#humans are so fragile man it's kind of terrifying

[mssorceressupreme]

Let The World Burn

——— Pairing: Hwang In-Ho (or Young-Il) x reader

Summary: In-Ho would let the world burn for you, developing a huge soft spot and love for you, once you die in his arms, he’s determined to make sure everyone pays for it

Warnings: reader!death, angst, mentions of gunshots, daeho has ptsd, violence, swearing, mentions of blood, deaths

a/n: reader doesn’t know he’s the frontman fyi

———

The arena was a hellscape. The air smelled of gunpowder and fear, screams mingling with the deafening sound of gunfire. Shadows darted in and out of your vision as frantic players pushed past you, some tripping over fallen bodies, others using them as shields.

Every step you took felt like a battle against the tide of selfish desperation.

You clutched the heavy bag of bullets to your chest, your heart pounding wildly. Somewhere out there, Young-il was fighting, orchestrating this mess while holding together the fragile remnants of control.

Dae-ho cowered behind the bunk beds, leaning with his legs to his chest on his bunk bed, his hands trembling as he peeked out.

You’d told him to stay put, and thankfully, he listened. You couldn’t blame him for being terrified—it was every man for himself now, and his fear was written all over his face.

“Stay here,” you had told him, squeezing his shoulder as the fear and panic grew in his eyes. “I’ll find Young-il and Gi-hun. You’ll be okay, alright? I'll come back for you, you just stay put here.” You comforted, he trembled with fear, clutching his legs tighter at every gun shot.

He nodded, wide-eyed, and you’d forced yourself to turn away before the weight of the situation could settle over you. Now, pushing through the chaos, your focus narrowed. You had to find Young-il.

“Young-il!” you screamed, your voice raw as you ran through the area, running up the stairs, dodging bullets and panicked players. “Young-il!” It felt like a never-ending maze of death.

He was there, standing in the midst of the chaos like a storm given human form. His sharp features twisted in determination, his dark eyes scanning the crowd as he dodged bullets and ran from the chaos. You called out to him again, louder, but he didn’t hear you over the deafening sounds of death and desperation.

Before you could reach him, a frantic player shoved you from behind. You stumbled, dropping the bag of ammo and as you bent down to pick it up, a sharp burning pain ripped through your side. BANG! The world spun as your knees buckled. The ground was cold and unforgiving when you hit it, the bullets spilling out of the bag and scattering across the floor.

It was a surreal kind of agony, blinding and consuming. You tried to breathe, but it felt like your lungs had been punched.

Blood was warm against your hands as you pressed them to the wound, your vision blurring as tears welled in your eyes.

You tried again, your voice trembling as you whispered, “Young-il…”

Through the haze, you saw him turn, his eyes landing on you. For a moment, time froze. His face- usually so unreadable, so carefully controlled, cracked with raw emotion. Horror. Rage. Despair. He saw you.

And then he ran.

“Young-il...” you tried to say again, but the sound barely left your lips.

When he reached you, he dropped to his knees, his hands immediately pressing over yours to stem the bleeding.

“No,” he whispered, his voice shaking as his eyes darted across your body, assessing the damage.

“No, no, no! NOT HER!” His voice rose as he turned his fury to the guards, his tone sharper than a blade. “She’s not a target for fucks sake!”

His words carried the weight of command, but the guards hesitated only briefly. Young-il didn’t wait for an answer.

His focus snapped back to you, his hands trembling as he cradled you against his chest.

“Stay with me,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “Please, you have to stay with me. I can fix this. Just hold on, okay? Please.”

You blinked up at him, your breaths coming in shallow gasps. “Young-il…” His name was the only thing you could manage, but it was enough to draw his gaze back to you, his dark eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Don’t talk,” he said quickly, his hands pressing harder against your wound. “Save your strength. You’re going to be fine. I promise.”

There was a desperation in his voice that you’d never heard before, a vulnerability that broke through his steely exterior. It was almost enough to make you believe him. Almost.

A small, weak smile tugged at your lips. “You… always so serious,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted… to help.”

“And you did,” he said fiercely, his voice trembling. “You did more than enough. Just stay. Please stay!"

Your hand, slick with blood, reached up to touch his face. He flinched at the contact, but didn’t pull away. “Thank you,” you whispered. “For caring.”

“No, no, no…” His voice cracked as your hand slipped away, falling limply to your side. “Don’t you dare…” His words dissolved into a choked sob as he pulled you closer. "FUCK!" He cried aloud, rocking you gently in his arms.

The chaos around him seemed to fade into nothingness as he held you, now lifeless, his world crumbling in his arms. His tears fell freely now, staining your already bloodied clothes. He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath ragged and uneven. "My Y/N..." he whispered. "My Y/N..."

And then, the grief turned to something darker.

When he finally looked up, his face was a mask of cold fury. He laid you down gently, brushing a hand over your face to close your eyes. Then he rose, his movements slow, deliberate.

The guard who had shot you barely had time to react before Young-il shot bullet which tore through his chest. One shot. Then another. And another. Now limp, the guard fell to the ground, dead.

“Young-il” Gi-hun’s voice called, but it was drowned out by the sound of gunfire as Young-il turned his wrath on the rest. He didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate. For a mere second, you had given him a glimmer of hope, he had reconsidered his actions for a short moment in time. He even thought about ending the games and running away to take care of you, and only you. But no, now, he remembered who he truly was. The man who had once orchestrated the games with calculated precision was gone, replaced by someone unrecognisable—a man consumed by amplified vengeance and grief. A man with no mercy. A man with no heart. Every last bit of empathy, washed away.

“For her,” he muttered under his breath as he fired another shot. “For her.”

Young-il had lost everything before. But losing you? That was a wound that would never heal. For you, he would destroy it all. Let the world burn. Let them all pay.

[margeoww]

Hi Mar, idk if u write AUs but if u do, would u write one with mafia!max Verstappen where he is like super ruthless and like feared, but he’s a simp for reader? Like idk he would do anything for her and loves her so much!! Thxxx

Kings Obsession

back to my masterlist

pairing: mafia!max verstappen x reader

summary: feared by all, Max Verstappen is ruthless—except when it comes to you, his only weakness and greatest obsession.

The room was silent, the kind of silence that weighed heavy and suffocating, broken only by the faint ticking of the ornate clock on the wall. A man sat tied to a chair in the center, his face bloodied and bruised, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Around him, Max’s men stood like statues, their gazes locked on the dark figure leaning casually against the desk.

Max Verstappen.

The man’s name alone had sent shivers down the spines of countless rivals. Now, in person, he was even more terrifying. His sharp blue eyes bore into the captive, a cold smirk playing on his lips. In his tailored black suit, he exuded an air of effortless power, his very presence commanding respect and fear in equal measure.

—You thought you could steal from me. —Max said, his voice smooth but laced with steel. —And then what? Disappear into thin air?

The man whimpered, struggling to speak through the blood pooling in his mouth. —I… I didn’t mean…

Max raised a hand, silencing him instantly. —No. — he interrupted, his tone icy. —You didn’t think. That’s the problem. You took something that belongs to me, and now you think begging will save you?

The room tensed as Max pushed off the desk, his steps slow and deliberate as he circled the man. —Do you know what happens to people who cross me? —He paused behind the captive, his voice dropping to a whisper that sent chills down everyone’s spines. —They disappear. No one remembers them. No one cares.

The man’s muffled sobs filled the room. Max’s smirk widened. He didn’t need to raise his voice to assert his dominance; his presence alone was enough.

But then, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Everyone watched as Max pulled it out, his expression unreadable. The moment he glanced at the screen, his entire demeanor shifted. The coldness in his eyes softened, his lips curving into a small, almost tender smile.

—Clean this up. —he ordered his men, tossing the phone onto the desk as he walked toward the door. —And make sure he understands my generosity is not infinite.

Without sparing another glance at the trembling man, Max strode out, his mind already consumed by thoughts of you.

The moment Max stepped through the door of your shared penthouse, the weight of his world seemed to lift. The chaos and violence of his empire faded, replaced by the warmth and light you brought into his life.

You were curled up on the couch, wearing one of his oversized sweaters, a book in your hands. The soft glow of the lamp illuminated your features, and Max felt his chest tighten at the sight of you. You were his everything, the one person who made him feel human in a world that demanded he be a monster.

—You’re home. —you said, looking up with a smile that could melt glaciers.

Max crossed the room in a few long strides, dropping to his knees in front of you. He cupped your face gently, as if you were the most fragile thing in his world, and pressed his forehead to yours.

—I missed you. —he murmured, his voice a stark contrast to the cold authority he wielded just an hour ago.

You placed your hands over his, your thumbs brushing over the faint scars on his knuckles. —Tough day?

His eyes closed briefly, the weight of his decisions momentarily forgotten in your presence. —It doesn’t matter now. —he said softly, opening his eyes to meet yours. —You’re all I care about. kg

You smiled, leaning in to kiss him. It was slow and sweet, a reminder that no matter how dark his world was, there was always light waiting for him here.

But as much as you loved him, you couldn’t ignore the growing fear in your heart. Max’s world was dangerous, and no matter how much he tried to shield you from it, you knew it was only a matter of time before it came for you.

—I worry about you. —you admitted quietly, your fingers brushing through his hair.

Max’s jaw tightened. —You don’t need to. —he said firmly, his hands sliding down to grip your waist. —I’ll protect you. Always.

You wanted to believe him, to trust that his power could keep you safe. But deep down, you knew love wasn’t always enough to fend off the darkness.

And Max, for all his promises, was willing to risk everything to keep you by his side, even if it meant sacrificing himself in the process.

[lumitoiile]

☆ :  neuvillette headcanons

summary : falling in love with the hydro dragon ... happy birthday mister iudex ♡ gn! reader (no pronouns.) ╱ word count : 1.1k.

oh dear lord

neuvillette is a very reserved man, and he's long since mastered the art of keeping his feelings to himself. not that this is by choice—even after living among humans for five hundred years, he still struggles deeply with expressing himself.

which is why he finds falling in love with you to be both a wonderful blessing and a confusing curse all at once.

he's very unaccustomed to the feelings that stir inside his chest whenever he's around you. he doesn't even fully recognize what they are. but he does notice the way his gaze on you lingers longer than it should, the way his mind strays to you in his moments of quiet.

it unsettles him, this unfamiliar tug on his heart. soft yet insistent, like the rhythm of rain against a window.

he tries to rationalize it at first. he tells himself it's simply admiration, appreciation for your kindness, your wit... or perhaps the way you treat everyone with a warmth he's yet to master.

neuvillette is a logical man, after all. feelings like this aren't meant to exist in his framework of thinking.

yet despite his best efforts, the thought of you refuses to fade. he starts noticing other things, too: the way his chest tightens when you're near, how he can't quite meet your eyes without feeling an odd wave of vulnerability. in these challenging moments, he finds himself clutching his cane tightly; what's going on?

only after weeks of struggle does he finally understand these complex emotions of his. the realization, when it comes, is quiet yet profound. there's no grand epiphany or cinematic moment of clarity. it hits him like the gentlest rain, seeping into him so gradually it feels as though it's always been there.

he's in love.

and it's terrifying.

not because he doesn't want to, but because he doesn't know how. neuvillette has lived lifetimes without such a need for attachment. he's seen the fragility of human bonds, their fleeting nature, and he worries his feelings will only end in heartbreak.

but even with his fears, he can't find it in himself to step away. you've become part of him now, woven into his thoughts like the fabric of a tapestry.

neuvillette's silent admiration is subtle yet persistent—the prolonged stares, the way he finds excuses to be near you, the gentleness in his voice whenever he speaks your name.

this doesn't go unnoticed, of course, but it's still hard to tell exactly where you stand with him.

you spend countless nights second-guessing and wondering if you're imagining things. is he simply being polite? or do his gestures mean something deeper? the uncertainty becomes unbearable, like a storm you can't escape.

though there's no denying that it definitely feels like something, and it's not long before you decide the ambiguity is too much.

the confession is nerve-wracking and unsure, but your distress all but melts away when you see the look on his face. his breath hitches, his eyes are wide, and he stares at you like you're the most important person in the world.

you feel the same. and he's never felt more thrilled in his entire life.

neuvillette is horrendously awkward during the development of your relationship. he's very careful, and thoughtful to a fault, but very nervous and unsure how to navigate.

he spends an unreasonable amount of time constantly worrying about doing things right. he's always asking if he's being too distant or too clingy, if he's giving you too much affection or not enough. he's scared he'll overwhelm you or say the wrong thing.

but after some gentle reassurance on your part, he starts to warm up little by little. it starts slow; walking you home, leaving you little hand-written notes, his hand brushing against yours when you walk together.

but as he grows more comfortable, his gestures become more natural, and its not long before he's all over you. always holding your hand, pressing his lips to yours softly, holding you from behind when no one is around.

his love language is acts of service. while his vernacular is off the charts, he has a hard time finding the right words to express just how much you mean to him. so he finds ways to make your life more comfortable, even if it's just brewing your favorite tea or simply just listening to you talk about your day.

he's a busy man, but he still puts in an effort to set aside time for you. whenever there are days the opera epiclese is free of trials, he'll you out on romantic outings—whether it be a serene walk along fontaines picturesque beaches, or a quiet afternoon in a cafe, it's nice to spend these extra moments with you.

he definitely 100% makes sure you stay hydrated and often offers you a wide selection of his favorite types of water.

PDA is a no... he's fontaines honorable iudex after all, and he has an image to uphold. but he can be very touchy behind closed doors. his affection is featherlight and sweet, always sure to make you feel cherished and cared for. he loves holding your palms, leaning himself against you, cradling you close, anything as long as he gets to be near you.

he's obsessed with running his fingers through your hair.

as chief justice, neuvillette carries immense responsibilities. but emotional vulnerability doesn't come easily to him; he has a tendency to internalize things that are troubling him. but he tries his best for you, even though you often have to coax him into sharing.

he treats your happiness like a personal mission. he likes to do anything he can just to see you smile, and while gift giving isn't his area of expertise, he's not above leaving you fresh bouquets of romaritime flowers before he has to head off to work.

neuvillette isn't overbearing, but he has a natural instinct to shield you from harm. whenever you walk together, he always positions himself on the side closest to the street, and his hand hovers near your back in crowded spaces.

if anyone dares insult you or cause you harm, his polite veneer is quickly replaced by something much colder and more commanding. his voice sharpens, his eyes narrow, and he ensures the offender knows exactly how out of line they are.

sometimes he worries about the differences between you two—his immortality and your mortality—but he makes it clear that he deeply cherishes every moment he spends with you. "time is fleeting," he once told you. "but my love for you is not."

he just adores you, and cares for you intensely. the way he listens, the way he holds you close... his love is steady and endless, like the rain that sustains fontaine.

© lumitoiile. please do not copy, steal, or edit my work.

[betweenstorms]

Simon Riley was always leaving.

It was the only constant in his life, deployment after deployment, mission after mission, the door closing behind him with the weight of silence, like clockwork. It was as ingrained in him as breathing.

He’d told you from the beginning that he wasn’t made for relationships. He wasn’t the type to just settle down, not with the kind of life he led.

Simon Riley—Ghost was a soldier first, always a soldier before anything else. He was bound to the duty that pulled him into the abyss time and again. Because he was a soldier before a lover, before a companion, before a man. And yet, there you were, lying beside him, not quite lovers, not quite strangers, but something in between.

It wasn’t a relationship, but it wasn’t a situationship either. It was a careful balance. It lingered in the spaces where definitions blurred.

It had started as something undefined, a hookup, a shared space in the aftermath of violence, when the weight of the world seemed to press down on his chest. But somewhere between his departures and returns, something soft had taken root.

The late-night calls after deployments, the sound of his rough voice like a whispered poem in the dark, tethered him to you when he was miles away. His touch, when he was home, lingered longer than it should have, fingers brushing your skin as if searching for something he couldn’t name, something neither of you dared say aloud. And in those fleeting moments of reunion, when his hazel eyes found yours, you could see it—longing, a tenderness that spoke of something more, something that never quite fit into the boundaries of what you were, but hovered just beyond, waiting.

Still, he never stayed.

From the moment you first let him into your life, into your bed, there had been an unspoken understanding between you.

Simon Riley wasn’t the kind of man you introduced to your mother over Sunday dinner. He wasn’t the kind you built a future with. He had told you as much—not relationship material, he’d said in that low, gravelly voice of his, the one that always seemed to carry the weight of unsaid things.

But that didn’t stop him from coming back.

Maybe it was the way you laughed when you were trying to hide your nerves, the way you teased him lightly without ever pushing too far. Maybe it was how, in the silence of your shared moments, you never demanded anything more than his presence. Whatever it was, it tugged at him, an unfamiliar gravity pulling him closer to you when he knew better than to get too close to anything.

There was something about you that made him want to stay.

A pull he couldn’t quite ignore, an instinct deep within him that whispered it was okay to rest beside you. You made him feel human. And that was dangerous. That terrified him more than any enemy he had ever faced.

It was a cold winter night, the kind where the world outside seemed frozen in place, as if time itself had stopped. The two of you were lying under a heavy blanket, the warmth of your bodies a sharp contrast to the chill that clung to the windows.

Simon had a cigarette between his fingers, the soft glow of the ember casting a faint light across his scarred face. You were curled up against him, your skin pressed to his, naked and warm, though the intimacy wasn’t just in the closeness of your bodies, it was in the silence between you, the quiet acceptance of this fragile connection. You watched him in the dimness, the lines of his jaw sharp against the shadows, his hazel eyes half-lidded as he exhaled the smoke slowly, deliberately.

You’d asked him before to stay—jokingly, of course.

It had always been a game, a playful tease, because you knew he would never agree. He had always brushed it off, his silence the answer you always expected. He was good at keeping himself distant. However, something in the cold of the night felt different. You felt a shift in the air, a gentle tension that lingered between you like the first breath before a confession.

So, you asked him again, your voice soft but joking. “Would it be too desperate to ask you to stay? Just this once? Please.”

You didn’t expect an answer.

Usually, Simon brushed it off, deflecting with a grunt, a noncommittal sound, something that left the question hanging unanswered in the air. He didn’t do relationships, he didn’t do staying. It wasn’t who he was. He wasn’t built for it. So you thought he’d just ignore you, like he always did, maybe pull you closer and kiss the question away.

But tonight, he didn’t do any of that.

He exhaled slowly, the smoke slipping from his lips like a secret too heavy to keep. His eyes, usually so guarded, so unreadable, turned to you, and there was something different in his dark gaze—something softer, something almost vulnerable. His hand, rough and calloused, reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face, the touch so gentle it sent a shiver down your spine. He looked at you for a long moment, as if weighing his next moves carefully.

Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he answered you.

He was going to stay.

It wasn’t a grand gesture, not a sweeping declaration or an outpouring of affection. It was Simon Riley in his purest form.

A simple nod, small but extremely significant, heavy with meaning that stretched far beyond words. It was a promise unspoken, a shift in the very foundation of who he was. His hazel eyes locked onto yours, and in that quiet acknowledgment, you felt the pressure of it settle between you.

For the first time, you felt the weight of his presence in a way that wasn’t heavy with the threat of departure. He was here, and he was staying, not because he had to, not because you asked, but because he wanted to. And that, more than anything, filled you with a warmth that outshone the cold night outside.

betweenstorms (next) (masterlist)

[mintyys-blog]

Allow me to be the first to request a thragg with wife reader.

Kinda like ,,, tall man weak w short woman trope maybe . But in thraggs own way ofc

TO CARRY HIS NAME | thragg x wife! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS: pregnancy, jealousy, toxic relationships,

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work (AI generated or otherwise) without my permission. @mintyys-blog

Your feet barely made a sound on the cold Viltrumite metal floor, your stature a stark contrast to the towering figure beside you. You walked a half-step behind Thragg—not out of fear, but by habit. It was the rhythm of your lives: him commanding, conquering, claiming, and you… enduring.

The other females, the blue, multi-limbed creatures bred for nothing but reproduction, clicked and hissed when he passed them. Some dared to touch his cape as he strode past. One even bowed, her thorax bulging with his child.

Your stomach curled.

You kept your chin high.

It wasn’t jealousy. Not in the soft, romantic way humans understood it. It was hatred. They were lesser beings, and yet they were given what should have been yours. The opportunity to carry his legacy. You weren’t Viltrumite enough. Not in their eyes. Not even in his.

But you were his wife. And that meant something in its own dark, tangled way.

He never looked at them like he looked at you in private—when the warships docked, and the moons were quiet, and you were beneath him in your shared quarters, his hand splayed over your much smaller body like you were something fragile and feral at once.

He never kissed them. He didn’t need to. But he kissed you.

You bore only one child, you bore his wrath, his silence, his cold affection. You bore his pride.

And sometimes, you bore his gentleness. The rare, terrifying kind that came after his rage—when he’d cradle your head against his chest and murmur, “You are mine.”

You never spoke ill of the others. You never asked. You knew better.

But Thragg noticed.

When your fingers would tighten against his arm as one of the insects approached.

When you turned your face ever so slightly to avoid seeing their swollen bellies.

When your voice turned icy with perfect civility—never a single insult, but every syllable dipped in venom.

And still, he let them live. Because he needed the offspring. Because you needed to remember your place. But gods help the day one of them touched you. He crushed her without blinking.

“You misunderstand your worth, little one,” he had said to you that night, brushing your cheek with a knuckle that had just torn through bone and carapace. “They carry my blood. You carry my name.”

You didn’t speak.

You only curled your fingers into the silk at his waist, as if to remind yourself—and him—that you were still there. That you always would be.

Even if it killed you.

It always started the same.

You’d see him standing above the hatchery. Watching the infants—dozens of them—wriggle in sterile cradles. Not his. Not really. Half his genes, bred by his command, but none held in his arms.

He never held yours, either.

Your son, now nearly grown, was built like his father and quiet like you. Sharp, dutiful, and alone. You saw him sometimes, in the dark corners of the citadel, bloodied and bruised from training. You pressed trembling hands to his cheeks, whispered how proud you were, how sorry. And every time, he looked at you like he was waiting for you to disappear.

Just like Thragg did.

He never said your son’s name.

But back then—when he knew you might die from carrying that child—Thragg had hovered at your side like a wraith. He crushed enemies with one hand and tucked blankets over you with the other. His palm lingered on your stomach every night. His fury softened into something sharp and sacred.

And then it was over.

And you lived.

And he… left.

He still returned to you at night. Took you in the way only Thragg could—possessive, all-consuming. But never with the intention of creating life.

You knew.

You saw how he checked the dosage of every implant. How he made sure your cycle never aligned. How careful he was not to leave anything behind.

But now—now you had skipped.

Once. Then twice.

Your hands shook as you tested yourself in silence.

Positive.

You didn’t know whether to scream or fall to your knees in prayer.

Because this—this could kill you.

But maybe it would make him look at you again the way he did before. With worry. With hands that held instead of hurt. Maybe this would make him say your name with something other than cold reprimand. Maybe he’d touch your belly again. Maybe he’d sleep beside you, wake up for your cries in the night.

Maybe he’d stop looking through you like a ghost. You clutched the test so hard it cracked.

You wouldn’t tell him right away. Not yet. You needed to wait. Until the symptoms were too obvious. Until he had to care. Until it was too late for him to erase it.

You practiced your smile in the mirror. The same one you wore around the blue concubines. The one he praised for its composure.

Behind it, your heart beat faster than it had in years.

Because finally, finally, Thragg would have no choice but to see you again.

And maybe, just maybe… he’d stay.

It wasn’t supposed to be today.

You weren’t ready. You hadn’t gained enough weight. You hadn’t figured out how to phrase it—how to turn it into something undeniable, untouchable, something he couldn’t erase.

But Thragg noticed anyway.

You were dressing when he stepped into your quarters, fresh from a campaign. His armor still dusted with gore. His cape torn at the edge. You felt him before you saw him—like a shadow falling over the sun.

His voice cut the air behind you.

“You’re pregnant.”

You froze mid-motion, tunic half-pulled over your shoulder. Your fingers trembled against the fabric. You hadn’t said a word. You hadn’t told anyone.

How did he know?

You turned slowly. “Thragg, I—”

“How far?”

The way he asked it—flat, clinical, almost offended—made your stomach twist. You reached for steadiness, kept your hands folded in front of your lower belly like instinct would protect you.

“Six weeks.”

His jaw clenched.

“And you said nothing.”

You swallowed. “I was waiting. I wanted to be sure.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer, towering. “You were waiting for it to be too late. For me to be unable to stop it. You think I wouldn’t notice?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t deny it either.

Because it was true.

Thragg looked at you like he was trying to see through you. See the plan. See the trap.

“This is not strategy, wife. This is suicide.”

The words hit you harder than his fists ever had. You blinked back the sting behind your eyes.

“I survived last time,” you whispered. “Barely.”

“And you would risk it again? Why?” His voice broke on that last word—not loudly, but with the frayed edge of something not quite human. Not quite Viltrumite, either.

Because he knew why. Because when you were pregnant, he stayed. He touched you. He worried. He loved. At least… it had felt like love.

You stepped toward him now, small hands reaching for the crimson fabric at his chest. “Because it was the only time you looked at me like I mattered.”

That made him still. Entirely. He didn’t speak. Didn’t push you away. He only stared down at you—at the crown of your head against his sternum, your breathing uneven. And when he finally moved, it was to place one hand over your stomach. A slow, dangerous touch. Protective. Possessive.

“I will not lose you,” he murmured. “Not for sentiment.” Not for this child, he meant. Not for you. And yet… his hand didn’t move. You felt it tremble.

The garden was the only place in the citadel that didn’t feel like it belonged to Thragg.

Soft soil. Delicate things.

Things that grew.

You sat on the low stone bench, hand resting absentmindedly against your stomach. The blooms here were pale and trembling, barely surviving in artificial light. But you watered them. You spoke to them. And somehow, they lived.

Just like you had.

“Mother.”

You didn’t turn at first. You knew that voice.

You smiled faintly, eyes still on the vine curling up the wall.

“Samuel,” you said, voice warmer than it had been in days. “I was wondering when you’d come.”

He stepped into view. Tall as Thragg already, but none of his father’s presence. His shoulders bore it—expectation, pressure—but his eyes were yours. Gentle. Tired.

“I heard…” he hesitated. “About the news.”

Your fingers stilled.

You looked up at him—really looked—and you saw it.

Fear.

Not for you. But of what it meant. Of what would happen next. You stood, slower than usual, the shift in your body already making you lighter and heavier at once.

“It’s true,” you said. “I’m with child again.”

He stared at you a long moment, mouth tightening.

“Why?”

A simple word. But the weight in it cracked through you.

“Because I wanted to be seen again,” you said softly. “Because I was tired of being left behind.”

“He doesn’t deserve you.” The words came out before he could stop them.

Your eyes widened. He never spoke like that. Not about his father. Not out loud.

“Samuel—”

“He left you to raise me alone. He never even looked at me unless it was to correct my stance or tell me I was slow. But when you were pregnant? He was there. And now—what? You’re hoping it’ll bring him back?”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. Because yes. You reached for him—not to reprimand, not to silence—but to hold his face like you had when he was smaller. Before the training. Before the distance.

And to your surprise, he let you. Your thumbs traced the edges of his cheeks. You looked up at him like he was still your baby boy.

“I don’t expect anything,” you whispered. “But I wanted something that was mine. Something he couldn’t take. And I… I wanted you to have someone.”

His brows furrowed. “I had you.” You smiled, tears threatening behind your lashes. “And now you’ll have a sibling.”

He didn’t smile back. But his hand came up, slowly, to cover yours where it pressed to his cheek. “If he hurts you again… if this pregnancy—”

“He won’t,” you said, with a certainty you didn’t feel. “Because if he does, I’ll leave. I’ll find a way. And you’ll come with me.”

His expression broke—just a little. And for the first time in years, he stepped forward and held you. Not as a soldier. Not as a weapon in training. But as a son.

PART TWO

[doumadono]

V - THE ABSOLUTE PIECE

Summary: you faced the terrifying reality as the tests clearly confirmed just how unique your blood was. Overwhelmed by the truth, you made the decision to flee, desperate for a moment of solitude to reconsider not only the events of the past few days but the very path your life had just taken. You returned to the hideout where you had once lived, seeking refuge in the crumbling remnants of your past. But little did you know, someone had already been searching for you...

Warnings: vampires, vampire Dabi, vampire Hawks, rebellion leader Aizawa

WCT: circa 1.9k

𖥸 SANGREAL - previous chapter 𖥸 chapter VI (to be added) 𖥸 SANGREAL - playlist 𖥸 MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST - PART II

The silence in Aizawa’s office was unnatural. It didn’t hum with peace or comfort. It was the kind of quiet that preceded something terrible, something irreversible — a kind silence that waited to be shattered.

Every breath you took felt shallow, edged with unease, your pulse a traitorous, frantic drumbeat in your ears.

The parchment lay between you and Aizawa like a loaded gun, its contents far heavier than the fragile paper could bear.

You stared at it.

The words swam before your eyes, each syllable a cruel puzzle you refused to piece together.

“Your blood is unique,” Aizawa said at last, his voice even, measured, but there was an undertow of something serious.

Something terrifying.

Your fingers twitched, digging into the fabric of your sleeve. “I—” The word withered in your throat before it could form. You tried again. “No.”

Aizawa’s gaze was unwavering. “Yes.”

Your stomach lurched. “That’s not possible.”

“It is.”

You barely breathed. “It’s not possible.” Your words felt like they belonged to someone else. “I’m no one.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, desperate, a plea wrapped in denial. “I’ve always been nobody. I’m just— just another piece of debris in this world. One more person waiting to be swallowed whole. That’s what we all are now.”

Aizawa exhaled, slow and deliberate. “You were never no one,” he muttered. “And now, you might be the only one who can change things.”

Your stomach twisted. You wanted to deny it, wanted to tear the words apart before they could take root in your mind.

But Aizawa wasn’t finished.

“Your blood fights the virus,” he continued, voice grim. “It not just resists the virus — your blood fights it. The infection that turned people into vampires? It should have touched you by now. It should have started breaking you down. But it hasn’t.” He tapped a finger against the paper on the table. “Your blood is pure. It’s like a fragment of what humanity was before this all started.”

Your heart pounded.

“So what?” you snapped, something bitter, desperate curling in your throat. “That doesn’t change anything. Vampires still rule the world. Humans are still dying.” Your nails dug into your palms. “This won’t save anyone.”

Aizawa’s dark eyes hardened.

“It could,” he said, the quiet weight of his words sinking into the cracks of your disbelief. “If there’s a way to replicate it, to understand its nature — this could be what we need to fight back.”

You clenched your jaw, shoving away the sick, sinking feeling clawing its way into your chest. “What if I don’t want to be part of your cause?”

Aizawa’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then you’re a fool.”

Something inside you snapped.

“I never asked for this,” you hissed. “I never wanted to be anything more than what I am. Do you even hear yourself? You’re putting everything on me like I’m some— some fucking cure.”

The words felt like poison spilling from your lips, but you couldn’t stop them.

“I’ve seen what the world is, Aizawa,” you sighed, voice shaking. “I’ve watched it rot. Humans aren’t going to win. This isn’t some noble fight for survival. It’s the last flickering moments before inevitable extinction.”

A silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

Then — Aizawa sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose like a man who had lived too long, seen too much. “I used to be a hero,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Before the Night of Ash.”

You froze.

His voice was steady as he continued, “I was a professional hero,” he told you, looking at you again. “I dedicated my life to protecting people. To saving them.” His fingers twitched slightly at his sides. “I watched the world crumble. I saw people burn, saw heroes fall. But I didn’t stop.”

Another breath. Another pause.

“And I won’t stop now.”

His voice was steel, cutting through the weight of your denial like a blade.

He straightened, stepping closer, towering over you with that unyielding presence of a man who refused to let the world break him. “I don’t care if you believe in this or not,” he claimed. “But the truth doesn’t care what you believe. Sangreal will come for you. The moment they realize what you are, you’re dead. And oh, they will. I'm absolutely certain they've already heard about the mercy Dabi granted you.”

The words settled like ice along your spine.

“They will hunt you,” Aizawa continued, slow, methodical, as if carving each syllable into the marrow of your bones. “They will rip this entire Dreg apart if it means getting to you.”

Your throat closed.

The reality of it pressed down on you like chains of suffocation.

You didn’t want to be a part of this. You never wanted to be a part of anything. And suddenly, you couldn’t breathe.

The walls felt too close, the ceiling too low, the lantern light too dim, too fragile, like it might be swallowed by the dark at any second.

Your chair scraped against the stone as you stumbled to your feet. “I need— I need air.”

Aizawa didn’t move to stop you.

But as you turned, his voice followed. 

“You might not believe in us,” he murmured. “But the Sangreal will believe in you.”

You left the chamber, leaving Aizawa behind.

But his words clung to you like thick, suffocating mud, seeping into every fiber of your being, just as the mire clutches at fabric when one falls helplessly into a swamp.

You moved like a shadow, slipping through the winding tunnels of the rebellion’s hideout until the air grew colder, the lantern lights faded, and the weight of the underground began to give way to the ashen sky above.

No one noticed you leave. Or so you thought.

The moment Hawks touched down in the safe zone, his golden-black eyes sharp with an unreadable intensity, he knew exactly where to go. He walked with purpose toward Aizawa’s office, his red wings fluttering briefly, sending a soft flurry of ash to the ground as he entered. “She’s gone, hasn’t she?” Hawks’ voice was laced with a quiet, almost bitter certainty. His gaze flickered briefly to Aizawa as he spoke with a piercing look. "You really should be better at keeping track of important people, Eraserhead."

Aizawa’s jaw clenched, his hand instinctively rising to rub the bridge of his nose. The weight of the situation was pressing down on him more than he was willing to admit. “She left after hearing the truth. I’m certain she went to her chamber,” Aizawa replied, his tone tight, his usual composure slipping for just a moment.

Hawks stepped further into the room, his expression hardening. “She was near the entrance earlier,” he admitted, his voice flat. “So I came straight here to let you know.”

Aizawa’s hand dropped to the desk, the tension radiating from his body unmistakable. His breath came out in a sharp exhale as his eyes darted to the door.

Recovery Girl, who had been standing quietly by Aizawa’s side, let out a soft, frustrated sigh. Her voice was gentle but carried an unspoken weight. “She’s scared, Shota,” she murmured, her eyes downcast as she placed a hand on Aizawa’s shoulder.

Aizawa’s fists clenched, his jaw tight enough to crack. His gaze locked on Hawks. "Keigo," he growled, his voice icy. "Find her."

Hawks nodded as he prepared to leave. 

But Aizawa wasn’t done.

His eyes flashed with a cold fury, his sneer cutting through the tension like a knife. "And when she gets back," he continued, his tone dark and full of venom, "I swear to God, I’ll lock her ass in her chamber and keep her there until the end of time."

“Shota…” Recovery Girl started but he silenced her by raising his hand.

Aizawa’s fingers curled into a fist on the edge of the desk, his teeth gritted. “She’s a liability,” he muttered, his words cold and calculated. But even as he said it, a deeper, more gnawing feeling coiled in his stomach — a feeling that only grew more pronounced with every passing second.

Because you weren’t just a liability.

No, you were far more than that.

You were the most important piece in this entire game. And apparently, you had slipped out of the safe zone, heading straight into the unknown.

The world outside the safe zone was a corpse, the remnants of humanity rotting beneath the rule of creatures who no longer needed the sun.

You had nowhere else to go. So you went back to the place you lived in before the accident with low-class vampires.

The ruined flat hadn’t changed. The walls were still crumbling, the furniture still broken, the windows still shattered.

It was exactly how you had left it — a graveyard of broken furniture, shattered glass, and long-dead plants.

You slipped inside, stepping over the wreckage of what used to be a cabinet, ignoring the familiar ache in your chest.

Your barricade was still there. A worn-out sofa, an overturned armchair, pieces of wood you had dragged from the wreckage of other rooms.

You curled up behind it, pressing your back against the cold wall, pulling your knees right under your chin. 

But sleep wouldn’t come.

Your thoughts swirled, your heartbeat thrumming like a war drum against your ribs. You stared at the decrepit wall on the other side of the room.

Everything that had happened in the past few days felt like a fever dream.

A former Sangreal Hunter had saved you.

You were different.

Sangreal would come for you.

Your hands trembled.

Then — a sound pulled you straight out of thoughtfulness.

A shift. A creak.

Something moving on the staircase a floor below.

Your breath hitched, and you froze.

A floorboard creaked.

The footsteps were slow. Deliberate. Closer and closer.

Your stomach twisted, your entire body locking up as pure, primal fear shot through your veins. Your pulse pounded. Your breath came too fast. Your body screamed to run, to hide, to disappear.

Then another sound.

Your hands clasped over your mouth, muffling your breathing. Your heartbeat slammed in your ears, wild, panicked, like an animal caught in a cage. You moved before you could think, crawling under the rotting bed, pressing yourself flat against the cold, dirty floor.

The footsteps reached the door of your hideout.

There was a heartbeat of silence.

And then—

Fire. 

A sudden whoosh of blue flames, searing hot, deadly, engulfing the barricade you had built.

The sofa and armchair disintegrated instantly, turning to blackened ash in the blink of an eye.

You let out a soft whimper, certain that this was the moment of your inevitable end.

Smoke curled upward, licking the ceiling like the tendrils of a waking nightmare.

A figure stepped through the embers, tall, lean, wrapped in shadow and dying embers. Boots crunched against the charred remnants of your last defense.

Then came a voice, low, rough, yet smooth like silk caught on the edge of a blade, and way too familiar. “You’re an idiot if you thought I wouldn’t find you. I could smell your blood from miles away.”

Shattered glass crunched beneath heavy boots as the figure moved — slow, unhurried, like a hunter savoring the final moment before the kill. Then, with the grace of a predator, the person crouched, leaned down, and peered beneath the bed.

There he was.

Dabi.

He was grinning, with a glint in his mesmerizing, turquoise eyes that said, without mercy or question, that he had found exactly what he was looking for.

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[jude457]

So I’ve been getting a lot of asks lately questioning my characterisation of Inho, and I figured it’s time I just lay it all out. Here’s how I personally interpret his character, and how I view his relationship with Gihun.

To me, Inho is a deeply broken and traumatised person. Not just morally conflicted, but someone who’s spent years building a carefully controlled facade. Underneath the precision and control is someone who harbors a deep resentment for humanity, a philosophy born from intense personal suffering and emotional isolation.

Returning to the Games to become the Frontman wasn’t a power grab—it was a form of emotional self-destruction. A kind of psychological self-harm. He built an identity where he could carry out the unthinkable by pretending it wasn’t really him doing it. He’s compartmentalised so heavily that he views the Frontman and Inho as separate people. A shield. A way to detach from the horrors he’s enforcing. Inho is the man behind the trauma; the Frontman is the role he steps into so he can function within a system that destroyed him. It’s all about control and surviving by suppressing what’s left of his humanity.

His relationship with the VIPs is not one where they are equals or where there is an inkling of respect—far from it. While Il-nam was a peer to them, Inho has always been a player. Player 132. Just another body who survived. To the VIPs, he’s not a partner in their cruelty—he’s a well-dressed dog they keep on a leash. I headcanon their relationship as one that’s exploitative, abusive, and dehumanising. They exert control over him in every way, including sexually, because they don’t see him as a person, just a tool. Just dirt.

And Inho survives that, too, by dissociating. He tells himself it’s happening to the Frontman. That this is the price of keeping them entertained. Keeping them happy. He can endure anything if he keeps believing it isn’t really happening to him.

And then there’s Gihun.

Gihun is the one person who disrupts all of that. He’s proof that pain doesn’t have to rot you from the inside out. That empathy and defiance can survive. Gihun becomes this accidental mirror to Inho’s own buried innocence—something I like to believe Young-il represents. A ghost of who he used to be. The version of him that might have believed in people before everything broke. And without meaning to, Gi-hun speaks to that part of him. Gi-hun becomes the embodiment of an idea Inho no longer believes in: that suffering doesn’t always destroy, that people can still choose kindness in hell.

Which brings me to their relationship.

I love the idea that their dynamic flips post-canon. Gihun, after everything he’s been through, carries this weight of grief and guilt for the people he couldn’t save. He becomes quieter, more guarded. Meanwhile, Inho—freed from the mask—starts to feel again. He’s almost childlike in how he approaches love, like someone experiencing it for the first time. He’s giddy, awkward, overwhelmed. There’s a tenderness to him that he’s terrified to express but desperate to hold onto.

But that tenderness—what Inho starts to feel around Gihun—it terrifies him. Because it’s unfamiliar. It’s fragile. And deep down, he doesn’t believe he deserves it.

Inho is someone who has learned to equate intimacy with danger. Submission, control, violence—those are the currencies he knows. Love? That’s alien. And more than that, it feels like a trap. So as their bond deepens, he does something tragic: he tries to twist it. To make Gi-hun hurt him. To turn their closeness into punishment.

He’ll push. He’ll provoke. He’ll offer himself up not as a man who wants love, but as one who wants to be used. Because that, at least, he understands. That, at least, makes sense in the broken framework he’s built to survive. If Gihun hurts him, then maybe the guilt becomes manageable. Maybe it justifies everything Inho has done. Maybe it makes it easier to believe he can’t be forgiven.

But the tragedy is—Gihun won’t play into that script.

Gihun sees the cracks. He sees the pain beneath the bravado. And even though he’s carrying his own unbearable grief, he refuses to become Inho’s executioner. He won’t give him that out. He doesn’t offer redemption through punishment—but through presence. Through patience. Through refusing to stop seeing him.

He touches Inho with intention, with care. And that’s what makes it so much harder. Because being touched gently doesn’t just feel unfamiliar—it feels dangerous. His body remembers what he worked so hard to forget. Every soft moment risks unearthing something he locked away.

Sometimes Inho flinches at things that aren’t threats. Sometimes he pulls away when he wants nothing more than to lean in. Sometimes Inho weeps and doesn’t know why. Sometimes he shakes under the weight of a kiss. Sometimes he begs without words for it to stop—not because it hurts, but because it doesn’t. And that makes it harder than anything. And sometimes—worst of all—he tries to recreate the conditions of his own abuse. He offers himself up like he’s disposable, hoping Gihun will use him. Hurt him. Confirm his worthlessness.

Because if someone like Gihun—someone who has every reason to walk away—can still choose to stay, to try, then maybe Inho has to face the scariest truth of all: that love might not be something he has to earn through suffering. That maybe—just maybe—he’s still capable of being loved as he is.

While I do enjoy reading bottom!Gihun/top!Inho dynamics (and there’s some really great writing out there that explores that side of them in compelling ways), when it comes to how I personally write them, I’ll always lean toward Inho as the bottom.

For me, it’s not just about preference—it’s about what it means for his character.

Inho is someone who’s spent so much of his life exerting control or being controlled in dehumanising, painful ways. His entire existence—especially as the Frontman—has been defined by rigidity, repression, and survival. So when I write him as the one giving up control, it’s not about dominance or submission in a traditional sense—it’s about catharsis.

It’s about him choosing to be vulnerable. About letting someone else take the lead not to hurt him, not to punish him, but to give him something. To care for him. To make him feel good. That, in itself, is radical for someone like him.

To be at the mercy of someone else—not for violence, but for pleasure—is the clearest way I can express how his relationship with Gihun is healing. It’s not about erasing his trauma. It’s about rewriting the narrative. About allowing his body to become a place of comfort, safety, and intimacy again.

[piratefishmama]

Just ONE chance | Part 1

Eddie Munson was only certain about one thing in his life, and that was that it was supposed to end in his twenties.

But it didn’t.

Thanks to a very dedicated swimsuit model with first aid training, a kick up the backside from Wayne, and a solid year long stint in rehab, Eddie Munson did not die at 23 years of age, when he fell, system full of drugs, into a pool head first from the pool house roof and didn’t QUITE stick the landing.

His head hit the edge of the pool, dyed the water a sickly red.

He still had the scar, he knew he was infinitely lucky that that was ALL he had, but that scar remained forever, buried beneath the mass of curls atop his head where they’d had to operate to reduce the swelling. A terrifying reminder that life was fleeting, and fragile, and god he could have died.

He could have wound up paralyzed, he could have wound up permanently disabled needing round the clock care, could have wound up as ANYTHING but perfectly healthy. Doctors said he must have had some kind of exhausted guardian angel looking out for him because a miracle was really all they had to describe it as.

Eddie gave a toast of apple juice to the terribly drab ceiling of his private hospital room, thanked his mother who’d long since passed for her life saving help because honestly who else would it have been, and then, after that kick up the backside from Wayne, not that it was needed but it was appreciated, he proceeded to fix his life.

Of course, the rockstar life wasn’t easily fixed, but he was a man on a mission. A man with a life he realised that he actually wanted to live.

Corroded Coffin hit fame early, they struck what initially appeared to be gold at some back ally dive bar in Indy, a guy, a fancy embossed business card, a label, words of promise like roses hiding thorns. It was all flashing lights and good times at first. They were thrust upon massive stages to crowds mostly paid to be there to make it look ‘packed,’ label never told them that, they’d told them they’d put their material out on the air and people had responded well, half-truths really. They had gotten the music out there, but the people hadn’t really come until those packed venues hit the magazines.

Everyone wanted to be part of the next big thing. The up and coming next big name in the music industry, already selling out shows!

They were stars, they were famous, they were puppets on strings being pulled this way and that, given alcohol and drugs and thrust into the limelight to dance a jig that’d keep them relevant, not for their music but for their mess.

How very entertaining a human can be when they’re not fully coherent, when they exist purely to make a mess of themselves.

He’d lost himself, his bandmates lost themselves, and only through him not dying did they finally realise that somewhere along the way things had gone so terribly wrong, only then did they finally realise that those perfumed words said in a dank bar back in Indy those years ago, were just well masked poison all along.

They spent two years of their lives after Eddie emerged from Rehab, two years and frankly way too much of the money they’d risked their very lives to earn, to free themselves from the web of legal bullshit their label had ensnared them in.

But they were free. Sure, some of their old material was lost, claimed by their old label, but a quick rerecord, few changes here and there and a solid re-release under their own, self-made label, Corroded Records, well. They weren’t too worried about the future after that. Sure, their old label attempted to slander them online, tried to spread awareness of how they’d paid their earlier audiences to attend shows, but the real fans didn’t care.

The real fans hit back just as hard.

Used that fancy lil internet gizmo everyone now seemed to have to spread awareness on the frankly abhorrent practices their old label had engaged in, practices they hadn’t only used on Corroded Coffin, but several other smaller, younger, vulnerable members of the entertainment industry.

It was a long hard slog to the top full of pains, addictions, rehabilitations, and recoveries. But finally, they had their footing. They were making new music. They were comfortable. They were happy.

It was a brand new, quickly evolving world, and thanks to those new world advancements, thanks to home computers, laptops, smart phones, tablets… the internet, they very quickly found they had a way to get their creations out to everyone from the comforts of a  home studios while they figured themselves out post nightmare. Dove into their roots, rediscovered themselves, thrived.

But survival didn’t come without its downsides.

Eddie Munson… hadn’t died at 23 years of age, but that didn’t mean he’d gotten to live straight away afterwards. Even as a clean and sober man, there were things he hadn’t done, things that’d just… taken a back seat on the list of priorities while the years had ticked on by during their long haul trek to creative freedom.

Life had taken a backseat. For him at least.

Gareth had found himself a girlfriend, and now fiancée in a girl they’d known of back in high school, but had only recently reconnected after they found out she was a back up dancer in one of their new music videos. Once Head Cheerleader, now professional dancer Chrissy Cunningham, the reunion had been adorable, and aired on TV in ‘behind the scenes’ footage.

Jeff had had an ongoing thing with the backup drummer they’d taken up at a gig when Gareth had broken his arm a few years back. Never having been able to talk about it publicly thanks to their old label.

And Dougie was engaged, fell ass over tit for their lawyers assistant, thankfully it was mutual. Their relationship was a whirlwind but soulmates were supposed to be like that.

Eddie was thrilled for them all, really he was but no matter how much he’d realised he’d wanted to LIVE after nearly dying… he still hadn’t really lived at all. He was still just… Eddie Munson, now thirty something rockstar. Single, sober, and honestly kind of sad.

So sue him if he watched a few slice of life things on the internet every now and then.

The bands accounts were thriving nicely with him at the helm, he got the hang of itquickly enough, adapted well as the technologies advanced, so much so that people accurately guessed very early on that it was him running the channel himself, rather than a social media professional. It was a nice distraction! Kept him busy, allowed him to watch silly little videos and find the occasional fan being adorable in their mentions, he loved his band accounts.

But his private account was his favourite.

Because of her.

He’d found her videos on the camera app within a few hours of signing up the bands account, and very quickly made a private one just to follow hers.

Was it weird? Was it a little stalkerish? From the experience could he possibly understand where some of his own fans were coming from when they stalked the bands socials? All of the above, yes.

But he’d found a goddess on his very first real adventure into the internet. He figured he ought to be cut some slack!

Stevie was her name, or Stephanie, but she never went by Stephanie. He found out very quickly that she was a mother through her morning makeup videos where she ranted about PTA mothers, from what he heard, Sally was evil and her potato salad was garbage.

He would have been more than happy to just watch. He followed the account on his private one very early on, and he’d have been content to just simply watch, swoon in silence, appreciate every little mole he could see on her without ever doing anything about it. He’d had crushes as a kid, he wasn’t a stranger to unrequited attraction, or even completely one sided attraction cause the other person didn’t know you exist, so it didn’t matter to him that she would never really know he existed.

He didn’t even comment on her videos. Liked them sometimes, but he’d never commented. Even on the one where she let slip that she’d been single for a while. He remained respectful.

That was… until the lunch videos.

Specifically, the little teddy bear thing she did with the rice.

He didn’t know what it was about that specific video, he’d watched a few of her cute lunch videos before, the sushi was adorable although not to Eddie’s taste, the ramen pots? Genius, Eddie had even tried to do that himself a few times, although the ‘soup’ never tasted half as good as hers looked like it would be, the little fruit animals? He actually, for a moment, genuinely wanted to eat fruit!

But he still kept his words to himself.

But that little teddy bear… nestled in a cushion of healthy greens with a small pot of home-made sauce on the side, it hit Eddie in a way he couldn’t really explain, he wanted that. Wanted someone who loved so hard that they went out of their way to make cute lunches for the person they loved the most. He wanted… the domesticity of it all. She didn’t just have what he wanted. A life. A lived life. She was what he wanted.

Everything about her, that he knew at least, that she was smart, creative, full of love, beautiful, but also pretty damn feisty if her inspired rants about Sally and her potato salad were anything to go by. He wanted her.

He typed a comment, hit send, closed the app, and turned off his phone. Certain that that would be it, she’d ignore his personal account, as she ignored everyone else, he’d get the urge out of his system, he’d feel sad for a little while after the inevitable ignoring, and all would be well.

If only he’d have just looked at the account he was on, before he pressed send.

Maybe it’d have protected his poor front door from the abuse it suffered a few hours later when Dougie finally realised he was at home, because really out of all four of them, Dougie really was the only one with the solid arm strength to really beat the shit out of his front door.

“EDDIE, OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!” Or the vocals to reach him all the way up in his bedroom where he’d very maturely burritoed himself after turning his phone off.

It’d been up for hours. Had he not turned his phone off, he’d have known immediately, because it wouldn’t have shut up, there were over fifty thousand likes on his comment already, over six thousand replies to it.

And the first video on his for you page was someone REACTING to it.

There were screenshots circulating. Stevie hadn’t replied to it, everyone ELSE had, but she hadn’t, deleting it wouldn’t do anything, but he did it anyway. The damage was done, the spotlight was lit and aimed. It was only when the others managed to get to his place and get him seated on his comfy couch, that he finally asked the most important question. “What should I do?”

“Well… we could blame an imaginary social media guy” Gareth offered, already expecting the following, “tell everyone it was just an oopsie?”

“Nah, everyone knows Eddie mans the account” from Jeff. “Maybe we just… silent treatment it, let it blow over?”

“That’s not exactly fair on Stevie though, is it?” Chrissy piped up from where she’d perched herself on the arm of the chair Gareth was sat on. “She’s been thrown into the spotlight here and some of your fans can be kinda… intense.”

“She’s an influencer though, being in the spotlight is like her job.”

“Uh, no, Dougie. She’s not.” Chrissy argued “nothing she does is sponsored, she’s just… popular, and Eddie’s just given her a lot of unwanted attention. Eddie… you really should address it. Either say you were joking if you were, or… I dunno, own it. Be serious about it.”

“Were you joking?” Jeff stepped a little closer, into Eddie’s space, crouching down a little to his level. “Was this just little Eddie talking? Or—or were you serious? Like, she’s hot, don’t get me wrong—”

Gareth snorted, cutting him off “you think she’s hot?”

“I’m gay, Gare, I’m not blind. Eddie?”

“…An if I were serious? Would that be okay? I could hear a but before Garebear interrupted.”

“But, she does have a kid, right? She comes with a real little human being, kids are fragile, impressionable, opinionated, and rockstar lives aren’t kid friendly most of the time… I know we’ve cooled it down, and I know you’re great with kids, Ed but… are you prepared to like… have one? Like a whole ‘this is one I made earlier’ little kid with its own pre-built personality that you’ve made zero contributions to?”

“I made zero contributions to you shits too and yet you turned out alright” Eddie sniped right back, a little more defensive than he really had any right to be. “If it weren’t for me hunting this lil chubby cheeked fuck down after his first hellfire he wouldn’t even be here!” Eddie motioned to Gareth, who squawked in objection

“Hey! I’m neutral here leave me out of it!”

“Do you not think I could take care of one?” Eddie ignored Gareth completely, eyes on Jeff, who shook his head without any offense taken from the outburst.

“I think you’d be great at it, I’m pretty sure you’d be like, the first choice for godfather if any of us had kids, but I’m asking you… are you prepared to take one on right now, even if they might not like you very much at first, if she’s interested? Because that kid will come with her, there’s no ignoring that.”

He didn’t even have to think about it. Even though the godfather thing was something he’d undoubtedly circle back to later, his answer was an instant “Yes.”

“Then own it. You have our support to use the account to make a public statement, however you choose. See where it gets you.”

His public statement was a picture, a black square with big white writing on it. Just a big ol ‘WHOOPS’, captioned “I regret nothing. Just ONE chance, sweetheart, just one.” And then he opened their DM’s in the hopes that maybe.

Just maybe.

She’d message.

Part 3

[soft-niku-and-sake]

TW: Mentions of death

"Humans are fragile things, Zoro...".

He had known that since childhood—since the day his mother was taken from him by an illness and his best friend by an accident.

There are some things in life he could never control. There are some things his strength couldn't protect.

Kuina’s death was unavoidable. There’s no man he could defeat to avenge what happened, but there is someone he could beat so that Kuina’s soul would live on.

Then he met Luffy.

Before him, he has nothing but his swords and his dream.

Luffy gave him direction. Luffy gave him companionship from his lonely journey in search of Mihawk. Luffy gave him more reason to fight—not just for his dream, but for hers too.

Luffy gave him a family.

And he would protect them. He would give everything. Anything to keep them safe.

His strength would keep them alive.

But what if he learned about Luffy’s shortened lifespan?

What now?

Luffy and Zoro have always shared the same mindset: If fate decides that it’s time to die, then perhaps it is. They aren’t scared as long as they fight for their dreams, right? RIGHT?

But he had always believed Luffy would live longer. He had made sacrifices to guarantee Luffy would outlive him. He had made sure of that!

He had always protected Luffy with his swords. And if not with swords, he would have given his life instead. His strength would keep him alive! Luffy must live!

But this… this kind of death is something his swords couldn’t reach. There was no enemy to cut down, no deal to strike, no sacrifice to make.

What now?

He couldn't save Kuina. He cannot bare not to be able to save Luffy too.

"Humans are fragile things, Zoro..."

And there are some things his strength couldn't protect.

That thought alone was terrifying.

[happy74827]

All I Wanted Was You

[Thor Odinson x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Thor had always been there to protect you, save you, and love you… Until he couldn't.

WC: 3540

Category: Heavy Angst, Some hurt/comfort, mentions of Loki, Hela, and Heimdall {TW warning: Thanos and “evil squidward” — I know his name but I think Tony’s nickname is too iconic}

So I recently rewatched Infinity War, and of course watching Thor cry over losing literally everyone else he cares for in the first 15 minutes of the movie sparked my writer heart {finally} and after listening to Paramore we have this hot mess of angst (also why are all my Thor fics so angsty when he’s the definition of fluff?? I live for the drama I guess)

And just for the record, we don’t talk about the fact that I have thousands of requests and this isn’t even one of them 💀😭

『••✎••』

They say fear lies in the unknown. In the absence of facts and knowledge, the mind creates a world of illusions. If you believe your own fears, they become reality.

So what happens when the thing you fear the most is taken from you? When everything else falls to nothing? When the world is turned upside down?

You're left with a feeling that can only be described as the deepest pain imaginable.

You're left with nothing but your fear.

Your heart was racing so fast, and your breaths were short. You could feel every single muscle in your body tense up as the unnamed alien man dragged you further and further into the unknown.

The trip back to Earth, back to your sanctuary of a home, was nothing but a blur. After everything that had gone down within Asgard, including Asgard's destruction, all you could think about was your lover. Your other half.

Thor.

He was in pain, and not just physically. You had been separated due to his secretive, power-hungry sister, to where he’d left you alone with his kind-hearted people to find his father, only to disappear and leave you alone with the slaughtering of the Asgardians.

The people you’ve met that very day ended up slaughtered by Hela. Some took you by the hand, guiding and shielding you for protection against the God of Death and her henchmen. Others, you could tell, were more than just scared; they were terrified. The ones that were too slow or the ones that decided to fight back were killed within an instant.

You were no warrior. You were a simple, plain human who somehow caught the eye of the mighty Thor Odinson, and for some reason, he was in love with you.

So, while everyone else fought against Hela and her henchmen, you ran. Thor had left you there in assurance of your safety, thinking the search for his father with Loki, of all people, would be too risky for you, but in reality, you would have rather been with him. At least then, if you were to die, you could have been in the arms of the one you love.

Miraculously, you had survived the fall of Asgard and the escape from Surtur. You had no clue how. Maybe you were just lucky, or perhaps it was the grace of the Allfather. Even Heimdall, the man who saw everything, didn’t see you making it out alive.

But, when Thor had found you in the throne room cornered by some henchmen, it became a fact that Heimdall couldn’t see everything; after all.

The moment your eyes had met, the moment you heard the sound of metal against flesh, the moment his strong, powerful, protective arms wrapped around your fragile, vulnerable, weak form, and the moment his lips kissed the top of your head, you were safe.

Safe.

The only time you felt genuinely safe was when you were with Thor. His mere presence made you feel at ease. Like nothing could ever touch you or hurt you because he wouldn't let it.

He would protect you no matter the cost. He’d die for you, give his life for you, and go to the depths of Hell and back for you. He loved you, and that was something you could never understand.

Why would such a mighty god, a king, and a warrior want to love a simple human like yourself? A clumsy one at that.

You weren’t special in any way. You were ordinary.

But Thor, he was extraordinary.

The God of Thunder, a king and a warrior, a prince and a protector.

He was everything you were not.

It wasn't just the physical things that made him great, too, but the things that were inside.

Thor was a good man. A caring man. One who always thought about others and not himself.

Thor had his moments, yes, but no one is perfect. Not even a god. But the thing that made you love him, that made you want him, and the thing that made you feel safe was his heart.

That was the only part of him you could understand. The way he cared. The way he loved. The way he could make anyone smile. The way he could bring light to anyone's dark.

That's what makes a man a man. And that's why you loved him.

Even now, with one eye, a missing hammer, and a lost kingdom, he was still your everything.

And now you were reunited after being separated again. The only problem was the circumstances.

You and Thor had been in an intimate moment. The relief of having you back in his arms, the adrenaline pumping through your veins from surviving such a tragedy, had you both desperate.

He had pinned you against the wall, his hands brushing your hair away from your face to get a better look at you before he pressed his lips to yours in a soft kiss. He was always so gentle with you. The teasing and playful nips at your bottom lip were proof of that.

But the sudden sight of a ship out the large window you’d stared out of moments before the kiss broke your concentration.

Thor had pulled apart almost immediately, the feeling of his beard no longer tickling your face, but the heat of his breath and the sweet taste of his lips was still there.

It didn't take long before Thor was following your eyes, seeing for himself what had pulled you from him.

A sense of dread washed over you when you noticed how he tensed and his grip on your waist tightened. This wasn’t another Asgardian ship; no, this was something far more dangerous. You could tell by the look in Thor's eye, his non-missing eye.

Then, within seconds, he grabbed hold of your arm and yanked you out of the room. Your heart was pounding as you started yelling questions at him, trying to understand what was going on.

But, when he hit the button that sealed the room you were once in and shielded you within his arms, the panic started to set in.

That's when everything began to blur.

You remembered the sound of explosions. The tearing of metal. The screams. The smell of burning.

It all came crashing down.

Loki had come around the corner, and seeing his expression, it didn’t take much to realize what was going on.

If Loki, the God of Mischief and Lies, was terrified, then that meant something big was going down.

Thor was yelling orders, shouting commands. You could barely make out what he was saying, but you knew he was telling you to stay behind him.

Stay behind him.

Always stay behind him.

Then it changed to get the hell off the ship.

Then, to run.

Run.

Run.

Run.

The last thing you remember was looking back as you sprinted down the halls, seeing your love, your other half, the king, the prince, the protector, your Thor, fighting some creature with his bare hands.

His face was so determined. He wasn’t going down without a fight. You ran to where he had told you to go, the escape pods where Val was helping others into. You got there and saw her eyes. They were wide and full of worry.

Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

The sound of an explosion brought you back to the present.

Val grabbed you by the wrist and dragged you toward a pod. You could feel the adrenaline pumping through your veins and, your heart was racing so fast, and your breaths were short.

All you could think about was Thor. Where was he? Was he alright?

No.

He was not.

As soon as you entered the pod and Val had closed you in it, it was suddenly torn apart. The supposed sliding door had been ripped from its hinges.

The metal that you rested your back upon started to give, and the feeling of moving forward caused your heart to leap.

You were launched out and onto the floor.

It took a second to gain your bearings. You looked up and saw Val. She was fighting, and you were thankful to see her, but it was a short-lived relief.

The… thing she was fighting, the blue alien, grabbed hold of her and flung her across the ship. She landed somewhere near a pod and didn't move. You remembered screaming for her, but she didn't budge.

That's when the creature turned his attention to you.

You tried to move, but the metal that was supposed to hold the pod in place had you pinned.

You tried to pry the metal from your skin, but your weak and vulnerable body couldn’t break the bond.

The alien slowly moved towards you and, in a swift movement, had ripped the metal away.

He was so close, and you had no idea what was going on, who he was, or what his intentions were.

When you felt his large, rough, and cold hand wrap around the back of your neck, panic started to set in. You wanted to kick and scream, but all you could do was stare at the beast before you.

And thus, you were dragged away from the evacuation site and thrown into a separate area. You came to the conclusion that whoever this was, it seemed to be a metal bender or something similar due to his abilities.

All you saw was a demented blue face with squid-like features, staring down at you as he threw you around like a rag doll.

The fifth time he threw you, you landed roughly on the floor, causing your shoulder to make a loud crack noise and the pain to shoot through your body. Your hands landed on something soft, softer than the floor, and when you looked down, you realized the blue thing had thrown you into a room full of corpses.

But it wasn’t just any corpses. The one you had specifically landed upon had been the body of the man you had recently become close friends with, Thor’s friend, Heimdall.

Tears immediately pooled in your eyes, and your breathing became ragged. You tried to sit up and pull your body off of Heimdall in respect, but the pain shooting through your arm and back kept you frozen in place.

The lifeless eyes of the man who saw everything were open, and for once, he was staring at nothing. It was a haunting image.

The tears were now falling, and a sob escaped your lips. You wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. You wanted to scream and shout. You wanted to fight and claw at the alien that took until it bled. But all you could do was lay there, unable to move and weep.

Then, a voice caught your attention. It was deep, and it was coming from the alien that had brought you to this place.

His eyes were no longer focused on you, but they were somewhere else. He was talking to someone.

“Boss,” it spoke, his voice deep and gravelly. You couldn’t bear to look at the being. Not when you were face to face with the lifeless body of the gatekeeper. “There’s a human woman here. A pathetic one, no doubt, but one nonetheless. Should we end her? Or leave her to rot like the others?"

A silence filled the air, and you had no idea what was going on, who he was speaking with, or who was giving him instructions. You could’ve looked. You could have glanced up at the thing, and seen for yourself, but you too were afraid.

Your eyes remained glued to the golden ones that were once filled with light and wisdom.

There was silence, and then a loud, deep, thump. It had startled you, but it wasn't anything like the explosion of the ship, no, it sounded more like a boot or a shoe had come in contact with metal. But, it was loud enough to grab your attention.

You didn’t move. Your eyes didn't stray.

But, your body trembled in fear.

Suddenly, you heard his voice, and it sounded more terrifying than any sound that had echoed in the air prior. It was even deeper, and even more frightening than the other.

“I think not. We have use of her."

He had a deep and gravelly voice, but it was smooth. Calm. Almost friendly.

Then, a large, purple foot, appeared in your vision, and slowly, the purple being leaned down and stared at you. His gaze was strong, and piercing. You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t. You were too terrified to move, speak, or breathe.

Again, it wasn’t human. It was an alien. And a big one, at that.

He had no hair, only a helmet. His skin was purple and he wore strange looking clothing, including a golden glove that had both a bright purple stone and a blue one.

You’ve never seen such a creature before. You thought those dark elves were terrifying, but they were nothing compared to this man.

And for some reason, he was looking at you like you were an ant, and he was the boot that would crush you.

In fact, he was looking at you with pity, and it confused the hell out of you.

But, when his hand moved, and his fingers had touched the soft strand of your hair, you couldn't help but flinch.

The moment his fingers made contact with you, though, you heard a loud grunt. One that didn’t sound alienated or distorted. It was clear, and you could tell who it was, instantly.

Your head shot up, ignoring the pain in your arm, and the moment your eyes met his, everything stopped.

Everything.

It was Thor.

Your Thor. Your everything.

He was in front of you the entire time, and you had no clue.

The tears were falling. They were falling hard and fast, and you couldn’t stop them. And for once, it wasn’t because of relief.

Thor was encased with metal. His arms and legs were pinned by it. He was bleeding from his head, and he was covered in bruises.

He looked like hell and gave off the same energy.

He was struggling to free himself. That’s what the sounds were. The grunts, the heavy breathing, and the loud thumping. He was trying to get out of his prison to get to you. To save you.

The alien was staring down at you. His eyes were dark and intimidating, but his presence was even more so. He was the embodiment of terror.

Then, without any warning, he grabbed you by the throat.

It was an unexpected move. He had picked you up by the neck with just one hand. He had a grip so tight you couldn't breathe, and the pressure on your throat was unbearable.

You could hear Thor screaming. Yelling.

You could barely hear what he was saying. Your ears were ringing, and the pain of the hand wrapped around your throat was all you could focus on.

But, you could see him. You could see him perfectly.

You saw his blue eye and the patch that covered the missing one. You saw the stubble along his chin. The slight scar that was just below the patch. The wrinkles on his forehead.

You could see it all.

And the look of desperation and horror. It broke you.

You couldn’t take it anymore. It was too much.

Then, in the blink of an eye, you felt release.

You fell to the floor and started gasping for air. It was like the moment the alien released his grip on you, everything began again. The world, your thoughts, the chaos.

It was all there, and you couldn’t keep up.

“I see it now.” You heard the voice of the alien say. Your vision was blurry, and your eyes were still stinging from the tears, but you could make him out if only a bit.

He was now standing, towering over you, but he wasn’t looking at you. No, he was looking at Thor; his eyes were focused on the god, which sent a chill down your spine.

When dealing with Hela, you find yourself recovering with confidence. She could’ve easily killed you with a snap of her finger, but when she demanded your name, you had spat in her face and gave a smile.

Even though Thor wasn’t there at that moment, you somehow knew he’d be coming back to put an end to her, and you would be safe. It was like a sixth sense that came and made you stop panicking and running.

And, even though he technically didn’t put her down, he still was your knight in shining armor. It was the same with the dark elves and even with Loki.

They were all terrifying, yes, but somehow, you knew that Thor would save the day.

Now, though, it was different. You weren’t scared or panicked; no, you were terrified.

The fact that Thor was trapped and was physically in pain, the fact that Heimdall and more innocent Asgardians were lying on the floor, dead, and the fact that Loki was missing and Val was knocked unconscious, it had all hit you at once.

You felt like you were suffocating, and it only worsened when the alien spoke again.

“I was questioning why a mortal was amongst a group of Asgardians, how such a fragile being could survive so long among gods. I wondered, but I see it now. You have been blessed by one, and the last, of Odin's children."

The alien's attention was back on you, and the intensity of his gaze had you trembling. He was staring at you, looking through you, and reading you like a book.

"What a pitiful yet fortunate creature you are."

It was like the oxygen had been sucked from your lungs, and when he moved, you found yourself flinching and scooting backward.

He had leaned down again, and his large hand had grabbed the side of your face. The feeling of his skin on yours made your skin crawl, and the urge to vomit was growing.

Thor wasn’t having it. He was thrashing about; the metal that was encasing his body was bending and stretching with each move.

His cries of anger and the desperation in his eyes were heartbreaking. And it was only shut up by the alien who had taken you. A piece of metal flew to Thor’s mouth and held it in place, preventing him from yelling.

More grunts and muffled noises could be heard from the god, but you could no longer see him now. The purple man was blocking your view.

But, despite that, he was still talking to Thor.

"It is a shame, Thor Odinson. I take pity on the both of you, and I apologize, for it seems that fate has not been kind to either of you. But, we must make sacrifices. It is unfortunate that your beloved had to be one of them."

Then, suddenly, the alien turned his gaze back to you, and his dark eyes bore into yours. He was staring directly into your soul.

"Fear not, small child,” he said, his voice sounding almost calm. “You will not have to endure the pain and suffering as I did.”

The words that left his mouth did not give you comfort. It was quite the opposite.

Thor came back into your viewpoint as the purple man had moved, and when your eyes met his, all you saw was a mixture of panic and despair.

Thor's expression had you feeling a type of way. You could feel your stomach sink.

You weren’t dumb. You were far from it.

You knew where this was going, and your mind was screaming, screaming for you to do something, anything.

Run.

Fight.

Scream.

Just do something.

But all you did was stare. Stare at the man that you loved. The man that loved you. The man who had saved you countless times.

But he couldn’t save you now, even when you cried out his name in a soft voice, that frail, humane part of you begging him with your eyes to stop this from happening.

To stop it from hurting.

He couldn’t.

All he could do was look at you, look as you were taken. Look as you were pulled away from him.

All he could do was stare and scream.

It was the loudest, most horrific sound you had ever heard. It was worse than the explosion.

It was worse than anything.

It was the cry of a man who had just lost the last thing that gave him purpose.

It was the sound of a god being torn to pieces.

And it was all because of you.

That was the last thing you heard. That was the last image that burned itself into your brain.

The sound of Thor and his desperate screams was the last thing you remembered.

Everything after that was darkness.

No memories, no thoughts, nothing.

Just darkness.

All he wanted was you.

All he needed was you.

And now, all he had left was the memory of you: that and his broken heart.

[otp-after-dark]

"The Right Kind of Wrong": Why Nick Blaine Is the Man June Will Choose

A Multi-fandom Deep Dive into the Flawed Men Who Were Ultimately Chosen

Let's not freak out with this Nick/June arc - this wouldn't be the first OTP example of being "wrong" but still chosen in the end.

Logan Echolls. Damon Salvatore. Chuck Bass. And finally, Nick Blaine. What unites them isn’t just the brooding intensity or magnetic angst—it’s that they all loved one woman so much, it changed the course of their lives. These men are chaotic, deeply imperfect, and often self-destructive, but they become something steadier, truer, and more honest through love. The women—Veronica, Elena, Blair, and June—each had “better” options on paper. But paper isn’t where love lives.

The Blueprint of the Flawed Antihero in Love

Logan Echolls: Abused, volatile, spiraling—but he loves Veronica with a desperate purity. She sees the real him when no one else does. She makes him want to be better, and sometimes, he is. He doesn’t deserve her, but he would die for her.

Damon Salvatore: The bad brother. The impulsive one. But he never stops loving Elena—without expectation, without conditions. When she chooses him, it’s because she sees the humanity beneath the monster.

Chuck Bass: The epitome of toxic wealth and entitlement. But Blair is his axis. Every empire he builds, every moment of growth, traces back to her influence.

In all three, love is a catalyst for redemption—but not total transformation. The men remain flawed, and the women choose them anyway, not because they’re “fixed,” but because they are deeply known.

Safer Options, Softer Love

Each female lead is offered a gentler version of love:

Veronica has Piz: kind, stable, non-threatening.

Elena has Stefan: noble, protective, “the good brother.”

Blair has Dan: emotionally available, unselfish, aspirational.

June has Luke: loyal, morally upright, a symbol of the “before” world.

These men represent security. But security isn’t everything. These women are survivors, fighters, and thinkers. What they seek isn’t peace—it’s someone who can hold the fire with them, and that's why they are drawn to them.

Why Nick Is the Culmination of the Trope

Nick doesn’t have the flashy bad-boy label, but he shares key DNA with Logan, Damon, and Chuck. Here's what sets him apart—and elevates him.

Still Waters, Same Depths: Nick’s damage is quieter. He’s not lashing out or chasing death, but he’s haunted, morally compromised, and walking a tightrope of identity (driver, soldier, rebel, lover).

He Sees June Fully: Like the others, he doesn’t ask June to shrink. He falls for her as she is, and he never stops believing in her strength, even when she terrifies him.

He Chooses Her Over Everything: His love isn’t performative—it’s sacrificial. He gives up power, security, and safety to stay near her. He doesn’t want to save her. He wants to stand beside her.

The Only One Who Matches Her Fury: June is rage. Luke is reason. Nick is that slow-burning core, the man who holds a gun with one hand and her heart in the other. No speeches. Just presence. Just action.

Nick is the culmination of the archetype because he is the only one who remains dangerous but becomes safe, not by changing who he is, but by choosing love over everything else.

Why These Women Chose the Hard Love

Because they’re not fragile. Because they don’t want to be adored from a pedestal���they want to be understood, fought for, and met in the mess. These men bring chaos—but also constancy in the most surprising ways.

Nick doesn’t rescue June. He doesn’t fix her. He chooses her. Again and again. And that makes him, as Logan once said of Veronica, epic.

[rahuratna]

Synopsis: (Reader x Nanami) In the aftermath of a disturbing dream, Kento enfolds you in the solace only he can bring.

Rated: T

Contents: Angst, Suspense, Romance.

Banner artwork: She Did Not Turn - David Inshaw (1974)

Dividers by: @rookthornesartistry

You dream that he is standing in a dried out field, far removed from anything familiar. The alien sun encroaches with terrifying proximity on the horizon, a red collosus, but you feel none of its warmth. It is as if no atmosphere exists around you here, nothing to carry minute traces of sensation from your skin to his across the quivering, paper thin stalks that stab through the earth.

Kento.

Yes, it's your voice, but you have no mouth with which to speak his name. Your presence is a muted one. It doesn't carry any weight here.

He stands, back towards you, and in spite of the chilling distance between your form and his, you can make out the tender part of his hair, which you've run your fingers through countless times when he lays his head in your lap. You can see the way he leans slightly to the left, his straight posture now and then giving way to an old knee injury that plagues him. You watch his hands clench and unclench, reflexively, as he does before setting his mind to a new task, a small gesture of readiness, of his eternal sense of duty.

Kento. What are you getting ready to face?

And why alone?

The stillness of the air is beginning to awaken a restless rebellion in your body. You need to be closer to him. You need to touch him, or that hungry, hungry sun will swallow him up, leaving no trace of him on this fallow ground.

No mouth. No fingers. No legs to carry you to him.

But isn't this how you've always felt? As if you're a powerless spectator, watching as the man you love above all others marches with steady inevitability towards a seething horizon that blows apart under any kind of scrutiny?

How fragile is the human form? How tender is the flesh? You can't help but think of such things, even when enfolded in the vital strength of his arms, even when the sweat of lovemaking cools on your skin and his, and the substantial weight of his body sinks against you, drawn in by the crushing gravity of your embrace.

At those times, you hold him close and wonder at how easily his strength could be shattered, at how frail the connecting web of bone, muscle and blood, everything that made up your Kento, truly was.

Was it monstrous to think that way? Was it so taboo to voice your fears, when you should be dwelling on the sunlit wash of his presence in your home, your bed, your arms?

Forward, forward, you must go further. Push yourself to your limits, as he always does.

The landscape is resolving into harsher shapes around you. Details creep along the edges of your vision, sinuous. There are floorboards beneath your spectral feet. You feel no sensation, but you know that the sun has hardened and bleached them with the same reverence it bestows to the bones of unknowable animals in a flat expanse of desert.

You are viewing Kento through a window, a stark rectangle in the wooden wall, framed in splinters. He is not moving, out there in that dry, dry field, and you wonder how he can bear the heat of that gigantic sun.

A terrible thought strikes you.

What if he is already gone? What if the skin has already been burned from his flesh? What if he cannot move as his muscles shrivel and scorch under that stupendous heat? What if he cannot turn to you, one final time, because he wants to spare you the sight of bone protruding from the remains of charred tissue?

No. No. You cannot let it be. You cannot watch him -

Tangible. Tangible is what you have become, through sheer force of will. You weave your own body into existence, because you must save him, you must reach him.

Kento hasn't moved, but the sun seems closer. It is closer. You have to do something. You have to act, and your helplessness will be no excuse when he is beyond your reach and that of everyone else he knows and cares for -

Your arm, or some half-formed semblance of it, plunges through the window. Something shatters. Sensation floods your mind, synapses flaring to life, their signals propelled with all the reckless fury of a charge on foot against cannon-fire.

It burns, it burns, it is pain, it is beyond anything you have ever endured, but endure it you will, because -

The answer comes to you, spoken somewhere in still-water depths that no sun can reach.

You will burn for him. You will swallow this agony for him. You will partake of this pain until you grow and grow and spread your incorporeal body across the horizon, too large for this flimsy room to contain. You will grow larger than the sun, even, swallowing all of his pain, even beyond the limits of any threshold you have known, because you -

Air enters your lungs in a frigid rush, and you sit up, chest heaving. Your thin nightdress stretches uncomfortably across your skin, and something trickles from your brow down across your eyelid. It stings, blurring your vision. You blink, once, twice.

Someone is calling your name.

There is a hand on your back, firm and grounding. Fingers sweep along your brow, removing the moisture that has collected there.

Kento.

You can barely summon the strength needed to turn and look at him.

There he is.

No scorched flesh, no red, cavernous eye sockets, the gleaming, white sanctuary of his ribs still encased in clean, undamaged tissue.

In the darkness of your bedroom, you can't make out the finer details. No otherworldly sunlight casts his features in stark lines on living canvas.

In spite of this fact, you know that there is a furrow carved in his brow. Even without touching him, you can feel tension radiate from muscles that are always ready to react. Those earnest eyes, always reflecting the dappled shade of a forest in the springtime, taking you in with a scrutiny that would produce the inevitable conclusion.

He doesn't ask you outright; he doesn't need to.

Instead, a hush descends over your senses as his arms come up and draw you close, so close, disregarding the sweat that still dampens your clothes.

Oh, to be wrapped in this steady rhythm forever, to listen to the pulse of the resilient muscle beneath the cellular fabric that forms this man you love above all others. How could your mind still creep back to that hellish place when this was laid out before you, the banquet of his all-encompassing embrace?

No fear can touch you here. No enemy can lay siege to him in this place, protected by the irrational and incontestable vow of sanctity that you have imposed on these four walls.

"Do you want to tell me what that was about?"

His voice stirs gently though your hair, each word laced with infinite tenderness. It almost breaks your resolve to retain control of yourself.

"I had a dream that you ... were far away."

His grip across your shoulder tightens. Kento has seen enough death and despair in the line of duty to fill in the shadowed spaces of that distant landscape himself.

You continue, voice loud in the hush of this room, the night so very, very still. Kento's heartbeat is the exception. It pounds with rebellious vitality under your palm.

"I had a dream that you were standing in a wide, open field. And that there was a giant ... sun in the sky. And it was about to burn everything up, including you. And me."

There is a heavy pause in which the tick of the clock on the nightstand strikes each second with a steel-clad fist.

When he does eventually speak, Kento's voice is low, his words unhurried, as if the reassurance he offers will embed itself in the eternal strata of his world and yours.

"And was I facing you, in this dream? Was I close to you?"

"No. You were ... turned towards the sun."

"Hm. Then that dream means nothing."

"Tell me why."

"If what you dreamed about really happened, and I was in a place you couldn't reach, then I would make sure that I would only ever think of you. If the man in your dream couldn't face you, then he wasn't me. It's that simple."

You can't help the way your lips curve secretly, hidden against the firm heat of his chest.

"Just a dream, then?"

"Hardly worth a single thought."

"Then it was a strange one. Especially that sun."

His head turns, lips pressed lightly against your forehead.

"A brave sun."

"Brave?"

"To try and outdo you."

[gullemec]

Bad Man (Joel POV)

Bitten - Part VII

Bitten Masterlist ao3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel Miller is a bad man. Joel Miller is a weak man. But for you, maybe he could be good. Maybe, for once, he could be enough.

Warnings: canon-typical gore & violence, description of injuries, Joel pining hard, subtle reference to getting a boner (??)

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 14.5k (and it's only going to get worse from here lol)

A/N: I submitted the final paper for the penultimate semester of my master's degree and thought we could celebrate with a very special chapter 🥰

The moment he first saw you, something changed.

It was like a fragile green sprout forcing its way through cracked concrete, life stubbornly emerging from destruction and decay. Something long dormant, buried under years of grief and grit, stirred awake in Joel Miller. He couldn’t name it, didn’t even fully recognize it at first, but it was there, undeniable.

It wasn’t just that you were a woman working one of the dirtiest, most soul-draining jobs in the QZ. Plenty of women got stuck with body disposal, long days spent shoveling ash, hauling corpses, and stacking them like cordwood before setting them ablaze. It was grueling, thankless work, and most people either bribed their way out of it or stopped showing up altogether, slipping quietly into the shadows of the QZ in search of under the table work. Joel didn’t fault them for it. Hell, if he had the luxury of a bribe or knees that didn’t groan every time he crouched, he might’ve done the same.

It wasn’t just the way you stood up for yourself, either. Sure, he’d been taken aback, impressed, even, when you snapped at him for offering to help. There you were, standing knee-deep in filth, your face streaked with soot and sweat, hauling the dead weight of a grown man onto the pyre like it was nothing. Joel had grinned like a fool beneath his bandana, not because he doubted your strength but because of the fire in your eyes, the way you carried yourself like you were daring anyone to underestimate you.

But strength was common in the QZ. Survival required it. The women here, like the men, were hardened, their edges sharpened by years of scarcity and loss. Strength alone wasn’t what caught his attention.

No, it was something deeper, something intangible. It was in the way you moved, the way your shoulders squared as if you were bracing yourself against the weight of the world, even as your eyes betrayed something softer, something untouched by the harshness around you. It wasn’t weakness, not even close. It was a quiet, stubborn hope, buried under ruin. A tenderness you tried to shield, even though the cracks in your armor were visible to anyone who bothered to look closely enough.

And Joel, against his better judgment, had looked.

It was rare these days to find someone who hadn’t been hollowed out completely, someone who still carried even a scrap of kindness, a trace of softness. Most people built walls so high and so thick that nothing could get in… or out. And Joel understood that better than anyone. He’d spent years fortifying his own, pouring concrete around every vulnerability, every regret, every sliver of humanity he still possessed.

And if Joel was honest with himself, which he often struggled to do, he knew a big part of what drew him to you, what kept him circling back despite his better judgment, was the way your softness had survived in a world so intent on destroying it.That rare, unguarded vulnerability, the kind he hadn’t seen in years, felt like a magnet pulling him in. And it terrified him.

Because Joel knew exactly how easily that softness could be exploited. He’d seen it happen before, kindness and trust twisted into tools for someone else’s gain. He’d done it himself once or twice, back in the early days when survival meant silencing his conscience. 

He knew there were men out there far worse than he was. Men who would take someone like you and ruin you, strip away the humanity that made you different.

Joel Miller was not a good man. He had too much blood on his hands, too many sins stacked up to pretend otherwise. But the thought of someone else taking that rare softness in you and defiling it, tainting it… It made his stomach churn with righteous indignation.

So, he told himself he’d protect you. 

Not because you were his responsibility, not yet, anyway, but because he couldn’t stomach the thought of someone else getting to you first. Someone who wouldn’t just take your trust but would break you in the process. 

And if that meant ignoring the way his thoughts drifted to you late at night, then so be it. He’d bury the way your laugh lingered in his head long after you were gone, the way your presence in a room seemed to make the air heavier, charged, like a heavy storm cloud about to break. He’d push down the pang of guilt that twisted inside him whenever he laid with Tess, the gnawing sense that something about being with her felt wrong now, like it was betraying you, even though he had no real reason to feel that way.

Because you were no one to him. Not yet, at least. Barely a friend, more like a stray dog sniffing around the edges of his life. Feral and skittish, tolerating his proximity only because it didn’t explicitly feel like a threat.

Joel would ignore the way his stomach tightened when you reached up to adjust your jacket, the hem of your shirt lifting just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. He’d look away when you bent over to grab something, knowing his gaze lingered on the gentle slope of your backside longer than it should. He’d force his mind to shut down the way his hands itched to touch you, not in the careless, rough way he’d known before, but gently, reverently, like you were something precious.

But to touch you, to have you like that, would be to ruin you. His hands were calloused and stained with too many sins. They had no business running over your skin, no matter how much he craved it. It would be selfish, another black mark on his already damned soul.

Joel didn’t need another sin to carry. And he sure as hell didn’t need to carry the weight of what it would mean to lose you, not after what he’d already lost. So he’d keep his distance. He’d guard you from the world, even from himself, because he knew damn well that men like him didn’t deserve softness like yours.

…

Tess had seen it, clocked it from the moment he first brought you around. 

She wasn’t stupid. She knew him too well, could read him better than anyone else, maybe even better than he could.

“What’s going on here, Joel?” she’d asked that night after your first smuggling job with them. The two of them were tucked into the quiet shadows of his apartment, sharing a rare moment of stillness after you’d taken your share of the ration cards and gone home.

Joel had feigned ignorance, brushing it off with a grunt and a shrug. “She’s a good set of hands,” he’d said, his voice rough and curt, the lie obvious even to him.

Tess didn’t buy it for a second. “Bullshit,” she’d said, her voice low, bitter. “Look, if you want to end this—us—that’s fine. But don’t lie to yourself about what this is.”

He’d refused to acknowledge what she meant, wouldn’t, or maybe couldn’t, admit it. But she was right, and they both knew it. He never found his way back to her bed after that night. Not because he didn’t care about her, but because the shame weighed on him too heavily. Guilt sat in his belly like a stone, growing heavier with every glance in your direction, every moment he caught himself thinking of you when he shouldn’t.

And then came the night everything went to hell. The smuggling job had gone sideways, and you’d asked him something he hadn’t been prepared for, something that came alive in his brain like an electric shock. 

“Do you ever think about… leaving?” you’d asked, your voice tentative, almost shy, like you were afraid of what his answer might be.

The question sparked something in Joel, something long buried and half-forgotten. Hope. He didn’t even recognize it at first, not for what it was. It had been so long since he’d felt it, since he’d dared to want anything other than basic survival.

Later, as you slept on his couch, curled up beneath one of his old blankets, Joel sat in the quiet and watched you, his hands still trembling from the chaos of the night. He rubbed his thumb over the worn edge of the table, his mind racing. Wyoming wasn’t just a place. It was an idea, a promise.

A chance.

He told himself it was for you. He’d get you there, to whatever better life waited for you on the other side of those distant mountains. A place where you wouldn’t have to keep your guard up all the time, where you could let yourself be soft again without fear of being broken. Maybe you’d find someone there, someone good, someone who could give you the life you deserved. Someone who wasn’t him.

And yet, despite his best efforts, Joel couldn’t stop the selfish thought that lingered in the back of his mind. Maybe Wyoming wasn’t just for you. Maybe it could be something for him, too. A place where he could finally put down some of the weight he carried. A place where he could let the hardness dissolve, piece by piece, until there was something left of the man he used to be.

Maybe then he could touch you without the fear of tainting you.

But Joel Miller was a weak man.

The sheer proximity to you on the journey was a daily trial, a constant reminder of the promise he’d made to himself, to protect you, to keep you safe, no matter the cost. But that promise carried with it another, a vow to never cross the line, to never let his own selfish desires interfere with what you deserved.

You made it damn near impossible.

There were days when the world forced intimacy upon you both in ways that were both innocent and excruciatingly dangerous to his resolve. Days when you’d strip down to bathe in the icy waters of some river, your laughter cutting through the air as you teased him about how cold it was. Joel always kept his eyes firmly fixed on the horizon, but he could hear the water lapping against your skin, could imagine the droplets rolling down your body, catching the sunlight like tiny diamonds.

There were nights when you’d both peel off bloodied or rain-soaked clothes to inspect the cuts and scrapes that had come too close for comfort. Joel’s hands would shake slightly as he cleaned the wounds on your back or your arms, his touch careful and deliberate, every brush of his fingers against your skin a silent prayer for control. He told himself he was just being thorough, just being cautious, but the truth was harder to swallow.

He wanted to touch you more than he had ever wanted anything.

And yet, every single time, he forced himself to look away. To turn his back, to avert his gaze, to give you whatever dignity he could manage in a world that had so little of it to offer. It wasn’t easy. Hell, it was torture. But Joel was nothing if not disciplined, and for you, he would be good.

He told himself it was the least he could do, a way to balance the scales of the man he used to be, the man who had done things he could never speak of, things that still haunted him in the quiet hours of the night. Joel Miller was a bad man. He’d done bad things, hurt people, killed people, and never once had he felt an ounce of guilt about it. Not until you.

You made him want to be better. 

But you also made him weak.

Because for all his promises, all his discipline, there were moments when his restraint wavered. Moments when he’d catch himself looking too long, his eyes tracing the curve of your neck or the way your hair clung to your skin after a storm. Moments when he wanted nothing more than to close the space between you, to press his forehead to yours and let himself believe, just for a second, that he could be something more to you than a protector.

He hated himself for those moments. They felt like a betrayal, not just of the promise he’d made to himself, but of you. You deserved better than a man like him. You deserved someone pure, someone who didn’t carry the weight of countless sins on his shoulders.

And yet, despite all of that, Joel couldn’t help the way his chest tightened when you smiled at him, or the way his pulse quickened when your hand brushed his arm. He couldn’t stop the way you filled every corner of his mind, no matter how hard he tried to keep you out.

Because Joel Miller was a weak man. But for you, he would spend every day trying to be stronger.

…

It had rained on the day that everything changed for him.

You’d been somewhere in Nebraska, where the last dregs of summer lingered in the air like distant whispers of a lover unwilling to let go. The sun still hung warm and golden overhead, the air hazy and thick.

That morning, the two of you had hunted together, your movements coordinated in a way that only came from months of traveling side by side. You’d amassed a bounty of game, enough to fill your bellies and preserve some for the days ahead. Things had been eerily quiet for weeks, no infected, no other people, nothing but the steady rhythm of your footsteps and the occasional sound of wildlife. It had been so calm, so unnaturally still, that Joel let himself believe, just for a few stolen moments, that you were safe.

The campsite you set up felt like a small reprieve from the constant urgency of the road. The fire crackled softly as the two of you worked together, drying meat into jerky, the scent of smoke mingling with the warm, earthy smell of late summer. Joel had almost forgotten what it felt like to be in a place that didn’t feel like it was pressing down on him, strangling him.

You’d gone down to the stream to wash off the blood and grime from the hunt, leaving Joel behind to finish setting up. He let you go without question, understanding your need for a semblance of privacy. He stayed behind, sitting on a large, sun-warmed rock near the fire, his head tilted back to soak in the rays.

And then, he’d felt it. The first drops of rain against his face.

At first, Joel thought he was imagining it. He sat up, squinting at the sky, which still burned bright with sunlight despite the rain now beginning to fall in a soft, steady rhythm. 

A sun shower.

It had been years since he’d felt one, maybe decades. He could almost hear his mother’s voice, the ghost of a memory tugging at him from a time so far removed it felt like another lifetime. “Rain on a sunny day means the foxes are having a wedding,” she used to say, her Southern drawl making everything sound like an old folk tale. The thought brought an unexpected smile to his face.

And then he heard it.

Your laughter.

It was soft at first, a gentle peal that carried over the rustling of the trees and the patter of rain on the grass. Then it grew, rich and warm, spilling out into the quiet. Joel froze, every muscle in his body locking as he turned toward the sound.

You were in the stream, the rain falling in delicate droplets all around you, turning the surface of the water into a mosaic of ripples. He hadn’t meant to look. He really hadn’t. But there you were, spinning in the shallow current, arms spread wide, head tilted back to catch the rain on your face.

The sight of you stole the breath right out of him.

Your white tank top, soaked through and translucent, clung to your frame. He was only a man at the end of the day, and the sight sent a jolt to his groin.

But it wasn’t the outline of your body that caught his attention, not at first. It was your face, the sheer joy written across it, the unbridled freedom in your smile. You looked like a woman untouched by the world’s ugliness, as though the scars on your body and soul had been washed away by the rain. For that fleeting moment, you were radiant. Carefree. And it was something Joel hadn’t seen from you before, not like this.

The rain, mingling with the lingering heat of the day, created a mist that rose from the tall grass and wove through the trees like something out of a dream. Joel felt like he was watching a mirage, something too good to be real.

He told himself to look away, to give you the privacy you deserved. But he couldn’t. He was transfixed, rooted to the spot as his heart hammered against his ribcage.

And for the first time in a long while, Joel allowed himself to wonder.

It would be so easy. That’s what crossed his mind. So easy to let go of his threadbare resolve, to step into the stream and close the distance between you. To touch you. Not just to brush past you in some practical, utilitarian way, but really touch you. To let his hands find the curve of your waist, to feel the warmth of your skin under his calloused fingers.

The thought terrified him, more than anything had in years. Because in that moment, Joel knew.

You could never be just someone he traveled with. You were never just a pair of capable hands or an extra set of eyes.

You were something else entirely. Something precious. Something Joel didn’t deserve but couldn’t help but want.

So he stayed on the rock, watching as you twirled in the rain, the sound of your laughter carrying over the hills. And Joel Miller, a man who had made a life of keeping his heart buried deep, felt it crack open just a little bit more.

So that night, when you unrolled your sleeping bag by the fire, something changed. He’d already taken up his usual post against a tree at the edge of camp, rifle in hand, eyes scanning the dark horizon. But for once, the call of duty, the constant need to keep his distance from you, was drowned out by something else. Maybe it was the way the sun shower had softened the world around him earlier, how the rain had washed everything clean, how you seemed to glow in the sunny haze.

Wordlessly, as if compelled by a force he didn’t fully understand, he moved. His boots crunched against the dry leaves as he walked over to you, unfurling his sleeping bag beside yours.

You glanced up at him, your face lit by the flickering firelight. He braced himself for questions, for confusion, maybe even a hint of irritation. He could already hear himself mumbling an excuse, ready to retreat back to the tree if that’s what you wanted.

“Just figured it was warmer by the fire.”

But you didn’t look confused. Or annoyed. Or anything like he expected.

You smiled.

It was warm, open, and unguarded, like you’d been waiting for him to do this all along. Like you weren’t surprised by his sudden need for closeness, but relieved by it. And in that moment, he was disarmed. Completely.

He sat down beside you, rifle still cradled in his lap, his body tense with the effort of trying to convince himself this was nothing more than practicality, safety in numbers, warmth by the fire. He was always trying to convince himself of things like that, always forcing his thoughts into neat, platonic boxes that made sense.

You spoke to him, your voice soft and steady, and as the fire crackled, he found himself responding without thinking. Words flowed between you like the river you��d bathed earlier that day, easy and natural. Your body leaned just a little toward his, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off you, close enough that his heart raced. But he told himself it was just the chill of the night driving you closer, nothing more.

You laughed at something he said, light, airy laughter that felt like music to him. He didn’t know what he’d said that was so funny, but he didn’t care. He’d have said a hundred more things, anything to keep that sound alive in the summer night air.

But eventually, your laughter faded, your words slowing until sleep tugged at the edges of your voice. Curled up just a little closer to him than he dared to hope, you drifted off.

And that’s when he let himself look at you. Really look at you.

The way your face softened in sleep, the way the firelight painted your features in warm, golden hues. His hand itched to reach out, to brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek, to feel the weight of your head against his chest, your breaths syncing with his. It would have been so easy to drape an arm over your waist, to pull you just a little closer.

But he didn’t want to risk waking you, not even with the slightest movement. The thought of disturbing your peace, of pulling you from whatever refuge sleep had given you, was unthinkable. He’d shoulder the burden of exhaustion a thousand times over if it meant you could rest like you needed to.

If it meant he could watch you like this, unguarded and serene, your face lit by the dying embers of the fire.

He couldn’t help but study you, his eyes tracing the gentle curve of your cheek, the soft pout of your lips. Every so often, your eyebrows knit together, like something troubled you even in your dreams, and he felt an ache deep in his stomach. He wanted to smooth the crease with his thumb, whisper that everything was going to be okay. That he’d make it okay.

That night, as he gazed at you, he made a decision.

He’d tell you how he felt.

Not now, not here on the road, where every moment was a fight for survival and every step was shadowed by danger. He didn’t want his confession to feel like a tactic, some ploy to keep you close or bound to him out of obligation. The last thing he ever wanted was for you to feel pressured, to feel like you owed him anything.

But when you made it to safety, when you both stood on solid ground for the first time since the world fell apart, he’d tell you.

He’d tell you about how different you were, how you terrified him in ways he couldn’t even articulate. How the thought of you had carved its way into his very being and made a home there, keeping him awake at night. He’d tell you how much he hated himself for wanting something so good, so untainted, when he’d been the opposite for so long.

And he’d tell you about hope. About how he thought he’d lost it years ago, buried it alongside people he’d loved and failed. But you had unearthed it, dragged it kicking and screaming back into his life without even realizing it.

He’d tell you that he wasn’t a good man, not that this would be any revelation to you. You knew better than anyone the weight of the blood on his hands. But maybe, just maybe, this new place, this promised land you both fought so hard to reach, could be a fresh start. A chance to rinse the crimson from your palms and use them for something better. To learn what it meant to love again, in a world that had taught him nothing but how to endure.

And if you didn’t want him, if your heart didn’t align with his, he’d accept that, too. It would hurt, more than he cared to think about, but your happiness would be enough. Knowing you were safe, knowing you were free to live the life you deserved, would mean more to him than any confession of love ever could.

To see you saved, whole and untouched by the darkness that had consumed so much of him, would be enough. It would mean he’d finally done something right. Finally saved someone who truly deserved it.

And that thought was enough to keep him going. Enough to let him sit there, rifle cradled in his lap, watching over you until the first rays of dawn kissed the horizon.

…

He was checking traps when it happened.

At first, it was just noise. The constant roar of the river, the hiss of wind through rain-dampened trees. Your screams must have folded into the white noise, lost to the cadence of the post-storm forest.

But then he heard his name.

It wasn’t a call. It wasn’t a plea. It was a scream, raw, jagged, and visceral. And somehow, he knew.

Before his brain could process, his body responded. Like a switch had been flipped, like instinct alone had seized control of him. His legs moved with a speed that felt unnatural, propelling him forward as if the earth itself had turned against him.

He didn’t need to see you to understand what had happened. Somewhere deep inside, he already knew. But when he did see you, sprawled on the forest floor, pinned beneath a snarling, snapping beast, it was like something chemical ignited inside him.

Not adrenaline. Not shock. It was something else entirely. Something acidic, something that burned in his veins and threatened to eat him alive.

His hand moved faster than thought, the pistol in his grip an extension of his rage. The shot rang out, sharp and violent, and for a moment, he didn’t even register that it was his finger that had pulled the trigger. It didn’t feel like his hand, like his body. He was barely a man in that moment, just pure, unthinking reflex.

The infected collapsed off you in a heap, but he barely registered it. His eyes were locked on you, taking in the crumpled mess of your body. For a second, hope flickered, weak and pitiful. A cruel thing. And it burned.

Because he knew.

The red bloom spreading across your shirt stared at him, stark against the fabric, damning the both of you.

It was over. 

The pistol was up again, heavy but familiar. He flicked the safety off without thinking, the product of twenty years of survival. The barrel leveled at you, finger hovering over the trigger. 

It was muscle memory. Mechanical, methodical, practiced. 

But then your voice cried out, beseeching him to spare you and goddamnit, didn’t you know what that would do to him?

“Please, just… wait.” 

Did you have any idea what you were asking him for in that moment?

To override the reflex that had kept him alive for two decades. To ignore the rules that had been drilled into him by blood and fire, rules that had saved him time and time again. To fly in the face of everything he’d come to believe about survival in a world that had no room for mercy.

To confront the weakness you’d cored into him.

His hands shook.

The barrel wavered.

His mind screamed at him to finish it, to do what he had to do, but his chest felt like it was splitting open.

His mind fell away, back to those stolen moments, those fragile, fleeting seconds of normalcy you’d created and held together in a world that refused to offer it.

He thought about the QZ, the times when the two of you shared laughter soft enough not to wake suspicion. He thought about the quiet moments on the road, when the firelight danced across your face and you’d smile at him, something real and unguarded, and for just a second, the weight of survival would lift from his shoulders.

Being in your proximity allowed him the rarest kind of reprieve. Forgetting. Forgetting the blood on his hands, the screams that haunted him, the crushing monotony of survival.

Your company wasn’t just a comfort, it was a luxury. And Joel Miller had never been a man who allowed himself such indulgences. But you were different. You were intoxicating. You were a temptation he couldn’t turn away from.

What was he supposed to do? Just give that up?

So maybe Joel didn’t do what he was supposed to do in that moment. Maybe he acted on impulse, on selfishness.

Tess’s voice slithered through his mind, low and venomous, the same condemnation that had hung over him since this all started.

You’re blind when it comes to her.

And one day, it’s going to cost you.

He hated her for that. Hated her because she was right.

Joel Miller was not supposed to be a weak man, not anymore. He’d been forged in fire, hardened by loss. But when it came to you? Goddamn it, he was weak.

And as he stared down at you, trembling and bloodied, he didn’t feel like the ruthless man who’d survived for twenty years in hell. He felt like nothing. Like a coward.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice soft, trembling, breaking. “I’m not ready. Please.”

It broke something inside him to hear you say that, to hear the raw plea in your voice. He could feel the tears welling in his own eyes, hot and blinding, but he couldn’t look away from you. He didn’t need to see the tears streaking your face to know they were there.

He thought about it. He really, truly did. 

He thought about pressing the barrel of the gun to your temple, steadying his hands, and pulling the trigger. He thought about giving you the mercy that this world would never offer. About being strong enough to do what he’d promised you.

But his hands wouldn’t steady.

No matter how tightly he gripped the gun, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

And he knew, he knew, that if he missed—if he botched it—if he caused you more pain in your final moments, that would be it. That would be the thing that finally broke him.

He blinked through his tears, his vision swimming, his ribs heaving with ragged breaths. The gun felt like a weight he couldn’t bear, dragging his arm down, pulling him under.

He watched your body crumple, your legs folding beneath you like a lamb struck down mid-stride. The sight of you, fragile and broken, felt like a blade being thrust into his chest.

The gun in his hands felt almost foreign as he kept it trained on you. Not because he had any intention of pulling the trigger, but because it was all he had left. A crutch. A mask. A desperate attempt to maintain the illusion of control.

Joel Miller, the relentless, unflinching, unfeeling killer.

But where was that man now? Certainly not here. Not in this clearing, babbling incoherently under his breath like a man lost, trembling hands struggling to keep the pistol steady.

It was pathetic, he thought. Weak.

Eventually, he could take no more. He holstered the gun with a sharp, frustrated motion, the weight of it suddenly unbearable. His jaw clenched as he moved, as if action alone could smother the war raging inside him.

He tied you to a tree, the rope biting into the bark and your body, a crude solution that was as much for his peace of mind as it was for your protection. The knot was tight, too tight, maybe, but it was the only compromise he could muster. He couldn’t leave you untethered, not when the infection was clawing its way through your veins, preparing to twist you into something else.

And then something familiar happened to Joel. A sensation that had visited him countless times before, always in the moments when his soft, vulnerable underbelly was exposed.

He shut down completely.

It was a reflex, as automatic as breathing. The rough brick wall that surrounded whatever was left of his fragile heart rose swiftly, sealing him off from the mess of emotions swirling around him.

It felt like a shadow falling over him, a suffocating blanket of self-preservation. It was itchy, uncomfortable, bristling against every nerve in his body. But it protected him. It always had.

Joel turned on his heel, ambling away from you with stiff, mechanical movements. Like putting space between the two of you would snuff out the inferno of guilt, anger, and fear consuming him.

He didn’t go far. Couldn’t.

Instead, he sat with his back to you, staring into the forest as though its endless expanse could offer him answers. It didn’t. All it gave him was the hollow echo of his own shallow breaths, mixing with yours in the strained silence that hung between you.

And in that silence, Tess’s voice rang in his ears, clear as the crack of a rifle.

She’s your responsibility.

The weight of those words settled heavily on his shoulders, a familiar burden he had carried more times than he cared to count.

But now the weight was unbearable.

He’d failed you. He’d failed you like he failed Sarah. Like he failed Tommy. Like he failed every single person who had ever looked to him for protection.

The realization hit him like a freight train, barreling through the brittle defenses he’d tried to put up. His fingers curled into fists against his knees, knuckles whitening as he sat there, a man trapped in the ruins of his own guilt.

He didn’t turn to look at you. He couldn’t.

Not when your voice, too soft and quiet and gentle for what you were going through, floated through the air. You were trying so hard to keep your voice steady. 

“You know what I thought of you when I first met you?” 

You were brave and he was not. He was right all along. He never deserved you.

“I thought you were an asshole. A grumpy asshole.”

No, asshole was too kind a descriptor. He thought he was more befitting of words like evil or selfish or inhuman.

His body betrayed him, twitching as he tried to hold in a sob.

Your voice, just a whisper in the quiet, raspy and uneven, cut through him. 

"And once I figured out how easy it was to piss you off, I couldn't stop myself. I'd say the dumbest shit just to get you all riled up."

Joel didn’t react. Wouldn't react. He kept his back to you, his gaze fixed somewhere faraway and unseeing, because if he did, if he acknowledged this, he was certain he’d shatter. 

He heard the catch in your breath as you paused, the effort it cost you to keep speaking.. He knew what you were doing. Knew you were trying to draw him out, trying to make him say something, anything.

But he didn’t.

You kept talking. He knew you would.

"You’d get so mad, Joel. Your face would do this thing, this little twitch, like you were trying so hard not to tell me to shut the fuck up."

You were smiling. He could hear it in your voice, that low, wistful curve of your words. It was cruel, really. That you were smiling knocking on death’s door while he was sitting there, coming apart at the seams.

"And I think—no, I know—you liked it."

That did it. His jaw worked, and before he could stop himself, a sharp exhale slipped from his nose. It was barely a sound, barely a damn thing at all, but it was enough for you to catch it. Of course you did.

"If I was nice to you, you’d ignore me. But if I said something dumb just to piss you off? You couldn’t help yourself."

He squeezed his eyes shut, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He didn’t want to hear this. Didn’t want to revisit these moments you were laying out between you like fragile glass. Because he remembered them, every damn one. And it was all too much.

"I think you liked the banter," you said, your voice growing weaker. "The arguing. Maybe it made things feel... normal."

Joel swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as your words settled over him like a heavy weight. He didn’t want to think about that, about the way those moments had carved out tiny pockets of warmth in his otherwise frozen-over life.

And then you went for the throat.

"Do you remember that night a few months ago? When you set your sleeping bag up right next to mine?"

Yes. Yes, he did. Every single goddamn day did he think about that night. 

That night was burned into his memory, etched into his very being. Because that night, he’d allowed himself to imagine a world where he could have you, hold you, love you. He’d been so close to saying something, to reaching for you. But he hadn’t. He’d told himself it wasn’t the right time. That it was safer to wait.

And now, hearing your voice tremble with the weight of your confession, he realized what a fool he’d been.

“I liked it. A lot. Probably more than I should’ve. And I couldn’t sleep that night, Joel. I just kept laying there, staring at you while you were on watch, thinking… Maybe you liked me, too.”

That did it.

That fucking did it.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. His breath stuttered, his hands shaking as they gripped the edge of his knees. He couldn’t look at you. Couldn’t let you see the storm raging inside him.

You’d felt it, too. All this time, you’d felt it, and he’d been too much of a coward to do anything about it. Too afraid of what it meant, of what it could cost. And now, he’d wasted it. Wasted all the precious time he could have had with you.

The fear he’d carried with him for so long, that caring for someone again would destroy him, was nothing compared to the agony of this moment. Knowing he would lose you, knowing you would slip away from him forever, and he’d never told you.

All the time you could’ve spent together, talking, touching, tasting, indulging in your deepest shared desires. Gone. Because he’d been too scared to take the leap. Too scared to reach for the one thing he wanted most in this broken, depraved world.

He heard your breath falter again, your voice tapering into silence, and the blood roared in his ears, deafening. His heart pounded, frantic and wild, as if trying to break free from the cage of his ribs.

And suddenly, it was too much. The regret, the guilt, the overwhelming weight of what he’d lost. It all threatened to crush him, and he didn’t know if he could bear it.

For the first time in years, Joel Miller was helpless. Helpless to stop the ache tearing through him. Helpless to fix what was broken. Helpless to stop the one person who had come to mean everything from slipping through his fingers.

And it was all his fault.

“Stop.”

He didn’t realize he’d rounded on you until it was too late. Didn’t realize his hand had instinctively gone for his gun until he stood there, towering over you, the weapon trembling in his grip. Moonlight reflected off your wide, unflinching eyes, off the sheen of tears that hadn’t yet fallen.

The walls came up instantly, automatic as a reflex, wrapping him in the only defense he’d ever known. They let him retreat into himself, let the familiar mask of roughness and indifference take over. That mask had been his armor for so long, a weapon as sharp as any knife. It was how he survived. How he dealt with fear and pain and loss. By becoming something hard. Something people didn’t dare get close to.

And right now, he was scared. God, was he scared.

He just wanted you to stop. Stop talking, stop looking at him like that, stop peeling away every carefully constructed layer of his defenses until there was nothing left but the raw, ugly truth.

But you didn’t look afraid. Not of him. Not of the gun. Hell, you looked calmer than he felt, and it wasn’t fair. How could you look so composed when he was falling apart?

Your face, that beautiful, infuriating, goddamn perfect face. Even now, weakened and pale, barely clinging to life, you still glowed with something that made his breath hitch in his throat. Something pure. Something sacred.

And then you said it. The words that sealed his fate.

“I love you.”

Three words. Just three. And those walls didn’t just crack, they shattered. Brutally, violently, with debris raining down and choking smoke filling his lungs. The walls he’d spent two decades of blood and loss and apocalyptic horror building were gone, reduced to nothing in an instant.

The tears came before he could stop them, hot and blinding, shaking his body with quiet, wrenching sobs. He couldn’t hold them back, couldn’t control the storm raging inside him anymore.

His body was no longer his, it belonged to you. Mind, body, and soul. Yours. For as long as he remained on this mortal coil, he would be yours.

Because you’d done it. You’d broken him. With nothing more than your voice, soft and weak and filled with a love he didn’t deserve.

And yet, here you were, looking at him like he was everything. Like he was something worth loving.

He fell to his knees before you. It wasn’t a conscious choice, his body just moved, pulled by some force he couldn’t fight. His hands trembled as they reached for you, desperate to touch, to feel, to know you were still here. He forced himself to be gentle, to still the violent quake in his fingers as he brushed against your skin.

You were warm. Despite everything, you were still warm. And that warmth seared into him, branding him forever.

He bowed his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead. It was soft, reverent, a quiet prayer to whatever higher power might still be listening. A promise, silent but absolute. At least he would have this. At least he could carry this moment, this memory, in the shattered remains of his heart.

When his gaze fell to your lips, he hesitated. He could feel it, the pull, the overwhelming need to close the space between you, to taste the words you’d just spoken on your breath.

But he couldn’t.

God help him, he couldn’t.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. He did. More than he’d ever wanted anything. But it felt too big, too precious, too sacred. Kissing you would mean acknowledging it all, your love for him, his for you. And this love, it was the only good, pure thing he had left in this broken world.

And what if this was the end? What if this moment was all he’d ever have with you? What if he pressed his mouth to yours and your lips went still, your warmth faded, and he was left with nothing but the memory of a kiss given in the shadow of death?

No. He couldn’t. Not like this. Not here, in the horror of this reality.

His love for you was too sacred to be tarnished by the blood and chaos surrounding you. Too precious to be tied to this nightmare, to this moment where he was losing you.

So he didn’t.

Instead, he touched your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear that had slipped down.

Then, with painstaking effort, Joel forced himself to pull away from you. It was like tearing himself in half, leaving a piece of himself behind as he stood, his legs trembling beneath the weight of what he was doing. He moved just far enough that he wouldn’t be tempted to touch you again, wouldn’t risk holding on so tightly that he’d never let go.

And then he listened.

You talked, your voice weak but steady, filling the suffocating silence with the fragments of your life—the good, the bad, the heartbreaking. He listened as you shared your immaterialized dreams, the ones that had always seemed just out of reach. You talked about Yellowstone, about the beauty you’d never seen, the one place you wanted to go but never did.

And you told him, quietly, that you wanted him to go. For you.

He nodded, his throat too tight to speak, but the promise was carved into his psyche. He would go. He’d go to Yellowstone, he’d go to the ends of the earth if it meant keeping a piece of you alive. For you, he would do anything.

But then you began to fade.

Your voice, once so full of quiet determination, softened, becoming thinner, more fragile with every word. The pauses between your breaths grew longer, heavier, until they stretched like an unbearable silence threatening to swallow him whole.

And Joel—Joel did what he’d always done when the pain became too much to bear. He ran.

He chose the coward’s way out, dragging himself to his feet and retreating into the dark, leaving you there in the cold. His legs carried him away even as his heart screamed at him to stay.

He told himself it was mercy. Mercy for himself, maybe. Because he couldn’t, wouldn’t, live with the memory of watching you slip away. He couldn’t endure the weight of seeing the light in your eyes flicker and die, couldn’t let that be the last image of you seared into his mind.

He wanted to remember the warmth of your skin beneath his lips, the softness of your breath as you spoke to him, the soft smile you wore as you shared your dreams. He wanted to keep you as you were in that moment, alive in his arms, not as the lifeless shell he knew you would become.

So he left.

But even as he stumbled into the shadows, his ribcage heaving with the effort of holding himself together, he felt the weight of his choice crushing him. He’d abandoned you. He’d left you alone in the cold and dark when you needed him most.

He tried to justify it, telling himself it was the only way to preserve the memory of you as something beautiful, something unbroken. But deep down, he knew it was fear. Fear of losing you. Fear of breaking entirely. Fear of facing a world where you no longer existed.

And as your voice faded into nothingness, swallowed by the night, so too did his own consciousness.

The weight of grief dragged him down, pulling him into the dark, leaving him suspended in a place where time ceased to exist. A place where he could still hear your voice, still feel your warmth, still believe, for just a little while longer, that you were there.

…

Your voice broke through the haze, like a siren’s song to a doomed sailor adrift at sea.

Joel.

Soft, lilting, sweet. It wrapped around him, soothing and electrifying all at once, like a flame warming him from the inside out.

Joel.

It came again, stronger this time, a thread of desperation laced into the edges. Warmth unfurled through his veins, slow and unfamiliar, filling his limbs and grounding him in the earthy scent of the morning.

Joel!

The sharpness of your cry jolted him, his eyes snapping open. His head jerked instinctively, scanning his surroundings.

His breath caught, his heart stuttering as his gaze locked onto you.

You sat there, far away but unmistakable, small and tired-looking against the endless wilderness.

Why…?

And then it hit him. 

You were alive.

Not snarling or feral, not a shambling corpse stripped of all humanity. You were whole. You were you.

Your skin, though dull and flushed, still glowed with life. Your eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, held recognition, a spark he thought he’d never see again. Not the cloudy, dead-eyed stare of the infected, the one that had haunted his every nightmare. And your lips, trembling but steady, spoke his name like it meant something.

An infected couldn’t do that.

His legs carried him toward you on instinct, his steps heavy and hesitant, as though moving too fast might shatter this fragile moment. His mind rebelled against the sight before him, against the sheer impossibility of it all. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

It had to be a dream. Some cruel illusion sent to mock him, to drag him through another hell of false hope. Any second now, the image would crack and dissolve, revealing the truth he feared most: your lifeless body reanimated into a monster. He braced himself for it, half-expecting the air to fill with the guttural growls of the infected.

But with every step closer, the mirage refused to shatter. You remained rooted in place, more tangible with every breath he took.

He stopped just feet from you, his breath uneven, his hands shaking. His eyes swept over you, searching for the flaw, the glitch, the fatal sign that would confirm this was a lie. But there was nothing. Just you.

You were alive.

And when you spoke again, so softly, so human, it broke him. “Joel… Untie me. Please.”

Your voice was small, almost pitiful, and it wrecked him in a way he didn’t know was possible. His knees threatened to buckle as the enormity of it all settled in. He’d tied you up. Left you out here. Left you to die. And yet here you were, asking—not accusing, not condemning, but asking—for his help.

And then the walls started to rise again.

One by one, those barriers you’d torn down so easily last night rebuilt themselves, stronger, thicker, shielding him from the crushing reality of what stood before him. Because the truth was too much to face.

You were alive. And now you knew.

You knew the weak, broken man he truly was. A man who’d failed you in every way that mattered. A man who couldn’t keep his promises, who couldn’t summon the courage to do the one thing he’d sworn he’d do for you.

He couldn’t protect you. Not from the infected, not from the world, not even from himself. He was selfish, corrupted to his core. Last night had proven that. He’d abandoned you to spare himself the pain of watching you slip away, and now here you were, living proof of his cowardice.

He hadn’t thought about what he’d do after. Not really. In some far-off, intangible sense, he supposed he’d keep going. What else was there for him? He’d find a beautiful place to bury you, somewhere quiet and peaceful, somewhere worthy of you. He’d search for flowers, whatever he could find, and place them gently over your chest before the first handful of dirt covered you. He’d say something, maybe. Something small, simple, that didn’t even come close to how much you meant to him. And then he’d go to Yellowstone. For you. After that, it wouldn’t matter much what he did.

But now? Now, with you alive somehow, still breathing, still fighting, and not even angry with him, just pleading softly for relief and kindness, he didn’t know what to do. It scared the hell out of him. So, he did what he always did when he was scared. He shut it down. Pushed it away. Put distance between himself and what terrified him the most.

He moved through time and space like a ghost, detached, cold. He compartmentalized you, locked the memory of your voice, your tears, your pain, behind a door he refused to open. Focus on the task. Just the task.

Pack the camp. Gather the trip wires. Scatter dirt over the fire’s ashes. Roll up the sleeping bags and tuck them beside the dwindling rations.

Don’t think about the woman you love tied to a tree. Don’t think about how scared she must be. Don’t think about how she probably feels more abandoned now than she ever has. Don’t think about how you failed her, how you keep fucking failing her, how you keep failing everyone.

But eventually, he could avoid it no longer. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t hear the small, pained sounds you made when you shifted against the ropes. He forced his breathing to even out, his hands to steady as he moved toward you. He didn’t deserve to touch you, didn’t deserve to meet your eyes, but he knelt before you anyway. 

And so, as he reached out to untie the knots, his heart shattering, he resolved to keep his distance. To guard himself, guard you, from the mess of emotions swirling in his brain. Because loving you meant opening himself to a level of pain he couldn’t survive again. And he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. Not now, not again, not ever.

Somehow the fear of losing you was nothing compared to the fear of being seen by you. Seen for what he really was.

And you, looking at him with confusion and hurt written all over your face, misinterpreted every bit of it. To you, his silence, his hesitation, the way his hands shook but his eyes refused to meet yours, all of it screamed disgust.

You thought he was afraid of you.

And Joel, coward that he was, couldn’t find the words to tell you the truth. That all of the fear, all of the disgust, was reserved solely for himself.

When he finally looked at the wound, his heart seized in his throat. 

It was bad. Worse than he’d expected, worse than he was ready for. The jagged edges of torn flesh and dried blood painted a picture he couldn’t bear to see, a reminder of how close he’d come to losing you.

For a fleeting moment, he almost pulled you into his arms. Almost cradled you like something sacred, something he could never put back together but would die trying to protect. He wanted to cry, to beg for forgiveness, to tell you everything he felt but couldn’t bring himself to say.

But he didn’t. He wasn’t allowed that anymore. He’d proven himself unworthy in every sense.

Instead, he focused on the work. His hands moved mechanically, stitching you back together with a precision that belied the chaos inside him. Every pull of the thread felt like penance, like a punishment he deserved for what he’d done, and for what he hadn’t done.

And as the needle passed through your torn skin, he thought about the scar this would leave. About how it would stay with you forever, a constant reminder of how close you’d come to death.

Another thought crossed Joel’s mind at that moment.

What if he had pulled the trigger?

What if he’d ignored your cries, your desperate pleas for mercy, and done the only thing he thought was right in that moment? What if he’d let the wall of instinct and survival take over, burying his heart beneath it as he put you out of your misery? What if he’d made the decision that he’d told himself, countless times, was the merciful thing to do, the thing he should have done?

The thought turned his stomach.

He had been so close. A goddamn hair’s breadth away from ending your life. His finger had brushed the trigger, the cold steel already giving way beneath his pressure, when something, your voice, maybe, or just his own weakness, made him stop. And now, against all logic, you were here. Breathing. Alive.

But that only made it worse.

Because if he’d gone through with it, if he’d done what he thought he was supposed to do… 

Then you’d be gone. Just gone. He’d have to live with the memory of your face in those final moments, the way your eyes begged him for trust and compassion even as his weapon shook in his hand. He’d have to carry that weight forever.

But he didn’t pull the trigger.

And that meant living with the reality of what he almost did. Of how close he came to robbing you of this impossible, miraculous chance at survival. He hated himself for that too, for the thought, the instinct, the sheer audacity of his willingness to believe he had the right to make that call.

No matter which way he looked at it, the accusatory finger of blame pointed directly at him.

You’d been attacked because of him. You’d nearly died because he wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t good enough to stop it. And then, when it mattered most, he was too weak to do the thing he thought he owed you. But too cruel to stop himself from almost doing it anyway. He hated himself for all of it. Hated that, no matter how he tried to justify it, you bore the physical scars while he carried the guilt.

Now here you were, trusting him despite all of it, your blood still on his hands. Literally and figuratively. Every time he touched you, his heart twisted into tighter knots, longing and shame in equal measure. He wanted to comfort you, to be the kind of man you needed, but every time his hands brushed your skin, all he could think about was how close he came to using those same hands to destroy you.

And then you gasped in pain, your fingers curling instinctively toward him, seeking relief, and he startled like a man caught in a lie.

And his name left your sinless mouth again and it damn near broke him.

You needed to stop. You needed to stop saying his name like he was still someone you could rely on. You needed to stop acting like what he almost did wasn’t a crime against you, against whatever humanity was left in him. He wasn’t the man you thought he was, and every time you looked at him like he was, the weight of his guilt crushed him a little more.

When he finished tending your wounds, he didn’t speak. His hands were shaky but efficient as he pulled his flannel from his pack, tossing it toward you.

“You need a shirt,” he muttered gruffly, avoiding your eyes.

There were shirts in your pack. He knew that. Hell, you probably had plenty of them. But none of them were as soft or warm as his, and soft and warm were what you needed. That much he could give you, even if it felt selfish, like some part of him was trying to absolve himself through the smallest, simplest offering of comfort.

He turned away as you pulled it on, his throat tight. He didn’t deserve to see you like this, to be here after everything he’d failed to do.

Because no matter what happened now, he couldn’t escape the truth. Your blood had stained him a deep and wicked crimson, and he didn’t know how to live with it. So, he did what he always did. He shut down, walled himself off, and pulled further inward, convinced that was the only way he could protect you now. Even if it meant losing the fragile, unspoken bond that tied you to him.

It was for your own good, couldn't you see that?

…

When he came upon you floating in the river that day after you found the cabin, Joel felt the crushing grip of death reaching into his heart, digging its nails in deep, his lungs spasming like the air had been stolen from them.

Because, for a fleeting, heart-stopping moment, it wasn’t peace he saw in your tranquil face. It wasn’t the soft release of tension or the embrace of a quiet reprieve. No, what he saw was the haunting specter of loss. 

For that split second… he thought you were gone. 

The sweet release of death had finally come for you, and Joel had failed again, just like he always did.

Panic gripped him. His hands shook at his sides as the memory of that awful day clawed its way to the surface, the day he found you broken and bleeding on the river’s edge, weak and crumpled, your life slipping away. And now, here you were, floating in the water like some ghost come to torment him.

But then he noticed the upward curve of your lips. The gentle dance of your fingers along the surface of the water, catching the sunlight like ripples on glass.

Relief should have washed over him like the river over your skin. Instead, frustration hit him like a freight train. Frustration and self-loathing working in tandem to thrash at his restraint. It boiled inside him, until it clawed its way out and erupted from his lips as white-hot anger.

Because the scene before him wasn’t just a cruel reminder of how close he’d come to losing you. It was a bastardization of something he’d seen before, something sacred and untouchable that now felt ruined.

The day he’d found you bathing in the river, when he’d been struck dumb. When you’d looked like something out of a dream, the kind of vision that only existed in long-lost memories of happiness from before life ended. When the sun had painted you in golden hues, every drop of water on your skin sparkling like it had been placed there by God himself. 

Your white bra and underwear clung to your body now, made sheer by the water, and on any other day, something that, under any other circumstance, would have him hardening in his pants. 

But today, the light on your skin only served to illuminate the truth he couldn’t escape.

There, across your torso, was the still-healing evidence of your battle with the infected. The jagged, red lines twisted across your flesh, angry and raw. The criss cross of stitches he’d placed in you like a pathetic attempt at an apology. A painful, glaring reminder of his failure. Of how close he’d come to losing you. Of how he had let this happen.

“What the hell are you doin’?”

The words came before he could stop them, harsh and cutting as they tore through the air.

He hated himself for them the moment they left his mouth. 

Joel didn’t like who he was when he was afraid. Fear turned him into someone else, someone he couldn’t control. It was like watching a shadow fall over his own soul, twisting his actions and his words until they felt alien, like they were coming from someone else entirely.

He hated the way his fear made him lash out. The way his words shot to kill, arrows aimed directly at the soft, vulnerable places he swore he’d protect. 

A better man would’ve apologized.

A better man would’ve pushed past the walls of his own pride and fear, laid bare his terror, and let you in. A better man would’ve dropped his guard, let himself feel the pain of vulnerability, and told you the truth, that seeing you floating in the water, peaceful and alive, had scared the hell out of him. That he couldn’t stop the memory of your blood pooling beneath you, the sight of your crumpled body burned into his mind, and the knowledge that he’d almost pulled the trigger.

But Joel Miller wasn’t a better man. Joel Miller was a bad man.

So instead of reaching for you, instead of finding the words to explain what churned inside him, he let the anger take over. It was easier to channel his fear into something sharp, something that hurt outward instead of inward.

But most of all he hated the way your gaze lowered, the soft light in your eyes hardening into something guarded. He hated himself even more for being the reason it happened. For the fact that you were here, alive and vulnerable, and he couldn’t do a damn thing except push you further away.

…

Your journey continued like this, a painful push and pull, a pendulum swinging between connection and distance. Joel, cloaked in his shame, let his fear guide him, his own self-loathing sharpening into the barbs he hurled your way. He hurt you with his words, with his coldness, all while the pain of it ricocheted back inside him, leaving him twice as broken.

But in the storm that was his unending hurt, there were moments of reprieve. Small, ephemeral calms in the storm when the walls cracked, when the veil lifted, and for a breath of time, you were the same two people who’d embarked on this journey together.

Like when he held you after your nightmare, his arms tightening around you as though he could shield you from the demons that haunted your sleep. His lips brushed your hair, and for once, his silence was comforting, not damning.

Or when he pointed out the blood-red cardinal perched on a low branch, its feathers vibrant against the dreary backdrop of the forest. His voice had softened, quieter than usual, as he spoke Sarah’s name aloud, like a precious trinket offered up in hopes that it might soothe his ache.

And when he touched your skin, when his calloused hands found yours, helping you over a stream or taking your pack from your grasp, and the weight of the world seemed to dissolve. For a few blissful, rare moments, it was just the two of you, unburdened by the past, the road, or the darkness that followed.

But those moments were fleeting. And for all the concern Joel had poured into himself—into keeping himself sharp, keeping himself distant so he could protect you from the world and from his own blackened soul—he failed to notice the darkness growing inside you, an infection of a different kind.

He missed the signs. So many signs.

The way your laughter grew rarer, coming from somewhere hollow inside of you. The way your shoulders tensed even in your sleep, like you were bracing for a blow that never came. The way your hands lingered a little too long on your knife, or the way your eyes darkened after each unfamiliar noise sounded in the forest.

He didn’t see it. Not until it was too late.

Not until he pulled you off the raider, your body trembling, your breath ragged. The man’s skull was practically caved in beneath your bloodied, wrecked hands. Joel’s voice, rough and desperate, echoed in his ears as he shouted your name over and over, trying to bring you back to yourself.

And when you finally stilled, when your trembling hands dropped to your sides and your wide, glassy eyes met his, Joel saw it.

A look he knew intimately.

The one that had greeted him every morning for years when he stared into the mirror. The look of terror. Of shame. Of rage and hurt so deeply intertwined that they couldn’t be separated.

And he hated it.

Not because it scared him, though it did. Not because it reminded him of his own reflection, though it was haunting in its familiarity.

He hated it because it was you.

You, who he swore to protect. You, who had been his one tether to hope in this shattered world. You, who now looked at your bloodied hands as if they belonged to someone else, something else.

You might have thought you were a monster.

But Joel knew better.

Joel knew the truth.

He was the monster. And somehow, in trying to protect you from the darkness outside, he had let his own darkness seep into you, tainting the parts of you he had sworn to keep safe.

His hands tightened into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms until the pain anchored him. He wanted to say something, anything, to pull you out of the chasm he could see you slipping into. But the words stuck in his throat, blocked by the overwhelming weight of his guilt.

Because no matter how hard he tried, Joel always destroyed the things he loved.

…

Joel woke to an aching emptiness that started in his chest and stretched through his entire body. The first dregs of sunlight filtered in through the cracks in the boarded up windows, and the cold, stale air in the room had gooseflesh rising in its wake. The rainstorm last night had left the room smelling damp and rotted.

It took him a moment to realize what felt off, what felt wrong.

The mattress he’d barricaded over the door was shoved to the side, just a bit. Just enough for you to slip out.

And there, folded neatly at his feet, was the flannel he’d given you. A silent message. A quiet rejection.

The realization hit him like a freight train. He didn’t need to check the rest of the house to know. You were gone.

For a long moment, Joel just stared at the flannel. His mind couldn’t, wouldn’t, process it. His fingers hovered above the fabric as if touching it would make it more real, would confirm the fact that you’d left.

When he finally picked it up, he clenched it so tightly his knuckles went white. The scent of you still lingered faintly in the fabric, and the pang in his heart grew sharper, deeper, unbearable.

Joel didn’t need to wonder why you left. He knew. He’d driven you away, pushed you so far that you’d felt you had no choice but to leave.

He thought of the way he’d shut you out, the way his fear and self-loathing had manifested into anger, into cruelty. He thought of the way he’d seen you staring at your bloodied hands last night, the haunted look in your eyes. The way you’d started to pull inward, to retreat into yourself, refuse to take the antibiotics because you thought you didn’t deserve them. He’d seen it all, and still, he hadn’t reached for you, hadn’t tried to bridge the growing distance.

Because Joel Miller didn’t know how to let anyone in without feeling like he’d lose them. And yet he lost you anyway.

The thought sank like a stone in his gut. But alongside it, another thought rose, fierce and all-consuming.

He had to find you, had to make sure you were safe. Even if he had to follow you to Yellowstone, a silent sentinel in your wake, keeping his distance until you needed him, he’d do it. 

Joel moved quickly, packing up the remnants of your stay with methodical efficiency, his mind racing all the while. You couldn’t have gotten far. You’d left during the night, sure, but you didn’t have his years of tracking experience, didn’t know how to hide your trail the way he did.

But there’d been a rain storm last night, a bad one. It had quickly turned to snow by early morning, obscuring most of the tracks you would have left behind.

He found the first sign of you not far from the house, footprints in the snow, leading away from a barren spot beneath a tree. You must have slept here at some point. A few miles ahead, he found another sign, a broken branch, a collection of footprints running parallel to the road.

He focused on the trail, the signs you’d unintentionally left behind, but his mind refused to quiet.

Why didn’t I tell her? Why didn’t I let her know what she means to me? Why didn’t I stop her from thinking she was something less than human?

With every step, his guilt grew heavier, like an anchor dragging him down. He thought about the way you’d smiled at him in those rare, soft moments, the way your laugh had sounded once upon a time, light and free, before the darkness took hold.

He thought about how you’d trusted him, even after everything, even after he’d shut you out and failed to protect you.

And he thought about how he’d failed you again, not by letting you leave, but by making you feel like you had to.

Joel didn’t know what he’d say when he found you. Hell, he didn’t even know if you’d let him come near you. But he knew he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t let you go, not like this.

Because for all the darkness in him, for all the ways he’d failed, you were the one thing that made him feel human again. And he wasn’t going to let that slip away without a fight.

So he tracked you, desperate, determined, hoping against hope that he could fix this, that he could fix himself, for you.

…

He’d almost stopped for the day when he saw it.

Joel had been on your trail for days, the cold biting deeper with every step. He was damn sure he’d been close a couple of times, signs of your passing too fresh to be coincidence. But then the blizzard hit, a wall of snow and wind that made even Joel’s dogged determination falter. He had no choice but to hole up in an old barn a couple of miles off the highway, its rickety walls groaning under the weight of the storm.

The hours inside were maddening. Every second spent trapped there felt like a second wasted, a second further from finding you. The trail was growing colder, the evidence you’d left behind, footprints, broken branches, the occasional scuff of dirt, were all disappearing under the relentless snow.

But the worst part wasn’t the delay. It wasn’t even the gnawing fear that he’d lose your trail entirely.

It was wondering where you were.

Were you holed up somewhere safe, or out in this storm, freezing, trembling? Were you hurt, curled up in some dark corner with nothing but your thoughts and your pain to keep you company? Joel couldn’t stop the images from coming, couldn’t stop imagining you huddled against the cold, too far gone to fight it, too broken to keep moving.

The thought of it had him pacing the barn like a caged animal. His fists clenched and unclenched, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps. He almost threw open the door, storm or no storm. He didn’t care about the cold. He didn’t care about the risk. He didn’t care about his own safety.

Because if you were out there, scared and alone, how could he stay here?

But the voice of reason held him back, bitter and cruel as it was. If he went out there now, blind and desperate, he’d only get himself killed—and you along with him, when he failed to find you. So he forced himself to wait, each passing hour a dagger to his heart.

Still, his mind wouldn’t quiet. The possibilities clawed at him. What if he didn’t find you in time? What if the cold took you? What if someone worse than him crossed your path?

And what if, when he did find you, you hated him so much that you wouldn’t let him bring you back?

Joel couldn’t even blame you for that. He deserved it, didn’t he? He deserved your hatred. He deserved your anger. But none of that mattered to him. None of it.

He would brave the storm, the cold, Hell itself if it meant knowing you were safe. You could spit curses at him for the rest of your life, and he’d carry them like a badge of honor. He’d carry you all the way back to Wyoming in his arms if he had to and deposit you on the doorstep of a better man and watch as the two of you built the life he was supposed to have with you.

He’d watch as you found your happiness without him, each day tearing him apart from the inside out. And still, Joel would count himself lucky for knowing you’d survived.

He’d die by your sword, gladly, if it meant you’d live.

So when the storm finally broke, he didn’t waste a second. He resumed his search with a singular focus, a desperation that drove him through the snow and wind as if the cold were nothing but an afterthought. His steps were heavy, his breaths coming in clouds, but none of it mattered. Nothing mattered but you.

When he stumbled upon the small town, a flicker of hope stirred in the hollow of him. It looked intact. No signs of life, but no signs of danger either. He scouted the area carefully, searching for any hint that you’d been here.

And that’s when he saw it.

At first, he didn’t recognize it, his mind struggling to bridge the gap between the world he lived in now and the world he’d left behind. But as he stepped closer, the symbol came into sharp focus.

The Firefly symbol. 

It was painted on the side of a crumbling building, relatively fresh, the lines too bold and precise to be anything else. The sight of it made his stomach drop like a stone.

All the air left his lungs. He stared at it, unmoving, as the implication of it hit him like a freight train, his mind falling back to a night in the Boston QZ.

…

A few weeks had passed since you’d first broached the subject of Wyoming.

Joel had tried to resist, tried to apply logic to your wide-eyed dream. He’d told himself that it was a stupid idea. A bad idea. The kind of hope that got people killed in this world. But you just had this way about you, this spark of hope that seemed to catch fire in the hearts of anyone who dared to be near you for too long.

And Joel couldn’t stop himself from being engulfed by it.

So, while he grumbled and cursed under his breath about your pipe dream, he also started quietly preparing for it. He took on extra jobs, sought out scraps of information, stockpiled supplies. Anything that would either solidify his excuses for why this couldn’t happen or, God help him, give him the confidence to take the plunge with you.

And that’s how he ended up at Marlene’s door.

Joel wasn’t a fan of Marlene. He never had been. She was too much like him; cunning, ruthless, always looking for an edge. Maybe that’s why he avoided her. He didn’t like seeing his own sharp edges reflected back at him. But he couldn’t deny the Fireflies had sway. Power. Resources.

If he could pull off one good smuggling job before you left, he’d have enough to ensure the two of you could make the trip. Maybe even get some contacts along the way.

But it would come at a price. It always did.

“Joel,” she greeted him when she opened the door, her voice cool and gaze scrutinizing as she scanned him. She had a way of picking him apart with her gaze, and it never failed to set him on edge. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need somethin’,” Joel replied, stepping inside as she shifted back to let him in.

He hadn’t been expecting the sight that greeted him. Marlene looked worn down, her skin sallow, her movements sluggish. Rolls of bandages, bloodied rags, and medical supplies were scattered across the small room she was holed up in.

She was hurt.

“The hell happened here?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as she gingerly lowered herself into a chair, one hand pressed protectively to her abdomen.

“Deal gone wrong,” she said simply, wincing as she settled into place. “You know how it is.”

Joel nodded. He didn’t have much sympathy to spare, especially not for Marlene. She wouldn’t have wanted it anyway. She wasn’t the type to waste time on pity or platitudes. Neither was he.

“I need supplies,” he said, cutting to the chase. “Enough to get two people a decent way out west. And some contacts out there, if you got ‘em.”

That made her pause. Her narrowed eyes locked onto him, a brow lifting in surprise. “You and Tess leaving?”

The mention of Tess sent a pang through Joel’s gut. He hadn’t told her yet. Hell, he wasn’t even sure how to tell her. Tess could handle a lot, but this? Leaving her behind? He wasn’t ready for that conversation.

“Nah, not Tess,” he said gruffly, not offering anything more. He’d never told Marlene about you, about the way you’d walked into his life and upended everything without even meaning to. He’d kept you separate from all this Firefly shit. It was dangerous, messy, and always teetering on the edge of going sideways. Taking you along on low-stakes deals was nerve wracking enough.

He thought of Lyle and his men. That shitshow was tame, nothing compared to the kind of trouble Marlene regularly dealt with.

She didn’t press, though. Marlene wasn’t one to dig too deep unless it benefited her. Instead, she leaned back, her calculating gaze softening just enough to make Joel uneasy.

“Alright,” she said finally. “I’ve got something for you. Transportation job. Cargo needs to get to Utah. You’ll get enough supplies to make it out there, plus contacts at a base near the Montana-Wyoming border.”

Joel stiffened. His stomach churned.

What the hell was this? Was Marlene reading his goddamn mind? He came to her for help, and she just so happened to have a job that not only got him the supplies he needed but also set him up on the exact route he’d need to take?

It was too good to be true.

His gut twisted with suspicion. This kind of luck didn’t come without a catch.

“What kinda cargo?” Joel asked, his tone laced with suspicion.

Marlene smiled, a tight, humorless thing, and Joel’s stomach sank. He knew that look. This wasn’t going to be an easy job.

“A kid,” she said simply.

Joel blinked. “A kid?”

She nodded. “I need you to bring her to a hospital in Salt Lake City. We’ve got doctors up there, good ones. They’re working on a vaccine.”

Joel’s jaw tightened. He was a lot of things, but gullible wasn’t one of them. He’d heard this song and dance too many times before. Vaccines and serums and cures. Charlatans promising salvation in exchange for blood, sweat, and whatever else you could offer them. And it was all bullshit, every damn time. Joel had been a contractor before the world ended, not a scientist, but even he knew that much.

“Ain’t no vaccine, Marlene,” he said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. “You and I both know that.”

She gave him a sharp look, her eyes narrowing. “You haven’t met these doctors, Joel. You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” he bit back. “How the hell are they planning on using a kid to make a vaccine?”

“She’s immune,” Marlene said, her voice steady, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Joel barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

“I swear to God, Joel,” she said, raising her hand in the air as if to take an oath. “I didn’t believe it at first, either.”

He squinted at her, suspicion and disbelief roiling through him. “How many pain pills you takin’?”

Marlene laughed bitterly, wincing as the movement tugged at the injury on her abdomen. “I’m dead serious.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “Okay,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “So how’re these miracle doctors planning to make the vaccine? If she’s infected, it’s in her brain.”

Marlene nodded solemnly. “The Cordyceps in her, what’s growing inside her, it’s mutated. That’s why she’s immune. Once they remove it, they’ll be able to reverse-engineer a vaccine.”

“Remove it,” Joel echoed, his voice dropping. He stared at her, his jaw tightening as the pieces fell into place. “Her brain. You’re talkin’ about killin’ her.”

Marlene didn’t flinch. She held his gaze, her expression unreadable.

Joel’s blood ran cold. He was no saint, hell, far from it. But this? Transporting a kid across the country to her death, all for some half-baked promise of salvation?

“You’re fuckin’ sick,” he hissed, venom dripping from every word. “I’m not doin’ it.”

“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug, though her face was taut with frustration. “I’d do it myself, but I’m a little indisposed at the moment.”

Joel shook his head, his anger boiling over. “You’re gonna kill an innocent kid for a vaccine that might not even work?”

“It’s for the greater good,” Marlene said evenly, though there was an edge of steel to her voice. “Something you wouldn’t understand.”

“Save it,” he snapped, already reaching for the door. He didn’t need her, didn’t need her job or her supplies. He’d get you out of this fucking hellhole with the clothes on his back if he had to.

His feet carried him back toward your apartment before he even realized what he was doing. He didn’t think too much about it. He didn’t want to think too much about anything right now. Not Marlene. Not the Fireflies. Not what she was asking him to do.

But when he rapped his knuckles against your door and saw your face, everything clicked into place.

The anger, the frustration, the weight of the world pressing down on him, it all vanished the moment you opened the door.

Your eyes lit up when you saw him, and the warmth of your expression hit him like a breath of fresh air. Inside your apartment, the air felt lighter, the space cozier, like it existed outside the suffocating grime of the QZ.

Joel stepped inside, and for a moment, the rest of the world didn’t matter.

This place was rotten. It was filled with rotten people doing rotten work for rotten pay. There was no life here, no spark in the ashes, no green shooting through the dirt. Just pain and survival in an endless, vicious cycle.

You deserved more than this. The way your face softened when you smiled at him, the way your voice wrapped around his name, it was a reminder of everything he wanted but never thought he could have. Time spent with you felt sacred, like the two of you existed in some bubble suspended above the rot and filth.

Joel made a decision then and there.

He’d get you out of here. Away from this decay and despair. Even if he had to fight tooth and nail to do it.

…

Now, if they found you… If they realized you were immune…

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his body tensing like a coiled spring. 

The thought of them having you—you—in their grasp was enough to make his vision blur with rage.

Images of you in a sterile white room, immobilized and unaware, doctors circling you like vultures, ready to steal you away from him again.

Joel’s jaw tightened as he forced himself to focus, his instincts kicking into high gear. He didn’t know if the Fireflies were here now, if this was just an old mark or something more recent. But it didn’t matter. He had to move fast. He had to find you before anyone else did.

Because if the Fireflies found you first... 

Joel didn’t let himself finish the thought. He just started running.

Taglist: @javierpenaispunk @eviispunk

[rich1etozier]

On the ground is a bleeding man, a pair of mangled wings sprouting from his back.

Eddie gasps. A faerie. A creature with wings whiter than the silver moon.

The thing on the ground stirs.

Eddie is unable to move, not even when the faerie pushes to his knees, then to his feet, blood from the wound Eddie inflicted spilling down his back like paint.

The thing looks like a man rises to his feet and retreats to the trunk of the willow tree. The white wings shift around him, tensed and flat like a wrinkled shroud. After a moment of deliberation, the faerie finds a suitable perch amongst the roots and settles on his haunches.

Eddie thinks for a moment he’s trying to hide himself like prey, seeing the broken wine bottle and knowing what they’re here for.

But then the faerie fixes his gaze on them, and Eddie’s blood runs cold.

Those eyes. They’re black like Father’s, dilated with too much drink. No white at all, just two black pearls in a sharp, pitiless face.

Eddie shakes on the ground, can't find it in himself to speak. Though, in reality, he knows he should say something. Faeries stand on ceremony. Faeries demand respect. But all Eddie can manage is a cotton-mouthed gasp.

This creature is beautiful, and terrifying.

It’s Dustin who breaks the tense moment. He stands, and steps forward with the lantern, their shadows swaying inside the curtain of the willow fronds. Across the lake, the sun has begun its descent behind the tree line.

“Hello again, Master Raven,” Dustin says, bowing deeply, arms thrown out behind him like a courtier. “We mean you no harm. My brother and I are only appreciating the beauty of the Blackwood on this auspicious night.”

“Yes, yes!” Eddie quickly agrees. He rises finally to his feet, shifts so he’s beside Dustin, playing along with his brother’s half-truth, “We were told of the equinox’s unique effect on the Blackwood, and… desired to see it for ourselves.”

Thick hair falls in the faerie’s eyes, the color of new hay after rain. The strands are long enough to trail around his shoulders, catching occasionally on the stark feathers. His expression remains an unchanged wall of apathy. Birdlike and unfeeling.

Eddie is unable to track where those black marble eyes are looking, but he has the distinct feeling that he in particular is being watched. He’s not sure how he knows it, only feels the gaze like a weight. Shivers move across his body.

“Who are you?” the faerie asks. His voice isn’t melodic. It’s deep and it grates, like scratching bone, like quenching hot iron in cold water.

Eddie staggers backward on his feet, nearly tripping on tall tree roots. “Eddie,” he stutters, before snapping his mouth shut. Don’t speak your name in the presence of fae. But it’s too late, he’s already said it. Eddie pushes Dustin behind him, blood cold. Nervous words pour from his mouth like a compulsion, "Our father is the village smith."

The thing that looks like a man points to the bottle in Dustin’s hands. “And you thought you could catch me? In that?”

Eddie lets out a shaky breath, chooses his next words carefully, “You graciously saved us from certain death. I would not reward help with betrayal.”

The faerie scoffs, emotion overtaking his face for the first time. Disbelief, indignation. “Reward? I do not seek the reward of a human.”

“A kindness, then,” Eddie corrects.

The faerie tilts his head, “But not your thanks?”

He’s trying to trap me. Trying to imprison me with words.

Eddie licks his lips, “No.”

A sound like raven-call escapes up the faerie’s throat. He’s laughing at Eddie. “I see you follow your rules well,” the faerie chuckles, shaking his head. “I do not care much for rules.” His wings unfurl, wide and magnificent—flapping once, twice, until he’s propelled himself within touching distance. He lands with a gentle step, tread so light he makes no prints in the fragile layer of moss. The ripped wings fold back up, limp and bloody, but he doesn’t shudder, doesn’t recoil in pain. He probably can’t feel pain at all. That seems like such a human concern, not something worth troubling over when you’re both more and less than a human.

The faerie closes the distance and suddenly he and Eddie are nose to nose, barely inches apart. They’re close enough that Eddie can see freckles on the faerie’s cheeks—They scatter down his neck in a constellation of dark stars.

“Would you like to play a game with me?” the faerie asks.

Even the horrible, teasing smile on his face is beautiful.

Oh god, don’t get distracted.

What had he suggested? A game?

Eddie wants to play, wants to stay just a moment longer in this creature’s presence. But. “We won’t have any dealings with you.”

“A game is not a deal. A game is for fun.”

“I don’t want to have fun with you.”

Inexplicably, the faerie pouts. It’s a grotesque arrangement of features on his wide, flushed face. Makes him seem both more and less like the faerie he is. Clumsily manipulative. Hatefully endearing. “I’m already having fun with you, whether you want me to or not.”

----

this is an excerpt from Chapter 4 of my Faerie!Steve x Blacksmith!Eddie fic, "The Equinox Game" | Read from the beginning here!

[blessedbygookim]

The Queen Of Busan.

Part one: the meeting.

Part two: defeated.

Part three: years.

This has been in my notes for so long, it was starting to collect dust. Had holes in it too like a fucking overused tissue. Took me way too long and way too much procrastination to do at least something with it. 😭

But here it is finally! Enjoy (pls.) Btw it’s s long, so make sure to grab some snacks and drinks and all before you begin. 🫶🏻

Three years.

Three, and perhaps a bit more has passed since then.

But who counts, right?

Well, not Nova.

Not in a sense that she marks her calendar, crossing out every day and counting down every minute with a sense of pride.

No, it’s a bit different.

She is a bit different now.

Victory has a way of leaving scars, even when the battle is won. For Nova, the echoes of her clash with Gun and Goo lingered like a ghost, haunting her in the spaces where silence should have soothed. She had defended Busan, saved her people, and reaffirmed her rule. But the harder she clung to the city she loved, the more fragile it began to feel in her grasp, as though the very act of holding it might shatter it to pieces. Paranoia crept into her like a thief in the night, curling its cold fingers around her mind. She began to see shadows where there were none, hear whispers in the cracks of laughter, and sense betrayal in the most loyal of faces. It wasn’t fear for herself—Nova had never feared anything when it came to her own life. But the idea of her people, her city, being destroyed by some unseen hand tore at her like a blade.

She became a hurricane disguised as a queen, her calm exterior hiding the growing storm beneath. Anyone who so much as looked like a threat, anyone whose loyalty seemed even a shade of gray, was erased from her world. She struck preemptively, not from malice, but from the gnawing dread of what might happen if she hesitated.

Busan remained alive, still thriving under her reign, but the warmth that had once defined her began to cool. The kindness she had wielded like a lantern in the dark was dimmed by the weight of her vigilance. Each decision made for protection, each life ended for the greater good, chipped away at the part of her that had once loved freely and trusted easily.

So, who is Nova now?

Nova had become something more than human, and less. There was a divinity in her now—something sacred yet terrifying, like the wrath of an angel carved in the firelight of old myths. She moved through Busan like a specter, her presence haunting and magnetic, commanding worship without a word.

She no longer sought connection; she had become untouchable, unreachable. People admired her as one admires a star—brilliant, distant, and wholly impossible to grasp. Beauty once made to disarm had become a weapon, sharper than any blade, the kind of beauty that made you question your own humanity. She was a marble nymph come to life, skin kissed by the moonlight, eyes glowing with the weight of a thousand secrets. Her lips could promise salvation or damnation; no one was brave enough to ask which.

Even her movements were a symphony of chaos and control, weaving between the earthly and the unearthly. She operated on a different frequency now, untethered by mortal logic. Her unpredictability was a blade that kept the city’s predators at bay, a dangerous dance of intellect and raw power that no one dared interrupt. Each step, each word, was deliberate yet chaotic, calculated yet mad.

The city felt her in its bones—her rage, her fear, her brilliance. In her, they saw something that outmatched even the chaos of Goo and the calculated terror of Gun. She had become a new breed of monster: fluid, unrelenting, and impossible to define. Busan was still hers, but it bore the scars of her transformation—the quiet streets, the muffled breaths, the lingering bloodstains in places she deemed necessary.

And yet, she knew this could not last. The whispers reached her like a cold wind. The King of Busan, the man who once ruled these streets, was returning. Released from his prison, where he had spent years plotting and waiting, his shadow stretched long over the city she had fought so hard to claim.

Nova had always been three steps ahead, but now the clock ticked louder. She could feel it—the shift in the air, the weight of her reign buckling under the possibility of his return.

“Well, it is what it is,” she murmured to herself, a short laugh slipping past her lips—dry, devoid of humor, like a hollow wind passing through dead trees. It wasn’t bitterness, nor resignation, but something quieter: acceptance.

No, Nova had never feared challenges. They were the marrow of her life, the thing that kept her alive in more ways than one. But she’d learned that some battles aren’t worth the blood they demand. Sometimes, the hardest choice is to let go.

Vengeance? She scoffed at the thought. The two boys, and Charles Choi—they were never worth the weight of her anger. Rot always consumes itself, she knew that, and rotten fruit falls from the tree eventually.

And fall they did. The news came in whispers and headlines, carried on the tongues of her network and glowing screens alike. Charles Choi’s empire, the colossus of corruption and greed, had crumbled under the weight of its own secrets.

And then came the final note in his symphony of ruin: his leap from a skyscraper, a plunge into the abyss broadcast live to the world.

She hadn’t smiled at the news. There was no triumph in witnessing the inevitable. Only the quiet hum of the universe in perfect order, like a thread tying itself neatly in place.

And Gun—the unshakable, unmovable Gun—had taken the fall, as if shouldering the sins of his master. His prison sentence was whispered like a legend in the making, the kind of story that would ripple through the underground for years to come.

The mighty had fallen, indeed. Life worked its strange magic, whether cruel or harmonious, and Nova watched it all unfold from the throne she no longer wanted to hold.

Let’s rewind a little though, back to the aftermath of their fall three years ago. Gun and Goo—two untouchable legends brought down by a woman who operated like no one they had ever encountered. Her victory felt like something whispered in the dead of night, a fairy tale spun from improbable threads. A queen who felled kings.

And yet, such defeats linger. They don’t dissolve into the air like smoke but instead carve themselves into the memory, stubborn as scars. For most, it might have meant retreat, or the slow, smoldering fire of revenge. But for Gun and Goo, it became something far more dangerous: obsession.

For Gun, it was the kind that sharpened his senses and fed the hunger he lived for. She was proof that power could always be pushed further, boundaries could always be broken. Her strength, her unpredictability, and the sheer artistry of her defiance—it was intoxicating. She became his unspoken benchmark, the ghost of a challenge that whispered, Wow, can’t you do better than this? Better than her?

For Goo, the fascination was… messier. He’d always been a man who lived for the next big thrill, the next shiny thing to chase. And Nova? She wasn’t just a thrill; she was an obsession wrapped in silk and steel. That face, those eyes, that terrifying grace—she was every temptation he’d ever entertained, tasting like every dark thought he ever had. More than that, she was opportunity personified. She was a future, a wildcard, a queen in the making who could flip the board in ways he hadn’t even imagined yet.

She lingered in their minds, unshakable. For Gun, she was the fight that got away, the opponent he hadn’t truly bested. For Goo, she was a door left ajar, the promise of something more. Maybe a love interest? Well–give or take–yes.

Her decree had been clear: Gun and Goo were never to step foot in her city again. The words, sharp and final, had left no room for misinterpretation. She had built Busan into her sanctuary, her dominion, and their presence was a nuisance she would not tolerate.

For Gun, the ban had become a ghost he could not exorcise. Not because he feared her wrath—fear was an emotion long absent from his repertoire—but because he was caged. Locked behind cold bars for sins not entirely his own, he now had nothing but time to replay the memory of her. The way her strength had shattered his expectations. The way her movements had seemed to defy gravity, reason, logic. She was his unbroken record, the one challenge he couldn’t replay, and that haunted him more than any prison cell.

But Goo? Goo had no such limitations. He was free, unburdened by Charles Choi’s schemes and Gun’s watchful shadow. No longer a pawn in someone else’s game, Goo had become his own master, a chaotic force of nature with nothing to lose and everything to gain. His Secret Friends were thriving, his plans were unfurling like a meticulously crafted symphony, and the world itself felt ripe for the taking.

And yet, amidst all the chaos he orchestrated, she remained. A persistent thought in the back of his mind, like a song he couldn’t stop humming. Her image, her power, the electric charge of her presence—it was an itch he couldn’t scratch, a curiosity too tantalizing to ignore. The thrill of her had never left him.

Goo had always been a creature of impulse, but now he was something more: refined chaos. Experience had tempered him, not into a calmer man, but into a more calculated one. He understood the value of patience, the power of letting the game play out before tipping the board. But with Nova, patience was a luxury he couldn’t afford anymore.

The idea of seeking her out again wasn’t just tempting—it was inevitable. He didn’t care about her ban; in fact, it amused him. The queen of Busan thought she could draw lines he wouldn’t cross? She had underestimated just how far he was willing to go for the thrill of seeing her again.

And so, plans began to take shape. Subtle inquiries, discreet movements, the kind of groundwork that would lead him back to her city without a single warning flare. Not for vengeance, not for power—simply for the exhilaration of stepping into her world once more.

For Goo, the anticipation was everything. It was the prelude to chaos, the moment before the storm, and he relished it like a fine wine.

Busan’s queen didn’t yet know it, but the game was about to begin again. And this time, Goo was playing to win.

Playing to win. Only playing.

For Goo, life was a stage, a grand and unpredictable theater where he thrived on improvisation, on stirring chaos and watching the pieces fall where they may.

That day they were in his apartment. The room, dimly lit and filled with cigarette smoke, was a chaotic blend of personalities that somehow orbit around Goo’s gravitational pull.

Samuel Seo sat in the corner, tapping ash into a small tray. He was quiet, listening with that unreadable expression of his, his eyes sharp and calculating. Samuel rarely wasted words, but his silence carried a weight that even Goo acknowledged—albeit grudgingly.

Taejin Cheon, a stark contrast, sat stiffly, his cold and precise demeanor radiating a silent judgment of everyone else in the room. His calculating nature was as intimidating as his reputation.

Logan Lee, however, was the odd one out, hunched in the corner, picking his nose with no shame, his oversized frame slumped in the armchair that creaked with every move. His presence was always a question mark, his attitude laced with bitterness toward anyone more attractive, successful, or likable than him—which was, frankly, everyone. Yet Goo kept him around, maybe for comic relief, maybe for the sheer irony of it.

Goo was in his element, as usual, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the table, juggling a golden pen between his fingers like it was a toy. He smirked as he spoke, his tone dripping with amusement and sarcasm as he laid out half-baked schemes and provocations, each one more outlandish than the last.

Yet deep down, he knew better. He knew when someone was several steps ahead, and even as he laughed it off, the thought of Nova’s face flickered through his mind.

She wasn’t playing. She never was. And that thought lingered, unsettling and undeniable, even as Goo turned back to his ridiculous plans with his mismatched crew.

Oh then there is Alexander, he was outside, “guarding the door”, so to say. He always been a man of pretense—bold when he could hide behind stronger shadows, and soft when the world grew too sharp around the edges. Goo’s plans—chaotic, absurd, somehow brilliant—had a way of infecting everyone with belief.

Then sound of heels—sharp, deliberate—echoed down the hallway like a metronome ticking against the silence. Each click reverberated with a weight that made his skin prickle.

He told himself it was nothing. Maybe a neighbor. Maybe someone delivering something. Nothing unusual.

But when he snapped out of his thoughts, a woman was already standing before him, like she just appeared out of thin air. Her frame cloaked in a sleek black coat that draped around her like liquid shadow. Her posture was relaxed, yet the air around her was suffocating.

Unsettling.

Alexander tried not to stare, but his eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to her like a moth to a flame. She looked out of place, but not in a way that suggested she didn’t belong—rather, in a way that suggested the space was simply too small to contain her. Her presence expanded and pressed against the hallway walls, filling every crevice with an unspoken tension.

Her hair was tied into a high, slick ponytail, the strands catching faint glints of light like threads of silver. Designer sunglasses perched on her face, shielding her eyes, but Alexander felt them on him nonetheless. Or perhaps staring through him. The coat swayed slightly as she shifted her weight, and for a fleeting moment, the golden sheen of her heeled boots caught his gaze.

He cleared his throat, trying to summon a shred of authority. “Uh, excuse me, miss… Can I help you with something?”

She didn’t answer immediately, her head turning ever so slightly as if deciding whether to bother acknowledging him. When she finally tilted her face toward him, no words came. Instead, she simply tilted her head down a little to peak above her sunglasses to look down at him, her gaze cool and clinical.

Alexander felt his stomach twist. Her eyes weren’t cold; they were empty—a void that somehow managed to feel like it could see right through him.

“Is Joongoo here?” she asked, her voice low and smooth, unbothered and yet somehow impossible to ignore.

Her tone carried the weight of someone who didn’t ask questions often. Someone who didn’t need to.

Alexander blinked, caught off guard by her directness. “Uh… And who’s asking?” he stammered.

She didn’t flinch. If anything, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugged at her lips. “It’s not important who’s asking. Is he here?”

Alexander’s confusion morphed into suspicion. She didn’t look like a threat—no visible weapons, no bruiser stance—but something about her was wrong. Danger oozed off her in invisible waves, subtle but suffocating, like smoke in an enclosed space.

He straightened his back, puffing his chest slightly, trying to muster some of the confidence that had carried him through lesser skirmishes. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but if you’re looking for trouble, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

Her lips twitched, and this time the smirk fully formed. She chuckled—low, dark, and amused, like a lion humoring a mouse before the pounce.

“Oh, trouble?” she echoed, her tone dripping with mockery. She adjusted her coat with a casual grace, the ponytail behind her bouncing ever so slightly as she moved. “No, no. I’m not looking for trouble.”

She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. “But it’s funny, isn’t it? What if someone is asking for trouble from me? That makes quite the difference, doesn’t it.”

The words shouldn’t have sounded so threatening, but Alexander’s throat tightened all the same. He swallowed hard, the gulp audible even over the weighty silence. And then she chuckled again, softer this time, stepping back just slightly to assess the door once more.

“You know what?” she said suddenly, the grin returning to her lips. “Hell yeah.~”

There was no malice in her voice, but something about the way she said it made Alexander’s blood run cold. He couldn’t quite explain why—it was as though the promise of something catastrophic lay just beneath her words, hidden in the velvet smoothness of her tone. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. His feet felt rooted to the spot as she shifted her weight, standing tall and poised, utterly unshaken by his presence.

And then, just as suddenly as the moment had started, she tilted her head slightly, letting the smirk linger for a heartbeat longer before settling back into her neutral, unreadable expression.

“Well,” she said softly, almost to herself, “time to see if he’s as amusing as he used to be.”

Three minutes. Who knows what happened outside under a mere three minutes.

It ticked by in near silence, punctuated only by the muffled shuffling of feet behind the door. Alexander appeared in the frame—a man who looks like they just faced death itself.

His forehead was wrinkled with a sheen of sweat covering it. His chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid bursts, a twitching smile on his lips betraying an undercurrent of horror. His eyes were wide, unblinking, like he’d stared into the abyss and seen it staring back.

Goo, seated with one leg draped lazily over the other, narrowed his eyes, irritation blooming across his face. “Did you have a very uncomfortable shit or something?” he quipped, his tone lilting with mockery, though there was a razor’s edge of suspicion beneath it.

Alexander didn’t answer immediately. His mouth opened, closed, then finally worked to croak out a single sentence:

“Someone is here… to see you.”

Goo groaned, rolling his head back and gesturing dismissively with his hand. “Tell ‘em I’m busy.~”

But Alexander didn’t move. Instead, his body gave a subtle tremor, his laughter bubbling out in an uncomfortable, broken chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m afraid that would be… useless now.”

The air in the room seemed to thin as he spoke those words. Goo straightened slightly in his chair, the laziness melting from his expression as something more serious replaced it. His mouth opened to question Alexander, but before the words could form, the familiar prickle of danger crawled up his spine like a whisper.

Nova entered like she was born to command every eye in the room. Her movement was smooth, deliberate, each step exuding a lethal grace. The air shifted as though it, too, bent to her presence. She brushed past Alexander with barely a glance, and he collapsed without a sound, crumpling to the floor like a marionette with its strings severed.

But the others couldn’t spare him even a glance.

Samuel, always sharp and calculating, adjusted his posture with quiet precision, his fingers itching toward the cigarette perched between his lips. His narrowed eyes gave away his thoughts—Why is she here?

Taejin shifted in his seat, his impassive demeanor betraying little, but his attention locked onto her like a predator sizing up another. He had the look of a man who could feel the temperature of the room plummet and knew better than to underestimate what caused it. Logan scowled almost instantly. His lip curled, his beefy form tense with distaste, as though the mere sight of her polished beauty offended him. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, muttering something incoherent under his breath.

And Goo… Goo said nothing.

He wasn’t the type to lose his composure too often, but something about the sight of her again—her presence, her ease, her smirk—momentarily knocked him off balance. The playful spark that usually danced in his eyes dimmed. His expression hardened into something that bordered on serious, a rare sight indeed.

“How the fuck did she find me..” He thought to himself.

Nova let out a slow, audible sigh through her lips, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her coat. Her smirk widened slightly as she took in the scene before her: the four men frozen in place, each one trying to decipher the storm that had just walked into their midst.

“Mmm…” she mused aloud, her voice soft but sharp enough to slice through the silence. She inhaled theatrically through her nose, tilting her head back before wrinkling it in mock distaste. “It smells like male desperation in here.”

It definitely earned a few blinks of bitterness and disrespected confusion from the others. Bristle they did indeed.

She shook her head, clicking her tongue against her teeth like a disappointed schoolteacher. For a moment, she seemed lost in thought, her smirk fading into something unreadable. She reached up to slide her sunglasses off, holding them delicately between her fingers. She inspected the lenses with the same casual care someone might use when checking for smudges on fine crystal, before pulling a cloth from her pocket to clean them.

The tension in the room stretched taut as a bowstring.

And she wasn’t in a hurry either.

It wasn’t what she said or did—it was what she didn’t do. She hadn’t barked orders. She hadn’t made demands. She hadn’t thrown a punch or even raised her voice. And yet, somehow, she had the upper hand.

Goo’s fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of his chair, his brow furrowing as he studied her. She was like him now—but more. More calculated. More bloodthirsty. More dangerous. It was as though someone had distilled all of his charm, his chaos, his danger, and polished it into something razor-sharp and terrifyingly deliberate.

Red lights flashed in his mind like a siren, but he couldn’t help the faint tug of a smirk at the corner of his lips.

Nova, oblivious to—or perhaps deliberately ignoring—the weight of the gazes on her, slipped her glasses into her pocket with the same languid grace. She finally looked up, meeting Goo’s eyes across the room with a knowing glint.

“I do have to hand it to you, Joongoo,” she said, her tone warm with mock amusement. “You’ve really gone and assembled quite the… crew.”

Her voice dipped just enough to make the word crew sound like the punchline to an unspoken joke.

She rocked back on her heels slightly, hands still in her coat pockets, tilting her head as if assessing her next move. The smirk returned, sharper now, her eyes glittering with something dangerous. She tilted her head slightly as she examined the occupants, her sharp gaze stopping on Goo. Slowly, her lips pulled into a faux pout, theatrical enough to rival any performance Goo himself has ever put on.

“But you know…” she began, her voice dripping with exaggerated hurt, “I’m kinda hurt…” she tapped her chest lightly, the feigned injury marked by a dramatic sigh. “Somewhere here, I guess.” Her perfectly manicured finger gestured lazily toward her heart, her expression shifting between mock surprise and wounded disbelief.

“How come I didn’t receive an invite to such an important meeting?~” She let the question hang in the air, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow. Her tone was syrupy, her cadence playful, but every word cut like a well-sharpened blade.

“And this crew?” Her gaze darted to Samuel, Taejin, Logan, and then back to Goo. Her lips quirked into a smirk, her voice dripping sarcasm. “How come I didn’t get scouted? Wow… I can almost feel my heart crack…”

The room seemed to hold its breath, the mocking edge in her words loud in the silence.

It was so him. So much like Goo that it felt like someone had taken his own brand of chaos, wrapped it in silk, and handed it back to him with a sharper edge.

But then came the laugh—a low, rich chuckle that curled around the air like smoke. She waved her finger at him, her smile widening. “Joongoo-ya..~” she cooed, her tone carrying that dangerous, teasing note. “You made it big now, didn’t ya?~”

Her eyes shone with something unreadable, the undertone of her words enough to send a chill even through Logan, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat, muttering something incoherent once again. Nova, unfazed, continued, shaking her head slowly as if she were in disbelief.

“Wow,” she mused softly, circling around him with the leisurely pace of a predator toying with its prey. Her sharp boots clicked against the floor, echoing through the room like a countdown. “I like what I see…” She paused deliberately before gesturing toward him, her hand fluttering in the air. “You. Polished and so handsome…~”

Goo didn’t say a word. His eyes followed her every movement, calculating, his signature smirk trying to hold steady but faltering ever so slightly at the edges. She chuckled again, the sound a deliberate contrast to the tension she was weaving. “I could just pinch your cheeks right now!~” She reached out as if to emphasize the thought, her tone sweet but dripping with mockery. Her fingers stopped just shy of actually making contact before she chuckled again, pulling her hand back and shaking her head.

Samuel shifted in his chair as Nova moved closer, stepping directly into his path. Her eyes slid over him like he was merely a piece of the furniture, and her smile widened playfully.

“Oops, sorry, hot stuff,” she said with a mischievous lilt, side-stepping with a deliberately exaggerated sway. “Step aside, please.~”

The casual dismissal of someone as sharp as Samuel was comical in a sense, designed to make its mark. And it did. His lips twitched slightly as he leaned back, choosing to observe instead of engage.

She grabbed an armchair with the ease of someone who had already claimed the room as hers. She dragged it across the floor, her strength apparent despite the soft scrape of the chair legs against the polished surface. It came to rest opposite Goo, right in the heart of their gathering. She sat down with an air of absolute entitlement, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back like she belonged there more than any of them.

It was a clear mirroring of Goo.

For a moment, she studied him. Her gaze was assessing, almost clinical, before she nodded approvingly. “Look at you…” she murmured, the mock sweetness of her voice still carrying that edge. “All grown up now…doing adult shit… playing big man games.~”

The others exchanged glances, clearly unsure how to process the scene unfolding before them. Nova wasn’t just commanding attention; she was demanding it.

“I am so happy to see you again.” She said finally, the words dripping with contradiction. The tone should have been warm, nostalgic, maybe even genuine, but instead, it carried a dangerous undercurrent. Her eyes, sharp and unforgiving, locked onto Goo, and in that moment, they weren’t just greeting him��they were dissecting him. Goo’s fingers twitched against the armrest of his chair, the first crack in his otherwise controlled demeanor. He wasn’t used to being on the back foot nowadays, and Nova seemed determined to keep him there. The smirk playing at Goo’s lips faltered for a heartbeat before he regained his composure, but by then, the power dynamic had already shifted.

Nova leaned back further, her smirk widening as if she could read the thoughts running through his head. “So…” she began, her voice light, almost playful, but carrying that undeniable weight. “Shall we get to the part where I tell you why I’m really here?~”

There were many questions brewing in their heads, but none dared to voice them.

Who was this woman? How did she find them? And, more importantly, why was she talking to Goo like they shared an infamous, bloody history?The answer was there, lingering like smoke from a distant fire, but none of them could grasp it. None, except Goo, whose eyes betrayed recognition and unease.

Nova let her head tilt to one side as she fixed Goo with a look that seemed equal parts mocking and predatory. “A little birdie told me,” she began, her tone playful yet deadly, “that you now feel bold enough to—not just make plans about—but actually step foot back into my city again.~”

Her words trailed off into a sharp, cold silence. For a fleeting moment, the air felt impossibly heavy, suffocating, as if the room itself braced for what would come next.

Then her expression shifted. The playful smirk melted away, leaving her face unnervingly blank, her sharp features cold and unreadable.

“I didn’t take you to be an actual idiot.” she stated flatly.

The air froze again, a tension that clung to the walls like frost.

And just as quickly, the smirk returned, disarming and unsettling in equal measure.

“I guess even I can be wrong sometimes, huh?” she mused, her voice light and teasing once more. She tilted her head, humming softly to herself. “This is the only defeat I’m willing to accept, then.”

It was the kind of emotional whiplash that left the room reeling, the kind that made it impossible to tell if she was moments away from embracing Goo like an old friend or popping his head off its place. Her tone, her body language, even the air around her seemed to shift with every word, keeping them all teetering on the edge of discomfort.

“Well…” She shrugged, waving a hand dismissively. “Don’t.”

The word hung in the air, weighty despite its simplicity.

“It’s as simple as that, ya know?” She straightened her posture, taking on a nonchalant air, but her sharp gaze didn’t lose its edge. “Actually, hold that thought until the former King comes back.”

The words landed heavily, a thinly veiled reminder of who still stood at the top in her mind.

“I’m a woman who doesn’t like being bothered,” she continued with a sigh, her head tilting back as she fixed her gaze on the ceiling. “And, trust me, my plate’s already full, especially because not long ago Busan became a little divided.”

She yawned audibly, a casual display of disregard for the danger the others felt pressing against their chests. Craning her neck to one side, she let it crack softly, the sound somehow more unnerving than her words.

Finally, Goo broke the silence. His voice cut through the air, low and sharp. “You changed.”

It wasn’t a question; it was an assessment.

The Nova who sat before him wasn’t the same as the one he remembered. The woman from three years ago, the one who had once been all soft-spoken charm and warmth, was gone. In her place sat something steelier, something forged in the fire of whatever trials she had endured since then.

She opened her eyes slowly, her expression unreadable as she nodded. “No shit,” she said simply, her tone blunt. “Who doesn’t?”

Goo leaned back slightly in his chair, his smirk returning as he tried to read her. “True…” he muttered, letting the word hang for a moment. Then, tilting his head, he asked with a smirk, “So what makes you think I couldn’t take you now?”

It was a challenge, one that carried the weight of history and unspoken threats.

But Nova didn’t flinch.

Her sly smile returned, one brow arching slightly as if she were indulging in a private joke. “Take me in what way exactly?” she asked, her voice slipping into a tone that was deliberately suggestive.

The innuendo was clear as day, and it caught Goo off guard, his smirk faltering for a fraction of a second.

She chuckled softly, her laughter like velvet laced with steel. “Ahh,” she said, waving her hand as if dismissing the very idea. “You never fail to not make me feel threatened.~”

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with tension.

Her gaze shifted to the others, lingering on each of them in turn. She studied them as if they were pieces on a chessboard, her sharp mind calculating every move before it was even made.

“So…” she began, her tone light but her words weighted. “What are they for?”

The question hung in the air, almost rhetorical.

“World domination?” she mused aloud, her tone dipping into mockery. “Business ventures? Making a bank?—Shit, opening a bakery? One would never know with you…” She shook her head slowly, disapproval flickering across her features.

Then she paused, her expression sharpening.

“But then again…” She tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studied Goo. “I have a weird feeling, ya know? Like you’re trying to replace a certain someone with these people.”

The weight behind her words were undeniable.

“Which he would certainly take as an insult,” she added casually, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Hell, even I would too…”

The room grew impossibly tense as her words sank in.

Goo’s jaw tightened, and his smirk disappeared entirely as he realized exactly who she was referring to. There was no mistaking it now—she was talking about Gun.

The air in the room had turned into an almost dizzying atmosphere, as if the gravity of Nova’s presence had sucked all oxygen out. Her sharp words were laced with biting mockery, the kind that left wounds more emotional than physical.

“I mean, you miss him, I get that, but…” Nova hummed softly, her tone almost considerate as she tilted her head in thought, gazing off like she was trying to solve a mild puzzle. “If my ex-partner in crime were to ever try and replace me with multiple Temu versions of me, knowing the reputation I have… ouh brother—I would be seething.”

She cringed to herself dramatically, her nose scrunching in disgust. “The absolute disrespect… ouhh!”

Her exclamation was almost playful, but the undercurrent of insult wasn’t lost on the others. The three men stiffened visibly, their pride simmering into something volatile. She wasn’t just mocking Goo—she was outright dismissing them as well, labeling them nobodies not just compared to Gun but even as a collective group.

Nova wasn’t done yet.

“Either way…” She shrugged with an air of dismissal, her eyes half-lidded in amusement. “Now that he’s on topic, I was actually thinking about visiting him, ya know? For old times’ sake.”

At the last sentence the other three’s eyebrows knit together momentarily.

Her tone was casual, almost whimsical, but it carried a weight that even Goo couldn’t ignore.

He audibly scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Good luck,” he sneered, voice low and laced with derision. “He doesn’t take visitors.”

It was true—Gun refused everyone, even Goo ever since he has been rotting away in jail. As far as he knows.

Nova merely hummed, seemingly unbothered by the obstacle. She crossed her arms, her gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. “Interesting…” she mused, as if the revelation were some grand mystery unraveling. Then she tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing ever so subtly. “Doesn’t take visitors at all… or just doesn’t take visits from you?”

The blow landed hard, and Goo’s smirk vanished instantly.

“Truth hurts, I get that.” She continued without missing a beat, her voice light and conversational, though the blade of her words remained sharp. “I mean, my time’s almost up as the one who reigns over Busan anyway… It’s right around the corner. Hell, it even makes my heart beat a bit harder, so I get it!”

She gave a little nod as if she were genuinely sympathizing, though the faint smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her mockery.

Goo, meanwhile, sat there brooding, her words cutting deeper than he wanted to admit.

Nova, ever perceptive, shifted her gaze to the other three, her expression softening into something resembling mild confusion. She leaned back slightly, one brow quirking.

“Why do they look so confused, by the way?” she asked, her tone genuinely curious as she glanced back at Goo. “Like they know who I am, but not really.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment, and Goo finally snapped out of his thoughts, his gaze sharpening.

“Especially when I said, ‘for old times’ sake. I definitely felt a shift in the room after my statement,” she added, her voice dipping into a teasing lilt.

And then, as if a realization dawned on her, she turned her entire body toward Goo, her expression shifting into one of mock shock.

“Don’t tell me…” she gasped, her voice dripping with faux disbelief. “They don’t know?~”

The silence that followed was deafening.

It was clear none of the three men—Samuel, Taejin, or Logan—knew what she meant. No one, except for her, Goo, and Gun, truly knew the history they shared. And Charles of course, but he already took this secret to his grave.

Nova pursed her lips, nodding slowly to herself as the pieces clicked into place.

“Oof…Now this is fucking awkward,” she muttered, rubbing her temples like she needed to process the absurdity of it all.

She sighed softly, lowering her hands and glancing back at Goo. “Well then, I guess I won’t run my mouth either.” Her voice was almost empathetic, as if she was doing him a favor. “You gotta keep your dignity intact? Understandable.”

And then, she slowly stood, her energy shifting once more.

Taking a step closer to him and ruffling Goo’s hair in an almost affectionate gesture, one that made him flinch slightly, and followed by two light pats to his cheek.

“I’ll leave you be then,” she said breezily, her tone as casual as if they were old friends. But just as she side-stepped him, she leaned in close to his ear, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

“If I even sense you anywhere near Busan, you’re immediately a dead man. Yeah?~”

Her words weren’t a threat—they were a promise.

The chill in her tone, the sharp edge of her whisper, engraved itself into Goo’s very survival instincts. He stiffened, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

And with that, Nova straightened, her smirk returning as if she hadn’t just rattled the room to its core.

She waved to the others casually, like they were old friends she was saying goodbye to. “Be good, boys!~”

And then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her.

For a moment, no one spoke. The other three exchanged wary glances, each of them trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Finally, Goo let his head fall back against his chair, exhaling a long, shaky breath like he’d been holding it in for years.

“I love her so much it makes me wanna throw up…” he muttered, his voice laced with a mixture of admiration and dread.

Samuel crossed his arms, his jaw tightening. “Who is she to you?”

Goo didn’t answer immediately, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling.

“She’s trouble,” he finally said, his tone soft and almost wistful. “The worst and best kind of trouble.”

The others didn’t know whether to take that as a warning or an understatement… or what he even meant by it at all.

“But we’re still going to Busan, right?” Goo asked, his neck suddenly straightening, his tone light and almost hopeful, his eyes darting between each men, as if he could somehow ignore the very real danger that Nova’s words had cast over the plan. His mind, however, was still replaying her threat on an endless loop. It gnawed at him, and yet, despite it all, his typical confidence found a way to resurface.

Logan immediately scoffed from where he sat, his massive frame tense with disdain. “Do I look like I want to die by the hands of a girl? Fuck no.”

Without another word, Logan shoved his hands deep into his pockets and stood up, his expression sour, and strode toward the door. His presence had already been tested more than enough today, and he wasn’t about to let a single woman undermine him further—yet he wouldn’t dare challenge her, either.

The door slammed behind him, leaving the room one body lighter.

Hah. Puns. (author’s note: I really don’t fw him, sorry.)

Taejin, for his part, remained still for a moment, his eyes cold and calculating. But inwardly, he felt like the entire foundation of his confidence had been shaken to its core. Nova had stepped into the room and shattered that image in a matter of minutes.

He cleared his throat softly, nodding toward Goo with his usual air of politeness. “I’ll have to pass as well. I’ve seen enough for today.”

With that, he exited quietly, his footsteps deliberate.

Goo’s gaze flicked to Samuel, who had remained silent throughout the ordeal. He raised a brow expectantly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “And you, Sammy? Don’t tell me you’re chickening out too?”

Samuel’s jaw clenched visibly, his pride warring with his self-preservation instincts. He knew better than to challenge Nova—especially after what he’d just witnessed. The way she carried herself, the sheer confidence she exuded, made it clear she wasn’t someone to trifle with. And the fact that she seemed to know things—deep things—about Goo and Gun made her even more dangerous.

“I’m not stupid,” Samuel muttered, his tone low and grudging. “If she says you’re dead if you go near Busan, I believe her.”

He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Good luck with whatever suicide mission you’re planning.”

Goo pouted, his usual playful demeanor masking the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Y’all are no fun…” He crossed his arms, rolling his eyes, but he understood their decision. It was the smart choice. No one should be foolish enough to go against someone like Nova, not with how powerful and untouchable she seemed. “What do you think, Alexander?” He asked, his voice light and almost hopeful.

Silence.

Alexander, still sprawled on the floor, didn’t even stir, his body utterly limp.

“Oh—never mind, actually,” Goo muttered, sighing as he rubbed the back of his neck. It was clear that Alexander wasn’t going to provide any answers anytime soon.

And so, in the aftermath of her perfectly executed performance, Nova left behind an impression that even Goo—master of chaos himself—couldn’t quite wrap his head around.

Ladies and gentlemen, and/or nonbinary people, this is how you utterly annihilate someone at their own game without breaking a sweat. No swords, no fists, no flashy moves were necessary. Not even a hint of physical aggression.

After all, why would she need to swing a katana at him? For comedic effect? She didn’t like those things anyway. The scar Goo had given her in their last fight, jagged and deep across her abdomen, served as an eternal reminder. Not of defeat, no—but of her own resilience.

Besides, what was the point of clashing swords when you could cut deeper with words?

All she needed was to dip into that unpredictable essence Goo prided himself on, twist it with her own chaotic brilliance, and let him taste defeat in a language he could understand—one he excelled at but couldn’t keep up with when wielded by her.

She was, in short, playing him better than he could ever play himself.

Why did she go through all this trouble, though? A fair question. The answers, as usual with Nova, weren’t exactly clear-cut.

Maybe it was the thrill of it—the pure satisfaction of planting herself so much more deeper in their heads that they wouldn’t forget her anytime soon. Perhaps it was a subtle reminder of the transformation she’d undergone, a subtle jab at the fact that her growth—her evolution—was, in part, thanks to them.

But most likely? It was to hammer home a truth they couldn’t ignore: no matter how much they evolved, no matter their blood and past, no matter how strong or smart they thought they were, they would never surpass her.

She existed on a level above them. Intellectually, emotionally, physically—she was untouchable, and she wanted them to know it.

The correctional facility’s visiting room was as sterile and uninviting as one would expect—grey walls, a faint hum of fluorescent lighting, and a large motivational poster hanging on the wall:

“LET’S LIVE A HEALTHY LIFE WITH MORAL INTEGRITY!”

Nova barely managed to suppress a laugh as she took her seat on one side of the glass divider, leaning back leisurely in the chair like she owned the place. The guards stationed nearby exchanged uneasy glances, her presence radiating an almost suffocating authority despite her calm demeanor.

Getting in here had been surprisingly easy. The request for the visit went as planned.

Of course, he accepted.

Gun’s initial reaction to hearing about the request had been predictable. The moment the guards mentioned someone wanted to see him, he’d been ready to decline outright. After all, he didn’t take visitors. It was a rule he upheld without exception… except for Daniel but– does that even need an explanation?

But then came the addendum, delivered with a mix of hesitation and disbelief:

“The person has kind of alluded to the fact that even if you decline, she will appear in your jail cell instead… which was sort of a threat and a promise at the same time.”

Gun had paused.

The guard’s tone was nervous—borderline frightened—but what caught Gun’s attention wasn’t the warning. It was the pronoun.

“She.”

He knew exactly who it was.

There was only one woman audacious enough to make such a statement. One woman whose promises, no matter how outrageous, weren’t just empty words but inevitable outcomes.

And now, as he was escorted into the room, the guards unlocking his cuffs before gesturing for him to sit, he finally saw her.

The first thing that struck him wasn’t her hair or her striking eyes, but the sheer presence she carried. There was no mistaking it—it was her, but different. Stronger. Sharper.

The guards seemed to shrink under the weight of her gaze, and even the most hardened inmates passing by stole glances, their expressions flickering between confusion and outright fear. She didn’t look like a woman visiting someone in prison. She looked like a queen surveying her dominion.

Gun took his seat across from her, his face carefully neutral despite the strange sensation churning in his stomach.

“Haven’t seen you in ages,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with curiosity. “I wonder what your reasoning is for being here.”

Her response was immediate, and it wasn’t at all what he expected.

“Just wanted to see for myself how funny life can be sometimes.” She smiled softly, leaning forward slightly. “And this right here in front of me? Is the butt of the joke!~”

Gun blinked. Once. Twice.

He didn’t know what to focus on—her tone, her words, or the sheer audacity of them.

“…What.”

It was all he could manage.

He had been prepared for a lot of things when he walked into this room—small talk, a bit of mockery of his situation, syrupy words and kind advice. But this? This casual, biting banter mixed with an almost childlike sense of wonder? It had completely blindsided him. Nova simply tilted her head, her expression unbothered, almost amused, like a predator watching its prey squirm.

“What do you mean ‘what’?” Nova’s voice was soft yet sharp, laced with mockery as she tilted her head slightly. “This is, like, the biggest joke I have ever witnessed in my 23 years of living!” she exclaims.

"And you know, real recognizes real...and you're looking pretty unfamiliar to me right now." She adds, looking him up and down while she reached into her coat, pulling out a slim pack of cigarettes. Gun noted the lack of reaction from the guards, their indifference as clear as day. They didn’t even flinch when she took one out and tapped it against the pack, settling it between her lips, even though smoking was prohibited inside.

“I mean, it’s especially funny that you’re the one in this predicament, not Goo… or at least both of you.” She exhaled through her nose, shaking her head slightly as she patted herself down. “I can’t tell if I should be disappointed… or just resigned to acceptance. Either way, it’s not surprising at all at the end of the day… you had your head stuck up so far up Choi’s ass, you didn’t even see where you were heading in life.”

Her muttering was quiet, more for herself than for him, but Gun heard every word. She frowned, her fingers brushing over her coat.

“I don’t have a lighter with me…” she sighed in mild irritation, before turning her attention to one of the guards stationed in the far corner. Raising her voice slightly, she called out, “Excuse me, sir? Can I borrow a lighter? You seem like someone who smokes.”

Gun blinked. He was certain the guard would ignore her, brush her off, or at least tell her she was not allowed to smoke here. Instead, the man moved without question, walking up to her and handing over his lighter like she’d cast a spell on him.

With a quiet click, Nova lit her cigarette, taking a slow drag before holding the lighter back out. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice dripping with nonchalance.

Gun stared, his chest tightening for reasons he couldn’t quite explain.

But she wasn’t done.

She gestured toward him with her hand, her cigarette balanced delicately between her fingers. “Can I also give him one? He looks like he needs it.”

Gun stiffened at the suggestion, his eyes narrowing slightly.

The guard, however, shook his head, his tone apologetic. “Apologies, ma’am. Inmates aren’t allowed to smoke.”

Nova sucked in a breath through her teeth, her nose scrunching slightly as she nodded. “Ahh… right. Inmate.”

The word hung in the air like a slap.

To an outsider, her behavior might have seemed nothing more than arrogant—a woman with too much confidence and a penchant for theatrics. But to Gun, it was something entirely different.

This wasn’t arrogance. This was a demonstration.

It didn’t matter where they were—inside this facility, outside in the real world, or anywhere else in the universe. As long as Nova existed in the same space as him, her power would always eclipse his. The room itself seemed to bend to her will, her authority turning even his once-feared presence into an afterthought.

He glanced down at the blue uniform he wore, its number tag glaring back at him like a taunt. Here, in this moment, he wasn’t Gun Park, nor Shiro Oni. He was just another prisoner, indistinguishable from the rest.

The realization stung more than any insult she could have thrown at him.

“What a tragedy…” she began, her tone softening into something almost sorrowful. “You could’ve gone so far in life by yourself. You’re a capable, strong, and intelligent man—no dickriding intended,” She raised an eyebrow slightly, as if daring him to challenge her words. “But no...”

Her voice hardened, cutting through the tension like a blade. “You decided it would be a better idea to devote loyalty to an old fart with one arm who, by that time, wasn’t ‘Elite’ anymore but just a nobody. A nobody who used you like a cumrag, puppeteering you around because he knew damn well that he himself had no power left.”

Gun’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent, his expression unreadable.

“And if that’s not enough…” She brought her free hand up to her temple, as if the thought physically pained her. “…you took all the blame for it. All of it. How stupid can you be?~”

Her voice carried an almost sing-song quality, but the edge in her words was unmistakable.

“I mean, what about Goo? Your friend? I heard you don’t even let him visit you for god’s sakes..”

Gun’s hands curled into fists under the table, his knuckles pressing against his knees.

“He’s not my friend. I don’t have any.” He says plainly, making Nova cringe visibly.

“Eugh.. okay edge lord. Your self-rot is palpable… and smelly.”

She shook her head, taking another drag from her cigarette and exhaling slowly, the smoke curling around her like a halo.

“Anywho, now you’re here. In your stained blue coat…” Her lips curved into a smirk. “Looking like every peasant in there. Congradolances.~”

The word—a blend of “congratulations” and “condolences”—was the final blow, as fitting as it was infuriating.

For the first time in years, he felt utterly, undeniably small. Again.

Gun clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together as he now forced his voice to rise again, though it came out low and taut, a simmering growl wrapped in defiance. “The world is all about results.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, the phrase bouncing around her mind like a loose bullet. The corner of her mouth quirked, her cigarette lingering near her lips.

“Is he for real?” she mused silently, taking another slow drag, her lips curling just slightly as her eyes flicked back to his face. His expression was dead serious.

“Ohhh, he isss.~” She chuckled inwardly, a soft sound escaping her lips as smoke twisted from her exhale.

“It’s okay, Gun.~” Her voice was soft now, a touch of something almost tender threading through her tone. “There’s really no need to keep clinging to delusions anymore.”

Her gaze softened briefly, but the edge was unmistakable, like velvet draped over steel. She tilted her head slightly, her platinum hair catching the light as she spoke again, her tone almost patient, as if explaining a basic concept to a child.

“You know, it’s actually called the consequences of one’s actions.”

The words were deliberate, every syllable an arrow hitting its mark. She leaned back in her chair, her posture relaxed, a perfect foil to the storm brewing beneath Gun’s composed exterior.

Nova watched him, her pale eyes gleaming with quiet amusement as the reality of her statement struck him squarely in the chest, another crack in the fortress of his pride.

“But you know what? Let’s go with your little mantra…” She cleared her throat softly, still holding his gaze as she tapped ash from her nearly spent cigarette. Her voice dipped, taking on a smoother, more conversational tone.

“So… what kind of result is this one, then?” She gestured loosely around the room, the stark walls and buzzing fluorescent lights an unspoken testament to his fall from grace. “Or, better yet…” Her eyes narrowed, her curiosity genuine but sharpened to a fine point. “…is this the result you actually wanted?”

The question hung in the air, heavier than the cigarette smoke that curled between them.

Gun stared at her, his jaw tightening as he fought the urge to look away. The weight of her words pressed against his chest, every syllable forcing him closer to an abyss he’d never dared to look into before.

Nova tilted her head again, her tone light but unmistakably victorious, as though she’d just played her winning hand in a game he didn’t even realize he was losing. “Hmm, no answer? That’s fine.”

She stubbed out her cigarette—on the back of her hand, no less—and not even a single mark marred her flawless skin. The act was casual, but the power behind it was palpable. She smiled faintly, her voice dropping to a murmur that was somehow even more cutting.

“You live, and you learn, White Ghost.~”

The nickname rolled off her tongue with the weight of air—light, dismissive, and utterly devoid of reverence. From her lips, it felt meaningless, stripped of the fear and awe it once commanded.

Gun’s chest tightened further, an ache building in a space he didn’t want to acknowledge.

Nova suddenly clapped her hands together, the sharp sound breaking the charged silence between them. “Well then!” she exclaimed brightly, her tone breezy, almost cheerful. “I should go now. I have a life to live.”

She smiled warmly, but the dagger hidden beneath her words was impossible to miss.

Gun stiffened, her parting statement slicing through him far deeper than he expected.

“Thank you for allowing yourself to see me,” she added lightly, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from her coat as she stood. “Glad to see you’re still in one piece. Alive? Well… that’s questionable.” She shrugged, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather.

Flattening her coat, she tapped a manicured finger against the corner of her nose, like she just remembered an itch, pretending to think of her conclusion. “So, it was nice seeing one another, eh?”

She straightened, her pale eyes locking onto his as her lips curved into a mischievous smile.

“Ganbare!~”

She sing-songed the word as she turned on her heel, her hand waving lazily over her shoulder.

Gun paled. Talk about a white ghost.

The word echoed in his mind, more deafening than any scream.

‘Good luck.’

It wasn’t just a farewell. It was a reminder of his insignificance in her presence, a taunt that lingered long after her departure.

His chest burned, anger, shame, and something deeper twisting together into a knot he couldn’t untangle. His fists clenched beneath the table, nails biting into his palms as he fought to suppress the storm rising within him.

And yet, despite the fury coursing through him, there was something else—a pull he couldn’t deny.

Gun sat in the suffocating silence of the visitation room, staring at the empty chair across from him, his thoughts whirling in a chaotic frenzy. It wasn’t the kind of storm that came from rage—no, this was deeper, darker, and infinitely more disorienting. The silence didn’t soothe him; it mocked him, amplifying her words as they echoed in his head.

Who talks like that? Walks and acts like that?

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shake the weight off, but it clung to him like a shroud.

Funny, though.

Because him.

He does.

It hit him like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, his breath stilled in his chest.

“Oh.”

The realization settled over him, heavy and unrelenting. He leaned back in his chair, the fluorescent lights above flickering faintly, casting his face in sharp relief.

It clicks.

There was no escaping the truth now. Her departure left him with a hollow ache that no fight, no broken bones, or bruised pride could compare to. He was utterly defeated by her, again, not just by her sharp words or her unbearable dominance, but by the sheer brilliance she held—a brilliance that mirrored his own.

Only this time, he wasn’t the one wielding it.

“This hurt a bit more than the previous ass-whooping I got from her,” he muttered aloud, his voice barely above a whisper.

The words tasted bitter, but they were undeniable as his fingers brushed against his own lips, almost in a manner of stopping it from more truths spilling out.

God, her presence was an inescapable weight. The way she carried herself, the way she knew—like she had stripped him bare without even trying. She didn’t need fists to hurt him; she didn’t need power or rage. She had cut him with precision, wielding her words and presence like weapons he couldn’t defend against.

He talks like that.

He could see her face, the faint smirk that wasn’t meant to mock but still stung all the same.

He walks and acts like that.

Her exit replayed in his mind, the lazy wave of her hand, the light delivery of his own words—a devastating parody that lingered like a ghost in the air.

“Good luck, huh?…” he repeated quietly, his lips twisting into a grimace.

His own mantra, thrown back at him, stripped of all meaning.

“Goddamn.”

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. No matter how much he wanted to hate her for this, he couldn’t. Not fully. Beneath the bitterness, beneath the anger, there was something else. It was the way she spoke with such clarity, such precision.

He hated her for it.

And yet–

He respected her for it.

No—more than that.

He craved it.

Her power, her brilliance, her ability to command a room without lifting a finger—it was maddening, infuriating, and utterly intoxicating.

Gun leaned forward, his elbows resting on the cold surface of the table, his fingers clasped tightly together. The burn in his chest hadn’t faded; if anything, it had intensified.

“God damn,” he muttered again, the words heavy with a mix of frustration and reluctant admiration this time.

She had walked out of his life just as quickly as she had entered it, but the mark she left behind was seared into him, impossible to erase.

She had been right about everything, of course.

That was what hurt the most.

And Nova strode through the bustling streets of Seoul with the kind of elegance that couldn’t be taught—only possessed. She moved effortlessly, a living enigma who didn’t seek attention but commanded it nonetheless. Her silhouette danced between the glow of city lights, her platinum blonde hair gleaming like a beacon under the neon signs.

“Today was very stimulating…” she murmured, her voice as soft as silk, laced with satisfaction.

Her gaze flitted across the passersby, their heads turning as if drawn by some unseen force. Men and women alike stole glances, their curiosity piqued by her undeniable presence. But Nova didn’t care for their stares or their admiration. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

The countdown was over.

Three years and some change since she had last stood face-to-face with either of them. Gun and Goo—two men who thrived on dominance, control, and a touch of chaos.

Today, she had proven them both right and wrong in ways neither could have anticipated.

Nova smirked to herself, the corners of her lips tilting upward as she exhaled deeply. “They’ll get over it,” she mused, kicking some rocks.

She cooked, ate, and left no crumbs, as today’s generation would so aptly say.

Her heels clicked against the pavement, the sound a rhythmic reminder of her triumph. She inhaled the cool night air, savoring the freedom of the moment. There was a strange sense of satisfaction in knowing she had set something in motion—a shift, a ripple in their otherwise unshakable lives.

“Three years,” she muttered, her tone reflective. “All for today.”

And it had been worth every second.

[bwabys-scenarios]

If reader was the sweetest person ever but started throwing low blows towards Kurapika (clan), acting sassy, being snarky, in an attempt to make Kurapika grow to not care about her, would Yan Kurapika forgive her? Would he be understanding/see through whats shes tryna do? I mostly wanna know how’d he “handle” blatant disrespect from someone he cares about or if he’d even take it and just let her go without being able to forgive her

warnings: choking, bruising

Kurapika is a smart man, he knows this isn’t how you usually behave. He’s studied you for months and spent so much time with you that he almost knows you more than you know yourself.

He’s read up on how humans react to captivity, knowing that you’ll have mood swings and bouts of depression or rage. Kurapika has planned for all of this, and prepared to eventually be insulted or degraded at some point.

Well… he thought he was prepared, but when you said that his clan was better off dead… he kind of lost it. Before you knew it, you were pinned to the ground with his hands around your neck, choking you.

“How dare you!”

His eyes were a harsh shade of scarlet, not the usual soft red you’d see when he let adoration get the better of him. No, now it was the color of blood red rage.

“You know nothing about my clan, HOW FUCKING DARE YOU!”

You choked out an apology, tears pooling down your cheeks as you clawed at his hands, trying to take in air and failing.

Kurapika wasn’t present, he was so overtaken by rage he didn’t even realize what he was doing. It wasn’t until you stopped struggling that he snapped out of it, his eyes going wide with terror.

“N-no…”

He let go, and you immediately took in a shaky breath, your eyes hazy from the lack of oxygen. Kurapika’s hands trembled in fear and shame, tears forming in the corner of his eyes as he noticed the bruises forming on your neck.

Shaped like his hands.

“My angel… oh, my love…” he choked out, gathering your weak body in his arms. “I’m so sorry, fuck…”

He rocked you back and forth, sobbing into your hair. Kurapika knew, he KNEW that you hadn’t meant what you said, and yet he still attacked you.

‘I’m such a hypocrite…’ he thought, his grip tightening around you. ‘I took her to protect her… yet I’m the one hurting her…’

Kurapika wouldn’t let go of you the entire night, as if he was terrified he’d lose you. He was so scared, he had lost every important person in his life, and now he had almost killed you, the person he loved with his entire soul, his entire being.

You were so fragile, your life so easy to snuff out with just a little pressure to your throat. He knew that, he understood just how much weaker you were than him. And yet he still put his hands on you, nearly taking away your life.

It was enough to make him more unstable than usual. Kurapika clung to you desperately for the next week, carefully tending to your bruises and being much more lenient with your little requests. He spoiled and pampered you even more than he usually did, and you slept with him every single night.

You never tried that method again… you never wanted to make Kurapika that angry, it was the worst experience you ever had with him. Even if it meant staying captive, you would much rather see the soft side of Kurapika than the one full of rage and violence.

And Kurapika was more than willing to stay the gentle, sweet man you wanted. He adored you after all… and he would never hurt you again.

He couldn’t take the knowledge that his own two hands caused you pain and fear… so he made sure to control his anger better… and you never mentioned his clan again.