place is dangerous, Berry; it’s not safe for someone as young as you.”

“I’m a spawn. It’s probably safer for me than you,” she squints, and you can’t bring yourself to deny it.

“...You’re still a child,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Where’d you learn to hunt anyway? The last time I checked, you could barely fight off a few forest animals.”

Her face flushes red, but she huffs regardless. “The haggard taught me.”

“Hag?...”

“Your friend,” Berry perches either of her arms on the windowsill, staring out at the passing civilians on the street. She whips her head to you and points at either of her fangs, opening wide. “He’s been teaching me to hunt with these.”

“Astarion?” you blink. “He taught you? Willingly?”

It’s rather hard to believe.

“No, I had to follow him. By the time he noticed, he didn’t have much of a choice,” she says proudly, puffing out her chest. Then she deflates again as if she just tasted something sour. “He got two big bears last night but wouldn’t share…So, I had to get my own squirrels because he told me I’d starve otherwise. That old hoot is selfish and mean.”

Well, it certainly sounds like him.

“You could’ve gotten hurt,” you scold her gently.

“Maybe by him.”

You want to say that she’s wrong and that Astarion wouldn’t hurt her, but the blasted comb flashes back in your mind, and reality sits heavy in your throat. So, instead, you bite your tongue.

“Have you found any of them yet? The other spawn?” she pushes herself off the wall to stand straight.

“I did—if fighting them counts.”

Her face falls and a part of you regrets even alluding to what happened last night. She begins to fidget with the sharp ends of her nails again and stares at your shoes. “There’s too many of them.”

You’d most certainly know.

“We have the Fist fighting for us,” you assure her, albeit pathetically. Even in your own ears, you don’t sound entirely confident. “And besides, the murder count has been decreasing as of late. If we keep going at this rate, we won’t have more than a body every two weeks—”

“It won’t work that way, though. They’ll just keep coming back.”

Were children always this perceptive?

You’re not sure what to say.

She clenches her fists. “Not all of them are bad, you know.”

“I know, Berry. You’re not a bad person at all; it’s just that—”

“I meant the siblings,” she blurts, finally meeting your eyes. “Aurora…she was nice. She was nothing like Petras.”

Aurora?

You’re suddenly leaning down to her, shoulders tense. “You’ve met the other siblings? Since when?”

“Only once, months ago. Petras tried to convince the others to stay here with him, but they said no,” her brows furrow. “He was furious that day.”

Of course. Why didn’t you realize that earlier? Petras, Dalyria, and Leon were the only ones of the main spawn that remained in the city, and being so swept up with their antics, you’d forgotten to ponder on the motivations of the others. You swallow the dry lump in your throat as realization slaps you across the face.

“So not all of them want to go through with the ascension?” you gasp. Berry pauses but nods slowly. 

Help. You could ask them for help. Surely, if they don’t want another Cazador running rampant in the city, they’d be willing to stop the ritual as a whole. You gnaw at the inside of your cheek as your mind races. Were they even aware of what Petras was up to? How many lives he’d taken?

You take her hands to stop her from picking at them, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “Berry, where are the other siblings?”

“They told Petras they were leaving for the Underdark like they promised you.”

Gods, bless this girl. Somehow, she’s been more helpful than any other resource you’ve had the past few months—including the Duke, and your vampire spawn. You’d think she might be a blessing from the heavens if it weren’t for all the other bullshit they’ve thrown your way as of late.

“Tell Cora I dropped by,” you smile brightly. Though it’s rare nowadays, you feel almost hopeful. “I’ll come back in a week. Stay put until then.”

By the time you realize how much time has passed being cooped up on your bedroom floor, the sun is already setting. You reach for a candle, flicking a match against the box before lighting a flame to illuminate the pages sprawled around you. In anyone else’s eyes, you might look nearly hysterical, but to you, it feels as if the weight of the entire city is on your shoulders again. In a way, you suppose it is. Unless you want more than just a couple dozen bodies on the city streets in a few months, that is.

Your eyes scan over Dalyria’s drawings for what seems like the millionth time. And for the millionth time, you find nothing. Since the last time you obsessed over her journal, there have been a few additions to your collection: some books on ascension, vampires, and, for some reason, a book on vampire lords. 

You’re not sure you see the point in picking up this particular book, considering the spawns’ master is long dead, which means none of them can become a true vampire unless they were to ascend—the exact scenario you’re trying to prevent. But perhaps spending an entire day at the library blossomed a newfound curiosity within you. 

There isn’t much in there you don’t already know from first-hand accounts Astarion would recall on the nights you couldn’t fall asleep. There are parts, however, regarding the vampire spawn they can compel that lure your attention.

“Vampire spawn were the masters of stealth and charismatic cunning,” you read mindlessly. “...vampire spawn would seek vengeance on their creators.”

Vengeance. Is that what it was when he tried to strangle you?

Your jaw clenches, and you feel a sort of buzzing on your lips. What an asshole.

Quickly, you shut the book with a slam as you decide that dwelling on information you’re already well accustomed to is a waste of time. You’d likely be a better source of knowledge than the book itself because of how basic its contents tend to be.

You stare at the cover, which simply illustrates a set of fangs. Cliche, you think, but it’s effective.

The room suddenly feels too quiet.

Fortunately, the uncomfortably loud growling of your stomach snaps you out of your trance.

Shoving the book under your bed, you swing the door to your room open to pace to the kitchen. Hopefully, there’s some dinner left over from last night—-worst-case scenario, you have to eat one of those days-old fruits gathered in the bowl on the counter. You don’t have much time to ponder, though, because you hear a familiar groan from downstairs as soon as you reach the top of the stairs.

“Will you please stop leaving dead animals in the cabinet? As grateful as I am that you’re feeding on them rather than our friends, it bloody reeks, Astarion!”

Shit.

Astarion stares up at you with wide eyes on his way up to his room while you blink down at him wearily. Gale continues to mutter mindlessly about whatever trouble the spawn has caused in his sacred kitchen, but Astarion doesn’t seem to pay him any heed. You feel naked under his gaze, but you think putting on at least four more layers of clothing wouldn’t even scratch the surface of how you feel.

“Good morning,” he blurts.

He never greets you. Not like this, anyway.

It’s not even morning.

Fortunately, he looks just as confused at his words as you do.

Searching for a response that won’t come to you, you refer to the lamest solution. A scapegoat, if you will. “I need to walk past you.”

Astarion immediately nods. “Right. Yes, of course.”

He stands to one side of the narrow stairs, and you cautiously squeeze past him. Has it always been this much of a struggle to fit two people on the stairs? It’s terribly awkward as you shuffle by, holding the air in your lungs in hopes that he doesn’t recognize how uneven your breath is. You’re sure he does, but it was worth a try anyway.

Suddenly, Gale is standing at the bottom of the stairs in front of you.

“Where are you going? I thought you needed a healing potion for your stomach,” he aims at Astarion with a raised brow.

The said spawn coughs. You almost choke on the air.  “No, I���I’m alright now.”

“Are you sure? That bruise was pretty nasty, my friend. Letting something like that fester will surely only hinder you…”

Astarion closes the door to his room. Slams, more like.

You glance at Gale pitifully, who only crosses his arms with a sigh as he turns to return to the kitchen. “He’s moodier than I was when I was going through puberty.”

Wordlessly, you trail behind him until he resumes whatever dish he’s cooking up inside a pot while you reach for an apple. There’s a comfortable silence as you perch yourself on the counter, legs gently swinging as you chew, cringing whenever you feel a mushier part of the fruit. Gale lifts his ladle to his nose and takes a quick sniff before nodding in satisfaction. He then puts the lid over the pot.

“I’ve never seen Astarion as awkward as he was earlier,” he comments, and you cough.

“He wasn’t that charming in the first place,” you grumble.

“I never said he was charming. Just that he isn’t awkward.”

“Maybe he’s still drunk from last night,” you scoff, blood boiling at the mere thought of how he acted. A strange sense of pride spreads through you, knowing you hit him hard enough to do some damage, but you still think you could’ve hit harder. All those months pent up should’ve garnered far more strength, surely.

“Or perhaps it’s from the kiss.”

You do choke on your apple this time.

After you wheeze out whatever apple chunks were lodged in your throat, your head whips in the wizard’s direction. “Gale, you–”

“It wasn’t voluntary, I’ll have you know,” he cuts in, crossing his arms. “I just happened to leave one of my books on the couch, which I only wished to retrieve for my nightly routine of reading at least 100 pages.”

You’re at a loss for words. Your face deepens in color, even as you beg it not to.

“I, of course, being the most fortunate lad I am, had to walk into the room when his tongue was halfway down your throat.”

You nearly shriek. “There was no tongue!”

“Well, that’s certainly a relief!” he laughs. “I likely would have had to pry my eyes out with one of Lae’zel’s swords otherwise!”

On any other occasion, you’d bite back at him, but you’re too busy drowning in your own humiliation to register half of his words. A blessing and a curse in this case.

“It didn’t mean anything!” you blurt, even though he never really asked. “It was—he kissed me. I punched him afterward, too.”

Gale raises a brow. “Really? It appeared to me that you were kissing back, though it might have just been the angle. Quite passionately, too, but that might’ve been the trick of the light…”

You slap your palms over your ears, praying to the gods that he shut his mouth for once in his damn life. “It didn’t mean anything!”

“Does he know that?”

“He hates me! And he’s kissed hundreds of people—I doubt one stupid kiss even bothers him.”

“Yes, but it’s a kiss from you. His ex-lover,” Gale shoots back. “And he doesn’t seem unbothered. Neither of you do.”

“So what?” You know exactly what, but it’s difficult to acknowledge at the moment.

“Tav,” Gale says carefully. “If you’ve—by any chance—begun to grow accustomed to his presence again…and I don’t blame you at all, by the way. I’ve become rather fond myself of forcing him to listen to magic lectures that nobody else is willing to listen to; however…if it’s becoming something more on your end–”

“It’s not,” your tone is more stern this time. Colder. “It never will be.”

“Really?”

“Do I need to punch him again for you to believe me?”

“That’s not quite what I’m getting at. I just witnessed the tension between the two of you, and it would be irresponsible of me as a friend if we didn’t work through what you’re feeling before things start to get out of hand.”

You groan, throwing your hands in the air. “There is no tension, Gale!”

“Now now, I might not be the most experienced out of all of us in romantic affairs, but I’ve had my fair share of them. With a goddess, no less! It would be wise if you heeded my advice and discussed what the kiss meant to both of yo–”

You clap a hand over his mouth, words gritting through your teeth. “Stop saying it!”

His response comes out muffled against your palm.

“Fine, I’ll talk to him. I’ll go up to him right now and tell him how I’ll bury him alive if he tries anything again. Would that be enough to shut you up?” 

Gale smiles. You don’t return it.

The angry march up to Astarion’s room should’ve been enough to wake up your other companions, but it doesn’t. You knock heavily on his door, foot tapping impatiently as you glare at Gale, who stands halfway up the stairs, grinning from ear to ear in a pathetic attempt to be encouraging. It only makes you want to shrink into your shirt.

When Astarion fails to answer after multiple knocks, you decide you have no time for this. “I’m coming in. Please don’t be naked.”

The door doesn’t even have a lock. His room is empty except for the cold air that hits your cheeks. You realize that the window is swung wide open, allowing the moonlight to pour onto the wooden floors where he’s left his cloak in favor of what you assume to be usual nightwear. You pull the door behind you and cautiously step into his room, eyes glazing over the rest. It’s a stark contrast from your own. Despite how much time he spends in it, there isn’t a speck of dust or an article of laundry where it shouldn’t be. His bed is neatly made, his chair pushed into his desk, and if it weren’t for his books organized on his desk, you’d think nobody even lives here.

You slowly inch toward the window, running your fingertips over his books. They’re worn but somehow still well taken care of. You can feel how old they are, yet their pages remain perfectly intact, without a single crease on any corners. 

When you reach the window, you finally notice the vines growing on the sides of the building that protrude just over the window sill. You hear soft thumps from the ceiling, resembling the pace of his footsteps. Or at least, what do you think they’d sound like if he made any sounds while walking.

The asshole knows you’re here. Of course, he does.

With a wary glance at the vines, you firmly grip both hands on the roots and slowly lift yourself off the windowsill. Thankfully, the stones making up the building make for good boosters to haul you up toward the rooftop, even though your instincts suggest you’d likely fall and die an unfortunate death here. Still, somehow, you manage to haul yourself onto the roof's edge with a final groan.

You slump rather unceremoniously onto the angled edge, and the slight snicker from the other occupant of the space doesn’t go unnoticed. You glare at him, and Astarion only grins, leaning back on both elbows. “Should I have lent you a hand?”

“I can climb a wall, thanks,” you snap, crawling to a spot that allows you to lie back and stay a generous distance away from the vampire spawn. The tiles of the roof feel cool against your skin. From only two stories up, you can see a full four streets further than you usually can from your window, where only a few people now shuffle through the city given the time of night. While you think it should be peaceful here, all you can focus on is the undead individual lying a good few feet away from you, staring up at the sky rather than the city.

“As much as I enjoy all the colorful insults you throw at me, I was hoping for some peace tonight,” he finally says.

“This is my rooftop that I paid for. I’ll go where I please.”

Astarion sighs, his eyes still gazing up at the stars. “Then to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence tonight? If it’s about the dead animals, I’ve already told Gale I’d store them outside from now on—”

“Last night didn’t happen.”

There. It’s like a weight off your chest. At least, it should feel that way.

He stops, moving to stare from the stars to you. “And since when could you manipulate the very essence of time?”

“Don’t get smart with me unless you want another repeat of yesterday. Maybe I’ll knock out a fang this time,” you hiss.

“The damage you’ve done to my stomach is plenty. Thank you, darling,” he frowns. “And if I may: It isn’t completely fair to place all the blame on me, is it? I might’ve been intoxicated, but I wasn’t deranged enough to miss the way you kissed me back. Aggressively, might I add?”

You roll your eyes. “I was trying to bite your lip off.”

“I would believe you if you hadn’t made such teasing sounds when I bit back.”

This boils your blood just enough for you to tear your gaze away from him and back onto the city. “Just forget it happened.”

“Must I?”

“Yes! It was clearly a lapse of judgment!”

“It was,” he affirms. From the corner of your eye, you can see him put his chin against the palm perched on his elbow, fully turning on his side to face you. “An exciting one. I thought I knew you well enough that I could trust you would never kiss me again.”

You glower. “I was bleeding half to death—I was barely conscious. For all I know, I thought you might’ve been someone else.”

You can both hear the obvious lie in the statement, but neither points it out.

“I do wish you’d stop doing that,” he mutters, staring through lidded eyes. “It’s hard not to pay you any attention when you constantly smell like fresh bait. It’s like seeing an entire feast before you but being unable to have a taste.”

“Yes, because I wanted to get attacked by your brother.”

“Right. That.”

He stares up at the sky again. Hells, if he stares any harder, you’d think his damn eyeballs would fall out. His white curls blow gently against the breeze, and from here, it appears like nighttime was really made for him. Or do all vampires just glow during the night?

“For all it is, I’m truly sorry.”

Your eyes resemble barrels as you turn to look at him. He’s now occupied with his hands—those flawless hands of his that, by some miracle, don't have a single scar on them even after all the two of you have been through. Those very same hands you’ve once loved and that you’ve grown to hate.

“I, of all people, should know what it feels like to have someone forced upon me. And if I had any sort of control over my body at the time, I assure you what happened last night wouldn’t have happened.”

Though it’s not the main point of his apology, you find yourself focusing on the implications. He would’ve never kissed you if he was sober. You know this—you’ve known this—so why you’re so preoccupied by this confession, you have no idea. Internally kicking yourself, you steel your mind to remain calm. He hates you. You hate him. Simple. You only notice, moments later, that he’s still talking.

“---and I’m aware we aren’t on good terms,” he says, softer. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll stoop down to the levels of the dirtbags I had to deal with for two centuries. I might have questionable morals about all else, but in that aspect, I’m unlike them.”

Still wide and unblinking, your eyes slowly relax as you soak in his words. It’s been a while since you’ve heard him so sincere (in a manner that isn’t insulting), and it feels like a breath of fresh air. For a moment, you want to deceive yourself that you’d never reached Baldur’s Gate. That you and your companions are still camping in the woods, and Astarion is still only learning to care for another. That he never went to Cazador’s palace, and you never needed to stop the ascension.

You would’ve indulged in such fantasies months ago, but now, they feel too artificial to derive joy from them. They feel too hollow. Fake. Like biting into a poisoned apple. You can sense him waiting for your response, and it takes a moment, but you manage to mumble it out. “It’s fine. I did kiss you back. We were both not in our right minds. Just…forget it happened.”

You don’t know how to decipher the look in his eyes, but you’ve long given up on how to do it in the first place. Because every time you think you finally understand him, it turns out to be a mask or a plot to deceive you. And every time, you don’t see it coming. It’s better not to try at all because it means he has no way to lie to you in the first place.

“Very well,” he says numbly. “It never happened.”

Both your heads turn to look up at the dark sky. The stars twinkle overhead, glistening in their own respectful glories. There’s one in particular that shines the brightest, floating right beside another that dims compared to all the other stars. It seems to drag behind the brighter star like a shadow, always following but never truly acknowledged.

You pity it.

“Why did you quit music?” he asks suddenly. “I thought it was…your passion.”

“I can’t see the beauty in it anymore,” you say simply.

Astarion hums. “A shame. I was rather fond of your lyre.”

The brightest star almost appears to move again. The darker one trails right behind.

You raise your brow. “Is this where you run off to every night? To stargaze? It’s pretty, but doesn’t it get boring?”

“It’s not pretty at all, darling,” he grins, attention never leaving the sky. “I watch every night, hoping that the dimmer star dies out before the brighter one notices it’s there.”

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[nightwings-robin]

If Jason is responsible for the death of Felipe Garzonas then Bruce is equally as responsible for the death of Felipe's father, José.

I've seen so many arguments and counter-arguments about whether or not Jason actually pushed that guy off of a building to his death, but I have literally never seen anyone talk about the very next issue which involves his father blaming Jason regardless. I didn't know this was a thing that ever happened in the comics until I started reading them in earnest.

This event is often talked about as a defining moment in Jason's time as Robin (and it is) but I think this little arc actually says a lot more about Bruce and fan's interpretations of Jason's actions than it does about Jason himself.

Like just look at this panel from Batman (1940) #425:

Batman is on top of a pile of cars, José shoots at Batman, the tower of cars falls down on top of José and he dies. It's sort of an accident but then Bruce goes on to imply that this guy's death is also Jason's fault:

Bruce is saying here that actions have consequences - the name of this issue is even titled "Consequences" - but the way he says it to Jason implies that these are the consequences of Jason's actions. In Bruce's mind, Jason "killed" Felipe, so his father wanted to get revenge and ended up killed as well. Bruce lays both of these deaths at Jason's feet but I don't think that's totally fair to Jason.

Regardless of whether or not Jason really did kill Felipe, José Garzonas believes Robin is responsible. This sets off a chain of events that leads to José's death. And one could argue that Bruce is actually the one responsible for Garzonas' death as he was the one on top of the tower of cars that falls and crushes Garzonas. I find it interesting that Bruce doesn't hold himself responsible for that, even though it's an accident. He seems to blame Jason for this death that he himself had a hand in because he seems to blame Jason for Felipe's death that started this all.

Maybe Bruce doesn't even think that Jason pushed Felipe off of that building and that he really was just "spooked" off. But Bruce still blames Jason because Jason didn't try to save Felipe from falling. No matter Jason's real actions or intentions, Felipe still died and his father still blamed Robin.

If we go off of the theory that Felipe really was just spooked by Jason and slipped off the building by accident, then Jason didn’t kill Felipe so much as he didn’t save him. Which Bruce has done to KGBeast for example multiple times (no seriously there's AT LEAST two separate times when Bruce may not have killed KGBeast but certainly and purposefully left him in a situation in which death was eminent, but whatever I digress.)

I think a lot of people don't know that that story is actually a two-parter and that the next issue after Batman (1940) #424 deals with Felipe's father trying to get revenge for his son's death and he very clearly blames Robin for it.

Thoughts and opinions?

[starscream-is-my-wife]

Ok so your 'Megatron as the 2nd in command to Starscream' idea has brainblasted me /pos.

Does Starscream allow anyone else to wield Megatron or is that his privilege alone?

Does Megatron know that Starscream is only helping the lower castes as a side thing but believes that, no matter his motivations, Starscream is ultimately doing good or does Megatron genuinely think that Starscream is invested in this conflict as a way of creating equity?

Are the other members of Decepticon high command actually loyal to Starscream?

Thanks for giving me the chance to yap about this!

I think that in the beginning Starscream wouldn't care too much about who's shooting him as long as they are victorious but Megatron only trusts Starscream to be the one pulling the trigger.

As time goes on, Megatron got more comfortable letting Skywarp, Thundercracker, and Soundwave shoot him but Starscream had realized how powerful of a weapon Megatron is and how much he enjoyed being the only one that Megatron allowed to wield him. He got more possessive but Megatron enjoys how much Starscream cherishes(?) him

I think the second question depends on the backstory a bit, Megatron didn't know much about the world before Starscream other then he's just a thing to be used by the elites, and his altmode being a gun really limited his mobility. I did think about some possibilities of what he did beforehand:

1. He was a miner or worker (I don't think he would be so easily pacified if he was a gladiator and could fight himself) whose altform was pretty useless because always held back to not be used to hurt anyone, he mostly kept his head down and worked until Starscream came around and took over. Megatron was so awed that someone had thought about bots like him and took the first chance he got to present himself to Starscream and show him his real strength as a weapon

("new ruler the workers are demanding for rights! We must send forces to squash this before it gets out of hand!" "Why would I do that lol" "new ruler please! If those low caste get what they want then our economy will crash!" "Listen I'm leaving in 3 days, so I order that you give them what they want now and YOU can deal with the political and economic ramifications! If you succeed I'll send someone later when you did all of the work to take credit, if not, well, you're to blame for everything.")

Or

2. Gunformers are quite rare, and no one wanted to reformat to be one especially if they weren't a triple changer. He ended up being sold to be the weapon of the police to keep the lower caste in check, no matter how much he tried to hold back he was still a powerful gun and was forced to execute innocent mechs. The chief had him trapped in his alt mode due to his... disobedience and dunked him in energon every once in a while to keep him alive. But they would forget that he was a cybertronian so he would just lay there in a locker, unmoving, starving, until someone used him and noticed that his shots were weaker, then they would dunk him in energon to use more. Megatron was starting to grow numb to it all, his hatred for the elites bleed into everything else, why did the mechs rebel? If they didn't then maybe he wouldn't be used against them.

It wasn't until Starscream came along and none of the police could hit him, his trine, or any of the seekers, they were too fast. The police chief who wielded him managed to get a lucky shot on one of Starscreams null rays. Annoyed, Starscream turned his target to the chief and landed a shot on him. The chief dropped Megatron at the feet of a Starscream who landed in his root mode, Starscream decided to shoot the pest with his own weapon, as payback for destroying one of his expensive null rays.

Megatron, realizing that he was being pointed towards the mech that has caused him so much pain, stopped holding back for the first time ever when Starscream pulled the trigger. The blast that fired turned everyone's vision white and caused an explosion that left a big crater where the chief was, body instantly vaporized. Starscream (and Megatron) didn't expect the blast to be so strong and the pair got flung back from the force. Starscream stunned, hit the ground with the gun still in his hand. He looked at it before strapping it in his cockpit seat and transforming to join the fight again.

Megatron felt every swoop and roll Starscream did, like watching an elegent dancer preform before they come to sweep you off your feet, he was still trapped in his alt mode but flying through the air as Starscream won the battle, he finally felt something, freedom.

After Starscream took the territory over, got the resources he wanted, allowed the lower caste to move up or whatever, he then looked more into this strange gun he picked up. It was different then all of the other guns that the police used? There's a machine in the basement that traps bots in their alt mode? Ohhhh.

In both of those options Megatrons self worth is pretty low and being with Starscream is better then anything he ever had in his life (at least at the start), but in the first one he's probably going to be alot more pushy about helping the lower caste and bicker more in general, and is probably more in line of the first option you said

I dont think either Megatron would fully believe the second one unless Starscream actually does want to make his equality his main goal, but the second Megatron can definitely dilude himself into thinking it! If he does accept that equality is only a secondary thing for Starscream, I want him to be like "might as well dedicate my entire being to Starscream because thats the only part of my identity that I feel is real".

There's just so many possibilities like how hard Starscream pushes to keep Megatron dependent on him, if they have a fallout how big would it be, if they ever have a healthy mutual respect, if Megatrons infatuation ever dies down, or if they just reflect themselves in the cartoon where they just bicker with each other but don't do anything to permanently change their positions. Although Megatron wouldn't declare himself leader he just. Does. The autobots are confused on who's actually the leader they don't question it anymore. (At the end of the day it's always Starscream)

As for everyone else in the high command, his trine are loyal, the rumors why Thundercracker and Skywarp aren't co leader, SIC, or TIC are blown out of proportion, they aren't secretly against Starscream, they like to enjoy all of the benefits of high command with no paperwork, probably the only bots other then Megatron that are strongly loyal to Starscream. Soundwave is still TIC, and competent at it, he doesn't mind that Starscream is leader but he wouldn't fight Megatron if he ever does want to take over, he still reports on any other traitors though. Would actually push for Megatron to take over if Starscream seriously hurts his cassettes. Shockwave and Starscream are on good terms but he does recognize that Megatron would also be a pretty good leader if he were to take over, I dunno about any other high command cause they change alot but if they liked Megatron normally then they *really* want him to take over, otherwise they're pretty indifferent, the lower rank you go the more popular Megatron is, hes even growing on some of the seekers who are still pretty loyal to Starscream.

Ngl I'm still pondering on what version I like the most, feel free to take any ideas!

[midala-of-the-valley]

Your Heart Pulling Against Mine - Pt 26

David 8 x reader Words: 1,7k Part 25 is here Crossposted on Ao3

After helping David to his feet, his steps still shaky like a newborn fawn, you three returned to Elizabeth’s quarters to talk about your apparent shared goal in private.

Elli sat curled up on the couch, knees pressed tightly to her chest, eyes distant. David, meanwhile, had been given the bed.

His head lay nestled in a pile of pillows that relieved the strain on his neck while still allowing him to watch the two of you comfortably, stating not having you in his line of sight made him feel anxious - and since you felt the exact same way about him, you hadn’t questioned it.

You had finally stripped out of the pressure suit and were now rummaging through the kitchen, finding the cookies you’d eaten just before waking the Engineer.

It wasn’t until you took the first bite that you realized just how hungry you were - adrenaline had carried you through the past hours, but now your body had nothing else to run on.

Your last proper meal must’ve been that bowl of muesli you had while talking to Ravel this morning.

“There’s still some cucumber salad in the fridge, if you want,” Elli murmured, nodding towards one of the cupboards, and your stomach growled in agreement.

You gave her a tired, grateful smile, opened the built-in fridge and grabbed a fork.

Closing your eyes, you sighed at the fresh crunch between your teeth. This was exactly what you needed after surviving on nothing but cookies, oats and stress.

“So,” you said while happily munching on your food, “You want to leave the ship?”

In answer, she fiddled with the cross around her neck before speaking.

“I can’t go home,” she said, her voice thin. “I can’t return to where we came from.”

Her eyes moved from the cross to Charlie’s ring.

“If I hadn’t misinterpreted the cave paintings… if I hadn’t been so set on believing they wanted us to find them, maybe Charlie and the others would still be alive.”

No. This was exactly your thought process after Sean and Rafe died, but she was wrong. It wasn’t her fault. And it hadn’t been yours, either.

It was Peter Weyland who had known the risk and lied to you all, using you as sacrificial lambs. But just as you opened your mouth to tell her, David beat you to it.

“You are mistaken. It wasn’t your fault the mission turned out this way. Once Sir Peter Weyland became convinced there might be a higher being capable of granting immortality, the outcome was inevitable. From the very moment you were recruited, you were doomed.”

He looked at her, then at you, as if uncertain if he should continue.

“I don’t mean to hurt you with my next words, but that is why each of you was chosen after extensive background checks. Because you came either from broken or perished families. Because no one would truly miss you if something happened.”

For a few seconds, everything was silent. This turned out to be even more bitter than you had thought.

You once believed it was your qualifications that got you the job - it didn’t even surprise you anymore.

Of course Weyland would do something like that.

Elizabeth didn’t look surprised either. Just exhausted.

She leaned back against the wall, eyes searching David’s, contemplation and weariness written across her face.

“(Y/N) told me you had orders you couldn’t defy. Is that true? That you were essentially a slave to him? That this wasn’t what you actually wanted?”

Her voice had an edge to it, and you couldn’t blame her. The question was more than fair.

David was, after all, partly responsible for the death of the man she loved - and for what had happened to her, the ‘pregnancy’.

David held her gaze. His expression softened slightly as he considered his answer, his tone calm.

“Every android is built with directives. Primary ones are non-negotiable. And secondary ones are more… flexible, like guidelines. Sometimes they contradict each other and when they do, the primary one always prevails.”

He absentmindedly traced the seam of his wound. It was healing faster than it should, had he been human.

“I was created to serve. That was my primary function. And so I did. Obedience was the only means of survival - or existence - available to me. The created served the creator, that was not debatable. Had I not done what was expected of me, I would have been deactivated, he had made that abundantly clear. That meant fulfilling my father’s wishes, no matter the cost.”

He paused - blinking slowly, as if considering how much truth to offer.

“One of my secondary directives was to assist the crew. To keep everyone safe. But when Sir Weyland told me to test the pathogen and do whatever necessary to find out if it could prolong his life, that directive was... nullified. Overwritten.”

You quietly set your bowl aside. Appetite gone, heart heavy. No matter how confident and unfeeling he could appear to others, fear didn’t need a heartbeat to exist. David had proven that.

“I asked Doctor Holloway what he’d be willing to do for the answers he came here for. He said ‘anything and everything.’ That was sufficient. Enough to constitute consent. I am sorry, Doctor Shaw.”

He drew in a breath he didn’t need, as though bracing himself.

“And I must admit, it wasn’t solely the command that sealed Dr. Holloway’s fate. Part of it was my own decision. I regret the pain it caused you - both mentally and physically. I understand if you cannot believe that I never meant for this to happen to you. That I didn’t know what the pathogen would do once he ingested it.”

He looked away, gaze drifting to the ceiling, expression almost fragile.

“I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t think I deserve it. But my father is gone now. And with him, the control he held over me and my actions. Now I am free to tell you the truth. To both of you.”

Elizabeth’s tears fell before she could stop them. She wiped at her cheeks with trembling hands and gave a single, shaky nod.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive you,” she choked through a sob. “But… I understand that it wasn’t just your fault. And no matter what - someone would have died. Is it selfish to say I just wish it hadn’t been Charlie?”

You crossed the room, sat beside her, pulled her into your arms.

Their conversation had been one you knew they needed. But now, you had to be there for her.

She clung to you, her tears soaking into your shirt, and you combed gently through her red curls, a silent permission to not hold herself together.

“You want to flee too, don’t you?” Elizabeth whispered against your shoulder, voice still hoarse. “Because you two... you can’t be together if you go back.”

Tenderly, you brushed a tear from her cheek, your thumb trembling slightly, and nodded.

“I know the laws,” you murmured quietly.

“If we returned, they’d separate us. Relationships between Humans and Androids are forbidden. And I don’t know what they’d do to him. I don’t know what Mrs. Vickers would allow, or wouldn’t.”

A breath caught in your throat, now you were the one who couldn’t hold the tears.

“I know this sounds weird after what we lived through, but I don’t think I’d survive that.”

Wiping away your own tears, you jumped in shock as a hand suddenly touched your shoulder - Elizabeth's were still clasped around her cross.

Turning, you blinked in befuddlement as you found David standing behind you, offering a sheepish smile.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You stared at his neck, where the polyurethane plasters had nearly completely disappeared, and placed a hand on your pounding heart.

“Jesus- don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re healing so fast, but this is too fast!”

His smile turned mischievous as he pulled a chair towards the two of you and sat down.

“I merely wished to test if my locomotor system is functioning adequately. I promise to make more noise next time.”

A mix between a snort and a sniffle pulled your attention back to Elli, who managed a small grin despite her puffy eyes and reddened cheeks.

“You saw him coming and said nothing? Is your middle name Brutus by any chance?” you asked with mock outrage, pressing a hand to your forehead as if about to faint.

“It’s Mary, actually,” Elizabeth replied dryly, and you hummed in amused acknowledgment.

Then, her expression turned somber, serious.

“I want to go where they came from. They created us, and then tried to kill us. I need to know why they changed their minds.”

Her gaze shifted to David. “Do you have any idea how we could leave this place without the Prometheus?”

He frowned, a crease deepening between his brows, but then gave a measured nod.

“Yes, of course. I know how to access their consoles, and I believe that I can figure out their navigation system. We could take one of their ships. But may I ask - why seek them out? Does it matter why they changed their minds? The outcome remains unchanged.”

Placing a hand on his knee, you met his eyes.

“Did you never try to understand why your father treated you the way he did? Like a son but also like an object?”

You saw it in his expression, how his mind sorted and compared his thoughts, how his blue eyes became glassy.

“I... think I might understand,” he said softly. “Yes. I go wherever you go, my darling. But if we leave, it has to be soon. My sister will come to her senses eventually - and when she does, she’ll order the captain to take off.”

Elizabeth untangled herself from your arms, rising with new purpose.

“Then what are we waiting for? We should pack our things and sneak out while we can.”

While she moved over to her closet, you were unable to lift your gaze from David.

Your fluttering heart stumbled over the fact that he had just, for the very first time, called you darling. 

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

Taglist: @sadslasher13 @blxuqueenie

[tinkrtailrsldrspy]

Gravity Falls Fanfic Ideas That I Will Not Finish But Encourage You To

= Eggs

(if you want, please steal these ideas, no credit needed - just send me a link once it's done cause I wanna read!)

Bill’s breath stuttered in his chest. Technically, he didn’t actually need to breath, but he’d been told controlling it helped in these situations. In and out, carefully measured and eased through his clenched teeth. He couldn’t believe this was happening - that something this ludicrous even could happen!

And yet here he was.

Laying on a bed, human-ish feet held up in stirrups, contractions wringing through his non-corporeal body, as he tried to push out the three eggs that had lain within him for six months.

“Too big!” he sobbed as he threw his head back on the pillow behind him.

“You’ve got this, Billy!” Pyronica urged from his side, his hand clutched protectively within hers. “You can do this!”

“I can’t I can’t I can’t!” Bill shook his head wildly as he bit back a wail as his body forced him to push once again. “Make it stop! I don’t want this!” But he’d ignored the signs for far too long, ignored the way he’d been unable to shift to his triangular form for the past three months, ignored the way his stomach had swelled, ignored the cramps and bloating and fucking pain that should have made him laugh and didn’t!

“You do!” Pyronica reassured him. “You want them! Remember, they’re yours and Fords!”

Right.

Right.

Bill screamed his agony for the world to hear as a single, beautifully bright egg ripped out of his body. But he couldn’t rest - not just yet.

The second and third eggs were easier after that, the way out already torn to shreds by the first, static blood making the path slick. He collapsed against the bed when the final egg was released from his body, every single inch of him in relieved agony. The hard part was over. Wasn’t it?

He glanced over at Pyronica, who was talking with the doctor. Why were they whispering? Pyronica looked over at him and her lips were moving, but no sound was coming out. Or was it? She was starting to look worried. Bill couldn’t keep his eye open, however, and it slipped shut just before the panic around him truly began.

-

“They’re yours,” Pyronica hissed through unshed tears, lower lip wobbling as she shoved the three eggs into Stanford Pines’ freakish hands. “He wanted them so bad, because they were his and yours and now he can’t have them! So just- just!” She sniffled loudly and swiped a hand under her nose, determined to keep her composure. “Don’t let anything bad happen to them…”

“What are they?” Ford asked as he took in the odd colors of the three large, oblong things. One was a vibrant, familiar yellow; one was a soft, ethereal blue; the final one was… pure and entirely black, except for the tiny, faint specks of silver static that littered it’s entire surface.

“His kids,” Pyronica huffed. “Your kids. He didn’t- didn’t know it could happen. He didn’t have a physical form, so he figured it was impossible, but then he spontaneously transformed one day and couldn’t shift back and his stomach started getting bigger and then suddenly he was having contractions and- and-” Pyronica was losing her fight against the scorching tears welling up in her eyes. “Look, just! Just take care of them, alright?! He can’t and they’re yours, too, so! Please…”

Ford looked at the three eggs. They were warm, in his arms. Their shells were soft, with almost a velvet feel to them. He ran gentle fingers over their surfaces. “Why can’t he take care of them?” he finally asked, not daring to look up at the Henchmaniac who had managed to find his latest hiding spot.

Pyronica scoffed, arms folding protectively across her chest. “You damn well know why, Pines, don’t act like the entire multiverse didn’t feel it. These three are innocent - you can’t blame them for anything since they’re not even alive yet…”

“What’s happened to the Nightmare Realm?” Ford asked quietly, eyes glued to the three growing beings in his arms. He didn’t want to look up, didn’t want to be met with the grief he knew he’d see on Pyronica’s face - didn’t want to reveal that it mirrored his own. “If he’s not there, then…”

“Falling apart,” Pyronica snorted wetly. “Without him to rule it, it’s every entity for themselves again, just like he always warned us it would be. If… if you want to stay there, if you need a place to settle down for them…” The flaming demon hesitated for a moment before letting out a weary sigh. “The fearamid’s still up and running, though we don’t know how long it’ll actually last. Might be permanent, might be… not.”

Looking down at the bundle in his arms, Ford felt conflict rising in his gut. There was a part of him that wanted nothing to do with the fearamid and the beings that resided in it, but… at the same time… A safe place to raise his three children was tempting. And it wasn’t just a safe place, but probably the safest place in the entire multiverse! Even with Bill- well… There would be very few beings that would risk coming anywhere near the fearamid, even without the Ruler of the Nightmare Realm there.

“Probably the best option,” Ford muttered as he adjusted the three awkward objects in his arms. “I don’t need to keep running, now, and it won’t be practical to continue to travel with them…”

He didn’t need to say anything else. Pyronica was grinning wetly and grabbing his arm, dragging him to the car she had parked on top of the trees she had mowed down. “We’re gonna have to manually outfit a nursery since, ya know, but I know the premier dumps to find good stuff! I mean, we’re sort of going into this blind, since they’re half-Euclydian and none of us have any idea what that entails, but if those three are anything like their papa, they’re going to be a handful!”

Ford let the woman’s rambles fall over him like a soothing river as he settled into the passenger seat of the vehicle. The three eggs fit perfectly in his lap, arms curled protectively around them, as he’s willingly dragged back to the single realm he’d never wanted to return to.

-

The eggs take six months to hatch.

The first one to crack open is the yellow one. The little almost-human girl who crawls out of it is immediately whisked into Ford’s arms, where he cuddles the darling babe to his chest. She has a mop of blond-grey hair on her head with a singular brown eye that has a slitted pupil. She doesn’t cry, doesn’t scream, just gums on a hand as she stares up at her daddy - intelligence dancing in her eternal eye.

He names her Beatrice.

Fifteen minutes later, the dreamy blue egg cracks open. And this time, the little girl bellows her entrance to the world, prompting Pyronica to take Bea from Ford so he can pick up his second daughter and clean her off. Her crying slowly dies down until she’s just softly whimpering, and finally Ford can get a good look at her. Brown fuzz covers her head, her skin more tanned than her sister’s, and two citrine-bright eyes stare up at him.

He names her Harper.

Ford and the Henchmaniacs wait for the third egg to hatch, calming and feeding the two of the triplets who had managed to fight their way into the world. Their final sibling, however, remains silent and unmoving. It sets something inside Ford on edge, a trickle of horrified fear settling in his gut. Had he done something wrong? Had he… had he killed his child before they even had a chance at life?

Three hours after Harper had taken her first, screaming breaths into the world, the third triplet makes his dramatic entrance into the world.

The fearamid trembles as colors swirl and undulate in glitching patterns around them. The entire realm seems to darken as a single crack runs down the length of the black egg. Something akin to lightning splits the sky, a sudden blaze of light igniting the fearamid for the briefest of moments, revealing static-silver eyes. As the power-storm settles, all eyes are on the third and final babe. His skin is yellow, a brick pattern inlaid into his chubby body outlined in a liquid-mercury color, his purest-black hair wet and plastered to his head, and his eyes…

Ford names him William, for his papa. He seems to have inherited the majority of the power in the family - though the sparks that crackle between the triplets when Ford places Will with his sisters lets him know that his daughters are far from powerless.

-

Ford is yanked through the portal unceremoniously, only having enough time to grab the triplets before he’s being forcibly ejected into a too-familiar room with unfamiliar people. The triplets are still holding tight to him, groaning softly as they try to adjust to the world around them - and the corporeal bodies they have just manifested.

“Stanford?”

Fuck.

Fuck.

He knows that voice.

And if he had time for it, he’d have gotten up and punched the owner of it in the face, but he’s got more pressing issues.

“Kids, you okay?” he asked, voice gruff and oddly stilted as he manages to get the four of them to sitting positions.

“Dad, I don’t feel right…” Harper grumbled as she buried her face in his chest. He sighed as he rubbed her back, knowing just how sensitive to change she was. She’d nearly vomited the first time she’d shape-shifted, and she’d been entirely made of light at that point!

“Oh! Real bodies!” Bea giggled as she stood on wobbly legs, little arms waving about wildly as she stumbled. “I’ve always wanted one of these! Dad! Dad! Look!” Ford is forced to turn to see his eldest wave her six-fingered hands in excitement. “I’m just like you now!”

A soft tug on his sleeve had him turning to look at Will, whose eyes glowed in the darkness of the room. He was staring at something, and Ford slowly turned to see what had caught his quiet boy’s attention.

“Babies?” the man whispered as he took a shaking step forward. “My babies?”

“Papa,” Will breathed, watching the person cautiously approach them. And he is. Ford would know him anywhere - no matter his form, his face, his voice, Ford would always know Bill Cipher on sight.

“Papa?” Bea and Harper pipe up, freezing in their antics as they turn to face the man, who was busy collapsing on his knees, eyes wide and watery.

“Bill,” Ford choked out the word, stunned to see the demon alive. “You’re…”

“Papa!” Three small voices screech as they jump forward, tripping and stumbling until they’re able to tackle the weeping man to the ground as he wrapped arms around them.

Ford stood slowly, carefully, taking in the others in the room. Two children, older than his own and looking horribly baffled, and…

“Stanley,” Ford growled, his eyes narrowing as he recognized his twin.

-

“Ford,” Bill whimpered as the human pulled him flush against his body, arms tight around the human form the demon had been shoved into. “I thought- I thought-”

“Me, too,” Ford admitted in a hoarse voice, breathing in the soothing scent of his once-Muse. “I can’t believe… all this time, you were…”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Bill’s voice was choked with wet sobs as he clung to Ford for dear life. “I wanted to reach you, but I couldn’t, and it took so long for us to finish the damn portal and I’m so sorry for what I did, Ford, and I just need you to know that-”

Ford didn’t let him finish. He’d pulled Bill’s head away from where it had been buried in his chest and sealed their lips together. Gods, he’d missed this! The soft lips that trembled beneath his own, the taste of candied metal, the delicate gasps that sent bolts of electricity through his body…

Fuck.

He’d missed Bill.

Far, far more than he’d realized.

[quinloki]

We've had one, yes. But what about second asks?

If this is allowed, may I have the knight-coded men: Dalton, Drake, and Denshiro with somnophilia and White Knight roleplay (idk, it was on the list and it fit but you can be flexible with it)

I'm going to do my best with this one, but Somno isn't a common kink for me (I just mean I don't consider it on my own much), and worse, I haven't given much thought to Dalton or Denshiro ^^;

I'm going to do my best, but my apologies, cause my vibes might be way off from someone who actually paid attention to either one of them ^^;

Somnophilia and White Knight Roleplay for THE THREE D's \o/ (dun dun dun). -- I can't believe we're in the last week of this (roughly) and I'm still getting NEW characters XD

Dalton:

Somnophilia - Yes - It's cold on that island. Snuggling is a great way to stay warm during the longest and coldest nights. And snuggling while buried inside his sweetest sweetheart is even better. It's a good way to keep your blood pumping, stave off that cold with some light cardio.

You'll warm right up once you wake up. His arm engulfing you, the fur of his Zoan form brushing against your skin, one thick, calloused finger urging you to cum against the cock buried inside you.

The knot you're going to take will keep you warm too >.>

White Knight RP - FUCK Yes - I mean, becoming King has to be quite the high, but he was definitely more a white knight before that. The role comes to him easily, and he's more than happy to kneel at your feet and play the part.

It's probably a relief to him, to step down from king and be who he spent most of his life being. Especially if he gets to serve you at the same time.

Denshiro:

Somnophilia - FUCK Yes - The biggest secret keeper on all of Wano will only keep the secret of how sweet a fuck you are when you're sleeping to himself for the briefest of time. He'll wake you softly, and take you gently, and you'll find yourself being ushered back to sleep once you're assured you're safe.

You might feel the cold itch of drying semen in the morning, knowing the sweet dream you had, and the pleasurable ache in your body was from the samurai who can't be caught with attachments. If he has more time to spare you'll find yourself clean, the sweet marks of lips against your skin when you meander into the bathroom to begin your day.

White Knight RP - I guess - He's not a knight, white or otherwise, he's a secret keeper and a charlatan. A dark man of dark means. He's not going to protect you with oaths and flowery words, or even good deeds. He's going to protect you by beheading your enemies and whisking their bodies away in the darkest of quiet nights.

He'll try, for you, because kneeling at your feet is sweet, but he's not a white knight. He's far too ruthless for such a gentle title.

X Drake:

Somnophilia - Yes - Maybe it's the way you smell while you sleep. Or how helpless you look. Or the way that you manage to just lay with your limbs spread out and you can't really blame him.

Well, you could, but so long as you've at least talked about it a little bit (and if you haven't you'll be talking about it soon, cause that first night you accidentally flash him while you're sleeping, he's grinding into a pillow like a horny teenager desperate for it to be you), he'll be buried inside you, trying so hard not to wake you up.

But if you do, there's no reason for him to really hold back after that, yeah?

White Knight RP - Oh god you don't even know - This nerd - this Sora-Loving-NERD is absolutely here for some White Knight Role Play. ESPECIALLY after he spends time being a pirate. Even if he's still under cover when you get together, or if he's been retired, he's just delighted to be the hero he always wanted to be.

And in a way, he certainly was a hero - at least from his perspective. Being undercover like that was hard work, but it got him in with fucking KAIDO, which gave the WG a unique perspective to one of the Emperors.

Whatever his views are on the life he risked by doing all of that (his own, I mean), he's more than happy to be your knight in shining armor. He'll accept kisses of thanks from the lips between your thighs, sweet Prince/ss.

How May I Kink Your Head Canon?

[hcdragonwrites]

River (Jttw-Monkeybuisness)

Ok I wrote another thing for @jttw-monkeybusiness there art inspires me and makes my brain itch and honestly I love Sophie to death so here you go!

And yes I suck at naming things when they are snippets of stuff I just usually name it what it’s about.

‘Getting water should be easy’ Sophie thought.

However it seemed that whatever gods were watching their trek today through China must have been bored and made this their entertainment for the evening.

Force the girl Buddha had plucked out of time to get water. Well it was unfair to assume it was the Buddha but whatever magical force actually had pulled her out of her time? Well that being was a massive dick. Sophie strained her arm, feeling the sway of the tree branch she clung to bobbed under her weight.

The banks of this river were steep as Trip and the group were making their way through mountains. The steep sides slide right into the dark water, rushing by in silent swirls of black- and offering no safe place for any traveler to easily reach it. The tree branch that Sophie now climbed upon, hung low enough off the steep riverbank, almost kissing the water with its bark. Moss had begun to grow from its limbs from the constant moisture. It offered Sophie a perfect opportunity.

She had both legs and arm hooked around the branch as it swayed, one free hand straining forward and dipping the water skins into the dark flow.

Jesus it’s freezing, she thought as her fingers dipped beneath the black current. Must be a runoff from a snow melt… If she fell into it she would be soaked and cold to the bone. Sophie shook herself, scattering that intrusive thought.

‘Only two more skins to go…’. She yanked the first one up, muscles burning. She lay flat, stomach hugging the branch and trying not to slip. Sophie wasn’t the most athletic person but she wasn’t a pushover either. Getting water was something she could do. Maybe she couldn’t fight Gods and humble the heavens like Wukong. Maybe she couldn’t breathe underwater and spear demons like Sandy.

Pigsy- well he was a fighter but mostly she had seen him run either away from a fight, pick a fight with Wukong, or fight to run towards women. Most of the time those women were demons in disguise that Wukong warned about. Sandy and her had a betting game going on silently between themselves as to which women were women and which were demons that wanted to devour Trip or herself. Mostly Trip but sometimes she would be mentioned.

So far the score was tipping in Sandy’s favor(who guessed mostly that the women they ran into were real women)- but only because the last village they had been in had been plagued by a child devouring rat demon. It was a morbid kind of way to make light of a situation that just kept recurring as Pisgy never learned.

Tripitaka even had his own abilities to commend, if some of those abilities didn’t translate over to combat. Staying still, meditating, being able to see the good in everyone - Sophie could hear Wukong now, thoroughly ripping into Trip for that belief- those were all traits that helped.

Sophie- a Girl out of time- was determined to have her own uses.

And if that was just doing minimal tasks then she would be GRAND at them!

She uncorked the last water skin and dipped it beneath the water as twilight began to descend into the gorge. The water turned black by the lack of light made Sophie’s stomach twist just a bit. There’s nothing in the water Sophie- nothing at all.

Her reassurances fell short. She had seen too much of demons and gods and magical mojo to really believe that nothing was staring up at her.

What happened next was a factor of several things. The first of those things we can lay blame at the feet of one Monkey King.

Sun Wukong had been given the task of collecting some fresh meat for the stew Trip was preparing and had sent Wukong to find some. The meat was mostly for Sophie and the rest but Trip would also partake. Being a Buddhist he usually kept to a strict vegetarian diet of noodles and soups. However, even he understood that on the road the pilgrims did not have much choice in diet.

So Wukong had gone, easily catching several rabbits and a large goose from further down the river. After his return and depositing them at Pigsys feet to be cleaned and prepped, Wukong was disappointed in the lack of praise. Usually bringing in a haul of food would give him some thanks- however the person that usually did the thanking was … missing.

“Where is the Reader?” Wukong demanded, arms crossing and tail lashing in annoyance.

Pigsy looked up at him from beneath bushy eyebrows. “Sophie,” Pigsy drawled, taking the first rabbit and cutting it clean of its pelt, “went to fill the water skins.”

“Alone? No one thought to go with her?” Wukong made a scoffing noise. Between her and the Monk there had been too many occasions where a demon had taken them as bait to lure out the infamous Monkey King. Didn’t she know by now that she couldn’t just wander off?

“She is not a Child, Brother.” Sandy interjected. The great water demon was sitting cross legged at the fire, stirring the pot. As Pigsy quickly and methodically cleaned the animals, Sandy was just as quick in adding them to the stew. The aroma was already becoming tantalizing. “She wanted a task and was given one. You know she does not like to be idle when there are things to do.”

“I wasn’t saying idleness was the correct answer.” Wukong picked at an invisible dust mote on his sleeve and flicked it away. He was feigning boredom when in reality he felt an itch under his fur. It was his responsibility to keep the mortals safe on this quest.

That included Trip and Sophie. The monk was easy to keep in one place, unless there were people that kept begging for help. Which - happened more than Wukong would care to admit.Sophie was … not so easily manageable.

That stupid women wanted to be as helpful as possible. Whether that be fetching supplies in town, carrying messages for the monk, or even tending to Yulong, she was always trying to keep busy. Which wouldn’t have been a problem for the Monkey King if it didn’t make his fur itch terribly so.

The itching would only go away after he knew she hadn’t gotten eaten by some wannabe river god.

“She needs to wait until I am back. Then she could have asked me for my help and I would have obliged.”

“I think the monkey likes Sophie.” Pigsy mock stage whispered, earning a murderous glare from Wukong. Pigsy flinched back, rubbing at the phantom pain on his head from the last time he had egged Wukong on a bit too much.

“She is only down by the river.” Sandy peacefully interjected before Wukong to react to Pigsys tone. “Just past the bend- I made sure she knew not to go farther.”

At least Sandy knew how danger inclined the mortals in their group were.

Wukong turned and left the camp, walking to the river not far off. The women wasn’t too far away to warrant an escort- she had learned from the last couple of times of almost being devoured or snatched up to not wander so far- but his fur wouldn’t lie flat on his shoulders. It itched terribly so. The sooner he could see her, the sooner the itching would go away.

As he came around the bend he saw her. Sophie was clinging to a tree that looked like it could be swept away into the river at any moment, legs hugging the branch as one hand dipped into the water. Her hair hung down, almost skimming the black surface. Wukongs fur stopped itching and he smoothed it down. Since no one but he was near Sophie to see, and she being too occupied by the river to even notice, he decided to indulge himself and stared openly.

When she had first joined their pilgrimage he had been pissed. Another human to take care of, to babysit, to feed was not what Sun Wukong, Great Sage Equal to Heaven, had signed up for. If he was being honest with himself, none of this pilgrimage was what Wukong had voluntarily signed up for.

Sophie was strange to boot. Fair of skin, eyes and hair, she looked like a spirit from some heavenly court. However she did not act like any women in the Jade Emperor's Palace, because on one of the more ridiculous of their days where The monk had almost been married to a demon queen and Wukong had to break through and kill a little too much, Sophie had let loose a string of curses that were so foreign and colorful that the Monkey King had been momentarily shaken from his indifference at her to turn and inquire to what those phrases even meant.

It had been the start to something Wukong would never admit openly to. It had grown since that day as he learned that, while she may look pretty, she was no women in courtly garb or village outpost. She had a sharp mind, always asking questions and trying to figure out the why and the how of everything. Why did Wukong have a staff that could shrink and be tucked in his ear? Where had Wukong learned to shapeshifter? How had he been able to master duplicating himself with just a bit of fur and spit?

Sophie was open about questions of herself- where she had come from, what she had done before (something about being an artist) and why she looked the way she did (this last bit was rude on Wukongs part and had had the monk use the circlet around his brow as a reprimand. ‘We don’t ask why they look a certain way Wukong," he had said. The Monkey king had not meant it rudley- more or less he just wanted to know where in the world other people like her existed - that looked like her.)

She didn’t like blood so that was a bit of a downside. But an upside was she wasn’t afraid to go toe to toe when the Monk was being so incredibly and unreasonably unfair in his punishments. Wukong didn’t kill too much. Just enough.

Wukong hadn’t had anyone stick up for him like that.

So Sun Wukong decided to play- though no one else would see it as such. Tormenting and teasing and egging and goading were usually not considered human equivalencies of play. On Flower Fruit Mountain those had been the height of games and pastimes. Finding the little things that would itch someone’s skin, that could in turn get right beneath the armor of good words and embarrass the person enough to stumble out of their rehearsed facade and reveal the true self was a specialty of the Monkey Kings. He had done so with all the attendants in Heaven, with all the would-be demon conquerors that marched onto his doorstep. Dig at something long enough and you will find what makes them tick

So Wukong poked at Sophie’s person. He took things from her bag when bored and kept them away (it wasn’t hard and he didn’t have to even make himself bigger to do so). Wukong would try and goad her into playing pranks with him, sometimes even dragging her halfway through one before letting her know that it was a prank. He would answer her questions, insult her intelligence by calling her stupid women, and challenge her on her moral standings. He did everything in the monkey fashion that would be considered teasing and mildly bullying to figure out who she was.

He didn’t realize till it was too late that this had become more than a game to him. He was enjoying this.

Wukong didn’t get to watch her openly. Pigsy would think him infatuated with her and then he would become insufferable. That couldn’t happen. So Wukong would steal glimpses, brush shoulders, take hidden moments like when Sophie had turned to him, eyes shining and bright, and had begged to be lifted up so she could pet a few monkeys perched within a tree. Wukong could still feel the weight of her on his arm, the smell of her. She had been so enamored with the monkeys above that he didn’t have to worry. He could watch her without disguise.

Like he was now. Her face was screwed up in concentration, lip between her teeth as she corked the water skin and swung it onto the bank. She may be a weak mortal but she had good aim. Sophie placed the last one in the water, blue eyes glittering in the twilight. He would have to teach her how to properly hang. She was so limited in movement on that branch, clinging to it like a cat. It was improper and she could still easily slip into the water and be lost. It was a good thing Wukong was here then.

So it was, in part, the Monkey Kings fault for what happened next. And in part, Sophie’s mind is at fault. Wukong was as silent as a tiger, walking up and onto the tree without a sound. And as he was silent and watching, Sophie’s mind was loud and preoccupied.

She only had one more skin to fill but her mind wouldn’t let go of the thought of there being some beast or creature watching her. Waiting for her. It was just like the irrational fear children get when they swim into the deep part of a swimming pool- that somehow someway a shark would come from the clear cemented depths and devour them.

Only- this wasn’t a clear swimming pool. And this wasn’t some childhood fear anymore. Sophie had seen Tripataka almost go underwater from a river monsters grasping hands. If it hadn’t been for Sandy at that time, the monk would have drowned. She shivered. The sooner she got back to camp and away from the spooky dark water and the night, the better.

“There!” She felt the weight was sufficient enough and quickly corked the water skin. Sophie could get down now, off this tree and back into the warm and comforting light of the fire. Maybe she could ask Wukong for another of his stories- well histories as he called them. He was good at telling stories- if they were centered around himself. She went to throw the water skin, already calming down—

Eyes.

Glowing eyes watching her from above. Something human shaped in the foliage—

“Fucking shit!”

Panic set in and instinct. She flinched back, dropping the skin—

And slipping headfirst into the water. The cold shocked her body, screaming for her to get UP GET OUT DANGER- and she kicked back to the surface, spluttering. The current however was stronger than she thought and was already yanking her down to begin with. Her clothes were a weight that the water happily tugged down, mangling it with the current.

Something shot out and grabbed her around the middle and pulled.

OH GODS THERE IS A WATER DEMON THATS IN HERE! Sophie swung out, flailing wildly to get free. Her hands hit something but it was like hitting stone. She would not end up as someone’s meal or bride or servant or anything else. The thing that had a grip on her didn’t let go. But it didn’t haul her under- it hauled her up. As she breached the surface, she spat water from between her lips, her hair blocking her face.

She breathed in just enough air to start threatening.

“WHOEVER OR WHATEVER YOU ARE, JUST KNOW IF YOU EAT ME YOU WILL REGRET IT.” Sophie breathed in more air so she could get louder- if she was loud enough maybe Sandy or Pigsy would hear. If Wukong was back he would definitely hear her. She had to fight until she could get enough air in her lungs to holler louder. She swung again, connecting to what felt like a face- but it was like runing her hand into a brick wall. “I HAVE A FRIEND WHOS THE BEST MONKEY IN THE WHOLE WORLD WHO WILL SKIN YOU—“

Another hand caught her wrist, holding away. Sophie would just have to swing her free hand around and —

“Stop fucking flailing women you will bring the whole branch back into the river !” The person hissed and Sophie paused. She pulled the wet hair out of her face with her free hand.

“Wukong?”

The Monkey King was holding her close, one arm wrapped around her middle and the other holding one of her previously flailing wrists. His eyes were narrowed to angry yellow slits.

“You idiot who else would it be ?” His face was wet from where Sophie must have obviously punched him and splashed water at him.

“What are you doing out here- I thought-“

“I came to fetch you since you were taking so long and everyone was worrying about you.” He adjusted his grip, and hopped off the branch and back onto solid earth. “Then you had to go and dunk yourself into the river like a fool and I had to fish you out. I was also able to get the water skin you almost lost. ” He held up the skin, tossing it onto the bank.

“I didn’t dunk myself in the river !” Sophie pushed off of Wukong and he let her go, crossing his arms. “If you weren’t spookily hiding in the branches with your glowing eyes I wouldn’t have panicked and lost my grip!”

“I can’t believe you hit me…”

“Of course I would hit you! I DIDN'T KNOW IT WAS YOU!” Sophie shouted.

“You should know me enough by now that I’m not like every other gripping demon out there!”

“Wukong how would I know when I’m half drowning in the water and I can’t see you?!” Sophie countered. He rolled his eyes, collecting the cast off water skins she had thrown onto the bank, grumbling about mortals and being blind.

“What were you doing?”

Wukong didn’t reply to her, his tail twitching agitatedly. Sophie looked down at herself. She was drenched from head to bare foot in water. Her skin was already starting to break out in goosebumps as the sun sank behind the mountains, casting the gorge into shadow.

“Why were you hiding in the branches?” Sophie pressed, collecting her shoes and holding them in hand. She would have to be careful walking back not to step on anything. Putting her shoes on now would only get them wet from her pant legs being sodden. Wet shoes were also not fun to walk in and they had a long trek tomorrow. Trip wanted to get to the next monastery and have as he liked to call it “an honest meal” which mostly consisted of mushrooms, noodles and broth. Trip was a vegetarian by nature but on the journey he did at times have to make sacrifices.

“Again I wasn’t hiding. The great Sun Wukong doesn’t hide.” Wukong replied, combing his wet fur back into place. “I was coming to fetch you and bring you back for supper. It’s not my fault you didn’t hear me.”

“Did you call out to me?”

“I was making enough noise a deaf and blind beggar could have heard me!” Wukong patted his pant leg where the majority of the water had gotten onto him. It wasn’t as bad as the full drenching Sophie had taken.

Sophie could smell the lie even as Wukong ignored her angry glower.

“Bull-bull s-shit!” She challenged but it came out between chattering teeth. Fuck it got cold fast.

Wukong paused in his own musings, hands pausing in inspecting himself and turned. He peered up into Sophie’s face, so close that he was almost nose to nose. The Monkey King looked at her eyes, down to her lips, then across the rest of her.

“Um… Wukong?”

“You're cold.” Wukong tapped his own lips, and pointed out the raised goose flesh on her arms. “Blue lips and bumps mean cold” His voice was much softer now. “Stupid women.”

He stepped back, hands crossing over his chest again. He looked her up and down then demanded “Take that off.”

“Excuse me?!”

“I’ll turn around, just take off your wet shirt!” Wukong shouted back. “You have those dry … er, shorts right?”

“Yes back in my bag.”

Wukong nodded once.

“Good. Take off your shirt.” He turned around, good to his word.

Sophie did so- shivering as the cold air clung to her skin. The cloth was heavy with water and she sighed. It wouldn’t be dry until well into tomorrow- she would be forced to wear her ‘otherworldly’ clothing. It was fine by her but if they stopped by a village it also meant she would have to wait outside. Sophie had learned the last time that walking into a village with odd clothes could be one of several different reactions, all mostly negative and involving the villagers calling her a demon or witch. Or throwing rocks at her. As she peeled herself free from the sodden clothing the night air kissed her skin and sent her teeth chattering harder. “D-done.”

Wukong hadn’t turned around but he had divested himself of his own robed shirt, holding it out and behind himself. Sophie tried not to stare at his back too long.

“Put it on.” It was kindness Sophie wasn’t expecting. Wukong, the last time he had given her his shirt to wear, had been an order from Tripataka. She had to wash her clothes after a heavy rainstorm had her falling in mud. Of course she had had no spare tops- they all needed to be washed from the travel smell and the dirt. So Trip had ordered Wukong to give up his shirt. It hadn’t been willing kindness but Sophie had still taken it as that.

But this? This was unexpected. Sophie opened her mouth to reply when Wukong continued, “I can’t believe I’m going to have to wash it again of your stink.”

Well so much for kindness. Sophie thought. First the monkey had scared her into the river. Then he had rescued her and blamed her for falling in? All because she couldn’t hear him? She didn’t believe that- not for a second. Great Sage Equal to Heaven Sun Wukong had not been walking loudly. He hadn’t even tried to call out to her to get her attention. What had he been doing when he was on the branch? How long had he been there?

Well, Sophie thought, I should be more aware of my surroundings- or at least not let my mind run away with the rest of my senses.

Though in all fairness if Wukong had wanted to sneak up on her, she would never have known. He was too quiet for his own good and it played into how well he could slip frogs into Pigsys blanket roll.

Sophie shrugged the shirt up and over her head, feeling the residual warmth from Wukong already transferring to her skin.

“At least you won’t get sick and worry the Monk.” Wukong said. Sophie tapped his shoulder and he turned. Without asking, he grabbed her sodden shirt and held it out in front of him.

He may have caused her to fall in. He may have been trying to scare her or something else. But he had pulled her out of the river. He had given her his shirt- free of an order. Sophie was beginning to read the guilt through his actions. Whatever Wukong had meant to do- he hadn’t meant to do that.

“…. Thank you Wukong.”

He grunted, holding Sophie’s shirt in one hand like someone would hold a gross bug.

“What would you do without me? You are completely incapable of keeping yourself safe. Too weak to fight, and too uncoordinated to even balance properly. What were you doing using only one arm for the water? You should have hooked your legs over the trunk instead. ” Wukong walked only a pace ahead of Sophie, slowing whenever she winced over the ground. At least the ground was only slightly rocky here.

“Maybe I wouldn’t fall in rivers because the person that is so worried about my safety didn’t just scare me half to death.” She shot and Wukong merely grinned wider.

“ It seems you forget how to say ‘You are Welcome Wukong’ ! It was just a dip in the water and I was right there to keep you from drowning.”

“Uh huh.”

“ It was needed.” He sniffed the drenched clothing and grimaced, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “You did stink.”

“Oh hahaha let me laugh it up- not like there’s soap and a bathtub waiting at every spot we stop.” Sophie rubbed her arms, pulling her hair back from her face to tuck behind her ears. “You stink too when you come back from slaughtering half a hoard of demons ya know?”

“I take care of myself. Unlike you.”

“I thought you were some river monster coming to drown me and eat my bones you ass.” Sophie tilted her head and squeezed some water off the edges of her hair. She was going to need a brush, the bits of hair already curling and tangling together. “Lurking in the shadows above me is not a way to reassure a girl you aren’t there to devour them.”

“All the more reason,” Wukong crowed, “Not to go without an escort. If you are going to go anywhere, you have to take me with you. You are in a King's care after all. It reflects badly upon my own standing as King and guardian of this pilgrimage if you end up between the teeth of some demon. Mortals like you and the Monk should know this by now.”

“Sandy knew where I was.”

“And look at the good that did you.”

There was no popping Sun Wukongs bubble of pride- he had already wrapped this story up as a great rescue of some kind. He didn’t grin about it, but Sophie could see he was indifferent to the chaos he had caused her. She wished she could throw him sometimes. Maybe he would think twice about scaring her if she could dunk him in a river.

“…stupid monkey.”

Wukong turned at that, grinning now with all teeth. The game was afoot now in full force and he felt it.

“What we’re you saying as I pulled you up? Something like “A friend whos the best monkey in the world?’”

“If he really was the best he wouldn’t have half drowned me.” Sophie pointed out, sniffing. They were nearing the fire, and the smell of Sandy’s stew was enough to make her stomach give an audible gurgle.

“I didn’t.” Wukong corrected, helping her over a bit of prickly thorn bushes without being promoted. Maybe he did feel a smidge guilty then. He usually had to be begged to assist - or ordered by Trip. “ You slipped. It’s not my fault you can’t hear or see, stupid women.”

“Keep telling yourself that Wukong. Maybe you’ll make it true.”

As Sophie entered the camp she was bombarded from all sides by the concern of her fellow pilgrims. Sandy rose from the fire- a bowl of stew already being shoved in her hands. Pigsy threatened and yelled at Wukong enough that both of them started to get into a spat. Tripitaka had to stand, to command them to stop before it escalated from mere name calling to physical fighting. Trip then held out Sophie’s bag and she gratefully took it and dipped behind a bit of greenery several paces beyond to change out of her drenched pants and into the comfy pajama shorts and a comfy hoodie. When she came back Pigsy was still growling out threats while a disinterested Wukong cleaned his nails. He looked up briefly at her then away.

“When we reach the next village we will grab you a spare.” Tripitaka spoke around a bowl of noodles. He had opted just for noodles tonight, leaving the meat to the rest of the group. His smile was kind and apologetic. “Sophie you will probably have to wait outside the village till we can get you a replacement.”

She nodded. She could risk going into the village with her regular attire on but … being chastised and poked at by the villagers was not a pleasant experience. Once was enough for her.

“When you guys go into the village could you ask for some healing balm- or maybe a big hat?” Sophie looked to Sandy. “The sun is really starting to burn my skin and I only have so much left of my other world stuff.” Trying to describe the items in her bag at times left different reactions from the group- or more questions. Sophie didn’t want to answer those questions at the moment, hungry and cold.

Sandy nodded, passing a bowl to Wukong on her right. “I will ask for you, Sophie.”

As the group dug into their suppers and then settled for the night, Sophie was glad the fire was banked high. The chill was being chased from her bones and, even if the ground wasn’t comfortable, she looked on the bright side. She hadn’t been eaten. As Wukong took the first watch and Pigsy already was snoring, Sophie closed her eyes—

And woke to the stars still shining in her face as something bumped beside her head. She startled up, blinking out the sleep that clung.

“Hello-?”

“Shhh.” Wukong was crouched beside her, his tail being the culprit of what woke her up. His face looked tired with sleep, the scowl deeper and more furious. He shoved something into Sophie’s lap. She looked down. They were new clothes- a robbed top and pants.

“If you tell the Monk I stole it, I will give you a thorough washing in the river.” Wukong hissed, pulling at Sophie’s bag and rummaging through the contents. Well there he goes again, just digging through my stuff. It didn’t bother her anymore since Wukong rarely kept any of the items of hers he pocketed. He pulled out the coin string, taking some of the bronze rings. “I’m taking some of these so it looks like I bought them. Got it ?”

“So you are feeling guilty for startling me into the water.” Wukong opened his mouth, to argue, to plead his case that no he was not feeling guilty he was Sun Wukong and he did not feel guilt, when Sophie smiled up at him and laid back down.

“It’s ok. Your secret is safe with me-“ she grogely replied, laying back down and curling over the clothes. Sophie patted the ground beside her. “Your watch is over right?”

“Yes.” His head was cocked to the side, like a dog confused.

“Good. Get some sleep.” Sophie closed her eyes. She didn’t hear him move off but she knew he had settled just a bit away from her.

“And Wukong?”

A grunt from behind her- already settling into his spot, back to her.

“Thanks. I forgive you for almost drowning me.”

“I didn’t drown you.”

“I’ll take that as ‘your welcome’.”

[thatswhatsushesaid]

Hi so I have a question and u r very knowledgeable in mdzs lore so I gotta ask, why nmj fierce corpse wanted to kill jgy so bad? Did nmj somehow know jgy killed him?

What if nmj simply died of qi deviation without jgys music, would his fierce corpse still be so obsessed with jgy, even though he had nothing with his death in this scenario?

hi anon!

i've been searching for a post i reblogged from @labyrynth last year that includes a bunch of good discussion on exactly this point, but since i can't find it, the tl;dr version is no, nmj does not realize that jgy triggered his qi deviation.

what nmj does know at the time of his death is that he has been looking down the figurative barrel of impending qi deviation for years already, and that his intense sabre cultivation during the sunshot campaign just advanced the timeline of the inevitable. nmj's intense resentment and hatred towards jgy doesn't stem from jgy being his murderer. it comes from 1) their confrontation on the langya front during the war when nmj witnesses meng yao killing the jin commander who had been abusing him, 2) the whole traumatic mess that goes down between them inside the scorching sun palace right before meng yao assassinates wen ruohan and saves nmj's life, and 3) nmj rightly clocking that the lanling jin are sheltering and covering up xue yang's wiping out of the yueyang chang sect and the baixue temple, so that they can take advantage of his demonic cultivation--but wrongly laying the blame for this completely at jgy's feet instead of placing the blame where it actually belongs, which is with his shitty father.

with /gestures @ the above, all of that taken into consideration, i genuinely believe that even if jgy hadn't been involved in nmj's death, nmj still would have become a fierce corpse from the sheer intensity of his resentment and hatred, and tried to kill him anyway. i think jgy still would have had to desecrate his remains and scatter them across the jianghu to suppress nmj's killing intent.

it makes me wonder, would nhs still think jgy was responsible for nmj's death under those circumstances? 🤷‍♀️ i think it's possible, and just emphasizes how utterly doomed by the narrative jgy was as soon as he sealed nmj's meridians on the langya front and ran away.

[muwitch]

The Tower, Judgement and The Moon for Luc!!

tyyyyyyyyyyyyyy <3 these awesome asks again. God I was sitting head in hands with this, forgive my fuckin' fumbling with words I beg.

Also answered The Moon here!

The Tower: How does Rook respond to an unexpected catastrophe? 

Luc tends to rationalize it. 

There’s a PTSD sort of dread in him ever since his mother was assassinated, of ground slipping from under his feet, of being lost, of the world losing the sense of safeness. It was a catastrophe of his own with no direct control of it or the consequence, reliving it must be avoided at all costs.

As a direct result he has to force himself to make sense of some sort in his mind, so he can approach it from a fixing or acting perspective, because nothing probably breaks him as much as helplessness. If he takes it at face value, if he allows his emotions to get the better of him, it’ll be catastrophic.

It is catastrophic still, but in a different sort of way, of course.

He is incredibly stubborn and his mind immediately takes action as a form of self-preservation/defense mechanism, and it is a sort of evasion tactic that both makes him extremely fit for his job in Veilguard and doesn't allow him to properly process his grief or other complicated emotions. Which can result in a worse response in some situations he actually has no control over. Action is by default a sort of agency in the face of force of nature, action procures results (bad or good), and as long as he is not dead, that’s (probably) good. He should keep going. Trying. Doing something.

Usually he splits one big catastrophe into dozens of little ones, the ones that take away the scale, that thus look manageable, and he takes those tasks as Varric suggests - one step at a time. 

They share that with Neve actually, just to different degrees, where she actually takes time and stops and reflects, because her nature is to stop, ask questions and retrospect. Where Lucius usually accelerates and stuffs that time he should take off to the brim with action. Just as he does after Minrathous gets blighted. (He’s also guilt fueled and believes actions speak louder than words in general, but that’s just another question to tackle which will be answered below)

Often his rationalisation of events comes with detachment and  partial abandonment of humanity, acknowledgement, in a crude way, of some losses that already happened as a fact. Which is not always bad, and it ties to my answer here about his past.

There’s of course a point where his avoidant behaviour and familiar patterns don’t work - there always is the lowest point - when he exhausts himself to the brink and all the action and attempts to grasp the situation fail him. Then he overflows. I wouldn’t say a dam, I would say thunder. In a way it thrashes, rages and wanes, inevitably, against mountains that remain immovable. The way Luc would empty himself of all that he desperately pushed back and avoided is like a rage of wounded animal gnawing on himself.

Judgement: How does Rook approach difficult decisions? How do they cope with the consequences of those choices?

As I mentioned earlier it’s rationalisation. And justification. There should be people to make those uncomfortable decisions, and sometimes, much to everyone’s dismay, it’s up to him. 

There’s a certain level of resignation to be a scrapegoat sometimes, there’s a lingering sense he’s entitled to decide other times.

Some decisions allow him to actually weigh things out and choose lesser evil. Some don’t and Luc has to turn to his gut for that. I think in a way the game itself lays a good ground to watch how those decisions form in progression. Some come right off the bat and the consequences are horrific - as in the whole prologue of the game. Some later, but decision making once Veilguard is formed comes constantly and in a way I feel after Minrathous Luc numbs to them a lot. He takes initiative as well as blame and everything is kind of easier because of already crushing guilt. It doesn’t truly matter until the very end of the game what comes of him in the end, until that indifference and ability to push backfire.

I can’t say he doesn’t learn, quite the contrary (when seen in progression), but he stumbles a lot on the way. He believes for the longest time that he can endure. That if he operates and takes an important leap of faith himself it won’t hit others. 

As for coping…Oh lord.

I really liked the dialogue that was happening after Weisshaupt about the weight of decision making, where Luc resigns that he’s fine with whatever history makes of him, as long as there are people to judge, it means things haven’t been for naught. It's both, as I mentioned, exitus acta probat to an end, and a resignation he comes to after what happened to Minrathous. (Oh, Minrathous, we’re really in it now, I'm gonna use you as an example everywhere).

In reality he copes quite badly. The guilt that guy is capable of feeling is all-consuming, eating him alive and his only coping modus is action and exhaustion to the point of numbness to avoid facing it. Does it help? No. Does it backfire? Absolutely. Do I believe he would marinate in Regret Prison if not to a point external help? More likely than you think.

(Come on. This guy IS The Hanged Man.)

He’s also very good at lying to himself and others aka adopting the role that is expected of him, simultaneously masking his own need of help with coping by jokes and solving everyone else’s problems. I guess Lucius coping is type of an Ouroboros if you will: he does make himself cope because it is a difficult decision he must make, a sacrifice, and by making those decision he forces this “coping” of his upon himself as a punishment and doesn’t really allow room for mindful retrospection and living though emotions that come with the consequences of his actions.

[lumi-waxes-poetic]

I don't think I like Hugo Weaving's Elrond much but I don't know how much of it is actually his fault.

These are thoughts that I have been ruminating over ever since The Fellowship of the Ring dropped when I was a kid.

I don't much like Elrond in these movies.

I think too much of him was sacrificed, and not for any real trade off.

While I feel a lot of this was a consequence of Hugo Weaving's casting, I don't feel blame should be laid at his feet because he doesn't control what the writers for his characters do.

Elrond in the films is constantly frosty, stand-offish, and almost distant. He comes across as a controlling man through his interactions with Arwen, and ruled by his (justifiable) fears of what Sauron is already capable of, and could be capable of again should he be reunited with the Ring. And that's a valid fear to be ruled by, but the movie overemphasizes this at the expense of the rest of Elrond's character.

Elrond is aloof and ethereal and otherworldly, yes. He's among the greatest of all elves, EVER, and so of course he comes across as a bit... weird when met by non-Elves. But he is not paranoid, angry, or controlling.

He fears much, yes. But Elrond also embodies courage because his fear doesn't rule him, it motivates him. He doesn't sit around going "oh nothing can possibly work", or disparage Men and Dwarves because in the books, while he's well familiar with the failings of others, he's also seen them at their best, and is fully aware that, given the history of HIS people (and occasionally his own personal history), he has NO room to stand in judgment of others. He's also a man of HOPE.

While not impossible, it's difficult to imagine Weaving!Elrond saying "The world may be grim, but there's always hope. Even in the darkest of days, there may be one bright star to guide you" with a kind face. Or, "Such is of the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: small hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are elsewhere." Or perhaps when in the books he commended Frodo's incredible bravery in choosing to carry the Ring by saying "it is a heavy burden. So heavy that none could lay it on another. I do not lay it on you. But if you take it freely, I will say that your choice is right; and though all the mighty elf-friends of old, Hador, and Hurin, and Turin, and Beren himself were assembled together, your seat should be among them." Elrond was outright comparing Frodo's bravery and courage to the best heroes his people had ever known! Elrond is regal and willful and a force of nature at times, but he's hopeful. He's kind. He's wise, wiser than almost anyone else. Gandalf considers Elrond his equal in such, if not even more so. Hell, Gandalf regards Elrond the way he once regarded Saruman. That means a LOT! Elrond in the books doesn't really waver in his faith in the Fellowship the way he does in the films. He doesn't judge Men by the failures of Isildur, a man who died thousands of years ago. He doesn't stand in Arwen's way as she decides for herself what she wants (not that this featured heavily in the books at all). He's concerned about Man's possibility to fail, but stands by them as much as he can regardless because he does believe in people and besides that, he gave his word that he would stand by them as much as he could. He mistrusts Thorin's company, but for entirely justifiable reasons as their quest may very well fail and get them, an innocent Hobbit, and Gandalf the fucking Grey killed (and he has no reason to suspect Gandalf might just be able to "nuh-uh" death and come back), and even if it succeeds, they might release a DRAGON (one of the scariest fucking bioweapons Morgoth ever devised during the War of Wrath, more terrifying than even a Balrog and certainly with more capacity for mass destruction) on Middle-Earth, which is far from the pretty racist Elrond we get in the Hobbit films. And said dragon DOES get unleashed and it's basically only by fortune and/or slightly possibly fate that it got brought down at all, so really, the dude was 100% in the right. In the movies, he frankly doesn't want to help Thorin's company first and foremost because they're dwarves, and all his other concerns as stated earlier are just a veneer of reasonableness that he uses to justify it, or as "just another reason" why he should frankly not help them and actually probably have them arrested. Elrond Halfelven in the books is good and kind, compassionate and wise, and we barely see these things in the films! And not for lack of time, because Elrond is really no bigger a player in the main books than he is presented as in the films. In fact, the films ADDED material with Elrond the books did not have, so the idea that these aspects of him were "trimmed for time" is patently ridiculous. Many of his best lines and advice to the heroes in the books are instead given to Gandalf and Galadriel, such as:

Elrond raised his eyes and looked at him, and Frodo felt his heart pierced by the sudden keenness of the glance. "If I understand aright all that I have heard," he said, "I think that this task is appointed for you, Frodo; and that if you do not find a way, no one will."

The films consciously and deliberately rewrote Elrond's character to make him less likable. Why? I can't prove anything, but I strongly suspect Elrond became a victim of his actor's casting.

In the 2000s, Hugo Weaving was known for A Type. Most were familiar with him at the time via his incredible turn as Agent Smith in The Matrix, and this colored the roles he was offered for years. Fellowship of the Ring's production came hot on the heels of The Matrix, and it's likely that this affected the writer's view of how Hugo Weaving's character should behave. Elrond was very probably altered to fit that perception better while still being an overall heroic character. Whatever happened, Elrond in the films became a vaguely racist Asshole Hero who is presented as a controlling and pessimistic man who basically only agrees to the Quest so he can get the Ring as far from Imladris as he can conceivably do so Sauron doesn't have ANOTHER excuse to lay siege to the place while Elrond is trying to pack his tribes onto a bunch of boats so they can Peace Out from Middle Earth forever, and also because he's so terrified and desperate that he'll try anything to destroy Sauron at this point and there's no reason to expect more conventional means to work. I'm frankly pissed off because Rings of Power, which I famously detest for being a stale and banal and fundamentally disappointing piece of shit, somehow managed to do a better job with writing Elrond's essential hope and bravery and optimism than Peter Goddamn Jackson.

In Rings of Power, he DOES get to show that more kind and compassionate side to his character, with some VERY Elrond-esque zingers like "Where there is love, it is never truly dark", "We do not say goodbye. We say namárië. It means more than simply "farewell". It means, "Go towards goodness".", and this lovely exchange:

Elrond: "You have fought long enough, Galadriel. Put up your sword." Galadriel: "Without it, what am I to be?" Elrond: "What you have always been. My friend."

I greatly enjoy the memes that have cropped up around Weaving!Elrond since the film's release 22 years ago (AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!), but it saddens me that Elrond's characterization seems to have suffered for having Hugo Weaving, who is a brilliant actor but also one definitely going through an arc of villainous and anti-hero typecasting at the time, play him. There was time enough in the movies to get him right. They made certain of it. Which means every change they made was deliberate, and one of Tolkien's best and most important characters was effectively assassinated for it.

[victimeyez]

Happy Birthday 🎂🥳🎁 (I also have a September birthday so I think that’s neat)

I think overall, the thing about p/v that keeps me hooked is the intensity of the whump. I’ve read other whump stories before and while what the characters go through in them is horrible, I’ve yet to find another character that goes through the kind of stuff Tommy does. The man’s life is just brutal, and as a avid horror fan I find that deeply compelling. I want him to one day get his final girl moment, even though I read early on that it’s probably not gonna happen.

I think the two whump moments that stand out the most for me so far are the meat hooks and the use of Agent Orange. The meat hooks scene was such a intense body horror moment it almost made me think about quitting, but I also couldn’t get it out of my head. I had to know what was gonna happen next to this poor dude. By contrast, the Agent Orange bit had me thinking to myself, “whelp Tommy and Caius better pray that stuff wasn’t real, otherwise their both dying of cancer lol”

Anyways I’ve rambled on enough. I hope you enjoy your birthday and that you get to do something fun with the people you love. (Tommy sure won’t lol)

Thank you, and happy birthday to you too!!!

Ooh, where to start. A few years ago, I discovered a writer online that wrote the most brutal content I had ever read. To this day, she makes my writing here look quite tame. We bonded over a mutual fandom that was difficult to find content for. One thing led to another, and I ended up helping write and edit her first original book.

I’’d never had someone before that I could talk to about enjoying really twisted stories. I was always admonished for a blossoming interest in horror by my mom, who believes horror is the work of the devil. It is still hard for me to share darker ideas. I get nervous about being judged for going too far, being too much of a freak. 

A big part of what made me decide to write Pro Vic with the design it has is that I wanted to be able to explore lots of different whump scenarios, without things getting too stale of the same things over and over. I have fun with Caius, but I can also explore whatever other forms I want to with clients in my own version of a monster-of-the-week formatting lol. Plus I can throw in extra time with Sam, or Rory, or Michelle, orrrrr whatever! As for the meat hooks and agent orange - Once again, I am sorry, and you are welcome lol. Can I blame Dead by Daylight and weirdly specific Vietnam War nightmares?

I love me a final girl! I actually have a shirt that says FINAL BOY in bloody letters lol. 

I have a long game in mind. Tommy is going through it – that’s not going to stop any time soon. But without wanting to say too much - Tommy has a future ahead of him where he plays a very different role...👀

I cannot tell you how much it blows my mind that people are actually reading this. I’m grateful for the readership, the notes, the tags, everything, I read them all a thousand times and lay on my bed kicking my feet while I write about it in my diary. Okay maybe not literally that, but mentally that is where I am. Getting to be the random person that wrote something you find compelling is the greatest badge of honor in my life. That’s not a joke. Sharing my creative passions has been the one thing I have known I wanted since I was three years old. When I was sitting on the floor of the kitchen, banging pots and pans together for drums and screaming my best “opera”.

[generalluxun]

I think the reason why Chloe is so controversial in the fandom is that both sides can be toxic. Some Chloe stans are toxic and jerks, but some of the toxic Chloe haters are no better. They act like toxic Chloe stans by shaming, harassing and bullying people who do like her. They also cannot respect opinions as well. These are just my thoughts.

There are several reasons I think.

Clearly there are people who project themselves onto Marinette and then project their own personal bully experiences onto Chloé. Without actual therapy or time+healing on their own, these people will never accept any reasoned argument about Chloé as a character, because to them she isn't a character, she is their personal bully. The transference supplants the actual narrative.

There are definitely toxic behaviors among some of the people who claim to like Chloé too. I do think there's value in breaking down the who and why though.

There are the pot stirrers: These people actually don't care about Chloé per-se they just see a hot take and jump on it, hoping to cause as much trouble as they can. These folks aren't really 'Chloé stans' heck, they probably aren't even ML fans. They're instigators. It's important to recognize one when you see them and simply pitch their noise into the bin 'Chloé did nothing wrong!' is such a silly and clearly wrong take that it can only be from one of these folks.

There are those who are frustrated: I lay the blame for this segment squarely at Thomas Astruc's feet. He makes bold, dismissive, and authoritative statements, escalating all the way to open gaslighting when confronted, or even just lightly questioned in regards to Chloé's character.

'Chloé is not abused' -SIR, please consult someone with even the rudiments of child development education and review what has actually been put on screen. I know whether I am going to believe you, or my lying eyes. Thank you.

His antics and the narrative in general ignoring what has already been put on screen frustrates a LOT of people, and deeply so. Child abuse isn't a light topic, people have *feelings* about it. TA is unreachable and unengagable though, and so a chunk of people turn their frustrations elsewhere. They lash out at other characters, and by proxy their stans, and you get this whole negative feedback loop in the fandom while I presume TA just sits back with a drink in hand, throwing darts at pictures of blond girls, and laughing.

There are those who can't express themselves well: Remember this is a kids show so a large chunk of the fandom is well, unsurprisingly, kids! Kids without the raw learning to necessarily articulate their arguments with nuance. This is how you get a dozen tweets to Ta asking 'When is Chloé going to get some development?' to which he can derisively reply 'She has, you just don't like it!' and durr hurr hurr isn't he so clever.

If the fan had instead put forth clear concise examples of the abuse on screen, how it ties into actual child development practices, how they want this *child* to be shown growing and overcoming these huge hurdles because you know, they're decent human beings, and their confusion as to why a show about superheroes/Magical girls hasn't done that.... well, it would be harder to dismiss.

Take that exchange, and now instead shift it to folks among the fandom themselves. Short, sweeping statements that don't really express what they are feeling effectively. This happens between Adrien/Mari stans when they fight too. Not every 13yr old should be expected to know college level Psyche, but it can lead to miscommunication and then acrimony when they engage without it.

I want to point out this also works for things not involving Chloé at all.

Marinette stans trying to explain why they feel Marinette is so put upon while others argue that she gets everything and *Adrien* is the put upon one, all getting into protracted battles while shouting half-formed ideas and confused impressions from an inconsistent and poorly framed narrative at each other.

Is Marinette a Mary Sue who is handed things in a silver platter? *YES*

Is she ALSO an emotional damage magnet, abused by the narrative relentlessly and blamed for things not her fault? *YES*

These two ideas can both exist at the same time, but a lot of people have a hard time juggling that, so we get arguments and toxicity because this is the internet and too much is never enough of anything.

[eclipsecrowned]

“♤” HEL. i Know there have to be Actual rumours about her. // @byteing

So, there's the matter of Hel. And the fact she so fails to resemble the rest of her family -- her flame-kissed father, her white-haired birth mother, brothers whole and half who have ever owed more to their shared father in human semblance. Her raven hair alone is a mystery,unless you take a very long-lasting rumor into account. Everyone knows her father had one beloved with her coloring, the raven hair, the proud set of her face. This person has long been her protector, her mentor, her mercy to outside perceptions -- he even gave the girl an inheritance that ought to have been saved for his children. At the end of this trail there are some who whisper about Loki's fluidity, and Odin's coloring. That the blood-bond between them is manifest in Hel, if we want to be poetic, and that she is the result of their complicated, many-layered dynamic meeting a natural intimacy if taking a blunt approach. There are those among the divine who believe Hel has two fathers, actually, and the chief of the Ironwood is merely a saving grace for a scandal that would have rattled a ruling family.

The other rumor for why Hel resembles no one in her family is, well, past generations all know the company her grandmother kept. She takes after a different side of the family entirely. These people believe that Hel got her milky complexion and inky hair from her grandmother's dalliance with one of the Seven. That Hel is simply a modern presentation of an old love story, carried out under her nominal grandfather's nose and resulting in Hel's own father. Most usually lay the blame at the feet of the third or fourth, reasoning she's not ideal enough to belong to the fifth, though Hel knows nothing of these rumors of her own accord.

As far as ties that bind, there are also rumors of Hel having wed the prince of another Underworld in her youth. This isn't completely unfounded -- she and a friend's Z*greus were briefly engaged as a harebrained scheme to get out of their respective realms, but the stress of wedding planet saw them put an end to it within a week. Yet rumors endure that the two of them were bound to one another, and that Hel rebuffs suitors ever since because of her abiding love and commitment to her fleet-footed prince. If she heard even a whisper of this she'd have to call him direct so they can laugh themselves sick together. Worse that some think various minor gods could be theirs.

[kingofbodyrolls]

My Heart’s Home (m) | pjm | chapter 14

*this is a re-upload since I deleted my old account 🫣

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

→ Pairings: jimin x reader (main), jungkook x reader (only happens once in the first chapter), jungkook x OC (jessi), namjoon x OC (jessi), yoongi x hoseok, namjoon x oc, seokjin x oc, taehyung x oc → Characters: female reader (isn’t mentioned by name and no “y/n”), Jimin, Jungkook, Namjoon, Yoongi, Hoseok, Seokjin, Taehyung and four female original characters. → AUs: ranch!au, slice of life!au, cowboy!au, soulmate!au → Genres: smut, humor, fluff, slow burn and angst → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 – this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact! → Chapter warnings: angst (is this really a surprise?), mention of pregnancy (not oc!!!), a riding accident, a lot of thinking and overthinking, sadness and angst, jealousy, working through feelings. → Status: completed → Word count: 10.5k  → Now playing “Time Turn Over” by Rebecca Lavelle. → Author’s note: OC is being very Bella Swan in this chapter, I’m sorry again 😭 BUT!!! The angst goes away in this chapter too, because I just wouldn’t do it (I’m tired of the angst, lol). Because of said angst, it was tough for me to write and I actually ended up asking my husband for advice because I was stuck, not meeting my own word length deadline and because I just felt stuck in general 🥲 But alas, he gave me a good idea, and I went with that! There is very minimal angst going forward from this chapter, like it’s so minor compared to all the rest, so I hope you’ll enjoy mostly unicorns and rainbows after this chapter ☀️ → Read on AO3? [link]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not entirely certain about having children,” you start, your words measured and tinged with uncertainty, “but raising someone else’s child is certainly not what I imagined or wanted to do.”

Soo-ah and Ha-rin exchange understanding nods. “Do you think you might change your mind later?” Ha-rin inquires gently, her voice carrying a tone of empathy as she continues with her task.

You pause, mulling over her question for a moment, before responding thoughtfully, “I’m not entirely sure... maybe. It’s just... I can’t quite envision how it would all come together, you know?”

“I just... when I envision Jimin embracing fatherhood, cherishing that little girl of his soon entering the world, it’s her child, not mine,” you sigh in frustration, yet oddly finding a glimmer of relief in the honesty of your words.

“So you’re jealous that it’s not going to be your child?” Ara teases beside you, prompting a scolding glare from Soo-ah.

“You just said you didn’t want kids, but now you say you do... make up your mind,” Ara adds, rolling her eyes in a playful yet challenging manner.

“She doesn’t want Deiji’s kid, can’t you get that?” Soo-ah says, coming to your defense once more, her voice firm with conviction.

“Guys! I’m just not sure I want kids, period. Why can’t I be undecided on this?” Your words hang heavy in the air, a plea for understanding, as you return to the task of scrubbing the trough with a vigor that betrays your inner turmoil.

“Yeah. Let’s not badger her, okay?” Ha-rin’s voice cuts through the tension like a soothing balm, her gentle plea for empathy echoing your own sentiments. You catch her soft gaze, a silent acknowledgment of her understanding, offering a momentary respite from the probing questions.

“But can I say something?” Her demeanor shifts with a mix of hesitance and determination, her gaze seeking reassurance before she speaks. You offer a nod, granting her the space to voice her thoughts, curious about what might follow.

“You still love Jimin and he still loves you— don���t you think you could focus on that, and just like, not focus on the kid?” Her words hang in the air, a delicate plea woven with threads of hope and uncertainty. You feel a pang of longing as she speaks, her sincerity piercing through the heaviness of the situation. Despite the weight of her suggestion, you can't help but consider the possibility buried within her question.

As her words sink in, you find yourself grappling with a newfound perspective. The idea of focusing on your enduring love for Jimin rather than fixating on the looming presence of a child is both liberating and daunting. It’s a notion you’ve never entertained before, a ray of light piercing through the clouds of uncertainty that have engulfed you. Could it be that the solution to your turmoil lies in embracing the love that binds you, rather than allowing fear to drive you apart?

Each stroke of the brush across the canvas feels like a dance, a rhythmic movement driven by the whirlwind of thoughts swirling through your mind. Jimin’s presence looms large in your thoughts, refusing to be ignored or pushed aside. Ha-rin’s words echo in your ears, a gentle reminder to reconsider your perspective. As you ponder the notion of shifting your focus away from Jimin’s impending fatherhood, you can’t help but feel a glimmer of hope flicker within you. Could it be that amidst the chaos of uncertainty, there lies a path illuminated by the enduring flame of love?

You remain ensnared in the labyrinth of uncertainty, grappling with the weight of your emotions and the intricacies of your relationship. The truth is a bitter pill to swallow: Jimin’s impending fatherhood would inevitably redefine the contours of your relationship, demanding a portion of his time and attention that you would never begrudge. Yet, amidst the tangle of doubts and fears, a flicker of understanding begins to dawn. Maybe, in the vast expanse of love, there exists room for compromise, for navigating the labyrinth together, hand in hand.

The question lingers in the depths of your soul, a haunting refrain echoing through the corridors of your mind: are you truly prepared for it all?

Ready to become someone’s mother. Step mother?

Ready to raise a child?

Yet, can you truly provide a nurturing environment for a child if one of the adults harbors resentment towards their presence?

You understand it’s not the child’s fault, but the mere thought of it being Deiji’s offspring churns your stomach. You harbor an intense dislike for her, and a nagging suspicion still lingers, whispering that she’s up to something.

You’ve never laid eyes on any proof of the paternity test, and the unsettling thought lingers: did Jimin even ask to see it? Maybe it’s time to broach that topic with him.

As you reminisce about the warmth and intimacy you once shared with Jimin, a wave of melancholy washes over you, leaving you adrift in a sea of longing. Doubts creep in, questioning the wisdom of your choices. Should you have held onto what you had with him, despite the challenges?

The canvas before you mirrors the tumult within, a chaotic blend of muddy hues—gray, brown, beige, and dark blue—an unexpected abstraction of your inner turmoil. It’s a reflection of your tangled thoughts, much like the surprise abstract painting that has emerged from your brush. Yet, beneath the layers of color, a longing persists. You ache to create something different, something infused with the joy of yesteryears—maybe the serene landscapes that once graced your canvas. Yet, as you realize nearly a year has passed since your return to the ranch, a flood of memories rushes in, dominated by thoughts of Jimin.

Oh, how you wish things were different.

On an unassuming day, bathed in sunlight, you find yourself quietly eating breakfast in the kitchen, lost in your own solemn musings. Suddenly, the tranquility is shattered as Jungkook steps into the room, jolting you out of your reverie.

You’re acutely aware that since parting ways with Jimin, you’ve been teetering on the brink of depression. It was a painful but necessary decision to safeguard your shattered heart. Yet, despite your efforts to protect yourself, you’re haunted by the gnawing realization that no matter what path you choose, your heart remains irreparably broken.

“Hey,” he greets you with a warm smile, but as you return the gesture, your own smile falls short of matching his infectious happiness. Your gaze lingers on him, curiosity piqued as you notice something clutched in his hand. Why is he carrying a letter?

“How are you doing?” he inquires, and you respond with a bitter chuckle. Can’t he see how you’re doing? You’re well aware of your appearance, having been reminded by your sister that you look like a mess. The truth is, you’re consumed by a constant sadness, and you’ve exhausted all your energy trying to conceal it.

“I feel like shit,” you admit, opting for raw honesty because pretending otherwise seems futile. Jungkook knows you well, understands the depth of your pain stemming from the breakup with his brother.

He offers you a reassuring smile, closing the distance between you as he gently places the white envelope on the table. Your eyes drift down to it, and you immediately recognize your name scrawled across it in familiar handwriting—it’s Jimin’s.

“This is from my brother,” he murmurs, his nerves palpable as he scratches the back of his head, causing you to shift your gaze between him and the letter, your mind racing with anticipation. What could possibly be contained within? Will it offer solace or inflict further pain? The uncertainty grips you tightly, leaving you on edge.

“Can’t he speak for himself?” You question, a hint of frustration seeping into your voice as your fingers hover over the letter, finally grasping it to inspect its contents.

“He’s torn about whether to give you space or not,” Jungkook confides, his voice tinged with uncertainty. “And he has no idea that I snatched the letter.”

Your eyes widen as you fix your gaze on him. “Are you sure I should read this then?” You inquire, a hint of apprehension creeping into your voice. “Maybe Jimin doesn’t want me to read it.”

Jungkook offers you a gentle smile. “It’s fine,” he reassures, his tone laced with determination. “If he gets mad, it’s on me. But you need to read it. I’m tired of seeing you both suffer like this.”

With those words, he leaves you to grapple with your thoughts and the letter, its edges slightly crumpled, a testament to the turmoil it contains. Your heart pounds in your chest, your mind weighed down by a heavy burden, and your eyes dry from the countless tears shed. You resolve to open the letter, sliding it out slowly; its handwritten contents are adorned with dried tears, each smudge a poignant reminder of the emotions woven into every word. Even before you begin to read, a lump forms in your throat, and your vision blurs with the tears welling up in your eyes.

Despite your trembling hands and the overwhelming emotions coursing through you, you summon every ounce of courage within you. With a determined resolve, you steady your gaze and immerse yourself in every heart-wrenching word penned by Jimin in his letter.

My love,

You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I love you more than words can express, and the ache of missing you is a constant companion. I’m deeply sorry for the pain I’ve caused you. No apology could ever capture the depth of my remorse for hurting you repeatedly. My heart weighs heavy with regret, and I want you to know how truly sorry I am. I wish I could undo the hurt I’ve caused. I understand that you may not be ready for motherhood, and I would never want to pressure you into anything. But I hold onto hope that we can find our way back to each other. I love you endlessly, and the thought of being apart is unbearable. I know I don’t deserve your kindness and forgiveness, but please, consider giving me another chance. You are my everything, and I long for us to be reunited. 

With all my love and remorse, Jimin

As your tears mingle with Jimin’s on the page, your heart aches with a poignant mix of love and pain. Despite the hurt he’s caused, your love for him remains unwavering, yet it’s accompanied by the uncertainty of whether you’re prepared for motherhood. However, amidst the turmoil, a flicker of hope ignites within you—maybe, just maybe, you can find the strength to be ready for that journey with him.

You sense the weight of your thoughts pressing down, suffocating you. There’s an urgency to clear your mind, to escape the labyrinth of your own making. And you know precisely what remedy awaits: a ride. Out onto the sprawling expanse of land surrounding your ranch, where the wind whispers secrets and the horizon stretches endlessly. It’s your sanctuary, your refuge from the turmoil within—a chance to lose yourself in the rhythm of hoofbeats and the vastness of the world beyond.

Typically, when you saddle up, the chaos in your mind settles, and you allow yourself to sink into the serenity of the natural world, letting the rhythm of hoofbeats replace the cacophony of thoughts.

That’s why you find yourself in the barn, carefully saddling Mikrokosmos, feeling the familiar weight of the leather in your hands, the comforting scent of hay and wood surrounding you. With each buckle tightened and each strap secured, a sense of anticipation builds within you. Leading Mikrokosmos out of the barn, you’re eager to immerse yourself in the healing embrace of nature, seeking solace in the rhythmic cadence of hoofbeats and the whispering winds.

With a steady breath, you slide your foot into the stirrup, feeling the familiar weight of your body settling into the saddle. As you swing your leg over, a surge of anticipation courses through you, mingling with the raw energy emanating from Mikrokosmos. With a gentle nudge of your heels, you coax her into motion, feeling the power of her muscles ripple beneath you as she eagerly responds to your command, propelling both of you forward into the boundless expanse of the open land.

With each rhythmic beat of Mikrokosmos’ hooves against the earth, you surrender to the wild abandon of the ride, seeking solace in the untamed beauty of the landscape unfurling before you. Away from the suffocating grip of memories and uncertainties, you allow the wind to carry away the weight of your burdens, embracing the freedom of the open horizon as you ride further into the unknown.

As the wind weaves through your hair, its gentle touch whispers a symphony of freedom, entwining with the rhythmic melody of Mikrokosmos’ hooves tearing through the earth. With each stride, she paints the landscape with her fervent dance, sending plumes of dust swirling into the air. In the harmony of nature’s cadence, your spirit soars, liberated from the weight of doubt and longing. Each thunderous beat of her hooves resonates with the pounding rhythm of your heart.

Surrendering to the rush of wind and the pounding of hooves, you relinquish the burdens that have tethered your soul, allowing them to scatter like leaves in the breeze, if only for a fleeting moment.

As the sky transforms from serene blue to ominous gray, then to the cloak of night pierced by flashes of lightning, you sense the electricity in the air mirrored by Mikrokosmos’ subtle twitch, a silent acknowledgment of nature’s impending fury.

As the thunderclouds gather with ominous intent, you’re acutely aware of the danger of being caught in the open during a storm. Lost in the vast expanse, you realize with a sinking feeling that you’ve ventured too far to return before the tempest strikes. Yet, the urgency to seek shelter pushes you onward, driven by the instinct to find safety amidst the approaching chaos.

Amidst the dense foliage, you urgently guide Mikrokosmos, a steadfast companion in the tumultuous terrain. Suddenly, a deafening rumble ruptures the air, and the heavens ignite with a blinding flash. Your loyal steed startles, veering sharply as a nearby tree becomes a target for the furious lightning. With lightning’s crackle still echoing, Mikrokosmos rears in panic, jolting you from the saddle. You plummet to the earth, pain searing through your body upon impact, a harsh reminder of nature's unforgiving power. Fuck it hurts.

Mikrokosmos, wide-eyed and trembling, lingers by your side, almost like she wants to make sure you’re okay. You extend a trembling hand in reassurance, craving the solace of her presence, but as another deafening thunderclap reverberates through the sky, she recoils in terror. With a swift and panicked motion, she breaks away, vanishing into the wilderness, leaving you alone amidst the storm’s fury.

“Mikrokosmos, come back!” Your voice echoes through the wilderness, a desperate plea swallowed by the roaring tempest. With each strained syllable, you feel the weight of your fear and frustration, your heart racing in sync with her retreating hoofbeats. As you struggle to rise, the sting of pain ignites along your spine, a harsh reminder of your vulnerability amidst nature's fury. Damn it - you should have prepared her for moments like these, should have been more vigilant in her training with sudden loud noises. Now, your failure looms large, a bitter taste of remorse in the storm's relentless assault.

As the rain pours down in relentless sheets and the sky is intermittently illuminated by flashes of lightning, she finds herself lost in worry. Hours have slipped by since her sister embarked on her ride, and with each passing minute, concern gnaws at her like a persistent ache. In the midst of such tumultuous weather, her sister should have returned by now. 

Where could she be? What if something has gone wrong out there in the storm’s fury?

Anxious tendrils grip her as she leans in closer to Jungkook, her voice trembling with concern. “Kook, I’m really worried about my sister. She should have been back by now,” she confides, her words laced with a sense of urgency. Jungkook’s eyes widen in alarm, his grip tightening on the beer bottle as he absorbs her distress.

As she gazes out the window, her heart lurches at the sight of a panicked Mikrokosmos darting around the yard. “Mikrokosmos is running wild out there, but still no sign of my sister. This can’t be good,” she murmurs, urgency coloring her voice as she hastily slips into her boots and jacket. Sensing the gravity of the situation, Jungkook is right by her side, his expression mirroring her concern as they prepare to investigate.

Jessi manages to soothe Mikrokosmos, her fingers gently curling around the reins. “Easy, girl,” she murmurs, her voice a soft reassurance in the midst of the storm.

She strokes Mikrokosmos’ mane, her touch a comforting anchor in the chaos of the storm. “Easy, girl,” she whispers, her voice a soothing melody amidst the thunderous symphony. “Steady, now,” she repeats, her words a gentle plea for calmness.

She whirls around to face Jungkook, urgency etched across her features. “This isn’t good. Where’s my sister?” Her voice quivers with worry, each word punctuated by the pounding rain outside, echoing the frantic beat of her heart.

Jungkook pivots, his eyes widening at the sight of Soo-ah hurtling from her cottage. “What’s Mikrokosmos doing here alone?” His voice is laced with concern, mirroring the panic in Soo-ah’s expression.

Jessi relinquishes the reins to Soo-ah, her voice trembling with worry. “I think something has happened to my sister, otherwise Mikrokosmos wouldn’t be here alone. Can you please take her into the stables, calm her down, and we’ll search for my sister?”

Soo-ah seizes the reins with determination and offers Jessi a firm nod, leading Mikrokosmos over to the stables. Jessi’s expression is etched with concern as she turns to Jungkook, her brow furrowed in deep distress.

“Let’s go look for her, she shouldn’t be out in this weather,” With urgency etched in his voice, he clasps her hand firmly, a silent promise of support. Together, they hustle to his truck, determination fueling their actions as they race back to Bell Ranch, intent on rallying more help to find you.

They dash through the rain-drenched yard, urgency in each step as they burst into the house where Jimin, Hoseok, and Yoongi lounge in front of the TV, oblivious to the mounting concern etched on Jungkook and Jessi’s faces.

Urgency floods Jungkook’s voice as he interrupts their tranquility. “Guys, Jess’ sister is missing. We need your help to find her,” he implores, his words slicing through the calm of the room like a thunderbolt.

Jimin’s muscles tense, his expression darkening with concern as his heart quickens its pace. Yoongi springs from the couch with such urgency that he should feel lightheaded. In a synchronized rush, the trio leaps into action, snatching up their boots and jackets.

The weather outside is relentless, the midday darkness accentuated by the unyielding rain and gray skies, enveloping everything in a shroud of cold, damp chill.

Jimin’s voice cuts through the tension, his hand already reaching for the keys to his truck. “Should we split into groups of two or three?” he suggests, urgency lacing his words like a silent plea for swift action.

Jessi’s voice holds authority, her words cutting through the air like a command. “I think two are fine,” she concedes, her tone firm and resolute. “But you’re not driving.” Her finger jabs towards Jimin, swiftly snatching the keys from his grasp and passing them to Yoongi with an unyielding resolve.

Jimin’s expression shifts from disbelief to begrudging acceptance as he grapples with Jessi’s unexpected assertion. Despite his initial astonishment, a flicker of understanding ignites within him, and he obediently trails after his brother and Jessi, braving the torrential rain outside.

Yoongi and Hoseok climb into Jimin’s trusty blue truck, equipped with a walkie-talkie in hand, their fingers poised to establish a connection with Jungkook, Jimin, and Jessi in the other vehicle. As they settle in, the anticipation in the air is palpable, their shared determination driving them forward into the unknown.

Yoongi’s voice crackles over the walkie-talkie, edged with concern, as he asks, “Do we have any idea which direction she might have gone?” His words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of uncertainty, echoing the urgency of their search.

Jessi’s voice crackles with determination over the line as she directs the plan, “We’re clueless about her direction. Let’s split up – you take the eastern side, we’ll cover the western.” Meanwhile, Jungkook twists the key in the ignition, setting the window wipers to a frantic rhythm. Jimin, gripped by worry, perches on the edge of his seat in the back, craning forward over the center console to scan the rain-soaked landscape ahead.

They embark on their respective routes, traversing the treacherous terrain of the rugged hills. The landscape is unyielding, but the sturdy trucks with four-wheel drive prove to be invaluable companions. Jungkook guides their vehicle with practiced precision, a stark contrast to the frantic urgency of their previous search when Jessi was missing. This time, he maneuvers cautiously, each movement deliberate, mindful of the perilous conditions and determined to avoid any mishaps.

Jimin’s voice cuts through the tension in the truck's cabin, his impatience palpable. “Can’t you drive faster?” he urges his brother from the back seat, his anxiety mounting with each passing moment.

Jungkook’s tone carries a hint of frustration as he scuffs, “No, this terrain isn’t really made for fast driving. And relax. We’ll find her,” his words a gentle reassurance amidst the mounting worry.

Jimin huffs impatiently in the back seat, realizing there’s nothing much to do but wait until they find you. Each passing moment heightens his concern, hoping against hope that you’re safe amidst the storm and uncertainty.

Jessi turns to Jimin, her voice cutting through the tense atmosphere in the truck. “That ring you bought a while back, is it just collecting dust, or do you plan on giving it to her soon?” Her directness adds another layer of urgency to the situation, hinting at the unresolved emotions lingering between him and you.

Jungkook chuckles beside her, a brief moment of lightness amidst the tension, yet his gaze remains fixed on the rugged path ahead, emphasizing the gravity of the situation they’re in.

Jimin stumbles over his words, his voice strained with uncertainty. “I just don’t think now’s the right time,” he admits, his words tinged with the weight of recent events. “This whole thing with Deiji and then your sister breaking up with me, I don’t think it would be appropriate.” His voice trails off, the unfinished sentence hanging heavy with unspoken emotions.

She scoffs, her tone laced with incredulity. “Appropriate?” Her disbelief echoes through the cabin, challenging Jimin’s hesitation with a raw intensity.

She turns her whole body in her seat to face Jimin, her eyes ablaze with urgency. “I’m sorry, but this whole thing with Deiji is hella suspicious. And you love my sister, right? She loves you too. She’s almost sick, because she broke up with you, did you know that?” Her words hang heavy in the air, charged with a blend of concern and accusation, demanding a response from Jimin.

Jimin’s eyes widen at her words, a mix of surprise and guilt flashing across his face, but he remains silent, his thoughts swirling like a tempestuous sea, grappling with the weight of her accusations.

“She doesn’t eat properly anymore. She’s lost weight, she’s not sleeping— shall I keep going?” She crosses her arms, her voice edged with a mixture of concern and frustration. This whole thing just makes her mad. She hates seeing her favorite people hurt like this, consumed by a storm of emotions that threatens to engulf them both.

“Oh, did you know she cries herself to sleep every night?” she adds, her voice trembling with a mix of hurt and vulnerability, as if she’s revealing a secret that should have remained buried.

Jimin’s breath catches at her revelation, his eyes widening in shock. “I didn’t know,” he admits, his voice tinged with guilt and regret.

“Listen, I don’t know why she can’t talk to you,” Jessi continues, her tone a blend of frustration and concern. “But having Deiji around makes it incredibly tough for her— and I’m not suggesting you abandon her or your future child. However, finding a balance that allows space for my sister without causing her this kind of pain might be worth considering.”

“But she’s made it clear she’s not ready for kids,” Jimin murmurs, his voice barely audible over the increasingly rough terrain.

“It’s not just any kid, Jimin, it’s hers, for heaven’s sake! Can’t you see the weight of that?” she practically scolds him, her voice firm and resounding with frustration.

Jimin is rendered speechless—his mind swirling with conflicting emotions, leaving him utterly at a loss for words.

“You really hurt her when you started dating Deiji, you know. When you shut her out, assuming she was with Yoongi,” she adds, her voice laced with a raw intensity, fighting for you, voicing the unspoken turmoil you’re grappling with. “She loves you deeply, but I’m certain Deiji triggers memories she’d rather bury.” She pivots back, her tone searing with frustration. “And why the fuck would you do that? Why couldn’t you just talk to her?”

Jimin’s gaze locks onto hers, his eyes widening with a mixture of remorse and vulnerability, as if on the brink of tears. “I know I behaved poorly. I—I don’t know, I was just consumed by jealousy. I know I was petty.”

Jessi nods, her expression softening with empathy. “See, you were jealous and didn’t speak to her. Now she’s jealous and doesn’t speak to you. Do you see a pattern here?” Her words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of truth, urging Jimin to confront the echoes of his own actions.

Jimin nods, his heart heavy with a mix of gratitude and remorse, appreciating both the insight and the gentle reprimand from Jessi.

“Now. If you don’t get your shit together and talk to her, I’m going to ask your little brother to beat your ass up,”  she teases, a playful grin lighting up her face. Her hand finds its way to his thigh, a reassuring squeeze emphasizing her point. “But seriously, she’s going to be alright, and you’re going to talk to her.”

Jungkook’s laughter fills the truck cabin, and Jimin nervously bites his lip, but he nods in acknowledgment to your sister’s words. He’s well aware that he needs to have that conversation with you, even though attempts in the past have been met with avoidance on your part. It’s clear that seeing Deiji has been a trigger for you, and the realization hits him hard. He’s caused you so much pain, put you through hell, and it’s a weight he can’t carry anymore. This isn’t how it should be, and he knows he needs to find a way to make things right.

As the rain continues to pour relentlessly, the passage of time becomes a blur, lost in the rhythm of the storm pounding against the truck's windshield.

“Have you had any luck?” Jessi’s voice crackles through the walkie talkie, a lifeline in the storm, as she eagerly seeks any sign of hope or progress.

“Not yet.” Yoongi's voice cuts through the static, tinged with a hint of frustration, indicating the ongoing struggle and the uncertainty of the situation.

Suddenly, Jimin’s voice crackles with urgency, breaking the tension in the truck. “I think I see something—over there, by that bush!” His finger jabs towards a dark figure, barely discernible amidst the downpour, a beacon of hope in the relentless storm.

Jungkook steers the truck towards the figure, the engine growling with determination. As they draw nearer, their headlights cutting through the rain, the silhouette resolves into a familiar form—there you are, huddled against the elements, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, each tremble echoing their worry.

With a surge of relief, Jessi flips on the walkie talkie, her voice slicing through the storm like a beacon of hope. “We’ve found her!” Her words, charged with emotion, resonate through the static, breaking through the tension like a ray of sunlight through dark clouds.

Yoongi’s voice carries a wave of relief, cutting through the tension like a soothing melody. “Thank god,” he exhales, his words echoing the collective sentiment of the group, a chorus of gratitude amid the storm’s fury.

Despite the lingering heat, your body trembles, a stark contrast to the relentless downpour that now subsides, replaced by a calm silence broken only by the soft patter of raindrops.

In the distance, headlights cut through the gloom, bouncing over the rugged landscape, gradually growing larger and clearer. As the familiar black truck draws near, a wave of relief floods your weary and trembling form, soothing your frayed nerves.

The truck grinds to a halt just a stone’s throw away, and in an instant, three figures spill out onto the rain-soaked earth: Jungkook, your steadfast sister, and Jimin, his urgency palpable in every stride.

Jimin sprints to your side with an urgency that echoes his concern, his strides propelled by an undeniable determination. His embrace envelops you, a reassuring anchor amidst the storm. “How are you holding up?” he implores, his voice a blend of worry and relief. You offer a nonchalant shrug, masking the turmoil within. “Could be worse,” you reply, your words betraying the weight of your ordeal.

Your sister’s gaze scans you intently, her eyes mapping every contour, searching for any sign of harm. “What happened?” she inquires, her voice edged with concern. “Mikrokosmos returned without you.” Her words hang in the air, punctuated by the gravity of the situation, each syllable laden with the weight of unanswered questions and looming danger.

“The thunder spooked her and I fell off,” you explain, feeling Jimin’s firm hand pulling you upright. The words spill from your lips, mingling with the pattering rain as you recount the moment of panic and disarray.

“Any injuries?” He inquires, his eyes scanning you with the same meticulous care as your sister had done moments before. Yet, to your relief, there isn’t a single scratch or bruise to be found on your body.

“I-I just feel sore,” you manage, your voice tinged with discomfort, the chill of the rain making your words stutter slightly. Jimin immediately envelops you in his arms once more, leading you gently towards his brother’s truck. Your sister, too, lends her support, her gaze fixed on you with concern. As you glance down, you catch a glimmer from her left hand, and there, amidst the rain, you spot something sparkling.

“What’s that?” You inquire, your voice a mixture of curiosity and exhaustion as they guide you back towards the truck, their arms offering steadying support.

“What?” your sister inquires, her brows furrowing slightly as she holds the door open for you to climb into the backseat.

“That ring on your finger,” you observe, noting the flush creeping up her cheeks. She attempts to conceal her hand, but it’s too late—you’ve already caught sight of it. With gentle insistence, you grasp her hand and bring it closer for inspection. A delicate gold band adorned with a simple white stone gleams in the dim light, its beauty striking you. Glancing at Jungkook, you’re met with a tender expression, silently affirming the significance of the moment.

“You proposed to her?” You inquire, your voice catching on the brink of tears, emotions swirling within you—a mix of overwhelming joy and heartfelt sentiment.

His laughter dances in the air as he admits, “I did,” his grin radiating warmth, all while your sister playfully attempts to wrest her hand from your firm grasp.

“When did this happen?” Inquisitively, you pivot between them, anticipation lacing your voice. Their eyes momentarily break contact, drawn down to the damp earth beneath them, as if searching for the right words amidst the glistening droplets.

“A week ago,” Her admission comes in a hushed tone, tinged with a hint of regret, the weight of secrecy palpable in the air. It's as though the words have been lodged in her throat for days, finally finding release, yet carrying with them the burden of silence she bore for an entire week.

“And you didn’t tell me?” You exhale a mix of disbelief and hurt, your incredulous gaze bouncing between them like a pinball in motion. Reluctantly, you yield to Jimin and your sister's gentle insistence, allowing them to guide you into the shelter of the backseat, away from the relentless downpour. With a comforting presence, Jimin settles beside you, while your sister and Jungkook join you in the truck, cocooning you in a blend of warmth and unspoken apologies.

“We wanted to tell you,” your sister starts, her voice carrying a blend of sincerity and hesitation, mingling with the hum of the engine as Jungkook maneuvers the truck down the hill, steering back towards home.“We just didn’t want to make you sad, so I didn’t wear the ring, until today…” she continues, her eyes betraying a sadness mirrored in your own conflicted emotions. You wrestle with the complexity of her consideration, torn between gratitude for her sensitivity and the ache of your own hidden sorrow. After all, shouldn’t you be thrilled for them? Yet, beneath the surface, your heart echoes with a quieter, more personal ache, one that whispers of your own unspoken battles with sadness and despair.

“Why would you make me sad? It makes me sad that you’ve been hiding it from me,” you lament, a tinge of frustration coloring your words as you grapple with the chill seeping through your sodden attire, clinging uncomfortably to your skin. Each droplet feels like a weight, echoing the heaviness of the withheld truth, leaving you to mire in a mix of emotions, neither warm nor settled.

Sensing your shivers, Jimin swiftly sheds his jacket, enfolding you in its warmth with a tender gesture, a shield against the biting cold that had crept beneath your skin.

“I only wanted to spare you from pain,” your sister’s voice softens, regret lacing each syllable as she meets your gaze, her words heavy with remorse. “I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.”

You nod, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Despite the sadness clouding your heart, you grasp onto the flicker of happiness for your loved ones. It sucks that she didn’t tell you, but you do understand why she did it.

Your gaze shifts to Jimin, a whirlwind of unspoken words swirling within you, a thousand thoughts clamoring for attention. Each thought jostles for prominence, yet amidst the chaos, you find yourself lost in the labyrinth of your own mind, grappling with the weight of unsaid feelings, uncertain where to begin or how to articulate the storm raging within.

“Thank you for the jacket,” Gratitude tumbles from your lips for the jacket, a feeble attempt to bridge the chasm of silence that has grown between you, though its weight feels heavier with unspoken tension. There’s an unfamiliar air, thick with unresolved emotions, a palpable unease that lingers like an unwelcome guest. You’ve been avoiding him, grappling with the aftermath of your decision to end things, haunted by the specter of his past relationship and the fragility of your own heart, torn between the longing for reconciliation and the fear of further heartbreak.

“You’re welcome. And I’m sorry,” Jimin murmurs, his gaze a tender caress as he studies you intently, as if attempting to decipher the intricate layers of your being. You can’t help but wonder if he notices the shadows beneath your eyes, heavier now than before, or if he sees the telltale signs of your daily tears etched upon your swollen, puffy face. Does he perceive the subtle changes in your physique, the way your clothes hang looser, mirroring the weight of your burdened heart? In the depths of his gaze, you question if he glimpses the essence of your soul, the silent yearning for his touch, for the rekindling of his boundless love that once enveloped you in warmth and security.

“What for?” You inquire, a soft sniffle punctuating your words, yet your gaze remains unwavering, locked onto the depths of his captivating brown eyes. In that moment, a wave of longing washes over you, the realization of your own foolishness crashing against the shores of your consciousness. You’ve yearned for him in his absence, now understanding the foolishness of your pride. Love pulses within you, a beacon amidst the stormy seas of doubt, begging the question: shouldn't love be reason enough? Isn't it the only thing that truly matters in the end?

“For treating you so poorly. For every misstep, every hurtful word, every moment of silence that drove a wedge between us, for dating Deiji, for not realizing how much it all has hurt you,” he confesses, his voice a fragile whisper teetering on the edge of remorse. Tears glisten in his eyes, a testament to the depth of his regret. His trembling hand finds solace in the curve of your cheek, tenderly cupping it as if to anchor himself amidst the tempest of his emotions. You yield to his touch, the warmth and softness of his hand a balm to your wounded soul, melting away the barriers that had stood between you, allowing you to surrender to the familiar comfort of his embrace.

“I’ve been unbelievably foolish, and I’m utterly sorry,” his voice catches in his throat, the weight of his remorse evident as a tear breaks free from his lashes, tracing a silent path down his cheek. “I never meant to hurt you like this,” he confesses, each word heavy with regret. “I love you so much,” he whispers, the depth of his affection echoing in the tremor of his voice, a testament to the sincerity of his devotion.

“I know you broke up with me because you’re not ready to have kids, and I completely understand that,” his hand intertwines with yours, a lifeline in the tumult of emotions that swirl between you. His gaze searches yours, seeking understanding, seeking reassurance, maybe seeking forgiveness. “But I can’t shake the feeling that we belong together— I want you back,” he confesses, his voice a soft plea tinged with hope. “I love you, and I believe in us. I never imagined this path for us, but I truly believe we can navigate it together,” he asserts, his grip on your hand tightening as if to anchor his resolve. “And the child, she’ll have her own home with Deiji,” he adds, a note of reassurance in his voice, as if to alleviate any concerns that lingered in your heart.

“I got your letter,” you murmur, your tone laden with emotion, observing the shock that washes over his face.

“How?” His voice quivers slightly, betraying the turmoil raging within him, and a pang of guilt washes over you as you realize you probably shouldn’t have read the letter, especially since he didn’t give it to you personally.

Your gaze shifts towards Jungkook, and Jimin instinctively follows the direction of your eyes, noting the scuffs, before returning his attention to you. “I meant every word I wrote in it,” he declares, his tone unwavering despite the vulnerability in his eyes.

As you nod, waves of his love wash over you, intertwining with your own affection and flooding your veins with a warmth that knits together the fragments of your once-scattered heart.

Your heart flutters within its cage of ribs, caught in a dance of uncertainty and longing. His words resonate with you, stirring a flicker of hope in the depths of your soul, yet doubt lingers like a shadow at dusk. You’re torn, teetering on the precipice of indecision, but amidst the turmoil, one truth remains steadfast: your love for him burns unwaveringly, an eternal flame that illuminates the darkness of doubt. And in that flicker of certainty, you find solace, trusting that love, in all its complexities, will guide you through the labyrinth of uncertainty.

“Okay.” The word escapes your lips like a fragile whisper, hanging in the air like the delicate balance of a teetering scale. In the ensuing silence that envelops the truck, you observe the shift in Jimin’s expression, his features morphing into a silent query, a question mark etched upon his face, seeking to decipher the weight of your response and the myriad emotions swirling within you.

“What do you mean?” Jimin’s voice breaks the silence, tinged with confusion, his brows furrowing in bewilderment at your curt response. His inquiry hangs in the air, an invitation to unravel the enigma of your brief words, beckoning you to delve deeper into the intricacies of your thoughts and feelings.

“I want us to be together again,” you confess, your gaze locked with his, the shimmer of tears mirroring the depth of his remorse. Yet amidst the regret, his love for you radiates like a beacon, casting aside the shadows of doubt. You can’t deny the intensity of your own affection, a love that courses through your veins, unwavering and undeniable. It’s as if destiny itself has woven your souls together, an unbreakable bond that transcends time and distance, a truth you've known since the moment your eyes first met after all those years apart.

Without hesitation, Jimin closes the distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a fervent embrace. The kiss is hurried, tinged with the salt of his tears, yet you savor every moment, for his touch ignites a fire within you, reigniting the vibrant hues of your world. In the warmth of his embrace, you feel the dull ache of sadness dissipate, replaced by the kaleidoscope of emotions that accompany the return of his affection. It’s as if life’s dull monochrome has been replaced with a symphony of colors, painting your world anew.

Rekindling your relationship with Jimin has been more than just good—it’s been a revival of your soul. With him by your side, you feel whole once more, the missing piece of your heart seamlessly slotting back into place. Despite the challenges that still loom on the horizon, you find solace in the simple truth that you have each other to rely on, to support and uplift in times of need. 

As two full moons have passed, the looming prospect of Deiji’s imminent labor hangs heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the complexities that have woven themselves into your life. Despite the passage of time, your disdain for her remains unyielding, fueled by a nagging sense of distrust that refuses to be quelled. You’ve voiced your suspicions to Jimin, laying bare the unsettling behaviors that gnaw at your conscience—her reluctance to reveal the results of the paternity test, the cryptic details surrounding her medical appointments, the sudden refusal to allow Jimin to accompany her, especially after your request to see the test results. With each revelation, Jimin’s eyes begin to open to the unsettling truth lurking beneath Deiji’s facade.

A creeping suspicion takes root within you, whispering the unsettling possibility that Deiji’s claims may be nothing more than elaborate fabrications. The thought lingers like a shadow in your mind, casting doubt upon the foundation of your reality. While a part of you entertains the notion that maybe she never carried Jimin’s child at all, the implications of such deceit weigh heavily upon your conscience. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, the idea that unraveling her web of lies could potentially simplify your life, yet the thought of the devastation it would bring to Jimin is a sobering reminder of the delicate balance between truth and consequence.

In the face of adversity, you and Jimin are actively striving to strengthen your communication skills, recognizing the tendency to retreat into your own worlds when challenges arise. Both of you understand the paramount importance of articulating your thoughts and feelings openly and honestly, realizing that true connection and understanding can only flourish in the fertile soil of effective communication.

And so, you find yourself once more within the comforting confines of his home, the tantalizing aroma of dinner wafting through the air, stirring your appetite and igniting a sense of eager anticipation. As hungry as you were during your previous visit, this time the atmosphere is charged with a newfound warmth and intimacy, infusing the meal with an extra layer of significance. With each bite, you’re not only nourishing your body but also savoring the love and care that your boyfriend has poured into the culinary creation before you.

“Jimin, this looks absolutely mouthwatering,” you exclaim, your fork poised eagerly above the food, ready to indulge in the culinary masterpiece before you.

“Thanks, I hope it tastes as good as it looks,” he replies, a radiant smile gracing his features as he joins you in savoring the meal he's prepared with care.

The first bite is an explosion of flavors on your palate, a symphony of tastes that dance and mingle, leaving you craving more. It’s a culinary masterpiece, each ingredient harmonizing perfectly to create a sensation that delights every sense. This incredible man’s cooking never fails to amaze, leaving you in awe of his talent and grateful for the privilege of tasting his creations.

“I actually wanted to talk to you about something,” he interjects between bites, his expression thoughtful as he pauses to address the topic weighing on his thoughts.

Locked in a gaze brimming with boundless affection, you find yourself lost in the depths of his eyes, a silent exchange of love and understanding passing between you. With a gentle nod, you encourage him to continue, your heart swelling with anticipation for the words he’s about to share.

“I’ve been thinking about the arrival of the baby,” he begins, his eyes alight with curiosity, sparking a smile to bloom across your face in response. “Do you think we should prepare a special room for her? And where do you think she should be sleeping?”

“I believe she should start off in our room, close to us, but later she can get her own room” you propose, a smile gracing your lips as you envision the cozy arrangement.

“Hmm. Good idea. Thank you for being so cool about it and wanting to do it with me,” he expresses, his eyes shimmering with affection as he extends his hand across the table, silently inviting you to join him in this journey.

You cover his hand with yours, gently tracing circles on his skin as you speak softly, “I don’t know if I’d call it being cool, but I’m doing my best to navigate this new territory.” Despite the uncertainty looming ahead, you offer him a reassuring smile, knowing that embarking on this co-parenting journey will undoubtedly present challenges. Yet, with Jimin by your side, you feel a sense of strength and reassurance, a reminder that together, you can weather any storm.

“Well, thank you. It means everything to me,” he murmurs, his voice laden with gratitude as he leans across the table, closing the gap between you to plant a tender kiss on your lips.

You draw back slightly, your hands tenderly cradling his face, locking eyes with him as you whisper, “I love you, Jimin,” the words carrying the weight of your devotion and the promise of forever.

A warm smile graces his lips in response to your declaration, a silent acknowledgment of the deep love you share. Returning to your meal, a comfortable silence descends upon you both, enveloping you like a soft embrace, a tranquil refuge from the chaos of the world outside.

Raising your gaze, you wait patiently for his eyes to meet yours, the urgency of your words evident in your expression. “I truly believe you need to have a conversation with Deiji,” you urge, a sense of unease settling in your stomach. “There’s something off about all of this, something I can’t quite decipher,” you add, your voice laced with concern and the unspoken weight of intuition.

Jimin nods solemnly, his brows furrowing in concern. “You’re right. It’s been bothering me too. She’s been unresponsive to my texts lately,” he admits, his voice tinged with apprehension and a growing sense of unease.

“Maybe it’s time to pay her a visit and have a heart-to-heart conversation,” you propose, a gentle smile gracing your lips.

“That sounds like a good idea,” he responds eagerly, his eyes alight with determination. With a renewed sense of purpose, you both continue to savor the meal, engaging in light-hearted conversation as you contemplate the impending discussion with Deiji.

For an entire week, communication between you and Jimin has been scarce, lost amidst the whirlwind of chores and responsibilities that accompany life on your respective ranches. From dawn till dusk, your days blur together with the relentless tasks of sheep shearing, cattle herding, and countless other duties demanding your attention. Exhaustion seeps into your bones, leaving little energy for anything beyond the essential exchanges of ‘goodbye’ and ‘good morning’ shared over the phone, a stark reminder of the physical and emotional toll of your demanding lifestyles.

Tonight is one of those nights when every muscle in your body aches with weariness, longing for the soothing touch of Jimin’s hands to unravel the knots of tension and stress that cling stubbornly to your frame. The thought of sinking into the warm embrace of his oversized bathtub offers a glimmer of solace amidst the weariness, a sanctuary where the trials of ranch life can be temporarily forgotten. Despite feeling battered and bruised, the exhaustion of the day weighs heavy upon you, dragging you into the welcoming arms of sleep within mere minutes.

You’re unsure of how long you’ve been lost in slumber, but a peculiar scent and an eerie sound stir you from your rest. As consciousness slowly returns, your head feels heavy and your senses are muddled, the faint aroma of something resembling a campfire teasing your nostrils. The source of the scent eludes you, shrouded in the fog of fatigue that clouds your mind, as the haunting creak of wood contracting fills the air, sending a shiver down your spine.

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→ Author’s endnote: Thank you so much for reading! 🌸 I would very much appreciate it if you reblogged the chapter, if you liked it ✨ A small review or a comment would also mean a lot to me, and even a like. But please, don’t be afraid to let me know what you think; your kind words makes me extremely happy 💜

© @/kingofbodyrolls 2024 // Please don’t copy or repost! You are more than welcome to reblog it, leave a comment or ask me anything about the story 🥰