#remaining untethered to the people around you

[fvsm4x]

synopsis. Pregnancy, usually a positive outcome of love between two partners that love each other deeply. But Pregnancy resulting from someone using you for their own pleasure is far from a positive outcome

+ warning/content. bully Gojo Satoru x female reader - reader is pregnant - mentions of abortion - mature themes/MDNI - usual warnings - suguru and reader are siblings - reader lowkey depressed - ANGST - dubcon - chapter 3 from the series regret

wc. 7k

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(Six Months Later – Present Timeline, Winter)

The cold hit you the moment you stepped out of the convenience store, the biting wind cutting through your coat like it wasn’t even there. You exhaled, watching your breath curl into the air before disappearing into the night. Winter had settled in, coating the streets in frost, making everything feel sharper—like the world itself was trying to wake you up from the numbness that had taken root inside you.

It was late, past midnight, but the city was still alive. The neon glow of street signs flickered against the wet pavement, and a group of drunk salarymen stumbled out of a nearby izakaya, their laughter echoing down the empty streets. You ignored them, keeping your head down as you walked past, one hand tightening around the plastic bag of food you’d just bought.

You hadn’t meant to stay out this late. You hadn’t meant to go out at all.

The apartment was suffocating some nights. The quietness that had once felt like an escape now felt like a void, pressing in from all sides, swallowing you whole. You would sit on the couch, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the heater, the occasional creak of the walls. No messages lit up your phone. No knocks ever came at the door. You were untethered, drifting through days that bled into each other, feeling more like a ghost in your own life than a person.

It was easier to disappear into routine. Wake up. Force yourself to eat. Scroll through new job listings. Go work. Stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, searching for something—some sign that you were different, that you were changing. But your face remained the same, your body shifting a bit. Even at six months, no one could tell.

Maybe that was why it didn’t feel real.

Or maybe it was because you still couldn’t bring yourself to think about the future.

The thought of it sent a dull panic through you, one you had learned to push down, to ignore, to bury under layers of distractions. You moved through each day as if you were still waiting for something—for someone to tell you what to do, for something to force your hand. But there was nothing. Just the cold, the empty apartment, and the quiet knowledge that you were running out of time.

You let out a slow breath and turned down the quieter street that led to the apartment. The cold made your fingers stiff, but you welcomed the sting—it was better than feeling nothing at all.

The walk back to the apartment was short, but the cold made every step feel longer. The night air clung to your skin, biting at your exposed fingers despite the way you stuffed them deep into your coat pockets. The plastic bag in your hand rustled with every movement, a small reminder of the meager groceries you had managed to pick up. It wasn’t much—just a few essentials, things that wouldn’t take long to prepare.

You barely noticed the people passing by, their faces blurred, their voices fading into the background like static. Laughter echoed from a nearby bar, followed by the distant sound of a car engine revving. The world kept moving, oblivious to the storm inside you.

As you approached the entrance to the apartment complex, you hesitated.

The building loomed above you, dark windows reflecting the streetlights like empty eyes staring down. You swallowed hard, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. It wasn’t fear that kept you rooted in place. It was exhaustion—the kind that seeped into your bones, making every action feel like wading through thick, invisible water.

You knew what was waiting for you inside.

Nothing.

An empty apartment. A quiet room. A cold bed. With a heavy breath, you forced yourself forward, gripping the handle and pushing the door open.

The warmth inside barely made a difference. The apartment was just as you had left it—dim, sparsely furnished, and suffocatingly quiet. The heater hummed in the background, its soft drone the only sound breaking the silence. You locked the door behind you, placing the plastic bag on the counter before shrugging off your coat.

Everything felt mechanical. You moved without thinking, going through the motions simply because you had to. The fridge opened with a quiet creak as you placed the milk inside, rearranging a few items out of habit. You set the instant ramen on the counter, along with the sandwiches you had bought, then leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly.

It wasn’t much, but it would last. At least for a few days. You glanced toward the mirror hanging by the entrance, catching your reflection in the dim light.

Same face.

Same tired eyes.

Same person.

You tugged at the hem of your oversized sweater, fingers absentmindedly smoothing over the fabric. Your stomach wasn‘t flat anymore, but still easy to hide. The loose clothing made sure of that. No one could tell just by looking at you. Not yet, anyway.

Maybe that was why it still didn’t feel real.

Even though you knew what was happening, even though you could feel the exhaustion weighing heavier each day, it still felt like something distant—something that belonged to someone else.

You turned away from the mirror. No use thinking about it.

Instead, you moved to the couch, sinking into the cushions with a quiet sigh. The silence pressed against you, thick and unrelenting. You had gotten used to it by now, but that didn’t mean it ever felt comfortable.

The loneliness had settled in like an unwelcome guest, making itself at home in every corner of the apartment.

You pulled your legs up onto the couch, wrapping your arms around your knees as you curled into yourself. The apartment felt impossibly quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against your ears, making your own thoughts sound too loud. The dim glow of the streetlights outside cast long shadows across the room, stretching over the floor and onto the walls, making everything feel distorted—unfamiliar, even after all this time.

Your gaze drifted to the coffee table in front of you, where a few crumpled receipts lay scattered next to an unopened bottle of water. That was it. Nothing else. No sign of life, no clutter, nothing that made this space feel lived in.

You should do something.

Eat. Sleep. Move. Go work.

Anything to make time pass faster, to break the endless cycle of nothingness that had settled over you. But instead, you just sat there, staring, trapped in your own mind as the seconds bled into minutes, stretching endlessly before you.

Then—

A knock at the door.

The sudden sound shattered the silence, making you jolt. Your breath caught in your throat, your muscles tensing on instinct. The apartment was too quiet for something like that—it made the knock seem impossibly loud, like it didn’t belong here.

You didn’t move at first.

Maybe you imagined it.

No one ever knocked. No one ever came here.

Except—

Another knock.

Firm. Unhurried. Patient.

Your pulse quickened, a dull pounding in your ears. Your eyes flickered toward the door, your body rigid. It was stupid, but for a moment, you considered ignoring it, as if pretending no one was there would make them leave.

But they wouldn’t. You knew that.

There was only one person who ever came here.

Suguru.

You swallowed, forcing your body to move. The couch groaned as you uncurled yourself, placing your feet on the cold floor. The air felt heavier now, pressing against your chest with every hesitant step you took toward the door.

The floorboards creaked under your weight, each sound amplified in the quiet. You hesitated when you reached the door, standing there for a second too long, your fingers hovering just above the handle.

A deep breath.

Then another.

And finally, you turned the knob, pulling the door open just enough to peer outside.

And there he was.

Suguru.

Standing in the dim light of the hallway, his dark coat draped over his shoulders, one hand in his pocket while the other one held into the plastic bag, and an unreadable expression in his sharp eyes.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, steady.

And just like that, the weight in your chest shifted—if only slightly.

Your throat felt tight. “Hey.”

His gaze flickered downward, barely noticeable, but you caught it immediately. It was quick—so quick that if you weren’t paying attention, you might have missed it. But you knew exactly what he was looking for, what he was checking. Even through the oversized hoodie you wore, his eyes lingered just long enough to confirm what he already knew.

Neither of you ever talked about it, but the knowledge sat heavy between you. He had always known. From the moment you got kicked out of your parents house, he had known. And yet, despite everything, he never asked. Never pried. Never pushed you to say more than you wanted to. Maybe that was why you let him keep coming back. Because he was the only one who didn’t look at you with judgment, who didn’t ask you to explain yourself when you didn’t have the words.

“Can I come in?” His voice was calm, steady. But he was already stepping forward before you had a chance to respond, his presence pressing into the small space of the doorway.

You didn’t stop him. You simply shifted to the side, allowing him to pass. The air in the apartment changed the second he stepped inside, the silence no longer as heavy as it had been just moments ago. The loneliness didn’t disappear, but it dulled just a little, just enough to remind you what it was like to have someone around.

He moved through the space like he belonged there, like it was second nature. His hand placed down the plastic bag, and worked the buttons of his coat as he made his way toward the couch, shrugging it off effortlessly and draping it over the back of the cushions. He didn’t ask where to put it. He didn’t need to. He had lived here once. Before it became yours, before your brother stopped using it altogether. Before it turned into something else entirely—a place for you to exist in but never truly call home.

Suguru took in the room with a quiet, assessing glance, as if searching for any signs of change. There weren’t many. The apartment still carried that same impersonal emptiness, the same untouched air of a place barely lived in. You hadn’t done much to change that, except maybe placing a few toys onto the shelf for your child.

His gaze eventually returned to you, unreadable as always. He was waiting—for what, you weren’t sure. Maybe for you to say something. Maybe for some indication that you were okay. But the truth was, you weren’t sure what to say. What was there to say? Nothing had changed. You were still here, still trying to figure out what came next, still completely alone. Except, at least for now, you weren’t.

Suguru turned to look at you again, arms loosely crossed, his expression unreadable. “Have you been eating?”

The question hit like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through the fragile quiet that had settled between you. You tensed, fingers curling into the oversized sleeves of your sweater, the fabric bunched tightly in your grip. You hesitated for half a second before muttering, “Yeah.”

But he saw right through you. He always did. His gaze didn’t waver, didn’t soften, and when he finally spoke, it was flat, unyielding. “You’re lying.”

A sigh slipped past your lips as you rubbed your temples, already feeling the weight of the conversation pressing down. “I’m fine, Suguru.” You tried to make it sound firm, convincing, but even to your own ears, it came out weak.

He didn’t respond right away, but his silence was louder than words. Without another glance at you, he walked past, heading straight for the kitchen. You listened as he pulled open the fridge door, the faint suction sound of the seal breaking, followed by the dull clatter of a few nearly-empty bottles shifting inside.

Then the door slammed shut.

“You call this eating?” His voice carried a sharp edge, one that made irritation spike through you, replacing the dull ache of exhaustion.

You turned, arms crossing over your chest, the defensive posture coming almost instinctively. “I don’t need a lecture.”

But he wasn’t fazed. If anything, he looked even more unimpressed. “Then start taking care of yourself so I don’t have to give you one.” His tone was firm, leaving little room for argument, like he had already decided he wasn’t going to drop this.

You hated that. Hated how he spoke to you like he had the right to be concerned, like you were his responsibility. He had been like this ever since he found out—hovering, checking in, making sure you weren’t completely falling apart.

But you were. Even if you didn’t want to admit it.

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably as you glanced away, shifting on your feet. You sighed, rubbing your arms as you tried to ignore the heaviness pressing down on your chest. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

Suguru tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Do what?”

“Act like you’re responsible for me.”

For a moment, something flickered in his expression—too quick to decipher, too subtle to grasp. And then, with quiet certainty, he said, “I’m not acting.”

The words caught you off guard, making your breath hitch for just a second. Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You had nothing to say to that.

Suguru sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, his frustration bleeding into the silence. “Look, I’m not here to fight with you. I just—” He stopped mid-sentence, shaking his head slightly as if dismissing whatever thought had momentarily surfaced. “Never mind.”

But you knew what he wasn’t saying.

He was worried.

And the worst part? You weren’t sure if you deserved it.

You swallowed, looking away. When you spoke again, your voice was quieter, almost hesitant. “I’m fine, Suguru.”

His jaw tensed slightly. “You keep saying that.”

You had no response. Because you both knew it wasn’t true.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face before shaking his head. “God, you’re so damn stubborn.”

You scoffed, arms tightening around yourself. “Look who’s talking.”

For a second, something almost like amusement flickered across his face, but it was gone just as quickly. He studied you for a moment, then glanced back toward the fridge before walking over and grabbing the unopened bottle of water from the table. He tossed it lightly in your direction.

“Drink,” he said simply.

You caught it, fingers tightening around the plastic. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” His tone left no room for argument.

Rolling your eyes, you twisted the cap off and took a sip, if only to get him off your back. The water was cold, and the feeling of it sliding down your throat reminded you just how little you had actually eaten or drunk today.

Suguru sighed again, but this time, it wasn’t sharp or frustrated. Just… tired.

“You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” he said, his voice quieter now.

Your grip tightened around the bottle.

“I know,” you lied.

He didn’t call you out on it this time.

And yet, despite the tension, despite the silence that stretched between you like an unspoken confession, you were still grateful.

Because for the first time in a long time—at least for tonight—you weren’t completely alone.

Suguru leaned against the counter, arms still crossed, his sharp eyes watching you like he was debating his next words carefully. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the fridge, the distant noise of traffic outside.

Then, finally, he spoke. “Have you thought about baby stuff yet?”

You stiffened, your fingers still curled around the water bottle. “What?”

“You know.” He gestured vaguely with one hand. “Crib. Clothes. Stroller. All that.”

The words sent a shiver through you, an immediate reminder of the reality you kept trying to push to the back of your mind. You hadn’t thought about it. Not really. You bought a few plushies but that’s all. Every time you wanted to buy something more, your brain shut down. It was too much. Or too expensive.

Your silence was answer enough.

Suguru sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he studied you. His expression wasn’t annoyed, but there was a weight to it—like he had already expected this answer but had still hoped for something different.

“You can’t just ignore it forever,” he said, voice firm but not unkind.

“I’m not ignoring it,” you muttered, gripping the water bottle tighter.

Suguru scoffed. “Really? Then where’s the crib?”

You exhaled sharply, looking away. “I’ll get to it.”

“When?”

The question hung in the air, and you hated how you didn’t have an answer. The truth was, you didn’t even know where to start. Every time you tried to imagine yourself shopping for baby things, walking through aisles of tiny clothes and bottles and strollers, a crushing sense of dread filled your chest.

Suguru must have seen something in your face because his stance softened slightly. “Look, I get it. It’s overwhelming. But the longer you wait, the harder it’s gonna be.”

You swallowed, staring at the floor. “I don’t even know what I need.”

“Then I’ll help,” he said simply.

That made you lift your head. “What?”

“I’ll help,” he repeated, pushing off the counter. “We’ll go baby shopping. Pick out the basics. It doesn’t have to be today, but soon. And we’ll figure out the crib situation too.”

You stared at him, unsure what to say. Suguru wasn’t the type to throw around empty offers, but you hadn’t expected this.

“…Why?” The word slipped out before you could stop it.

He frowned. “What do you mean, why?”

“You don’t have to do this,” you said quietly. “This isn’t your responsibility.”

Suguru’s gaze darkened slightly, like the words annoyed him, but instead of snapping, he just exhaled through his nose. “Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna sit back and watch you drown either.”

Something about the way he said it made your throat tighten. You had no idea what you had done to deserve his kindness, but for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel completely alone in this.

“…Okay,” you murmured after a long pause. “We’ll go.”

Suguru nodded like that was all he needed to hear. “Good. I’ll send you some lists later so you can look through them first. We don’t have to get everything at once.”

You nodded absently, processing his words, but your mind was already spiraling. Baby shopping. Buying a crib. Preparing for a future that still felt impossible.

For the first time, it felt like things were really moving forward.

-

The sound of sneakers scuffing against the tiled floors filled the hallway as students moved between classes, their voices blending into an indistinct hum. Suguru barely paid attention to the noise, his mind elsewhere.

He leaned against his locker, arms crossed, his expression neutral but his thoughts anything but. Ever since he found out about her situation, he had been feeling… off. He wasn’t sure how to describe it—frustration, worry, a sense of obligation he couldn’t shake. She had always been independent, always kept her struggles to herself, and yet now she was in a situation where she shouldn’t have to be alone.

But she was.

And he was the only one who seemed to care.

Suguru wasn’t naive. He knew people in this school—their school—loved to talk, to whisper, to spread rumors. He had already overheard fragments of conversations.

“She just disappeared.”

“Did something happen?”

“She probably dropped out.”

“Good riddance.”

The last one had made his jaw clench.

Suguru exhaled sharply, pushing himself off the locker. He had been thinking about her a lot lately—the baby, the things she would need, the reality of what was coming. It wasn’t like she had anyone else to help her figure it out.

“You look deep in thought.”

A familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he turned to see Shoko standing nearby. She leaned against the lockers, watching him with mild amusement.

he scoffed. “I always look deep in thought.”

Shoko smirked. “Yeah, but this time you look like you’re thinking a little too hard. What’s up?”

He hesitated. He hadn’t told anyone—not about her, not about the baby, nothing. It wasn’t his secret to share. But that didn’t mean the weight of it wasn’t getting to him.

“Nothing,” he finally said, shrugging.

Shoko raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. Instead, sighed before speaking again. “You going to that party this weekend?”

Suguru shook his head. “No.”

She gave him a curious look. “You? Skipping a party? That’s new.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, his gaze flickered down the hallway, landing on the familiar figure of his best friend. Gojo was in the middle of a group, grinning like he always did, throwing an arm around some girl’s shoulders as if the world was his to play with. He was laughing—loud, carefree, like nothing had changed.

And that was the problem.

Ever since she stopped coming to school, things had felt… off. At first, it had been subtle, something he only noticed in passing. A name missing from attendance. A glance toward an empty desk. But as the days turned into months, as she faded from the halls entirely, he realized something else—something that didn’t sit right with him.

Satoru.

Suguru had known Satoru for years. He knew his habits, his tells, the little things most people overlooked. And before, when she missed school for too long, Satoru would eventually bring her up. Not in any way that stood out—not with obvious concern or anything—but he’d mention her. A passing comment. A joke about her slacking off. A lazy, “Hey, your sister’s skipping again?” Something.

But now?

Nothing.

Suguru had waited, giving it time, expecting Satoru to ask about her at some point. He never did not even after 6 months.

And when Suguru tried to bring her up himself—casually, just a joke perhaps. Satoru would brush right past it, like he hadn’t heard him at all.

The first time, Suguru let it go. Maybe he was just distracted.

The second time, he took note of it.

The third time, he started paying closer attention.

Each time he mentioned her name, there was a barely noticeable shift in satoru‘s expression. A flicker of something—something Suguru couldn’t quite place—before his usual grin slid back into place. Like a mask snapping into position.

And that silence? It felt deliberate.

Suguru’s jaw tensed as he watched Satoru now, the way he threw his head back laughing, the way he carried himself so easily, like nothing in the world could bother him.

But something was bothering him.

He could feel it, that nagging feeling at the back of his mind, telling him that something wasn’t right. She never talked about him anymore. She never even said his name. And for someone as infuriating as Satoru, that alone was unusual.

He didn’t know what it meant yet. He didn’t know if it even did mean something.

But the uneasy feeling wouldn’t go away.

A familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“What, did Satoru piss you off again?”

Shoko. She had sidled up next to him, her hands stuffed into her pockets, her sharp eyes scanning his face like she could see what he was thinking.

He clicked his tongue, rolling his shoulders back. “When does he not?”

She snorted. “Fair point.”

He didn’t say anything else, just adjusted his bag over his shoulder and started walking.

Shoko fell into step beside him, throwing him a sideways glance. “Try not to overthink yourself into an early grave, will you?”

He didn’t answer.

Because right now, overthinking was the only thing keeping him from shaking the feeling that something was wrong.

-

The door clicked shut behind Suguru, and the silence rushed back in like a wave, swallowing the apartment whole.

You stayed still for a moment, staring at the empty space where he had just stood. The lingering warmth of his presence clashed with the cold reality settling deep in your bones.

Baby shopping.

The words echoed in your head, strange and foreign. Like they belonged to someone else’s life, not yours.

You pressed a hand to your stomach, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your sweater. Suguru meant well. He always did. And part of you hated that—hated that he was trying so hard to take responsibility for something that wasn’t his burden to carry.

But what else could he do? He didn’t know the whole story.

He didn’t know who the father was.

He didn’t know what Gojo had done.

Your stomach twisted at the thought, nausea curling up the back of your throat. You pressed your palm harder against the fabric, as if that could somehow ground you, as if that could stop the flood of memories threatening to drown you.

Gojo.

You hadn’t spoken to him since that day. You hadn’t seen him in months. And yet, somehow, he still haunted you—lingering in the corners of your mind like a stain you couldn’t scrub out.

Suguru was wrong.

This wasn’t something you could just prepare for.

No amount of shopping or planning or well-meaning support could change the fact that this wasn’t supposed to happen. That this wasn’t fair.

Your throat felt tight, like something was lodged there, something heavy and impossible to swallow.

You turned away from the door, walking back toward the couch on unsteady legs. The apartment felt too quiet again, too empty.

A part of you wanted to reach for your phone, to text Suguru, to tell him you’d changed your mind. That you couldn’t do this. That you didn’t want to go out and pretend like this was just a normal pregnancy, like it was something you had wanted, like this was just another step in your life.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you curled up on the couch, pulling a blanket over your shoulders, staring blankly at the opened bottle of water on the table.

The next day arrived sooner than you would have liked.

You barely slept.

The night had been a mess of tossing and turning, your mind refusing to shut off. Every time you closed your eyes, your thoughts spiraled back to the same inescapable truth—you were having a baby. And today, Suguru wanted to take you shopping, as if that would somehow make it all feel normal.

But nothing about this felt normal.

You stood in front of the mirror that morning, fingers gripping the hem of your oversized hoodie, tugging it down as far as it would go. The fabric bunched slightly under your hands before settling back into place, concealing everything underneath. You exhaled, slow and steady, tilting your head to the side as your gaze flickered downward, scanning your reflection with sharp, scrutinizing eyes.

Then—

A knock at the door.

The sudden noise cut through the stillness of your apartment, making you flinch. You turned your head slightly, staring toward the closed door, heartbeat quickening.

Suguru was here.

Already?

You blinked, caught off guard. Had time really gone by that quickly? It felt like just minutes ago that you were standing in this same spot, thinking about how he had been here the night before. And now he was back again, ready to take you baby shopping, as if this was some ordinary outing instead of the suffocating reality you were being forced to accept.

Your eyes drifted toward the clock hanging on the wall.

11:34 AM.

You frowned slightly. It was late enough that the city outside would already be bustling, the streets filled with people going about their day, completely unaware of the storm brewing inside you.

You took a deep breath, trying to shake the strange feeling that time was slipping through your fingers, moving too fast for you to keep up.

But it didn’t matter.

Suguru was here.

And whether you were ready or not, today was happening.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to move. Standing here, lost in your thoughts, wasn’t going to change anything. The knock came again, a little firmer this time, and you knew Suguru was probably getting impatient.

With one last glance at your reflection—one last reassurance that nothing showed—you turned on your heel and made your way to the door (not before putting on your jacket). Your fingers hesitated on the knob for just a second before you pulled it open.

Suguru stood there, dressed in a dark grey hoodie, black jacket and jeans, looking as casual as ever. His sharp eyes scanned over you quickly, assessing, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he just lifted a brow.

“You ready?”

You swallowed, gripping the edge of the door. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Suguru hummed, stepping back to let you lock the apartment behind you. As the two of you made your way down the hallway, the silence felt heavy—not awkward, just filled with something unspoken.

It wasn’t until you reached his car that he finally spoke again.

“You eat yet?”

You sighed. “Suguru.”

“What?” He opened the passenger side door for you before walking around to his own. “I’m just asking.”

You slid into the seat, clicking your seatbelt into place. “I ate.” It wasn’t a complete lie—if a couple of crackers counted.

Suguru didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push, just started the car and pulled out onto the road.

The drive was quiet, the city passing by in a blur of buildings and people. You kept your gaze fixed on the window, watching the movement outside, trying to push away the nerves crawling up your spine.

Baby shopping.

You still couldn’t wrap your head around it.

Suguru had mentioned it so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like it wasn’t a reminder of everything you’d been trying not to think about. But now, sitting in the car, heading toward a store filled with things meant for a baby—your baby—it was impossible to ignore.

After a while, Suguru broke the silence.

“So, what do we actually need to get today?”

You let out a slow breath, fingers tightening in your lap. “I don’t know.”

Suguru glanced at you. “Well, we’re getting a crib for sure.”

You swallowed. “Right.”

“And clothes. And bottles. And whatever else babies need.”

Your stomach churned. The list was already too much.

Suguru must have noticed your expression, because he sighed. “Look, I know this is overwhelming.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “That’s an understatement.”

He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “We’ll just take it one step at a time, alright?”

You didn’t answer. Because one step at a time still meant walking toward something you weren’t sure you were ready for.

When you arrived at the store, you hesitated at the entrance.

The automatic doors slid open with a soft whoosh, revealing rows and rows of baby supplies—cribs, strollers, clothes so tiny they looked unreal. The soft pastel colors and cheerful designs felt like they belonged to someone else’s life, not yours.

Suguru nudged your shoulder. “Come on.”

You took a step forward, following him inside, your movements stiff. The moment you entered, the atmosphere swallowed you whole—parents browsing, employees chatting, soft music playing overhead. Everything felt too real.

Suguru walked ahead, making a beeline toward the cribs. You trailed behind, feeling out of place among all the expecting mothers who looked excited to be here.

You weren’t excited.

You didn’t even know what you were supposed to be looking for.

Suguru, on the other hand, seemed perfectly fine. He ran a hand over one of the cribs, inspecting it like he actually knew what he was doing.

“This one looks sturdy,” he said, knocking against the frame.

You stared at him. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

Suguru smirked. “I do my research.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Of course you do.”

After a moment, he gave you a look. “What about you? Any preferences?”

You looked at the cribs, at the neatly arranged nursery sets, at the price tags that made your stomach twist.

“I don’t know,” you admitted.

Suguru nodded like he expected that answer. “Alright. We’ll find one together.”

And just like that, he started going through the options, testing them out, asking you what you thought. He never rushed you, never made you feel like you had to choose something.

Little by little, the tension in your shoulders eased.

Maybe, just maybe, you weren’t completely alone in this after all.

You ran your fingers over the smooth edge of a crib, your mind still foggy from everything around you. The store was filled with cheerful pastels, tiny clothes folded neatly on display, and stuffed animals lined up like they were waiting for someone to take them home. Everything about this place felt too bright, too warm—too hopeful for someone like you.

Suguru was still focused on the crib selection, pressing down on the mattress of one, testing the sturdiness of another. He seemed oddly comfortable here, like he had been preparing for this moment far longer than you had.

“You’re supposed to check if the bars are too far apart,” he muttered, running his fingers between them. “So the baby doesn’t get their head stuck.”

You blinked at him. “Since when did you know so much about baby stuff?”

Suguru didn’t even look at you when he replied. “Google.”

That actually made you let out a small laugh. “You’ve been Googling baby things?”

He shrugged, setting the car seat back on the shelf. “If we’re gonna do this, we might as well do it right.”

We.

The word sat heavy in your chest. You knew he meant it in a practical way, in the way a responsible older brother would. But something about it made you feel like you were holding onto a lifeline, like maybe you weren’t entirely alone in this.

Still, the reality of everything crept back in as you wandered toward the clothing section. You hadn’t really thought about it before—not the clothes, not the blankets, not the fact that soon, there would be a tiny person who needed all of these things.

Your fingers brushed against a small yellow onesie, the fabric impossibly soft beneath your touch. You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the lump forming in your throat. Could you really do this? Could you bring a child into your life when you could barely take care of yourself?

“You okay?”

Suguru’s voice snapped you back to the present, and you quickly dropped your hand to your side. “Yeah.”

He didn’t seem convinced, but he didn’t push. Instead, he grabbed a pack of baby socks and tossed them into the cart. “They’ll need these, right?”

You nodded, grateful that he was keeping things moving.

For the next hour, the two of you wandered through the store, picking out essentials—bottles, blankets, diapers, things you wouldn’t have even thought about if Suguru weren’t there. He moved methodically, as if he had a checklist in his head, while you mostly followed along, letting him lead.

You were staring blankly at a shelf of baby wipes when his voice cut through the air—careful, deliberate.

“So… what about the father?”

Your whole body stiffened.

The air in the store felt different, heavier, as if the walls had suddenly closed in. The noise around you faded, distant chatter blending into the hum of the overhead lights.

Suguru wasn’t looking at you. He was pretending to examine a pack of pacifiers, but his voice was too casual, too measured. Like he had been waiting to ask this. Which you guess he did. You two never talked about the father.

You swallowed, gripping the cart handle a little tighter. “What about him?”

Suguru sighed, turning to fully face you. His expression wasn’t accusing, but there was something in his eyes—something searching. “You never talk about him.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“That’s bullshit.” His voice was steady, but not unkind. “He knows, right?”

Your nails pressed into your palm. “Suguru—”

“Does he?”

You inhaled slowly, trying to keep your voice even. “It doesn’t matter.”

Suguru just stood there, waiting. He wasn’t the type to let things go easily, and you could feel the weight of his stare, pressing down on you, looking for the cracks in your walls.

For a second, you considered telling him. Just blurting everything out, letting the truth spill into the empty space between you.

But you didn’t.

Because saying it out loud would make it real. So instead, you did what you always did. You deflected. Keeping it all to yourself.

“It’s not important,” you said, reaching for a pack of bibs and dropping them into the cart. “Can we just finish shopping?”

Suguru didn’t move. His fingers twitched at his side, like he was debating whether or not to push.

For a moment, you thought he actually would. But then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Fine. But you do know that we‘ll have to have this conversation sooner or later—”

„Yes“

The conversation ended there, but you both knew this wasn’t over. Because Suguru wasn’t stupid. And sooner or later, he was going to start asking the real questions.

But first— baby shopping.

© fvsm4x : do not translate, plagiarise or steal my work.

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[satellite-evans]

right where you left me

Pairing: Max Verstappen x ex girlfriend!reader

Summary: You're still where Max left you.

Word count: 2.8k+

Warnings: angst, based on the Taylor Swift song

A/N:

Hi everyone, this is the first fic that I’m posting for the folkmore series, I am so excited!!! Can’t wait to hear what you guys think <3

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The restaurant still smells the same. The warm scent of buttered bread, the faint tang of expensive wine in the air, the subtle undertone of aged wood and candle wax melting into soft pools of gold. It’s been months—years, maybe—since the night Max walked out, yet the place feels untouched, frozen in time. Just like you.

You sit at the same table, your fingers brushing against the linen napkin, tracing invisible patterns on the surface. The same table where his laughter once curled in the air, where his hands would have reached for yours without thinking. Your glass of water remains half-full, just as it was that night. Untouched. Forgotten. A relic of a moment that still lingers in the corners of your mind like an echo you can’t quite silence.

The candlelight flickers, its glow catching the delicate ring you still wear on your right hand—the one he gave you as a promise before he decided promises were too heavy to keep. You twist it absentmindedly, the metal cool against your skin, a contrast to the warmth of memory.

Outside, the city hums with life. Cars glide past, their headlights flashing like distant stars. The murmur of strangers, the clinking of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter—all of it moves forward, untethered to the past. But here, at this table, in this restaurant where time seems to hold its breath, you sit in the hollow space he left behind.

And for the first time in a long while, you wonder if he ever comes here, too. If he ever stops just outside the door, hand hesitating on the handle, breathing in the familiar scent and remembering. Or if, like the promises he made, he’s let it all go.

“Are you ready to order?”

The waiter’s voice pulls you from your trance, gently but firmly, like a hand on your shoulder bringing you back to the present. You blink, your gaze shifting from the flickering candlelight to the young man standing beside your table, his notepad poised, his expression polite but unreadable.

You only shake your head, offering a tight smile. “Not yet,” you murmur, though you already know the answer.

He doesn’t question it. He never does. Maybe by now, he recognizes you—not just as another customer, but as a fixture of this place. The girl who always sits alone. The girl who never changes her order. The girl who lingers too long over a half-full glass of water, as if she’s waiting for it to fill itself. The girl who still waits for someone who isn’t coming back.

Does he wonder? Does he piece together the story in his mind, constructing quiet theories about why you return to the same spot, why your fingers still play absentmindedly with a ring that should’ve lost its meaning by now? Is he used to people like you—the ones who haunt old memories like ghosts who refuse to be laid to rest?

Or does he just think that you’re a girl frozen in time, that time went on for everyone else but that you wouldn’t know?

A girl that just can’t move on.

He nods, stepping away without another word, leaving you alone once more. Alone with the past. Alone with the quiet hum of the restaurant around you, the soft clatter of silverware, the muted conversations that blur together into white noise.

You exhale, glancing toward the empty chair across from you. It remains untouched, just as it was that night. Just as it has been every night since.

You wonder if Max ever thinks about this place. If he ever remembers the way your fingers used to trace lazy patterns over his knuckles while he rambled about race strategy, his voice animated, his eyes alight with passion. If he recalls how you’d bite your lip to keep from laughing when he confidently—yet disastrously—mispronounced the names of the wines on the menu, only to scowl at you in mock offense when you corrected him. If he ever sits in a quiet moment, caught off guard by a passing scent or a familiar song playing in the background, and suddenly, inexplicably, thinks of you.

If he feels even the slightest pang of nostalgia when he hears your name.

If he even knows that you come to this restaurant, even though you felt the most heart crushing pain here.

That he left you no choice but to stay here forever.

Or if he’s forgotten all of it. All of you.

You hadn’t meant to check, but old habits die hard. One second, your mind was wandering, and the next, your fingers were already scrolling, moving with a muscle memory you wished you didn’t have. Before your brain could stop them. Before your heart could brace itself.

And suddenly, there it was, a picture trending on Twitter.

Max Verstappen & Kelly Piquet expecting their first child together!

The words seem to blur for a moment, your vision tunneling, breath catching somewhere in your throat. And then, below the headline, a photo.

You wanted to say that it was irony or even faith that you found out that he was expecting a baby with another woman in the same restaurant where he would whispered sweet words about how he wanted to be father to your children so badly, but you don’t believe in faith anymore. This restaurant was just destined to haunt you forever.

At least he looks happy.

Happier than you remember. Happier than he ever was with you.

Your grip tightens on your phone, but your body remains still, frozen in place. The sounds of the restaurant fade into static, the clinking glasses and quiet laughter around you suddenly feeling like background noise to a scene you no longer belong in.

You exhale slowly, pressing your lips together as you force yourself to look away from the screen, as if that might erase the image from your mind. As if that might make it hurt less.

But it doesn’t.

The ring on your finger feels heavier. It presses into your skin like an anchor, pulling you back to a past you can’t escape, a past you’re still tethered to. You blink rapidly at the screen, hoping, praying, that the words will change. That maybe this is some cruel joke, some mistake, but they don’t. The image doesn’t blur. It’s real. It’s him.

Another picture.

Christmas. They’re spending it together.

A perfect family. The kind you used to imagine when you’d sit together, planning for the future, talking about how one day, maybe, you’d have a house full of children and laughter.

The cruelest part is how ordinary it all looks. A picture-perfect moment, the kind you once dreamed of having with him, now shared with someone else. A life you are no longer a part of.

It’s funny, really. How time moves forward for everyone but you. How the world shifts, the seasons change, new memories replace the old ones. Love finds new homes. But you? You’re still here, frozen in place, gathering dust like an abandoned photograph tucked away in a forgotten drawer, one that’s too painful to even look at anymore.

You can’t help yourself but eread the headline over and over again and look at the pictures of them spending Christmas together, as if the repetition might somehow make it easier to swallow. Your heart clenches, a familiar ache spreading through your chest. The kind of ache that never really goes away. The kind of ache that lingers, festers, and refuses to fade no matter how much time passes.

You want to scream, to throw your phone across the room, to erase the image, the words, the entire situation from existence. But you don’t. You sit still, paralyzed, watching the truth unfold in front of you, as if you’re witnessing something that’s no longer your story but someone else’s.

And maybe it is. Maybe it always was.

You think about the night he told you. The memory lingers, every detail sharp as if it just happened yesterday. The dim candlelight flickered between you, casting warm, uneven shadows on the table, making his eyes look darker than usual. Your hair was pinned up, just the way he liked it, because all you wanted was to be enough for him, to be loved and cherished by him just the way you loved him. You remember the way he fidgeted with the water glass in his hands, the way his fingers trembled slightly, betraying the calmness his voice tried to convey. He didn’t even drink from it, just held it there like it was something to anchor him. And you? You could feel it before he even spoke. The knot in your stomach, tight and twisting, the way your heart seemed to freeze in place, like it already knew what was coming before your brain would allow it to acknowledge the truth.

"I met someone."

The words barely make sense. They hang in the air between you, impossible to grasp. For a moment, it feels like the world tilts on its axis, like reality itself has cracked and this is some sort of cruel dream you’ll wake up from.

You almost laugh, bitter and disbelieving, because it doesn’t sound real. It doesn’t sound like Max. Not the Max who once whispered forever into your hair, promising you a future where nothing could tear you apart. Not the Max who swore he couldn’t imagine a life without you, who said your names together like they belonged in the same sentence, forever linked. But the words still come, and somehow, despite everything, they are his.

The restaurant around you starts to fade away, the sounds dulling to a distant hum, muffled like you’re underwater, as if the world is pulling away from you, inch by inch. Your heart races, but your body feels oddly disconnected from it all, like you're watching someone else’s life unfold before you, helpless to stop it. You take a shallow breath, but it doesn’t reach the depths of your chest, and the weight of the moment settles in there like a stone you can’t dislodge.

"What?" Your voice barely makes it past your lips, a fragile whisper, so quiet that for a second you think he won’t even hear you. But he does.

His gaze drops to the table, his eyes avoiding yours, as if he can’t bear to see you crumble, as if he’s already sorry for what he knows he’s about to do. His voice is quieter now, almost too soft to catch. "I didn’t mean for it to happen."

You shake your head, disbelief clouding your thoughts. Your hands curl into fists in your lap, nails digging painfully into your palms, trying to hold on to something, anything. The ring on your finger suddenly feels like it’s choking the life out of you. "But it did."

The words escape from your throat like shards of glass, sharp and cold, biting as they land between you. He swallows hard, and you wonder if he’s doing it to hold back tears, or if it’s just the weight of what he’s about to say.

“She has a daughter,” he adds, his voice thick, but the words hit you like a slap, sharp and unforgiving. You feel your mascara run as your eyes sting with the hot, unfamiliar ache of betrayal. But you don’t wipe the tears away. You don’t move. You just sit there, paralyzed, staring at him, waiting for him to say something—anything—that could take it all back. That could prove this isn’t real. That could remind you of the love you thought was enough.

“She’s not mine,” he continues, his voice wavering, like he’s trying to make it sound better, like he’s trying to convince you this is somehow okay. “But I love her like she is.”

The words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. A sudden, cold numbness spreads across your chest, a pain that feels both sharp and hollow. The space between you and him stretches, filling with the things he can’t say.

“And her mother?” You force the words out, each one heavier than the last.

His silence is loud enough to drown out everything else—the clinking of silverware, the murmur of conversations from nearby tables, the soft jazz music playing in the background. Everything around you fades into the background until all that’s left is him and you, caught in the unbearable weight of what he won’t say.

When he finally speaks again, his voice barely rises above a whisper, like he’s afraid of the truth. “I love her too.”

And just like that, it’s over. The last thread of hope you had been clinging to snaps, leaving you floating in a place where nothing makes sense anymore. The ring on your finger burns, searing into your skin, but you don’t take it off. Not yet. You can’t. Because somehow, it’s the only thing left of him, of the person you thought you knew, of the future that is no longer yours.

You know where he is now. He’s winning. He’s thriving. The world sees him on podiums, champagne in hand, his new life already unfolding in the bright lights. He’s standing beside someone else now, someone who doesn’t carry the weight of the past, someone who fills the space you left behind with ease. The world loves him, adores him. And you? You’re still at the restaurant, in the ruins of what he left behind, trapped in a love story that never got its happy ending, a story that no longer belongs to you.

You press your phone to your chest, as if it could somehow stop the ache from spreading. As if holding onto the past will make the present hurt less. But it doesn’t. The weight of the truth is suffocating, a heavy fog that settles over your heart, and you realize, with painful clarity, that you were never meant to be a part of his forever. You were never meant to last.

The whispers around you grow louder, piercing through the fog of your thoughts, and it doesn’t take much to understand why. You hear his name before you see him, and when you finally do, it feels like the ground beneath you tilts ever so slightly.

Max.

He looks different—sharper, somehow. More defined, more polished by the world that shaped him after you. His eyes sweep over the restaurant, and you wonder if they’ll stop on you, if he’ll look at you and see something from the past, something worth acknowledging. But no.

He’s here’s. At the restaurant. With her.

He really brought her here.

Kelly is beside him, her laughter effortless, untouched by the weight of history, the burden of old wounds. She leans into him, her hand resting gently on her stomach, a soft smile playing on her lips as she looks up at him with the kind of love you used to think was meant for you. She doesn’t know what it’s like to sit in this seat, to watch someone walk away, to feel the years stretch endlessly before you as you wonder if they ever think about you.

Max’s gaze flicks across the room, and for just a split second, it lands on you. It’s so brief that you almost convince yourself it didn’t happen. But it did. His steps falter for a fraction of a second, his fingers tightening around Kelly’s hand before he looks away, as if something inside him is trying to hold onto a memory that’s already slipping through his fingers.

And that’s it. No smile. No apology. No acknowledgment. Just a glance, a flash of something unspoken, and then—nothing.

You knew that he didn’t care about you but, facing with that reality hurt you more than you thought. Here you were, coming to the same place a man hurt you because you loved him so much, only for the same man to come too because he didn’t love you at all.

What a shame.

Maybe it is true. Maybe you really are unawarely frozen in time. Maybe that would explain why you still feel the same pain now as on the day he left you.

You swallow hard, blinking away the burning in your eyes. The candle on the table flickers, casting long shadows that seem to stretch endlessly across the walls. The world outside moves forward, time marching on relentlessly, but you remain frozen in place, clutching onto the past like it’s the only thing that hasn’t slipped away.

The moment passes, and Max moves on, just like he always does.

But you? You’re still right where he left you.

[timoogi]

“Lepidoptera Lunatic Asylum prides itself on reshaping misfortunate minds and progressing humanity’s understanding of the inner psyche. Here in Lepidoptera, we ensure to rehabilitate those thought to be broken beyond repair. And if reintroduction into society will not work, they will be safe and happy in our helping hands.”

𝒩𝑜 𝓃𝑜 𝓃𝑜! 𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓁𝒾𝑒𝓈! 𝑅𝓊𝒷𝒷𝒾𝓈𝒽! 𝒜𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝑜 𝒾𝓈 𝓇𝑒𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓅𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝑔𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒿𝒶𝓂 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂 𝒷𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝒸𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑒! 𝒰𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝓎 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓈! 𝒲𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝑔𝓇𝑒𝑒, 𝓂𝓎 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓇?

Welcome to Pupa Project! 🦋

Pupa Project is a personal oc project that I have been working on for a bit now. Originally starting from the creation of the main character in the series, Blythe Waldrop, I grew increasingly attached to her story, themes, and universe. Because of how much this project means to me, I plan to at least attempt to make Pupa Project into a visual novel. Pupa Project is my means of regaining control on an often ill-portrayed narrative. Growing up schizophrenic, I have acquired many opinions, thoughts, ideas, and experiences I feel many may have not even considered. Pupa Project is my love letter not just to my fellow psychotic people, but I think, most importantly, to the child me that didn’t think they’d ever recover.

Disclaimer: All character developments and scenes are mostly inspired by my lived experience. Please understand that everything is a spectrum and this project is solely based on symptoms I have dealt with personally. Some things may also be historically inaccurate for the time period in favor of telling a story!

𝒩𝑜𝓌! 𝒮𝒽𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓌𝑒 𝓂𝑒𝑒𝓉 𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒸𝒾𝓂𝑒𝓃?

(art/introduction sheets below!)

Blythe Waldrop — Age: 11 — The youngest patient in the asylum!

Blythe Waldrop is a truly remarkable little girl! From a young age, she understood very well that she was different. Often times at social events, she would be picked on or teased until eventually other kids started avoiding her all together! She spoke oddly to them, lacked cheerful smiles or bratty frowns, and was content watching ants march around her feet carrying crumbs of cake instead of playing. She often told her mother and father of things she heard and saw, to which they believed to be just part of an active imagination. However, at one such important social gathering displaying her mother’s newest art collection, Blythe became completely untethered from reality and was tormented by visions and beliefs unfit for a productive member of society. In her wake, she had torn apart the art pieces she believed to be watching her, taunting her, and made quite a scene in front of her family’s high-society friends. As you can imagine, this did not go over well with her dear mother and father.

Now at Lepidoptera Asylum, Blythe remains aloof (when she’s not having outbursts.) Doctor after doctor have tried to treat her, but to no avail. The other patients don’t look her way, some out of fear and some out of disinterest. They wonder if she even feels… How does someone so young end up so mad?

Henrietta Vivian Davis — Age: 18 — The liveliest patient in the asylum!

Henrietta is an energetic force! In young adolescence, Henrietta proved to be very opinionated, very sociable, to the point where it was hard to keep her ‘on track.’ Coming from a very wealthy family, there were expectations for the young girl. She must hold her tongue, she must be polite and demure, however, no matter how hard she tried, these things did not come naturally to her. Worrying for their daughter’s future, Henrietta was arranged to be married to a much older man at the age of 17. Henrietta fought this tooth and nail, but there was nothing she could do. While in her fiancé’s company, he would prove to be very… forceful. As the days got closer to their wedding ceremony, and his touchiness seemed to get worse, Henrietta decided there was only one way out. Having vast knowledge of medieval torture methods and historical assassinations, Henrietta got the idea to poison his drink while at a family dinner. This plan ultimately failed, and when it was discovered that Henrietta had attempted to kill him, the courts ruled that she was criminally insane. She was sent to Lepidoptera Asylum by court order.

In the asylum, she seems to be overjoyed! She speaks to anyone who will listen, wanders around gleefully, and is happy to be far away from her family and ex-fiancé. The only thing that causes her agitation is when male staff or patients approach her. She has a tendency to lash out should they get too close.

Thomas Phillipps — Age: 23 — The gentlest patient in the asylum!

Thomas has always been sure of two things: 1) Who he is, and 2) The world is dangerous and completely unpredictable. As a child, Thomas expressed many worries and had peculiar habits to soothe his overthinking. In social settings, he always had great discomfort in how he was supposed to dress and act and speak. Noticing these patterns, his mother and father asked him one day what would make him happy. Finally being given some control over his own life, Thomas expressed his desire to be seen as male, and his family helped him from then on out. Thomas’ father taught him many things, mostly everything to do with blacksmithing. However, as he grew, his worries grew with him. Intrusive thoughts paralyzed him and made him severely anxious around sharp tools. The what ifs swirled in his head and he grew increasingly troubled by such obsessive thoughts. To make matters worse, rumors of Thomas being born a female started to circulate in their well-off community. Paranoid that his parents might take the brunt of such accusations, and his anxieties keeping him from being able to defend them, Thomas sought out medical treatment for his obsessions and compulsions and was ultimately recommended to Lepidoptera.

Once he got settled into the asylum, Thomas feels a tad more at ease. He figures that if anything were to happen, he is away from the public and he cannot harm them. The only downside is that doctors and nurses insist his identity is also the product of insanity. He strongly disagrees and stands his ground in that regard.

Amaryllis Cook — Age: 35 — The delicatest patient in the asylum!

Amaryllis is a very warm soul! That’s why it is such a shame her mind has become something that torments her. She hadn’t been like this in her past. No, as a child and young woman, Amaryllis was bright and cheerful. She was incredibly skilled with needlework, happily married to her husband, and they lived in the perfect home where they wanted to raise children. There was just one problem, one the happy couple couldn’t possibly have known. Amaryllis couldn’t have children. They had tried to conceive multiple times, only for it to end in devastation. With each failed attempt, Amaryllis felt herself slipping further and further into the dark. The last strike was when they finally did conceive, but the child had died in the birthing process. This was the last straw. Amaryllis became inconsolable, maddened by grief and guilt and disappointment. Her husband tried to be her rock, but even he could not keep her safe from herself. He had taken her to see a doctor, and at the doctor’s suggestion, he admitted her to Lepidoptera Asylum.

In the asylum, Amaryllis is one of the more rowdy patients. She lashes out in hysterical, crying fits, making every attempt to “punish” herself for what she believes is her fault. Her depressive state only worsened when she realized her husband was not coming to visit her. Because of the danger she poses to herself, she is usually kept calm with newfound sedatives.

Doctor Laurence Caldwell — Age: 46 — The newest doctor in the asylum!

Not much is known about Dr. Caldwell, and he prefers to keep it that way. A man of mysterious origin, he has been recently hired at Lepidoptera Asylum and has big plans for progress. Dr. Caldwell is unlike most doctors of his time, mild mannered and pragmatic, he is immensely trustworthy both in the eyes of patients and fellow staff. He has quite odd social habits, often fidgety and preoccupied with his own theories, making for a poor conversationalist. Perhaps this is why his patients take to him so well. He believes that the path to recovery is much more… humane… than many others would think.

Doctor Samuel Montague — Age: 32 — The smartest doctor in the asylum!

Dr. Montague comes from a long line of accomplished doctors! That is why it is imperative that he succeed and continue the line of genius. Creative with his treatment methods, Dr. Montague feels he must push the medical bounds in order to strive for great success. No one ever got what they wanted by being temperate and docile. Many of the general public favor his ideas, the patients themselves… not so much… but what do they know?

Nurse Cassandra Beechworth — Age: 26 — The strictest nurse in the asylum!

Nurse Beechworth worked hard for her position! She had admired Dr. Montague’s work when she saw him in action during her studies, and vowed to do what she must in order to progress humanity’s understanding of the brain. Once hired to be a nurse in Lepidoptera, she swiftly made a name for herself among patients. Her temper is fiery and her patience is thin, and when a patient strays from the correct path, she is there to guide them back.

Mister Eugene-Albert Gryllidae! — Age: 25! — Free as a bird!

𝒪𝒽 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑒 𝓂𝑒! 𝐻𝑜𝓌’𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒?! 𝒲𝒽𝑜𝑜𝓅���~!

the machine is faulty. take it apart.

[typewritingyip]

The Arcturus Missions

Part Twenty - Missions

Part Nineteen

———

Initially from an outside perspective, one might think that every country was rapidly ready to work together after the initial invasion of Earth. Those early days of 1984 certainly felt like the start of something changing. Dozens of events happened before September 17th that year. 

83 people were killed in a mine explosion in Japan, the Los Angeles Raiders won the Super Bowl, Apple launch the Macintosh computer, the first untethered spacewalk happens from the space shuttle, US troops pull out of Beirut, a national drinking age is set in the United States, the Olympic Games open in Los Angeles while the Soviet Union boycotts, multiple booms are set off in multiple airports during the year, and NASA space shuttle Discovery takes its maiden flight. 

Even the days around the initial sightings the world still turns; Australia abolishes the death penalty on September 5th, genetic fingerprinting is developed on September 10th, Prince Harry is born September 15th, the US Embassy in Beirut is bombed September 20th, and October 12th has an assassination attempt on British Prime Minister Margret Thatcher. 

Just because the world was under attack by an entirely foreign enemy didn’t mean that everyone was ready to work together. 

Japan, the United States, the USSR, Ireland, and China were the first five countries to have mech suits ready for deployment and they all were entirely different. Japan had redesigned theirs from the base suit under production to resemble familiar animation from the country's entertainment industry, very colorful and reassuring to their public. The United States initially had very militaristic designs, using majority military contractors to build the suits but painted similarly to war planes of different eras. In the USSR, they also were very militaristic but unlike the US kept coloring to a minimum, they used the citizens of the outer parts of the USSR to build the suits. Ireland wanted to quickly join the game, they quickly started to repurpose the disrepaired oil rigs from the North Sea. Lastly, China effectively was able to contract certain works from other countries to assist them in their manufacturing of suits, mostly from the USSR. 

The world kept spinning even while under attack, but for most of the first attacks it was remaining in either country sanctioned waters or off the coasts of major cities. With the Cold War going on, each country was on its own unless it had a major ally with suits. 

—

Sunstreaker sat at the window, frowning out at the glowing city, fidgeting with his hands. Breakdown and Sideswipe were asleep but Jazz was pacing nearby, “Do you think the meeting would be this long?” Already shaking his head, Jazz sighed, “Not for Hound and a few others. Command will still be in the meeting but not one Hound could hear.” Sunny’s fist hit the window and he stood, “Then where the hell is he? Do you think he could have crashed already?” Jazz winced and absently rubbed at his implants, “I don’t think the crash would happen this soon, no.”

The Crash (verb): the overtaxing and overuse of a mech suit to the point of biological deterioration.

He looked back out the window, “Then where the hell is he?” Jazz sighed a bit, finally sitting down, “He’s probably talking with other mechs from the meeting. If half the people I know were there then it’s entirely possible the poor man is stuck in a conversation with Tracks.” The look Sunstreaker gave Jazz had the man lifting his hands, “We’d have gotten an alert if anything really bad happened. Sunny, Hound is fine. You don’t have to worry.” Raking his hands through his hair, the curls stand on ends and Sunstreaker shakes his head, “He’s the only one with experience commanding a group like us, I mean Jazz, if something were to happen to him it would either be you leading us or Breakdown and he’s down for two weeks with a concussion.” Nodding slowly, Jazz sighs, “I’m sure he’s just at command asking far to many questions, look, once Prowler gets back we’ll have an idea of what’s going on.” Sunstreaker turned back to the window, lightly scratching at his implants, Jazz scowled, “Don’t mess with your hardware so much, we don’t have a medic out here and it’s a pain to try and salvage.” Jazz’s own tech was older than Sunstreakers’ and betting integrated.

That was one thing about Sunstreaker, his tech matched his brothers exactly but it had taken him longer to integrate it, and the skin around the hardware was always a little red. Even after passing compatibility testing, the body preferred to reject the hardware whenever it could, a person who didn’t have the strongest bond with their tech would deal with a lot more of the compatability side-effects, such as nightmares. If it wasn’t for Sideswipe, Sunstreaker would have never been a pilot and would currently be sitting in a jail cell back on Earth probably still awaiting trial. 

Jazz moves over and rests a hand on his shoulder, “Hound wont have crashed if he is just starting to experience overuse symptoms. And even if he did, the mechs here in Iacon wouldn’t have just left him on the street.” The door pinged behind them and Sunstreaker looked over, deflating at the sight of Prowl whose face was staring intently at a data-pad, but another mech came in behind him, staring around in bewilderment, “Wow,” Bluestreak’s hand reached out to touch one of the suits just as Prowl’s hand smacked his, “Don’t touch their suits, the humans are probably asleep.” He glances up and pauses, staring at Jazz and Sunstreaker, “Or not.” Jazz was grinning, but Sunstreaker dove for his helmet, cringing at the smell as he pulled it on and started to adjust settings. Waving an arm, Jazz is able to speak up first, “Hey, welcome home!” Bluestreak was grinning, walking over as Sunstreaker finally gets his helmet to pipe in the translations, sighing as they feed him both audio and captions on the visor. 

Mecha are able to cross the room in only a few strides, generally Cybertronians’ are slightly smaller than the average suit but they move just as quickly, next thing Sunstreaker knew was he was back in Bluestreak’s palm stumbling against it, “Damnit!” Sunstreaker desperately grabs at one of Bluestreak’s servos before Prowl moves over just as quickly, “Bluestreak, do not pick up any humans.” Sunstreaker just manages to get the microphone in his helmet on, a small speaker opening up on the side, “Bluestreak, this isn’t funny!” It was as if the room stopped for a moment, Bluestreak was frowning at Sunstreaker and looked to Prowl, “But he is so small and hard to see from far away.” Jazz was struggling not to laugh as Sunstreaker flips him off, “I can understand you now, asshole.” The room shook slightly as Prowl walked over, resting a hand on Bluestreak’s shoulder, “I’d recommend putting the human down before he starts to pull at your plating.” The result was Sunstreaker hitting the window sill surface from a few feet up and groaning, rolling onto his side briefly. 

Prowl sighed deeply, “And they are fragile without their armor, like if we were to walk around without our plating, having exposed protoform.” Bluestreak winced and tried to reach out again but stopped, “I, I…” Sunstreaker slowly got back up, rubbing his arm painfully, “I’m alright Blue, but fuck, please be careful.” Jazz had already climbed for the window to Prowl’s open palm, then up his arm to his shoulder, “These guys don’t have the magnets that I do Blue, especially Sunny and Sides, their suits are too new and didn’t need those parts.” He leans back against Prowl, smiling as the mech moves to sit, already pulling out a tablet, “The humans will have to sleep soon, so whatever you wish to talk about I’d recommend doing so now.” They stare a glance before Bluestreak turns to Sunstreaker, offering his hand, “I’ll be careful.” Slowly and carefully, Sunstreaker climbed onto Bluestreak’s palm, sparing a glance towards the window before looking at Blue. 

They didn’t go anywhere, Bluestreak just held Sunstreaker a bit closer, “I can hardly see you down there, without your suit.” Sunstreaker rolls his eyes, “That is such bullshit Blue and you know it, you just want to be able to hold an organic.” “Maybe.” They shared a smile, but Bluestreak shook his head, “No, I just, I want to say I was sorry for what happened. I didn’t realize.” Nodding, Sunstreaker fixed his helmet slightly, “That is kind of the point. We know there are some of your kind that don’t particularly like organics like us and even only part organics are seemingly shunned.” He sighed slowly, rubbing at his implants briefly, “Us pilots are very much leaning towards that inbetween.” Bluestreak nodded, keeping his hand still, “Well, I’m glad you’re on our side in this fight, Sunny.” It almost made him feel better, almost.

Looking back out the window, Sunstreaker sighed, “Do you know how the meeting with Hound went?” Bluestreak shrugged and josulted Sunstreaker a bit, “No, not really. I wasn’t in the meeting, why? Has he not come back yet?” Shaking his head, Sunstreaker rubbed at his face, “No and now I’m starting to worry, Hound is the kind of guy to push himself to the limit to protect people, and those people probably would be us.” With a bit of a nod, Bluestreak slowly sets Sunstreaker down, “Why else are you worried?” Glancing back, Sunstreaker stared at Bluestreak, “Cause he’s the only one who can actually lead us, keep us alive, and on mission.” He pauses for a moment, glancing towards the other room, “If he’s not okay and we fail, then I’ll have doomed my own brother to death.” Sideswipe might have made sure Sunstreaker got a place in the pilot program, but Sunstreaker got them on Arcturus One, “Oh.” Blue nodded and crouched to be at eye level with Sunny, “You’ll have to explain that to me at some point, I, I know organics age faster than we do. Sure, we die but not as quickly as organics.” Smiling sadly, Sunny turns back to the window, “I’m a young pilot Blue, I’ve got at least another twenty years in me.” And that made Bluestreak’s spark clench painfully.

—

Everyone was asleep when Hound returned, headache back to a painful degree that even the dimmed visor and diminished audio could no longer help. Mirage had been nice enough to help him back to the building but Hound had insisted on going up himself so as to not disturb the others. The door was even painfully loud when he went in.

The living room was empty, the door to the bedroom shut and the door to their makeshift garden also closed, meaning everyone should be either in bed or at least asleep. Everyone had a preference for where their suit would sit through the night and Hound shuffled as quietly as he could over to his designated space, easing himself to the floor before turning off his assistance suit and visual feed, sighing as he removed the pieces attached to his implants. The areas of his implants throbbed painfully. It took a lot longer than normal to get out of the mobility suit, wincing at every pinched connection, Hound knew this was the signs of overuse but hadn’t expected them yet. Though to be fair with himself, he’d never piloted a mech this long and consistently, ever. 

Easing himself out of the piloting chair, he doesn’t even bother with opening the suit, instead shuffling over to the cot he has for missions, pulling off the barrier clothes pilots wear with the assistance suit. It was sticking to his skin both from sweat and blood. It takes another long few minutes to pull on the clothes laid out on the cot before falling onto it face first, trying to relieve the stress on his implants, pressing his face into his pillow Hound moaned painfully. Headaches, body aches, implant irritation; were all the first stage of overuse symptoms and they’d only get worse until the body adapted to the amount of use. Adapt or die. 

Hound was laying face first on the cot, hands resting over the implants on the back of his head and sighed slowly, it was dark and comfortably warm. His head was pounding and it felt like his body had been hit by a bus, he was stiff and just wanted to sleep. Thankfully, it didn’t take long to get to sleep.

—

Staying asleep however was not in the cards for him, as only a few hours later something was hitting the chest of his suit. Hound groaned and dragged his hands over his head before getting up, moving over to the suit release and opening the front of the suit. Squinting against the flood of light, Hound kept a hand on his head, “Morning,” his voice was gruff with sleep and Sunstreaker was glaring, “What the hell.” Sighing deeply, he comes out of the suit and nearly falls, “God, damnit..” he sighs and looks back to Sunstreaker, “Yes?” “Where were you? What the hell happened at that meeting? Prowl wouldn’t say anything.” Sighing deeply, Hound rubs his face, “There is a bar in Iacon that plays music from earth.” That quickly dropped Sunstreaker’s sour expression, shifting to one of shock, “What?” Nodding, Hound rubs at his implants next, his hands came away with dried blood and he scowled, “There is a bar somewhere in Iacon that picked up on radio signals from Earth, they put them through some sort of mechanism to clear up the audio.” Stepping around Sunstreaker, Hound starts towards the bathroom, rubbing his hands on his pants, “It’s from thirty years ago, but still.” Sunstreaker shakes his head a bit, “So it’s the best hits of the eighties?” Giving a so-so gesture, Hound shrugs, “Sort of.” He goes into the bathroom, the door closing and locking behind him. 

Sunstreaker scowled again, “That doesn’t explain what happened at the meeting!” His fist collides with the door before he turns away, heading over to where Sideswipe was setting up breakfast, he glances up as his brother approaches, “That sounded like a fun conversation.” Huffing, Sunstreaker walked over and picked up one of the bowls, scowling down at the fluorescent contents, “What is this?” Sideswipe was heating the fluorescent noodle like substance and shrugs a bit, “Not a clue, but Jazz made it for me before the last mission and it’s pretty decent. Just kinda tastes like potatoes.” Nodding a bit, Sunstreaker sits and starts to eat, shaking his head a bit, “I can’t believe him, the guy looks half dead.” Sideswipe hums, “Let the old men be old men, come on Sunny, just relax about it.” Scowling, he starts to shake his head, “I can’t relax about it cause you don’t give a fuck.” Sideswipe was fast, but Sunstreaker was faster, just dodging the bowl full of hot food.

Hound came back out of the bathroom to chaos, which he didn’t appreciate. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were on the floor, shoving at each others faces, Prowl was standing to the side with Jazz perched on his shoulder like a pirate, Breakdown was frowning down at the twins from the table and Bluestreak had appeared from god knows where. Rubbing his face for a moment, Hound takes a breath, “What the hell are the two of you doing!” Both twins shot up and pointed at each other, “he started it!” They shouted in chorus and Hound started towards them, “I don’t care who the hell started it, it’s over now. Get your helmets on, we aren’t leaving anyone out of this conversation.” His head went back to pounding, the shower having relieved it for hardly a moment. Glancing towards Breakdown, he nodded slightly as he too was giving signs of a headache. It took a moment for them all to get to their suits and get their helmets on, Hound wincing as it connects and Breakdown doing the same.

It was likely that his signs of overuse would be exacerbated with the concussion, Hound hoped silently that he’d follow the two weeks of rest order.

“So, do you all need those helmets to understand us?” Bluestreak bends down towards Sunstreaker, offering a hand carefully even as Sideswipe kicked at his wrist, “Don’t fucking touch him.” “Stop arguing, now!” Hound’s voice was loud but slightly strained, climbing up to the table. Everyone fell silent, Bluestreak helping Sunstreaker to the table, Prowl lowering Jazz to the surface and helping Breakdown up before Sideswipe, stepping back slightly to take a seat. Sighing, Hound rubbed his face a bit, swearing, “Fuck, my head is killing me and your arguing is not helping.” Everyone stayed quiet as he slowly sat down, “Firstly, as I briefly mentioned to Sunstreaker earlier this morning. Yesterday, Mirage saw that I was struggling with a migraine and brought me somewhere quiet and dark to rest for a little while. After that, I found out that the specific bar he took me to clears up intergalactic radio waves for entertainment.” he sighs a bit, smiling some, “They were playing music from Earth.” The reaction all happened at the same time, Jazz shouted, Sunstreaker grins, Sideswipe practically jumped for joy and Breakdown smiled, “From when?” Breakdown’s voice was quiet but distinct, “From about thirty years ago, they were playing a radio station out of Los Angeles.” Sunstreaker paused and nodded slowly, “We really are thirty lightyears from home.” There was a weight that settled over them, Jazz nodded slowly, “But we're alive.” 

Hound nodded, adjusting his visor for a second, “We are and were out here for a reason, so that does bring up what was discussed in my meeting with command yesterday.” Jazz shifted a bit, “Hound, are you sure now is the best time to discuss this?” Nodding a bit, he pushes off the ground, “You all deserve to know what plans have been made.” Sunstreaker reaches out and holds his arm a bit, “It can wait till after you’ve eaten and taken something for your headache.” Shaking his head, Hound holds up a hand, “We’ve all got new assignments, separate from each other.” The silence would have been welcoming were it not so compressing, “What?” Sideswipe was slack-jawed, “The hell do you mean?” “I mean, we all are getting new assignments with different commanders for our safety and for the sake of Cybertron.” Sighing slowly, Sunstreaker let go of Hound, “Is this the cause of the overuse or cause of me being caught?” Hound shook his head, “It’s neither, we need to be at our best and the five of us fighting together is not it.” “That’s such bullshit, you’re having us separated because of Sunny.” Sideswipe moves over and shoves Hound, who shoves his back, “This isn’t about that! This is about keeping all of us alive and from killing each other, damnit!” Hound almost tore off his helmet just to throw it.

Instead he kicked one of their empty bowls across the room before turning on Sideswipe, “We aren’t made for following one pilot's orders and I sure as hell wasn’t made to be a commander 24/7, yet that is where we were currently standing.” He spreads his arms wide, “It’s only for three months, to see which works better. Sides, you and Sunny won’t be far from each other, your commanders are deployed together.” He holds up a hand, turning, “Jazz, you will be returning to your previous post under Prowl, it was recommended.” Jazz glanced back to Prowl with a smirk, “I’m sure it was.” Hound’s face almost burned, that look was certainly more than just a friendly one before he turned to Breakdown, “You’re still on rest for two weeks, but once that’s done, you will be under Megatron’s command with me, technically but we won’t be stationed together.” The twins were both glaring and Breakdown nodded a bit, Jazz almost looked lost in thought, “It’s only three months. If this doesn’t work out then we return to what we’ve been doing.” Sideswipe scoffs, “Oh yeah, like that’s been so great. Bluestreak trying to kill Sunny, you suffering from overuse, and Breakdown down and out with a concussion. Face it, you're in over your head.” Hound looked at him, clenching his jaw before looking at Sunstreaker, “You will be working under Ironhide with Bluestreak and a few people from the Primesgaurd. I hope while you’re there you learn to be more intelligent than your brother.” Sunstreaker winced as Sideswipe turned to gawk at Hound and started towards him, “Hound,” “Sideswipe, you’ll be working under Elita-One, it’s about time you came to understand the chain of command cause this shit ain’t cute.” He steps forward, pointing at him, “If this doesn’t cool your head, then you’ll be grounded and your mech will join the Odyssey in storage. Am I clear?” Sides mouth open and closed silent before Hound nodded and turned away, heading for the ladder, “I am going to take the rest of the day off to get rest, I suggest you all do the same, overuse is coming for us all and it’s coming fast.” He slides down the ladder easily.

—

“What the hell did I do to deserve that?” Sideswipe was pouting, scowling towards Hound’s mech which had been closed off for hours now. Jazz had left to go into Iacon with Bluestreak and Prowl, Breakdown had returned to rest as well, leaving the twins sat together on the window sill, staring out at the shining city, “I don’t know Sides, what could you have done to deserve that? Be serious, you shoved and insulted our commander.” Sunstreaker sighed, eating a protein bar and frowning down at it, “Of course he’s not going to put a lot of trust into you now.” Sideswipe scoffed and went back to repainting his assistance suit, “Who asked you?” Sunstreaker gave him a look and leaned back, “I don’t know and honestly, you’re being a bit of a dick right now.” He moves over and starts down the ladder, “I’m going to get some rest, I’d suggest you do the same. It helps with the side effects of overuse.” “I’m not suffering from overuse. I’m not the old man.” Sunstreaker stared at Sideswipe, at his twin, “Sides, we all are showing symptoms, you might want to check your implants, your bleeding again.” His feet hit the floor and he starts walking towards the bedroom, “That and being a bigger asshole than after the Bermuda mission.” “Fuck you.” Shrugging slightly, Sunstreaker went into the bedroom to get some rest.

Sideswipe reached up and touched at his implants, which were sticky with fresh blood and he sighed deeply, heightening irritability and aggression, one of the many stages of overuse. It really was coming for them all and now they’d be spread thin at best, separated from each other. Sideswipe through the sealed paint can across the room. He needed a drink but the first batch wouldn’t be ready for ages. He swore and laid back, staring out at Iacon.

———

A/N

Wow, that took a while for me to actually be able to sit down and write this. I probably won’t post another part till the New Year but we will see.

I want to thank you all for all your support and love, it has meant a lot to me. I can’t believe that we’re 20 parts into this crazy journey and it’s only just starting.

Tags!

@lunarlei68 @whirlywhirlygig @loop-hole-319 @pixillandjester @alek-the-witch @not-a-moose-in-disguise @goddessofwind8water @neurologicalglitch @dersereblogger @pixel-transformers @mrcrayonofdoom @wireplaces @twilightfreefaller @original-blog-name-2 @devilangel657 @robbin-u @childofprimus @miniartistme @starwold @tea-enthusiasm @valeexpris606 @celticdoggo @bird599 @agentsquirrelsgotrobots @aquaioart @dimencreasatlas @thatwandercat @artdagz @seisha974 @starscreamloverfr @halenhusky309 @leethepiper @cat-cassette @blue-wrens @sirassban @astridkolch @cosmique-oddity @garbageenthusiast @osqindaxend @xervias @azulabutterfly @fryseem @spring-mc

And once again thank you to @keferon for this amazing AU! 💜

[blessedbygookim]

The Queen Of Busan.

Part one: the meeting.

Part two: defeated.

Part three: years.

This has been in my notes for so long, it was starting to collect dust. Had holes in it too like a fucking overused tissue. Took me way too long and way too much procrastination to do at least something with it. 😭

But here it is finally! Enjoy (pls.) Btw it’s s long, so make sure to grab some snacks and drinks and all before you begin. 🫶🏻

Three years.

Three, and perhaps a bit more has passed since then.

But who counts, right?

Well, not Nova.

Not in a sense that she marks her calendar, crossing out every day and counting down every minute with a sense of pride.

No, it’s a bit different.

She is a bit different now.

Victory has a way of leaving scars, even when the battle is won. For Nova, the echoes of her clash with Gun and Goo lingered like a ghost, haunting her in the spaces where silence should have soothed. She had defended Busan, saved her people, and reaffirmed her rule. But the harder she clung to the city she loved, the more fragile it began to feel in her grasp, as though the very act of holding it might shatter it to pieces. Paranoia crept into her like a thief in the night, curling its cold fingers around her mind. She began to see shadows where there were none, hear whispers in the cracks of laughter, and sense betrayal in the most loyal of faces. It wasn’t fear for herself—Nova had never feared anything when it came to her own life. But the idea of her people, her city, being destroyed by some unseen hand tore at her like a blade.

She became a hurricane disguised as a queen, her calm exterior hiding the growing storm beneath. Anyone who so much as looked like a threat, anyone whose loyalty seemed even a shade of gray, was erased from her world. She struck preemptively, not from malice, but from the gnawing dread of what might happen if she hesitated.

Busan remained alive, still thriving under her reign, but the warmth that had once defined her began to cool. The kindness she had wielded like a lantern in the dark was dimmed by the weight of her vigilance. Each decision made for protection, each life ended for the greater good, chipped away at the part of her that had once loved freely and trusted easily.

So, who is Nova now?

Nova had become something more than human, and less. There was a divinity in her now—something sacred yet terrifying, like the wrath of an angel carved in the firelight of old myths. She moved through Busan like a specter, her presence haunting and magnetic, commanding worship without a word.

She no longer sought connection; she had become untouchable, unreachable. People admired her as one admires a star—brilliant, distant, and wholly impossible to grasp. Beauty once made to disarm had become a weapon, sharper than any blade, the kind of beauty that made you question your own humanity. She was a marble nymph come to life, skin kissed by the moonlight, eyes glowing with the weight of a thousand secrets. Her lips could promise salvation or damnation; no one was brave enough to ask which.

Even her movements were a symphony of chaos and control, weaving between the earthly and the unearthly. She operated on a different frequency now, untethered by mortal logic. Her unpredictability was a blade that kept the city’s predators at bay, a dangerous dance of intellect and raw power that no one dared interrupt. Each step, each word, was deliberate yet chaotic, calculated yet mad.

The city felt her in its bones—her rage, her fear, her brilliance. In her, they saw something that outmatched even the chaos of Goo and the calculated terror of Gun. She had become a new breed of monster: fluid, unrelenting, and impossible to define. Busan was still hers, but it bore the scars of her transformation—the quiet streets, the muffled breaths, the lingering bloodstains in places she deemed necessary.

And yet, she knew this could not last. The whispers reached her like a cold wind. The King of Busan, the man who once ruled these streets, was returning. Released from his prison, where he had spent years plotting and waiting, his shadow stretched long over the city she had fought so hard to claim.

Nova had always been three steps ahead, but now the clock ticked louder. She could feel it—the shift in the air, the weight of her reign buckling under the possibility of his return.

“Well, it is what it is,” she murmured to herself, a short laugh slipping past her lips—dry, devoid of humor, like a hollow wind passing through dead trees. It wasn’t bitterness, nor resignation, but something quieter: acceptance.

No, Nova had never feared challenges. They were the marrow of her life, the thing that kept her alive in more ways than one. But she’d learned that some battles aren’t worth the blood they demand. Sometimes, the hardest choice is to let go.

Vengeance? She scoffed at the thought. The two boys, and Charles Choi—they were never worth the weight of her anger. Rot always consumes itself, she knew that, and rotten fruit falls from the tree eventually.

And fall they did. The news came in whispers and headlines, carried on the tongues of her network and glowing screens alike. Charles Choi’s empire, the colossus of corruption and greed, had crumbled under the weight of its own secrets.

And then came the final note in his symphony of ruin: his leap from a skyscraper, a plunge into the abyss broadcast live to the world.

She hadn’t smiled at the news. There was no triumph in witnessing the inevitable. Only the quiet hum of the universe in perfect order, like a thread tying itself neatly in place.

And Gun—the unshakable, unmovable Gun—had taken the fall, as if shouldering the sins of his master. His prison sentence was whispered like a legend in the making, the kind of story that would ripple through the underground for years to come.

The mighty had fallen, indeed. Life worked its strange magic, whether cruel or harmonious, and Nova watched it all unfold from the throne she no longer wanted to hold.

Let’s rewind a little though, back to the aftermath of their fall three years ago. Gun and Goo—two untouchable legends brought down by a woman who operated like no one they had ever encountered. Her victory felt like something whispered in the dead of night, a fairy tale spun from improbable threads. A queen who felled kings.

And yet, such defeats linger. They don’t dissolve into the air like smoke but instead carve themselves into the memory, stubborn as scars. For most, it might have meant retreat, or the slow, smoldering fire of revenge. But for Gun and Goo, it became something far more dangerous: obsession.

For Gun, it was the kind that sharpened his senses and fed the hunger he lived for. She was proof that power could always be pushed further, boundaries could always be broken. Her strength, her unpredictability, and the sheer artistry of her defiance—it was intoxicating. She became his unspoken benchmark, the ghost of a challenge that whispered, Wow, can’t you do better than this? Better than her?

For Goo, the fascination was… messier. He’d always been a man who lived for the next big thrill, the next shiny thing to chase. And Nova? She wasn’t just a thrill; she was an obsession wrapped in silk and steel. That face, those eyes, that terrifying grace—she was every temptation he’d ever entertained, tasting like every dark thought he ever had. More than that, she was opportunity personified. She was a future, a wildcard, a queen in the making who could flip the board in ways he hadn’t even imagined yet.

She lingered in their minds, unshakable. For Gun, she was the fight that got away, the opponent he hadn’t truly bested. For Goo, she was a door left ajar, the promise of something more. Maybe a love interest? Well–give or take–yes.

Her decree had been clear: Gun and Goo were never to step foot in her city again. The words, sharp and final, had left no room for misinterpretation. She had built Busan into her sanctuary, her dominion, and their presence was a nuisance she would not tolerate.

For Gun, the ban had become a ghost he could not exorcise. Not because he feared her wrath—fear was an emotion long absent from his repertoire—but because he was caged. Locked behind cold bars for sins not entirely his own, he now had nothing but time to replay the memory of her. The way her strength had shattered his expectations. The way her movements had seemed to defy gravity, reason, logic. She was his unbroken record, the one challenge he couldn’t replay, and that haunted him more than any prison cell.

But Goo? Goo had no such limitations. He was free, unburdened by Charles Choi’s schemes and Gun’s watchful shadow. No longer a pawn in someone else’s game, Goo had become his own master, a chaotic force of nature with nothing to lose and everything to gain. His Secret Friends were thriving, his plans were unfurling like a meticulously crafted symphony, and the world itself felt ripe for the taking.

And yet, amidst all the chaos he orchestrated, she remained. A persistent thought in the back of his mind, like a song he couldn’t stop humming. Her image, her power, the electric charge of her presence—it was an itch he couldn’t scratch, a curiosity too tantalizing to ignore. The thrill of her had never left him.

Goo had always been a creature of impulse, but now he was something more: refined chaos. Experience had tempered him, not into a calmer man, but into a more calculated one. He understood the value of patience, the power of letting the game play out before tipping the board. But with Nova, patience was a luxury he couldn’t afford anymore.

The idea of seeking her out again wasn’t just tempting—it was inevitable. He didn’t care about her ban; in fact, it amused him. The queen of Busan thought she could draw lines he wouldn’t cross? She had underestimated just how far he was willing to go for the thrill of seeing her again.

And so, plans began to take shape. Subtle inquiries, discreet movements, the kind of groundwork that would lead him back to her city without a single warning flare. Not for vengeance, not for power—simply for the exhilaration of stepping into her world once more.

For Goo, the anticipation was everything. It was the prelude to chaos, the moment before the storm, and he relished it like a fine wine.

Busan’s queen didn’t yet know it, but the game was about to begin again. And this time, Goo was playing to win.

Playing to win. Only playing.

For Goo, life was a stage, a grand and unpredictable theater where he thrived on improvisation, on stirring chaos and watching the pieces fall where they may.

That day they were in his apartment. The room, dimly lit and filled with cigarette smoke, was a chaotic blend of personalities that somehow orbit around Goo’s gravitational pull.

Samuel Seo sat in the corner, tapping ash into a small tray. He was quiet, listening with that unreadable expression of his, his eyes sharp and calculating. Samuel rarely wasted words, but his silence carried a weight that even Goo acknowledged—albeit grudgingly.

Taejin Cheon, a stark contrast, sat stiffly, his cold and precise demeanor radiating a silent judgment of everyone else in the room. His calculating nature was as intimidating as his reputation.

Logan Lee, however, was the odd one out, hunched in the corner, picking his nose with no shame, his oversized frame slumped in the armchair that creaked with every move. His presence was always a question mark, his attitude laced with bitterness toward anyone more attractive, successful, or likable than him—which was, frankly, everyone. Yet Goo kept him around, maybe for comic relief, maybe for the sheer irony of it.

Goo was in his element, as usual, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the table, juggling a golden pen between his fingers like it was a toy. He smirked as he spoke, his tone dripping with amusement and sarcasm as he laid out half-baked schemes and provocations, each one more outlandish than the last.

Yet deep down, he knew better. He knew when someone was several steps ahead, and even as he laughed it off, the thought of Nova’s face flickered through his mind.

She wasn’t playing. She never was. And that thought lingered, unsettling and undeniable, even as Goo turned back to his ridiculous plans with his mismatched crew.

Oh then there is Alexander, he was outside, “guarding the door”, so to say. He always been a man of pretense—bold when he could hide behind stronger shadows, and soft when the world grew too sharp around the edges. Goo’s plans—chaotic, absurd, somehow brilliant—had a way of infecting everyone with belief.

Then sound of heels—sharp, deliberate—echoed down the hallway like a metronome ticking against the silence. Each click reverberated with a weight that made his skin prickle.

He told himself it was nothing. Maybe a neighbor. Maybe someone delivering something. Nothing unusual.

But when he snapped out of his thoughts, a woman was already standing before him, like she just appeared out of thin air. Her frame cloaked in a sleek black coat that draped around her like liquid shadow. Her posture was relaxed, yet the air around her was suffocating.

Unsettling.

Alexander tried not to stare, but his eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to her like a moth to a flame. She looked out of place, but not in a way that suggested she didn’t belong—rather, in a way that suggested the space was simply too small to contain her. Her presence expanded and pressed against the hallway walls, filling every crevice with an unspoken tension.

Her hair was tied into a high, slick ponytail, the strands catching faint glints of light like threads of silver. Designer sunglasses perched on her face, shielding her eyes, but Alexander felt them on him nonetheless. Or perhaps staring through him. The coat swayed slightly as she shifted her weight, and for a fleeting moment, the golden sheen of her heeled boots caught his gaze.

He cleared his throat, trying to summon a shred of authority. “Uh, excuse me, miss… Can I help you with something?”

She didn’t answer immediately, her head turning ever so slightly as if deciding whether to bother acknowledging him. When she finally tilted her face toward him, no words came. Instead, she simply tilted her head down a little to peak above her sunglasses to look down at him, her gaze cool and clinical.

Alexander felt his stomach twist. Her eyes weren’t cold; they were empty—a void that somehow managed to feel like it could see right through him.

“Is Joongoo here?” she asked, her voice low and smooth, unbothered and yet somehow impossible to ignore.

Her tone carried the weight of someone who didn’t ask questions often. Someone who didn’t need to.

Alexander blinked, caught off guard by her directness. “Uh… And who’s asking?” he stammered.

She didn’t flinch. If anything, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugged at her lips. “It’s not important who’s asking. Is he here?”

Alexander’s confusion morphed into suspicion. She didn’t look like a threat—no visible weapons, no bruiser stance—but something about her was wrong. Danger oozed off her in invisible waves, subtle but suffocating, like smoke in an enclosed space.

He straightened his back, puffing his chest slightly, trying to muster some of the confidence that had carried him through lesser skirmishes. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but if you’re looking for trouble, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

Her lips twitched, and this time the smirk fully formed. She chuckled—low, dark, and amused, like a lion humoring a mouse before the pounce.

“Oh, trouble?” she echoed, her tone dripping with mockery. She adjusted her coat with a casual grace, the ponytail behind her bouncing ever so slightly as she moved. “No, no. I’m not looking for trouble.”

She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. “But it’s funny, isn’t it? What if someone is asking for trouble from me? That makes quite the difference, doesn’t it.”

The words shouldn’t have sounded so threatening, but Alexander’s throat tightened all the same. He swallowed hard, the gulp audible even over the weighty silence. And then she chuckled again, softer this time, stepping back just slightly to assess the door once more.

“You know what?” she said suddenly, the grin returning to her lips. “Hell yeah.~”

There was no malice in her voice, but something about the way she said it made Alexander’s blood run cold. He couldn’t quite explain why—it was as though the promise of something catastrophic lay just beneath her words, hidden in the velvet smoothness of her tone. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. His feet felt rooted to the spot as she shifted her weight, standing tall and poised, utterly unshaken by his presence.

And then, just as suddenly as the moment had started, she tilted her head slightly, letting the smirk linger for a heartbeat longer before settling back into her neutral, unreadable expression.

“Well,” she said softly, almost to herself, “time to see if he’s as amusing as he used to be.”

Three minutes. Who knows what happened outside under a mere three minutes.

It ticked by in near silence, punctuated only by the muffled shuffling of feet behind the door. Alexander appeared in the frame—a man who looks like they just faced death itself.

His forehead was wrinkled with a sheen of sweat covering it. His chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid bursts, a twitching smile on his lips betraying an undercurrent of horror. His eyes were wide, unblinking, like he’d stared into the abyss and seen it staring back.

Goo, seated with one leg draped lazily over the other, narrowed his eyes, irritation blooming across his face. “Did you have a very uncomfortable shit or something?” he quipped, his tone lilting with mockery, though there was a razor’s edge of suspicion beneath it.

Alexander didn’t answer immediately. His mouth opened, closed, then finally worked to croak out a single sentence:

“Someone is here… to see you.”

Goo groaned, rolling his head back and gesturing dismissively with his hand. “Tell ‘em I’m busy.~”

But Alexander didn’t move. Instead, his body gave a subtle tremor, his laughter bubbling out in an uncomfortable, broken chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m afraid that would be… useless now.”

The air in the room seemed to thin as he spoke those words. Goo straightened slightly in his chair, the laziness melting from his expression as something more serious replaced it. His mouth opened to question Alexander, but before the words could form, the familiar prickle of danger crawled up his spine like a whisper.

Nova entered like she was born to command every eye in the room. Her movement was smooth, deliberate, each step exuding a lethal grace. The air shifted as though it, too, bent to her presence. She brushed past Alexander with barely a glance, and he collapsed without a sound, crumpling to the floor like a marionette with its strings severed.

But the others couldn’t spare him even a glance.

Samuel, always sharp and calculating, adjusted his posture with quiet precision, his fingers itching toward the cigarette perched between his lips. His narrowed eyes gave away his thoughts—Why is she here?

Taejin shifted in his seat, his impassive demeanor betraying little, but his attention locked onto her like a predator sizing up another. He had the look of a man who could feel the temperature of the room plummet and knew better than to underestimate what caused it. Logan scowled almost instantly. His lip curled, his beefy form tense with distaste, as though the mere sight of her polished beauty offended him. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, muttering something incoherent under his breath.

And Goo… Goo said nothing.

He wasn’t the type to lose his composure too often, but something about the sight of her again—her presence, her ease, her smirk—momentarily knocked him off balance. The playful spark that usually danced in his eyes dimmed. His expression hardened into something that bordered on serious, a rare sight indeed.

“How the fuck did she find me..” He thought to himself.

Nova let out a slow, audible sigh through her lips, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her coat. Her smirk widened slightly as she took in the scene before her: the four men frozen in place, each one trying to decipher the storm that had just walked into their midst.

“Mmm…” she mused aloud, her voice soft but sharp enough to slice through the silence. She inhaled theatrically through her nose, tilting her head back before wrinkling it in mock distaste. “It smells like male desperation in here.”

It definitely earned a few blinks of bitterness and disrespected confusion from the others. Bristle they did indeed.

She shook her head, clicking her tongue against her teeth like a disappointed schoolteacher. For a moment, she seemed lost in thought, her smirk fading into something unreadable. She reached up to slide her sunglasses off, holding them delicately between her fingers. She inspected the lenses with the same casual care someone might use when checking for smudges on fine crystal, before pulling a cloth from her pocket to clean them.

The tension in the room stretched taut as a bowstring.

And she wasn’t in a hurry either.

It wasn’t what she said or did—it was what she didn’t do. She hadn’t barked orders. She hadn’t made demands. She hadn’t thrown a punch or even raised her voice. And yet, somehow, she had the upper hand.

Goo’s fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of his chair, his brow furrowing as he studied her. She was like him now—but more. More calculated. More bloodthirsty. More dangerous. It was as though someone had distilled all of his charm, his chaos, his danger, and polished it into something razor-sharp and terrifyingly deliberate.

Red lights flashed in his mind like a siren, but he couldn’t help the faint tug of a smirk at the corner of his lips.

Nova, oblivious to—or perhaps deliberately ignoring—the weight of the gazes on her, slipped her glasses into her pocket with the same languid grace. She finally looked up, meeting Goo’s eyes across the room with a knowing glint.

“I do have to hand it to you, Joongoo,” she said, her tone warm with mock amusement. “You’ve really gone and assembled quite the… crew.”

Her voice dipped just enough to make the word crew sound like the punchline to an unspoken joke.

She rocked back on her heels slightly, hands still in her coat pockets, tilting her head as if assessing her next move. The smirk returned, sharper now, her eyes glittering with something dangerous. She tilted her head slightly as she examined the occupants, her sharp gaze stopping on Goo. Slowly, her lips pulled into a faux pout, theatrical enough to rival any performance Goo himself has ever put on.

“But you know…” she began, her voice dripping with exaggerated hurt, “I’m kinda hurt…” she tapped her chest lightly, the feigned injury marked by a dramatic sigh. “Somewhere here, I guess.” Her perfectly manicured finger gestured lazily toward her heart, her expression shifting between mock surprise and wounded disbelief.

“How come I didn’t receive an invite to such an important meeting?~” She let the question hang in the air, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow. Her tone was syrupy, her cadence playful, but every word cut like a well-sharpened blade.

“And this crew?” Her gaze darted to Samuel, Taejin, Logan, and then back to Goo. Her lips quirked into a smirk, her voice dripping sarcasm. “How come I didn’t get scouted? Wow… I can almost feel my heart crack…”

The room seemed to hold its breath, the mocking edge in her words loud in the silence.

It was so him. So much like Goo that it felt like someone had taken his own brand of chaos, wrapped it in silk, and handed it back to him with a sharper edge.

But then came the laugh—a low, rich chuckle that curled around the air like smoke. She waved her finger at him, her smile widening. “Joongoo-ya..~” she cooed, her tone carrying that dangerous, teasing note. “You made it big now, didn’t ya?~”

Her eyes shone with something unreadable, the undertone of her words enough to send a chill even through Logan, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat, muttering something incoherent once again. Nova, unfazed, continued, shaking her head slowly as if she were in disbelief.

“Wow,” she mused softly, circling around him with the leisurely pace of a predator toying with its prey. Her sharp boots clicked against the floor, echoing through the room like a countdown. “I like what I see…” She paused deliberately before gesturing toward him, her hand fluttering in the air. “You. Polished and so handsome…~”

Goo didn’t say a word. His eyes followed her every movement, calculating, his signature smirk trying to hold steady but faltering ever so slightly at the edges. She chuckled again, the sound a deliberate contrast to the tension she was weaving. “I could just pinch your cheeks right now!~” She reached out as if to emphasize the thought, her tone sweet but dripping with mockery. Her fingers stopped just shy of actually making contact before she chuckled again, pulling her hand back and shaking her head.

Samuel shifted in his chair as Nova moved closer, stepping directly into his path. Her eyes slid over him like he was merely a piece of the furniture, and her smile widened playfully.

“Oops, sorry, hot stuff,” she said with a mischievous lilt, side-stepping with a deliberately exaggerated sway. “Step aside, please.~”

The casual dismissal of someone as sharp as Samuel was comical in a sense, designed to make its mark. And it did. His lips twitched slightly as he leaned back, choosing to observe instead of engage.

She grabbed an armchair with the ease of someone who had already claimed the room as hers. She dragged it across the floor, her strength apparent despite the soft scrape of the chair legs against the polished surface. It came to rest opposite Goo, right in the heart of their gathering. She sat down with an air of absolute entitlement, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back like she belonged there more than any of them.

It was a clear mirroring of Goo.

For a moment, she studied him. Her gaze was assessing, almost clinical, before she nodded approvingly. “Look at you…” she murmured, the mock sweetness of her voice still carrying that edge. “All grown up now…doing adult shit… playing big man games.~”

The others exchanged glances, clearly unsure how to process the scene unfolding before them. Nova wasn’t just commanding attention; she was demanding it.

“I am so happy to see you again.” She said finally, the words dripping with contradiction. The tone should have been warm, nostalgic, maybe even genuine, but instead, it carried a dangerous undercurrent. Her eyes, sharp and unforgiving, locked onto Goo, and in that moment, they weren’t just greeting him—they were dissecting him. Goo’s fingers twitched against the armrest of his chair, the first crack in his otherwise controlled demeanor. He wasn’t used to being on the back foot nowadays, and Nova seemed determined to keep him there. The smirk playing at Goo’s lips faltered for a heartbeat before he regained his composure, but by then, the power dynamic had already shifted.

Nova leaned back further, her smirk widening as if she could read the thoughts running through his head. “So…” she began, her voice light, almost playful, but carrying that undeniable weight. “Shall we get to the part where I tell you why I’m really here?~”

There were many questions brewing in their heads, but none dared to voice them.

Who was this woman? How did she find them? And, more importantly, why was she talking to Goo like they shared an infamous, bloody history?The answer was there, lingering like smoke from a distant fire, but none of them could grasp it. None, except Goo, whose eyes betrayed recognition and unease.

Nova let her head tilt to one side as she fixed Goo with a look that seemed equal parts mocking and predatory. “A little birdie told me,” she began, her tone playful yet deadly, “that you now feel bold enough to—not just make plans about—but actually step foot back into my city again.~”

Her words trailed off into a sharp, cold silence. For a fleeting moment, the air felt impossibly heavy, suffocating, as if the room itself braced for what would come next.

Then her expression shifted. The playful smirk melted away, leaving her face unnervingly blank, her sharp features cold and unreadable.

“I didn’t take you to be an actual idiot.” she stated flatly.

The air froze again, a tension that clung to the walls like frost.

And just as quickly, the smirk returned, disarming and unsettling in equal measure.

“I guess even I can be wrong sometimes, huh?” she mused, her voice light and teasing once more. She tilted her head, humming softly to herself. “This is the only defeat I’m willing to accept, then.”

It was the kind of emotional whiplash that left the room reeling, the kind that made it impossible to tell if she was moments away from embracing Goo like an old friend or popping his head off its place. Her tone, her body language, even the air around her seemed to shift with every word, keeping them all teetering on the edge of discomfort.

“Well…” She shrugged, waving a hand dismissively. “Don’t.”

The word hung in the air, weighty despite its simplicity.

“It’s as simple as that, ya know?” She straightened her posture, taking on a nonchalant air, but her sharp gaze didn’t lose its edge. “Actually, hold that thought until the former King comes back.”

The words landed heavily, a thinly veiled reminder of who still stood at the top in her mind.

“I’m a woman who doesn’t like being bothered,” she continued with a sigh, her head tilting back as she fixed her gaze on the ceiling. “And, trust me, my plate’s already full, especially because not long ago Busan became a little divided.”

She yawned audibly, a casual display of disregard for the danger the others felt pressing against their chests. Craning her neck to one side, she let it crack softly, the sound somehow more unnerving than her words.

Finally, Goo broke the silence. His voice cut through the air, low and sharp. “You changed.”

It wasn’t a question; it was an assessment.

The Nova who sat before him wasn’t the same as the one he remembered. The woman from three years ago, the one who had once been all soft-spoken charm and warmth, was gone. In her place sat something steelier, something forged in the fire of whatever trials she had endured since then.

She opened her eyes slowly, her expression unreadable as she nodded. “No shit,” she said simply, her tone blunt. “Who doesn’t?”

Goo leaned back slightly in his chair, his smirk returning as he tried to read her. “True…” he muttered, letting the word hang for a moment. Then, tilting his head, he asked with a smirk, “So what makes you think I couldn’t take you now?”

It was a challenge, one that carried the weight of history and unspoken threats.

But Nova didn’t flinch.

Her sly smile returned, one brow arching slightly as if she were indulging in a private joke. “Take me in what way exactly?” she asked, her voice slipping into a tone that was deliberately suggestive.

The innuendo was clear as day, and it caught Goo off guard, his smirk faltering for a fraction of a second.

She chuckled softly, her laughter like velvet laced with steel. “Ahh,” she said, waving her hand as if dismissing the very idea. “You never fail to not make me feel threatened.~”

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with tension.

Her gaze shifted to the others, lingering on each of them in turn. She studied them as if they were pieces on a chessboard, her sharp mind calculating every move before it was even made.

“So…” she began, her tone light but her words weighted. “What are they for?”

The question hung in the air, almost rhetorical.

“World domination?” she mused aloud, her tone dipping into mockery. “Business ventures? Making a bank?—Shit, opening a bakery? One would never know with you…” She shook her head slowly, disapproval flickering across her features.

Then she paused, her expression sharpening.

“But then again…” She tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studied Goo. “I have a weird feeling, ya know? Like you’re trying to replace a certain someone with these people.”

The weight behind her words were undeniable.

“Which he would certainly take as an insult,” she added casually, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Hell, even I would too…”

The room grew impossibly tense as her words sank in.

Goo’s jaw tightened, and his smirk disappeared entirely as he realized exactly who she was referring to. There was no mistaking it now—she was talking about Gun.

The air in the room had turned into an almost dizzying atmosphere, as if the gravity of Nova’s presence had sucked all oxygen out. Her sharp words were laced with biting mockery, the kind that left wounds more emotional than physical.

“I mean, you miss him, I get that, but…” Nova hummed softly, her tone almost considerate as she tilted her head in thought, gazing off like she was trying to solve a mild puzzle. “If my ex-partner in crime were to ever try and replace me with multiple Temu versions of me, knowing the reputation I have… ouh brother—I would be seething.”

She cringed to herself dramatically, her nose scrunching in disgust. “The absolute disrespect… ouhh!”

Her exclamation was almost playful, but the undercurrent of insult wasn’t lost on the others. The three men stiffened visibly, their pride simmering into something volatile. She wasn’t just mocking Goo—she was outright dismissing them as well, labeling them nobodies not just compared to Gun but even as a collective group.

Nova wasn’t done yet.

“Either way…” She shrugged with an air of dismissal, her eyes half-lidded in amusement. “Now that he’s on topic, I was actually thinking about visiting him, ya know? For old times’ sake.”

At the last sentence the other three’s eyebrows knit together momentarily.

Her tone was casual, almost whimsical, but it carried a weight that even Goo couldn’t ignore.

He audibly scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Good luck,” he sneered, voice low and laced with derision. “He doesn’t take visitors.”

It was true—Gun refused everyone, even Goo ever since he has been rotting away in jail. As far as he knows.

Nova merely hummed, seemingly unbothered by the obstacle. She crossed her arms, her gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. “Interesting…” she mused, as if the revelation were some grand mystery unraveling. Then she tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing ever so subtly. “Doesn’t take visitors at all… or just doesn’t take visits from you?”

The blow landed hard, and Goo’s smirk vanished instantly.

“Truth hurts, I get that.” She continued without missing a beat, her voice light and conversational, though the blade of her words remained sharp. “I mean, my time’s almost up as the one who reigns over Busan anyway… It’s right around the corner. Hell, it even makes my heart beat a bit harder, so I get it!”

She gave a little nod as if she were genuinely sympathizing, though the faint smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her mockery.

Goo, meanwhile, sat there brooding, her words cutting deeper than he wanted to admit.

Nova, ever perceptive, shifted her gaze to the other three, her expression softening into something resembling mild confusion. She leaned back slightly, one brow quirking.

“Why do they look so confused, by the way?” she asked, her tone genuinely curious as she glanced back at Goo. “Like they know who I am, but not really.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment, and Goo finally snapped out of his thoughts, his gaze sharpening.

“Especially when I said, ‘for old times’ sake. I definitely felt a shift in the room after my statement,” she added, her voice dipping into a teasing lilt.

And then, as if a realization dawned on her, she turned her entire body toward Goo, her expression shifting into one of mock shock.

“Don’t tell me…” she gasped, her voice dripping with faux disbelief. “They don’t know?~”

The silence that followed was deafening.

It was clear none of the three men—Samuel, Taejin, or Logan—knew what she meant. No one, except for her, Goo, and Gun, truly knew the history they shared. And Charles of course, but he already took this secret to his grave.

Nova pursed her lips, nodding slowly to herself as the pieces clicked into place.

“Oof…Now this is fucking awkward,” she muttered, rubbing her temples like she needed to process the absurdity of it all.

She sighed softly, lowering her hands and glancing back at Goo. “Well then, I guess I won’t run my mouth either.” Her voice was almost empathetic, as if she was doing him a favor. “You gotta keep your dignity intact? Understandable.”

And then, she slowly stood, her energy shifting once more.

Taking a step closer to him and ruffling Goo’s hair in an almost affectionate gesture, one that made him flinch slightly, and followed by two light pats to his cheek.

“I’ll leave you be then,” she said breezily, her tone as casual as if they were old friends. But just as she side-stepped him, she leaned in close to his ear, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

“If I even sense you anywhere near Busan, you’re immediately a dead man. Yeah?~”

Her words weren’t a threat—they were a promise.

The chill in her tone, the sharp edge of her whisper, engraved itself into Goo’s very survival instincts. He stiffened, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

And with that, Nova straightened, her smirk returning as if she hadn’t just rattled the room to its core.

She waved to the others casually, like they were old friends she was saying goodbye to. “Be good, boys!~”

And then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her.

For a moment, no one spoke. The other three exchanged wary glances, each of them trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Finally, Goo let his head fall back against his chair, exhaling a long, shaky breath like he’d been holding it in for years.

“I love her so much it makes me wanna throw up…” he muttered, his voice laced with a mixture of admiration and dread.

Samuel crossed his arms, his jaw tightening. “Who is she to you?”

Goo didn’t answer immediately, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling.

“She’s trouble,” he finally said, his tone soft and almost wistful. “The worst and best kind of trouble.”

The others didn’t know whether to take that as a warning or an understatement… or what he even meant by it at all.

“But we’re still going to Busan, right?” Goo asked, his neck suddenly straightening, his tone light and almost hopeful, his eyes darting between each men, as if he could somehow ignore the very real danger that Nova’s words had cast over the plan. His mind, however, was still replaying her threat on an endless loop. It gnawed at him, and yet, despite it all, his typical confidence found a way to resurface.

Logan immediately scoffed from where he sat, his massive frame tense with disdain. “Do I look like I want to die by the hands of a girl? Fuck no.”

Without another word, Logan shoved his hands deep into his pockets and stood up, his expression sour, and strode toward the door. His presence had already been tested more than enough today, and he wasn’t about to let a single woman undermine him further—yet he wouldn’t dare challenge her, either.

The door slammed behind him, leaving the room one body lighter.

Hah. Puns. (author’s note: I really don’t fw him, sorry.)

Taejin, for his part, remained still for a moment, his eyes cold and calculating. But inwardly, he felt like the entire foundation of his confidence had been shaken to its core. Nova had stepped into the room and shattered that image in a matter of minutes.

He cleared his throat softly, nodding toward Goo with his usual air of politeness. “I’ll have to pass as well. I’ve seen enough for today.”

With that, he exited quietly, his footsteps deliberate.

Goo’s gaze flicked to Samuel, who had remained silent throughout the ordeal. He raised a brow expectantly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “And you, Sammy? Don’t tell me you’re chickening out too?”

Samuel’s jaw clenched visibly, his pride warring with his self-preservation instincts. He knew better than to challenge Nova—especially after what he’d just witnessed. The way she carried herself, the sheer confidence she exuded, made it clear she wasn’t someone to trifle with. And the fact that she seemed to know things—deep things—about Goo and Gun made her even more dangerous.

“I’m not stupid,” Samuel muttered, his tone low and grudging. “If she says you’re dead if you go near Busan, I believe her.”

He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Good luck with whatever suicide mission you’re planning.”

Goo pouted, his usual playful demeanor masking the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Y’all are no fun…” He crossed his arms, rolling his eyes, but he understood their decision. It was the smart choice. No one should be foolish enough to go against someone like Nova, not with how powerful and untouchable she seemed. “What do you think, Alexander?” He asked, his voice light and almost hopeful.

Silence.

Alexander, still sprawled on the floor, didn’t even stir, his body utterly limp.

“Oh—never mind, actually,” Goo muttered, sighing as he rubbed the back of his neck. It was clear that Alexander wasn’t going to provide any answers anytime soon.

And so, in the aftermath of her perfectly executed performance, Nova left behind an impression that even Goo—master of chaos himself—couldn’t quite wrap his head around.

Ladies and gentlemen, and/or nonbinary people, this is how you utterly annihilate someone at their own game without breaking a sweat. No swords, no fists, no flashy moves were necessary. Not even a hint of physical aggression.

After all, why would she need to swing a katana at him? For comedic effect? She didn’t like those things anyway. The scar Goo had given her in their last fight, jagged and deep across her abdomen, served as an eternal reminder. Not of defeat, no—but of her own resilience.

Besides, what was the point of clashing swords when you could cut deeper with words?

All she needed was to dip into that unpredictable essence Goo prided himself on, twist it with her own chaotic brilliance, and let him taste defeat in a language he could understand—one he excelled at but couldn’t keep up with when wielded by her.

She was, in short, playing him better than he could ever play himself.

Why did she go through all this trouble, though? A fair question. The answers, as usual with Nova, weren’t exactly clear-cut.

Maybe it was the thrill of it—the pure satisfaction of planting herself so much more deeper in their heads that they wouldn’t forget her anytime soon. Perhaps it was a subtle reminder of the transformation she’d undergone, a subtle jab at the fact that her growth—her evolution—was, in part, thanks to them.

But most likely? It was to hammer home a truth they couldn’t ignore: no matter how much they evolved, no matter their blood and past, no matter how strong or smart they thought they were, they would never surpass her.

She existed on a level above them. Intellectually, emotionally, physically—she was untouchable, and she wanted them to know it.

The correctional facility’s visiting room was as sterile and uninviting as one would expect—grey walls, a faint hum of fluorescent lighting, and a large motivational poster hanging on the wall:

“LET’S LIVE A HEALTHY LIFE WITH MORAL INTEGRITY!”

Nova barely managed to suppress a laugh as she took her seat on one side of the glass divider, leaning back leisurely in the chair like she owned the place. The guards stationed nearby exchanged uneasy glances, her presence radiating an almost suffocating authority despite her calm demeanor.

Getting in here had been surprisingly easy. The request for the visit went as planned.

Of course, he accepted.

Gun’s initial reaction to hearing about the request had been predictable. The moment the guards mentioned someone wanted to see him, he’d been ready to decline outright. After all, he didn’t take visitors. It was a rule he upheld without exception… except for Daniel but– does that even need an explanation?

But then came the addendum, delivered with a mix of hesitation and disbelief:

“The person has kind of alluded to the fact that even if you decline, she will appear in your jail cell instead… which was sort of a threat and a promise at the same time.”

Gun had paused.

The guard’s tone was nervous—borderline frightened—but what caught Gun’s attention wasn’t the warning. It was the pronoun.

“She.”

He knew exactly who it was.

There was only one woman audacious enough to make such a statement. One woman whose promises, no matter how outrageous, weren’t just empty words but inevitable outcomes.

And now, as he was escorted into the room, the guards unlocking his cuffs before gesturing for him to sit, he finally saw her.

The first thing that struck him wasn’t her hair or her striking eyes, but the sheer presence she carried. There was no mistaking it—it was her, but different. Stronger. Sharper.

The guards seemed to shrink under the weight of her gaze, and even the most hardened inmates passing by stole glances, their expressions flickering between confusion and outright fear. She didn’t look like a woman visiting someone in prison. She looked like a queen surveying her dominion.

Gun took his seat across from her, his face carefully neutral despite the strange sensation churning in his stomach.

“Haven’t seen you in ages,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with curiosity. “I wonder what your reasoning is for being here.”

Her response was immediate, and it wasn’t at all what he expected.

“Just wanted to see for myself how funny life can be sometimes.” She smiled softly, leaning forward slightly. “And this right here in front of me? Is the butt of the joke!~”

Gun blinked. Once. Twice.

He didn’t know what to focus on—her tone, her words, or the sheer audacity of them.

“…What.”

It was all he could manage.

He had been prepared for a lot of things when he walked into this room—small talk, a bit of mockery of his situation, syrupy words and kind advice. But this? This casual, biting banter mixed with an almost childlike sense of wonder? It had completely blindsided him. Nova simply tilted her head, her expression unbothered, almost amused, like a predator watching its prey squirm.

“What do you mean ‘what’?” Nova’s voice was soft yet sharp, laced with mockery as she tilted her head slightly. “This is, like, the biggest joke I have ever witnessed in my 23 years of living!” she exclaims.

"And you know, real recognizes real...and you're looking pretty unfamiliar to me right now." She adds, looking him up and down while she reached into her coat, pulling out a slim pack of cigarettes. Gun noted the lack of reaction from the guards, their indifference as clear as day. They didn’t even flinch when she took one out and tapped it against the pack, settling it between her lips, even though smoking was prohibited inside.

“I mean, it’s especially funny that you’re the one in this predicament, not Goo… or at least both of you.” She exhaled through her nose, shaking her head slightly as she patted herself down. “I can’t tell if I should be disappointed… or just resigned to acceptance. Either way, it’s not surprising at all at the end of the day… you had your head stuck up so far up Choi’s ass, you didn’t even see where you were heading in life.”

Her muttering was quiet, more for herself than for him, but Gun heard every word. She frowned, her fingers brushing over her coat.

“I don’t have a lighter with me…” she sighed in mild irritation, before turning her attention to one of the guards stationed in the far corner. Raising her voice slightly, she called out, “Excuse me, sir? Can I borrow a lighter? You seem like someone who smokes.”

Gun blinked. He was certain the guard would ignore her, brush her off, or at least tell her she was not allowed to smoke here. Instead, the man moved without question, walking up to her and handing over his lighter like she’d cast a spell on him.

With a quiet click, Nova lit her cigarette, taking a slow drag before holding the lighter back out. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice dripping with nonchalance.

Gun stared, his chest tightening for reasons he couldn’t quite explain.

But she wasn’t done.

She gestured toward him with her hand, her cigarette balanced delicately between her fingers. “Can I also give him one? He looks like he needs it.”

Gun stiffened at the suggestion, his eyes narrowing slightly.

The guard, however, shook his head, his tone apologetic. “Apologies, ma’am. Inmates aren’t allowed to smoke.”

Nova sucked in a breath through her teeth, her nose scrunching slightly as she nodded. “Ahh… right. Inmate.”

The word hung in the air like a slap.

To an outsider, her behavior might have seemed nothing more than arrogant—a woman with too much confidence and a penchant for theatrics. But to Gun, it was something entirely different.

This wasn’t arrogance. This was a demonstration.

It didn’t matter where they were—inside this facility, outside in the real world, or anywhere else in the universe. As long as Nova existed in the same space as him, her power would always eclipse his. The room itself seemed to bend to her will, her authority turning even his once-feared presence into an afterthought.

He glanced down at the blue uniform he wore, its number tag glaring back at him like a taunt. Here, in this moment, he wasn’t Gun Park, nor Shiro Oni. He was just another prisoner, indistinguishable from the rest.

The realization stung more than any insult she could have thrown at him.

“What a tragedy…” she began, her tone softening into something almost sorrowful. “You could’ve gone so far in life by yourself. You’re a capable, strong, and intelligent man—no dickriding intended,” She raised an eyebrow slightly, as if daring him to challenge her words. “But no...”

Her voice hardened, cutting through the tension like a blade. “You decided it would be a better idea to devote loyalty to an old fart with one arm who, by that time, wasn’t ‘Elite’ anymore but just a nobody. A nobody who used you like a cumrag, puppeteering you around because he knew damn well that he himself had no power left.”

Gun’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent, his expression unreadable.

“And if that’s not enough…” She brought her free hand up to her temple, as if the thought physically pained her. “…you took all the blame for it. All of it. How stupid can you be?~”

Her voice carried an almost sing-song quality, but the edge in her words was unmistakable.

“I mean, what about Goo? Your friend? I heard you don’t even let him visit you for god’s sakes..”

Gun’s hands curled into fists under the table, his knuckles pressing against his knees.

“He’s not my friend. I don’t have any.” He says plainly, making Nova cringe visibly.

“Eugh.. okay edge lord. Your self-rot is palpable… and smelly.”

She shook her head, taking another drag from her cigarette and exhaling slowly, the smoke curling around her like a halo.

“Anywho, now you’re here. In your stained blue coat…” Her lips curved into a smirk. “Looking like every peasant in there. Congradolances.~”

The word—a blend of “congratulations” and “condolences”—was the final blow, as fitting as it was infuriating.

For the first time in years, he felt utterly, undeniably small. Again.

Gun clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together as he now forced his voice to rise again, though it came out low and taut, a simmering growl wrapped in defiance. “The world is all about results.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, the phrase bouncing around her mind like a loose bullet. The corner of her mouth quirked, her cigarette lingering near her lips.

“Is he for real?” she mused silently, taking another slow drag, her lips curling just slightly as her eyes flicked back to his face. His expression was dead serious.

“Ohhh, he isss.~” She chuckled inwardly, a soft sound escaping her lips as smoke twisted from her exhale.

“It’s okay, Gun.~” Her voice was soft now, a touch of something almost tender threading through her tone. “There’s really no need to keep clinging to delusions anymore.”

Her gaze softened briefly, but the edge was unmistakable, like velvet draped over steel. She tilted her head slightly, her platinum hair catching the light as she spoke again, her tone almost patient, as if explaining a basic concept to a child.

“You know, it’s actually called the consequences of one’s actions.”

The words were deliberate, every syllable an arrow hitting its mark. She leaned back in her chair, her posture relaxed, a perfect foil to the storm brewing beneath Gun’s composed exterior.

Nova watched him, her pale eyes gleaming with quiet amusement as the reality of her statement struck him squarely in the chest, another crack in the fortress of his pride.

“But you know what? Let’s go with your little mantra…” She cleared her throat softly, still holding his gaze as she tapped ash from her nearly spent cigarette. Her voice dipped, taking on a smoother, more conversational tone.

“So… what kind of result is this one, then?” She gestured loosely around the room, the stark walls and buzzing fluorescent lights an unspoken testament to his fall from grace. “Or, better yet…” Her eyes narrowed, her curiosity genuine but sharpened to a fine point. “…is this the result you actually wanted?”

The question hung in the air, heavier than the cigarette smoke that curled between them.

Gun stared at her, his jaw tightening as he fought the urge to look away. The weight of her words pressed against his chest, every syllable forcing him closer to an abyss he’d never dared to look into before.

Nova tilted her head again, her tone light but unmistakably victorious, as though she’d just played her winning hand in a game he didn’t even realize he was losing. “Hmm, no answer? That’s fine.”

She stubbed out her cigarette—on the back of her hand, no less—and not even a single mark marred her flawless skin. The act was casual, but the power behind it was palpable. She smiled faintly, her voice dropping to a murmur that was somehow even more cutting.

“You live, and you learn, White Ghost.~”

The nickname rolled off her tongue with the weight of air—light, dismissive, and utterly devoid of reverence. From her lips, it felt meaningless, stripped of the fear and awe it once commanded.

Gun’s chest tightened further, an ache building in a space he didn’t want to acknowledge.

Nova suddenly clapped her hands together, the sharp sound breaking the charged silence between them. “Well then!” she exclaimed brightly, her tone breezy, almost cheerful. “I should go now. I have a life to live.”

She smiled warmly, but the dagger hidden beneath her words was impossible to miss.

Gun stiffened, her parting statement slicing through him far deeper than he expected.

“Thank you for allowing yourself to see me,” she added lightly, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from her coat as she stood. “Glad to see you’re still in one piece. Alive? Well… that’s questionable.” She shrugged, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather.

Flattening her coat, she tapped a manicured finger against the corner of her nose, like she just remembered an itch, pretending to think of her conclusion. “So, it was nice seeing one another, eh?”

She straightened, her pale eyes locking onto his as her lips curved into a mischievous smile.

“Ganbare!~”

She sing-songed the word as she turned on her heel, her hand waving lazily over her shoulder.

Gun paled. Talk about a white ghost.

The word echoed in his mind, more deafening than any scream.

‘Good luck.’

It wasn’t just a farewell. It was a reminder of his insignificance in her presence, a taunt that lingered long after her departure.

His chest burned, anger, shame, and something deeper twisting together into a knot he couldn’t untangle. His fists clenched beneath the table, nails biting into his palms as he fought to suppress the storm rising within him.

And yet, despite the fury coursing through him, there was something else—a pull he couldn’t deny.

Gun sat in the suffocating silence of the visitation room, staring at the empty chair across from him, his thoughts whirling in a chaotic frenzy. It wasn’t the kind of storm that came from rage—no, this was deeper, darker, and infinitely more disorienting. The silence didn’t soothe him; it mocked him, amplifying her words as they echoed in his head.

Who talks like that? Walks and acts like that?

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shake the weight off, but it clung to him like a shroud.

Funny, though.

Because him.

He does.

It hit him like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, his breath stilled in his chest.

“Oh.”

The realization settled over him, heavy and unrelenting. He leaned back in his chair, the fluorescent lights above flickering faintly, casting his face in sharp relief.

It clicks.

There was no escaping the truth now. Her departure left him with a hollow ache that no fight, no broken bones, or bruised pride could compare to. He was utterly defeated by her, again, not just by her sharp words or her unbearable dominance, but by the sheer brilliance she held—a brilliance that mirrored his own.

Only this time, he wasn’t the one wielding it.

“This hurt a bit more than the previous ass-whooping I got from her,” he muttered aloud, his voice barely above a whisper.

The words tasted bitter, but they were undeniable as his fingers brushed against his own lips, almost in a manner of stopping it from more truths spilling out.

God, her presence was an inescapable weight. The way she carried herself, the way she knew—like she had stripped him bare without even trying. She didn’t need fists to hurt him; she didn’t need power or rage. She had cut him with precision, wielding her words and presence like weapons he couldn’t defend against.

He talks like that.

He could see her face, the faint smirk that wasn’t meant to mock but still stung all the same.

He walks and acts like that.

Her exit replayed in his mind, the lazy wave of her hand, the light delivery of his own words—a devastating parody that lingered like a ghost in the air.

“Good luck, huh?…” he repeated quietly, his lips twisting into a grimace.

His own mantra, thrown back at him, stripped of all meaning.

“Goddamn.”

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. No matter how much he wanted to hate her for this, he couldn’t. Not fully. Beneath the bitterness, beneath the anger, there was something else. It was the way she spoke with such clarity, such precision.

He hated her for it.

And yet–

He respected her for it.

No—more than that.

He craved it.

Her power, her brilliance, her ability to command a room without lifting a finger—it was maddening, infuriating, and utterly intoxicating.

Gun leaned forward, his elbows resting on the cold surface of the table, his fingers clasped tightly together. The burn in his chest hadn’t faded; if anything, it had intensified.

“God damn,” he muttered again, the words heavy with a mix of frustration and reluctant admiration this time.

She had walked out of his life just as quickly as she had entered it, but the mark she left behind was seared into him, impossible to erase.

She had been right about everything, of course.

That was what hurt the most.

And Nova strode through the bustling streets of Seoul with the kind of elegance that couldn’t be taught—only possessed. She moved effortlessly, a living enigma who didn’t seek attention but commanded it nonetheless. Her silhouette danced between the glow of city lights, her platinum blonde hair gleaming like a beacon under the neon signs.

“Today was very stimulating…” she murmured, her voice as soft as silk, laced with satisfaction.

Her gaze flitted across the passersby, their heads turning as if drawn by some unseen force. Men and women alike stole glances, their curiosity piqued by her undeniable presence. But Nova didn’t care for their stares or their admiration. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

The countdown was over.

Three years and some change since she had last stood face-to-face with either of them. Gun and Goo—two men who thrived on dominance, control, and a touch of chaos.

Today, she had proven them both right and wrong in ways neither could have anticipated.

Nova smirked to herself, the corners of her lips tilting upward as she exhaled deeply. “They’ll get over it,” she mused, kicking some rocks.

She cooked, ate, and left no crumbs, as today’s generation would so aptly say.

Her heels clicked against the pavement, the sound a rhythmic reminder of her triumph. She inhaled the cool night air, savoring the freedom of the moment. There was a strange sense of satisfaction in knowing she had set something in motion—a shift, a ripple in their otherwise unshakable lives.

“Three years,” she muttered, her tone reflective. “All for today.”

And it had been worth every second.

[penvisions]

of beskar and kyber {chapter 22}

Pairing: Din Djarin x Force Sensitive! Reader (the Mandalorian x Force Sensitive! Reader)

Summary: With a plan set in motion, it immediately begins to fall apart at the seams. Maldovan is proving to be one of the planets you face some of your most devastating hardships on, and you're not sure you can survive it intact this time.

Word Count: 10.8k (!!)

Warnings: canon typical language, canon typical violence, death, "on screen" death, din raises his voice one (1) time, argumentative language, inner musings of reader, mentions of past heartbreak and pain, reader is being held captive against her will, talk of self-harm, references to past self-harm, mentions of IV ports and shots, glossed over references to surgical procedures, deadly poison, talks of injuring / killing people, ritualistic and religious activities, talk of past manipulation and administration of sedative drugs, reader has a lot of quiet moments in this, sexual content, reader has one (1) absolutely feral moment, those are all the big ones!

A/N: this marks the end of my all original content arc!! i'm so proud of myself and i hope this doesn't emotionally destroy you too much, oops (p.s. special shoutout to @sawymredfox for the lovely moodboard that helped to inspire me this chapter)

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

Everything was too bright, even through your closed eyes. It was as if you were underneath a spot light, trained on you, making your entire body feel overheated and almost burning. You tried not to cry out, to hold in the sound as the sensation became too much and your body convulsed, and your eyes flew open.

The memory of killing your intended flooded your mind, the one of you biting into a truffle so strong you could feel the smooth give of the melting chocolate on your lips and tongue. The viscous sensation of the sugary warmth thick on your cotton-like tongue. But it was a bed you woke up in, in the same room as the one your mother had made up for you in the infirmary. She was nowhere to be seen, there was no medic or droid around either. You were alone.

The monitor you were hooked up to wasn’t reading anything, you’re breathing so shallow and the heartrate almost nonexistent. The poison had worked, it allowed for the plan to go through, now all you had to do was knock out the guard, grab your bag and meet up with Din in your room. The escape route was to sneak out under the guise of being a servant, alongside him still in his disguise.

To rush without drawing attention across the city and toward the shipyard, where Cara and ad’ika were waiting. It had been at your insistence that the little one be as far away from your mother once you had regained your sense of self, there was no chance you would take of her getting her hands on him. He had fussed, sensing you so close by when the news was told to him. But even his loud wails and cries couldn’t change your mind, his safety was paramount.

You look for the file, reading the summary at the end of it pronouncing your passing. That you had perished to the symptoms of the poison administered to you. The orders to burn your body not uncommon for someone of royalty, the culture of Maldovan is to honor those in death by allowing them to untether from their bodies to ascend to the afterlife. The order given in the signature of the king and queen, scrawled into the file directly.

It’s your ticket out of here, to run as you saw fit. To escape from the environment in which you had been sold into.

As quickly as you can manage, you exchange the cream sleeping robes you had been dressed in for the dark ones of a guard. Muscles protest the twisting and movements of dressing, sore from the currents that had raced through your body, the poison that had no doubt affected you more than you anticipated.

Arms protesting as you wrap your hair up to conceal it underneath a cover, a leather band holding it in place, another pin allowing for the remaining fabric to drape over your face. With only your eyes visible, you don’t waste any time before making your way through hallways and to the room you agreed to meet up with Din.

The only thing you intended was to retrieve the bag you had stored in the back of your closet. A small collection of clothing and things you could had come to care about while constricted in the life your mother had tried to trap you in.

It may be questionable, the meaning behind it, but the ring Prince Cala had gifted you was beautiful and made your heart flutter for some reason. It was the perfect embodiment of all that you loved should you be given the choice to pick such a piece of jewelry. All polished sterling silver, delicate pastel emeralds lined up in a small cluster of three. You couldn’t bear to part with it, even with the brand associated with it. The way it allowed for the things that happened on this planet to live brightly in your mind and memory.

Perhaps it was because the only way the Prince would know what you would like…was because your mother had to have told him. A small understanding of who you really were beneath all that she forced you into and to mold to, a true part of yourself she had seen and remembered even in her manipulation.

You recall the discussion of removing it to hide it away in the bag, Din’s confusion at such a notion.

‘His lips are soft against your own despite the slight roughness to them from being chapped, from his earnest attempts at being everything you needed the past few months. His own needs falling by the wayside, his own routines holding little to no meaning if it didn’t have to do with ensuring your comfortability or protection.

Cara indulged in all the servants’ quarters had to offer, something she admitted to you on one of your walks, not only to keep up pretenses now that your memory had returned, but a small bubble of time to allow Din to rest. Ad’ika in your arms and cooing along to the sound of your voice every so often, big, beautiful brown eyes looking up at you with admiration as he holds a hand over the middle of your chest.

“Mesh’la,” His voice is a low groan, igniting a smoldering fire beneath your skin. Despite everything, despite all the damage caused by your mother, your body still reacted to him as it had begun to before your kidnapping. Despite the last encounter you two shared…

“My armor, your armor, your weapon. It’s all aboard the ship, down at the docking yard.”

“No, you’re still wanted. I don’t…I can’t bear the thought of you getting captured, they would execute you, this world doles out punishments quickly.” You tighten the grip you’ve got on his wrists, nudging the bronze braces further down his arms, revealing more of his skin for your eyes should they open. But you keep them closed, not wanting to see him for the first time in such circumstances, in a desperate attempt at connection before all chances of it could be lost to you both.

You don’t jolt when he presses to you as much as the bars allow him, the front of his body hot against yours, just as his lips close in around your bottom one. His fingers dig into your hairline, nails scraping gently as he tilts your head just a fraction, deepening the kiss. You can’t help the small sound that escapes your lungs on an exhale, fed into his parted mouth from your own. He swallows it down, giving you one in return when your tongue touches to his.

You startle slightly, overcome by the forward action. By the heat you could feel coming off of him as he responds to your touches in much the same way you are to his. His fingers pull lightly at your hair, holding you in place to prevent you from moving out of reach, it’s intoxicating the way he’s moving against you. Small traces of his tongue along your bottom lip, a chaste kiss to it, to your upper lip, to the tip of your nose and each cheek. His forehead rests against yours as he simply shares air with you now.

Maker, you wish you could see the needy, open expression he’s surely sporting. The furrow of a strong brow, full lips swollen from exchanging kisses, cheeks flushed from emotion and need. You wanted to see it, with everything in your being, but not this way. Not this setting, not while you were anywhere but aboard his ship. His sanctuary. Your sanctuary.

“Din,” You pant, hands moving to grip at his elbows, practically begging him to hold onto you. Just for another moment, another breath, another lifetime.

“San, I promise you….this will be the last time you’re at the mercy of someone else. I swear to you, you will be free, at any cost. I will spend the rest of my life ensuring your freedom, let me, ner k’arta. Even if I  don’t understand the reasoning behind certain things, you are the most important.”

He lingers, until the sun sets and hour signals the shift he had traded with another coming to an end. He doesn’t leave space until a handmaiden descends the stairs. With her is a tray of dinner covered by a domed lid. The smell of caf wafting from the covered mug beside it.’

You turn at the sound of your door opening, your given term of endearment shaped on your lips but your entire expression steels when you see the form of your mother in the doorway. Or at least, that’s who you see when the figure is too small to be Din, a servant that distorted in your vision. The effects of the poison making themselves known in the blurring of colors and sunlight being too bright.

Shaking your head, you realize its your secondary handmaiden. No doubt instructed to begin cleaning the remnants of you from the room. She gasps, startled by your presence though you’re sure she doesn’t recognize you beneath the cover.

“Apologies, I was unaware another was sent to clear the Princess’s room.”

“Was told to gather the valuables, to return to the Queen for safe keeping. I will be gone in a second.”

She’s quiet as she watches you mentally go through the things you need and what’s in the bag, tossing one of the straps over your shoulders before you bowing to her and departing from the room. You make it down the hall a few paces, mind jumbled as you realize Din is late. There’s no sign of him in the hallway nor those that lead to the one your bedroom is located in. Your answer as to why is found in the form of you someone suddenly grabbing at your robes to pull you into a room as you pass the doorway. There’s a slight prick of a needle in you neck and with a shiver from the cold liquid inside, you know exactly who it is.

“Your Mandalorian didn’t expect me to wake up, that much was obvious.” Your mother laughed bitterly as she fastened the cuffs around you, the chains connected them clinking as she did so. The poison and the sting of the sedative make you move slowly, muscles tired and barely functioning. “Managed to sedate him, though he took a lot more than you typically do. I suppose it makes sense, he’s such a big man.” She scoffs at the thought of him, of downing him as she claims. Your heart seizes, worry clouding your mind as she and the sedative work together to immobilize you.

“Bet you let him defile you, in anyway he chose to, didn’t you, my darling? Probably thought it was love, that it was consensual. But he’s using you, just like the others. The Jedi who took you away, who let you fall victim to an attack that eradicated them. To the Mandalorian you claimed protected you in the aftermath, the one who wouldn’t return you home to me. To the Empire who held you captive, demanded things from you until it corrupted you. Changed you into someone you never would’ve become. He’s using you, just the same. Wants to own you, control you, keep you all to himself. Your body and your power the only thing he sees in you.”

Anger and resentment make the energy around you swirl, feeling it more so than a light twinge but a full force all around you ripe for manipulation. Reaching out your mind, you focus it on the chains being pulled taut as your arms are fastened behind your back. She’s moving to fasten the ones about your ankles together when the first one clicks open, the mechanism inside broken. You shove at her next, tossing her off of you and into the other wall.

The chains wrapped around your body were short, the links of them only a few dozen as you free yourself from the hold of your mother. Her own body weak from the poison and the collision of her back to the wall, allowing you to distance yourself from her. To gain a few feet of space as you begin to careen down the hallway. But she follows, far too quickly for comfort once she manages to find her balance.

Footsteps heavy, you feel the sedative try and take ahold of you, but you fight it off. Focusing inward to try and thwart it, negate in in a small bout of healing. Your mind worries for Din, for his own safety. What if your mother had told the guards of his true identity? Would they already have him held in the dungeons, his sentence being doled out? The entire plan of killing and escaping fallen on his shoulders and the blame placed on him?

No thoughts were running through your head other than to get to her quarters, but as you approach the hall, there’s a fear that he’s not there. The bag in your hand grows heavy as your hunch it proved correct, he’s no where to be seen inside her large room. As she’s rounding the hallway herself, slower than you but no less determined, she sees the end of your robe disappear around the other side of the long hall.

Back to the medical wing, you think as you move as quickly as you can down the stairs, far too many of them for you to move at a faster pace. You didn’t want to risk tripping on your tensing muscles. As soon as your boots make contact with even ground once again, you’re careening down a wide hallway, the servants back rooms and paths the goal to travel across the grounds without drawing any more attention.

A distraction never hurt anyone, you reasoned as you dug a hand into the bag for a small round disk. It feels alive in your palm as you nearly slid into the dining hall, the destruction of it paramount to call for servants and guards alike to the scene, to keep everyone in the main part of the palace. To ensure you time to find Din and make the call to Cara for an emergency escape right from the grounds. You trusted her skills, her ability to get the ship low enough for you to load an unconscious Din and then yourself with minimal firepower. All the focus would surely be on the dining hall, the ruined wedding, the craze of your mother claiming her whatever story she concocts.

The three high-pitched chirps of the grav charge you recognized from Din’s weaponry echoed in your ear as you planted it along the ornate door the second your mother was rushing through it after you. The dining hall had been transformed into an extravagant set up for the ceremony. Rows of chairs lined up, beautiful collections of flowers adorning each column, lanterns set up high and in vast numbers, the candles in them unlit. But it all lays in disarray now, covered in debris.

“San!” You heard Din’s voice through the dust and floating debris, but the ringing in your ears drowned it out much the same way the drugs still in your system convinced you it wasn’t even real. It couldn’t be, your mother, she already ensured his death with nothing but a single word. Hoping to crush the very last bit of your heart and will to fight. The only thing on your mind was survival. He was too far, he was fast and he was skilled beyond many but he was down the hall based on the way his voice echoed to reach you.

You called back, hoping that it wasn’t your mind playing tricks on you, the term of endearment echoing back to let him know your precise whereabout should he really be searching for you. But you were sure it would be too late; your mother was already surging up from the blast. Her body covered in ash, dust billowing off of her as she moved as quickly as she could.

You spied the remote on the ground but instead of rushing toward it, you went for your mother who was still sprawled on the ground from the force of the detonation. She roused slightly but burst into movement when she saw you heading straight for her with anger in your eyes. As soon as she scrambled to her feet, you whipped your hand out to send a piece of broken pipe across the room and into her legs.

“San, please, you’re not angry with me! It’s him! He’s the one whose done all this!” She shouted as she regained her footing and tried to flee out into the hallway, she dove for the remote when she spotted it abandoned on the floor. You were already swinging your chains, gathering momentum and just as she broke the threshold you threw it out. The chains wrapped around her middle and you pulled as hard as you could.

Out of the corner of your eye you saw Din’s form burst into the entryway, his entire body moving lethargically. He was fighting the sedative; he was fighting it to search for you. His voice called out again, as his head swayed slightly. The

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself as her body collided with yours just as she pressed the trigger on the remote, she had managed to get in her grip, just standing back up from reaching for it as you closed in. The shock was debilitating, originating at the crown of your head, pulsing in your temples and flying across your body to ignite your very nerves on fire. The chains around your wrists, making it even worse, the electricity feeding off of itself for a long moment. You gripped your mother’s body tight to you, the shock transferring to her as well.

Din shouts out your name, louder than you’d ever heard him speak before. But it barely registered over the scratch of your own voice torn from your throat as you cried out.

You both fell to the ground, your teeth gritting so hard you feared your jaw would break.

As soon as you were able to, you rolled over to pin your mother’s rousing form, the chains clinking around you, the metal heavy where your muscles braced against it. She was blinking up at you, her own body no doubt feeling the dangerous effects of the electrocution. Faintly aware of quick steps thundering in the hall, you didn’t dare look away from the woman beneath you as your hands came up to bunch at the front of her robes.

“You will control me no longer!” Using your shaking limbs, you lift her up by the front of them and slam her back down to the ground. Voice wrecked and trilling.

“S-San, ple-please.” She coughed, voice broken as she tried to reason with you, her breathing labored and her mind still with her.

“No!” You couldn’t help but lift her slightly off the ground only to slam her back down to collide with the lavish and polished floor again and again. “You- have- done- nothing- but- take advantage of me my entire life! You had no right to be that way toward me, to do the things you did to me. Your own flesh and blood! Your only family, your only child! I’ve known more kindness from strangers, from those who don’t even know me!”

“I only did it to protect you!” She cries her own words, sweet voice no longer pitched high in an act but raspy as you recalled it being as a child, the voice that haunted your waking hours just as much as your sleeping ones. Pleading with you, the dynamic completely turned now. But there was no reasoning with you, even if Din were to approach you now, even if your old protector Akiz rose from the dead to ask you to show mercy- you could not.

“You never protected me, you’ve only hurt me. Over and over and over again. Every time you chose to load up the needles, every time you closed the shackles on my wrists and ankles, every time you locked me away in the dark with no way to even know I was alive! You made me want to end my live, mother!”

“I didn’t mean- I only wanted-“

“You made me so unaware of everything, I didn’t even know I was a person!” You were shouting at the top of your lungs now, for all to hear. The small crowd of servants and the people dressed in decorated robes surrounding Din in the doorway. Everyone unsure of what to do, of how to break the scene up. But when Din’s figure tried to, he suddenly halted as if there was an invisible barrier preventing him from entering the room. “You treated me as harshly as those that corrupted me!”

“I sold you to give you a better life, to give us a better life! One I couldn’t give to you on an armor’s earnings. It was for your own good. The things I did were for all for your own good, San, you have to believe me!”

Your knuckles popped as you curled your hands around her throat, the flesh and tendons forming to your tight grip. Her own hands scrabbled at any part of you she could reach but you ignored the dig of her nails into your arms, into the base of your neck, eyes locked with hers as they widened in fear and desperation.

“I won’t let you, I won’t let you, not anymore!” You snarled, teeth bared and emotions raw as you watched her gurgle your name, voice tapering off and turning raspy the longer you held to her. Your own shaking and distorted, hoarse from the power behind your shouted words. The same power you felt flooding your veins was all your own, no influence of the Force. You could feel her, the energy of her very being waver, fade, the light going from her eyes as her hands fell limp to her sides.

Tears sprouted from your eyes, falling onto her slack face as her lips tried to form your name one last time. When her last breath left her chest, your hands loosened thought you didn’t remove them. The fear of her suddenly springing up and turning the tables on you all to real even as you took in the way her slightly parted lips were slack, the spittle and splotchy red patches decorating the skin of her face and neck. Her golden skin tainted and marred, just like that about your wrists, about your ankles, about your heart.

Bowing, you nudged the crown of your head underneath her chin, hands moving down to her shoulders, tears flowing freely, sobs wracking your body as you nuzzle into the body of the woman who was supposed to love you, support you, help you navigate the world. The woman who had failed you in every conceivable way, who had taken what little parts of you had survived the events of your life. All of the power and fight leaves your body, energy drained and muscles slack.

All you can do is weep.

You didn’t jump when a hand settles on your back, when the warmth of it seeps into the layers of fabric and into your skin. A comforting weight, a familiar weight. Din.

“Vaabir nayc ku'rukar, bic cuyir shi ni.  Ner kar'ta, gedet'ye, vi linibar at ba'slanar.  Ogir cuyir naas olar par mhi payt.” His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper as he speaks softly to you. As he calls you back to the room, to the time, to him.

Do not startle. My heart, please, we need to leave. There is nothing left for us here.

“Val cuyir dar.” You rasp out, voice strained and small. So much like a child lost in a crowd and searching for someone, anyone to help them get back home.

She’s gone.

“Ni kar'taylir, San.  Vi…vi linibar to-"

I know, San. We…we need to-

“Ni liser't ba'slanar kaysh!” You lift your head, eyes meeting Din’s with a fierce desperation. The meaning of your actions settling in as you feel the body beneath you. “Val may ganar let ni slanar, val may ganar harmed ni, a ni liser't ba'slanar kaysh.  Liser't ba'slanar kaysh baar olar, ogir. Ogir cuyir kebise vi vaabir! Bat K'ath.  Val- val deserve at nari bat.”

I can't leave her! She may have let me go, she may have harmed me, but I can't leave her. Can't leave her body here, there...there are things we do! On K'ath. She- she deserves to move on peacefully.

He’s suddenly turning his back on you, broadsword held up in defense as two figures approach. They’re surrounded by more guards dressed exactly like him, like you. Dark billowing robes, though their hands remain gripped around handles of their own weapons. The steps of so many approaching falling on his ears alone, you are too lost in your grief, too focused on the woman who lays dead before you. Because of you.

“Stand down, we do not wish to harm her. Nor you.” A woman’s strong voice, cadence lilted in the way that conveyed a high standing. Her robes were shining in the sun filtering in from the tall, arching windows in the room. The colored, faceted glass at the top allowing for prisms of color to splash over the room even as dust continues to settle. Highlighting the damage done by the grav charge. Tables and chairs strewn about, petals from flowers littered over everything. Glass glittered about, as did the remnants of stone columns, two of which hadn’t been able to withstand the explosion. The perfect set up for what was supposed to be a joyous union, shattered down to the very details.

“Aliit, the queen commands you. Heed her words.” Another servant tempered, bridging the gap between the man standing guard before you and those that commanded all of the planet.

“The only words I follow are hers and those of my Creed.” He spares a glance back at you over his shoulder. The confidence in his stance and the conviction in his words pulls you to your feet. You gaze around him, eyes landing on the two figures standing before him. The depictions of them cast in oil paint and in holo nets the only time you’ve seen them, but you would recognize them anywhere. The king and queen of Maldovan.

The people who had been set to become your family.

The people whose son you murdered with your bare hands.

And they stand before you and Din, hands up and placating even though they just witnessed you strangle your own flesh and blood.

Instincts of flight light you up from the tips of your toes to the still aching crown of your head. Though you do not move, you simply stand behind Din, who is poised for a fight. Ready to defend you, to protect you, to ensure your freedom now that your mother’s clutches can no longer control you. You stand still and strong behind him, to match his devotion and willingness to face a potential new threat head on.

“San of K’ath.” The man steps forward, the golden jewelry adorned around his neck and the clasps on his ceremonial belt jingling as he bows at the waist toward you behind Din’s large frame. “We want to express our deepest apologies for the tragedies you’ve encountered while here in our home. From the way you were coerced here against your will to the attempt on your life just last night.”

“We want to extend the offer to undo any medical procedures your mother conducted alongside our medic. There are locked files on our system, we can only assume they worked together willingly. As well as offer you the suite in which you’ve occupied for however much time you require to recover. We humbly request peace from this point on, your skills are beyond anything we wish to fight against. Should you wish to leave this moment, we would allow you to. The contents of your room are yours, the gifts given to you for the union ceremony are yours. Should you want for any of it.” The queen bows as well, her headpiece secured over braided hair glinting in the sunlight.

“You are the Mandalorian, the one Lena had requested we put a bounty on.” The king rises from his bow, eyes focusing on the stance Din holds, the way your fingers had wrapped around the back of his robes. A question, his words are not. But a fact that is now out in the open. His fierce protectiveness, the manner in which he had held back guards that followed in his movements about the palace in his attempts to locate you, the way he holds himself, shields most of who he is from all to see.

They can see the was you hold yourself, how you had nearly effortlessly taken out the threat your mother had revealed herself to be. The use of the Force minimal, but still seen by those who had crowded the entrance to the damaged hall, called forth in haste by the grav charge you had deployed. It is obvious now, the strength you possess yourself, the skills you had hidden away in order to play the part of a willing daughter until a moment for your escape made itself known. Two trained and skilled individuals that now have no reason to hold back. The glimpse of freedom right in front of you both, yours to take, to defend with everything you had.

“She had said you were part of the people who had hunted her since her younger days. A threat that always lurked around the corner. But- that is false. From the way you’ve gravitated to her since your arrival, you’re bonded. A pair that cannot be separated. Is this correct?”

“Yes,” Your answer was immediate. “He’s…he’s my-“

“We are to be joined, according to my religion. Should she still want that after this ordeal.” Din fills the silence when your words falter. When the conviction in them at labeling what he is to you in Basic fails you.

“I see,” The queen looks between you both. “Then the proposal to wed you to our son was ill-intentioned. Stolen away from one you love for another of status. The culture of others is so foreign to us, we couldn’t imagine taking the happiness of our child away. Even if he…had incongruities.”

“The poison, it was an attempt on both your lives. We can only assume it was politically motivated. We will not discuss it here in the open.” The queen’s eyes connect with yours and you nod your head to let her know you’re not just listening, but understanding too. The Medic, the one they employed. They place the blame for all that has happened with him, with your mother. She sees the betrayal for what it is, a plan to infiltrate her family.

“We…we need a moment. If that’s...amenable.” Your fingers tighten where they are wrapped in the fabrics flowing from Din’s broad back, falling in layers from his shoulders. There’s…there’s so much to discuss, to decide. It’s not what you had expected, when your mother had all but chained you up one last time and tried to lead you back to the medical wing. There’s no telling what she had planned to do but…the kindness of the two people before you is genuine. You can sense it, there is no underlying scheme to get you to remain here. No game they are playing, simply extending honest hospitality and understanding of what you’ve been through.

“That is perfectly acceptable. We understand that this- it’s a jarring shift from just this morning. We will step into the hall to give you some privacy.”

You can’t help but feel anxious as you follow them to the medical wing, a hushed exchange of words with Din revealing that he too knew your mother had something implanted into your temples. A control device to shock you, should you step out of line or display powers. Your charts easy to hack into with the clearance code he had seen a droid enter during his time trialing after your mother the night before.

Cara is called back to the grounds, both by Din on the comm link he’s got hidden just inside his outer layer and the guards patrolling the docking yard. She and ad’ika are accepted immediately, the two of them escorted to the medical wing where you wait with Din. Plush chairs and a long couch surround a low table, food served to ease your nerves, to show that they will still provide for you despite what has been revealed.

“Everything’s okay, little one.” You let him burrow his face into the crook of your neck, small body barely a weight against your chest as you held him to you. He wasn’t making a sound, but you could tell he was trying to connect with you mentally. It was fuzzy, your body strained and exhausted so you gently shushed him and patted a gentle hand on his small back. “I can feel you trying to, but let’s wait until I’m a little more in control, okay? Don’t want you to stumble across anything bad in my mind.”

He just nuzzles closer, the point of his little nose cold as he presses it to your neck.

“He’s trying to ‘connect’?”

“Yeah, it’s just a lot right now. Those shocks really- they didn’t do any damage but my mind isn’t strong enough to put up walls should he be poking around in there. Don’t want him to stumble into any bad memories or thoughts.”

“Are you…having ‘bad thoughts’?” Din’s tips his voice low, eyes focusing on you as he stands between where you are perched and the door. On the defensive should something happen, even now.

“Yes and no. I’m not…Din, I’m trying to be okay. But it’s going to take some time for me to be.”

“I understand, I just worry. You- you deserve to feel safe and protected. To be at peace.”

“I’ll feel better once these transmitters are removed,” You try not to raise your voice though the emotion flares through you. The anger and hurt and betrayal of your own flesh and blood submitting you to something so controlling. It was already a hard enough reality to accept that she was willing to keep you in chains that would shock you should you move suddenly, but to implant something into your very head to do the same? To control with a remote should she see any sign of defiance in you from the twitch of an eyebrow to the raising of a singular finger?

It’s a vile thought, the things she had been comfortable in doing to control you, to keep tabs on you. To get it removed, the transmitters as well as a blood transfusion to rid your system of the poison and subsequent sedative, it would be a lot to undergo but you were willing to. For your peace of mind as well as a healthy reboot.

The recovery takes a few days, the faint cuts in your temples healing quickly and painlessly with the aid of bacta patches, with the tender and caring hands of a replacement medic. The one who had worked alongside your mother jailed for his corruption and manipulation. It didn’t matter that you were no longer intending to fold yourself into the royal family, you had been a part of it while engaged to Prince Cala. The principle of the matter stood firm, you had been important, of high standing, the princess at the time- there was no forgiving the man’s actions.

Din remains close, during your recovery. The suite you had resided in is where your little group set up for the time being. Din opted to sleep atop the couch across the pair of chairs clustered around the low table opposite the room from the bed. Ad’ika resting with you in the large bed or alone when his tiredness grew into an afternoon nap. Cara was quick to take the fainting couch in the closet, hoping to give you both a bit of privacy but still remain in close quarters.

She didn’t want to part from either of you just yet, to ensure that everything would be okay. That there wouldn’t be any need to transport one of you to another place. Or both back to Nevarro and then you somewhere else, either your home planet or Tatooine where your hideaway was.

The ashes of your mother, are condensed into a small ceramic box, detailed with gold over a black base coat. It’s heavy in your hand as you stare at it, mind blank and eyes losing focus and blurring the longer you stare at it. Din is standing beside the door, Cara having left the room with ad’ika at the arrival of the queen. She had wanted to hand it directly to you, her words quiet as she explained that it is customary to place the remains in gilded boxes and display them alongside photos of the deceased.

You listen solemnly, words failing you when she asks after your own customs. You tell her of the ones you know of Manda’lor. Your own from K’ath lost in your memory, something you don’t recall witnessing during your first years on the oceanic planet. It had never been something discussed or explained by your mother, questions of your father always bubbled up to the surface but had never been voiced. Not when it was as if he never existed in the first place.

She sits with you for a while, asking after how you’re feeling. If you needed anything from her at that moment, that the cooks are ready to prepare whatever you wanted should you ask. You thank her for her kindness, for her generosity, genuine feelings of admiration and appreciation for her the way she’s folded you under her wing. Her eyes shine as she takes your hands in hers and simply holds them. A lamentation for her son missing out on being the same way for her is the only depressive thought she’s voiced over his death. Her and the king both place the blame of it on the medic and your mother, something you did not correct.

It felt…wrong to lie to her. She was obviously conflicted over the actions of her son and the willingness he displayed to go along with the plan to use the lack of your memories to instill false ones into your mind. The influence of your mother strong on him for reasons she wished to know, but never would. Her son was gone, so many questions would remained unanswered, though the compassion she’s shown you a sliver of obvious as she dressed in mourning robes and does not leave the palace. The fact that you did not feel guilt for ending his life spoke volumes of your own thoughts on the matter, but you wouldn’t add to her turmoil nor disturb it.

With a quick dab of a folded cloth underneath her eyes, she’s clears her throat to explain that clearance has already been set for you to depart when you wish to.

You thank her again, standing when she does. Her hands twitch as if she wants to reach out, but she reads the way you tense at the mere suggestion of it. She bows instead, you return the gesture and that’s the last you see of the woman.

The question of where to go hangs in the air. Both parties sure of voicing it lest the answer be something they are unable to agree with. But they would willingly take you to wherever you choose to go, giving you back the freedom you nearly lost once more.

“I would like,” You clear your throat at your voice falters on the words, packing the ship had been a silent affair. The guards stacking three crates of your belongings as well as supplying you with a token of their symbol that would grant you instant access into their air space. The invitation was offered despite the fragility of the connection, born of remorse and a wish to make things right, for you to stay at one of the few seaside homes they keep up should you want to return and enjoy in the offerings of the city. “I would like to go to Tatooine. To retrieve something from my hide away there. If that’s…if that’s amenable.”

“Tatooine it is, then.” Cara treks up the ramp, cracking her knuckles as she goes. Din is silent beside you, eyes ever watching closely. Though there is something hidden behind them you can’t quite make out and refuse to reach further into his mind to figure out, not wanting to impinge on his privacy.

“I want to…I would appreciate the…um…” You trail off, feeling so offput by the way he’s focused solely on you. You know he doesn’t mean to put you on edge by doing it, used to doing so behind the visor of his helmet. He’s well-meaning with his intentions but you feel very much like a specimen under supervision, your every move giving away information on internal workings. “Maker, I’m sorry. I c-can’t think with your eyes boring into me so plainly.”

“I didn’t mean to unnerve you.”

“No, I know. I just…feel vulnerable and like you’re waiting for me to make a run for it or something.”

“You don’t have to leave with us if you don’t want to. You can…take one of the ships they offered you and go on your own. You don’t owe us anything for-“

“I-I don’t…I don’t want to be alone anymore, Din.” You whisper, feeling the thickness of your tongue in your throat as tears prick behind your eyes. You think back to traveling alongside Akiz, how much you felt like it was the right thing to do, like he was the right person to place your faith in. To care about and be cared for in return, a truly selfless person who had done so much to ensure your protection and safety, someone you had tried your best to do in return. The same feeling you had alongside Din, though there was that…additional layer of connection that sprouted warmth in your entire body and made your heart both beat rapidly and calm. “I want- I want to go with you. I want you. If that’s…if you still-“

“I do,” He breaths out, hands reaching for your own fidgeting ones. The heavy pendant revealed as he opens his fist to you, the shining beskar catching both the light and your breath. He had found it, going through the contents of the medical wing, when he had figured out what the medic had done to you at the request of your mother. “I didn’t…I was waiting for a moment alone. But yes, San, I-I do want you, beside me, traveling with me, anything you are comfortable with.”

“I had hoped she kept it,” You reach a hesitant hand out for it but think better of it at the last second, pulling your hand back and flattening in against the center of your chest. “But it’s yours, you…you should keep it. It was stolen from me, I can’t be trusted with it.”

“Mesh’la- San, I want you to have it.” He steps close and offers it once more. “I gifted it to you, it is yours.”

“I…I like the thought of carrying around something that once belonged to you,” You admit almost shyly, he feels warmth bloom in his chest at the admittance, at the willingness to share such a thing with him, even no, especially now. He feels the fabric covering his mouth shift as his lips twitch when you look up at him with wide eyes, your hand uncurling to accept it.

“Everything I have, is yours as well. I make that promise to you.”

The ship is an blend of quiet beeps and the low hum of the engines as they power the craft to move through hyperspace. You don’t let go from where you gripped tight to Din’s hand as he sits beside you, nor the hold you have on ad’ika as the child sits securely in your lap. Everything is still in the control room as the glowing blues and greens move over the glass paneling of the vantage deck. Cara is staring down at the controls, her head hung slightly.

“I reset the security protocols when I left,” Din speaks into the silence, hoping to put his own mind at ease. Everything is okay….you’re onboard the ship with him, wanting to travel with him, wanting to be at his side. Though he doesn’t know in what capacity just yet. But he could…he had to be patient. You endured so much the last few months, the last year since he had first stumbled upon you chained up in that compound. He could wait for you to approach him, to speak with him about the things you both agreed needed to be discussed. To open your mind and hear to him even if his is beating rapidly each time you suck in a deep breath or stutter our a question you wouldn’t have asked before.

He really…dislikes the idea of thinking of things and before and after. But the reality is that you both went through something, you more so than him. Way worse than him, your own autonomy stolen from you along with the very memories that make you who you are. The death of your mother, even knowing it was the only true way to be free, was going to weigh heavily on you. Greif and loss were not linear, you would feel it for the rest of your life. The levels of it waning and cresting much like the waves you admire every time the ocean is near. And he would stand by your side through it all, as long as you let him. As long as you wanted him to.

“I’ll be catching a ride back to Nevarro, once we land.” Cara announces, taking the quiet moment for herself. “I’m truly glad I could help to get you back, San. But there’s a lot that needs to be tended to, I hope that’s okay with you.”

“Yes, of course. You have responsibilities and things that require your attention.”

“That’s not to say I regret how long it took to find you,” she turns to pin you with a somewhat pinched expression. Her eyes giving away her trepidation, even if her smile is small on her lips. “I just feel like there’s a whole lot you two need to hash out and I don’t want to intrude on that.”

The jump would take only a few hours, Cara further explaining her choice to return to Nevarro and her responsibilities. With the assurance that she would eradicate any other calls for your capture, dispute them herself if need be and that there would be a plot of land with each of your names on it should you choose to lay low. That you both have a place to return to, should you want for one.

You thank her for everything as you share an embrace with her, her own arms tight around you. She’ presses a kiss to your cheek, a smirk on her lips as she pulls back.

“He’s an alright guy, that one.” She nods to where Din is standing beside Pelli, ad’ika’s small body between the two of them as he inspects a droid no bigger than him. “He just got confused it all, I hope you two can work it out.”

“Be safe, please leave contact of your return. I’m sure we’ll be back at some point.”

Travel to home planet of K’ath is mapped out and set into the panel, a quick jump to light speed signals the journey has begun. Din had yet to put his armor back on, sensing you need to see him for who he is, not the wall of armor he typically is. His soft edges exposed to you in your low moment, someone to reach for and find a hand or a shoulder unobstructed by protective leather and hard beskar.

It’s quiet, but you could hear the faint sounds of Din’s rumbling voice as he lulled ad’ika to sleep in the hammock strung up in the small hold space. You’re laying in the moderate bunk space

The second he steps through the door, before it can shut behind him completely, you’re surging forward from where you’re perched on the very edge of the bed. Your hands reaching for his face, fingers curling into the cowl and mask, pulling the fabric down and pressing your lips to his in a desperate kiss.

His reaction is instant, his own hands coming up to cup your face and flatten on the small of your back, his head tilting just so to deepen the kiss as he pulls you flush against him. His stubble is a scratching tickle against your face, but you don’t care. His bottom lip is between yours and you pull back to catch your breath, realizing that you can’t see even a twinkle of light reflected in his eyes as the bunk is in total darkness, the door shut behind him.

He whispers your name as he takes a breath of his own, pressing his lips to yours firmly. They’re so soft, so plush, they feel like nothing you’ve ever had against your skin. All fond softness and genuine intention, a true kiss in the very definition of the word. Your hands move up to shove the band of fabric keeping his head cover in place. Both the leather and soft cotton fall to the floor, his curls exposed for you to dig your fingers into.

“I-I want to see, but, Din. I can’t…I can’t make the vows to you.” You part from him for a moment, wanting to be honest, wanting to voice your thoughts.

He’s loosening his hold on you, beginning to pull away and your heart stutters. You rush to explain it further to him, the feelings tangled up inside you.

“I can’t make the vows to you right now, I….I want to. Someday. Everything is too fresh, it’s all- jumbled in my head. I want to be yours, I want you to be mine. Maker, I want that more than anything, but the idea of reciting vows right now…it-it- Din, it’s too much.” You hiccup, grasping at his shoulders so tight your nails dug into the shoulders of his robes.

He pulls you back into him, closing the small gap that had formed as he loosened his hold on you. He clings to you just as you do to him, noses touching and sharing breath. You know he wouldn’t demand anything of you, whether you voice concern or trepidation or not.

“I want you to see, even if you don’t have intentions to make the vows. I…want to be seen by you, even if it means breaking my Creed.” He pressed closed lips to yours, simply feeling you. “You are what is important.”

“I wish to see you, more than anything.” You whisper, the feel of his facial hair sending sparks to flare low in your stomach. Your fingers are still in his hair, though now they are running through the thick tresses to calm you both. “I just- can’t right now. It’s- too much, Din. I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologize, I will never force you to do anything. I promise that to you. But please, mesh’la, let me feel you, let me hold you. I’ve- I’ve-“

“I’ve missed you too,” You read his thoughts and repeat them to him, they are the same you’ve been having. The kisses slow down, become openmouthed as desire flourishes and heat sparks in both your bodies. He’s running his hands down either side of your neck, your shoulders. Down your back to grip you tight around the waist, fingers digging into the fabric at your hips. The robes still in place that you hadn’t yet removed, too anxious to speak with him once the little one went down for the night.

He tugs you closer, letting you feel the swell of him between his legs. The sensation dizzies you, the weight of it against your hip, though he doesn’t move against you, simply holds you close. You lower your arms to wrap around his shoulders as he bends his knees and grips you behind the thighs, lifting you without a second thought. The weight of his becomes trapped between your legs wrapped around his waist, pressed right over the softness that had developed in your lower middle. It’s a heady sensation, pulling a soft sigh from you.

He groans into the kiss, at the feel of you clinging to him. Taking slow steps toward the cot so as to not jostle you. But it all simmers when he leans down to rest you atop the covers. The stifling mood bubbles as his eyes adjust to see the faintest outline of you caressing your hands down his arms and to the fastened front of his robes. The air is warm on his skin as he lets you undress him, soft fingers pushing the fabric from his body with great care not to poke or prod any sore spots. He hadn’t been doing any of the fighting but the care and sensitivity you showed made his heart soften and a sigh escape his chest.

Your hands still at his waist, the belt and harness for his broadsword cool to the exploring tips of your fingers. The blade isn’t in place, removed for him to pilot the ship and safe in the control room. The clink of the clasps being undone causes him to twitch and you barely manage to stifle a huff of laughter before you’re tugging his trousers down his slim hips. The front of them catches but he doesn’t move to or breathe a word of argument as you drag the fabric down until it falls to collect at his feet, completely mesmerized by your slow actions. Leaving him in just his undercover.

The mood tempers even more when you lean forward and press your face to his middle, feeling the softness of the hair that adorns his middle, cheek to his warm skin as you loosely wrap your arms around him. He no doubt feels the heavy breathes you take in and exhale, centering yourself and focusing on the feel of him, the very real man in front of you. The one who had come looking for you, to rescue from those who had stolen you away…the one who had caused you to run in the first place.

As if sensing the direction of your thoughts, Din’s hands cup the back of your head and along the back of one of your shoulders.

“Mesh’la,” He heaves a deep breath, unsure of how to voice the incessant thoughts since the moment you had stormed out of the bunk back on the Crest. He says your name, voice giving way the emotions he’s consumed by as his voice falters. You lean back, pulling him along with you. After a few moments of shifting and moving together, you’re both on your sides. Facing each other while wrapped up in each other’s arms. One of your legs thrown over his hip to keep him close, one of his wide palms cupping your cheek, heads resting on the pillows.

He whispers his apologies to you, over and over again, his lips brushing over your face to pepper kisses along every spot he can reach. He whispers his thoughts to you as best as he can explain, how he felt in that moment, how he was unsure of how to navigate such a delicate matter, how he was more than willing to make it up to you until everything was right once again. You whisper back assurances that everything is okay, that you’ve both made mistakes in that moment. That he is okay, and you are okay, that you are okay together.

“I will wait, until you are ready. Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum.” His forehead connects with yours, his nose brushing yours as he confesses to you in a moment not born of panic or on the brink of death as he had done before. You return the words in a moment of full clarity, not on the cusp of sleep as you had done before. Both of you professing for the other to hear, to take to heart, to carry with you a better memory of the words.

I love you.

The land is disturbed before you, dug into deep and the ceramic box placed into the well wrapped up in delicate chainmail, covered back up with a few words spoken softly. A language not recognized by those beside you. Who had helped you to make the thought a reality. Allowed you the closure you so desperately sought after.

Crashing waves fill the crisp, salted air all around you. Enveloping you and transporting you to a moment in time you would much rather be in. The time of standing at the shore and watching the waves rush to kiss the sand, whitewash foaming up and making mesmerizing shapes as the bubbles fizzle out.

A small hand of your own dug into the damp sand to feel each little grain, the air filling your lungs and your back warm as you sit in the lap of your mother. Her arms around you, nothing separating you from her as she holds you steadfast to watch the sun dip below the horizon.

You knock your head back to look up at her with a gummy smile, some teeth missing while others wiggle, wile others slowly grow into place. Hair a mess of dark waves and curls as the evening breeze whips through the tresses. She smiles beautifully back down at you, her features soft and rosy. A giggle bursts from you as she ducks down to press a firm kiss to the middle of your forehead. Once, twice, three times.

She can’t hold in the soft laughter as she gazes into your eyes, seeing the world through them in how wide and bright they are. The call of gulls doing nothing to divert her attention as you purse your lips and mimic the kiss before giggling again and looking back to the vast ocean before you both. The water so close to tall reeds of grass your home is surrounded by, the smell of dinner simmering on the stove wafting in the air as it nears readiness.

“I love you, my darling. I will always love you.”

Closing your eyes as they begin to sting, you feel the memory slip away from you as you stand amidst the same tall reeds of grass now, overgrown and wild. The sand still just as pale and shimmery as it had always been. It all hushes around you as you move about, your skin feeling the energy in everything around you, the whispers of it as you feel the long-lost attachment to the woman in your memory flare up.

You weren’t sure what happened to her, what altered her so resolutely. What drove her to do the things she did, what things festered inside of her and turned her into a stranger who bore the look and face of your mother. But you promised yourself that you would never treat someone born of your own body the same way, should you ever find your identity shifting and taking on the facet of ‘mother’. Even with the all too familiar clutches of corruption you could recall as clearly as the sight of the ocean before you, the chilled breeze whipping around the ends of your dark robes, you wouldn’t succumb to it again. You would use your powers to protect, to ensure a long life, to ensure a happy life.

The sand dipped beside you as Din settled down at your side. His robes matched yours, his armor and helmet still aboard the ship. Eyes watching you closely, he turned to face the ocean when you didn’t meet his gaze.  All he could do in that moment was reach his left hand out in search of yours and pull you to rest between his propped-up legs. Willingly, you moved with him, leaning to rest your back into his warm and sturdy chest. The painful thoughts of how life had once been so simple quieted as you felt ease flow through you at his touch.

Little chirps and huffs of exertion announced ad’ika as he climbed out of the bag resting in the sand at Din’s hip. The small child shuffling and climbing over limbs to settle in your lap like you were in Din’s.

Ad’ika knocked his head back to gaze up at you with his wide, brown eyes. He coos as you look down at him with a soft smile. Bowing over him slightly, you touch your forehead gently to his own, feeling the velvety texture of his soft skin and fair hairs there. His giggle ignites something in you, a devotion springing to life deep inside of you. A shared past, shared experiences and struggles bonding you to the older being in your lap. He’s got so much more time than you do, but you vow to ensure that as long as you’re breathing, he will know love and peace.

“You will know love, ad’ika. I swear it to you.” You murmur into his soft skin, earning another giggle that flows into the air to mingle with the sound of gulls overhead.

His little face ducks out from underneath you, gaze going back to the ocean. Before you know it, he’s pushing up and away, running as best his little legs can manage over the sand until it smooths out on the shoreline. The waves reach for him but he stands just out of their touch, turning to hold out a claw to you with a question in his eyes.

“Gar aalar guuror yaim, ner kar'ta.  Nayc vaii has ru'aalar guuror yaim par a munit ca'nara ni sheber olar sa adiik.  Ni'm glad at aalar bic tug'yc, ti gar bintar.” You whisper as you lean back a little further, prompting a huff from the child watching you closely. Din’s arms wrap around you securely, making sure to not irritate your sore muscles. He’s gazing down at you with eyes so soft it makes your stomach swoop and your breath leave you quickly. Craning up slightly, you press your lips to the bump of his nose, hidden beneath his cowl and mask. His eyes are closed when you open your own back up.

You feel like home, my heart. Nowhere has felt like home since I sat in this very spot as a child. I’m glad to feel it again.

“Gar cuyir ner yaim, shi sa ni cuy' at gar. Sa munit sa gar vercopaanir par, mesh’la.” His words are soft, barely audible over the cresting waves. But you hear them, and they settle into your heart. Another kiss is pressed to his hidden face before you disentangle yourself from him with an airy laugh. Your robes bounce and flow all around you as you approach the child, feigning looking out at the water until the last moment, and you’ve closed the distance. Your sudden scoop of his small body startles laughter from him and you’re twirling effortlessly in the shallows as you hold him up in the air.

You are my home, just as I am to you. For as long as you wish, mesh’la.

Din watches from where the sand begins to slope, far enough from the water’s edge to not get sprinkled as the waves meet the shore but enough so to step in should something happen. You know he can see the small smile on your lips and hear the ringing of your combined laughter as you splash about in the cool water, never going in past your calves. Ad’ika is enjoying the way you dip him just at the waves receive, pulling him up to your chest when they flow toward you, little claws reaching for it below him.

His happiness infectious as you soon begin to commit the moment to your memory, tumbling the edges of old ones so they aren’t so sharp anymore.

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[an0ldworld]

heard you were desperate for requests!

im oriented aroace and i'd LOVE to see a hobie x spider!reader where they're not dating or putting labels on it, they're just in a mutually loving and supportive symbiosis. everyone in the spiderverse keeps trying to figure out if they're in a relationship or not and are incredibly confused that hobie will straight up kiss the reader's neck and they'll give him massages at work but they refuse to say they're a couple

where you and hobie have the most loving connection, but don’t label it

hobie brown x gn!reader

u just like me fr i miss when u could platonically kiss people, was that just me ?

warnings: none

pairing: hobie brown x gn!reader

requests: OPEN

★⋆ ⋆☆⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆☆⋆⋆★✧

so you two have a completely unlabelled dynamic that benefits the both of you w the untethered love you can just casually give out without really giving a second thought

there might be something romantic, there might not be- you’re not naming it anything at all

it’s completely natural for the two of you to hold hands, kiss, comfort each other and generally just be there whenever the two of you need it

you’re not afraid of PDA, especially if hobie’s involved. you physically cannot shy away from PDA, the man simply won’t allow it

naturally, speculation will start over your guys’ relationship and the exact details

are you dating ? is it something less or more ? is this a prank ?

but those questions remain unanswered

hobie will either shrug or say something along the lines of “we’re just there for each other,” or if he’s feeling a bit snarky he’s like “wouldn’t you like to know” but that fucker knows what you’ve got going on don’t got a label at all, just the way he likes it

again, you two will straight up refuse to confirm or deny questions about your relationship- it’s no one’s business but yours and you both are completely comfortable remaining unlabelled but loving as fuck

cause why do we even need to label that at all ? stop limiting love u fucks

hobie views it as people tryna dictate your relationship sometimes and he doesn’t give it the time of day

actual benefits of this dynamic ? spontaneous affection whenever you need it, words of affirmation.. hobie’s capable of being real loving i think

almost always has an arm around you, especially around spider society

within HQ there’s always an arm around your shoulder or maybe you guys hold hands, he likes to playfully tug you along with him randomly while you hold hands

like you could literally just be following a group together and for some reason he’s pulling at your hand as if you’re walking the wrong way, y’know he’s smiling too while he does it

you two are probably way too comfortable around HQ, too

especially since you guys don’t really label your relationship as anything, so you don’t see why you should hide certain actions if they’re not inherently romantic, y’know ?

spider-people can literally find hobie chilling in ur lap whenever in headquarters while he fixes his makeup or you fix it for him

you can swear on ur life it’s just a more practical way to do it, or that you’re just lending a hand

dozens of spider-people are so sure you’re dating, it’s split evenly down the middle

the other half think ur gross and need to get a room

there’s probably one or two hobie x you fanatics out there (pav, it’s pav. probably peter b too, loves young love)

you guys don’t help your case when you get back from missions and hobie’s massaging your hands from swinging all day- if you’ve got organic webs he’s working away the kinks in your wrists too

hopefully he’s wearing a mask to hide that concentrated, idle look he’s wearing that’s somehow charming

the speculators are even further convinced when you’re eating one of those miguel burgers in the cafeteria and hobie appears from literally nowhere, bends down to kiss you on the side of your neck while he snatches some of your food and then walks off

daylight robbery

now everyone at the table is perplexed, including you when you realise he just stole ur fucking chips

in meetings you two are fucking insufferable i just know it

if you’re more sensible, you can probably distract hobie by letting him draw on your hands during the meeting

if not, you two always sit together and are so bothersome (ily)

plz stop snickering in the back miguel cant take this stress in his old age

naps around spider-society are top tier

make like a web hammock suspended from anything and you two are sharing it, out like a light

hobie loves it cause he’s simultaneously shitting on the establishment while he gets to bask in the comfort you two share

probably a community game about the locations people have found you guys slacking

loves it when he can come back from a mission and kiss you casually before telling you all about it, pulling you away from everyone else with an arm around your neck

you are not spared from his typical hobie-ness however, still preaches anarchism to you on the daily while saying the most outrageous punk statements like you guys don’t share a bed every other day

he just incorporated compliments into it somehow to be supportive

“you’d make a great anarchist” thanks man

miguel will claim you guys cause a hostile work environment and all hobie’s gotta say is “i don’t believe in hostile work environments” before walking off w you to go set a miguel burger on fire or smthn

★⋆ ⋆☆⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆☆⋆⋆★✧

if hobie drew on me i’m getting that shit tattooed i’m just sayin

[saladscream]

Anything for You (snippet from a WIP)

Again, the great and powerful @bertytravelsfar has demanded I put out. And so here you go. Last one for tonight, I promise. 😅

For too long Merlin had known nothing but fear and anger and frustration as he grappled with a destiny that deviously toyed with him in every cruel way imaginable. It had hardened him – sometimes, he felt, beyond recognition. And after Morgana and Mordred’s demises had brought combat to a halt, there was now a lack, a void, a yawning chasm in Merlin’s heart and mind where crippling anguish and powerless anger had burned for so long in a maelstrom of extreme emotions. All his power and passion and desperation had been relentlessly channelled into the fight against a prophecy that tricked Merlin into being its unwilling tool. Until it all came to an end, in a thrust of a sword. And now he felt hollowed out. Chaos had abruptly ceased and Merlin was dizzy with the sudden stillness left in its wake. The absence of mortal, life-defining danger. The shortage of formidable, treacherous opponents. Even the painful end of the precious secret that had shaped all his life. That last one was a bummer, surprisingly. Merlin was a sorcerer, Arthur knew, and somehow they had both survived the reveal. The shock of discovery had shaken them both, but they had handled it the same way they’d always handled the fraught moments when they’d been faced with their core differences: with awkwardness, guarded looks and a touch of gallows humour. The deep disappointment and the abysmal sense of betrayal had been dealt with – as had been the wordless deathbed admission of a bond between them that, even in extremis, had not dared say its name. All done and dusted. Moving on. Merlin had laid everything bare for Arthur. Everything he was. Gutted himself and poured out every last shred of shameful, slaving, brittle feeling he had ever harboured for his king, for his prince, for his prat, for his love. All of it. All of it received by a dying man. Admittedly, Merlin couldn’t blame Arthur for not knowing quite what to do with the alarming haemorrhage of feeling. But Merlin had been desperate. And Arthur’s life had been slipping through their fingers. Their last moments together had been harrowing and bittersweet and a trauma in themselves – the excruciating climax of an exceptional friendship. Something neither of them should have had to survive, to be honest. And yet they had, against all odds in Arthur’s case. So here they were now. Intimate friends but uncomfortable acquaintances, with nothing to show for themselves but a redeemed kingdom, routed enemies and a hopeful future that seemed bizarrely tasteless and ominously vacant to Merlin. Something was gone. A goal. A pressure. A tension that Merlin had woven into his whole life. Now gone. Merlin was left drifting, untethered. And prone to glum, melodramatic musings apparently. He huffed and quickened his step before someone realised the Court Sorcerer was sneaking out again. Not that there was anything distinctive about him to betray his new status. He was wearing his same old clothes, and to most people he remained the same old Merlin – the tall black-haired silhouette of King Arthur’s manservant well known around the citadel whether he liked it or not. Many probably thought his new title was nothing but another one of their weird private jokes. A full three months after Camlann, and people still didn’t quite believe that he was the fearsome, almighty sorcerer who had turned the tide of the battle. Because people knew Merlin. They’d seen just what a clod he was with a food tray. They’d seen how he was constantly late and unbelievably forgetful of court etiquette. They had seen (and heard) what a single cup of wine could do to him. The serving boy of their acquaintance could not be the great and powerful Emrys. And Merlin certainly wasn’t going to go out of his way to correct them. Old habits died hard. Lies and deception about his magic still felt the safer course of action.

[wraaronsen]

A Cruel Mending

Lacing his mind with desire, lust, convictions that were not his own were realities Aronsen experienced many times as a San’layn concubine, even more when he became their champion. The rituals of their greed was a greasy presence always chaining his thoughts to threads of madness, the scourge making sure the eclipsing violations were always fresh and vivid. When his sliced but standing body ached with shaking adrenaline back to their wicked palaces crowded with drooling cultists, he didn’t even have to perform much to sate their cloying cluster over his body. Armor was pulled and removed like he was being peeled, stripped ritualistically as if he was a holy thing; a sweet desecration they were waiting for. He was licked clean as he stood there while twisted royalty pleasured themselves to his victorious butchery, the blood evidence of his own people smeared perversely over perfect, powerful muscles. The accomplishment of his continued humiliation and forced submission made a delicious show as multiple hands and mouths and tongues lapped and bathed the filth off his body. 

But this was never enough. They sent him a barrage of emotions not his own, a stream of thought control well-crafted and honed for his particular weaknesses. Aronsen always gave in. It was much easier this way, to take it all. Much easier to make it feel like love or devotion than some intolerable horror. He had wanted this. Wanted their moans as they greedily reached for his flesh, made him an elevated thing to be worshipped. He’d pretend he was a god, that this was how it was meant to be. When his body moved against their writhing needs to an audience of dozens, he was giving a blessing. He was giving love. Love was now a sacrificial act of the flesh alone, something to suffer and give to others but never himself. They kept this in his dreams and always in his mind, to keep that chain pulled tight. 

Aronsen, you are loved. Aronsen, you are adored. We worship you.

Give us more.

Give us more.

When that chain released, his mind snapped with it. To feel the rush of reality, guilt that flooded him suddenly made him sick for days. It was an abandonment to his psyche, allowing all the horrors to barrage him at once. His very identity swirled with rage and grief and confusion while his movements felt sluggish. The panicked screams and chaos of emptying, burning palaces became disconnected from his mind. When he laid there as a slumped monster in one of the many elaborate halls, head hanging in eerie silence as heroes shouted and cautiously encircled him, their lips moist with fear and the eagerness to revenge-cleanse his existence, he didn’t fight back. He wished that was the end, he welcomed death as the first prayer from his lips as his own. 

But they treated him like a fallen champion, when he didn’t rise against them. They didn’t kill him, the cowards. He felt that mercy to be profane, a cruelty far worse than anything done to him. Leaving him to rot with his deeds broke his mind into pieces. He had to pick one of these shards, crawl into one of those places in his mind to survive. He couldn’t process the rest, his experiences and actions too disconnected from what he was. 

He was dragged and didn’t resist, letting the heaviness of him become a physical thing. Healers barraged him with Light, seared his flesh with hopes that were not his own. The violation was almost comforting, felt like those chains again but now they were golden. He wanted to be told what to do, how to act. But he was left untethered after it simply… gave up. Like fingertips hollowing him out, the Light left him a husk of damnation, a warning to others. Another way to be used, to be purposeful. This was his fate now. It could flow through him but only as a vessel, an implement. 

The hunger of blood magic that remained battled the Light’s fist around his heart so deeply he felt a heady pull in two different directions. Giving in to one or the other was a way to taunt both sides, keeping a type of control from within these cages with no keys. He’d serve both, but never sate either, not completely. The limbo of his desires became his new existence when he returned to the ruined homelands of his people. The Ghostlands now a living tomb, and aptly suitable for this new unlife. 

Dreams of beautiful things were left to the living. Nightmares were the only kind to creep into his mind for many years, almost an expectation when he closed his eyes. It didn’t even bother him, after some time. He was a spectator, there was nothing worse he hadn’t already experienced awake. It almost felt powerful, to be so calm about these things. Detachment made all of it hilarious, expected. All his amusing perversions were a rebellious agency against their tugs.

Until the elf that knew nothing of all this sat herself in the middle of all these broken pieces in his mind, and decided to make something new. 

She found ones that caught her eye and flipped them over. Golden bits of porcelain hope, fragmented parts of him long forgotten. One with Softness. One of Kindness. One of Peace. It was a composite of impossible emotions and warped memories glued together so tightly he didn’t even know he was dreaming at first. The hope she coaxed like a small bead from his mind to ripple over his concious had flooded him with real love, real euphoria. The life he was supposed to live, the innocence within him now was held by her hand, an assurance that he was meant not to suffer, but to love. To live. In the dream, he was what he should have been. Someone honorable, someone worthy of goodness. They were not a stranger’s beautiful eyes that caressed his, it was the love he always wanted.

He could feel the sensation of his soft black hair, not his hairless skull moving in the warm breeze of lands that once were, companionship in a soul that mirrored something pure within him. She smelled and felt real, he smelled and felt real. The nirvana from the rightness of this was stronger than any torture, more believable than any mind control. 

So when he fell asleep in ecstasy within the dream, feeling peace, the sensation of waking in his own body in the crypt was worse than any whip or bite. It was cruelty that tore him to a new type of misery never before experienced. It was all gone, his own hope this time abandoning him, retracting like a screaming, betrayed thing. He knew now it was something he would never be. Something he would never have. 

Just a dream. 

He flung the cold dead arm off of him and inelegantly wrenched himself out of the sarcophagus, leaving behind the desecrated, crumbling bones of his ancestor and the bloating corpse to back up against the wall in horror. A tear fell from devastated eyes.

His breath heaved with panic, his reality moving in all around him like his nightmares were now here. 

Because they always were. 

And she was not. 

@lillandyrshadowglade

Original post

Artwork above by Kathrin Marchenko.

[venactricisfics]

Bound by Instinct: Teen Wolf Story

Chapter Five

Girl time?

The full moon had come and gone, but the pull it left behind still lingered in my blood. I couldn’t help it—my instincts screamed for freedom, for the wild, for the run. But there was something else now, something more. It wasn’t just the call of the wolf anymore—it was Peter.

I could feel him watching me even now, his gaze warm, but there was something else in his eyes too. Something I couldn’t put my finger on, but it made my pulse race. I didn’t know how to navigate this connection, this bond between us. It felt more than just physical. It felt deeper, rooted in something unspoken. The problem was, I wasn’t used to this kind of closeness. I’d always been alone.

“I’m not used to this,” I muttered, turning away from the window, my fingers still trembling from the lingering touch of his hands.

Peter leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed. “You don’t have to be,” he said softly. “Not yet. Take your time.”

I nodded but didn’t meet his gaze. The truth was, I wasn’t sure I wanted to take my time. My wolf side craved the certainty of the pack, the safety of belonging somewhere again, but there was still that part of me—the part that had been forged in solitude—that wanted to remain untethered.

I clenched my fists at my sides, trying to push down the feelings rising within me. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for this... for him... or even for what it meant to be part of something again. But one thing was clear: no matter how hard I tried to resist, Peter’s presence in my life wasn’t something I could escape.

“I don’t know how to be part of a pack,” I whispered, almost to myself.

“You don’t have to know yet. We’ll figure it out together.”

His words held weight, like a promise. The silence that followed felt heavy with unspoken tension, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a kind of closeness I wasn’t used to, but I was starting to crave.

Just as I was about to say something, a loud knock on the door broke the moment. I stiffened, instinctively shifting my stance. Peter’s expression darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Trouble?” I asked, my senses flaring.

“Could be,” he replied, his voice low and measured. “Stay here. I’ll handle it.”

I tilted my head and listened to the voices on the other side of the door: Lydia, Kira, and someone else. I hadn’t met her before. She seemed slightly uneasy in Peter’s presence. 

“It’s safe, Little Wolf,” Peter called, “I suspect they want to take you out for a girls' day or something.”

I stepped out, brow raised in curiousity, “What is a girls’ day?” 

“It’s where we take you away from the men. And we spend time together doing stuff just us girls,” Kira said. 

“You’ve been around just Derek and Peter so long, it’s going to take a whole day for us to teach you how to be a human girl,” Lydia added. 

Peter chuckled under his breath, leaning casually against the doorframe. “You hear that? They think they’re doing you a favor.”

I shot him a look but couldn’t help the amused smirk tugging at my lips. “Is this some kind of ritual?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“It’s not a ritual,” Lydia said, her tone matter-of-fact. “It’s survival. Trust me, Nova, if you’re going to live among humans, there are certain… skills you’ll need.”

Kira nodded enthusiastically. “Like shopping! And trying new things. Plus, you’ll get to relax, and I’m pretty sure you could use that.”

I tilted my head again, my curiosity piqued despite my initial wariness. The idea of spending time with other women was new to me. I’d always been surrounded by wolves—family, packmates, enemies—but never just… people. The thought was strange but oddly appealing.

Peter pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer, his voice low and teasing. “Go on, Little Wolf. They might actually teach you something useful. Just don’t let them talk you into anything too ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Lydia’s voice was sharp, though there was a hint of playfulness in her glare. “You mean like trusting you, Peter?”

“Touché,” he smirked. “But I’m the one you’ll thank when she survives a girls’ day with her sanity intact.”

Rolling my eyes, I grabbed the jacket Peter had draped over the back of a chair and shrugged it on. “I’ll go,” I said, surprising myself. “But only because I’m curious.”

“That’s the spirit!” Kira grinned, clapping her hands together.

Peter caught my wrist as I passed him, his gaze searching mine. “Don’t let them corrupt you too much, Little Wolf.”

I smiled softly, touched by his quiet protectiveness. “I’ll be fine.”

As I followed Lydia, Kira, and their uneasy new companion toward their car, I felt a strange mix of excitement and nervousness bubbling in my chest. A girls' day. It sounded simple enough, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was going to be one of the biggest challenges I’d faced yet.

I studied the women before me, unsure what a "girls' day" would entail. Lydia’s confidence radiated like a challenge, while Kira’s warm smile promised patience. The third girl—a petite brunette with nervous energy—stood slightly behind them, avoiding eye contact with Peter. I didn’t blame her. His presence was intense even when he wasn’t trying.

“Are you ready?” Kira asked with an encouraging tone.

I hesitated, glancing back at Peter, who leaned casually against the doorframe. His smirk was subtle, but his eyes held a flicker of something I couldn’t place. Amusement? Approval?

“You’ll be fine, Nova,” he said, his voice reassuring but edged with something teasing. “Just don’t let Lydia talk you into anything too... extravagant.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. A spa day and some shopping won’t kill her.”

“Shopping?” I asked, my brow furrowing. “You mean... acquiring more clothes?”

Lydia sighed dramatically. “Yes, Nova. Clothes. And shoes. And maybe a little makeup. You know, human girl things.”

Kira nudged her gently. “Go easy on her. It’s her first time doing anything like this.”

I glanced at Peter again, who gave a slight nod, as if granting me permission I didn’t need. Still, it was comforting. “Okay,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “I’ll go.”

“Perfect!” Lydia said, clapping her hands together. “This is going to be fun.”

As we stepped out into the sunlight, I cast one last glance over my shoulder. Peter stood in the doorway, watching us leave. His smirk had softened into something warmer. The bond between us tugged faintly as I followed the girls to Kira’s car, wondering what this "human girl" experience would teach me—and what Peter might think of me afterward.

—--

The mall, they told me as we drove, was a building full of different stores of different types. Kira was looking for a dress for something called a winter formal.

“You should come, right?” Kira said, “I bet you’ll have fun. You can dance and have fun meeting new people.”

“I already know enough people,” I said looking from her to Lydia, and then the new girl they’d introduced as Malia. 

Lydia laughed softly, a sound that felt both amused and knowing. “You sound like Peter,” she said, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “But trust me, there’s a big difference between knowing people and actually connecting with them.”

“I connect just fine,” I replied, crossing my arms.

“Do you?” Malia asked, tilting her head in curiosity. Her voice was quiet, but there was something sharp in her gaze. “Because I’ve seen Peter, and he doesn’t exactly scream ‘healthy social role model.’”

“Peter’s not as bad as everyone thinks,” I said instinctively, my voice firm. I didn’t care if they understood. Peter was mine in a way they couldn’t begin to comprehend.

Lydia waved a hand dismissively. “We’re not here to debate Peter’s character flaws—though I could write a novel. We’re here to help Nova experience something normal. Like a winter formal.”

“Normal?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Dancing in a crowded room with loud music and people you barely know doesn’t sound normal.”

“That’s because you’ve never done it,” Kira said, her tone bright and encouraging. “Trust me, once you try, it can be really fun. Plus, you’d look amazing in a formal dress.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. The idea of dressing up, of blending into their world, felt foreign. I’d spent so long surviving in the wild that pretending to be human felt like wearing a mask I didn’t know how to take off.

But Kira’s enthusiasm was contagious, and Lydia’s determination made it clear they weren’t going to let this go.

“We’re here,” Lydia announced as she pulled into the mall parking lot.

The building was massive, its size almost overwhelming. The sheer number of scents—food, perfumes, people—hit me the moment we walked inside. I faltered for a moment, but Malia stepped up beside me.

“Overwhelming, huh?” she asked, her voice quieter now, almost understanding.

I nodded. “A little.”

“You get used to it,” she said, and for the first time, her tone held a hint of solidarity.

As they led me toward the first store, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was what Peter had meant when he said I needed to live in the world instead of just surviving it. Maybe he was right.

The mall was a sensory overload. Bright lights, a cacophony of voices, and the sheer mix of scents—sweet, savory, synthetic—pressed down on me. It felt unnatural, like I’d stepped into a world that wasn’t meant for me.

“Relax, Nova,” Lydia said as we entered the first store, a boutique filled with racks of colorful dresses. “It’s just a mall, not a battlefield.”

Easy for her to say. She didn’t have to focus on tuning out a thousand heartbeats or fight the instinct to bare her teeth at the stranger who brushed a little too close.

Kira grabbed my hand, pulling me toward a rack of shimmering dresses. “What about this one? It’s perfect for you!” She held up a soft green gown with delicate embroidery.

I stared at it, then at her. “What would I even do in something like that?”

“Twirl around, look gorgeous, and make everyone wonder where you came from,” Lydia said with a smirk. “Trust me, Nova, people like a bit of mystery.”

Malia snorted. “Yeah, or you could just pick something comfortable. Why do humans need to dress up for every little thing, anyway?”

Kira shot her a look. “It’s not just dressing up. It’s about feeling confident and enjoying yourself. Right, Lydia?”

Lydia nodded, handing me a deep red dress. “Exactly. Besides, Peter would lose his mind if he saw you in this.”

Her words made my stomach flip, though I wasn’t sure why. Peter liked me the way I was, didn’t he? Still, I couldn’t help imagining his reaction, his sharp eyes softening for a moment as he took me in.

“I don’t know,” I muttered, brushing my fingers over the fabric. It felt delicate, like something that belonged to another life.

“You’re trying it on,” Lydia declared, pushing me toward the fitting rooms.

Inside, I slipped into the dress, the cool material clinging to my skin. When I stepped out, Kira’s face lit up, Malia gave an approving nod, and Lydia looked smug, like she’d just won a game I didn’t even know we were playing.

“See? Stunning,” Lydia said.

I glanced at myself in the mirror. The girl staring back looked... unfamiliar. Her curves were accented by the dress, her posture more upright. For the first time, I didn’t feel like a wolf trying to play human—I felt like both could exist together.

“What do you think?” Kira asked, her eyes wide with excitement.

“I think...” I hesitated, searching for the words. “I think I could get used to this.”

Malia grinned. “Welcome to the club.”

As we moved on to the next store, I found myself relaxing, even laughing at Kira’s jokes and Lydia’s dramatic fashion advice. Maybe this wasn’t my world, but it didn’t feel as foreign anymore. And maybe, just maybe, I could find a place here after all.

“Okay, after lunch, hair and nails?” Kira asked, her excitement evident as we made our way toward the food court. The sheer number of options left me wide-eyed—rows of stalls offering everything from pizza to noodles, and the air was thick with mingling aromas that made my stomach growl.

“Definitely,” Lydia chimed in, glancing over at me with her signature appraising look. “I think Nova would look good with some long layers. Tame a little of the wildness in her hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” I asked, frowning as I instinctively touched the loose waves cascading over my shoulders. My hair had always been... just my hair. Something practical, nothing to fuss over.

“Nothing,” Malia said, giving me a look that bordered on reassuring and impatient. “They just want you to fit in. Just go with it. It’ll make them happy, and you’ll feel lighter too.”

“Tame the wildness,” I repeated under my breath, trying to understand what Lydia meant. Was my hair really so unruly? It had always just been an extension of me.

“Don’t overthink it,” Kira said, nudging me playfully. “Think of it as an upgrade. And besides, it’s fun! You’ll see.”

I nodded hesitantly, letting their chatter flow around me as we reached the tables. The girls debated over which stall to order from, but my attention was caught by the colorful trays passing by.

Lydia eventually placed a tray in front of me piled with a mix of food that looked both foreign and oddly tempting. “Start with this,” she said with a wink.

As I picked at the fries and took a tentative bite of the burger, I caught snippets of their conversation about hairstyles, nail colors, and something called an “ombre effect.”

“Do you think Peter will like it?” Lydia asked suddenly, her words catching me off guard.

I nearly choked on my drink. “Why does it matter what Peter thinks?”

Kira laughed, leaning in conspiratorially. “Oh, it matters. You just don’t know it yet.”

Malia smirked but didn’t comment, while Lydia gave me a knowing smile. “Trust me, Nova. A little change can go a long way.”

“Why does it matter what Peter thinks?” I repeated, doing my best to sound indifferent, though my voice betrayed me with a slight quiver.

“Oh, it matters,” Lydia said with a mischievous glint in her eyes, leaning her chin on her hand. “It always matters when it comes to Peter.”

I swallowed hard, feeling my cheeks heat. “He’s just—he’s—” I stumbled, searching for the right words. “He’s Peter. It’s not like that.”

“Sure, it’s not,” Kira teased, grinning at my flustered expression. “You only blush every time we mention his name.”

“I do not!”

“You’re doing it now,” Malia said, her smirk widening as she pointed at my face.

I huffed and crossed my arms, staring down at my tray as if it could save me from their scrutiny. “It’s just hot in here,” I muttered.

“Right,” Lydia said, drawing out the word. “And I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re practically glowing every time you talk about him.”

“It’s not like that,” I insisted, though the words felt weak even to my own ears.

“Maybe you don’t think so,” Kira said with a playful shrug. “But Peter? He definitely sees you differently. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Nova. It’s... intense.”

I froze, unsure how to respond. My mind raced back to the way Peter’s eyes seemed to pierce right through me, the way his voice softened when he called me Little Wolf, the way his touch lingered just a second longer than necessary.

Lydia raised an eyebrow knowingly, catching the faraway look in my eyes. “See? You’re thinking about him right now, aren’t you?”

“No,” I said quickly, shaking my head, though the redness in my cheeks betrayed me once again.

Kira giggled, nudging Malia. “What do you think, Malia? Should we give Nova a Peter-approved makeover?”

Malia smirked. “I think Nova doesn’t stand a chance against him, makeover or not.”

My jaw dropped, but before I could respond, Lydia patted my hand gently. “Relax, Nova. We’re just having fun. But, you know, maybe you should start thinking about what you want. Because something tells me Peter already knows exactly what he wants.”

Her words lingered as the conversation shifted back to hairstyles and dresses. I poked at the food on my tray, trying to drown out their teasing, but their voices echoed in my head. Did Peter see me differently? And if he did... what did I want?

I’d never given much thought to what I wanted. My life had always been about surviving—finding the next meal, the next place to rest, staying one step ahead of danger. Even now, in this place, surrounded by people who called themselves friends, I was still trying to survive. Not the wilds this time, but something just as foreign: being human.

But when Peter touched me—when his hands lingered on my skin and that electric fire flickered through me—I wanted more than survival. I wanted to be human, to feel everything in a way I hadn’t before. The vulnerability, the connection, the weight of his gaze on me—it was as terrifying as it was intoxicating.

I stared at my reflection in the glass of a nearby shop window as we walked through the mall, catching a glimpse of the girl they wanted me to be. Layers in my hair. Polished nails. A dress to wear to a winter formal. It felt like a costume, something to make me blend in. But underneath, there was still me—the wildness that Peter didn’t try to tame, that he seemed to admire.

“Nova?” Kira’s voice broke through my thoughts, and I turned to see her holding up two dresses. “Which one do you think I should get? The blue or the red?”

I blinked at her, not quite processing the question. “The... red?”

She grinned. “Good choice. Red’s bold. Eye-catching. Something Peter would probably like—oh, wait, we’re talking about me now, not you!”

The teasing laughter bubbled up again, and I rolled my eyes, but a small smile tugged at my lips.

Lydia stepped beside me, her eyes sharp and assessing as she followed my gaze to my reflection. “You know, Nova, you don’t have to fit in here to belong. But if you want to figure out what you want—whether it’s Peter or this world or something entirely different—it’s okay to take the time to find it.”

Her words settled over me, heavy and thoughtful. Maybe she was right. Maybe this wasn’t about being human or wolf, about survival or belonging. Maybe, for once, it was about figuring out what I wanted—who I wanted to be.

And as much as I hated to admit it, one thing I was sure of: Peter was part of the answer.

I let Lydia usher me into what they called a beauty salon, though the sharp, chemical smell made me wrinkle my nose. It was like rancid roadkill mixed with something bitter and metallic. I wasn’t sure how anything that smelled this awful could make someone beautiful.

But when they started cutting my hair, I began to understand what Malia meant. The weight that had clung to me—both physical and emotional—seemed to lift with every snip of the scissors. By the time they finished, my head felt lighter, freer. I caught my reflection in the mirror. The layers softened the wildness in my hair, but it was still me.

As we walked toward the nail station, I turned to Malia, Lydia, and Kira, my brow furrowed as I tried to make sense of their teasing from earlier.

“All of this,” I said, gesturing to my hair, the brightly lit salon, the way they kept glancing at each other with sly smiles, “is this some kind of... mating ritual humans do?”

Malia snorted, barely able to keep her laughter in. Lydia, on the other hand, seemed to relish the question, her perfectly arched brows rising as she exchanged a glance with Kira.

“Well, not exactly,” Lydia said with a mischievous grin. “But looking your best does help. Humans like things to feel... intentional. Mating isn’t just about instinct for us. There’s courtship, chemistry, flirting. It’s a whole process.”

Kira leaned closer, her voice soft but excited. “It’s about making a connection, you know? Getting to know someone, spending time together. Building trust.”

I frowned, my mind circling back to Peter. His touch, his gaze, the way he seemed to know exactly what I needed without me having to say it. “But what happens when you already feel connected? When you already... know?”

Malia leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. “Then you skip all the fuss and just go for it,” she said with a shrug. “Honestly, humans overcomplicate everything. If you want him, take him.”

“Malia!” Kira looked scandalized, but Lydia only laughed.

“She’s not wrong,” Lydia said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “But there’s something to be said for letting things unfold naturally. It’s not a race, Nova. Sometimes the anticipation makes it all the sweeter.”

I nodded slowly, my thoughts tangled in their words. Humans might overcomplicate things, but there was a certain charm in the way they approached connection and intimacy.

Still, Malia’s blunt advice lingered. If I wanted something—or someone—wasn’t it better to go for it than to hold back?

—--

My arms were loaded with bags as I stepped inside Derek’s loft, the door clicking shut behind me. The bags were heavy with all the new clothes and accessories the girls had insisted on. Derek stepped up, offering to help me carry them to the spare room. The bed was neatly made, and though it looked inviting, I’d been spending most nights curled up on the floor near the fire. It was just one more human thing I needed to figure out—where exactly I fit into this world.

He set the bags down and glanced at me. “You look nice,” he said, his gaze lingering for a moment. “Like you, but... enhanced, if that makes sense.”

I gave him a small smile. “Thank you.” There was a warmth in his tone that felt genuine. It was something I hadn’t expected, and yet it comforted me in a way I couldn’t fully explain.

I glanced at him, then back down at the pile of bags. “What day is Saturday?”

“The day after tomorrow,” he replied, looking confused. “Why do you ask?”

I set the last of the bags down on the bed and took a breath. “Lydia said I should tell you and Peter to chaperone the formal on Saturday so I can go.”

Derek raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “Chaperone?”

“Yeah, apparently you and Peter are supposed to keep an eye on things, make sure nothing gets out of hand,” I said, unsure if I was explaining it right. The concept of a ‘formal’ was still a bit foreign to me. “It’s kind of like... a party, but fancier.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I didn’t think anyone would want us around for that. But if Lydia insists...”

I wasn’t sure if he was annoyed by the idea or simply resigned to it. Either way, I could feel my heart rate quicken at the thought of attending the event. It would be the first time I’d be in a room full of people I didn’t know well. The idea of fitting in, of being seen as something other than the outcast, felt strange but also exciting.

“You sure you want to go?” Derek asked, his expression softening. “It’s not exactly a casual affair.”

“I think I need to try,” I said, feeling a surge of determination. “I’ve spent enough time just surviving, Derek. I want to live, even if that means doing things I’ve never done before.”

He studied me for a long moment, his gaze intense and unreadable, before finally nodding. “Alright. We’ll do it. But just so you know, I can’t promise I’ll make it fun.”

I couldn’t help but smile at his dry humor. “That’s all I need from you,” I replied.

My ears perked up as I heard the door open and close in the other room. Peter.

“Did you survive girls' day, Little Wolf?” he called out, his voice smooth, teasing.

I stepped out of the room, standing in the doorway and glancing over at him. I had to admit, there was a part of me that wondered what he thought about how I looked. What if I was still too... wild for him?

“I think so,” I replied, shrugging lightly, trying to sound casual even though my heart was picking up its pace.

Peter’s gaze shifted to me the moment I spoke, his eyes scanning me from head to toe. It wasn’t the first time he’d looked at me like that, but this time, there was something sharper in his focus, something a little more intense.

“Not bad,” he said, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. His eyes lingered on mine, and for a brief moment, I couldn’t look away.

I wasn’t sure if it was the way he said it or the way he looked at me, but my body reacted—an almost electric heat spreading across my skin. There was something undeniably powerful in the way he saw me.

“What do you think?” I asked, voice a little quieter than I meant it to be, but I couldn’t help it. I was aware now. Of him. Of me. Of what we were becoming.

He stepped closer, his gaze never leaving mine. “I think you’re exactly what I wanted you to be,” he murmured, his voice low and rich, the kind of tone that made my heart race even faster.

I knew if he listened closely, he could hear it—my racing heart, the quickened rhythm of my breaths. He’d know exactly how he made me feel. Maybe he didn’t even need his wolf senses to figure it out. It was written all over me, plain as day.

Trying to distract myself from the weight of his gaze, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the plastic card Lydia had handed me earlier. I held it out to him. “Lydia said she gave it a workout. Not sure what that means.”

Peter took the card from me, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment. His smirk deepened as he examined it. “Of course she did.”

He looked me over again, slower this time, like he was committing every detail to memory. “But,” he said, his voice softening just a fraction, “you’re definitely worth it.”

Warmth spread through me, a fire igniting under my skin that had nothing to do with the loft’s crackling hearth. I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to respond to something that felt so genuine and raw. Instead, I stood there, holding his gaze, feeling more seen than I ever had before.

“Yeah,” Derek’s voice sliced through the tension like a blade, pulling me back to reality. He stepped into the room, his expression unreadable as usual. “Lydia wants us to chaperone the dance and take her. What do you think?”

Peter’s smirk returned instantly, sharp and teasing. “Do you want to be the belle of the ball, Little Wolf?” His tone was light, but his eyes gleamed with amusement. “It’s a different kind of wild—mingling with hormonal teenagers.”

I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes at him. “Is it dangerous?”

Derek snorted, crossing his arms. “Only if you let them drag you into their drama. Which they will try.”

“Dances aren’t about danger,” Peter countered smoothly. “They’re about spectacle. Lights, music, and hormones. But who knows—maybe our Little Wolf will enjoy being the center of attention for once.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. The thought of being surrounded by humans—young, loud, emotional humans—felt foreign and overwhelming. But the idea of experiencing something so uniquely human also intrigued me. And if Peter and Derek would be there… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

“I’ll go,” I said finally, glancing at Peter. “But only if you promise not to call me Little Wolf in front of everyone.”

Peter laughed softly, the sound warm and low. “No promises.”

[sabancii]

pinterest. / connections. / navigation.

── ( derya pinar ak. 22. cis female. she/they. ) thank god you’re here, man - have you seen SUNA SABANCI anywhere? i totally lost them after their rendition of come away with me by norah jones last night. no? they’re like, aye - high and go to LANGSTON - i think they’re a SENIOR studying ECO-SPIRITUAL DESIGN ? but who knows, these days. all i know is that they’re CREATIVE, COSMICALLY UNBOTHERED and a PISCES . last night they kept going on and on about how they won “MOST LIKELY TO START A COMMUNE” last year, which is cool and whatever, but i just wouldn’t expect it out of them, considering they’re so, like, SOFT-SPOKEN and NONCOMMITAL you know? anyways - i’m going to check down by the herb garden behind castle fell, i think that’s where they like to hang. text me if you see them, okay? bye!

basic information.

name:  suna sabancı  ·  nicknames:  su  ·  birthday:  march 12  ·  zodiac: pisces ·  age:  22  ·  hometown:  greenwich, connecticut  ·  birthplace:  izmir, turkey  ·  religion:  islam  ·  education:  college student  ·  relationship status:  single  ·  family:  raised in a multi-generational household, very close with family, has older brother & sister  ·  languages: english, turkish

physical characteristics.

height:  5’5  ·  eyes:  brown  ·  hair:  brown  ·  build:  petite, slender · distinguishing marks:  freckles that cover her entire face

personality and behavior.

+ easygoing, laid-back, free-spirited, creative, earthy - avoidant,unreliable, indecisive, unfocused, nonchalant suna’s your quintessential crunchy, granola girl who flows through life with very little care. there’s a natural coolness about her, though she’d never use that word. she’s hella creative and full of imagination, but lacks follow through– starting things with passion, only to abandon them midway. suna’s tendency to flake on projects, plans, or responsibilities isn’t out of malice, but a desire to live fully in the present, preferring to remain free and untethered.

hobbies: crafting, yoga, gardening, foraging, hiking, meditation, ukelele, attending concerts and festivals, herbalism, aimless meandering likes: being around people, live music, finding random bodies of water and wading in them, anything diy, mangoes, kombucha dislikes: conflict/confrontation, schedules/routines, pollution, negativity, being rushed, overcooked veggies, reading, western medicine quirks: talks to plants, can't finish a project, frequent hiccup-er, humming and dancing while completing tasks, smelling everything, snorting when laughing

about suna.

suna was born in izmir, turkey, a relaxed coastal city known for its arts, culture, and deep connection to nature.

she moved to the u.s. at the age of 12, everything about her still embodies the carefree spirit of her birthplace. 

her family's successful real estate development business brought them to the new york metro area, where they expanded their empire (and already immense wealth).

suna's family has always been close, but they grew closer as they adjusted to life in a new country together

after she graduates high school, she has no fucking clue what she wants to do with her life, but she's accepted to boston university which is conveniently close to her older brother at harvard.

she accepts and leaves her major undeclared. doesn't matter because she ends up failing out for not attending literally any of her classes... structured education just isn't her vibe, she craved something slower, more intuitive.

during this time, suna finds real solace in nature, where she claims to have learned more from rivers and rosemary than she could in any classroom.

inspired, she starts crafting wellness products and selling them at local farmer's markets and on etsy.

her products are 100% natural, organic, herbal, vegan, sustainable, ethically sourced, handcrafted, raw, non-GMO, fair trade, healing soaps and other self care products—under the name herbancı, a nod to her surname. if this sounds obnoxious, it's because it is.

despite how popular her products become, suna is a truly terrible businesswoman, and honestly? she doesn’t care. her parents’ money keeps her afloat while she figures it out.

eventually, she transfers to langston, drawn in by their flexible program structures and the promise that she could design her own major. she’s now technically a senior… if you count eco-spiritual design as a real thing (she does).

headcanons.

vegetarian since 10

it's not uncommon to see her family's name on buildings

style is very boho, probably has like three belly chains and wears a toe ring, definitely has tried the whole dreads thing before getting told off online

would go barefoot everywhere if she could, practices grounding and even wears shoes with copper in their sole

can’t start her day without making her own herbal tea blend, swears it helps her align with the universe

will reference your zodiac sign

more spiritual than dogmatic

[assortedseaglass]

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Twenty

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Strong Language, Smut, Violence, Depictions of War, Mentions of Death, Injury Detail, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Depictions of Reproductive Health, Suicidal Thoughts, World on Fire Spoilers.

Word Count: 6.1K

October 1940

The bombardment started the second he rounded the corner.

“Got time to play?”

“Maybe later, Joseph.” Joseph Mason, his older brother Albert and little sister Betty ran along the ginnel in Tom’s wake. A few of the younger children, which were Mrs Mason’s Tom didn’t know, struggled to keep up on their chubby legs.

“Haven’t you got anything else to wear?”

Betty shushed her brother. “It’s his uniform!”

“Well?” Joseph ignored her. “Haven’t you?”

“Free sweets and tram tickets with the uniform, Joseph.” Tom continued ahead, his little battalion of children trotting along beside him. He smiled.

“What’s that?” Betty pointed to the silver coin pinned to his navy shirt.

“Distinguished Service Medal.”

“Are you a hero?” Albert suddenly seemed interested. Tom smirked.

“Always was, always will be.” Thank God Bess wasn’t here to hear him say that. Or Albie. He’d have laughed himself into next week.

“What you doing here then?” said Betty.

“Hitler sunk my ship, gotta find me a new one.”

“Did you kill any Germans?” Albert was still awed by Tom as he tried to keep up.

“Loads.” Tom said, turning on his heel. The children stopped abruptly and stared up at him. A wry grin quirked the corners of Tom’s mouth. “Killed a few kids an’ all.”

They shuffled back in fear. Mrs Mason told them to keep away from Tom Bennett before the war. Now he was back, and he’d actually killed people! Joseph found his quavering voice. “What for?”

“Asking too many questions.” Tom left them behind in the ginnel and turned into the street. The smile faded from his face. The kit bag on his shoulder fell to the floor and, for a brief moment, his mind stilled. The house. What had happened to the house? Why was there rubble across the road? His mind sped up, images flashing like a zoetrope through his mind.

“Lois?” he croaked, running to the house. “Dad!?” His feet carried him up the pile of bricks scattered outside the front door, and he peered into the kitchen. The table and chairs had splintered, fragments of them remaining, and he saw it. The bomb. Its inactive shell lying before the fireplace. Pressing his face against the little glass that remained in the window, Tom looked up. His father’s iron bedframe dangled precariously from the hole in the kitchen ceiling, and above it, the cold and grey Manchester sky stared back at him.

Tom slipped as he took a step back. His chest was rising rapidly, the panic that accompanied him every day since the Exeter awakening every nerve. Blood pumped through his fingers. He balled his fists a few times to regain their feeling. Find them. He was as untethered here as he was at sea. Find them. An image, Vera in her little cot, gazing up at the ceiling as it came crashing down around her, flashed into his eyes and he rubbed it away. Find them. He slid down the rubble pile and before he’d taken his first step towards the abandoned kit bag, terror froze him once more.

The Vaughn house. It was intact. Still standing, but the windows were boarded with black-painted wood. Tom hammered on the door. “Fergal? Dot?” He waited. Nothing. Not a sound. Not a whisper.

“Fuck.” The word hissed from his mouth in panic. He grabbed his kit bag and raced to the only place he could think of. The hospital. If anything’s happened, they’ll be at the hospital. And Bess – fuck – Bess will be on shift. She would have been on shift, why would she be in Longsight? Please let her have been on shift.

“They found you a ship then?” Joseph shouted with a smile as Tom ran past. He didn’t hear. All he could think about was his family. His little family, shrinking. I can’t lose anyone else, not after mum. Not after Vic. Not after Albie. Already, the world felt smaller as he ran towards the Royal Infirmary. Through the parks, ginnels and scrapyards, the world was the hiss of his breath, the thundering of his heart and thoughts of his family. He rounded into the dockyard, sprinting towards the canal bridge that led to the city’s centre. The dockyard.

In an instant he changed direction, pelting along the dockside between engineers and labourers. Some tipped their caps to him, offering their thanks and “welcome back”, others hissed at him to get out of the way. Still, Tom thought of only one thing.

“Fergal?” He called as he pushed through the crowd of workmen. “Fergal Vaughn? Does anyone know where I can find Fergal Vaughn?”

“Tom?” The rasped Cork brogue cut through the clatter of metal. Tom launched himself at the squat man in relief, his arms wrapping around Fergal’s broad shoulders. Fergal barely had time to comprehend this out of character display before Tom pulled back and unleashed a tirade of questions.

“The house-I-I went home and the house-” Fergal placed his hands on Tom shoulders to calm him but the young man continued. “Bess? Bess? Is she ok? And Dot? And-”

“They’re all fine, my boy. Just fine.” Fergal rubbed his shoulders soothingly. “It was the same strike as what got your place. Only blew the windows out, thank the Lord.”

“And Lois and Dad? And the baby? Where are they? I-I don’t know where to go,” Tom’s voice cracked, thinking of his childhood home destroyed, the last place that held any concrete memories of his mother. Through his panic, he saw a piece of Fergal’s lightness dissipate. The round and reddened face of Fergal Vaughn, the man Tom had known since childhood, displayed that one thing he had never seen cross it before. Pity.

“Oh, my dear boy.” Fergal said softly, taking Tom by the hand to sit between the metal sleepers and tell him everything.

Bess was in no mood to stop and chat. Sister Stern had given her a bollocking for not changing the beds quickly, and Joan was in a foul mood because the soldier she was seeing had dumped her unceremoniously. So when she approached Carver Mills to see Mrs Russo waving, her cigarette leaving a trail of smoke in the air, Bess groaned. The silk scarf wrapped about Mrs Russo’s head took flight on the autumn wind and bustled towards Bess’ feet, and she knew a conversation was unavoidable.

“Ta, Bess.” Mrs Russo said brightly, holding her hand out for the scarf.

“Hiya,” Bess rubbed her eyes and fussed with her keys.

“Had a good shift?” Mrs Russo’s voice was offensively loud.

“Yes, fine.” Bess shifted uncomfortably under Mrs Russo’s watchful gaze and tried to squeeze past the round woman to reach the door.

“I’m expecting best behaviour from you girls while I’m away at my daughter’s,” Mrs Russo said, tying the scarf around her permed hair. “Caught Joan trying to sneak in that new beau of hers-”

Bess pushed the door open wearily. “They aren’t together anymore.” Mrs Russo paused her bustling.

“Poor girl. I’ll see if I can get some chocolate at the corner shop. Try and cheat my ration book.” She winked and tottered away. “Ta-ra, Bess.”

The door to the old mill swung shut heavily behind Bess, and she trudged up the stone stairs towards her flat. A glint of light cut the gloomy stairwell in two, and Helen poked her head out of the door to her own flat.

“Bess! A few of us are going to The Crown tonight for a lock in, do you want to-” She stopped as Bess turned to face her. “Christ, you look awful. Tough day?” Bess could do naught but nod. “Tell you what. You stay home and rest, I’ll take Joan. Best way to get over someone is to get under someone else and all that. There’s bound to be a desperate soldier looking for an easy girl.” She laughed and closed the door.

A moment later and Bess was in the welcome peace of her little home. Smalls were strung across the kitchen on a length of rope. The morning’s empty cup of tea still sat on the rickety table beside an old copy of Vogue, the christening dress she was making for Vera abandoned on the armchair by the window. Since the start of the war, fabric was hard to come by, lace and silk especially. Douglas let Bess take a cutting from Marie’s wedding dress. She wanted something from each side of the family, and parting Robina from her store of antique lace had been a challenge, but she persevered. Still, the gown was almost complete. Bess removed her nurse’s wimple and placed it by the garment, running her fingers over the ivory silk. Darling Douglas. The christening couldn’t come soon enough. After everything, Lois needed some happiness. It would be even better with Tom on leave. Bess’ heart skipped and she padded to the bedroom. She perched by her simple vanity, a mirror balanced on a school writing desk, kicked off her shoes and took the stack of Tom’s letters out from the drawer.

October 16th can’t come soon enough. Lois’ food, Cora and Dot making a fuss. Little Vera and you.

The last letter was dated early September. Bess knew Tom couldn’t write all the time. He was either too busy onboard or, on occasion, they were prevented from writing during particular missions. Her only knowledge that he was ok were the continued reports of the Navy’s skirmishes on the wireless and in the newspaper. The HMS Keith had sunk, but Lois received a telegram that Tom was fine and awaiting the next ship home. Bess looked at the calendar on her wall. October 15th. Tomorrow. God willing, he’d be here with her, tomorrow. Instinctively, her hand reached for the photograph of Tom, now propped against the mirror. Every morning and every night, he watched her in sepia as she dressed and undressed. She kissed it and, placing it back, caught sight of herself in the mirror.

Helen was right. She looked awful. The swift removal of her wimple caused tufts of the hair to stick up at odd angles. The uniform she wore was bloodied and dirty. Her hands, hard now from hours work at the hospital, were grubby. She wiped them on her face. Her dark eyes were framed by circles of purple and grey, and her usually plump cheeks were gaunt and pale. The only thing that remained were her full and pink lips. Against the dullness of her skin, they looked garish. Bess sighed and one by one removed her hair pins. Watching her hair come undone, in some places curled from the pins, others straight and frizzy, she wondered what it was that had so changed the Longsight boys towards her. How she went from “witch” to something desirable. What drove Walter Watson from bullying her to forcing himself upon her behind the Palais.

It wasn’t as though she had changed all that much from those difficult years to now. When presented with the option to speak or remain silent, Bess always chose the latter. That is, unless someone cast insult over her chosen few. Then, as Cora said, “there’ll be none so fierce as Bess on judgement day”. She wasn’t as kind as Cora, with her thoughtful gestures and selflessness. Nor did she have her gentle charm and beauty. Dot, on the other hand, was an entity unto her own design. Despite her tendency for the flighty and sudden outbursts of judgement, wherever Dot went, the sun seemed to follow. Funny and light, the world seemed brighter in her company. Bess still stared at her reflection. What did she bring? A haughty quietness that most found intimidating? Her use as a seamstress and pianist? Over her shoulder, she caught sight of the photograph pinned to the wall by her bed.

It was at Albie’s birthday celebration in the summer. Dot had taken it with the camera Harry gave Bess in the spring. In it, Tom and Bess stood side by side. His arm was gripped tightly around her middle, pulling her to him and highlighting the slightness of her waist and fullness of her hips. The blouse she wore, tucked into her slacks, curved around her breasts. At her ear, Tom was whispering something sinful; Bess could tell by the girlish giggle captured in celluloid. For the first time, she was embarrassed by the image. Her womanhood was so wantonly on display. So, that’s what the boys saw in her, that summer she came back from Manchester.

“Never thought I’d be in this position with Bess Vaughn. That little freak from school.”

Vomit rose to her mouth as the memory of stale smoke and alcohol flooded her nose. Bess’ eyes snapped from the image to her reflection. Gaunt face, dark eyes, grey skin.

“Then you came back from Manchester with this. And these-”

Bess rubbed her hand across the bodice of her uniform. Her chest felt tight. Heavy and not her own.

“This is all you’re good for, Bess Vaughn, all you will ever be good for.”

The memory of Walter’s assault on her was plaguing Bess of late. With Tom at war and Douglas-. And Douglas-. Her two defenders were gone. At night, alone when she imagined Tom with her and her hand slid beneath her nightdress, Bess recalled the way his neck strained as he screamed at the man. The crack of his fist against skin. But no sooner had the memory of Tom’s dominance warmed her cheeks, chest, thighs, was Walter’s sweaty face swimming into view and ruining her bliss.

“This is all you’re good for, Bess Vaughn, all you will ever be good for.”

Her near lifeless eyes blinked back at her in the worn mirror and, body humming with hatred, she pushed herself away from her reflection. The stool fell backward with a thunk onto the wooden floor and Bess stood motionless. The day had been full of misery at every turn. Bloodied soldiers to be sewn back together. Wrecked buildings pouring onto Manchester’s streets. Her own self-loathing. Too tired to drag her body to bed, Bess hovered at the centre of her room, lulled into an imitation of sleep somewhere between lucidity and nightmare.

Downstairs, the front door of the mill crashed closed, and she jolted from her half-sleep. Joan was obviously back from the infirmary and still in a foul mood. Bess sighed, ran a hand through her tangled hair and uncovered the duvet. The clock read 6 o’clock and she hadn’t even removed her apron. Beyond the door, Joan was tearing up the stairs of Carver Mills, her heels sounding more like jackboots as she pounded the steps. Bess stomped across the floor. Her hand closed around the doorhandle, ready to slam it shut-

BANG BANG BANG

She froze. From her spot in the bedroom doorway, Bess watched the front door rattle on its hinges. On tiptoe, she edged forwards. The thundering fists hammered on the door again.

BANG BANG BANG

She tried to remember if she had locked it behind her. No, of course she hadn’t. Shit. Only Mrs Russo and the other nurses had access to the flats; there was no need to lock it until curfew. Not even Helen or Joan, in her anger, would bang down the door. Bess rushed forwards, ready to bar the intruder as best she could. She knew there was little she could do to stop them. Even with her nurses’ strength and steeliness, an intruder would overpower her. Walter Watson flashed across her vision. What if he was home? What if Queenie or Frank told him where to find her?

BANG BANG BANG

Hang on. An intruder wouldn’t knock. Again, she froze, this time in confusion. The last knock had barely rung out when, as if in slow motion, Bess watched the handle turn. The door flew open and the person on the other side stormed in.

It was like watching a cat stalk its prey. The whites of his eyes burned like a wild beast’s, the blue at their icy centre darted around the room madly until they landed on her. They widened, then narrowed. A predator locking onto its next meal. For them, everything faded from view. The peeling wallpaper, the laundry, the few scattered belongings. Everything, except for Bess. Excitement, or was it fear, fluttered in her ribcage. The pathway to her was blocked by the kitchen table and, striding towards her, he threw it aside in one swift motion. She shivered, swaying where she stood at the flex of his hands. Bess barely had time to register his thin cheeks, the lines that framed his eyes, before those same hands gripped her face hard.

“Tom-” His mouth crashed into hers. It was hard, a clash of teeth and tongue. With her words stolen, Bess grew light-headed and struggled for breath between Tom’s harsh kisses. A hand moved from her face to her neck as she tried to speak, keeping her head in place against him. The other fell to her waist and gripped the flesh there roughly.

“Tom, I-” He silenced her. Swallowing Bess’ words, he roughly tugged the hair fisted in his hand and bit the exposed flesh of her neck with a growl. She whimpered, hand gripping onto his shoulder for support. For something real. Surely this wasn’t real? “Tom,” His assault on her neck was rough and through it, still Bess struggled to speak. “Tom, I thought-I thought you weren’t back ‘til tomorrow-”

He ignored her. The hand holding her waist moved to grope the fullness of her bottom and pull her harder against him. The strength of the action forced the breath from Tom’s chest in a huff as, overwhelmingly, his world became Bess. The scent of her sweat. Old perfume. Her pathetic whimpers. The small hands clawing at his body. The swell of her breasts pressed against his chest. The ripe flesh of her bottom. The smell of her sex. He was an animal on the hunt. Uncontrollable. Terrified. Surviving. Hungry. He bit the meat of her shoulder and she cried out, at last pushing him away. Tom’s hands flew once more to the sides of her face and held her in his vice-like grip.

They stood watching each other. Beneath the furrow of Tom’s brow, the hard crease of his forehead, the usually bright eyes that Bess so adored, always full of mirth and mischief, were desperate. If she looked closely, she swore she could make out tears, taunting him. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, the air passing through his flared nostrils. The line of his mouth was shut firm, though swollen from the way he kissed her, and his jaw- fuck, that jaw, was set hard and strong. Bess should have been worried. Scared even. Instead, her heart flooded with unease.

The dark eyes that Tom so adored, always full of certainty and knowing, were searching. Not disgusted by his depravity, or the violent lust with which he needed her. Her hands wound up his arms and grasped the hands still on her face, and Tom watched as the same emotion that had washed over Fergal’s face, washed over Bess. Pity.

He didn’t need fucking pity. He needed stability. Comfort. Home. Something real. One of Bess’ thumbs stroked the side of his hand and he snapped at its tenderness. Tom brought his face to hers, devouring her in a hungry kiss. He walked them backwards until Bess hit the bedroom door. Breaking momentarily from her lips, Tom bent down, a hand sliding up one of Bess’ stockinged legs, and hitched it around his waist. She barely had time to steady herself before he thrust his groin against hers, his hard length pressing against her through the sturdy cotton of his bell bottoms.

Still, he didn’t say a word. As Tom’s hands roamed greedily across her backside, her hips, her breasts, Bess tried not to think about his silence. It was true, she had imagined the devouring ferocity of what having him would be like when he returned home. But each time, it was bookended with tenderness. Whispered adorations and gentle devotions. Not this…anger. The first prickle of fear ran over her. Not at what he would do, but why he was doing it. She tried to reach out to him. To caress his face or run her hand through his hair. He batted it away, gripping her wrist and pinning it to the door as, with ferocity, he ground his hips into hers. The movements were hard and desperate. Whether by the hand caught beneath his bruising grip, or the urgency with which he rubbed his clothed length against her, Bess’ mind went blank and she moaned. At last, Tom spoke.

“Fuck.” His head lolled to nuzzle at her neck, and when she met his hips with the thrusting of her own, he growled. He could take no more of this. He lifted Bess over his shoulder and kicked the bedroom door open. It banged against the wall, and when Bess shushed him, he ignored her. Tom threw her down onto the bed and knelt between her parted legs. Without hesitation he tore at her uniform. Tom pulled the apron so hard its bow gave away, and he tossed it aside. His hands fisted her layers of skirt to reach her suspenders. He unhooked them roughly and pulled down Bess’ woolen stockings. The second ripped, and through the haze of her increasing arousal, Bess noted that they’d need darning. The thought vanished when Tom pushed her knees away and rolled her suddenly onto her front.

“Tom-” Whatever she was going to say died in her throat at the sound of ripping fabric and buttons hitting the floor. Tom tore the back of her bodice open, kissing the skin there as he pushed the sleeves away from her shoulders. Bess slipped out of her uniform, squealing when Tom let go of her. Her body fell forward onto the bed and he roughly pulled the skirt away from her legs. Bess was near nakedness now, and excitement warmed the apex of her thighs. When Tom pushed her small chemise over her bottom and smacked the skin there, she burned.

“On your knees.” His voice was low and cracked, as though his throat were full of gravel. Her cunt clenched. Immediately, obediently, Bess pushed her body off the bed. She was too slow for Tom. He grabbed her by the hips and wrenched her towards him. Resting on all fours, Bess tried to look over her shoulder. Tom pushed her face away. “Don’t look at me.” The darkness of his order made her shudder. She faced forward, toward the damp-stained wall and the photograph of her and Tom. The one she’d been gazing at mere moments before he arrived.

“This is all you’re good for, Bess Vaughn, all you will ever be good for.”

No. She shook Walter’s words from her mind. This was Tom, not Walter. Rough and angry and needy, yes. But Tom. Not Walter.

Tom’s hands rested on the apples of Bess’ backside, and she felt him lean his weight there a moment. Heard him hit the ground. He was kneeling, wrenching the now soaked knickers she wore down her thighs and, before she could comprehend it, lapping greedily at her core. How long they stayed there, with Tom’s arms wrapped around her thighs as he worshipped her cunt, Bess couldn’t say. Only that with every grunt of his throat, every suckle at her sex, every eager flash of his tongue against her folds, the tension in her abdomen increased. The worry she could not put aside, did the same.

If the callous and unashamed way Tom devoured Bess caused her arousal and anxiety to grow, his next movement all but obliterated any thought of him regaining his senses. With one last smack to her bottom, Tom departed. Bess’ thighs clenched. His sudden absence was frustrating. Infuriating even. She knew she needn’t wait long for him, though. Atop the mussed bedding, the navy of his uniform shirt landed. A thud on the ground indicated he had abandoned his boots, and the hush of fabric and panted breaths told Bess he was battling with his slacks. She yearned to help him. To turn around and with fast hands rid him of his last barrier of restraint. But Tom knew Bess. He’d known her long enough, well enough, to recognise her craving for control and independence. Not today. Not now. She was alive. She was here before him, bottom raised, sweating gleaming at the dip of her back, panting with need, doing whatever he asked of her. Just as she began turning her head, he ran two long fingers through her wet slit and she moaned his name, pushing backwards against his fingers for relief.

“Sheath.” Tom grunted, taking himself in hand. He was painfully hard, precum already weeping from the angry head of his cock. His eyes roamed over Bess’ exposed heat, pink and slick and waiting for him. The urge not to drive forward, full into her, was overwhelming.  

“We used the last before you left,” Bess was breathless, waiting. A hard warmth brushed against her entrance and she groaned. “Please, Tom.” He wasted no time. That was the certainty that the sheath didn’t matter. One hand one the small of Bess’ back, the other gripped at the base of his cock, Tom thrust forward, heading falling at the tight heat that welcomed him. Both hands holding the flesh of her hips, Tom withdrew himself from Bess before slamming forward. Bess buried her face in the bedsheets, muffling her cry. She had missed him these last months, and though her fingers temporarily satiated her longing, nothing could prepare Bess for the sensation of Tom Bennett filling her completely.

Over and over, Tom’s hips snapped into Bess’ cunt. His sandy hair was plastered to his forehead, sweat pouring from his brow. The hands that held Bess in place were unmoving, the nails biting into her tender skin. Over and over, Bess moaned his name. When she tried to reach a hand back, desperate to touch him, Tom seized it and, body bent low across her back, held it against the bed. His breath was hot in her ear, hard with pants and grunts of what should have been desire. Between her paroxysms of pleasure, Bess thought they sounded angry.

Like all these other thoughts, they disappeared with every thrust of Tom’s cock into her. His passion was confirmed again when he gripped the auburn hair at the base of her neck and bit her pulse point. Pain fluttered through her veins and excitement lit her core. When Tom did it again, she sped towards painful release. Her hip was burning under his hand, the skin of her buttocks sore from the continued slam of his hip bones. Her back, bent and pressed against the bed, ached and the pulse of a headache crept under the spot were Tom pulled her hair taut. Tears were beginning to prickle her eyes, and when Tom pulled again on her hair, a mangled sob of pain and pleasure ripped from her throat as her walls spasmed around him.

That was it. With a final few violent thrusts, Tom spilled himself inside her. Blinding white light flashed across his eyes and his whole body seemed to crackle with electricity. This wasn’t a release of passion or love, but something more depraved. A violent shock to the system that proved he was still alive. Could still feel. He’d seen men charred beyond recognition, heard the tear of bombs through the sky and torpedoes in water. The groaning of metal as it gave way to bullets. Feared drowning, being mown down or else ripped limb from limb by enemy explosives. Come home to find his childhood didn’t exist and missed the death of his father, years after he watched is mother slowly succumb to nothingness.

Tom looked sideways at the body beneath him. Though her face was half-hidden in the bed, hair frizzy and in disarray, there was no mistaking the tear tracks that ran down Bess’ face. Her breath was ragged and erratic, the small whimpers she made so different to her usual sounds of pleasure. Tom pulled out of her suddenly and though she didn’t move, she gasped. He looked at her lying there, so still and vulnerable. With tentative hands, he caressed her legs and knelt on the bed to lie beside her body. She didn’t look at him, even turned away once he had brushed the hair from her face and, crumbling with shame, Tom buried his face in her neck and began to cry.  

7 o’clock. The sun had just descended below the Manchester skyline and only Tom and Bess’ laboured breathing could be heard throughout the flat. Bess hadn’t moved. Not for a long while. Against his thighs, Tom could feel the gentle shake of her legs. Breath still shuddering from their exertion, her back occasionally brushed against his hard chest. The sight of her like this, quaking because of him, should have made Tom proud. But when she shivered, actually shivered, he felt nothing but disgrace. He should have ravished her when he got home. Instead, he'd used her. And she’d let him.

“Are you cold?” he whispered in her ear.

“A little, yeah.” Grabbing the quilt from the floor, Tom draped it over Bess, his warm hand beneath the patchwork rubbing lazily at her side. It was only then did she roll over to face him. Her small hand, with its long, dexterous fingers, brushed across his cheek. Tom knew she was studying him. “You’ve become a man far too quickly,” she said. Tom didn’t need her to explain. His hair was lighter, already on a stress-induced course to grey. The youthful fullness of his cheeks had gone, and now the skin stretched too tightly over his prominent cheekbones. Sometimes, when he caught sight of himself in a mirror, he could see his skeleton sitting just below the surface of his pallid skin. He knew too, that the hardness had settled not just about his face, but in his soul. War had sunk its terrible claws into him, and the man he swore he’d never become, his father, was beginning to appear. Tom brushed some sweat-stuck hair from Bess’ forehead.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.” She continued to stroke his face, and Tom placed a palm there to stop the action. If she carried on with this gentleness, he’d cry again.

“I just had to make sure you were real,” At this, Bess laughed.

“What do you mean?”

Tom sat up, leaning on his elbow and, distracted by the hair wrapped around his finger, hurried his words. “When I saw the house, I just panicked-And I didn’t know where to go and then I went to your dad-I was thinking-I was gonna come here but I didn’t know if you’d still-and then I went through the dockyard and your dad-your dad told me everything-and when he said you were ok I-I,” he took a shaking breath. “I had to come and see for myself. That you’re still here.”

Bess was silent. Her eyes darted about his worried face, unsure of what he meant. “Did you think something had happened?” It was Tom who looked confused now.

“Bess, I went home and the fucking house had been blown up and neither you or my family were anywhere to be seen.”

“But, I thought-”

“No. I didn’t know.” Tom spat. His anger was flaring again as he swung his legs off the bed and pulled on his bell bottoms. What he was planning to do, he didn’t know, and when Bess quietly said his name, he deflated, slumping back onto the bed. “I didn’t know,” he said weakly, and immediately Bess was at his side, rubbing circles on his back and kissing his bullet wound scar. He collapsed against her, and slowly she pulled him back under the covers with her, his head resting against her naked chest.

There was nothing to be said. What could she say? Tom Bennett had been away at war and come home to learn his father had been killed by the very thing he was fighting. As if reading her mind, Tom spoke quietly into her chest. “What’s the point? We go and fight, to keep you all safe, and it doesn’t fucking work.”

“That’s not the only reason-”

“It is for me.” Tom said firmly. “I’ve got nothing else but my family, and you. You’re what makes this bastard war worth fighting.” Bess looked down at him. At his elegant nose and furrowed brow. At his lean and muscular body curled around hers, and her heart swelled with enormous affection for Tom Bennett. She kissed his head and he settled for a while. Content to have him home, nose buried in his hair, the first comforts of sleep beckoned to Bess.

“Your dad said you were there.” Though quiet, she jumped at his voice and, swallowing the lump that appeared in her throat, she murmured that yes, she had been there. Tom chewed his lip, considering his next question. After Bess, it was all he had thought about since Fergal told him of that night’s events. “What did he look like?”

Bess froze. “Tom, you don’t need-” He cut her off.

“It can’t be anything worse than what I imagine.”

He had a point. Gripping one of his hands in hers, she told him about the events immediately after the bomb detonated over his childhood home.

“Dadda was trying to get us back to the shelter, it was difficult to see because of all the smoke, but when the ambulance arrived, I could see it was Lois and Connie. And when Dadda came out of your house, there was blood on his uniform. I didn’t know what state your dad was in, but I knew that whatever it was, Lois couldn’t see him. So me, Connie and one of the paramedics went in to get him out.”

Tom sniffled against her chest and Bess hugged him tighter.

“He looked so peaceful, Tom. I won’t lie to you and say he was perfect; a beam from the ceiling got his arm so there was a messy gash there, lots of blood, and what I assume was falling rubble had caught his head. Nothing dreadful!” she quickly said when Tom flinched. “Just a few little cuts around his face. But he was sat in his chair by the fire, newspaper hanging out of one hand. Like he’d just drifted off to sleep. Thinking of you, I expect.”

“Shut up,” Tom wiped his nose. “He was probably thinking about Mrs Chase’s smalls-”

“The sooner you realise that your dad adored you, Tom Bennett, the better!” She pinched his arm. “You know, him and Lois had a fight that day. She’d gone off to work and he was so down in the mouth about it, we said we’d look after Vera that night.” Tom said nothing and she continued. “What did Lois say when you saw her?”

“Eh?” Tom looked up at her through his long lashes.

“Lois. What did she say when you saw her?”

Tom’s arm around her waist grew tighter. “I came straight here.” Bess hid her smile from him, trying not to let her joy show as she ran her hand again through his hair.

“I think perhaps you should go and see her. Now,” Bess added when Tom tried to argue. “Tom, she’s so unhappy. Missing you, and your pa, raising little Vera alone. I suppose Dadda told you about Vernon?” Tom nodded. “Go. Now.” She kissed the top of his head and shooed him from the bed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Notes: I read an article about a gunner who fought in the Battle of River Plate getting the Distinguished Service Medal, so I figured Tom would get one too. The HMS Keith actually sunk during the evacuation of Dunkirk but for the sake of the story, I made its sinking a little later.

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[mariadotcom]

pennhurst - the start of going down (P. I)

hey guys, it's been a while since we last had some (or nay) interactions but life have been getting crazier by the second. i apologize since i left the blog untethered and filling with spiders and moths, but i'm (partially) back and hope you like this little romance, thrilling horror or something i've been working on on my free time. if not, dm me and i'll hear ya! xo maria

prompt: y/n is an immigrant from south america, she owns a bodyshop and there's where she meets sam and colby. as the friendship between them blossoms, other things arise as well, perhaps some of them should've remain buried. ghosts from the past, a difficult romance and a carrousel of ups and downs between them form a storm - but the living aren't the problem alone amidst this tempestuous story. WARNINGS: none, i guess. but strong language, NOT for minors, and i am a mess so god knows - and popular demand tells - when will i post the following chapter.

we promised we'd be back in full blast but not to exaggerate much and get ourselves - especially colby - hurt. since chemo ended, he's been more active and i, as friend who's been there through good and bad, think he deserves a time doing what he loves, performing his job oh so gracefully.

usually, i'm off-screen and i'm glad about it - helping the boys carring their stuff around and exploring places with friends on my days-off. this time around the only differencial would be colby's health on watch; sam was being careful and watching over him more than any of us would, despite that being expected. although something was off, i could feel it. the way colby would glare at people sometimes, with tears in his eyes. he'd be saying the most deep and thoughtful shit, but usually was hitting harder. "say what you feel to the ones you love, y/n" he'd say and i'd anwer "i love you, colby. it's never enough how much...". we met when they moved to Vegas at a bodyshop i own. they trusted their cars with me and we ended up bonding and becoming friends, colby was more standoffish at first but he came around once he learned that i was to be trusted - at least a bit.

the cancer news hit us all like a brick to the head, a cold rush of familiarity through my veins. it was all so new yet so similar. gladly, the treatment and the operation were enough, and he was never alone. not a single second. sam was alway there for him and so was i, whenever they chimed me in. anyways, on the welcome-back trip, sam thought a trip would do him good whereas i thought an exploration would serve better. combining both, for colby, was the greatest so that's what we did. sam chose the location through some people he met along the way of the chanel, i was so excited to finally know the spot i barely focused on colby and what was he saying.

"....then we could try to explore the place ourselves. what you think, y/n?" he said while scrolling through his phone. it wasn't sam and colby's first visit there, but it was mine and they wanted me to have a good time and full immersive experience. "huh?" i questioned "this whole thing is about YOU, colbert. you should be the one 'thinking' of something."

"yeah, yeah. i just want to make sure we all have fun, you know?" his pale blue eyes stared at me for a second and, as usual, i stared back. i couldn't get enough. "y/n?" he called.

"sure, colby. i'll do whatever you want me to..." i stated focusing on the pile of e-mails stacking in my inbox.

"isn't it time for you to take a vacation? some time off?" colby asked seeing how busy and overwhelmed i was. i sighned, he moved from one couch to another to sit closer. "c'mon you could stay some time with us, ditch the company for a few days..."

i cut him off before he could finish his line of thought "colby, you know i can't. the company is expanding.... i need to focus" i rolled my eyes and rested my head upon his shoulder. we watched as sam entered the room, sweaty shirt signaling he just came back from the gym "hello, lovebirds," he said jokinlgy "what are we discussing?"

"how y/n should get a few weeks of vacation" colby gently backed up, laying my head on the couch as he stood up to greet sam and the grocery bags i just now realize he had been holding for a while. "you're obviously in need of some of it, y/n. why don't we make this trip a bit longer so you can take AT LEAST a few days more to reset?" sam suggested.

"but i...." "you can't run no company if you're worn out, dude" sam cut me. "besides, it is YOURS. you're the boss! c'mon, we'd love to have you for a couple days more, right colby?"

"yeah, besides you still owe me a movie night!" colby stated. it's been months since i've been promising the movie night with thrilling and horror movies, just colby and i, to talk about how he has been feeling lately and other stuff. it's always a pleasure be around such a good friend. [wish we were a bit more than that].

"you know what, you two!" i started with and angry tone, eyes still closed, still laying on their couch. "you're right...." i cooled down. "i need to get some rest. i'll take 3 weeks off and nothing more but please, you both are in charge of me"

"couting now?" colby joked.

"no, robert, couting monday..."

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°\/°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Friday afternoon after my last meeting, i was still rushing around, making sure every inch of the bodyshop was clean, organized, ready for monday morning's routine of receiving and fixing cars and guaranteeing excellence to costumers. my CEO (and godfather, altogether) made sure they'd be fine without me for a couple weeks and he'd only call in emergencies. i was hoping for little to none, but leaving for the first time in years was still frightening.

i saw the old toyota corolla make a corner, if there were a better picture than that, colby's glass were not really dark-stained so i could see through it. he was wearing, shockingly, a dark green shirt, black and green jacket and i could swear i saw someone on the backseat for a split second. knowing him, i'd be either surprised or scared the second i set foot in the car. gathering my stuff from my office quickly, i found my old devotion notebook. i remembered that work has been draining me so much i forgot i am too a sensitive religious person - but not the convetional one. the door was pushed and the fragrance that followed screamed his name, i didn't even had to turn around to recornize him but his words affirmed what i thought. "are we going?" colby questioned. "mhmm" i replied. "let me just check my e-mails one last time...."

"oh fuck no!" colby shouted, running around the table and taking the laptop from me. he then locked it inside a drawer and kept the keys. "i'll give it back to you in a week or two, when we're far away from this office." he said firmly.

after a moment of silence, he said "you deserve this...." "hey! we're traveling! it'll be fun! plus, your family can handle everything else."

"and we'll call if we can't." my godfather/uncle Victor entered the room, his arms crossing in front of him once he stopped beside colby. them both being tall made a shadow fawn over me, intimidating a little. "we will miss you, but you haven't stop since forever. get some rest, kiddo" my uncle Victor said. "and you make sure she stays alright! i'll need her back!" he warned colby.

"sure thing, sir! i'll bring her back in one piece in maybe 3 weeks." colby said gathering my stuff and pulling me to the car. "maybe? it's a definitely, gentleman." Victor said. we both giggled making our way to his car.

"every time i come around to pick you up, i feel like we're 16" colby joked as i looked around in the car. [who the fuck was inside]. he arched an eyebrown confused to as why was i snooping around. "yo, you good?" he asked. i shaked my head 'yes' but there was some sinking feeling something was off.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°\/°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°° the flight was scheduled to sunday morning, this way we'd be in pennsylvania by noon or so. it was still saturday morning when the first nightmare hit, it was still dark outside and the guest room in sam and colby's place felt degrees colder than usual. i guess it was so intense i screamed and sam woke me up, worried. colby followed him suit behind with flustered cheeks and heavy eyes.

"what's wrong?" sam asked, sitting in the bed beside me. his weight made the covers safer, calmer. my thoughts coming down from a high as soon as he pressed his warm hand on my forehead to see if i had a fever. "you're not hot or anything...." sam said and colby giggled.

"yeah she's definitely hot, jus not your type, bro." colby corrected and sam's cheeks brigthen up red, you could barely see through the soft and dim yellow light from the tiny lamp that stood beside the bed. "you know i don't mean that...." sam started. "you're... you're pretty hot you know. i'd rather say beautiful but..."

"romeo, i guess she just had a bad dream, right?" colby leaned on the doorframe. his white ripped tee a little too ripped and sam's soft grip on my face slowly became a light caress. "i guess i'll leave juliet to go back to sleep then." sam said giving me a concerned look. "okay?" i nodded.

"i'm sorry" i muttered, my voice coming back to me. "didn't mean to wake you up, guys" sam rolled his eyes and lightly pinched my cheeks. "stop being a dumbass..." he said getting up and making his way out. "i'll be in my room. if you need anything, CALL! don't scream. you scared the shit out of me" sam said as he made his way to his bedroom.

it was colby's turn to say something. do something. but instead, he just stood there, leaning against the door while i sat on the bed, still processing what was the nightmare about. only flashes flooding my memories, little by little. drowning my thoughts. "can i come in?" he finally asked after what felt like forever in silence. "mhmmm" i hummed.

different from sam, colby was more straight forward with whatever he wanted. this being said, it wasn't hard to agree that he, in fact, went under covers and laid beside me. "robert, what are you doing? are you insane?" i coiled beside him. my dressing wasn't very modest to welcome him in bed with me as i was using a big tee and panties. "as if i never laid next to another woman. get off yourself" he complained.

i sneakily grabbed my pajama shorts from my side of the bed and put them in under the blankets, by this time, colby had rolled over. his face turn to me but his eyes closed - perhaps privacy or just him trying to fall back asleep. i facepalmed breathing loudly trying to erase the feeling of uneasyness from my body after the terrible dream, but colby's hand on my tight and his firm grip startled me a bit. "c'mon, lay down. it's 2:30 in the morning... i'll stay here with you" he muffled in the pillows. "c'mooooooon" colby whined.

"i just...it was so vivid, you know.... these buildings, the feeling i got...." i started but my as soon as i did, my heart went racing. colby sat, his eyes barely opening, one arm around me and the other caressing my leg. "are you okay?" he asked, his hand moving upwards trying to soothe me. "sometimes reals can feel so real, right? but don't stress over it too much, i'll stay here." he said calmly. "maybe we can call sam and...."

"ugh you're such a whore, brock" i laughed as i laid in bed, him doing the same. "thanks, by the way..." he raised an eyebrown, eyes fast closed. "for the what?"

"for staying."

°°°°°°°°\/°°°°°°°°

the day went smoothly and sunday noon was approaching. pennsylvania sounded near althought a 6 hour flight separated the two states and increased in a rapid speed our hunger. i slept through most of it since the nightmares became a thing over the weekend - minus the screaming, thankfully - and sam became my personal caressing pillow. his soft words, as soft as his hands, lulled me to sleep seconds into the flight. colby was an aisle down to us and never stopped chatting with the pretty petite blonde girl sat next to him, when i finally woke, they seemed more acquainted then when the flight was getting ready to take off.

"they kissed" sam filled me in, first thing when i woke. "wow, really?" "mhmm, colby's like that now" he said turning a page from a book he was reading. "yeah i guess he always had been, but it's more of a show off about it now" i replied adjusting my messy cruly hair. "i'm glad i'll always have you, never normal sam" joking, i said. he just elbowed me lightly, giving the most warm upside down smile.

"how are you?" i asked noticing he'd been refusing to look at the notifications on his phone. he just glared. "i mean, this number must belong to SOMEONE. won't you answer?" sam sighed. "it's kat. we.... i...." his words started to crample together but luckily the pilot interrupted him with the announcement of landing. both of us releasing the air inside our lungs we weren't aware we'd been holding. "hey... i know it must be hard. i'm always here to hear you.... and maybe crack joke about it though." i reaffirmed. sam held my hand and gave it a caring kiss, leaving it as a thank you note with everything he wanted to say but couldn't right now.

the plane landed, we got our bags. sam and colby rented a car and decided this could make a video: traveling with friends, living the now, doing what they like and going old fashion - no hardwire equipments, no electronics by the dozens, no mediatic pressure and no place for nothing but good times. it came late, but it didn't fail. colby surprised sam and i at the restaurant. we were peacefully eating like dinosaurs when a pair of hands gripped sam's shoulder tight - not enough to hurt him, but enough to have him startled. sam and colby's friend, nate, stood behind sam and i while we ate.

nate is a cool guy, very chill and funny. he's always down to whatever the boys propose him to, thus incouraging me to do the same. although we have a good time together, sometimes and only sometimes, i have a glipmse of myself and feel a little unconscious. the many women approaching them - being for fame, recognition, looks or whatever - are gorgeous, the kind of girl you'd see on tampon commercials or maybe a lame movie with only hot chicks using ridiculous clothes to perform complex tasks. i'm just normal and - for a while - it's good being average, but oh boy, how i wish i was....

"hey, gorgeous!" nate complimented me as he plopped on the empty chair beside me. "how have you been, girl?" he sassed. i rolled my eyes, smile growing wider. "i've been good, nataniel." i teased back.

"what's with you and names?" colby asked downing a bit of his drinks. he had a halfway fresh oranje juice glass that i insisted he'd take instead of whatever processed shit he'd prefer. "you see, COLBERT," i emphasized before continuing, earning everyone's smile "it's funnier that way. plus, i get to tease you all about fictional names that suit you fine" i gulped my juice myself.

"well, we should think about a nickname for you to call it your own, then" nate threw his arms around my chair and said, leaning over a bit. "maybe we should call you...." as soon as nate was forming a thought, sam's phone rang. it was the person responsible for our tour and stay, so we went quieter so sam could figure whatever out. we couldn't help ourselves to kick one another under the table and whisper sweet nothings to each other while making dramatically silly faces - or copy whatever sam was saying in a husk tone, just to ease up the mood. "yeah, sure. i guess it'll be a great idea!" sam said. "i guess we can share some rooms, there's no problem with it...." finally, we fell dead silent to hear what he was saying and when sam noticed, he put them on speaker.

"i'm sure you can all share, but wouldn't it be fun if you got separate rooms?!" the person on the other end asked with a malice in their voice. you could tell it was a sllightly older man and if it wasn't from previous experience, you barely couldn't differ the amount of cigarretes he'd smoken before. "i mean, it's a haunt tour but we have buildings able to accomodate you 3 perfectly nice, and the area is still new to renovations so you guys could do some recording if you'd like"

"actually, josh, we are in a group of 4 now. a friend decided to join us, is that an issue?" sam asked. "not at all, sam! we love to have you and any friend of yours as guests! is colby coming?" the man asked "surely he is!" colby answered affirming he was part of the group listening. "well, then it'll be awesome having you guys!" "it'll be awesome staying with you, josh! see you in a bit" sam hushed and ended the call.

"well, i hope you're in for a ride," sam said. "we have the place to ourselves and...." "yeah, but where is the place? WHAT is the place?" nate asked, finally tackling our doubts. "we're going to pennhurst asylum."

author's notes: thoughts? call the roaches and complain. (kidding, leave it here under NOTES or message me)

[kaurwreck]

you remind me of a time i wish i could go back to; a time in which i would obsessively read and keep reading about anything that interested me slightly. i would stumble into entirely new ways of thinking with all the delicacy of a bull in a china shop, and learn to engage with it on its own terms. the ability got lost somewhere in the haze that was school and uni and people and work and now i’ve… lost the ability to think on my own. it comes maybe twice a month, in random bursts, and i fucking hate that i don’t have access to it continuously anymore. i hate that now when i’m bored i can’t think up stories in my head and chew on ideas in my free time. i see you and i’m so happy and so envious; i wish for my thirst for life back. i’m so tired. i’m saying this to you because, of all people, might be able to see it clearly. i respect the fact that you managed to retain it to adulthood or beyond is so much. you don’t know how much that means to me, as a young adult.

If it helps, I don't read nearly as much as I did as a kiddo. Like, not even remotely close. Quite frankly, I've only recently gotten back into reading lit, after years of only reading comics and manga, and not nearly at the volume I did before.

But! There are all sorts of opportunities to engage with stories and ideas and reconnect the synapses that spit where they used to spark. Once, in the throes of a heavy and prolonged period of uncertainty, I was gripped by the color of spray paint on the sidewalk on the way to pick up an espresso while sleep deprived. I consciously chose to stop and appreciate it.

Which is to say, I also get exhausted and burnt out and go through periods where I wonder if I've lost some fundamental part of myself. But then I rest or I change my routine or I receive an affirmation I didn't realize I desperately needed, and my verve returns, as it does. I think having pediatric onset bipolar disorder has advantaged me in this regard because even when I feel like nothing, I know that the intensity will return, and that it will continue to ebb and flow like the tides. I used to dread the ebb, but the ebb has its own value, too; in the ebb is where I nurture roots.

But to my earlier point, there are lots of stories and ideas buried in all sorts of moments. We can imbue meaning in the things we do as an observed ritual until it becomes habit until it becomes sincere. And for the periods in which we can't, it's worth remembering that the winter solstice is the longest evening of the year, but the sun will come back because it always has. In the meantime, you can stoke a hearth and sip on coaxed together warmth while tucking into your memory this grief so that you will recognize what you've been missing when it returns, so that feeling excited is remarkable enough to cut the present ennui. In time, you'll start to feel substance in the contours of the grief, too, because to be exhausted and numb and tired means that you exist enough to be anything at all.

And, if you're too untethered from yourself for even that, find something mundane and look for a glimmer of anything worth observing. If you can't find anything, choose to give some facet of what you see meaning anyway.

(It's not that the sidewalk was purple. It's that I chose to see that it was that particular, beautiful shade of purple rather than remain adrift into my own ether and, in doing so, tethered my intangible enormity in something tangible enough for me to stoke while I weathered the season.)

If you practice enough, this becomes muscle memory. Same with thinking on your own. I don't think reading is ever enough on its own anyway; sometimes, we mirror ideas and mistake them for our own. Or we encounter ideas but don't allow ourselves to be changed by them.

It's why it's important to engage intentionally, and it doesn't have to be with text. It can be with movies, art, those around us, our environment, our own understanding of the world, the condensation on a window. Mindfulness helps, but so does adopting the mindset of a toddler and asking why? Constantly. Again, it may begin as a rote exercise, but the more you do it, the more it becomes muscle memory. If you think you know something, consciously stop and ask why? Where did you learn that? What assumptions does your conclusion rely on? Could there be another explanation? Pretend you're someone else for a moment, a favorite character or historical figure or loved one. What would they think given the same facts? Also important is saying, like a toddler, because I said so! as the only reason you need. Try things for the sake of having not tried them before. There's a reason why Lao Tzu advises being like a newborn baby, soft boned with a strong grip.

There's very little I do, read, watch, or consume that I don't think about applying elsewhere, too. This is sometimes exhausting. But it's also where I get my well of passion. Because there's always an opportunity for meaning, my life bursts with it.

This doesn't mean I don't still have rough weeks or months or years. I have bipolar, adhd, cptsd, and social phobia; I have frequent insomnia and sleep paralysis, etc. etc. But I look forward to what I might learn next, and there's purpose and intention to how I experience even my lows. The life I'm currently living is so unlike where I came from, in part because I decided I wanted meaning and purpose. Before I knew what that was supposed to look like, I picked a direction and strove for it, feeling out what I couldn't see. I still do, when necessary. It will always be necessary.

So, while I don't know if what works for me will work for you, I can promise that something will excite you again, eventually. Adulthood isn't a linear decline or a separation from yourself. It's variable and dynamic, and you have agency in what you do with that. There isn't any objective meaning or purpose to be assigned, so you get to choose it for yourself, and it can be as variable and dynamic as you need it to be. So, if you don't want to grow into someone who can't think on your own, you don't have to. If you don't like your current state of mind, you don't need to settle in it.

tl;dr: It's not what I've retained, it's that I've ebbed and flowed and changed, and given myself the space to clumsily stumble towards what I want and what I value, even if I'm not always sure what those are. I'm letting go of the construct that I have to be anything, and I emphatically choose not to be lots of things. It's a process, and it's nonlinear. But nothing is, and there's grace in the inevitably of ebb.

[animehouse-moe]

Do you mind if I ask your top 10 favorite characters (can be male or female) from all of the media that you loved (can be anime/manga, books, movies or tv series)? And why do you love them? Sorry if you've answered this question before.....Thanks....

You're all good! This is the first time I've been asked this. I'm usually terrible with favorites so I always feel like I don't pick the "best" in hindsight, but I'll try to be as accurate as possible. These will also be in no particular order since they all occupy such different areas.

(edit: I just realized in my incredible morning brain state that this said male or female, but I only read the female part haha. So this is just the female lineup, I guess).

Iwakura Lain - Serial Experiments Lain

Lain's a character that has, and will always remain enigmatic. Subjectivity and personal experience remain intertwined with works like Serial Experiments Lain, so what each individual takes away from it will change. Personally, what makes me love Lain is her desperation to communicate, to connect with the people around her. To make friends, to do fun things with them, to understand the people that comprise her life. But that desire spirals, she gets absorbed (like so many do) and becomes something else entirely. Fracturing and separating herself, spreading those instances across the internet in a desperate way to connect. For existing prior to essentially all forms of social media, it depicts the struggle and addiction that trouble countless people in freakishly accurate fashion.

Iwakura Mitsumi - Skip and Loafer

Had to put them next to each other on this list haha. Iwakura Mitsumi though. I don't hate the approach of a lot of Shojosei in terms of high school slice of life/romance, but I find much more to love with the more grounded ones than the more fantastical, just a personal preference. Anyways, Mitsumi. She's just the perfect representation of high school life. A dash of confidence, a good bit of deep seated anxiety, lots of stress over school and friends, but a positive and hopeful outlook in spite of her stumbling and struggles that's wonderfully accented by blossoming feelings of love. She just occupies a space that is very rare these days, so of course I love her.

Ryougi Shiki - The Garden of Sinners

Okay, hot take since (spoiler) Saber's not going to be on the list. I just haven "completed" Saber's story if that makes sense. I've read a lot, experienced a lot, but I haven't gotten 100% of it like I have with Shiki. That said, Shiki's story. I mean, as a character they're so damn hard to really capture. After all, there's more than one of them, and their story is told through the experiences of others. Shiki as a character, and The Garden of Sinners as a series, just holds a special place in my heart as Nasu's first real creative work that remains untethered by the requirements of a visual novel. If Nasu's work on the VNs is the base level, then The Garden of Sinners stands a cut above from start to finish.

Hatsuseno Alpha - Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou

A robot that is startlingly human, but surprisingly childlike. Alpha was is just the perfect vehicle to experience YKK through. Vast understanding and interest, but meaningful naivete and curiosity. She explores a world peacefully accepting its death, and is able to pull such beautiful moments from it. She doesn't struggle or bemoan the end, but rather takes it in stride and focuses on the beauty of humanity, how it's adapted, what's been lost and what's been created in its stead. It brings it all together under this character that is so deeply passionate about exploring life even under these circumstances, that you can't help but feel an indescribable warmth in her story.

Biwa - Heike Monogatari

Okay, maybe I'm cheating a little bit with Biwa here, but it's just a character that I think is incredibly beautiful. Witnessing the murder of her father, she's taken in by a clan doomed to death, where a man possesses a similar ability to Biwa. Together, she struggles to create the family she never had, all the while forced to come to terms with their deaths. She fights tooth and nail to keep them alive, but her attempts are futile. In the end, she is given her adoptive father's ability and completes what one might call the "cycle". Seeing life and death, the eternal struggle that will never change, she experiences her life, her family, her future and past to its fullest, and commits her life to telling the story of the Heike that she was so fond of. It's a beautiful story centered around Biwa's experiences, and her fear of death and not having a family, truly wonderful stuff. Also Aoi Yuuki kills it as Biwa.

Kusanagi Motoko - Ghost In The Shell

This was baby's first big kid series for me. I'd always watched anime here and there, but mostly things like Bleach/Naruto/DBZ. Ghost in The Shell was the first really big series I'd dip my toes into via those 4 minute YouTube videos at 480p. Kusanagi's nature as the bridge between technology and humanity is endlessly explored and just such a great idea, that through the countless (good) iterations, there's a wealth of her to experience. Undoubtedly an iconic series, and one that's certainly remembered very fondly by me.

Kirigoe Mima - Perfect Blue

Mima's an incredible character driven to the psychological breaking point. Under the scrutiny and pressure of being an idol, the facade begins to crack and what seeps out from the gaps is nothing short of incredible. Satoshi Kon remains a wizard in what he did with his works, and for me, Mima's character in Perfect Blue is the pinnacle of that. An implicit story of the stress and strain placed on idols (and the entertainment industry at large) by those that string them up and sell the souls of these girls, Perfect Blue and Mima remain in a realm of their own in a lot of ways.

Nozomi - Sonny Boy

Well as they say, the proof is in the pudding, and the pudding in this case is Nozomi's name. Translating from Japanese it means "wish" or "desire" in English, and is the personification of Nozomi's role in Sonny Boy. As close to a catalyst as one can be, she spurs on the wishes of the characters around her, providing the foundation for our main character Nagara to grow and develop. In the end, the desires of each individual can be connected to Nozomi, even in her death. She's arguably more central to the plot of Sonny Boy than Nagara, so of course I see her as a deeply special character.

Kamikoshi Sorawo - Otherside Picnic

A somewhat different pick to help round out the list. Sorawo Kamikoshi, and Otherside Picnic at large, are certainly things that I don't think most people would fall in love with. But I did. The vitriol that her character expresses, the toxicity and self hatred and destruction. Her character is a very damaging and "bad" one, but that's what I love about it. There's no grand scheme behind Sorawo's personality, or any ideal that her character chases. She follows the whims and curiosities of her life as she willingly casts herself into the abyss of the Otherside alongside Toriko, and along the way, she learns to slowly grow and improve as a person while maintaining her core personality.

Osaki Nana - Nana

The duality of Nana as a character is just so well done to me. A character with two sides isn't anything special, but I think the way that Yazawa approaches her as a character, and introduces those cracks in her façade and the struggle that they represent is just really, really good. It has me really desperate for Yazawa to return from hiatus and continue on with Nana.

And that's the list. I know I've left off characters like Tohru or other massively popular (and well written) leads and characters from shojosei series, but a lot of what I desire out of a character can't quite be found in a lot of what ends up popular and translated (and what I tend to remember) I feel. If you take a look at the list, for example, you'll find that the majority of my favorites are from older series, as well as ones that feature more "tragic" or "twisted" characters. Personally, I find a flower most beautiful after you've understood how it's wilted and withered before it fights to bloom once more. Endless blooms that grant an eternal summer are undeniably beautiful, but that beauty tends to lack context and in turn can become simplicity. So that's my list, as imperfect and everchanging as it is. If I'm asked once more in a year, it will probably look startlingly different, but that's how these things will go with me.

[werewen]

(This has been sitting in my drafts since summer of last year. Posting now because I just remembered it and I’m still correct.)

Tired of people comparing Zelda to Falin, in terms of how their transformations were handled. (I’m not here to shit on people for having fun. If you want to draw Zelda as having draconic features, I don’t care.)

The reason why dragon Falin and dragon Zelda are handled so differently is because they’re completely different stories unrelated to each other, making any comparison moot dragon Falin is an animal, fused with an animal both in body and soul, with animal limitation* and therefore our main characters had to get creative with how they would make her Falin again. (*it is noted that her body is incredibly inconvenient in that her mouth isn’t big enough to efficiently fuel her massive body, as opposed to the dragons in TotK which are immortal)

Zelda on the other hand, was transformed by magic into a spirit. The dragons in BotW and TotK are magical entities, supposedly only seen by the pure of heart (mostly just children, but also Link). They don’t even eat, just flying around, untethered to the earth in every way. As far as we know, draconification has only ever happened 3 times before Zelda did it, and there is little to no research done into it at that point. Which is why Mineru would believe it’s a permanent transformation; because it’s never been undone. That would make that whole thing wildly different from chimeras in Delicious in Dungeon, which have been researched so extensively that people are making werewolves for entertainment. People thought it was plausible (if extremely unlikely) to bring Falin back, because of their knowledge of what happens when two souls are fused.

Falin took the dragon with her because they became one being. They are inseparable from each other. Zelda didn’t come back with dragon parts because the dragon was always just her, transformed into something not quite an animal, not quite a god.

Rant over. Here’s my theory as to how and why Zelda came back, based on what Mineru gave us.

It’s never explained how or why swallowing the Secret Stone turns someone into a dragon. I see it as a necessity for storing that absurd amount of power in their own body. I believe that taking that into yourself is far too much for a mortal body to handle, so it turns you into a dragon.

As for the transformation being undone, Mineru’s theory suggests that Rauru’s and Sonia’s respective light and time powers resonated within Zelda’s dragon form. That they were channeled through the only remaining piece of Rauru’s physical form, his arm, attached to Link’s body. More specifically though, I think that Sonia and Zelda’s time powers played the most important part here, helping her body to remember its original shape. This is supported by one of the Dragon Tears, where Sonia explains how she uses her powers. Rauru’s power of purifying light was likely necessary more for the immense power he is shown being able to channel.

Most of all though, I think the reason why Zelda came back is because… SHE ALWAYS DOES. In what world has she ever NOT come back?????

If you don’t personally like it, that’s fine. But please don’t make the mistake of comparing Zelda to Falin. They’re handled differently because they’re going through things that are completely unrelated to each other outside of the word “dragon.”