#it's funny how a game i was barely familiar with just half a year ago has ended up helping me deal with extreme stress.

[mysterywheeze]

If you've ever struggled with suicidal ideation, this has likely been a particularly difficult week. It certainly has been for me. I've lost a lot of trust in a lot of people. I hope this post doesn't make anyone lose trust in me.

You need to live. That means you, the person reading this post. I don't know your name or your situation but I know, with the same certainty that I know that the Earth is turning, that you need to live.

I know that it can be hard, crushingly hard. I know what it's like to feel so empty that getting out of bed seems impossible, or so overwhelmed that drastic action seems like the only way out.

It isn't. Death is not the answer. It sure as fuck isn't praxis. Please, please do not let anyone convince you otherwise. If you think that your death will have a net positive effect on the world, I promise you, as someone who has been there before, it won't.

And while I encourage you to do what you can to try and make the world a better place - donate to charity, pick up litter, volunteer your time, write your representatives, et cetera - I want to make it clear that those aren't requirements you need to meet to justify being alive. Your life has value, inherently.

Today things may be terrible. They may stay terrible for a while. But one day, a song will get stuck in your head that makes you feel something again. You'll meet a dog that loves you unconditionally. You'll eat a meal that tastes like it was cooked by an angel. You'll pick up a new hobby, perhaps without even realizing it, and it will bring you some sense of satisfaction. You'll watch a beautiful movie. You'll walk past a beautiful mural. Someone will compliment your outfit, someone will laugh at your joke, someone will tell you they're happy to spend time with you. One day you will wake up early enough to see the sun rise.

It's a cliche to say "it will get better". That's because it's true. It probably won't be a linear upward trend, rarely do things stay better forever, but there will come a time when you'll be glad you stayed alive. I promise.

[clarionglass]

archangel 2.0 (game master cinematic universe, part 8) | read on ao3

“Absolutely not,” Siobhan said when she rounded the corner to see Sam’s evil doppelganger coming the opposite way down the corridor. “Whatever plans you’re cooking up, I’m not in the mood for them today.”

Other Sam just shrugged at her. “No plans. Perfectly innocent, that’s me.”

“Like hell,” Siobhan replied. “You’ve already fucked with me once, I’m not believing that for a second. Why are you even here, anyway? I know for a fact you shouldn’t be filming today.”

“You people commandeered my home, not the other way around,” Other Sam said with clearly forced patience.

Siobhan just hummed in response, noncommittal and suspicious, and Other Sam tilted his head to examine her closely, then straightened, pleased with what he saw.

“You never really liked me, did you, Siobhan?” he asked, a faint smile of satisfaction playing about his lips. “You always had a feeling that something was off. You know, it's funny what the subconscious remembers, even when it didn't really happen.”

“God,” Siobhan bit out with an impatient roll of her eyes. “Fuck. Yes. I know you wiped my memory, well done you, you can stop fucking gloating about it.”

“Aw, you think I'm talking about that? Oh, no. You've seen me before. Trusted me, even.” 

Other Sam smiled, and when he spoke next, his voice was different. “Enough to vote for me, as it happens.”

“What the fuck?” Siobhan asked, genuinely bewildered, because that voice was eerily familiar. Though it hadn't crossed her mind in nearly 20 years, it used to be everywhere, back in her uni days. Political advertisements, news briefings, Question Time; you could barely turn on the TV without hearing it.

“Oh, good,” Other Sam said instead of answering, back to his usual accent and clearly pleased with himself. “I was worried I mightn't have kept the voice.”

“But that was—” Siobhan began, and faltered. It was English, for a start, pitch perfect in a way that didn't feel like a put-on accent. The range, the register, the cadence—they were all slightly different from Sam's, but somehow just as natural. Firm and authoritative, but in a friendly way. The voice of a politician you would be happy to vote for. The voice of a politician she had voted for, in fact, seventeen years ago. 

“That was Harold Saxon,” she said in disbelief. “You can't—no. Do you mimic voices, or—”

“Oh, no,” Other Sam replied cheerfully. “That was me. He was me.”

Siobhan just looked at him flatly. “You can't expect me to believe that.”

“Believe me or not, it's true,” he said. “It's a fun little thing called regeneration.”

Siobhan's eyes narrowed. “And what's that?”

Other Sam mustn't have been expecting her to call him on that, or had revealed more than he planned to, because to Siobhan's private delight, he looked suddenly uncomfortable. He folded his arms, closing himself off—but even so, was unable to fully hide his unease, fingers tapping out a restless tic on his upper arm. 

“Quirk of Time Lord biology,” he answered shortly. 

“You're not getting away with a half-arsed answer like that,” she snapped back. “What does it mean?”

He paused, weighing his words carefully, even as the jitters in his fingers betrayed him. “We don't die,” he said slowly. “Or, we do, but… it's not permanent death. We change.”

“Change what?”

Another pause, another careful consideration of how much to reveal; silence, except for that faint, almost imperceptible tapping.

“Everything,” he replied eventually. “Face, body, even the way we think, to an extent. Every single cell, overwritten.”

“Bullshit,” Siobhan breathed. But—it was just something to say. Deep in her heart, she believed him. 

Other Sam just shook his head. “I was Harold Saxon,” he said—not an insistence, but a fact, solid as stone. “You knew me, Siobhan. The whole world did.”

It was too much to be true, but it couldn't be a lie. She felt the disquiet building in the pit of her stomach, felt her own knotted fingers start to fidget, drumming out a quiet rhythm.

“Why?” she asked. “Harold Saxon was PM for a couple of days, then had some kind of mental break and was never seen again. What did you have to gain from doing that?”

“That's only what happened the second time round,” he said softly. “The first time was much more interesting.”

Something didn't feel right. The world felt unstable, like at any minute, the wallpaper that was the backdrop to reality would start to sag and peel. But Other Sam had the answers, it seemed. And there was security in knowledge. 

“What do you mean?” Siobhan asked.

“You know what happened,” Other Sam said. “Even if it didn't happen, not really. But I can show you, if you want.”

“Please,” she breathed, and Sam's exact double met her eyes with all the gravity of a black hole. 

“Do you trust me, Siobhan?”

And the funny thing was, she did. Despite it all, despite everything she knew and everything he had done, she couldn't help but believe in him. Everything he said sounded rational, reliable, reassuring—a port in the storm. 

She nodded.

“Good.” He smiled, then, slow and broad, and she trusted that, too. “I'm glad, because this might be… uncomfortable.”

Other Sam pulled out his microphone from inside his jacket pocket and aimed it at her. It made a strange buzzing noise, the tip glowing bright, and suddenly she was bent double, clutching her head as pain a thousand times worse than any migraine she'd ever had splintered through her skull. 

It was like nothing she'd ever felt before, and she couldn't escape the agonising clarity as memories she had previously believed to be whole and solid peeled apart into two mirrored pieces. 

On June 20th, 2007, Siobhan Thompson voted Saxon in the UK general election.

On June 23rd, 2007, Siobhan Thompson watched the TV in the university caf as Prime Minister Harold Saxon shot the US President dead, and the broadcast of an apparent “first contact” suddenly cut to a black screen.

On June 23rd, 2007, Siobhan Thompson watched the TV in the university caf as Prime Minister Harold Saxon shot the US President dead, then looked out upon his domain with satisfaction as the sky opened wide like a mouth, spilling out millions and millions of bladed metal spheres that laughed with the voices of children.

On December 31st, 2007, Siobhan Thompson spent the night partying with friends, ringing in the new year with hopes that 2008 would bring nothing but good things. 

On December 31st, 2007, Siobhan Thompson spent the night tossing and turning in a fitful sleep after another day slaving in the labour camps, producing resources for the Master’s war to come. Her days consisted of nothing but work and sleep, with barely a thought to spare about what the new year would bring, but if she had been pressed to name a hope—it would be for relief. In one form or another.

On June 24th, 2008, Siobhan Thompson thought about America. It held the promise of a bright future, maybe a career in her chosen field of archaeology, or maybe any number of exciting new opportunities. It would be scary, uprooting her entire life to move halfway around the world, but oh, it would be worth it. All she had to do was jump.

On June 24th, 2008, Siobhan Thompson thought one word, the one word that united the entire planet. It held the promise of a bright future, the revival of a god and the downfall of a devil, the world unfolding with possibilities outside the confines of the labour camps that were all she’d known for the past year. It was scary, placing her trust—her life—in nothing more than a story, but oh, it would be worth it. All she had to do was believe.

Both timelines were true. One had been reversed when the paradox that sustained it had been broken, but Siobhan couldn't deny that they both had happened. Impossibly, the parallel sets of memories were carved equally deep into her mind and body, the life she knew existing side by side with the ghosts of trauma.

In the present, she looked at Other Sam—the Master—with abject horror.

“You can’t have,” she whispered, eyes wide.

“But I did,” Other Sam replied cheerfully, and god, it was a mindfuck, aligning the atrocities of the year that never was with the familiar face of a friend she’d known for years. The deaths, the labour camps, the slavery, the shipyards, the radiation pits; all to feed a war that would reach across the stars, and all masterminded by the man who now stood in front of her as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“And now you’re here,” Siobhan hissed. “From fucking… god-emperor of the Earth to just working at Dropout, huh?”

“Oh, all of that was the old me,” Other Sam said innocently. “I’ve changed. In more ways than one,” he added, with that little peering-at-his-hands gesture that Siobhan recognised from the Deja Vu recording. 

She scoffed. “And I’m supposed to just trust that?”

“You did a minute ago,” Other Sam replied with a faint smile.

Her heart sank. She had. She undeniably had. She’d let him fuck with her brain without even questioning it, because when he asked, she’d trusted him implicitly, even when mere moments before she was questioning him with all the suspicion she could muster.

Which meant, worst of all, that that feeling of trust hadn’t come from her.

“How did you—?”

“The Archangel network,” Other Sam said, not even bothering to hide his smugness. “Remember that?”

Of course she did. It was the best carrier, back in the day, before it went offline—shortly after Harold Saxon was removed as Prime Minister, as a matter of fact. She’d used it. Everyone had used it.

“Good, wasn’t it?” he continued. “A low-level psychic field, moving your thoughts to exactly where I wanted them. And even though the satellites were taken down, that was still nearly eighteen months of conditioning.”

“Fuck you,” Siobhan breathed.

Other Sam grinned. “Can’t do it across the whole planet anymore, but one-on-one, well, let’s just say I have a rather… magnetic personality. So if I give you that same stimulus…”

He began drumming his fingers again, and this time, Siobhan could see it for what it truly was. Not a fidget, but a signal, written deep into her subconscious seventeen years ago—abandoned, forgotten, but never truly gone. And she had echoed it so readily, she realised, had been sucked into the pattern without even noticing. Tap tap tap tap, tap tap tap tap, tap tap tap tap.

Trust me, it said somewhere deep in her brainstem, soft and insidious and unable to be ignored. Believe in me. And—

“Stop it!” she snapped, clenching her fists to still her traitorous fingers.

Other Sam raised his eyebrows, the picture of innocence. “Stop what?”

“You know exactly what,” she growled, holding onto her anger like a shield. “The drumming.”

He laughed, a bitter little huff of a sound. “If only you understood the irony of asking me that. But fine, if you insist.”

As she felt that creeping influence leave her, Siobhan let her hands relax, but not her mind. “Don't you ever try that on me again.”

Other Sam just pulled a mournful face. “But it's so much fun!” he protested.

As Siobhan glared daggers at him, he raised his hands, palms facing outwards in surrender. “Don't worry, don't worry,” he said. “I've got places to be. In fact, you've actually given me a very good idea.”

“No, no—”

“I'm leaving you alone, Siobhan. Isn't that what you wanted?”

“No, fuck—”

It was too late. Other Sam was already walking down the corridor purposefully, ignoring her completely. With a feeling of dread building in the pit of her stomach, she pulled out her phone and began to write a text. 

---

Sam burst into the editing suite, Siobhan close behind, to see his doppelganger sitting at one of the computers with a look of quiet focus. 

He looked up when he heard the door, and seeing who had just entered, sneered. “Oh. It's the cavalry.”

“What are you doing?” Sam demanded.

His double merely gave him a cool look. “Tell you later.”

“Hell no, dog,” came a new voice from the doorway, and Sam's double blinked to see Lou, still breathing heavily from what must have been a jog from the other end of the studio. 

“Tch. You, too?”

“Course,” Lou replied, looking at Siobhan with fierce pride. 

Sam, now fully inside the room, stepped out of the doorway to let Lou enter, which he did with a glint in his eye. 

The Master merely watched, one eyebrow raised coolly as the other man walked close, staring him down the entire time. And when a fist rocketed into his shoulder, hard and accurate, the carefully-cultivated air of perfect nonconcern shattered as he winced in pain.

“That's for Escape the Greenroom, you sick son of a bitch,” Lou said, shaking out his hand. 

Other Sam frowned, rolling his shoulders back with an audible crunch. “Fine,” he shrugged, the lines of pain in his face giving the lie to his nonchalant words. “Fine. Get it out, if you have to.”

Lou smiled dangerously. “Good,” he said, and wound up once again. 

The second punch hit Other Sam squarely in the jaw, and was even harder than the first. 

“And that's for everything you did to the world. And more importantly, everything you did to my friend.” He turned back to Siobhan. “Good?”

“Good,” she confirmed. Her smile faded as she switched her gaze to Other Sam. “Get fucked.” 

“Hell yeah,” Lou said with satisfaction, and turned to go. “Yeah, you can schedule me with him for shit now,” he added as he passed by Sam, who nodded.

With a click, the door closed behind him, leaving Sam and his doppelganger, still rubbing life back into his jaw, alone in the editing suite.

“I can’t say you didn’t deserve that,” Sam remarked.

His double merely sniffed, turning his attention back to the monitor.

“So. Now it’s just us, like you wanted, what is it that you’ve really been doing in here?”

“Getting you more subscribers,” his doppelganger replied matter-of-factly. “Isn’t that something you want?”

“Well—”

“Sam,” came the cool response. “Come on. I know how much you stress about those budget meetings, because you say it’s part of my penance to pretend to be you in some of them.” His mouth twisted, and he added, “I’ve been so good about it, too. Haven’t murdered even one of your board, and it’s been incredibly tempting. But you need the revenue, you need the profits, you need the subscribers.”

Unfortunately, Sam couldn’t deny it.

“I’m doing you a favour,” his double said softly, seeing the light of resistance fade from his eyes. “I’m not hurting anyone, it’s just a low-level psychic signal that nobody will notice. Subconsciously prompting social media viewers to actually subscribe, if they like what they see. And share it with their friends, and so on. It’s all for the benefit of Dropout, I promise.”

“You know I’ve gotta suspect you’ve got an ulterior motive, right?” Sam asked.

“I know,” his doppelganger replied. “But even if you don’t trust me, and you think I’m up to something—well, whatever that is, it’s a problem for later, right?”

Sam grimaced. “Yeah, please don't ask me to trust you. Siobhan told me what you did.”

His doppelganger just shrugged. “That was then.”

“She also told me what you did about ten minutes ago.”

“Like I said,” his double countered. “That was then. But I’m grounded, remember? I have to use my talents, brilliant as they are, for good. Or whatever you call good, anyway. The good of the company, maybe, and it’s definitely that.”

“Look. I’m only agreeing because I’ve got the Doctor on speed dial,” Sam said slowly, after a few moments’ thinking time, and he watched as a grin spread like oil across his double’s face. “Don't make me regret this.”

“Cross my hearts,” the Master replied.

---

missed an installment of the game master cinematic universe?

original idea by @ace-whovian-neuroscientist: x

art by @northernfireart concept: x scissor sisters sketch: x sam and his doppelganger: x escape the death beam: x brian and other sam: x

by @bloopdydooooo drawing collection: x

writing by me (!) part one (escape the greenroom): x part two (deja vu): x part three (sam says 4): x part four (you think you know someone): x part five (point and counterpoint): x part six (a selection of correspondence): x part seven (all good things should have a bit of malice in them): x part eight (archangel 2.0): you are here!

[yanderefairyangel]

*sight*

Alright I have two rants to do because this fandom is very exhausting.

1/ the minor one because I still saw people arguing whether or not the Fell twins are Alear's sibling and I am being like "How are you still involved into this stupid discourse it's been 6 month since the Dlc came out I though it was finally over 4 month ago (ಥ﹏ಥ)". They are confirmed to be romance, that mean they aren't. Idc if you think it makes you morally superior to acts like they are siblings when the writing doesn't treat them as such, it just makes you looks like a weirdo for arguing you can date your half sibling in a video game and dumb as it shows you don't even pay attention to the writing of said game ! And I know they aren't genuinely wanting to view Alear and them as a platonic/family relationship because if they did they wouldn't even try to argue on them being canon related. I am the first one to correct people on Byleth's lack of kinship with the Nabateans, doesn't prevent me from having some draft of Byleth acting as family with Sothie and Rhea and the whole point of Engage is that family is based on connection through bond not blood ! The only reason why they want to prove that is because they don't like the option being a thing, even though the Fell twins's relationship with Alear has no relevance in the main story outside of shipping. I am tired to see that the only thing people have to say about them is that, they don't deserves it. And I am not even saying you have no right to prefer to view them as family, if you genuinely like them like that please go on, you are doing an amazing job and have fun, but the fact that those people who argue clearly are doing it just to shame anyone who want to waifu Nel or Rafal is annoying and toxic when IS themselves allowed it to be a thing. I respect not liking it, but I don't respect using it as way to look down on others and claim to be moraly superior.

2/The biggest one because I am tired : NO liking 3H and disliking Engage doesn't make you more intelligent or superior then fans who don't. I am tired of people acting as if Engage fans had low IQ and calling us "weeb trash with no taste". This is the exact same mentality as people liking "modern trendy songs"looking down on people who likes doujin music. I am so sorry for liking a game who has an enjoyable gameplay and is an actual strategy game with funny custom and an actual place where I can take a break from the story and do little mini games, griding or skip it to my heart's content over the one that is very easy to break, punishes me for not playing it "the correct way" forcing me to do boring shores for support or training grinding, being an actual paradox of a game with features making it all easy yet punishing me for skipping the most boring part of the game with this monastery and hellish calendar system that breaks the pacing. I am sorry for liking a game with much smaller and tamer world builing using most basic references that French/European speakers like me can get over one that has this gigantic wordbuliding barely using it correctly and shoved with 1 000 of references that most people I am sure have no idea existed or are familiar with. I am sorry for liking a game that uses symbolism as a way to strenghen its narrative over one that uses symbolism as a way to tell its story. I am sorry for liking a story that actually rewards me for replaying it by letting me noticing the amount of thoughts that were put into it since it's obvious that everything was planned as confirmed by the early concept art of Alear and its sheer amount of foreshadowing and clever use of japanese over a story that objectively lacks focus and was confirmed to not be planned by the devs in the interview where they joked about 3H seeming to write itself on its own without them understanding how or about the 1000 year worth worldbuiliding that "no one truly knew about" and it shows that needs me to play all the routes to feel emotionally invested despite it not making sense with the context of said route despite having a team of 3 writers. I am sorry to prefer a tame worldbuiling I can actually explore and feel immersed into over that gigantic worldbuilings that is the epitome of tell don't show, infodumped on me 99% of the time with some of them never used again and so big that even the writers got lost into it as they confirmed themselves in the interview. I am sorry for liking the anime chessey opening that has more variety in its musicality and feels like a love song to the fans and franchise over the opening song that feels like an anime ending sung by a character who I ended up feeling nothing but indifference and that is being recycled over and over and over again in 99% of the soundtracks. I am sorry for liking a game that is so fun to replay that I have problem switching to another one over a game that is very tedious at some point and would actually gave you a burn out if you don't do some break. I am sorry for liking a game with beautiful graphics and animations, colorful, going as far as changing the sheath the character is wearing depending on which sword they are using over the game whose graphics makes it look bleak and unappealing and whose fruits looks like that

I am sorry for liking a game who had actual care and fun put into its developpement despite a lesser budget as felt throught the gameplay and the writing who despite not being the priority still felt more prepared and though about then the game who has a rushed developpement, was delayed for non covid reason, was literaly a collab because of the budget put into it and has far more cut content that were essential to its writing, including entire chapters. I am sorry for liking a game that has villain who are actual character with some depth even if they aren't morally conflicted individual over villains who are nothing of character but pure comically evil in a so called "morally grey" masterpiece and whose motivation needs you to get Buddhist references leaving room for people to make up story about how they were colonized. I am sorry for liking a game who has a satifisfactory ending over one that solve no conflict and every big thing happens off screen. I am sorry for liking a game capable of showing and not telling over one that keeps telling me stuff and barely shows anything. I am sorry for liking a game that despite being linear has a freaking bad ending over the one that is a split route and that should have some by laws but doesn't because you actually have no meaningful decision. I am sorry for liking a game where character have actual moral compass working on a moral system that speaks to my mind over one that ended up falling into moral relativism. I am sorry for liking a game whose story is much simplier and a breath of fresh air over the one who was so complex and over the top that people still have no idea what happened in said story 4 years later while keeping in mind that the only canon event is chapter 1-2. I am so so sorry for liking a game whose cast is fun and doesn't infodump you on their personal trauma 99% of the time creating convoluted backstory over a game that keeps making fun of the traumatic experience of their character and their ptsd. I am so very sorry so sorry sorry for liking a game whose protagonist might be an avatar but is an established characters with quality, flaws and struggles, dream to pursue, a character arc, character developpement, who is very endearing, whose female counterpart has an outfit that i love and has actual interaction with the cast even if it took a whole DLC to have one character having genuine chemistry with them to give me shipping brainrot over an avatar that is hated by it's own game and was the only thing I ended up liking from said game since they were the only reason why I kept on playing it and who makes me looks at them with sad eyes because of how much a spin off did them better and is the reason why the game's quality in story telling is lesser then it was supposed to be while waiting for an entire spin off to have someone having genuine chemistry with them and give me shipbrainrot. I am definetely very soorry for having things used in the game, having character whose backstory actually matter over the game that pretends to tackle serious subject but ignoring an entire freaking genocide. I am sooo very sorry for liking a game that is essentially a love letter to the franchise and to me and the others fans over one that divided the fandom into the most toxic conversation ever. Really sorry for being that stupid and tasteless.

Look, I might look like I do, but I don't hate 3H, it was still an enjoyable experience and I still think its a competent game that has a lot of strengh, but story and gameplay aren't its strengh. 3H still has one of the best cast in the entire franchise but I am tired of seeing people constantly accusing you of sheeting on the game for poiting its legitimate flaws and deluded or telling you to cope when you have actual reason to points out that there is things Engage objectively does better then 3H when it comes to writing. And I am tired to see tons of pathetic bad reviews that keeps proving to me that people lacks basic reading skills or are unable to understand the most basic and simple things with whatsmore no freaking body ever correcting their straight up wrong bad takes !! I am not saying Engage is a perfect masterpiece with no flaws, it has flaws, perfection is something that doesn't exist but the amount of bad faith criticism against that game is just baffling and it makes it worse since for some reason if you are an Engage fan and have some critics against 3H's way of handling things then you are automatically "just salty and jealous because 3h is more awesome then that L boring anime story" creating a magic shiel against critics 3h received 3 years before Engage ever came out and that we knew about it existing that are now deemed to be "being salty" or "drinking copium to thing Engage is good". I have encountered many 3H fans that are the first one to point out how the game creates its own plot holes because it was so ambitious it tripped over what it tried to do and said fans said they didn't talked as much about Engage because they though that they were less "fixing to do" which isn't surprising since the story was actually planned even if some moments still needs polishing. And I can't help but die a little inside each time I see comments or take of the style "if only we could get a game with the gameplay of Engage and the story of 3H then we would have the perfect fire emblem game" because No. Never, ever again. I don't want any more 3H style kind of story. Because I know that IS or rather KT is incapable of improving this mess. I though they would with the demo of 3 hopes seeing how it did the prologue better by miles but quickly realised they are unable to write this kind of story properly. They simply cannot improve Houses/Hopes kind of story. The perfect fire emblem would be an Engage 2.0 : not only from the gameplay, but with the story because Engage has genuinely little to improve and can be improved very easily unlike what the people who try to rewrite it completely changing the story or showing they didn't even understand it to begin with tries to gaslight you into thinking. That kind of storytelling works with Fire Emblem and is easy to do better. I want a good Fe game but a good Fe game would be an improved version of Engage's story that is to say with polishing rather then bringing back 3H kind of narrative. Never again.

And I repeat I don't hate 3H but I am tired of having to pretend it's a masterpiece and Engage is trashfire bad just because the fandom insist on comparing the incomparable when Engage ends up doing much better then 3H by far on both gameplay and storytelling, that's why I have much more fun dissecting Engage then 3H and the fandom's attitude plus the ambitions of 3H makes me less and less and less forgiving of it's flaws as time pass. And I also hate this stupid mentality that if a products fails then that means it's not finished or were made by incompetent people or had no care put into it because even if you dislike Engage, there is no denying the game is a finished products where love and care where put into and doing everything to make the player feel loved and rewarded each time they grab their switch because Engage was finished by 2019-2020 and would have launched if it were not for Covid, it might have sold less then 3H but it doesn't make it a failure because it never was supposed to and seeing the budget that was put into it, its current sale might be considered to be a success by the team compared to the game that was definetely delayed and costed much more just for the voice actors. I would never apply it to Houses because while I think it's story isn't its strengh at ALL, I can't deny that the devs genuinely wanted it to be a success on the story with the amount of references and worldbuiling showing they spend maybe days or weeks working and making researches for their work and I still enjoy 3H story analysis a lot like that super interesting essay on 3H's use of its soundtrack and I respect 3H for what it was trying to do, I even respect it more then Hopes that I did enjoyed more because it at least didn't ruin its story in an pathetic attempt to pander to the fandom as a bigger fanservice then implementing Marth and turning him into a mentor and angel guardian for Alear, because it was the biggest hommage FE could have done for its very first hero, showing how much he matured as a hero and paying hommage to his role as a Guide/Hero king.

In short I am tired to see people who don't even read the freaking game thinking they have the right to critize it and trash on it and be quoted religiously as references when freaking nobody bother correcting them even though anyone that has been paying attention to the events of the game would be able to answer their stupid bad takes that exist just for the sake of clickbaiting and looking down on other fans for loving and cherishing the love letter they have been given !!! I just want to enjoy all Fire Emblem games for what they do right and despite their flaws without having to feel like I have the IQ of a goldfish or doubting my intelligence for being able to do that. And I hate that people try to defend Engage by brining down Fe as a whole : No, Fe doesn't have all bad story, all story have their strengh and their weakness. No, Fe didn't always had bad writing, all of FE game's writing have their strengh and flaws even if some are improvements over others. And NO, FREAKING NO on Engage isn't meant to be taken seriously and wasn't meant to be good : this is a light hearted game with very vanilla shouneny writing, but it still takes itself seriously, even if it's not as much as game like Fe4 or Fe16 tried to. Yes it takes itself as seriously as Sailor Moon but when you write a vanilla kind of story that is inevitable. And BIG NO on that second part because Engage story is genuinely competent and good. Maybe not the greatest of Fe but it does more good things then bad things, it has more quality then flaws and trust me when something is really, reallly bad the redeeming quality can be counted on the finger's hand.

I am also tired to see people act as if Engage was a total failure when it is not : it still sold well for a title of this year, it still is played to this day by the likes of me, the only reason why I had to wait before buying it rather then preordering it was because I wanted to have a game I had the time to play and wanted to wait to be on holidays so I could have all my freetime occupied by it. It has people who likes it for what it is and aren't blind on its flaws, that loves the cast, loves the world building and makes content for it. And I hate that people justify comparing it to 3H by saying "we have to compare it to the previous entry" because it's not even true, would it be the case you would compare it to 3 Hopes, the game which Engage pull the rug out from under since we weren't supposed to have a Hopes in the first place but no one does that because they just want to compare it to something they think is superior to have the pleasure to trash on it while looking objective and smart just because they didn't liked it and want to feel right in doing so! To give an example, for my literary study one year ago I had to read Le Journal du Voleur by Jean Genet. I didn't liked it. My classmate didn't like it. Even the teacher didn't like it. But not because it was trash, but because it's not tasteful and is too dark for my and visibly their tastes too, to the point we had a pikachu face when our teacher told us we were studying the censored version of the book and even now I still can't believe it, and when we were finished with it, I got rid of it immediately. But objectively speaking, it has to be one of the most well written book I have ever read with a unique style and a writing showing its author is capable of turning the most rancy thing into the most poetic thing ever and you can feel it was empowering for him to write his life like that and that he loved the world he re-created. So while I wouldn't recommend it to anybody because I care about you, I will never ever claim I didn't like it because it was badly written because that would be dumb and stupid of me, it definetely deserves to be considered a literary work and I do think it's underrated for what it does with language. And if I did based things only on my taste then I'd call Houses garbage without any redeeming quality, but it's not true and we all know it.

I like both games even if I do it differentely and I can't stand people looking down on me for it or thinking I can't have genuine good points, especially when I spend over 400 hours into Engage, and I am not even counting the time I rewatched the over 1 long hour full movie version uploaded on youtube despite the salty and hateful comments just for the sake of making analysis when I could just check that because in that case I would have spend over 800 hours into the story. I even played with the JPN dub and checked the OG script to give the writing a fair chance, something I never did for any FE game before and wished I did.

If you asked me to pick Engage or 3H, I'd pick Engage any day because of how much more welcoming it is with it's simplier story and fun gameplay compared to Houses, a game that each time I had the wish to replay it ended up giving up because of how tedious it gets. I still try to be positive of Houses because of the genuine fun I had despite my personal gripes and the fact it has genius character writing, but the constant negativity against Engage to literaly worship Houses is so annoying it sour me on it, and it makes me fear that from now one every single game IS release will constantly end up being compared to 3H. I just can't.

[incaensio]

smile grows easily into a grin at the push and pull, until he gets the push and he is wrinkling his nose, rubbing at the place of injury. it lasts very little though, just acting, as familiar between them; he brings a palm to the back of her head and gives something that is half a nudge, half a caress. "doesn't stop anyone else, cor." not that she is like everyone else. constantinus wonders if his uncle had planned, or even thought of what would be the repercussions to raise his only daughter alienated from everything; he musn't have thought it through, because the girl barely appears capitolite, much less a snow. he's pretty sure callum — one of their cousins — has already started to take on bets on who will last the longest, whose death will be the most embarrassing, who will get the first iconic moment of this year's games (connie can't talk about that, seeing as he has first eyes and hands on all of that on the control room, but he listens, wishing he was unable to).

"not really her aunt." he corrects, mostly out of habit. the gamemakers were granted privileges beyond the story the media had to spin from the takes collected around the arena and the tributes' families, and constantinus, being a snow, knew even more. they had to fabricate that thing when the grumpy boy from twelve appeared (he still thinks he's her real boyfriend, but he omits that from cordelia; he isn't sure if her fondness towards katniss stretches towards the victor's perfect match, so best not to ruin that, too). "yeah that…" he grimaces as he recalls of hazelle hawthorne's evaluation. last out of twenty four, she had the room excited and her under-delivering had left most of his colleagues grumbling, pitying the lost opportunity of a good show. "i'd say don't watch this year's if you're concerned about the everdeens, but plutarch probably will expect some praise with all that he's building." that they're building, but connie isn't entirely breached on how much his cousin knows. it's funny, because they must see each other at least once a week (he's gotten her in, for fuck's sake), but one wrong word slips out and they're all fucked. so it's best to be in the dark.

"want to smoke?" he doesn't wait for an answer, careless if she does or not (he had given her eldest brother his first cigarette, some years ago, and their parents talked his ear off; their mother still grumbles, under her breath, that constantinus is such a bad influence. if only she knew), as he nods towards a room that says authorized personnel only. the peacekeeper at post stiffens as they approach, but connie knows this game, and fishes out some big bills, along with his id. say what you want about the snows, but a glimpse to the surname is enough for the guy to blink and let them pass (not without taking the money, of course), and connie snickers. "i think this balcony is better than grandpa's. not as good a view, but reeks less of old man and death."

it was likely just as callous of cora not to pay attention to the tributes' final days as it was to revel in their impending peril as the partygoers surrounding her do... but cora can't stomach the idea of adults entering the arena any better than she could when it was children. choosing to, instead, flit around this archive of a venue, playing at sociability before finding herself entrapped in a... one sided "discussion" with a former escort who can't resist regaling the president's granddaughter with tales of their favourite victor and how utterly convinced they are that a tribute reaped for the imminent quell is the very image of said victor. their second coming! they claim. it's a stretch of the imagination too far for even cora to pretend to want to entertain. brown eyes begin to glaze over in boredom until the sudden sensation of an arm snaking around her neck and over her shoulder jolts her back to reality.

restlessness evaporates, a glimmer of relief flashing across her dolled up features as her cousin's authoritative voice cuts through the drivel. constantinus' swift dismantling of the escort earning a smile from cora that she then rushes to suppress, pressing a hand to her lips in an attempt to hide the gentle amusement. it's as convincing a rouse as any other he's tried among the years. cora might almost believe it too, if not for the fact that her mother scarcely ever cared about what her daughter was up to at any given time. she'll contemplate a world in which she did care : supposing that she hadn't expressed an adequate amount of jubilation at the idea of a mother of four meeting her grizzly end in the arena... how embarrassing of her.

❛ be sure to add it to my tab. ❜ she retorts. there's no ounce of resistance to being led away by con, falling back into the familiarity of his presence with immense gladness. he's one of just a handful of people she shares such closeness with. likely the only person here she'd want to willingly spend time with... though she is quick to feign pain upon feeling his faint grip upon her hair, rolling her head back in an exaggerated fashion as a particularly girlish ❛ ow. ❜ escapes her. what follows is a light jab to his rib, in the name of retaliation, courtesy of her elbow. cora quite unable to help the way her nose wrinkles bashfully at the utterance of "lover girl", ❛ you know i would go and talk to her, con... if i wasn't certain that i'm one of the very last people she'd want to engage in conversation with here. ❜ victors typically treat her well enough but cora, little mistress of the art that she was, could spot a forced smile from across the room and tributes who won the games often appeared as reliant on them as she was. she certainly didn't blame them for wanting to retreat from engaging with those who bore the surname, snow. proximity to their grandfather was all it took. if only they knew of how sorely she wished to do the same. ❛ she must have a great deal on her mind already, her aunt being a tribute and all. ❜

[seriouslysnape]

Picture Perfect

__

Draco Malfoy x Fem. Reader

Warnings: Sexual implications (a lottttt of them)

A/N: I might do a part two to this...

Word Count: 1,635

“Like them? I love them.”

__

You watched with anticipation as Draco popped another one of the Bertie Botts Flavour Beans into his mouth. His sculpted jaw moved up and down as he chewed. His eyes suddenly shut tightly and his face contorted into disgust. You leaned forward a tad, curious to see what mystery flavor he had picked. He swallowed hard and coughed at the foul taste.

“Soap.” He sputtered, reaching for the glass of water on his bedside table.

You bursted into laughter, laughing even harder at the way he brought a hand to his chest as the taste dissipated from his tongue. He grinned at you from over the rim of his glass, taking another sip.

“Your turn.” He said. 

This was a game of sorts that you and Draco liked to play whenever the two of you made a trip to Hogsmeade. Honeydukes Sweets Shop was your absolute favorite place to go and make pleasurable purchases. There were endless rows of candies and other tooth rotting snacks that were your ultimate guilty pleasure. 

You were always sure to snag a new box of Bertie Botts Flavour Beans. You and Draco would sit in his private, prefect room and take turns selecting a bean and seeing which flavor you were bestowed with. You were snug in one of his Quidditch jumpers, your legs wrapped around his waist while the two of you sat on his bed. 

Draco was always less fortunate than you during this game.

You took a bean into your hand, taking a breath when you put it in your mouth. Your tense shoulders relaxed when you started chewing. A delicious, fruity taste flooded your tastebuds, a cheeky grin appearing on your face. Draco threw his head back in exasperation at the sight of you getting yet another good flavor.

“Again?” He asked.

You nodded.

“Cherry.” You smiled, swallowing the small candy.

Draco’s blonde eyebrows raised, a devious look crossing over his face. His hands rested on your thighs that were secured around him, leaning forward.

“Mmm. Do you mind sharing?” He smirked.

You hummed affirmatively, capturing his lips in a hot kiss. His tongue danced with yours, tasting your familiarity and the traces of cherry candy. His hands went to the side of your neck to bring you closer, while you gripped at the collar of his sweater. His kisses muffled your girly giggles, a chuckle vibrating out from his own chest. 

You tapped his shoulder to pause your make out session, a mumble of realization sounding out from your throat. He whined when you stopped kissing him, but based on the bright look on your face, you had something in mind. 

“I have something for you.” You announced in a playful way.

His gray eyes darkened a touch, his fingertips drumming on the skin of your leg. 

“Is that so?” He questioned, making guesses already in his head.

You were giddy with joy as you scrambled from his array of blankets and his comforter. You reached into your backpack, pulling out a solid black book with a red bow on it. It was a rather large book, about the size of his Care of Magical Creatures textbook. Draco felt a quick surge of panic. He was the worst about remembering holidays and birthdays, and he instantly thought that maybe he had forgotten something special.

“Don’t get mad if I have, but...did I miss something?” He asked.

You let out a snicker as you rejoined him on the bed. Ever since he had forgotten your birthday a few months ago, now he was always afraid he was going to miss something else. 

“You haven’t. This is just something I’ve been working on.” You bubbled up gleefully.

You set the book on his lap, watching as his eyes raked over the cover. He felt a warmth in his chest at being given a gift just because you cared. He pushed the bow off of the sides of the book, opening the cover to see a little note you had written for him, signed at the end with your name and everything. The thick pages indicated to him that it was a picture album. 

He turned to the first page, an unmistakable smile of jubilation appeared on his face. The first two pages each had four Polaroid like pictures secured evenly. You were smiling happily in each of the first several photos, wearing different outfits and in different locations. Draco’s heart was beating with exuberance in his chest as he looked through the first couple of pages. 

“Oh, darling. These are great,” He praised; “They’re positively stunning. They-” 

His sentence was cut short when he got about halfway through the pages, his voice getting caught in his throat when the pictures immediately took on a new theme. His smile faded into a shocked, slight jaw drop. The second half of the book was filled with sultry, boudoir style photos. His fingertips trailed over one in particular where you were wearing your school robes, but the only thing you were wearing underneath was one of Draco’s Slytherin uniform ties settled between your breasts. 

In other photos, you were wearing different sets of lingerie. There was one lacy, black colored set that almost made him faint right then and there. 

He was knocked speechless, unable to string together a single sentence. You were beginning to feel a little self conscious, and even a bit embarrassed that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. You had honestly expected him to completely attack you with feverish kisses or fuck you right then and there. The fact that he was completely silent was unsettling.

You fiddled with your hands in your lap, uncertainty in your tone as you spoke up to break the silence.

“I...do you like them?” You wondered, hoping to get a positive reaction.

Draco’s eyes never left the book. He turned to the next page, a rush of arousal flushing over him at one in particular where you were completely naked, stretched out on his bed and giving a look so seductive that it made Draco’s belly flutter. The sight of you naked on his bed...it was hot.

“Oh, baby. Darling, my love...” He breathed out, trying to complete at least one full thought; “Like them? I love them.” He almost growled.

You exhaled a breath of relief, feeling a sense of excitement as he continued to rake over them. He turned to a new set of pictures, a hot blush creeping onto his cheeks.

“You’re so stunning...so sexy.” He purred.

You laughed shyly, a bashful smile washing on your face. You rubbed his knee, your hand feeling like electricity on him. He couldn’t look away from the scandalous photos, each one becoming more dirty than the last. He was riled up and he was already looking forward to having this book at his disposal.

“Who took these?” He pondered, wondering which one of your lucky girl friends had the pleasure of seeing you actually model these outfits and strip down naked.

You just had to take advantage of this moment. You couldn’t help but mess with him just a little bit. You choked down the chuckle that would surely give you away.

“Potter.” You lied.

Draco’s head snapped up so fast and his eyes filled with an indescribable look of hot jealousy. He chest tightened, but relaxed when he realized you were kidding based off of your burst of laughter. He sighed harshly and rubbed his forehead as you laughed at his intense reaction. The thought of you asking Harry Potter to take these photos for you filled him with such a rage, but he even laughed it off when he knew you were joking.

“That’s not funny.” He said pointing a finger at you, and continuing to go through the photos.

Your giggles died off, and you answered him honestly.

“Pansy took them. That’s how I was able to sneak in here when you weren’t here.” You explained.

Draco nodded, his jaw still slightly ajar as he loomed over them. You patiently waited as he finished looking through them, his pupils dilating more and more by the minute. He closed the book once he was finished, his eyes finally flickering up to you. He had grown a very prevalent erection, and his eyes were filled with an intense amount of lust. You knew one thing for sure.

He was going to rock your world tonight.

Over the last year or so of dating you, he tried not to be so aggressive when it came to your sex life. He tried not to pounce on you every time he felt turned on. He knew that sex was supposed to be the ultimate romantic connection, and not always supposed to be rushed. After those pictures though, he wanted you BAD. You could tell he was antsy, waiting (and also praying) for you to give him the okay. 

You leaned in, your lips just barely brushing over his, before you brought your lips to his ear. You purposely let out a wanton moan in his ear, a tantalizing sound to your voice.

“Touch me, Draco. I know you want me.” 

In a millisecond, Draco was on you. He kissed you roughly and pushed you down onto his mattress. He kept your hands pinned above your head, leaving open mouthed kisses on your neck as he intentionally drew the most wonderful sounds out of you. 

“What are the chances of you wearing one of those hot little outfits under this jumper?” He said in a steamy voice.

You squirmed against his hands, but to no avail. You rolled your hips into his, trying to create some friction. You threw him a wink, your response sending him into full fuck mode.

“Why don’t you find out?”

[yslkook]

sonder

pairing: taehyung x reader (exes au) summary: sonder: the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own. or

“What am I about to say?”

“That nothing has worked out for you since we dated, because even though the women you date are all wonderful, all you see in them is me,” You exhale, “I might have to kick you out if you say something as predictable as that.”

word count: 3459 warnings: alcohol, smut (penetrative sex, oral f receiving, tae is possessive for like half a second, some tears) a/n: inspired by these pictures of taehyung. also if this feels rushed, that was on purpose- i wanted to make them kinda messy 

Your second whiskey of the evening burns something bitter in the back of your throat, but you welcome it. It’s a welcome respite from the shitty week you’ve had, but that’s besides the point.

One of your favorite things to do to unwind after a tough week is to people watch, and one of your favorite places to do so was at the bars near your apartment. You liked to create vivid stories for these people that walked through the bar- who they were, what their backstories were. It was an amusing game to you, and even if both Yoongi and Hobi told you that you needed a better hobby, you’d only scoff at them.

Speaking of, Yoongi was supposed to be joining you soon. But apparently he’s running late. About fifteen minutes late, according to his cryptic text from earlier:

yoongi: running late, im bringing a friend

You think nothing of it, not really. And you just sip on your whiskey, watching a pair of new faces walk through the door from your stealthy booth in the corner of the bar.

You should’ve known that when Yoongi had said he was bringing a friend, it meant Taehyung. You briefly remember Yoongi telling you that Taehyung had moved back to the city a few weeks ago.

Taehyung, who had moved away halfway across the world years ago as a novice in the art history world. Taehyung, who had broken your delicate heart and taken pieces of it with him more than five years ago.

But even so, you harbor no ill feelings towards the man. He did what he had to do, and you did as well. It’s been so long now, that he should almost be a stranger to you. 

Yoongi watches the way your lips part in surprise at the sight of Taehyung- he knows there are still lingering feelings, maybe a lack of closure. Maybe something else that you don’t feel like discussing or diving into. You send him a hearty death glare his way but Yoongi ignores it.

You and Taehyung are nothing if not stubborn. Taehyung hasn’t stopped asking about you since he moved back to the city.

After all, you’ve hardly dated since Taehyung broke up with you. You had sincerely, genuinely believed that he was your one and only, your forever. It just hadn’t felt right, not with anyone else. So you just stopped, not wanting to force love with people if your heart really wasn’t in it.

And now, Taehyung is standing in front of you, dressed in expensive black from head to toe, looking as if he had just walked off of the runway before meeting up with Yoongi. His hair is longer than you ever remembered it being, two small silver hoops in his ears.

Handsome. He looks healthy and warm. He looks good.

You clear your throat and wave at both of them, opening your arms for a hug. Yoongi’s hug is brief, you see the man at least once or twice a week, but you pinch his waist for ambushing you like this. You gasp softly when Taehyung wraps his arms around you. You’d apparently forgotten how his body just fits into yours. Even after all this time.

It truly hasn’t been that long, but it feels like it.

“Hi,” Taehyung breathes into your hair. You should pull away, you really should. You can’t even meet Yoongi’s eyes, too bewitched by the hold that Taehyung somehow still has on you. 

You feel as though your heart is running a mile a minute, and yet it feels like you’re greeting an old friend after a long time. 

“Taehyung,” You say softly, his name sounding like a ghost of a memory, “It’s been a long time.”

You sit in your booth and Taehyung sits next to Yoongi. It feels like three old friends catching up after a while, not like if two exes are sitting with their mutual best friend trying not to catch glimpses of the other.

You take a sip of your drink with shaky hands. It’s going to be a long night.

At some point during the evening, Yoongi claims that Hoseok has an emergency and that he has to go. You think he planned this (both him and Hobi), because there’s a meddling glint in his eye that you haven’t seen recently.

You panic, scrambling to somehow get Yoongi to stay, so that you’re not alone with Taehyung. You’re afraid of what you might do or say. Or for what you might not do or say.

And yet, talking to him comes like second nature. Maybe it’s because you have years of history between the both of you, even if you haven’t spoken in the last five.

It hurt so much. When he broke up with you, you mourned the loss of your best friend. He had said you could try to be friends, but you couldn’t handle it at the time. And then more time went by… and suddenly, he was barely a thought in your passing mind. Yet, he still lingered, in your mannerisms. Maybe some part of you was still waiting on him. Which wasn’t healthy… But it wasn’t hurting anyone. And besides, you were okay. But you had never really believed in soulmates until Taehyung. Perhaps it was the lack of closure. 

At least that’s what you convinced yourself, because seeing Taehyung like this, laughing and talking to you as if no time has past throws you for a loop.

Mainly because… it’s so easy to fall into conversation with him. It’s so easy to laugh with him and make him laugh. You enjoy learning about everything he’s been up to over the last few years, all of his adventures, the sights he’s seen. How enthusiastic he is, how he finds beauty in everything.

You both had always been such good friends. Maybe that’s what you miss more than anything. Somehow, hours go by and you both are left to be the only ones in the bar-

“Hey what brought you here to begin with?” Taehyung asks, holding the door open for you, “Had a bad day? You still like people watching?”

“Yeah,” You say wistfully, “Something like that.”

He squeezes your shoulder in reassurance. You catch his eyes in the streetlights and feel your heart swell.

Even if it’s been more than five years since you saw Taehyung last, since you felt his fingers thread in between yours… it still feels so familiar. It’s funny, isn’t it? How so much time can go by, how you can be strangers on paper but feel like you’ve known his soul for this entire time.

His smile glows in the moonlight. A light breeze cradles him, carding through his dark strands of hair gently. You can vividly recall a time when it was you- your fingers running through his hair through soft laughs and unkept promises.

You wonder if your heart is still his, after all this time. It’s not as if you’ve had many people to compare your all-consuming five year relationship to in the last few years. Every person you met, you found yourself comparing to your ex-boyfriend. It wasn’t healthy.

And you had known that he had moved on from your own mutual friends. You don’t even know if he’s single right now, but you knew he was in a relationship a year ago… Or maybe two? Maybe you should care a little more, but you’ll blame it on the whiskey for causing you to squeeze his hand a little harder and lean into him.

Taehyung looks exactly the same, he feels exactly the same as he did when you were twenty-two and stupid enough to believe that you would make it. He’s always felt like he fit the messy edges of your soul perfectly, and even now, you feel that familiar warmth of his soul rubbing up against yours.

Even as he’s chatting away, eyes crinkling in genuine happiness, you’re hardly listening. You’re only thinking about how nice he feels next to you. 

Serendipity. It must be serendipity, for him to show up in your life again when you had been teetering on the edge of misery and self-deprecation. Your head is jumbled, brain filled with nothing but sweet memories of him and your heart is aching for something you might never have again.

But all you have is now. So when Taehyung twirls you easily and sways with you under the dimmed light of a street lamp, pulling a surprised laugh out of you, you make your decision.

“Where’s your new big girl apartment?” Taehyung asks, a hint of longing in his tone.

“It’s not new,” You scoff, “But I live, like, five blocks away.”

Taehyung takes your hand in his again, asking you questions about your apartment. How you found it, do you like it, do you have roommates. To which you shrug and tell him that you like being alone. Something shifts in his eyes, something sad. He recalls your thirst for life when you both had been together- always ready to try something new, always wanting to be around people, always dreaming with your head in the sky.

He wonders what changed. You’re so quiet, eyes a little dark, shoulders tense. Maybe that’s what growing up is. Maybe that’s what tumbling out of your early twenties and into your late twenties is.

Or maybe you’ve just changed in general. It’s been a long time, after all. Since you both mutually broke up, since he moved halfway across the globe. 

But still, he catches sparks, flutters of embers in your gaze. He catches the tender, playful excitement that you’ve always held near and dear to your heart- it’s what made you and him such a good team years ago.

Talking to him is so easy, not that you thought it would be difficult to begin with. It’s always been easy with him, easy to laugh with him, easy to love him. 

The front door of your apartment building comes into view. Your hand is still in his. Taehyung hesitates on letting you go, but he does.

“It was nice to see you,” Taehyung murmurs, allowing himself the brush of the back of his hand on your cheekbone, “I mean it.”

“Yeah. I’m glad I ran into you, too. Even if I was stuffing my face with whiskeys,” You grin and lean into his touch, “Even if Yoongi probably played both of us.”

“Don’t know when you became such a whiskey girl.”

“It’s been years, Taehyung. I’m sure I’ve got a few more surprises for you,” You say, smile falling into something more intense, “Wanna come find out what they are?”

“Thought you’d never ask, sweetheart.”

Taehyung’s lips are on yours the minute you close the door to your apartment. His hands are molded to your hips over your clothes and you instantly moan into his mouth loudly, slipping your tongue past his lips eagerly. Drinking him up as if he’s been yours to drink up this entire time.

You fumble with the buttons of his peacoat, nearly ready to yank the buttons off. Patience has never been your strong suit, but you just want to feel him. 

But the minute you pull away for air, you re-center yourself. No matter how enticing his bitten lips are…

“Are you single?” You ask bluntly.

“Why?” Taehyung says with an arch of his stupidly perfect eyebrow, “You falling in love with me again?”

“Shut up, you wish. I thought you had a girlfriend,” You say pointedly, toeing out of your heels and hanging your jackets up in the coat closet.

“You keeping tabs on me? I knew it,” Taehyung says, looking a little too smug about it.

“Shut the fuck up,” You swat his chest, “Yoongi may have mentioned it to me once or twice.”

More like he told you multiple times when you were drunk, wasted and crying over Taehyung because you never truly got over him. In some corner of the deepest part of your heart, you never got over him.

“I’m not dating anyone. Or talking, seeing anyone,” Taehyung shrugs, “That didn’t work out. Nothing’s really worked out, not since…”

“Don’t say it,” You mutter, “Don’t say what I think you’re about to say.”

You need another drink. So you pour yourself another hefty glass of whiskey and pour one out for him, too.

“What am I about to say?”

“That nothing has worked out for you since we dated, because even though the women you date are all wonderful, all you see in them is me,” You exhale, “I might have to kick you out if you say something as predictable as that.”

“And if it’s true?”

“Then I’m definitely kicking you out. Might need another five years to see you again,” You whisper. He moves closer to you, tentatively holding your hips in his. You don’t push him away, only looking up at him with wide eyes.

“I missed you so fucking much,” Taehyung breathes into your hair, wrapping you in a hug, “You have no idea. And you? Are you single?”

“No, you missed the idea of me. Of us,” You mumble, but you’re unable to pull out of his hold, “We were young, we had dreams… And yeah, I’m single.”

“We could’ve made it work-”

“Taehyung, stop it,” You mutter, throat going dry with barely concealed yearning for him, “We both made the choices we made for a reason. You’re here and I’m here for a reason. Don’t wanna talk about what if’s with you anymore. Just kiss me, Taehyung-”

Taehyung doesn’t need to be told twice, cupping your face in his big hands and pressing his soft lips to yours instantly. Time feels like nothing between you both, but it feels like he’s trying to learn this new version of you through your kiss. 

You’re undecided on whether this is a one time thing, but all you know is that you want him. And you want him now. His hands are warm over your thighs as he lifts you up in his arms, your chest plastered to his. His hair has gotten longer, dark strands effortlessly falling into his forehead.

He’s so handsome and you swoon when his lips press against your neck. Taehyung still remembers what you like, what your favorite spots are.

It’s almost as if no time has passed. You both ignore it, ignore the nostalgia creeping into the crevices of your kisses.

“Mmm, my bedroom’s that way,” You mumble hoarsely, pulling away with hooded eyes. 

“You’ll have to give me a proper tour later,” Taehyung says, his voice somehow even deeper.

“Yeah, you’d be so lucky,” You snort and Taehyung shuts you up with another searing kiss. He doesn’t miss the meticulous way you’ve decorated your cozy home, pops of color and decorations that are so very you in every corner. He sees a small photo collage in the corner of your bedroom. 

Once upon a time, a photo of you and him would’ve been the crown jewel.

“Tae,” You mumble, “Stop, focus on me. I want you-”

So he does.

Your legs close around Taehyung’s head, his tongue slipping into your glossy folds for the third time that evening. He can’t get enough of your soft noises, even when you’re telling him it’s too much, you widen your legs for him to slot in between them easily. Taehyung hikes your legs over his shoulder, nearly rutting into the bed at the sight of your quivering bottom lip and the way your tits bounce.

He palms you lewdly, squeezing and pinching.  “You’re so wet,” Taehyung moans into your pussy, “Fuck, baby-”

“Taehyung,” You breathe, voice sounding broken even to your own ears, “I want you, I want your cock…”

“You sure you want this?” Taehyung asks, his voice strained.

“Yeah,” You nod eagerly, “Do you?” 

With a nod, “Do you have condoms?” He rasps, nose nudging your clit.

“Y-yeah,” You moan, “The nightstand, first drawer. Brand new box, never before used-”

“Really?” Taehyung raises an eyebrow, “When was the last time, baby?”

“The last time what,” You whine, tugging on his forearm.

“Last time you had sex,” Taehyung says, pulling the box out from your nightstand. 

“Uhhh… when you broke up with me?” You shrug sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck.

“Shit,” He groans, “Seriously?”

You don’t miss how he palms himself over his pants at your words. He’s always had a hint of possessiveness in him, and you already know that he’s trying to process that the last person, the only person to have ever seen you like this was him.

“Yeah, I didn’t have luck the way you did, I guess,” You say lightly, “Not that I was trying very hard, though.”

“Damn, baby, nobody’s been loving you right, huh?” Taehyung says, pulling out a condom from the box with shaky hands.

“Yeah. Not even you,” You say. Maybe that was mean, but his eyes flash at you in warning.

“Come here,” He says, a soft demand, “Did you miss me?”

You shrug playfully and unbutton his pants for him. He swats your roaming hands away and they land on his belly, your nails scratching lazily. Taehyung has always looked like a vision, but seeing him like this, hovering above you with golden, tanned skin and his jaw locked, looking every bit like the man of your dreams...

He commands, demands respect. Your pussy throbs just from the sight of him shucking off his pants and his boxers in one go, tugging his hard and heavy cock roughly with one hand.

You swear you drool. Your head is empty, only thoughts of him, his big hands, broad shoulders-

“Did you miss me, baby,” Taehyung asks again, voice a little rougher, a little harsher.

“Does it matter,” You challenge him, “You only want my pussy-”

“And you only want my cock-”

“So give it to me then. Since you know me so well,” You sneer. You gasp in surprise when he swats your thigh and then moan his name when he pushes the head of his cock into you without much warning.

“You talk so fucking much,” Taehyung breathes, cupping your cheeks with one hand.

“Shit,” You gasp, “You’re so fucking big-”

You squeeze your eyes shut and Taehyung stills inside of you, giving you time to adjust to him. He peppers sweet kisses over your forehead, a contrast to his previous words. You cannot believe that somehow, Taehyung is back in your bed, his cock buried deep within you. 

The thought makes your eyes water. You’re a little overwhelmed.

“What’s wrong,” Taehyung asks when he sees your wet eyes, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Nothing, you’re just so big,” You mumble, avoiding his eyes. Taehyung looks at you suspiciously but says nothing.

He’s the only one who’s ever had you like this. The thought makes something in his belly flare, the urge to leave bruises on your welcoming hips and pound into your wet pussy growing and growing with each second.

But he doesn’t move, not until you give him the okay. Taehyung’s fingers are tight around your hips, loose around your neck, his lips plastered to any inch of skin he can reach. With the first rock of his hips into you, you wrap your legs around his waist and shudder in his arms.

He nuzzles your neck, chest plastered against yours. Your nails are tightly pressed into his biceps, surely leaving marks for tomorrow morning. Your soft cries of his name sound like sweet rapture, something he’s been searching for for years. Or something that he had and something he let go of.

And then he wonders how he ever spent the last few years not buried in your pussy, when you feel something like home to him.

“You know, I moved back here a few weeks ago,” Taehyung says, turning on his side to face you, hands gentle over your chest.

“Oh, I know. Yoongi and Hobi wouldn’t shut up about it. They really missed you,” You reply, not meeting his eyes.

“And you? Did you?” Taehyung asks again. You hesitate.

“Does it matter, Taehyung?” You mumble, brushing his hair away from his eyes, “Does it change anything?”

“It could. If you wanted it to,” He murmurs, pulling you into his chest. His fingers are light over your spine, but you scoff.

“Don’t say shit like that,” You sigh, pressing your hand to his face. 

He only laughs with his big, bright smile and pulls you in closer, kissing your forehead. “I can leave you know. If you want me to. If this is... weird.”

“I think we’re way past weird, Taehyung. If I wanted you to leave, I would’ve kicked you out by now,” You say easily and ignore the way his smile sends unfamiliar butterflies through your belly, “Go to sleep. I’ll decide if I wanna kick you out in the morning.”

[yoditorian]

(kiss me) you will go

din/reader

this is an idea that i’ve wanted to try out for a little while, and this piece by @charnelhouse kind of made the decision for me. thank you for the inspiration 💛

main masterlist

word count: 1.8k // warnings: swears, major character death, blood, grief.

Din can barely see for the sweat stinging his eyes. 

Pressed between a pile of crates, left miraculously unscathed, and the crumbled remains of a stone wall, he pauses a moment to take stock. To take a breath.

He lost you, Paz, Orla, everyone almost the moment he stepped into daylight. Scattered by a thermal detonator none of them had noticed until it was too late, he’d been sent careening into a rock face and his comms went dead on impact. With any luck, you’ll be with the others. Somebody. There’s no glaring injuries, nothing from the explosion or the panicked shootout in the middle of the dust cloud that followed, he’s in one piece at least. Although his blasters are a different story, both of them already at half capacity. He inhales sharply, gearing up to make a break for the main entrance to the covert, when a familiar purple helmet pops up in his visor. That’s one.

“Get up or die here, Djarin. Your choice.” She snaps, and he’s following her before he can even blink. They use the collapsed buildings as cover, ducking and weaving and rationing the remaining charge in their blasters. It feels a little like it used to, training sessions as children back when war was a game. He knows better now, he thinks as a thermal charge detonates a little too close for comfort, war smells like shit and tastes like metal.

“What happened to the others?” He asks in a moment of reprieve.

Orla busies herself with her blasters, unsheathing the knives strapped to her hips, avoiding his eye as the anxiety rolls off of her in waves.

“I don’t know.” 

They take down another few bandits on their tail, ducking into the entrance to the tunnels just as their cartridges click. Together, they heave the heavy wood of the door closed. It’ll buy ten minutes, just enough time to sprint through to the hangar. Din silently prays that the ships will be gone and the rest of the covert is already safely far away, or that they’re hanging on just a little longer for the stragglers. He’s not sure which option he prefers. 

Their hurried footsteps echo through the empty tunnels as fear starts to seep into his veins. He keeps his eyes forward, focused on the one blue pauldron at Orla’s left shoulder. And they push on deeper into the covert. Relief floods Din’s very bones when the dirt tunnel opens up to the cavern they use as a hangar. Ade and the elders are being guided onto the ships, people are packing supplies and organising rendezvous points. At first glance, nobody seems to be missing.

But there’s something heavy in the way everyone’s visors seem to fall on him, how the cavern is silent beyond the quiet hum of the last generator. Paz stands, the almost royal blue rising a head above the sea of helmets, and Din’s gaze falls to the ground at his feet. A bloodstained grey blanket wrapped hastily around a soldier, and a familiar pair of boots sticking out at the end. Motionless.

Oh.

Oh no.

Orla’s voice comes quietly, though it might be the loudest thing Din has ever heard. 

“Was anyone-”

“I was,” Paz says lowly, “Saved my shebs, and half the ade. We wouldn’t have made it here without them.”

There isn’t time to grieve. There isn’t time to build you the funeral pyre you deserve and exchange stories of your life long into the night. Time. It’s a funny thing. All the years he’s known you, loved you in secret, loved you without fear, and you never seemed to have enough time. The promise you made him swear to, barely an hour ago, echoes in his ears.

“Marry me when this is over.”

He’d wanted to do it then, no one but his sister and her husband to witness, as you crept out of a side tunnel to flank a troop of bandits. But you’d laughed, asked if he planned on dying at the hands of a few beskar hungry criminals and made him promise. When you both lived. So much for promises. 

He doesn’t even know he’s moving until he’s right there.

“Vod.” 

But Din is already shouldering past Paz and crashing to his knees beside the blanketed body on the sand. He’s too afraid to lift the shroud, but he already knows. 

Shaking hands begin to pull back the heavy wool, it takes him a moment to realise they’re his own. And there you are. Stiff and cold, a gaping wound in your side that makes bile rise in the back of his throat. Even the blank expanse of the visor can’t hide that you’re gone, marching with generations past. Just a body and a broken promise left behind. And him. 

There’s a noise, static and choking that makes him jump out of his skin, and - it’s him. Tears blur his vision, wet his cheeks, leak into his mouth and soak his cowl. They taste like sweat and smoke and he realises you’ll never get to kiss them away. You’ll never wake him from nightmares on late night guard shifts again, never slap his arm when he makes a bad joke, never chastise him for leaving his weapons where the ade could reach. 

Someone moves behind him. Slowly, deliberately, and others begin to move forward. 

Din watches as the closest members of the covert crowd your body, facing out. Their arms lock together in a clanking symphony of beskar and solidarity. United. For him, for you. A fresh wave of tears shakes his shoulders. A second wall of defenders forms around the first, blocking all light but that overhead. Blocking all prying eyes from Din as he grieves his love, grieves you.

A foot knocks into his knee and he looks up. Orla nods once over her shoulder, and turns to face forward. You’d want this, you’d want him to keep his promise. And so he does.

His gloves come off first, fingers trembling as they move to your own, and he tries not to flinch at first contact with your skin. You’re cold, somehow colder than he’d expected. But your hands are soft in his, and he smiles despite himself. He’s always imagined you’d have soft hands. 

It’s with a shuddering breath and another glance up at the protective barrier of his covert, his family, that Din finally lifts the helmet from his head. 

The air is thick and humid, dust sticking to the inside of his lungs. He places his helmet gently down beside him.

“Mhi-” He clears his throat, though his voice stays low, “Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi- mhi ba'juri verde.”

And, just like that, Din Djarin swears himself to you forever. The way he promised.

His fingers hover over the lip of your own helmet as he remembers you telling him the colour of your eyes, whispered over firelight in the middle of the night as though it was some scandalous secret, and his heart seizes at the realisation that he won’t get to see them light up. Swallowing, he pulls it from your body.

And he wants to be sick. 

There’s no pain or anguish, no glint in your eyes as they stare listlessly at the ceiling. There’s nothing at all. Just a blank face and a trail of blood from the corner of your mouth, disappearing into your cowl. He closes your eyes. 

He knew you’d be beautiful, the cruelty of that truth isn’t lost on him. 

“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum.” He’s leaning over you before he really knows it, mumbling the confession against your skin with a soft kiss pressed to the centre of your forehead. And it’s done. 

Din slowly, carefully, removes every last piece of beskar from your body. A twisted version of the way he hopes you might have let him, one day. And wraps the bloody blanket more securely around your body. He makes sure to cover your face.

The group around him disbands the moment his helmet slots back into place, and he rises to his feet. Others have been working in the meantime, supplies have been loaded, the vulnerable are secure. It’s time to go. It should be time to go. 

Din bends to one knee and gently sets light to a bottom corner of the blanket. It’s no pyre, you deserve one built high as the clouds, but it’ll have to do. The door at the entrance gives away; a great, splintering, cracking sound that seems to shake the very ground under his feet.

“Vod. Let’s go.” Orla urges, in the same voice their buir used to use when they were being stubborn. But Din just watches as the flames start to lick further up your shrouded body. 

You weren’t alone. You were with family. But you were without him. 

And something snaps.

Something so deep in his bones, in his soul, shuts off. 

He draws the vibroblade from his boot and turns to his sister.

“Go.”

“Din!”

“Go! Protect them!” 

Orla takes a step towards him, a vain attempt to tug him towards the ship, but Paz catches her elbow. He draws a blaster from his belt and hands it to Din. Fully charged. They share a nod, a lifetime of rivalry and friendship between them, and Paz steps back. He has to manhandle Orla towards the ship as she shouts for her brother, but even she knows that this is how it has to be. This is how they get away. They take off as soon as the bay doors close, the rumble of the engines echoing and fading as they maneuver through the cavern and into open air.

And Din waits. 

Framed in the open exit, with a weapon in each hand and your burning body behind him, he looks every part the warriors of legend as the first bandits appear round the corner.

They don’t stand a chance, he’s shooting at anything that moves, stabbing and slashing until the dust at his feet is soaked with blood and organs and the fury of a man left alone in the universe. They took your life, there aren’t enough of them to compensate. Bodies drop. Littering the cavern until your smoking remains are nothing but ash. Din turns toward the exit, following the path of the ship, without a backward glance. And that little window to his soul that you worked so tirelessly to open, shrinks into oblivion.

He leaves two injured, but alive in the midst of the smoke and the rubble. 

They end up on opposite sides of the galaxy, far from the massacre, each telling the same tale. It evolves as the years churn on, but the foundation remains the same. Blood splattered across beskar, the smell of blaster fire and dull hum of a vibroblade, a single Mandalorian cutting down anyone who dared come close enough. 

Legend, indeed.

TAGLIST (add yourself here):

@bee-dameron @keeper0fthestars @thevoiceinyourheadx @firstofficerwiggles @1800-fight-me @ew-erin @chatterbean @darnitdraco @greeneyedblondie44 @captain-jebi @sarahjkl82-blog​ @thisshipwillsail316​ @amneris21​

[out-of-jams]

Across the Board || i || kth

(banner done by the great @kimtaehyunq )

↠ Across the Board ↞ You’d hit a low point in life. With bills piling up and your bank account empty, you were starting to get desperate. So when you got the invite to your oldest friend’s birthday party being hosted at the most popular underground casino in town, what did you possibly have to lose? You took what little you had left in your savings, put your card skills to use, and entered a private blackjack game.

And you’d won. And went back for more, and more, and more.

Until you lost.

And now you’re indebted to the city’s most dangerous mob boss, forced to pay your dues in blood one way or another. With a gun pushed into your hands and your life at stake; once you’re in, you’re in. You’ll never get out.

Word Count: 4k

Warnings/Genre: Set in the Roaring 20s! Gambling. Mature themes. Mafia!au. Mafia Don!Taehyung. Violence. Law breaking. Alcohol use. Death of minor characters. Explicit language. Enemies to lovers. Short series. 18+

                              || Next | Masterlist | |

Danger.

It was a word right up there alongside the definition for the term “stupidity.” While not next to each other in the dictionary, they were close enough that your brain was unable to pick out the subtle differences. Perhaps you’d just always had a habit for screwing your life up, or maybe it was just genetics. Who knew?

You should have listened to the warnings, should have stopped yourself before you got in too deep. Hell, you should have done a lot of things. But you had no one to blame for your current situation except for yourself. However, if you’d learned anything throughout your twenty-two short years of life, it was that life lessons didn’t mean jack if you didn’t get yourself into messes into the first place.

Though staring down the barrel of a revolver sure was a funny way of going about it.

The air in the dimly lit back corner room was tense enough to hear the sound of a casino chip fall to the ground somewhere beyond the shut door. None of the six men sitting around the round, green felted table spoke a word. Their attention — and yours, consequently — was fixed on the single man in the room who barely even batted an eye at the clear panic evident on your face.

He sat on the opposite side of you; the scowl pulling down his bow shaped lips and the narrowing of his fierce gaze had fear chilling your veins. That man was much like an exotic animal; beautiful beyond belief, but dangerous right beneath the surface. A carnivore staring down his prey. The single light above the table threw his shadow against the wall as he casually aimed his pistol right between your eyes.

“You were saying, dollface?”

His neatly parted, straight black hair fell across his face when he leaned forward as if the next words out of your mouth would seal your fate. Not that the thought of having to have your blood cleaned from the expensive carpet beneath his expensive shoes seemed to bother him in the slightest. In fact, he’d look almost bored if it weren’t for the dangerous gleam behind his espresso irises.

“I—” You cut yourself off, swallowing roughly and glancing back down at the table. A depleted deck of cards sat in the center, two hands laid out on the surface. One was yours — a ten of diamonds and a ten of clubs — and the other his. A red ace of spades and a black jack of hearts.

You were out of money.

Having bet more than you possessed, you were also out of chances.

“It’s simple. You owe me money as promised,” his deep, baritone voice spoke up casually over the noise of your heart beating through your chest. “Either hand it over, or you won’t be leaving this room alive. Your choice.”

You closed your eyes for a moment too long to be called a blink, and cursed yourself for ever getting into this situation.

                           One Month Ago

Final Notice of Payment

Ms. L/n,

This is a reminder that you have a balance of $20.54 that is past due. Please make a one time payment no later than—

“Oh, please.” The bill enclosed envelope hit the top of the small, circular dining room table. Or was it the kitchen table? It was hard to tell, seeing as how they were one and the same.

A sigh escaped your lips as you leaned back against the creaky wooden chair, fingers massaging your temples. That was the third bill you’d come across that morning and every single one of them was the final notice of payment. The last warning they’d give before sending someone to collect what was owed.

It hadn’t always been like that. You hadn’t always been in such an insurmountable amount of debt, not until recently. Two months ago your mother, the last bit of family you had left, died. Passed away clinging to the sheets of the hospital bed she’d been laid up in for the past half a year. Cancer, the doctors had said. From all of the cigarettes she’d burned through in the past decade or so.

Irrecoverable, they’d said.

No amount of “sorry’s” or meaningless condolences could fix the massive amount of money that the hospital billed you. Or the debt that your mother left behind, along with her slim-boned corpse that you’d had to bury in the corner of the city cemetery. Perhaps if you’d known who your father was, you could’ve laid her to rest in the space next to his own, but you didn’t. Weren’t fortunate enough to.

Bills had piled up. Rent for the tiny studio apartment the two of you had shared was demanded by the pigeon-toed old woman who owned the rundown, overpriced building. Her husband had passed away two years ago and ever since then, she’d been relentless. She pounded on your door at approximately eight in the morning everyday, shouting through the thin wood that you had until the week was up to pay what was owed. Otherwise you’d be tossed out onto the street with only the clothes on your back.

Combined with the utility bill and the fact that you still had to come up with the dough to feed yourself, you were trapped. The meagre pennies you got from your waitressing job at the diner three blocks away weren’t nearly enough. Nothing would be enough. Not unless you wanted to sell your body on the street corners in the late of night.

Which you didn’t. And you wouldn’t. You’d be more likely to end up dead in a ditch somewhere with your throat cut than out of debt. The city wasn’t safe for women, less so by those men who saw prostitutes as no more than an object to relieve stress onto. And you refused to become another headline in the paper.

Tossing the opened envelope across the table, you paused when familiar handwriting caught your eye on top of the rest of the mail pile. Addressed to you in a curling script that only ever came from someone who could afford a private tutor. You sighed, carefully sliding a knife along the top to slice it open. A waft of sweet, cherry scented perfume filled your tiny kitchen and you almost rolled your eyes at the unnecessary addition.

Jennie, your oldest friend since high school, always had an inclination for the unnecessary. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth and a gold digger for a mother, she’d had nothing else to waste her time on. How you’d even gotten on as friends with such a gap between tax brackets was still a mystery to you. Maybe it was because she’d always used her wealth and status to get the two of you out of trouble. Whether it was from breaking into the school late at night to get wasted in the halls with the rest of her friends, or to get away with slipping things from the corner store into your dress pockets.

She’d always been a rule breaker.

Which was exactly why when you read the contents of the letter, a laugh tumbled from your mouth. It was an invitation to celebrate her upcoming twenty-third birthday in three day’s time. That wouldn’t have been anything out of the ordinary, however, if it weren’t for the location. There wasn’t an exact address, there never was. Just a thin piece of cardboard the size of your hand that fell from the envelope. A playing card — a red ace. One that looked normal except for the center that had the name of a restaurant in the heart of the most rich part of downtown printed on it.

It was a ticket to the most popular underground casino in the whole city. No one knew how to get one, how to get your name onto the list that only catered to the rich and powerful. Located beneath a restaurant, it had grown to be infamous almost overnight since gambling and alcohol was outlawed. Even the coppers knew well enough to leave the establishment alone.

The only way to gain entrance was by flashing a ticket to one of the restaurant staff. That was what you’d heard, at least. You had no idea how May had managed to secure one, let alone enough to cover what you knew would be a large party of her closest friends.

Flicking the corner of the card, you couldn’t believe your luck.

Your mother hadn’t taught you very many things, had been too busy gossiping with her friends over a carton of cigarettes to bother. What she had passed down, however, was her ability to draw cards. To play blackjack with the best of them. That’d been the only thing she’d ever bothered to teach you; when she’d had too many sips of wine and her eyes had glazed over with memories of the life she used to live. 

She’d sit you down and make you memorize the names and faces of the cards until you could count them forward and backwards. Could predict what card would be drawn and when. Where she’d learned it, she’d never told you. But that didn’t matter now. Couldn’t, seeing as she was dead and all.

Grinning, you flopped back into your chair.

Maybe you’d be able to pay off your debts after all.

And you had. Paid off your debt, that is.

After clearing out your savings account of the last fifteen dollars you had left to your name, you’d dolled yourself up and gone with Jennie and her friends. Had left the group of flappers tittering and groaning drunk at the line of slot machines at the back of the casino. Calls of bets being placed, dough exchanging for chips, and illegal cocktails pouring into glasses played as a soundtrack.

None of the card tables scattered across the underground establishment held what you’d been looking for. Neither roulette, nor craps, nor slots. The bartender had been the one to tell you where the real games were, where the cash was. A door down a tiny back hallway led to a room where private games were held. If you managed to win at one, he’d told you, then you’d win not only the pot, but an invitation to come back and play again.

Which had been an opportunity that you just couldn’t pass up. No matter the risk.

You’d won.

And now you were addicted.

To the money, the lifestyle, the adrenaline that shot through your veins like a particularly harsh sip of gin. Which was exactly why you’d gone back. Again, and again, and again, every single week for the past month. It wasn’t your fault that it was so easy. So simple to swindle your way into getting your name permanently written down on the entry list.

Oh, and the men.

It was a different group every week, but they weren’t all that dissimilar from one another. They’d sit there and smoke their cigars and drink their whiskey, all while silently mocking you with their eyes. Like they thought they were better than you just because they had a dick between their legs.

You were addicted to that too.

To watching the way their faces would fall in disbelief every single time you cleared the pot and took their money. And how their voices would raise in pitch with their countless complaints about how some lowly broad conned them out of their pocket change. Because that’s all that money was to people like them.

Change.

They were rich. You could tell by the custom suits they wore, the cologne they bathed in, the way they carried themselves. The money they gambled with always had a cap, a max amount that they were willing to bet. And the games never got too crazy, didn’t escalate once they lost to you. Which was a shame really, because you wanted more. Craved more. More of what, you weren’t too sure, but the high that playing brought only lasted so long until you came crashing back down.

Which was exactly when fate decided to change the routine.

“Here to play again, miss?” Felix, the same teenage boy who always manned the door to the gambling room, asked with a slight tilt of his head. His light brunette hair was tucked beneath a bowler hat, different from the usual fedora. Back to the door, he was standing up straight instead of his normal slouch. And the way his mouth was taught around the edges was out of the ordinary as well.

The boy didn’t have a cigarette clenched between his teeth, which should have been enough to set off the bells in your head. But it didn’t. Because you were too bullheaded, had gotten too cocky in the terms of things.

“You know me too well, Felix.” You reached out a hand to pat the lanky boy on his suit clad arm lightly, a smile pulling up at your red painted lips. “Is the usual table ready?”

The volume in the casino wasn’t as loud either, nor were there quite as many patrons. But you’d just chalked that up to the heavy rain pounding a path into the concrete outside. Though the lack of customers did nothing to eliminate the permanent smell of cigarette smoke that lingered, hidden in the walls beneath the fancy looking wallpaper.

“I don’t know if you want to play today, miss.” Felix glanced away from you with his bottom lip caught between his teeth. You blamed the flickering light in the corner of the hall for the way his freckles stood out amongst his slowly paling cheeks.

You raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

He didn’t answer. Not at first. Silence lingered in the hall, drowning in the soft jazz music coming from the band on the stage near the back of the joint. It took the raising of your other brow for the underaged boy to finally answer.

“It’s just not a good day for gambling.”

Now that had you leaning forward until you could finally catch his flighty gaze, voice hushed in a playful whisper. “Oh really, how so? Is there a stool-pigeon running about somewhere? Should we be expecting the coppers to come kicking down the door any minute?”

“No. I—”

“Then why can’t I play, Felix?” You were starting to get irritated. The week had been long and you were ready to forget about it all for the next few hours. Buried beneath the weight of a handful of cards and glass full of gin.

Either Felix could see your growing impatience, or there really was something he was hiding, because he stepped even further in front of the door. “You don’t want to play with this group, miss. They aren’t as welcoming as the others are. It’d be best if you just went home.”

“You ca—”

“And what’s going on back here?” That wasn’t Felix’s voice and neither was it yours. You whipped around, surprised at the new addition.

The man behind you had honey brown hair parted and styled carefully until it was brushed back away from his heart-shaped face. Though some of it still hung in front of a single, dark eye. His other was uncovered, a scar running through his eyebrow and cutting it in half. Everything about him was angular, sharp. From his jawline to the slope of his nose and the corners of his full lips.

One look and you already pegged him for a cake-eater, a ladies man, if you’d ever seen one. Hell, he even dressed like he came right off the front cover of one of those Time magazines that littered the newspaper stands on every street corner. With a navy blue suit and perfect, unscuffed shoes.

“No, sir,” Felix attempted to pull the man’s attention from you unsuccessfully. “The missus here was just leaving.”

The Stranger hummed, tilting his head to study you with those sharp eyes of his. “Were you, bunny? Just leaving?”

You couldn’t help the twitch of your nose at the unfavorable nickname, squaring your shoulders and crossing your arms with a scoff. “No, I wasn’t. I want to play a few rounds, you see, but he won’t let me.”

Perhaps you should have felt bad for ratting out the kid, but you didn’t. Especially not when the Stranger huffed a laugh, a distinct ha-ha-ha! in amusement. Though there was something else in his eyes that you couldn’t name. Didn’t want to acknowledge. “You want to play a hand of blackjack, is that right?”

“Ab-so-lute-ly.” You raised an eyebrow at the man and waved a hand through the air. “I can play.”

“Oh,” He asked, taking a step closer until you had to crane your neck back to meet his imploring gaze. “Playing isn’t cheap.”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “I can pay too.”

He must have been waiting for that answer if the smirk that pulled at his lips was any indication. And he finally, finally broke eye contact to wave aside the boy behind you. “Well, did the dame make herself clear or not? She wants to play.”

You happened to turn just in time to catch the alarm that flickered across Felix’s face as he stepped to the side to reveal the door behind him. Felix reached out with a ringed hand to twist the brass knob of the door. It swung open without a sound and he gave you a quick, wide-eyed stare filled with a warning you couldn’t interpret, before looking away.

“Well?” The Stranger questioned from over your shoulder. You could smell his cologne now; husky with a hint of sweet orange.

His words were an invitation if you’d ever heard one. And you didn’t want to look like a bluenose, a prude, so you stepped inside without hesitation. Though perhaps you should have taken Felix’s unspoken warning, for you had no idea just what it was that you were walking into.

Inside the cramped room was filled with a haze of cigar smoke, which wasn’t unusual at all. What was, however, was the group of six men sitting at the circular table as you rounded the corner with the Stranger at your back. They were beautiful, all of them. A huge contrast to the usual rabble that came to play. Hell, even underneath the dim light you couldn't spot a single flaw on them.

No one noticed your entrance at first.  

Well, at least not until the Stranger cleared his throat. “Gentleman.”

His greeting sounded like it toed somewhere on the line between amusement and respect.

All movement in the room came to a halt as six men looked up from where they’d been bent over the blackjack table. If you’d been a little less prideful and a lot more careful, then perhaps the overbearing confidence that bled from their pores would have given you pause. But as it was, you stood standing, back straight and head held high. Even while their eyes roamed your figure like tigers behind a cage at the zoo right before feeding time.

A pause hovered in the air, lingering with a tension that crawled onto your skin. What seemed like hours passed merely in seconds before it was broken.

“And who’s this?” The question came from the fella who sat in the chair closest to where you stood. He was turned around with his arm propped up on the back of it, head tilted to the side in curiosity. His hair was styled similar to the Stranger’s, though his was darker and the gel pushed through the strands made it gleam silver beneath the dim lamp that hung above the table.

High cheekbones and skin the same color as molten honey, his jaw worked around a piece of gum stuck between his teeth. A smirk pulled up at the corner of his mouth, dark eyes glittering with a touch of interest. With a black and white suit that complimented the shade of his hair, the man was nothing if not a billboard: flashy. Handsome.

“I found bunny here outside arguing with Felix. Something about wanting to play a few rounds of blackjack. Isn’t that right?” The Stranger placed a heavy palm between your shoulder blades. What might have been intended to come off as comforting, only succeeded in making you feel the opposite. Like you were being put on display.

You didn’t let it show on your face. “That’s right.”

“Oh?” Gum Chewer’s smirk grew broader at that, but he said nothing else. Just leaned back in his chair.

“What do you say, should we let her play?” Blond hair, pink kissable lips and dangerous, dangerous eyes. The slim man sitting next to Gum Chewer was attractive in a pretty way that made you envious of his easy-on-the-eyes looks.

While the question may have been asked to the whole room, none of them answered it. Instead they looked towards one of the men sitting in the middle who had yet to speak. If you’d thought the rest of them were a sight for sore eyes, well, they had nothing on him. How your attention hadn’t been drawn to him the moment you walked through the door, you didn’t know.

He wasn’t even looking at you and you already felt tongue-tied. Busying himself with shuffling the cards in his hands against the green felt table, the expensive looking rings adorning his slender fingers caught your eye. He was what your mother would’ve called a timeless beauty. The type of handsome that meant he could walk the streets of the city in nothing but a sack and he’d have women throwing themselves at his feet.

Hair the same shade as a moonless sky made him look intimidating, like he belonged to the shadows themselves. A straight nose, cupid bow lips and long eyelashes that would make any broad jealous; he gave off the type of power that could make even the bravest of men cower at his feet. The longer he took to respond, the more the room grew still. As if your fate was in the hands of a man who’s name you didn’t even know.

Though perhaps it was.

A muffled thud echoed throughout the room as he tapped the deck of cards against the table once, twice, before sliding them over to the fella to his left. Plucking up the glass of scotch in front of him, he finally looked up. And graced you with the prettiest chocolate brown eyes you’d ever seen.

“What’s your name, dollface?”

tagged: @bewitch-me​  @jxngkooksthxghs​   @kaitswrld​  @clarissalance​  @namurkive​ @ifntelyinspirit​  @kotaevln​  @red--aren  @ggukkieland​  @moonlitmyg​  @i-like-puppy-mg​  @aianloveseven​  @drumsofheaven​  @figurativehoe00​ @wonhoandonly​ @wacdon​ @hear-me-growl​ @milaridez7 @1088x1088​ @alana-ba​ @vlntaeg​

[deareddie]

fell through the floor

buck/eddie, angst, 2.1k

Some nights are worse than others. 

Tonight, it seems, is no exception. 

Buck wakes up gasping, the cold air of the room rushing into his lungs only to be forced back out in a cough. He tries a few times, lying on his back, taking carefully measured breaths until he feels like he’s regained control. Only then does he sit up and take in the darkness that surrounds him. Glancing at his alarm clock, he blinks a few times to focus on the glowing numbers that read 3:04am.

He throws the covers away from his body and sets his feet down on the cold hardwood floor, letting the chill seep into his heels and toes and remind him where he is; at home, on dry land. No fiery explosions or huge waves. Just a dark, empty apartment in the middle of the night.

He sighs and rubs a hand over his face, stands, and drags himself to the bathroom. He leans on the sink for a moment, drumming his fingers against the porcelain, before switching on the tap and splashing water into his face. The small light plugged in beneath the mirror illuminates his body, and he stares as each droplet slowly trails down his cheeks, meeting at the base of his chin before falling onto his bare chest. He tries to keep his focus on that. Drive away any lingering thoughts that had come to him in his sleep. 

It doesn’t take long for them to rear their head again, and the cold water is quickly replaced with hot tears. He blinks them away, turns on the tap, and rinses them off. Does it again. And again. And again.

Eventually, it seems the tears forfeit the battle, and he’s left staring into his own blank, red rimmed eyes.

I’m fine, he tells himself, and pretends that it’s true.

He pushes himself off the basin, turning and stopping in the doorway to stare at his bed. He doesn’t see himself getting much more sleep tonight, so he heads for the stairs instead. Walks to the kitchen, crossing the room in his bare feet to grab a glass from the cupboard. 

He fills it. Raises it to his mouth in a trembling grip, but before he can take a sip, a car backfires in the street below his apartment, a loud bang coming in through the open window. The sound is harsh, and far too familiar. It bounces off each empty corner of the apartment; pierces through every wall of distraction that he’d put up between himself and the events of the evening.

The glass slips from his hand and shatters on the ground. He stares at it as the pieces fly across the floor, tries to watch as each tiny sliver spreads itself out across the room to keep his mind from reeling him back to the last call of his shift. It doesn’t work this time. The sounds dig into him, unburying every image he'd been trying to ignore.

His vision goes blurry. He blinks, a tear falls and bounces against the black tile of the floor.

He tries to stop it -looks around the room with blurry eyes and tries to grasp the ghosts of the people who often make it feel so warm- but the tears come anyway. He stumbles backwards, his back hitting the edge of the counter before he sinks down onto the floor, pulling his knees to his chest as the tears flow freely from his eyes. 

Out with them pours every image in his mind he'd been trying to ignore since he woke up, until all those memories are sitting right in front of him. Filling the happy, useful room with nothing but dread. 

He doesn't try to blink the tears away. Every time he closes his eyes, the pictures are more vivid. The darkness isn’t darkness -it’s bright flashing explosions; blood burning the inside of his throat; a huge blue wave washing over him -consuming him. 

It’s the barrel of a gun pointed right between his eyes.

It’s a ridiculous thing to set him off, he knows it. Of all the things that have happened to him in the last year and a half, this is the most mundane. He hadn't gotten hurt. A call went wrong. A man pulled out a gun. He didn’t shoot anything except the doorframe above Buck’s head. 

But there was a moment -the moment between the gunshot going off and the realisation that the bullet hadn’t hit him- where he couldn’t help but think, after everything, this is how I die? 

It was a paralyzing thought, and it pulled him back into every moment of his life that he’d been working tirelessly to move past. Placed him right back in the middle of them. Right back under that truck, right back on that pier. Every horrible thing that had ever happened to him replayed in the back of his mind like a slideshow, flashing before his eyes like some cliché movie trope. 

It’s happening again, and he desperately needs to get away from it. Buck grabs his phone off the floor from where it had fallen from his pocket. Takes a shuddery breath and stares up at the ceiling as the dial tone sounds in his ear, willing the tears to stop falling. He counts; Eddie picks up after only three rings. 

“Buck?” He sounds tired. Buck feels a tiny twinge of guilt, but it’s swallowed by everything else swimming around in his head. “It’s late. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

He tries to speak, but the only sound that leaves his mouth is a quiet sob. 

“Buck?” He sounds fully awake now. "Talk to me. What’s going on?” 

“Eddie, I-” He chokes out. It doesn’t go any farther than that.

“Stay right where you are, okay? I’m coming to you.”

Buck tries to speak again; beg him not to hang up and leave him alone with his thoughts, but Eddie is gone before he gets the chance. And with nothing left to ground him in the present, the memories crawl right back under his skin.

He shuts his eyes and feels the searing pain in his leg; the weight of the truck on top of him; the heat of the orange flames licking at his feet.

He feels the blood fill his lungs and come sputtering out. Sees the wide-eyed looks of every party guest as they watch him collapse onto the grass. Hears a faint shout of somebody call 911! before he’s consumed by darkness. 

He feels the pressure of a huge wave slamming him back into the wall of the game stand. Feels the burn of salt water -cold, cold water, a contrast to the warm blood- filling his lungs. Feels a tiny hand slipping from his grasp, and the bone deep dread that comes with the realisation that the boy who had been in his arms just a few seconds earlier was nowhere to be seen. 

He’s finally pulled back to earlier this very evening, to the moment everything went sideways. 

It all plays on a loop, over and over and over again.

Hot explosion, blood in his lungs, a huge wave, a gun. Hot explosion, blood in his lungs, a huge wave -a presence by his side- hot explosion, blood in his lungs, a huge wave -a hand on his face- explosion, blood, wave -”Buck.”- explosion, blood, wave -”Buck!”

-Eddie. 

His face seems out of place. A very kind thing in a sea of ugliness.

But Eddie’s not supposed to be here. No, Eddie is supposed to be far, far away from all of this mess. Buck shakes his head. Tries to push Eddie away, but his arms feel very weak, and he can’t seem to find enough air in the room to breathe.

“Buck.” Eddie says, not moving an inch. He places both hands on Buck’s face. “Look at me.”

Buck shakes his head. Doesn’t want to look -to associate something so good with all the terrible things in his head. He tries to wrench himself from Eddie’s grasp, but Eddie doesn’t budge.

“Look around, Buck. You’re here. You’re right here in the kitchen. I don't know if your brain has convinced you that you're somewhere else, but you’re not. You're here, at home, with me. Can you focus on that?"

Buck blinks. Looks around the room, and tries to follow Eddie's advice. Catalogues everything he sees -the coffee mug he left on the counter this morning, no time to wash it before work. The bottle of wine from his dinner with Maddie a few nights ago, sitting on the table. The slow drip of water from the tap he hasn't had time to fix. 

He looks at Eddie, finally, and is met with wide, concerned eyes. He stares, blinks away each tear that obscures his view, and keeps his gaze there. 

“Just breathe. In and out." 

Buck swallows. Takes a deep breath in through his nose. It’s shaky, but it reaches his lungs this time.

Eddie nods. He tries again. And again. And again.

He keeps his eyes focused on Eddie’s. Takes note of the warm hands against his cheeks and the cool tile floor beneath him. He can smell the brand of soap that he used to mop the floor last week -It was lemon scented, he remembers that. It’s a funny thing to think about, right here as he falls to pieces in front of his best friend, but his brain focuses on it, along with every other sensation he can name, and it brings him back to the present.

“Eddie.”

“I’m here. Are you with me?”

He looks at Eddie for a moment, then nods. 

“Good.” Eddie’s eyes sweep over him, stopping at Buck’s hand, lying palm up beside him on the floor. “You’re hurt.”

He sniffles. “What? No, I-” He looks down at his hand. There’s a gash in his palm, blood smeared all over it. He doesn't know where it came from. “Oh." He stares. "I don’t- I don’t remember doing that.”

Eddie glances at the broken glass on the floor. “Must’ve cut yourself when you sat down. One second.” He stands, and Buck misses his warmth immediately. Eddie arrives back a moment later with a wet cloth, gauze, and a rolled up bandage in his hand. Crouching back down in front of Buck, he comments; “Good thing I know where you keep your first aid kit, huh?”

Buck tries to smile. He figures it comes out as more of a wince.

Eddie takes his hand, cleans and dresses the wound, and wraps the bandage around it gently. Buck watches. The small point of contact keeps him grounded in the moment. Eddie finishes and lays Buck’s hand down onto his knee, taking the uninjured one and squeezing. “Better,” he says. Buck’s not sure he feels it.

“I’m sorry,” Buck says, meeting Eddie’s eye after the silence stretches for too long. “I was doing better, I am doing better, I just-”

“Hey, these things take time. One setback doesn’t throw away all the progress you’ve made.”

Buck looks away, towards the window where the sound of the city is still coming in. “It kinda feels like it does.” He wipes the tears from his cheeks. Another small one escapes. He lets it fall. “It’s not even about what happened tonight, it’s just… everything it reminded me of.”

Eddie nods. “Lots of things can set us off.” 

“I just want to be over it. All of it.”

Eddie hums. “I get it. But there are some things, I’ve found, that you just have to learn to live with.”

Buck swallows, nods. 

Eddie stands, holding out a hand for Buck to take. 

“It’s late,” He says. “Let’s try and get some more sleep.”

Buck is struck with a realisation. “Chris-”

“Is at my aunt’s. Always is when I work a late shift.” Eddie reminds him.

“You don’t have to stay,” Buck says.

“I know.”

He does anyway. 

When Buck wakes up a few hours later, the sun is just starting to creep over the horizon. It comes in through the windows, painting the apartment in a much different light than it had appeared in the night before. He feels calmer, in the light of day. Lying in a warm bed, with a strong arm around him, keeping him in place. 

He takes it all in, and is reminded that some days are better than others too.

[wildernessuntothemselves]

I Hate Me Now

Word Count: 6k 

Genre: Angst, smut 

Summary: You and Wonpil used to be lovers, soulmates even, before your priorities in life got in the way. You wanted to do anything to help your family, no matter how morally ambiguous it is, while Wonpil thought that doing the right thing was of the utmost importance, no exceptions. Now, facing off in court years later, all the old wounds gets torn open again and things finally come to a head.

A/N: *long fart noise* this fic had the potential to be something good but I fucked it up and I’m beyond even caring.

Warnings: inconsistent writing if you’ve ever seen one, kinda femdom, unhealthy as per usual, sad little story.

The neutral, slightly intimidating mask you put on everyday was the one most people were familiar with by now. You rarely showed your real emotions anymore, not since you had lost him. His departure brought on a profound change in your life. There had already been a rift growing between who you wanted to be and who you had to be in order to survive, but when he left he took any remaining idealism left in you with him. It’s funny that the reason he left you was because he couldn’t handle your diverging moral standings, yet it was precisely his departure that cemented the turn you had taken.

Now, with him standing opposite you in the courtroom, fighting for the opposing team, you feel your mask slipping. It was hard seeing him like this. Even though it’s been years already, not having him break into that breathtaking smile of his that was like an ingrained reflex as soon as his eyes would meet yours was disquieting. Now he just frowns and looks away; his big, beautiful eyes that used to be filled to the brim with a sort of dreamy goodness were now empty and tired.

Needless to say, you weren’t on your best game. You could hardly concentrate at all during the trial, and you can bet your ass that your boss knew about your abysmal performance before it even ended. As soon as you were out of the courtroom, he was calling to give you crap about it and condescendingly remarking that if you couldn’t handle such a big case then you should’ve left it to someone who actually knew what he was doing, emphasis on the ‘He’. You assured him that everything was under control and that this wouldn’t happen again. You were just caught off guard, not that you dared tell him that last part. This was a huge case and it could either make or break your career. You couldn’t afford to get distracted by the man you had once thought to be the love of your life, and might still do…

You had to do this for your family. But it seems the man in question intends to put your resolve to the test.

You don’t know how he found you. Perhaps he had followed you out of the courthouse. Did he hear you talking on the phone to your boss? You sure hope not, not when his mere presence was forcing you to face the fact that you never got over him after all, and you didn’t need him to see that. You had hoped that the time and distance would harden your heart and heal the wounds he had inflicted upon it but all it took was one look in his eyes for them to get ripped wide open again.

If nothing else, you wanted to keep your pride. He doesn’t get to break your heart and see you still broken up about it all these years later. So you put on your mask again and smirk at him, “Good work today, Pili.”

His frown deepens at the term of endearment you used to call him when you were together. You suppose you aren’t allowed to use it anymore, which is precisely why you do. “Too bad it won’t do you any good. You always did have a soft spot for the hopeless cases.”

Wonpil puffs his chest out, subconsciously trying to look bigger under your mocking gaze. “Our case isn’t hopeless.”

“Yeah sure, whatever you say, Pili.” You roll your eyes. You should end it there, tell him you have no time for him and leave to go work harder on your case to take him and the people he represents down. But you haven’t made a levelheaded decision since the moment he came back into your life and you just can’t resist adding, “You shouldn’t be wasting your skill on these people. They’re never gonna win. Join my company. I’m sure I can find you a place.”

Wonpil’s face contorts in disgust, “You think I would ever be a part of a company like yours? You kill people!”

“My company doesn’t kill people.” You reply half-heartedly, not really up to defending your employers out of the courtroom.

“Maybe not directly but the chemicals they pollute the environment with has led to the illness and death of countless people. That’s on your hands.”

You’re not surprised that he insists on making you complicit in the actions of the company you’re representing. Wonpil always did have an absolute sense of justice, from the CEO to the janitor, everyone was equally responsible in his eyes.

 “Be careful what you accuse people of, Pili. This could get you in real trouble once my company wins the lawsuit. And they will win.” You smile sadly, “They always win.”

You walk closer to him and reach out for his hand tentatively. You’re surprised when he lets you, and you take a moment to just hold it, feeling the familiar, yet almost-forgotten, weight of it in your own hands. When you lace your fingers together, they fit as perfectly as they did years ago, the heat of him permeating through yours like blood through a corpse revived. 

You know you couldn’t let yourself get carried away for long. You needed to say what you had to say and then withdraw back into yourself when he inevitably rejects you. Rubbing your thumb over the web of skin between his thumb and index, you take a few moments to steady your breath as you willfully shed years worth of mental defenses to allow him to gaze onto the real you, naked from any pretenses and completely vulnerable against the bottomless darkness you see in his own eyes. 

“I’ve missed you so much, you can’t even know. I… I still want you.” You weren’t sure if it was just your voice that was trembling or your entire body—you were holding too tightly onto his hand to be able to tell. “It’s not too late for us. We can still be together. What you’re doing right now is admirable, fighting for those who can’t fight for themselves. You’ve got the most beautiful soul I’ve ever seen… but it’s a losing battle. There is no hope for them, but there is for us. We can have a good life together.”

His lips press together into a thin line and he yanks his hand back, almost throwing you forward when you don’t react fast enough to untangle your fingers as he steps away from you, looking disgusted at the mere thought of what you’re suggesting. “If you really think that I’d not only abandon these people but actually work against them then you don’t know me at all.”

“Oh, I know you.” You look down at your now empty hands, muttering tiredly, “I just hoped that you might’ve changed.”

“And I wish you didn’t. I don’t even know who you are anymore. You’re nothing like the girl I once fell in love with. You’re a monster.”

You let out a bark of laughter to hide the stabbing pain his words delivered right into the center of your chest, cutting up your tattered heart all over again. “And did you follow me all this way just to say that? Aw, Pili, you shouldn’t have.”

He glares at you, utter contempt displayed on his face.

“I hate you.” He curses out before he leaves, not sparing you a second glance, and for that you were thankful. You could barely stomach the fact that the broken woman who was openly sobbing in the middle of the street in broad daylight was you—you didn’t need him to see that.

___________________________

Just like you hadn’t expected to ever face off with him in a courtroom, you also never expected him to show up at your place only days after your less-than-sweet reunion.

“What are you doing here?” You stand with your arms folded over your chest, feeling resentful that he’s forcing you to deal with the heartache he brought with him into your own residence. “How did you even know where my apartment is?”

“You’ve messed with my damn head.” He accuses, looking deeply agitated as he paces back and forth in your living room.

The audacity of this man! He sought you out first, then he rejected you, and now he barges into your home and claims you are messing with him?

You plant your body in his path to stop his pacing, and ask, putting emphasis on each word, “Why. are. you. here?”

He stares at you for a second, exasperated and contemplating what to say, but each time a sentence starts forming, he bites it back abruptly. Huffing, he runs his hand through his hair haphazardly and tries to get past you to start pacing again.

But you jump into action, your hands shooting out to grab him and hold him in place. You won’t let him play games with you. You won’t be able to handle it.

In the process of holding on to him to try to keep him in place, you had gotten much closer to him in proximity. With your arms almost enveloping him, your heart starts beating erratically. This was the closest you’d been to him in years, and by the looks of it, Wonpil wasn’t completely unfazed by it either.

“What do you want from me, Wonpil?” You ask, suddenly feeling weary as if all the fight has seeped out of your body. 

His eyes flit down to your lips as you talk, and they linger there even after you’re done, giving you your answer. Wonpil was never particularly good at hiding his feelings, something he would readily admit to if asked, and you take advantage of it.

You raise your hand to his face carefully as if he’s a frightened animal you don’t want to scare off. When he feels your hand on his cheek, he finally looks you in the eyes again, and you feel a twinge of pity at the helplessness you see in his gaze.

Taking in a deep breath, you ask slowly, “Do you want to kiss me, Wonpil?”

You knew you shouldn’t be doing this; it will only open up your wounds further, but you’ve never gotten to say goodbye to him, and you knew that if you miss this-- probably last-- chance to be with him, you will live to regret it even more.

You’re so lost in your own head that you miss the subtle nod Wonpil gives you and, antsy by your lack of response, he makes the first move, pressing his lips to your own.

It’s an awkward kiss, tight-lipped and uncoordinated as Wonpil is unsure of what he is allowed to do, but feeling the urgency to touch you anyway. His hands are all over you, but not in a good way. They would barely touch a part of you before they moved on to the next, leaving you feeling unsatisfied.

Deciding to take the reins—which was par for the course back during your relationship anyway—you grab his hands and hold them behind his back, making him whine when you break the kiss. “Don’t whine. You don’t have the right to.”

He bites his lip, stifling anymore protests from coming out. Pulling on his arm, you lead him to your bedroom and push him on the bed. He tries to pull you down with him but you shake him off. Again, he starts whining but with a sharp raise of your eyebrow, he pipes down immediately.

Grabbing the hem of your oversized shirt, you cock your head at him. “Do you want me to take this off?”

“Yes, please.” He breathes out before you’re even done talking.

You slide the shirt up your body slowly, teasingly, making sure to give Wonpil a show. With the shirt off, your breasts are entirely exposed for you to play with them and tease Wonpil some more. Pushing them together, messaging them, twisting the nipples lightly, you do everything you know will drive him crazy until he’s biting down hard on his lip so he wouldn’t piss you off, but you could see from the obvious bulge in his pants and the way his right leg was bouncing up and down impatiently that he was getting needy.

You give your breasts one last squeeze before you slide your hands down your abdomen and towards the waistline of your shorts, pushing it down on one side only to pull it back up and do the same thing with the other side.

“Please.”

“Please, what? You want me to take this off too?”

“Yes.”

“But I thought I was a disgusting monster and you can’t even look at me. You have no problem with it now that you want to get your dick wet, huh?”

He averts his eyes, having the audacity to look ashamed and it pisses you the fuck off. 

You grab his jaw, making him face you, and hiss down at him. “Either you grow some fucking balls and face the implications of your own desire or you get the fuck out of my sight.” 

You needed him to voice out his desire so he’d admit that he’s equally responsible for what is happening. You’re not going to let him paint you as a monster seducing poor, helpless him. He wants this too, and he needs to be held accountable for that.

“What do you want me to say?” He asks, entirely too chagrined than he had any right to be. 

“That you’re a fucking hypocrite.” You spit, astonished at how disgusted you were with him, while still wanting to be one with him. Your whole relationship is a mess, and you’re convinced that either it was never meant to be, or that the gods themselves are jealous of your love and are trying to hurt you.

“I’m… I’m a hypocrite. There, are you happy?” He challenges, but you just let out a tired sigh, almost having expected him to deny it and put an end to this—to tell you that this is insane and you’re insane, but he validates your insanity and now you can’t back down.

No. None of this makes you happy. You haven’t been happy ever since he left you.

You take your shorts and panties off unceremoniously and straddle him, staying still for a moment to see if he’ll try something, but his hands stay balled to his sides as he awaits your permission to touch you, so you give it to him. “Go ahead. You can touch.”

His hands immediately go to your breasts, touching you in the exact same way you were just touching yourself, and you laugh. “Aw, Pili, you wanted it that bad?”

He frowns in that adorably pouty way he unconsciously does sometimes, and it makes your smile falter, the memory of something you used to have but is just out of your reach now is all too painful.

He forcefully takes you out of your thoughts when his mouth latches onto one of your breasts, placing kisses all over it and sucking on your nipple. You moan out, a hand reaching for his hair and automatically tugging on it the way you know he likes, which only makes him needier, one of his hands eagerly moving down to your pussy, and the moan that leaves him lets you know just how excited he is to find you dripping. Too impatient to wait, his fingers move down to your hole right away. When a finger enters you, he’s the one pulling back with a throaty moan.

You chuckle breathlessly, feeling yourself quivering around his finger. “Does my pussy feel that good, Pili?”

He nods, pumping his finger in and out of you, making you gasp as you start unbuttoning his shirt. “Tell me what it feels like.” 

“Tight. Wet. Soft.”

“Hmm, and did you miss it?” You slip his shirt off his shoulders, forcing him to remove his hands from you, but as soon as the shirt is off, his hands are back on you again, one grabbing a handful of your breast and the other two fingers deep in you.“Do you miss how it feels around your cock?”

“Yeah.” He closes his eyes and you know that he’s imagining it. 

“Do you want to feel it again?”

“Yes.” His eyes snap open again, full of silent pleas.

You push him backwards until he’s lying down in the middle of the bed with you straddling him, his cock snug between your wet folds as you slowly rub up and down against it. With your hands holding his arms over his head, he looks up at you, gaze brimming with need as he holds his breath and waits, but you don’t give it to him yet.

“Look at you. You were acting all high and mighty earlier but now you’re willing to do anything to get inside this pussy, huh?” You taunt, rubbing yourself with the tip of his dick.

When he doesn’t say anything, you lean down to bite his collarbone, making him yelp. “Answer me, Pili.”

“Yes, please, give it to me.” He nods emphatically, throwing his head back and crying out as you sink down on him. 

As soon as you have him all the way inside of you, you know you are in trouble. God, he fills you up so good. Everywhere his cock touched inside of you burns with pleasure and you can’t even help yourself; you ride him hard and fast, desperate to feel the kind of pleasure you haven’t felt in years. Everything is just different with him, the way he fits inside of you, the needy, almost reverent look on his face, his choked off moans, they all work you up to a frenzy. 

“Does it feel good, Pili?”

“Yes. So, so good.”

“I bet you’ve been fantasizing about this for years... just lying in bed, fucking your own spit-covered hand and imagining it was me taking you.” 

“Yeah, y-yeah…” He sniffles, lower lip trembling as he readily admits to it.

“You’re gonna cry?” You spit out, suddenly enraged, and come to a stop. “Fuck, you’re so pathetic.” 

“No! I’m sorry. I’ll stop. Please keep going.” 

“No. I won’t let you twist this narrative into you being the victim.” You fall back onto the bed and pull him up over you. “If you want me, take me.”

The muscle in his jaw jumps as he considers his options for a second, and you lay completely still under him, waiting for him to make the decision on his own, half-wishing he’d stop this madness. But he doesn’t.

Grunting, his hands grab your hips as he pushes his length back inside you. It only takes a few unexpectedly sharp thrusts for you to cooperate and wrap your arms and legs around him. Goosebumps erupt all over his skin when you pull at the hair at the nape of his neck, the shaky moan your action elicits causing heat to start gathering in your belly once again. You stare up at him in hunger, admiring how sexy he looks as the pleasure overtakes his features.

“Shit…shit, you feel so good.” Wonpil rasps out, his eyes squeezing shut as his thrusts turn sloppy. “ I can’t hold on much longer.”

“Don’t you dare.” You snap at him, your nails digging red trails down his back, making his hips stutter. 

“Please, I can’t hold it.” He shakes his head, desperate to get you to let him cum.

“No.” You hiss, silencing him with a kiss. You swallow his whines as your hands grab his ass and force him to keep fucking you. The more he squirms, the more his hips grind against you, rubbing coarsely against your clit and bringing you oh-so-close to your orgasm. 

But—seemingly just a second away from release—Wonpil goes rigid under you, his body freezing up too hard to allow you to move him anymore. His mouth tears away from your own in a loud moan as his dick twitches inside you and fills you up with his hot cum.

You can’t believe it. You were so, so close. Frustration and disappointment fill up the spaces the receding pleasure leaves behind.

“I told you to stop.” You hear him say meekly, and you sigh as you’re left tense and unfulfilled, just like always. 

“It’s fine.” You mutter darkly, pushing him off you, and Wonpil’s face falls, shame spreading all over it.

You know your reaction is hurting him. Wonpil hated not pleasing you. He took it as a personal failure if you were even the slightest bit unhappy with his performance. His desire to please and your desire to be pleased are what brought you together in the first place many years ago. But honestly, all you can think about right now is that mind-blowing orgasm you were just robbed of because he couldn’t hold back just a little bit more.   

But before the last bit of pleasure inside you recedes from your body, it is forced back in when Wonpil, still half-hard and sheathed inside you, starts moving again, fucking his cum into your sensitive pussy.

“What are you doing?” Your mouth hangs open in shock and pleasure, and you watch him grit his teeth and set a frantic pace. As his cock starts hardening inside of you again, he’s able to fuck you harder and harder, the determined look on his face the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen.

His moans are loud, and you can’t tell if they’re from pleasure or pain as Wonpil never once lets up his assault, hitting just the right spot that has you seeing white. When his thumb flicks your clit, it is over for you, your hands flying out to grab his face and pull him down into a searing kiss as you cum. 

When you pull back from the kiss, signalling the end of your orgasm, Wonpil collapses into a sweaty mess next to you, still clinging to your body by wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck as you both catch your breath.

“What’s so funny?” He perks his head up, asking as you start shaking with laughter in his arms. But the more you look at him, the harder you laugh. This is just all so absurd.

Wonpil watches you uneasily. He needs assurance, something that he had always relied on you to provide for him, but you can’t do that this time. 

You come down from your laughter fit with a deep sigh. “Get out.”

He’s taken aback at your sudden coldness. This isn’t what he expected, not what he was used to from you, and you almost start laughing again. Is he really that clueless? Did he expect things to be just like they were before after what he’s done?

His eyes flit between yours, searching for a comfort he won’t find in them. “But—but… aren’t we going to talk about this?"

“Talk about what, Wonpil?” You ask in exasperation, “Have you changed your mind about my work?”

“No, but—”

“But you want me to make the sacrifice for you.” You finish his sentence for him. “This is why you’re here, isn’t it? You refuse to give up your job but you expect me to give up mine for you.”

“It’s the right thing to do.” He bristles, sitting up.

“I don’t care about the right thing. All I care about is my family.”

His face hardens at that, and through gritted teeth, he says, “Your family isn’t going to starve if you work at another firm.”

“Quality of life isn’t measured by whether you starve or not. I want them to have a good life.” You don’t know why you even bother anymore, he’s never going to listen. “You wouldn’t understand.”

He tears himself away from you and gets up, angrily putting on his clothes. “Yes because I’m just a poor orphan boy who will never understand what family means. Isn’t that right?”

“Pili… you know I didn’t mean it like that.” You unconsciously reach out for him but he jumps away.

“Yes, you did. You always pitied me for not having a family.” Pain twists Wonpil’s pretty features. “You know, for a while, I actually thought you could be my family.”

“No, Pili. I couldn’t have.” You sigh sadly, the deepening look of hurt on his face cutting you up. “Because you left me. And family never leaves.”

His mouth opens and closes like he wants to say something but doesn't even know what. Collecting himself, Wonpil scoffs and turns towards the door.

“Yeah, like that.” You mutter, collapsing back on the bed as you hear the sound of your front door opening and slamming shut. 

___________________________________

You know it is wrong but you can’t stay away from each other. Now that you have had a taste of the forbidden after years of having sworn off each other, you couldn’t find it in you to stop.

You find yourself in each other’s beds again and again, hurling accusations at each other and fucking your emotions out until you’re too tired to do anything but sleep, each time getting more and more exhausted until you stop trying all together, just blocking out everything and focusing on the here and now as if nothing else existed outside of your respective bedrooms. 

Your nights have been sleepless ever since he's gotten back into your life, and not just for the obvious reason that he’s the person you thought was the love of all your lives, past or present. No, many nights were spent just staring at each other, no words uttered for fear of disturbing this fragile improbability that brought you back together, or holding each other so gingerly as if you were made of matter and antimatter and your meeting could annihilate not only yourselves but the entire world you’ve built around you. 

It’s a bubble and you know it, the translucent shell that surrounds you gleaming all rainbow-like when the light of forgotten dreams hits it just right. It sways and wobbles, signaling its impending explosion any moment now. And yet, you stay curled up around each other as if you can’t see the surface tension on the verge of breaking.

Every once in a while, one of you would lean forward and press their lips against the other’s, and you’d close your eyes and pretend like these past years have been nothing but a bad dream and you’re still college students, young and lost and unsure of everything in the world except for the notion that love is eternal and that you have already found it in each other.

You wonder what you’d look like now to your past selves, having gained all the conviction and knowledge you would’ve never thought you would possess, but having lost the one thing that made any of it worth a damn. You bet your past selves would hold each other and cry at the sight of the broken you holding onto the jagged pieces of your once-sweet notion with bleeding hearts and crushed souls.

Tears trickle down your face, and Wonpil reaches up to wipe them with the backs of his fingers, pressing his lips to yours again when the branching stream reaches even your lips.

Pulling back ever so slightly, he whispers to you and to the dying universe around you, the vibrations of his voice reaching your lips through the tiny distance between you, sounding choked up like he had begun crying too, “I wish we could stay here forever, just forget about everyone and be forgotten by them.”

You sigh and wrap yourself around him, his starry eyes shuttering closed and a soft pout forming on his lips as he drifts off to sleep, just like old times. And you're left alone to wonder... if you could do it all over again, would you have chosen differently?

______________________________

You knew something was off. Despite the time and distance that have whittled down your sense of him, you still knew that something was off. Your body had picked up on so many little things—the way his eyes glossed over when he would force himself to face you, his excessively soft touches that resembled those of a volatile lover silently apologizing for his latest outburst, the lingering looks he gave you as if he was memorizing every little detail of you before you went away—it just took your brain too long to make sense of it all.

Or maybe you just didn't want to believe it. You got too greedy and wanted to live in your fantasy world just a little bit longer, and it cost you everything. 

Looking at him now, you think he’s saying something to you but every word is muffled as if you were submerged in water. He gets agitated, shouting something again and again that gets just a little clearer every time as he forces you back to the surface and you register that it’s your own name.

When you blink, your gaze finally focusing on him, he breathes a sigh of relief. “You’re scaring me.”

“I wish I had never met you.” Your sentence is slow and raspy like the ghostly murmur of someone fished out of water.

“Don’t say that.” He whimpers, "I had to do it." He says it like he means it, like he really couldn’t stop himself from betraying you, using you, ruining your life. "You said it yourself, we never would've won. It was the only way. These people depended on me."

"And what about me?" You rasp, tears stinging your eyes. "I loved you."

"And I love you." He tries to hold you but you push him away.

"They fired me.” You inform him monotonously, “They had me blacklisted to make sure I would never find a job in this field again."

Of course they did. What company will want you now that you've shown yourself not to be reliable? You slept with your rival and allowed him to steal crucial documents that could jeopardize the entire case from right under your nose. Your stupid amateur mistake could cost the company millions.

"How am I going to provide for my family now?" You moan, not really asking him.

"You could join us. It's not a big pay but—”

Your hand goes to pull at your hair in frustration, “God, do you ever shut the fuck up?”

"I'm sorry.” He holds his head down, sobbing.

"No, you don’t get to cry about ruining my life! You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself! You don’t—” You stop abruptly, unable to breathe. Cradling your head now, you lament, "Oh god, what am I gonna do now?"

"I don't know."

"No, you never know." You say bitterly. "I don’t want to ever see your face again."

His head whips up, "Don't say that..."

“Go.”

"I didn't mean for all of this to happen--"

"Go." You shriek and he flinches back. His lower lips tremble as he tries to hold his tears back to no avail. In a shaky voice, he says, "I'll give you some time to calm down but I'll be back. I'll fix this."

"God, Wonpil," You suck in a shaky breath, "for once in your life, I wish you'd leave it alone."

He jerks his head away, wiping at his tears furiously, "I'll see you later."

_____________________________

You struggle to hold back tears as you wait inside your cramped studio apartment. You don’t know how much longer you can stand to do this— lie to your parents about getting fired and blacklisted, telling them that you quit for moral differences, accepting money from the man who ruined your life just so they wouldn’t find out for a little while longer.

But you couldn’t do anything to help yourself, let alone support your family without Wonpil’s charity. The only jobs you are able to get now are in the service industry and those barely pay your rent and living expenses. You couldn’t even go back to your hometown and your family for fear that they’d figure out the truth, and you just couldn’t let that happen.

You knew your father would insist on getting back to work in order to help support the family. You barely even had him convinced that his condition doesn’t allow him to work and that he needs to rest. If he finds out you not only lost your job but also any hope for a future one in that field, he’d go back to work right away, and that could very possibly kill him.

Your siblings’ future now lies unknown. The eldest of your siblings after you is a senior now, and soon you’ll have to tell her that she isn’t going to college like you promised her she would. She has to abandon her dreams in order to get a job to help provide for the family, and as your other siblings grow older, they too would follow in her footsteps; a family that came from dirt and will die in it, that’s what Wonpil’s ideals have cost you.

After everything you’ve done, after all you’ve gone through, you’re still nothing. It’s funny that Wonpil is fighting for the poor and innocent when he’s the one who has proven to you once and for all that the rich will stay rich and the poor will stay poor and under the feet of the rich.

The case he betrayed you for was a loss in the end. After a long, tedious trial, his clients were forced to settle because they couldn’t afford to pay for a trial that kept getting prolonged, a strategy the rich and powerful employed in order not to lose doomed cases, in the end making the poor people poorer and worse off than they were before. That’s what Wonpil does. He makes people hope and believe that maybe, just maybe the world isn’t as shitty as it seems, only to shatter them completely when he can’t follow through on his beautiful promises. He breaks them because he made them hope.

Hearing the doorbell ring, you get up to answer it, moving mechanically. After you swing the door open, you stand in the way so Wonpil wouldn’t be able to barge in like he tries to sometimes.

He hands you an envelope which you take with a heavy heart. Every envelope you accept is a debt piled on you that you’ll live the rest of your life paying back.

“I’m working three jobs right now but I hope to find something with a better pay soon so I can start paying you back.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that.” He rushes to say, but you cut him off. “Yes, I do.”

He sighs and stares at the floor, fiddling with his finger. It annoyed the hell out of you. “Is there something you want?”

His head shoots up, eyes wide at having been caught.

“I—“ He clears his throat after he chokes on the word. “I miss you.”

You hate yourself because of how his words still affect you, how you wish you could fall into his arms and let him comfort you until there are no more tears left in your eyes.

But you won’t cry. You won’t let yourself be vulnerable in front of him. Never again. 

“Goodnight, Wonpil.” You say coldly, closing the door in his face before he can say anything else.

______________________________

[vagrantblvrd]

Shenanigans/Adventures in which truth serum is involved?

Like.

Din out and about and gets caught by Imperial remnants because reasons.

They don’t know who he is at first, this little group of holdouts on a backwater planet in the Outer Rim, just know he’s a Mandalorian who was trying to dig them out of their little compound/bunker.

Because Grogu and Gideon and experiments an so forth, but his plans and whatnot didn’t work out this time and anyway, anyway.

It’s all an excuse to have the whole Bad Guy Monologue before they break out the interrogation droid and Din manages to take down another trooper before they get him pinned down and then it’s truth serum time.

But, you know, Din.

Not the chattiest guy around most of the time and stubborn as anything and it’s an ordeal trying to get anything useful out of him.

What they do get -

“...I keep telling him it needs to stay on the ship, but he doesn’t listen.”

Behind the helmet they allowed him to keep Din pauses, frowns. Things about the little metal ball he tucked into a pouch he usually keep on his person. Meant to give it to Grogu, but things have been hectic to say the least. “Guess it doesn’t matter anymore, though.”

Because no more Razor Crest and all.

And so on, and by this time they realize that hey, wait, it’s that Mandalorian because contact with other Imperials and this sudden interest in the Mandalorian they captured, and anyway, Plot Reasons.

So the interrogation turns toward the Rebel operaticve -

“Who?”

There’ a long moment of silence, followed by a conversation in lowered voices Din can’t quite make out but he hears something about dosage and how much did it give him and the unmistakable sounds of a blaster being fired and a body hitting the ground

(That old joke about the Empire and firing methods and so on, not that Din ever found it funny, but you know.)

Anyway, his interrogators want to know about Luke and Din is like :DDDDD inside his helmet because bot, does he have him some thoughts about Luke, let him tell you.

Awkward little silence and then a sigg from the lead interrogator/Bad Guy.

“Enlighten us, would you?”

Din cocks his head because he’s 99.9% sure that was sarcastic, but hey, they asked.

He then launches in on a long, passionate rant about Luke and all the ways he’s an idiot.

Like, while he’d been in awe and more relieved than he can say because he was under no delusion he and the others would have succeeded when Luke saved the day, it’s like. The fact Luke came alone to find Grogu and then boarded an Imperial cruiser and took on a platoon of Dark Troopers - it was all kind of dumb of him, because what idiot thinks that’s a good idea?

(Luke, clearly.)

And that’s not even scratching the surface because there have been many, many Adventures since then in which Din suddenly understood how Cara and Karga must feel dealing with him?

Just.

Wow.

“I see,” Bad Guy says, clearly regretting So Much, but wait, there’s more!

A comment about...something or other from of the Imperials has Din go on a tangent about how frustrating dealing with Luke, which forkes off onto a tangent about his eyes?

Because pretty, and so, so blue, a shade Din’s never seen before...

Which, you know, is when the Rescue happens, Luke (and Grogu) tearing the place apart - but precisely, both of them honing in on their Mandalorian with unerring accuracy.

There’s a standoff then, Imperial blaster against Din’s throat where the helmet ends.

Din still a bit loopy staring at Luke who looks -

Din’s not sure how to categorize the look on his face, but angry is a good place to start.

Bad Guy lays out the terms of what he thinks will be Luke’s surrender - Jedi and all, noble, self-sacrificing sorts - and its clear the Mandalorian cares quite a great deal about him. Surely the reverse must be true?

In the silence that follows that comment, cold and cruel and all, Din laughs.

Because, you know, Pining idiots and half the time he doesn’t think Luke likes him all that much, tolerates his presence at his school for Grogu’s sake, and -

The blaster at his throat dips, barely noticeable, and Din knows everyone in the room is looking at him now because he put too much of himself in that inrcedlous laugh, and anyway.

The drugs are starting to clear from his system and he’s a Mandalorian and disarms the Bad Guy, shoots one of the troopers aiming at Luke’s head as he turns to focus on the sudden renewed threat Din poses and then Luke’s moving.

It’s over quickly after that, Luke staring at Din over the bodies for a long moment before the blade of his lightsaber retracts and he stuffs whatever emotions gave rise to the confusing expression on his face down for the time being to go over to Din.

Injured from his capture and rough treatment during it and truth serum and whatnot still in his system and Luke helping him out of the imperial base and out of the base.

Artoo and Grogu appear somewhere in there, Artoo towing a sled holding the rest of Din’s armor and whatnot, with Grogu’s tiny little hands gripping the pauldron with their clan signet on it and soft, sad little noises at the state Din’s in.

Luke watches Din from the corner of his eye as Din does his best to reassure Grogu he’s alright, he’s fine, really, and Grogu squinting up at him because really, is that so, dad?

Luke snorts, hauling Din the rest of the way to a non-descript ship waiting for them, nothing much to look at, really.

(Feels a pang of regret because the ship he got to replace his Razor crest is in pieces now, shot down a few miles away and all, and he’ll have to replace that one as well.)

Luke shrugs because hey, X-wings are super recognizable and one-seaters and anyway, he needs a bigger ship for his school anyway, you know?

Din isn’t really following along, anymore, but sure, sure, makes sense.

Luke sighs, but it’s quiet, soft, and then Din’s sitting...somewhere, Luke patching him up and the whatnot as Artoo stows the sled with his armor somewhere and Grogu hands Luke medical supplies before he asks for them.

Luke looks at him for a long, impossibly long moment once he’s done.

“We need to talk,” he says finally, something like a smile playing on his lips when Din points out they’re doing that now. “Later, once you’ve rested.”

And then Din gets escorted to the sleeping area and tucked into one of the bunks, Grogu climbing up beside him, little hands patting Din’s face as he makes sure his dad rests.

Din and Grogu falling asleep becuase tired, and Luke watching them for a little longer before Artoo yells at him to get them off the damn planet because never a good idea to stick around an Imperial base.

They shoot off a message to New Republic forces in the area and head back to Luke’s Jedi school.

And then! When Din wakes up later he has the moment of man, what did I do -

Followed boy the moment of oh, no because he remembers and also Angst and the whatnot.

Tries to avoid Luke but while the ship’s bigger than an X-wing it’s only sightly bigger than the Crest and therefore not that many places to hide.

Din holding Grogu in his arms, tiny crunchcrunchcrunch noises of Grogu eating those cookies he likes as he watches the most awkward exchange of FEELINGS ever.

And forehead touches, Luke blushing because Din chooses to continue his education of Mandalorian culture by being, “That’s ho we kiss,” strangled quality to his voice even though (because of?) the awkward exchange of FEELINGS, and Grogu’s tiny, cookie crumb covered hands patting their faces and making happy noises and anyway, anyway, yes.

BUT ALSO.

Luke and a visit from Han, Lando and other assorted miscreants at his fledgling Jedi school and a late night game of Sabaac in which drinks are had and Luke gets to be the dumb kid Han ran into on Tatooine all those years ago again instead of all his responsibilities and it’s really kind of great?

Chewie making sure Luke gets back to his and Din’s place safely, rib-creaking hug and fond ruffling of hair that has Luke laughing and smileing ans Aw, no, Chewie, c’mon before he says goodnight.

Smiling fit to burst when he checks in on his family via Force shenanigans, Grogu asleep and a point of light, happy, content, dreaming of frogs he’s going to eat or something, and Din -

Big old dopey smile because Din is this constant, steady in the presence, stone in the middle of a river while the Force moves around him, eddies and ripples and makes his way to their bedroom.

“You’re drunk,” surprised, but fond, amused.

Luke can’t be changing his clothes, barely manages taking his boots off before climbing into the bed next to Din. Rolls on his side to look at him, familiar, lvoed face and crooked smile as he tries not to laugh at Luke as Luke gives him a Very Serious Look and tells him, also Very Seriously. “I like you. A lot.”

Because just a little drunk and a more than a lot happy with his life and especially the places Din and Grogu hold in it and feels Din needs to know that at this very moment because utmost importance, Din, it’s a very serious matter!!1!

“I should hope so,” Din tells him, pulling Luke closer, which Luke allows because he really, really, likes Din, and also sleepy. “We are married.”

Because of course they are, and also Han and Lando never let Luke live down the fact he waxed poetic about his husband the last few hands of Sabaac out of revenge for Luke cleaning them out while wearing the wide-eyed, naive farm boy look that’s worked out pretty well for him if he says so himself.

[loyally-unfaithful]

—; it’s beginning to look a lot like christmas.

word count: 3.6k

pairing: razor/gn!reader; razor/traveler

genre: fluff

summary: « i remember… purple mentor say ‘mistletoe’ a big part of weihnachten. »

you looked at the plant in slight bewilderment, not quite sure what to make of this offering. it was cute.

« oh. »

razor stares expectantly at you as you watch him make no further attempt to move. you can’t help the laugh that escapes you, the banality of everything setting into your mind. or maybe you’re getting sleepy. you wonder: « do you know why, razor? »

a/n: secret santa secret santa secret santa anyway, this is my side of the secret santa gift for @absolutely-rational​—i chose to write a thing for razor, but i barely play the game and i haven’t met him or own him* or anything so i apologise if it’s a little ooc ,,,, merry christmas and happy holidays ^^

p.s. as the man who’s good at saying very little in way too many words, the length of this fic just exploded and it’s alot longer than what i wanted it to be dskljfsldkja

heads-up

i write dialogues in what i will call the french/european system? anyway, i see that it's not the dialogue formatting that most english readers are accustomed to so i modified it slightly to be easier to understand basically dialogues will be within guillemets (« »), and words that are within the quotation marks but are italicised are actions and/or dialogue verbs.

hope that clears things out a bit and i hope you give me and my fic a chance :)

« weih… nachten…? »

he tilts his head slightly, not unlike a dog. what’s that? razor repeats your words slowly, tentatively, enunciating the foreign word with care. he wonders if the words sound strained coming from him. words are hard.

« that’s right! it’s a large festival in teyvat, and even more so in the city! you elaborated, sensing his confusion. here in mondstadt it’s called weihnachten and it’s supposed to be about, you know, spending time with friends and family, passing around gifts and presents to those you care about. »

you soon felt at ease as you continued: this world had its differences, but it had its similarities. it had its own equivalent of christmas. something that you know about. sure, maybe the origin is different, maybe it had different customs and traditions, but it was a comforting familiarity in the midst of everything that’s so staggeringly foreign. then again, you suppose that’s what drew you closer to the silver-haired boy: neither of you truly fit in, nor fully understood the strange world you happen to be in.

though at the very least, razor had his lupical. as bittersweet as it was, it warmed your heart to know that at least he had family to be around with during christmas, and well, around… in general.

« weihnachten. he says, this time with more conviction. how to celebrate? – well for starters, (where do you even begin?) we’d decorate our homes with all sorts of festive trinkets and we’d fill the streets with all sorts of sparkly things. garlands, lights, flowers, ribbons; decorations that’ll spruce up the place and make the city light up. it always made people cheer up and get in the holiday mood, especially at night when the fairy lights twinkle about! »

razor’s mouth moved in a silent gasp. then does that mean that those bright stars he liked so much were not stars, but rather lights? is that why they seemed to be brighter near the end of the year? the people from the city decorated, he considered. is that why the stars’ reflection, bouncing around in the lake, were an array of dazzling colours, from glittering red and shimmering green to captivating shade’s who’s name he doesn’t know?

« is why… sometimes stars explode? he wondered. – yup! though we don’t usually light up fireworks until new year’s. you wondered for a moment. do you like fireworks, razor? the silver-haired boy frowned, lost in thought, before shaking his head. – loud. scary. me and my lupical, we go hide. we don’t like… firework. »

you hummed in understanding. dogs have never been fond of fireworks and firecrackers either.

« fire is bad. why light firework? isn’t it big hassle? »

it reminded razor of the red, burny girl. fun person, friend! but the toys she uses are loud and dangerous, they create explosions and fire, just like fireworks.

« hmm, i guess… you pursed your lips in thought. good question. i guess that at this point we all just do it out of tradition. new year’s brings a lot of excitement, and people let it out by lighting them up. it’s also really pretty. »

the more he thought about it, and the more he learned about it, the less he understood the celebration. why? it’s loud and distracting. bright colours hurt eyes, doesn’t it? it’s time spent with your family, but razor is with his lupical everyday. do humans… not spend time with their lupical regularly? why is this specific day so special from the rest of the year? he doesn’t get all the funny dates and celebrations humans have to keep track of. seems like a big hassle. sounds complicated.

« no such thing as weihnachten in wolvendom, huh? »

he shook his head.

you tucked your finger under your chin, pondering, in slight puzzlement. back in your world, you would’ve been able to take pictures—maybe that would’ve helped him visualise it better—but you couldn’t here in teyvat. a sigh. anyway, it’s not like you had your camera on your person anymore, so you do your best to describe your happiest sensations, experiences, memories of christmas: the smell of hot cocoa on a cool winter morning, the crackle of firewood from the hearth, and the feeling of soft wool on your skin, hugging you from the biting cold. the merry and jovial carols sung by the star singers, the gleeful chattering between friends out on the street, and the boisterous cheering and partying coming from the many bars and restaurants in mondstadt. the comforting arias and prayers echoing from within the cathedral, the mouth-watering aroma and fragrance of treats from the christmas market, and the grand christmas tree placed at the heart of the city decorated with even more opulent and lavish garlands and baubles, the vivid glimmering lights reflected from your eyes.

describe the different little things that made christmas different and more special from the rest of the year.

somehow this time that you took to pay the wolf boy a visit was consumed by you rambling about the merry holiday, drivel that he listened to attentively and with a pure and honest kind of curiosity (even if he doesn’t always understand you) that you found endearing and made your heart flutter, until the sun dipped below the horizon and the stars adorning the city shined out, rivalling those peppering the night sky. until the howls from his family called him away from you, and until you motivated yourself to begin your trek back to mondstadt after sitting in the woods alone.

being with him was always a welcome distraction, you thought.

december 25th.

paimon was dozing off after stuffing her face full of the dishes from the christmas banquet (good for her!), the cup of tea you had between your hands had gotten cold, and your breath was fogging the frosted window in front of your desk. you mindlessly traced a smiley face on condensation. you can see the ever changing colourful lights blinking through the glass pane. you take another gulp of the unpleasant liquid, unsatisfying as you feel it slowly go down your throat. the calming and comforting scent it brought (it was chamomile) having long dissipated.

sighing, you pulled your fingers off the cold china, deciding it wasn’t worth finishing, and quietly slipped out of your room (which was graciously granted to you by the knights of favonius), taking care to slot the chair back under the desk and gently close the door behind you. you wondered if taking a walk would help you feel better. you tightened your shawl around you and buried your freezing hands into your pockets. head down, you quickened your pace to… wherever your legs were taking you.

another sigh.

you smiled almost bitterly to how much of a grinch you were being. you liked christmas, or rather, you liked what it stood for, and you liked the idea of spending the winter months with your closed ones.

a few hours ago, the knights of favonius had organised a small christmas party at angel’s share, and though they had thoroughly reassured you that you belonged and were included in this celebration, you couldn’t help but keep to yourself and stick to a corner of the bar. you couldn’t bring yourself to join in on the fun, or talk to others. you didn’t feel like it was your place to force yourself into their conversation, into their lives. you were grateful that they thought about you, and you didn’t want to question their kindness, but… you nursed your glass of virgin cocktail, peeling your eyes away from your wonky reflection on the liquid.

you weren’t exactly at home: you looked at jean and barbara, happily exchanging jokes and teases. a relaxed sort of conversation, banter which flowed, almost as if it were rehearsed, in a way that was only possible between sisters. that night, the deaconess wasn’t smiling as if she was holding back tears. the carefree girl was speaking with jean (rather than the acting grand master) who allowed herself some respite from the demanding position.

you look at the uncharacteristic smile on the bartender’s (who happened to be none other than diluc that evening) face, and you doubted that kaeya, sharp-eyed as ever, missed it either. it was subtle. but it was there. you don’t miss the way the cavalry captain held back on his sarcastic remarks or the way diluc wasn’t being “deliberately uncivil” (as kaeya would put it) either; the way the red-head indulges kaeya’s seemingly insatiable thirst for alcohol while the latter makes an effort to maintain a friendly, if curt, chatter.

a particularly loud giggle drew your gaze back at the two sisters: lisa seemed to have joined them. you sipped your beverage, half-hearted. the three seemed to have started a rather animate discussion. you hear them laugh again. it makes you frown, but you shake your head, pushing those angry thoughts out of your mind. just because you’re miserable (even though you shouldn’t be—your friends are with you) doesn’t mean they have to feel down with you.

setting your glass down on the table, you wondered if you would've felt better if you were with someone closer to your age, but amber had gone home early: she dropped by and hung out for a bit before going home to spend time with her family. your glass is empty now. you feel… envious. you wished you could spend this christmas season with your family. it’s not fair. it’s not fair.

your favonian family, and yet you were out of place.

you excused yourself early from the gathering, the other members politely bidding you farewell and a merry christmas (« frohe weichnachten! »), and quickly went up the path leading to the order’s headquarters, wanting to hide away in your room as soon as possible.

now, you stop before the lavish tree: it’s as grand and brilliant as it’s always been. but now it seems much too bright. the colours an eyesore. singing sounds more like knives being dug into your eardrums.

your head hurts.

a humourless chuckle escaped you. you used to take turns with your sibling on who got to slot in the christmas topper.

this year was their turn.

back then, your sibling made a point to hang gingerbread treats on the tree, and you made a point to eat them behind their back come christmas morning.

normally, you’d be sharing gifts with your sibling during this time of the year.

your entire life they’ve always been there by your side, and you by theirs. for better or for worse, you kept each other company. you’ve always spent christmas with them.

this was your first christmas without.

the rest of your thoughts are jumbled, incoherent. something your long term memory didn’t deem worthy of keeping, so they simply fizzled away. everything was a blur as your feet carried you outside the city, away from… it doesn't matter. just away. carried you away. happiest time of the year. but you’re here alone, with no one you know and to call home in a world you don’t recognise. far away from the land you once knew.

panting, you stopped in your tracks when you realised you’ve started sprinting. what were you doing, you chastised yourself. can’t you act a little more mature? finally lifting your gaze, you took in your surroundings; instinctively your feet must’ve taken you to wolvendom. you kicked a stray pebble under your boot. not like that afterthought was going to help much. it’s not like anyone was waiting for you here either, razor was probably with his lupical. hunting or snoozing away.

with little care, you let out an exasperated sigh as you let yourself plop ungracefully to the ground, listless.

you sit there in silence, nothing to accompany you except for the cacophonous ringing of crickets in the forest. you drew your knees closer to you. what were you doing here? it’s cold. you hear thistle crack, and so you defensively draw your sword as you rose to your feet, only to be met with a familiar mop of fluffy silver hair.

« it’s night. dangerous here. »

was his curt greeting. you lowered your sword, shoulders relaxing.

you opened your mouth, ready to apologise, make up some sort of excuse, let him know you’re leaving, when something else caught your eye: « you kept the scarf? »

he blinked. once, twice: « you gave it to me. he said, very matter-of-factly. you are my lupical. it is… treasure… razor paused, correcting himself. treasured, possession. »

having realised that the intruder was not dangerous, the wolf boy came closer and gently pressed his forehead against yours and nuzzled your face. a small laugh escaped you as you returned the affectionate gesture, something you’ve learned was his customary greeting. it was cold out, but his touch was enough to bring feeling back to your cold self and make you warm and fuzzy inside.

still resting your head on his, you asked, timidly: « is it ok if i stay here for a bit? » it came out as a whisper, unsure if you’re any better staying here rather than back in the city. but as he nodded in agreement, your shoulders loosened as you let go of tension you weren’t aware you were building up again. you slumped into him, burying your face into him and held him in a loose hug. razor, as for him, let himself be snuggled to your heart’s content, happy to receive such fondness.

« today is special day, isn’t it? » his blood-red eyes peered inquisitively back at you, arms wrapping around you as he tries to remain as close to you as physically possible.

« mhm. » you mumbled non-commitally into his shoulder, opting to pull yourself closer to him and nuzzle into the crook of his neck.

« not go celebrate in city? » razor asked, perplexed. he thought that you said this was a big celebration to be had around other people? despite his bemusement, he rested his chin on the top of your head. it makes him all warm and soft inside, the thought of you choosing to spend this special day with him of all people. it makes him happy. he hopes you’re happy too. the wold boy gives you a once-over and his brows creased in slight worry: you’re really quiet today. why?

« uh-uh. » you grunted, shaking your head against his shoulder, your hair brushing against his clothes. the chunky scarf you gave him, the one you were convinced he was going to throw out due to its garish colours, tickled your exposed skin. he kept it. you smiled, touched. he kept it. it still smelled faintly of fabric softener, but marked by the smell of pine trees and something sweet, something you associated with brewing thunderstorms. you’ve always found rain and thunder to be comforting.

being with razor comforts you.

he wasn’t much of a talker. you both knew this. silence is ok though. he’s happy to be with you. but razor wonders why you’re so quiet today. concern flashes through his mind and he turns your gaze upwards, making you face him. you can’t possibly imagine what pathetic expression you were pulling and you quickly try to cover your despondence—but it was a fruitless venture.

« you smell sad. he watched you, a worried look on his face. »

you scrambled for some explanation, reassuring him that it’s nothing. that you’re not being a downer. that you’re happy. but he’s decided: « wait here. »

knowing that there was no restraining him once he’s made up his mind, especially when it’s something to do with the ones he considered close to him, you reluctantly let razor peel you off of him. as you watch him scurry away, you find yourself dearly missing his warmth, the comfort and safety of his arms. was staying here a good idea? you wrapped your arms around yourself. maybe you should leave. you’re ruining the mood. you’re disturbing wolvendom’s peace. before you could finish that line of thought, the wolf boy returned, this time carrying a handful of… something with him.

they threatened to tumble out of his grasp, but ultimately stayed put as he returned to his original position and held them out into your general direction, showcasing whatever he had procured. in his hands were multiple plants which bore small scarlet berries and oval, evergreen leaves. a plant you immediately recognised.

« i remember… purple mentor say ‘mistletoe’ a big part of weihnachten. »

you looked at the plant in slight bewilderment, not quite sure what to make of this offering. it was cute.

« oh. »

razor stares expectantly at you as you watch him make no further attempt to move. you can’t help the laugh that escapes you, the banality of everything setting into your mind. or maybe you’re getting sleepy. you wonder: « do you know why, razor? »

he blinked, clueless, before looking at the mistletoes in his hand with confusion, coming to the realisation that no, he didn’t actually know why it’s so important. it’s not edible. maybe because it’s pretty? the city has many red lights and white lights. some mistletoes are red and others are white?

he continues to stare at the berry, as if it would cave in and reveal its secrets to him if he sustained his efforts. taking his prolonged silence as his answer (though you had expected for him to not actually know—knowing lisa, she would’ve just offhandedly mentioned them. and when razor would’ve asked her about what they meant, she’d just smile without answering him), you filled him in, your voice filled with mirth: « people usually kiss underneath mistletoes. »

he turned his gaze back to you before voicing the conclusion he had come to: « this mean, i have to kiss you? »

you chuckled. « only if you want to. »

he looks at the plant, giving it a long hard look, then back at you.

it wasn’t much, it wasn’t spectacular. hell, it was more of a ghost of a kiss than anything. but you still smiled as his lips brushed on yours. a peck, which lasted too long yet not long enough. awkward, but endearing. your textbook first kiss, including the warm fluttery feeling of butterflies that so often preached about, if only a little more clumsy.

it’s cute.

he’s so genuine, earnest, in his endeavours. it makes your heart soar. he’s sweet. you don’t deserve this kindness but he gives them away without a second thought.

you don’t deserve to be happy during christmas, especially not when your sibling was still out there, alone and potentially afraid. maybe, no, it definitely is selfish for you to enjoy this day. pretend like everything is alright just for this one moment. that you’re not some traveler stuck in a strange and unknown world, that you’re not desperately trying to find your sibling and a way out. act carefree, and get to be you. but goddammit does he make you so so happy that your heart clenches and that you can’t help but smile from ear to ear. you deserve to be miserable today; you feel like shit, really. but you’re also really happy, and glad, and relieved, and maybe a little tired.

it’s all too much, and you feel so much at once that you just don’t know how to handle this anymore. overwhelmed. you smiled and laughed giddily as the waterworks started (despite your best efforts), and you’re a mess, and definitely a bit sleepy, but you’re stupidly happy today. stupidly happy because of him.

this alarmed the boy, watching you laugh between hiccups, sobbing despite wearing a large smile. for humans, tears are sad. smiles are happy. were you ok? he’s confused. did he do something wrong?

« why crying? » he fretted, slightly panicked. he jumped to fuss over you, wipe away your tears, gently cradling your face with a gentleness that you would’ve never thought he was capable of when you first met.

you laughed as you wiped your face. « these are happy tears. » you try to explain.

he’s your home. your lupical. someone you’re at rest with, and safe with. you love him.

your words get caught in your throat, unable to express everything you want to tell him. so instead, you engulf him in a hug. something he was caught off guard from, stiffening, but quickly relaxed and embraced you back. still a little unsure, he comforts and reassures you the only way he knows how: patting your head. when he’s down head pats makes him feel better. he hopes you’ll feel better.

« thank you. » you said softly, shakily, sniffling. thank you for being here. thank you for being you.

you’re not as alone as you thought, you never really were. together, in your own small corner of the world. your home: razor.

as you cuddled together, passing the time by naming and pointing at the celestial canvas above you, you realised: maybe this year, as unfortunate as it had been, didn’t have to end on a bad note. at some point, razor had shared his ridiculously large scarf with you, wrapping it around the both of you. and slowly, your words slowed, your breaths evened out. you pressed more of your weight against him as you felt your eyes droop. you’re safe. you’re with razor. you’ll fall asleep, and when you wake up he’ll be there. as drowsiness takes you over, you think to yourself ‘yeah, i’m happy.’

you’re happy here. in this one time, one place, with razor, you’re happy.

and you hope that wherever they are, your sibling is happy too. and that they’ll forgive you for being selfish, for being happy despite everything.

you hoped that your mirror image had someone to spend christmas with.

somewhere—someone they felt at rest with.

LIKE MY WORK? CONSIDER BUYING ME A COFFEE // CHECKING OUT MY MASTERLIST | LINKS CAN BE FOUND ON MY DESC

[yellowocaballero]

Hey wouldn’t it be funny if I wrote a crossover between canon and the roleswap AU.

So I did <3. There’s no reason for this to exist, I was just bored and self-indulgent and amused myself by thinking about how fucking insane the Space Cadet team has to be in comparison to canon. This takes place at S4 Canon!Jon’s time, and basically between chapters 2 and 3 of solitaire. It is not canon. Do not think too hard about it. Enjoy. Story under the cut. 

“Yes, in almost every way.” Jon wiped his mouth with a napkin, balling it up and dropping it on the table. “Jonathan Sims, thirty one years old, Aquarius. Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. The Archivist.” He paused a beat, uncertain of how to broach this. “I think Helen may have deposited me in an alternate dimension? Best case scenario.”

Everybody stared at him blankly. 

“Well,” Basira said finally, “sounds like the kind of bullshit you get yourself wrapped up in, Jon.”

“I knew it!” Sasha cried, before deflating. “I mean, I didn’t, really, not at all, but that’s fascinating! Will you answer some questions? Who’s the Queen in your universe?”

“I’m back from the dead for a week and my life’s already stupid again,” Tim said blankly. 

“Two Jons?” Martin asked, far too excitedly. 

“Can I leave you alone,” Melanie gritted out, between clenched teeth, “for five minutes?”

Jon woke up at his desk, which was so common that it was somewhat pathetic. 

Not that a lot of things weren’t pathetic about Jon, but seeing as he no longer technically had anywhere to live he’d give himself a pass. Or was it pathetic to be homeless too? Jon felt strongly as if it was, but he was working on the judgemental thing. Martin had always -

Martin. Jon blinked blearily at his empty desk, scrubbing a little at the sleep that had accumulated in the corner of his eyes. Right. Speaking of pathetic. Jon didn’t like admitting that Martin was the first thing he thought about when he woke up and the last thing he thought about before he went to bed, but he was working on being more honest with himself. Denial about the situation didn’t do anyone any favors. Denial was what made him start stalking and hunting people like - like some sort of awful predator. No more denial. Jon knew who he was, and he knew what he was, and he was going to try and be as good a person as he can be despite it. It was the least he could do. 

Wait. Why was his desk empty?

It wasn’t completely empty. There was a laptop on the center of it, and some assorted papers stuck haphazardly underneath. The usual recorder was tucked into the corner, clicked off. He swiped his hand over the trackpad of his laptop, quickly logging in, and instead of seeing his usual research or theory maps, he saw...a video game?

Jon squinted at the video game. What was The Sims?

He looked around his office, well-lit with the harsh fluorescent lights. It was his office, complete with the couch on the far wall that Daisy had taken to napping on and the two walls of metal shelving that held filling boxes and collections of tapes. Several filing cabinets were lined up behind Jon, holding his favorite statements. Organized by Entity. He was quite proud of it. 

But the Statements seemed to be gone. Some loose papers were always scattered around, slipping out of boxes or sitting in haphazard piles weighed down by tape recorders. None of them were there. Basira must have taken them. Jon stood up, moving around the desk to pull out a box and peer inside. Empty. 

Some part of Jon’s brain, growing louder every day, wailed and gnashed its teeth that someone had stolen his Statements, his knowledge. Most of Jon was just worried over what Basira could possibly be doing with them. 

Unconsciously, Jon’s hand drifted down to his stomach. It was purely a habit, of course - the hunger never gave him stomach pains. He was so hungry all the time, he could barely feel it anymore. 

The Statements were all gone.

Was Basira trying to starve him out…?

Jon shook himself. She wouldn’t - well, she wouldn’t go behind his back to do it. She knew that he’d just start preying on people -

His life had gotten so pathetic. 

A loud crash and a yell echoed from the other side of the door, and Jon recognized Melanie’s voice. He winced, and decided to stay in his office for the time being. Best to stay out of her way. She always reacted somewhat explosively to him -

Then the faint, muffled tones of Martin’s voice echoed through the door, and Jon forgot all hesitation as he burst out of his office. 

The bullpen was just slightly different from where Jon had seen it last - the desks arranged differently, different detritus scattered around, no sleeping bags or hair dryers - but he wasn’t paying attention to any of that. He was only paying attention to Martin, who was sitting at his desk as easy as you please. He was smiling. 

Jon hadn’t seen Martin smile in so long.

He also hadn’t seen Martin wear those adorable little sweatervests in so long, but that wasn’t important right now. Jon cried out softly, like he had been punched - he did feel as if he had been punched, it wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation - and Martin turned slightly in his chair to look at him. He smiled when he saw Jon, so kind and happy and Martin, and Jon felt like he was dying at the sight of Martin just smiling, just looking at him. 

“Look, you don’t need to worry about me,” Martin was saying, to an unamused and remarkably composed Melanie. He held up a large combat knife, the metal glinting off the fluorescent lights. “Jon likes it.”

“See, it’s not you I’m worried about,” Melanie said, arms crossed. She was dressed - in her jeans and green flannel, like she used to. Her hair looked clean. The crop top, cut-off shorts, and fishnets, that Jon hadn’t seen her take off in the last month, where - “It’s poor Jon. He’s too desperate for affection to stand up for himself.”

“Jon, you okay?” Tim asked, sitting behind Martin and sipping a margarita. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

That was when Jon - hungry, tired, hallucinating - felt his legs give out. It was just in time, too. He collapsed to the ground just as Martin threw the knife, sending it whistling where his head had been half a second ago. 

Then he hit his head on the floor, and blissfully fainted. 

****

“ - she’s not his mother, it’s not Georgie’s job to make sure he eats.”

“It’s because Daisy isn’t here.” That was Basira’s voice, almost mournful. “Daisy always used to remind him to eat.”

“How did this guy make it to thirty again?” An unfamiliar voice asked. 

“If it wasn’t for this ragtag bunch of lesbians, I would have killed him months ago,” Tim said, then paused a beat. “What? I’m owning up to my mistakes.”

“Remind me to give you a sticker later,” Melanie said dryly. 

Jon opened his eyes, to see five faces crowded in front of him. They were all bending over him, identical expressions of mild intrigue on their faces as they bickered with each other. Martin looked very, very mildly concerned, as Melanie and Basira just looked exasperated. Tim - and the woman - who was the woman?

Instinctually, Jon reached out with his mind and sought the answer. But it was as if he was reaching with a limb that had been cut off. No, a limb that had never existed. Dazed, Jon lifted his real hand, if only to make sure that he could still move - and found himself staring at an unmarred, smooth, healthy hand. 

“Martin didn’t cut it off,” the woman said helpfully. She had a thick mane of curly brown hair, and brown skin a similar shade to his. She was holding a granola bar, and she easily stuffed it in his outstretched hand. “If that was a concern or anything. When’s the last time you ate, Jon?”

The question spent a spike of anxiety through him, Jon instantly interpreting it as an accusation. The granola bar wasn’t going to do anything. Of course he was hungry, he’s always hungry - 

Jon wasn’t hungry. 

Jon sat up, letting the assorted people, both alive and dead, step away. He mechanically unwrapped the granola bar and stuffed it in his mouth, chewing lethargically. It didn’t taste like sawdust and cement. It tasted like salt, and nuts. 

He swallowed the granola bar, forming a hypothesis. He looked at Basira, who at least was the most familiar here. It galled him even having to ask, not just knowing, but -  “What year is it?”

She stared at him, unimpressed. “If you hit your head we’re taking you to C&E. We can’t afford for you to get any stupider, Jon.”

“Your concern is noted,” Jon said, strained. 

“Don’t make fun of him, he’s a concussion victim,” Melanie scolded. She smiled at Jon - hideously novel. “It’s 2018. I’m calling Georgie and getting you home, you’re useless to us with a brain injury.”

He no longer had a hypothesis. Jon shook his head mutely. The last person Jon wanted to field questions from was Georgie. “I’m fine,” Jon said hoarsely. “I think I just need to - lie down a bit.” And not look at Tim. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, and was still slurping his margarita obnoxiously. He was leaning against a desk, somewhat heavily. “I’ll be fine.”

Everybody looked at each other, then shrugged. Melanie reached down and helped him up, gently pushing him towards the couch set up in the corner of the bullpen, and he found himself stumbling towards it and lying down. Martin loudly offered to nurse him back to health, which incentivized Basira and Melanie to quickly push him inside the recording room and lock the door for...some reason. Jon wanted to go talk to Martin, figure everything out with him. But he didn’t - paralyzed, or maybe just frightened, or maybe just very tired. 

The knife he had thrown was still lying on the floor, somehow innocently. The woman picked it up, inspecting it closely, and sighed. 

“There is something off about that guy.”

“None of them are ever going to believe you, Sash,” Tim said dully, flipping through a brightly colored magazine on his desk. Jon’s breath caught in his throat. “Melanie thinks it’s freakier if you haven’t stabbed anyone.”

This was it. This was when Tim would say, ‘Everybody wants to stab Jon’, or something. It’d be fair. If this was a dream, a fantasy of dead friends, then that’s what he would say. But he didn’t. Tim - strangely small, strangely gaunt, with hollow cheeks that reminded Jon a little of Daisy - didn’t look up at Sasha, flipping through his magazine, and Sasha avoided eye contact with him. She looked at Jon instead, from where he was lying on the couch, and gave him a strained smile. 

Jon found the courage to speak to her. It should have felt familiar, like Sasha, but nothing about her was familiar. He had listened to her tapes a dozen times, any scrap of her voice he could find, but - well, everybody sounded different on the tapes. “Sasha. Can you get me my phone? And a...Statement?”

Sasha brightened enthusiastically. “You want a Statement? Say no more, Jon, I’ll hook you up. Nice to see somebody taking an interest. Let’s keep this between you and me, okay?”

“What…?”

But she had already disappeared into his office, and the faint sounds of banging echoed throughout the room. Melanie and Basira were standing in the kitchenette, chatting lowly, Basira occasionally laughing at something Melanie said. 

Jon wondered where Daisy was, and instinctively tried to reach again before hitting that wall. He gritted his teeth, head still swimming. 

The most important thing was figuring out if this place was dangerous or not. Wherever he was, whatever was going on, he had to discern if it was a danger. Could this have anything to do with an unknown ritual? No, how could it? Elias? He wouldn’t put any of this past Elias. 

With a twist in his gut Jon remembered the cannibal priest’s Statement. Any suspicion of unreality, any feeling as if things were not as they should be...or was this a pleasant, Lotus Eater’s dream instead? If that was true, would Martin be throwing knives at him?

“Here you go! First one I saw on your desk.”

Jon sat up, mutely taking the paper and phone Sasha held out to him. It wasn’t his mobile - it was much nicer and sleeker than his own battered thing - but he had to assume it was Jon’s. He took the Statement too, scanning it quickly. 

Of course, of course. It was Anya Villete’s. Jon thought about this one frequently, captured by the prospect of multiple realities. Not worth the danger of exploring, but there was an intoxicating element of danger. Maybe the Jon that these people thought they were talking to had been reading it, and accidentally triggered something - 

“What did I say!”

Before Jon could react, the paper was unceremoniously ripped from his hands. Jon cried out helplessly, only to see Melanie standing in front of him with an unamused expression and his lifeline in her uncaring fists. 

“We’ve been over this,” Melanie scolded - scolded? “No statements, they’re bad for your tummy.” She frowned at Sasha, who didn’t seem very guilty. “And I told you to stop enabling him. He’s already sick, and you know these things upset him.”

“I’m gathering data,” Sasha said cheerfully. “Something weird was happening in his eyes when he was reading that Statement. Give it back, I need to record it.”

“Can I have that back, please?” Jon asked planatively. “I need it.”

“You do not.” Melanie folded up the statement tightly, shoving it in her jeans and ignoring Jon’s cry of despair. “If you’re feeling under-stimulated, go play knife monopoly with Martin. Otherwise relax and make sure you aren’t going to faint again.”

“I’m not going to -”

“I will call Georgie,” Melanie threatened, and Jon clicked his mouth shut. Melanie nodded, satisfied in having won the argument. If it was even an argument. “Sasha, if you let Jon find another Statement I will be locking the library and giving the key to Martin.”

“Yes, boss,” Sasha said, depressed. 

“Tim, you’re with me, we need to design our plan of attack for chasing down Daisy,” Melanie barked, and Tim straightened in his seat. Jon saw for the first time that there was a folded up cane on his desk. “I need your dumb fear demon powers.”

“That’s not how they -” Tim started, but at Melanie’s look he quailed. “Yeah, boss.”

“Great.” Melanie folded her arms, frowning down at Jon, and at the receiving end of the look Jon found himself quailing too. “If you leave the Archives to do anything other than go to the bathroom the rest of the day, I will tell Georgie that you were exerting yourself while sick again. And she will call you a poor little dear and give you lots of hugs and lots of soup. You will hate it. Is that clear?”

“Yes, boss,” Jon said, depressed. 

“Good. I need to go psychologically torment more people, I’ll be in the library. Tim!” She snapped her fingers, and strode off to the library as Tim scrambled up and limped after her. 

Jon watched her go dazedly as the library door clicked shut behind her. Sasha sighed and went back to her desk, cracking open the thick books on the top and relaxing. They weren’t even research books, just nonfiction about the Mayflower. Basira was back at her desk too, this time with her chin resting on her arms folded on the desk as she watched a...movie. Was that a romcom? 

This was dangerous. The situation was dangerous, doubtless the plot of some force or another that hated Jon personally and wanted him to suffer. He had to do some research, find out what was going on, track down Elias and find his power and dig into that source of infinite knowledge lying dormant in his mind, uproot every terrifying thing that hated him and shake them down for answers.

But he was more scared of Melanie. Just because she didn’t seem to have any knives on her didn’t mean that it was the case. Unless Martin had them all. So Jon lay back on the couch, rotely pressed in the passcode to his phone, and idly opened up the internet browser in complete comfort and relaxation. 

The couch was so comfortable and soft, in fact, that Jon soon fell asleep. Easy and smooth, as if he really was still a human, who needed sleep at all.

And when Jon dreamed, he dreamed of blissful and restful nothing. 

******

He woke up to someone shaking his shoulder, and Jon screamed himself awake as his eyes flew open. 

But it wasn’t anybody dangerous, or anything willing to hurt him. It was just - Basira. Just Basira. Jon exhaled in relief, ignoring Basira’s incredulous expression. 

“It’s five, we’re heading out. You feeling well enough for pub night, mate?”

They were going home. The strangeness registered first, the fact that Sasha was shrugging on a jacket and Melanie was stuffing a laptop in a backpack, before Jon remembered where he was. Or where he wasn’t. He mustered a faint smile for Basira, but judging from her frown it came out closer to a grimace. 

Pub night. They were going out for drinks, then going to their own flats. Eating dinner. Sleeping. Waking up the next morning, then heading off to work. The mundanity boggled. 

Maybe it was a Lotus Eater, Jon thought, dazed. A world where there were no Entities, no fears or harm. Where everybody was human, and happy. 

Maybe. He hadn’t actually been allowed to look at any of the Statements, so he didn’t actually know. He couldn’t imagine that this group would be so casual if the Statements really were true. 

Part of him wanted to beg off, curl up and sleep in document storage so he wouldn’t have to interact with these people for any longer. He was out of practice: these days he rarely had long conversations with anybody who wasn’t Daisy, and he hadn’t seen Daisy all day. Basira exchanged a few curt sentences with him each day. Melanie...cried and screamed, a lot. Not exactly conducive to social skills. 

  Sasha’s face was buried in a book, not even looking up as she navigated the desks. Tim was talking a patient Melanie’s ear off about Nietzche. 

“I think I can make it,” Jon found himself saying. “Just a pint.”

Besides, he had the feeling that if he curled up in document storage Georgie would...be mad at him. Or something. They were flatmates? Or something?

They walked out the door in a herd, talking and laughing. Jon found himself hanging in the back of the group, next to Sasha. She wasn’t looking up from her book, so Jon felt safe in staring unabashedly at Tim. He was using a cane, just like Daisy had for two or so weeks right out of the coffin. He even used it in the same way: not favoring one leg or the other, using it for strength instead of balance. Muscle weakness. He was just as emancipated as Daisy had been too, in that particular corpse-like way that made him look like a zombie. His hair was long and lanky, brittle strands reaching to his chin instead of his normal lush and gelled look. 

The faces in the lobby were the same - Sabrina behind the desk, Roy playing security guard - even as the decorations were different. No portrait of Jonah Magnus, or of the other directors. They broke out into the London street, as smoggy and crowded as ever, and Jon found himself trailing behind the others in a direct route to their usual pub. The same one he, Basira, Melanie, and Daisy go drinking at sometimes. Only sometimes. They went without him more often, but Jon didn’t blame them, really -

“Something on my face, mate?”

Tim’s wry voice startled Jon out of his reverie, and he flushed. Tim smiled at him, thinly and without humor, and gestured him forward as he dropped behind Melanie. Jon stepped forward, tucking his hands into his jacket, fighting the rising swell in his throat. 

“You’ve been staring. I’m not that much uglier, am I?” Tim asked lightly, a parody of his old good humor. That, at least, was familiar - Tim’s fragile and brittle humor, tightly leashing rage. 

“You...you look good,” Jon said. He buried his hands deeper in his jacket pockets, fighting the lump in his throat. He couldn’t stop himself from adding, “It’s good to see you again.”

It was probably a strange thing for Jon to say - but Tim just smiled, even more bitter than the last. “You’ve always been too nice for your own good, Sims.” First time that’s been said about him. “You forgive too easy.”

“Grudges...aren’t worth it, in my experience.” Jon exhaled slowly, watching Melanie’s red hair glint in the sunlight in front of him. “Life’s too short and all.”

“Really? Thought you people loved grudges.” Tim blinked a second, before clearly remembering something. “We love grudges, right. Still, Jon, I never really…” He trailed off awkwardly. “You know.”

He did not. “Right,” Jon said. 

“Apologized,” Tim said hurriedly, when it became clear that Jon wasn’t about to say anything committal. “For trying to kill you all those times. Uh, and trying to get you arrested. And helping frame you for murder. And that whole kidnapping incident -”

Something began to occur to Jon. A rational thought seeped into his brain. 

“In the woods,” Jon said slowly. “Because you thought I was a monster.”

Tim winced, confirming Jon’s suspicion. “Right. Trust me, I’ve had a lot of time to think, and I know I was wrong. I’ve turned over a new leaf and everything.” He brightened. “Did you hear I’m bisexual now?”

“Everybody heard you were bisexual now,” Basira said, bored. “Ten times.”

“Good for you,” Jon said, as sincerely as he could. “That’s...great. Bi rights.”

Tim beamed. “Bi rights!” He clapped Jon’s shoulder supportively with his other hand as Melanie held open the door to the pub for them, ducking inside. “Man, I never thought I’d see the inside of a pub again. I only got to go a few times with you guys before everything. Can Martin still hustle the room at pool?”

“One way to find out,” Martin said serenely. 

“Please don’t start a pub brawl,” Melanie said, pained. “We’ve been kicked out of three places already, I don’t fancy making it a fourth.”

But when Jon looked backwards, he saw Sasha looking up from her book, staring directly at him, blinking owlishly. 

They crowded into a corner booth, squishing up against each other and all talking at once. Jon wanted to drift towards Martin, get him alone and ask what was going on, but after one look at him eyeing up the pool cues speculatively he changed his mind. Only Basira was acting even remotely normal, so he settled for sliding in between her and Sasha. He was dizzy with the noise and the clamor of the familiar pub, overwhelmed by the familiar-unfamiliar tide of voices, and it was taking all of his energy not to spend hours just staring at Sasha, memorizing every line and crease of her face.

The first thing he did was order every single crummy, greasy, soggy serving of pub food he found on the menu, ignoring the way his Assistants laughed at him, before settling in the corner of the booth and pulling out his phone. Jon wasn’t even hungry - he wasn’t hungry - but he was shoving every soggy chip into his mouth until he puked. A human body was a drastically underrated thing. 

Out of curiosity, Jon turned on the front camera of his phone and scrutinized his reflection. He had noticed that his hair was shorter, tied back in a puffed bun instead of his customary ragged ponytail, but beyond that he hadn’t checked. 

He looked...good. No longer gaunt and malnourished, he was a healthy weight. No bags under his eyes. Well kept fade and modest, well trimmed facial hair. No scar over his throat, no circular worm scars.  That was less of a surprise - Tim, Martin, and Sasha were all missing the worm scars. 

His eyes were brown. Just brown. No electrifying green, no spinning iris, no churning wheel of knowledge. Just his normal, boring brown. 

He hadn’t known how much he missed it. 

As the others started arguing passionately about...vlogs? Or something?...Jon pulled out his wallet. Money had the same old Queen on it, along with his old collection of take-out receipts that had all started disappearing when he stopped eating. A photocopy of a picture of his parents, heavily worn and creased. Still an orphan, then. Jon missed the days when that was his biggest problem. 

His driver’s license was the same as ever too. Same name - Jonathan Andrew Sims. Same birthday - February 14th, which he had always considered life’s practical joke on him. The United Kingdom still existed, which was either a good or a bad thing. 

He replaced his wallet, ignoring Sasha’s curious stare, and pulled out his phone. He had only gone so far as making sure that major world events were the same before passing out. This time, he pressed his text messages, and scrolled down his most recents. As usual, it was only a few people - almost all of which were at this table - but there were a few other people too. 

Georgie was the obvious one, and the most recent. He clicked on that conversation, unsurprised to see an immediate photograph of the Admiral looking angelic as he rolled around in some grass in a patch of sun. 

Georgie: Baby at the park soaking in some rays!!! <3 <3 <3. I caught him terrorizing a stray dog. Naughty baby!!

Jon blinked at the message. The Admiral did seem a little...more evil, than he once did. Why were his eyes green? Underneath was Jon’s own text, sent twenty minutes before he had woken up that afternoon. 

Jon: He’s committing atrocities and you’re laughing. You’re laughing. 

Jon couldn’t fight a smile. He missed Georgie. 

He switched over to the text conversation just underneath. He squinted at the contact name. That couldn’t be right. 

Gerry: can u pick up milk from aldis? and scented candles

Gerry: for necromancy reasons

Jon: Can you raise the dead tomorrow? Helen said she wants to talk to me so I may be home late. If you don’t hear from me in five hours she’s likely kidnapped me. As a heads up. 

Gerry: OH, SO LONG AS I HAVE THE HEADS UP?

Gerry: I’m making Georgie give Melanie the money to buy that toddler leash she’s always threatening to get for u. If u die im not resurrecting u. 

Jon: Have fun with one less person to share the rent

Gerry: we dont PAY RENT

Gerard Keay. Jon blinked at the phone. That conversation raised as many questions as it answered. Gerard Keay was alive? He was Jon’s flatmate? He practiced necromancy? None of it seemed very relevant right now, but it made Jon wonder who else was resurrected from the dead. Was necromancy common in this universe, like knitting?

Still, Helen explained quite a bit. It also suggested what Jon was already wondering: that the supernatural was far from foreign. If Helen was supernatural, and not just...a jerk. 

If Tim was an Avatar of the Hunt...if he had been in the coffin...and Daisy’s been hard to track down…

Jon was interrupted in his increasingly coherent train of thought by his food arriving, and all thoughts were thrown out the window. His basket of fish and chips slid in front of him, and he wasted absolutely no time in cramming the fries into his mouth three at a time, not wasting time salting or putting vinegar on them. They were dripping with crease, soggy and burning his tongue. 

They were perfect.

The waiter, looking somewhat intimidated, slid his bacon butty on the table too, and Jon took barely a moment to swallow before stuffing that in his face too. Bacon, butter, brown sauce - it exploded on his tongue, a cavalcade of salt and seasoning. Increasingly terrified, the waiter put his pie and mash on the table and quickly fled, as Jon finished cramming the sandwich into his mouth before moving back to the fish. It was hot, crackling on his tongue, strong and fishy and perfect.

Jon looked up from his food long enough to grab a glass of water and gulp half of it down. It wasn’t until he put his glass down that he saw the looks on the faces of his Assistants. All of whom ranged from frightened to terrified.

  Everybody except Martin, whose chin was propped on his hand and was sighing dreamily. “It’s really hot how you can pack it all away, Jon. Do you want to come over to my flat and let me cook for you? I’d make a lot of food. ”

Jon choked on his fish.

That was it for Sasha. She slammed her book down, expression intent, and jabbed a finger at a now wheezing Jon. “Jon would never choke at Martin’s creepy flirting! That isn’t Jonathan Sims!”

Jon stole Tim’s glass of water, ignoring his squawk, and downed that too. 

Now everybody really was staring at him, and Jon felt heat rise to his cheeks. As the kids say, busted. He should probably stop eating and make his escape while he still could, before Tim decided to change his mind on his ‘murdering Jon’ stance. 

But outside did not have pub food. Inside had pub food. Jon made his decision with the knowledge that, if his Assistants reacted from a reasonable place of Imposter-based trauma and killed him for pretending to be Jonathan Sims, he’d deserve it. He was not moving from this spot until his food was gone or his Assistants killed him. 

Jon finished off Tim’s water, dropping it back on the lacquered table, and hoarsely said, “I’ve been having a very strange day.”

Nobody leaped for his throat or pointed a gun at him, which was always nice. It was more than Jon had been expecting. Instead, everybody looked at Melanie, who narrowed her eyes. Jon realized, a second too late, that they were waiting for her. Whatever happened to him, Melanie would decide. 

...why Melanie? 

Melanie rested her elbows on the table, steepling her fingers in front of her mouth. She locked eyes with Jon, breaking him down like a judge at a dog show, and Jon tried to shovel mash in his mouth as innocently as possible. 

“Sasha. What’s your evidence?”

“He’s been acting weird all day,” Sasha said promptly, as if she’d been expecting the question. She shifted her arm purposefully, and Jon realized with a start that she was concealed carrying. Was that legal? “Jon never asks me for Statements outright, he always just sneaks them behind Melanie’s back. If he really fainted because he was hungry, he would have eaten his lunch too, instead of just my granola bar. And he hasn’t talked to Martin since he fainted - he isn’t even sitting next to him.” Sasha drew herself up triumphantly. “And, he looked actually scared when Martin threw that knife at him. He’s never scared of Martin. He normally just role-plays the fear bit.”

“Which I appreciate,” Martin said supportively, making Jon blanch. That elicited more suspicious looks from everyone, which Jon couldn’t even begin to parse. “But he has been acting strange today, hasn’t he?”

“Tim?” Melanie asked sharply. 

Tim sniffed loudly, wrinkling his nose a little. “Smells like him.” At Melanie’s intense look, he grudgingly added, “No sawdust or plastic. Flesh and blood, boss.”

Jon began stuffing forkfuls of pastry and meat crumb from the pie in his mouth as Melanie went back to squinting at Jon. Not glaring - just an intense, sidelong look, fingers steepled in front of her. “You aren’t denying it, Jon.”

Jon mumbled something. 

“Swallow your food.”

Jon carefully swallowed his mouthful of dough. “I have not eaten human food,” Jon said delicately, “in five months. I will answer your questions momentarily.”

And then Jon cleaned all three of his plates, to the dumbfounded looks of his Assistants. 

Finally, after everybody else’s drinks had arrived - including Jon’s pint, which he reached for so quickly that Martin stole it away from him and refused to give it back - and Jon had cleaned all three of his plates, he felt ready to talk. He thumped on his chest, burping a little, and leaned back in his plush seat. Melanie was nursing her pint, sipping from it slowly, as Basira gave him her usual ‘I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you’ look. 

“Okay,” Jon said finally. “I apologize for not - ah, clarifying before. I thought I was dreaming. To be honest, I worry that I’m still dreaming.” He looked down at his empty basket and plates. “I dearly hope that wasn’t human flesh or something horrid like that.”

Sasha perked up. “Like in the cannibal priest statement? That’s fascinating -”

“Shut up about cannibal priests,” Melanie groaned, and Sasha guiltily shut up. Oddly rude, but nobody seemed surprised. “You are Jon, right?”

“Yes, in almost every way.” Jon wiped his mouth with a napkin, balling it up and dropping it on the table. “Jonathan Sims, thirty one years old, Aquarius. Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. The Archivist.” He paused a beat, uncertain of how to broach this. “I think Helen may have deposited me in an alternate dimension? Best case scenario.”

Everybody stared at him blankly. 

“Well,” Basira said finally, “sounds like the kind of bullshit you get yourself wrapped up in, Jon.”

“I knew it!” Sasha cried, before deflating. “I mean, I didn’t, really, not at all, but that’s fascinating! Will you answer some questions? Who’s the Queen in your universe?”

“I’m back from the dead for a week and my life’s already stupid again,” Tim said blankly. 

“Two Jons?” Martin asked, far too excitedly. 

“Can I leave you alone,” Melanie gritted out, between clenched teeth, “for five minutes?”

Then everybody was talking over each other, arguing and exclaiming and yelling, and Jon frantically drank his pint. They were so loud. 

Finally, Melanie chopped a hand through the buzz, and everyone quieted. She pursed her lips, looking Jon up and down, and he anxiously let himself get looked at. “How did you know it was an alternate universe? What’s the difference?”

“Martin threw a knife at me and Tim and Sasha are alive,” Jon said instantly. 

“I’m not actually dead in your universe,” Tim said quickly, “just trapped in an infernal demon hell coffin. If you can get me out, I’d be really thankful -”

“No, you’re quite dead,” Jon said apologetically. “That happened to Daisy in my universe, though. A - a lot of what you did here, I think, Daisy did.” He looked at Basira, frowning. “Where is Daisy? She’s not…”

“She’s fine,” Basira said curtly, folding her arms and leaning back. “Having lots of fun ditching us and having fun at her little secretary desk. It’s fine. I don’t care. She can do what she wants, she’s an adult.”

“Basira’s been pining tragically ever since Daisy ran off to go work for Peter Lukas,” Melanie said sympathetically. 

Jon felt a little called out. “Ah. That’s - that’s very unfortunate.” He slowly turned to Martin, who still seemed caught up in the ‘two Jons’ aspect of this. “And you’re...you would define yourself as full of rage?”

“At all times, all the time, without cessation,” Martin agreed affably. “Why? That’s not weird to you, is it?”

“Uh huh.” Jon slowly turned to Sasha. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to insult you, but...did you happen to once work as a Constable for the Met?”

Everybody winced. Sasha sighed. “I regret all of my actions and I’m very sorry that I was once a pig and I’ll never do it again because I value due process now.”

“Word, sister,” Tim said, raising his pint. 

“Hm,” Jon said, far too much coming together.  But that left a big question, one thing that didn’t make sense. “What about me? Do I - eat trauma?”

Basira stared at him blankly. “You try, sometimes, but we usually just spray water at you until you stop.”

“That explains it,” said Jon, despite the fact that it didn’t explain anything. 

“Your questions are pointless, and this is a waste of time.” Melanie clapped her hands sharply, making everyone straighten to attention. She stood up from her seat, everybody scrambling to protect their glasses as Melanie clambered on top of the table. “Helen! Get out here!”

“She’s not - she’s not Beetlejuice, you can’t just call her name and make her appear,” Jon said blankly. “How’s she even supposed to hear -”

“She can hear me just fine,” Melanie called, “because she’s been sitting at the bar this whole time.”

Everybody’s heads craned around to look at the bar. Through the stream of people, carrying drinks and laughing, Jon could faintly make out a tall, willowy figure with a large afro sitting on a barstool at the bar, tapping the rim of one elegant martini with a long, manicured fingernail. 

Then she swiveled around, and Helen grinned broadly at all of them. She waved cheekily with one hand, fingers waving and rippling strangely in the dim pub lights. “Hello! You rang?”

Melanie jabbed a finger at the table pointedly. “Michael’s too young to be here too, Helen!”

“They’re eighteen, they’re a big non-Euclidean concept!” Helen tittered, as she hopped of the stool. Jon’s draw dropped as a much smaller, slight figure next to her hopped off too. They were a teenager, with a curly mop of blonde hair and big, watery blue eyes that seemed just a little strange. Everything about them was on the edge of familiar, and not in the usual way of the Spiral. 

“She was waiting for us to figure it out,” Basira murmured, catching Jon’s attention. “It’s definitely funny to her.”

“Helen defined schadenfreude, I’m afraid,” Jon said, depressed, as Helen and her tagalong popped up at the edge of their table. Melanie had said Michael - and the kid did look like Michael, younger and alive and wide-eyed. Their watery eyes caught on Jon, and they tilted their head curiously. The sight of them hurt Jon’s head more than the Spiral usually did - a testament to the human body he was borrowing. 

Human. That was no defense. He was vulnerable, and judging from the angle of Helen’s smile she knew it. 

“Enjoying your vacation, Archivist?” Helen tittered, folding her hands girlishly as Melanie hopped off the table and back in her seat. “I’ve been having so much fun in this universe I thought I ought to bring a friend! Buy one plane ticket get one free, you know. I have this coupon for a great spa around here -”

“Helen,” Melanie intoned dangerously.

Helen tittered a nervous laugh. Was she...scared of Melanie? “Don’t worry! Your darling little Jon’s perfectly safe. He’s having a great time in one of my favorite dimensions, this wonderful post-apocalyptic adventure with a werewolf -

“Helen,” Melanie said slowly, danger building with every word, “we talked about what happens when you remove Jons from their native ecosystems.”

“They get sick,” Michael said somberly, nodding their head. “An’ wilt.”

“It is very stressful for the Jon, Helen. You know what we don’t like?”

“A stressed Jon?” Michael volunteered. 

“Yes, Michael.” Melanie smiled pleasantly at Helen, who blanched. “A stressed Jon. Because when Jon gets stressed, my girlfriend gets stressed. And when my girlfriend gets stressed, I get stressed. And when I get stressed, everybody is about to have a very bad time. Get it? Helen?”

“Completely understood, very sympathetic, I see your point completely,” Helen said hurriedly. “Really, you can say that I did my dear Archivist a favor! He hasn’t had a human body in almost half a year, the poor dear was so sad about it. It’s a break, really!”

Tim squinted at Jon. “You’re really full on fear demon, then?”

Jon squirmed guiltily, ashamed.  “I prefer the term Avatar. But...yes, I’m an amoral monster distant from humanity, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Melanie said impatiently. “You’re about as far from humanity as I am. Having stupid superpowers or cramming shitty food into your mouth doesn’t make you inhuman, it just means you hang out with the wrong crowd. Go back to your own universe and get some rest, I bet you’re stressing out all your friends.”

“I’m really not,” Jon said weakly. “I - I really only have one friend.”

“No wonder you look so tragic all the time,” Sasha said thoughtfully. “Jon gets all mopey without affection. Like an unwatered plant.”

“I eat trauma,” Jon said, bewildered at the perception of harmlessness. 

“You and half of the YouTube vlogging community.” Melanie clapped her hands again sharply, pulling everyone to attention. “Helen. Put Jon back where he came from or so help me.”

“Ruining all my fun,” Helen pouted, but at Melanie’s glare she sighed. She held up one hand, and static rippled through the air. The hand elongated, twisted, and turned into Helen’s signature lengthy claw. Michael eyed it with interest, before holding up their own hand and doing the same. “Fun while it lasted, Archivist! Now hold still. I wouldn’t want to lobotomize the wrong lobe.”

“Nice meeting you,” Sasha said politely, to a very freaked out Jon. “Don’t come back, though.”

“Come back if you want,” Basira yawned. “My life’s boring, spice it up a little.”

“Sorry I’m dead in your universe or whatever,” Tim said, waving a hand. “Life and death is meaningless anyway, so I’m sure it’s for the best.”

“I want my Jon back,” Martin complained. “Go on and get out, then.”

“Tell your friends what we told you,” Melanie said. “Don’t they know that you get all tragic when you’re lonely?”

And Jon didn’t know how to say it - that they didn’t know, or if they did then they didn’t care, because they had so many bigger problems than if Jon was sad or not. With Elias’ strange plans, with Jon’s encroaching monsterhood and his slow and steady starvation, with Martin’s loneliness and Basira’s desperation and Melanie’s instability, Jon’s feelings were the least important thing in the world. 

Did it matter, to anybody but Jon, that he thought of Martin first thing in the morning and last thing as he went to bed at night? 

“Hold still and look straight at me!” Helen said, and Jon had to be thankful - because that let him look at Sasha and Tim, eyes wide and intrigued, as Helen speared her finger through Jon’s forehead. 

Jon blacked out, but the images of Sasha and Tim stayed burned behind his eyelids. He dreamed calm dreams, of him and Martin and Sasha and Tim, laughing together, as the world faded away.

****

When Jon woke up, it was with a crick in his neck, and he knew immediately he had fallen asleep on the battered old couch in his office again. 

There was a heavy weight on his chest, and when he pried his eyes open he saw the top of Daisy’s head in front of him. Dusty blonde hair pooled on his chest as Daisy snored, deep asleep, arm stretched over his torso. 

The taste of salt and grease was on his tongue, and Jon let himself go back to sleep. The dreams would be terrifying and desolate, but at least in them he was never hungry. 

[stargaze-issei]

ᴅᴀʏ 𝟼; ғᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ʙʟᴏᴄᴋᴇʀ

-> tsukishima kei.

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭; same tattoo, shared dreams, soulmates!au.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; none.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭; 1.8k

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞; fluff.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞; the way i want to make a series out of everything in this challenge sigh.

↳ main masterlist

"what does it mean, tsukki?" yamaguchi asked by his side, looking with curiosity the needle leaving marks on his friend's skin. 

tsukishima wanted to get a tattoo through his complete adolescence, his parents never allowed it, not until he could pay it by himself, at least. and there he was, eighteen years old, watching in amazement how one of his few dreams became true. being honest, he wasn't sure what it meant, but he had dreamed about those numbers a lot. since he was thirteen, the same number appeared not only in his dreams, but was everywhere else too, everytime he checked the hour, the number of his locker, even his volleyball shirt. of course it took him a while to figure it out, but once he saw it, he couldn't stop. it became his luck number. 

"are you sure you just want that?" the artist wondered for the third time.

"yeah, it's important to me" the smile on tsukishima's face was completely different to all the others yamaguchi had seen since they knew each other. 

*.✧☆ﾟ.*･｡✧*⊰⊹ฺ

"please, come see me play, you're always busy!" your friend, koganegawa, could be a pain in the ass if he wanted to. he could be one withouth wanting too. your job as an assistant teacher kept you occupied half of the day, add the hours at college and how much you had to study, to say it was hard to make room in your life was an understatement. which was why you never went to kogane's games after highschool.

"i told you i can't! i have... work" 

"you don't work at nights, idiot! come see me play" he was so annoyingly persistent, that you had to accept, earning a excited hug from him.

after he left your appartment, only because you made him, you let yourself drop onto the couch, sighing. in fact, you were tired, but going to see kogane, one of your only friends, was something you could do. he was always so supportive, in his own unique way, it was the least you could do for him. you scratched your collarbone, unconciously going over your tattoo with your fingers, like checking if it was still there. somehow, that piece of inked skin gave you strengths when you felt like you were at your limit. the memory of a well known dream came to your mind, making you giggle.

*.✧☆ﾟ.*･｡✧*⊰⊹ฺ

you knew koganegawa's team was a professional team, but you never expected them to have a cheering squad, and local tv cameras and periodists focusing on them. it was your first time at the gym where they were playing, a little anxiety growing in your chest not knowing where to go. you tried calling him to help you, but all you got was a text saying he had sent somebody to your rescue. 

"hi, are you kogane-kun's friend?" said a short blonde girl, touching your shoulder. she seemed really kind, making you feel more comfortable instantly.

you mumbled a positive respond, and she quickly grabbed your hand to take you to the bleachers like she knew the place by hand. she introduced herself as yachi hitoka, and said the game was about to start. she was also a friend of one of the players, but met some others, like koga, in highschool. 

in the exact moment that you and yachi sat, the starting whistle blowed, starting with the power serve of a bleached haired guy.

yachi guide you through the game, explaining the basics to you, but you couldn't take your eyes off of the blond man with glasses, he looked so familiar, though you were sure it was the first time you saw him. he intrigued you, a lot. you were too shy to ask yachi for his name, hoping to catch it on through the speakers at some point, or trying to remember if kogane had said something about him. the game went on, points were made by everyone, and every single one the setter did, he looked at you, searching for a reassurance smile. 

when it finished, a crushing victory from the frogs, you and your new friend went to wait for them outside of the compound, yachi felt the need to warn you before you met everyone. 

"see, kyoutani can be a little... intense, some times, but he's really nice, and tsuk-"

"y/n! did you see me!? did you see my points!? we were so great!" she was interrupted by an overly excited koganegawa walking towards you, along with two ther blondes. your cheeks burned at the sight of whom you had glared so hard just minutes ago, wondering if he had noticed. his face was buried on his phone, too busy to look up, disappointing you a little.

"i saw you, dumbface, that's what i came to do" he pouted at your fake insult, proceeding to shout to kyoutani by his side how awesome you were for going to his game. you introduced yourself, one of they boys said to be kyoutani kentaro, the one of your interest didnt't even reply.

tsukishima had heard your voice many times before, but for the first time, he was awake. his eyes opened wide, a soft hum of confusion left his mout. it couldn't be you, you were just a made up person from his dreams, someone who he had never seen, less say heard talking, to recognize that fast. although it was you. those eyes, that voice, that hair, it was you. he had dreamed about you for so long, in his mind, at the beginning you were his same age, growing up as he did. you were exactly like that woman.

"...tsukki!" he came back to earth thanks to kogane, who was frenetically moving him from his shoulders trying to get his attention. 

"get off" was all tsukishima answered.

"where's yamaguchi?" asked yachi. you didn't know what they were talking about, but you had witnessed the glasses boy, whom's name appears to be tsukki, go through a complete life crisis in the last minute.

"he's joining us at the restaurant" he said, starting to walk away by his own, followed by kyoutani and yachi, later by kogane pulling you from your arm to walk. 

yachi and koga talked enough to fill the uncomfortable aire in the table once everybody ordered. a man named yamaguchi arrived a few minutes earlier, still in office clothes. he congratulated the guys on their victory and greeted you nicely, presenting himself as "tsukki's friend". 

the minutes became hours, everyone, except you and tsukki, was drunk, even kyoutani had that red color on his cheeks because of the alcohol. yachi, who had stated that she was just a little tipsy, sober up when she saw how late it was. 

"i have to work tomorrow! we all have to! oh go, i can't believe i let kogane- tsukishima, could you please take y/n home while i get these three an uber?" despite being so small, the girl seemed to be completely in charge of everything, probably because of her years as manager in highschool, you thought.

"are you sure you don't need help with them?" you asked, a bit curious about how was she going to handle two giants and a man with rabies by herself.

"don't worry, i've been doing this since highschool, i'm more worried about you arriving safe"

"i'll take her, you stay at yamaguchi's and text me when you're there" intervined tsukishima, he had been quiet most of the night, even though he couldn't look less interested in being there, he still refused to leave. sometimes, he would stare at you when you weren't paying attention, without knowing that you actually felt his look on you. the girl agreed to his proposal, kissing your cheek goodbye and giving her friend a small hug before you took your things and got out of the place, followed by the tall man. 

the walk was silence after you told him you lived near enough to walk, him just nodding to your words. you didn't feel uncomfortable, though, and you wanted to believe neither did he. both of you were at a really short distance, and he didn't seem to care, but you smell of strawberry shortcake coming out of him. you giggled, thinking how funny it was that such an intimidating guy smelled like cake. tsukishima glared at you, disconcerted by your sudden laugh at no apparent reason.

"i used to go to this coffee house in highschool, they had the best strawberry cake i have ever eaten" your random fact caught tsukishima off guard, because he went to a coffee house with a really good strawberry cake since highschool too. he stayed silence, affraid to keep finding more shared details betweent the two of you. "i mean, don't think i talk about cake when- you smell like- i'm sorry" had you just made the situation hundred times worse? yes, you had. 

the rest of the walk was as silent as the first half, now, tsukishima was uncomfortable, so much that you could tell, but still, he choose to stay close to you instead of making distance. despite being a autumn night, you felt hot, your multiples layers of clothing were now making you sweat. without giving it much thought, you took off your jacket and sweater, leaving at sight you tattoo in you collarbone. tsukki tried, he really did, to not look at you, stripping like it was nothing, so when he did, and saw his exact same tattoo in your body, he stopped walking. his jaw barely hit the floor, you could swear he saw a ghost.

"are you okay? d-do you...? what are you doing?" he got over his shocked, and in a light of boldness, he started to take off his coat and sweater, not only that, but lifting his shirt until you could see his nipple and ribs. it was then when you saw it too, your tatto, the exact same details, were on his skin, like it was printed of the same printer. you hadn't chose a design from an artist, you drew one on your own, wanting to be the only of its kind, yet, there you were.

like someone had opened a door in your mind, memories of lost dreams came back, you remembered from where tsukishima seemed so familiar. that damned dream you had for years, of him, who you thought was a creation from your subconscious, was now standing right in front of you, in flesh and bones. not you nor tsukishima knew how to react, maybe, fearing that the other would run away. a strange urge to cry invaded you, and for some reason, a intense desire to feel the blonde closer.

"i want to take you on a date, if that's okay with you" 

"yes" you said not a second late, almost begging him to be with you from that day to your last.

"and i wanna kiss you right now" he didn't even let you answered before jumping to your lips, leaning a bit. you sighed in the middle of the kiss, relieved to feel him and his warm arms around you, your lips moving at synch.

his lips tasted like strawberry too.

⌙ 𝟐𝟎𝟎 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 🥳

[rpmemesbyarat]

DISNEY'S "GARGOYLES" SEASON 2 QUOTES RP MEME

Why do you read that stuff?

I like a man who brings me weapons.

Nice wake up call.

We won't have to find them. They'll find us.

Revenge, as they say, is a sucker's game.

I'll settle for tearing this jerk IN HALF!

Want to see me use both hands?

That's no way to treat a lady!

That was no lady.

Thanks for saving my bacon before it got fried.

Look, just promise you'll call if there's trouble.

Go ahead, try something!

I'd love to do that again!

That wasn't a tranquilizer dart.

It was loaded with a mutagenic formula!

You don't know anything about her!

Why are you stomping on my friend here?

I was particularly proud of my death scene.

You never let me drive.

The important thing is, you're alive.

Are you sure this is a good idea?

Something's not right here.

Then you leave us no choice!

How are we supposed to find them?

Please, I beg you, be quiet.

This isn't a good idea.

I'm best qualified to go.

My memories are clouded.

Why should I trust you?

If you can't trust me, then trust your heart.

Why do you fight me, my love?

We are destined to be together for all eternity.

I will choose who I love!

Now we'll see what this creature looks like up close.

Why stare at marks on a page when you can rent the video?

Well, I can't read and I don't think I'm missing anything.

Harrier jets! They can take off and land like helicopters. When your life's this exciting, who needs books?

Are you all right?

I had a little trouble.

This beach isn't safe after dark.

Do you need a doctor?

Come on in. I've got a fire going.

There's little I can offer in return, except my thanks.

You understand, I don't get any real pleasure from this. Well you've got courage, beastie. I'll give you that.

Funny, something about your voice made me think you were a soldier, once.

You were there.

I'm old, but I'm not that old.

I'm glad you came back.

I'm afraid I can't stay, but I think I left something on the terrace this morning.

Have you come across a large canister?

The name sounded phony.

I do know him, but he's not a friend!

A magic book?

They're worthless. No magic at all.

The written word is all that stands between memory and oblivion.

Without books as our anchors, we are cast adrift, neither teaching nor learning.

Books are lighthouses erected in the dark sea of time.

Is this how you welcome all your guests?

They have a sense of humor. You have none.

Yeah, I know, you're as relieved I am that everything's back to normal.

Wouldn't it be great to be a shapeshifter?

Well, let's just get this over with, shall we?

How can I be of service, hmm?

Out with it. I haven't got all night.

I'm sure you'll fit right in.

What is it you really want?

This just might be fun after all.

I thought everyone knew this.

Shapeshifters, elves, fairies, you mean they're real?

You mean, you thought I was ugly?

I want you to get rid of the humans. ALL of them.

Does this look like Aladdin's lamp? I have limits, after all.

Humans love a battle hearty.

I'll never get the hang of jumping off rooftops.

I'll always be there to catch you.

Do it, and you win your freedom.

It will be my pleasure. But afterwards, I'm going to need a very long nap.

There. You're free.

The sun, it's glorious! I never thought that it could feel so good.

I'm sorry about the bomb. But it proves how dangerous this case is.

When someone messes with your partner, you're supposed to do something about it.

You still haven't learned that crime doesn't pay.

A trade?

Let's just say, I don't trust you with it.

So, now you know my weakness.

Only you would regard love as a weakness.

A momentary lapse, I assure you.

Halloween! Tonight is the night!

Come on. I've wanted to stroll down a city street with you for a long time.

Marry me.

Are you serious?

We're genetically compatible, highly intelligent, and have the same goals.

You could've been hurt. I should've been with you.

Oh-well, spilt milk. Let's move on to plan B.

Don't listen to him. It's a trick! He couldn't tell the truth if his life depended on it!

Even if what you say is true, why should I help her?

Because you know what it means to lose some you love.

Not a good night for you.

You can't believe anything he says.

If someone like him can love, perhaps there is some hope for this world.

Take this as token of my love.

Upon this I pledge my heart to you forever.

Why do you need all this?

I wanted it, so I took it.

It's so unlike you to attack first.

I simply invited you here to talk.

Our past encounters have not inspired me to trust you.

It's crazy to even consider going!

I'm not interested in reminiscing!

Have you no respect for anything?

Believe me, I know exactly how you feel.

I will never be like you!

I do not wish to hurt you.

I do not wish to be you!

What am I to do?

Do nothing.

Do not worry.

Live in the moment.

Attend the petty angers and jealousies that fill your heart.

Fortify yourself with love and trust.

Fulfill the vows of love you make, for they can surely save you.

Time travel's funny that way.

Get away from me, you sentimental fool.

It's a pretty good likeness.

You know more than you're letting on.

T'was your handiwork.

very life is precious.

Take care not to become what you fight against.

Vengeance begets only a further cycle of more vengeance.

Do you want vengeance or a solution?

This is bigger than either of us has ever faced.

We'll have to work together to stop her.

Truce?

You are the cause of all this.

Humans will learn to respect you.

I would rather they fear me.

What are you doing to help?

That's one way to settle an argument.

I thought I'd rid myself of you long ago

You've forgotten about me.

You're too late. You can't save them. No one can!

I'm not here for them. I'm here for you.

I want it over between us!

I wear this as a reminder of your treachery.

Let's not start that again. You blame me, I blame you. Aren't you tired of talking about it?

I'm not here to talk.

Killing me will gain you nothing but your own death.

Death is never the answer. Life is.

I'm just so tired

Your thirst for vengeance has only created more sorrow.

I offer you one last opportunity for forgiveness and mercy.

I merely offer a sample of what you planned for me.

You have learned nothing.

I will still have my revenge!

What do we do with them?

You come in handy now and then.

I'm quite glad the plan worked.

I'm no hero, I just do my job, and my job for tonight is over.

All I want to do is hit the sack.

Why would you want to hit a sack?

How long was I out?

Even shadows must be true to their shade.

We don't need to wait for sunset.

Is it supposed to hurt that much?

Just get on with it.

Recognize the woman?

She seemed familiar, but I just couldn't place her.

You're getting real good at bypassing alarms

Don't give me credit.

It was too easy!

Maybe misery loves company.

If you're human, then you're subject to human laws.

Either way I win!

I fear no human!

There are forces at war within me.

I will return some day, if I can.

You sound like every human employee I ever fired!

Crush all of them together and you couldn't squeeze one iota of personal integrity from the lot!

No excuses, creature!

Learn to take responsibility for your own actions! And STOP whining!

Oh, I am trembling in my chair.

You believe I am not responsible. Yet I remain your prisoner?

Who said you're not responsible?

It doesn't matter that you were tricked, you know now that your actions inflicted grievous damage. Do you take responsibility for them or not?

Well, what are you going to do?

You seem distracted, having second thoughts?

We'll celebrate over breakfast.

No more excuses. I accept full responsibility for my actions. I was wrong.

Integrity is never easy. It's a daily struggle, a costly struggle.

I know I owe you a great debt for the mistake I made a year ago.

If the text wasn't new to me, it was at least worth revisiting.

All I know is I'm about to be wiped out!

It doesn't have to be that way.

I can break these chains. But only you can get me past the bars.

Automatons know nothing of betrayal or honor. They know only what they're programmed to know.

Only living beings possess the ability to change, and make new choices.

You've given me much to consider.

We are friends.

I'd rather not have your death on my conscience

You'll never reach the bridge!

You have two minutes until impact, one minute before I detonate.

I don't want any innocents hurt!

If it goes down, I'm going down with it.

I knew you wouldn't let me down.

Yes, well, you have that effect on people.

I built this company for you!

I'd probably give it to you, if you'd just stand up and ask me for it honestly!

Asking for it wouldn't be any fun at all.

'Fun' is still more important to you than honor. I can't understand that.

Well, maybe you'll have better luck relating to the next generation.

You should've heard him laugh.

Made my hair stand on end, if I had any.

Surely you know I am not in the habit of playing childish pranks or laughing maniacally in the dark.

Do you even know how to laugh maniacally?

Don't tempt me.

Typical. You do and do and do for them, and what happens? They twist the knife in you!

I think I've created a monster.

Have you ever considered the bounties of genetic engineering?

Or maybe cybernetics is more your style?

Save the horror show for Halloween.

I'm sure tired of taking punishment, and I'd love to be able to give some back

That's the source of the trouble.

I hope you not planning to eat your catch.

Now that I'm in charge, I'm not taking any more of your cracks!

You're barely our species!

I'm in charge, here!

I find him very attractive.

Well, that's sicker than usual.

I'm a partner in a freak show!

I should'a figured it was crazy to stick with this crew

And if you play it smart, there'll be plenty of lettuce for everyone!

I should get my own cable TV show.

Oh, me and my big mouth.

It is the cure! It has to be!

Of course it's the cure! You must trust me!

It was you all along! I trusted you!

You turned me into a monster and I defended you!

I'm sorry it had to turn out this way.

You always overplay your hand

Tell me something' Why me?

You're old, and getting older.

I thought you might even appreciate the opportunity.

Growing old terrifies you, doesn't it?

Nothing terrifies me, because nothing is beyond my ability to change.

True immortality isn't about living forever, man; it's about what you do with the time you have.

When all your scheming's done, what will be your legacy

You're still alive! It's a miracle!

Boy, the city sure is different when it snows.

Not a bad life, all things considered.

There is a cure. There must be!

You can't keep me in here forever!

I'll get out! Do you hear? I'll get out!

About time you came back.

Why did you kidnap me? What do you want of me?

See, it wasn't as hard as you made it sound.

Ah, you wish to be immortal.

If the procedure is successful, I'll release you.

This is just a sculpture's model. The real thing is life sized, and lifelike.

What's in this for you?

Service is its own reward.

I wouldn't even know where to start looking.

You may as well be of some use to me.

Open this cage, and I'll show you how 'useless' I am.

It's hard to top that.

What you seek demands a heavy price.

Death and old age have their price as well. And it's too expensive for me.

Without your sword, you're helpless.

Swordless? Maybe. Helpless? NEVER!

What you choose to do with your life is your own affair, as long as it's got nothing to do with me.

You're just full of surprises.

No, let him go. He's earned it.

I wish it hadn't turned out this way.

I was so close to finding out if the legend was true. Now there's no one to test it on.

Throw down your weapon!

Is this a whole city of fools and lawless ruffians?

I'm the law here, pal!

You are a guardian, like myself.

I will submit to your law.

You are learning.

It will take some time.

Prepare to do battle!

I have no fight with you.

What is this, merit badge test night?

Oh well, better make sure it's an uneven fight.

The weak are to be protected, not exploited.

Aaah, who died and made you king?

If you don't know anything, why were you shooting at us?

Do I really need an excuse to have a good time in my own home?

They say a man's home is his castle, and what fun would a castle be without a dungeon?

If it gets any more saccharine in there, I'm going to put a finger down my throat.

I'd sure like to know how you got here, but I'm programmed to shoot first and ask questions later.

I demand a favor.

Death is always pointless. That is the point.

I demand reparation! My son was cruelly and unfairly taken from me!

Death is the ultimate fairness. Rich and poor, young and old - all are equal in death.

Our planet cannot support so many lives at once.

I apologize for any trouble I caused in my efforts to reclaim it.

It seems I'm out of practice dealing directly with mortals.

It seems I am unaccustomed to dealing with a god

We have all gained rare enlightenment this night

Mmmm, what a peculiar sight.

Now, that's odd.

Do you often go wandering about at night, young lady?

My dear, are you saying you don't remember your own name?

I can't seem to remember anything. I feel lucky I know how to talk.

How did I end up in the middle of the Pacific?

I guess I could use a ride

I thought you looked familiar. We've met before.

Do you know what a scroll is?

Get your claws off me!

You might want to reconsider your request.

We're gonna die!

I will not let anything harm you.

You win. I'll behave.

I cannot believe you pulled the trigger on me.

Just shut up and land.

I just don't remember! I'm not even sure I want to remember!

I understand your words, I simply do not believe them.

You have been long expected.

This trough is filled with acid. In about ten minutes its going to do a very nasty job on that soil carving, not to mention your rugged good looks.

It's my first real stab at clichéd villainy. How am I doing?

How are you doing this? No machine can hold me!

I should sue you for trademark infringement.

I've always considered myself a trickster at heart.

History cannot be changed.

You will not win!

What are you going to do? Bite my kneecaps off?

I know from experience the transforming power of a child's love.

The future is not written yet.

I have a sunny disposition and I'm always kind to animals

I've always respected you as a fellow inmate

He's a fool, but he may be useful.

I can work with that!

Now, now! That's your friends' genetic make-up you're insulting.

You are master now?

I should've known. But why this subterfuge?

Hey, I live for subterfuge!

I do not want escape, I want vengeance!

There's no such thing as "a little" vengeance.

No catches. No tricks. No strings.

So, things have come full circle.

You know how I feel about you, right?

[blueskrugs]

Let Me Count the Ways | Robert Thomas

this has been on my list since like July and I could just never get around to it. I finally sat down today and came up with something short and sweet.

for @stl-boys55​ for helping me come up with this idea ages ago, and for that one anon who asked for Robby fic recs. there’s some description of an injury, but no Robbys were harmed in the making of this fic. 

length: 1.8k words

How soon was too soon to fall in love? How did you even know you were in love? You’d always thought that you were too young to know the answers, that it would take a few more years and a few more breakups, but from the day you met Robert Thomas, you were sure you were going to fall hard and fast. It wouldn’t take much, really, with that damn giggle and his habit of sticking his tongue out whenever he was focused on something (which was often). More than that though, Robby was sweet, and funny, and would blush and roll his eyes when you teased him before chirping you right back.

Yeah, you never stood a chance.

It wasn’t until about six months into your relationship that you realized just how in deep you were. 

You weren’t sure you would ever get tired of the energy of the Enterprise Center on a Blues gameday. It was crowded and loud, filled with people wearing jerseys of players old and new. Each game was new and exciting, but familiar just the same. You went to games when you could, but it had taken you a while to get used to sitting with the rest of the Better Halves. You were younger than all of them, still in school while they had kids or were on their way to that, and you had felt like you could never belong. The other girls had been unfailingly nice to you, though, so now you looked forward to seeing everyone at games, holding the little ones or standing with them at the glass during warmups, happily playing babysitter for the night. So that’s where you were on a nondescript Tuesday night, Blake Bozak sitting on your lap as the second period started. You were only half paying attention to the game, to be honest, with the Blues already up by three goals as the minutes ticked by. You’re talking to Cris about your plans for the summer, but you’re watching Robby as he clambers over the boards and onto the ice for a shift. It had become habit to keep an eye on him whenever he’s on the ice, which is why you see everything that happens next. 

It feels like it happens in slow motion. Robby chases the puck to the boards, but he trips over a divot in the ice before he gets there and starts falling. A Jets player was already coming up to check Robby into the boards, and he doesn’t have time to stop, crashing into his back. Robby hits the boards with his head first, and then his shoulder, before laying there, crumpled, dazed, not moving.

A hush falls over the arena as a trainer rushes out onto the ice. A scrum has broken out, players yelling and whistles blowing, but you don’t really hear any of it. You’re distantly aware that you’re clutching Cris’s hand, and that you’re hardly breathing, eyes still trained on Robby.

He’s rolled onto his back, talking to the trainer, which is good, you know, but you can’t quite quiet the anxiety that’s tightening around your chest like a vise, a heavy weight that settles on your heart. His stick lays abandoned, forgotten, a couple feet away on the ice. 

Minutes pass; you’re not sure how long. Eventually someone helps him to his feet, and he makes his way, slowly, off the ice. He’s favoring his entire right side, and they have to stop more than once, though they hadn’t started very far from the door to the bench. You watch as Robby disappears down the tunnel, are still watching even as the puck drops and play resumes like nothing ever happened. You don’t look away until Blake tugs on your shirt, and you tear your eyes away with a smile, but it’s forced.

The Blues hold on to win, someone even scores another goal, but it’s all a blur to you. Robby had come back to the bench early in the third, had even taken a short shift or two, but he mostly had just sat stiffly at the end of the bench and watched.

You make your way down to the tunnels with everyone else after the final buzzer. There are conversations happening around you, but you’re caught up in your thoughts, still seeing Robby lying motionless on the ice. 

You’re startled, then, when Robby appears in front of you, showered, but in sweatpants and a hoodie instead of his gameday suit. You stop yourself from launching yourself at him, but just barely, settling instead for wrapping your arms around his neck. He hugs you back, but you can tell that he’s sore all over by the way his shoulders are tense, how he’s holding himself too tightly. 

“Can you drive me home?” he murmurs, holding his keys up.

You take them with a smile before taking Robby’s hand and walking with him to the parking garage. You’re both quiet in the car, radio on but turned down low. Robby isn’t on his phone, just looking out the window, and you can’t stop yourself from casting worried glances his way as you drive. He looks pale, washed out by the highway lights coming through the windshield. 

He catches you looking his way at one point, mumbles out a, “Stop it,” before turning and looking firmly out his window. 

You keep your eyes on the road until you pull into the parking garage. It’s still silent between you as you make your way upstairs and to Robby’s apartment. You’re a step behind him as you step inside and close the door behind you. You watch as he drops his keys in the bowl by the door, and you notice that he’s still moving stiffly. 

“How’re you feeling, babe?” you blurt out, taking a step closer and resting your hand on the shoulder that didn’t slam into the boards. “Can I do anything, get you anything?”

“I’m fine,” Robby says shortly, shrugging off your hand and walking towards the bedroom. You’re still standing in the same spot when he comes back, and some of your hurt and confusion must show on your face, because Robby lets out a frustrated sigh. “Look, nothing’s broken, no concussion, I’m just tired and sore. So can you stop looking at me like that?” he snaps.

“I was really worried,” you say softly. “Thought about running down onto the ice myself,” you admit, but Robby doesn’t laugh.

“What good would that have done?” 

You sigh, running your hands through your hair. Briefly, you’re glad Robby finally moved out of the Tkachuks’ basement, that no one else is around to listen to this stupid fight.

“I don’t know, Rob! I was scared. You went down hard, and you weren’t moving, and I just-”

“I get hit all the time,” Robby interrupts.

“This was different, and you know it.”

“Is it, though? It would’ve been a perfectly fine hit if I hadn’t been falling, and I’m fine.” Robby pauses. “I don’t get why you care so much about this, why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Because I love you, dammit, Robby!” you burst out.

Robby freezes, his mouth half open. It’s dark in the apartment, just a single lamp and the light from the bedroom spilling down the hallway, and you’re still standing near the door, Robby sitting on the couch in the living room.

It’s the first time either of you have said those words. You hadn’t realized they were true, either, until they were out of your mouth and hanging in the space between you. It might not have been the best time to say it for the first time, but that didn’t mean you regretted it. Robby still hasn’t said anything, though, hasn’t even moved, and you start to think you’ve made a mistake. 

Six months isn’t a long time, not really. You’re both still young, and maybe Robby doesn’t feel the same way. You take a step back, turn towards the door, trying to decide if it would be easier to call an Uber or to call Schwartzy to come get you, but your movement snaps Robby out of whatever daze he was in. He jumps to his feet, stumbling across the apartment towards you. Before you know it, your back is pressed to the wall next to the door, Robby’s hands resting on your hips. He winces, though, and you run your hand up his bruised side over his T-shirt. 

“Rob,” you breathe.

“Say it again,” he says, but he brushes a kiss across your lips before you can reply. 

“I love you, Robert Thomas,” you say against his mouth before he’s kissing you for real, deep and sweet and slow. 

He pulls back after a moment, just enough to bite his lip and look you in the eyes. You grin and tangle your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“I love you, too,” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours.

“You scared me,” you whisper back, and you’re talking about more than watching him get injured. 

“I’m sorry,” Robby says back, and he’s talking about more than just the fight. One of his hands slips from your hip and into yours. “Come cuddle?” he asks, and you’re treated to that gap-toothed smile you love so much.

Later, you’re curled up against Robby’s non-injured side while some movie is playing on the TV. Neither of you are really watching, both half-asleep and cozy. Robby has been absently playing with your fingers for the last fifteen minutes, and you’re not sure he’s even aware he’s doing it. 

“Thanks for worrying about me,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

You tilt your head to grin at him. “What was that, couldn’t hear ya, babe.”

Robby sticks his tongue out at you, but he leans down to kiss you again. “I love you,” is what he says. 

“I love you, too, you dork.” You smirk. “I was thinking about calling Jaden to come rescue me for a moment there.” 

Robby groans. “Schwartzy would literally have killed me.”

“Can’t have that, now can we?” you laugh, and Robby tugs you closer, trying to give you a noogie, but your elbow lands in his ribs, and he lets go of you with a gasp. You just laugh harder as he glares at you and rubs his side.

“I take it back,” he says, but he betrays himself with a giggle. 

You fall asleep like that, sprawled out and tangled together, as the credits roll, and there’s a smile on your face. Robby will probably be even more sore in the morning from spending the night on the couch, but you think it’ll have been worth it.