#shes a containment specialist and I love her

[bards-anonymous]

Oops I made an SCP Foundation OC

Her name is Dr. Wihelmina Verlice ❤️

[fairuzfan]

19 October 2023: In Gaza, we have grown accustomed to war

Horrific experiences of death and destruction have permanently impacted Palestinians’ culture, language and collective memory. “Is it war again?” asks my little Amal, 7, memories of the previous Israeli assaults still fresh in her mind.

The wording of the question shows the maturity she has been forced to develop. Last year, Amal asked her mum if it was “another war.”

Yes, it is war again in Gaza! In Gaza, we have grown accustomed to war. War has become a recurrent reality, a nightmare that won’t go away. A brutal normality. War has become like a grumpy old relative, one that we can’t stand but can’t rid ourselves of either.

The children pay the heaviest price. A price of fear and nonstop trauma that is reflected in their behaviors and their reactions. It’s estimated that over 90 percent of Palestinian children in Gaza show signs of trauma. But also, specialists claim there is no post-war trauma in Gaza as the war is still ongoing.

My grandmother would tell me to put on a heavy sweater because it would rain. And it would rain! She, like all Palestinian elders, had a unique sense, an understanding of the earth, wind, trees and rain. The elders knew when to pick olives for pickling or for oil. I was always envious of that.

Sorry, Grandma. We have instead become attuned to the vagaries of war. This heavy guest visits us uninvited, unwelcomed and undesired, perches on our chests and breaths, and then claims the lives of many, in the hundreds and thousands.

A Palestinian in Gaza born in 2008 has witnessed seven wars: 2008–2009, 2012, 2014, 2021, 2022, 2023A and 2023B. And as the habit goes in Gaza, people can be seven wars old, or four wars old. My little Amal, born in 2016, now holds a BA in wars, having lived through four destructive campaigns. In Gaza, we often speak about wars in terms of academic degrees: a BA in wars, an MA in wars, and some might humorously refer to themselves as PhD candidates in wars.

Our discourse has significantly changed and shifted. At night, when Israel particularly intensifies the bombardment, it’s a “party”: “The party has begun.” “It will be a horrific party tonight.” And then there is “The Bag,” capital T and capital B. This is a bag that is hurriedly prepared to contain the cash, the IDs, the birth certificates and college diplomas. The aim is to grab the kids and one item when there is a threat of evacuation.

The collective memories and culture of Palestinians in Gaza have been substantially impacted by these horrific experiences of war and death. Most Gazans have lost family members, relatives, or loved ones or have had their homes damaged or destroyed. It’s estimated that these wars and the escalations between them have claimed the lives of over 9,000 (it was 7,500 when I started drafting this last week!) Palestinians and destroyed over 60,000 housing units.

Death and war. War and Death. These two are persona non grata, yet we can’t force them to leave. To let us be.

Palestinian poet Tamim Al-Barghouti summarizes the relationship between death and the Palestinians that war brings (my translation):

It was not wise of you, Death, to draw near.

It was not wise to besiege us all these years.

It was not wise to dwell this close,

So close we’ve memorized your visage

Your eating habits

Your time of rest

Your mood swings

Your heart’s desires

Even your frailties.

O, Death, beware!

Don’t rest that you tallied us.

We are many.

And we are still here

[Seventy] years after the invasion

Our torches are still alight

Two centuries

After Jesus went to his third grade in our land

We have known you, Death, too well.

O, Death, our intent is clear:

We will beat you,

Even if they slay us, one and all.

Death, fear us,

For here we are, unafraid.

23 October 2023: Five stages of coping with war in Gaza

Our familiarity with war in Gaza has led us to develop a unique perspective and unique coping mechanisms.

We can identify five major emotional stages that Gazans go through during these grim conflicts. The stages are denial, fear, silence, numbness, hope, despair and submission.

This is day 16 and Israel has killed more than 5,000 Palestinians (many are still unaccounted for under the rubble), including over 2,000 Palestinian children, Gaza authorities tell us. More than 15,000 were injured and over 25,000 Palestinian homes were destroyed. And Israel says it is ready for ground invasion.

Stage one: Denial

In the early stages of a crisis, there is often a sense of denial. We convince ourselves that this time won’t lead to war. People are tired of the recurring conflicts, and both sides may appear too preoccupied to engage in warfare. As missiles fall and soar, we maintain a form of partial denial, hoping that this time will not be as lengthy or devastating as past wars.

No, this time it’s not going to be war. Everyone is tired of wars. Israel is too busy to go to war.

Palestinians are too exhausted and too battered to engage in a war. It could just last five days, give or take, we hope.

Stage two: Fear

Soon, denial turns to fear as the reality of another war sets in. Gaza is paralyzed as civilians, including children, are attacked by Israeli bombs. The pictures and videos of massacres, of homes obliterated with the families inside, of high rise buildings toppled like dominoes turn the denial into utter terror.

Every strike, especially at night, means all the children wake up crying and weep. As parents, we fear for our kids and we fear we can’t protect our loved ones.

Stage three: Silence and numbness

This is when Israel particularly intensifies the bombing of civilian homes. Stories are interrupted. Prayers are cut short. Meals are left uneaten. Showers are abandoned.

Therefore, amid the chaos and danger Israel brings, many in Gaza, especially children, withdraw into silence. They find solace in solitude as means of coping with the overwhelming emotion and uncertainty that surrounds them. Silence prevails.

Then numbness follows. As people attempt to protect themselves from the constant onslaught of distressing news, they grow indifferent. Because we could die anyway, no matter where we go. Emotional numbness sets in, as individuals attempt to detach from their emotions to survive.

Stage four: Hope

In the midst of despair, glimmers of hope may emerge. Even in the darkest moments, Gazans may hold onto the belief Israel might at least kill fewer people, bomb fewer places, and damage less. The most hopeful of us wish for a lasting ceasefire or an end to the siege or even the occupation. But this is merely hope. And hope is dangerous.

We hope that politicians will man up. We hitch our hope to the masses taking to the streets to reassure their politicians and warn they will be punished in future elections if they support Israeli aggression against Palestinians in Gaza.

Stage five: Despair and submission

Unfortunately, hope can often be fleeting, and many Gazans have experienced recurring cycles of despair. The repeated loss of life, homes and security lead to deep feelings of helplessness.

In the final stage, there is a sense of submission as Gazans accept the reality that they are unable to change the situation. That they are left alone. That the world has abandoned us. That Israel can kill and destroy at large with impunity. This is a stage marked by endurance, as Palestinians strive to adapt and persevere in the face of ongoing challenges.

These stages of war have become an unfortunate part of life in Gaza, shaping the resilience and perseverance of the Palestinian people in the face of unimaginable hardships imposed by the Israeli occupation.

27 October 2023: What it’s like when Israel bombs your building

I have six children. And so far we have survived seven major Israeli escalations, unscathed. We are an average family. My wife, Nusayba, is a housewife, I have two children in college and my youngest child, Amal, is 7. In Gaza, Amal is already four wars old.

We are an average family in Gaza, but we have had our fair share of Israeli death and destruction.

So far, since the early 1970s, I have lost 20 (and 15 last week) members of my extended family due to Israeli aggression.

In 2014, Israel destroyed our family home of seven flats, killing my brother Mohammed.

In 2014, Israel killed about 20 of my wife’s family including her brother, her sister, three of her sister’s kids, her grandfather and her cousin. And destroyed several of my in-laws’ homes.

Combined, my wife and I have lost over fifty 50 members to Israeli war and terror.

2023 war on Gaza

As the bombs fall and Israel targets sleeping families in their homes, parents are torn between several issues.

Should we leave? But go where, when Israel targets evacuees on their way and targets the areas they evacuate to?

Should we stay with relatives? Or should our relatives stay with us, whose home is relatively “safe?” We can never be sure. It’s been more than 75 years of brutal occupation – and over six major Israeli military onslaughts in the past 15 years – and we have so far failed to understand Israel’s brutality and mentality of death and destruction.

And then there is the fear of what to do if – when – we are bombed. We try to evade them. But how can you evade the bombs when Israel throws three or four or five consecutive bombs at the same home.

The big question Palestinian households debate is whether we should sleep in the same room so that when we die, we die together, or whether we should sleep in different rooms so some of us may survive.

The answer is always that we need to sleep in the living room together. If we die, we die together. No one has to deal with the heartbreak.

No food. No water. No electricity.

This 2023 war is different. Israel has intensified using hunger as a weapon. By completely besieging Gaza and cutting off the electricity and water supplies and not allowing aid or imports, Israel is not only putting Palestinians on a diet, but also starving them.

In my household, and we are a well-off family, my wife and I sat with the children and explained the situation to them, especially the little ones: “We need to ration. We need to eat and drink a quarter of what we usually consume. It’s not that we do not have money, but food is running out and we barely have water.”

And good luck explaining to your 7-year-old that she can’t have her two morning eggs and instead she will be having a quarter of a bomb! (Israel later bombed the eggs.)

As a parent, I feel desperate and helpless. I can’t provide the love and protection I am supposed to give my kids.

Instead of often telling my kids “I love you,” I have been repeating for the past two weeks:

“Kids, eat less. Kids, drink less.” And I imagine this being my last thing I say to them and it is devastating.

Israel bombs our building

If we had a little food last week, now we barely have any because Israel struck our home with two missiles while we were inside. And without prior warning!

My wife Nusayba had already instructed the kids to run if a bombing happened nearby. We never expected [our building] to be hit. And that was a golden piece of advice.

I was hosting four families of relatives in my flat. Most of them were kids and women.

We ran and ran. We carried the little ones and grabbed the small bags with our cash and important documents that Gazans keep at the door every time Israel wages a war.

We escaped with a miracle, with only bruises and tiny scratches. We checked and found everyone was fine. And then we walked to a nearby UN school shelter, which was in an inhuman condition. We crammed into small classrooms with other families.

With that, we lost our last sense of safety. We lost our water. We lost our food and the remaining eggs that Amal loves.

We are an average Palestinian family. But we have had our fair share of Israeli death and destruction. In Gaza, no one is safe. And no place is safe. Israel could kill all 2.3 million of us and the world would not bat an eye.

[john-get-the-salt]

Tight Leash w/ Roy Kent

Imagine: Roy has managed to keep his feelings for you to himself….until one night he’s unable to hold onto them any longer.

Contains: fem/reader, cursing, Roy losing his absolute shit in the best way, sexual innuendos

Warnings: none

“I can’t believe I ever let you convince me to wear this.”

“Babes you look phenomenal,” Keeley preened.

You might not have had the option to skip the fundraiser event you were about to enter, but you did have the option to wear something more….lowkey. You did tend to keep it lowkey, as one of the clubs media specialists. Keeley handed all of the flashy bits, the paparazzi and signings and public appearances. You tended to a lot of the background stuff; the sports articles and communications within the league, and the clubs various websites and platforms. Ever since you joined the team nearly a year go now you liked to work in the background, liked being unnoticeable.

Unfortunately you’d become best friends with Keeley Jones-the most noticeable person on the planet. And when you learned you had to attend some annual fundraising gala Rebecca was putting on, Keeley made it her life mission to convince you to wear something daring. And in a moment of weakness you’d agreed.

But now that you were present at the gala and it was almost your turn to walk to press carpet, you were having some serious regrets.

“Seriously Keeley, I feel ridiculous. One of the guys is going to see me and bust out laughing. This is something Rebecca would wear and pull off, not me.” Not to mention the carpet ahead was daunting. Cameras flashing constantly, held by shouting, viperous paparazzi.

��Hey,” Keeley pulled you to the side, forcing you to look at her instead of ahead at the walk into the hall. “No matter what mean things your brain are telling you right now, you look phenomenal. And when the guys see you, when Kent sees you-they’re gonna be lost for words.”

You flushed, because of course your best friend couldn’t resist mentioning the man you had a huge thing for. She never let it go after you let it slip one night. The two of you were just friends, no matter how much Keeley insisted that Roy was in love with you. You two had hit it off shortly after you started, appreciating each other’s dry sense of humor and love of cursing. Besides Keeley he was your best friend. But that was it-no matter how much you daydreamed of more.

"You've got this babe, i promise. Don’t forget-you are a badass bitch." Keeley gave you a final smile and quick kiss on the cheek before she was being called up. She left your side and stepped out onto the carpet. The photographers went wide, bursts of light exploding. You were officially next.

You took a deep breath, in and out. You just wanted to be inside the gala with your people, having fun with the club and Rebecca and Keeley. Unfortunately, this carpet stood in between you and them.

Just when you thought you had taken enough deep breaths and were finally ready, you heard a sharp inhale behind you. You risked a glance over your shoulder, finding Roy standing a few feet behind you. And you had to admit, he looked good. The all black attire did not surprise you but it did suit him. He was taking you in, slowly, from head to toe. Your outfit was all white, comprised of crisp high waisted pants and a corseted long sleeve top. (see visual below, I love a good visual, tho feel free to alter it in your brain to best suit you)

When his eyes finally rose to your chest he swore.

"Fucking hell."

"What was that, Roy?"

His eyes rose again, this time to meet yours.

Maybe it was Keely's words ringing around your head, or the way Roy couldn't keep his eyes off you, or the shot of whiskey you'd taken on the drive in. But regardless, you suddenly felt a smudge more confident. So with a final mental fuck it, you decided to embrace it. You relaxed your shoulders, straightened your spine, and as they called your name you smiled at Roy and gave a quick wink before you spun on your heel and took your first step out onto the carpet.

The cameras lit up, photographers crying for a spin, a turn, an angle, any bit of attention. You stopped a few times, allowing them pictures of you in different poses. The lights and the noises soon became too much however, so you kept it short before you strutted down the rest of the carpet and made it inside the gala building where Keely was stood waiting.

"Oh my god, you looked like a right model walking into a show," she gushed. "Those pictures of you are going to be jaw-dropping babe. And poor Roy's dragging his jaw against the floor."

You flushed as you let the excitable girl link arms with you and drag you towards the teams designated table. "I don't know what came over me, Ke. I just decided to go with it and channel my inner Rebecca. And I fucking winked at Roy. Who am I?“

"If he doesn't pull you away to ravish you by the end of the night I will."

You giggled with your friend, happily accepting the drink she got you.

"Ladies."

To your delight Coach Lasso approached, eyes crinkled as he smiled. "You both look down-right beautiful."

"Oh thank you Ted, you're looking quite handsome this evening."

"Well that's mighty kind of you. Now between the three of us, I was really just coming to let you know that Roy just stormed into the building like a starved man on a mission, demanding to know if I'd seen which way you went. The poor man looked so red in the face I was worried he was going to keel over."

You flushed, eyes suddenly finding the floor quite interesting.

"Now you two wouldn't happen to know anything about that would you?"

"He's realizing that he's in love with her," Keely couldn't help but gush.

Eyes widening, you smacked her arm.

"Ow!"

"Keely! He is not!"

"Ah," Lasso hummed, chuckling a bit. "It's about damn time. The boys and I are getting tired of the silent pining."

"We are not- there is no silent pining." You argued, looking between your two friends.

“You two have been inseparable since you met. You spend more time with him then anyone else in the club, babes.”

“Kee, we’re just friends.”

"I don’t think he thinks that," Lasso gestured with his head and you followed his gaze, finding Roy stood across the room, staring straight at you.

Your heart skipped a beat as his intense eyes met yours.

"I need some water," you stated, the air suddenly too heavy to breath.

"I can-"

"It's ok, Kee," you interrupted, kissing her cheek. "I'll be back."

She nor Lasso argued, watching as you hurried away from the table and towards the bar. Roy was after you the next minute, speeding across the floor and past the table towards you.

"Those two...." Lasso trailed off as he shook his head.

"Idiots."

"Lovesick idiots."

-

You weren't really thinking straight when you rushed away from your friends. All you could think was that the weight of Roy's gaze was heavy, stifling, and you felt your chest constrict.

You stepped up to the bar and asked for an ice water, receiving it moments later. You thanked the bartender and glided over to a neglected corner of the room, where only a few stragglers buzzed around. It was quieter over here, and you could feel the ache in your chest ease slightly.

"Hey," a soft voice invaded your space.

You froze, turning.

Roy was stood there, looking down at you again with that intense dark gaze.

"Hi," you said softly, unable to stop your eyes from flickering down to his lips before quickly back up.

"You look....fucking beautiful."

A heat began in your cheeks, reaching down your neck and no doubt flushing your collar and chest as well.

"That word doesn't seem quite enough. Fucking....breathtaking." And the way he said it sounded like he was, in fact, breathless. His chest heaved, as he stood perfectly still in front of you.

The heat was beginning to prick at your stomach, and if Roy wasn't very careful it was going to continue to travel downward.

"Thank you. Everyone here looks pretty amazing."

"Sweetheart, I haven't so much as glanced at anyone else in here. How can I, when you look so...." he trailed off, lips parting silently.

"What?"

“I’ve been doing my best to keep what I was feeling on a tight leash. I never wanted to ruin…this. Our friendship. I don’t know what I’d do with it, but…”

You furrowed your eyebrows. He wasn’t making any sense. “What are you saying Roy?”

"Can I kiss you?"

Ok, the heat had officially traveled to your entire body. You felt like you were on fire, and all Roy was doing was looking at you. Never had you considered how much a simple question like that could affect you, but as you watched him wait in heavy anticipation, wanting to touch you but unwilling until you gave him permission, you became weak in the knees.

"Yes-" the word was barely out of your mouth before he was kissing you, trapping the word in between you. His hands cradled your face so delicately, like you were made of glass. You rested your hands on his chest, appreciating the muscle you felt under the suit.

His lips were so soft, and tasted faintly of the cherry chapstick you'd given him just the other day. He smelled of spicy cologne and his scruff tickled your face.

He pulled away, just enough to meet your eyes.

"I may be the most stubborn, selfish, miserable prick on this planet, but you make me feel like I'm so much more. And this may be the most selfish thing I ever do, but I don't fucking care anymore. I'm in love with you."

Your lips parted, eye searching his for any signs of deception. You couldn't find any.

"Im in love with you too, my miserable prick."

He choked on a laugh, his eyes glassy as he rested his forehead against yours. "God, I love you so fucking much."

"I love you even fucking more."

[thewertsearch]

GG: Does this have to do with your crazy pen pal project? GT: It most certainly does and time is of the essence! GT: Today is the day i have to finish it and send it. Not a day later!

So Kid Bro was also contributing to Project Tyler. He's a Bladekind specialist, so maybe he's the one who sourced the Royal Deringer for her arsenal.

I have no idea how he'd get his hands on such a powerful sword, especially outside of Sburb - but this is still Bro, after all. He's impossible.

GG: This would be the birthday present… for your grandmother? GT: No! GT: It is for your grandfather simply to be relayed to him by my grandmother. A joint gift to him from she and i.

Jake knows that the bunny's meant for John, but it's hard to tell if he knows which John he's sending it to. He might not even know that there are multiple Johns in the equation.

GT: I am sending the gift back in time to when they are both alive and about our age. GT: Or… GT: Something like that. Something funny is going on here that i have not fully grappled yet but dag nab it if im not gonna see it through.

Asked and answered. Jake English has no idea that he's an old man's reincarnation, and he sincerely believes that his pen-pal is a girl from the early 1920s. I was about to argue that Jade must have demonstrated some awareness of modern culture during their correspondence, but Skaia probably just told her to hide it.

Anyway, Jake can tell that something's not right about this situation - but without knowledge of the Scratch, it's basically impossible for him to arrive at the correct conclusion. He's stumped.

GT: Look jane i know youve never believed me and you think everything i say is some big cockamamie goofoff but i think today of all days is when you should start taking some things more seriously. GT: Especially since i have always had your back. I have always believed in you! GG: Hey! I have believed in you too. GG: However, believing somebody isn't the same thing as believing IN somebody.

Jane, for her part, doesn’t seem to know anything. Crockercorp have successfully kept her in a Sburbless bubble, and have her doubting all testimony to the contrary.

I'm sure the Condesce has made sure that none of her friends can provide tangible proof of what's really going on, ensuring that Jane is isolated, out of the loop, and unable to trust her loved ones. There’s a wedge driven between her and her co-Players that may widen further, if the right pressure is applied.

GG: But that much said… GG: I think that maybe I am getting ready to believe some of the wild stories I've heard? [...] GG: I had a really wild dream last night. GG: And you were in it.

But there's nothing they can do to contain her Dream Self.

Today is the day that Jane wakes up.

GT: What was i doing there? GG: Um… GG: Not a heck of a lot!

...unlike Jake, apparently.

It's a little strange that he's less connected to Prospit(?), despite being far more immersed in Sburblore than his friend.

[pennyellee]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐗 - 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐮𝐧𝐚

LACRIMOSA | MYG MAFIA YANDERE AU

pairings: mafia leader!yoongi x f!reader genre: mafia!au, yandere au, historical au

summary: Their interlocking gaze served as a butterfly effect on his heart, stirring it to the core. She, in turn, only dreams to find a way to escape. But perchance, over time she might forcefully learn to love the man who has taken so much from her.

Thus unfolds a twisted tale of love and loss, of hope and despair, of life and death. The music reverberated through the dimly-lit streets. Tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.

warnings: minors dni 18+ | mafia au, dark!yoongi, mafia!yoongi, mentions of antidepressants, anxiety, panic attacks, nightmares, mentions of night terrors, mentions of self harm, manipulative behaviour, mentions of labotomy, medical cases, intimate life, diseases, “failed” pregnancy, alcohol, medication, etc.

beta read by @chaoticpuff17

word count: 8,7K

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain depictions of violence, blood shed, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, old social norms and traditions, which we do not condone.

A/N: so yes, it took me a while to actually finish this chapter and as I mentioned - it’s shorter than what I usually want to write for lacrimosa. Truth to be told, this is what I can do for now till I get something better to write on. I don’t know when the next chapter will be written and up, so for now thank you for your patience, i actually didnt think i would write a chapter whilst im in US coz the only device on my person is my phone, but im very happy I managed to write something. This chapter is more of a prequel go what’s going to happen next. Many of you actually guessed/predicted some things right and for some you have to wait till the very end, we’re near it.

Massive thank you goes to @chaoticpuff17 who managed to beta read it despite both our situations being crazy rn, ily queen 🥹🫧🩵

Love you all, p.

m.list previous next

lacuna (n.) a blank space, missing part

The night was relentless, a symphony of thunderclaps and the steady drum of rain against the cobblestones. The celebrations of the famous Kkangpae toned down, and after some months, several trips to the barren debris land of where Yakuza reigned, they returned safely to the sanctuary.

Back where she cannot hide from him in the stables, kitchen or sunroom, switching from one room to another just to not be in his presence for longer than she wanted. Yet, he managed to steal her away when his frustration boiled up enough. Y/N could’ve hinted how much she doesn’t want him to sleep next to her all she wants, he kept sneaking in and out every time. Yoongi was patient, determined even. Determined to make things right this time by giving her space. But the wrenching feeling of not having her close enough consumed him, night, day and moon.

Yoongi kept his promise, giving Y/N the space she needed while gradually attempting to rebuild the trust that had been shattered. He was careful with his words, patient in his actions, and ever attentive to her unspoken needs. The pair worked on their friendship these past weeks, he wanted himself to be her person. The person that she would love and lean on.

But the young Buin might seem calm now, from outside, but her wit remained under the surface. She buried herself deep within her psyche and doctor Kim could do very little to “repair” her. Not even renown specialists who came to give the young girl a helping hand did not succeed.

Yoongi watched her from a distance yet at the same time he was so close, his heart aching with the knowledge that he was partly to blame for her withdrawal. He had been too harsh, too controlling. Now, he was paying the price. He wanted nothing more than to hold her, to whisper apologies and promises into her ear. But every time he approached, he could see the fear and distrust in her eyes. It was a barrier he didn't know how to break.

Wang Xiaoqing’s wisdom was passed onto her, they whispered. But truth to be told, the elder woman, may she rest in peace, underestimated the new blood. The following legacy. Now, her kin suffers.

Yoongi wishes he never used the letter as leverage against her nor let her read it. At night he wonders whether that would change things. Whether by now she would be in love with him just as much he’s in love with her.

He sat down with the rest of his family at the dinner table after she broke down with yet another panic attack. The dining room was oppressively silent, the atmosphere thick with unspoken tension. It wasn’t even the end of January, and the snow was still prevailing outside. Yoongi sat at the head of the table, his expression a mask of stoic resolve, though his heart was anything but calm.

Y/N was conspicuously absent, her chair at the table glaringly empty. Yoongi's mind replayed the scene from earlier, the look of sheer panic in her eyes as she had crumbled under the weight of her emotions. He had wanted to reach out to her, to offer comfort, but he knew his presence would only worsen her distress.

Clearing his throat, Yoongi broke the silence, his voice strained but firm.

“I know you care about me. About this family—”

“I’ve made mistakes—mistakes that have pushed her to the edge.”

“No, Yoongi—” the right hand man straightened himself in his seat interrupting his leader.

Yoongi’s eyes flickered with a mixture of frustration and sorrow as he turned to face his right-hand man, Namjoon. The room held its breath, tension crackling in the air.

“Namjoon, please,” Yoongi said, his voice weary. “My wife slit her throat, stop justifying my actions.”

Namjoon hesitated but nodded, leaning back in his chair, his expression still troubled. Yoongi took a deep breath, steeling himself to continue.

"I pushed her too far, and now she's breaking—”

“Now, I don’t know what your intentions are with my wife, but I forbid you from whatever you are putting into her head.”

Namjoon's eyes widened in shock at Yoongi's words, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for the right response. The weight of Yoongi's accusation hung heavy in the air, and the room seemed to grow even quieter, the tension palpable.

Yoongi's jaw clenched, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. He had always trusted Namjoon implicitly, had relied on him as his closest confidant and advisor. But now, in the wake of Y/N's pain and suffering, he couldn't help but wonder if that trust had been misplaced.

“All of you.”

“Yoongi, I swear—” Namjoon began, his voice tinged with desperation. But Yoongi held up a hand, cutting him off.

“I don't want to hear it, Namjoon,” he said, his tone final.

“Whatever it is, I’m giving her the space to tell me herself.” Namjoon's gaze faltered under Yoongi's intense stare.

“I would never intentionally do anything to harm Y/N or come between you two. She's like family to me, too.” Yoongi's jaw clenched tighter, but he nodded curtly, acknowledging Namjoon's words.

“Seokjin.” He addressed the oldest man in the room.

“Yes, Yoongi?” Seokjin replied, his voice steady despite the gravity of the situation.

“She’s still taking those pills you gave her,” Seokjin's brow furrowed in concern at Yoongi's words. They were only a temporary solution before Seokjin decided that day to put her on barbiturates. She needs his help and if he cannot help her the way he knows it will be most effective, he’ll at least prescribe whatever will tone down her night terrors so she can sleep at nights.

"I'll talk to her," he said firmly. “But you know what would certainly help her—” Yoongi’s hand flew high to hit the table, making everybody twitch at the loud noise.

“No, Seokjin. No.” The family members exchanged solemn nods. Yoongi took a moment to compose himself, his chest heaving with pent-up frustration.

"She needs more support than we can provide on our own. We have to consider what's best for her.” Yoongi struggled to find the words to express his feelings. "I know, Seokjin," he replied, his voice thick with emotion. "But that is going way too far.”

Namjoon leaned forward, his expression earnest. The youngest at the end of the table cleared his throat. All eyes turned to him, waiting for his input. Jungkook hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of the tension in the room, before speaking up.

“Maybe you just need to stop shielding her in. Let her live a life—” Jungkook's suggestion hung in the air, a fresh perspective on the situation that caused the family members to exchange thoughtful glances.

Yoongi's brow furrowed as he considered Jungkook's words, the idea of allowing Y/N more freedom conflicting with his instinct to protect her.

“But what if she runs for the hills, Kook.” Park Jimin’s voice echoed from across the room, his hands busy pouring the strong liquor to seven crystal glasses. Yoongi's gaze flickered towards Jimin, setting the first glass in front of him.

"I can't bear the thought of her running away from me again," Yoongi admitted, his voice heavy with emotion. Hoseok nodded in agreement, his expression sombre.

Jungkook nodded thoughtfully, understanding Yoongi's apprehension. "I get where you're coming from, hyung,—” Jimin set down the last glass of liquor, his expression sympathetic.

“I’d say, nonetheless, she needs something to occupy her mind other than those thoughts.” Said Jimin sitting down on his chair while nursing his own glass of the booze.

"Maybe if we can find something that brings her joy, something to distract her—” Seokjin nodded in agreement, his expression thoughtful.

“She studied, tasted her own freedom and now all she’s left with is being your wife.” Yoongi's heart clenched at Jimin's words, a pang of guilt washing over him. But still a large part of him was thinking why it is not enough.

“She can work with me once she’s better.” The doctor interjected. Yoongi's gaze shifted towards Seokjin, a flicker of hope igniting within him at the suggestion.

"You think she'd be up for it?" Yoongi asked, his voice tentative yet hopeful.

“Ah hyung you’re so in the dark—” Jungkook remarked. Jungkook sighed, his gaze meeting Yoongi's with empathy.

“She needs to feel like she has a say in her own life, like she's not just living for someone else.” Where this newfound wisdom arose, Yoongi did not know. But he was glad for the support of his family men.

Hoseok placed a reassuring hand on Yoongi's shoulder, his expression filled with empathy.

“She knows so much about herbs, remedies, I think she’ll be happy to help Seokjin.” Yoongi's heart swelled with gratitude for Hoseok's insight. He hadn't fully realised the extent of Y/N's knowledge and interests outside of their marriage and that needed to change.

“Don’t tell her just yet.” The right hand man remarked.

“Yes, I want to give her more time to recover before we come back to the sanctuary.” The other family members murmured their agreement, a sense of solidarity and understanding settling over them. After all, at the end of the day it is a happy wife, happy life.

But months later, Y/N understood that if there’s even a slight possibility that the scarred leader will grow for better, it would be a painfully long process. She realised so once he returned with his knuckles all bruised and bloodied one night. She tended to them, and he was basking under her touch. Despite everything, she couldn’t ignore the humanity in his pain.

Her eyes rolled and a loud sigh followed when she understood what was the cause of his lapse of senses. He had let his frustration and anger take over him, but rather than put it out on everyone else like he was known for, he silently left his office to vent his anger elsewhere. She guided him to sit down after she asked the maid to bring her everything she needed to clean his wounds.

Yoongi watched her, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and excitement under her delicate touch. The feel of her hands, so careful and tender, was both a comfort and a torment. The imagery masking all the darkness that loomed over them, they would fool even the Lord himself that this couple is one of love.

They sat in silence, the only sound the soft rustle of bandages and the distant rumble of thunder outside. Yoongi closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes to him. She avoided him less and less. So why did he have to let his steam off so suddenly?

“You know—” she began, focusing on his other hand now.

“You’re not really setting a good example of “communication is the key ”, now do you?”

Yoongi's eyes flickered open at her words, a hint of guilt flashing across his features before he quickly masked it with a neutral expression. He couldn't deny the truth in her statement, nor could he easily articulate the tangled mess of emotions that swirled within him.

His mind drifted back to the hushed whispers, the concerned looks from Seokjin. Y/N was still fairly weak in terms of her health. Yet, he hoped that maybe, just maybe, she’ll come to tell him he’s going to be a father. Foolish of him, he knows. Selfish of him, he knows that too.

“I’m sorry, Dove.” He only muttered, forcing a kiss to her sphenoid bone, it was the only affection she rarely allowed him to show. Y/N knew that if she wanted to persuade him that she isn’t a flying risk, she’ll have to allow him to do more. She progressed slowly, with patience and space to breathe everything out.

The reason the young leader needed to vent his anger was obvious to Y/N. She heard the maid that so blatantly spied on everything she did, what she asked for, and whom she talks to on the telephone. Y/N was cautious, yet today, she had to ask for some feminine goods. She understood where his hope for a baby came from, he got himself to believe that once the monthly bleeding did not come the first, second nor the third month.

The young gal, however, knew that this has nothing to do with the possibility of her being pregnant. She still drank the remedy, just to be sure, and for her peace of mind as it bore too many demons already. The fourth month her body decided it’s time to function again and of course the devoted maid reported that right back to her husband whose hope for a child vanished.

“I was hoping we could go see Ma and little Bo Cheng before the wedding, I promised to teach him how to ride a ho—” she began her request carefully. Y/N had managed to negotiate Daiyu’s extended vacation in America with her young son and Kai, yet she couldn’t shake the strong feeling that Yoongi had only allowed such a thing to happen because he felt indebted to her at the moment. Her state was far more delicate than he thought and he desperately wanted to make her happy. The one thing she wanted the most, he couldn’t grant. Freedom.

“Would that make you happy?” Yoongi interrupted. He sighed, his eyes drifting to the window where dark clouds gathered on the horizon.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, a small, hesitant smile tugged at Y/N’s lips. It was a fragile thing, easily shattered, but it was real. And in that moment, Yoongi vowed to himself that he would protect that smile, nurture it, and help it grow.

“Yes, it would. Maybe we could also pay a visit to Daiyu—” Y/N sucked her lips in and shyly smiled again. Yoongi nodded slowly. He sighed, leaning back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the armrests. The weight of their precarious situation pressed down on him, the knowledge that every decision could have far-reaching consequences hanging over them like a dark cloud.

“I’m not sure about that, sweetling,” he replied, his voice tinged with uncertainty. Her heart clenched, did he understand her intentions?

“You said you’ll give me the world, Yoongi. Why not this?” Y/N’s smile faltered, a flicker of disappointment crossing her features.

Yoongi’s gaze softened further, a mixture of regret and longing in his eyes. He reached out, taking her hand in his, his touch gentle and reassuring.

“I will consider this trip, but we have to be cautious now. War is looming on the horizon.” He explained, his tone serious.

“What do you mean war? You’ve just won one,” she challenged, her voice laced with disbelief.

“The world is a volatile place, Dove. Our battle was nothing in comparison to what is to come. The world will fight—” Yoongi’s expression darkened, the weight of their past victories suddenly overshadowed by the looming threat of conflict. Y/N’s heart sank at the mention of war, a cold knot forming in the pit of her stomach.

“Until we’re certain there’s no threat, I want us to remain in Korea, my love.” he declared, his final words.

Y/N’s heart sank at his words, but she forced herself to nod, understanding the gravity of their situation. The war threatened to consume them all, and they had to tread carefully if they were to survive. Y/N nodded slowly to his words.

“She wrote to you this morning, didn’t she?” Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that she’s running out of time. If they were caught up in the chaos, she feared she may never leave this place. And with Yoongi’s resolve to remain in Korea, their window of opportunity grew smaller with each passing moment. It was worth the shot, he wouldn’t let her slip that easily if there’s an actual threat that the world’s will battle.

“She met someone,” Y/N added softly, her voice tinged with uncertainty of how Yoongi will react. He, however, already knew. There was nothing that would go past him or so he thought.

"She met someone?" he repeated, his voice tinged with false scepticism. Y/N's heart ached at the doubt in Yoongi's voice, but she held firm in her conviction.

“She’s a widow with a child, who—”

“Happy widow with a child—” she inserted herself into his remark. "She deserves it, Yoongi. After everything she's been through, she deserves a chance at love and happiness.”

“Daiyu is no longer tied to the syndicate. You promised not to meddle with her affairs unless she needs help.” She reminded him less gently, her voice tinged with a hint of caution.

“I intend to keep that promise.” Lie. He already knew the man who so openly started to court her. A sense of relief washed over Y/N as she watched Yoongi's resistance soften, even if it was pretended.

“The rain won’t stop pouring—” Y/N’s voice trailed off, a sombre note creeping into her tone as she glanced out the window at the stormy sky.

“How do you feel today?” Yoongi observed Y/N for a moment, his expression softening as he took in her weary demeanour.

“Better than yesterday.” She replied, her voice carrying a hint of resilience. Yoongi nodded, a sense of relief washing over him at her response. Despite the challenges they faced, he was grateful for every moment of peace they could find amidst the storm.

He noticed the subtle signs of improvement in her appearance. Her cheeks, once sunken and lifeless, now held a hint of colour, and the dark circles under her eyes seemed less pronounced. Her eyes sparkled differently, not with tears as of late. Whatever Seokjin is doing to help her, it is working.

“Have you slept well?” he inquired gently, his voice filled with genuine concern. From Monday to Friday, storms reigned over the hidden valley. Yoongi reached out, gently brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face, his touch tender and reassuring. Her dark hair grew enough to reach past her shoulders since the unfortunate event back in October.

“It wasn't the best, but it was better than before.” Yoongi nodded in understanding, his gaze lingering on her with a mixture of admiration and concern. He knew that even the smallest victories, like a few hours of sleep, were worth celebrating in their tumultuous world. After all the night terrors she endured for months.

“How’s working with Seokjin?” He knew how demanding their roles could be, especially in the midst of ongoing turmoil. Yoongi expected her to sigh just as softly as she always does, her expression to reflect the weight of responsibility, but none of that happened. Y/N smiled at him brightly instead.

Y/N's smile was like a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds, momentarily dispelling the shadows that lingered around them.

“Work has been great. I've been able to help so many people—” she replied, her voice infused with a sense of optimism that Yoongi hadn't heard in a while. As she spoke, Y/N’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm, a stark contrast to the weariness that had plagued her in recent months.

“Did you know that punk, Jungkook, pretends to be sick every other day just to swing by?” Y/N’s voice was filled with amusement as she recounted the antics of the youngest of the seven. Though older than her, she did not feel any age difference between them two.

Yoongi couldn’t help but chuckle at the mention of Jungkook's antics.

"That sounds like him," he remarked, a fond smile playing at his lips. She continued, her words flowing freely as she recounted her experiences while working with Seokjin at the clinic.

“Seokjin has been a wonderful mentor,” she continued, her eyes shining with gratitude. “He’s taught me so much more than we actually studied at school—” Yoongi nodded in agreement, a sense of pride swelling within him as he listened to Y/N's tales of their work at the clinic.

“I remember this one young man who had sustained severe burns on his arms. The sight of his injuries was heart-breaking, but I could see the determination in his eyes to overcome the pain.” Y/N’s voice softened with emotion as she recalled the moment.

"We worked tirelessly to stabilise him, and when he finally regained consciousness, the look of gratitude in his eyes made all the long hours and hard work worth it. It was a reminder of why I wanted to be a nurse in the first place—to make a difference in people’s lives, no matter how small.”

Yoongi listened intently, his heart swelling with a mixture of emotions. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret for not allowing her to pursue her passion for nursing earlier.

He may not be able to undo the past, but he could certainly make sure that she had all the support she needed to thrive in the future. The youngest was right. She needed this, she needed to regain her purpose in her life. To be someone for herself.

He realised how much he had underestimated her need for work, how vital it was for her to have a sense of purpose and fulfilment. There was still hope and goodness.

Yoongi listened to all the stories she had to say as for the first time since forever, there were no tears, no screams, no tension in the air. Just the calm, steady rhythm of their shared breaths.

“You know,” Yoongi began, his voice soft, "I'm proud of you. Proud of everything you've accomplished and the progress you’re making. I should have let you do this sooner.”

“Can’t change the past now can we?” He nodded to her remark solemnly, squeezing her hand.

“Tell me more,—” he urged, eager to hear more about her work, her passion. He wanted to be part of her world just like she is part of his, to support her in every way possible.

Y/N smiled, her face glowing with happiness. “Well, there’s this little girl named Jang-mi. She’s been coming in for treatment regularly, and despite everything, she's always so cheerful—”

Y/N pulled her coat tighter around her, feeling the icy water seep through the fabric. Her breath came in shallow gasps, mixing with the cold air to form small clouds that dissipated as quickly as they appeared. She huddled beneath the overhang of a small alley, her body shivering uncontrollably. The once comforting weight of her coat now felt like a burden, soaked and heavy.

Her mind raced, a chaotic swirl of fear and desperation. The past few days had been a whirlwind of terror and confusion. She had trusted the wrong people, made alliances that crumbled under the weight of deceit. Every step she took seemed to lead her deeper into a labyrinth of danger and uncertainty. She couldn’t afford another mistake; the stakes were too high. The sound of her own heartbeat was loud in her ears, a constant reminder of the life-or-death game she was playing.

A sudden flash of lightning split the sky, casting stark shadows and illuminating the alley in a harsh, white light. For a brief moment, everything was clear and sharp, every detail etched into her memory. That’s when she saw him.

At the mouth of the alley is where he stood , his figure backlit by the brilliant light. He was drenched, his hair plastered to his forehead, but he seemed unfazed by the torrential rain. His presence was as menacing as ever, a dark silhouette against the night. His eyes, however, were what held her captive. They were dark, deep pools of unreadable emotion, reflecting the storm’s fury.

Yoongi didn’t move, didn’t speak. He simply watched her, his gaze intense and unwavering. It was a look she had seen before, one that sent chills down her spine. It was the look of a predator sizing up its prey. She knew then, with a sickening certainty, that no matter how far she ran, he would always be one step ahead.

Panic surged through her, threatening to overwhelm her senses. She pressed herself against the wall, the rough brick scraping her skin through the thin material of her coat. She needed to think, to find a way out, but her mind was a blur of fear and fatigue. The rain continued to pour, the cold seeping into her bones, making her limbs feel heavy and uncooperative.

Yoongi took a step forward, the movement slow and deliberate. His boots splashed in the puddles, the sound muffled by the storm. Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest, a wild, frantic rhythm. She felt like a trapped animal, cornered with no way out. The alley was a dead end, and Yoongi was blocking her only escape route.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low and smooth, cutting through the noise of the storm. “You can’t keep running.”

His words were a cold, hard truth that she didn’t want to accept. But she had no choice. Every attempt to escape had led her right back to him, like a cruel game of cat and mouse. She swallowed hard, her throat dry despite the rain. She had to keep fighting, had to find a way to break free from his grip.

“I won’t let you control me,” she said, her voice shaking but determined. “I’ll find a way out.”

Yoongi’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—amusement, perhaps, or admiration for her defiance. “You’re stronger than I thought,” he said, taking another step closer. “But strength alone won’t save you.”

He was close now, close enough that she could see the droplets of rain clinging to his eyelashes, the way his clothes clung to his body. His presence was overwhelming, a dark force that seemed to consume all the light around him. She knew she had to act, had to do something before it was too late.

Summoning every ounce of courage, Y/N pushed off the wall and lunged towards him, hoping to catch him off guard. But Yoongi was ready. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist with a grip like iron. She struggled, twisting and pulling, but he was too strong.

“Let me fucking go!” she cried, her voice breaking with desperation.

Yoongi pulled her closer, his other hand coming up to cup her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You’re mine, Y/N,” he said softly, his breath warm against her skin. “And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Even if it means protecting you from yourself.”

Tears mingled with the rain on her cheeks as she realised the futility of her struggle. Yoongi’s words were a chilling promise, one that she knew he would keep. She was trapped, caught in a web of his making, with no way out.

The storm raged on around them, but in that moment, all Y/N could feel was the cold, unyielding grip of the man she used to fear, and the inescapable reality of her situation.

Y/N woke with a start, her breath coming in ragged gasps as the remnants of the nightmare clung to her mind. Her body was drenched in cold sweat, and her heart pounded wildly in her chest. For a moment, she couldn’t discern reality from the dream, the vivid images of the rain-soaked alley and Yoongi’s menacing presence still haunting her.

It was a memory that was hidden in the back of her mind to resurface when she’s the most vulnerable. It had happened a few times already, her mind showing her each time she attempted to escape the scarred leader.

She took a deep breath and listened to the mix of crackling fireplace and raindrops outside. His eyes were on her petite physique, his hands holding a book he was reading while she took a well deserved afternoon nap. He put down his reading glasses and ran a hand through his hair, closing the book and turning her attention to her.

“Which one was it this time?”

She turned to see him sitting beside her, his eyes filled with worry. The contrast between the Yoongi in her nightmare and the one before her now was stark. Gone was the cold, calculating predator; in his place was a man who genuinely cared for her well-being. He did change a little. Or maybe he was like that before but his selfishness didn’t allow him to show her his bright side.

Her legs moved to his lap when she was asleep, and he gently rubbed circles into her ankles, his touch soothing for once.

“Will you keep me safe?”

Yoongi's expression softened further, his gaze unwavering as he looked into her eyes. He knows that there were moments that haunt her till now. Moments he let happen with his cockiness.

“Always,” he replied, his voice steady and filled with conviction. “I’ll keep you safe, no matter what.”

“I just... I don’t want to be afraid anymore,” she admitted, her voice breaking slightly.

“Just rest, Dove,” Yoongi murmured, his voice a soothing balm to her frayed nerves. “I’ll be right here.”

After a few silent minutes, Y/N broke the calm silence.

“Can we play the piano?”

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Together, they moved to the old piano in the corner of the room. As they sat side by side, their fingers tentatively began to touch the keys. Each note was a delicate thread, weaving together a tapestry of their unspoken emotions. The music became their secret language, a way to say everything they couldn’t put into words.

Every time she did not feel like speaking herself, they played. Until she felt better. Yoongi played with a gentle intensity, his fingers dancing over the keys with practised ease.

He was a better player, so she thought. Afterall, he had had more life to practice.

The medication made her more open to him. Sooner or later she’ll have to get off of it before it will become her only source of happiness. There were days it made her sleep well, drink, eat, breathe and live like the person she used to be. And there were days she sat in front of her vanity mirror knowing this effect is only temporary.

She cannot afford to get off of them while she’s remaining by his side. Her being would not take it and the prospect of freedom would be scarce. It blunted negative emotions which worked in the scarred boy’s favour.

It was working, but it was a question of time when she’ll develop tolerance and they won’t work anymore. That’s why Seokjin is desperately trying to convince Yoongi that he’ll have a way to help her. Permanently.

Yoongi knows that it would be just another mistake he would have to write under his name.

“I’ll always keep you safe,” he whispered again, his words a promise and a plea. And in the quiet aftermath of their duet, she almost believed him.

In that fleeting moment, she wasn’t running, and Yoongi wasn’t chasing. They were simply two souls, lost in the music, trying to find their way back to each other. One more than the other.

His hand moved to cover hers on the keys, their eyes meeting in the stillness that followed. The world outside ceased to exist, the rain and the fire a distant backdrop to the intensity of their shared gaze.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Yoongi leaned in, his breath mingling with hers. Her heart raced, not with fear, but with a different kind of anticipation.

Their faces were inches apart, the unspoken words hanging in the air between them. His eyes flickered to her lips, then back to her eyes, seeking permission, seeking assurance. Y/N’s breath hitched, her mind a whirlwind of emotions.

“Unnie?!” Xiaoli's voice rang out, bright and oblivious. “We need to talk about—”

“Can you keep me safe from my own sister?” She scoffed playfully. His chuckle bounced on her lips as his lips still hovered just a breath away from hers, the paper door swung open with a sudden, sharp creak.

Taehyung stepped in behind her, his eyes widening as he took in the scene. "Oh. We’re... interrupting, aren’t we?”

Yoongi pulled back slightly, his expression darkening as he turned to face them. Y/N felt the moment slipping away, the fragile connection disrupted.

“What is it?” Yoongi asked, his voice strained with barely concealed irritation.

“You invited us to have dinner, Hyung.” Taehyung reminded him, his tone a mix of apology and amusement.

Xiaoli’s eyes darted between Yoongi and Y/N, realisation dawning on her face. “Oh... we’re really sorry. I didn’t mean to barge in, Kkangpae Min.”

She apologised, still not her but always to him and him only. Y/N forced herself to smile. The woman that her sister became is not the same one she grew up with.

“There was nothing to interrupt, don’t worry,” she waved it off and Yoongi sighed, the tension in his shoulders evident.

The fleeting moment of intimacy with Y/N hung heavily in his mind. Before, during and after the dinner. He was extravagantly close to feel her lips on his again, just for the moment to be swept away.

Dinner was a mix of awkward silences and forced conversation. Xiaoli and Taehyung tried to lighten the mood, but the air was thick with unspoken words.

Yoongi, for his part, seemed distant, his mind clearly elsewhere. Every so often, his gaze would meet hers across the table.

“Will you come next week?” Xiaoli asked, sipping her wine.

Y/N, momentarily distracted from her thoughts, looked up.

“Next week?”

Y/N glanced at Yoongi, who was already looking at her. She hesitated, unsure of committing to anything he did not allow earlier.

“Yes, Y/N promised Bo Cheng to teach him how to ride a horse, and I have some business to attend to.” Yoongi cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

“I could teach him,” Said Xiaoli, a bit jealous that their brother wanted Y/N to teach him when she was right there in the hotel.

Once Xiaoli and Taehyung will be with each other for eternity, the family of three then, will take their leave back to China.

The Triad leader attended his own business trips while his wife and children stayed with the “allying” clan.

He doesn’t know. None of them knows what Y/N did to herself, apart from Xiaoli, who herself doesn’t know every detail. They spreaded white lies to cover this “lapse of senses”. A misstep. Y/N hides the fading scar carefully to avoid any explanation. She wished to not tell them, and the kkangpae did not object to her wishes anymore. Whatever she wants, she gets. Usually, most of the time if she’s reasonable and clever about it.

The past months painstakingly helped them to get better. Or so Yoongi thought. Her priority was never to be his good wife, her priority is him thinking she will be his good obedient loving wife and when he won’t expect her to seek freedom anymore — she’ll disappear.

“I don't know about that, honey. You remember that nasty fall you took last year?” Her husband-to-be said nonchalantly. Y/N furrowed her brows in confusion.

“Fall?—“ she asked, doubting his words.

“What are you talking about?” Xiaoli herself was surprised at his words. She did not recall any falls. Y/N knew Xiaoli isn’t the best rider, but she was decent enough to hold any situation that would make her fall from the horse under control.

“I don’t remember that,—” she said, taking another long sip from her glass.

“You’d certainly remember falling from a horse. Why don’t I know about this, Yoongi?” Said Y/N turning herself to the quiet man.

“I was having a hard time keeping you here as you loved to go for a run back then. It must have slipped my mind—“

“My sister falling from a horse slipped your mind?”

“He did not know Y/N, until a lot later. Right, Hyung?” Taehyung smiled sweetly at her, defending his Kkangpae. As always. Y/N clicked her tongue and gifted Yoongi with a penetrating stare creating another layer of tension in the room.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He cleared his throat, attempting to gather his thoughts. The last thing he wants is to mess up their relationship again.

“You’re right, love. I should have told you once I got to know that,” Yoongi admitting guilt is a new trait he acquired these past months.

“How did she fall?” Y/N aimed her question at Taehyung as her sister clearly doesn't remember it.

“It wasn’t probably that bad if I don’t remember it, Unnie. Don’t worry about it anymore—“ the younger female answered before her fiance had the chance to do so.

Y/N sighed loudly but the hand under the table that was gripping her younger sister’s thigh was not seen by her eyes.

It was hard to keep focus, especially with Seokjin constantly needing her assistance at work. His stern demeanour and meticulous nature kept her on her toes, but she appreciated the distraction. She knew why she was at his beck and call. Yoongi demanded so. Under any circumstances she ought to be next to Seokjin.

The ambulance in the sanctuary was significantly smaller than the big sanitorium in the town, but there was still some work to do here too.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and studying her intently.

“The usual,” she murmured, filling today’s report. Seokjin watched her for a moment, then brought the courage to ask.

“Have you been intimate?” Y/N dropped the pen at once and with wide eyes. She stared at him. The question came out of nowhere nor was it called for.

“Wh-what do you mean intimate?”

“Exactly what I said,” he replied calmly, not breaking eye contact.

“Have you been intimate with Yoongi again?”

“I don’t see how this is your business, Seokjin.” She felt her face flush with heat, a mix of embarrassment and anger.

“I’m not trying to pry. I’m your friend, but I’m also your doctor, sweetling—,” he said softly.

“Your health and well-being are my concern,” Seokjin explained. “And you know that if something’s affecting you emotionally or physically, it could impact your health.”

Bullcrap, he is in fact prying.

She was silent for a minute, trying to comprehend how he is taking care of her being this late. If she wouldn’t attempt to kill herself, these concerns wouldn’t be as great. But Y/N cannot afford to break havoc. She can’t go on rampage as she wants every single person here to think that she is moving towards being a good obedient wife of the Kkangpae. Even though she wants to scream to each and one of their faces about how much they failed her. How much they hurt her. Yet, patience is the key. Breathe, sleep, eat, endure.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, then decided to change the topic.

“What about your wife?” Seokjin’s eyes flickered with surprise before he masked it with a neutral expression. Y/N barely knew the woman. Matter of fact she has seen her maybe three times since the wedding.

“Very much pregnant,” he said, his voice a mix of pride and weariness.

“Oh,” Y/N replied, taken aback. “I didn’t know. Congratulations, I guess.” Here comes another thing that Yoongi managed to keep from her.

“Thank you, my dear,” Seokjin said, a small smile touching his lips. “It’s been… an interesting journey, to say the least.”

“I can imagine,—” Y/N said, sensing there was more beneath the surface.

“Can you imagine yourself on that journey?” Seokjin interrupted, his gaze searching her face.

She pretended that the question took her by surprise, looking down at her hands to not give herself away.

“I don’t know,” she admitted softly. He is testing her. “It’s hard to think about that kind of future with everything that’s going on.”

Seokjin nodded, his expression thoughtful. “It’s understandable. But it’s something to consider. Maybe a baby would help you to shush your demons away.”

Y/N’s heart raced at the suggestion, and she forced herself to maintain her composure. “I… I don’t think a baby is the answer, Seokjin. There’s so much I need to sort out first.”

“Sometimes, having something to focus on, something to live for, can make all the difference,” Seokjin said gently.

She nodded, still feeling uneasy about the direction of the conversation. Opting not to give more than she would want to by not answering his remark and going back to finish the report.

“Just know that you have options. And that you don’t have to go through any of this alone.”

“Thanks,” she replied, offering a small smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Of course she won’t.

Y/N entered the dimly lit room where Yoongi was sitting, his face illuminated by the soft glow of a lamp. He looked up as she closed the door behind her, his expression softened once he looked up from the papers. The office in the sanctuary remained the same apart from the fact that now the young Kkangpae occupies it far more often than before.

He took his glasses off and pushed himself away from the desk creating a space for her to come and stand in front of him, leaning against the massive wooden desk. Her hands felt the warmth of the wood that had been heated by the lamp, reflecting the same heat that radiated between them.

“Did you ask Seokjin to put thoughts into my head?” she asked, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her.

Yoongi sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t ask him to, but I knew he would at some point try to give you some wisdom. What did he say?”

“That a baby would be the right treatment for me,” she replied, her voice tight with frustration.

Yoongi’s eyes widened slightly, then he closed them and exhaled deeply.

“I’m sorry, Dove—“

“Do you think that too?” she asked, searching his face. “That a baby would magically fix everything?”

Yoongi shook his head, stepping up from his chair and closer to her. “No, I don’t. A baby isn’t a solution to our problems—“ she didn’t believe one word that was coming out of this mouth. He wouldn’t break his knuckles this hard if he didn’t want the baby that Y/N took care of not happening anytime soon. Her system was full of herbal remedies. And now that she knows, the herbs flowing in her system are working, she can use that to her advantage.

“But that would make you happy right?” She countered, seeing through him. Softening her mimics to appeal to him.

“Well, yeah, I want a family with you someday—“

“Someday? The bandages on your knuckles says that you’re pretty eager to have it now—” she scoffed and murmured under her nose.

Yoongi’s eyes for once reflected something she couldn’t quite recognise. There was a mix of desperation and longing that flickered there. His hand reached out, trembling slightly, and cupped her cheek gently.

“Dove, I want us to be happy, truly happy. But I know bringing a child into this world won’t erase your pain or solve our problems. We need to fix ourselves first—” His thumb brushed her cheek tenderly.

“I’m sorry for being selfish, my love,” she felt a tear escape her eye, rolling down to where his thumb could catch it. She closed her eyes for a moment, leaning into his touch because that’s what always softens his edges.

After months, she has learnt what strings to pull to make him move just the way she wants to. Yet, Y/N knows that he isn’t that stupid to believe she suddenly wants to live with him happily ever after.

“I can pour us some wine. We can play the piano after dinner, hm?” He could feel her vulnerability, her heart laid bare before him. Or so he thought as she wanted him to think that. His hand continued to caress her cheek softly, his touch gentle yet laden with unspoken longing she sensed each time he attempted to get closer to her.

She nodded, a small pretentious smile playing on her lips as she stepped closer to him. The tension between them lingered.

He pulled her closer, his lips brushing against her forehead. “We will be good. We just need time with each other.”

He sat first, patting the space beside him, inviting her to join. Her fingers brushed the keys, eliciting a soft, mournful note. A melody that echoed in her mind far too often. An anthem for hurting. Weeping symphony, tears of sorrow.

He became far too respectful towards her boundaries which essentially was ruining all of her plans. Her fingers pressed the keys with delicate touch even when she wanted to smash them rock hard.

“Why this song?” She let the question hang in the air for a moment, her fingers poised above the keys as if weighing his words.

“Do you know what they interpret it as?” She finally said, her voice soft, barely audible above the lingering notes. Her eyes, once masked with a facade of calm, now revealed a flicker of the anguish she carried.

“Tell me,” he flipped the page of the notes book for her to continue the song.

“It’s a tale of unspoken grief, of wounds too deep to heal and shadows that never leave.”

He felt a shiver run down his spine as she said that. Part of him understood what message she was trying to leave and part of him wished he’s wrong.

“I view it as love lost and dreams shattered. They say it’s a lament for those who wander through life carrying burdens no one else can see.”

He carefully listened to all her words, all the notes she played, all her feelings she shared. Her fingers moved over the keys, each note a whisper of sorrow.

“The scars I carry inside,—“ His hand reached out to touch hers, a gesture of comfort. Stopping her from playing more.

“Let me help you carry that weight—“

“You created it in the first place.”

His eyes widened, a mixture of guilt and realisation flooding his expression. She pulled her hand away.

“The scars I carry, the emptiness I feel, they all trace back to you.”

His mind raced to comprehend the depth of her pain, trying to understand her intentions. It’s not like he ever expected her to say it out loud.

“You created emptiness in me Yoongi—“

He felt his heart clench with guilt and regret. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice cracking. It was nothing new. She heard his apologies but she was yet to accept them

She turned back to the piano, her fingers resting on the keys but not playing. “Intentions don’t change the past,” she said softly. “The pain remains—“

“But the future can learn from mistakes.”

“I will. I’ll learn—“ He began before she interrupted him.

“You need to fill the space now.” His eyes lit up listening to her words. In his mind, this was it. The holy grail. In her mind, she was wrapping him around her finger before she would bounce away like a pebble on the pond.

“Heal me if you must.”

These were her last words before the distance between them shrank, the intensity of their emotions drawing them closer. He leaned in, his heart pounding in his chest that she could almost hear it but Y/N didn’t pull away.

Their lips met in a soft, tentative kiss, a delicate brush that spoke of apology, of yearning, and of promises yet to be fulfilled. Her heart cried and the song remained echoing in her mind.

As they pulled back slightly, their foreheads resting against each other, Yoongi felt a warmth spread through him, chasing away the cold shadows of regret. She looked at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. His thoughts were swirling with one thing only — this was the real beginning of them. And it was the beginning.

The beginning of the end.

I N T E R L O G U E

The walls were lined with bookshelves, each shelf overflowing with dusty tomes and old papers. A large, ornate desk stood in the centre, its surface cluttered with stacks of documents.

Seokjin rarely sends her to this room as they also rarely stay in the hanok the sanctuary has for medical assistance to those who live here.

She approached slowly, her fingers brushing over the worn leather of a chair before settling on a stack of yellowed files that he asked to bring. It was then when her eyes caught the opened crimson red files that laid flat open on the desk. The ones that the doctor forgot to take with him the other time he had to run and tend to the lady of the house in the middle of the night. They stayed there, laid open, for several weeks. Touched by a thin layer of dust on top of it.

Kim Seokjin is renowned in his field of practice. Yet, this was going to be his great mistake. Inside, there were detailed medical records, notes written in a precise, almost mechanical hand. The words on the pages made her stomach churn—phrases like “prefrontal lobotomy,” “behavioural correction,” and “psychosurgical intervention” leapt out at her. She read on, horrified by the cold, clinical descriptions of procedures that seemed more like torture than treatment.

Her hand flew to her mouth to not let the wailing cry away.

Trembling, she pushed the file aside and reached for the next one. Not bearing what they’ve done to her sister. Y/N’s hands shook as she read through the files, each word a dagger to her heart. The clinical detachment with which the procedures were described made her feel sick. These were not just medical records—they were accounts of inhuman experiments carried out in the name of science, or more so — control.

The name on this file was all too familiar, it was Jin’s wife. He must have done it before the wedding as she seemed far too calm. Her heart pounded in her chest as she opened it, fearing what she might find. The contents were similar—detailed accounts of medical procedures, records of a lobotomy performed in a desperate attempt to “cure” her of what the notes described as “hysteria” and “unmanageable behaviour.”

Y/N felt a wave of nausea wash over her. She stumbled back from the desk, her mind reeling from the revelations. The room seemed to close in around her, the shadows deepening as the weight of what she had discovered settled on her shoulders.

The name on the empty file under those made her anxious, hysteric even more as the tag had Min Y/N written on it.

She wiped her tears but they couldn't stop falling.

“Y/N?”

.

.

.

©pennyellee. please do not repost

Love you all!! ♥

Don't be a silent reader, comment, re-blog, heart, asks are more than welcome ♥

keep in mind - I'm not an expert on chinese, korean and japanese culture, but I tried to research everything realistic I wanted to add to the story. Nonetheless, take it as a fiction. Nor in this case, I'm a medical professional.

let's be friends chummers 🫧♡ ︎

lots of love, p.

tag list: @beautifulcloudfestival - @honsoolgloss - @jingerbreadoutofstock - @moscow778 - @januara26 - @dinosolecito - @yoongislatinagff - @xyahrinx - @hi12345567 - @nochuel - @deltamoon666 - @bbkissme99 - @darkuni63 - @nansasa - @sazsazsaz - @missmin - @strxwbloody - @royallyjjk - @jaiuneamesolitaiire - @shadowyjellyfishfest - @bbgniecyy - @elayne321 - @seojunandsoju - @bun-27 - @whipwhoops - @wobblewobble822 - @whofan88 - @haneyyyyyy - @lostgirlinthewoodss - @secfir - @btspurplesky - @elleflying07 - @pamzn - @megseungmin - @selenophileforlife - @idkjustlovingbts - @seonghwaexile - @catlove83

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

08 — HONEY, HELL IS WHEN I FIGHT WITH YOU

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. read on wattpad.

<- previous part | next part ->

Chicago looks stunning, at this time of night.

Some windows shining with artificial light, the odd shop sign lit with neon colour. Driving alongside the river, you watch as the water ripples, knowing that Gaz and a team of Marines will be down there. Next time you get a chance, you’ll ask him if he has a surfboard or two.

It’s cool, in the SUV, Laswell behind the wheel while you sit in the passenger’s side. A laptop sits on your thighs, running hot against the cargo, opened to a screen you can’t even begin to understand.

“First, we find the missile,” she says, eyes focused on the road as she manoeuvres down the quiet late night streets. Soft music plays from the radio – a way to steady you both more than anything. “Then, once this is over and the boys are getting ready to head back to base, we’ll talk.”

“Just worry about, y’know,” you start pulling your hair back, “Saving lives, and shit.”

Laswell hums, amused, and you figure it’s as good as a laugh coming from the put-together woman. From what you know of Sarah, they seem to be a perfect match.

Your window’s down, the past-midnight breeze brushing your face. It’s cool, leaving your hair to stand on end and lips to feel dry. Swiping your tongue against your bottom lip, you look to the rearview mirror, seeing nothing but road and city behind you.

It’s then that the laptop starts flashing, a red dot pinning a warehouse shed three blocks from where the two of you are driving. Laswell immediately looks to it, switching her radio on in the next moment.

“Watcher-One to Bravo-Six Actual. Perimetre is secure. We have a possible hit on the missile container. We’re moving in now,” she reports, steadfast, as her foot presses down further on the accelerator. You wind your window up, looking between the laptop screen and her.

There were many different conditions to experience, when being trained for Special Forces, or a position of leadership. It wouldn’t always be as simple as being given a building to raid and neutralise, or having a detonator in one hand and a pack of ammunition in another. Sometimes, there were covert missions, ones where no fighting or blood would be necessary.

But you could say with absolute, complete certainty that you’d never experienced something like this.

It’s somehow more exhilarating, more terrifying than any sniper’s scope focused on you, to be sat beside Laswell with the task to find a missile. Even when you don't have to do anything but watch, listen, it makes your blood run cold where it trails from your heart.

Laswell’s eyes are narrowed, a determined glean to them as she pushes down on the accelerator further, the speed of which she’s driving sending spikes of adrenaline to your heart.

“For what it’s worth,” you say, looking to her from your peripheral vision, the lights of the city cascading her skin in an array of colours, “I believe in you. All of you. You’re going to save lives, Laswell. I know it.”

She doesn’t respond, but her frame eases, and her fists loosen slightly from the wheel, her knuckles quickly gaining their colour once more.

The laptop starts flashing once more, vibrating, too, and when Laswell quickly scans the contents, she slams her palm against the wheel with a hiss. Your eyes go wide, heart pounding in your chest, foot going tap tap tap.

“Watcher-one, we’re on the target floor. What’s your status?” Price’s voice crackles through the radio, and the sudden rumble of the earth beneath the vehicle is felt down to your bones.

You’re not a specialist in missiles, or technology, for that matter.

But you can guess that this isn’t exactly good.

“Laswell, Sweetheart – what the hell was that?” Price asks, voice as close to panicked as the headstrong man can sound.

Meeting your eyes, Laswell gives you a knowing look, before saying, “John, the missile is active, it's in first stage. Be advised- controls are not in the container.”

How the men tasked by Laswell can find all of that in a matter of minutes, you’re in shock. The two of you were serving as main communicators and on-ground support, connecting the two different goals of the mission. You would get out if it came down to it, but all things considered, you were the only one in the operation without a direct assignment. 

“That means Hassan has them,” Price curses into the radio, “We’re pushing into the target area. Out.”

A spark starts at the base of your spine, travelling up in bursts of movements. A reaction, a warning, your intuition coming into play again.

“Laswell,” you say, tap tap tap, “I need to get to Ghost.”

She looks at you, then, like you’ve truly lost it. Maybe you have. Maybe this is the beginning of you gaining it, after everything else has been taken from you.

Maybe this is the beginning of the end.

“Alright,” she says. “Alright.”

She takes the left.

*

“Fucking hell.”

Your shoulders ache from the weight of the bag strapped to your back, sweat clammy where it sticks to you like a second skin. The night breeze caresses your exposed skin, your gloves burning hot from the friction of the pulley underneath your fists.

Ghost, you realise now, had had it very easy. Got dropped off from a helicopter, no scaling needed.

But you, and your shitty gut feelings, mean that you’re trying your damnedest to get to the top of this building, lack of planning or concrete evidence the least of your problems.

The pulley pulls to a stop as you use the momentum from a swing to grip your hand onto the edge of the roof, using your arms to pull you up, torso flattening over the concrete. With a few kicks and leverage from the wall, you manage to scramble full-body onto the floor of the roof.

“Christ,” you curse, head aching as you stand on wobbly feet, hooking the rappel onto your belt and bundling up your rope to slide into your vest.

Just as you’re about to look around to find the very man of whom you’d come to greet, the feeling of silver against your throat and a chest against your back has your body stiffening. The silence, and that miniscule scent of timber has recognition ringing in the back of your mind.

“Starting to think you get off on holding me at knifepoint,” you say, words coming out breathy as the knife presses just above where your previous wound’s been wrapped up. Your lips remain parted as his chest meets your back, his head above your own. The stars glisten around you, the darkened night the only thing you can see in the distance, apart from the building where the mission’s taking place.

“I can assure you,” he grits out, words brushing against your ear where he crowds your space, “When I ‘get off’, you’re the last thing on my mind.”

“Well that’s not fair,” you retort, eyeing the ground around you, attention spiked, “Your little Johnny gets all the fun, hey?”

The knife clatters to the ground, the weapon being replaced with Ghost’s strong grip, his hand bruising your windpipe where he squeezes. You let out a small cough, eyes watering when he continues to apply pressure.

“Don’t pretend to know anything about me,” he squeezes harder, and breathing is suddenly a very difficult task, “Or him. Or us. You’re a distraction from our goal, and you will do well to be reminded of that.”

He releases his hold on you, and you find yourself falling to your knees, coughs a grating sound in the quiet of the night. You inhale deep breaths of air, eyes squeezing shut against the ache in your head. Turning to look at him, you meet his dark eyes with a snarl.

“Why do you hate me so much?” You ask, the words coming out without conscious volition. The words are croaky, your expression a mix of disbelief and pleading. “Tell me, Ghost, what it is you have against me.”

He takes a step forward, truly looking down at you like you’re nothing but a roach on the ground.

His eyes blaze with something you can’t quite place when he kneels down, picks up his blade, and meticulously places it back into his belt. 

“I will not let you hurt them,” he states, “Even if it means killing you.”

The crease between your brows softens, and your throat works around a swallow as the two of you remain in a suspended silence. No radio, no warnings – just you, him, and the cool of the night.

“I’ve given you ample time to go through with that threat, Lieutenant,” you reply, standing back up to your full height, head tilted back to meet his gaze head-on. You study him as his eyes flit over your features. “I think your hatred runs deeper than your love for your men.”

“Do tell me, Colonel,” he bites back. It’s as if nothing exists apart from the two of you, in this moment. “Tell me what could possibly be worth more than my men.”

You don’t back away, don’t loose a single breath out of place.

“The fact that I outrank you,” you challenge, rising to his bait, rising to the tips of your toes, “And that I fit in easier than you ever have.”

He stumbles back.

Like you’ve delivered an actual shot from your rifle, or a swipe of your blade.

His eyes are wide, beneath his mask – stark against that of his greasepaint. The very same greasepaint spotting around your own, mostly wiped off from the day’s work.

Opening his mouth, he’s about to say something, anything, a threat, a promise –

Sharp pain strikes through the edge of your cheek, a pained gasp falling from your lips a moment later. 

Ghost raises his gun, bodily stepping in front of you, eye to the scope of his rifle as he fires a shot. The crackle of your radio starts a moment later, the side of your face throbbing, blood trickling down from the wound.

“Bravo Zero-Seven, we’ve just stationed more men for overwatch. Several unknowns have been reported to be heading for your position!”

One of the members of Bravo Team – he sounds panicked, frantic.

Stepping from behind Ghost’s shadow, you unhook one of the guns Laswell had lent you from your backpack, switching off the safety and looking around the perimeter of the building. 

It’s…

“Clear,” you say, lowering your gun in confusion. “Where the hell was I hit from?”

Ghost turns, then, immediately focusing on your cheek. He goes to raise his hand, taking a step closer, but thinks better of it and lets it fall back to the weapon in his hand. Your hair blows with the increasing wind at this height, catching in the blood on your face and making you hiss.

The way he stands over you, now, feels like a complete one-eighty to how he had when there was bloodthirst in his eyes.

No.

Right now, he’s looking down at you like he has a responsibility to uphold, a mission to protect you. Split between looking to his wrist, and your bloodied and injured face, he mutters under his breath as he pulls something off of his ligament.

“What…” you start, but trail off as he gestures for you to turn around. You raise a brow, and deliberately cock your gun, making sure he eyes the movement, before you do.

He can’t kill you when you’re about to fight for your lives, you think. And, he might be a bit of a nutjob, but he wouldn’t actually kill you.

…Right?

Your thoughts pull up to a halt, however, as the hair on the nape of your neck stands on end, a flurry of sensations jolting you into standing to your full height.

Gloved, large fingers brush your bare skin, threading through your hair. They brush against your face, too, gathering excess strands with the mass already gathered in his fist. Wrapping a band around the ponytail, you feel yourself shiver as he pulls away once more.

He’d.

Tied your hair back.

The sound of boots against concrete and the shifting of leather has the two of you disbanding immediately, getting into familiar battle positions.

A tiny voice in the back of your mind screams, your intuition was right!

“Charlie-One to Bravo-Three,” you murmur into your radio, “Unknowns scaling overwatch point now. Will report when we’ve neutralised all targets. Out here.”

You switch off your radio – and look to Ghost with a small nod. He gives one back; and you think, briefly, that it’s the first non-hostile interaction you’ve had with the Lieutenant. Except for the doing your hair thing, something that you will most certainly discuss with the man later.

The first unknown grapples onto the building, and your heart sinks.

You switch your radio on as Ghost delivers a clean shot through the soldier’s head.

“Bravo-Three, Watcher-One, they aren’t unknowns.” Your heart thunders, and your eyes narrow as you pull the trigger on another to your left. 

“They’re Shadows.”

*

There are many times in your life where you’ve had to make an impossible decision.

When you were just a child, you had to choose between mourning the death of your mother, or using the pain of her absence as a way for you to grow. For you to become.

It had been impossible, then, but you’d made the choice. Made the best one, even.

Now, it feels much the same.

Ghost, bullet in his thigh, unsteady on his feet, is going hand-to-hand with the last Shadow. 

Soap, hidden in the destruction Hassan’s floor’s become, is silent, painstaking with every passing second.

You, left arm bent where it sits uselessly, are struggling with the blood in your eyes, the throbbing in your head, the weight of one last mag in the sniper set on the edge of the roof.

Oh, how things have gone sideways. The pain of watching your men be pit against the 141, against you like this, is an unimaginable sort. Not unlike a splinter in the tip of your index finger, or a bruised, painful stubbed toe.

Ghost is yelling something. That much you’re sure of.

Soap looks damn near unconscious, from your position.

“Sweetheart, Ghost…” Your radio crackles, the faint voice of Soap like a shot to your system. Both you and Ghost reply, simultaneous, pained and unsure, with his name. 

“Soap.”

“Watch the window…” Soap grits out, and even with the sounds of grunting and kicking and violence behind you, you lean into the sniper, eye against the scope as you move the gun, before stopping as you spot him.

And, oh, what a state he is in.

Blood splattered all over his frame, head hanging limp as Hassan drags him to the shattered window, careless with the man’s broken body.

If Ghost wouldn’t kill you for it – if you wouldn’t run the risk of killing him – you’d try and shoot the man atop of him with the sniper. A fruitless cause, with their frantic tossing and turning, the pride and stubbornness of the Lieutenant fighting with everything he has.

Seconds stretch out into what feels like hours, before you’ve lined up the notches, perfect shot aimed for Hassan’s head.

You’d never been one for long-range weaponry. Always was an on-the-ground kind of girl, better with blades and short-distance guns. Preferred the weight of them in your hands, the grim of which the dirt slid against your uniform.

Snipers had never been your thing.

You could count on one hand the amount of executions you’d performed with one.

A breath in, a breath out.

Ghost lets out a grunt, and another punch sounds. Wind whistles through your ears.

A breath.

You pull the trigger, and Hassan falls.

Black filters in your vision, pulsating spots, mind a mess with the impact and previous concussion and pain in your arm. The adrenaline crash, after all this time, it was happening.

And it was happening fast.

Soap says something, you think, but you aren’t sure. Can’t be sure, not with the state of your body like it is.

On your knees, your good arm supporting your weight, you blink with heavy eyes as Ghost and the last Shadow roll around, guns having skidded off of the roof. Just fists, flesh and vengeance.

Why were they here?

Just to sabotage the mission? Even if it aligned with Graves’... Shepherd’s goal, too? To take you back? To kill the 141, witnesses be damned?

Your backpack. A pistol, in one of the front pockets. A way out. One last opportunity.

Shrugging off the pack with unsteady hands and filtered vision, you wrestle out the small gun. It fits into the palm of your hand comfortably, and you raise it, arm wobbling and every ounce of energy sapping out of your body, as if magnetised by an invisible force.

It’s so dark. Night encompasses everything within its grasp, including the men in front of you, including yourself. 

The mission was a success. Hassan was neutralised. The missile self-destructed.

Ghost and the Shadow struggle, and with sluggish movements, you manage to rise to your knees. Stilted and slow, you find yourself upright, feet on the floor, and frame bent over.

It’s something, a more reasonable position, a hope.

Jumping back to his feet, distancing himself from the Shadow, Ghost goes to stomp the man’s face in.

Your bullet is faster.

It rings in your ears, eyes trying to flutter shut as the gun shakes in your hands, body taking an involuntary step forward. 

Ghost, too, is fast, wounded or not.

Just as you find yourself fading, falling, allowing every last drop of adrenaline to evaporate from your body, your injuries and emotional turmoil catching up to you, hands wrap around your torso, and a warm chest keeps you upright.

You think you hear something, but you can’t be sure.

If you’re at all reliable, it’s Ghost.

“I’m going to be the one to kill you, Sweetheart, not a bloody Shadow.”

taglist. @lilpothoscuttings @jng-yuan @iruzias @insatiablekittie @1wh4re1nova @kaoyamamegami @supernaturalstilinski @inthemiddle0feverywhere @msecho19 @nogood-boyo @alfa-jor @lalashhyl @letmeapologise @honeybeeznutz @1mawh0re @oreo-cream @lalashhyl @someonepleasedateme @letmeapologise @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @inarabee @simp-sentral @littlecellist @clear-your-mind-and-dream @browtfyoudoing

[bunnivez]

Modern! Zoya…

Her first job was as a tattoo artist. Most of her costumers were women, they would specifically ask for her to do their tattoos; both because of her amazing work and the other… to get a close look at her. Whats better? Zoya is aware of the many women she is pulling (๑>؂•̀๑)

Imagine you two meet randomly bumping against each other and turns out you work at the shop right next to the one she works at!

Or you got recomendad by your friend to go to a certain shop to get your tattoo done, telling you to specifically ask for a woman named Zoya since her work is more professional and she is more trusted to give you great results.

She used to live in an apartment until she got a husky… I mean she it wasn’t like she couldn’t afford an average house but damn, she now has to pay more…

Has a love-hate relationship with her dog TRUST. Often complains of their sudden howling and the amount of hair they shed.

“It’s 1:30AM why the fuck are you howling like that!? You sound like you’re dying!” “Oh my f… You know i’m tempted in leaving you bald so I don’t have to deal with having your hair on the couch.”

At the same time however, they are also her best buddy and friend. There are times where she even lets them sleep with her on bed… For at least an hour before Zoya falls asleep and accidentally pushes s them off the bed in the middle of the night.

Yes she is a messy sleeper, god knows how the heck she ends up with on leg on the headboard and the other hanging on the bed. She snores like a dad…

Like even her huskey got scared for a second and kept barking until she woke up.

Listen, when going out she has this whole badass outfit, rings on her fingers, chains, unbuttoned blouse, a whole ass fit that screams “DADDY”

And then there are times where she just pulls up to the grocery store with an “Idgaf” outfit… Yet somehow she still looks hot. Jorts, a black baggy shirt, socks with the damn sandals or crocs combo (ಠ_ಠ)

Has a tongue piercing and you cannot tell me otherwise. If not, it is definitely her nipples.

Dark or alcohol filled chocolates girly. She isn’t a fan of overly sweet stuff.

Once choked on boba balls.

Honestly she can be romantic at times. She takes you to dates often— if not she plans something you two can do at home. Like cook, watch movies, play games or something.

Motorcycle rides with her are very common, more so with the fact that she doesn’t really own a car… Which she did confess that she may or may not be the best at driving.

Who knows how the heck she managed to stay alive with the many incidents she’s had while driving.. I guess she’s immortal.

Has an electric guitar, she posts videos on TikTok playing it and they get pretty high views! Like 406.1k views or something.

Her reposts mainly contain of two things; brain rots, lesbian.

Takes the most silly pictures of you and posts them on her story.

Source ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° .

HAHAHSGSBSGAVAWHABE, IMAGINE HER LAYING DOWN WHILE YOU SIT ON TOP OF HER TO DO HER MAKEUP.

Holds you like a stuffed animal when sleeping. It’s actually so cute but it’s kinda hard to break free from her hold.

YOU GUYS PLAY ROCK, PAPER, SCISSORS, AND WHOEVER LOSES IS IN CHARGE OF COOKING.

Her cooking is actually pretty damn good! I feel like she is especially a specialist when it comes to cooking meat.

If you are too shy to order your food whenever you two are out, or pay, DO NOT WORRY, SHE LITERALLY IS YOUR SAVIOR, NO KIDDING. This woman gives no fucks at all, too shy to order? She’ll do it, hot your order wrong? She’ll go up and tell them.

Have I mentioned she gets up at 5AM just to do pushups?…

The type to randomly smack or grab your ass, she doesn’t care about the size.

I don’t recommend watching romance movies with her… she will cringe at any kissing scenes acting like she wouldn’t or doesn’t do that with you 24/7.

Not the best at dancing… Girl is STIFF.

I have the feeling she is the type to not admit that she is in pain during her period. She will act all tough and all until she can’t anymore.

(We need more comforting the ptn women on their period instead of the other way around, they also need comfort 😔)

Oh yeah did I also mention she was close to breaking your phone once? It all happened when you were scrolling through TikTok and saw a thirst trap (*cough* Rhea Ripley *cough*) and when I tell you grabbed your phone and threw it… IT HAPPENED.

Says she hates kids but has a soft spot for them actually. They remind her of Horo when she was wayyy younger.

Randomly sends you weird TikToks…. Like it’s so random and she says nothing about it.

She isn’t a fan of dresses, but she once tried it for you and it was a sight. It hugged her curves right and she kept flexing her muscles. If you take any pictures she seriously will kill you. (Especially if you send them to her friends).

If you are out she WILL text and call you every 36 minutes if she can’t come with you. And if she is too busy to pick you up she will face time you on your way home.

Has like so many posters of her favorite bands, korn, kiss, Deftones, ect.

Randomly gives you kisses when you least expect it. They are so random, you could be distracted and she will kiss your cheek, or your forehead, or the top of your head.

If she sees anyone eyeing you while in public she will pull you close and give the person a nasty look.

[neoplatinum]

keep it up - chase atlantic | ning 'ningning' yizhou

summary: i care for you, like you care for me

pairing: gf!ningning x reader

themes: fluff, angst, implied substance abuse, professional help, rest of aespa!

wc: 1.0k

pt2 of: VTMNTSCOAT - destroy lonely

you can hear the sound of yizhou learning how to play different riffs on her guitar. it's endearing and warm how hard she's trying to nail this one piece to play it for you.

you think that yizhou would make such a hot rockstar girlfriend, not that you would say it to her face. it would probably inflate her ego too much.

"baby! come eat lunch." yizhou's too into her playing, barely processing that you've said something to her. so you tap her shoulder and her head whips up to look at you. she smiles and takes the guitar off of herself, setting it on the stand.

you both walk to the kitchen, you grab both bowls and place them on the table, as yizhou grabs utensils. and when she sits downs she smiles at you.

"i think i'm going to be able to finish that song by tomorrow." she speaks with pride. you're proud of her, for trying so hard to play the guitar. you grab her hand, squeezing it for encouragement.

yizhou smiles and digs into her bowl of noodles, happily slurping it. you watch and adore how cute she looks, eyes intently watching her noodles, a frustrated expression when the noodles slip through her chopsticks.

--

you think about that night all those months ago, at aeri's party. how heartbroken you both were, feeling a tear in your relationship, wanting so badly to mend it with your own hands. so you tried, getting yizhou professional help. yizhou's been seeing a specialist, getting help with her dependency on drugs. understanding why her mood swings are so dire.

you try and sit in with her most sessions, sometimes yizhou would rather you just sit outside in the waiting room. when you sit outside of the room, you wonder if she'll ever confide in you with what she isn't willing to share. most of all you are just proud she takes each session in stride even if she doesn't want to attend.

it's been a lot of up and downs with her mood swings, but at the end of the day she always tells you how much she loves you. she thanks you for sticking by her. some days she throws things around when she's unstable, when her mood is so off that she can't contain the emotions she's feeling.

other days she completely shuts you out, staying in her room for hours on end with no sound. you get worried at times that she'll completely shut you out but it never lasts for longer than a day.

usually she'll crawl into your room when its so late you're already asleep and cuddle into your side. there have been a few times you wake up when she does it, other times you sleep through the night and wake up with yizhou next to you, probably playing with your hair.

it doesn't matter if she shuts you out or is attached to your hip the whole day, you will always be there as a space for her when she needs it.

you like to take long walks on days where yizhou is out. long walks to really think about your own wellbeing, how being with yizhou impacts you. how her actions can fill you up or let you down.

you talk to yizhou about it sometimes and she listens to you. letting you have the space to speak about your own struggles. you talk about how hurt you were that night when you caught her dancing up on some guy, but thinking it was you the whole time.

you cry into her shoulder as she cries into you. she still loves you, the same way she was when you two started dating. she tries to be more present with you, asking how you are doing as well. taking the time to care for you and pamper you as well.

--

aeri, minjeong, and jimin also visit often, getting little gifts for yizhou that always makes her smile. minjeong sometimes comes over with her guitar and everyone sits to watch them play songs together. you feel a deep warmth in your chest when they smile at each other while they're playing. you're eternally grateful for these girls, that they take the time to care for yizhou just as much as you do.

you talk about it with aeri, minjeong and jimin one day, how much you appreciate them. they all cry at the sight of you breaking down, comforting you when you explain how hard all this has been on you.

--

you've decided to take yizhou to a festival, letting her enjoy her favorite artists. the whole time you've spent enjoying the vibe of the festival and swaying with yizhou while you hug her.

she's lovely at singing, you discover through the festival. that night when you drive home you request that she sings more often. she gets bashful at the comments, but sings to you nonetheless. you think you can hear the sound of love through her voice, it brings you to tears.

some nights when you two are too tired to go out for dates, you enjoy drawing with yizhou, letting her creativity run free. she draws these beautifully intricate pieces depicting her thoughts and feelings about herself, or how frustrated she is with the world. you always take the time to listen to her explain each piece, so she awards you with a kiss after each one.

you can feel yizhou getting better over time, how she's more confident in expressing how she feels to you. there's less of a hesitation to explain to you how she's struggling or even to the other three girls.

yizhou's even convinced you to pick up the drums to accompany her playing, she claims you look extra hot with sweaty hair on your face and especially when you look so into it. you laugh at that because it honestly feels like you look like you're drenched in the rain.

she kisses you senseless when you say that, and she comments. "i can't wait to marry you one day. i hope our kids have your perseverance."

you blush at the compliment, thinking about marrying yizhou one day, and honestly yeah, you think you'll have to do it soon.

--

a/n: this was requested by the lovely @torri77, hope it's enjoyable! friendly reminder that addiction is a very real situation, and this is fiction. as always, stay safe and stay healthy, everyone!

[apothe-roses]

I Wanna Ride

modern Aemond Targaryen x reader

Part 1

Summary: After finally getting your hands on a ‘dragon’, you find yourself needing help with repairs. Enter hot yet rude mechanic Aemond Targaryen

Fic contains: swearing, Aemond beings prick, I think that’s it?

A/N: I’ve been sitting on this fic for weeks and am finally ready to post it. I tried to use the right terminology, but I know fuck-all about biker culture so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Hope you enjoy!

“No fucking way.”

Alysanne Blackwood turns and looks at you, mouth agape. “You actually got one.” You smile back at her, practically vibrating with excitement.

“I know. I didn’t fully believe it myself til I saw her in person.” The ‘her’ in question was a beat-up white motorcycle that was currently sitting in your workshop, but this wasn’t just any old bike. No. This was a dragon. The top of the line. Even non-bikers knew a thing or two about dragons. Made by Targaryen Corp., these beauties were prized for their powerful engines, speed, and endurance. The model you picked up was a Meraxes—one of the earlier models that has since been retired.

“I never thought you’d actually pluck up the nerve to buy a bike for yourself. Much less a dragon.”

“You know I’ve always wanted to learn to ride,” you tell her.

“Yeah, but you never acted on that. Well, ‘til now,” Aly quips.

“I already know more than enough about bikes,” you assert.

“Fixing a dragon and riding one are two completely different things.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t do both.”

“We’ll see,” Aly laughs. You smile back, shoving her playfully.

That had been six months ago. You were so close to being ready, but you'd hit a roadblock in her repairs. No matter what, you just couldn't get the transmission to run the way you wanted it to.

"If you stare at that engine for much longer, it's gonna burst into flames," Alysanne muses. You look over your shoulder and shoot her a glare. She only giggles at you, hopping off the workbench she was sitting on.

"You know, there's nothing wrong with needing help every once in a while," she says.

“I know,” you sigh back. “It’s just…”

“Too stubborn to admit defeat?” she teases.

“No!” you answer back a little too quickly.

“Maybe,” you mutter, turning your gaze towards the floor. “It’s also the money.” Mechanics who worked on older bikes were hard to come by in your area, and the ones that were in the area charged an arm and a leg for their services.

"Listen, I know just the place for you to go. There’s this one place Cregan loves to frequent. He swears up and down they're the best in town. I’ve met the owners several times, and they’re trustworthy. One of them even specializes in older bikes like this gal right here," she pats one of Meraxes's handlebars. That piques your interest. You knew Aly’s boyfriend was a man of his work, so this place must be good if he says so.

“And will this specialist leave me up to my ears in debt?”

“They’re pretty far when it comes to prices for service. Plus, you can always come to me if you’re short a few bucks,” Aly replies, going to grab her phone. You grimace at the thought. You love Aly and appreciate her generosity, but you don’t like the idea of inconveniencing herself to help you (even if she comes from a rich family). Aly walked back over to you, phone in hand.

“Do you want your bike fixed, or are you gonna stay stuck at a dead end for who knows how long?”

You look at her phone, open to the Contacts app, then back at your bike. You let out a sigh.

“What’s the name?”

That's how you found yourself pulling up to Green Auto Shop in the passenger seat of Aly’s pickup truck, your precious Meraxes securely tied down in the back. It was a rather unassuming garage located not far from Blackwater Bay. Alysanne looks over at you from the driver’s seat. "Don't judge a book by its cover," she says, undoing her seatbelt and opening her door.

You scramble to follow her as she walks confidently into one of the garages. You see a pair of legs sticking out from beneath an old car. Music blares in the background mixed with the sound of metal on metal.

"Egg," Aly shouts over the ruckus. "You've got company." The man working under the car slides out, giving Aly a bright smile. You can't help but gape as Aegon fucking Targaryen walks over to greet the two of you. You've heard and seen a lot about the eldest son of Viserys Targaryen. He has quite the reputation for drinking and partying, but the Sunfyre—a model he masterminded—is one of the company's most popular. In all the photos you've seen of him, he always looked sullen and hungover, a far cry from the relaxed and cheerful man before you.

"Aye, it's Cregan's girl, "he greets, wiping his hands off on a dirty rag. His gaze shifts to you, giving a quick once-over. “And who is this?” He asks flirtatiously while sauntering over to you. “Hi, I’m Aegon,” he holds a mostly clean hand out.

“She’s my friend,” Alysanne replies, pushing her way between the two of you. “And she’s here to see your brother, not you. She’s having trouble with her bike and could really use his help.”

Aegon pouts and puts his hand over his heart. “You don’t trust me, Aly? I’m wounded.” He rubs his hands together, walking out to the pickup. “Now let’s see what my little bro’s got to work with.” Without waiting for permission, he hops into the truck bed and whistles at the bike.

“Never thought I’d see a Meraxes in person again. Aem’s gonna have a field day with this beauty.” Aly grabs his pant leg and gives it a tug. “Off,” she orders. He hops back onto the pavement, his hands raised in mock surrender.

“Where is your cryptid brother? It feels like he’s never here,” Aly asks.

“You just missed him. He went to grab lunch,” Aegon responds. “He’ll be gone a while, but we can talk pricing in the office?” He leads the two of you back into the garage, to a small office off to the side. As you feared, the service would be quite expensive, but Aegon set you up with a payment plan. That put you at ease a bit. You’re also worried about the fact that you haven’t met the person who will actually be working on your bike. You voice your concerns to Aly over burgers that evening.

“Aemond isn’t…the best with people, but what he lacks in people skills he makes up for in his work. Cregan claims he’s a miracle worker after he fixed his Direwolf following a gnarly crash,” Aly reaches across the table and gives your hand a squeeze. “Trust me, your baby’s in good hands.”

About a week later, you borrow Aly’s truck to swing by the garage and check on your bike. One of the doors was up, but Aegon was nowhere to be found. You wondered if he left the garage open by mistake, but you could hear noises coming from in the garage.

You tentatively walk to the entrance and peek inside. Your Meraxes was propped in the bay where you’d left it. Someone was kneeling in front of it, clearly at work. His back was turned, so all you could see was his back and the long, silver hair pulled into a bun at the nape of his neck.

So this must be the elusive Aemond. You knew significantly less about him than you did his other siblings. Him attending public events was rare, and taking photos at said events was rarer.

Cryptid indeed.

You take a tentative step into the garage. He doesn’t notice you approaching, completely engrossed by the bike.

���Um, hello,” you say shyly. He goes rigid, the wrench falling from his grasp. He turns to look at you, and your brain shuts down. You fully expected some kind of Quasimodo-looking guy based on how everyone described Aemond. But this man looked like a Greek statue come to life.

From his nose to his cheekbones to even his lips, he was all sharp angles. One of his eyes was covered by a simple black path. The other was a soft blue, almost periwinkle. The coveralls he’s wearing are unzipped down to his navel, showing the dirty white singlet underneath.

“Can I help you?” He asks briskly, rising to his feet and snapping you out of your daze.

You’re taken aback by his bluntness, a far cry from Aegon’s relaxed demeanor.

“Yeah…I’m here to pick up my bike,” you reply, indicating to the bike behind him.

He gives you a small ‘hmm’ and grabs a rag to wipe his hands. Your gaze is drawn to his long, elegant fingers and the prominent veins that trail down from his arms.

“Your transmission clip was loose,” he explains curtly. “Had to replace it.”

He walks over to the bike, swings a leg over, and starts her up. The engine revs without a problem.

“Crazy how something so small can cause such a large problem,” you say. He once again doesn’t respond, only kills the engine and moves away from the bike. An uncomfortable silence falls between the two of you.

“Sooo…how many of these older bikes do you usually—“

“I need to get back to work. You can talk to Aegon about payment and such. He’s in the back,” Aemond interjects, turning and walking away from you. Your mouth falls open, eyebrows raised.

“O-okay. I was just trying to make conversation,” you mutter.

“Well, I Don’t have time to ‘make conversation.’ I’ve got work to do,” he replies, back turned.

“Apparently, you Don’t have time for manners either,” you snap back.

Aemond turns to you. “Excuse m-“

“Hey! What’s going on?” Aegon rushes in from a back room. He smiles, but his eyes glance nervously between the two of you. “I see you’ve met my brother.” Aemond casts his gaze towards the ground, giving yet another ‘hmm.’

Unfortunately, you want to tell him. Instead you say, “I can give you the first payment now.”

“Awesome! Let’s handle that in the office, shall we?” Aegon asks, ushering you away without waiting for a response. Not that you needed to give one; you were more than eager to get away from Aegon’s rude brother. You pay Aegon, then the two of you head back into the garage. Aemond is nowhere to be found. Busy my ass, you think, trying not to grimace.

Together, you and Aegon load your Meraxes into the bed of the pickup. When you're done, you both lean against the side. Aegon turns his head to look at you.

“Sorry ‘bout Aemond. He’s not…the best with people. But he’s wicked good at what he does. This shop wouldn’t be running without him.”

You don’t say anything, only giving a small nod in response.

“Hey, if you’re free this weekend, there’s a meet going on near Visenya’s hill. You should come. It’ll be fun,” he explains with a small smile.”Ask Aly about it. She should know all the details.”

“Alright,” you tell him. “I’ll be there.”

Next Part

[nightmare-in-the-woods]

so about my wife

LEMME TELL YOU ABOUT JONATHAN SIMS he is scared he pretends to be angry he is a hopeless romantic who pretends to be a cynic he clings to his humanity but he dies a god of fear

(more under the cut cause this long and contains spoilers for the end of tma)

his thematic parallel Helen lets go of her humanity very quickly after she distorts while jon clings to his as he becomes an avatar of the eye.Helen even says “I see myself in you” and tries to get him to give into being an avatar, he isn’t human he should stop clinging to that humanity, she let go.

But he doesn’t let go, and Helen hates it. If he could hold onto his humanity while she lost hers so long ago then she had hope, hope that she didn’t even try to see.

Elias Bouchard changes Jon’s character a lot he acts as a puppet master bringing Jon to where the Eye or The Ceaseless Watcher wants Jon to go, having Jon believe he can stop the apocalypse while having Jon start it Elias Bouchard is a liar, and he isn’t even Elias anymore his body was taken over by Jonah Magnus

Jon wants to love but is scared and hides it, he wants to learn but he does not want to feed the eye, he wants to be human but he loses his humanity as the story goes on, he is afraid but he pretends not to believe the truth so that it feels less scary.

As the story progresses and people around Jon die he shuts himself in, opening himself to The Lonely to the point where even if Martin hadn’t become an avatar of The Lonely Jon still would have had a connection to it. Every entity has touched Jonathan Sims at some point in some way, Jon is the Ceaseless Watcher’s specialist boy and yet he is touched by all entities, even the foil of the Eye, the Spiral, the liar, the distortion.

Jonathan Sims has lived through hell literally creating it and walking through the individual hells of each entity.

Jonathan Sims lives in a tragedy and I wish his story wasn’t one but he is such a fascinating character who changes through it all clinging to the last parts of himself and even at the end dying by choice with Martin to still be some semblance of who he used to be.

[imfromthemiddlekingdom]

Felony saying that everyone in the universe can access the force if they tried hard enough makes me want to deck him in his fugly face

He’s ruining all established canon in real time. Speed running the absolute destruction of continuity of the SW universe and people are still rooting for him and his blorbo self inserts like there’s no tomorrow. Literally the whole reason I no longer engage in Ashoka content is because he massacred my girl and made her so one dimensional that my Mary Sue self insert fanfics OCs I wrote when I was 14 looks well developed compared to the absolute bland “girlboss kick ass take names” personality Ashoka has right now.

There were so many opportunities for him to explore the absolute potential of angst and conflict within Ashoka in this new series, to give her character a believable story of grief loss and growth yet he threw it all away because he wanted his OC to be the specialist girl that ever lived. This series could’ve been used to explore Ashokas conflicting feelings regarding the Anakin that taught her and was a mentor to her whilst trying to connect it to the monster that killed her family and hunted her culture into almost extinction and tried to kill her, a person he confessed to love as a sister, on Malachor. It could’ve been a good send off to a great character, to have her face that the Skyguy she put on a pedestal in her mind was in actuality the worst sort of scum and have her try to come to terms that just because she can forgive him for being the genocidal maniac he was and still hold love in her heart for who he used to be and also understand why the Jedi, her family, wasn’t the reason for their own downfall.

But alas. We got another series of “the Jedi caused their own downfall!!! Anakin did nothing wrong ever and him killing all my family and everyone I’ve ever known is so not his fault!!! It’s definitely the fault of the unbending stuck in the past council!!!”. Instead of a series that could’ve made Ashoka’s “departure” (literally never going to happen with felony at the helm, he’s going to find a way to make her immortal and then show up 200 years in the future to be the protagonist of another light v dark fight since she’s his special SI) from the series tie in nicely thematically and canonically with every other Star Wars media we have, he decided that the best way to have this series go down is 1) everyone is force sensitive if they tried hard enough ig and 2) the Jedi were bad!!! Their protocols don’t work! They were mean to my little meow meow Anakin Skywalker the greatest Jedi of all times™️ therefore he got to kill them all!!!!

Got a bit off topic but I’m still so mad that he had this chance to make Ashoka truly experience growth like the first 5 seasons of TCW yet he decided maintaining the badass rebel without a cause aesthetics for her was more important then good story telling.

Honestly though, my main problem with this series is that he decided that apparently everyone in the universe can be force sensitive if they “just tried hard enough”. Like your Midichlorian Count no longer matters since even if you were Force-Null you can still be special!!!!

This takes away any and all urgency in the Jedi Fallen Order games. It makes Cals journey absolutely redundant. It throws away all the tragedy contained in having inquisitors being force sensitive kids kidnapped from their parents and tortured till they give into the dark side. If all beings are able to use the force in his universe then there are no consequences to the inquisitors not finding the Holocron that holds the names to all force sensitive children in the universe. There would be no need to them to chase Cal and the Mantis Crew throughout the universe to obtain what they have. They could’ve just went down to any random level in Coruscant and take homeless Force-Null kids and train them.

Even better! It makes the entirety of the KOTOR games redundant!!!! Oh and I guess the hidden path is also redundant since everyone can be force sensitive and no one truly needs more saving from the empire over others :/ totally not like these kids that were saved by the path would’ve been taken and tortured into inquisitors, definitely not since EVERYONE is force sensitive nowadays or is it just the ones Ashoka trains herself because she’s the “living embodiment of the daughter uwu she’s so special and unique look how well she can train a non force sensitive to be force sensitive!!!”

Everyone in the Star Wars universe has Midichlorian’s in their blood. That is a fact. It is also an established fact that the amount each person has is different and is not determined nor dependent on lineage. Force-Nulls typically range in the 1000-3000 count and you need 7000 to be force sensitive and higher to be accepted into the order. (The order isn’t the end all be all of force cultures, Rouge One shows that Jedha’s force culture isn’t restricted to only force sensitives as the Guardian’s were never specified to be only a religious order of force sensitives. And high canon doesn’t depict many other force cultures but we know that there are many force cultures in the universe that co-exist with the Jedi with which the Jedi weren’t in opposition towards; literally not even the witches of Dathomir were oppositions anywhere outside of the battle fields.) You don’t need to be force sensitive to be part of a force culture (Jedha literally has pilgrims who come far and wide to make a pilgrimage to the holy site and not all of them were force sensitive), Sabine could’ve very easily been taught the tenets of the Jedi without retconning her to be force sensitive or making everyone in the universe force sensitive.

No where in either the EU or High Canon did anyone ever say that you have to be force sensitive to be a badass or to make a difference. Hera did not hold the title of the best pilot in the universe just for some rat of a man to come and say that Anakin was the best because *muh force sensitivity!!!!* Some of the most heroic and most influential (good or bad) people in the franchise are Force-Null! And that’s great! It means that the force doesn’t make anyone better than anyone else! It’s a quirk of the universe! To retcon that everyone can and is force sensitive if they tried hard enough is literally cheapening everything the franchise stands for. Andor did not literally give us an entire story about how Force-Nulls in the Galaxy makes just as much of a difference as force sensitives for felony to come out and say that “you know what??? Midichlorian’s are a scam! You get a force sensitivity! You get a force sensitivity! Everyone gets a force sensitivity!!!!”

Sabine was great as she was in rebels, why cheapen it with “oh she’s actually force sensitive all this time!!!” When we could’ve stuck with badass Force-Null Mandalorian can kick your ass five ways to Sunday with her paint bombs and blasters you force wielding asshole!!! Like why even do that felony. Do you want people to hate her??? Nvm ofc you do, you need Ashoka to be the best in every way possible even if it means ruining every other beloved character in this franchise👍

[catofthecanals289]

all the lights

a maxiel drabble for my beloved @lilyrizzy Happy Birthday, the world is suhc a wonderful place simply for having you in it. I love you so much. (contains medical stuff and mpreg [sort of, it’s complicated])

The answer is no. It was ’no’ twenty minutes ago and it’s still a no now.

Daniel doesn’t want to leave. He is not going to leave, that’s what he told them when they asked for the first time, the second time, but the third –

“Sir,” the nurse or midwife or doctor, Daniel doesn’t know, doesn’t care says, having sat down on the chair next to him. “Surgery will take a bit longer still, you are not missing anything by going up to the unit. But you are missing something by stay here. Please, consider.”

What’s there to consider? Daniel doesn’t ask.

He presses his lips together, tilts his face away, fixing his eyes on a spot on the floor. His leg keeps bouncing, his hands clam and sweaty, grasping each other. His heart hasn’t stopped hammering against his ribs for hours. Not since he woke up to Max’s panicked voice, finding blood between his legs.

Days have passed since that moment, but according to the clock, it’s not even been two hours.

“Sir,” the woman says again, brows drawn together when Daniel glances at her.

“Max’s here. So I’m here,” he says tightly, voice feeling rough, unused.

Has he spoken since they took Max from him? Since they wheeled him into the operating room? Since he called Max’s name, desperate, and Max turned his head, skin pale, eyes wide. He’d opened his mouth but the door had shut before he could.

“And your daughters are upstairs,” the woman pushes.

Daniel –grimacing, eyes squeezed shut- nods. “Yeah, well.”

“They need you.”

“Right.”

He shakes his head, lips pinched together.

“They do.”

“For what?” he looks at her again and he can tell she’s taken aback by his cutting tone, but-

She puts her hand on his shoulder, a small, cautious smile on her lips, eyes almost pleading. “You’re their dad. They need you.”

“I’m- Right, yeah. No. I-” He shakes his head again, leg bouncing, heart racing. He can’t fucking look at her. She must think he’s a terrible person and maybe he is. Maybe he’s been a terrible person throughout this entire pregnancy but- “I need to be here. I need – Max.”

He gestures in the direction of the operating room.

They weren’t ready. This wasn’t supposed to happen. So soon. And not like this.

32 weeks, that was the goal. 32 weeks so the babies would be big enough to not- So they’d be stronger. Their lungs, and- And so much. Daniel listened to the doctors, he swears he’d listened, but- They have a calendar at home at the fridge and just the day before yesterday Daniel crossed off the 28 week mark. They only just-

Max had watched from the bed, directing Daniel, handing him the marker, hand on his bump and he’d told Daniel, when Daniel had counted the weeks that were left and only gotten paler, that everything would be okay. That he was excited to meet them. Their girls. And wasn’t Daniel?

But Daniel is a terrible fucking person and all he wanted, all he wants now, is for Max to be okay.

“We can make a new one,” he’d told Max when they first found out, terrified and confused beyond anything. “We just- Max. Max, c’mon. Please.”

He’d wanted an abortion. They’d told them it was safest. That Max- Max’s body wasn’t made for this. He had the parts, yes and none of them fucking knew until- But his body wasn’t fucking meant to do this. It was dangerous. He could die. None of the do doctors, none, none of the experts and specialist-

But Max had wanted to try, hadn’t wanted to make a new baby through surrogacy, or have one by adoption. He’d wanted this. Their miracle baby, growing inside his body against all odds and logic. And Daniel had nodded and said “okay,” and there were moments where he’d thought he could do this, could be a dad. But he was wrong. He was so fucking wrong. He can’t do any of this. There is still blood on his hands and if Max dies-

“Wouldn’t Max want you to at least go see them?” the woman asks voice even gentler now, and fuck, Daniel has to wipe at his eyes again. “When he gets out of surgery, he’ll want to hear how they are doing.”

“You can tell him,” Daniel croaks, tasting salt on his lips.

He doesn’t know shit anyway. Even if he went to see the girls, he- What does he know? Jack shit. He doesn’t- They don’t even have names yet. They couldn’t decide and now-

“He’ll want to hear it from you,” she insists, and she’s right, but-

“He might fucking die,” he says, trying and failing to smile. “He might not ever hear anything I tell him ever fucking again, so-”

“So all the more reason to,” she cuts him off. “Sir, there really is nothing you can do here right now. But you can do this.”

 He can’t. He really, really can’t. Every step he takes makes him feel more sick. He’s lead through a corridor. A door, another door, another corridor. There are signs and numbers and he can’t read any of them, can’t look at the pictures on the walls a t the people they pass, not that there are many. It’s still- The sun hasn’t even risen yet, it’s not-

“Congratulations, c’mon in,” a woman, smaller than the one before says, kind smile on her lips, paired with her words it feels almost mocking though.

He stares at her and right, they are in front of a door, two names written on colorful cards.

Verstappen 1, Verstappen 2.

“What-” he says, gesturing to the cards.

“Oh, because there weren’t names yet. Or have you picked?” the woman says.

Her name tag ready Hailey, Daniel can’t remember if she told him or when he’s been handed over to her, his head is still spinning and he’s pretty sure he might throw up.

“We- No. We hadn’t- We thought we still had time, I-“

“That’s okay, don’t worry,” she says, offering another smile. “Lots of parents haven’t decided on names yet when it’s baby time. Even if it’s full term pregnancies. Just tell us when you know, yes? Now.” Her smile widens a little. “Would you like to meet your daughters?”

“Just- I need to go back downstairs?” he says, turning to look where- but he doesn’t know. Which direction was he- How is he going to get back? He doesn’t-

There’s the nurses’ station right there, eyes on him, whispers.

“Well, how about we just go in and I introduce you, yeah?” Hailey says, unperturbed. “Now, I need you to take off all jewellery on your arms and hands. Watches, bracelets, rings – that includes wedding rings. Then please wash your hands very thoroughly at the sink and then when your hands are dry disinfect them. This is very important you need to do that every time you come here. No exceptions. We also need to talk quietly. No loud noises in this room please.”

He nods.

She opens the door.

“So, the girls are doing well,” Hailey says, as they walk up to the first of the – the incubators. The lights are dim in the room, but there’s still some sort of blanket over it, but she removes it and then- “This is number 1. She and her sister both need some help breathing still, which is to be expected at 28 weeks. They are also very small for their gestational age, which we assume is due to the conditions, which- Well.”

She smiles, a little awkward now.

The conditions. She means Max’s womb. Max’s hormonal situation. The way the placenta attached, how it couldn’t- Max wasn’t made for this. Or not- Only sort of. Just- It wasn’t ideal. Not for Max or the babies. Just a fucking fuck up from nature and now Daniel is a father and so is Max but Max might die and there is a tiny little creature lying in a plastic box in front of him, stuff strapped to its little face, frail, twig like limbs tucked in close to its body, chest rising and falling so quickly, wires everywhere and-

“So she’s got 725 grams, and her sister is at 680 grams, which-”

“I don’t know what that means, I don’t-” He shakes his head, throat tight, stomach twisting.  

She’s- His- Their girl. She’s- She’s so fucking small, he doesn’t-

“Oh, 25.57 ounces,” Hailey explains. “That’s her. And our little lady over there, she’s got 23.98.”

“That’s-”Again he shakes his head, having to turn around. “That’s too small. That’s not- No. That’s-”

“That is very small, yes,” Hailey allows. “But, sir. Right now they are doing well and we are monitoring them. “They get some help breathing, but thanks to the RDS prophylaxis your- The mo- Your partner received their lungs are doing pretty well. The girls are both breathing on their own. They received surfactant already. No brain bleeds so far, and-”

“Okay, yeah, I- I gotta go back downstairs,” Daniel cuts in. “I’ve got to- Max- My partner, he is still in surgery, so.”

“Oh.” She blinks. “Oh, sure, yes, but, if you- Well, it would be so incredibly beneficial for your babies to get skin to skin contact? It’s- We call it kangaroo care and-”

Daniel laughs, he can’t help it. It’s a shrill, crazy little sound  and before Hailey can say anything there’s a cry.

A tiny, barely there, barely audible cry, coming from behind Daniel. Coming from  - her.

She-

Daniel turns around and there she is, her little miniature face twisted into a grimace, little mouth quivering and the sound she makes- IT shatters his heart-

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, love,” he whispers quickly, desperately, hands flying, helpless in front of the plastic wall. “I’m- Shit. What-  Just- Because I’m Australian, I was-”

He looks at Hailey, terrified. She needs to do something, she needs- His little girl is crying. She’s crying and she’s just so small.

“It’s okay, you just startled her,” Hailey says softly. “The loud noise. It’s okay. We’ll just- You know she is still adapting. She’s not- We always say they need a little bit, to truly arrive, you know? To the world? Everything is so much for them. The noise, the light, everything. So we try our best to shield them, but positive stimulation is just as important as shielding them from negative one. And part of that is skin to skin. It’s- She needs you, sir. They both do.”

She’s still crying. It’s a pitiful little sound, not like the baby cries Daniel remembers form Isaac or Izzy or Leo.

“But Max-”

“Labor and delivery will call us,” Hailey says. “They’ll inform us and we’ll inform you. I promise. Now, please. It’s really, really so important for your babies. ”

 She tells him to take off his shirt. She puts him in a chair that reminds Daniel of a sun lounger except he’s not getting a tan. His heart is beating out of his chest. He’s lying there shirtless and terrified and Hailey and another nurse who introduced herself as Abby hand him tubes and wires and then- then There’s first one baby on his chest and then another. Two tiny little creatures. They tell him to hold him. Put his hands on their backs as they sort out the wires and tubes and everything and his fucking- One of his finger is bigger and longer than each of their legs and their hands-

“Are they- Is this-” This can’t be right. This can’t be- They are too small for him to hold, to lie on his chest and be covered by towels. They fucking- There’s a heating lamp, they need- “Shouldn’t they go back in the boxes?”

„The incubators?“ Abby asks, frowning. “Oh, no, not his is best for them. Skin to skin. With mom. Or dad. It’s the best for them really. Helps them stabilize their temperature and heartrate, breathing, everything.”

“Yeah, but-”

Daniel feels so helpless, useless. He’s just- He’s nothing, no one. He just- They don’t even know him. They grew inside Max, they know him, his heartbeat, his voice, Daniel just-

“They know your voice too,” Hailey says, almost like she’s read his mind. “So you can talk to them quietly. Sooth them if they need it.”

But they don’t. They are both quiet now. Both just there where the nurses put them on Daniel’s chest, bellies down, heads tilted towards each other, little hands on Daniel’s skin, it’s- It might be the most surreal thing Daniel has ever experienced. Three hours ago it was just him and Max in bed together and now he’s alone in a hospital room with their daughters and Max-

“Can you call?” he asks, keeping his voice low, despite its tremble. “Down to- Ask how he’s doing? Max? He-”

“Of course.”

 Two hours pass before the door opens again and it’s not just Hailey or Abby, but both of them as well as two other people in scrubs and a bed. A bed with Max inside and a number of things attached. IV pumps and stuff, Daniel thinks, but he has no eyes for any of that. Just Max. Max who seems to barely be able to tilt his head, looking around, looking for-

“Max,” Daniel croaks and on his chest one of the babies splays her fingers, almost making him choke up again. “Maxy, hey. Hi. How-”

“I’m okay,” Max croaks, voice hoarse and barely there, probably because of the tube they had shoved down his throat for surgery.

“He lost a lot of blood,” someone Daniel doesn’t know says. “And we are admitting him to the ICU so this is just for ten minutes tops, I’m sorry, but-”

“Let’s just sort this,” Hailey cuts in, smile on her face.

There’s a flurry of motion then, pushing around of equipment, adjusting tubes, wires, everything and it seems like a whole lot of work but Daniel doesn’t care because by the end of it they have somehow managed to fit Max’s bed next to the chair Daniel is in, the tubes of baby 2 sort of half under Max’s pillow who looks even paler than before, exhausted and only half awake.

“Hi,” he says, and his hand-

“I can’t,” Daniel whispers. It kills him not to reach out, not to take Max’s hand, but. “I got-”

“Oh,” May blinks and then Abby leans over pulling back the towels a bit so Max can see the girls. “They are so little.”

“Yeah.” Daniel nods, but he manages half a smile, tears gathering in his eyes again. “They are. and they’d really like names, I think. And meet their papa.”

“Oh,” Max says again. “Hi, babies. It is your papa.”

[the-perverse-library]

(Stranded Astronaut AU, Size Difference, Monster-folk)

Stranded after an unfortunate ship crash and armed with only a pistol and combat knife, how does Jaune (Dense and Jumpy but an Optimist) often react when he runs into the ‘locals’ of the planet.

Jaune: “Log entry #1: Locals. Honestly, where do I even begin with the locals on this planet? They look similar to humans but with additional animal like appendages or greater physical capabilities. They also vary in height as well, either being slightly taller than an average human to being twice the size of them. Who knows just how far their genetics have advanced to reach such adaptations.” *He turns around after hearing a knock at the door.* “Huh, who could that be? Gonna have to end the log here, need to see who’s at the door. This is Security Specialist Jaune Arc of the UNE Research Vessel UNS Intrepid, signing off.” *He then stops the recording before grabbing his handgun and walking over to the door.*

(If you weren’t expecting a story, then that’s my bad, I just really like to put context into something before I ask it? It also helps me to set the scene of something I want to ask as well.)

The moment he opened the door, Jaune was attacked by a wall of firm muscle, scales, and soft titflesh. The lost astronaut fell onto his back, staring up at the blonde she-dragon standing in the doorway to his living quarters. He was aware of the alien; she was merely one of the many native inhabitants that Jaune had encountered. Jaune was stunned silent. It was one thing to observe the Faunus from his base, but it was another thing entirely to have one loom over him.

"H-hi Yang." Jaune stuttered out the she-dragon's name. The blonde bombshell left Jaune completely nervous, and he had every right to be. Yang was as massive as he had noted in his observations and recordings. If his readings were to scale, he was barely half her size! Jaune took a big gulp as he slowly pulled himself to his feet.

Yang just beamed down at him with a mischievous grin, sunlight forming a halo around her thick scales, tail, and wings. "Hey there, mister space man," Yang purred as she rested her hands on her hips. "I heard from a delightful kitsune and a very strong-willed Snow Faerie you were interested in understanding our cultures on a more... intimate level." Yang finished with a soft moan as she ran her tongue over her lips.

Jaune was transfixed. It had been true that he had been discussing culture with Pyrrha and Weiss the weeks prior. Both Kitsune and Fae culture are steeped in traditions that left him feeling baffled beyond belief. But... something told Jaune that that blonde giantess wearing a wispy tank top struggling to contain her jiggling bust and a thin, black thong might not be about to extol the rich oral histories of the Draconids to him. "I-I have been i-interviewing some people. T-to help further u-ummm... diplomatic relations! Yeah, to build further diplomatic relations between Earth and here!" Jaune meekly offered as he tried to keep his eyes focused on just Yang's eyes. "Learning more w-would allow me to be integral in a-any partnership between our peoples."

His words only made her smile grow as Yang inched toward him. "Oh, I plan to make sure you never forget our ~partnership~, mister space man." The she-dragon coyly remarked before pulling Jaune's face flush against her black leather thong. Jaune could feel Yang's tail coil around his leg, teasing and massaging his throbbing bulge as she ground against his face. "Oh my~! No wonder Weisscream and Pyr-Pyr loved "exchanging culture" with you. You just have so much to give!" Yang excitedly teased him before the draconid tore Jaune out of his uniform.

"Director! Director, we have a transmission from the downed vessel. Yes, the UNE Research Vessel UNS Intrepid." A scientist remarked as they caught a transmitter signal. "I-it's a lot of data, almost like someone is recording and transmitting live data." The scientist turned to director Goodwitch who gave a curt nod.

"Play the footage; if nothing else, we can locate the Intrepid and Security Specialist Jaune Arc." Goodwitch remarked with a solemn tone.

The team set to work and cleaned up the signal before synchronising their system with the transmission signal from the downed vessel. The gargantuan monitor before them crackled to life, giving the entire research and development branch of the UNS a front-row seat of Jaune Arc, nude and mewling as a blonde giantess straddled him. They watched the winged alien lock the security officer in the Amazon Pose as she slammed herself down onto his cock over and over again. "~Oooh fuck yeah~! Pump all your culture deep into my pussy! J-just like that! Oooh fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!!!" The blonde alien chanted as she thrusted down harder and faster, making her entire body jiggle and quake with every thunderous slam of her hips against his.

The UNS R&D division watched as the she-dragon ravaged and lavished Jaune with her body, forcing the security officer to cum until his seed was spilling and oozing out of her quivering slit. They watched her bury him in her tits, hammering her massive melons up and down his throbbing cock until her face was covered in a thin glaze of cum. The wild, lustful alien only stopped when Jaune finally passed out from a mix of pleasure and exhaustion. The alien took her time cleaning her face, slurping up every rogue strand of semen she could before turning and winking to the camera.

"Hehehe, I hope you enjoyed the show. We'll be sure to send you more of these "educational" and "culturally rich" videos in future." Yang teasingly remarked. "Once I tell everyone just what Jaune's packing, every Faunus on this planet is gonna want to "exchange culture" with him."

[rambleonwaywardson]

Clegan Astronaut AU - Part 3

Masterpost

AU Summary: the boys as modern day NASA astronauts. Taking place in 2025, Bucky is about to head to the moon as mission commander of Artemis III while Buck is back-up commander and CAPCOM at NASA. Established relationship (obnoxiously in love).

Author's Note: Uh oh, the chapters are getting longer. Hope y'all will stick with me because I have plans for these boys. Heads up, this chapter does contain some expressions of homophobia. Also there's no new terms that I think need defining here, but I'm thinking of creating a term definition post for those I've already used.

--

‘John Egan and Alex Jefferson to make history as first queer and black representation on the moon’ 

‘Artemis III crew ready for liftoff in one month’

‘So three bachelors and a homosexual walk into a bar, er, a rocket…’

‘NASA targeting November 6  launch’

‘NASA’s diversity campaign’

‘What having a gay man in the space program means for the future of America’

‘NASA press conference gets heated after probing sexuality questions’

‘Biddick goes after reporter to defend fellow astronaut’

–

September 30, 2025

Johnson Space Center, Houston, TX

As NASA’s Artemis Public Affairs Officer, it is Marjorie Spencer’s job to relay information about the Artemis program to the public as well as to coordinate press events between the media and the crew and/or mission control. As Public Affairs Officer, it’s her job to wrangle a bunch of rowdy astronauts and convince them to play nice with the press, even when the press doesn’t play nice with them. With this particular crew, it can, often, be like wrangling a bunch of rambunctious, highly opinionated, and incredibly stubborn teenage boys. Or a bunch of selectively trained dogs whose selective training just happens to be whatever they feel like remembering in the moment.

A lot of people don’t truly appreciate how, as Public Affairs Officer, it is Marge’s job to make these boys – ahem, grown men – look presentable to the public when behind the scenes they are the bane of her existence. In the most loving way possible.

Public Affairs Officer, however, is only one of her jobs.

As Best Friend, her job often includes the emotional damage control that flies high above a PAO’s paygrade. 

As she finishes up welcoming a room full of reporters to Johnson Space Center, she reminds them that this will be the last press conference that the astronauts will take part in before starting their pre-launch quarantine process in just a few weeks. They will have another pre-launch press conference while in quarantine a couple of days before they board the Orion crew capsule, before they strap themselves to the top of NASA’s most powerful rocket ever created.

“Please welcome NASA’s Artemis 3 crew,” Marge says smoothly. “Major John Egan, mission commander. First Lieutenant Curtis Biddick, lunar module pilot. Dr. Robert Rosenthal, crew physician. Alexander Jefferson, mission specialist.”

One by one, the crew members, dressed in their NASA flight suits, walk up onto the small stage at the front and take their seats behind the table, which is emblazoned with the NASA logo. They each have a gold astronaut pin on their flight suit collars, signifying the fact that they have already successfully flown in space. These four men are some of the most qualified people currently in the space program, and they were hand-selected two years ago to fly this mission. Together, they have logged nearly 1,000 hours of training for Artemis 3, including crew module sims, lunar module sims, zero-gravity EVAs in the neutral buoyancy tank, and lunar terrain sims. In five weeks, that training will be put to use for the chance to put the next human footprints on the moon.

At first, the questions are typical, what the crew is prepared for. They’ve been answering similar questions through much of the training process. How does it feel to be going to the moon? What will each of their roles be on the mission? What kind of training have they been doing? Do they feel prepared? What does it mean for each of them to be on this mission? What do they think it means for the general public and for the future of science? For the space program? For Bucky and Curt, how does it feel to be the first men since the 70s to step foot on lunar soil?

The crew answers them all genuinely and professionally. They joke with the reporters, a trait that has made them endearing to much of the public. They wax poetic about flying to the moon and how they’ve all dreamed about it, how they’re honored to be a part of something so grand, what they hope it will symbolize for people all over the world. They say exactly what the reporters, and the public, generally want to hear. 

Until they can’t. Because at some point, no matter what you say, to someone somewhere it will never be right. 

To be honest, Bucky often stops listening to the reporters names and affiliations during these things. So he isn’t sure who asks this question, but he perks up when the man says “This question is for John Egan.” Bucky nods and the man goes on. “This crew has become well-known for being a crew of young bachelors, except for you. You’re getting married in just a couple weeks, correct? To Major Gale Cleven, also a NASA astronaut.”

Bucky nods again. “Yes, that’s correct.” 

“Do you or Major Cleven have any concerns about you going to the moon just days after the big day?”

Bucky smirks. “Well, which big day are you referring to? The wedding or the launch?”

The reporters in the room chuckle quietly. “The wedding,” the man says.

Bucky tries not to roll his eyes. You get married and suddenly it doesn’t matter that both spouses have been professional and highly trained adrenaline junkies for years before this. “Of course, there’s always concerns when it comes to hurling yourself off of a planet,” he replies. “But Gale and I have been through this together, more than once. We know the risks, and we support each other 100%. The only thing that will be different is I’ll have a wedding ring with me.”

As reporters clamor to get the next question, Marge points and a woman stands up, introducing herself. “Major Egan,” she starts. Two in a row. Bucky clenches his jaw, worried he knows where this press conference is about to go. “How do you think coming out as a member of the LGBTQ+ community affected your role within NASA and within the Artemis program?”

Bucky takes a quiet but deep breath. “My sexuality has never been a secret,” he answers. At least, it hasn’t been since high school. And yet the media still aren’t comfortable with words like gay or homosexual or queer or even LGBT. When they do say these words, it’s almost hushed, like it’s something terrible. “It wasn’t a secret when I flew on the ISS two years ago, and it isn’t now. My qualifications and experience, I think, speak for themselves as to why I am on this mission.”

“Do you consider yourself a role model for the queer youth of today?” Someone jumps in.

Bucky hears Curt stifle a laugh beside him, and he almost smiles himself. “I’m not trying to be any sort of role model or anything,” he says honestly. “God knows you could find better than me. But I am an Air Force pilot, I am an astronaut, I am an engineer, and yes, I am also going to marry a man next month. And that man has been the love of my life for over a decade. So if those facts can somehow align to give others the opportunity to dream, to believe in themselves and in a better future, then I’m glad.” He glances over at Marge, who looks a little wary of where things are heading, but she gives him a thumbs up for his answer.

“So this isn’t just a publicity stunt in NASA’s diversity agenda?” another reporter asks. At the same time, someone throws their hand up and says “what kind of message is NASA trying to send by putting you on this mission?” 

The questions and excited mumbling of other reporters jumble into some cacophony of muddled sound, and Bucky bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something out of line. Because as a public figure, anything he says now will be ‘out of line.’

Another reporter stands up, unbidden, before he can even think of an appropriate answer to either of the questions he was able to hear. “For the rest of the crew,” he calls out, before Marge can direct him to take his seat. “How do you feel about having a gay man in the spacecraft with you?”

Bucky can taste blood as he bites down harder. Marge steps up on stage in a hurry, saying something about that being enough questions about Major Egan’s personal life, and any further questions should be directly mission related.

But Curt has already moved to stand up, and Rosie and John simultaneously reach out from either side to push him back down. Alex leans forward at the other end of the table, intent on putting that question to rest with a facial expression that is as close to a glare as can be managed without getting called out for being ‘unfriendly’ by the media. “This crew is like family,” he states with an overwhelmingly exaggerated sense of calm. “John is one of the best pilots NASA has. We are all proud to call him our friend and our commander.”

Marge, now standing firmly next to Alex at the end of the table so she can moderate more directly, nods at him in approval. As she moves to select someone for the next question, though, one of the reporters near the front scoffs and not-so-subtly mumbles something under his breath that leaves Bucky dazed, his ears ringing. Next thing he knows, Curt’s chair is clattering backwards as he shoots to his feet – “What did you say? What the fuck did you say!” Rosie is holding him back from jumping the table with all of his grip strength, and the newsroom is erupting in shouts from the reporters. Questions and insults fly across the room, directed at one another and at Bucky, too. He just sits there quietly, his elbows on the table and his chin resting on his folded hands, letting the words slap him in the face and settle like stones in his chest. He forces himself to stop biting down on his cheek, and watches numbly as security barges into the frenzied crowd to begin escorting reporters out of the room.

When Rosie finally releases his grip, Curt grabs his chair and sits back down with an angry grunt, shaking his head. “Stupid fucks,” he mutters. Marge ends the press conference after that.

As the room is cleared, the crew is shuffled out of the newsroom and into Marge’s office down the hall. She sighs and puts her head in her hand, pacing the room, her heels clacking methodically on the tile. The men stand quietly in a line, looking anywhere but at each other. Finally, Marge takes a deep breath and looks them each in the eye. “Well,” she says. “That could have been… well. That was bad. Okay, that was bad.” She looks at Bucky. “You did great, John. Thank you for how you handled that. I’m so sorry. We’ll figure out a way to handle this better for your pre-launch press conference.”

Bucky just nods. “Yeah,” he says distantly. “Yeah, no big deal.”

If we’re lucky the fag will die up there.

“It’s a big fucking deal,” Curt mutters angrily. They’re used to this kind of thing by now; between John, a gay man, and Alex, a black man, the crew has become overwhelmingly and depressingly aware that the world has not yet changed quite enough to escape derision over difference being normal, over people existing outside the boxes that society has designed. They deal with it, they move on, they do their job. But today was more… well, it was just more than usual. Like the closer they get to launch, the more the media is concerned about all the wrong things. And the more comfortable they are with voicing it. 

“It’s fine,” Bucky insists. “Nothing that I haven’t heard before, really.” He can hear it in his own voice, though: He isn’t sure how much he believes himself.

If we’re lucky…

Rosie pats him on the shoulder. “Like Alex said, we’re family. We’ve got your back, and we won’t tolerate this shit.” Bucky tries to give a little half smile. 

…the fag will die up there. 

Marge nods and checks their schedule on her tablet. “Let’s, um, let’s all take a breather, okay? We don’t have any major press engagements until right before launch.” She looks up at them, and she fights a frown when she sees the varying states of anger, frustration, and dejection on their faces. She knows it’s not her fault, but it’s her job to coordinate and moderate these events. She tries to smile reassuringly instead. “I’ll work with each of you on your own interviews and media appearances over the next few weeks, but I need you boys to focus on the mission. I’ll take care of addressing how this conference ended, and I’ll work with public relations to make sure we can avoid things getting out of hand in the future.” She knows she has a strongly worded email from the director of the human spaceflight program – or possibly even an impromptu meeting – coming her way any minute. She has to work out how to tidy up this mess, but it can’t be her priority at the moment.

She hugs Alex, Rosie, and Curt as they exit her office. Then she looks at Bucky, who has barely moved at all. “Hey,” she says, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

He glances up at her before looking back at his shoes. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

Bucky shrugs, but doesn’t answer for a long, long moment. “I should be,” he finally sighs. “I’m used to it, really. It’s been the same since my astronaut candidacy was announced. Hell, it’s been the same my whole life.” He scoffs. “I don’t know. It just feels… worse somehow, this time.”

He looks up at Marge again, and Marge feels her chest tighten at the tired sadness in his eyes. Even the toughest men she knows have never been bullet proof. She pulls him into her arms and lets him hold on for as long as he needs as he tries to keep himself together. 

If we’re lucky…

“You’re one of our best,” she tells him quietly as she rubs his back. “Anyone who says otherwise is wrong.”

“I know,” Bucky says, but his voice chokes on the words. “I…” He holds onto her tighter, and he can’t bring himself to say anything else. 

If we’re lucky…

When he lets go, Marge squeezes his arm. Her assistant knocks on the door then, here to tell her that Neil Harding, the director of the human spaceflight program, wants to see her in his office. She thanks the woman and takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she tells Bucky. “I’m going to work on cleaning up this mess. But once I do, I’ll meet you at yours for some good old fashioned damage control.” Damage control meaning drinks, snacks, and general mayhem. Bucky kisses her on the cheek, thanks her, and watches her strut out of the room, off to fulfill her third role: certified badass.

–

Just minutes after Marge leaves Neil Harding’s office, Gale finds himself outside the very same door, wondering why he’s been summoned out of the blue in the middle of his work day. He’s greeted by a woman who he hasn’t seen in years, looking as prim and proper as ever even in her European Space Agency flight suit.

“Sandra?” He asks. 

She turns around and smiles politely at him, that charming and yet almost disarming way she always does. “Gale! Wow, it’s been some time hasn’t it?”

Gale nods, but eyes her carefully in confusion. “Sure has. Nice to see you again.”

Sandra looks unphased though, exactly as he would expect her to. This woman could be faced with a dead body or three or ten – and probably has been – and wouldn’t bat an eye. She is, perhaps, the strongest woman Gale knows, and NASA really is full of strong women. “How are you?” she asks. “And how’s John? Or, Bucky I believe is what people call him around here. You Americans and your funny nicknames.”

“Good, good,” Gale says. “He’s going up on Artemis 3 in November.”

Sandra puts a hand on his shoulder and almost looks… sad? “Oh I know. It’s all the buzz, isn’t it?”

Gale arches an eyebrow, not quite sure what she’s getting at. Before he can say anything, though, the door to Neil’s office opens and the man himself is ushering them inside. 

“Gale! Sandra! We have a lot to cover so get on in here.”

–

When Marge finally lets herself into Buck and Bucky’s home with a spare key, armed with ice cream and alcohol, she stops short as she walks into the living room. She leans against the doorframe, one hand on her hip and the other holding the groceries. It’s only 4pm and Bucky, who went home early after the whole fiasco with the media, is slouched down low in the middle of the couch, bundled in an old Yankees sweatshirt with Pepper curled up at his side, her head in his lap. The news is on, a clip from their press conference earlier. A reporter is talking in depth about the incident, and the entire “controversy” over NASA’s “agenda.” As he watches, he doom-scrolls on his phone, and Marge knows he’s digging himself into a deep, deep hole filled with social media comments. His eyes are red, but his face is dry.

“John,” Marge says. He looks up at her and smiles weakly. She motions towards the TV, where the reporter is now reading an official statement from NASA, saying that the organization supports Major John Egan and the entirety of the Artemis 3 crew 100%; that the crew was selected based on merit and capability; that each member has been extensively trained and has shown that they are highly qualified and prepared for a lunar mission; and that NASA stands by all of their astronauts and employees, regardless of identity, and will not tolerate attacks of any kind such as those that occurred today. 

Bucky watches the report blankly before shifting his eyes over to Marge. She sighs before walking over to the coffee table, where she sets down the bag of groceries and picks up the remote. The TV clicks off. “Enough of that,” she says. When she collapses down next to Bucky and Pepper on the couch, she peeks over at his phone. Social media comments, sure enough. Supportive and detrimental both. She plucks the phone from his hand and turns it off, placing it face down on the coffee table. “And enough of that.”

John just stares at it on the tabletop, idly stroking Pepper’s ears. He won’t look at Marge, so she reaches over across Pepper and places a hand on his shoulder. “John, look at me.”

He does, and he takes a deep, shaky breath. He opens his mouth to speak but closes it again, biting down on the inside of his lip. Pepper licks his hand. He takes another breath and looks Marge right in the eye. “There’s death threats,” he says. When Marge just frowns, he rubs a hand over his face. “For me. And for Gale. Not many, thank God, but they’re there. I read them.” 

“Oh honey,” Marge says sadly. She gets up to switch to his other side, so she can wrap her arms around him properly. He lets himself settle into the embrace and closes his eyes, letting his most trusted friend ground him on one side and his dog on the other. 

“Thank you for issuing that statement,” he mumbles. 

Marge lays her head on top of his. “Harding wants to talk to you tomorrow, and he wanted me to tell you that the human space flight program fully supports you and always has. I think he wanted to give you some space today. Once you’re up for it, we’ll bring the whole crew in to discuss how to handle this in the future.” Bucky gives a small nod of acknowledgement. “You know it’s not really about you, right?” Marge asks. “Those things that people are saying. It’s entirely about them. None of them know you, and no one can, in any meaningful way, deny that you belong on this mission. This is about their own problems and their own prejudices. You,” she squeezes him harder, “have done everything right.”

Bucky is silent for a long time, until finally he says, “I don’t really want to talk about it right now.”

“Alright,” Marge says easily. She leans away and looks at him, grinning. “Time for some damage control.”

–

By 6:30pm, Gale can’t get the door of their house open fast enough. He hasn’t heard from Bucky all day and needs to tell him about the meeting with Harding. When he gets inside, though, he’s greeted by loud music pumping through their stereo speakers. As he walks into the living room, he takes in the sight of half empty cocktail glasses and beer bottles, open ice cream cartons and abandoned spoons, a bag of chips and a plate of fruit, and the throw pillows strewn all over the floor. He pauses in his tracks, staring at the carnage as his excitement drains rapidly from his body. 

Damage Control. 

Fuck. 

Pepper runs out of the kitchen to greet him, tail wagging so hard her whole body goes with it. Gale tilts his head and smiles at her. Throwing his keys on the coffee table next to Bucky’s abandoned phone, he crouches down and scratches under Pepper’s collar. “What happened, Pep?” He asks her. 

She just bumps his hand with her wet nose and spins around once before trotting off back to the kitchen. He follows her tentatively and peeks through the kitchen doorway, where Bucky is sitting on the counter while Marge stands, leaning back against the center island across from him. There’s flour and dirty cooking utensils everywhere, and it smells like tomato sauce. 

Marge looks down at Pep and then up at Gale. “Hey there,” she says. 

They’ve been laughing and singing and dancing all evening, but when Bucky looks up and sees the hesitant half smile on Gale’s face, the furrow in his brow, he knows Gale has already figured out that something is wrong anyways. The smile falls from Bucky’s face at the same time it falls from Gale’s. “Buck,” he says, but it barely pushes past his throat as a whisper. 

“What’s wrong?” Gale asks. He looks from Bucky to Marge and back. “John?”

Bucky shrugs and averts his eyes, watching Pepper instead as she flops down dramatically on the tile floor. “I’m fine,” he says. 

“Come on, John,” Gale sighs. But Bucky won’t look at him, so Gale looks at Marge instead. 

She brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Some things were said at the press conference today,” she supplies. “We had to end it early, with security pulling some reporters from the room.”

Gale frowns. “What kind of things?”

“Mostly about John’s sexuality. And your relationship. They were pretty innocent at first, but-“

“If we’re lucky the fag will die up there,” Bucky bites out. Gale feels frozen in place. He blinks, shoves his hands in his pockets, takes them out again. “There’s been worse online,” Bucky adds. 

“John,” Gale says quietly. He steps forward, one hand outstretched, but he stops short when Bucky crosses his arms protectively over his chest. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Bucky says, ducking his head. They both know that’s not true. ‘Damage Control’ isn’t for things that aren’t a big deal. Bucky shrugs. “At least, it shouldn’t be a big deal. Hey, I’m used to it right? I just gotta keep on going.” He laughs bitterly, but when he looks up at Gale, the hurt on the other man’s face squeezes his chest all funny and he looks away again. Then there’s a warm arm around his back, a hand on the back of his head. He feels Gale standing in front of him, and he lets his head fall forward to rest against his. Slowly, he lifts his arms to wrap around his fiancé, and he grips the fabric of his shirt in white-knuckled, shaking hands. 

After a couple of long, silent minutes, nothing but their careful breathing passing in the air between them, Bucky takes a deep breath. “Wow, way to put a damper on this little party, huh? Let’s uh, let’s go back to the part where I don’t have to think about this tonight.”

They both know they’ll have to talk about this later, but Gale nods and lets go. Bucky grabs tightly to his hand, though, wanting a tether to stop this feeling of drifting away. 

Marge motions for them to go back out to the living room. “Pizza in the oven. I’ll bring it out in a minute.”

When she does eventually follow them into the living room, carrying a tray of pizza, she walks in on them dancing in the middle of the room to “Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis as it plays over the speakers. Bucky smoothly twirls Gale around before pulling him close again, and Marge is, not for the first time, in awe of the pure adoration that passes between the two of them. “Shouldn’t you save your first dance song for your actual wedding night?” she asks as she sets the pizza on the coffee table next to Bucky’s phone, still upside down, and Gale’s keys. 

They slow to a stop and look at her. Bucky shrugs. “Gotta practice so I don’t trip over myself and embarrass my bride.” 

Gale blushes and half-heartedly mumbles “stop calling me that.” 

Bucky grins. “What? My bride?” He gently pulls Gale down onto the couch with him, wrapping an arm around his waist and kissing him on the temple. “But I love the way it makes you blush.”

Marge gags dramatically and tells them to eat their pizza. 

As they’re polishing it off, even giving Pepper her own little piece, Gale licks his fingers and says nonchalantly, “I have some news.”

When he doesn’t go on, Marge rolls her eyes. “Care to share with the class?”

Gale is quiet for a second, but then a grin spreads across his face as he looks at both of them. “I’m going to the moon earlier than we thought. Artemis 4.”

Bucky jumps up so fast he bangs a knee hard on the table and Marge has to lunge forward to keep the pizza tray from falling to the floor. Pepper jumps up in alarm as Bucky spins to face Gale, ignoring the pain shooting through his leg. “You’ve been home for-“ he checks the clock on the wall. “An hour! And you didn’t say anything until NOW?”

Gale shrugs sheepishly. “There were more important things-“

“No!” Bucky cries. “No… Wait. How in hell did you get yourself onto the A4 roster?”

Artemis 4 is planned to launch in just over a year. Crew selection had been made months ago. Gale rubs the back of his neck. “Well, the two ESA astronauts that were supposed to go got bumped cause of health concerns. ESA was able to put in one other astronaut, but NASA wanted a more experienced pilot in the lander. Harding called me in today.”

“Gale, that’s amazing!” Marge says, crawling across the couch to hug him tight. “Oh my god, this is so amazing. Congratulations!” She’s in part already thinking about the press coordination and social media posting that this necessitates, but holy shit that can wait for now.

When she pulls away, Bucky reaches down and wraps his arms around Gale’s middle, pulling him up from the couch and spinning him around. Then he kisses him hard and spins him again, Gale laughing as he yells for Bucky to set him down. “What!” Bucky exclaims. “You gotta get used to being helpless in the air again, you’re going to the moon!”

Gale rolls his eyes as Bucky sets him down. “Who did ESA toss into the thick of it?” Bucky asks. 

“Sandra Westgate.” Gale raises an eyebrow as he says this, watching for Bucky’s reaction. 

It’s Marge, though, that jumps in as Bucky tries to process that. “No way, Croz’s old flame?”

“Yep.”

Bucky shakes his head, trying not to laugh. Harry Crosby, Houston’s best flight dynamics officer, had spent a hot summer a few years back – before he and his now-wife Jean got back together after a bit of a break – gallivanting about town with Sandra Westgate. She’s top class, one of the best astronauts in the European Space Agency. Gale is lucky to be flying with her, really. But damn. “Does… does Croz know?” 

Gale nods, chuckling. “Yeah, he knows. Saw him gaping at her like a fish as I showed her around this afternoon. They’ve both moved on, but…”

“Awkward,” Marge cringes. 

“She’ll be sticking around Houston for the next year, starting in a couple weeks,” Gale explains. “To train with us.”

“Plenty of time to un-move on,” Bucky muses. 

Marge throws a pillow at him, but he dodges it and watches as it crashes into a fake plant in the corner of the room. “Don’t say that!” Marge reprimands. “Croz and Jean are very happy together you ass.”

Bucky shrugs. “Sorry.” He looks at Gale, who is still standing facing him. “Now don’t you go getting any ideas either. Sandra’s a strong and lovely woman.”

Gale cups the back of Bucky’s neck and kisses him softly. “I would never,” he whispers, before he falls back onto the couch. Bucky collapses next to him, grabbing Gale’s hand again so he can fiddle with his fingers. 

They look at each other, and Bucky presses his lips to Gale’s knuckles. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m proud of you, too.”

Marge takes one last bite of pizza. “It’s sickening how in love you two are.”

Gale smiles shyly. “Always have been.”

Bucky smiles back at him, but too many thoughts are swirling around in his head, and he feels the words choke and fizzle on his tongue.

…

Part 4

[franklinfinley]

Hey! I'm Franklin, he/they. First year student at Naranja Academy, but I've been through several Gym Circuts for 7 years at this point. The Treasure Hunt is well underway, and things are looking great! I'm a ghost and fire type specialist, as well as a general Drowzee/Hypno specialist LOL

MY CURRENT TEAM:

Koraidon: a strange form of Cyclizar given to me by my friend Arven, originally owned by his mother Professor Sada. He prefers not to battle, but he will if he needs to. He maily loves acting as a riding mount and food-stealer >:P

Lullay: my service Hypno and first partner Pokemon. We've been a duo for 14 years now! She doesn't primarily battle, she mostly helps with my anxiety and insomnia. She steps up for defense if we need it, though.

Tabasco: my Skeledirge and chosen starter for Naranja Academy! He's a little scrapper and eager to prove himself in a fight, and just as eager to sit back, sing his little songs, and eat all my oranges. Little orange heathen even as he grows up

Sparky: my Luxray! He's a bundle of energy and a reckless battler. He loves nothing more than getting to flaunt his stuff and also wail and cry and flail his fists on the ground when he loses

Sushi: my Curly Tatsugiri, and an odd quiet fellow. He likes splashing water on the other teammates for funny pranks and curling up in my collar or hair. That being said, he is a FIERCE battler. Honestly kinda scary with what he can pull off from such a tiny body...

Arthur: my Beartic! He's very polite with me and the team, but fierce when it comes to defense. It takes a while for him to warm up to new people, but those he warms up to he holds close.

Strawberry Lemonade: my shiny Amped-Up Toxtricity, who i rescued from the wild as a Shadow variant. She's clingy and packs a MEGA punch, and cocky with her skills as a battler. Now that she's come out of her shell, her punk rock personality really shines through.

Montez: my Garchomp, and just what you'd expect from such a feared creature. She's the meanest of the group and always first to volunteer for a fight. She swings hard and fights with pure power. Now that she's calmed, she's the perfect guard 'mon.

Things at Naranja are going great! My friend Nemona has shown me all the ropes, and I feel like I'm gonna have a good few years here. This might just be my Yelling About Things blog. So if you're into that thing feel free to tag along!

[OOC UNDER CUT]

Heallo this is the in character blog i have for my self insert!! I follow from my main @yatgb

Be prepared for Main Character And Mary Sue Shenanigans, and dont be afraid to ask abt stuff he mentions in posts!! I plan to have this going as a whole thing with arcs and all that, basically going through all of scarvi's plot, including DLC down the line. This WAS gonna be an art-based askblog but i dont rlly have the time for one of those :( but ill be posting story snippets later down the lind!

Pelipper Mail is on as long as its something small, he wont accept like new pokemon or money or anything. Think like what youd get from a mystery gift :D Magic Anons are off!

Also, dont take everything Franklin says at face-value. He's got a loong history, and some secrets to hide. There's a chance he could be lying about some stuff ',:) expect a well meaning but unreliable narrator

That being said, I like to do my own worldbuilding so whenever he goes into biology details dont look too hard into it. We're havin fun here. I also don't plan on doing any multiverse shenanigans. This is a self contained story about an oc thats very dear to me :D so just go with the flow. I might interact with other blogs as long as its feasible they could on Rotomblr connected through a multiverse.

Other character interaction is encouraged, as well has sentient pokemon except Legendaries! He has his own lore with a lot of legends it would be a little wack

Here's what he looks like! With Lullay!

[worms-for-brains]

Okay, I don’t think y’all understand but, I have like ten quadrillion cod ocs. I just don’t share them all 💀💀💀.

(So here!)

Harley “Boudicca” Gallegos

- A falconry specialist from Britain. She has two falcons named Heanua and Lannosea, who she loves to damn hell. Boudicca has a downright filthy mouth when it comes to cursing and she has no problem sticking it to the man, even if it ends up with her getting reprimanded.

Oliver “Orpheus” Pérrez

- Literally the most genius man you might ever meet. He’s a tech and information man, able to tap into pretty much any computer or program you want him to. His hard drive Eurydice contains an absurd amount of knowledge that half the world would probably start wars for.

General Rio Alcaraz

- An old comrade of Price. General of a special division known as the Black Angels. Stoic, stern and almost cold outwardly, she doesn’t engage with the 141 if it can be helped, which Price is more than fine with. (Baaad history y’all”)

Reyes “Rat” Araya

- This is guy is like Roach but an asshole and Puerto Rican.

Marina “Machina” Kameyo

- Used to be part of the US Military but got transferred to the SAS after a very successful mission. Long story short the Brits wanted a piece of the soldier that soloed a mission that would’ve taken at least five people. Albeit she ended up with a sizable gash in her head and a good chunk of her leg taken out. Oop.

Splendour, Majesty, Eureka and Reverence.

The forementioned Black Angels

Yeah, those are my babies!! Uh, there’s a lot of them… 💀