#reunion with the black organization

[ohnoitstbskyen]

Could you talk more about sephiroth and clouds dynamic/relationship? Especially about sephiroths feelings towards cloud since I personally haven’t seen many people talk about that aspect.

Well, it sort of depends which version of the Final Fantasy VII story you're talking about, because certainly in the original game, Sephiroth actually doesn't care very much about Cloud at all.

During the events in Nibelheim, Sephiroth has a relationship with Zack as a friendly coworker (arguably an actual friend), but Cloud is just some Shinra goon nobody whose name and face Sephiroth doesn't even know. It's not until Cloud confronts him in the Mako reactor and successfully kills him that Sephiroth even sees his face for the first time. Sephiroth doesn't even know Cloud's name in the last few moments of his life, he just sees this enraged kid suddenly find the strength to overpower him and throw him into the reactor core out of nowhere.

After Cloud kills him, well... I would make the argument that Sephiroth never actually comes back. He dies in the throes of a psychotic break where the Jenova cells inside of him are using his emotional anguish to manipulate him towards her own ends, promising him all the love and family and fulfilment and sense of identity that Shinra violently abused out of him. And when he dies, whatever parts of Sephiroth's mind that were left are fully replaced with Jenova's single-minded superobjective to consume the planet and move on to parasitize again.

And so the version of Sephiroth that haunts Cloud for most of the narrative isn't actually Sephiroth the man. Almost every part of that person is long gone. Just like how Jenova used the psychological hook of Sephiroth's mother to control him, "Sephiroth" is mostly the Jenova cells using the hook of Sephiroth's influence over Cloud to try and control him.

And that's why Sephiroth seems so fixated on Cloud - not because Sephiroth the Person actually cares about him, but because the Jenova cells that are spread out across a thousand organisms are calling for Reunion, and they will use whatever psychological hook or crook that can manipulate their hosts to make it happen. The other Jenova victims presumably saw visions just as vivid and personal, urging them on towards the Northern Crater.

Sephiroth seems obsessed with Cloud because Cloud is obsessed with Sephiroth. Sephiroth is this avatar of his trauma, his self-hate, and his deep internal identity crisis, the representation of his every doubt and insecurity. Hence Sephiroth's gleeful constant accusation that Cloud is merely a puppet, Cloud has no personality, Cloud isn't real - these are Cloud's own fears being verbalized against him by the Jenova cells. And it's deeply ironic because the only puppet here is Sephiroth, being piloted by Jenova like an ant by cordyceps.

Hence the very final battle with Sephiroth which takes place not in the depths of the Northern Crater with the party confronting Safer Sephiroth, but in a black and undifferentiated void-space at the end of a psychedelic mind-trip, that Cloud undertakes alone to confront the ghost of Sephiroth in his mind and banish his influence forever. Like, that final moment really is the most This Is Only Happening In Cloud's Mind-ass final boss confrontation imaginable.

But that's the original Final Fantasy VII. The extended FF7 universe pivots hard off of the popularity of Sephiroth as an Iconic Villain and goes about building out him as the central antagonist of the entire universe, and centering him almost obsessively in the extended narrative of Final Fantasy VII.

Advent Children basically retcons the end of Final Fantasy VII, where it turns out oops Cloud didn't actually fully reject Sephiroth's influence over him, here's some Geostigma to represent the haunting malice of this singular villain and here's a 1-to-1 recreation of the final scene from FF7 where Cloud destroys Sephiroth with Omnislash extended out to a gratuitous anime fight scene that ends with an even more awesome ultra-final ultimate Super Omnislash... but then even THAT isn't enough as Sephiroth promises ominously to "never become a mere memory" and he's going to haunt Cloud forever and ooooh maybe he'll be coming back for another seven sequels or something, because the franchise is never ever ever going to let Cloud move on, heal or get better, not so long as Sephiroth is this popular.

Same deal with Kingdom Hearts, which represents Cloud's character as basically revolving entirely around Sephiroth, and Sephiroth as almost romantically obsessed with Cloud, while games like Crisis Core get into the Star Wars Extended Universe business of attaching portentous mythological weight to originally inconsequential objects like the Buster Sword, and building out a grand conspiracy of gene manipulated One Winged Angel People all chasing the coat-tails of Sephiroth's popularity.

All of this comes together in the Final Fantasy VII Remake games, which try to reconcile the extended post-FF7 narrative with the original Final Fantasy VII story, adopting the idea of Sephiroth as the singular operatic puppet master villain of the story, rather than Shinra or Jenova who were the original game's thematic central villains as representations of parasitic and extractive capitalism.

So in these games, Sephiroth is obsessed with Cloud, and seems to see Cloud as his own best chance of salvation from his fate, and there's deep homoerotic tension between the two as Cloud struggles between wanting to kill Sephiroth, and wanting to be with or become him.

Oh, and to be clear, I do love the extended FF7 universe and all the post-original fluff that gets attached to it, I do love Sephiroth and Cloud as this pair of Doomed By The Narrative romantic lover-enemies fated to Toxic Yaoi each other to death forever, and I'm very fond of my good boy Zack, who deserves all the love the games have shown him. I cackled like an absolute hyena when I realized just how far the Final Fantasy VII Remake was going to go in rewriting the story.

It's just also hard not to see Square's treatment of Final Fantasy VII after it became The Iconic JRPG™ as anything other that corporate self-mythologizing and Star Wars style brand management, obsessively building more a marketable facade around the original game focused on its most popular surface-level features, at the cost of obscuring a lot of the subtler themes and ideas of the original game.

Sephiroth is not the main villain of Final Fantasy VII. Extractive capitalism is, and it is embodied by Shinra in the first half, and Jenova in the second half, and both of those antagonistic forces use Sephiroth as a puppet to do their bidding, and a veil to hide the primitive brutality of their consumption. But nobody would ever think that seeing how Sephiroth has been elevated as King Bad Guy of Villain Mountain in the aftermath.

I'm sorry I think this went kind of off the rails from the question you actually asked lol

[reidsapplelady]

PAST IS PAST (part I) — /S. Reid/ & /R. Chase/

SUMMARY: when your ex, Robert Chase, and House's team, is brought in to consult on a case, old feelings start to surface. Caught between Chase's flirting and Reid's quiet affection, you find yourself caught between a love triangle, and a choice that you have to make.

spencer x psych!bau!reader x chase ⸝⸝ fluff & slight angst ⸝⸝ co-workers to lovers

WARNINGS: reader has attachment and commitment issues! wow!!, house being sassy as always (i cant tell if i made him too sassy), past!ppth!reader x chase, present!psych!bau!reader x spencer, use of y/n

WC: 1.5k+

There was a different kind of tension in the air, usually there's no tension at all. It reminded you of your old memories that you have put in the back of your mind, all because he was here. Your old love.

You called House to assist you guys in a case alongside with the CDC, you didn't know he'd be bringing the entire team.

You tried to not show the fact that you were tense. You'd survive UnSubs threatening or flirting at you, but the thought of seeing him again, after all this time, left your breath a little shorter.

You made your way into the briefing room, as soon as you walked in, you locked eyes with him. Robert Chase, who was leaning against the other doorway, his arms crossed against his chest, his blonde hair a little longer than the last you've seen him.

"I called House only, why're you guys here." You inquired as you looked at House, who was sitting down on a chair like he owned the entire place.

"I leapt at the chance to work with a bunch of people who think behavioral profiling is a science. And I thought, 'Wow! a little reunion could shake things up!' and then I forcefully dragged them here." House teased as he set his cane on his lap, his legs were set on the table. you did not hesitate to give him the finger before sitting down right next to Spencer, as Chase sat right next to you. What a great way to start this briefing.

"So, my favorite emotionally stunted overachiever, how are you doing?" He asks with genuine curiosity, "You traded white coats with black vests, what a downgrade."

"I'm fine, House." You roll your eyes.

The briefing room felt too full. Hotch stood where the screen was with Garcia, Reid was playing with his whiteboard marker that he grabbed not too long ago, Morgan kept glancing at House, as if waiting for him to start chaos, and everyone else was doing their own thing.

"This is cute," House stated as he peered at the organized folders on the table. "Did the behavioral pixies color-code the victims too?"

"That's enough." Hotch said curtly, Cameron just smiled politely, while Foreman rolled his eyes and looked like he regretted the entire trip.

House ignored Hotch, "Three victims." House said as he swiped through the tablet screen like they bored him. "All died horribly with consistent symptoms. Question is: Was it mother nature or a very enthusiastic bioterrorist?"

"You called me because you guys are desperate, well good news: I love desperate." House puts emphasis on the word 'love', he certainly knew himself well.

Rossi narrowed his eyes as he stared at House. "Do you always talk like this?"

"Only when I'm awake." House replies.

Morgan raised an eyebrow at House's reply to Rossi. "You always this subtle?”

"No, but I can turn it down if your fragile ego needs coddling." House replies as his gaze falls on Morgan, who was now trying to hold back the urge to argue with House.

Hotch rubbed his temple as he spoke, "How long is this gonna take?"

House looks at him dead in the eye. "Depends. How long is your team gonna stop ignoring the tension between boy genius and girl wond—"

You cut him off, "House."

"What? I'm just saying." He says as he shrugged.

You looked at Spencer beside you, he was trying to cover his face with the file, but you could see his ears reddening. Which made your cheeks heat up too. What you didn't know was Chase was looking at you.

"Can we focus." You request, your eyes now landed on the floor as you shifted uncomfortably in your chair.

"Sure," House then turns his head to face Chase, "Remember when they used to cry during night shifts at the cafeteria? Good times."

"House," Chase snaps

Spencer's gaze looked at you before turning to House. "You were under him?" He asks you as he was staring at House

"Yeah, and these two, right here, were practically walking HR violations, they did more than teamwork alright." House overshares as he pointed at you and Chase, he then noticed Spencer's little frown that he had plastered on his face but ignored it.

Cameron made a strangled noise, Foreman sighed deeply and Spencer looked like someone had punched him in the gut.

"The past is past." You say as you set the tablet on the table.

"I was just giving context." House put the two of his hands up as you just sighed.

After that, Spencer's gaze never met you again, of course, House notices this, "I love federal drama," he said brightly, but only Cameron and Foreman heard him. "better than HBO." He snickers.

You roll your eyes before Hotch speaks up again, "Okay, JJ and Prentiss, go talk to the victims' families, get any background that may be useful, Morgan, Rossi and I will go investigate the crime scenes, while you and Reid stay here and help them." Hotch's gaze were set on you as he mentions you and Spencer.

Chase chuckled before turning to you, "Is your boss this broody?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Kind of, but he's nice, I swear." You smile at him. You then turn to your old colleagues in front of you.

"Nice to see you again, Y/N." Cameron flashes a small smile at you.

"Nice to see you guys again, too." You turn to face Spencer "Spence, you alright?" You say. You noticed that Spencer has been zoning out for a bit.

He snaps out of it before he mutters, "Hm? Oh yeah." before shifting in his seat to a more comfortable position as he avoids your gaze.

"Let's take a look at victimology first, the three victims all have brown hair. It's highly likely they're surrogates." Spencer says as he flips through his case file, you just nod at his words.

"Surrogates?" Foreman asks.

"Surrogates are victims that represents or looks similar to someone that the UnSub hates or loves and over time they'll evolve eventually to kill that person." Spencer rambled, as his hands were making gestures as he explained.

"Of course. Foreman, you're dumb." House stated as he looks at Foreman, Foreman just bit his inner cheek and ignored him.

"Aside from you know, obvious details. Is there anything else in common? Like do they have a dead beat husband? Or are they having an affair with the smoking hot next-door-neighbor?" House inquires as he taps his finger against his cane, Spencer found his use of inappropriate terms very unnecessary but he ignored it.

"Mm, we don't have that much information yet, I'm sure Prentiss and JJ would give us some sort of background before we could actually dive in." You say as you look at House.

"This is gonna be one hell of a case." Chase says as his eyes darts to his team that was in front of him before to you and Spencer. "I mean, using airborne diseases as a method to kill someone? Atleast we know it has to be someone with a science background."

"The CDC's already investigating the disease, I called you guys because you're here to lend a helping hand." You purse your lips as you cross your arms on your chest.

As you guys kept talking, at one point you guys decided to end the meeting and try to figure out what the disease may be based off of the symptoms.

You were looking out the window in the briefing room, you notice a figure slowly approaching you, which is why you turn around. And you see Chase. Right in front of you. He gives you a small smile before sitting at the couch right next to where you're standing.

"So.. It's been a while." He spoke up, which caught your attention.

"I guess so." You shrug as your gaze go back to the view of the city.

He paused before speaking up, "I got you coffee, by the way." Your gaze then landed on him, then on his hands. You didn't notice he was holding two mugs.

"Two teaspoons of sugar? Like how you liked it back then." He smiles as he offered you the coffee, you took it before taking a sip.

"You remembered." You gave him a small smile.

"Well it's hard to forget, especially when it became routine for 2 years." He replies before taking a sip of his coffee.

"Oh." You pause.

"Yeah."

"Well, that's nice. I guess." You now try to avoid eye contact with him, your gaze wandered back on the city.

"Stop." He says.

You raised an eyebrow but your eyes never met his gaze. "Stop what?"

"Stop pretending that you don't care, I can still see that you do. It's just... not in the same way." He frowned as he took another sip of his coffee. "You left without a goodbye and I didn't say enough to you, I didn't say how much I loved you."

"You didn't have to."

"Yeah, well, it felt like I needed to."

all rights reserved — © reidsapplelady

taglist: @dearlenore @tinkerbellsgf @1nterstellarcha0s @th3g5eren0

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Ava Gardner (The Killers, The Barefoot Contessa)— She's so goddamn hot. Her and Frank Sinatra could've sandwiched me and I would've thanked them for the privilege

Jean Seberg (Breathless, Saint Joan)— Some of us watched À bout de souffle as a lil French undergrad and had the trajectory of our lives changed by Jean Seberg. She IS French new wave!! She is the moment!! She sadly had to work with a lot of shitty directors in her career but even so, she has this magnetic energy whenever she’s on screen. In her personal life, she was also very supportive of civil rights causes, and was even targeted/harassed by the FBI for financially supporting the Black Panther Party.

This is round 2 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Ava Gardner:

Ava Gardner is one of my favorite actresses of all time. Although a lot of her roles in movies are about her being beautiful and nothing else, there are some films where her acting truly shines.

Gifset: https://www.tumblr.com/pelopides/721438308726603776/ava-gardner-as-pandora-reynolds-pandora-and-the

Gifset 2: https://www.tumblr.com/portraitoflestatonfire/731899355804598272/if-the-loustat-reunion-doesnt-look-like-this-then

HER FACE. LOOK AT IT. Also was a life long supporter of civil rights and a member of the NAACP, had lots of fun love affairs with other stars, bullfighters, married several times but was also happy in between to just have lovers and was unapologetically herself.

I literally gasp every time I see her.

Between 1942 and 1964, Ava Gardner was credited in no less 50 films, and is still considered by some to be the most beautiful actresses that ever graced the silver screen. Despite life-long insecurities regarding her talent as an actress, she weathered public scandal, industry hostility, and outright condemnation by the Catholic Church with fearless grace. She would later in life talk candidly about the reality and pain of living through two (studio approved!!) abortions during her short marriage to Frank Sinatra, and while the two of them could not make their relationship work, they remained in each other’s lives for nearly 30 years. She would forever describe herself as a small-town girl who just got lucky, but always felt like a beautiful outsider.

Really genuinely one of the most beautiful human beings I have ever seen. An autodidact. Had amazing chemistry with Gregory Peck to the point where I do think about watching On The Beach again sometimes because they're so good together even though that movie did destroy me. Was a great femme fatale in many movies.

Jean Seberg:

anyone who plays Joan of Arc is kind of hot by default tbh

she's gorgeous, she's cool, she has the original blond pixie cut

She donated a lot of her money to civil rights organizations such as the NAACP and the black panther party as well as Native American school groups, as a result of this the fbi ran a smear campaign against her and a surveillance campaign which is thought to have led to her suicide tragically.

idk if this is propaganda but the COINTELPRO and the FBI are widely blamed for her death. If the FBI was after her for supporting the Black Panther Party you know she was good

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

The Sound of My Voice

Based off this request:

Where Y/N and Harry were once bandmates until a bitter fallout ended everything. And where, years later, a forced reunion puts them back on stage.

Word count: 2.2k

Content warning: cursing, mentions of smoking.

Y/N arrived at the festival grounds at 12:17 PM, her right hand gripping a paper cup filled with black coffee, her left clutching a crumpled setlist. The mid-afternoon sun beat down on the asphalt, the temperature hovering around 95°F. Roadies, their shirts drenched in sweat, darted between stages. Multiple soundchecks filled the air with a mix of drum beats, guitar riffs, and microphone feedback.

Y/N's gaze fixed on the large LED schedule board. Her name appeared in bold letters, slotted for 8:45 PM - her debut as a solo act at a major festival. The sight of it twisted her stomach into knots. She took a sip of coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste.

A woman in a black polo shirt with 'STAFF' emblazoned on the back approached, her brunette hair escaping a messy ponytail. "There's been a cancellation," she said, her voice strained. "The headliner dropped out. We're scrambling for a replacement."

Y/N nodded, her eyes scanning the festival grounds. Technicians scurried about, carrying cables and equipment. A forklift beeped as it backed up, hauling speaker stacks. She took another sip of coffee, the liquid now lukewarm.

"We're thinking of a reunion set," the staff member continued, her tone shifting to excitement. "Your old band. The demand is insane. It would be—"

Coffee sprayed from Y/N's mouth, droplets splattering the asphalt. "What?" She coughed, wiping her chin with the back of her hand.

"It makes perfect sense," the woman pressed on, oblivious to Y/N's reaction. She counted off on her fingers. "You're all here. Your solo slot could be expanded. It'd be—"

"No," Y/N said immediately, and the word cut through the air. "Not possible."

She felt the pressure building behind her eyes, the past unraveling around her, an old wound reopening. She saw them on the schedule all lined up after her, the names like ghosts, haunting the crisp paper. Her certainty wavered as the whole situation unfolded in her mind. Sarah, Mitch, and most of all—

Harry.

His name sent her emotions spiraling. He was the reason. The fight. The chaos. The way everything fell apart in the end. Now, he was here, and the shock of it ran through her like lightning. She'd been so wrapped up in her nerves, so focused on taking this next step alone, that she hadn't even considered that they might be at the same festival. She'd thought there would be space, distance, time before she'd have to face them again.

The organizer was still talking, but Y/N couldn't hear her anymore. She was already being pulled back to that last fight, when everything they'd built had crumbled. A hotel room, voices raised until past midnight, until they couldn't shout anymore and were left staring at each other in silence and exhaustion.

Sarah and Mitch smashing through the minibar. Harry outside smoking.

She remembered the click of the door as she left.

She hadn't laid eyes on him since the band fell apart, since they both fell apart. That night, everything crumbled in a fight that left words suspended in the air like haunting echoes. The organizer continued, "It's a logistical miracle, honestly. The others already agreed. We just need you."

The dressing room's walls closed in. Y/N perched on the worn velvet couch, arms crossed. Mitch's tousled hair bobbed as he grinned. Sarah's laughter rang out. Adam, the once-temporary guitarist now a fixture, leaned against the wall. Their voices intertwined, swapping stories of wild nights and tour mishaps. The air reeked of sweat and anticipation.

Y/N's stomach churned. Her bandmates' easy rapport grated on her nerves. She glanced at Harry, who stood in the corner, silent and brooding. His presence set her teeth on edge.

"Remember that time in Denver?" Mitch said, eyes gleaming. "When Sarah accidentally set off the fire alarm?"

Sarah snorted. "God, don't remind me. We had to evacuate the entire hotel at 3 AM."

"In our pajamas," Adam added, smirking.

Y/N's fingernails dug into her palms. The memories flooded back - not just the good times, but the bitter arguments, the sleepless nights, the crushing pressure. She stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor.

"I need some air," she muttered, pushing past Harry to reach the door.

The hallway stretched before her, a cacophony of sound and movement. Roadies hauled equipment. A guitar tech tuned an instrument nearby, the notes discordant and jarring. Y/N leaned against the wall, inhaling deeply.

The door creaked open behind her. Harry stepped out, his imposing frame filling the doorway. Y/N's heart raced. She turned, meeting his gaze.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low and gravelly.

Y/N's throat tightened. "Fine," she spat. "Just peachy."

Harry's jaw clenched. He stepped closer, towering over her. "Look, I know this isn't ideal-"

"Ideal?" Y/N scoffed. "That's an understatement."

"We need to make this work," Harry said, running a hand through his messy curls. "For the fans, if nothing else."

Y/N's eyes narrowed. "Don't pretend you care about the fans. This is about your ego, same as always."

Harry's nostrils flared. He opened his mouth to retort, but a stagehand interrupted.

"Five minutes to showtime," she called, hurrying past.

Y/N and Harry locked eyes, the tension between them electric. Without a word, they turned and walked back into the dressing room, the door slamming shut behind them.

But today, everything was different.

Because Harry was here.

His presence electrified the air, making Y/N's heart race and the small room feel claustrophobic. They hadn't spoken a word to each other. Across the room, she felt him tuning his guitar, tension visible in his rigid posture. The space between them was thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. They both pretended this was an ordinary gig, but beneath the surface, they knew there was a sea of unfinished business.

"Alright," Mitch clapped his hands together. "Setlist. What are we doing?”

They tossed around some ideas, including the obvious hits that still got radio play. For a while, it felt safe. Easy.

Then Adam mentioned the song.

Y/N’s stomach twisted. In her peripheral vision, she saw Harry shift, heard his soft exhale.

Unspoken yet understood, it hung in the air like a shared secret. The song wasn't just a melody; it was their anthem, born from the chaos of their lives.

Harry finally broke the tense silence, his voice barely above a whisper. "We don't have to do that one," he said, the words heavy with an unspoken tension.

Y/N's head jerked up in surprise. It was the first time he had spoken directly to her, and his tone sent a jolt through her chest.

Sarah interjected, her gaze darting between them. "It's what the crowd wants," she asserted, her voice unwavering.

Harry remained mute, the weight of his silence hanging thick in the air.

Y/N steeled herself, lifting her chin. "Fine," she declared, her voice edged with resolve. "Let's just get it over with."

The atmosphere was heavy as they began. Their initial try was a disaster. Mitch sighed. "Alright," he remarked, "that was terrible." Y/N buried her face in her hands.

"Yeah," Harry muttered. "No shit."

The festival grounds were teeming with people—thousands of fans crammed against the sturdy barricades, their voices a deafening chorus of screams and songs, each one surrendering to the magic of the moment. Y/N stood under the intense stage lights, gripping the microphone tightly. She used to revel in this sensation, the electric energy coursing through the air, the exhilarating rush, the way the music drowned out everything else around her. But tonight, it was different. Because he was here.

Harry was just a few feet away, his guitar slung over his shoulder. He looked comfortable, like stepping back into this world was easy. But Y/N knew better. She could feel the tension between them, simmering beneath every note.

The first few songs went fine. They hit their cues. Their harmonies were technically perfect. They moved around the stage as they used to—carefully choreographed chaos. But there was distance. They didn't look at each other or acknowledge the weight of the past pressing against the present. The crowd loved it, but Y/N knew better—they weren't really performing together.

Y/N's pulse halted as a wave of recognition and excitement swept through the crowd, amplifying the noise. She instinctively turned her head towards Harry on the other side of the stage who was already watching her—their eyes met for the first time that night.

The moment lingered, heavy with unspoken words. A mutual understanding was there, along with a disquieting dread. Yet, beneath it all, an unshakeable yearning existed, a pull that was both comforting and terrifying. The cheers became a distant hum as she tightened her grip on the mic. The opening notes hung in the air, sharp and clear. There was no turning back now.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to take a steady breath. This is just a performance. Just another song.

But that wasn't true.

It had never been just a song.

The first verse was hers.

She closed her eyes, letting the words settle on her tongue before they escaped her lips.

“I told myself I’d be fine without you…” As she sang, the words felt like a shield, keeping him at bay.

Her voice cut through the noise with deliberate sharpness, each syllable carrying composure and defiance. There was a rawness she couldn’t hide, even though she tried to mask it with control. Yet within that steadiness lurked something else, something unrestrained and impossible to ignore. She wasn’t sure if he could hear the truth under her voice, but she could. And it terrified her.

Harry’s fingers flexed over the guitar strings, his knuckles paling from exertion. He seemed to ground himself in the music as he came in on the next line, his voice low and measured, contrasting her tremulous tone.

“I told myself I wouldn’t care.” He sounded convincing enough. But she knew him too well. She knew how he sang when he was trying to believe his own lies.

She opened her eyes and for the first time all night, really looked at him—looked at him as if she could see past their constructed barriers. The moment held them captive, fragile yet fierce. Her heart pounded in her chest and throat like a tidal wave. The way his lips shaped the words as if he still felt them. His tense shoulders, as if holding something back. His eyes, dark and unreadable, burning into hers.

The air between them thickened, charged with raw emotion. Each lyric was a dagger from the past, every note a fresh wound ripped open anew. By the time they hit the chorus, restraint had vanished, leaving raw passion in its wake.

"You swore you’d never leave me— But I watched you walk away."

Propelled by an invisible force, Y/N surged forward, not even aware of her movement until she was right there, invading his space.

Harry stood his ground. His voice dropped to a deeper, more resonant timbre as he sang the next line, his gaze unrelenting.

"You said you’d never forget me— But I knew you would someday."

The words hit. Like a challenge, like an accusation, like something too real to be ignored. His intense stare made her breath hitch. Her conflicted expression caused his fingers to tighten around the guitar. The tension cracked, spilling into the next verse.

It wasn’t just a song anymore. It had transformed into a battle, a clash of wills wrapped in harmonies, cloaked in melodies of nostalgia. It seemed like something they could simply walk away from once the music stopped. But deep down, they both knew the truth. This confrontation wasn't over. It had never truly ended.

The song ended, but the intensity of the moment hung in the air. Y/N stood too close, breath ragged and quick, adrenaline surging like wildfire. The crowd's screams were a deafening roar that barely pierced her consciousness.

Because Harry was right there. His gaze met hers, eyes dark and unreadable, filled with an intensity she couldn't understand. His fingers clung to his guitar as if it were his only anchor in a world spinning out of control.

The silence between them stretched into tension, hanging for a fraction of a second too long before the next song erupted, a tidal wave of sound that forced them apart and broke the spell.

The rest of the set was a blur.

By the time they played the final song and took their bows, Y/N could barely remember a second of it.

All she knew was that she needed to get off this stage.

She turned the second the lights dimmed, ignoring Harry's hesitation before he followed.

The moment they were backstage—hidden from the crowd, away from the cameras—she whipped around.

“What the hell was that?”

Harry barely had time to stop before she was in front of him, eyes blazing.

He scoffed, yanking his guitar strap over his head. “You tell me.”

“Oh, don’t pull that shit.” She snapped. “You—”

“What, Y/N?” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “What do you want me to say?”

Her heart pounded.

She didn’t know if it was from the show or him.

“You were looking at me like—like—”

“Like what?” His voice was lower now, rougher. He took a step closer. “Like I meant it?”

Her breath hitched.

Because he did.

And she did, too.

And that was the problem.

She let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to do this.”

His jaw tightened. “You think I did?”

“You sang that song like—”

“Like it was real?” His voice cut through the air, sharp and direct. “Because it was, Y/N. It still is.”

She felt it like a punch to the chest.

Anger, confusion, want.

“You don’t get to say that,” she whispered.

His expression flickered—just for a second—before he stepped back, rolling his shoulders as if he could shake it off.

“Right,” he muttered, voice hollow. “Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You pretend it never happened.”

Y/N’s hands clenched. “And what do you do, Harry? You throw it in my face? Make me relive it just so you don’t have to be the only one still stuck in the past?”

His eyes flashed. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you actually faced it instead of running every damn time.”

She froze.

His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.

The tension was thick, suffocating, too much.

She could hear the others in the dressing room down the hall, feel reality creeping back in.

But in this moment, it was just them.

Same fight, different place.

Same pain, different years.

Silence fell between them.

There was nothing left to say.

And maybe that was the worst part.

[shewhowillrise]

Taking down a human organization was horrifyingly hard for the Justice League, but they were able to shut the system down. Deep inside the blinding white abyss, were cells, holding the ecto entities that the King of the Dead had begged their help to save.

Every cells held a being, that cowered away from the opening doors, flinched at gentle hands, whimpered at every movement. Slowly but surely they emptied the building, freeing those that were tortured.

At the end of the hallway of the wing Batman and Nightwing were assigned, had a heavy metal door. It had dents, both inward and outward, specks of blood all over it, as if Stephen King made his own interpretation of a a Pollock.

It was the only door that ruined the white aesthetic.

Batman slowly opened the door, Nightwing next to him, a hand grasped around one of his eskrima.

White light painted across the floor of the dark room as the door opened, illuminating the figure huddled in the corner, who looked like a boy. A boy with black hair that had a shock of white, in a tattered formal suit covered in dirt and blood.

The only sound was the clang of the stick falling out of Nightwing’s slack grasp, startling the being in the corner.

His eyes, that were more green than they should have been, that they haven’t seen in years, opened to stare at them.

“Little Wing?” Dick’s voice was barely a decibel above a breath.

“Jason,” Bruce’s voice was more firm than his eldest son’s, but if you knew the man well enough, you would be able to hear the waver in it.

“B-” the being started, before grasping for breath, “Bruce,” his voice was raw, like it wasn’t used to speaking. Tears followed the horrid voice, coming down like rivers.

Bruce rushed forward, dropping to his knees as he gathered his son in his arms. Jason’s head still fit perfectly under his chin, his hair still as soft as it was when he buried him, his hands clutching the bat suit as tightly as he did on Cathrine’s birthday.

Bruce’s senses was aware of Dick moving next to them, his arms joining in the reunion, but Bruce himself didn’t notice, to busy wrapped up around the cursed miracle in his arms.

His boy was alive.

[thevoidstaredback]

Storyboard

Please don't comment on this post The italicized works have been completed

Enough Caffeine to Kill an Elephant

How To Balance Your Daytime and Nighttime Activities So That You Don't Burn Yourself Out More Than You Already Have

Letters Between Brothers

Time Loop: Ghosts of the Present and Future

Reunion of Brothers

Defiled Memories

No Hospitals

Batman's Biggest Hater

Cryptid Rules

Take Back Your Minx

Survivor's Guilt

Hidden From The World

Morally Grey in a World of Black an White

Be Thou For The People

Too Close To The Sun

Stuck Here With Him

Revenge Party

Never Meet Your Heroes

Father's Son Sister's Brother

Everywhere But Home

Writing Prompts Things WIP Progress My OCs

[unify-life]

Letters from Beyond

(A.K.A Field Notes and other Emotions)

Demon Twins AU told through letters addressed to Damian from Danny. Written as his promise to return to Damian eventually.

A freshly vivisected Danny flying frantically through the ghost zone - pinching his skin together and gathering himself in a desperate hug in attempt to keep himself in one peice. He knows he needs to get away and his ever present goal of finding his brother ringing in his brain.

Danny doesn't notice a portal open up in front of him, so he isnt prepared to fly headfirst into a wall.

The batfam are just leaving the dining hall after a family supper when a portal opens up in front of them. They all tense in preparation for an attack when a black blur speeds past them and face plants into the opposite wall.

Danny looks up, sees Damian, and bursts into hysterical giggle-sobs.

"I did it Ahki. I made it back to you! I did it! I did it... I am so sorry - this is not how I wanted our reunion to go! I'm sorry - I'm sorry."

Danny's being flickers sickly as he coughs, Lazarus green trickling from his lips.

Damian snaps out of his shock in horrified recognition.

"Ahki... Danyal? Is that you?" He runs to his brothers side to help him sit up, noticing and alarmed by the growing puddle of green.

"Dami! I made it back! I am so sorry it took so long. I didn't want this to go this way. I don't - I can't - I am going to pass out and what little is holding me together will fail me. I didn't want you to get me back this way, I didn't want to do this to you! I love you, I'm sorry!"

Danyal manifests a small wooden box seemingly from thin air and hands it to his twin. "Take this." Before his eyes roll back and with a flash, he becomes human. More reminiscent of the boy Damian remembers. Red begins to rapidly mix with the glowing green pool beneath them.

Damian becomes frantic, snapping himself out of it and then calling the stunned batfam to action.

Dr. Leslie is called to the cave, the mysterious boy is settled into a cot and several emergency surgeries are performed half blind because they do not know his base stats. They eventually get him somewhat stable.

Damian gives a bare boned explanation to his family about his dead brother.

He keeps vigil at Danyal's side and takes out the box he had been given.

Inside is a set of notebooks and a stack of drawings.

The drawings are mostly of Damian. Some of the stars over Nanda Parbat, sketches of little memories they shared together, etc.

He roots through the notebooks to find them dated and organized by year, starting a week or so after Danyal 'died.'

Damian opens the first and begins to read through them. He is pleased to note they are almost entirely written in the code they came up with together.

The rest of the story is told through Danny's journals and occasionally cutting back to the present the get batfam reactions to having another brother they hope they will get to meet if/when he ever wakes up. They also are trying to investigate who could be responsible for the vivisection. Every one of them is up in arms over it.

Journal #1 begins as a mission log.

The demon twins had been training or sparring or just back from a mission. Ra's took issue with Danny over some supposed wrongdoing. He was dragged away from his brother - beaten and killed and brought back to life with the Lazarus Pits.

The Pits took pity on Danny and did not return him to Ra's. Rather, Danyal awoke perhaps a week later in the same pool and cavern, but something is off. There is nobody there. When he goes to exit the cave, there is only empty mountain tops. No sign or trace of any buildings.

At first, Danny believes this is some strange, elaborate mission. So. Determined to get back to his brother and prove he deserved to be at his side, he takes up the mission to find the league.

He steals himself a notebook, knife, and food in the town at the base of the mountain before he goes off in search of the other bases.

There is a skillfully hand drawn map in the notebook, surrounded by neatly scrawled notes and crossed off sections.

There is a faint smear of mud and blood like someone had tried to brush away the dirt with bloody hands and only half succeeded. One of the bases in a cliff filled area is crosses off in blood. Notes added after are in a noticeably different colour of pen.

After several bases and field notes, are the words "Bases nonexistent. More research needed."

What follows are increasingly messy notes of research done in a library. Comparison notes of what should and should not exist. There is no Justice League, no aliens, no meta rights acts, no Batman. Upon further investigation, whole constellations are missing from the sky - some replaced with unfamiliar galaxies. 

He is not where he used to be.

The journals take a sharp turn from mission reports and field notes to a series of letters addressed to Damian.

"I do not know how I ended up here, Ahki, but I swear I will come back for you. I cannot leave you with a man who could do what he did to his own family. I do not believe you are safe. I cannot leave you behind, I would not know what to do without you."

There are extensive notes on dimensional travel and research that eventually provides a strange lead. The Drs. Fenton. Their research is unorthodox, but could have potential for what he wants. It couldn't hurt to check it out, he was already running out of options and stamina. Hunting without tools and a partner was so much harder than he expected and stealing was trickier when your vision blurred from an empty stomach and it's growling threatened to give you away.

Danny manages to sneak onto a cargo plane into the USA and goes in search of the Fentons.

He finds them 6-12 months after waking up in this dimension. He comes to them with questions about their research which they find endearing and agree to take him in without much thought to legality. This is ok though, because the twins were taught how to forge identities. Jazz comes back from camp to find she has a new brother and doesn't question it much because "New Brother!" and she isn't so alone anymore.

There are a couple of journals spanning the time in between. Fairly mundane moments mixed in with longing and research to return to Damian.

"The Drs. Fenton are an odd pair. If I had other options for returning to you, I would not have given them the time of day. Alas, I must endure their bazaar mix of genius and idiocy."

"Jasmine is an idealistic girl, but not wholly unpleasant to have in my presence."

"They have remembered my age and existence long enough to decide that I must go to 'school' before they will allow me to help more in their labratory. Tt. A waste of time, but I will do what I must to earn their favour."

"Jasmine has gotten it into her head that 'school' will be good for me and my 'budding social skills' I have yet to see any evidence of this."

"I have been approached by a boy named Tucker Foley with the intent to become 'friends.' You are the only friend I have need of, Ahki, but perhaps I will allow it in my endeavors to disguise myself in this realm."

"I am beginning to make actual friends here. I must admit I don't know what to feel about this. Am I allowed to find happiness without you by my side? Am I allowed to want this even as I throw myself at every possibility of going home to you? If I could bring you here - away from the league - maybe I would. I think you would like it here too."

"Jack and Maddie have been letting me aid them in their work more and more these days. Most of their science seems sound, even if their theories are unfounded and full of bias. However, if Jack does not stop smearing fudge all over my finished equations he may soon find himself missing a hand."

"It has been nearly 4 years since I last saw you. I must admit that the longer my stay in this world stretches on, the faster I lose hope of ever seeing you again."

"I doubt you will ever read these and Jazz is always nagging at me to write down my thoughts and worries. My nights have been plagued with never-ending nightmares. That I will never see you again, that you die at my hands or I die at yours, that all of this is some strange afterlife. I do not know what Mother told you about my disappearance, but I doubt it was the full truth. Grandfather was very angry with me. I do not like to think of it outside of sleep, but I will never forget counting my deaths after he tortured me. I believe my count was somewhere around 13, though my memories are hazy and pain filled. I am ashamed to admit I begged the Pits for an end. To let me die so I did not have to go through it all again. Maybe it listened? Maybe that is why I am here. I do not regret that I am away from the League. I likely will not have survived going back. I do regret that I do not have you here. I feel you like a hole in my heart, a missing piece."

"Sam, Tuck and I went to the Nasty Burger again today. I really think you would like it, they have amazing veggie burgers! I know you never really liked the meat dishes served to us in the League. I feel you would enjoy the veggitarian life style. Maybe you and Sam would bond over it."

"Mom and Dad are so close to finishing the portal! I have checked and rechecked all of their calculations and I really think this is it this time!"

"...I think I am dead. Or. Dead adjacent? I know what death feels like, she and I are intimately acquainted. I died, but I still breath. The portal opened up on top of me when the Fentons left the lab in despair. I don't know who to tell. I cannot let Jack and Maddie find out, who knows what they would do to me? The accident has left me with meta-like abilities that I have no control over as of yet. ...I don't trust that they care for me enough not to try experimenting on me should they find out."

"I seem to be following in Father's footsteps. I have become a vigilante. Is this irony? All the blood on my hands and now I use those same hands to protect those both living and dead."

"Progress on mapping the Infinite Realms is slower than I would like. There is a system, but the system is nonsensical. Some doors have lead to other dimensions but I have not found ours yet. I hope I find you soon."

"The Fentons are becoming more adept at this ghost hunting business. I do not want to admit that this scares me."

"They have partnered with the GIW. I didn't think they ever would, but their hatred of my other half is stronger than their hatred for government control. I am no longer safe here."

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Pairing: Hongjoong x reader, Seonghwa x reader, Yunho x reader, Mingi x reader, Wooyoung x reader.

Summary: Five eight-year-old boys aboard the slave ship Crimson Serpent form an unbreakable bond with five-year-old y/n. before she's sold at auction. Despite their failed rescue attempt, they swear a blood oath on her teddy bear to find her. Fifteen years later, now feared pirates leading the ATEEZ

Warnings: Slavery/Human Trafficking, Separation/Loss, Violence, Eventual Smut. SA(not by any main characters) y/n gets switched to a real name but it has a purpose. More warnings to be updated.

Want to be notified when a chapter is updated? Join the Taglist!

Authors note: I was going to post this tomorrow but honestly I couldn’t wait. The banter between Wooyoung and Yeosang is one of favorite parts of this story, I love writing it! Enjoy! And get ready for the next chapter! The big moment is coming! 💜

‼️if you have read chapter 7 already please go back and make sure you have read the reunion part with Ella/yeaosang! It’s after the flash back scene! Something happened with posting and it got removed‼️

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Masterlist

Chapter 8

Hidden Currents

Morning in the ATEEZ's galley was chaotic but organized. Crew members grabbed quick meals before their daily duties instead of sitting down for formal dining. Unlike the officers' mess with its scheduled mealtimes, the main galley stayed open all day to work with the ship's various watch schedules.

Ella paused in the doorway, feeling a bit out of place in the casual atmosphere after her previous meals in the more formal officers' dining room. Pirates in various states of wakefulness sat at scattered tables, some clearly just ending night watch while others were getting ready for day duties. The conversations flowing around the room suggested these people were more like a family than just workers on the same ship.

What caught her eye was how officers and regular crew mixed freely. There was no special seating or service for officers - everyone helped themselves from the same food stations. Seonghwa sat at a corner table with navigation charts spread in front of him, eating absently while making calculations. Two gunners talked with Mingi by the drink station, looking serious enough that they were probably planning something rather than just chatting.

"Ella!" Wooyoung's voice cut through the noise. "Come in! Breakfast is casual today—we're too busy for sit-down service."

He waved enthusiastically from behind a serving counter where he seemed to be cooking three different things at once. Several assistants moved around him in well-practiced patterns that somehow worked despite the apparent chaos.

As she approached, Wooyoung kept cooking while chattering away. "The captain's dealing with some tricky currents today, so everyone's grabbing food when they can. Help yourself to whatever looks good—bread's fresh, and we have actual eggs today, thanks to that merchant ship that should have surrendered faster."

The casual mention of piracy—delivered with the same enthusiasm as his menu suggestions—caught Ella off guard. Even after days aboard the ATEEZ, she was still surprised by how easily these men blended violence and everyday life, how the feared pirate ship also felt like a community.

"Thank you," she said, taking the plate Wooyoung pushed toward her. "Everything looks amazing."

"Of course it does," he agreed without a hint of modesty. "Food matters even more on fighting days—might be someone's last meal, so it should be good."

The dark joke, delivered cheerfully rather than grimly, reminded Ella that despite its unusual culture, the ATEEZ was still a vessel of calculated violence—feared throughout the seas, its black sails striking terror wherever they appeared.

As she gathered food from the available options, Ella noticed Yeosang entering the galley, his face composed despite the morning chaos. He nodded slightly to various crew members as he walked directly to the medicinal tea station near Wooyoung's cooking area.

"You're up early considering your late night," Wooyoung called to him, a knowing grin spreading across his face. "Midnight medicine mixing again?"

Yeosang's neutral expression didn't change, though Ella—watching carefully after their reunion hours earlier—noticed the slight tension that appeared in his shoulders at Wooyoung's teasing reference to nocturnal activities.

"Inventory requirements," he replied blandly, selecting specific herbs with practiced efficiency. "Unlike some, my work benefits from methodical organization rather than chaotic improvisation.

"Chaotic?" Wooyoung clutched his chest in theatrical offense, somehow managing to continue stirring a large pot with his free hand. "This is carefully orchestrated creative genius, I'll have you know."

"Is that what we're calling it now?" Yeosang deadpanned, his tone perfectly neutral despite the subtle barb. "I thought it was simply randomized ingredient selection based on whatever hasn't spoiled yet."

Several nearby crew members snickered at the familiar banter, clearly accustomed to this dynamic between ship's cook and doctor. Wooyoung's exaggerated gasp of indignation only heightened the comedic effect, his natural dramatic flair turning routine morning interaction into entertainment.

"Randomized? Me?" He gestured wildly with a wooden spoon, narrowly missing one of his assistants who ducked with practiced ease. "Everything I create is precisely calibrated for maximum nutritional and morale benefit. Tell him, Ella—wasn't yesterday's breakfast a masterpiece of culinary precision?"

Suddenly drawn into their exchange, Ella found herself momentarily caught between Wooyoung's expectant gaze and Yeosang's carefully neutral expression. The dynamic between them fascinated her—Wooyoung's effusive animation deliberately drawing reaction from Yeosang's controlled reserve, the contrast creating balance rather than conflict.

"The cinnamon wheels were exceptional," she offered diplomatically. "Though I lack comparative experience with your other creations."

"Ha!" Wooyoung exclaimed triumphantly. "Even our newest passenger recognizes culinary excellence when she tastes it."

Yeosang's expression remained impassive, though Ella noticed the slight softening around his eyes that constituted amusement in his restricted emotional display. "Recognition of quality and recognition of spectacle are not necessarily the same thing," he observed mildly.

"Spectacle?" Wooyoung's voice rose dramatically as he waved both arms, abandoning all pretense of continued cooking. "Is that what you call feeding this entire crew of ungrateful pirates three times daily? Creating meals that keep morale high during weeks at sea? Transforming basic provisions into feasts that make even the captain smile?"

His theatrical indignation expanded with each statement, body language growing increasingly expansive until he resembled a performer rather than ship's cook. Several crew members paused their own conversations to watch the familiar entertainment, evident amusement in their expressions.

Throughout Wooyoung's escalating performance, Yeosang continued calmly preparing his medicinal tea, his methodical movements contrasting sharply with the cook's animated gestures. Yet something in his careful precision suggested deliberate participation rather than mere tolerance—as if his controlled reserve provided necessary counterpoint to Wooyoung's exuberance.

"Your creative approach has merit in appropriate contexts," Yeosang conceded with clinical precision, measuring herbs with the same careful attention he would give to potent medicines. "Though I maintain that consistency and methodology produce more reliable results than spontaneous inspiration."

"Consistency?" Wooyoung scoffed, dramatically flourishing a ladle like a conductor's baton. "Do you know what happens with too much consistency, my methodical friend? The same meal, day after day, until the crew starts eyeing seagulls with hunger and contemplating mutiny."

"Methodical doesn't mean monotonous," Yeosang countered, not looking up from his preparations. "It means intentional rather than accidental."

Wooyoung gasped, clutching his heart as though mortally wounded. "Accidental? You think my culinary masterpieces are accidents?" He gestured expansively at the various dishes arrayed across the serving counter. "This, my skeptical friend, is what we call 'intuitive genius.' Something your rigidly organized mind cannot possibly comprehend."

Yeosang finally looked up, his expression betraying the faintest hint of amusement only Ella could recognize from their childhood. "Is that what we're calling the incident with the exploding dumplings last month? Intuitive genius?"

A chorus of laughter erupted from nearby crew members, several calling out supportive comments or making explosion gestures with their hands. Clearly, the dumpling incident was well-known throughout the ship.

"That was a CONTROLLED flavor release!" Wooyoung protested, pointing his ladle accusingly at various laughing crew members. "And every single one of you still ate them, I might add!"

"After they stopped raining from the ceiling," someone called from across the galley.

"And we scraped them off the walls," added another sailor.

"The medical bay treated three burns and one concussion," Yeosang noted dryly. "Your 'controlled flavor release' required more bandages than our last skirmish with the Royal Navy."

Wooyoung swiveled toward Ella, who was watching this exchange with growing amusement. "You see what I deal with? No appreciation for culinary innovation aboard this ship of critics!"

Ella was silently giggling. She looked to her side seeing Yunho already watching her with a soft smile. He gestured to the two bickering and shook his head in feigned exasperation. "Like an old married couple," Yunho mouthed to her, causing a wider smile from her much to Yunho's delight.

Ella turned back to the bickering pair.

"The captain appreciated it," Yeosang deadpanned. "Especially when a dumpling landed directly in his navigation charts. I believe his exact words were 'tactically unprecedented.'"

"It was a difficult nautical element to chart," Wooyoung defended, struggling to maintain his indignant expression as his own laughter threatened to break through. "The captain now has the only sea chart in existence with a dumpling-shaped island in the western strait."

"Which is apparently creating significant navigational challenges," Yeosang continued, his delivery perfectly serious despite the absurdity. "Seonghwa reports that we keep sailing in circles trying to find it."

"It's a migratory dumpling island," Wooyoung declared, completely abandoning his cooking to fully embrace the ridiculous narrative. "It only appears during certain lunar phases and can only be summoned with the proper culinary incantations."

He dramatically raised his hands above his head, wooden spoon pointed skyward like a wizard's staff. In a deep, theatrically mystical voice, he intoned: "By the power of excessive garlic and questionable fermentation techniques, I summon thee, Sacred Island of Explosive Dumplings!"

"Please don't," Yeosang sighed, though his eyes betrayed the faintest crinkle of amusement. "Im still exhausted from the aftermath of the last Wooyoung 'summoning.'"

"The casualties were worth it," Wooyoung insisted, now fully committed to his performance. He turned to Ella, dropping his voice to a stage whisper. "Yeosang's just upset because one dumpling flew directly into his meticulously organized medicine cabinet and rearranged his alphabetical system into what I maintain was a more intuitive categorical framework."

"It spelled 'chaos' in three different languages," Yeosang corrected. "And required four hours to properly sanitize."

"It was a message from the culinary gods!" Wooyoung declared, spinning in a dramatic circle with his arms extended. "They were telling you to embrace spontaneity!"

"They were telling me to invest in stronger cabinet locks," Yeosang countered, finishing his tea preparation with the same calm precision he'd maintained throughout their exchange.

Wooyoung clutched his chest again, staggering dramatically as though mortally wounded. "Such cruelty from our ship's healer! This is why pirates have a reputation for scurvy—medical professionals with no appreciation for culinary artistry!"

Without missing a beat, Yeosang picked up a small orange from a nearby fruit basket and tossed it directly at Wooyoung, who caught it with surprising dexterity despite his theatrical flailing.

"Vitamin C," Yeosang stated flatly. "Medicine's contribution to culinary health. No explosions required."

"Unless you're doing it wrong," Wooyoung quipped, immediately juggling the orange with two apples he snatched from the same basket. "Everything is more interesting with a little danger involved."

As he juggled with impressive skill, he began tossing the fruits higher and higher, his expression one of exaggerated concentration. "Observe the controlled chaos of true culinary mastery!"

Just as the juggling reached its peak, the ship pitched slightly with a wave. One apple went off course, bouncing off Wooyoung's forehead before he could catch it. His expression of complete surprise, combined with his theatrical gasp of betrayal as he pointed accusingly at the fallen fruit, was so perfectly comical that Ella couldn't contain herself any longer.

The laugh burst from her unexpectedly—not the careful, controlled chuckle she sometimes permitted herself in social situations, but a genuine, unrestrained sound of pure amusement. It rang through the galley, surprising even herself with its intensity and freedom.

The room seemed to pause for a fraction of a second, several nearby crew members glancing toward the unfamiliar sound. Wooyoung froze mid-gesture, the remaining fruit forgotten in his hands as he stared at her with undisguised delight. Even Yeosang paused, his normally impassive expression softening into something like satisfaction. Even he had only heard her genuine laugh once in all the time they spent together.

Ella immediately tried to compose herself, years of conditioned restraint making her self-conscious about such unguarded expression. But Wooyoung, sensing the moment's importance, immediately doubled down on his performance.

"The apple!" he cried, pointing dramatically at the fruit rolling across the floor. "It's escaping to join its brethren in the mythical Orchard of Wayward Produce! Quick! Someone stop it before it convinces the oranges to mutiny!"

The absurdity broke through her composure again, and Ella found herself laughing even harder, one hand pressed against her mouth in a futile attempt to contain the unfamiliar sound.

Across the galley, she caught sight of Yunho and Mingi pausing in their conversation, both watching her with expressions that mirrored Wooyoung's delight—Yunho's open and warm, Mingi's subtle but unmistakable. Even Seonghwa had looked up from his charts, his analytical gaze softening as he observed her unguarded moment.

"You see?" Wooyoung declared triumphantly to Yeosang, gesturing toward Ella with obvious satisfaction. "This is why spontaneity trumps methodology! When was the last time someone laughed like that over properly measured tea leaves?"

"Enjoyment and medicinal efficacy serve different purposes," Yeosang replied, though his tone lacked its usual clinical detachment. "Though occasionally they can complement each other."

As her laughter finally subsided, Ella felt strangely lightened, as if some tightly-wound spring within her had loosened slightly. The sensation was unfamiliar after fifteen years of careful self-control, yet somehow reminiscent of childhood moments aboard The Crimson Serpent when Wooyoung had first taught her to laugh silently to avoid unwanted attention.

Now, surrounded by the ATEEZ's crew—men feared throughout maritime waters for precision and ruthlessness—she had laughed openly for the first time since captivity had taught her the danger of unguarded expression.

"I apologize," she said automatically, years of conditioning making her uncomfortable with attention.

"No apologies for laughter aboard this ship," Wooyoung declared firmly, his usual playfulness momentarily replaced by genuine conviction. "Captain's orders."

"Genuine medical benefit as well," Yeosang added, surprising her with his supportive contribution. "Physiological advantages to unrestricted expression of positive emotion."

Their coordinated defense—Wooyoung's heartfelt encouragement balanced by Yeosang's clinical endorsement—revealed complementary aspects of protection rather than contradictory approaches. Despite their apparent contrast, both men sought the same outcome: her comfort and wellbeing aboard the ATEEZ.

"Thank you," she said simply, the gratitude encompassing more than just their current kindness.

Wooyoung beamed, his expression suggesting her laughter represented personal triumph. "My life's mission is complete. I've made Ella laugh—the rest of my culinary career can only be anticlimax."

"A concerning statement from the person responsible for feeding a crew of seventy-three pirates," Yeosang observed dryly, though his eyes remained warmer than his tone suggested.

"Seventy-three pirates with excellent taste and appreciation for culinary genius," Wooyoung corrected, immediately returning to his theatrical self-promotion. "Unlike certain ship's doctors who wouldn't know culinary inspiration if it exploded in their meticulously organized medicine cabinets."

"Which it did," Yeosang reminded him, lifting his completed tea preparation. "Hence the need for stronger locks."

As their banter resumed, Ella found herself still smiling—a real smile, not the careful one she usually put on. Something about their back-and-forth, the contrast between Wooyoung's enthusiasm and Yeosang's calm precision, let her respond naturally instead of calculating every reaction.

She caught Yeosang's eye briefly as he prepared to leave with his tea. In that moment of shared understanding, invisible to everyone else, two survivors of Blackwell's cruelty found an unexpected moment of freedom: through Wooyoung's absurd theatrics and Yeosang's dry comebacks, they'd found space for real laughter after fifteen years of necessary caution.

As she collected her breakfast and found a seat at a small corner table, Ella realized the ATEEZ was more complicated than she'd thought—a feared pirate ship whose culture made room for both Wooyoung's creative chaos and Yeosang's careful precision, for both calculated violence against enemies and kindness toward friends.

This complexity drew her in as she watched the crew's morning interactions. These feared pirates seemed genuinely human in their private moments—laughing at Wooyoung's antics, respecting Yeosang's quiet authority, working together with a sense of community rather than just tactical advantage.

Most importantly, five officers who had once been cabin boys on The Crimson Serpent were still searching for a little girl sold at auction, their childhood promise now the mission that defined their adult lives. And now that very girl sat among them, her identity hidden by choice—a decision that remained hers alone despite the blood oath that had driven five boys to become the most feared pirates on the seven seas.

After breakfast, Ella found herself heading to the upper deck, drawn by the need for fresh air after the crowded galley. The morning sun bathed the ATEEZ in golden light, softening its fearsome look. Crew members worked efficiently, adjusting sails and securing rigging as the ship navigated through challenging currents.

Near the helm, Captain Hongjoong stood with Seonghwa, both focused on navigation charts while occasionally looking toward the horizon. Their conversation seemed intense—clearly planning something important, not just chatting. The way they stood showed their partnership: Hongjoong's stance suggesting leadership, while Seonghwa's precise posture reflected careful analysis—different approaches working toward the same goal.

As she watched from a distance, Hongjoong suddenly looked up, his eyes finding hers with uncanny accuracy, as if he'd sensed her watching. Something like recognition flashed across his face—not of her identity, but of her presence. He said something brief to Seonghwa, who nodded before gathering the charts and walking away, deliberately avoiding where Ella stood.

Hongjoong walked toward her with measured steps, his captain's authority clear yet softened by the same consideration he'd shown since she boarded.

"Good morning," he greeted, his voice carrying easily over the wind and activity. "Was breakfast good? Wooyoung can be... over the top, but he really can cook, despite all the drama."

"Very good," she confirmed, still amused. "Though I hear the 'exploding dumplings' incident has become quite the legend."

A brief smile touched Hongjoong's features—a rare expression that made his usual strategic composure seem more human. "A story we'll be telling for years. My cabin still has dumpling fragments turning up in odd places."

The casual humor, so different from his usual careful interactions with her, gave her a glimpse of the boy beneath the captain's authority—the child who had taught a little girl about stars during secret midnight excursions on another ship long ago. Ella found herself responding with her own small smile, feeling more natural after her unexpected laughter in the galley.

"We're approaching the Meridian Straits," Hongjoong said, pointing toward the horizon where distant land created a narrow passage between open waters. "It's one of Blackwell's favorite shipping routes, which is why I'd value your thoughts. The charts in my quarters would be easier to work with than out here on deck."

The invitation—professional yet somehow personal—offered both practical purpose and a chance for the private conversation she'd been considering since reuniting with Yeosang. After days of watching life aboard the ATEEZ, Ella found herself increasingly curious about the captain himself: the boy who had called her "Treasure" now grown into a man whose brilliance had created the most feared pirate vessel on the seven seas.

"Of course," she agreed, following as he led the way to his quarters.

Unlike her previous brief glimpses of the captain's space, this visit let her really see how Hongjoong had made it his own. Navigation tools shared space with personal touches—carved figures she now recognized as Mingi's work, books ranging from technical manuals to poetry, even a small collection of unusual shells and stones. The room balanced practical function with personal identity—necessary tools alongside touches of humanity.

Most noticeable was the locked sea chest she'd glimpsed before, now positioned prominently near his desk. The antique box, decorated with navigation symbols and secured with heavy iron, caught her attention despite her attempts to look casual. Something about its placement suggested it was more than just storage—almost like a reminder or symbol.

Hongjoong spread charts across his large desk, weighing down the corners with smooth stones that seemed chosen specifically for this purpose. "These show Blackwell's usual shipping patterns through the Meridian Straits," he explained, his focus professional despite the private setting. "Based on your information and our observations, we've found potential weaknesses in his security."

As he outlined their assessment, Ella was impressed by how much the ATEEZ knew about Blackwell's operations. Their understanding went beyond just shipping schedules to include key personnel, communication methods, even emergency plans. The detail showed years of careful study, not just casual observation.

"You've been tracking him for a while," she said, both asking and confirming.

Hongjoong's expression shifted subtly, professional assessment giving way to something more personal. "Fifteen years," he said quietly, the simple words heavy with meaning.

The specific timeframe—exactly matching her years in captivity—created momentary silence between them. For the first time, Hongjoong had directly referenced their shared past without explicitly saying he knew who she was. The opening seemed deliberate, an invitation without pressure.

"May I ask why?" she asked carefully, keeping up her persona while trying to understand more. "Blackwell certainly deserves opposition, but your focus seems... personal rather than just strategic."

Hongjoong studied her for a long moment, as if weighing an important decision. Then he gestured toward two chairs near a small window overlooking the ship's wake.

"Please," he said simply, waiting until she'd seated herself before taking the opposite chair. The arrangement created a conversation space separate from the tactical discussion at his desk—shifting from professional consultation to personal exchange.

"The ATEEZ was built for a specific purpose," he began, his voice carrying a new quality—neither the captain's authority nor strategic calculation, but something more genuine, more human. "Ship and crew gathered around a central mission, not just for profit."

He paused, glancing briefly toward the locked sea chest before meeting her eyes directly. "I wasn't always Captain Hongjoong of the feared Compass Crew. Before that, I was just Hongjoong—orphaned cabin boy on a vessel called The Crimson Serpent."

Though she'd pieced together much of this history through observation and Yeosang's confirmation, hearing Hongjoong speak these words directly created an unexpected emotional response. His simple acknowledgment of his origins offered a potential bridge between her carefully maintained present and buried past.

"The Crimson Serpent," she repeated carefully, showing appropriate recognition without revealing personal connection. "A slave ship?"

Hongjoong nodded, something dark crossing his features. "Though they called it 'labor recruitment' and 'personnel acquisition' in official documents. Captivity hidden behind fancy words."

The bitter observation revealed genuine emotion beneath his usual control—moral outrage rather than just tactical opposition. This wasn't simply professional assessment but personal conviction born from direct experience.

"Five of us were taken as children," he continued, his words flowing more naturally than his usual measured speech. "Myself, Seonghwa, Wooyoung, Yunho, and Mingi. Orphans or street children with no one to report us missing, no one to demand our return."

Ella remained silent, understanding the significance of this disclosure. Though she'd glimpsed aspects of their shared history through observation and hints, Hongjoong's direct story represented a deliberate choice to share rather than a casual revelation.

"We learned to survive together on that ship," he continued, his gaze momentarily distant with memory. "Formed an alliance that became the foundation for everything that followed. But it wasn't until..." he hesitated slightly, "...until another joined us that we found purpose beyond just surviving."

"Another cabin boy?" she prompted when his story paused, careful to maintain her disguise despite her growing emotional response.

"A child," Hongjoong corrected, something soft entering his expression. "Captured during a coastal raid. Five years old, torn from everything familiar, expected to accept captivity without resistance."

The explicit reference to her own history—the first direct acknowledgment from any officer beyond Wooyoung's veiled comments—left Ella momentarily breathless. Fifteen years of calculated survival had taught her to keep her composure during even the most difficult circumstances, yet Hongjoong's simple description of her childhood self threatened that hard-won control.

"What happened to her?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral despite her inner turmoil.

A shadow crossed Hongjoong's features, regret and determination mixing in equal measure. "We tried to protect her. For three months on that floating hell, we created whatever safety we could. Then, during a stop in Halazia, we tried to escape."

His voice hardened slightly, the captain's strategic assessment temporarily displacing personal narrative. "We failed. Badly. A fire broke out during our attempt, creating chaos that separated us from her. The captain used the confusion to take her directly to auction. By the time we could move freely again, she had been sold."

The clinical description of that devastating day—stripped of emotion, reduced to tactical assessment—revealed Hongjoong's continued struggle with their failure. Fifteen years later, he still analyzed the event strategically, identifying errors in planning and execution rather than simply accepting the emotional impact.

"That night, we made a blood oath," he continued, unconsciously touching his palm where that long-ago cut had sealed their promise. "To survive, to grow stronger, to find her again—no matter how long it took, no matter what we had to sacrifice."

He looked toward the locked sea chest, tension visible in his shoulders despite his controlled expression. "Everything that followed—our eventual escape from The Crimson Serpent, our years learning necessary skills throughout the maritime world, our claiming of the ATEEZ and turning it into a vessel feared by slave traders—all started from that single promise. All focused on fulfilling a blood oath made by five children who failed to protect someone vulnerable."

The raw honesty of this disclosure—delivered without theatrical gesture or manipulative intent—affected Ella more deeply than Wooyoung's emotional hints or Yunho's gentle stargazing references. Hongjoong offered neither pressure nor expectation, simply truth: that finding her had defined their existence for fifteen years, that the ATEEZ's fearsome reputation had been built upon the foundation of a childhood promise.

"You've searched for her all this time?" she asked, the question emerging with unexpected emotion despite her efforts to maintain distance.

"Without stopping," Hongjoong confirmed, meeting her gaze directly. "Every port, every auction house, every slave market. Every rumor of a young girl sold in Halazia fifteen years ago. Every possible lead, no matter how unlikely."

He hesitated, then added with quiet certainty: "We'll continue searching until we find her or confirm beyond doubt that she's no longer alive. The oath remains unbroken regardless of years passed or obstacles encountered."

Something in his tone—not just determination but absolute commitment—affected Ella profoundly. For fifteen years, she had survived through calculated isolation, believing herself forgotten or abandoned by anyone who had ever shown her kindness. The reality that five boys had transformed themselves into the most feared pirates on the seven seas specifically to find her challenged fundamental assumptions that had guided her survival since childhood.

"And if you find her?" she asked, the question revealing vulnerability she rarely permitted. "After fifteen years, she would be much changed from the child you knew. Perhaps unrecognizable in ways beyond physical appearance."

Hongjoong considered this carefully, his expression showing deep thought rather than a hasty response. "We understand this," he said finally. "Fifteen years of captivity would necessarily transform anyone, creating a person shaped by survival rather than childhood potential. We're not trying to reclaim what was lost but to fulfill a promise that remains binding regardless of changes time and circumstance have created."

The distinction—seeking fulfillment of promise rather than restoration of past—suggested understanding beyond simple nostalgia. Unlike potential expectation that "y/n" should somehow match their childhood memories, Hongjoong acknowledged the inevitable transformation that fifteen years would create.

"Your campaign against Blackwell," she said, shifting toward practical implications rather than emotional response. "It's connected to this search?"

"Directly," he confirmed without hesitation. "At first, we simply targeted all slave traders as a matter of principle. But two years ago, we discovered Blackwell had purchased a girl that same night, at the Halazia auction. Since then, our operations have focused specifically on disrupting his activities, gathering intelligence about his organization, and systematically dismantling his trading network."

The timeline aligned with her own history—her transfer from Blackwell's direct ownership to his business associate had occurred approximately two years ago, shortly after the ATEEZ had apparently discovered her connection to their target. The correlation seemed unlikely to be coincidental.

"You believe Blackwell transferred her to prevent you from finding her," she observed, the realization crystallizing as she spoke. "That he recognized your campaign's personal motivation and deliberately hid her location."

"It's our working theory," Hongjoong acknowledged, professional assessment temporarily replacing personal narrative. "The timing suggests deliberate countermeasure rather than coincidental business arrangement. Blackwell's records regarding that specific transfer were methodically eliminated—unusually thorough even by his standards of operational security."

The implication clarified aspects of her captivity that had previously seemed arbitrary. Blackwell's decision to transfer her to Calloway—his associate specializing in "premium domestic personnel"—had appeared merely a business opportunity at the time. Now, understanding the ATEEZ's targeted campaign against Blackwell's operations, the transfer revealed strategic dimension beyond simple profit motive.

"He feared you finding her," she concluded, pieces connecting with increasing clarity. "He recognized her value as leverage against a potential threat."

Hongjoong nodded, the captain's strategic assessment evident despite the personal context. "Blackwell's operational methodology prioritizes advantage through intelligence. Once he identified connection between our campaign and his past acquisition, he would naturally implement countermeasures to maintain control of a potentially valuable asset."

The clinical terminology—"asset," "acquisition," "countermeasures"—revealed how thoroughly Hongjoong had integrated tactical thinking into his understanding of their shared history. Unlike Wooyoung's emotional responses or Yunho's gentle reminiscence, the captain analyzed even personal tragedy through a strategic lens—necessary perspective for a leader responsible for crew's survival during increasingly dangerous operations.

"And now?" she asked, careful neutrality masking deeper inquiry. "If this search has driven your mission for fifteen years, what happens if you succeed? If you find this girl who has shaped your existence from absence rather than presence?"

Something shifted in Hongjoong's expression—the captain's strategic mask temporarily giving way to more vulnerable humanity. For a brief moment, the boy who had once called a little girl "Treasure" during midnight stargazing emerged from behind fifteen years of necessary authority.

"Then she would be free," he said simply, the words containing both promise and limitation. "Free to choose her own path without obligation or expectation. Our oath was to find her, to restore the choice that captivity had eliminated. Not to impose new constraints based on childhood connection."

The declaration—simultaneously liberating and carefully bounded—revealed complex emotional territory beneath Hongjoong's strategic exterior. Unlike potential expectation that fulfilling their oath would create specific relationship or outcome, he offered something more profound: respect for agency that fifteen years of captivity had systematically denied.

"Many girls came and went from Blackwell's ownership. I wish I could help you find her. However I don't remember any girl named y/n in Blackwell's possession." She said nervously. "But I will help where I can."

Hongjoong stared at her for a long moment, almost in amusement. "I appreciate the help greatly. However, I never said her name was y/n." His eyes shinning with something she couldn't understand.

Ella's heart rate picked up as she tried to mask her panic. "Wooyoung mentioned this story earlier, he let her name slip." She said stone faced.

"Ah, I see." Hongjoong's amusement never fading. "For an intelligence specialist he has very loose lips."

Before she could respond, a sharp knock at the door interrupted their conversation. Hongjoong's expression immediately shifted, the captain's authority replacing personal vulnerability with practiced efficiency.

"Enter," he called, rising from his chair with smooth movement

Seonghwa appeared in the doorway, his expression revealing urgency despite characteristic composure. "Captain, vessel approaching from eastern quadrant. Flying Southern Trade Company colors alongside official pennant."

Hongjoong moved immediately toward his desk, professional focus displacing the openness of moments earlier. "Distance and heading?"

"Three miles, course suggests interception rather than parallel tracking," Seonghwa reported, his attention briefly acknowledging Ella's presence before returning to the captain. "Yunho confirms it matches the escort class recently commissioned by Blackwell's organization."

"Prepare the crew for potential engagement," Hongjoong instructed, already examining the charts they had been discussing earlier. "Standard protocol—hide primary weapons until identification confirmed, maintain course that suggests we're just merchants rather than trying to run."

As Seonghwa left to implement these instructions, Hongjoong turned toward Ella with an apologetic expression that nonetheless contained the captain's authority rather than personal regret. "I need to handle this situation. Please return to your quarters until we've assessed the threat level."

The abrupt shift from intimate conversation to tactical necessity reminded Ella that the ATEEZ was both a vessel of personal quest and feared pirate ship with a reputation built on precision and calculated violence. The men who searched for a lost girl were simultaneously commanders whose tactical brilliance had created a maritime legend.

"Of course, Captain," she replied, acknowledging both his authority and the necessary transition.

As she moved toward the door, Hongjoong's voice stopped her—softer than his tactical instructions to Seonghwa yet carrying equal certainty. "This conversation isn't finished," he said, something in his tone suggesting significance beyond mere scheduling. "Just paused for now."

The subtle distinction—pause rather than ending—offered connection that went beyond their current interaction. Unlike potential dismissal once practical information had been exchanged, Hongjoong indicated value beyond tactical advantage.

"I understand," she acknowledged, matching his tone. "Until circumstances permit."

Something passed between them in that moment—recognition not of shared past but of potential future, connection based on present choice rather than childhood memory. Then the ship's bell rang, calling crew to battle stations, and the captain's focus returned with practiced efficiency.

As Ella made her way to her quarters amid increasing activity above decks, she found herself processing the implications of Hongjoong's disclosure. Unlike her conversation with Yeosang, which had confirmed suspicions through shared experience, this interaction had revealed emotional dimensions previously hidden beneath strategic exterior—the human motivations driving tactical brilliance, the personal quest underlying fearsome reputation.

Most significantly, Hongjoong had offered his story without demand, history without expectation. Unlike potential manipulation that might have used shared past to extract specific response, he had simply shared truth: that finding her had defined their existence for fifteen years, that fulfilling blood oath remained binding regardless of changes time and circumstance had created.

The ATEEZ's sudden encounter with Southern Trade Company vessel perfectly mirrored her current situation—caught between past and present, between memory and reality, between comfortable anonymity and risky recognition. Like the black-sailed ship now preparing for potential combat, she navigated dangerous waters where decisions carried significant consequences.

As the sounds of battle preparation filtered through the ship—Seonghwa's precise commands, Wooyoung's unexpectedly authoritative coordination of below-deck crew, Yunho's calm instructions to rigging teams, Mingi's low voice directing gunners toward concealed positions—Ella recognized how seamlessly they transitioned from peaceful sailing to potential violence. These men who had shown her consistent kindness were simultaneously feared throughout the maritime world for ruthless efficiency and unwavering purpose.

In her cabin, secure behind closed door as naval confrontation developed above, she whispered, the familiar names carrying new significance after Hongjoong's revelations.

"Joongie, Hwa, Woo, Yuyu, Puppy, Angel," No longer merely comfort ritual but acknowledgment of connection maintained despite fifteen years' separation, of paths converging against seemingly impossible odds.

As naval confrontation developed above decks, tactical brilliance flowing through coordinated action, y/n found herself facing parallel challenge beneath strategic surface—navigating emotional waters more complex than any maritime passage, where recognition carried both promise and risk beyond simple identification.

Taglist: @hopeless-lovex0 @frankielou02 @jilxxasu @kur0kki @lezleeferguson-120 @uniquecloudbread @miniverse-zen @symmieangela @monstacheol @ateezswonderland @hanniehq

[screamofdespair]

The Beauty of Detective Conan (1996)

Directed by 山本 泰一郎 Yasuichiro Yamamoto

#176 - #177 - #178 : 'Reunion with the Black Organization'

(Music : Train Song - Vashti Bunyan)

[yestrday]

I just, househusband Zhongli crumbs, I beg, everything you write is just gold ❤️❤️❤️

househusband zhongli is everything to me :((( i wanna go home and see him in an apron with his fancy liyue cuisine all ready for me uhuhuhu....

you might like: yandere! genshin malewives + zhongli

🐲 yandere! malewife zhongli

his biggest red flag is spending big amounts of money behind your back and not even realizing what he's done wrong unless you jam it into that thick skull of his. he'll be explaining to you why buying that noctiluous jade is a worthwhile endeavor till you hit him with the 'and????!!! what do we even need a noctiluous jade for!' and he opens his mouth and closes it when he finally thinks.

when he sees you overworking yourself, he gently closes the laptop and guides you towards the bed. it hurts his heart to see you so tired. look at your eyebags! just terrible. he tucks you into bed and makes you wait as he brings over the pot of tea he's been boiling for over an hour now.

a lot of the neighborhood grannies fawn over him like they're back to being little schoolgirls. sometimes when you come home early from work you'll see zhongli sat on the porch giving a history lecture with that buttery voice of his while the grannies are crowded around him with shy smiles, giggling behind their fans.

gets really moody when he smells someone's perfume on you. he tries his best to not let his jealousy steep into his interactions with you, but you can tell something's up when his normally gentle voice is suddenly clipped and curt with you.

has a black belt in karen. he's stated multiple times that he's more than willing to... approach your boss to have a civil one-on-one chat with him about your working conditions. these musings of his happen every time he sees you stumbling into the house, just barely delirious.

doesn't pay others much attention. whenever the two of you are on dates, his attention is on you and you only. he'll acknowledge their presence when needed be, but everything else slips by him when you're just too endearing not to look away from.

you don't trust him on groceries, not when you think that he might come home with high-end brands instead of sticking to the budget. the two of you often go grocery shopping together, and you have to drag him to the normal supermarket and not the all-organic alternative sitting right beside it.

is strangely eager when it comes to giving gifts to your nephews and nieces, should you have any. christmas and birthdays are the only times you'll give in to zhongli's overspending because he always hits you with the 'those children only deserve the very best...!' so you feel guilty. you can see how gentle his eyes are whenever he holds one of the little ones in his arms or how he quietly anticipates their happy little smiles whenever they unbox your gifts.

after that, he always muses about wanting to have a family of his own... while giving you one of those looks. mmm1. those family reunions always leave you sore the day after. not because of the reunion itself, but rather, what they've brought on after.

[actuallysaiyan]

The First Time(Aka How Nanami Kento Lost His Virginity)Chapter Seven: Reunion

warnings: breast play, smoking cigarettes, mentions of male masturbation, slight awkwardness from both parties pairings: Emo!Nanami Kento x Fem!Reader summary: summer is done and you return to school for the next semester. though you are a little nervous about being around Kento, he shows you that he's made some changes. and those changes are all to your benefit. a/n: SO SORRY for the literally month long delay! I so hope everyone enjoys this chapter! More to come soon, that I can promise. This series gets finished this year, I promise! also check out the soundtrack for this fic here!

taglist: @cherryblossombankai @kenpachisbrat @benkeibear

@harlekin6 @brokennerdalert @marikuchanxo @gennaray

@sugurusprettygirl @hazzelle-kento @pixelcafe-network

Masterlist

Summer passes by in a flash. And though everyone is sad to see it come to an end, you’re more than happy to make your way back to university. After the phone call, you and Kento tried your best to stay in contact all summer long, but it wasn’t always easy.

So when the first day of school comes around, you find yourself fussing over your looks more than usual. You had spent the last few days in your dorm, fixing up things and placing posters in the right spots. Despite your parents wanting to spend even more time with you, they had done their job helping you settle into your dorm room once more.

Then once the reality of everything dawned on you, that’s when you began to realize that you were actually going to see him again. Kento Nanami, the man who stole your heart. You wondered if maybe things would go smoothly. But on second thought, you were sure that there would be lots of awkwardness at first.

Even just thinking about the phone call made your stomach turn. It had been so sensual and sexy; truly something to remember forever. Just the sound of his voice had you going. You remember just how sticky your fingers had been as you played with yourself to the sound of his gorgeous voice.

And when he came, he had moaned so beautifully. You missed the sound of his voice. You missed his timid but cute smile. The smell of the cigarettes he smoked. You wanted to wear his hoodie and show the world that you were deeply in love with Kento.

So the first day back to class, you resolved to talk to him. You were going to make sure that you at least said one word to him.

The issue? You found yourself even more shy than before.

Both of you had clearly put a lot of thought into your looks today. You don’t think you've ever seen Kento so dressed up like this before. His blazer was properly ironed, his hair was actually out of his eyes for once and his skinny jeans didn’t have any holes in them.

You had also bought some new clothes for class. You were hoping that he would notice. It wasn’t like you to wear a dress, but this one had been just so beautiful. The long sleeves hugged your arms, which you always hated to show off. It came down to your shins. The color was such a dark black, and it only proved to make you look much more mature than you thought yourself to be.

And yet, despite the new clothes and the renewed sense of wanting to talk to one another, it just never happened. Too much talk of the syllabus and class planning and other people catching up with one another. You longingly looked at Kento from your spot across the room. You swore you caught him looking at you a few times as well, but you didn’t want to believe it.

The first few classes went by in a blur, and you held out hope that you’d talk to him. Every single second, you thought about what you’d say first. But nothing ever came up and you just couldn’t find the right time.

So as the first day of the second semester ended, you were mentally cursing yourself for being so ridiculous. How could you not just go over to him and say hi? He was just a man, not some alien from outer space trying to harvest your organs.

“Girl, you need to just go talk to him.” One of your friends said as you left the last class of the day.

You two are walking towards the dorm building. The way she could just read you so well was what made you nervous. If she could see it written all over your face, could everyone else see the same?You shrug; you’re without answers.

“He’s over there. Now go!” She shoves you in his direction.

You make your way over to him, your whole body shaking as if you were a child afraid to go down the slide. He looks up from his notebook, and there’s a soft smile on his face when he spots you. You approach him and clear your throat.

“Can I sit with you?” You inquire, pointing at the empty spot next to him on the bench.

Nanami blushes. “Y-yeah! Sure, sit down.”

You sit on the bench, watching as your friend gives you a thumbs up. Then you turn to look at Kento. He’s still writing in his notebook, but when he feels your eyes on him, he closes it.

“Hey, uhm…” you start but he interrupts you.

“You look good. I like that dress on you.”

His words turn around in your mind for a bit. Your cheeks are burning. Even though he just complimented you, you feel like all eyes are on you. You bury your face in your hands. 

“Wait, what did I say? Did I say something wrong?”

You shake your head, finally uncovering your face. You reach over and kiss his cheek, which in turn makes him blush now. You two look like a couple of kids in love.

“Thanks, Ken. You’re a gentleman.”

He shrugs his shoulders, “I’m just me.”

A comfortable silence falls on the two of you. You reach over and grab his hand, making his blush further onto the tops of his ears as well. He looks at you with such a soft and tender look in his eyes, it makes your heart skip a beat.

“I really missed you this summer,” you confess.

“I missed you too.”

Your eyes lock with his and then he’s leaning in. He cups your cheek, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. Then Kento leans in to capture your lips in a tender and loving kiss. Your breath hitches in your throat, but you melt into the kiss.

It’s almost like all the feelings you had for him were spilling out into this one kiss. When he pulls away, you’re the one chasing his lips this time. He smirks as a sudden wave of confidence washes over him over that little move.

“So,” he says as he fishes his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He places one on his lips, then one on yours. “We should go out on a date.”

You smirk as he lights up both smokes at once. “Deal. Time and place?”

“Friday night, your dorm.”

That’s all it took for you two to plan a quiet night together.

Friday night comes around and you’re more than nervous. It feels like it’s been forever since you’ve hung out with Kento. Just knowing how things will go, your heart keeps fluttering in your chest. You’ve done all you can to keep calm, but it’s proving to be almost impossible.

The knock on your door has you getting up off the sofa and rushing to the door. You smooth out your shirt and swallow hard before opening the door. Kento stands there, looking more confident than ever. He hands you the beautiful bouquet of wildflowers.

“Wildflowers for my beautiful wildflower.”

Your heart clenches in your chest. Here you were thinking you’d have to start from scratch with him, but it seems like the time you two spent apart seems to only have pushed you two even closer together. You take the flowers and invite him inside.

“I ordered take-out,” you tell him as you smell the flowers.

He comes over to you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. You feel the definition of muscles against your back. Kento nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck, nipping so softly.

“I’m glad we decided to do this,” he whispers. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you all summer.”

You blush and smile. “I feel the same.”

He lets you go, allowing you the chance to put the flowers in a vase. You place them near the window where they can get lots of light. Then you return to your lover, guiding him to the couch. On the coffee table is a spread of your favorite foods.

“You really planned out everything perfectly,” Kento says.

He wraps his arm around you, pulling you close. You giggle as you rest on his chest. The food is quickly forgotten in favor of sweet, but chaste kisses. The kisses that turn into something hungrier and sloppier.

“It’s finally time for me to make you feel good.” He whispers as his hands snake up your shirt.

You moan against his lips as he plays with your breasts. He tugs on your nipples perfectly, making need pool deep inside of you. He kisses you tenderly, continuing his ministrations on your chest.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips. Kento pulls away only to be able to pull the garment off your body.

With your breasts bared to him, Kento shifts on the sofa and adjusts his hardening cock in his tight jeans. He looks at you like you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever laid eyes on.

“My beautiful angel,” he moans as he cups your breasts. 

His lips trail all over the swell of your tits before he captures one of your nipples between his teeth. The look of love in his eyes has your stomach erupting with a million butterflies. You’ve never felt this way before.

“You’re so beautiful,” he groans. “Jerked off to thoughts of you all summer, baby.”

The thought of him stroking his cock to the thought of you has your panties drenched. You part your thighs a little, allowing one of his hands to slip down the front of your sweatpants. He smirks when he realizes you’re also not wearing panties.

“So wet, just for me.” He murmurs against the softness of your chest.

His fingers work you up quickly to your release. Your breath hitches in your throat as the coil in your stomach is tightening so fast. There’s so much warmth inside of you and it spreads all over as Kento rubs your clit in perfect little circles.

He stays attached to your nipple, suckling and flicking the pert bud with his tongue. The look in his eyes is intoxicating, especially since he looks at you like you’re the perfect sex goddess made just for him.

“K-Ken,” you moan. “I’m cumming.”

He doesn’t even have to say anything. He watches you as you come undone. Your cheeks warm, your lips parted as you moan his name. Your thighs are shaking from the intensity of the pleasure. And he loves the way your nipples are so hard right now.

Slowly, he helps you come down from the intense high. Kento smirks when he pulls his fingers from your pants and they are covered in your juices. Something changed within your lover, and it’s for the better.

“Told you I’d make you feel good next time we saw each other.” He says as he licks his fingers clean.

“And it was good to count down the days.”

reblogs and comments always appreciated!

©actuallysaiyan 2025– do not repost on other platforms, copy, translate or edit my works!

[vanilladollette]

Hey bae♡ can you write about the glory bully characters x quiet female reader?

I know you already did the other one but this one however it's more like female reader is quiet but except she's creepy, stares into your soul type

in this scenario: Park Yeon Jin was the one killed So Hee and thought no one would find out

But when creepy quiet female reader reunited with the bullies, she stares into Yeon Jin's soul and she eerily says "I know it was you who killed her" and left.

Leaving the bullies in stunned, especially leaving Yeon Jin scared

(No need to rush babygirl as always ♡ ̆̈)

Bury A Friend

Pairing: The Glory Bullies x Creepy Quiet Fem Reader

Summary: Yeon-jin’s guilt over a tragic accident she caused resurfaces when a mysterious, silent girl from her past confronts her at a high school reunion, exposing her dark secret and leaving her fearful of the consequences.

Word Count: 1.3k

Author's note: Okay sooo I feel reader isn't as creepy as I wanted her to be.

“Oh, I think I really messed up.” Yeon-jin’s voice trembled over the phone, barely above a whisper. Her hands shook as she gripped the cold edge of the abandoned building, her heart pounding like a drum. “We were being dumb, just messing around on the roof, and something caught on fire.”

Her gaze fell to the still body of So-hee sprawled on the hard, unforgiving floor. The girl’s clothes were charred and torn, smoke still rising faintly from the edges. Yeon-jin’s stomach churned, her throat tightening as she fought back a wave of panic. The weight of what had happened was too much. She didn’t know what to do.

Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision as her mother’s voice cut through the chaos on the other end of the line.

“There was this girl...” Yeon-jin’s words cracked as she glanced down at the piece of So-hee’s clothing, which was now smoldering. “She started screaming and freaking out and then she… fell. It’s true, I swear! She just—she just… fell.” Her voice broke, but she quickly stifled the sob that threatened to escape.

“We were alone! Just messing around. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” Yeon-jin could feel the panic rising in her chest, suffocating her. “Mom, what do I do now? Huh? Are you there?”

Her mother’s sharp voice sliced through the air, harsh and demanding. “Get a grip, Yeon-jin! First, get away from there. I’ll have Mr. Shin call you right away.”

She could feel the panic draining her strength as she mechanically followed her mother’s instructions. What else could she do? She wasn’t equipped for this, for the mess she had created.

“Stop crying and get it together! Did anyone see you? Any witnesses?”

Yeon-jin glanced around the rooftop, her eyes darting frantically. The space was eerily still. No one. No one was there.

“Uh, no. I don’t think so,” she said, her voice trembling.

“You better make sure! Look around you!”

“I did, Mom. There isn’t anyone here! There’s no witnesses!” she yelled, her voice breaking.

If only she had checked more thoroughly. If only she had been more aware. If only she had seen you standing just beyond the corner, your presence blending into the shadows. You, the girl who never spoke, who never quite fit in with the others. The girl who always watched.

Sunghan High School organized a reunion for its former students. Yeon-jin had been hesitant, not wanting to face anyone, but when she learned that the others were attending, she couldn’t resist. They had to keep up appearances, right? She couldn’t let them see her as weak or scared.

The gymnasium buzzed with chatter, laughter, and the occasional reunion hug. Yeon-jin entered with the same air of confidence she had cultivated, dressed in a sleek black dress that made her feel untouchable. She walked toward the table where the others were already gathered: Sa-ra, Hye-jeong, Jeo-joon, and Myeong-oh.

"Can you believe they set up a high school reunion?" Sa-ra asked, laughing as Yeon-jin approached. Yeon-jin laughed softly, setting her purse down on the table, but her mind was elsewhere.

An hour passed as the others joked and reminisced, but all the while, Yeon-jin couldn’t shake the sense that something was wrong. Her heart started to race when she noticed a quiet, familiar figure standing in the corner of the gym. A presence she couldn’t ignore.

You were there.

Standing alone, like a shadow. Your unnerving gaze locked onto her from across the room. Her breath hitched, and a wave of unease spread through her.

The others didn’t seem to notice the tension mounting in the air. Sa-ra kept talking, oblivious to the growing discomfort around Yeon-jin. But Yeon-jin knew. She recognized you instantly. It was you—the quiet, eerie girl from high school. The one everyone ignored, the one who kept to herself. The one who never said a word, but always watched.

The tension thickened as your gaze never wavered. Not once. It was like you were looking straight through her, like you knew something she had buried deep inside. Yeon-jin’s heart hammered in her chest, her throat tightening.

The conversation around her seemed to fade, replaced by the pounding rhythm of her pulse in her ears. You hadn’t moved. Your eyes never left her. It was like you were studying her, dissecting her every reaction. A shiver ran down Yeon-jin’s spine.

“I think that’s y/n,” Sa-ra said, laughing. The others glanced over, unsure of who you were, but Sa-ra’s voice broke the heavy silence. Yeon-jin wanted to look away but couldn’t.

Hye-jeong, Myeong-oh, and Jeo-joon joined in the conversation, all of them casually commenting on how “awkward” it was to see you back at the reunion. But Yeon-jin didn’t care. She was too busy trying to breathe, trying to ignore the creeping sensation that something was terribly wrong.

And then, it happened.

The gymnasium, once filled with the sounds of laughter and chatter, seemed to quiet as you began to move toward their table. Slowly, as though every step was deliberate, you closed the distance between yourself and the group. The air grew heavier, like a storm was building. Everyone watched you, confused and curious, but also unsure of what to expect.

When you reached their table, you stopped. You didn’t say a word. You simply stood there, your cold, intense gaze still fixed on Yeon-jin. The others fell silent, the tension palpable, as if the very atmosphere around you had changed.

Yeon-jin felt her pulse skyrocket, her breath shallow. She tried to move, to say something, anything, but she couldn’t find her voice. She could only watch as you stood, unmoving, staring at her like she was a mere insect beneath your gaze.

Finally, you spoke. Your voice was low and soft, but it carried the weight of something far darker.

"I know it was you who killed her."

The words were like ice-cold water splashing on her face. Yeon-jin’s world seemed to slow, her body frozen in place as your words echoed in the room.

It wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of undeniable fact. And in that moment, it felt like the world had tilted on its axis.

Yeon-jin’s face went pale. Her stomach churned as fear seeped into every bone in her body. Her eyes flicked around the table, but the others were silent, unsure of what to say. Her pulse hammered in her ears, drowning out everything else.

"You..." Yeon-jin tried to speak, her voice a mere whisper. “You—”

But she couldn’t finish the sentence. Her words were swallowed by her fear.

And then, without another word, you turned and walked away, your presence still hanging in the air long after you had disappeared into the crowd.

Yeon-jin stood there, frozen, as her world shattered around her.

The others looked at each other in stunned silence, unsure of what just happened. None of them dared to speak. Sa-ra’s smile faltered, her previous laughter now a distant memory.

Yeon-jin couldn’t move. Her heart pounded in her chest, her skin cold as ice. You knew. You saw everything. The weight of your gaze still lingered, suffocating her with the knowledge that you were out there, watching, waiting for the right moment to expose her.

The reunion, once filled with warmth and nostalgia, now felt like a nightmare. And Yeon-jin couldn’t shake the feeling that you were out there, lurking in the shadows, ready to bring everything crashing down.

And with that thought, she knew: It wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

And there was nowhere she could hide.

[mumms-the-word]

Unexpected Reunion

Characters: Astarion x Gale Summary: Five hundred years after the events of BG3, the world of Faerûn has moved on and entered into a modern era. An art gallery at a prominent museum has opened up to display works from the 1400s, drawing the attention of two beloved characters, who did not expect to meet again so soon. A/N: February is the month of birthdays for so many friends! This was written as a gift for the super talented @unforgiving-girl for her birthdayyy. I heard she liked bloodweave and art by many classical and beloved painters so I wanted a homage to both. Enjoy!

NEW EXHIBITION! The Age of Heroes, Gods, and Monsters Baldurian Art from 1300-1500

The glossy sign stood just outside of the museum gallery, beckoning guests and visitors to come see the collection of artworks that had recently been rediscovered and carefully curated into this new display. The word online was that museum curators had just successfully acquired a whole set of Fevras portraits and other art of the 1490s, a collection that had been packed away in someone’s attic for two or three hundred years after they had disappeared from the noble halls and castles during one strife or another. Now they were unveiling a new wing to put all the art of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries in one place.

Immerse yourself in rich Baldurian history! the marketing materials online said. See how art and culture were transformed during some of the most tumultuous times of Baldur’s Gate’s history. Witness the sharp upheaval of the infamous Times of Troubles. Gaze at portraits of heroes and tyrants alike, from Sarevok to Lord Gortash, from Duke Eltan to young Wyll Ravengard. Ruminate over paintings and sculptures of gods both beloved and forgotten. Expansive and dynamic, this exhibition places famous works alongside newly discovered treasures to tell the story of wars, conflicts, and adventures that shook the realms, all centered around our very own Baldur’s Gate.

Just outside of the hall, a white-haired young man paused, a black umbrella hooked over one arm, contemplating first the exhibition sign and then the steady stream of visitors making their way into the gallery. The exhibition had attracted folk of all kinds. Elderly couples walked slowly from work to work, taking their time to gaze and study. A group of uniformed schoolchildren followed along behind their teacher, notebooks in their hands, listening to her explain the rules of the museum. Further down the hall, tourists paused beside the more famous artworks, glancing down at their printed guides and museum maps before moving on to the next most well-known work.

To all of them, these paintings and sculptures were all a part of some distant, mythical history. Even the oldest elf in the room seemed too young to have a living memory of these events, enough to tell what was real history from dynamic reimagining. Not so for the white-haired guest. Where others saw the distant, impersonal past, he saw intimate memory.

He took a deep breath to steady himself—a habit not even centuries of vampirism had entirely cured—and entered the gallery. At first, it was only a little uncanny. The old paintings and marble busts from the 1300s that he had seen hanging in different manors and noble estates now featured together at the start of this gallery. The farther he walked, the further in time he traveled, moving out of a century he could only barely remember as a hazy blur into a time that was burned into his memory with sharp clarity.

The 1490s was a decade of great change for Baldur’s Gate, a large placard read between sections in the gallery. Between the technological innovations of organizations like the Gondian and Ironhand Gnomes, dangerous industrial updates to the city’s infrastructure and law enforcement, and the infamous Dead Three attempting to control an Elderbrain, resulting in widespread destruction, this decade gave rise to a full spectrum of art, from loving homages to the simplicity of home to the veneration of heroes, and from the tumult of war to the celebration of innovative design.

Ha, the visitor thought, smirking at the placard. It shouldn’t be so easy to summarize the events of history in just a few sentences.

He paced even more slowly in front of the paintings now. Some were no bigger than a piece of printer paper, some large enough to span floor-to-ceiling on the cream-colored walls. Vistas of magical battles, nautiloids in a swirling cloudy sky over a city burning with red and purple flame, sat next to careful still-life studies of fruit, flowers, or skulls. An imposing portrait of Duke Ulder Ravengard sat opposite an equally imposing portrait of Lord Gortash. Not far off, an all-too-familiar painting of a white-skinned woman curled sensually around the body of a red-skinned tiefling stretched seven feet tall, still in its original skull-topped frame. He was surprised that one made the cut, but then he recognized a few dark paintings from Cazador’s manor, too. And one that he swore he’d only ever seen in Raphael’s House of Hope.

He was nearing the end of the gallery now when his eyes finally landed on the one painting he had come here to see. When he first heard the news about the rediscovery of a few Fevras portraits, he wasn’t certain this one was among them. It wasn’t until someone texted him a photo of the gallery uploaded online, a quick red circle added clumsily around a painting on one wall, that he knew.

He paused in front of the portrait, a strange mix of emotions swirling within him. Nostalgia, humor, regret, and longing. This…was him. Him as he was five hundred years ago. Him as he was in that present moment, physically unchanged by the ravages of time but altered nonetheless.

To every other visitor to the museum, the portrait featured an aloof, mysterious young elven man, his skin as pale as moonbeams, his silver hair styled in perfect curls swept up and out of his face. His crimson eyes glimmered like rubies, standing out stark red in his otherwise white face, framed with dark lashes that cast the subtlest of shadows over his eyes. He lounged in a plush red chair—it seemed so gaudy now looking back—clothed in a well-tailored outfit of black, silver, and red. The height of fashion at the time. As he lounged, he leaned his cheek lightly against the fingers of one hand, a confident, easy smirk on his lips. The figure bore the essence of catlike, predatory grace, beckoning you closer with his eyes while waiting to pounce on you once you got too close.

He glanced at the art placard next to it.

Oskar Fevras 1452-1517, Baldur’s Gate, Faerûn Portrait of a (Comparatively) Young Vampire 1492 Oil on canvas

Not even a little description or bit of history. Not even his name. Just a reference to that fop of an artist and a title that must have been added recently. He folded his arms, frowning. It wasn’t as though the name Astarion Ancunin was unknown, even all these centuries later…

Still…he had to admit, it was good to see that face again.

“Well, well! What a surprise to see this here. We went through a lot of trouble to earn that portrait, as I recall.”

Astarion turned, the familiar voice snapping him out of his thoughts. An older gentleman stepped out of the crowd, well-dressed in a thin dark purple sweater and a blazer, a pair of gold-framed glasses perched on his nose. His thick hair and well-trimmed beard were snowy white and his face bore a few more wrinkles around the eyes and mouth than the last time Astarion had seen him, but the modern style overall made him look no older than fifty. Age had not dulled his brown eyes one bit—they sparkled with good-natured humor just as much now as they had done that first year they’d traveled together.

Astarion smirked. “My, my. If it isn’t Gale Dekarios.”

Gale smiled in return, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Astarion. You’re looking as devilishly handsome as ever.” His eyes flicked to the portrait and then again to Astarion, amusement glimmering in his eyes.

“And you don’t look a day over three hundred, darling. In fact, you look better at six hundred than you did at sixty, though I’m sure Elminster is deeply disappointed in the state of that beard.”

“Five hundred, I’ll remind you, but I’ll take the compliment in the spirit in which it was given.” Gale chuckled, stroking his carefully trimmed beard. “And while Elminster would say any decent wizard is only as good as his beard, we must keep up with the times. Trim and clean is the order of the day.”

“I’m certain Blackstaff University doesn’t mind if its Professor Emeritus has a beard down to his knees. I’m told it’s a time-honored tradition among their venerated wizard staff.”

“Perhaps they wouldn’t mind, but I would. I’ve never been one for tradition.” Gale shrugged and then shook his head. “Gods, how long has it been?”

Astarion tilted his head, one curl slipping free of his combed hairstyle and falling onto his temple. “Since when? Since we found ourselves trapped in an artist’s haunted manor fighting poltergeists?” He knew what Gale was actually asking, but he didn’t want to answer just yet. He didn’t want to acknowledge the distance or the time.

“Since we last met. Ages, surely. Well, not literally but…figuratively.”

Every day apart feels like an age to you, Astarion thought idly, but those were the echoes of lovesick words Gale used to whisper in his ears more than three centuries ago. This was a different time. A new era.

It didn’t stop the memories from flooding back, however. He recalled easily those stumbling first steps of their unexpected romance, back when they were both the hapless adventurers caught up in a grand scheme that pitted gods and mortals and illithids against one another. The way Gale had conjured whole worlds out of magic for him. The way Astarion had learned, one hesitant step at a time, to trust and even, eventually, slowly, to love. The way they had lain together at night and discussed the future, their words trailing off in the darkness, and how Gale had assuaged Astarion’s rising panic that he would one day face a world without him with the promise of finding ways to extend his life.

If Elminster can live this long as a Chosen of Mystra, perhaps I can find a way, too. The perks of being a god’s Chosen are not so easily lost, Astarion, even if Mystra and I are on the outs.

He had found a way, an effective kind of immortality that required no vampirism, no lichdom, and no chains binding himself to Mystra. And for a century, everything had been perfect.

But time wore down so many things, including love. A second century and a third were spent with the two of them like passing ships that occasionally docked in the same harbors. A visit here and there, a night of passion to rekindle old flames, only to let them softly smolder into dying embers by the next morning. Gale had plenty to keep him busy. Astarion wanted to see the world as it was evolving and changing around him. They began to meet less and less often, their interactions reduced to affectionate but politely distant letters.

They never could forget one another, though. With the advent of every new form of communication, they seemed to find each other again. Astarion still had Gale’s first telegram to him sitting in a box among letters on parchment, paper, and postcards spanning a handful of centuries. He remembered the first time he heard Gale’s voice, tinny and staticky, in the first telephone call they had shared, and the first email Gale had sent him, and the first text message. Gale always knew how to find him, somehow. Even when Astarion put distance between them all over again, it was only inevitable that Gale would come into his orbit again eventually. Like a particularly chatty comet.

“I’d say it’s been a few decades or so,” Astarion answered at last. “Everything keeps us so busy these days. But what brings you here?”

“I heard they uncovered a set of Fevras portraits,” Gale said. “I came to see if yours made it into the gallery. It is, in my unbiased opinion, the best portrait that cad ever painted. I’m gratified to see this museum continues to have discerning tastes.”

“Maybe now it’s finally worth the cost we paid to get the damned thing.”

Gale waved his hand, an expensive silver watch glinting faintly in the museum lights. “Oh, it was worth it the day we got it.”

Astarion said nothing to that, merely smiling. How could he forget the day they’d gotten the painting? Oskar had sent a messenger to their room at the Elfsong, saying the portrait was done at last, and Gale had insisted Astarion wait in the room while he fetched it himself. It had been a whole event, with Gale asking him to cover his eyes while he brought the painting inside, threatening to cast darkness over him if he didn’t comply. He had held Astarion’s hand the moment that he opened his eyes to behold the painting, and squeezed his fingers reassuringly when they began to tremble from the wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.

After nearly two hundred years since he became a vampire…he could see his own face again.

It’s an uncannily realistic likeness, Gale had said softly. As handsome on canvas as what I see before me now.

“I never should have given it up,” Astarion murmured to himself. It had been a rash decision made at the height of one of their lovers' spats far too long ago. He’d wanted nothing to do with any of Gale’s gifts at the time, so off the portrait went, packed in a crate and sold to some fanatic who really loved Oskar Fevras’s works. And then it had disappeared. Until now.

Gale didn’t seem to hear him, or was very politely feigning ignorance. He looked around the gallery with interest and said, “You know, it’s a shame your statue got destroyed a while back. It would have been a fine addition to these hallowed halls.”

“It was supposed to be a fine addition to my gardens,” Astarion quipped. “And it was, right until someone’s magical experiments turned the whole place into a small crater.”

Gale winced but tried to offer an apologetic smile. “A mistake for which I still have yet to atone, it seems. I did offer to replace it. At least a dozen times.”

“It wouldn’t have been the same. That one had been a gift.” From you, like everything else I owned at the time. Like everything else I held precious until I couldn’t stand to look at it anymore.

He left those words unsaid.

“I know.” Gale gave a small sigh, his good humor faltering a little. “We never realize what is truly irreplaceable until it is already gone from us.”

Astarion said nothing. He never knew what to say in the face of Gale’s philosophizing. Especially when each thought seemed to hint at his ongoing, never-ending, eternal affection for him. How does one carry that kind of love for so long?

But the fact was, Gale didn’t carry that kind of love, not eternally. What had kindled in 1492 was not what they had sustained, broken, reforged, and let dim over the next few hundred years. For five centuries they had lived in the same world, usually on the same continent, often within the same city. For five centuries, Astarion had found himself sharing in a love with Gale that had morphed and changed, burning bright with the flash and bang of a firework, simmering slow and steady like the flame on a stove, flickering distantly in the dark like a candle flame on a pitch black night. As their lives adapted, so did their love. Even when all appeared to be over, for good, forever, as it did when they last parted amicably several decades ago, Gale’s affection for him was like the last stubborn ember in a long-forgotten fire. One soft breath could revive it back to life.

Perhaps, if Astarion gave it more than a moment’s thought, it was the same for him. It was good to see Gale again. There was none of the ache and shame right now that he had carried in previous encounters. Maybe that would come later but for now…

With love like a tiny ember nestled at the bottom of a cold stone hearth, Astarion let Gale’s presence come in like an early spring breeze, blowing color back into the coals, first red, then orange, then white. No flame yet, but the potential as there.

“It’s good to see you again,” Astarion said at last, his voice soft.

Gale’s smile was as warm and free of judgment or condemnation as ever. “And you, Astarion. I’m always glad to see you.”

“And who wouldn’t be?” Astarion said, fixing the wayward curl in his gelled hair. “Honestly.”

Gale chuckled. He had long grown used to Astarion’s dismissive nature. “Are you free the rest of today? We should get coffee and catch up. There’s a cafe not far from here that caters to vampires.”

Astarion examined his nails as if the prospect didn’t secretly add more breath to the embers within him, encouraging a flurry of briefly flickering sparks. “I could free up some time in my busy, busy schedule, I suppose.”

“I shall endeavor not to take up too much of your precious time, then,” Gale said, tone dry. But then, glancing at the portrait again, he seemed to get an idea. He pulled his phone out of his blazer pocket. “Before we go—we should take a photo by the painting. What do they call it these days? A selfie.”

Astarion raised his eyebrows. “What would be the point? You know as well as I do, darling, vampires don’t show up in photos any more than they show up in mirrors.”

“Indulge me.” Gale opened the camera, after a few hesitant swipes that suggested he was still getting used to this model of smartphone, and waved over a young half-elven woman who was passing by with a few of her friends. “Do you mind taking a photo of us in front of this painting? No flash of course. I think I’ve already turned it off.”

She nodded. “Sure.”

As she took the phone and held it up for them, Gale smiled at Astarion and gestured for him to join him by the painting. Astarion sighed softly, adjusting his hold on his umbrella, but went to stand next to him, trying to ignore that little voice that tried to convince him this was silly, embarrassing, and a waste of time.

“This isn’t a selfie, Gale,” Astarion said.

Gale waved this remark away. “Pish posh. It’s a photo with our selves in it. Same thing”

“Ready?” the girl asked, watching them.

Gale put a hand on Astarion’s back, smiling at him when Astarion glanced over uncertainly. But the touch was familiar, safely near Astarion’s shoulder blades, and despite his desire to get this photo business over with as quickly as possible, Astarion felt himself relax as he fit himself against Gale’s side. He looped an arm around Gale’s waist, resting his hand on his hip as he’d done countless times before.

“You owe me for this,” he whispered, giving Gale’s hip a small squeeze. Gale’s smile broadened and he shifted his hold, his arm now fully around Astarion so he could give a returning squeeze to his shoulder.

“Coffee first,” he murmured back. “We can see where we go from there.”

The girl cleared her throat, looking uncertainly between them. “Umm…”

“Sorry, we’re ready now,” Gale said. He gave Astarion’s shoulder another squeeze. “Smile!”

Astarion rolled his eyes but summoned his usual close-lipped smirk. The girl looked back down at the phone in her hands, shifting to center them and the portrait in the frame. Then her hands faltered, her expression shifting. She glanced between the screen and them a few times, and then blinked hard and looked again.

“Is there a problem?” Gale called pleasantly. The girl jolted.

“N-no! Of course not. One sec.” She tapped the screen a few times and then turned the phone sideways and caught a few photos that way too. Behind her, her friends started to whisper to one another and point. The girl lowered the phone with a forced cheerful smile. “Done!”

“Thank you so much,” Gale said, reaching for his phone back. As soon as it was out of her hands, the girl scurried back to her friends, whispering quickly as they hurried down the gallery. Astarion couldn’t help but catch a few phrases as they passed by.

Did you see that? I’m not crazy, right, that guy is—

—really him? In the painting? It has to be the same guy—

—just a coincidence, right, like, vampires don’t live that long—

—but he didn’t even show up in the camera!

“You’ll have me in the tabloids tomorrow,” Astarion said. “I’ll go viral on TikTok soon if we don’t leave now.”

“I’m not even sure I know what that is,” Gale said amiably, opening his photos. He paused, smiling fondly down at one of the photos and then turned the phone so Astarion could see. “What do you think? We finally got your face on camera.”

Astarion hesitated but peered at the screen, curious. For a split second, he half expected his portrait to be faceless, but every detail remained, down to the supple curve of his lips and the sharp red color of his eyes. Just off to the side of the portrait, a white-haired Gale stood with his arm around a headless body dressed in expensive, tailored clothing. Astarion had put one hand in his pocket, his umbrella hanging from his wrist, but his other should have appeared at Gale’s side. Instead, there was nothing to see there except for an odd wrinkling in Gale’s blazer, enough to suggest a phantom touch. The space above Astarion’s high-collar shirt showed nothing but the wall behind him and a hazy, thin shadow to suggest the shape of a head.

“You still can’t see my actual face,” Astarion said, straightening. “You could have simply taken a picture with the portrait yourself.”

“But then you wouldn’t have been in it.” A mischievous glint then entered Gale’s brown eyes. “I can have someone edit your portrait face over your body if that helps.”

He scrunched his nose with distaste. “No thank you, let’s not make this photo any worse than it already is.”

But Gale’s initial words continued to warm the coals within Astarion’s chest. You wouldn’t have been in it. Now he was, a body that was leaning comfortably into Gale’s side, with an arm wrapped around him and an invisible hand resting naturally on Gale’s hip.

“Send me that,” Astarion said after a second, and then promptly turned on his heel and walked away.

“Of course, I—wait a moment! Where are you going?”

Astarion paused and glanced over his shoulder. “We’re attracting attention. And you promised me coffee, didn’t you? So let’s go.”

The smile on Gale’s face was the same as it had been five hundred years ago, before there were camera phones and cars, before pictures or postcards or planes. The same smile Astarion had felt it was impossible to say no to in almost every era. Gale jogged to catch up with him, that smile never faltering, and stayed step by step with him as they made their way to the entrance of the museum. Together, the two of them stepped out into the sun, sheltered in the shade of Astarion’s black umbrella, reunited once again in a new age, a new era.

[jks1uv]

𝐼’𝑣𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ; benjamin (ben) “benny” miller | one-shot |

summary: one mildly disorienting night opens your heart to your best friend.

pairing: introvert!fem!reader x ben miller.

trope: best friends to potential lovers.

genre: fluff + a few drops of angst.

warnings‼️: reader gets roofied + crude language + details alluding to a bar fight + 2 mentions of blood + i bring ben affleck's character back to life + i envision reader & ben to be in their mid 20's.

word count: 3,333.

random disclaimerrr: inspired by this post. i’m so attracted to this man jfc he’s so fine. also don’t mind me… i got carried away w writing this. happy reading! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ ♡ © 2025 @jks1uv

You've heard of high school and college graduating class reunions. Now get ready for military class reunions!

Ben received word through a digital evite and basically begged you to come with.

You never said no, just that you were hesitant.

You see, you're the total opposite of your best friend.

He's fearless, outgoing, and the physical embodiment of the sun. In the sense that he lights up every room he enters.

People smile and laugh more around him.

You're cautious, reserved, and are a creature of the night; much like the moon. You have a certain charm that exudes organized chaos.

“Pleaseee.”

He reminded you of a stubborn child, not that he isn't one.

“You know I'd never ask you if it was meaningless.”

That right there is what made you rethink your previous opinion.

It's true, Ben had never asked you to do anything that he deemed wasn't worth your time.

You've been friends for a long time, almost 12 years! This is the least you can do.

“Fine.” You murmured, picking at a loose thread on your sweater.

His smile is something worth framing.

He laughed boisterously and picked you up bridal style, twirling you around just hooting and hollering.

You giggled nonetheless at his rambunctious behavior.

And now you're here; in a flowy sundress, the hem stopping just an inch above your knees.

Your hair is styled just the way you like it, your makeup enhancing your confidence to show your face in a room full of people you'd otherwise be intimidated by.

Otherwise because he's coming along. Otherwise because he'll be there every step of the way, looking at out for you. Otherwise because despite how excited he is to meet some people, he won't leave your side.

Ben stares at you, his blue eyes soft on your form.

“You’re beautiful.” His gruff voice gently sounds.

He wants you to know what he thinks. He wants you to know because you are.

“Thank you.” You say as you avoid eye contact.

You're diffident when it comes to compliments. You bashfully smile and look down as you accept them but it's something about his compliments that create an extra layer of timidness.

You think it's because of his tenacity towards you. He won't move on until you accept it.

You hear the heavy thunks of his boots come towards you and you're inclined to look up.

Ben leans on the wall next to him, his arms crossed over his chest.

He's wearing all black: plain black tee with black cargo pants and black combat boots.

All that's missing is a black baseball cap and he's solid, you joke to yourself.

“You, um… you look good.” You try.

Handsome.

He chuckles, nodding to himself while his ears burn. “Thanks.”

Something catches the light from his wrist, you look and are pleasantly surprised to see him wearing the watch you got him when he came back from a mission a couple of years ago.

“You like it?” You'd asked, excited to see his reaction to getting the watch he'd been eyeing for quite some time.

Ben just stared at you in awe, like you'd gotten him the moon and stars.

He hugged you tight, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple and whispering an ‘I love it’ to the side of your head.

All of those actions left you dazed for a week.

“I thought you would've lost that watch.” You poke at his tendency to lose expensive things in the most baffling ways.

He just shrugs. “You gave it to me.”

Ben admits that like it’s the only reason he hasn’t lost it yet.

Gifts from you hold meaning beyond materialistic value to him. It’s proof that he’s seen and heard.

Of course, you’re touched and he’s rendered you speechless once again.

“Come on, don’t wanna be late.”

The reunion’s at a nice restaurant with a great bar. You frequent this place often with Ben.

“See, it isn’t so bad.” He says as he pulls up to a parking spot.

Ben puts one hand behind the headrest of your seat and turns back to reverse park.

He’s a natural with one hand doing the steering, but it also makes him look even more attractive.

You fiddle with your rings in your lap and try not to think about how good he looks, how nice he smells.

Having a crush is so stupid, you complain internally.

What you don’t know is that despite having a camera built in for the very reason of not having to look back, he doesn’t use it when reversing.

Ben always makes sure to pull this move because he clocks your reaction the entire time.

Is he being kind of a jerk? Yes. Can he be blamed for wanting to show off for someone as beautiful, compassionate, and unique as you? Nope!

You two walk in and are hit with the lively atmosphere. Conversation, country music and the steady stream of laughter all mix in together well.

Ben’s hand finds yours and you feel your heart stuttering in your chest. His palm slides onto yours and fingers interlock, a squeeze of I’m here.

He leads the way with ease, already spotting his kind of people.

They stand up from the bar stools to hug him and you let go of your grasp, but he decides only for a moment.

They pat his back with pride and affection, offering to buy drinks and putting it on their tab without hearing what he has to say about it.

“Guys, this is Y/n.”

3 pairs of eyes rest on you and you feel your hands getting clammy already.

“Hi.” You say with a small wave.

They all smile at your sweet introduction.

“Y/n, this is Santiago.” Ben points towards a man with a light stubble, dark hair with faint strokes of gray, and equally dark eyes.

“Nice to meet you.” Santiago says as he reaches out to shake your hand.

You indulge him. “Nice to meet you, too.”

An older man with a full beard stands up, extending his hand and welcome. “Tom Davis.” He says as you shake his hand.

“Y/n L/n.” You smile.

“And this here is Frankie.”

You follow who's next in line and are met with a nice pair of eyes, ones that contain a steady calmness.

“Hi.” He says warmly.

“And that's it. That's all my crew.”

You tilt your head slightly in confusion. “What about Willy?”

Santiago accidentally snorts, his drink comes down the wrong pipe and causes him to erupt into a small fit of coughs. Frankie hits his back hard with one loud smack, and soothes it by running his palm over it.

“Willy?” Tom says, amused at the choice of name.

“Yeah, it's my nickname for him.” You smile shyly.

You don't pick up on the fact that Tom and Santiago think it's funny but that's okay! If looks can kill, Ben would've been a serial killer by now.

“Willy's coming later.” Ben answers while maintaining eye contact with the two.

You nod to yourself, feeling a bit awkward. “I'm gonna go get a drink.” You say.

Ben looks at you. Want me to come with?

You communicate with him through your own eyes. No, I'll be okay. Promise.

He nods once, only letting you out of his eyes when he sees you sit down on a stool.

“Holy shit, you're whipped!” Santiago laughs in disbelief.

Ben rolls his eyes, his defense ready on the tip of his tongue against the very true allegation.

“What, I can't care for my friend now?” He retorts with a quirked eyebrow.

Tom enters the discussion. “No, no. You absolutely can. It's just that she seems to be a special kind of friend,” He brings his beer up to his lips before pausing. “If you know what I mean.” He winks slyly and makes Santiago laugh loudly.

Frankie shakes his head at the duo's ridulousness.

“Alright, alright. She can just be a girl who's a friend.” He says.

“Thank you.” Ben exasperatedly puts his hands out towards the mellower man.

“But even I'll have to bite; how long you know her for?”

Fuck.

Every bit of gratitude Ben had for Frankie went out the window.

He knows once he opens this can of worms, there's no putting them back.

Ben exhales deeply. “Just about half of our lives.”

Santiago almost flips the table. “WHAT?!”

“There's no fucking way.” Tom deadpans.

Frankie rolls his eyes and sighs. “Why'd I even ask.”

“Guys, guys, wait. Hear me out—”

“Are you fucking shitting me right now?” Tom's voice booms over his plea.

“I mean seriously, Benny, this is,” Santiago scoffs incredulously. “A low blow.”

He's honestly impressed with how long he’s kept you a secret from them yet a little disheartened.

Frankie doesn't say anything, wanting to hear Ben's explanation. He knows his friend and understands that maybe there's a good reason.

“Just let him talk.” William's voice echoes through their ears.

“Oh great, Willy's come to the rescue.” Tom jokes.

“You just get here?” Ben asks, surprised to his older brother so early on into the night.

“I've been here. You didn't get my message?”

The younger Miller fishes his phone out of his pocket and finds his message sent to him a little over an hour ago.

“Saw Y/n and talked with her for a little bit.” William looks back at you, smiling when he sees you look at him.

You both wave to each other and he thinks about how endearing you are. You’re the baby sister he’s always wanted.

Ben is thinking and he realizes why he didn't see it before. “I was with Y/n, we were getting ready.”

This had never happened before. Missing his older brother's text? Leaving it unanswered?

Maybe you have casted a spell on him.

“Uhhh... you good over there?” Santiago asks.

Ben nods swiftly. “Yeah, yeah. Everything's fine.”

Will prods as he grabs a drink. “So, you were saying?”

Ben sits down, already feeling a headache coming on.

“Y/n isn't like us. She’s shy, quiet, likes her alone time. Our friendship is something that took a lot of time, a lot of effort.”

He turns around to spot you and turns back around when he sees you're doing fine.

Although, you’re anything but.

The guy next to you won’t stop rambling on about how much money he makes and how his job is so demanding.

He’s a narcissist in the making, you amuse yourself.

It’s when you pay your tab and move to go back does he shut the fuck up.

“Wait, I didn’t even get to buy you a drink.” He sleazily smiles.

You keep it pushing. “No, thank you. I’ve had enough for one night.”

The double entendre flies over his head as expected but he’s relentless.

“Oh come on, it’s just one drink. It won’t hurt.”

You take a moment to see how Ben’s doing and when you see him smile, you don’t want to go back and make it awkward.

But you also don’t want to be in the presence of this buffoon.

“Fine. One drink.” You set the boundary hard.

You didn’t see how he made eye contact with the bartender and what it meant.

“Atta girl.”

Your skin crawls at the repulsive taste his comment leaves in your mouth.

A shirley temple is placed on a napkin in front of you and you take a sip from the short, narrow straw.

Tastes fine, you conclude.

As you sip from the drink, his yammering begins.

You don't have it in you to roll your eyes anymore.

Now that you think about it, you don't have a lot of energy, at least not as much from the beginning of your night.

You don't feel like doing anything, you feel sluggish and uncoordinated.

Oh my god, you think. He just fucking roofied me.

You leave your drink and get up, instantly regretting it as your knees feel weak. You anchor yourself on the counter, noticing the stranger's attempt at trying to reach out to you to hold your unbalanced self.

You need to get away from him. Right-the-fuck-now.

“Ben.” You weakly call out.

Your ears feel muffled, like someone dumped your head underwater and led the liquid right into your ear canals.

Your voice comes out raspy and soft, despite your trying efforts.

Cotton mouth. Great.

At least your brain isn't too fuzzy.

You sense the stranger coming closer to you, saying shit you don't care to hear in an attempt to touch you and take you somewhere secluded.

You muster up all your strength to call out to your best friend but it's of no use as it's in your head.

It's alright though because you feel Ben come to you.

His careful hands are on your waist, easing you back down on the stool.

You look up, eyes suddenly becoming bleary and almost sober up when you see the events unfolding in front of you in real time.

Ben is out for blood.

He punches the sick fuck in the mouth, blood pooling in already, just from one punch.

Santiago, Tom, Frankie, and William are on the scene as well. They have his back when it comes to you.

The sounds of glass breaking, people screaming, and the music abruptly coming to a stop serves as an entirely different atmosphere.

You stand up, wanting to distance yourself from the rowdiness. Somehow, you make it outside and away from any trouble.

You hear him this time.

“Y/n?”

You can't trust yourself. Is this real or the effect of a possible psychedelic drug serving as a date-rape roofie?

“Y/n, can you hear me?”

Ben's frantic, he wants to touch you but is anxious he'll scare you away.

You force your eyes open, blinking hard and shaking yourself awake.

Your vision clears up just a bit, allowing you to see him.

“Benny?” You breathe in sharply.

“Yeah, it's me. It's me, it's just me.”

He repeats it in hopes of you letting him take care of you.

Ben inches closer, his hands hesitantly come up and grab your shoulders. When he notes you relaxing, he brings you flush against him.

He sighs as your face lays on his chest, he can't help kissing your forehead.

“It's okay, you're okay. You're alright.”

He's mostly saying it to himself but it helps ground you.

“Take me home. Please.” You whimper.

Ben's heart squeezes in anger, he curses at himself. How could he let this happen?

“I gotchu, I gotcha. Don't worry.”

You're losing control of your motor skills, your body falling onto him more and more subconsciously.

He notices though. He always does.

“Can you walk?” His panicked eyes rake over your form for the thousandth time, making sure he's not missing something.

You shake your head as the world spins, not feeling like answering him.

“That's alright, don’t worry. I gotchu.”

You feel his hands reposition themselves on your body; one on your back and the other under your knees.

“Wait-wait, don't! I-I'm too heavy.” You blurt out.

Even in your most vulnerable state, you manage to hurt yourself and your best friend tends the wounds.

Ben stares at you like you just told him you can't be his friend anymore. His turquoise eyes are sad and unwilling to believe this is how you see yourself.

“I bench you plus another twenty pounds anytime, any day of the damn week. You understand?”

He's stern yet gentle, soft but with a no-nonsense attitude.

You don't shy away from his heated gaze for the first time. For the first time you see yourself in his eyes and when you do, you finally understand him when he says you're beautiful.

“Y/n? You with me?” His eyes dart back and forth from both of yours.

You nod nimbly and murmur, “Yeah. I am.”.

You prepare yourself for him to lift you, both arms around his neck to stable your disorientated self.

He lifts you so effortlessly, so carefully.

Ben looks straight ahead as he walks to his car but you’re too busy staring at him.

You analyze his face, one you’ve seen so many times yet can never get tired of.

You smell the aftershave and even though he shaved today, you spot the beginning of a stubble growing along the sides of his chin and cheek.

A faint trail of hair trickles down from his nose and expands above his upper lip, adding charm.

The curve of his nose is delicate, like he was crafted carefully from stone. A little scar is stamped on his cheekbone, you don’t know how you haven’t seen it before.

Maybe it’s from a recent mission or something.

“Stop staring, you’re gonna make me drop you.”

He turns to you momentarily with a smirk and you blink, a small grin gracing your lips.

Ben opens the door and sets you down, coming in close to put your seatbelt on you.

“I can do it.” You mumble.

“I know.” He says. “I just wanted to do it for you.”

He kisses the spot above your left brow and you melt inside.

He has to stop kissing you or else you’ll fall in love with him.

Love, you think. I do love him.

As he drives you home, you recall this once-nervy evening now turned into a shit-show.

After everything that’s happened, not once did he show annoyance or aggravation towards you. Not once did he blame you for accepting the drink or tell you to do anything differently.

Does that mean he’s thinking it?

He’s not. He’s blaming himself and how he should’ve been more careful.

Ben’s not gonna let you out of his sight anymore.

You stare at him hazily as he drives, one hand on the steering and the other one holding your hand in comfort.

“Almost there, okay? Don’t fall asleep on me now.”

He wants you to despite his words. He wants you to sleep so you can’t see how holding you affects him. He wants you to be blissfully unaware of what your staring does to him, what you do to him.

“I won’t.” You promise.

He lays you down on your bed and your eyelids flutter.

You’re fighting the urge to sleep because you’re debating if you should tell him or not.

There’s always tomorrow but you don’t know if you’ll feel this urgency again.

You just don’t want it to be too late.

“Ben?” You softly call out to him.

He walks out of your bathroom with a damp rag, setting it on your forehead to reduce your body temperature.

“I’m here.” He murmurs, equally soft.

You gulp. “I have to tell you something.”

He eyes his watch. “Go ahead, ‘m listening.”

You take a deep breath in and out.

“I like you.”

You feel like a little schoolgirl confessing her crush.

He looks at you with the fondest his eyes have ever been for you, even though they’re always like that with you.

“Well, I’d hope so.”

He’s joking. He wants to know if you’re saying that because you’re teetering on the edge of delirium or if you really mean it.

“No, I like you. Like, like-like you.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of likes.” He chuckles and you show him a beautiful grin.

“You’re always so nice to me… and I wanna know if you feel the same.”

This is the scary part.

Ben puts his hand in yours and brings it up to his cheek.

“I’m nice to you because you’re easy to be nice to.”

Your heart soars when he rubs his thumb on the back of your hand.

“And I do like you. As in, like, like you.”

You giggle and he loves the sound. It makes his heart happy.

“Go to sleep now, we can talk tomorrow. Okay?”

You nod and he sits back in your chair, staying the night in there as you sleep.