#i find it cruelly ironic

[llondonfog]

waltz right in

work really took it out of me this week. here’s some papa vanrouge. wc 1.3k who am i  you can waltz right in; i was made for you.

Lilia’s hearing was once legendary. 

Baul used to proudly remark to anyone hapless to the barrage of his booming voice how their own General Vanrouge had once determined the exact number of approaching troops, their accompanying horses, and the precise location of a squeaky cart wheel (rear, to the left) pulled by a three-legged donkey clinging to the foggy shroud of the Briar Valley forests blindfolded, tied to a tree trunk, and more than a little inebriated.

(That had been in the early days. The early days when Meleanor would roll her eyes with a smitten indulgence Lilia had not known she was capable of at Raverne’s earnest declarations of how to entreat the humans, how to enter into a new century of peace unlike any previously thought possible.

The early days, before any of them, with their brilliant youth and unlimited power, understood the true costs of war.)

His hearing is still quite keen, one of the few abilities left to him that has not begun to deteriorate so cruelly with time, only now he does not find himself attuned to the clanking of armor rattling the tranquil mountainside peace, the soft whisper of a sword unsheathing beneath the cover of darkness, or the curious and foreboding absence of animal chatter in the dense underbrush. 

Lilia wonders what the General would think, to know that his battle-hewed senses have so seamlessly shifted to listen for the quiet shuffle of socked feet over a wood floor and the stifled breaths haunted by the ghost of tears. 

He knows what, or rather who, he will find as he glances up from the half-finished letter he’d been writing to acknowledge the small figure lingering at the doorway to their living room, half-skulking in the shadows all the while gazing out at Lilia as if he might be the dawn itself.

“Another nightmare?”

Silver nods, eyes large and wet in the flickering light of the fire, and Lilia wonders again what the General might think, to hear how soft his voice has become, to know that the sight of a child, this one in particular, so in distress pains him worse than any iron-tipped spear driven deep into his heart. 

It startles him at odd times, frightens him even, how quickly he’s adjusted to this. 

The letter is easily forgotten, pen and parchment left aside on the table next to his current, lumpy armchair, as he wordlessly opens his arms to welcome the gangly bundle of tiny, sharp-edged limbs that wriggles its way into his lap, his own chin settling into a tufted cloud of hair that seems iridescent in the flame, catching the light as if Lilia held the sun itself in his embrace. 

(The sun or the moon, some days it is hard to decide which Silver takes after most. Either way, it’s blinding and Lilia has long made peace with the fact that he’s never cared much about his own health.)

Satisfied that the boy has made himself comfortable, Lilia coaxes a blanket from the sofa to float across the room and drape itself around them, swallowing a grin to himself at the rather adorable sight of only Silver’s eyes visible over his makeshift cloak. Their light and wonder has yet to return, and he nudges the boy gently until he can direct Silver’s gaze over to the shadows dancing together against the backdrop of the hearth. It’s easy magic, barely a drop in his dwindling reserves; a bunny hops carefree in a meadow of swaying flowers, a bird flutters its wings joyfully in an invisible breeze before soaring through the skies to return to its nest, a squirrel gaily scampering about the forest floor, collecting acorns— Lilia’s heart does an odd beat at that.

But it does the trick. Silver’s tense posture has begun to melt in his arms, and he’s even participating, calling out requests and giggling even when a shadowy butterfly breaks free of its scene to land on his nose, tickling his face with its intangible feelers before bursting into a soft shower of multi-colored sparkles. Lilia joins in his laughter, releasing the spell as they both sink back into the armchair, a tangled up bundle of smiles and limbs.

“It was so dark,” Silver whispers suddenly after their laughter has subsided and Lilia’s found himself absently stroking through that spider-silk hair with his claws, and the sheer ache of loneliness in his voice nearly takes Lilia’s breath away that he has to check to ensure he hasn’t accidentally pierced the boy’s arm. “And so quiet, Toto, there was— it was like I was the only person left in the whole world. I didn’t think anyone would ever find me again, I didn’t know how they even could.”

Lilia doesn’t know which is worse; the fact that Silver never dreams about that awful night when he was spelled into sleep for his own protection, or the fact that he dreams about the aftermath, about the long and lonely wait. 

But he knows a little something about darkness. And a little something about loneliness too.

“ . . . do you remember what you told me about the groundhog? What does he do each winter?” 

Silver scrunches up his face in confusion at the question, but instantly replies, hard-pressed to forget anything that involves his dear animal companions. “Hibernation?” His tongue trips over the word clumsily as he looks up for Lilia’s approving nod. 

“And as I recall, Malleus was out with you in the forest, so you asked him what that meant. Can you tell me what he said?”

Lilia watches with no small trace of fondness as the boy begins to parrot the words perfectly, amused by how completely Malleus’ words have been committed to memory.

“He said that groundhogs are a type of animal called a mammal, and that they burrow deep in the ground to keep themselves warm and safe during the winter,” Silver recites, a finger curling around a loose thread in the blanket while he thinks on the prince’s explanation. “They eat a lot of food before they do so that they can stay healthy, and then they sleep and sleep and sleep until the snow has all melted for good.”

Simplistic enough for his purposes. Lilia nods in confirmation as Silver settles back in his arms, the question remaining clear enough on his little face. “Don’t you think hibernation sounds a lot like your dream?” he murmurs, and the boy’s eyes widen now in wonder. “I imagine it’s pretty scary at first for your groundhog friend. He’s deep in a dark burrow, alone and away from all of his friends, and he knows it’ll be a long time before he wakes up.”

He lets Silver ruminate on that, and can see the awed appreciation in his gaze for the bravery of all the little creatures that know they must subject themselves to the order of nature for the chance to see a new spring.

“But there’s a difference you should be aware of,” he continues, and Silver’s head snaps up in confusion, mouth open— “You, my dear, are not a groundhog!” Lilia declares with a gentle tickle of his fingertips against the boy’s side and grins openly when full giggles erupt from the blanketed bundle in his lap, Silver squirming and laughing as he unsuccessfully tries to wriggle away from Lilia’s inescapable torment until the last of the worry pinched around his face vanishes for good.

“You are not a groundhog,” he repeats softly, and bends forward to press a kiss to the boy’s head. “And I will always find you when winter ends.”

“Always?” Silver asks him sleepily, fully spent from their conversation, and Lilia thinks about how much he used to hate the melting snow, the warmth of the sun in spring.

“Always.” 

[arctrooper69]

As Iron Sharpens Iron

"As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another." Proverbs 27:17

Chapter 20:

Previous // Next

Warnings: Medical Whump, mention of needles. Got some nice fluff in this one though ❤️

--------------------------------------------------

Pain.

Excruciating and white-hot.

It pierced with daggers that chiseled through your bones, burrowing their icy blades deep inside. It ripped you away from the tantalizing grip of unconsciousness.

“No… please…” The unconscious plea slipped over numb lips, as nothing more than a weak cry.

That peaceful serenity had so nearly been yours, but cruelly, you found it no longer so easy to fade. Voices carried loudly, echoing through the cavern. Shouted orders cut through your skull like a hatchet, exploding with a nauseating, icy sharpness. Rockets fired behind your eyes, jumbling their words between that constant, shrill ringing.

“Tech! ….ere…”

Hunter's voice rumbled, muted behind that deafening noise. Despite the tumbling chaos of fragmented thoughts and twisted noise, one thought repeated, focused and unmuddled.

Alive. He's alive. He's alive. He fell too, but he’s alive.

You found your hand drifting almost as an instinct, finding purchase in the ground, nails carving desperate paths through the dirt.

Alive. He's alive.

An icy panic drove its claws around your throat, wrenching ragged gasps from constricting lungs as your searching fingers found only cold rock.

Don't leave. Don't leave me here!

The nothingness you had so desperately craved before no longer felt peaceful. Instead, it loomed ominously below, violent and cold.

You could feel it clawing its way up your throat, pulling you relentlessly back down as though punishing your resistance.

No! You wanted to scream. I won’t leave them! You couldn't do that to Hunter. Not now. Not after everything was alright again.

Blinding, piercing waves of icy fire shot down from the base of your neck, ripping a choked scream through gritted teeth, as you tried to turn your head in an urgent attempt to find the man whose voice you clung to so desperately. A pair of strong, steady hands, held your head, stopping any semblance of motion. Tears, sudden and unbidden, trickled down your cheeks before you even realized you’d been crying. A part of you knew why he held you, so still and unmoving. The prickling electricity of pins and needles down your limbs were slow to fade - a consequence of your sudden movement. Purposed, shallow breaths did nothing to dull the sharp, grating agony that flared from your chest at every breathy whimper.

“Hey…shh… Don’t move.” He rubbed gentle circles along your jaw with his thumbs. “I know it hurts… I know. I'm right here, okay?”

You knew that voice. It felt safe, it was something to hold onto.

Hunter.

The deep baritone of his voice cut through the fog.

“Breathe. Look at me. We’re gonna get you out of here, okay?”

“A-again…” came the whispered response, lips twitching into some semblance of a half conscious grin. Some part of you registered the ironic humor in your situation, having been in the same predicament only hours ago.

Hunter gave a small huff, unable to stop the brief smirk of relief. “Yeah again. You gotta stop doing that.”

Your eyes drifted closed again, unable to bear the burning intensity of his headlamp any longer. He seemed to realize this and reached up to direct the beam away from your face.

“I need you to keep your eyes open for me, okay?”

“...can’t… too dizzy.” It felt like you were yelling, trying to be heard over that damn incessant ring.

“I know, cyar'ika. But if you keep your eyes closed, you have to keep talking to me, okay?”

The ringing was growing nearly unbearable again, drilling through your head, ripping and tearing your thoughts to shreds, pressing, squeezing until you were sure if it kept on, you would burst. Hunter’s voice was fading in and out in an endless cycle. The darkness behind your eyes whispered seductively once again only to be forced back as reality sunk its poisoned fangs deep into tissue and bone. Voices echoed down into the crevasse where you lay, concerned sincerity distorting into deriding laughter as if to mock your futile attempts to stop the pain.

Hunter called out to one of them.

“... on't…. move her…et!”

“...er…have to… help…”

Nimble fingers felt like sandpaper scraping on already raw skin and then a light, assaulting in a forced agony with blazing daggers.

“... pupils un… head…jury”

Tech. A distant part of you knew that voice. Always analyzing, ever observant. Careful but quick.

What was he saying?

There was a brief pause in which even that horrible noise had dissipated as though granting you one last relief. One last comfort before it came roaring back in the full force of overloaded senses. You could feel their frantic touches, voices overlapping one another in some sort of garbled nonsense.

Hands clenched over your leg. They gripped your head, over your chest. Ripping you violently to a blinding focus. Tearing, pulling and twisting daggers of ice into explosions of white hot pain. Hands ripping, tearing at clothing. Hands everywhere, feeling, gripping, holding you in place though you tried desperately to escape - lips parting to beg them to stop, that it hurt too much, but no words would come.

Stop! Please stop! Hunter, make them stop!

And it did seem to stop, though slow and fleeting. That nauseating intensity blurred dangerously with the icy chill, settling through your bones in a gentle numbness - the body’s merciful way of protecting nerves that fired and sparked beyond their perceived capacity.

Maybe it was the weakness of wishful thinking, or maybe it was some lingering strength fueled by a need for control. Whatever the cause, that infantesimal sliver of relief brought with it an inkling of hope that maybe you could survive this - like you were dangling from a precipice, waiting for that outstretched arm to pull you to safety.

“C'm… ack… can't lose…. plea…”

There were hands again - gentler this time. Fingers running through your hair brought a sense of comfort, though muddled and distant voices cut like blades as they danced and echoed through the rocks.

“...ere you go. Good. …ay with me, …kay?”

The iron grip that pulled you from the edge, that baritone whispering.

“Good, cyar’ika. Breathe. Listen to my voice.”

They were Hunter’s hands that gently held your head again. Steady and strong - yet kind and grounding.

That deeply penetrating hurt once again wracked violently through abused bone and seizing muscle, blooming through a daze as though attached to waking consciousness. But at least it was something to hold onto and the touch of Hunter’s ungloved skin was something that made sense in this tumult of fractured thoughts and heightened senses. A feeling of peace - a cool breeze on burning skin.

***

Hunter watched as your eyes rolled back into your head, fading once again into a pained unconsciousness.

I’m sorry. He wanted to shout. I’m so sorry.

Tech scurried about, kneeling over you - packing you securely splinted, while Wrecker had taken over holding your head steady. All he could do was stare - dazed as if watching the scene unfold from above like some sort of cosmic intruder.

It should’ve been me. I should’ve protected her - cushioned the fall. Something. Anything.

Someone placed a hand on his shoulder, tugging him gently back. Echo’s face swam before him, concern written on his features. “You okay?”

First confusion, quickly swallowed by a sudden anger that overcomes the sudden realization of his own aching side. How dare you! How dare you look at me when you should be focused on her!

“I’m fine.” Hunter snapped, the sharpness of his words matching the shooting pain that accompanied them.

Echo narrowed his eyes, Hunter was lying, but he nodded curtly in professional acknowledgement. He’d deal with him once they were safely back on the Marauder. He turned back to where Tech had finished securing the makeshift stretcher to cables that acted as a pulley system that would allow him to safely bring you up and out of the pit without causing too much unnecessary movement. He grimaced at the agony etched onto your face, heart aching in his chest at the way your eyelids fluttered open and closed. Fear. Pain. Confusion.

Echo didn’t have to imagine what that felt like.

We’ll get you out of here soon, he thought. You looked so fragile, so young - so vulnerable. Did I look like that when they rescued me?

“Echo, we're ready.” Tech’s matter-of-fact tone pulled him from his thoughts.

“Good. Let’s get her out of here.”

***

I am dead. Dying. Living. Unknown.

Flashes of a distant reality, all edged with an all-consuming torment; blurry glimpses of stone and rock; that treacherous, dusky sky; Tech’s helmet and cold, unforgiving plastoid. Hunter’s hand still clenched tightly in your own.

Floating. Moving. Securing. It all pulled you along as if rocking you to sleep. The agony that gripped every part of you was unbearably cruel and cold - but as long as those strong hands stayed by your side, there was hope.

A piercing, stabbing pain shot through your neck suddenly, drawing a barked cry from a dry throat. You jerked away, only to be held fast by those same comforting hands.

“Traitor.”

That mumbled annoyance protesting the betrayal of comfort, drew a soft chuckle. “Sorry, cyare. You’ll be okay.”

The awful, burning sensation that traveled down through your veins, soon felt warm.

---

Hunter watched as you fell asleep. Your exhausted muscles finally able to relax despite how securely you lay, splinted and immobilized, wrapped up in a blanket and thoroughly packaged by Tech’s meticulous hands.

“I’ve contacted Rex and he knows of a medical facility we can take her to safely.” Echo spoke as he strode over to the rack where Tech had settled you. He stood awkwardly before falling instinctively to a resting stance, arms loosely tucked behind his back.

Hunter nodded stiffly. “Good.”

Echo shifted, “You should get some rest, Hunter.”

“I’m fine.” The immediate reply was sharp and decisive, meant to scare away any sense of logic or concern that might take him away from your broken form. But Echo was not so easily swayed. He doubled down.

“You’re not.” He stated. “You can’t take care of her if you don’t take care of yourself.” His lips pulled tight in sincerity, eyeing the Sergeant up and down. He had worked with Hunter long enough to see through the callous facade. Hunter was a good squad leader - listed among the best that Echo had worked with throughout his career - and like a good leader he’d always put the needs of his squad above his own. It was both a strength and a weakness. “You need to rest, Hunter. At least sit down and let me take a look at your side.”

Hunter shook his head and leaned forward, grunting as he brushed a stray hair from your face. He could hear Echo’s words and the truth that they carried, but for some reason, he couldn't seem to make his hand move from where it curled around yours. He could feel the pain of his own injuries but they paled in comparison to yours.

He was of no consequence. You were his world.

It felt like he was standing on a cliff face and some mockery of doubtful anxiety convinced him that if he let go of your hand, he would fall plummeting further and further away.

He didn’t want to respond. It was too hard to admit that he was terrified - too hard to admit that he'd grown so accustomed to working with you, living with you, and that the prospect of losing that connection would be like losing a part of himself.

It was you who’d been there silently beside him as the weight of the rapidly changing galaxy tore apart everything he’d ever known.

That was why he couldn't let go.

You mumbled something in your sleep, eyes fluttering open.

Another pair of hands set the quivering muscles of your body on edge for an instant before loosening at their familiar touch.

“Hey, shhh… It’s just me.”

“Hun’er?” Your words came slow and unfocused, slipping out unfiltered and raw.

“Yeah?”

“...love you too…”

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[wildernessuntothemselves]

Jealousy, Jealousy... | Final Part

A/N: this is the main ending. there is an alternative ending available for the other boy on patreon. the link for which is found at the end of this chapter.

Word count: 13k

Genre: Smut, angst, fluff

Warnings: fem!reader, mostly dom!reader, face-sitting, PIV sex, dirty talk, creampie, handjob, heartbreak.

“Hey, baby.” You greet Yeonjun, giving him a kiss on the lips. “Ready to go?” 

You were picking him up to go home after a long day of work for the both of you. You had in mind a night of drinking wine and complaining about your day until you passed out in his arms and you can’t wait to get home already. 

“Just a little longer, doll.” He tells you and you immediately start whining. “Junnie… those two bottles of wine I bought aren’t gonna drink themselves. We gotta get cracking.” 

He chuckles tiredly. “While I appreciate your efforts to get me drunk, Beomgyu has composed a new song and I need to stay back to hear it.”

“Oh.” It’s still so weird to you how you now have to hear news about what your best friend is up to from other people. You used to know these things first. If this was a few months ago, you’d have already heard the song before anyone else did. But now you’re lucky if you even get to hear it at all. 

But that’s for the best. You’re doing good with Yeonjun. You’re doing good without Beomgyu. You’re breathing. You’re eating. Your heart is beating… maybe even for someone else for a change. It may have been excruciatingly painful at first–forcing yourself to step away from him, not seeking him out to try to make things better after your most recent fallout, not jumping at the chance when he reached out himself, pretending like you’re too busy to see him, making up excuses so you won’t be alone with him, building up your walls so maybe one day you can stand in a room with him and not have to hold back every cell of your body from throwing yourself at his feet and begging him to love you, but you’ve gotten a lot better at it. 

“Do you wanna listen to it?” Yeonjun asks when he sees your curiosity, but you hesitate. Should you? Maybe you should just wait in the car…

But when you see Beomgyu come out with his acoustic guitar and set it on his lap, you find yourself nodding and grabbing a seat next to Yeonjun. You miss hearing him sing. You miss being privy to his passions and whims. Maybe it's selfish of you to allow yourself the opportunity to witness more of him than you’re willing to give him but you never claimed to not be selfish. 

As if Beomgyu shares your thoughts, he glances at you, hesitating for a second and you can see the thoughts flitting behind his pretty eyes–you know him too well. Is he thinking about kicking you out? Does he not want you to hear the song because you’ve been keeping your distance from him? 

Eventually though he looks down at his guitar and starts to play, and as soon as the first words leave his lips, your heart drops. 

Oh, I’m falling in love

As time goes by

As my feelings grow 

I’m becoming more anxious

How deep is your love?

I want to ask

Couldn’t it be the same if not deeper? 

Your heart lurches in your chest at the lyrics. Falling in love? Is Beomgyu falling in love with Haeun? You know you have no right to feel hurt by this but you do. Why couldn’t he have loved you? What does he see in her that you couldn’t have given him? Is she prettier than you? Smarter? Kinder? Funnier? What was it that made you fall short of deserving his love? 

Seeing you change little by little

I’m afraid I’ll lose you

Not mine

My one minute, one second

Take them all

All my time is yours

Why?

Why have you changed?

Why are you so far away from me? 

Now we are at different paths. 

It hurts even more that it seems she’s not reciprocating his feelings. She has everything you want and she doesn’t even want it. He’s willing to give her everything but it seems it’s not enough for her. Oh how cruelly ironic. 

She seemed to be very into him before, at least after the band got more popular, and with every increase in their popularity, she attached herself to him more and more, but something must’ve gone wrong along the line. You have known for some time that Beomgyu and Haeun have been having relationship troubles but you don’t know exactly what because Beomgyu hasn’t told anyone but you guess it’s really bad if this song is about them. 

Is she in love with someone else? Has she lost interest? How could she do it so easily when it’s taking everything in you to do the same. Can she tell you her secret so you can stop suffering and give your heart completely to the man who actually wants it? 

How can I go back

To our beginning

When we were looking at the same place

The when we had the same heart

I hope you don’t know it

This feeling

Even though I love you

I still feel alone

He’s hiding it from her, afraid to reveal his feelings–maybe because he thinks she doesn’t feel the same way, that if he reveals them she’ll reject him. You know that feeling all too well. You wish you could protect him from it even if he was the cause of your own similar pain.

As the chorus repeats, you become even more sure that the song is about him. You can hear the anguish so clearly in his voice. Beomgyu has always been so talented, always able to give his all to the song and live it as if it’s his own, but you know him too well. You know this is real pain. 

I’m drowning in you

Don’t leave me like this

As the bridge reaches its climax, your body shakes, wanting to lunge forward and take him into your arms, to save him from himself even if it would tear you to pieces. But you can’t. You don’t have the right to anymore. All you can do is sit there and wait for him to finish his song, wait for the boys to discuss it as if it’s not his heart being laid out in the open to be dissected. 

“What do you think?” He asks once the song is over, biting the skin of his finger, a nervous habit you’ve always quietly found adorable. You would always grab his hand and kiss the poor finger better, scolding him for hurting himself, but secretly you loved it. You loved having his hand in yours. You loved having an excuse to press your lips against him. And you loved the smile he would always give you in response. 

“It’s really good." Kai says, impressed. "Didn’t know that someone as emotionally stunted as you could come up with such a moving song."

"Fuck off." Beomgyu mutters, not in the mood for jokes, obviously nervous to see what the others think. 

“Yeah, I like it too. You said you’re thinking of having violins in the opening?” Taehyun asks, picking up a music sheet. 

Beomgyu nods. “Yeah. I know we’ve never done that before but I feel like it would really add to the atmosphere of the song.” 

"I think it could be fun." Taehyun hums, turning to Soobin. “What do you think?” 

"I agree. It's good to experiment a bit while still maintaining our sound which I think this song does really well. It could expose us to more people while still not alienating our existing fanbase.” He praises and Beomgyu smiles, relieved at his song being so well-received by the other members. “I especially like the bridge part. I think once Yeonjun sings it, it would really elevate the song.” 

Beomgyu's face falls at that but he quickly covers it up. You furrow your eyebrows. That can't feel good, being compared negatively with Yeonjun, even if Soobin didn't mean it like that. 

You look at Yeonjun, who hadn't said a word so far. He was staring at Beomgyu weirdly. Did he not like the song? 

You nudge him, giving him a questioning look and he just shakes his head, smiling at you before saying, "I like it. Good job, man."

Beomgyu gives him a tense smile in response, and the group falls into an awkward silence for a few seconds–a weird tension hanging in the air, before Soobin clears his throat and begins discussing how they'll play the song, what parts could be improved and who will get which part. You don’t really listen anymore, just looking between Yeonjun and Beomgyu. 

Your boyfriend seems to have gotten over his weird reaction, now focused on the technicalities. Beomgyu is focused too but he doesn’t look as enthusiastic as you expected him to be–as you'd seen him get when talking about his songs before–and it's more proof to you that this is a very personal song to him. 

As the boys finally break up after a while, most of them going their separate ways to pack up their stuff and get ready to leave, your boyfriend stays behind with Soobin, still discussing something with him. That’s when you spot Beomgyu alone, putting his guitar in its case, and you take the opportunity to go talk to him, unable to hold yourself back this time. 

“Hey, Beomgyu, that song was really good.” You start by saying, wanting to congratulate him on a really good song but also needing an opener. But Beomgyu doesn’t say anything in response, simply giving you a blank look–which fucking hurt but you guess you deserve it–so you continue lamely, trying to get him to respond. “You’re really talented. I don’t think you’re gonna need to moonlight as a stripper anymore.” You try to joke but again he doesn’t really say anything, turning his attention back to his guitar bag which he zips up. 

“Umm… Beomgyu, that song… is it about you?” You bite the bullet, and he finally gives you some sort of response, albeit nonverbal. He looks at you like a deer caught in headlights. “Is it about you and Haeun?” 

“What?” He frowns and you explain yourself nervously, hoping you weren’t overstepping boundaries that have sprung up in your absence. “Well, the song is about a guy who loves someone who doesn’t feel the same about him and how she’s changing and being distant… is that what’s happening with Haeun?” 

He sighs. “Maybe. So what?” 

You wince at his callousness, like he doesn’t have time for you. You suppose you brought it on yourself with the way you've been avoiding him. Still you ignore it, determined to tell him what you think anyway. “Well, if it is, you should tell her. Tell her how you feel, she might feel the same way and you don’t even know. You might both be pulling away when all you want is to be with each other.” Yes, you know how hypocritical it is of you to say that but you can’t imagine a world in which anyone would reject Beomgyu’s love. “If you love her then you should tell her, right?” 

He snorts. “What do you even know about how I feel? Do you have any idea about the amount of hurt and self-loathing it would cause me if she doesn’t feel the same way? How it would ruin our relationship if she’s not where I am?”

“I know.” You grit down on that same pain. “I know.”

He pauses, his anger burning out as soon as it ignites. Then he asks quietly, “Yeonjun?” 

You press down on your lips. You know if you say no then he might figure it out. He might finally discover your wretched secret, so you smile and nod, fully knowing how hypocritical you are being right now. You’re such a fucking coward, you disgust even yourself. 

“Right.” He is quiet for a minute, and the atmosphere is charged with weird, unreadable emotions that buzz in your ear and form sparks over your skin. You almost excuse yourself–not really wanting to leave despite how uncomfortable it is but knowing you should. You’ve said what you wanted to say. There is no good reason for you to linger around any longer. 

But then Beomgyu speaks again. "Are you happy?"

You pause, frowning in suspicion at the unexpected question, which Beomgyu notices right away and clarifies, "We haven't talked in a while. I wanna make sure you're doing alright." He says, tone genuine… and a bit sad. 

"I am." You allow, not being untruthful. You are alright, no matter how bad you feel doing it without him. "We're doing well. Yeonjun is as wonderful as ever. He is sweet and funny and he shows me something new everyday. Which is a bit scary for me–you know how I am afraid of change, but he makes it exciting.” 

“I’m glad. I want you to be happy.” He smiles at you. It doesn’t reach his eyes but you know he means it. “And I wish I could be there to see it for myself. Do you think you can let me?” 

That’s what you were afraid of. This is why you shouldn’t have talked to him. You knew he might use it to try to get back into your life, and you know how hard it would be for you to say no. But you do it anyway. You have to do it for yourself and for Yeonjun. 

“I can’t. Not now.” Each meager letter leaving your mouth feels like a blow to the heart. It lays battered in your chest, asking you why the hell you would refuse it its salvation, but you just push it down again, silencing it. 

“But I miss you.” His words come out choppy and weak, and you know he’s holding back tears. You hate him for it because it makes you want to cry too. “Don’t you miss me?”

“Of course, I miss you!” You whisper as if you don’t want the universe to hear it. "I'll always miss you. But I can't keep doing this with you anymore. I'm tired of the whiplash." 

"No more whiplash.” He shakes his head harshly, getting closer to you but you step back, causing pain to bloom across his teary face. “I get it now. I've worked through my stuff and I'm ready to be a real friend again." 

"Well, I haven't worked through mine.” You stand strong. Or as strongly as you can be under such duress. “I still need time and I will not have you rush me."

He moves back, shoulders hunched down. "I'm sorry." 

"I know." You say tiredly before walking away, your bruised heart bleeding out at the bottom of your chest.

____________

Beomgyu’s song has become some kind of a local sensation. It is being listened to by a lot of the young people in your city–resonating with many youths who have gone through similar heartbreaks. From small unrequited crushes to the person you love falling out of love with you–who hasn’t loved more than they have been loved before? 

The painfully relatable song has gained the boys a considerable amount of fame online too. They were being asked to do more gigs than ever. They’ve even gotten an interview, which you’re currently preparing them for, dressing them up to look their best on camera. 

Like always, you’ve left Beomgyu for last, dreading being close to him still. And he gives you every reason to, staring at you the whole time you fix his clothes. 

"What?" You finally ask, and he gives you a dumb look. "What?"

"You're staring." You tell him, and he averts his gaze. You can see from the ear poking out of his long hair that he’s blushing. "Oh. Didn't realize." 

Oh, how many times you’ve teased him over the way his ears turn red when he’s embarrassed. It was such an endearing quality in him, just one of the many small reasons that made up the whole of you loving him. 

You got back to styling him, pretending it doesn’t tug at your heartstrings anymore, and he goes back to staring at you. 

After a long beat of silence, he asks awkwardly, "So what are you up to? What's new with you?" 

"Well, I'm the creative director for this up and coming band's new song." You joke, trying to ease off the tension. Or maybe his cute involuntary reaction softened up your defenses a little bit.

"Oh, are they good?" He grins, falling gladly into your familiar banter. 

"They are, but I think their bass guitarist only got the job because of his looks."

He gives an affronted gasp. "What the hell? Hater! What, you think just because he's so pretty he can't possibly be talented too? Us pretty people are always misjudged."

"Oh, you poor pretty boy." You reach out to pinch his chin, before you realize what you’re doing and quickly take your hand away, clearing your throat and stepping back. “All done.” 

You give him a tense smile and turn to leave but his hand shoots out to grab your wrist. 

"Wait." He shouts, and you look down at his hand wrapped around your wrist. He notices your discomfort and immediately lets you go. "Do you want to get together for some food or a movie or something?"

Why does he have to make this so hard? Why does he do this every time? 

"Not yet." You repeat what you must’ve told him a dozen times before. You can't slip back into it. Because your skin still buzzes whenever you touch him and your heart clenches painfully around the hole he left in it whenever you see him. You need time apart to fully let the love you have for him go. 

"When?” He asks, frustrated. “When will it end? What can I do to help? What do you need me to do so you can be my friend again?"

"I need you to give me space." You say firmly, standing your ground. 

“But–”

“No buts, Beomgyu. You’re the one who made it this way. If you had been my friend when I needed you to, we wouldn’t have gotten into this situation. You need to deal with the consequences of your own actions.” 

He stares at the ground, not answering you. You sigh, turning around to leave with no restrictions this time. 

Though what you said to him about his previous behavior causing a rift between you wasn’t false, it wasn’t entirely the truth either. The other reason you felt you couldn’t be his friend again yet is that you’re still not over him, and you’ve made a promise to yourself and to Yeonjun that you will only be devoting yourself to him from now on, and Beomgyu being there is just going to hinder your progress. 

But as you watch the boys do their interview, you can’t help but feel guilty for what you’d said to Beomgyu. You know it was the right thing to do, but seeing him look so glum, his light dimmed and his spirits down, you wish you had held it off at least for later. 

He is acting nothing like his normal loud, talkative self. He looks down and doesn’t speak unless directly asked a question. It hurts your heart because you know the people watching this won’t get to see how funny and bright and passionate he is. They’ll see him as the quiet guy staring at his own feet. He might still get some fans who would be into the quiet, sad look but that’s not who Beomgyu is. That’s not what he wants to be known as. 

But the rest of the boys are covering for him well, especially Yeonjun. He is so charming, you know he’s gonna be stealing hearts left and right when this airs. He certainly has managed to put a smile on your face despite all the conflicting feelings you’re feeling, and you make sure he sees it whenever he glances in your direction. 

_______________

The boys are doing better than ever, more interviews and gigs coming in and filling their schedule up so rapidly they’ll barely have any free time soon. They’re already in talks with a record company looking to sign them. Which is why you’re actively savoring moments like this when you get to just hangout with Yeonjun at the mall, eating a snack as you take a break from shopping–one of your favorite activities to do as a couple. 

“Just think, soon enough we won’t even be able to do this. We’d be getting mobbed by crowds wanting your autograph and pushing me out of the way to take pictures of you.” You say to Yeonjun, half-joking. It might really happen one day with how quickly they’re gaining popularity. They might have small fame now but who knows what tomorrow will bring, and you believe in the boys. They’re talented enough to do it, and that both worries you and excites you. 

“Well, I’ll only ever have eyes for you.” He winks at you, and you give him a small smile.

In moments like this you should feel happy. You are happy. But your happiness is incomplete. It is shadowed by worry and doubt. Yeonjun is so wonderful. He is so sweet and he can be very caring, but sometimes you can’t help but question how much he really feels for you. It keeps you from letting yourself completely go with him. He tells you words that are supposed to be charming, but they don’t sound personal. They don’t feel deep. You know he likes you, but is he ever going to love you? 

Maybe you’re overthinking it. This is what a budding relationship is like–the novelty comes with uncertainty. The first times come with doubt. The young fire sometimes burns. You shouldn’t let yourself ruin it for you. 

Yes, your love for him isn’t as old and deep-rooted as your love for Beomgyu but maybe that’s a good thing. It will take time to grow and flourish and become something just as beautiful or even more so. In time, you can learn to let go of your all-consuming love for your best friend, cover that gaping hole that Beomgyu has left in your heart, forget about the way every time you see Beomgyu with her you feel like screaming out so loud the gods themselves will weep–

“Beomgyu.” You gasp, seeing him in front of you. Fuck, he’s like bloody marry. Call his name three times and he appears. 

You try to hide, putting your head down and attempting to cover your face with your hair but there is no mistaking Yeonjun’s bright orange head and Beomgyu quickly spots you and makes his way over to you with Haeun of all people. 

“Curse your stupid hair.” You hiss at Yeonjun just before Beomgyu and Haeun arrive at the table. 

"Hey, guys, are you on a date?" Beomgyu asks as if there was any doubt about it. 

"Yes, actually." Yeonjun tells him in a tone that clearly conveys that you don’t want to be disturbed, But Beomgyu doesn’t care, grabbing a chair and pulling it out. 

"Oh sweet." He sits down. "How have you guys been?"

“What are you doing, Beommie? We have a lot of shopping to do.” Haeun complains, and every time you hear her call him that you want to claw her tongue out.

"In a minute, baby. Let's rest our legs for a bit." He motions for Haeun to sit down, but she puts her hands on her hips. “I don’t want to rest.”

“Well then you go on and I’ll catch up with you.” He suggests and she huffs, deciding to sit down after all. Oh, joy.  

“But I can’t leave you alone, Beommie.” She whines, wrapping her arms around him and kissing his neck, making you almost hurl. 

Thankfully, Yeonjun takes your attention away from them. “So, what new crazy thing is your boss asking from you?” 

You turn fully to him, trying your best to ignore the disgusting intruders. “Ugh, don’t even get me started. This morning, she–”

“Boss? What boss?” Beomgyu interrupts, and you clench your teeth, preparing yourself before turning your head to look towards him. 

“The editor of Elements magazine. She saw the Frost shoot and wanted me to do a pictorial for them.” 

“Oh my god, that is amazing.” He shouts, startling Haeun who was so close to his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

An awkward moment passes after his mindless question. Because we don’t talk? Because we’re not friends anymore? 

Eventually, you decide to just shrug. “I guess it must’ve slipped my mind.” 

“Right.” He clears his throat, going along. “Well, show me what you’ve done so far.” 

You hesitate, glancing at Yeonjun who sighs and gestures for you to go ahead. So you pull up your phone, showing him some of the pictures you’ve already taken.  

"Wow this is real artistic shit." Beomgyu awes and you laugh. Trust in Beomgyu to give such an un-nuanced but still somehow very flattering opinion. 

“I don’t get it. It’s just a guy in a bathtub.” Haeun speaks up, obviously intending to antagonize you. “My friend Jiwon takes better pictures than this and he didn’t even go to college. If that’s what they teach you at school then you’ve wasted your money.”

Oh fuck no. You may be spineless but you won’t allow Haeun of all people to make fun of your work. You prepare to launch into a screaming match with her condescending ass, but before you could even open your mouth to speak, Beomgyu beats you to it. “Your friend Jiwon takes back camera pictures of weird strangers on the street and makes up an exaggerated or completely false backstory about them to try to make the obviously amateur pictures appear more interesting. How fucking original.”

Beomgyu’s quick defense of you makes your heart swell. Some things never change. 

“Yeah? Like this is original!” She sputters indignantly. 

“I know it’s nothing groundbreaking.” You interrupt their quarrel, “Like a guy in a tub staring longingly at the camera isn’t something that hasn’t exactly been done before but… umm, it’s actually inspired by your song. The colored water is supposed to represent love, you know the “I’m drowning in you” part? It’s killing him but he can’t get himself to get out. He wants to drown in it… I don’t know it may be stupid but I hope you don’t mind.” 

"Oh. No, I'm… flattered." He trails off, staring at you wide-eyed. “I didn’t think I would be able to inspire you again…” 

“Yeah, well...” You mumble bashfully, a charged moment passes over you as you stare silently at each other. 

"Are you done?" Haeun complains, and for once you’re thankful to her for cutting the strange moment. "I'm bored. Let's go." 

“We haven’t even eaten anything yet. Take a look at the menus and order something for us, won’t you?” He asks her, but doesn’t even wait for her response before turning back to you. "You know what would be hilarious. If you get the editor to let you do a shoot with the plastic watermelon dress you made."

“It’s not plastic.” You roll your eyes at him, knowing exactly which dress he’s referring to. “It’s coral organza.”

“Looked like plastic to me.” He shrugs with a mischievous grin on his face. 

“That’s because you're fashion illiterate.” 

“Hey, I’ll have you know I’m very fashion forward and hip.” He proclaims, sounding decidedly NOT neither fashion forward nor hip. 

“Yes, because a punk guitarist wearing ratty shirts and ripped jeans is so revolutionary.” You drawl teasingly and he pouts, pulling at his shirt. “Hey! You were there when I picked these out. You said I looked cool.” 

“Yeah, she’ll say you look cool wearing a garbage bag.” Yeonjun scoffs and you blush, realizing that you’ve completely neglected Yeonjun as soon as Beomgyu got here. You move back from your huddled forward stance to lean against your boyfriend.

“What?” Beomgyu asks and you quickly brush Yeonjun’s comment off. “Nothing. Now Yeonjun is very stylish. He knows all the trends and he knows how to make them work for him.” 

Beomgyu snorts, glancing at your hand that is caressing Yeonjun’s chest. “I don’t follow trends. I make trends.” 

“That’s right, baby. You’re a trendsetter.” Haeun coos, getting her hands on him too, touching him much more inappropriately than you were touching Yeonjun. 

But Beomgyu ignores her once again, asking you, "How did you even reach the editor of Elements?"

"Oh, Yeonjun knew her." Your hand falls down to wrap around Yeonjun’s, squeezing it reassuringly. 

“Of course, Yeonjun knows the editor." For some reason that piece of information really seemed to annoy Beomgyu. But you ignore his unnecessarily snarky tone and turn to smile at Yeonjun, hoping he’d forgive you for your earlier mishap. “Yeah, he’s amazing, isn’t he?” 

"Yes, he’s great.” Beomgyu mutters, standing up. “I think me and Haeun have stuff to do. Let’s go, baby."

"Yes!" She claps happily, standing up too. 

"Oh, okay. Bye, I guess." You mumble, watching them abruptly scurry off as you try to process the weird interaction.  "What's wrong with him?"

“Maybe he’s just being his usual weird self.” Yeonjun shrugs, removing his hand from yours, making you frown. "Or maybe he feels inadequate because I was able to get you the job and he couldn't."

"That's ridiculous." Why would Beomgyu feel inadequate about that? He doesn’t have any obligation to get you work. 

"Is it? If I was in love with a girl and another guy gave her what I couldn't. I would be pretty bummed out too." 

"What?" The world suddenly screeches to a halt, as does Yeonjun. He looks at you, slowly contemplating something as if he doesn’t know that the world has stopped and is waiting on him. 

Finally, he sighs. "I tried to ignore it. Partly because the idiot is trying to hide it and partly because I like you, but ever since we got together, it's been pretty damn hard to ignore. Beomgyu is clearly in love with you.”

"No. You’re getting it wrong.” You shake your head, hoping to get rid of the cotton that has replaced your brain, your thoughts feeling fuzzy and slow as they travel through it. “He's just upset because he thinks us dating will drive me and him apart… which I guess has been true."

"No, he's upset because he wants to be with you and it's killing him to see us together.” Yeonjun clarifies, irritated at having to explain to you how some other guy is in love with you. 

"How can you be so sure? Did he tell you that?"

"He doesn't have to tell me. I have eyes…" He looks you up and down. "And well, I'm not stupid like you two."

"That's ridiculous." You denounce once more. 

"You said that already."

"Well, it is! Beomgyu doesn’t love me. I mean as a friend, sure but not… like that." 

"Oh my god, I'm dealing with two idiots. I don’t even know why the fuck I’m explaining this to you but here goes,” Yeonjun exclaims in frustration, obviously not enjoying this conversation any more than you are. “Think about it, no guy gets this worked up over just a fuck. His first explanation of his anger being just because he’s afraid our relationship is going to ruin the band was total bullshit. It was just to throw you off his scent and have a way to get you to stay away from me without revealing anything. And his second explanation is even more bullshit. Why the fuck would us being in a relationship make you lose him as a friend if he didn’t hold anything but platonic love for you? Why does he get mad every time you and I take a step forward in our relationship? Because he’s fucking in love with you. He literally wrote a whole song about how he’s secretly in love with you and it’s killing him that you’re not his!"

“That song was about me?” You ask and he gives you a look as if to say he can’t believe a single human being can be this dumb. “No, it’s obviously about the girl he’s been ignoring the entire time he was sat with us just so he could talk to you.” 

Your mouth opens slowly, tongue dry as it forms the words. "Let’s say he does love me. Why wouldn't he just tell me?"

"Why wouldn't you just tell him?"

You sputter uselessly for a while, not really saying anything. Until you give up and just stop, submerging the both of you in a suffocating silence. You’d think that your thoughts would be racing a million miles an hour right now, trying to process all this information, but nothing is going through your head except one question. 

Beomgyu loves me? Beomgyu loves me? Beomgyu loves me? 

You’re only taken out of your looping thought when Yeonjun sighs again. "Well, this was fun while it lasted."

"What?" Your mouth hangs open, your frozen brain somehow still having enough power to be shocked. 

"You're obviously still completely in love with him. When he's there it's like you don't even see me. You don't see anyone else." Yeonjun says defeatedly. 

"No, I–" You try to deny, but he gives you a pointed look, daring you to lie to him. 

“Okay, I love him but I’m with you.” 

“Only to get over him.” 

You shake your head vehemently. “No. My feelings for you are real. Don’t you dare deny that.” 

“Maybe, but they’re not as strong as your feelings for him.” 

“But they can be.” You insist–trying to convince yourself or him, you don’t know.  Maybe if you give me the chance to–”

“To what? Wait and see if you’ll finally look for me first when you walk into a room instead of him? Pretend that I don’t know that time and distance haven’t dulled your love for him one bit? I can’t go on in a relationship where I know my partner will always be thinking ‘what if’. I won’t let myself be hurt like that by you. Not anymore.” 

You tear up. You were hurting him? You didn't even think he cared all that much. You must be a terrible judge of character to be getting both boys so wrong. “I’m sorry, Yeonjun. I never meant to hurt you. I really, really tried.” 

You really did. You didn’t do this just to get over Beomgyu. Yes, it was part of it, but you liked him too. You really thought this could work, and you really think it would have if Beomgyu wasn’t in the picture, and so you did everything in your power to take him out of it. You moved out from your apartment. You cut Beomgyu off. You dedicated yourself to Yeonjun. 

But how can you stop your heart from beating for Beomgyu? It’s entirely out of your control.  

"But you did anyway.” He says and you wince, one tear escaping your lashes and falling down the left side of your face. “Do you hate me?” 

“I could never hate you.” He sighs, and your lips tremble as you confess, “I wish you would. It might make me feel better.”

“Maybe you don’t deserve to feel better.” His words pierce your heart, and you know you deserve every ounce of pain it inflicts. 

“That’s fair.” 

You’re both silent for a long while–you trying to keep your tears under control, not wishing for him to see it as any intention to garner sympathy or guilt from him, and him sitting there quietly, his thoughts entirely hidden from you, but you know there is pain and anger in him. You can feel it radiating off of him. 

But eventually your tears dry out, and you gather enough courage to ask one last thing of him. “I know I have no right to ask this but can you not tell Beomgyu about us breaking up? I don’t want him to know yet. But don’t worry, I’ll gather my things and move out. You won’t have to live with me.”

"You're not done playing games?" He frowns and you shake your head. "I'm not. It’s just because you guys are working out that record deal and if anything goes wrong, I don’t want to risk ruining things for you.”

“Fine.” Yeonjun graciously accepts. “And you can stay. I’m not gonna kick you out into the street. I’m not that kinda guy.” 

____________________

Despite your love for Beomgyu, your break-up with Yeonjun wasn’t easy. You really liked him and had grown attached to him. And even though you still lived together, you hardly talked when it was just the two of you alone. You realize with time just how hurt he is by everything even though he tries his best to hide it from the others–not just because they think you’re still together, but because he has always refused to burden his younger members with his troubles, ever the selfless older brother. It’s one of the qualities you both admired and despised about him simultaneously. You wanted him to share his fears and worries, to lighten the load on his shoulders, and for a short while you were able to do that for him, but now that you’ve broken up, he’s left to carry all of it by himself again and with heartbreak to boot. 

You feel incredibly guilty about it, and you mourn for the love that could’ve blossomed between you had you not been so hung up about your best friend. The best friend you still haven’t talked to by the way. 

Yeonjun's words have not left your mind since the day he revealed everything to you. No moment passes by when you don't think about them. But you haven’t confronted Beomgyu about it yet because the record deal was still underway, and because you weren’t sure if Yeonjun is even right about it all. What if he’s wrong? 

Yeah, what? You'll ruin your friendship with Beomgyu? It's already in shambles anyway. Still, the rejection will be brutal. You've lived in the shadows for years. You're used to ignoring your feelings, that kind of pain is familiar to you now, but if you reveal them to Beomgyu and he shoots you down, you might not bear it. 

You'll tell him soon enough though, after the party tonight. The boys have finally reached an agreement with the record company and the contract has come through. They're officially signed to a label now and tonight’s party is a small celebration of that. 

You’ll do it after the party tonight. You’ll ask to talk to him after everyone leaves and you’ll confess everything. You're ready to come clean and end it all. Well, as ready as you can be. 

But as the party drags on, you get restless, and when you spot Beomgyu alone, refilling his drink, you can’t help but steal a little moment with him. 

“Congratulations, Beommie. I hear your song sealed the deal.” You smile widely, your lips buzzing with the desire to tell him what you really want to say–that you love him, that you’re proud of him, and that if his song is really about you then he needs to know that you’ve always been his. 

“Yeah. I’m not so useless after all.” Beomgyu’s reply is short and bitter. 

“What?” 

Yeonjun’s words ring in your ears. If I was in love with a girl and another guy gave her what I couldn't. I would be pretty bummed out too. Is this Beomgyu being insecure like Yeonjun said?

But before you can get him to clarify what he means, Haeun comes running over, incapable of leaving him alone for more than a minute. Can you really blame her? If you had him, you would never let him go either. 

“Baby, there you are! My star boy.” She throws her arms around him, pulling him into an open mouthed kiss that makes you want to vomit. 

You quickly retreat, not having missed the soft-core porn you used to witness while living with Beomgyu. Fucking Yeonjun, is this what he calls Beomgyu being in love with you? You don’t see him pushing her away or anything. He seems pretty happy with the kiss if his tongue in her mouth is any indication. 

"Foul." You mutter, swigging your cider, almost choking on it when a voice speaks up next to you. "That can't be good for the heart, huh?" 

You look at Yeonjun sheepishly, not sure if you can talk to him about this. After all, you did break up because of your love for the man currently getting his face sucked off by Haeun. So you just settle on mumbling out a weak yeah.

"Well, you know you could always fix it by confronting him about his undying love for you." He tells you and you can’t help but snort, annoyance overcoming your trepidation. "Yeah, right. He's so heartbroken, he's going to drown his sorrows in her pussy." 

“He’s just doing this because he thinks we’re still together. If he knows you’re free, I can guarantee you he’ll be dropping her so fast she won’t hit the ground before he’s on his knees for you.” 

“How can you be so confident?” You ask and he shrugs. “Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.” 

He walks away, leaving you to think over his words. Funny, that’s how you feel about the sight still playing out in front of you, the disgusting view getting burned into your retinas. 

Deciding you needed a break, you slip away from the living room, heading towards the bathroom to wash your face off. But on the way there, you pass by your old room, stopping when you see the door slightly cracked open. 

Your feet take you inside without you realizing it, compelled by curiosity to see what he’s done with the room in your absence. Has he turned it into a gaming room? Is he using it for storage? Is he letting her use it as her own? Oh, god, you really hope not. Anything but that. 

But you’re surprised when you step inside and find it mostly empty except for your old mattress and a few items you must’ve forgotten during your move. A T-shirt here, a sleeping mask there–they were all strewn around on your bed with the odd piece of clothing from Beomgyu himself in the mix. 

You step closer, examining the items when something in particular catches your eyes. A flash of pink under a pillow that makes you reach forward to pull it out, realizing just what it was once it’s in your hands–a pair of pink panties. Your pink panties that you’d been missing for a while. Why does Beomgyu have this? You thought he just used this because he was so pent up he needed any form of release but now Haeun is never off his dick so why does he still do this? 

Could Yeonjun have been right all along?  

As you continue to hold it in your hands, puzzling over it, you hear the door open and close behind you and Beomgyu’s panicky voice calling out your name. 

"What are you doing in here?" He squeaks as if this wasn’t your room. Well, your old room but still. It’s not like he made any changes to it yet. 

You turn to face him with the panties in your hands, silent, and his eyes grow wide as he stammers, trying to explain himself. “These are old.” 

“They’re wet.” You say plainly, which means he has just used them, and he knows it too. 

He scoffs, attempting to appear unaffected. As if this is just a completely reasonable situation that you’ve blown way out of proportion. “Well–it’s just–they were on hand.” He gives you what may possibly be the flimsiest excuse in history. 

Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

"Did you leave these out for me to see?" You question, and he rushes to deny. "No! I just forgot to put them away."

His eyes widen again at what he just said, basically admitting that he took them from you on purpose to do with them exactly what you had in mind. God, he's such a stupid loser. 

You walk towards him until you’re standing right in front of him, leaving him no room to breathe. “Make everyone leave.” 

“It’s our celebratory party, I can’t just–”

You grab his hand and put it under your skirt, pressing his fingers against your warm pussy. “And I want to give you your reward. Make them leave.” 

He looks at you, shocked, and suddenly you realize what you're asking of him. You're coming onto him after weeks of ignoring him. You're asking him to have sex with you when he has a girlfriend–when he thinks you have a boyfriend. Oh god. 

But then he gulps and says. "Okay."

You watch from behind the door as he stops the music and kicks everyone out, telling them that he doesn’t feel good and needs to rest, and when Kai complains loudly, he asks him if he’d like to stay back and hold his hair while he vomits. That quickly convinces everyone to take the party elsewhere, even his girlfriend. But one person knows better, and you see him peeking around Beomgyu to catch your hidden eyes. You share a look before he turns around and leaves the apartment. This is it. You’re going to do this. 

As soon as Beomgyu comes back, you pull him into a kiss, releasing your overflowing nerves with each frustrated and needy moan you let out against his lips. Fuck, you missed kissing him so much. His lips may not be as soft as Yeonjun’s–he may not be as good of a kisser–but god does he still make your heart sing. 

“Strip.” You order when you finally tear yourself away from him, though Beomgyu doesn’t make it easy, resisting you the first couple of times you try and pulling you right back into the hungry kiss. But you finally do, and Beomgyu doesn’t hesitate to follow your cue then. 

After he’s all stripped down, he looks at you, gaze speaking of his own need to devour you. “Will you strip too?” 

“Do you want it?” You ask, putting on an alluring voice but deep down you were just nervous about letting him see you fully for the first time. Even though your experience with Yeonjun has made you gain confidence, you’re still insecure, especially when it comes to Beomgyu. You want to impress him. You want him to think you’re the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. You want him to forget about her. You want him to only think of you. 

Naturally, that is a lot to live up too. 

Beomgyu nods enthusiastically, somehow managing to come across as adorable in this situation. “Yes, please. Take it all off.” 

He tries to reach out to do it himself but you shake your head, pushing him onto the bed. 

“No. We do this my way.” You tell him, and he nods again, keeping himself in check. 

You reach for the zipper on your dress, hesitantly letting it fall to the floor. You aren’t wearing any bra so now you are almost nude except for your panties as you stand in front of him. 

“Fuck. You’re so hot.” He takes his cock into his hand, pumping it as he leers at you. You should feel dirty having him openly masturbate to the sight of you but it makes you feel so fucking good about yourself. It’s just what you needed–for him to show you how much he wants you. “Please, take off your panties too. Wanna see your pussy.” 

Despite his lewd display–or more accurately because of it–you’re given the courage to finally fully undress yourself in front of him, overcoming years of insecurities of what he’ll think of your body and any unfavorable comparisons he might make.

“Oh fuck–” He licks his lips, squeezing his cock as he stares at your pussy. “You’re perfect.”

“You think so?” You ask demurely, trying to hide your shock. Is he really telling the truth? It feels like it but you still need confirmation after years of doubting yourself.

“God, yes. Your tits are divine. I wanna suck on them and play with them all night. Your little pussy is so pretty, I wanna be buried in it forever. Come here, please, ride me, sit on my face, anything…” 

Is this what you were worried about all these years? He looks pretty fucking happy with what he’s seeing. Why were you so scared? You’re so mad at yourself for wasting all this time with self-doubt when you could’ve had him long ago. 

“You really need that?” You throw your panties at him, feeling more confident than ever after his proclamations. “Isn't this usually enough for you?” 

“No, please, you said you’d give me a reward." He whines, distraught at the thought of you being so close but not attainable yet again. "I’ve been good.” 

“Have you?” You scoff, straddling him, pressing your pussy against his cock and his body goes limp, letting you do what you want. “You’ve been nothing but a horndog, getting your rocks off wherever you can, whether it’s backstage getting sucked off by her or stealing my panties and fisting your cock with them. You’ve been such a bad boy.” 

“I’m sorry.” He slurs, mouth hanging open. 

"Are you? You seem to be enjoying this." 

"I'm sorry." He repeats again, staring at your pussy as it moves forwards and backwards over his cock, covering it in your slick. 

"You're fucking hopeless, Beomgyu. You'd do anything to get a piece of me, huh?"

"Yes." He nods eagerly, "Can you sit on my face?"

You laugh, climbing up his body until you’re hovering over his face and digging your fingers in his hair to keep his head down so he wouldn’t make any unwanted moves before you’re ready. "Is my pussy the only thing on your empty brain?"

"Uh-huh." He says dumbly, almost going cross eyes with the way he's staring at your pussy. You fucking love it. This is what you needed–to be needed. And Beomgyu gives it all to you without you even asking for it. 

"Good boy." You tell him and he shoots you a searing look at that–at you finally calling him that again–before you sit down on his face. 

You try not to put too much weight on him, not wanting to hurt him but Beomgyu has other ideas. He grabs your ass and pulls you down on his ready mouth, tongue flicking out to give eager licks to your already wet pussy. 

"Bad–bad boy–" You hiss, pulling at his hair but he won't let go, too intent on eating you out, nuzzling his whole lower face into your pussy, his tongue and lips alternating between long messy licks and needy sucking motions, his nose brushing against your clit every now and then in his fervor. 

"Fuck, Beomgyu slow down." 

But that word isn't in Beomgyu's dictionary, not when he's wanted this for so long. His fingers dig into your ass, making sure you can’t escape as his tongue presses inside your hole, flicking around as much as he can while your pussy flutters around it.

"So good–tastes so good." He slurs, drool and your juices covering his lower face but he doesn’t even care. In fact if anything it turns him on if his hard, leaking cock that you see when you throw a glance backwards is anything to go by. 

"You fucking the air, Beommie?" You pant, not faring much better than him but needing to tease him anyway. "Need my pussy this bad?"

But Beomgyu can't be teased. Not when he's so shameless. 

"Yes. Will you sit on my cock?" 

"How bad do you need it?" You sit up, pulling away from him and cutting off strings of your combined need. 

"So bad. Feels like I might die without it." 

"You sound like a horny fuckboy, Beommie. You know I only like good boys." You chastise, and Beomgyu shoots back, "Is that why you’re dating a whore?"

You growl, sinking back on his face, this time not caring so much about your weight over him. "Don't talk about Yeonjun like that."

He turns his face to the side to nip at your thigh in protest so you just straighten his head again and sit down on him fully, not allowing him any space to move. "You know the only whore here is you. So stick your tongue out like a good whore and let me ride it or I'll leave your dirty cock all red and weeping."

He whines in fear, sticking his tongue out for you, not daring to risk it. You move yourself over him, grinding your pussy over his tongue as he stares up at you pleadingly. 

“You like it, baby? You like me using you to get off?” 

He moans out in response, not having any other way to communicate his agreement and not willing to pull away from you. But you hear a wet noise coming from behind you and you look back to see him fisting his cock, clearly excited by it all. He wants this as much as you do. He has been begging for it for so long, and so you’re not so cruel as to make him take his hand away, but you need to make sure your excitement doesn’t end too soon. 

“Fuck, you really wanted this, huh? Can’t help yourself whenever you get a taste of this pussy?” You tease, and he whines again, his cock thrusting into his own fist pitifully. “But don’t get too excited. You want to feel this pussy around you, don’t you?”

The needy noises he keeps letting out vibrate against your pussy, driving you even wilder as you pull on his hair harshly and desperately grind yourself on his tongue, your high so close you could taste it. 

“Good boy, gonna make me cum… you want it? Want me to cum all of that pretty face?” You growl, and his hands leave his cock to grab your ass, pressing you so tightly against him, you worry that he won’t be able to breathe. 

But Beomgyu clearly loves it. He wants you to do it. He moves your hips so you’re fucking his face harder, faster, all while those slutty eyes of his never leave your face. 

“I’m cumming–fuck, Beommie… good boy–” You scream, shuddering as you cum over him. But as you stop moving, paralyzed by the intense orgasm, he starts moving his tongue, lapping up every drop you let out, giving your pussy open mouthed filthy kisses as he wraps his lips around you and eagerly sticks his tongue into your hole to get even more. 

You have to pull away from him when it becomes too much, and Beomgyu chases after you, not having had his fill yet somehow. He's still so needy that he ends up pushing you down and laying over you, his lips incessant against yours as his cock lays heavy on your pussy. 

You tug on his hair, finally detaching his lips from yours. "That's enough, Beomgyu."

“I made you cum.” He says in a daze, a stupid smile on his face. 

“Yes, you did.” You wipe his bottom lip with your thumb before sticking it in his mouth, letting him suck on it. It’s useless of course. The entire bottom half of his face was glistening with your cum. Not that you were actually trying to clean him up. You liked seeing him covered in you too much. “Ready for your reward, baby?” 

“Fuck, yes, please.” He groans, his hips bucking up against you, gliding his cock against your wet pussy. "Wanna fuck you so bad. Can I put it in now?"

"Are you gonna keep being a good boy for me? Gonna listen to my instructions and not let your cock take over your dumb brain and make you hump me like a dog?"

He shakes his head even though he was literally humping you right now. "I'll listen. I'll be so good."

"Okay, Beommie. You can put it in–slowly!" 

He rushes to push his cock inside your pussy, only stopping when it's all the way inside you. "Oh god–I'm finally inside you. Wanted it for so long."

This is exactly what you had been missing. This is what you needed that Yeonjun wasn't able to give to you. Beomgyu isn't shy when expressing how much he wants you. He'll beg and plead until you give it to him. 

"Can I move, baby?" He asks, voice strained with the effort of holding back. 

You nod. "Go ahead. But slowly."

He makes a valiant effort, pulling his hips back and thrusting in slowly, shuddering every time his cock is fully enveloped by your pussy. 

“Good?" You ask as if his mouth wasn't hung open, as if his eyes weren't all hazy, as if he wasn't holding onto you for dear life.

"So good. Can't believe I'm fucking you."

Neither can you. You had really begun to lose hope but here you are, laid on your back with Beomgyu fucking you, following your instruction as best he could–the strain of it obvious on his face. It's everything you wanted and you finally have it. 

"Can I touch your tits?" He pleads, giving you his classic puppy eyes and you smile. "Go ahead, honey." 

He groans, reaching out and cupping them in his hands. "Oh god. Missed them." He leans down and attaches his lips to them, biting and kissing all over them as his hips pick up speed. 

"Beomgyu…" You warn, pulling on his hair. He fights against you, looking up but not detaching from your tits. "Don't get ahead of yourself now. You want me to feel good too, don't you?"

He nods, his face still firmly buried in your lips but finally letting go of your nipple to moan out, "Yes, wanna make you feel better than anyone else." 

His own words rile him up and he bites down on the skin next to your areola, making sure not to hurt you but still expressing his frustration. 

"You're such a bratty baby." You scold him, but in reality you love it. You love how possessive and needy he is acting. It doesn't allow a single negative or insecure thought to enter your mind. How could it when he's so obvious about his need for you? "You can go faster now, baby."

"Oh, thank you." He groans, hips picking up speed. 

"Better, honey?" You pant, brushing his wet hair out of his face so you can fully see how lost he is in the feeling of your pussy wrapped around him. 

"So much better. Never wanna stop." He leans down, kissing you harshly, lips opening and closing around yours, his tongue pressing into your mouth hungrily. His hands grab at your thighs, pushing them against your body as he goes even faster, a constant stream of whines and whimpers released into your mouth. 

You force yourself to sober up despite the smoldering fire breaking out in your body from the way he's fucking you so good. You want him to keep going. You want him to keep fucking you until your mind has turned to mush and your limbs have turned to jelly. But you can’t let him have it this easily. You can't let him get away with the amount of pain and suffering he has caused you. He needs to feel it too, even if just a fraction of it. He needs to feel the longing and despair he has made you feel for so long. 

"Slow down." You order, pulling his head away from you, doing it extra mean just the way he likes it. 

"No, no, please." He cries, not slowing down. "Please… I thought this was a reward. You’re driving me crazy." 

"Do you want me to push you down and tie your hand to the headboard to make sure you behave?" You threaten, trying to keep your voice under control against the incessant thrusts of his cock into your poor pussy. "It's only gonna be worse for you."

"No. No. Wanna keep touching you." He blabbers, hands groping at every inch of you he could reach, worried you'd make good on your threats. 

"Then be good." You suck in a sharp breath as he pulls on your nipples before kneading the soft flesh.

"I will. I'm your good boy, right?" He slurs, his hips slowing down. 

Damn, he's really addicted to hearing you say that, huh?

"Yes, you are. You’re my best boy." You coo, stroking his soft hair and he nuzzles into your hand like a puppy, seeking any form of contact with you. 

"Thank you." He groans, fingers digging into your skin as he tries to hold himself back, his poor cock screaming at him to just take you like he wants. "So pretty. Look so pretty getting fucked." 

"Yeah? Is it how you imagined it when you'd fuck my panties?" You ask but once again Beomgyu has no shame, his hips faltering at the reminder of his debauched actions. 

"Better. So pretty. So tight. Could stay in your cunt forever." He almost drools at the thought, and you really believe he'd love to do just that. 

"Dirty boy. Dirty little boy going all dumb for me." You stroke his face lovingly and he peers at you with pleading eyes. "Baby, please, hurts… can I go faster?"

"Aw, poor pup, do you need to hammer your cock into my pussy that bad?" You scold, giving his face light slaps. 

"Uh-huh… will make you feel good. I promise." He babbles, his hips already going faster as if he's sure you'll give him permission. 

"No." This may or may not be the one and only time you get to fuck him. You need to savor it. "Slow down."

Your hands go to his hips, clawing at his skin to slow down his thrusts and he relents, albeit begrudgingly. "You're so mean."

"But you love it." You laugh at his tearful pout. "God, you love it so much you can't stop shaking your hips like a whore. It's like you've never been fucked before.” 

"I haven't. You’re my first.” He admits, knocking any remaining breath out of your lungs.

This is his first time. He and Haeun never did it? What the fuck?

"Did you let him fuck you?" He asks, and you stay silent. He knows you’ve fucked Yeonjun. There is no way he thinks you live with Yeonjun and aren’t fucking him. But then again, he hasn’t fucked Haeun, and you were so sure that he did. 

"Did you?" He asks again, an edge to his voice and you nod minutely. "I didn't know. I thought you and Haeun–"

Beomgyu's whole face changes. "God, you're such a slut. Fucking two men at the same time."

You immediately get defensive. Yeonjun was your boyfriend. You had dated for months. You’re not a whore for fucking him. It would be more understandable if he’s referring to the fact (or what he thinks is a fact) of you fucking him when you have a boyfriend, but you’re almost certain that’s not what he’s upset about. He’s just jealous you’ve fucked Yeonjun at all.  "Just because she won't let you put it in, doesn't make me a slut."

That just angers him more, and he practically bends you in half as his dick pumps in and out of you at a brutal pace, his anger at what you’ve done making him lose it, not caring about your instructions anymore. "I hate you."

You laugh, fighting hard to hide the pain his statement elicits in your gut as well as to keep your voice steady as he practically plows his cock into you. God, he makes you so mad but he’s fucking you so good. 

"But you sure love my pussy." 

"My pussy." He growls, catching you off guard once again. He bends his head down to kiss your neck harshly, and can already feel the marks blooming there under his teeth. "Mine. Not his. All mine."

"What?” You sputter. Is this it? Is this how he confesses to you? “Beomgyu, what–”

"Shut up." He smacks your ass, not willing to hear your protests right now. "You've played with me long enough. Now be good and take it." 

Played with him? What the hell is he talking about? You’ve never played with him. But any attempt to get a sane answer out of him right now is useless as the sounds of skin slapping against skin fills the room and Beomgyu latches his mouth onto yours, trying to dominate you in a way he has never attempted to do before–as if he’s trying to prove that you really are his. 

And you are. He may not know it but you’ve always been his.

But his strong facade is paper-thin and you can see right through it to the insecure boy below when he pulls back to look at you. “Fuck, why did you have to be so pretty?”

“Make me cum, Beommie.” You murmur, moving a hand between your bodies to rest over your pussy, your middle and index fingers on either side of his cock as it fucks into you. “Do you feel how wet I am for you? I’m soaking the bed, baby.” 

“Fuck…” He pulls your hand away, taking a look at how wet it has become already before he grunts and pushes one of your thighs against the bed to allow space for his own hand between your bodies, quickly finding your pussy to rub your clit. 

“Oh… oh, fuck… baby…” You gasp, back arching as you’re quickly hurled towards your orgasm. “That’s it, honey. Make me cum on your big cock.” 

He groans, his hips stuttering as your pussy begins to clench around him. “Don’t talk like that. Gonna make me lose it.” 

“It riles you up when I talk dirty to you? Tell you how good you're fucking me?”

He nods. 

“Dirty boy.” You moan out for him, “Do it. Empty that cock inside me. Want my pussy dripping with you.” 

“Holy s-shit,” Beomgyu cries, and you feel his cum shooting inside of you, his hips not stopping for a second. And though his thrusts become erratic, his thumb keeps up its assault on your clit until your pussy is clamping down on his cock and milking the last drops of cum from him. “Good girl. My good girl.” 

He fucks you through your orgasm, babbling on about how pretty you are and how well you took it. He looks so fucking pathetic with his shiny eyes and needy whimpers that before you even know it, he’s ripping another orgasm out of your already fucked out body. 

“Goddammit, Beomgyu…” You squeal, toes curling at the very intense second orgasm, your body shuddering with the unexpected sharp waves of pleasure racking through it. And through it all, Beomgyu continues fucking you. You can feel his cock begin to harden once again inside you, and as the brutal second orgasm leaves your body, you wince at the overstimulation, putting your hands against his sweaty chest and starting to push him away.  

“That’s enough, Beomgyu. I can’t take any more.” 

But he resists you, shaking his head. “One more. Please, one more.” 

“No.” You tell him firmly, “Don’t be bad. Pull out.” 

He searches your face for any hint of leniency, his big pretty eyes trying to convince you to change your mind but you can’t. He’s fucked you so hard, your poor pussy requires a much needed rest. 

You both watch as he slowly pulls out, his once again hard cock glistening with your cum and his, his seed dripping down your ass now that he wasn’t plugging your pussy up. 

“Oh, baby, does that hurt?” You coo, grabbing his cock. He lets out a sigh of relief as you begin stroking it. “Yeah. So bad.” 

The little shit is milking this, but you play along. “Poor baby. Let me make it go away.” You grin, suddenly speeding up, the slide of your hand so easy when his cock is well-lubricated. You make sure to maintain your position, with him hovering over your splayed open body so he can rake his eyes over it, and you clearly seeing him struggling to choose where to look between your tits that jiggle as you jerk him off quickly, the cum leaking out of your puffy pussy, and your swollen lips as you swipe your tongue over them. 

It doesn’t take long for you to have him spilling his seed again, landing on your tummy as he doubles over and buries his head in your neck. 

“That’s it, good boy.” You praise him, using your free hand to stroke his long hair that you love so much. 

You let him lay there for a whole, catching his breath that is so irregular and stuttered that you almost don’t notice when he starts crying if it wasn’t for the hot tears falling on your skin. 

“Beomgyu?” You call out, and a heart-breaking sob breaks out of his chest. 

"Please, come back to me." He croaks against your neck. 

"What?" You sit up, making him sit up with you and pulling his face away from your shoulder so you can look at him, your heart sinking at the tears streaming down his face. "I can't fucking bear seeing you with him any longer. It hurts so much."

Oh fuck. 

"Beomgyu… Yeonjun isn't–" You try to explain that you and Yeonjun had broken up but he cuts you off. 

"It's not him, it's you!" He shouts, "I love you and I can't bear it any longer. And I know it's selfish and that you don't love me back, at least not in that way, but then you keep messing with me."

He loves you? He really loves you?

"But I thought you loved Haeun?" You need to know what exactly is happening with him and Haeun first. 

"I thought I did too but whenever I'm with her, I find myself thinking of you. You’re always in my head, it ruins every moment I have with her. She hates you too, you know? She can't stand how much I love you. The reason we haven't fucked is not because she won't put out. It's because I only want you. I didn't want to lose it to anyone else but you."

"Beomgyu–"

"But you don’t fucking care. You just see me as your disgusting best friend who you can play with and push away when you're done with him and I can't even bring myself to hate you for it. That's how much I love you. So just please… please give me a break."

“You think I was playing with you?” The idea seems absurd to you. How can he possibly think that? You've done everything in your power to not show how much you love him but never in your wildest dreams would you think that would mean he would see it as you playing with him. 

“Weren’t you? I mean the way you spoke to me… you always pushed me away. I had to beg each time for you to even kiss me.” He peers at you, pain and vulnerability shining in his eyes as he recalls the way you treated him. 

Fuck, you've been so obsessed with not letting your love for him show that you've done the same thing to him you thought he was doing to you. Knowing that pain all too well, you can’t bear the thought of being the cause of it.

You grab his face in your hands and kiss him, intending to pour out your own feelings the same way he did, hoping to staunch the flood of heartbreak you’re witnessing and calm him down enough for him to realize you feel the same way. 

But his reaction wasn't what you expected. He breaks down crying. "You're so cruel."

"No, no! I love you too!" Your hands are in a flurry around his face, wiping his tears, stroking his hair, caressing his cheeks, anything to calm him down.

"What? This is not funny." He sobs, looking like a wounded animal. Your heart aches at the sight. 

"No, fuck, I've loved you for years! The whole friends with benefits thing I started was just an excuse to have a way to be with you."

He stares at you in utter shock, the confusion the only thing stopping his tears from drowning you. "But you never even hinted that you liked me. You called me all kinds of names, freak, disgusting, pervert…"

"I thought you liked these..." You trail off sheepishly. 

"I did but it still makes a guy think.” He mumbles, his fingers playing with yours nervously. “You wouldn’t let me touch you or kiss you." 

"I was afraid if I let you kiss me, I wouldn't want you to stop. And I didn’t want you to touch me because I was afraid you wouldn’t like what you saw." It sounds so silly now that you're saying it out loud–now that you know he loves you and has wanted you just as badly.  

"That's stupid. I had already seen it all." He tells you casually and you frown. "When?"

"You don't always shut the door when you're changing." He shrugs. 

"Pervert!" You gasp, hitting him with no real power behind it. "What about you? You never hinted at anything either.  You only ever talked about my body."

"Well, it did start just physical but I quickly realized that I'm in love with you. Then I kept only mentioning your body because you'd freak out on me whenever I hinted at anything else."

"Fair." You pout, realizing you’ve done as much to hurt yourself as he did. 

"I didn't want to let it show that I loved you because I was so afraid you'd pull away like you did a couple of times. And then you were with Yeonjun and it fucking killed me so I had to pretend it was just sexual."

"Oh god, that's exactly what I've been doing.” You cover your face with your hands, mortified at your stupidity. We're fucking dumbasses."

“Yes, we are.” He replies fondly, taking your hands away from your face so you can look at him, refusing to let you hide anymore. "So you'll break up with him and be with me?"

"We broke up a while back.” You admit sheepishly. “He said he can't be with me when you and I are clearly in love with each other."

“So let me get this straight, Yeonjun could tell we love each other but somehow we, the two people involved, didn’t have a clue?” He raises an eyebrow at you and you nod. “I think it’s safe to say we won’t be winning any genius awards anytime soon.” 

“We could win the biggest dumbasses award though.” He cracks a smile, pulling you close to him and resting his forehead against yours. 

“No one could even compete.” You grin, kissing him. He immediately deepens the kiss, frantic and hungry still. 

“Whoa, whoa, slow down, Beommie. We have all the time in the world.” You tease as if you weren’t just as needy, making him whine. “I can’t help it. You made me yearn for so long.”

“Yearn? Oh, that’s bad. I made you use the word yearn.” 

He yanks your legs up, sending the rest of your body flying backwards and hitting the mattress, your loud giggles quickly covered by his mouth as he kisses you harshly, his teeth biting down on your lips in annoyance when you still don’t stop laughing. 

“Stop it.” He whines in defeat as he pulls back, and you try to keep your giggles under control, his pout is entirely too devastating to look at. 

"Are you gonna break up with her?" You ask and he doesn't hesitate to say, "Of course."

That makes you smile, happy with how easily he chose you, but then a thought pops into your mind and you frown. "You know, I hated her but I still feel kinda bad for fucking you behind her back." You really do. You've never condoned cheating, even if it was on someone as vile as Haeun. 

"Oh you mean the same way she fucked the whole football team?" He counters and you gape at him, "God damn. Why did you even stay with her for that long?"

He shrugs. "Needed a distraction. And to not come across as a loser in front of you. I mean you were with Yeonjun. I couldn't just be alone."

"Oh, honey…" You coo, but anything you planned to say is suddenly forgotten as you feel his cock pressing against your entrance. 

"Beommie!" You squeak. “What are you doing?” 

"You thought we were done? You spread your legs for my bandmate. I'm gonna have to look at him every day knowing he had you first. I gotta make sure you and everyone else knows who exactly you belong to."

It may not be the most healthy coping mechanism, but you’ll let him have it for now. You’re sure you wouldn't be very happy if you were in his position either. Besides, getting to fuck Beomgyu isn’t exactly what you would consider a punishment. 

_________

A/N: Click here for the Yeonjun ending on Patreon.

Also for my patreons, you could suggest a scene from gyu's pov and I'll choose one. There will also most likely be some drabbles about oc and gyu's life after the ending (mostly smut featuring our favorite desperate boy lol) and some will be released on tumblr and others will be exclusive to patreon.

Patreons may also suggest a continuation of a previous fic/drabble. I will do my best to release at least something monthly on there.

Taglist: @blxxsss@sanasour@tinkw1nks@lol6sposts@zuzuhasablog@beomsl@seolis-world@stantxtorurmissingout@wonwooz1@yaorzu-blog@allylikesdabee@rkivezzs@malieno@leviathanlee26@yomomas-stuff@kurisaiyunobara@girlwholovekpop@zuzuhasablog@viaaasdiary@ho3forkpop@skzvcr@th3-3d3n-g4rd3n @izzyexe @boomfrogg @kpop-cakepops-recs @chronicallygyu @girlwholovekpop

[eatmeandbirthmeagain]

WAIT LET ME REQUEST‼️‼️ how about the reader which ls us , we are like months pregnant about 6-9 and everything ls going wonderful but unfortunately Baldwin lsnt fully healed since they are close to finding a cure so what lf guy got lnto a argument with Baldwin but to get Baldwin back , guy pushes us down the stairs when we are that many months pregnant and something goes wrong??❤️

♧ The Fool's Undoing - King Baldwin x Reader ♧

♧ Angst ♧

A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you for this request Anon, sorry it's taken so long to get too 😔. I hope it's what you had in mind! This one is very angsty guys so I'm sorry in advance about that 😭. As always, this is based on the movie Kingdom Of Heaven, not the real historical figures. Enjoy!

P.S. I had a freaking STROKE because I forgot the word "physician" while writing this and spent a good 20 minnutes trying to figure out what it was😭😭😭. Big thank you to @minminambus for helping me through the stroke and finding the word 😭🫶.

TW: Mentions of violence, Mentions of m*scarriage, Leprosy

It had been a beautiful first few months. The maids worked tirelessly, adding the final finishing touches to the nursery adjoining the royal chambers. 

It was a rather windy afternoon when it happened.

Y/n lay comfortable in the bed she shared with her husband, reading a book as she rubbed the swell of her stomach. Her pregnancy had been practically perfect with no complications and the young couple were expecting their first born (and heir to the throne) very soon.

Baldwin lay dozing beside her, worn out from a particularly stressful meeting earlier that day. He had been writing letters before y/n beckoned him to her side and insisted he lay with her. The poor man was too tired to refuse and after her delicate fingers worked through his sandy blonde curls for a few minutes, he was fast asleep.

The queen smiled down at him. Things really could not be more perfect at that very moment.

A sharp knock at the door disturbed the peace all too soon. Y/n called out for them to enter and was displeased with the news that Lord Guy requested to see the king.

After a few gentle nudges, Baldwin came awake slowly, drowsy and confused.

“Wha- what's going on? Are you okay?” he asked, a slight panic in his tone as he propped himself up on his elbows.

Y/n chuckled lightly.

“Yes my love, I am just fine. Guy wants to see you apparently”.

Baldwin sighed and flopped back onto the pillows, dragging his bandaged hands down his face in annoyance.

“And what does that harlott want from me now exactly?” he asked, his voice dripping with malice at the very mention of the man.

The queen grinned, her husband only spoke cruelly when he was tired. It was always interesting to hear the well mannered and measured king speak ill of another.

“I'm not sure, but you best go find out before he gets angry and questions your competence again” y/n replied.

Baldwin sighed heavily, sitting up as his wife placed a gentle hand on his back to assist him.

“Very well, only because I don’t need him causing another fuss” he reached for the silver mask that sat on the nightstand and slipped it onto his face, pulling his hood up and standing.

“I'll see you in however long this takes”. Baldwin pressed the iron lips of the mask against his wife's forehead softly.

“And i'll see you again then too” he said again, pressing the lips of the mask to the swollen stomach of his wife.

Y/n smiled as her husband disappeared out the door.

--------------------------------------------

Baldwin walked down the halls of the castle, in no real hurry to face Guy and deal with whatever made up problem he had fabricated in an attempt to make the king seem incompetent.

Baldwin knocked on the door of Guy’s chambers and entered upon hearing approval.

Guy stood to bow, a small jerking motion that showed no real respect and was only done out of mere necessity.

“My lord, I was hoping to speak with you,” he said, smirking.

Baldwin scowled under the mask.

“Please make this quick, I have other duties to attend to,” he said, taking a seat at the table, opposite Guy.

“It's a small matter it really shouldn't take too long at all- I was just thinking about where I will sit if your.. Child.. Is born as a boy? Because I understand as it is now, that I am the only heir but if your child is a boy then I will be.. Removed from the role when you.. You know..” he chuckled nervously and smiled sarcastically.

That damn smirk only made Baldwin's blood boil further.

Perhaps if the young king was in a better state of mind and more well rested he would have reacted differently. But unfortunately he wasn't.

Baldwin took a deep breath before speaking.

“So let me get this straight, you called me in here to tell me about how you're concerned that you won’t be king when I die. You called me in here with you, to talk about how you're worried you wont have your time to shine when I’m dead. How dare you remind me of such things! I am going to be a father Guy, something you wouldn't know about since my sister won't even touch you and give you an heir of your own. Not like you will need anyone to rule after you anyway because as I stand here today, I tell you that no matter the gender of my baby that they will rule. Man or woman. Just to ensure that you will never get the chance to call yourself king of this land”

Baldwin stood and left the room swiftly, not giving Guy a chance to even open his mouth. 

-------------------------------------------------

Later that evening, dinner was called. As the young king usually took his meals alone, the queen was expected to attend the royal dinners as the figurehead.

Much to Baldwin's disdain because it meant that the two would have to part ways for an hour or so. They said their goodbyes and y/n slipped out of the chamber doors.

She was surprised to not find a maid outside their room as there was usually one there to assist her down the stairs and to the dining room, as her heavy pregnancy made it difficult to walk down the steep, stone staircase.

Y/n looked around for a moment, and then began down the stairs.

She was focused and methodical with her steps.

Perhaps too focused.

So focused that she didn't notice Guy approaching her from behind, only taking notice when two firm hands were pressed into her back.

The young queen was sent forward, losing her balance on the hard stone staircase and plummeting down to the bottom.

And then everything went black.

---------------------------------------------------

The first thing y/n noticed when she came too was the pain. Pain everywhere, a dull ache that spread deep in her bones.

The second thing she noticed were the panicked voices from every direction. One of which she recognised almost instantly.

“I DON'T CARE ABOUT WHAT MY DAMNED, SISTER SAYS, HE IS TO BE KILLED IMMEDIATELY. SENTENCE HIM TO DEATH” 

“Right away my lord"

The queen's eyes fluttered open at the sound of her husband's voice.

“B-Baldwin?”

The king practically ran to her side, crouching down beside the bed.

“I'm here my love, I'm right here” he took her hand in his and kissed it with the silver lips of his mask.

She smiled weakly at his presence.

“What happened?” she asked as physicians bustled around the room.

“Guy defiled you with an act of violence most cruel but I can assure you he has been put to death for his crime and will never get a chance to harm you again”.

Hot tears brimmed in the young queen's eyes as she remembered the staircase.

“And.. and the baby? Is the baby okay?” she asked, a sudden rush of panic flooding her.

Baldwin took a deep breath before answering.

“We don't know right now. But while you were unconscious the baby was felt kicking by several physicians, so that is a good sign” he said, a spark of hope in his melancholy voice.

Y/n breathed a sigh of relief at that. 

---------------------------------------------------

Later that night, when the physicians and maids had deemed the queen as stable and healthy aside from a few bruises and scratches (no broken bones, thankfully), the king and queen lay together in their bed.

The moonlight basked the room in a comforting pale glow and y/n was just about to fall into a light sleep when she heard a small sob from behind her.

It was quiet and if there was any other sound in the room she would have missed it.

“Baldwin?” she said gently into the darkness.

“Y-yes?” came the reply.

“What's wrong my darling?” she said, turning over to face him.

Her voice was so soothing, so kind, he could never hide his emotions from her.

“It's all my fault” he sobbed, burying himself into her warmth.

“What's your fault sweetheart?” y/n asked, wrapping her arms around her husband, sliding her hand into his soft hair.

“It's my fault that Guy did what he did! It's all my fault. I was such a child, I provoked him. He would never have hurt you and our baby if I didn't yell at him, I was immature, I'm so sorry” he cried, tears soaking into the bandages that covered his cheeks.

“Oh my darling man, it's not your fault. It's his own fault, you know that Guy is- was a savage man. He would have done it no matter what you said to him, the only reason he did it was because he wanted to be the only heir and eliminate any possible competition. His savagery is not your fault my love” she said, pressing a kiss to his head.

“Oh y/n, what did I do to deserve someone like you?” Baldwin replied, wiping his tears on the blanket that covered them both and burying himself further into her body.

Y/n chuckled lightly, pulling him closer.

“I could ask you the same question you know”

[mymoonisgrey]

you, my love, are All I Need.

synopsis: After the tragedy of the Star Plasma Vessel incident, Satoru Gojo loses more than just his closest friend, Suguru Geto—he loses the one person who made the chaos of his world feel bearable. She was his light, his tether to something more human, and just when he dared to imagine a future with her, fate cruelly severed their bond. With her sudden disappearance in his third year at Jujutsu High, Satoru is left reeling, torn between his duties as the strongest sorcerer and the ache of searching for someone he may never find.

pairings: gojo sator x reader. (og jujutsu au.)

chapter warnings: 18+, blood, mentions of war atmospheres, profanities, sensitive content, masturbation.

wc : 8k+

all i need's playlist!

series masterlist.

a/n: coming in hot with chapter 2, reader, whats your sit rep?

previously.

The higher-ups never made anything easy. Especially not for you. The moment you stepped foot into Jujutsu High, it was as if they’d already decided what you were—not who. A tool. A pawn. A goddamn liability, no matter how brightly your cursed energy burned or how effortlessly you lit up a room. To them, you were a problem—dangerous, volatile, a storm they couldn’t control. And all because of him. 

Satoru Gojo. The Gojo clan’s untouchable prodigy. The strongest. The brightest. Theirs. You weren’t supposed to exist in his orbit, not with the way he looked at you like you were more than just someone—like you were everything. They hated that. Despised it. Because gods weren’t meant to kneel, not even to love. 

“You’re wasting his potential,” they’d said, their voices sharp and cold like a blade pressed to your throat. They made it sound clinical, like they weren’t tearing your life apart for their own convenience. They didn’t ask. They didn’t care. They handed you a choice that wasn’t a choice at all: submission or sacrifice. 

“Marry into a clan,” they offered with saccharine smiles, as if being sold off like livestock was a privilege you should thank them for. “Or,” they continued, their eyes glinting with something cruel, “serve the Jujutsu Society in a way that matters.” 

You’d stared at them, the words sinking in slowly, like venom spreading through your veins. “Serve,” you’d echoed, your voice flat. “You mean die.” 

“Die well,” one of them corrected, and the room erupted in polite laughter. 

It wasn’t funny. None of it was. But what could you do? They’d already made their decision. 

They sent you to the front lines, stripped of your name, your identity, your life. No more Jujutsu High. No more long afternoons spent laughing at Satoru’s bad jokes or stealing quiet moments in between missions. No more him. They took that from you. They took everything. 

You were no longer a sorcerer—not in their eyes. Just a weapon, something to point and shoot. They outfitted you like a soldier, stuffing your hands with guns and knives, with grenades and curses bottled into ammunition. “Barbaric,” you’d muttered the first time they handed you a Glock, but no one laughed. 

“You’ll fit right in,” they’d said, tossing you a uniform that smelled of sweat and iron. “Don’t fuck it up.” 

And then there was Naoya Zenin. Smug, slimy, a roach that somehow always skittered just out of reach. He’d smirked at you the first time he saw you in your combat gear, leaning close like he had the right to invade your space. “Not bad,” he’d said, his voice dripping with condescension. “For a woman.” 

But he wasn’t the worst. That honor belonged to Sato Fuhimito, the sergeant who made it his personal mission to remind you just how replaceable you were. He’d towered over you, all cold eyes and harsher words, laying out your options with the precision of a scalpel. 

“Marry,” he’d said, his tone devoid of emotion, “or fight.” 

You’d laughed in his face, sharp and bitter, a sound ripped straight from your breaking heart. “And here I thought I’d get a third option,” you’d said, dragging a hand down your face. “Like running. Or maybe murder.” 

He hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t needed to. They had already won. 

The missions came fast and brutal, one after another. They dropped you into cursed zones without warning, without backup. Your cursed energy tore through everything in its path, but it was never enough. There were always more enemies, always more blood. You stopped counting the bodies after the first week. Stopped feeling anything after the second. 

“You’re good at this,” Fuhimito had said once, watching you wipe blood off your face with trembling hands. “Almost makes me forget you’re expendable.” 

You’d smiled at him, your teeth bared like a wolf. “Don’t worry,” you’d said, your voice like steel. “I’ll remind you.” 

But the worst part wasn’t the missions. It wasn’t the danger or the exhaustion or the bone-deep ache that never quite left you. It was the silence. The way Satoru’s name felt foreign in your mouth after weeks of not saying it. The way his face blurred in your memory, the sharp edges of his smile softening until you couldn’t quite remember what he looked like when he laughed. 

You’d thought he would save you. He’d been so sure, so damn certain that no one could touch you. “They wouldn’t fucking dare,” he’d said, his voice ringing with unshakable confidence. And you’d believed him. You’d let yourself believe, just for a moment, that he was right. 

But they did dare. And when they came for you, you couldn’t even look at him. Couldn’t bear to see the way his face twisted, the way his hands clenched at his sides as if he could hold the world together through sheer will alone. You’d wanted to speak, to scream, to tell him that it wasn’t his fault. But the words stuck in your throat, heavy and bitter and unspoken. 

You’d watched him fall apart in silence, his eyes blazing with a fury that could’ve leveled cities. And then they took you, and he couldn’t stop them. For all his strength, for all his power, he couldn’t stop them. 

And now? Now you’re just trying to survive. Day by day, curse by curse. The ache in your chest never fades, a constant reminder of what you’ve lost. Of what they’ve taken. And somewhere, in the quiet moments between battles, you wonder if he’s still out there, wondering the same about you. 

The ocean stretched out before you, an endless expanse of blue and gold as the sun dipped lower into the horizon. The soft glow of the setting sun painted the sky in hues of amber and rose, its light shimmering over the water like a thousand tiny stars. The sand beneath your bare feet was warm, gritty, grounding—a small comfort in the chaos of your life. 

The sundress you wore fluttered in the breeze, its hem brushing against your legs like a whisper. It was simple, white with tiny embroidered flowers, a gift from Satoru during one of your escapades in downtown Tokyo. He’d grinned like an idiot when he bought it, holding it up to you with a dramatic flourish. “My allowance just came in, and my wifey deserves the best,” he’d said, his voice full of that cocky charm that always made your heart skip. You could still hear him, see the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when you’d called him insufferable and then kissed him anyway. 

That memory hurt now, a dull ache that settled in your chest as you stood on the beach, staring at the waves. You’d come here to escape, to breathe, to remind yourself that there was still beauty in the world despite everything. Despite the day they’d given you that impossible choice. Despite the way your voice had failed you, the words stuck in your throat as they laid out your fate with clinical precision. 

“Marry or fight,” they’d said, their expressions cold, detached. And you? You’d said nothing. Couldn’t say anything. You’d just stood there, swallowing back the fear, the anger, the overwhelming urge to scream. And now, here you were, on a beach halfway to nowhere, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of your life———-

“Hey, you alright?” 

The voice pulled you from your thoughts, gruff yet kind, with a trace of an accent that always made you think of old westerns and wide-open plains. You turned to see Vincent Shepherd, his tall frame silhouetted against the sunset. The captain’s ever-present gun hung at his side, his hand resting on it like he was ready for anything—or maybe just always expecting the worst. 

You laughed, the sound more genuine than you’d expected. “Do you ever put that thing down?” you asked, nodding toward the gun. 

Vincent raised an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face. “What, this?” he said, patting the weapon. “Darlin’, this here’s my best friend. Never lets me down, never talks back. Can’t say the same for some people.” 

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth lifted. “Pretty sure it doesn’t have much to say in general.” 

“Exactly,” he said, his tone mock-serious. “Quiet and dependable. Unlike a certain someone who keeps sneakin’ off to the beach without backup.” 

“Backup?” you echoed, arching an eyebrow. “I’m not exactly storming a cursed battlefield here, Shepherd.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re out here, and that’s enough for me to worry. You know the drill—eyes open, head on a swivel, gun ready.” 

You laughed again, shaking your head. “I think you’re just paranoid.” 

“Paranoid’s kept me alive this long,” he shot back, though his tone was light. But then his gaze softened, his eyes catching yours in the fading light. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s really goin’ on?” 

Your smile faltered, the weight of his question settling over you like a heavy blanket. Vincent was sharp, perceptive in a way that sometimes made you uncomfortable. He could see through the walls you built, past the jokes and the casual bravado, straight to the parts of you that hurt the most. 

“It’s nothing,” you said quietly, turning your gaze back to the waves. 

“Bullshit,” he said, but there was no heat in his voice. Just concern. “Come on, kid. Spill it. What’s eatin’ at you?” 

You hesitated, the words sticking in your throat. The sunset painted the world in gold and crimson, but it couldn’t mask the ache inside you. Finally, you sighed, crossing your arms as if that could shield you from the vulnerability creeping in. 

“It’s just… everything,” you admitted. “The missions, the… choices. Being here, fighting for a place that doesn’t even belong to me.” 

Vincent was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he stepped closer, his voice low and steady. “Listen to me, kid. You’re not just fightin’ for a place. You’re fightin’ for people. For the ones who can’t fight for themselves. And yeah, it’s dirty, it’s messy, it’s thankless as hell. But it matters.” 

You blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in his tone. “Vincent…” 

“And you matter,” he continued, cutting you off. “Don’t you dare forget that. I don’t care what those assholes up top say. You’re here, you’re fightin’, and that means somethin’ to me. To all of us.” 

For a moment, you couldn’t speak. The lump in your throat was back, but this time it wasn’t fear or anger. It was something softer, something that felt a little like hope. You glanced at him, the rough lines of his face softened by the fading light, and managed a small smile. 

“Thanks, Shepherd,” you said quietly. 

He snorted, the moment of seriousness breaking as he ruffled your hair with a gloved hand. “Don’t thank me yet. You’re still on dish duty tonight.” 

You groaned, but the laugh that followed was genuine. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, you felt the ache in your chest ease just a little, the weight of the day a fraction lighter. 

For now, that was enough. 

The night stretched endlessly as you and Shepherd walked side by side, the only sounds the crunch of sand beneath his boots and the distant, rhythmic crash of the waves. The moon hung low, casting a pale silver light that painted the world in soft shadows. The hem of your sundress still swayed in the cool breeze, brushing against your legs like a ghostly touch—one that reminded you too much of a hand you hadn’t felt since late 2007. 

Gojo Satoru’s hand. 

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as if the motion could physically expel the thought of him. It didn’t. His memory lingered, clawing at the edges of your mind, leaving behind a sting that burned hotter with every step. 

“Y’know, kid,” Shepherd’s voice broke the silence, low and gravelly. “I’ve been thinkin’. What’s the point of all this? The dirty work? Feels like we’re breakin’ our backs for scraps while the special grades sit nice and comfy, watchin’ the rest of us bleed.” 

His words hit harder than you expected. Your pace slowed as his question echoed in your mind, mingling with memories you had spent so long trying to suppress. 

“I mean, hell,” Shepherd continued, oblivious to your inner turmoil. “We’re out here fightin’ curses, takin’ down rogue sorcerers, cleanin’ up their messes while they could snap their fingers and end it all. Don’t that ever piss you off?” 

It did. God, it did. But the heat in your chest wasn’t anger—it was shame. You felt it claw its way up your throat, twisting into something bitter and heavy. 

“They’re too important to risk their lives,” you said, your voice hollow. 

Shepherd let out a dry laugh, one with no humor behind it. “Bullshit. They’re sittin’ back, keepin’ their hands clean while we drown in blood.” He glanced at you, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve got someone in mind, don’t ya? A name and a face.” 

The air felt thinner all of a sudden, your lungs struggling to draw in a full breath. You swallowed hard, your feet slowing to a stop. 

“I had a classmate,” you said quietly, your gaze fixed on the distant waves. “Someone… powerful. The strongest.” 

The words felt like shards of glass on your tongue, sharp and cutting, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. You could see him in your mind—Satoru standing tall, his white hair catching the light, that cocky grin plastered across his face like he owned the world. And he did, didn’t he? 

Satoru Gojo, the prodigy, the untouchable. The boy who made you laugh so hard your sides ached, who looked at you like you were the only person in a crowd of thousands. The man who promised you—promised—that no one would ever hurt you. 

And yet, here you were. Hurt. Broken. Abandoned. Were you even abandoned? Was it your fault? 

“If I had told him of everything,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “He could’ve stopped all of this before it even started.” 

Shepherd stopped walking, turning to face you fully. His expression was unreadable, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to piece together a puzzle. 

“Then why didn’t you?” he asked, his tone careful. 

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. How could you explain that? That the choice to leave had been taken from you before you could even tell him goodbye? That the memory of his voice calling your name was the only thing keeping you sane some days, and the thing that haunted you on others? 

“I don’t know,” you lied, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Shepherd frowned, but he didn’t press. “Doesn’t make sense,” he muttered, shaking his head. “A kid like you? You should be up there with the rest of ‘em. Hell, maybe even leadin’ ‘em. What the hell are you doin’ out here, fightin’ my battles?” 

The question hung in the air, the weight of it pressing down on you like a lead blanket. You looked down at your feet, the sand shifting beneath your toes. 

“I don’t know,” you said again, the words tasting bitter. 

Shepherd sighed, running a hand over his face. “Maybe it’s not supposed to make sense,” he said after a moment. “Or maybe the systems just as fucked as we think it is.” 

His words pulled a small, humorless laugh from you. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Maybe.” 

He looked at you then, his eyes softer, less guarded. “Y’know, kid,” he started, his voice quieter now. “You remind me of my daughter. Same stubborn streak. Same look in your eyes like you’re carryin’ the whole damn world on your back.” 

You glanced up at him, startled. “I didn’t know you had a daughter,” you said. 

“Had,” he corrected, his tone rough. “She and her mom��� they’re gone. Lost ‘em to a curse user while I was fightin’ overseas. Thought I was doin’ the right thing, protectin’ ‘em by stayin’ away. Turns out, I was dead wrong.” 

The rawness in his voice made your chest tighten, but before you could speak, he shook his head. “I ain’t gonna make that mistake again,” he said firmly. “Not with you.” 

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?” 

“I’m gonna protect you,” he said simply, his gaze steady. “Even if it kills me.” 

The lump in your throat returned, but this time it wasn’t just guilt. It was something heavier, something softer. Shepherd had no idea who you really were, what you had with Satoru, or the reasons you’d been torn from him. But his words, his promise—they eased the ache in your chest just a little. 

“Thanks, Shepherd,” you said quietly. 

He ruffled your hair with a rough laugh. “Don’t thank me yet, kid. You’re still on cleanup duty tonight.” 

The smile that tugged at your lips felt foreign but not unwelcome. As the two of you continued walking, the camp lights flickering faintly in the distance, Shepherd spoke again. 

“Did you—i mean back when you were at Jtech, hear of a village fire caused by those fuckers?” he said, his tone almost casual. “The one that took out my family. Does it ring a bell for you?” 

You frowned, the question prickling at something deep in your memory. A flicker of flames, a scent of smoke, screams that you couldn’t place. 

“I don’t know,” you said slowly, your voice uncertain. 

“Well,” Shepherd said, his tone hardening. “If it ever does, you let me know.” 

You nodded, your mind spinning. And as the two of you disappeared into the camp, you couldn’t shake the feeling that your past was creeping closer, its shadow stretching long and dark behind you. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The faint hum of a jukebox played a nostalgic melody in the corner diner, its fluorescent lights casting a warm, cozy glow. Satoru Gojo sat slouched in the booth, his sunglasses pushed up to rest on his head. Across from him, Shoko Ieiri twirled a straw lazily in her iced coffee, her usual nonchalance firmly in place. The diner wasn’t particularly crowded—just a couple of patrons scattered about—but its charm had always drawn them in whenever they found themselves downtown. 

In front of Satoru sat a generous slice of matcha cheesecake, the kind he usually devoured in record time. Tonight, however, the plate remained untouched. 

“Excuse me,” a soft, nervous voice interrupted their conversation—or lack thereof. 

Both of them looked up, and there she stood: a girl, maybe a college student, with flushed cheeks and a shy smile. She clutched her phone like it was her lifeline. 

“Um, hi,” she stammered, her gaze fixed on Satoru. “I was wondering… could I get your number?” 

Shoko raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching in amusement, but Satoru barely blinked. 

“Sorry, can’t do that,” he said, leaning back and adjusting his sunglasses. “I’ve got a girlfriend.” 

The girl’s face fell slightly, but she didn’t back down. “Oh… where is she, then?” 

Before Satoru could respond, Shoko leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “She’s right here,” she said smoothly, gesturing toward herself. “Thanks for asking.” 

The girl blinked, her confusion evident, but she quickly mumbled an apology and scurried off, leaving Satoru and Shoko alone again. 

“You’re welcome,” Shoko said with a smirk, taking a sip of her coffee. 

“Very convincing performance, Shoko. I’ll nominate you for an award,” Satoru quipped, though his tone lacked its usual bite. 

“Please, as if anyone would believe I’m your type,” she shot back, waving her hand dismissively. Her gaze flickered to his plate, her brow furrowing. “Speaking of unbelievable—are you seriously not going to touch that? Matcha cheesecake, Gojo. Your favorite. And look at the size of it. Practically made for you.” 

Satoru didn’t respond immediately. He stared at the cheesecake, his fingers tapping against the table in a steady rhythm. Finally, he let out a sigh, pushing his sunglasses back down over his eyes. 

“What’s on your mind?” Shoko asked, her voice softer now. 

He hesitated, leaning back in the booth and crossing his arms. “Just… stuff.” 

“Uh-huh.” Shoko tilted her head, giving him a look that clearly said she wasn’t buying it. “Come on, you can’t just ‘stuff’ me. Spill.” 

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, almost reluctantly, he muttered, “I still think of her as my girlfriend.” 

Shoko froze, her straw stilling mid-stir. She knew who he meant—of course, she did. She sighed, resting her arms on the table as she studied him. “You’re not eating sugar because you’re moping over her? That’s serious, Gojo.” 

“Who said I’m moping?” he retorted, his tone defensive. 

“You did. With your face.” She motioned toward him, unimpressed. “And the cheesecake. That’s screaming ‘mope.’” 

He gave a half-hearted chuckle, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I just… I don’t get it, y’know? One day she’s there, and then she’s gone. And no one tells me anything. It’s like she just vanished.” 

Shoko fell silent, her brow furrowing in thought. Her mind turned over the puzzle, piecing together fragments of conversations and whispers she’d overheard during her time as Jujutsu High’s unofficial medic. 

“I might be able to help,” she said suddenly, her tone careful. 

Satoru’s head snapped up, his attention now fully on her. “What do you mean?” 

She hesitated, glancing around the diner before leaning in slightly. “I’ve got access to… certain files. As the school’s only undergrad medic, they trust me with medical records and reports. Including stuff on the Taskforce.” 

His brows shot up. “Taskforce? What taskforce?” 

Shoko sighed, fiddling with the corner of her napkin. “The Jujutsu Society has a special division—kind of like a… clean-up crew. They handle stuff no one else wants to touch. High-risk missions, curses in remote areas, cursed weaponry development. It’s brutal work, and it’s not exactly voluntary.” 

Satoru stared at her like she’d slapped him. “You’re telling me they’ve got a whole group of people risking their necks every day, and they didn’t think to tell me? I’m the strongest—I could end those missions in seconds!” 

“They don’t want you doing that,” Shoko said calmly. “The higher-ups protect the strongest for the big stuff. Wars. Catastrophic curses. Things that only someone like you could handle. They’re not going to waste you on things they think the Taskforce can handle.” 

“Waste me?” he repeated, his voice rising. “I’m not a tool they get to save for a rainy day!” 

Shoko raised a hand, trying to placate him. “I get it, okay? But it’s not just you. I’m in the same boat. They keep me out of the field because I’m the only one who can use reverse cursed technique on other people. They’re not about to risk losing their only medic.” 

He let out a humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “That’s different, Shoko. You’re saving lives. They’re just throwing people at problems and hoping for the best.” 

Shoko shrugged, her expression unreadable. “I didn’t say it was fair. Just how it is.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, the din of the diner filling the space between them. Finally, Satoru leaned back, his jaw tight. “You said you could look into it,” he said. “About her. Do you think she’s… there? In the Taskforce?” 

Shoko met his gaze, her eyes steady. “I’ll see what I can find.” 

For the first time that night, Satoru’s expression softened, though the pain in his eyes remained. “Thanks, Shoko.” 

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, smirking. “This could get me into serious trouble, you know.” 

“Trouble’s your middle name,” he shot back, his grin faint but genuine. 

Shoko chuckled, leaning back in her seat. “Yeah, well, don’t forget it. Now eat your damn cheesecake before I do it for you.” 

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Satoru picked up his fork, the faintest glimmer of hope stirring in his chest. 

The night air was crisp, the bustle of downtown Tokyo beginning to quiet as the hour grew late. Satoru and Shoko exited the diner, the neon lights reflecting in scattered puddles along the sidewalk. Satoru shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his mind still racing with the revelation Shoko had dropped about the Taskforce. 

“You’re really not going to let this go, huh?” Shoko asked, her tone casual as she lit a cigarette. 

“Would you?” he shot back, glancing at her. His sunglasses were perched atop his head again, exposing the piercing blue of his eyes—eyes that flickered with something between hope and desperation. 

Shoko exhaled a plume of smoke, shrugging. “Fair point.” 

They walked in silence for a moment, the sounds of distant traffic and murmured conversations filling the air. Satoru’s gaze wandered, his thoughts a whirlwind. He was about to say something when he froze, his breath catching in his throat. 

Ahead of them, a woman stood at the edge of the sidewalk, her back to them as she waited for the pedestrian signal to change. She wore a long coat, her dark hair falling in soft waves down her back. The sight of her made Satoru’s chest tighten painfully. 

It couldn’t be. 

Without a word, he stepped forward, his strides quick and determined. Shoko blinked in surprise, hurriedly stubbing out her cigarette and following him. 

“Satoru, what are you—?” 

He didn’t answer. His focus was locked on the woman ahead, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Every rational part of his brain told him it wasn’t possible. But the way her hair caught the light, the way she tilted her head ever so slightly—it was too familiar. 

“Wait!” he called out, his voice sharper than he intended. 

The woman turned her head slightly, startled, but it wasn’t enough. Desperation clawing at him, Satoru reached out and gently grabbed her arm, spinning her around. 

For a moment, the world stopped. 

It wasn’t her. 

The woman stared at him, wide-eyed and terrified, clutching her bag tightly against her chest. “W-What are you doing? Let me go!” 

“I’m sorry,” Satoru said quickly, releasing her arm and stepping back. His voice was unsteady, his mind reeling. “I thought you were someone else.” 

The woman’s fear didn’t fade, her hands trembling as she clutched her bag. Shoko arrived at Satoru’s side, her sharp gaze flitting between him and the woman. 

“Relax,” Shoko said smoothly, raising her hands in a placating gesture. “He didn’t mean any harm. Just a misunderstanding.” 

Satoru opened his mouth to apologize again, but then his eyes caught on something—a glint of sapphire at the woman’s throat. His breath hitched. 

The necklace. 

It was unmistakable: a delicate chain with a small sapphire pendant, custom-made because she’d once said his eyes were her favorite shade of blue. 

“Where did you get that?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. 

The woman blinked, her fear momentarily replaced by confusion. “What?” 

“The necklace,” he said, his voice stronger now. “Where did you get it?” 

Her hand instinctively went to the pendant, her grip tightening. “A… a friend gave it to me.” 

Satoru’s stomach dropped. “Who? Where? When?” he demanded, his words spilling out in a rush. 

“I-I don’t know!” the woman stammered, taking a step back. “I don’t even know her name. We just… we worked together once, that’s all!” 

Shoko placed a firm hand on Satoru’s shoulder, tugging him back. “That’s enough,” she said quietly, her voice edged with concern. 

“But—” 

“Satoru,” she said firmly, giving him a look that brokered no argument. 

He exhaled shakily, stepping back and running a hand through his hair. The woman still looked terrified, her eyes darting between them. 

Shoko turned to her, her expression softening. “We’re sorry about this. He really thought you were someone else. What’s your name?” 

The woman hesitated, her gaze flicking to Satoru before returning to Shoko. “It’s Hana,” she said cautiously. 

“Thank you, Hana,” Shoko said with a small nod. “You can go now. Sorry for scaring you.” 

Hana didn’t need to be told twice. She practically ran across the street as soon as the light changed, disappearing into the crowd. 

Shoko watched her go, her sharp eyes catching the faint glimmer of something on Hana’s wrist as she moved. A tattoo. Small and faint, but unmistakable. 

J.S.T.F. 

She frowned, her mind already working through the implications as she turned back to Satoru. He was staring after Hana, his hands trembling at his sides. 

“Let’s go,” Shoko said, tugging his sleeve. 

Satoru didn’t argue, following her in a daze as they made their way toward the train station. 

Once they were seated on the train, the hum of the engine and the sway of the car providing a semblance of normalcy, Shoko finally spoke. 

“She had a J.S.T.F. stamp on her wrist,” she said. 

Satoru turned to her, his brows furrowing. “What does that mean?” 

“It means she’s part of the Jujutsu Special Task Force,” Shoko explained. “Or at least, she was. It’s how they identify Taskforce members—normal sorcerers versus J.S.T.F. operatives. If that woman worked with her, then…” 

Satoru’s eyes widened. “You’re saying she’s alive.” 

“I’m saying it’s possible,” Shoko said carefully. “And now that I have her name, I can look into the files. There might be something there.” 

For the first time that night, a spark of hope lit in Satoru’s eyes. He leaned back in his seat, exhaling deeply. “Thanks, Shoko.” 

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, her tone light despite the weight of their conversation. “You’re lucky I’ve got nothing better to do.” 

Satoru chuckled weakly, his gaze drifting out the window as the city lights blurred past. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t chasing ghosts after all. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The infirmary was silent, save for the hum of the ancient desktop computer and the occasional rustle of paper as Shoko flipped through files stacked in precarious piles. It wasn’t her usual station; this room was unofficial—more like a storage area converted into an impromptu workspace. Cardboard boxes labeled J.S.T.F. were scattered haphazardly around her, their edges worn from years of neglect. 

The fluorescents overhead flickered, casting pale light over Satoru as he slumped in the chair opposite her. His elbows rested on his knees, his white hair falling messily over his forehead, and his trademark sunglasses sat firmly atop his head. There was no trace of the easy confidence he usually exuded. Instead, his eyes were shadowed, distant. 

Shoko glanced up from the computer screen, her cigarette dangling between her fingers. “You’re awfully quiet for once. Not gonna tell me to speed up?” 

Satoru didn’t respond immediately. His gaze was fixed on the floor, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his knee. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” he murmured finally, his voice barely above a whisper. 

She sighed, setting the cigarette in the ashtray beside her. “Crazy? No. Desperate? Definitely. But I get it.” 

He leaned back, his lips twitching into a bitter smile. “Do you? Shoko, I felt her. For a second, I thought... I thought I was going to lose my mind.” He dragged a hand down his face, his frustration palpable. “Two years. She’s been gone for two years. And now, out of nowhere, this?” 

Shoko didn’t answer right away. She understood his pain better than he realized. Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer, was human after all. “Look,” she said, her voice softer now. “If it’s her, we’ll find out. If it’s not... you need to know, either way. That’s why we’re doing this.” 

He nodded, though his jaw was clenched tight. 

The computer beeped as Shoko typed in the search parameters. “Okay, let’s start with the obvious,” she muttered. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, inputting the name Hana into the system. The screen flickered before pulling up three entries. 

“Three hits,” she said, leaning forward to scan the information. “Alright, first one. Hana Matsuda. Thirty-eight. Definitely not her.” 

Satoru’s gaze sharpened as she clicked on the second name. 

“Hana Ishikawa. Twenty-five. Civilian. Nope.” 

The final file loaded slowly, the outdated system grinding like it was struggling to breathe. Shoko’s eyes narrowed. “Here we go. Hana... Johnson. Age twenty-eight. Six-year veteran of the J.S.T.F., under the command of Captain Vincent Shepherd. American jujutsu sorcerer. Thirty-five years in service, promoted to captain in his fourth year. Thats the girl we saw.” 

Satoru stiffened, the name ringing in his ears. His eyes darted to the screen as Shoko scrolled through the details. "Johnson? do the higher-ups have a thing for drafting foreign sorcerers?"

Shoko mumbles something he couldn't hear, but gives a half nod-- conveying she wasn't entirely sure.

“Shepherd,” he repeated, his tone flat. “That’s the guy that captains everything? the one that—” He cut himself off, unable to finish the sentence. 

Shoko nodded. “Yeah. He’s the one running the team. She’s been under his command for six years...” Her voice trailed off as realization dawned. She glanced at Satoru. 

“what?” he pressed, his voice rising. 

“Look at Shepherd’s profile.” Shoko finished, clicking through more files. Her breath caught as another name appeared. 

“Bingo,” she whispered. 

The screen displayed a profile picture—grainy and poorly lit, but unmistakably you. Your face was sharper now, her features hardened by time and whatever hell she’d endured, but it was her. 

Satoru froze. His world narrowed to that single image, the one he’d thought he’d never see again. His chest tightened as a wave of emotions crashed over him—relief, anger, guilt, and something raw and unnameable. 

“She’s alive,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. 

But Satoru didn’t laugh. His fingers trembled as he reached out, tracing the edge of the screen. The woman in the photo was both familiar and a stranger, her eyes holding a weight he didn’t remember. 

Shoko didn’t know what to say. The strongest sorcerer in the world looked like a man on the verge of breaking, and for once, she had no words to comfort him. 

The glow of the computer screen flickered in the dim office, the silence heavy and suffocating. Satoru stared, his usually bright and sharp eyes wide and disbelieving. Her picture was there, alongside a name he’d never been able to forget. Her name. Her.

“Shoko,” his voice cracked, almost unrecognizable. “What is this?”

Shoko didn’t answer immediately. She stared at the screen, frozen, her cigarette burning down between her fingers. Her brows knitted together as though her mind refused to piece together what she was seeing. “I… I don’t know.”

“That’s her!” he shouted, slamming his hands down on the desk. The computer shook, and so did his voice. “Her name, her picture, her—why the hell is she on this file?”

“I thought—” Shoko swallowed hard, her voice trembling. “I thought she was dead as well. We all thought she was dead, Satoru.”

He pulled back, staggering as if the weight of her words had hit him physically. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, pacing back and forth, his movements erratic. “Dead?” His voice rose, brittle and cracking. “Then why the fuck is she on a classified task force roster? How could—how could she be alive and no one told me?”

Shoko finally moved, taking a shaky drag from her cigarette before putting it out in the ashtray. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “None of this makes sense.”

He froze mid-step, spinning back to her. “Task force members are supposed to be low-grade sorcerers, right? Barely any cursed energy? She was semi-first grade by the end of our first year.”

Shoko looked at him, her usual calm façade nowhere to be found. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “That’s what we have to figure out.”

His chest heaved, his breaths ragged and loud in the still room. “Shoko.” His voice broke, raw and guttural. “Why didn’t I know? How could you not know?”

He turned away, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He hated this—the spiraling fear, the anger clawing at his throat, the gut-wrenching helplessness. For all his power, for everything he could do, he couldn’t reach her. He couldn’t protect her.

Shoko stepped closer, her voice soft but unsteady. “We’ll figure it out,” she murmured. “I promise.”

When her hand landed on his shoulder, Satoru froze, then slowly turned back to her. Without warning, he pulled her into a crushing hug, burying his face in her shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice breaking again. “Thank you, Shoko.”

She patted his back lightly, her own grief mirrored in her touch. “Go get some rest, Satoru. You’re no good to her like this.”

He nodded, releasing her, his trademark cocky smirk flickering to life for just a second. “Yeah. Night, Shoko.”

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The night was still and cold as he stood in the parking lot, the sleek curves of his black car gleaming under the streetlights. He rolled his eyes, snapping his fingers and teleporting home instead.

The penthouse was immaculate, a study in luxury and emptiness. The marble floors gleamed, the furniture was pristine, and the city skyline stretched endlessly through floor-to-ceiling windows. It was everything anyone could want, but to him, it was nothing.

The silence pressed in as he shed his clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over his tense muscles. But no amount of heat could thaw the ice in his chest, the hollow ache that had taken root.

Later, he lay sprawled on his massive bed, the silk sheets cool against his skin. His mind refused to quiet. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—her smile, the way she used to roll her eyes when he teased her, the sound of her laugh breaking through the walls he never realized he’d built.

The memories felt cruel now, a double-edged blade that both comforted and destroyed him. He let himself imagine the life they should’ve had—something quieter, simpler. A house by a lake. Her, curled up on the couch with a book while he pretended to read but really just watched her. Kids running barefoot through the grass. A cat lazing on a windowsill, a dog chasing after a ball, maybe even a parrot screeching in the background just because she thought it’d be funny.

He smiled bitterly. “Anything you wanted,” he whispered into the dark, his voice breaking. “Anything you wanted, I’d have given you.”

Reaching for his phone on the nightstand, he scrolled through his photo gallery. Picture after picture filled the screen, each one a moment in time that felt like a lifetime ago. There was her pout when he teased her, her mischievous grin during a mission, her face peaceful as she slept against his shoulder.

Then his finger hovered over a private folder, his pulse quickening. He opened it.

The video played on his phone, the screen dimly lighting the dark room. Satoru lay sprawled on his bed, bare-chested, his hand resting low on his abdomen as his eyes devoured every frame. The grainy quality didn’t matter—her voice, her body, the way she came undone under him—it was all burned into his memory.

He swallowed hard as her moans spilled through the speakers, soft and breathless, laced with the kind of vulnerability only he had been privy to. His cock throbbed beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants, and he freed himself with one quick motion, hissing softly as his palm wrapped around the swollen length.

“Fuck, baby,” he muttered, his voice rough, nearly guttural. His thumb dragged over the sensitive head, smearing precum, and a shudder ripped through him. “You always knew how to ruin me.”

The video showed her writhing beneath him, her back arching, her lips parted as his name tumbled from her mouth like a plea. He matched the rhythm with his hand, slow and torturous, his grip tightening with every stroke. His mind blurred the line between memory and fantasy, the vivid recollection of her warmth, her scent, the way her nails had clawed at his back, begging him for more.

“Miss the way you’d take it,” he rasped, his teeth gritting as his strokes grew faster. His hand slick with precum, the obscene sounds of his movements filled the otherwise silent room. “Miss the way you’d fall apart for me—fuck, look at you.”

The video shifted, showing her face up close, eyes glassy with pleasure, lips swollen from his kisses. He groaned, his hips bucking into his fist as if chasing the ghost of her touch. The ache in his chest burned as hot as the fire pooling low in his abdomen.

“You’d love this, wouldn’t you?” he growled, his voice dropping lower, darker. “Me, falling apart like this. So desperate for you. So fucking pathetic without you.”

The tension coiled tighter, his breathing ragged and shallow, each stroke driving him closer to the edge. Her name spilled from his lips, raw and hoarse, a broken prayer as he imagined her beneath him again, her legs wrapped around his waist, her lips brushing his ear, whispering promises he’d never let her keep.

When release finally hit, it tore through him like a wave, his body arching off the bed as his hand milked every last drop from him. Her name escaped him again, quieter this time, barely audible over the pounding of his heart.

He lay there, chest heaving, his hand sticky and warm, but the satisfaction was fleeting. The hollowness returned almost immediately, swallowing him whole.

With a shaky exhale, he reached for the tissues on the nightstand, cleaning himself with mechanical precision before tossing them aside. Then he opened the drawer, pulling out the small velvet box that felt heavier than it should.

Flipping it open, he stared at the ring inside—a stunning twin-pear cut diamond on a slender gold band. The jeweler had tried to warn him about the price, but he’d only laughed. “Do you think money matters to me? It’s for her.”

His fingers trembled as he brought the ring to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the diamond.

“I’ll find you, baby.” he whispered, his voice barely holding steady as he cracks a small, lopsided weak smile. “what could you be doin’ right now, hm?”

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The night was alive with chaos. Screams tore through the air as bullets ricocheted and curses shrieked, their grotesque forms illuminated by the staccato flashes of gunfire. The battlefield sprawled like a macabre painting-smoke rising in thick plumes, flames licking at the debris-strewn ground, and the sharp tang of iron and ozone saturating the air.

Shepherd moved through it all like a force of nature, his commands sharp and unyielding as he led his team into the fray. The chemical hangar loomed ahead, a foreboding structure with jagged shadows clawing at its edges. It was their target, the heart of the enemy's twisted operation, and it needed to be neutralized at all costs.

"Cover the rear! Don't let those bastards flank us!" Shepherd barked, his revolver spitting cursed energy into the night. The weapon's rounds glowed faintly, cutting through the inky darkness as they tore into a curse lunging from the rubble. It let out a guttural scream before disintegrating into ash.

Behind him, the team moved like a well-oiled machine, their formation tight despite the relentless assault.

They were soldiers, each of them hardened by battles far too numerous to count, but even they couldn't mask the tension etched into their movements.

“Hostiles incoming-two o'clock!" one of the soldiers shouted, swiveling to unleash a barrage of gunfire. The bullets caught a humanoid curse mid-leap, its misshapen body convulsing as it hit the ground, twitching before falling still.

Another curse-a grotesque, serpent-like monstrosity

-slithered toward them, its eyes glowing with malice.

Shepherd didn't hesitate. He surged forward, his hand crackling with cursed energy as he slammed his palm into the creature's head. The curse writhed, its hiss morphing into a scream as Shepherd's technique surged through it, obliterating it from the inside out.

"Keep moving!" he roared, turning to face his team.

"The clock's ticking!"

Inside the hangar, the air was suffocating, heavy with the acrid stench of chemicals and the faint hum of cursed energy. The barrels lining the walls seemed to pulse with malevolence, each one a ticking time bomb of destruction waiting to be unleashed.

The team fanned out, their boots echoing against the concrete floor as they worked with practiced efficiency.

Charges were placed with swift precision, the adhesive strips sticking to the tanks with muted clicks.

"Status?" Shepherd's voice was a low growl, his eyes scanning the dimly lit space for movement.

"Almost done, Captain," one of the soldiers replied, sweat streaking his dirt-smudged face as he secured the final charge. "Two minutes to finish the setup."

The words had barely left his mouth when the shadows shifted, and curses began to materialize from the darkness.

They came in a wave-hulking beasts with jagged limbs, their eyes glowing with an otherworldly light.

The soldiers reacted instantly, opening fire in a deafening cacophony. Shells clattered to the ground as bullets tore through the air, some embedding themselves in the curses' grotesque forms while others ricocheted off the walls.

One of the larger curses—a grotesque amalgamation of limbs and teeth-barreled toward the group, its roar shaking the ground. Shepherd met it head-on, his cursed energy igniting like a wildfire. He dodged its swiping claws with practiced ease, his movements fluid and lethal as he closed the distance.

The curse lunged, its jaws snapping shut inches from his face. Shepherd countered with a brutal uppercut, his cursed energy-enhanced strike shattering its lower jaw. The creature staggered back, and he followed up with a series of rapid blows, each one punctuated by the sickening crunch of bones.

Behind him, another soldier let out a sharp cry as a curse pinned him against a barrel. Before it could land the killing blow, a bullet tore through its head, and it crumpled to the ground. Shepherd spared a glance at the soldier, nodding once before returning his focus to the fray.

"Team Bravo, report!"

"Charges are secure, Captain! We're ready to exfil!"

"Good. Move out! Cover each other and keep those bastards off our backs!"

The team began their retreat, their movements quick but deliberate as they wove through the chaos.

Shepherd brought up the rear, his revolver barking with each pull of the trigger, every shot a precise kill.

Outside, the battlefield was no less chaotic. Smoke hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of blood and burnt flesh. The aircraft still loomed above, a silent predator waiting for the signal.

Shepherd's voice crackled through the radio, cutting through the static. "Eagle One, blow 'em to hell, doll."

For a moment, there was silence.

Inside the cockpit, the world seemed to still. You exhaled slowly, your breath fogging the glass as your hands moved with meticulous precision. The targeting system beeped softly, its crosshairs locking onto the heart of the hangar.

The chaos below was a distant memory, muted by the hum of the engines and the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. Your finger hovered over the trigger, and for a split second, you let yourself feel the weight of it-the lives, the destruction, the purpose carved out for you in the shadows of this war.

Your lips curled into a faint smile, a chilling edge to it as your voice cut through the silence.

"Yes, Captain."

lets go.

© 2025 All Rights Reserved mymoonisgrey

Taglist is open!

@lavnder311

[meanqueens]

potential hotd spoilers below

i beg your absolute pardon??? alicent hightower will OFFER UP her sons to rhænyra for her and helaena’s lives???????

“Queen Alicent demanded that one of Lucerys Velaryon’s eyes should be put out, for the eye he had cost Aemond.”

“Queen Alicent echoed him. “Nor will they spare my children,” she declared. “Aegon and his brothers are the king’s trueborn sons, with a better claim to the throne than her brood of bastards. Daemon will find some pretext to put them all to death. Even Helaena and her little ones. One of these Strongs put out Aemond’s eye, never forget. He was a boy, aye, but the boy is the father to the man, and bastards are monstrous by nature.””

“Queen Alicent had commanded Larys Clubfoot to learn [Blood’s] true name, so that she might bathe in the blood of his wife and children, but our sources do not say if this occurred.”

“None was allowed to disturb [Aegon II’s] rest, save his mother the Queen Dowager and his Hand, Ser Criston Cole.”

“Words of these plans soon reached the ears of the Dowager Queen, filling her with terror. Fearing for her sons, Queen Alicent went to the Iron Throne upon her knees, to plead for peace. This time the Queen in Chains put forth the notion that the realm might be divided; Rhaenyra would keep King’s Landing and the crownlands, the North, the Vale of Arryn, all the lands watered by the Trident, and the isles. To Aegon II would go the stormlands, the westerlands, and the Reach, to be ruled from Oldtown. Rhaenyra rejected her stepmother’s proposal with scorn. “Your sons might have had places of honor at my court if they had kept faith,” Her Grace declared, “but they sought to rob me of my birthright, and the blood of my sweet sons is on their hands.” “Bastard blood, shed at war,” Alicent replied. “My son’s sons were innocent boys, cruelly murdered. How many more must die to slake your thirst for vengeance?” The Dowager Queen’s words only fanned the fire of Rhaenyra’s wroth.”

^THAT is alicent hightower. if the leaks are true, whoever that is isn’t alicent hightower.

[oneshotnewbie]

Hello can you make Maddie and Buck's little sister who is a teenager has an accident or is injured and she calls 911 to find her sister who sends the firefighter and her brother and in a panic with Maddie on the phone who is panicking too

ᕚ---ᕘ

With a choked gasp, you startled and looked around in a halting darkness that human eyes could never adjust to. Cold, rough chunks of concrete that painfully buried you underneath did not let in any light. Not the slightest ray could stray through it.

Orientation in the blackness was almost impossible and the disorientation made you seem even more helpless than you already were. "Hello? Can someone hear me?" Struggling to lend strength to your dusty voice, you tried to straighten your torso, but a searing pain tore through the upper left quadrant of your abdomen prevented you.

The air was damp, musty and cold. Fine particles of the collapsed concrete still trickled onto your tear-streaked face, while your lungs filled with a teaspoon of dust with every breath you took.

You did not know if you were alone when the parking deck collapsed on itself, but the thought that someone else might be trapped in her, or possibly even dead, frightened you. "Please, is someone here?"

The vibrating of your phone pulled you back from your thoughts. Totally forgetting you had it with you and surprised to find it had still a transmission to the outside world, you were grateful.

Silently and cautiously, you pulled out your phone with shaky, wet hands and clung to the piece of plastic, trying to shed some light on your situation. It was only through the brightness of the screen that you had realized, you were in more trouble than you thought you were.

The liquid on your hands was nothing more than dark red blood stretching across your fingers and was trickling down your wrist. Your leg was buried below the knee under a steel beam, which is why you had long lost feeling in it while a small iron rod protruded from your torso and penetrated your lower ribs.

"Crap," you moaned disconcertingly and laid your head back down on the concrete slab that allowed and supported to keep your upper body upright. The chunks of gray stone that had embedded your body, shifted cruelly under your movements, some small pieces trickling down on you from above.

Covering your eyes protectively, you could not feel if new small wounds adorned your skin and you did not dare to move any further to check which put your heart in a more obvious state of panic, but you hardly felt the beating in your chest. It slowed down.

With the last ounce of your strength steadily oozing out with the blood from your wounds, you dialed 911 hoping the network would hold up this conversation. After all, you were buried under debris that could interfere with the signal. "911, what is your emergency?"

"Maddie," you groaned wearily, instantly recognizing your eldest sibling through the cracking line. Her voice was dulled and partially interrupted, yet you felt a deep sense of relief to hear it. You were not alone anymore. "I-I need help"

The brunettes breath caught in her throat as your faint and barely audible voice entered her ears. It had come as quite a shock to Maddie, when she unsuspectingly had you on the helpline and found a chilling story about your well-being. "Y/n, where are you? Are you okay? What happened?"

"T-the parking garage at Cherokee Avenue collapsed," like a second hand, sweat formed on your forehead, although the warmth had long left. Dizziness caught up with you, but with a lot of luck and willpower, you managed to escape it and searched for a spot to focus on in the slightly lit environment. "I am buried under the rubble"

"Oh my god, a-are you hurt?"

"My leg is crushed. A metal rod is sticking out of my stomach, it hurts terribly. I am losing an awful lot of blood," Maddie had to listen helplessly to the spectacle that was taking place in disbelief and bewilderment. Absentmindedly, she fiddled with the keyboard and at the same time played with her private phone to call and inform your brother.

Meanwhile, the air was becoming increasingly scarce. Under no circumstances should you breathe in too deeply, using the precious oxygen sparingly. "I can not breathe," it came hoarsely from your lips as tears streamed unabashedly down your face.

A fit of coughing shook you and an iron taste kindled in your mouth. You could hardly breathe, the oxygen supply was running out and your lungs were heavier by the minutes. Just as quickly, the fear of endless, terrifying darkness and the cold that towered over you.

"I do not want to die, Maddie," you sobbed into the phone, the optimism of getting out of her alive dwindling. Walled under concrete and buried under dust, you knew no way out and fear filled you more with every passing minute. "You will not, sweetheart. Buck is on the way, you just have to hold on. Hold on and listen to me while we wait together for your brother, okay?"

The familiarity of Maddie´s voice allowed you to remain calm, at least on the surface, while your soul rampaged around the stable like a panicked horse. And so you had begun to wait for the approaching help with the fear of death and the agony that awaited you.

ᕚ---ᕘ

The sun was already beginning to set and the clouds hung gray in the sky as the team around Bobby Nash drove up to the scene. Upon arrival, the remains of various building material and destroyed vehicles were scattered on the crumbling ground.

Cold, dusty air blew in the faces of the team and the feeling that was churning in them as they saw the collapsed building, knowing you were under there, stretched bitterly through their chest. With heavy strides, Evan Buckley ran up to the top of the rubble, his phone clutched tightly to his ear, frantically calling your name while following his sisters panicked statements.

With his right leg, he swept away the small chunks and bits of metal. "Y/n!" his voice sounded rough and scratchy, he could no longer think clearly when uncertainty and sadness overcame him. "Where are you?"

Huffing and distraught, tears welled up in his eyes as he watched his teammates pull some stones from the pile. Evan rushed and jumped down, desperate to get through to you with all of his accumulated power. "Maddie, I can not hear her, is she still there?" with a jerk, he thoughtfully scratched the back of his head while biting his bottom lip hard and tasting the stale taste of blood.

He felt like complete destruction.

"Call is ongoing, but she is not responding to me anymore!" Maddie answered. Hard, he pounded his fist against the stones until his knuckles were severely sore and bleeding, only to repeat the procedure in frustration. Evan Buckley possessed a mental strength that was admired by everyone. But when it came to his little sister, he lost all of the stability and raged through life like a tornado. "Come on, move. We have to get her out of here"

As they spent hours trying to dig their way out to you, you vacillated between consciousness and unconsciousness. The phone meanwhile had slipped out of your hand and was inaccessible, nevertheless your sister was still panicking on the receiver, calling your name several times unsuccessfully.

You had no strength, empty air escaped your mouth instead of simple words.

From afar, you heard murmuring voices gathering around you. They talked frantically and at once a while some of them screamed and interrupted the conversations. Everyone seemed so far away, that you hardly could understood their words. "Y/n, where are you?"

"I am here, please" you whispered in a low voice that was probably barely audible. A violent chill went through you as the voices slowly approached and called out to you. The ground beneath you vibrated, bits and pieces of thick stone clamped above you, whose pillar was preventing it from coming down and crushing you, rained down dust before moments later a faint, dirty light flooded your place through a small crack.

"We found her!"

[darklinaforever]

Like @skywalkr-nberrie said it very well :

Themes, metaphors, symbolism, etc. it’s part of art and literature. And gothic horror always speaks in the tongue of metaphors. Orlok saying “he cannot love” is just a metaphor for his demonic nature but his follow statement is the very contradiction in his words when he tells Ellen “… yet, I cannot be sated without you.”

So saying that Orlok can't love Ellen because of that line in particular is very stupid since since it is immediately contradicted.

And don't tell me that it doesn't necessarily have to be a romance, damn the film in its relationship between Ellen & Orlok is full of reminders of Wuthering Heights and Beauty and the Beast in terms of inspiration, and it's not for nothing.

In short, saying that this sentence about not being able to love is the ultimate proof that cannot be contradicted (while there is a contradiction of this statement in the rest of the dialogue anyway... people are stupid) on the fact that Orlok does not love is once again ridiculous.

Just like saying that Orlok saying that he is just an appetite and nothing more is the other proof that he couldn't love. Because :

This sentence probably refers to Ellen herself.

Yes, Orlok is a vampire whose thirst can only be quenched by Ellen, and he is a being originally made to consume life according to Von Franz's description (but that doesn't prevent the romantic ambiguity from being present as the film itself show it, and its team and its creator explain it very well) but beyond this very obvious aspect of the sentence naturally attached to Orlok (since he is the one who says this sentence while speaking of himself), well I think that it mainly refers to Ellen herself on a symbolic level.

Ellen and Orlok are constantly mirroring each other in the film, sometimes down to the nearest shot, as if they were one and the same being.

I would dare say, the same monster.

(Knowing also that Orlok would not exist either as vampire without Ellen who is the one who woke him up)

The film goes even further with the fact that we know that Orlok sometimes took possession of Ellen's body (since he expresses himself through her in front of Von Franz) and that yet he will explain to her (when she tells him / reproaches him for being the one who crawled into her body like a snake) well no, it was not him, but her nature that she denied.

It is very telling because we understand in fact that Orlok is Ellen, or at least an intrinsic part of herself but that she rejects.

Then when we delve into the more in-depth analysis, we understand that what Orlok represents in Ellen are precisely the parts of her repressed by society ; her ardor, her passion / her sexual desire, etc.

Her appetite therefore.

Orlok is only an appetite, in the sense that he represents the appetites (various desires) of Ellen of which she has always been cruelly deprived because judged unacceptable by society.

And I find it ironic that people use the fact that Orlok says he is an appetite and nothing more to justify the interpretation that he could never love Ellen, much less romantically ; Knowing, precisely as we have already established, that he in fact embodies Ellen and her desires, and therefore in reality her appetite, and that wanting to be loved is in fact part of Ellen's desires.

But she wants to love in a way that society does not deem acceptable. With too much passion.

She has an appetite for that too.

So in fact, this sentence proves rather the opposite of what the antis would wish ironically.

[notbecauseofvictories]

@no-rules-no-responsibility reblogged your post:

[...] #prev what do you mean it was in Futurama 😭

So, just because I still find it very funny...the most deeply moving, affective song in Umbrellas of Cherbourg is "Je ne pourrai jamais vivre sans toi" frequently Anglicized as "I Will Wait for You". In context it's tragic---a young, beautiful French couple vowing to remain true to each other despite their separation, her disapproving mother, a mutual lack of money. Even more wrenching, the film shows this to be cruelly ironic---the lovers drift apart, each marries someone else, has children, and all the while "Je ne pourrai jamais vivre sans toi" sings over the soundtrack like its heart is breaking.

I'm sure it's haunting. Poignant, even.

.........but not if you watched Futurama and specifically the episode "Jurassic Bark" long before ever touching 1976's The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, and so associate that song with a scruffy animated dog waiting on a sidewalk for an owner who has been cryogenically frozen. Then it's mostly funny.

[agoodroughandtumble]

Zoro x Reader - Lost & Found

Status: Complete Pairing: Roronoa Zoro x Reader Summary: Zoro is, unsurprisingly, lost Warning(s):  None

Roronoa Zoro was, more often than not, lost. Of course he would be the last person to admit that fact. His pride and stubbornness surrounding the matter were infamous amongst his fellow Straw Hats – an unfortunate consequence of his drive and determination. After all, his mind was focused on becoming the world’s greatest swordsman, on protecting his crew, on helping Luffy fulfil his dreams; Zoro didn’t have time to be memorising atlases. Usually he just shrugged it off – arguing that he always ended up where he needed to be eventually – especially as he wasn’t actually lost anyway, so shut up. Besides. He was sure that if he just kept walking he would reach the Sunny eventually. So that was his plan. Just keep walking and eventually he would reach the ship, or at least someone who could point him in the right direction. He might be lost but he wasn’t lost.

Because being lost and being lost were two completely different things. The former he could deal with – just keep walking. The latter, not so much. The latter was a feeling only reserved for you. You made his head hurt, his heart race and his stomach drop. Each part pulling him in completely different directions and he was a futile navigator. From the moment you had joined the Straw Hats Zoro had found himself in unchartered waters, desperately searching for the relief of land. For any opportunity to remove the anchor you had so deeply buried within his chest, and the chain that dangled so carelessly in front of him. Not even his swords were strong enough to cut himself off completely.

You were both his captor and his saviour – the chains binding you together either a death sentence or a lifeline. But God, he didn’t care. He could happily die so long as it was by your hands, happily seek salvation so long as it was by your mercy. He could do all of this and more for you, because of you, despite you, in spite of you. As long as there was you.

Ironically, the situation wasn’t lost on him. Neither was the knowledge that whilst you were indisputably his anchor, he wasn’t yours. It wasn’t surprising, really, if he thought about it. You were bright, a beacon in the dark, his personal north star guiding him home. He was a storm, a hurricane, only useful for destruction. The product of a life dedicated to violence and bloodshed. The product of a life to keep you away from.

In his more selfish moments, Zoro would allow himself to revel in the chains you had unknowingly imprisoned his heart within. He would allow himself to be lost in the ardently naïve hope that you would find him again – that the chains binding him to you equally pulled at your heart, at the fibre of your being. He could admit to being lost, to being a captive to his own desires, to your every whim as long as you were too. If not… well then he was truly lost. Drowning in that unchartered sea, navigating that starless sky, at the mercy of the storms he had once thought to seek solace in.

It was, somewhat cruelly, that whilst he wandered aimlessly he heard a familiar voice. “Zoro!”

He turned around, trying to neutralise his expression lest you realised he had spent this entire time thinking about you. “What do you want?”

You rolled your eyes. Nami had asked you to find Zoro and bring him back to the ship at least an hour ago, but obviously Zoro was going to claim he’d only been gone ten minutes. “I came to find you – Sanji’s already starting on dinner,” you grabbed his arm to interlace yours into his, “So come on. I’m starving.”

His heart skipped a beat at your words. I came to find you. It was innocuous on your part – no subtext, no promises of anything more. He turned his head slightly, a small smile forming on his lips as you started berating him for getting lost again and how you had been all over the city trying to find the “grumpy green haired man with too many swords”. You found him. Regardless of whether you knew it or not, the chains secured themselves more firmly around his heart – and for once, he relished the feeling. He always ended up where he needed to be eventually.

[obscurehistoricalinterests]

'Sisi' was a terrible empress. Her romanticization needs to STOP.

In more recent decades, Elisabeth has received a growing attention in pop culture: there are several series, films and even a musical paying tribute to her legend. Her beauty is admired, her trials and tribulations are pitied, her struggle to escape the chafing constraints of royal life is celebrated. There's a whiff of feminism surrounding her lately - a strong, intelligent woman, metaphorically, and if we take the film Corsage, even literally flipping off the patriarchy. She's galloping through forests barefoot, she's facing off her tyrannical mother in law, she's fighting for her freedom, for control over her own life. German writer Karen Duve goes as far as to call Elisabeth "an undiscovered feminist icon." 

But... was she? One of her ladies in waiting once said that Elisabeth will "live on in legend, not in history". And right she was. You see, Elisabeth has triumphed. When I look around, it seems as if we see her exactly as she would have wanted us to. A tragic heroine, a beautiful apparition, a nymph who somehow got trapped in the mortal realm, to her immense suffering. And for a modern woman,  there is much to empathize with in Elisabeth: her sublime sensitivity, her iron self-discipline, her headstrong character, her inborn thirst for freedom. But upon lifting the starry veil of this ethereal fairy-tale queen, one will find the face of a much more complex, flawed and ultimately human woman. Self-obsessed and narcissistic, monstrously selfish and possessive, cruelly indifferent to her empire (with one all-consuming exception), incessantly self-victimizing and deeply, deeply unhappy - overwhelmingly through her own fault.  

[arealphrooblem]

Mutually Assured Destruction Part 11 -- The End!

This is the last part everyone! I may right little snippets after this one if the inspiration strikes, but this is the definitive end to the series.

Synopsis: Villain x Civilian. Civilian can sense other people's powers through auras but hides this ability. They are terrified of the most boring person at their office job, who hides the most powerful aura Civilian has ever felt.

CW: Mentions of death, low self-esteem thoughts, brief vague mention of sex at the end, two kisses

Part One Here

Part Ten Here

At first, they thought he was sick. Jonathan didn’t ever give them a cell phone number, so they couldn’t call and check on him. By Wednesday they drove round for three hours after work, trying to find the neighborhood that housed his apartment, with no luck. By Friday, worry stayed a constant pit in their stomach.

Monday morning brought the news that Jonathan had “transferred” to another in another part of the country. Civilian had to suffer all day through the cloying sympathy of their coworkers. Gloria had even hugged them. Everyone assumed a breakup occurred so horribly awkward that it drove Jonathan to move several hundred miles away a week before the holidays.

For the rest of December, Civilian kept up religiously with the news, looking for something big enough to fit the plans Jonathan had hinted at — massive art theft, large scale arson, hell even a government coup.

There was nothing save for constant Christmas ads that Civilian tuned out.

Eventually they had to accept the truth that Jonathan had just got the fuck out of dodge and didn’t look back. Fine. Civilian knew their ‘relationship’ had an expiration date, that it had never existed in the first place. But they had expected some kind of goodbye, even if it had been a threat to stay quiet — not this slipping away in the dead of night like a ghost.

Maybe his plans fell through and he had to leave before someone else discovered him. Maybe the Agency had found him despite his best efforts and he had to abandon everything. Both scenarios were more likely than the one echoing cruelly in Civilian’s head at night:

That they had driven him away; that he couldn’t take their needy loneliness anymore and bounced.

It’s a thought that hounded them for the next six months, followed them as closely and loyally as their own shadow. As the weeks drifted by, Civilian burrowed further and further inside themselves, rejecting offers from Gloria to eat lunch, rejecting their mother’s requests to call or visit, rejecting drinks after work with the other members of their department.

It wasn’t that Jonathan broke their ability to trust anyone — it was the stubborn, naive belief that if Civilian chose to be alone then they weren’t lonely, that it didn’t count because it was self-imposed, a choice, a preference. And being around other people reminded them so sharply of feeling not alone that they couldn’t handle its absence once the night was over.

The whole thing was ridiculous, and Civilian berated themselves at each night for it. They were acting childish and silly. Jonathan was right: the only thing stopping them from having friends was their own fear. They could find a new job, move to a new city, find a place where Jonathan had never set foot in and build anew.

But they didn’t.

And six months later, the bank went under.

Ironically, the one thing Civilian needed to watch the news for, they had ignored in favor of a Buzzfeed shopping list. Their mom had sent a text with a link to a video and a series of question marks.

Isn’t this your bank????

The video explained how the entire board of directors had been arrested for fraud and embezzlement to the tune of billions.

Billions with a B.

After that number, Civilian’s attention went a little fuzzy. The explanation of the complex series of fund transfers and shell corporations and blah blah blah faded to the background as Civilian tried desperate to work out just how the hell Jonathan made it happen.

Over the weeks, each man screamed his innocence of course, but camera footage and witness testimonies — even ones from the other board directors, all eager to stab each other in the back — denied those claims. Each director passed a psych test with flying colors, despite their protests of their body moving with out their consent. It all looked very much like a bunch of disgustingly wealthy men got caught trying to illegally make themselves even more disgustingly richer.

After a certain point, Civilian could have spoken up about Jonathan, and no one would have believed them anyway.

It was the perfect crime and now Jonathan was walking out there will several billion dollars in his pocket and Civilian . . .

Well Civilian was now out of a job, living off a pathetic severance package, and trying to find a solution to their problem that did not involve moving back in with their mother.

It happened in the middle of the night. The ear-popping pressure of a powerful aura dragged them from sleep. In the soft darkness of their bedroom, they could just make out a shadowy figure looming over them.

In seconds confusion crystalized sharply into fear. Civilian’s hands dove under the pillow for the knife they kept there and yanked it out. Their hand froze in the air, gripped by invisible fingers Civilian knew all too well.

“Did you just pull a fucking knife on me?” The figure asked incredulously.

The familiarity of his voice hit them like a physical ache, like a thumb on a bruise.

“Jonathan?”

The lamp switched on, bathing the room in a dim glow. Civilian squinted and blinked against the sudden light. Standing there, eyebrows raised and dressed in all black, was Jonathan Anderson.

The knife gleamed between them. He glanced between it and Civilian and shook his head.

“You should give me that before you hurt yourself.”

He took the knife gently out of their forcibly relaxed fingers and set it on the nightstand, far out of their reach.

Their chest was a swirling maelstrom of too many emotions to count — joy and fear and anxiety and relief.

But most of all anger.

How dare he just show up after ten months of nothing.

“You should go fuck yourself,” they retorted, sitting up and swinging their legs over the side.

“Awww, Civilian, did I upset you by leaving?” He gave them a mocking frown. “Did you miss me?”

The truth of his words pierced them, sending a hot flush of humiliation up their neck.

“No, I did not miss you, you sick on of a bitch — ”

Jonathan bent down, cupping their face in his hands and cutting them off with a fierce, almost desperate kiss.

“I missed you,” he breathed. “So fucking much.”

Civilian’s heart pounded like thunder in their ears. How often did they daydream this kind of moment happening, and yet now that it was here, they couldn’t help but doubt it. It felt dangerous to believe it.

“How am I supposed to believe that?” they demanded. “For all I know, you could be here to kill me and — and tie up loose ends.”

Jonathan had the gall to laugh. “Where do you think we are — a mobster movie? Do you think I’m going to tie cinder blocks to your legs and throw you off the pier?”

“You wouldn’t need the cinder blocks to make sure I drowned,” they said mulishly. “You wouldn’t even need a pier. You could make me smother myself right now with my own pillow.”

Why they were arguing this, they had no idea. Perhaps stubbornly clinging to the belief that he didn’t care about them protected them from hope. Jonathan’s grin faded into something more somber as he studied them. Then he slowly sank down on one knee before them, putting him at just under eye level.

“Why would I come here to kill you after everything I’ve done to protect you?”

“Protect me? Is that what you calling taking off with no goodbye like I didn’t mean anything?”

“Tell me, Civilian, how suspicious it would have looked if I had stolen all that money and then skipped town? How many people would be scrutinizing the newest hire that suddenly disappeared and anyone who associated with him? How long before the Agency would come sniffing around, looking for someone with my skill-set, and find you and your glorious little secret? Hmm? Tell me.”

Civilian glared at him and his tight, unbeatable logic. How dare he make sense.

“Some warning would have been nice,” they said instead, crossing their arms. “I thought I had — that you ran because — ”

They couldn’t finish the thought, it was too embarrassing. How stupid they had been, obsessing over a silly kiss, when Jonathan was executing such grand larceny on an unheard of scale. Like he had even spared it a second thought.

He gave them a knowing, crooked smile. “You thought I took off because you kissed me and I flipped out.”

“No,” they lied. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It is ridiculous,” he agreed. “It’s the one thing that made it hard to leave in the first place. And I couldn’t let you know, in case someone did question you. You were my insurance, not my accomplice.”

The one thing that made it hard to leave. Staying angry at Jonathan was getting more and more difficult. Civilian tried to hold onto it, but it slipped through their fingers like an eel.

“So the bank . . .that really was you?” they asked.

This time his smile widened into a full smirk. “Beautiful, wasn’t it?”

“Beautiful? It fucked over a lot of people — including me! I’m out of a job now, you prick.”

He shrugged. “People will move on just like they always have. As for you . . .that’s why I’m here.” He reached out and traced the pad of his thumb down their jawline. “To spirit you away.”

Civilian fought and failed to hold back a shiver at the light touch. “You mean kidnap me.”

“It’s only kidnapping if you don’t volunteer for it,” he said. “You’re being very stubbornly angry with me. You must have missed me quite a bit.”

They swallowed thickly. “I hate you,” they lied.

He smile, soft and gentle, his thumb swiping over their bottom lip. “You wish you did.”

Civilian’s pulse fluttered. They wanted very badly to kiss his thumb, his hand, anywhere they could reach. “And where would you take me?” they whispered instead.

Jonathan turned his hand so the back of his knuckles brushed over their cheekbone. “Where do you want to go? I have more money than God, Civilian. We can go anywhere in the world and disappear and never have to look over our shoulders again. What say you to that?”

“What happens if I say no?”

As tempting as his offer was, they had to ask the question, regardless. His answer determined everything.

“You will never have to see me again,” he said, taking his hand away. “And I will find a way to anonymously give you enough money to do whatever you wish in a way that can’t be traced. With me or without me, you will have the same freedom from the Agency that I do. I had planned for that for a long time.”

Whatever resentment for their months alone evaporated in an instant. This time Civilian took his face in their hands and kissed him, long and fierce.

“Take me to Greece first,” they said. “I want to see the ruins.”

Taglist: @those-damn-snippets@heroes-villains-side-blog@anonymousewrites@follow-me-into-the-fog@sunnyside-world, @rivalriotrenegade@trappedgoose-in-a-writblr-room@midnightsillusions@villain-obsessed-word-nerd@deflated-bouncingball @pickleking8 @cesspitoflove@to-sneak-away-and-hide@im-a-wonderling@hasel-anne@ghostly-writer@moonknight-s-cumdump@valiantlytransparentwhispers@galactic-squiddo@boomimhere@organizedchaos03@dungeon-roomba@vidiaka@powerflower119 @cbiom @meltedgallium@skevethefool@sarcasticlittlebook@lisapicklemagick@dragonfirephoenixflame, @royalmuffinsworld@sillypeachduck

[jul-27]

Ask me what my biggest fear is, and I’d give you the naked truth. I have this deep-rooted fear of being forgotten—a secret I’ve carried silently, if only the world knew.

In my adolescence, I clung desperately to the smallest scraps of validation, gripping them as if they were lifelines. Each day, I faded further into the background, invisible and unheard. Loneliness wrapped itself around me, a constant, suffocating presence.

Back then, still a teenager inching closer to adulthood, those years of curiosity—of learning my body, exploring my shape, discovering my desires—left me feeling used and disposable. Those I loved most discarded me without a second thought.

It’s cruelly ironic how they all promised they’d never be the very thing they became. Every single one of them. What a shame, you—you—I thought you were different. But you drained me dry, left me hollow, a vessel emptied of trust and light.

Even now, loyalty anchors me. I drown in the weight of secrets I’ve kept, sinking deeper into an ocean of betrayals no one else seems to notice. They wouldn’t have suspected it—they fend for themselves, oblivious to the fact that I’d give my last breath just to keep them afloat.

This was all I ever knew: betrayal, heartbreak, disappointment. It happened so often I grew numb to it, a cycle too familiar to surprise me anymore. I’ve stopped expecting anything more. I kept to myself, quietly traumatized, waiting for it all to end.

They won’t remember me, nor the damage they left behind. My name, a whisper lost to a forgotten tale. I ceased to exist in their world, and that’s my greatest fear: being erased, being nothing.

It was only as I began stepping into womanhood that I felt seen, as though I finally belonged. For the first time, light surrounded me, dissipating the darkness that had consumed me for far too long. Yet even now, the fear lingers, clinging to the edges of my mind.

To be forgotten, to be erased, to fade into nothing. That is the ache I carry, the truth that burns as brightly as the light I’ve fought so hard to find.

[scotianostra]

On 15th September 1773 the emigrant ship “Hector” arrives in Pictou Harbour on Nova Scotia carrying 189 Highlanders, most loaded two months earlier in Ullapool.

Although they were not the first Scots to arrive in North America they were the vanguard of a massive wave of Scottish immigrants to arrive in what is now Canada. In the century following the landing of the Hector more than 120 ships brought nearly 20 000 people from Scotland to the port of Pictou. By 1879 more than ninety-three percent of the region’s rural property owners had Scottish names.

Ironically, very few of the Hector people stayed on the Pictou Plantation. They had been cruelly deceived by the shipping company that brought them out to Nova Scotia. The land was not ready for settlement as promised and supplies for the coming winter were meagre. Most of them moved on to settled parts of the province leaving an intrepid handful of their countrymen to fend for themselves in an uncultivated wilderness.

The Hector was owned by two men, Pagan and Witherspoon, who bought three shares of land in Pictou, and they engaged a Mr John Ross as their agent, to accompany the vessel to Scotland, to bring out as many colonists as they could induce, by misrepresentation and falsehoods, to leave their homes.

As they were leaving, a piper came on board who had not paid his passage; the captain ordered him ashore, but the strains of the national instrument affected those on board so much that they pleaded to have him allowed to accompany them, and offered to share their own rations with him in exchange for his music during the passage. Their request was granted, scrolling through various passenger lists I have found out the Piper was more than likely a man called William McKay.

All those travelling that were aged over 8 were required to pay full fare for the passage, those between 2 and 8 were charged half fare under 2’s were free. It was bad enough that they were conned with the promise of land in Canada but conditions on board the Hector were said to be horrendous, the ship was barely sea worthy and has been described as a crumbling wreck. I can’t find any mention of how may survived the 11 week journey or how the passengers were related to one another it was a nine week journey over the Atlantic, Smallpox and dysentery took their toll on the infants and children on board. In all, eighteen died at sea, I think by that they mean 18 children, poor things. By the time the rotting hulk landed, people were picking at the planks to find worms to eat.

On arrival about all that they seen was the dense forest grew down to the water’s edge as far as the eye could see.

The unfamiliar customs and appearance of the natives inhabiting the area so terrified the settlers that they remained on board for two days despite their desire to walk again on dry land. Finally, on September 17, 1773, dressed in full Scottish regalia, with all pageantry of their kilts and the pipes, they went ashore

The “Hector” pioneers faced extreme difficulties during their first year in the New World, but with the development of a lively timber trade with Scotland and the finalising of land grants, conditions improved and the development of what is now Pictou County was under way. The land was rich, the rivers and oceans plentifully stocked with fish, and the timber of high quality.

Pics are of a stamp issued in 1973 to mark 200 years since the crossing and the Hector replica at Pictou. The Hector Heritage Quay is one of Nova Scotia's major cultural tourist attractions. The Hector is a full-sized replica of the original ship. A Highland Homecoming, a celebration of the strong Scottish spirit, takes place on-site every September. and kicking off today.

You can find all the details on their FB page here https://www.facebook.com/shiphector/

[marvel-starwarsfangirl]

Of course I cried (a TBB S1 Retrospective and cry fest)

I finished S1 and it honestly is still stands really strong. While I love the other seasons more (for quite obvious reasons), S1 still has really standout moments and episodes such as the finale. Crosshair might be in is bad boy era, but he's still incredibly compelling.

What hurts to me most about S1 is this image above. This is the last time CF99 is all together. Ever. Obviously, we didn't know that and neither did our boys and Omega. Even if the Batch knew in-universe there was a chance that they would never see each other again, I think deep down they hoped they would reunite. I know Omega had hope that Crosshair would somehow find his way home.

What makes S1 (and the whole show in retrospect) even more tragic is that we will never see the BB whole ever again. It makes Tech's death hurt that much more because he and Crosshair never made proper amends. The last thing he hears Crosshair talk about is how everyone else is foolish for not joining the Empire and making his choice to stay. One of the last memories Crosshair really has of his brother is him pointing his blaster at him. After that, it's a one way ticket to suffering for Crosshair.

I know it's just a show, but images like the one above make me wish we had more time with the Batch before they were so cruelly torn apart from each other and it only enhances the tragedy they go through. The series finale, no matter how sunshiney it looks, is still bittersweet. The Batch finally get their freedom but at a great cost. Tech doesn't make it. Crosshair is still deeply hurting. It's a harsh reality that breaks my heart. In Rebels, we had 3 seasons of the Ghost crew together before we lost both Kanan and (temporarily) Ezra. The BB don't even get a single season all together. I would've loved to see them all with each other at least one more time without all the conflict.

But looking at S1 as a whole in general, I still really enjoy it. I love episodes like "Common Ground" or "War-Mantle" because we see how monstrous the Empire really is right out of the gate. Rampart, as goofy as that scream made him look, is a very crafty and entertaining villain who you just want to punch in the face. Crosshair himself is a fantastic villain who's both ruthless and tragic. While he doesn't hold back, the clear attachment he still has to his brothers in the back half of the season make the finale that much more emotional.

And while you can argue there is a lot of "filler," a rewatch proves that each episode happens for a reason. Why did the Batch have to capture a baby Rancor? So they could get info on Fennec. How come they stuck around to help Cid? Because she gave them money and work. I'm not saying that it's the most entertaining content we've seen, but there is a clear purpose for why those episodes happen.

I would've loved to see more Crosshair (for obvious reasons), but I do think the first season does balance out the story arcs well and when we do see him, he is always great. Thanks to the great music and acting from DBB, I do think the first season makes it clear that while Crosshair isn't leaving the Empire, he's not the same man he was pre-Bracca. The chip's influence isn't there (or at the very least severely diminished based on how you interpret Cross' reveal) and he does want them back but only on his terms.

As for the others, I definitely understand Hunter a bit more. He wants to help Crosshair, but he really doesn't know how nor does he want to endanger the others. I wish the group had a least one conversation about it though. For a group that feels like they should be very tight knit, it still feels like they brush Cross' departure off quite quickly. It's kinda like the Tech scenario in S3 where you know they're thinking about it, but nobody says anything. And that's frustrating because you know the Batch have a lot on their mind, especially Crosshair. And ironically, the quietist of the Batch is the most vocal about his feelings. Crosshair is so expressive and it's one of my favorite things about it.

Omega is such a cute munchkin. I adore her with every fiber of my being. She takes everything with stride and I love how S1 establishes many skills (like the hustling) that will later come into play in S2 or S3. And the show isn't afraid to show her learning process. Omega makes many mistakes, but she learns quickly and tries again. She loves her brothers so much.

Overall, S1 is still very strong and much more tragic in retrospect. I guess in someways, it reminds us how unfair life can be sometimes and that's why we gotta cherish each moment. Tech might no longer be with us, but he lives on through each of his brothers and Omega. Cross might never see him again, but as he tries to be better, Tech is no doubt smiling down from Clone Heaven.

Anyways, onto S2 (and more sadness). TBB lowkey is the most tragic of the SW animated shows not counting the Siege of Mandalore arc in CW. Every season, something awful happens to tear our little clone family apart. That's why the ending on Pabu, no matter the quality of writing, meant so much to me.

[sixhours]

Like Father, Like Daughters

Rating: PG Word count: 1.6k

Notes: Indulgent The Last of Us fluff from the Ghosts of Babylon universe.

Originally posted at ao3 02/24/2024

~*~

She’s standing over him like a specter in the dark for he doesn’t know how long.

He’s reminded of Sarah and how she would creep to the side of his bed, padding in on silent feet her footie pajamas. He would drift up from the depths of sleep and there would be a small child with dark, glinting eyes staring into his damned soul, and he’d think of The Shining , those twin girls at the end of the long hall.

He hated horror movies even more now that he’d lived one.

“Jesus,” he shudders, rearing back. He hasn’t slept with a gun under his mattress for months, but that doesn’t stop him from reaching for one. “Ellie? What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer, but he can make out the faint trembling of her shoulders in the darkness.

“Nightmare?” he asks, and she gives a single terse nod.

He scoots back to the opposite edge of the bed and pulls back the covers.

“She’s…n-not here?” she asks, voice cracking at the edges, sounding too small and fragile for her 17 years.

“At the clinic tonight,” he murmurs. “C’mere, kiddo.”

She crawls into bed, pulling the quilt up to her chin, her hand automatically finding his under the covers. It reminds him of when they were on the road, bedrolls laid out side by side at a respectable distance, but never quite far enough that they couldn’t reach out and reassure the other that they were still together, still alive.

The tiniest hiccup of a sob as her fingers tighten over his.

“Breathe, kiddo. You’re alright.”

“I…know,” she hitches, but she doesn’t loosen her grip. Her hand is icy, he can feel the vibration of her lingering terror, and he resists the urge to pull her into his arms.

Ellie wasn’t a snuggler. She’d been raised at arm’s length, starved for touch until the need was cruelly erased from her biology. The last time she willingly curled up against him was after Silver Lake when they’d sought shelter in an unheated cabin and been forced into proximity by her shock and the need to conserve body heat. She’d clung to him like a baby koala, unable to make her bloodied, frozen fingers let go of his shirt. He’d held her like that for hours, rocking her back and forth like a small child as he tried not to think about how close they’d come to losing each other.

But after that, even on the worst nights, when the nightmares chased her relentlessly into the dark, she wanted her space. So he’d lie on the floor next to her bed and she’d curl around his hand until she fell asleep. He’d wake up with a neckache that took a week to abate, his spine popping like firecrackers when he finally managed to sit up, but he never complained.

~*~

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks when she’s quieted, when her grip on his fingers is no longer iron-tight.

“S’the usual,” she whispers, thumb running over the dry, scarred skin of his knuckles, the knuckles he’d broken and bloodied in her defense more than once. “Nothin’ new.”

She’s picked up his drawl, he’s noticed. It comes out when she’s tired.

“Thought maybe they’d stopped,” she sighs, watery and defeated. “Feel like such a fuckin’ baby.”

He grunts in sympathy. “Bad dreams don’t care how old you are, kiddo.”

He should know.

After a while, her voice drifts from the dark, muffled by the quilt.

“Do you dream about her? About Sarah?”

The name doesn’t hurt so much when it falls from his daughter’s lips. His answer is a whisper.

“Not enough.”

~*~

She’d moved out to the garage two months ago, and, surprising no one but himself, he’d taken the separation hardest of all. He hadn’t realized how much he depended on the comfort of her presence until she was outside, divided by the night and a locked garage door. When he couldn’t sleep, he’d sit on the porch and watch the soft light of her window until he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

She’d imprinted on him like a mother on its young. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?

Three years from the time she launched herself at him with the intent to kill. Three years since he snarled like a cornered animal and told her she wasn’t his daughter. Three years since she brought him back from the dead.

And now he’s expected to just…let her go. He rails internally at the unfairness of it.

You need her more than she needs you , isn’t that what you said?

He regrets every second of her life that he’d missed, so many years he’d never see. Her first smile, her first words, her first steps, all at the hands of an uncaring military governess. He couldn’t have been a father then, anyway, too deep in the pills and booze and self-loathing to care about anything but making the next run…but a deep, hidden part of him can’t forgive himself for not finding her sooner. For failing her before he knew he had someone to fail.

He doesn’t realize his pillow is damp until she speaks.

“Dude…are you crying ?”

“No,” he huffs. “M’just tired. Someone woke me up.”

He hears the shit-eating grin in her words.

“You’re worse than Maria when she’s pregnant.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. God, she was right, though. He was hopeless–soft and mushy in his old age, bruised as an overripe fruit. Sometimes he doesn’t recognize himself after what she started, what you finished.

“Hey, I heard a good one the other day,” she continues.

“Shoot.”

“I was gonna make myself a belt made out of watches…but then I realized it would be a waist of time .”

Joel snorts, smiles. “That’s awful. Two outta ten.”

“I saw you grin. That’s worth at least a five.”

“Three,” he counters. “Final offer.”

“Ugh, fine.”

~*~

“Joel?”

“Mmm-yeah,” he murmurs. He’s drifting, half asleep.

“Are you gonna marry her?”

That wakes him up. “What? Jesus.”

She giggles, a sound he can’t hear often enough. “C’mon, dude. You love her. You want her to have all your gross old-man babies.”

“Shuddup,” he grumbles. “We’re not–I don’t–Christ, I’m sixty fuckin’ years old, kid.”

Marriage wasn’t common in Jackson–there was no registrar, nothing legally binding–but some people still liked the ritual. Last month, Theresa and her girlfriend tied the knot in a small ceremony in the south field. Joel was pretty sure he and Ellie had only been invited because of his relationship with you, and then he’d only attended because you insisted it wouldn’t be weird.

It was weird. But, as Ellie was quick to point out, there was free cake.

“Hmm. You were married before, though, right? To Sarah’s mom?”

“Yeah.”

He’d spent a week’s wages on two cheap gold bands and wore his ring for years after the divorce was final. It was easier than answering questions from nosy strangers and single women. Where had that ring gone? Probably caked in dust in a drawer somewhere in Texas.

“So…did you love her?”

He snorts. “Was a different time.”

“...what about Tess?”

The name sends an unexpected pang of regret through him.

“No,” he sighs. “Not the way you’re thinkin’.”

It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth. What he can’t say is that he couldn’t love Tess; that he couldn’t love anyone back then, really.

Not until Ellie. She had taken his broken heart and sewn it back together with crude stitches in trembling hands the same way she’d mended his wounds in Colorado. Then she’d handed it back to him and refused to let him go.

She was impossibly stubborn and impossible not to love.

“Why’re you askin’?” 

He feels rather than sees her shrug in the dark. She’s mentioned a girlfriend in passing, and he’s done what he hopes is an admirable job of not making a fuss over it, but he’s out of his depth. She’s outlived his first kid by a lifetime, and it’s all terrifying and new, like when he’d brought Sarah home, tiny and fragile in his clumsy, unstained hands.

Sarah, who had never seen a prom, never had a first date, never been kissed. Sarah, who would never be a bride.

He tries to imagine giving Ellie away, laughs to himself at the notion of ever having kept her in the first place. Could he walk her down an aisle and let her go? He’s a brute, but he’s never been strong. He is a weak, selfish old man.

…but he could do it if she wanted him to, he decides. If it meant she would have the kind of happiness he’s found with you, he could do it. Would do it.

“Marriage is just a buncha paperwork, anyway,” he grumbles, forcing his eyes shut.

“What a fuckin’ romantic,” she snorts. “Remind me what she sees in you again?”

He wants to tell her that love in the apocalypse is the protection of a loaded gun, plenty of food, and the safety of strong walls.

He wants to ask if she’s been in love before. If she’s in love now.

But he does neither of these things. He just smiles and answers truthfully.

“Couldn’t tell you, kid.”

~*~

You stumble up the stairs when the dawn light is golden on the horizon, bleary-eyed and ready to fall into bed.

There’s a lump under the covers in your spot. Joel and Ellie are mirror images of each other; on their sides, knees tucked up, his hand tucked under her chin. Even their soft snores are set to the same gentle rhythm, bonded by something stronger, richer than blood.

You linger in the doorway, heart in your throat at this indulgence, this tenderness found between two lonely, bruised souls.

You think it might be hope.