#once again no prior knowledge of this universe required!

[sesamestreep]

30 Day Writing Challenge - Day 9

Write about a heated debate (from this list) ➸ set in the Bakeoff AU AGAIN, because after my last fic, I wanted to write more Milly content and also it’s been a rough few days and I need to be silly and self-indulgent or I shall perish!! Based on an Instagram Reel I sent to @firstelevens the other day and that we’ve been spinning into a kid fic concept ever since. It grew out of control and I don’t know if it technically fits the prompt, but it’s what I got for you nonetheless. Bon appetit I guess???

“Euuuugghhh! Daaaaad!”

“What? What’s the matter?” Foggy asks from his spot in the kitchen. That tone of voice from his daughter is never a good sign, but he’s mostly used to hearing it when he and Matt are being particularly disgusting about how much they love each other. As Matt is still in the shower currently, he knows that can’t be the reason.

“What did you put on this?” Milly asks, holding up a piece of toast accusatorially. If she ends up following in their career footsteps someday, her cross-examinations are going to be brutal.

“Cinnamon and sugar, as requested,” Foggy answers, coming to stand across the counter from her. It’s a long way from the elaborate recipes he used to make with his spare time—which he no longer has—and when he was on Bake-Off, but it’s one of his daughter’s favorite breakfasts despite its simplicity. Well, it normally is. She’s currently staring daggers at him, so it must not be her favorite right now.

Milly shakes her head at him, like he’s a moron or maybe, more accurately, like they’re going to have to send him to a home soon if he keeps this up. “Not cinnamon,” she says, holding the offensive piece of toast out to him.

Before he can take a bite (his original plan, to illustrate that she’s being silly and unnecessarily picky), the smell reaches his nose and it doesn’t take an extremely experienced baker to know that’s not cinnamon. He brings it closer to sniff it again and makes himself cough. To confirm his suspicion, he returns to the cabinet where they store their spices and looks at the jar he used to make Milly’s toast a few minutes ago and, yep, there it is.

“Paprika,” he says. “I made you paprika toast.”

“Paprika and sugar,” Milly says, in that same enjoy your time in the retirement home, old man tone of voice.

“They look similar in the bottle,” Foggy says, rubbing a hand over his face. “Same color, I mean.”

“Do they smell the same?” she asks, innocently.

“Listen, you—”

“And are they spelled the same way?” she asks, thoughtfully. “You know, when you read the bottle before pouring it over my toast? You did read the bottle first, right?”

“Mills, I’m not kidding, if you can spell ‘paprika’ or ‘cinnamon’ for me right now, I will give you twenty dollars out of my wallet,” he says. “Otherwise, I don’t want to hear it!”

“I don’t know—”

“Exactly!”

“I’m eight! What’s your excuse?”

“For one thing, my eight year old daughter won’t stop tricking her babysitter into letting her watch scary movies and then crawling into bed with me in the middle of the night because she can’t sleep,” Foggy says, grabbing the plate from her. “How’s that?”

“Don’t throw it away!” Milly calls.

Foggy pauses. “Baby, you don’t have to eat it. I’ll make you more with actual cinnamon.”

Milly looks at him like he’s grown an extra head. “I know,” she says, slowly. “I just wanted to show Dada what you did.”

“Okay,” Foggy says, rolling his eyes and returning the plate. “Just for that, maybe I won’t make you more toast.”

“Sure, starve me for telling the truth. That’ll go over great with the other trusted adults in my life when I snitch on you.”

“It’ll never hold up in court,” Foggy replies, already putting two more slices of bread into the toaster.

“Besides,” she says, ignoring him and popping a sliced strawberry into her mouth. “I don’t crawl into your bed, I crawl into Dada’s.”

“It’s the same bed,” he explains. “Just because you cuddle with Dada and kick me all night doesn’t make it any less my bed. And what’s up with that, anyway? I have it on good authority that I’m the more cuddly of the two of us. Why don’t you ever snuggle me?”

“You want it too bad,” she says, taking a two-handed drink of her orange juice.

“Devil child,” he mutters. His mother once told him, when he and Matt were first looking into adoption, that your children will act as cosmic comeuppance for all the things you put your poor parents through as a child yourself and he hadn’t believed her. Maybe he just thought that, because Milly didn’t share any DNA with them, that his and Matt’s most exhausting qualities wouldn’t rear their ugly heads in her at all. And, boy, love her as he does, he was wrong on that count.

“Dada would never do this to me,” Milly continues, happily. “And he can’t even see! Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

“About looking into boarding schools?” Foggy asks. “Definitely.”

“Mean!”

“You’re saying you’d miss me?”

“No,” Milly says, crossing her arms. “But I’d miss Dada and my friends and my teachers and Aunt Daisy and—ooh, can I borrow your phone?”

“Why?”

“I want to text Aunt Daisy a picture of the paprika toast.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come onnnnn,” she whines. “She’ll think it’s funny!”

“That’s exactly why I’m not giving you my phone.”

“You’re no fun,” Milly grumbles, sinking down to rest her chin on the counter dejectedly. Her head immediately pops up again when Matt appears behind her. “Dada! Wait til you see what your husband did!”

Matt stops to press a kiss to the top of her head. “Please don’t say your hair because it feels…uh, chaotic?”

“I haven’t even gone near it this morning,” Foggy says, as he fetches the toast that’s just popped out of the toaster. “That’s all natural.”

“Well, that’s something,” Matt replies, coming into the kitchen. “So, what did you do?”

“He made me cinnamon toast,” Milly interrupts, enthusiastically. “Here, try it!”

As with Foggy, the toast doesn’t even make it to Matt’s mouth before he’s frowning. “That’s…not cinnamon, honey.”

Milly cackles while Foggy glares at her. “I made a small mistake,” Foggy says, over the chorus of his daughter’s laughter.

“What is that? Chili powder?” Matt asks, sniffing delicately.

“Paprika.”

“Oh.”

“And I have been soundly roasted for my error,” Foggy says, mostly in Milly’s direction. “So, I don’t want to hear it from you, okay?”

Matt shrugs. “Okay.”

“Apparently, you would never make such a mistake in your life, because you’re a good dad and I’m some sort of rodeo clown who ended up here by mistake.”

Matt looks at him, very clearly stifling a laugh. “She only thinks that because she’s led a charmed life where I almost never make her breakfast,” he says. “Give it a week, she’ll be begging for you back.”

“You’d just let me eat fruit snacks for breakfast,” Milly says, as Foggy puts her new breakfast down in front of her.

“Yes, and then you wouldn’t have all the nutrients you need to learn new things at school and get smart enough to become the first female president of the United States,” Foggy says. “And then where would we be?”

“There better be a female president before I’m old enough,” Milly says, darkly and with a mouth full of toast.

“Better eat a balanced breakfast just to be safe,” Matt says, pushing off the counter to go find some coffee. “And be nice to your dad.”

“How will that help me become President?”

“People skills,” Matt says.

“Surviving into adulthood,” Foggy says, at the same time.

Milly blows a raspberry at him, but eats the new toast without complaint. Matt’s scouting around for the sugar bowl now and Foggy stops him with a hand on his elbow.

“I already put sugar in it for you,” he says.

Matt smiles. “I don’t care what Milly says. You’re the best rodeo clown a kid could hope for, and a very good husband too.”

“Thanks,” Foggy replies, and allows himself to be pulled in for a kiss. He gets to enjoy that for about ten seconds before Milly makes another disgusted noise behind him. He sighs and pulls back. “What’s wrong with the toast now?”

“Nothing,” Milly exclaims. “It’s you two that are grossing me out!”

“Sorry your dads are in love with each other,” Matt says, with a smile and a faint blush. “You live a tough life.”

“I’m glad you understand,” Milly says, as she shoves an improbably large bite of her toast into her mouth without issue. She’s not even finished chewing when she asks, “Will you walk me to school today, Dada?”

“Why? Are you worried I’ll do that wrong too?” Foggy asks, putting an arm around Matt’s shoulders.

“I’d be happy to, baby,” Matt interjects before Milly can say something smart-alecky back to him. “Go get dressed, okay?”

Mill hops down from her chair happily and practically skips to her room. Matt nudges Foggy’s shoulder with his nose.

“What’s up with you two?” he asks.

“I don’t know. She’s just pushing my buttons.”

“Successfully,” Matt replies.

“Yeah, well,” Foggy shrugs. “I slept half the night with her foot in my face while she cuddled with you. I’m a little cranky, I guess.”

“Feeling left out?” Matt asks, smiling, as he turns to wrap his arms around Foggy’s middle.

“I’m definitely the cuddliest person in this household and I want it acknowledged.”

“I agree,” Matt says, kissing him on the shoulder. “Don’t listen to Milly. She’s a maniac.”

“She takes after you.”

“Not true. I love to cuddle with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Matt says, leaning in to kiss him again.

“We could make that happen, you know,” Foggy says against his lips. “Drop the kid off at school, cancel our appointments for today, play hooky from our responsibilities, stay in bed all day…”

Matt seems to be thinking it over, tempted. “We couldn’t,” he says, not quite convincingly.

“We could. I know our bosses and, trust me, they’d want us to get laid.”

“I’ve said it before but those guys are weird,” Matt jokes. “They’re honestly too involved in our sex lives.”

“Yeah, it’s an HR nightmare,” Foggy replies, kissing him again.

“You two better not still be kissing when I come back,” Milly hollers from the bathroom, where she’s brushing her teeth (or so Foggy guesses from the sound of running water).

“We definitely will be,” Foggy shouts back, as Matt collapses into his shoulder laughing.

“I’m going to go attempt to get our daughter’s hair fit for public appearance,” Matt says, giving Foggy another quick kiss on the lips.

“And I’m going to text Kate that we’ll be in late this morning.”

Matt pauses. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Foggy consults his watch. “Our first appointment is at 11. I can do plenty to you in that amount of time.”

Matt looks a little startled by that, but not in a bad way. “Kate’s going to know what that text means, you know.”

“That just means there will be someone to share in Milly’s pain over us being disgustingly in love after all these years. Unless that’s your way of saying no?”

“Definitely not. Just warning you that we’ll get a lot of grief for it later.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You always do,” Matt replies, and Foggy’s definitely not being conceited when he says Matt’s tone sounds downright dreamy.

He heads off to help Milly finish getting ready and Foggy tackles the few dishes in the sink while he waits for another pot of coffee to finish brewing. A few minutes later, Milly appears in the kitchen, dressed and with her hair pulled into a neat bun. Neither of them can do anything particularly fancy with her hair, not least because she won’t sit still long enough for all that, but Matt does a good job for someone who’s never had long hair or siblings. A now presentable Milly pulls her backpack and coat off the hook on the wall and stops by Foggy’s side expectantly.

“What do you need, kiddo?” he asks, as he dries his hands on the towel hanging by the stove.

“Hug goodbye,” she says, lifting her arms towards him and he kneels to capture her in a big hug.

When she finally pulls back, she still looks hesitant, like there’s something she needs to ask him. It once again strikes him as crazy how much she reminds him of Matt sometimes.

“What’s the matter?” Foggy asks, tucking a picturesque loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You feel alright? Is all that paprika I fed you bothering your stomach?”

Milly shakes her head, looking away. “I just wanted to—Dada said that his dad would have made him eat that gross toast because they never wasted food when he was little.”

“Did he?” Foggy asks, already making a mental note to kick Matt’s ass when they’re alone together. “Listen, baby, your Grandpa Jack, he…didn’t have a lot of help when your Dada was young. They had to be really careful with their money and Dada was in the hospital for a while…”

“I know,” Milly says, nodding. “I’m just—thank you for making me new toast, instead.”

Foggy feels a lump in his throat that he struggles to swallow past. “Hey, you don’t have to thank me for that, okay? It’s my job to make your life as good as it possibly can be. Even if I have to make you a hundred pieces of toast every morning.”

“That would be expensive.”

“Still,” Foggy says, firmly. “I’m sorry if what Dada said made you upset.”

Milly scrunches up her face like she’s eating the paprika toast all over again. “He said it like it was funny,” she says, mildly horrified.

“God, okay,” Foggy replies, running a hand over his face. Matt would consider that a charming anecdote about his father. Speaking of people who are going to need a hug from him… “Don’t worry about that. Just have a good day at school, okay?”

“Okay,” Milly says, all concern gone as she hops in place excitedly.

Matt appears around the corner then, pulling on his coat. “Ready?”

“Just gotta get my shoes,” Milly shouts as she zooms off in the direction of the door.

“Alright,” Matt says, as he comes into the kitchen. “I’ll be back in a few.”

“Okay,” Foggy says, as he leans in to kiss him goodbye. “Oh, and maybe no more stories about your dad before school, yeah?”

Matt blinks at him. “What? Why?”

“We’ve talked about how sometimes the anecdotes from your childhood that you think are charming and scrappy are actually alarming to the people who love you now,” Foggy says, gently.

“Yeah…” Matt says, uncertainly, before his expression clears. “Oh. Shit.”

“It’s fine,” Foggy replies, rubbing his back. “I already explained that she can ask for as much food as she wants. Just maybe reinforce that with her on your way to school?”

Matt looks pale and queasy even as he nods. “Right. God, I didn’t—I’m sorry—”

“I know. I’m not mad.”

“And you still want to play hooky from work with me, even though I’m the world’s biggest idiot?”

Foggy kisses him on the forehead. “Of course. You’re still a very cute idiot.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Listen, I told Milly it’s my job to make her life as good as possible, and that’s true, but it’s also my job to do that for you. And right now, the best way to make your life better is to take you back to bed and—”

“Ready!” Milly shouts as she skids around the corner. “Are you guys still kissing?! What about my education?”

“She’s right, you know,” Matt says, pulling back and looking a bit better, though still tremulous. “We’re terrible parents.”

“Maybe I should look into boarding schools, after all,” Foggy jokes, crossing his eyes goofily at Milly over Matt’s shoulder.

“I’m never going to be President at this rate,” Milly laments.

“Alright, let’s get you to school,” Matt says, holding out his hand for her.

Foggy leans down to give Milly a kiss on the top of her head. “Don’t let your dad walk into traffic, okay?”

“I won’t,” Milly says, swinging their joined hands between them. “I promise.”

“That’s my girl. Have a good day, baby cakes.”

“You too, daddy cakes.”

“I’ll be back shortly,” Matt says, smiling at the two of them.

“I’ll be here,” Foggy replies, as suggestively as he can manage. It must work because Milly snarls in disgust.

“If you two start kissing again, I’m taking myself to school,” she says, leveraging her full weight against Matt to drag him towards the door. “Or running off to join the circus. You won’t know which until it’s too late.”

“She gets that from you,” Matt says, tiredly.

“I was going to say I think she gets it from you.”

“Maybe she has a point about us being gross.”

“Oh, well, yeah,” Foggy says, with a wink at Milly, who’s glaring at both of them now. “There was never any debate about that.”

[daechwitatamic]

cherrybomb || csc

(banner by @sailorrhansol)

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

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

wc: 19.5k

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

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

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

Also in this universe: storm breaker by @/sailorhansol

Teaser:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’d marked him as your first choice.

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

You needed Seungcheol.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only you could.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fighting was the easy part.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To Duellona Fury,” you echoed.

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

You never asked them if they missed it.

—

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you done this before?” Seungcheol asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sort of,” you mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laughed without meaning to. “My condolences?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol sent you a sideways, sheepish grin.

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You and Seungcheol nod in tandem.

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

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

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

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

Nainsi answered, “Prepare for neural handshake.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neural handshake disengaged…

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

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

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

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

You didn’t answer, fuming silently instead.

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

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

But you were laughing through the scolding.

“Stop,” you whined.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seungcheol.”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Deploying Devil’s Advocate!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tomorrow,” he promised.

“Tomorrow,” you repeated.

—

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

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

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

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

Beside you, Seungcheol stared up at your glorious machine.

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

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

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

The defensiveness rose in you quick, like a snakebite.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t fight me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

– 

You marked the passing of two years in statistics.

Three hundred and forty-six explosives detonated.

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

Seventy-two mainframe repairs.

Twenty-eight achievement awards.

Nine television interviews.

Six upgrades.

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

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

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

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

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

There was no moment of realization at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a second, things felt better. 

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

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

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

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

No. 

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

Duellona Fury lurched around you, shuddering. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your parents’ wall of pictures flashed in your mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked up at Duellona Fury again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And right now, you were the problem.

“Hey?” you tried meekly.

He nodded. Licked his lips. Stood. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only for a minute.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

Being unable to pilot, unable to fight. 

Being brokenhearted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A call? 

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

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

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

“Cherry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not anymore. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Marshall hesitates. “Not yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, you’d lost it all anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It will be okay,” she whispers. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You aren’t hurt. Not this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shakes his head, rolls his eyes a little.

You hate this side of him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Dinner is just as bad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You slink out before anyone else can argue.

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

You work in silence for hours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And that’s it?” he demands. 

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

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

Is there more to it, his anger?

Should you call him on it, should you ask?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

He glances at his watch. “Five minutes.”

You step inside but leave the door open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods, once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

Then, he schedules you to spar.

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

Now, you’re fucking furious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t help but smile.

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

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

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

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

“What was the best part?” he asks.

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

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

It feels like a trap. 

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

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

“What was the worst part?”

There’s only one answer.

“Missing you,” you say. “Losing you.”

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

Something about his hurt. Something about why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know. 

And you owe him your side of the story.

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

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

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

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

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

Beside you, Seungcheol’s eyes go wide. 

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

“You -?” he starts to ask.

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

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

Alaska.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods. “I did.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We really are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– end

thank you so much for reading!!!!

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

[muddyorbsblr]

bigger than the whole sky [rtc what if…?]

'relinquish the crown' masterlist See my full list of works here!

BE WARNED SPOILERS FOR THE LOKI SEASON 2 FINALE AHEAD

Summary: What if…you'd broken Frigga's memory spell without Loki? | Your search for your husband leads you to a peculiar void beyond the Nine Realms, to a place that vaguely resembles the Tree of Life that you'd only read about in historical texts.

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: angst with no happy ending in sight; this is in the RTC universe so…themes of incest if you squint; Loki S2 finale spoilers; slight violence in the beginning [let me know if i missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: gonna repeat it again…Loki S2 finale spoilers ahead; no prior reading of RTC is required to suffer enjoy reading this story

"I will ask you one final time, you sadistic hedonist," you panted, taking a moment to lean on Stormbreaker while the eccentric tyrannical leader of Sakaar laid bleeding on the ground. One hand clutched his abdomen where you'd struck him, the other gingerly held his broken nose.

This wasn't something that you enjoyed doing, putting others through pain. But knowing Loki's history with this Grandmaster long before you two had met was easing your worry somehow that you were doing something reprehensible. There were pains that your beloved, even after all the time you'd known each other prior to your betrothal and marriage, were not quite ready to share with you.

His time in Sakaar was among those pains.

That knowledge alone was enough to get you to stop catching your breath, marching over to the Grandmaster and pinning him to the ground with the end of your battle axe's handle.

"Where is Loki?"

"Lady, I already told you back in the viewing box, I haven't seen your u--Agh!" You pressed Stormbreaker's handle harder against a tender spot on his shoulder, his body visibly showing signs of surrender before he started tapping on the floor. "Alright I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whined.

"Shall we try this again, then?" He did his best to nod his head, sighing heavily. "Where did you last see him?"

"I swear to you on my Champion's grave it's been millions of years for me here in Sakaar," he choked out, still audibly struggling to draw in his breath. "It was a time he didn't even know you yet. You probably hadn't even been born."

"So you truly bear no knowledge of my husband's whereabouts?"

"Your hus--I thought he was--"

"Mind your words, charlatan god." He let out another groan of pure agony as you pressed harder on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry! I--I really don't know where he is, Your Highness, I don't--"

"Then what use are you to me," you said darkly, another corner of your soul feeling ass if the lights had gone out. Another dead end.

You took a dagger out with your free hand, the Grandmaster's pleas of mercy sounding muffled as they fell on your dulled ears. Nothing he had to say could spare him now; to you, he was no longer a lead, a well lit path that could perhaps point you to where Loki had been all this time.

Now he was simply a shadow of your husband's past. Something so dark that he didn't even dare let you know about it.

Despair began to seep into your veins, a single question overtaking all other remotely coherent thought. Would you ever find him? Would you ever get to apologize? To tell him how you felt? How you'd always felt?

Before you could strike, a loud crack resounded throughout the Grandmaster's suite, coming from a glowing green portal that appeared in the center of the room.

"I would probably take that call, if I were you," the Grandmaster quipped, exhaling a large sigh of relief when you removed the weight of Stormbreaker off of him as you stepped toward the portal. Once the threshold had begun to close after you stepped through, he let out a final sentiment. "Please say hello to your husband for me when you find him."

That was more than enough for you to decide throwing your dagger into the small opening that remained, hitting the smug anachronistic bastard on his uninjured shoulder.

Then the portal finally closed, leaving you in a place you couldn't quite describe. All you knew was that it felt like a place you should never have been allowed access to. A place that should be beyond you. Beyond anyone.

Winding, glowing vines surrounded you, each of them looked and sounded as if they were teeming with a life of its own. If you listened carefully you could hear voices. Your voices. Infinite iterations of them. But one rang clearer than every other in the entire space.

"Did I do something that angered the Norns so fiercely that they condemned me to love a man I could never have?"

"I know what it feels like to kiss him. To touch him. To be desired by him. And it's ripping me apart to know that I will never know that again."

"The people will look at this union and see it for what it is. Sinful. Shameful!"

You tried to block the memories out of your mind, of you begging your grandmother Queen Frigga to lock your memories away. Of arguing with your grandfather Odin and with your father Thor because they were signing your life away to marry Loki. Of the harsh words you spat at them all behind closed doors.

Of the day the lock on your mind finally broke, after finding your journals prior to the spell being cast chronicling how you'd fallen for the god despite your better judgment. The head-splitting agony of your memories reconciling and finding their place back in your mind.

An agony suffered in your lonesome while Loki was away on assignment.

You scrambled desperately to think of anything else, to follow along the path of the vines and hear something other than your own mistakes being echoed back at you. These desperate attempts made you realize that the vines converged in a structure that eerily resembled an image that you'd only learned about in your youth.

"Yggdrasil?" you whispered in awe, your feet bringing you closer still until you found a parting just large enough for one to squeeze through.

Once you'd finally freed yourself from the winding vines, all air left your lungs at the sight that greeted you. A golden throne at the heart of the tree. All the vines anchored to the man -- or God, rather -- seated in it.

Loki.

"You've left quite a trail of bodies in your wake throughout this quest of yours, little Princess," he spoke, not moving even a fraction from where he sat.

He gave you a soft smile, tears beginning to form in his eyes as he stared at you. As if he couldn't believe you were here with him.

"It's been too long, my darling wife."

You'd rehearsed time and time again throughout your search for your husband what you would say to him once you'd been reunited. You would tell him how wrong you were for how you behaved throughout your betrothal, your marriage. And you would abandon every shred of your pride and beg for his forgiveness. You would tell him you loved him, that you'd always loved him.

And that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him.

Yet somehow you could form none of those words. Instead you finally felt your body succumb to the tiredness brought about by the centuries you'd spent searching and laying waste to every imaginable corner of the Nine Realms and beyond for even the slightest shred of a clue as to where he could have been.

Instead you sunk to your knees, the tears streaming down your face as you stumbled over your words. "I remember everything. I had to find you. Tell you that I'm--"

"I know you are, my love. I watched you on the day the spell broke, the day you finally remembered. I wanted so desperately to come home to you. To not let you have to endure that pain alone."

"Why didn't you?" you blurted out, staring at all the vines he held in his hands. "What are all these?"

"Timelines," he answered you simply, giving you a minuscule shrug of his shoulders. "In every single one, there is an iteration of you and me. Some circumstances may differ, minor details. But at the heart of each of them, we live a life together. We find each other, fall in love. In some we even start a family."

"A family," you repeated breathlessly. The knowledge that each vine -- each timeline -- that was anchored to him held a variation of you and him, of your story, began to eat away at you, flooding you with guilt.

How wretched did you have to be that in your timeline you'd rejected him? Foolishly pushed him away with every mistake you made until finally it took you centuries to find him again?

"What happened?" you finally spoke after what felt like hours. "How did you get--"

"That is quite the long and harrowing tale, darling. In truth, it was a cavalcade of miscalculations and bad judgment calls, failed attempts of trying to save all these lives until I realized that the result would always stay the same if the equation contained the same variables."

"And what was that result?"

"Annihiliation," he answered you simply, giving you a misty eyed look. "Every single strand of time that I hold safe now would have been obliterated on sight. I know it. I've seen it. I've seen you disintegrate before me too many times than I wish to count. The device that once held them stable could no longer scale for an infinite number of possibilities, and letting countless timelines die in the name of the survival of a few was…unacceptable. The only thing that could carry a burden that great was--"

"A god," you finished, the words fighting you their entire way out, nearly choking you on the weight of them. The question that you wished to raise crippled you with its answer's implications. For you and your timeline specifically. "What happens if you let go?"

"It dies. Slowly. Drifts away until it eventually turns to ash." He began to make a motion, as if to approach you, until ultimately he decided against it. "This was the only way. It remains the only way. I must stay, and keep them safe. Watch our lives play out in derivatives of what ifs."

The selfish question that danced at the tip of your tongue plagued you with even more guilt. But what about my timeline? What about our life together? "There has to be another way," you grumbled, stubbornly shaking your head as if you were once again a toddler, refusing to accept the world for being what it was rather than what you wished it would be. "I could stay with you. I could stay and we can find a way together."

Your heart splintered watching him shake his head at you. "My beautiful headstrong wife," he breathed out, his tone filled with both fondness and heartbreak. "I can't in my good conscience let you abandon your life just so you could stay here with me. That would be too selfish, even for me. What would you have here?"

"You! I would have you. All these centuries I've spent in a desperate scramble to find you and tell you that I lo--" You found yourself completely choking on the words now, never having to articulate them before. "That I love you. That I've always loved you and I want us to start our lives together. I refuse to accept that after all this time I have to let you go. You can't make me."

"Asgard needs you, its future Queen."

"And I need you!" Your voice finally broke, sobs that you'd fought inside starting to bubble up. "It isn't fair that you hold all these different tellings of our story in your hands, but your story, yours and mine, ends in us apart. That you spend your days here, watching our life play out somewhere and somewhen else, and you're alone. Please don't send me away, husband," you began to beg. "Don't make me leave you. Let me stay."

He let out a sharp exhale, a tear escaping his eye, rolling down his cheek. "I've longed for the day I would hear you call me that," he sighed, a rueful smile gracing the handsome features that you were bereft of for centuries. "Truly I didn't think I would ever see you again, Y/N. My Y/N. I never thought that I would have you before me, and I hear those words you would only say in dreams with my own ears. Thank you, my dear heart. You have given me a gift in this quest of yours, in having a final moment with the woman I love…" More tears rolled down his cheeks when his smile widened before finishing his sentiment. "And the woman that loves me."

Your sobs filled the endless space, your body collapsing onto the ground as your grief overtook you. The notion of grieving for the living never seemed sensical to you until now. Now that the man, the god, you loved was calling this the last time you would ever see each other.

And you knew in your heart that with the power he wielded now, he could make that your reality without even lifting a finger. He could push you out of this void and back into any timeline of his choosing just as easily as he pulled you out of Sakaar.

The feel of familiar large hands pulling you up to your feet startled you, only having the briefest moment to look at your husband before he pulled you into a crushing embrace. You didn't think twice before wrapping your arms around him, holding him as close as you could and sobbing into his shoulder before realizing…

If his hands were on you, then why were the vines still in place?

"Loki," you sobbed. "Husband, please. No illusions."

"I can't hold you," he said, choking back his own sobs now. "I couldn't watch you break like this and do nothing." The duplicate he cast to hold you disappeared from your hold in a flash of green. "I've done it before against all my better judgment, I refuse to do it again."

"Then don't." Against your own better judgment, you stomped your foot, like a bratty child being told you had to go home. Which was almost precisely what this was. "If this is where you are and where you will remain, then this is where I wish to stay. With the god that owns my heart. With my husband." You blinked rapidly to expel the tears that blurred your vision before uttering the words that splintered at your heart even more. "I was made to be yours. You said that."

"And I yours," he finished, averting his gaze, letting his own tears drop to the fabric of  his trousers. "In every timeline. We must take solace in knowing that among these infinite tales, one is ours. What could have been ours."

"What should be ours," you insisted. You made your way over to him, placing your hand on the side of his face. He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch, the sight breaking your heart further. "Our story deserves its bliss-laden epilogue, too."

"Not at the cost of everyone else's. Deep down you know this to be true."

"That does not mean I accept it," you grumbled. "Let me stay."

"You know that I can't. I will not subject you to live out the rest of your days here. Without friends nor family, and only a husband that cannot even hold you as company."

"But at least you would have someone to hold you," you argued, throwing your arms around him and letting your tears flow once more. "I can't just leave you here all on your own. You can't make me." You knew that he damn right could.

"My love," he sighed, turning his head to press a kiss to your temple. "I wish for you to live a long, and fulfilled life. You've lost so much time in your search for me only for it to end like this. I can give you those centuries back, as a final gift. Reverse the clock, undo the toll it took on you. Let this be the final token of my affection. My fealty. My undying vow."

"Let me keep my memories," you pleaded, already feeling that this would truly be your final moments with him. You did not need to turn your gaze to know that the portal leading back to Asgard was there, waiting for you. Perhaps he would simply nudge you through with his mind, knowing that you would refuse to leave. "Let me keep my remnants of you if that is all that I can leave this place with."

He nodded once. "Very well, little Princess. When you walk through the portal only the physical years will be stripped away. Live well, and remember always that I love you. My heart will only ever belong to you. Until the end of time."

"I love you," you choked out through your tears. "Husband." Your heart ached at the sight of his tears, not bothering to fight back the urge to kiss them away. "I will miss you desperately and always. In every step that I must take in this life without you."

"You will always have me by your side," he swore. "When you feel a presence you cannot see, in gentle breezes within a still room. I will always be there."

You continued to wipe his tears away, the god constantly kissing at your palms. Seemingly refusing to let you go, too.

"May I kiss you?" you asked, barely audibly, your voice unable to even completely form the words. "One last time?"

He gave you a small nod, and you leaned in to press your lips to his, trying to pour out your years of lost time and the future that you were doomed to lose in just a few short moments into that single kiss. You could feel that when he kissed you back, he did so with both all the love he'd never been able to give you before, and the love that he would never be able to bestow in the future.

It was a kiss of finality. A kiss of goodbye. A bittersweet final page in the story of you and Loki.

I love you more than words can ever say, his voice echoed in your mind. Goodbye, my love. My fated. My darling wife.

When you pulled away he was gone. And you'd been returned to your shared chambers back in Asgard. As he promised, the physical toll the centuries-long search had taken on your body were gone. No more scars from miscalculated skirmishes. No more bruises from Sakaar.

No more physical reminders of what you'd endured trying to reunite with the love your life.

All that remained were the memories of those years, and your time in his domain beyond the Realms.

"Goodbye, my darling husband. My love. My Loki," you whispered into the quiet of your marital chambers, sinking to your knees once more and letting out a shriek of pure agony, the sobs swiftly returning and wracking your entire body as you lay pathetically on the floor.

"Y/N??"

The sound of your mother Lady Sif's voice provided little comfort, but it felt like a familiar balm. "Mother," you said weakly, unmoving from your spot on the ground even as she rushed to you, cradling you in her lap.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" She stroked your hair while your tears soaked her sleep dress. You felt her wave someone over, and moments later you felt your grandmother Queen Frigga's presence in the room with you.

"I lost. I lost and I know not what to do now," you managed to say through your tears.

"What did you lose, Daughter?"

You'd briefly considered explaining your journey, from breaking the spell, to your journey through the centuries, to Loki's domain beyond the reach of space and time. To relay what had become of your husband.

Ultimately the words were beyond you due to your grief.

"Everything," you answered her, holding on to her tight as if you were a child again. This would be the only semblance of comfort you would have. "I lost everything."

A/N: I had to after that finale had me processing and feeling the big sad all day, I promise I'm working on 2 other stories based on the finale that have kinda better endings.

Also I sobbed throughout writing this entire thing, just for the record.

Now here's the song to add to the vibe:

'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @peaches1958 @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @superficialdomina @anukulee @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog

[lookingforhappy]

TUA: Young Blood Review??

yeah idk what to call this but I wanna talk about this book so bad so here's my thoughts

General (Spoiler Free) Review

It's pretty good! solidly between Okay and Good on my rankings which is honestly a really good outcome for me as I was worried it was going to be much worse.

There's some continuity errors with the lore the show has established (I will go over this later), but they're not glaring, just vaguely annoying because there's some pretty easy ways to fix them (I'll also explain later). But there's also some more fun additions to the lore that's in keeping with the show and the characters.

(there were also quite a few typos that were missed but it wasn't overwhelming, just noticeable enough that they probably should have caught them before they were published - at least one sentence is missing a word and several words are spelt wrong including in one instance the name of one of the OCs)

I could list all the aspects of it that are "okay" but I think u get the picture. in all honesty it's fairly unobtrusive which again, for me, is glowing praise lmao.

I thoroughly enjoyed this book despite all of the issues (that I will pull apart beneath the read more). In fanfiction terms I think it's best described as "fluff" as not much really happens but it's an interesting exploration of the Umbrella's, their powers, and their attitudes in the months before Ben's death.

major spoilers review under the cut ↓

and now, we shall tear this bitch apart lol

Continuity Errors

There's only one big issue that I have and that is the Umbrella's knowing that there were other children born on 1st October 1989. which they repeatedly refer to as october 1st children in the book.

The Hargreeves don't know that there's others, outside of the 7 of them, born with powers to mothers who weren't pregnant. They believe, and were likely told or manipulated by Reginald into believing, that he adopted all of the special children.

as is said in 2x10:

Lila is the first of the other 43 (+?) kids that they meet and is the one to reveal that there were others born with powers like them.

In the book, the Hargreeves' all know that there were other children born with powers (ch23 pg 164). and it's not a throw away line as a big part of the plot is that they meet Ryan, another of the 43.

which... kind of annoying and easily fixable. here's how I would've worked around this issue while still preserving the plot:

Ryan's powers are the ability to determine and gift powers to others. He is unable to gift himself powers and unable to gift new powers, change powers, or remove the powers of the 43. His powers also require a fair amount of effort on his part, as well as his physical touch to bestow them. When he uses his powers, and when those he's gifted with powers use them, earthquakes occur in that persons vicinity and toxic (flammable) dust appears in the air.

note the dust, the dust is the crux of my fix:

Instead of the Umbrella's realising that Ryan is one of the 43 due to prior knowledge, have them blame the powers on the dust making them hallucinate. Once the firefighters arrive and begin evacuating and putting out the fires after Ryan is dealt with, have them blame the hallucinations vanishing on the dissipating of the dust.

Or, have Reginald pose this to the Umbrella's and manipulate them into believing his story rather than their own eyes.

To prevent the universally disliked "it was all a dream" trope have Ryan's existence as a member of the 43 be confirmed to the reader through another POV, such as a third party, Reginald, Pogo or Grace.

Other/Minor Continuity Errors

The siblings consistently refer to Reginald as "Hargreeves" when in the show they almost always call him "Dad"

Diego says he painted his room black because he likes the colour black, but in the show his room is white/greenish with blue and brown wooden accents

Diego also says he hates the Umbrella Academy uniform and that he thinks it's too "cute" and that they should wear black uniforms instead... but in the show, the uniform changed styles between 2002 and 2006 to be a black spandex/leather thing

and Luther continues to wear a version of this outfit into his young adulthood

Since this book is set in 2006, the year that Ben dies, that doesn't give the Umbrella's much time to change (and for this to be one of the outfits that Allison remembers well enough to recall with Claire).

Ben is also a strange case in this book as his powers are more readily described, yet his powerset/style is more consistent with Sparrow Ben or with the new trailer than the actual Umbrella Ben.

The first issue is that Umbrella Ben's powers are only seen 2 - 3 times, but he uses them in a specific way each time:

he lifts/opens his shirt

the horror only comes out through his stomach

he seems to have little or no control over the tentacles themselves

he seems to be in pain or to be struggling each time

he doesn't seem able to move once he summons the tentacles

so it seems that this is the most effective way that Ben is able to use his powers,

however, Sparrow Ben's powers are a lot more controlled:

he is able to control indivdual tentacles with finesse

he doesn't need to lift his shirt but instead summons the portal over the top of his clothes

is not in visible pain or discomfort while summoning them

he is not stuck to one position while using his powers but instead uses them to traverse his environment

and in the s4 trailer his powers seem to have changed even more:

his tentacles are now emerging from his back, not his stomach

he is fully suspended in the air, his weight only supported by the tentacles

now, the Ben in this book has:

tentacles that emerge from his back

is suspended mid air by said tentacles at least twice

has the finesse to use his tentacles to pull a fighting Luther and Diego apart with injuring them.

He also rips his shirt everytime he summons the tentacles and has openings sewn into his uniform by mom to allow them to exit.

obviously this is a strange merging of all three Bens so far which ends in the continuity issue of Umbrella Ben's powers being more refined in this book, set months or weeks before his death, than they ever were while he was that bit older, and dead.

The book also makes a big deal about them not being able to wear anything other than the uniform, but Allison has a lot of clothes in her room as a kid and is seen wearing casual clothes in multiple magazines and posters

aside from Five, it's implied that all the others have casual clothes and are allowed to wear what they want during their free time.

Other Gripes

these aren't particularly big issues but they are choices that I don't personally agree with. If you enjoy/ed these choices then fair play.

I'm not personally fond of the use of the name Viktor and he/him pronouns in a prequel setting, as I'd prefer realism rather than pretending he's always been Viktor. plus I feel like we all know that he's Viktor. But he doesn't yet, and neither does anyone else. So to have Viktor consider why he dislikes the name "Viktor" and wants to change it is a little strange and not very well articulated when the name they're talking about is "Vanya".

I respect that Elliott Page prefers this attitude towards his identity pre-transition but in the context of fiction, and of Viktor specifically, I find it a little unneccesary and overly complicated.

Ben also "dies" temporarily on this mission and the medical inaccuracy continues to bug me.

s1 was so good at showing that they're still human and prone to injury. Diego ends up in a sling because of a bullet nick and Five is caught in an explosion he set off. But in the book Ben falls maybe 4 stories and is unresponsive, so Allison begins CPR without checking for a pulse or breathing. Ben is resuscitated almost immediately and has almost no complications from literally being dead after falling from that height.

It's not only completely disregarding the themes season 1 set, but also a really quite tacky fake-out.

The kids also drive to the party but forget the car and walk back in less time than it took to drive, and without shoes in Allison's case.

Grace is treated as though she is non-sentient. after all of the work and love and care that season 1 poured into showing that Grace did develop sentience, and the ability to love, to see her treated by every member of the academy (Diego isn't innocent either, though he is the nicest) as a machine is saddening.

in s1 she is trapped behind programming and unable to voice her opinions because of that. not because she wasn't sentient. her sentience and love for her children does peek through until she is eventually set free by Diego and Pogo.

her hint to Luther and Allison that she dissapproved of Reginald

her expressing her feelings of longing and loneliness through the painting she imitates

and then her immediately escaping the house with Diego to get out from under Pogo's watch and to confess her part in Reginald's plan

she is so much more than a robot that doesn't understand jokes, movie references, glitches when asked a question she doesn't know the answer to, and throws away clothes that her kids might want.

Ryan himself felt very underdeveloped. We know his powers, and that he's a very good manipulater/public speaker. We also know that he likes Bach and beer, but not modern music. He's lonely and trying to surround himself with friends and those loyal to him by gifting everyone powers.

but all we know of his origins is that he's from a small town called Dobbsville just upstate from the Academy. He dislikes his "friends" from there as they treated him like the only one without powers, and has a bad enough relationship with his family/guardians that he ran away to the City and gifted enough people powers that they let him live in their college dorm (probably illegally and) for free.

We don't know his last name, his family situation, the reason he ran away from home and towards the Academy when he feels fightened and threatened by them. etc etc.

He feels so open and undefined... it's so strange.

Good Things

because I did actually enjoy this book and maybe let's end on some compliments instead

Diego discovered his powers aged 2 & a half by throwing a knife and perfectly shattering a glass - and Reginald being pleased about it

Reginald told Viktor when he was 12 to take a pill anytime he felt uncomfortable - explaining why Viktor takes his pills after emotional upset rather than at a specific time in s1

The scene where they got dressed for the party was fun, I loved the rationale for their outfits and that Allison and Luther were dressed according to the old movies they'd watched rather than anything people would usually wear to parties.

Reginald manipulating them into going to the party just to neutralise Ryan. despite the continuity errors I loved that Reginald knew all along. I was about to be disappointed that they'd gone the route of making him oblivious but I loved this twist.

The Academy becoming unpopular due to Five's disappearance - he seems to be thought of as dead by the public which made them realise that they're not a "cute" organisation and then the support waned considerably until there's barelyanyone left who cares.

[thevindicativevordan]

Thoughts on the new announcements on absolute comics

Anonymous asked: Hello! How are you feeling? What do you think of the new creative teams DC announced for October?

Anonymous asked: So ! What are your thoughts on the All In initiative and the new creative teams for the existing books like Action ?

txtmasterblast asked: On a scale of 0 to 10, how much are you looking forward to the upcoming Absolute Universe line?

Thought I'd save this for SDCC since there are still some rumored books that are yet to be confirmed, but I can save my thoughts for when those are officially announced. Short version is that this is extremely exciting.

Dawn of DC was DC playing it safe, and they botched the initiative because of how they spammed low quality events like Knight Terrors. Now they're stepping up to the plate and trying to tap into the energy created by Marvel's Ultimate Universe and the Energon Universe. They're trying to take a big swing and hit a home run. After multiple attempts by Didio to create something like this, it's downright ironic that Snyder finally is the one to do it given the two of them clashed at the end of their tenures. Once again Snyder seems to be trying to infuse the DCU with the essence of Metal, and at least this version appears to revolve less around Batman. I won't lie, hearing Snyder name drop Doomsday Clock and talk about "Darkseid Energy" in the promo video made me cringe.

The success of Hickman's Ultimate Universe and the Energon Universe came because they broke free of the usual shared universe comic nonsense. The Maker is an evil Reed Richards who eliminated all the heroes who couldn't be turned in order to build his perfect world. Energon was a reboot with no prior knowledge required. Simple! If the Absolute Universe requires me to know about the "Metaverse", throw it the trash because it's doomed. If the first issues of these books are not able to be read standalone with zero prior knowledge required, it's going to fail. The All-In one shot should tell us why this universe exists, what the pitch is, but it needs to be free from the kind of esoteric meta commentary which has poisoned DC for the last decade or so. Darkseid meddles with an Earth in order to understand his foes better is an easy concept to grasp. Don't make it any more complicated than that.

Absolute Batman by Scott Snyder & Nick Dragotta - Least exciting of the bunch. Unless Snyder is going to radically change up his writing style, we know how his Bruce sounds. Even without the wealth Batman usually has, I expect this will feel very familiar. Since I've dropped all the other Bat books however, I plan on getting this and two others for my Bat fix. Snyder has teased that Scarecrow and Bane are the two Bat villains he wished he could've done more with during his first run. Scarecrow is my favorite Batman villain and the thugs in the ashcan look like thugs of his to me. I think this Batman will be juicing himself with Venom, explains why he's huge, which is a much better justification for why Bane seeks this Batman out than anything they've come up with elsewhere. That logo sucks but I assume it's because this Batman has to make use with whatever he can scavenge, maybe that is a literal bulletproof plate to guard his chest which he shaped to look like a Bat as best as he could.

Absolute Wonder Woman by Kelly Thompson & Hayden Sherman - Thompson was a fan of the Azz/Chiang New 52 Wondy up until the reveal about the Amazons being rapists. Between the reuse of the silver/red color combo for this Wondy's armor, and how she doesn't have access to Paradise Island or other Amazons, I'm getting very similar vibes. I was a fan of Azz's run even though I acknowledge he "broke" her in several ways, I'm up for a second stab at a Wondy like that with Thompson. Tattoos show Hecate's symbol from Historia, perhaps this Wondy got her powers from Hecate only? My theory is Hippolyta went with her Bana sisters to war, and was never Queen of Themyscira. When she had Diana then, it was in Man's World. If this is dark urban fantasy Wondy, that would make for a good contrast with King's current political thriller run.

Absolute Superman by Jason Aaron & Rafa Sandoval - Bizarro arc was great, Sandoval is one of the best artists in DC's roster, I'm all in (hehe). No Fortress is a shame but since Bats and Wondy don't have their bases either I accept it. No family and no home is particularly intriguing. Seen a lot of speculation about what that entails, from this Superman being raised in an orphanage like the Action #1 origin, to Kal being sent from Krypton when he was old enough to remember it. If it's the latter then Absolute Kara will likely be dead, since she would overlap too much with this Superman. I love the design, grey suit with Morrison's first All-Star shield that Quietly only drew for one panel is a peak look. Hairstyle reminds me of Corenswet's "Clark" hair only longer, also reminds me of Anakin/Luke Skywalker which might be exactly the intention. His "cape" appears to be made of solar energy, perhaps this Superman has trouble controlling his powers? His solar battery biology might work differently here, with him "leaking". Or perhaps he even has a different powerset entirely? Seems like he can channel power into his arms/fists, if we get heat/ice fists instead of vision/breath, that would be the kind of silliness I love. Don't think this Superman will be paired with Lois, which frankly is a good thing. All the other major Superman projects focus on the Clois romance, for this to stand out I believe Absolute Superman needs to be dating other people. Since he seems to be a drifter, Aaron might eventually have him travel to other planets, where we could get Maxima or someone entirely new.

Other books have leaked and are probably right considering Bleeding Cool accurately called the Trinity, but I'll wait until they get revealed officially - likely at SDCC - before giving my thoughts.

For the mainline universe:

Justice League - Superman is apparently building a new JL that will be going after Darkseid and reshaping the cosmic hierarchy of the DCU. If DC had any brains left in their collective heads they would give this book to PKJ, but he's denied being on JL. Ram V still has a book to announce, maybe it's him? I would've said Waid but without Mora I don't think he'd take the job. Aaron is a possibility albeit not one I'd want. Seen some people say Lemire, and he did write the JL crossover with his Black Hammer verse. Please let it not be Taylor.

Superman - Mora joining the book took me by surprise, that is sure to have generated major fuming from certain corners. Doomsday arc is going to be a joy to look at

Action Comics - Waid and Henry are finally announced. Action going weekly was unexpected however. Only question I have is, does this mean Waid is staying on past that one arc? Not clear but since he will have more issues that the previous three Superstars I would assume so. Bitter as I am over PKJ getting kicked off before he could tell the Aethyr story he was building up to, Waid bringing in Morrison's Phantom King does make me happy.

Detective Comics - Taylor taking over made me breathe a sigh of relief. For now he remains quarantined to the Batbooks and Elseworlds.

Nightwing - Watters and Soy are going to finally give us the epic run Nightwing deserves. Watters deserves to be a "big writer" and with any luck this will be what elevates him to that level.

Batman & Robin - Damnit PKJ, you really going to make me read a mainline Bat book? Fine but you better continue the Olgrun plotline through this somehow. In all seriousness with Zdarsky and Taylor being on the other books I expect this will be the best mainline Batman book on the stands. Every previous time PKJ has written Batman has been enjoyable, and I trust him of all writers to do something different with Batman. Let this be the book that gets the general DC audience to take notice of how good he's been elsewhere.

Titans - Nah.

Green Arrow - Wish Montos luck, he deserves to be one of DC's A-List artists, but not interested in Green Arrow.

Exciting shake-ups are on the way, going to have to start trimming my pull again. Anything that doesn't wow me is getting dropped because I need the cash for all those Absolute books, which appear to be stacked creatively.

[stuffnonsenseandotherthings]

Love in the Big City Part 3 - Notes from a Reader (2)

Note 2: Enter Kylie

In part 3 of Love in the Big City Young finally introduces us to a character who, up until this point, we weren't aware had been present since the very first sentence: Kylie.

Kylie has been with Young since his military service, Kylie was with Young throughout his university years with Jae Hee, throughout his mothers 2 bouts of illness, throughout his relationship with Hyung, for five full years of his life.

And yet it is only now, in Part 3, that Young speaks her name.

And my question is why now?

Note 2.25: Perceptions of HIV in Korean Society

I touched briefly on the stigma and misinformation surrounding HIV in Korean society in this post here but I cannot stress enough how deep rooted those beliefs are:

"According to the 2015 national survey conducted by the Korea Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (KCDC) regarding HIV/AIDS-related knowledge, attitudes, and beliefs, the words most frequently associated with AIDS include “incurable disease” and “death” (25.3%), followed by “fear,” “horror,” and “danger” (11.5%)."

("Factors Influencing Young Korean Men’s Knowledge and Stigmatizing Attitudes about HIV Infection", Shim and Kim)

People living with HIV in Korean society face being tested for HIV without their consent (most Korean companies require their employees undergo annual health screenings), their medical information being shared without their knowledge (the illegality of the data breach is not always a barrier), medical professionals refusing to perform procedures, losing their jobs or being denied job opportunities, and being cut off from their family and friends should they choose to disclose their diagnosis due to poor understanding of what HIV is and how it is transmitted.

In addition to the social stigma, it's also important to understand that many people living with HIV in Korea struggle with poor self-perception and internalised stigma. A study conducted in 2017 found that:

"75% of all respondents felt self-blame due to their HIV status at least once in the past 12 months. 64.4% stated having feelings of guilt, and 59.6% reported having low self-esteem. 26.9 % also agreed with the statement “I had the feeling I should be punished”. [...] Only 13.5% stated that they experienced no negative feelings in connection with their HIV status in the past 12 months."

("Unknown Lives: Initial Findings from the People Living with HIV Stigma Index in South Korea 2016-2017")

Surrounded by so much stigma and misinformation as they are, it is unsurprising that disclosure rates amongst Koreans are lower than in many other countries ("Predictors Associated With HIV Status Non-Disclosure in Korea", Kim and Woo) and that many chose not to share their diagnosis with any one but especially those closest to them (and especially ).

Note 2.5: Young and Kylie

Young's experience with Kylie closely maps on to the experiences of Korean PLHIV (People Living with HIV) discussed above.

Firstly, he is diagnosed with Kylie after being tested for it without his consent (p. 135) and lives with the fear of a repeat scenario, especially in relation to how such an infringement on his person would affect his ability to get a job (pp. 163-164 and again p. 176). In addition to this, he is exposed first hand (and quite possibly partook in prior to his own diagnosis) the social stigma that accompanies a known HIV diagnosis:

"When I drank with them, some guy rumoured to be poz passed by, our resident clown Eun-Jung would say, 'Everyone cover your glasses,' and we'd all burst out laughing." (p. 157)

(On a side note, in a study I can frustratingly no longer find it was observed that HIV stigma was not much lower amongst the queer community in Korea than it was in any other cross section of society and this passage feels like a nod to how the lack of easily accessible information and long held misinformation has effectively barred queer Koreans with HIV from finding support amongst their own community.)

Finally, as blasé and as care-free as Young tries to sound about his diagnosis, there are definitely signs that he, like so many others, suffers with feelings of guilt, self-blame, and the belief that "[he] should be punished". Kylie is the reason he expects Gyu-Ho to walk away from him as soon as he discloses his diagnosis, Kylie is the reason he tells Gyu-Ho to sleep around in Japan and subsequently accepts things when he believes Gyu-Ho is continuing to do so once back in Korea, "Kylie is [his] burden to bare and [his] alone" (p. 166) even when Gyu-Ho is the one who willingly "potion[s] out [his] pills and water every morning" (p. 178) and obviously has no qualms about helping Young manage his illness.

Kylie is the reason Young lets Gyu-Ho go:

"Kylie.

I had wanted too much. I'd already been given so much in the past three years. When you try to have too much, you're bound to stumble at some point." (p. 176).

Note 2.75: Why Now?

Young's experience with Kylie is the mirror of many Korean PLHIV and this includes his reluctance to disclose his diagnosis to anyone. He doesn't tell his mother, he doesn't tell Hyung, he doesn't tell the T-aras, and he doesn't tell Jae Hee.

It's only natural that he wouldn't tell us, the reader, either.

It's none of our business.

This is his most closely guarded secret, his most vulnerable point, the spectre that looms over his life and threatens to take everything away if he puts a foot wrong or lets slip to the wrong person.

The only person in the story he shares Kylie's existence with (beyond his doctors) is Gyu-Ho and it is because Gyu-Ho knew and stayed and embraced him that we know.

So why now?

Because up until Gyu-Ho, Young probably didn't feel able to talk about Kylie to anyone, in anyway. Gyu-Ho's acceptance of his diagnosis and his refusal to let it scare him away changed that; it created a space in which Kylie could be talked about, not without fear (certainly not) but with the knowledge that he wouldn't be abandoned or judged or rejected, that he would be sympathised with and loved and supported.

"Because whatever it was or wasn't, you were you."

[onomatopagu-et-cie]

Some other theories and observations, part 2

First impressions after re-reading DGM Some theories and observations, part 3 Notes on Link, part 1 & part 2

Have a nice week!! The end of summer is right around the corner and it’s still melting me…

(SPOILERS UP TO CH248!!!!)

▶ Bookmen’s « lineage »

Why was Lavi given 49 aliases/names when Bookman has none (at least, none that we know so far)? Does the name mark the apprenticeship? How does this even work? We know there are many Bookmen or sympathizers (just like Neah, actually) in DGM’s universe and they help each other when it’s needed, but we know so little about them!

Out of all the groups in the story, be it families or clans, the Bookmen are the only ones that the story specifically qualifies as a blood relationship, unlike the others. At the beginning of volume 13, Road uses ‘chisuji/血筋’ (lineage, blood relationship, descent ; the kanji for blood, 血, is a component of the word) to define the Bookmen:

The rest of the cast is defined with a clanic/familial notion that doesn’t specifically require a blood relationship:

➔ The Noahs are defined with ‘ichizoku’/一族 (family, relatives, household: ‘zoku’/族 is the kanji for tribe, clan, band, family). ➔ The Luberrier are also described by Lavi in the manga with 一族, but also with ‘ke’/家 (house, family), just like the Chang (I couldn’t find it for the Epstein, but it might also be ‘ke’), and ‘kazoku’/家族 (family, and as ichizoku, 族 is one of its components). ➔ When Luberrier qualifies Hevlaska’s crime against her own family/tribe (it’s highly probable she is a Luberrier herself), he uses ‘douzoku’/同族 and ‘ichizoku’.

The Bookmen stand out with this sole occurrence. I wonder what this really means, because the Bookmen were introduced as a group definitely not related by blood, formed through apprenticeship. And if I’m not mistaken, Hoshino even hinted at the importance of the Bookmen ties in one of her recent ig posts… ? It might even have a connexion to Lavi’s concealed eye, who knows!

▶ « Lavi »

In ch119, Lavi and Bookman have been associated with wheat or barley, overly present in the Campbell mansion landscape.

If Hoshino really pushes the wordplay between multiple languages, « spring » also refers to the coil or screw/helical shape in english, which is interesting since the recent chapters focus on the helix magic explained by……. Past!Allen!

(Lavi could also be a reference to 'la vie' which means 'the life' in French /jk idek at this point haha)

▶ past!Allen

(I’m thinking about that ‘past!Allen was a Bookman’ theory again haha)

Somehow after transplanting Neah’s memories in him, past!Allen became in the former’s eyes « a crazy puppet », as he said in volume 21. past!Allen was someone whose affiliation to the Innocence was beyond imaginable to Neah: once Neah learns his present self wishes to be an exorcist he deems him as his enemy. This is very poor reasoning, but the only characters revealed to have ‘sided’ with the Noah in the manga are Bookmen until the present war broke out or some time before. We also know Bookman lost one (or more) successor(s) before Lavi thanks to Sheril’s threats (« you don’t want to lose another successor again, right? »).

And the « again » is accentuated in the original version (the panels on the left):

When Tyki reports to Sheril what happened and Bookman overhears it, it’s as though he had prior knowledge from an unidentified source of what would trigger the history they were meant to record as Bookmen (the panels on the upper right). « An Innocence called Apocryphos… The departure of Allen Walker… » sounds as though he’s listing off ‘early signs’ finally announcing an important event is about to occur.

Could it be that someone/something had foreseen this? Or had already experienced this before them in another timeline or world? In addition to the ‘other world’ the Noah once lived in according to Cross, dream!Bookman insisting on the fact Bookmen live outside of the world (in ch119, the last panel on the bottom right), Allen and Lenalee’s dreams and the constant imagery of the world being nothing but a stage actors play on, it’s tempting to think there’s a timeline distortion/alternate universe or whatever plot line going on in this story.

It’s also interesting to note that for an unknown reason, Wisely interrupted Bookman’s questioning and refused to reveal whatever he read in his mind (eg. Road’s relationship to Neah), as Tyki reveals it in ch225:

▶ « Howard Link »

Compared to the third generation exorcists, who began as Crows just like Link, why is Link the only Crow to have a last name? If I’m not mistaken, Hoshino doesn’t use the Japanese naming order (family then given name) eg. Allen Walker, Cross Marian. So Link’s first name would be Howard.

In Link’s flashback in volume 21, Tewaku called him « Lin-niisama » (could this hold some significance in the manga later on?):

Was his first name Lin? I don’t believe Tewaku would call him by his last name as a child. If it’s the case, why would they swap his first and last name later? Or were the Crows ordered to call each other by their last names, since the flashback seems to happen when they became Crows? Is Link’s first name important somehow?

Before becoming a Crow, was his name Lin, not Link? Or was it just an affectionate nickname given by Tewaku? Where did Howard come from?

Or did they have no name at all or no name they could remember, like Red?

I was always under the impression that Link was his first name for some reason, I was a little silly haha

Aside from Tewaku, the only moment the third generations interacted with Link was when Goushi accidentally hurt Allen. Unlike Link, who calls them by their name, Goushi here mentions Link by his full name and title in quotation marks: « Inspector Howard Link ».

I don’t really know what to make of it. The formality would be pretty normal as their functions as Crows call for it, but it still seems weird to me as the 3rd generations call each other by their name.

Perhaps some distance gradually came to form between Link and them (eg. their training as Crows that seems really harsh and impersonal, or the influence of the Akuma cells)? (It also could be that Goushi was visually impaired, and recognized Link by his voice!)

Also when Tewaku cries for help, she asks for Madarao, Tokusa, Goushi and Kiredori but not Link.

▶ Artificial Exorcists Arc parallels

The artificial exorcists were, in retrospect, pseudo-Noahs created by the hands of humanity: they were given great regenerative abilities and a predestined role, to become exorcists in this war. The Order forced on them previous existences from which they would gain the ability to synchronize. But the memories of their previous lives threatened to overwhelm them, affecting their mind and senses, the Order would then deem them as ‘failures’. With the third generation, they intended to perpetuate these abilities for generations but Alma’s hatred was too deeply rooted.

There are also visual parallels between Kanda, Alma, Mana and Red/Neah:

Allen’s current situation also parallels Kanda’s past anguish with unknown memories flooding his head and the fact that both Alma and Mana were alive was hidden to them.

▶ Influence exerted through hands (TW: child abuse and domestic violence)

(Now I’m expecting a flashback from Link’s pov of the operation to instill Crow’s ability to cast magic with this kind of hand imagery, it would be interesting)

The hand is also accentuated in two other pages when Apocryphos attempts to merge with Allen:

There were also these panels in volume 27 (my stomach churned when I searched them again for this post)… The last two panels fill me with pure disgust, I turned these pages really fast because that was too much.

Hands can convey many messages and symbols like that in the way they’re framed, the ones above are drawn by Hoshino in a way that inspires horror and abuse.

In DGM, sometimes they’re a symbol of connection (eg. Allen and Suman, Johnny and Allen), sometimes a symbol of influence, control and violence.

Violence was also represented in other ways:

-> In Lenalee's past:

When Lenalee remembers her past, the Order and the Crow’s uniform is a symbol of her suffering: the personnel’s faces are obscured, contrasting with their outfits.

It’s the same when she remembers the experiments that forced victims into Fallen Ones. Their hand grasping the boy as well as the boy’s waving her are also highlighted. The profusion of the scientists and executives’s comments and orders, represented by bubbles gradually taking all the place, desensitized and disconnected to the cruelty of the experiments we see depicted behind it.

Luberrier’s figure in the page on the right is the only face with distinctive features she remembers, concentrating her fears.

(And ironically, Lenalee’s Dark Boots feel very heavy and could be a symbol of all her fears and hatred shackling her: they empower her but at the same time weigh her down emotionally. Her scene with the head nurse giving her her boots destroyed me ;;;;;;;;;;;;;)

In the Destruction of the Black Order arc, the ghost even forgot her name, but the memory of the experiments along with (supposedly) a Luberrier dragging her by force remain.

Luberrier and Link’s introduction in the manga also represent them with their teeth highlighted:

-> The experiments on Kanda and Alma were often visually associated to the Innocence and the Crow’s silhouettes. When Kanda and Alma are chased by Crows, the focus is on their hands: they emerge from the dark to cast binding spells. Just like Lenalee remembers Luberrier, Kanda remembers the horror of the experiment with Sirlins Epstein baring menacing teeth.

-> The cage which is also mentioned in the Lost Fragment of Snow novel:

I said it in a previous post, but the manga My Hero Academia also does it and it’s gutting. Hands are represented as vectors of both violence and sympathy/love.

(SPOILERS FOR THE WHOLE MHA SERIES!!!!!)

Three character arcs illustrate this poignantly: Eri and Overhaul, Tomura and All For One (he literally embodies this image as it’s part of his character design and powers), and the Todoroki family and Endeavor.

[grizzersmamma]

The Butterfly Effect | Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader | Chapter 1

“One moment your relationship with Simon is perfect. The next, it’s gone. A single mistake is all it takes for you to return to an empty home and a world where Simon Riley is marked as deceased and only the infamous Ghost remains. Will you be able to rekindle the love that once existed in a world long gone, or will you succumb to the pain of losing your other half?”

Overview: CoD x Primeval Crossover. Reader is a member of ARC - the Anomaly Research Center - a group responsible for investigating temporal anomalies that open up all over the UK. Lovers to Strangers to Friends to Lovers. 

A/N: No prior knowledge of Primeval is required, I should be able to explain it well enough as we go along. 

Warnings: Fluff with angst at the end. Minor injuries.

Ghosts & Monsters: Masterlist

Next Chapter

You’re roused from your deep sleep by the sound of an alarm blaring from your phone on the bedside table. The room is lit up by the screen as the phone violently vibrates to try and get your attention. Blindly reaching out with a hand, you slap at the screen, hoping to silence it without actually lifting your head from where it’s comfortably buried into your partner’s chest.  

Luckily, you’re successful in your goal and able to melt back into the embrace of the warm body under you. A displeased grumble comes from Simon, who curls his arms a little tighter around you, nosing his face into your hair. It’s only his second day back home after a lengthy deployment and you had been hoping to enjoy his presence uninterrupted for a few more days. But it seems that the universe has other ideas, choosing the middle of the night to disturb your rest.  

“Need to get up,” you mumble into his chest, making no real effort to move.  

A grunt is all you get in return, neither of you prepared to be the first to release their embrace. It’s comfortable being wrapped up in the strong muscles of Simon’s arms, his familiar scent luring you further from wakefulness and back toward the abyss of sleep. Going for so long with only a cold, empty bed had almost made you forget just how tempting it is to spend all day snuggled up against your favourite soldier, showering him in gentle affirmations and affectionate kisses.  

Your phone buzzes again, the sound of an incoming text. It’s enough to pull your focus back to the present and the need to somehow untangle your limbs from Simon’s.  

He’s far from co-operative, for every arm or leg you’re able to detach from yourself another quickly takes its place, keeping you firmly trapped. You wish you could just concede defeat and call in sick for the day, but your job is the kind where anything short of an actual crisis wouldn’t be accepted as a valid excuse. It’s for a good reason, however – the lives of both your co-workers and the public could be very easily compromised should you decide to slack off – as much as you would love to ignore the midnight summons.  

“Simon,” you coo, placing a tiny peck against the tip of his nose, “I need to get up, there’s been an alert.”  

His eyes crack open, squinting a little thanks to the disgruntled expression he’s wearing. It takes another kiss, this time to the side of his face, for him to finally relinquish his hold on you. Albeit with a sigh, acting as though the very action has caused him unspeakable pain.  

“You don’t need to get up, I’ll probably only be a couple of hours,” you assure him, running one of your hands through his blond hair, “then, you’ll have me all to yourself again.” He seems to accept this compromise with a nod, allowing you to clamber your way off your shared bed. The first thing you do is check the location of the alert on your phone, noting that it’s only a short drive away from the apartment.  

You don’t have time for a shower, but thankfully you’d had one before heading to bed earlier in the evening. Grabbing a set of work clothes, you head into the ensuite attached to your bedroom to change, not wanting to disturb Simon any further by switching on the lights. You know he hasn’t had much sleep lately, so you want to give him as much opportunity to recuperate as you can.  

With your clothes changed, you exit the bathroom again, only to find that your boyfriend has vanished from the room entirely. You don’t have time to question it, instead snatching up your phone and jogging down the short hallway toward the small living room and kitchen.  

The sound of the electric kettle can be heard as it bubbles away. A single light illuminates Simon as he silently moves about the space, grabbing some tea from the cupboard. At first, you assume he’s making it for himself since he has been known to stay awake and wait for you to return, but before you can try to tell him to go back to bed again, he pours the hot water into your travel mug.  

By the time you’ve finished lacing up your boots Simon has walked over to your side. “Here you go, love,” he says, holding out the tea in offering, his voice much thicker due to sleep. It’s a sweet gesture, almost enough to distract you from the slight lingering guilt from waking him up at such an ungodly hour.  

“Thank you,” you smile, hoping it’s enough to convey just how much you appreciate not just the tea, but him too. It’s taken a long time for this relationship to get to where it is. An immense amount of work was required from both sides, especially with how deep Simon’s insecurities and trust issues ran. It likely helped that both of your jobs are so secretive – there was an immediate understanding between the two of you that some things just couldn’t be talked about and that was okay – you never pushed one another too far, content to live in the unknown for as long as it took for the other to finally feel comfortable sharing.  

You’d been introduced to him as ‘Ghost’, the terrifyingly competent special forces lieutenant who seemed to just emit an aura of danger. But now, here you were, looking up at his face, hair mussed by sleep and expression completely unguarded.  

Accepting the drink from him you stand up from the chair you’d perched on to fit your shoes and softly pull his face toward you with a gentle hand to the back of his head. Placing a kiss against his cheek, you allow your lips to linger on the tiny prickles of stubble growing there. “I’ll be back soon,” you say once again, seeing the briefest flicker of uncertainty in his deep brown eyes. It’s difficult to catch, but you’ve had a lot of practice using his eyes to determine what kind of thoughts are swirling around behind them.  

“I know,” Simon nods, “just make sure you come back in one piece, yeah?” Danger comes with your line of work no matter how cautious you try to be and both of you know it. But it fills you with a sense of purpose unlike anything else and, much the same way Simon can’t just abandon his job, you could never bring yourself to quit yours.  

“Always,” you promise, for all the good it would do.  

Although reluctant, the two of you manage to part from one another. You grab the backpack containing all your equipment and swing it over your shoulder, bringing up the location of the alert on your phone screen. A couple of brief “love you’s” are exchanged between you and Simon before you’re out the door and on your way.  

You find yourself a good half hour’s drive away from the bustling city of London, pulling up outside a rather unassuming warehouse. It’s fortunate that the alert came from somewhere with ample space, since it lowered the chances of a civilian stumbling across your work by accident. There are already several other cars pulled up outside the warehouse, soldiers milling about to secure the area and unload equipment from the vehicles.  

When you step out from your car you are immediately met by Captain Becker.  

You’ve known the captain for several years now, ever since he was moved from running special ops missions with the military to heading up the security division of the ARC. He runs a tight ship, doing everything in his power to ensure that you and the team are kept as safe as humanly possible. Many would go as far as to say he’s emotionless, but much like your Simon, he just expresses his compassion for others in more subtle ways.  

Becker works hard to protect everyone on the team, not just because it’s his job, but because he cares so deeply about everyone. He takes each loss personally, blaming himself whenever a member of the team is injured or worse.  

It doesn’t take long for the area to be swept and you’re allowed to enter the warehouse. The walls and floors are decrepit, with rotten wood, falling apart in places and covered in some sort of dark mold. It stinks, but it’s certainly not the worst thing you’ve come across.  

Seeing a temporal anomaly will never get old, no matter how many times you come across one. A bright, circular light, hovering just above the ground with beautiful shards of glass-like specks floating around it. The transparent shards drift in circles, orbiting the warm, orange light at the anomaly’s centre like moons around a planet. Like an explosion frozen in time, it has a distinct otherworldly aura about it that draws you in and makes you want to reach out and touch it.  

Unfortunately, messing around with a crack in the very fabric of time and space is not the best idea, as much as your little magpie brain wants to touch the bright shiny thing.  

One of the laboratory technicians begins to set up the anomaly locking device while you assist them in taking readings from this particular anomaly. It’s not your specialty – you’ve got degrees in animal behaviour and veterinary technology, not physics – but thankfully most of the equipment is easy enough to use with some simple instructions.  

Things are running smoothly, and you’re relieved that soon enough the anomaly will be contained and you’ll be able to crawl back into bed with Simon. But, of course, that means the universe decides to throw a spanner in the works.  

Something behind you hisses, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. A large reptile is perched on one of the large wooden beams overhead, gnashing its teeth at the humans gathered below. It appears to be a raptor of some kind, but you don’t have the chance to identify it any further before it launches from the roof.  

It lands far too close to you for comfort, shrieking and flaring up its feathers. The soldiers around it have their weapons raised, and it seems to be enough to startle it, for it makes a dive toward the anomaly. Unfortunately, you stand directly in its path to freedom. You twist around to try and get out of the way, but the animal is moving too quickly and it slams directly into you, sending you both toppling through the anomaly.  

It’s blindingly bright for several second, before your body hits hard stone. You roll several times before coming to a stop, jagged rocks stabbing into your arms and legs as you try to get back to your feet. It’s sunny where you’ve ended up, making it difficult for your eyes to adjust, but eventually you’re able to take in your surroundings.  

From the warehouse you now find yourself in the middle of the woods, covered in leaves from plants that have been extinct for millions of years. Normally, you would be ecstatic to be able to see and potentially explore the world in such an alien state, but you have much more pressing matters. Matters such as the teeth of a raptor currently a mere inch or two from your face.  

You spit out a panicked curse, throwing your body away from the animal as it tries to snap at your face. Both of you are disorientated after being thrown from the present and into the past, but you’re lucky enough to be the first back on your feet. There’s no way you’d be able to outrun it, but adrenaline is one powerful drug and you’re immediately breaking out into a full sprint.  

You can hear it behind you, feet slamming into the dirt and hissing, growing closer by the second.  

Your life is flashing before your eyes as you run, fearing that this is the end, the way you die. But suddenly, just as you feel the heat of the raptor’s breath caress the back of your neck, an explosion rings out.  

Startled, you miss your next step, slipping and going down like a stack of bricks. When you look back you expect to see sharp teeth as they go to clamp around your neck, but instead, you’re met with the retreating form of your pursuer. The raptor is fleeing into the forest, abandoning your defenceless body on the ground.  

Your chest is heaving, body still trying to catch up with what your eyes are seeing. You’re not dead. It was a close call, but somehow, somehow, you’re still kicking.  

A bush rustles and you’re about to try and leap to your feet again, only to see the familiar face of Captain Becker. “You alright?” he asks, jogging over to you and crouching down at your side, already looking you over for any potential injuries.  

Not an explosion then, a gunshot.  

A deep breath leaves you as you’re filled with relief. The soldier armed with his rifle is definitely a sight for sore eyes. “Still in one piece,” you assure him, accepting the hand he offers you to pull you to your feet.  

“Good,” Becker huffs, gently coaxing you back in the direction of the anomaly once he’s certain you can stand on your own two feet, “because I’m pretty sure Ghost wouldn’t appreciate me sending you back in anything less than perfect health.” He grumbles about it, but his underlying worry is clear in his tone. You certainly would not be the first person to go through an anomaly and never come back.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t mention our little expedition to him... or that the animals here aren’t exactly friendly,” you grin, moving a little faster now that you can see the vibrant glow of the anomaly that leads back home, “I think I give him a heart attack with some of the things that happen here.”

“You give me a heart attack with some of the things that happen here.”

You both reach the anomaly without further issue – hopefully the shot the captain fired was enough to scare the raptor away permanently – and you’re quickly ushered back through the light. It’s always an odd sensation to be transported from one place to somewhere completely different. The very air feels strange and moving from the light of midday into the dark of night is equally jarring.  

But you are back home, in the correct time and place, much to the relief of several of your co-workers who each give a cheer.  

The lab techs activate the anomaly locker, watching as the anomaly draws in on itself until it’s a condensed ball of shards, too solid for anything to move through. From now until the anomaly fades away again and closes completely, it will be safe to be around.

No more scaley visitors from the past.  

“We’ll have to write up a report on this incident, so I’m afraid we’re going to need to head back to the ARC,” Becker reminds you, “might be a few hours before we can head back home again.”  

You groan a tad dramatically, shoulders drooping at the thought of all the forms you will need to fill out because of tonight’s incursion. No doubt there will also be a mandatory meeting to discuss what went wrong and how to prevent it in the future.

Well, there goes your plan of crawling back into bed with Simon.  

“Sure, let me just text Ghost before we leave so he knows I won’t be home for a while,” you say, pulling your phone out of your pocket.  

“Ghost? Who’s that?” asks one of your teammates, Connor.  

At first, you think he’s just joking and go to laugh, but his expression is nothing but sincere and that puts you on edge. “What do you mean? You know Ghost.” There’s an uncomfortable weight that settles in your gut, anxiety building by the second.  

Connor knows Ghost just as well as any of your other teammates. You introduced Simon to them months ago, the first time Task Force 141 were asked to assist with containing a major creature incursion. Of course, you had only introduced him as Ghost, seeing as both of you were working at the time, but he isn’t exactly a person that’s easy to forget. Hell, your teams have even met for drinks more than once.  

“Pretty sure I don’t know any ghosts,” is all Conner is able to offer, a single eyebrow raised in your direction.  

You share a look with Becker, who seems to be just as confused. “Of course you know him, Connor. You told me he ‘looked like he was pulled right out of a horror game’ the first time you saw him,” Becker says, lips pulled into a deep frown.  

Fear is gripping at your throat as you select Simon’s contact on your phone, pressing it to your ear and praying with every fiber of your being that you’ll get an answer. But all you get is an automated voice emotionlessly informing you that the number doesn’t exist, as if it isn’t giving you life shattering news. The second and third attempt are met with the same response.  

“I-I need to go,” you choke out, turning and running.  

You hear your team calling for you to stop, but the panicked thundering of your heart is spurring you on and to your car.  

This can’t be happening.  

Surely, going through the anomaly can’t have changed the timeline that much... right?

The drive back to your apartment feels like it takes years, especially with the new surge of adrenaline pumping through your veins. The world feels like it’s closing in on you, your only focus being to get home and find Simon. Because he has to be there. There’s no way he could be gone. It’s impossible. Impossible.  

You keep that thought repeating in your mind as you park and rush up the stairs to your floor. You fumble to try and unlock the door, cursing at the keys when you struggle to get them into the lock.

When you finally get it open, you can’t be bothered closing the door behind you, stumbling into the living room. Entire pieces of furniture are missing, along with anything Simon had brought over to your apartment from his own. It feels startlingly empty, with only your own possessions on display, but you’re quick to push that aside, rushing down the hall and to your bedroom.  

You near enough throw the door open, eyes trying to seek out your partner.  

But the bed is empty. Only the covers on your side of the bed have been disturbed and there’s no sign of anyone else ever having been there.  

You’re all alone.  

[sleepingdeath-light]

the lab assistant ; 18+

kinktober day one

pairing ; julie langford x cis female!reader insert

fandom ; bioshock

masterlists ; fandom | kinktober | ao3

content ; oral sex (fem receiving), reciprocal oral, submissive!inexperienced!reader, dominant!teacher!julie, implied voice kink

minors and ageless blogs do not interact

Doctor Julie Langford, having been a university professor prior to her relocation to Rapture, is no stranger to taking on the role of an authority figure towards those in her life — be that for legitimate reasons (her senior role in the lab, her specialist knowledge in botany, etc.), or just because of sheer happenstance — but this was easily the most enjoyable ‘lesson’ she’d ever had the pleasure of giving.

‘Eyes on me. How can you expect to learn anything if you can’t even pay proper attention to your lesson?’

… even if her dear little lab assistant was being a rather difficult student at the moment.

—————————————

There’s something uniquely mortifying about having your bare pussy be inspected and expertly played with by your supervisor while she forces you to watch and learn from everything she does. There’s also something incredibly arousing about having the brilliant woman you’ve been pining for pleasure you on her immaculately kept work desk while keenly watching just about everything she does with the promise of being able to show off all you’ve learned by returning the favour after she’s had her fill. And those two emotions continued to battle within your hazy mind as you did your best to fight your embarrassment and be a good and eager student for your self-appointed teacher… no matter how hard it may be for you to push through the lingering fog of pleasure and actually focus on her actions.

Doctor Langford’s approach to your pleasure, and consequently to teaching you how to pleasure her, is extremely thorough. She takes her time exploring every millimetre of your quivering cunt from the very start of the bush to your drooling hole and she’s wholly unhurried in her journey to familiarise herself with the look, scent, texture, and eventually the flavour of you — even talking you through every movement she makes with a deceptively clinical tone that does far more to you than it should.

She starts with her fingertips. At first she’s just barely brushing them along the hair that lines the edges of your slit once and then twice and then a third time before she stops her gentle caresses. Then she takes to rolling a few stray strands between her thumb and forefinger as she quietly comments on their texture, pulling just enough to make you jump and make a new flustered sound that she loves but without anywhere near the force it would take to actually hurt you, before relinquishing her gentle grip and moving on.

The next part, she narrates to you in such a way that demands your immediate undivided attention, requires both of her hands so would you please do your best to keep your legs spread nice and wide for her?

‘Good girl,’

She uses her two thumbs to slowly pull your lower lips apart, and you can see her eyes widen as she sees and smells how wet you are for her despite how little she’s done. But her reaction is quite short lived as she’s quick to take in a steadying breath before tracing her index finger along the length of your pussy — watching intently, and insisting you do the same in a tone that leaves no room for argument, as your slick gathers on it as she traces the length of you from the hood of your clit to your dripping entrance. Julie allows herself to sink that one slender finger into your quivering entrance up to the first joint, commenting on how sensitive you are in a way that’s more directed at herself than you, before swiftly pulling out and redirecting her attention to your clit: carefully pulling back the hood with her other index finger before pausing and addressing you once again.

‘Let me know if this gets too overwhelming, okay?’

You hum in agreement and you see her nod in return before quickly removing her glasses and setting them aside on the desk — seemingly either trusting you to not knock them off or just assuming you won’t be moving enough to do that. Either way you don’t comment on it, just shuffling nervously in place and watching as she finally leans so close to you that you can feel her breath tickling against your cunt.

And then comes her tongue: dextrous, flexible, wet, and unexpectedly long as she licks one long, experimental stripe from your aching entrance to your swollen clit and lets out a throaty groan at your flavour (a sound that, naturally, goes straight to your core). After that she quickly turns her attention to your clit, using one of her hands to keep your lower lips spread as she uses the very tip of her tongue to tease your sensitive nub: spiralling from its centre to the edges of it, spelling out words in frustratingly perfect cursive, tracing out shapes and formulae that you distantly recognise as coming straight from the Arcadia research you’re meant to be doing right now, and rhen she goes back to her cursive and her spirals. A rhythm that has you soaking her chin and throat with her slick and doing everything you can to not buck up into her mouth and ride her talented tongue as you so desperately wished to.

But then she ever so carefully drags the barest edge of her front teeth over your clit and that wavering string of restraint finally snaps.

All at once your hands fly forward to grip at her hair and your thighs clamp down on either side of her head, holding her in place as you ground your hips against her. You can feel her chuckling against your cunt but she doesn’t stop her ministrations, only picking up the pace and expertly manoeuvering her free hand up between your trembling legs so that she can pay proper attention to your neglected hole — swiftly plunging two fingers into your aching pussy and thrusting them in and out of your tight entrance at the same speed her tongue is moving against you. It doesn’t take her long to find that spongy spot inside of you that has your toes curling and your vision spotting, and she’s even quicker to start abusing it as she pushes you closer and closer to climax: scissoring, crooking, and fucking you with her long digits until you’re seeing stars, screaming her name, and she’s soaked in your cum from her fluttering eyelashes down to her aching wrist.

Only then does she start to slow down, continuing to pleasure you through your orgasm and helping you come down with just enough sensation to prolong your high without overstimulating you to the point of tears and pain. Only then does she coax your twitching thighs apart and reach for a spare bit of fabric to wipe her hands and face clean of the mess you’ve made of her (or, rather, the mess that she can’t quite reach to lick clean herself). Only then does she lean back to catch her breath and fix her hair back into a bun, muttering quiet complaints to herself while she waits for you to catch your breath. Only then does she reach forward to firmly grasp your chin between her thumb and forefinger, making you meet her gaze as you come back to earth, a single question on her lips that sends another wave of eager heat straight to your centre.

‘Now, why don’t you show me what you’ve learned?’

—————————————

Though you may not have had that same cool confidence and experience-driven skill that your dear doctor seems to have in droves, you do your best to make up for it with your unbridled enthusiasm as you dive face first into her glistening cunt.

You spread her apart with with trembling fingers and groan at the overwhelming sight and smell of her slick. Head spinning with the knowledge that all of this is because of you, because of how much she enjoyed pleasuring and teaching you, and you’re overcome with the urge to gorge yourself on her juices until you forget the sound of your own name. So you move forward those final few millimetres to do exactly that.

You’re like a woman starved as you devour her, sloppily licking and sucking on her wet cunt and swallowing every bit of her essence that drooled out of her glistening hole. You don’t even care to try and silence yourself as you moan and groan and grunt and whimper against her core, clumsily fucking your tongue into her and awkwardly nudging your nose against her swollen clit as you whine around your praise and pleas — only dragged back down to earth again when she firmly grasps the back of your neck in one hand and sternly reminds you to ‘remember what I taught you’ before pulling your head back just enough for you to catch your breath and regain your bearings.

Then you’re diving straight back in to pleasure her, this time focusing more on her sensitive clit while trying desperately not to get so caught up in the taste of her that you lose your head again. Not quite as certain in yourself as the doctor, your movements are slow, simple, and unsteady — shaky circles, messy swirls, attempts at cursive words that you abandon half way as your nerves get the better of you, and the like — but with Julie’s encouragement and firm grasp on your neck you feel your confidence slowly start to grow the longer you’re between her thighs.

Those stilted drawings become beautiful spiralling patterns that steal the air from her lungs and that leave your tongue straining by the time you’ve moved on to the next thing. Those unintelligible shapes become more defined and distinct as you trace them onto her flushed and swollen flesh. Those shaky letters become full words and phrases that have her gasping out curses and digging her nails into the back of your neck until you’re bleeding. You praise her, worship her, tease her, claim her with your name and hers drawn over and over again onto her sensitive clit, and by the time you’ve grown confident enough to finally start fingering her your face is almost completely drenched in her slick.

And, god, you could stay down here forever if only she’d let you…

[eddiemunsonsmiddlefingers]

Long story short, the universe gave me a boot up the ass indicating I should probably finish my grad program. The problem is that I have to take three electives next term and the classes I could reasonably attend....mostly suck.

Option one: Political developments in a specific country. Fully online (hate online learning, but can't beat the schedule). Not terribly relevant to my research interests. A little confused why it has its on class to be honest.

Option two: US National Security. Perfect schedule. Generally relevant to my studies. Massive overlap with prior classes.

Option three: US Political Parties. Fully online. Not my sub field, but could be interesting. Might make talking about the upcoming election with me infuriating for my friends. (sorry)

Option four: Queer theory in Politics. Would have to lose four hours of work a week. Extremely relevant to personal interests. I like the professor, but performance anxiety has repeatedly fucked my grades in his classes (To be clear I still got As, but...his feedback has consistently been "this paper meets the requirements for an A, but I expected better from you specifically." Which...yeah So did I, hopefully future friendo. Trust me). I'm worried what would happen if I took this class alongside two others while also finishing a thesis and working two jobs. As interesting as it is, might be best to cut my losses and simply not?

Option five: Data in Politics. Not as bad a schedule. Very little personal interest. Professor has a yikes rating on RMP. HIGHLY valuable knowledge to put on my CV, however.

Another option is a 600 level social science statistics course offered by the sociology department, but I don't think I have much of a chance of getting in because I am neither a PhD student nor in their department.

I'm frustrated because there are also classes on comparative politics, social justice, democratic theory, civil liberties, and contemporary political protests that I would LOVE to take...but it simply isn't feasible for me to attend any of them because they are only offered on the days that my day job needs me most. I can't give up my income—that's the whole reason I thought I would have to drop out in the first place. So...here I am stuck choosing between lousy options once again.

:(

[sparrow-orion-writes]

[Final] Part 6: Every story has a happy ending if you end it in the right place.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five

This one shot is set in the Cardinal Sins universe. No prior reading or knowledge is required.

POV: First Person

Genres: Fantasy, adventure, romance.

Rating and warnings for the whole fic: 18 (violence, some mild gore once or twice, one detailed sex scene, and one not-so detailed sex scene). By clicking "Read More" you confirm you are at least 18 years of age, and willing to read the above topics.

Warnings for this part: some smut at the end there

--

I awoke the next morning – and I wish I could say we were wrapped in a loving embrace – with her half hanging out of the bed. I chuckled as I pulled her closer, watching her eyes open up to me, her skin tinted a faint darker blue in her blush. An odd sight, to see her flustered.

“Good morning,” I whispered, feeling the sight of her flutter warmth and anxiety all at once.

“Good morning,” she whispered back, and closed her eyes again “...just a few more minutes.” Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could have argued. It isn’t just her voice that has a power over me, it’s simply a feeling I imagine any man would feel with a woman, wanting to give her the world, or bear it for her if nothing else.

She wound her body – so much colder than any human woman – around my own, her face buried against my neck, her chest rising and falling tight against my side. “What happens when this trip is over?” I asked her, wondering aloud what plagued my mind.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, her breath tickling my neck in the way that made all my nerves dance “...I belong to the sea, I can’t ever be the one that settles down and has a family with you, if that’s what you want.”

I scoffed lightly “...Hardly have the time for a family with the hours I tend to work.” Not that I wanted a family. As if children don’t become adults like me whose fathers die young from overworking themselves, and mothers who die just a little bit older from stress. It seemed unfair.

“I won’t change, but you will, one day.”

“That’s okay, one day can come when it desires.”

She laughed quietly against me, and though I couldn’t see her face I knew she was rolling her eyes at me. “You’re a fool,” she muttered, with a shake of her head.

“I am,” I replied, knowing I had been hers the moment I saw her face. “I will stay, if you want me to stay.”

Fairweather leaned up, her sharp smile on her lips, making my heart stammer just at the sight. “I want you to stay,” she admitted to me “...I don’t think you should, though, forever is a long time to be at sea, and you’re only stalling the inevitable.”

I tried not to think too hard on her words, only shrugging as I brought my hand through her curls and brought her into a gentle, fleeting kiss. She smiled against my lips and I felt her breath grace my lungs. It was the most perfect moment of my life, her slow heartbeat against my own erratic one. I wished that peace I felt in that moment would last forever.

--

It continued this way. Every now and then I would even get back in the water with her – though I wasn’t a good swimmer and the water was freezing – I loved the way she was with the water. The way her magic worked on me, and the way I worked on her. There was something so much more natural about Fair when she was in the water, something predatory and exciting. I knew she wouldn’t hurt me, but the sheer force of her rippling through those waves still forced my heart to jump into my throat.

There was tenderness in the way I feared her. I imagine, though she wouldn’t admit it, there were things about me that scared her.

When the night would end she would drag me into her bed, and I would resist the urge to melt into my own mind when she whispered such sweet things in my ears. I’m a large man - not often made fragile, and had more than once been referred to as 'a bull in a china shop - but she made me feel fragile and that always enticed me. It’s why in the end, I fell in love with her.

I thought I was in love with her the moment I laid eyes on her, but desire is just a powerful thing – something that she knew more than most.

--

We dropped the patron off at Dover, and the men took refuge in a hostel of sorts for the night, happy to have their feet on land for a night. I entertained the thought of going home, but first I wanted the sanctuary of some actual alone time with Fair.

We sat on the deck, looking up at the stars. The two of us laid side by side as the world drifted by. “Are you sure?” She asked me, her eyes transfixed by the moon.

“Of...?”

“Staying with me, are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Certainly,” I scoffed slightly, shaking my head “...I’m not lying for your sake, if that’s what you think.”

“No, that’s not – it isn’t that, I just worry, I’m a compelling person, and you-” she cut herself off with a frown “...you are easily susceptible to that compulsion.” I looked to her, studying her profile in the dark, before I turned on my side. She averted her eyes from the starlight to my face, where her expression became softer or perhaps more relaxed. She was always hard to read.

“I don’t mind, I’m happy and that’s all that mattes,” and then I kissed her, leaning over her body on the deck of the ship.

Maybe it was the salt-slick air, or the hushed whisper of the waves beneath us, but her kiss quickly became hungry. Her hands holding me like iron, before winding through the strands of my hair. Her guidance led me on top of her, my body between her thighs on the deck.

“Here?” I asked with a scandalised laugh.

“Now...please,” she hummed, grinning as her teeth caught my lip in her grasp. “I’m in a good mood.”

Her hands pried at my shirt impatiently and without co-ordination. “Relax,” I muttered, shaking my head. I pulled her free of her layers until my palms could slide against the scales adorning her thighs; she couldn’t wait for me to get out of mine, barely pausing to undo my belt before I was being dragged closer once more.

I gasped against her neck, stifled by her skin before I gathered the air to taste her, teeth prying such musical noises from her as I tugged at her skin. She whimpered, grinding against me, demanding me to hurry up, to press into her.

And so I did. Relief washed through the both of us, exhaling the silence of our frantic feelings. She gripped me, nails digging through the layer of my shirt, her legs pulled up to her chest. The wood was uncomfortable, it scratched against my knees but inevitably I cared about it very little. Her voice soothed me, whispering little begs and praises. My eyelids fluttered closed in resolute content. 

She held onto me, and I rocked into her. The waves of the sea slid against the side of the ship, filling the silence with its hushed chorus. We tried to keep ourselves quiet – knowing our voices would carry in the night – but she had a habit of turning me into something feral. In the light of the moon she was no better, growling against me as her nails sought me like prey. She moved erratically, strong thighs pulling me harder into her than ever.

We didn’t feel so much like people, as much as animals. Her sounds reverberating through my mind and silencing all thought. All I remember from that was pleasure. Hot and traversing through me, mindless and without thought. In turn she responded in kind. I could hardly bear to think how our voices travelled, or if people had thought we were not humans, but wild animals.

Her eyes rolled in her ecstasy, and she fell silent, choking on her own pleasure. I finally found my senses, but didn’t still, wanting to see her content. The seawater rose as her back arched, rising up the sides of the ship and, as she crashed with a guttaral moan, the water splashed onto the deck, soaking us both.

The shock of the water – and its odd heat, which should not have been possible at this time of year and especially not at night – consumed me as I pressed deeper into her. I bowed my head as my hips pressed to hers, a loud gasp of her name pulled, strangled, from my lips, spilling into her.

The water seemed to almost glow in the moonlight. I rocked into her until I could no longer move. Her legs wrapped around my hips and she pulled me close. Leaning my weight on my forearms, the two of us stayed, locked together, intertwined, under the stars.

When I finally lifted my head, the wild animal was gone, and instead there was just her, with tears in her eyes. “You can go if you want,” she whispered “...it’s okay, I understand.” I kissed her gently, resting my forehead against hers.

Her sadness pulled more from me than pleasure ever could, and I closed my eyes to hold back the ache that tore open in my chest.

“I promise you now, Fair..." I whispered in the dark, a vow like nothing else I had ever made "...I will only leave when you make me.”

Her relieved, shuddering breath is all the answer that I needed.

[sparkofthetelling]

Can someone check me on if my stance related to a professor at my university (at the bottom, I'm trying to make this as neutral as I can) is reasonable? I need as removed and neutral a stance as I can manage, because it feels like the only people who have enough context are already too polarized. Also this isn't about the employability or reasonability of if this person should lose their job, they have tenure anyways, but this isn't about that. The reasons listed below the cut go towards my final stance.

There's a professor at my university who spent five hours last semester explaining choices they made that are rather substantially different from the choices made in similar veins in other classes, as it comes to exam administration, homework assignment layout and submission, to two students who took the class last spring semester. (This class is offered once a year and is required. I am not in it, but I know 7 students who are taking it this semester.) Also, the class is an undergraduate Modern Physics course (it matters a bit for one or two of the points). We only have one, if you have two I think it's approximately equivalent to the first one.

I understand this professor has put a lot of effort in and does think about what they're doing.

That being said, the following is a list of known issues related to what feels like the most basic expectations of that students have had with this professor in just the time I have been at my undergraduate institution:

It being such a known issue getting an e-mail response in a reasonable manner from this professor as a student in one of their classes that there is a meme among students in the department to start the subject line of any email sent to this professor with the word "research", regardless of topic, to get them to respond.

In three OTHER classes than the class that is currently the issue, this professor has the known issue of not giving homework or grades back. In all cases, the grades were separated out and listed on the online web service (Canvas, Blackboard type deal), but never filled in prior to the end of the semester, with the grade only truly being known after transcripts were formalized.

The last time the class currently the issue was offered, the students had to practically beg the professor to give them back graded homework assignments before each exam. The professor had an overall return rate before each exam of approximately 50%, whereas for most of the other major classes in the department, the return rate for each exam is 90-100%. Our department is not large. The seven people I know in the class ARE the entirety of the class.

This time around, the professor has decided to administer the course content separated between exams and homeworks. The homeworks do not build up content and conceptual knowledge for the exams, as they are on other material. I believe this change is new this semester, so there IS a chance that it turns out that the homeworks end up being a lot shorter, BUT:

The professor is trying to fit too much content into one class. I say this understanding that the motivation is "trying to get people to see fields of physics they probably wouldn't see otherwise in the student's tenure at the university." My problem with this is that this professor teaches the survey/research interest course offered to freshmen the first semester. Some people drop the major quickly because they grasp that it's not right for them, which is fine. But some people, who are interested in physics, drop the major sheerly because of the lack of structure and inability to follow what was happening in that class. Given that this professor requested specifically to teach that class, I do not understand why they do not include more structure in that initial class (and they again, MAY HAVE REASONS for why the class is as freeform as it is now, but it clearly IS NOT WORKING). Professors I have talked to at both my university and numerous other universities, including the one who taught me the class at this university (who is not this professor), have said that Modern Physics usually has a few specific topics covered, with high consistency, and this professor is covering easily twice that.

The professor told one of their research advisees to not put anything on their research poster they would be presenting that they did not understand. This is sensible advice! I agree! After that student finished their poster and submitted it for revision, the professor revised it, adding a bunch of stuff that the student did not understand, and changing "approximately 75% of the language because it didn't sound physicsy enough", and sent it back for review. The student didn't respond for a few hours, because they were busy (something this professor has a hard time acknowledging with respect to students, going so far as to tell a student who did not have time to spend 10 hours a week on homework assignments that he was not busy because the professor was busy). With the conference coming up soon, and the posters having to be printed, the professor sent the poster off for printing, and also added an ugly gradient to the background of the poster. This legitimately gave that student a panic attack, and as far as I know, the professor never really said anything about what they had done or acknowledged it (and I'm not even sure if they EVER found out). Compared to this professor, the students being advised by other professors had their posters double checked and drafted multiple times before being sent off for printing. This professor ALSO only acknowledged the quality of their report presentations for the work they did over the summer for the grant funding them the day before the presentations. Those presentation slides were due to the organizer 8 days before the professor made that comment. The professor pretty much only called them terrible.

I have been told by at least one other professor who has worked with this professor for ten years at this university, if not more (I don't remember exactly), that they are not sure if this professor realizes that the department they are in is an undergraduate-only department, and feel that the massive difference in demeanor between them and others in the department is probably, in part, a result of that.

I really want to say something positive to juxtapose the massive amount of commentary above in the professor's favor, but beyond "This professor clearly does care about trying to improve the quality of education," there just isn't really anything that can actually be truly said. I know at least 10 students who have EXPLICITLY told me they have quit our university's physics department because of this professor specifically. I don't think this professor knows this, but I also happen to know that they have some shockingly weirdly ableist opinions, like "if I (someone in reasonably good physical health) can make it across campus in 10 minutes, so can you." said to a student who did not have outright disability accommodations but could not reasonably make it across campus in time. (This feels like "scientific management" in the Industrial Revolution to me)

So like... is it reasonable for me to have a distrust/find these good intents disingenuous, at least in some capacity? To me, there feels like a clear gap present, but because of just... certain inexplicable things, I feel the need to ask.

[nyco-renovations]

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[kismetconstellations]

You have nothing to apologize for! These opinions were well worth the wait, and I wholeheartedly agree with many of them. ❤

Coran not getting to so much as say goodbye to Allura before she killed herself is unforgivable, never mind her killing herself, in the first place, because absolutely, emphatically, and unequivocally screw that, and the show desperately needed more of his tragically underutilized serious side. Consider how much more of a tangible support system Shiro would have had if he were able to confide in Coran, and vice versa, rather than Coran confiding in Shiro once and never again, as he wound up confined to the role of Wacky Comic Relief Man until the plot required him to fret over Allura, and Shiro became Side-Character Shiro-Bot.

As you said, Coran lived through wars. He has the most knowledge and life experience of everyone on the Castle of Lions, and his own personal demons. If anyone would be familiar with the effects of trauma, it would be him. He could have offered Shiro coaching and guidance out of sight of everyone else, so there was no sense of shame attached for Shiro, or need for Shiro to constantly present himself as the team's infallible and unshakeable Black Paladin. Shiro would have had at least one person he could be vulnerable and honest with, without it feeling "inappropriate" due to his status as an adult authority figure. And, in turn, Shiro could have commiserated with Coran's sense of helplessness in regards to the loss of Alfor and Altea, having lost his crew after doing all he could to protect them and it still not being enough. They could have traded stories, late at night, while the teenagers were asleep. Shiro could have asked about the images the Black Lion showed him concerning her origins, and Coran would have had so many answers for him.

(Of course, this would require the showrunners to have actually cared about Coran beyond his "humorous" quirks, and about Shiro beyond trying to use his sexuality to garner praise for having a gay main hero in their children's cartoon. A gay main hero that they killed, and were originally planning to kill after confirming that he's gay.

"JOAQUIM DOS SANTOS: We had an episode that was at the top of the second season? LAUREN MONTGOMERY: Yeah it was gonna be either the first or second episode of season 2."

Which I'm sure would have gone over swimmingly.)

It saddens and frustrates me that the two actual adults in the main cast are so frequently written off as "boring", or reduced to "Space Dad", and "Space Uncle", when there's so much more to both of them that the series proper just never bothered to explore, leading much of the fanbase to follow suite.

And, both Joaquim Dos Santos and Lauren Montgomery had prior experience working on animated shows for the DC Comics universe, so they knew darned well that kids will watch and love cartoons with adult main characters.

As someone who shipped Shiro and Keith before I fully watched the show, and spent years only interacting with fan works, I expected that I would really like Keith, finally getting to see him in action, and that the intense bond between him and Shiro would grab me by the throat and never let go. And, while the bond between them is undeniably there, to the extent that non-shippers and antis have to try and minimize it as much as possible in order to make anyone other than Shiro Keith's Most Important Person, a lot of the big "Sheith" moments are between Keith and the clone. Which means they might as well not exist to me, as Shiro's clone is not Shiro.

It doesn't help that, as you pointed out, so many Shiro/Keith shippers are Keith fans, first, and make that fact utterly transparent in their almost single-minded focus on him. Like when they have Shiro dazzled by Keith's combat abilities, waxing poetic over his speed, grace, and flexibility, as if Shiro didn't do this-

-in the show's canon. He was the undefeated Champion of an alien gladiatorial arena, taking down opponents more than twice his size. Keith is a gifted fighter in his own right. I can't deny that. But, Shiro is swift, agile to the point of being near acrobatic, methodical, and deadly. Even though the VLD writers wanted us to forget that and accept him being nerfed to the point of needing to arm himself with a pistol, getting slapped across the bridge of his own ship, and being knocked down for the count by a single hit.

Or, when Sheith writers have Shiro wracked with guilt and made to apologize for "Kuron" giving Keith his scar, without Keith reciprocating and apologizing for slicing "Kuron"'s right arm off, leaving Shiro stuck inside of a body without one for their entire journey back to Earth. I know the show, itself, never addresses this, but a member of the main cast suddenly having a missing limb for a large chunk of time is a fairly big deal. You don't think Keith ever warred with himself for even a moment over being yet another Galra who robbed Shiro of his bodily autonomy and took another piece of him away? (I mean, in this hypothetical ideal version of the series, he would have.)

A lot of Sheith content is just self-insert wish fulfilment with the author projecting themselves onto Keith, and their ideal fantasy boyfriend onto Shiro, which is a damned shame because Shiro and Keith's relationship had and has infinite potential in the right hands. Just write them faithfully to their canon personalities- Shiro is not a high-libido seme stereotype, and Keith is not a fetishistically small, weepy uke. Keith is pretty blatantly the dominant party while Shiro is much more of a reserved nurturer- and don't make their relationship so blatantly one-sided in favor of Keith. Shiro's trauma matters every bit as much as Keith's does, and would likely have even more of an impact on the two of them pursuing any sort of romance because Shiro's failed relationship with Adam is tied to his trauma. And, based on his responses to Allura and Ulaz sacrificing themselves for him (the only instance of Allura doing so that I accept as canon, as it doesn't end with her cruelly and senselessly dying),

Keith's willingness to die to protect him would terrify the Hell out of him.

I like Keith, but the boy does come across as kind of dense, sometimes. Such as never suspecting that "Kuron" isn't Shiro, despite supposedly knowing Shiro better than anyone. Or, his response to seeing Shiro in a state of intense emotional distress (curled in on himself, gasping for breath, stammering, voice shaking, eyes wide with fear), which is to gape at him like Shiro's speaking in tongues and just escaped from a mental hospital.

I'm not Shiro, and Keith's not my best friend, but I wouldn't feel comfortable confiding in or seeking comfort from someone who looked at me like that while I was terrified and in desperate need of stability and reassurance.

Hunk and Pidge are the only ones who express any kind of concern for Shiro, there, and I so wish that Shiro and Pidge's relationship hadn't been cast aside like bad rubbish (we're never even shown why he switched from riding in the Black Lion with Keith to riding in the Green Lion with her), and Shiro and Hunk had shared more screentime. As the two most obviously neurodivergent members of the main cast, visibly and canonically grappling with mental afflictions, they could have been a major aid for each other, taking the time after missions to do mutual check-ins and make sure they're both holding up okay.

Hunk is a leg! He holds people up! Why was he not allowed to do that more often?

Shiro could have even passed on the breathing and stress-management techniques he learned from Coran in this hypothetical ideal version of the series.

Imagine Hunk sweeping Shiro into one of his signature bear hugs, and Shiro's walls slowly coming down as he melts into the embrace before returning it wholeheartedly. Or, Shiro gently squeezing Hunk's shoulders and speaking softly to him, reminding him over and over that he's safe, during an anxiety attack.

In short, Coran, Hunk, and Allura all deserved better.

Coran and Hunk deserved to have not been reduced to two specific personality traits, flattening their characters. Hunk is, indeed, an engineer. Remember that he crafted the device used to track down the Blue Lion, himself. He's not just a chef with anxiety. He's the Heart of Team Voltron; acting as its moral center and voice of reason, even when it means directly questioning and opposing authority. (Sidebar that I don't understand in the slightest the popularity of Hunk/Romelle when Hunk has chemistry and such a beautiful, organically developed relationship with Shay. Is it because Romelle looks more human? That's the only explanation I can think up.)

And, Allura deserved to not suffer with guilt and grief up to the very moment that she killed herself to atone for an irredeemable monster's sins, and also to not be bashed by an ignorant, immature, sexist fanbase for displaying some maybe not so palatable symptoms of her trauma that she thoroughly apologizes for!

She's not a "bitch". She's a teenage girl who lost everything and just shy of everyone she ever loved. Her anger is perfectly understandable, if misplaced, and she realizes that and lets it go.

As for Keith... much like the more extreme and obnoxious Lance fans, some of Keith's fans make it quite difficult to enjoy him. Particularly when Shiro and/or Allura are your favorite characters. And, Keith is certainly made no easier to stomach with his canon status as Shiro's "new and improved" replacement, who retreads ground Shiro already tread, but it's "better", somehow, because it's Keith doing it, and gets things, like the Black Lion's trust and protection, and the Black Paladin Bayard, simply handed to him while Shiro had to fight tooth and nail for them. Almost and actually losing his life, in the process.

I hope this rambling mess of a response wasn't too burdensome to read through. Thank you, once again, for indulging me. And, I am very curious to see this reworking you referred to, and Allura's role within it. White Paladin Allura? ꒰⁎ᵉ̷͈ ॣ꒵ ॢᵉ̷͈⁎꒱໊

@sockdooe, as it appears your askbox isn't open, for the Character Opinion Bingo, I would love to see your thoughts on Allura, Hunk, Coran, and Keith, if you don't mind. ^///^

[continuations]

The World After Capital in 64 Theses

Over the weekend I tweeted out a summary of my book The World After Capital in 64 theses. Here they are in one place:

The Industrial Age is 20+ years past its expiration date, following a long decline that started in the 1970s.

Mainstream politicians have propped up the Industrial Age through incremental reforms that are simply pushing out the inevitable collapse.

The lack of a positive vision for what comes after the Industrial Age has created a narrative vacuum exploited by nihilist forces such as Trump and ISIS.

The failure to enact radical changes is based on vastly underestimating the importance of digital technology, which is not simply another set of Industrial Age machines.

Digital technology has two unique characteristics not found in any prior human technology: zero marginal cost and universality of computation.

Our existing approaches to regulation of markets, dissemination of information, education and more are based on the no longer valid assumption of positive marginal cost.

Our beliefs about the role of labor in production and work as a source of purpose are incompatible with the ability of computers to carry out ever more sophisticated computations (and to do so ultimately at zero marginal cost).

Digital technology represents as profound a shift in human capabilities as the invention of agriculture and the discovery of science, each of which resulted in a new age for humanity.

The two prior transitions, from the Forager Age to the Agrarian Age and from the Agrarian Age to the Industrial Age resulted in humanity changing almost everything about how individuals live and societies function, including changes in religion.

Inventing the next age, will require nothing short of changing everything yet again.

We can, if we make the right choices now, set ourselves on a path to the Knowledge Age which will allow humanity to overcome the climate crisis and to broadly enjoy the benefits of automation.

Choosing a path into the future requires understanding the nature of the transition we are facing and coming to terms with what it means to be human.

New technology enlarges the “space of the possible,” which then contains both good and bad outcomes. This has been true starting from the earliest human technology: fire can be used to cook and heat, but also to wage war.

Technological breakthroughs shift the binding constraint. For foraging tribes it was food. For agrarian societies it was arable land. Industrial countries were constrained by how much physical capital (machines, factories, railroads, etc.) they could produce.

Today humanity is no longer constrained by capital, but by attention.

We are facing a crisis of attention. We are not paying enough attention to profound challenges, such as “what is our purpose?” and “how do we overcome the climate crisis?”

Attention is to time as velocity is to speed: attention is what we direct our minds to during a time period. We cannot go back and change what we paid attention to. If we are poorly prepared for a crisis it is because of how we have allocated our attention in the past.

We have enough capital to meet our individual and collective needs, as long as we are clear about the difference between needs and wants.

Our needs can be met despite the population explosion because of the amazing technological progress we have made and because population growth is slowing down everywhere with peak population in sight.

Industrial Age society, however, has intentionally led us down a path of confusing our unlimited wants with our modest needs, as well as specific solutions (e.g. individually owned cars) with needs (e.g. transportation).

The confusion of wants with needs keeps much of our attention trapped in the “job loop”: we work so that we can buy goods and services, which are produced by other people also working.

The job loop was once beneficial, when combined with markets and entrepreneurship, it resulted in much of the innovation that we now take for granted.

Now, however, we can and should apply as much automation as we can muster to free human attention from the “job loop” so that it can participate in the “knowledge loop” instead: learn, create, and share.

Digital technology can be used to vastly accelerate the knowledge loop, as can be seen from early successes, such as Wikipedia and open access scientific publications.

Much of digital technology is being used to hog human attention into systems such as Facebook, Twitter and others that engage in the business of reselling attention,  commonly known as advertising. Most of what is advertised is  furthering wants and reinforces the job loop.

The success of market-based capitalism is that capital is no longer our binding constraint. But markets cannot be used for allocating attention due to missing prices.

Prices do not and cannot exist for what we most need to pay attention to. Price formation requires supply and demand, which don't exist for finding purpose in life, overcoming the climate crisis, conducting fundamental research, or engineering an asteroid defense.

We must use the capabilities of digital technology so that we can freely allocate human attention.

We can do so by enhancing economic, information, and psychological freedom.

Economic freedom means allowing people to opt out of the job loop by providing them with a universal basic income (UBI).

Informational freedom means empowering people to control computation and thus information access, creation and sharing.

Psychological freedom means developing mindfulness practices that allow people to direct their attention in the face of a myriad distractions.

UBI is affordable today exactly because we have digital technology that allows us to drive down the cost of producing goods and services through automation.

UBI is the cornerstone of a new social contract for the Knowledge Age, much as pensions and health insurance were for the Industrial Age.

Paid jobs are not a source of purpose for humans in and of themselves. Doing something meaningful is. We will never run out of meaningful things to do.

We need one global internet without artificial geographic boundaries or fast and slow lanes for different types of content.

Copyright and patent laws must be curtailed to facilitate easier creation and sharing of derivative works.

Large systems such as Facebook, Amazon, Google, etc. must be mandated to be fully programmable to diminish their power and permit innovation to take place on top of the capabilities they have created.

In the longrun privacy is incompatible with technological progress. Providing strong privacy assurances can only be accomplished via controlled computation. Innovation will always grow our ability to destroy faster than our ability to build due to entropy.

We must put more effort into protecting individuals from what can happen to them if their data winds up leaked, rather than trying to protect the data at the expense of innovation and transparency.

Our brains evolved in an environment where seeing a cat meant there was a cat. Now the internet can show us an infinity of cats. We can thus be forever distracted.

It is easier for us to form snap judgments and have quick emotional reactions than to engage our critical thinking facilities.

Our attention is readily hijacked by systems designed to exploit these evolutionarily engrained features of our brains.

We can use mindfulness practices, such as conscious breathing or meditation to take back and maintain control of our attention.

As we increase economic, informational and psychological freedom, we also require values that guide our actions and the allocation of our attention.

We should embrace a renewed humanism as the source of our values.

There is an objective basis for humanism. Only humans have developed knowledge in the form of books and works of art that transcend both time and space.

Knowledge is the source of humanity’s great power. And with great power comes great responsibility.

Humans need to support each other in solidarity, irrespective of such differences as gender, race or nationality.

We are all unique, and we should celebrate these differences. They are beautiful and an integral part of our humanity.

Because only humans have the power of knowledge, we are responsible for other species. For example, we are responsible for whales, rather than the other way round.

When we see something that could be improved, we need to have the ability to express that. Individuals, companies and societies that do not allow criticism become stagnant and will ultimately fail.

Beyond criticism, the major mode for improvement is to create new ideas, products and art. Without ongoing innovation, systems become stagnant and start to decay.

We need to believe that problems can be solved, that progress can be achieved. Without optimism we will stop trying, and problems like the climate crisis will go unsolved threatening human extinction.

If we succeed with the transition to the Knowledge Age, we can tackle extraordinary opportunities ahead for humanity, such as restoring wildlife habitats here on earth and exploring space.

We can and should each contribute to leaving the Industrial Age behind and bringing about the Knowledge Age.

We start by developing our own mindfulness practice and helping others do so.

We tackle the climate crisis through activism demanding government regulation, through research into new solutions, and through entrepreneurship deploying working technologies.

We defend democracy from attempts to push towards authoritarian forms of government.

We foster decentralization through supporting localism, building up mutual aid, participating in decentralized systems (crypto and otherwise).

We promote humanism and live in accordance with humanist values.

We recognize that we are on the threshold of both transhumans (augmented humans) and neohumans (robots and artificial intelligences).

We continue on our epic human journey while marveling at (and worrying about) our aloneness in the universe.

We act boldly and with urgency, because humanity’s future depends on a successful transition to the Knowledge Age.

[grvmreaper]

Selfishness In Their Eyes

genshin impact, part ii

your sweet voice softly whispers ‘where are you’ and i slowly begin to gravitate towards you, the center of my universe. the only thing i could ever care for.

yandere, abuse, confinement, delusional mindsets, gaslighting, self-depreciation, self-harm mention, stalking, unhealthy relationships

part one, part three, part four

Wolf Boy ─ Razor

obsessive, stalker, uncertain

Is he still human, or is he forever going to be regarded as the lone wolf who rambles deep in the dense forests of Wolvendom? Everyone wanted to know for they too are curious about this riveting individual, curiosity swirling madly in their eyes whenever his name is thrown into conversations. And when he’s forced to come up with an answer to himself, there’s always that same, despised hesitation eternally laced in his diffident voice. Razor continues to live silently in people’s shadows, able to tread behind them cautiously without leaving any tracks behind. This is a life he was brought into, having been raised by feral, but loyal creatures that thrive at the dead of night. The thought is already inane for him to live in harmony with people at this point, or so he was made out to believe. It’s only that he hasn’t gave much consideration till now.

What makes one silly human any different than the rest? There’s nothing particular about you that stands out to him... besides one thing he can’t place a finger on. Is it because you keep on getting yourself lost in these woods consistently, now becoming a regular occurrence and a part of his non-existent schedule of bumping into you, then having to escort you to the closest exit as you hand out sheepish apologies for the careless display of incompetency? This issue is not a big deal, really. If anything, he’s just slightly concerned for the lack of direction a being can actually have. Isn’t survival the most important instinct for humans? Did it die down as the world progressed? But of course, Razor never says anything more than the typical automated response built in, couldn’t be bothered to deal with someone else’s issues when his pack beckons for him through their cries, right? Not at all. You’re starting to appear more in his mind... laboriously. The cause of the toss and turns in his already short-lived sleep, and the visible bags resting under his eyes. The thought of you irks him endlessly.

What have you done to him?

After many days of the agony of contemplating alone, Razor resorts to the only person who must’ve known what he was currently dealing with: Lisa Minci. She should be familiar with this feeling all too well, he’s sure of it because what does she not know in her library of abundant knowledge? He questions these conflicting feelings of his, letting his heart spill out for once as an act of desperation with all the words he could find within his limited vocabulary. He does not like it, he does not like the control it has on him... a mere stranger, is able to afflict so easily. These signs must be of hate, uncontrollable spite maybe, pure frustration at most. That’s the only way he can truly be able to understand.

Well, in a way, she can’t help herself from snickering at his honest struggles. Unfortunately, it’s much more than that, revealing the issue biting at his exposed neck albeit painstakingly slowly in the simplest way. Surely, he is able to breathe properly once again... just not yet. Knowing this issue hasn’t solved anything, it requires effort. According to her, he is deeply in love to the point of destruction. Is this how adoration is supposed to feel, uneasiness? None of the human knowledge he’d study prior mentioned anything or went in depth about this subject, what makes her so sure of this? The word seems to be full of affection and hope, when Razor feels anything but. In order to ease those worries, she tells him why not have it the other way around. Why don’t you make that clueless traveler of yours be the one who’s troubled with these mindless feelings.

But he can’t, Razor has no experience in this field.

So he starts by stalking through your shadows, noting silently about your habits, interests, information that’ll help him get to know you better. There’s still a couple of issues to be resolved on his own before approaching said target. He’d like to understand fully what makes this human frankly so appealing to him. Why he has so many fantasies involving them in dubious ways, and why they’re so attractive. You’re so kind, too kind ─ timid than any doe he’s ever laid his ravenous eyes on. This is weird, much more thrilling than any hunt. All the things you do, simple and all, are so adorable to him. What is this warm sensation slowly building up in his chest? It feels... pleasant for once. Now this is what it should be like, how ‘love’ truly is.

He’s happy you have the heart to continue to meet with him.

But these happy moments could only last for so long, nothing hardly ever does because forever is not always. The voices in his head, ever so prevalent, pushes him to act on his predacious urges. Mark them. Hurt them. Make them suffer... Getting louder the more the rendezvouses went on. Doesn’t help that you make it your goal to see him at least thrice a week. Your lips, so luscious and pretty, imaging how they’ll look if drool was pooling out of it uncontrollably from the immense pleasure he’ll bless you with. And your skin, free of blemishes and scars, how badly he dreams of ruining it with his teeth, his claws, and his knife-like tongue. It appears that Razor does not possess the self control he thought he attained.

Stay... still.

His throat growls in agitation at the reluctance. He has the current need to mark that empty spot on your neck, the need to claim, but you keep moving around. Thrashing, struggling, sobbing for someone to come save you from the one who is only trying to love you.

Not ... hurt you ... love you.

Razor does not know if he is wolf or human,

but he is happy either way.

Exquisite Delicacy ─ Xiangling

stubborn, stalker, harmless

Did you happened to order a meal from Wanmin restaurant on one of your lengthy journeys? Probably not, but that doesn’t stop the chef from prying into your life with a specialty dish of hers. Xiangling, a connoisseur of the finest, strangest but tastiest food, pleads to serve you for the rest of her life in hopes of winning your golden heart with a unique palette. Expand your horizons, she beams, it does not hurt to. Traveling everywhere is no big deal to her as she isn’t confined to one spot unlike some of her envious peers. There is plenty different ingredients to test out, an excuse to be used for her dear father to not fret over her well-being. Plus, more chances to continue to court you, yes? You being a traveler cannot stop her.

Nothing negative cannot reach her... ish.

She always knows where you are, appearing out of nowhere scaring the serenity right out of your eyes ─ trying to pass it off as a mere coincidence, or how navigating through Liyue is second nature to her when delivering meals to faraway customers (which is an innocent lie). Creepy, but hardly dangerous. Scaring you is never her intentions, it hurts to see you cower because of her. Why... Why are you looking at her that way? What is there to even be afraid of? She just wants to be with you as a loyal companion, an overly-attached lover if possible. 

Not only is there one loyal protector who is willing to risk everything, but two. Guoba knows how extremely precious you are by the way she spews on and on about some let-loose traveler currently camping in Liyue. It’s not like he completely understands the situation himself but, as long as she remains euphoric, then your presence will be accepted, and sooner or later sought out for. Break her heart on the other hand, and that is another story to recite. Guoba too, will never even think of letting you go in regards to his lovable companion. Having a sulking, dispirited Xiangling is the least of his wishes, so do not bother trying.

No need to dwell about cooking anymore. The obligation to lift a pan is a worry no more, she’ll take care of it, no problem. Remember all those left over slime condensate? Or lizard tail collecting dust in your inventory? Nothing’s straight up impossible, they’ll be tossed into a dish for an extra kick, a delectable taste that’ll surely enhance your combat skills for a limited time. Doesn’t that sound like a wonderful treat? She’s already drooling over the thought of it, feeding you lovingly despite your refusal, even if you are tied down to a tree stump in smoothen rope. Stop fighting her. It’s a waste of energy, doesn’t an adventurer needs lots vitality to move around the world?

There is no such thing as judgement, until you give it a try.

Ever wonder how exactly she knows where to go when looking for you? Her handy dandy map of course, full of annotations and cute sketches scribbled all over it. Not only is there data regarding locations that need to be visited again, but also the places you commonly travel to. She is motivated to try every location each day in order to catch sights of you. time is no opponent, distance is no obstacle. Being welcomed, however, is a sore subject that should not be brought into question. That slight grimace planted on your face when she comes into light has her doubting at times, do you really not like her at all..?

Having her around is not a bad thing, admittingly. She knows how to cook up a mean meal with the most outlandish ingredients, knows a thing or two about creating medicinal herbs, and can fend for herself against ambushes. In other words, theoretically the perfect teammate. What’s holding her back from that potential is her obsessive behavior regarding you. The stalking needs to come to a halt, and maybe, just maybe you’ll come to like her.

Shining Idol ─ Barbara Pegg

clumsy, obsessive, insecure

A deaconess of the Church of Favonius at day, a hardworking idol by night ─ her song reaches Mondstadt’s heart, capturing them in a riptide of desire and devotion, everything she personally feels not. Barbara, striving to be better each day, cannot comprehend these positive emotions you give her. The lewd acts of accepting that one charming kiss you placed atop her hand, or that sly wink you sent her way onstage when she was performing in town square. She has a responsibility to ignore all possible distractions, anything that’ll deter her from the burdens of a humbled protestant would be blocked out in an instance when given the chance.

So, why hasn’t she done so with you?

Falling over nothing is common, falling for someone isn’t. You see, years and years of dedicating her time and attention to one of the seven hasn’t allowed any room for relationships to manifest, for romance to blossom properly. Embarrassingly enough, she has no experience. Zero. Only the plentiful stories Lisa shares anytime she stops by the library, and still not understanding them half of the time. They sound melodious against her ears, intriguing, a whole new adventure to be encountered without having to move across the world. Convenient for someone like her. So sweet, yet so wrong.

Will fret over your health and safety, comfortably abandoning her own. A curse of selflessness which’ll follow her down to the grave. She’s so used to looking after others despite her youth; Jean, Bennett, everyone’s at least had a visit or two at the chapel to patch up small accidents. Nagging you constantly, although softly as can be, to at least try not to put yourself in unnecessary danger. Daring travelers are bound to be hurt, it’s almost unfeasible to not, but maybe tone the carelessness down a notch. Seeing you in pain distresses her so much, her fans start to watch over you in hopes of their idol being less troubled.

Return the hospitality, and you got yourself a flustered Barbara.

Um, please look after yourself more! As much as I lov- like, to see you, I am not fond of the reason why you come here so often.

What was it now, the tenth time that you’ve almost succumbed to death? Always testing the boundaries of an eventual demise, always stressing her out. But maybe that’s one of the traits she comes to adore, that brazen behavior of yours.

A-And... if that’s not achievable, I will do m-my best to aid you any way possible.

She trusts her older sister, but apparently not with everything because one issue still hasn’t been disclosed. Jean is already too busy with her duties, too busy keeping their home harmonious, free of troubles. Why should another problem be pushed onto her wearied shoulders? It’s just the typical problems that comes with love: The doubts, the bottled up emotions; the anxiety. She prays to all the Archons above that it’ll eventually solve itself given enough time. But pleading can only get people so far, Barbara knows that an effort must be made in order to create the change she wants. Hard work is the most miraculous magic, after all.

Unlike the others, her insecurity is what prevents her from seeking a future with you. Tid bits of concerns, worries always pokes at her when she’s so close to confessing. An inferiority complex that spirals into immense feelings of worthlessness, stopping Barbara from ever acting upon her selfish wishes. Even if you too reciprocate every ounce of love, openly displaying it, something in her convinces otherwise. Surely you see her as just a really close friend, comfortable enough to touch her freely without much thought. You probably prefer her sister, or Amber. Literally anyone other than her.

There’s so much better people out there.

Again, Barbara is basically an idol. She is aware of this fact, have been for a while now after hearing about some fans waiting outside the church to catch a sight of their supposed Goddess. Few people out there adores her to the point of obsession which understandably rubs her off the wrong way, but they are nowhere as crazy in the tales. That, she is thankful for and will continue to not disappoint them with future projects, hopefully. Who knows what they’ll think of her then if all doubts of her actually turn out to be true. And she doesn’t understand their fixations and compassion until someone from a whole different world steps onto the stage.

You’re perfect.

So perfect, she shouldn’t even be able to breathe the same air as you.

Astral Reflection ─ Mona Megistus

obsessive, lucid, manipulative

A significantly well-known astrologist, wandering aimlessly around Mondstadt for whatever end goal she has in mind ─ which she doesn’t know. Mona continues to hold herself in high regards, high expectations, and a low budget in order to make do with little money she has. To balance all of this while also trying to cover that very fact is a struggle itself, but this is simply mandatory. People will start to think less of her if they know the truth about their beloved star seeker, someone who can’t even keep a single penny. She feigns wealth in order to appear more dignified, commendable to the eyes of curious wanderers. You especially.

Oh goodness, compliment her, praise her whenever you can, she exists for it. Hanging onto every word like a delirious puppy, not even bothering to contain the satisfaction sparkling in those pale green eyes of hers. She’s so smug, so weak for your undivided attention. This is what keeps the motivation going, the only drive besides a desire for endless knowledge. It pushes her to do everything within her power to impress, enchant, and captivate all recognition from you. The outsiders, their opinions ultimately do not matter compared to you. With this aggressive support, anything is almost possible. Almost.

She wants you to be happy, always, and the only thing she thinks that will earn your affection is piles and piles of gifts. She likes them (even though she hardly has the chance to scavenge any), you must like them too. Who doesn’t? By that, prepare to be spoiled relentlessly. Name whatever material, meal, weapon ─ anything you lay your pretty eyes on. She will find a way to obtain these riches through whatever means, detrimental or not. Skipping meals, making contracts she could never keep, crazy loans, so many things that’ll hurt her on the long run but, it’ll be worth it in the end. That bright smile of yours rejuvenates all exhaustion. Like none of those bad things ever happened.

How pathetic, convincing herself that everything will be alright with measly encouragement. How whimsical can someone possibly get?

Taking advantage of her divination isn’t what she planned but, it helps out so much. Mona can manipulate just about anything in your life with a reading of hers, she can make you just as paranoid as her with a single fortune. That is the power that lies within her, someone who dedicates their entire life understanding the meanings of the stars and above. She does not receive any money from these endeavors, her beliefs are simply too strong to accept any form of payment. But you... you pay in another form unwittingly. Your uttermost faith, the trust you place willingly in her shaky hands.

Maybe that’s how she relies on self-harm; to make up for all the deceit and pained lies, to keep her somewhat sane.

There’s no point in lying. She can sense these fallacies from a mile away, there is no hiding. The truth will reveal itself gradually, whether it’ll take days, months, years ─ time is no matter. You can understand the frustration she bears whenever someone tries to cover up the facts behind white lies, or so they claim. You are her, uh, recent lover. It hasn’t been long since you two gotten together officially, and there’s still a few tiny problems that you lie about to not ‘bother’ her. Heart-wrenching, not being able to trust her that much. Still, she can’t fuss at you for that. It’ll be hypocritical of her to say something, so Mona stays quiet, waiting until you have the courage for her consolation.

It’s unpleasant, being in love. She knows how unhealthy this is, how stimulating this all-too familiar feeling truly is, for she is reminded of it every time the sky darkens and confidence begins to abandon her. Discovering how such desperate behavior of hers will only lead to desolation and loneliness, and still accepting the outcome nonetheless is a tragedy waiting to happen. This can be avoided, but Mona does not pry. Fate cannot be changed, nor can it be reversed she enunciates. It can only be but accepted. 

Stars, do not lie.

Mona gazes down at their reflection on the water, shadows casting over her eyes the more she ruminates.

Maybe that’s why humans do.

Juvenile Galant ─ Xingqiu

mocking, manipulative, curious

Leaves Liyue citizens in awe of how graceful the son of the Feiyun Commerce Guild really is when there’s not much work put into that perception of him. Everyone is so easy to please, to fool, and his object of obsession is no better than them. Xingqiu, not having to be shouldered with managing the guild’s affairs, spends most of his time mirthfully in solitude; a peaceful existence. Whether it’s being buried in all sorts of novels, or sharpening his blade work for the next enemy ─ all hobbies of his will typically be relished by himself. The obligation to entertain those around him is no issue, but only for a moment. Freedom is nothing but a social construct in this world. That, he will forever long for.

Something about being a hero, your hero, pleases him substantially. Granted, you’re completely capable of handling yourself, else you wouldn’t be a solo traveler, there should still be moments of helplessness every once in-a-while. Whether a situation is manipulated or not, he’ll come to the rescue. How wonderful it feels to see the apparent relief roll off your shoulders when Xingqiu makes a dashing appearance. Sudden, but needed. He’s heard you cry out his name in an act of desperation before reaching you, that hopelessness... The feeling of being depended on, needed.

He craves them all.

Will write a story inspired by the likes of you two in his free time. It will not be published for the world, Archons forbid. This is a personal treasure, not even to be revealed to the main inspiration. Instead, it’ll be enjoyed privately at his own leisure. Just a little hobby of his, nothing too serious. You’ll see the journal glued to his side sometimes, wondering what in the world has him enthralled. Safe to say, you want to find out his little secret like any other individual. Take a peek at it however, prepare to face any consequences. Well, it’s not very kind to poke your head in places they shouldn’t be, he murmurs with a warm smile, didn’t bother to ask, did you?

Xingqiu is mean. You’d assume that Chongyun was simply exaggerating in his rants, but it’s true, not getting a taste of the bitter medicine until later on in the relationship. His tongue is sharper than any blade, can pierce through the toughest hearts with a single word, excelling in a specific art known as degradation, and a tad bit of manipulation to put it all together. Something about your reactions, your tears, encourages him to bully you even more. This is just a way that he displays his attraction to you, it’ll hurt, but at least it’ll hurt with love.

My liege.

His voice calms you down with ease despite the condescension that comes, gentle fingers combing through your hair to cease the endless crying

Settle down, now. It was a mere jest of mine, you know I truly don’t mean it, right?

He revels in your suffering, thoroughly. It’s interesting. You’re interesting, and he hopes you’ll continue to entertain him for as long as you remained hopeful, and curious. Eventually, a toy begins to break, and broken toys are to be disposed of because what use are they to the owner then? Not that he’ll let that happen, he’s sure something will be able to bring you out of the shell when the time comes. A bit of experimenting does not hurt. And in the case of failure, he can ask a small favor of Albedo to test out a few theories in mind that might be able to light the spark in your eyes. Can’t have a lifeless husk now! It’s forbidden. Your liveliness is what made him fall for you in the first place.

At some point, Xingqiu will bring up something similar to marriage. Since his family would not allow him to associate, let alone be united with someone of no status, then why not do these sacred vows behind their backs? The ceremony will be private. Just you and him, nobody else to ruin a beautiful moment. At the altar of Jueyun Karst, the moonlight pouring out through the open windows, and onto your face as you anxiously confessed an oath to him, as does he. And a breathtaking kiss seals the chilling night.

You were born for this moment.

Prinzessin der Verurteilung ─ Fischl

obsessive, delusional, vulnerable

As the so-called Prinzessin der Verurteilung, falling in love shouldn’t be a hassle. She’s been through plenty of suffering to deal with smaller issues such as this. No way is she crying over this, but of something of way more importance. Fischl, the only main character in this unfortunate universe, tries to do everything in her power to prove that you two are simply meant to be. This world carries an invisible magnet, pulling your fates together, mending them into one. It may sound ridiculous like many of her other theories, but it’s true!

Especially tries to stay in character around you, wanting to display her cool, reliable side. Highly sophisticated vocabulary, intricate metaphors, whole monologues no one but her familiar can understand. An attempt like this only leaves you confused with even more questions that still hasn’t been answered, an appropriate reaction. How long can she keep this façade up until you get tired of her like the others? In fear of having this possibility, it doesn’t take her any long to quit the dialogue ─ not completely, just enough to where it is comprehensible.

She still has to keep up a cool image.

A typical tsundere, although not too much where it is annoying. Will deny any acts of affection or favoritism towards you even if it’s frankly obvious. She’s embarrassed, nervous about the chance of facing rejection if you were to know, so don’t be surprised when she retracts a statement that sounds oddly similar to a confession. A normal act of the slip of a tongue, don’t get it too distorted ─ she stutters. Her face burns a vibrant red the more your doubtful stare stays on her... Why does your presence make it harder for her to stay in character? Is there another ability you have that you are not made aware of?

And, um, can you... wait till she has the guts to actually confess?

Definitely asks her familiar to watch over you when possible, which mind you is most of the time since being affiliated with the adventurer’s guild is no easy feat. Oz is aware, certainly concerned for his lovesick master the more this went on. A girl like Fischl couldn’t possibly know any better about this matter as much as she claims, he knows better than that. Doing this leaves her at a huge disadvantage during battles, coming back with bandages wrapped all over her frail body. He needs to be there, her bow is not all that she needs out on the battlefield, but he cannot go against his master’s orders.

Hm? What about all those injuries she bears? It’s none of an unsuspecting traveler’s business.

There’s a hidden side to her. A side you’re able to see. behind closed doors, behind scratched-up eyepatches, is a vulnerable girl who drowns herself in a fantasy to escape the loneliness that followed her as a child. She doesn’t want to grow up. It’s scary, everything is, but no spell currently exists to intercept the flow of time. A vivid imagination will have to make do as of now. Her outfit is much more casual at home. Long golden locks flowing out onto her shoulders once the hair ties are removed and the air of elegance dissipates into thin air. Retaining facades, are of no more. At least, not until she has to head out for the next mission that is assigned to her.

Alas, she is just a typical girl.

She is plenty of touch-starved. Any sort of affection leaves her wanting more. Her parents were the only ones showering her in lots of love before she’d reach an age where she should’ve outgrown it. This skinship you give out is a lot different... embarrassing, but appealing. Every forward action of yours easily strikes some fluttering feelings into her: Constricting bear hugs, gentle forehead kisses, and shy hand-holding. Although receiving head pats are a personal favorite, makes her feel accepted, loved again.

You make her feel at home.

No, you are her home.

Trial By Fire ─ Bennett

reckless, possessive, oblivious

A reckless adventurer who doesn’t know their limits. Alone, motivated, and unknowingly harmful to those hanging around him; Bennett, stays enthusiastic through all, able to change most of his negative feelings into eternal hope like a fellow ally of his. But anything that has to do with unconditional love will simply be embraced, that is the exception. Envy, lust, greed ─ these emotions are normal, therefore, should be accepted no matter how damaging the consequences shall be. Not a lot of things goes his way, or ever do, so why not indulge himself in a bit of ignorance, for it is universally known as bliss. The world is practically encouraging him to when you were introduced into his pitiful life.

Doesn’t particularly realize his romantic feelings for you, not yet anyways. Passes it as just a desire to protect someone against all, as buddies, friends, whatever! That’s not important. What’s important is that you two need to stay together at all times from now on. Any moment separated only calls for trouble, and nobody wants that... Actually, there will be, tons of them the more he ponders off. Although it doesn’t mean that it cannot be fixed. Heroes tend to find themselves in tight spots, but they always manage to triumph through! That’s right, he will find solutions to these hardships.

Forces you to be a part of Bennett’s guild, coughs, convinces you! Force is a rather harsh word, isn’t it? It’s best to tag along with him at all times, the world is too dangerous for someone precious like you! So much. That he just might go insane if you’re not around. He’s convinced that since you’ve associated yourself with him, you too are affected by his extreme bad luck. That is why it is his responsibility to look after you, to protect you from his downfalls ─ isn’t he the most suitable person to. Aw, aren’t you ‘blessed’!

A part of him despises your interactions with anyone else. You have him already, why do you need someone else? No one is allowed to join his guild anymore, every position has already been fulfilled. Healer, main damage dealer, enhancer, they can do it all with two people only. So don’t bother recruiting others, or talking to them in general. If anything, he’ll take care of it, he’ll take care of everything. Just sit tight for him like a pretty doll, won’t ya? There is no need to waste energy on some nameless individual.

There you are! I was looking all over for you... And who’s this?

His arm slings over your shoulder, tugging you closer.

How can I possibly help you...?

Disgustingly affectionate. His hands always find themselves on you... as an instinct, or maybe a hidden desire. Wrapping an arm around your waist, padded fingers dangerously prodding close to your thighs, testing the waters on how close can he possibly get till you finally cower. But the thing is, you don’t think he’s doing this out of ill intent. Bennett is not that type of person, so you’ll let these hands of his continue to wander all over you even if they prove to be uncomfortable. How long will you be able to withstand it, this unpleasant affection...

He’s no stranger to lust.

Bennett will risk his life for you, a guarantee in any situation. He cannot avoid pain, for it will continue to follow him to the ends of earth like a curse. Still, it’s not like he’s going to go down so easily. He’s escaped death so many times he’d lost count, not much can bring him down at this point. And because of this, he shall be deemed your destined hero. Anyone that stands in the way are just bad guys waiting to be exterminated!

Frozen Ardor ─ Chongyun

protective, short-tempered, lucid

Conceived from a clan of famous exorcists, and obtaining excessive positive energy that others may know as talent, when it is nothing but a curse itself ─ Chongyun takes this matter into his own hands to prove to everyone, to himself, that he is completely capable of exorcising without the need of an inborn trait. It’s troublesome, that power. He overcompensates this hassle with harsh training, withdrawing himself from things that he cannot personally enjoy sober. In other words, congenital positivity places a huge burden on his life. If he is to live without it, then his very existence would be much, much gratifying. 

Discipline is key if people want to learn. He uses this in every aspect of his life. Naturally you’ll have to undergo the same training as him; withstanding harsh weathers, battling against enemies thrice your size, all things wearying. This will drastically improve tons of things such as endurance, restraint, and perseverance ─ but you aren’t as durable like him. Healing takes more than a couple of days before continuing a session, those are what you dread. You can argue with him all you want that this isn’t necessary, he’ll insist that challenging the mind and body will assist if you retain an open mind which you aren’t doing so far.

Chongyun just wants what is best for his partner, whether that means projecting his own problems onto them.

Will consider taking you with him, and act on it. Chongyun can’t exactly... watch over you when you’re too busy across the world, silly. Perhaps if there is a chance you can halt these obligations for now, instead, joining him on a path of becoming a future exorcist as a beloved apprentice under him. How can anyone skip this opportunity? You can ask your clients for compensation who can pay big money. He’ll show you the ropes, the responsibilities of being one. There is pleasure in seeing how thankful the victims of spirits are after the exorcism takes place.

Kindly deny his offer, and he’ll kindly take you by force.

Do not anger him. He is trying with all his might to not get annoyed over such unwillingness, but you are simply pushing it. He understands why you are acting like this, a brat, he’s not completely blind to the situation. To be forced by some acquaintance to stay with them or else is simply maddening, it would have been strange if you accepted his overprotective nature so easily. What he is trying to accomplish however, is for you to eventually give up, accept your intertwined fate with him. You don’t even have to understand anymore.

... Though it fails, your mental fortitude is simply too strong to be reckon with.

He will snap, especially when trying to run away ─ that is the last straw. All reasoning leaves his body the moment you make a dash for the exit, grabbing onto the ends of your hair and harshly tugging back despite your pleads of agony. He gets that angry. All that emotion Chongyun had to contain the whole time will be let out in an instance; a waterfall of wrath, frustration, all that agitation you caused him prior. And remember, he has no memory of what took place the next day.

You are now at his mercy.

That is why there is no point in bringing that up. What are you running on about? Him... hurting you? Stop bending the truth. Those bites and cuts all over your body did not come from him. If anything, you probably got them by accident, or was it from the tiresome training yesterday night? Whatever. The fact that you had the audacity to blame him straight away is irritating enough. 

Although, it is okay, you are forgiven. We’re human, we all make mistakes.

You’ll just have to be corrected.