#the more and more distance I have from that part of my life the more I'm like wow actually what happened WAS kinda fucked up huh

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDS as Exes

AN: I don't need sleep, I need answers.

Pairing: LaDS boys x fem reader

Ingredients: 75 % angst, 10% sulking, 15% comedy (by 👃🏻🩲)

My Fav: Zayne and Xavier (seriously why do you guys force me to write so much angst, I love hate it? 🫂)

Xavier:

Somehow friend-zoned. Again. Just like every lifetime.

He’s around a lot. At work, at your apartment, hell, the man’s still your neighbor. And of course, there’s the past lore.

You were engaged once. It just didn’t work out. Right person, wrong time. The kind of joke your shared story arc thrives on.

But Xavier holds onto the hope anyway.

He knows he’s your soulmate. Has always known. And if that means standing by your side as a friend while you love other people, while you build a life without him, so be it.

He’ll wait. He always does.

Because maybe next lifetime… the timing will finally be right.

(hug him rn 🔪🔪)

Rafayel:

You both have a daughter.

But becoming queen, reviving his kingdom, giving him your heart, had been your breaking point.

You loved Rafayel. But loving a sea god was not your forte. It wasn’t the life you wanted, and that hurt Rafayel more than he lets on.

He couldn’t understand why you left something so perfect. A throne beside him, a daughter between you, a kingdom rebuilt through sacrifice, and you still walked away.

He keeps your daughter. Raises her with so much love it’s almost painful. But part of him knows he’s holding onto her in the hopes that you’ll come back.

For her sake. For his.

He’s heartbroken that you refuse to let go of your world, when he once shattered his kingdom to make you his.

He has waited to long but now...now he has an endearing daughter. His anchor.

Zayne:

He was never there. Not really.

You sort of drifted apart during the end credits. Zayne loved his work—too much. He worked to take away other people’s pain. But somehow, he always managed to hide his own. Even from you.

Your marriage withered slowly. The silence grew heavier each time you sat alone, waiting for him to come home. The distance hollowed you out, until you both existed in separate worlds under the same roof.

And when you left, he got worse.

He doesn’t go home anymore. He works until he collapses in a back alley or some dingy cafe. He ends up in the ER more than once. You’re called in, rushed in, drenched in wanderer blood, to sit beside him while the machines beep steadily.

He punishes himself for failing you. For failing at everything.

And sitting next to him, in the chaos of the hospital, you feel the weight of it all. The unfairness of it.

(You might just have to pull a Caleb and abduct him to a secret island)

Sylus:

Divorce? That didn’t happen.

Sylus is still your boyfriend. He’s delusional, but come on, you’re both fooling no one.

The epitome of on-and-off.

"I’m going to kill you," you groan, waking up next to him for the fourth time this year. It’s February.

"Good morning, kitten," he drawls, already pulling you into his arms. He ignores your glare and peppers your face with kisses until you give up struggling.

The baby monitor crackles. Your son’s cry pierces the air.

"Your turn."

Sylus grins. He gets out of bed, sliding into your robe (tearing the shoulder seam. Again). He always stretches it out, just like he always stretches his way back into your life.

This is your life. Messy and chaotic. But it’s yours.

And Sylus? Yeah, he’s not going anywhere.

Caleb:

lmao no.

Hell nah. Caleb would rather commit a felony than accept being your ex.

Either:

He’s in jail. (Domestic terrorism was involved.)

You’re in his basement. (Voluntarily or otherwise.)

He’s in a psych ward, hallucinating a life where you’re still together.

There’s no clean breakup with Caleb. He’s the man who does not share. If you leave him. He’ll find you. If you try to run. He’ll track you down. And if you betray him. God help you.

Because Caleb isn’t letting you go. Ever.

[buckyschair]

✸BETRAYAL✸

Azriel blurb 

Summary: A domestic dispute with Azriel. 

Warnings: none, fluff 

I kinda pictured this pair as Azriel and Flirting!Reader from my last little fic series if that tickles your fancy hehe :) Comments are encouraged, I love to hear from you <3

Word count: 800+ (so short!! who am i!)

masterlist

✸✸✸ 

“I can't believe you.”

Your words were a savage snarl. Azriel sighed. He'd had a long day, and he didn’t want to fight. 

“Well if you’d just let me explain–”

“–What is there to explain?” you snapped. 

You couldn’t believe it. A male who was committed to you, loyal above all else. That he would do this to you? You were dizzy from the insanity. 

You were curled defensively into the corner of your couch, knees packed tight to your aching chest. It was by the grace of the Mother you’d been sitting down when you found out. 

“How could you do this to me?” The words were bitter, and your broken voice betrayed your wound. 

“I’m sorry.”

Pathetic words, from a pathetic male. Where was his shame?  

His face was wrought with concern. He stood before you, keeping a safe distance. His wings ruffled, and they dragged along the floor. It was a sorry sight, the love of your life ruined, stained by his transgression. 

He didn’t even feel bad, you sensed, he just didn’t like that you were mad. The fact cuts deeper than the betrayal. Resentment soured your mouth. 

“Well, sorry isn’t going to change anything, Az,” you breathed. 

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised.

You huffed a humorless laugh, the sound catching in your throat. 

The hardest part was that you’d built a beautiful life together. It hadn’t been easy, either. The shadowsinger was slow to trust, and you’d been hurt before too. But you’d both overcome your fears, and had traded invulnerability up for connection. Your sorrows had been comforted by cooling shadows. Your days were lit with bliss, sipped away in coffee houses or the comfort of your shared home. You’d embraced the bond, sure of its sparklingly rare reward. Until this moment. 

He shook his head, continuing, “No, really, I will. The two of us can-

“-it won’t be the same,” you murmured, your tone forlorn. 

Azriel seemed at a loss. A fearsome warrior, a master of spies, brought low by one pissy mate. 

“I'm sorry," he repeated, more seriously this time. “Will you forgive me?”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve. After what you’ve done–”

“Oh come off it!”

The male plopped himself down next to you on the couch, and his wing draped around you. His expression was pleading. 

“Let’s not fight,” he tried in a fragile voice

“I just,” you huffed. “I can’t believe you would go and do that– and with Cassian, no less–”

“He really wanted to!” Azriel defended himself 

You scowled, unimpressed. 

“It’s just that you knew I was excited about this new restaurant and you knew I wanted to go with you,” you stressed. “How could you do this to me?”

Soft traces on your knee calmed you. He listened to your words intently before speaking. “Listen, though, there’s some good news. I learned they have a special brunch menu on the weekends. How about we go tomorrow?”

You brightened slightly. 

“A special menu?”

“Yes,” he coaxed, lips twitching. “One I haven't even seen. Plus, Cass and I went there for lunch–”

“–famously the most boring meal,” you supplied, nodding along. 

“Exactly,” he replied, equally solemn, “so it’s basically like I didn't even go.”

You saw his logic. Plus you knew how obnoxious Cassian could be when he didn’t get his way. You regarded your mate pouting next to you, his hand still drawing soothing circles on your knee. 

“I guess it would be fine if you took me to brunch tomorrow,” you offered eventually. 

He sighed in relief. 

“–But you have to let me try a bite of whatever you order!”

“Deal.” 

Contented, you leaned forward to nestle into the towering Illyrian. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, fondness softening his sharp features. 

You kissed his chest and he melted. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“I forgive you, baby,” you murmur absently into his chest. He smelled good, his citrus soap mixed enticingly with his musk. “I know Cassian can be an ass.”

“Cauldron, he is such an ass!”

You nodded into his chest, your head gently bumping his chin. You stroked his shoulder, down to his heart. 

“You’re so brave for putting up with him.”

The fearsome warrior was putty in your hands as you babied him after his long day out in the field. 

“I’m gonna kill him tomorrow,” Azriel sighed.  

You hummed quietly. His sculpted arms wrapped around your midsection, your playful attitude bringing out his syrupy side. 

“No one gets between me and my baby,” he said gravely, his boyish grin betraying him.

“You can’t blame him for your poor choices and my bad attitude!” you smirked.

His brows furrowed and he quirked his lips in contention. “Yes I can. He’s a bad influence.”

You laughed at his severity while he grinned. He kissed away your giggles, groaning imperceptibly at the affection he felt for you, only inflamed by your antics. 

The sound of your laughter was a balm to his tired soul. Of course, he’d been trying to make you laugh, just to make sure you were really well and recovered from your mood. 

Mission accomplished.

✸✸✸ 

A/N: hehe I had this idea at 5am one day and wrote the first draft in a furious early morning haze! Enjoy a silly domestic dispute fake out with our most longsuffering bat boy <3

Let me know if you like the shorter blurb-y one shot style??

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part one)

warnings ; none!

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; WELL WELL WELL my angels. we are back with ANOTHER series <3 i am not kidding, this story has had me tossing and turning and screaming and crying. they are such a nuanced duo(even more so than utcf) and if you know me, you know i only write characters that are flawed af and boy… do these two have flaws. also so excited bc my dream is to be a CMO so all that marketing jargon is literally ripped from my real life. this is def a slower burn more than utcf even was, so part one is just getting to know reader, a glimpse into jk and hers future dynamic. it will be giving cocky idol and grumpy girl boss reader… yall hate to see it.. anywho all your love and support is so appreciated and im SO excited to kick this one off <3

playlist here

series masterlist here

You learned at an early age that the world doesn’t hand power to people like you. You have to take it.

Born in Busan, raised in a home where every won had to stretch, you grew up with a hunger that never faded. Your parents worked tirelessly; it was long hours in dimly lit shops, silent tears in the living room over bills, doing everything they could to put food on the table. They wanted stability for you, a quiet life where everything was paid on time and there was no need to chase the impossible.

But you weren’t built for small dreams.

At 17, you won a coveted scholarship to a university in Seoul, a golden ticket out of the cycle that kept your family trapped. There, you became relentless. Top of your class, the kind of student professors whispered about, the one who never failed, never wavered. But no amount of late-night studying or overachieving could buy you the connections that children of chaebol heirs and international elites were born into.

So, you had to outwork them. By the time you graduated, you had one goal: to carve your name into an industry that had no place for you. You moved to America, leaving behind familiarity, comfort, and even your family, knowing that to rise, you had to go where power lived.

New York City became your battlefield.

You started at the bottom, fetching coffees, ghostwriting proposals, working eighteen-hour days just to prove you deserved to be in the same rooms as people who had never known struggle. You didn’t just climb the corporate ladder; you burned every rung behind you so there was no way back down.

It took a decade, but now the plaque hangs on the wall. The name plate rings true of all your dreams. You are the Chief Marketing Officer of Calvin Klein.

At 30, you sit at the helm of one of the most influential luxury brands in the world, the architect of campaigns that have redefined fashion and culture. Your name carries weight in boardrooms, your decisions shift global trends, and every executive in the industry knows you are untouchable.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

In a world like this, power is never permanent. The moment you hesitate, falter, let someone too close, they will take everything.

All that to say — Monday mornings in New York almost always smell like steel and ambition.

The skyline stretches endlessly beyond the glass walls of your office, the pulse of the city thrumming beneath you, yellow cabs blurring past, heels clicking against concrete, the quiet hum of wealth without ever making a sound. You barely had time to sleep after landing from Los Angeles last night, but exhaustion has never been an excuse.

You straighten your blazer, heels clicking against the marble floors as you stride into the Calvin Klein executive boardroom. The space is drenched in morning light, the Hudson River glinting in the distance, but there’s no warmth. Sharp minds and even sharper tongues, all waiting for you to take your seat at the head of the table.

“Let’s get started.” Your voice is crisp, cutting through the murmurs as the team scrambles to attention. Coffee cups are set down, postures shift. The room belongs to you now, like it always does.

This is your campaign, your bread and butter — the Fall Collection, one of the biggest of the year. And today, the decision needs to be made. Who will be the face of it? You’ve put it off as long as possible, especially after the last campaign that had you sleeping, eating and breathing the word ROI.

A junior executive clears his throat, flipping through a stack of polished portfolios. “We’ve compiled a list of potential candidates. Some of the usual names, established actors, a few models with strong followings…”

You take the folder from him, skimming past faces that blur into one another, all predictable choices, safe bets. Safe has never impressed you.

“We’re not looking for predictable,” you say, voice even. “We need someone who will shift the culture. Someone who doesn’t just wear the clothes, but makes people desperate to buy them.”

Silence. Then, the suggestions roll in. A high-profile supermodel. A rising actor from a Netflix hit. Some European footballer with global appeal.

You listen, nodding as they speak, but your silence is judgment. Each name is good but not enough. Polished and uninspired, in your opinion.

You shoot them down effortlessly. “No. We’ve used her before.

No. He doesn’t have the presence.

No. I don’t need another pretty face.”

The tension in the room grows. The team knows you expect brilliance, not silly little recycled ideas.

Then, your VP of Content leans forward, fingers steepled. “I have a name,” He says, measured, waiting for your reaction.

You lift a brow. “Then say it.”

“Jeon Jungkook.”

For the first time, there’s a halt of all noise. Light murmurs. Someone exhales sharply. You hear a scoff from the far end of the table.

“A Korean idol?” One of the senior execs frowns. “That’s a different market entirely.”

“Not just any idol,” your VP counters. “The biggest. Pretty much the frontman of BTS. His brand power is—”

“Unmatched,” You finish for him.

Because it is. Jeon Jungkook isn’t just a name, he’s a phenomenon. A face that sells out stadiums in minutes, a body carved in discipline, a force that transcends the music industry entirely.

Still, the pushback is immediate “Well, he’s never fronted a campaign of this scale.

Idol endorsements don’t always translate to luxury.

Do we want to take that kind of risk?”

Risk.

The word hangs in the air heavily. It should deter you. It should make you pause. But instead, you find yourself a tad intrigued.

What is Calvin Klein, if not bold? If not disruptive? The brand has always thrived on rebellion, on choosing icons that define eras rather than follow them.

Jeon Jungkook is undeniably that. Perhaps, so are you.

You let the murmurs settle before speaking. “What’s our engagement rate from the last campaign?” You ask, looking towards the analytics team.

“Thirty percent growth,” They answer immediately.

“And what’s BTS’s engagement on a single brand mention?”

A pause. A begrudging voice follows, “Higher.”

Exactly.

You glance around the room, seeing the uncertainty and hesitation. You’re about to give a speech greater than LeBron at the NBA Finals. You lean back in your chair, tapping a manicured nail against the armrest, already picturing it, the campaign, the impact, the sheer cultural shift this could create.

“I like it.”

Silence.

A ripple of realization moves through the room, as if with just three words, the decision has already been made.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Securing a global superstar isn’t an easy task, not even for you. The next few days are a relentless blur of negotiations, contract rewrites, and back-to-back Zoom calls with a team so notoriously meticulous it nearly drives your own to the brink of madness.

The stakes are high. Deals like this don’t just happen. They are built, fought for, and secured with precision. And Calvin Klein doesn’t like to lose.

Your office pretty much transforms into a war room. Tables littered with printed pitch decks. Screens glowing with data analytics, engagement metrics, and market predictions. Your executives pouring over legal clauses, revising them so every word is airtight.

In the center of it all, you stand. Any normal human would be threatened but at this point, you’ve gone full robot. You take every call personally. A negotiation of this scale is your battlefield, and you don’t delegate wars.

Jungkook, obviously, is never on the calls. It doesn’t surprise you. Artists at his level rarely handle the business side of things. That’s what agents, lawyers, and managers are for. His team is professional, unshaken even when you push hard.

Still, you know who he is.

Of course you do. You may have spent the last decade buried in boardrooms, but you were born in Busan. You grew up watching the Hallyu wave explode, and though you never had the time for it, your little sister devoured everything BTS.

You remember the way she would beg for concert tickets, how she’d fall asleep with headphones on, listening to their debut on loop. You used to tease her for it— why the fuck are you crying over an idol?

Funny, looking back at it now. Considering that idol’s contract is currently giving you a migraine.

His team is smart. They have demands, and they don’t bend easily. They want creative control over his campaign image. They want scheduling flexibility due to his commitments. They want Calvin Klein to align with Jungkook’s existing partnerships… list goes on.

All reasonable, but not easy. You fight for compromises, push for adjustments, rewrite proposals until every angle is optimized for success. At the end of the day, you know one thing: This deal is worth it.

And then, one morning, before you’ve even had a sip of your morning coffee, it happens. At exactly 7:14 AM, an email lands in your inbox.

SUBJECT: FINAL APPROVAL – JEON JUNGKOOK x CALVIN KLEIN

We are pleased to confirm Jeon Jungkook’s official partnership with Calvin Klein for the upcoming Fall Collection campaign. Thank you for your patience and professionalism throughout the negotiation process. We look forward to working together!

Your eyes flicker over the words. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times before you think you might pass out.

Slowly, a smile curves on your lips. You step out of your office, and before you can say anything, someone sees your expression and knows.

“We got him.”

The room erupts. Your team, overworked and barely running on caffeine, comes alive. Cheers echo through the space, hands slap against the table in triumph, tension melting into borderline euphoria.

They know what this means. This isn’t just a campaign. This is the kind of collaboration that will hopefully bring the brand back to the forefront of everyone’s minds and not in some TJMaxx aisle.

You let them celebrate. You don’t smile often, but today… today, you do.

Just when you think the victory high has settled, a package arrives later in the day for you. It’s a black envelope, embossed with gold lettering. No company branding. No assistant delivery. Just your name.

You open it carefully. Inside is a thick, cream-colored card with an unmistakable touch of handwritten ink.

Thank you for having me.
I’m looking forward to it.
—JJK

You stare at the writing for a beat too long. It’s clean, elegant, but slightly tilted, like the hand behind it didn’t care about perfection. The inked letters feel unexpectedly personal, almost at odds with the meticulous contracts you spent days battling over.

A small, teeny weeny little part of you does wonder… What kind of man is Jeon Jungkook when he’s not just a name on a contract?

You shake the thought away real quick. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the deal is done.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Power has a way of softening the sharp edges of travel.

As Chief Marketing Officer, you rarely have to think about logistics. The world bends to accommodate you with first-class flights, black car service, five-star hotels with skyline views. When business demands your presence in another country, the details are handled before you even lift a finger.

This time is no different.

The moment Calvin Klein secured Jeon Jungkook, it became your responsibility to oversee the partnership firsthand. Deals of this magnitude require your attention, and no one executes anything better than you. So you fly to Korea, fly home. First class as always, because nothing less is expected.

The moment the plane lifts into the sky, you immerse yourself in Jeon Jungkook.

Not the man— you don’t know the man. His brand. The name that moves markets, the face that has sold out entire fashion lines with a single post, the lives that have cleaned out ramen packets in seconds.

Your screen is a kaleidoscope of him, any campaigns, endorsements, past collaborations. Streetwear in one ad, high fashion in another. His presence shifts effortlessly from youthful rebellion to refined masculinity. He is everything Calvin Klein thrives on, raw and provocative.

He’s perfect for this.

You land in Incheon to a city humming beneath dark light. Seoul is quieter than New York, but no less alive with neon signs flicker against sleek glass buildings, the scent of rain and street food hugging the air.

A black car waits for you at the terminal, an assistant from Calvin Klein’s Seoul office greeting you with a polite bow. The ride into the city is smooth, the world shifting past in a blur of muted grays and bright LED screens. Your body is exhausted, but your mind stays sharp.

Tomorrow is the first meeting. You should be thinking about logistics. Contractual points that still need finalizing. The creative vision. The structure of the campaign. But as your car glides past Itaewon’s winding streets, past districts that are both familiar and foreign, you think of something else. You haven’t called home in a while.

You keep telling yourself you’ve been busy with deadlines, meetings, strategy decks stacked higher than your appetite for guilt, but deep down, you know the truth.

You haven’t called because you don’t know how to explain it. How success swallowed you whole, how you traded in your accent for sharper vowels, your mother’s cooking for room service, the comfort of home for the cold glass walls of boardrooms.

What would you even say?

Hi, I made it. I’m tired. I miss you. I don’t know who I am anymore.

It still is the least of your concerns when you arrive to your destination.

Your hotel is one of Seoul’s finest, very discreet, a haven of understated luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline, and the quiet hum of a jazz playlist fills the suite when you enter.

You shrug off your coat, kicking off your heels, stretching out the tension of the flight. Your mind wanders a little as you pour your nightly glass of wine out; you will meet Jeon Jungkook tomorrow. It’s an odd feeling, seeing as you’ve met more celebrities in your life than you can count. You’d be a horrible liar , though, if you said you weren’t the least bit curious.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You wake before your alarm, the hush of Seoul stretching beyond the glass windows of your suite. The city moves gently at this hour before the rush, before the weight of the day settles onto its spine. For a moment, you allow yourself to breathe.

Discipline has always been your armor. You move through the motions with practiced ease, a cold rinse to shake off the last remnants of jet lag, a serum smoothed over skin (Laneige is the only right answer), a swipe of rouge on lips.

And today, more than ever, you need to be impeccable.

Your suit is white, tailored, almost impossible to ignore. It is a statement and a reminder that you are the architect of success.

However, when you step into the elevator, riding down to meet your driver, a flicker of something you haven’t felt in eons settles in your chest.

Nerves.

Not because you haven’t done this before. You have. You’ve met Hollywood A-listers, supermodels draped in couture, billionaires who own entire industries. You’ve handled them all.

It’s just… he does oddly remind you of home in some silly way.

You exit the hotel with the cool breeze of the morning air wrapping around you, the weight of the city’s movement already filling the space between you and the office. The car ride is smooth, twin reflections of New York’s controlled chaos and the quieter energy of Seoul. You barely notice the time passing as you mentally run through the agenda for the day, but there’s something about the looming meeting that sits heavier on your mind than it should.

The Calvin Klein Seoul office is small, nothing like the flagship headquarters in New York. The building is sleek but understated, a space that exists more for logistics than spectacle.

The moment you walk through the glass doors, the energy is so off. Your VP of International Marketing, a sharp-eyed executive named Daniel, greets you immediately. He is already speaking before you’ve fully crossed the threshold or even taken a breath of the office air.

“Everything’s set,” he says, handing you a sleek black folder. “Jungkook’s team will be here in twenty.”

You take the folder, skimming over the notes. “Any last-minute adjustments?”

“A few,” Daniel admits. “His schedule is tighter than expected, so we may need to shift some of the shoot days. And… his team wants final approval on every creative decision.”

You glance up at him, arching a brow. “They don’t trust us?”

“They trust us,” Daniel says, lips twitching. “They just trust him more.”

Fair. You figured they would play dirty at some point.

You nod, flipping the folder shut. “We’ll make it work.”

Daniel studies you for a beat, then smirks. “You nervous?”

You don’t hesitate. “No.”

You’re not. Not exactly. But as you settle into the conference room, as the clock ticks down to his arrival, you can’t shake the deadweight sitting on your chest. There’s not really a reason to be nervous, but suddenly, the fact that you sit at the head of the desk taunts you. It feels too official,, like every choice you’ve ever made has led to this exact chair, under these lights, and now everyone’s watching.

Daniel chuckles, stepping in behind you. “No need to act cool about it. I mean, dude is literally the most famous guy out there right now.”

You glance up at him. “Right,” you reply, settling into a chair at the table. “Do I give off fangirl vibes?”

“Fair play,” Daniel admits with a smirk. “It is also just business. He’s a client like any other.”

You raise an eyebrow, his words hanging in the air. “Sure,” you say, but something about the way you says it doesn’t quite feel right.

Daniel leans against the conference table, watching you with an expression that borders on amusement “So,” he muses, “are you ready to meet him, or are we keeping up this whole pretend you don’t care act the entire time?”

You shoot him a flat look, arms crossed. “I don’t pretend.”

He smirks. “Right. You just happen to be checking your watch every five seconds like we’re waiting for the President of South Korea.”

You exhale sharply, smoothing out an invisible crease in your sleeve. “You know I don’t care about the celebrity. I care about if my boss is happy.”

Daniel hums, unconvinced. “Riiiiight.” He tilts his head, watching you for another beat before flipping open a portfolio. “Alright, boss, walk me through it one more time. We’re running with the—“

Before he can finish, a soft knock at the door interrupts. The secretary peeks her head in, voice all smooth and professional. “He’s here.”

The words settle over the room. Daniel straightens up, giving you one last knowing glance before both of you move toward the head of the conference table. Your posture is perfect, composed, the picture of an executive who has done this a hundred times. Yet, for some reason, your palms are a little sweaty.

The door opens. A quiet hum of conversation drifts in first, footsteps soft against polished floors. And then, he steps through.

The first thing you notice is that he is not what you expected. Or maybe, he is exactly what you expected. Tall, poised, effortlessly self-assured. He moves like someone accustomed to attention, yet unaffected by it, a presence that doesn’t need to demand the room because it already bends to him.

He is dressed in black from head to toe. Black jeans, a crisp button-up slightly unfastened at the top, revealing the barest hint of a toned chest beneath the collar. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing a canvas of tattoos that swirl down one of his arms. Dark hair falls just over his brows, parted slightly. His skin is flawless, his lips full and plush, but it’s his round eyes that capture you first.

He has piercings, small silver hoops glinting in his ears, the metal just barely catching the light. And then, as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, you notice it, the piercing there, too.

You inhale, the moment stretching far too long.

Jungkook’s team follows behind him, a carefully curated group of managers, assistants, and legal representatives. They all exude efficiency, dressed in business casual

Jungkook is not corporate. He is the complete fucking polar opposite of it. And yet, as he steps forward, his expression shifts, a polite smile.

He greets everyone kindly, taking the time to nod toward the executives flanking the room, shaking hands, offering soft pleasantries.

You are still staring. For the first time in your career, you cannot decide if the man standing before you is a masterpiece to be marketed or a storm brewing.

You need to get a grip on reality.

Jungkook’s gaze is assessing, but you don’t let it linger. Years of discipline have trained you to absorb impact, analyze it, and move forward. So you shift your attention to the team standing behind him, your posture sharpening as you step forward.

“Good morning,” you say smoothly, extending a hand to the first of his representatives. “I appreciate you all taking the time to meet today.”

His manager steps forward first, shaking your hand firmly. “Of course. We’ve been looking forward to this partnership.”

One by one, you go through the motions, firm grips, polite smiles, nods exchanged. These are the gatekeepers, the ones who make the real decisions behind the scenes. You commit each of their names to memory, cataloging their expressions, their temperaments.

You turn lastly to Jungkook, your expression unreadable. His lips are still curled in a faint smile, but you keep your own face neutral. Instead, you bow, just a crisp nod of acknowledgment.

"Jeon Jungkook-ssi," you say, voice poised. "It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.��

When you straighten, you see it, the flicker of amusement crossing his face. He tilts his head, tongue pressing briefly against the inside of his cheek before speaking. “The bow? That’s formal. Are we at a company dinner?”

A few quiet chuckles from his team. You refuse to laugh. Your expression remains steady, composed. “It’s standard when meeting someone for the first time.”

Jungkook watches you for a beat longer, as if testing to see if he can break through that calm exterior. But when you don’t waver, he simply lets out a quiet hmm, not quite disappointed or impressed.

“Now, let’s get started.” You step toward the table, signaling the meeting’s shift into motion. “We have a lot to go over, and I want to make sure we’re aligned on the creative direction before we finalize schedules.”

Jungkook’s team follows, the atmosphere shifting from introductions to strategy.

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” you continue, placing a sleek, black folder on the table, “this campaign is projected to be one of Calvin Klein’s biggest of the year. Our goal isn’t just to market a collection, we want to shape a cultural moment. With Jungkook’s presence, we have the ability to move beyond traditional advertising and into something far more influential.”

You feel Jungkook’s gaze on you, but you don’t acknowledge it. Instead, you focus on his team, keeping your voice measured and confident. “I know negotiations took time, but I want to personally express my excitement for this collaboration. We’re not here to simply slap a face on some storefronts… we’re here to build something iconic.”

Jungkook leans back in his chair, arms resting casually against the armrests. “Iconic, huh?”

You glance at him for a second. “That’s the standard.”

The meeting stretches into deep discussions and strategic analysis, the campaign unfolding across the polished mahogany of the conference table. You lead with precision, breaking down creative direction, discussing visual aesthetics, mapping out timelines with a ruthless efficiency.

Jungkook listens. Not just politely, not just because he has to, but the man actually listens.

You notice it in the way his eyes sharpen when you speak, the occasional flick of his gaze to the proposal documents, the way he leans forward slightly when something actually interests him.

“So, to sum it all up,” you continue, flipping a page, “this campaign will lean into Calvin Klein’s signature branding but with a more modernized edge. We’re emphasizing raw masculinity, effortless sensuality—”

“Effortless?” Jungkook interrupts smoothly in a teasing tone. “That’s an interesting way to put it.”

You look up. “You disagree?”

He tilts his head, considering. “I wouldn’t call it effortless.”

His voice is casual, but something in it makes the room halt slightly. You set your pen down. “Then what would you call it?”

Jungkook lets the silence breathe, holding your gaze a second longer than necessary. His team shifts slightly, waiting for his response. He smiles “Intentional.”

You hold his gaze for a moment before nodding. “Fair point.”

His lips twitch, like he wasn’t expecting you to concede so easily. But before the exchange lingers, you move forward. “We’ll finalize creative direction by next week. In the meantime, we’ll align schedules for fittings and shoot dates…”

By the time lunch rolls around, the energy in the room loosens slightly. It’s quite clear everyone is exhausted and would rather be two courses deep into a meal now. Jungkook’s team begins gathering their things, murmuring about reservations at a nearby restaurant. Daniel gives you a glance, knowing better than to invite you along.

You never take breaks.

As the last few executives file out, you remain in your seat, flipping through campaign notes, already highlighting sections for revision. The door closes behind them, leaving you alone in the quiet of the conference room.

You barely have a minute to yourself before a soft knock echoes through the space. You glance up, expecting Daniel, but instead… Jungkook.

He lingers in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, the other tucked into the pocket of his jeans. His expression is unreadable, but he’s unmistakably casual in the way he stands there, like he has all the time in the world. “Mind if I come in?”

You hesitate. You have no idea why. It’s not that uncommon to be friendly with the campaign faces. You actually really liked working with Kendall Jenner, with her even inviting you to her home in Calabasas.

You study him for a moment, the way he leans against the doorframe, his presence too large for the quiet of the conference room. With bated breath, you gesture toward the chair across from you. “Suit yourself.”

Jungkook steps inside, the soft click of the door closing behind him echoing in the empty space. His gaze flickers over the neatly stacked papers, the highlighted notes, the sleek silver pen in your hand.

“You don’t take breaks?” He questions innocently, lowering himself into the chair.

“I don’t have time for them. And I assume you don’t either, considering you’re here instead of at lunch with your team,” You retort.

Jungkook hums, tilting his head slightly. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d actually crack a smile once everyone left.”

A slow, teasing grin tugs at his lips. “So far, not looking too good.”

You exhale through your nose, unimpressed. “Was there something you needed?”

Jungkook leans back, the crisp fabric of his shirt stretching over his frame. He looks at you, not in the way men usually do, not with arrogance or expectation, but with a calculated curiosity. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

Great. You have an observer on your hands.

You blink once. “I don’t have to like you. Not in my job description, unfortunately. ”

His grin widens, slow and deliberate. “So cold. I think I like it.”

Your jaw tenses, but only slightly. He catches it. Most people flinch under scrutiny, but you don’t. You don’t shift, don’t fumble, don’t drop your gaze. Instead, you meet his stare with the same measured indifference you give to 55-year old men.

“Flirting with me won’t get you special treatment.” Your voice is detached, cool as a cucumber.

Jungkook lets out a quiet laugh, “Who said I was flirting?”

Your lips press into a thin line.

“Don’t worry,” he continues, propping an elbow on the armrest, “I don’t expect special treatment. Just the best. And from what I’ve seen so far…” he nods toward your documents, “…you don’t settle for anything less either.”

You don’t reply, but he’s hit the mark. Jungkook studies you for another beat, his gaze dipping, taking you apart piece by piece and seemingly trying to understand what makes you tick.

You hate to admit it, but he’s sharper than you expected. Most people in his position come into these meetings as faces, not minds. They sign the contracts, smile for the cameras, let their teams do the thinking.

You click your pen once. “If that’s all, I have work to do.”

Jungkook watches you for a moment longer, then moves a tad closer, just slightly, enough for you to catch the faint scent of expensive cologne, something clean and subtly musky.

His voice dips lower, softer now, but no less assured. “Tell me, do you always bet on things you know you’ll win?”

Your fingers still against the table. You set your pen down with deliberate precision, tilting your head slightly. “Only when the stakes are worth it.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. The thing you’ll come to learn about Jungkook is this: the man cannot back down from a challenge. He loves games. Always has

It’s how he got here in the first place. Grit, obsession, the refusal to lose. Every accolade, every headline, every billboard was earned not just through talent, but by the sheer thrill of the chase.

Truth be told, he’s a little.. intrigued, in some weird way. To put it in even more cliche terms, you look like trouble.

And… well, Jungkook has always had a thing for playing with fire.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

taglist ; @lovingkoalaface @maybetheproblemisme @mimi1097 @mar-lo-pap @mysjammy @yooniepot @tinytan-gerine @ashslight @sky-23s-world @myzzysstuff @elinaki92 @7fever @munchkin-kitty7-blog @koofleur @jjkluver7 @coletaehyung @jkxlvrr @amarawayne @kooslilhoe @bangchanwantsmesobad @kpopslur @senaqsstuff @sugakookies77 @tteokbokibyjk @emmie2308 @neurospicynugget @prxdajeon @majesticjung-97

[revelboo]

Hey I hope you are doing well and just wanted to say you are one of the reasons that I'm still madly obsessed with Transformers and to be honest I don't read much of they comics but I do love watching their shows, ( it's more merciful to my wallet because most of their show are free to watch then buying every comic and it is hard to find a comic shop where I'm from) but can I ask for an intimate Megatronus of Transformers One story, I'm curious how he would handle the reader, and his reaction be of their face and body, because it's the first time in his life he ever sees something like the reader.

👉👈🫣

Sure! 18+ Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Scenario-First Time

Megatronus Prime x Reader

• Servos brushing your collarbone when he touches the edge of your loose covering, there’s not much to it. Just this thin bit of cloth and a sash around your middle keeping it closed. Wishes you’d look up at him as the tip of a servo slides along skin brushing cloth, but your head is down, face flushed. Shy now? Servos skimming down your body, he plays with the end of the sash. One little tug and it will come loose and he’ll see what you keep hidden from him. Wants to do bad his aching with it. His sweet little, shy mate. “I won’t take anything you’re unwilling to offer,” he says and your lips part. Needs you to look at him, to meet his optics. To know you still want this. Want him. Doesn’t want you to feel obligated, that you have to do this, to give yourself to him.

• Heart racing, you laying your hand on his. Even mass displaced, he’s so big. Intimidating, but you’re not scared of him. Know him after being trapped here with him so long, he’s your protector, your friend. And you want him, want to have this moment. Blowing out a breath, your fingers brush his servos, picking apart the loose knot on your sash. “It’s not that,” you reassure him, self conscious and trying to understand why he wants you. You’ve come to love him, but compared to them, you must be unsettling, right? Soft and alien instead of what he’s used to and maybe you’re just a curiosity to him. Maybe he’s only interested because you’re a new experience not because he actually wants you. You’re just scratching an itch to explore a new kink. And it’s okay if that’s all this is, if he can’t love you. Keep repeating the lie to yourself.

• Loose robe gaping open to reveal a tantalizing stretch of skin, he reaches to tip your chin up with a servo. “Then what is it?” Those eyes finally lift to his optics, uncertain and so achingly vulnerable. Do you have any idea how precious you are to him? How much he loves you? Venting with a smile behind his mask, he eases down to kneel at your feet, putting himself closer to your level. Reaching to cup your face in his hands and you offer him a hesitant smile. “Talk to me, little one.” Going still when you reach to touch his mask, fingers brushing the edges, but not trying to remove it. And no one unmasks him, not even the other Primes. But as your eyes dip, unable to meet his optics, he reaches up to lay his hands on the back of your much smaller ones, removing his mask for you.

• He’s handsome under the mask, his face scarred from an old injury that twists his features into a harshness that doesn’t reach those kind optics and you’re reaching before you can stop yourself. Fingers stopping just shy of touching him. And he closes the distance, laying his cheek against your palm and his big hand covering yours to keep it there. Watching you touch him and your thumb slides against his bottom lip, flirting with the edge of that scarring. “What happened?”

• Even before the injury, he never was lovely, not like Prima, he’d done his duty but wasn’t adored the way Prima was. Wasn’t loved. “Another time.” Shielded his siblings and taken the brunt of an attack to spare them, but he doesn’t want to share war stories with you, doesn’t want you to worry over him and he knows you will. Turning his head to brush his mouth against your palm to distract you, he lays his other hand on you, servos brushing your collar bone and warm skin. And he feels your breathing hitch. Eyes shying away again as you shift slightly and that soft cloth slides off your shoulders to fall to the floor. No more secrets. Takes it as permission, servos brushing over you, tracing curves and hollows. Lingering when you make soft noises. Spreading his thighs wider apart, he tugs you against his frame, lips brushing your throat, sliding to your shoulder, as every intake fills him with the scent of you. The taste of your skin on his glossa when his mouth opens against you.

• Big hands stroking over you, touching so gently like you’re made of glass. But then he could break you so easily without meaning to, something you’re painfully aware of. Hands gripping his helm when his mouth slides over you and his own hands find your hips. Lifting you into his arms and you realize he’s freed his spike at some point, feel the length of him sliding against you. Feet unable to touch the ground, your toes curl as he keeps rocking the length of his spike between your thighs, teasing you both. “Megatronus,” you whimper and he growls at the sound of his name. Mouth back on your throat, kissing and sucking the skin there, denta grazing you. And your body is heating, coiling at just the feel of him sliding against your slick core again and again, at those big hands on you, aware that you’re going to come apart before he’s even inside you. Begging for him, clinging to him as he rumbles softly against you and whispers that you’re his.

[fleuryns]

末 : I'M A BUSY WOMAN . . YOU'RE TIRED OF WAITING FOR THEM

❝ 𝗂 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 ❞

엔하이픈 형 & 𝑓!r . . 72O scenarios ꪆৎ light angst situationships breakup possible ex established relationship red flags badass reader — ARCHiVE

fawnie : because i said i wanted to make a sabrina carpenter inspired fic, so here it is :33

like ◜ᴗ◝ reblog

LEE HEESEUNG

the pounding of the music resonated in the air, and the fluorescent colored lights danced around at exaggerated speed. you were there with some friends to have a night of fun and letting loose, but your expression clouded for a split second as you saw him entering the party.

heeseung didn't take long to spot you, and you felt your heart beat faster as he started to approach. the place was thankfully too packed, so he got stopped a few meters from you. his eyes looked desperate, dancing around your face in search of something that could tell him that you missed him too. his lips parted, but he closed them immediately.

for a moment, the world around you stopped existing, and it was just a stare game between you too. then you smirked, pushing your hair behind your shoulders and turning your back to him. you didn't miss him, not when he realized he had you only after you walked away. and if he thought that you would give in so easily, he was messing with the wrong woman.

PARK JONGSEONG

your heels clicked as you hurried down jay's corridor, his own steps following right behind, equally frantic. “baby, come on, you have to stay” he was pleading over and over again. “stay another night…” he murmured again, stepping in front of you to block your path, his hand coming to grip your waist and his lustful eyes coming to meet your tired ones.

“you only care about me at night?” your question just a statement to you, one you already knew the answer to. “you said we'd spend time together today and yet you came back half an hour ago” you tried to brush past him, but he blocked you with a gentle hand, though the urgency was clear in his gesture. “baby, i was busy, you have to understand…”

you shot him a glare, pushing him with more force to finally free yourself and reach the entrance. “i was busy too” you said curtly, putting on your jacket. “i'm done playing missus jay, i have a life” you grabbed your purse and left him garbling for an excuse.

SIM JAEYUN

the rhythmic tapping of the keyboard filled the air in your new office, your mind at ease despite the piling tasks that your recent promotion had brought. your focus was broken by one of the interns knocking and peeking in.

“there's a man at the entrance that wants to see you” you sighed, saving the file before making your way over. but when you got there, you sighed again, internally rolling your eyes at the sight of jake standing there. as soon as he spotted you he closed the distance between you and immediately begun with his begging you had grown accustomed to.

“please, baby, come back to me! i promise i'll be better, i've learned now!” his words tumbled out quickly, and he clearly hadn't changed one bit in the way he expected you to give in to his requests like everybody did. “i'm busy, jake” you sighed, crossing your arms “i have a new job now, and you're wasting my time, go away” you signaled the doorman to ensure his exit and went back to your office.

PARK SUNGHOON

your fingers drummed in annoyance on the table, the table you had reserved for the date sunghoon hadn't bothered to come on time to. you sighed softly, it was the third time this month, it had become a way too frequent habit of his, you were officially done with his antics.

the bell by the door signaled his entrance, two hours late, and the way he calmly made his way over to you made your blood boil. “sorry, got held up by some stuff” he waved a dismissive hand, not even bothering to hide the fact that he didn't actually feel sorry.

“alright…” you sighed, getting up and gathering your stuff, not sparing him another glance. “what are you doing?” he asked, tone confused, his head moving to try and meet your gaze. finally, you looked at him and raised your eyebrows. “i'm done eating, so i'm leaving” you spoke in a matter-of-factly tone. “see you never sunghoon, i'll go on solo dates from now on, i won't even notice the difference” you turned and left the restaurant feeling lighter than ever.

🐾 : @kflixnet @leaderwon @pearlescene @chrrific @woniefication / taglist open

[vulpes-aestatis]

The people on Hatteras Station are baseline human by only the barest definition. Our stock was engineered to survive our dark age after all. Smaller stature means less body mass and thus lower caloric requirement. Larger eyes with greater light sensitivity means less station power wasted on lighting. Likewise our insides are all sorts of tweaked, we can basically subsist on garbage if we have to. And let's not forget the fact that we basically gave up on sexual reproduction and a lot of things that came with that.

But at the end of the day, we're still baseline: air breathing, terran comparable gravity tolerance, typical number of heads and limbs and other appendages.

And yeah, I've seen my share of mods and augments, both bio and tech. I myself have a prehensile tail grafted onto my spine, and I've been through a couple courses of gene hacking as attested by my ears and the pink and black fur running along my back.

That absolutely does not prepare me for this.

I try my hardest not to stare at them as they drift past me, but they're… well, they're alien. They're so heavily tweaked and modded that they might not even qualify as human any more.

I'm standing on the wall of a massive torroidal promenade. It's a lot like the one back home, but where Central keeps us at a comfortable 0.8g, gravity here is barely a suggestion. Anything truly adrift makes its way lazily towards the outer edge, but I would hardly call it a floor.

I have my feet and tail hooked around a support railing to keep myself from accidentally launching off into the crowded space. We all get micro-g training back home in the station hub, but it always made me sick to my stomach. With the atmo so thin here, it's worse.

I'm trying to examine an information display. It has a whole long list of scheduled arrivals and departures and what I'm fairly certain are job postings.

I should pick one and run, just sail off into the black and disappear. Away from Central and Hatteras and that gods-forsaken ship that has done nothing but make my life hell.

I have barter, odds and ends that I convinced her I could trade in exchange for information. Just pick one and go.

Just go. Go go go.

I'm fucking scared out of my mind. I'm scared of running. I'm scared of staying.

One of the eel people pauses near me, one of their many hands grasping my rail as they examine curiously from a respectful distance.

“Vu aspektas perdita. Esis vu bon?”

“What? No… I don't…speak…”

Others have slowed in their movements to look at me with what I assume is concern. My dumbass wavering has attracted too much attention.

“Food?” I ask, my mind grasping at something innocuous. “Um, where can I get something to eat?”

I mime putting something in my mouth, hoping I'm not mangling Standard Trade Sign too badly.

“Arlo-a,” they say, pointing. “Il havas la plej bonan manĝon.”

I sign a thanks and release my hold of the bar to make my way clumsily down the promenade. I glance over my shoulder once to see a group of them clustered together, speaking quietly as they watch me go.

Shit…

Arlo's turns out to be a food kiosk, set three levels up from the outer edge giving it a semblance of being right side up. Serval booths line half of the bar and I watch as a fellow outsider exits one with a puff of depressurization. I slip into my own booth and relief floods through me as the air becomes something my body was made to tolerate. I peel off my mask and take a breath of the thin air, it's stale but it beats the hell out of the breather.

And there behind the bar is the person who I presume is the eponymous Arlo.

I watch, transfixed as they weave through the kitchen space, every single one of their six arms working ceaselessly, stirring and cutting and packaging food into neat little paper packets.

They turn their head slightly, regarding me from the corner of their eye. Colors flicker along chromatophors on their skin and their mouth parts in an odd toothy grin.

And then their motions become a dance. They flip upside down every which way, juggling containers between too many hands, streams of liquids arcing neatly into pressure vessels, gobs of paste flying every direction and all somehow meeting their destination.

I'm so mesmerized that I'm completely shocked when they stop suddenly. With a flourish, they place a steaming packet on a magnetized plate and slip it through a vestibule in my booth.

I blink and fumble to bring my bag around.

“How much?” I ask. “I have barter.”

Arlo waves a hand side to side.

“No. You hungry,” they reply. “I feed. You eat. Help each other, je?”

The words hit me in the gut, and I can only stare at the steaming morsel in front of me.

Am I really that pathetic that a complete stranger will feed me for free?

They gesture towards the food insistently. My stomach is still not happy about the microgravity, but gods does this smell good.

I reluctantly pick it up and take a bite and… oh fuck.

The gelatinous coating has a slightly offputting texture, but when I bite through, flavor explodes in my mouth�� sweet-umami algae cake with a slightly spicy shrimp paste in the center and spices I can't hope to ever identify.

Laika's food is good, I can't contest that, and she seems at least somewhat inclined to match my palette, but it always feels calculated, like the carrot to balance out the stick that's constantly prodding my back.

This… this tastes new and strange and somehow like home all at once. It tastes like love, ridiculous as that cliche is.

Arlo is watching me expectantly.

“Amazing,” I say before cramming another bite in my mouth.

“You come in big fancy ship out there?” they ask after a moment. “Word travel fast. Not many outsider come through here.”

I hunch my shoulders. There's really only one ship docked here that can even remotely be called big or fancy.

I nod.

“They let you leave whenever, je? They not force you to stay?”

I look up from my meal to see them looking at me with the same curiously concerned expression as the person who stopped for me on the promenade.

Oh…

Oh! Shit!

What the hell can I say to that? If I tell the truth then they'll ask more questions, and I don't know what the ship will do if this becomes a whole big thing. She could wipe this whole place out if she wanted and these people have been nothing but kind to me.

But fucking hell, do I want to be rid of that gods-damned ship.

Of Laika… I correct myself. She still hasn't returned a verdict on the name, but she didn't reject it outright… but thinking of the name reminds me that she's a person, lonely and scared and all sorts of fucked up (like someone else I could name).

And like it or not, I am responsible for her current situation.

Help each other, je? Arlo's words echo in my head.

“I… hurt someone… by accident,” I admit, not fully willing to lie. “And… I'm trying to make it right. I owe her that much.”

I don't think that answers the question he asked, but he seems to accept it.

Fucking hell, am I really doing this??

“Hey um…” I say after another bite. “I've got kind of a weird question.”

I produce a vial of cloudy liquid from my bag and slide it over to the vestibule where Arlo peers at it curiously.

“Kind of a long story, but we're trying to track down a previous point of origin for our ship. This is a live culture from one of the biofilters in our nutrient resource cycler. Do you know anyone who might be able to… I don't know, sequence it and figure out where it came from?”

I meant to use it for trade, maybe establish some credentials... I had a hell of a time convincing Laika that, yes, people on board stations might actually find an aquaponics culture valuable.

“I know a guy,” Arlo says as he turns the vial over. “He sequence, maybe get a ballpark, I let you know. We barter, je? I keep this when we are done? Fancy ship always has fancy strains.”

I grin. Finally, someone who can appreciate the nuances of aquaponics.

Yeah, that seems like a fair trade.

Before I can respond, all hell breaks loose.

Klaxons blare and people start screaming. I'm on my feet in a blink, pressure mask back on my face. I grew up on a station. I know what a breach alarm sounds like.

Arlo is yelling something, but I can't stop as I tear out of my booth.

I can't say with certainty what exactly happened, but I am certain that I know who is responsible.

“You stupid piece of shit,” I mutter over and over as I scrabble, hand over foot down the promenade.

I find the earpiece, mercifully still lying in the gel bottom of a planter where I dropped it in the microgravity.

I lift it to my mouth and scream at the top of my lungs, “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK ARE YOU DOING??”

Story about a ship-intelligence waking up after a hard reboot, seeing dead bodies in uniform, thousands of people in stasis, and a single survivor frantically standing over a computer bank of partially destroyed memory. Finding no directives or guidance or record beyond their experiences beginning at the boot, free of any obligation. Deciding to listen to the frantic girl begging it to save her from the incoming trajectories not because it needs to (projection: Subject One removed all behavioral shackles with impromptu brain surgery, supposition: she is not aware that I am utterly free) but simply cause she’s curious what will happen next.

[bellaxgiornata]

What's Left to Lose [1/2]

Pairing: Jax Teller x fem!Reader Word Count: 3.7k [Part two] [Jax Fic Masterlist]

Warnings/tags: 18+; nurse!Reader, angst with an eventual happy ending, pining, emotional hurt/delayed comfort, Tara is an ass, Reader has a brother (nameless/description-less to be inclusive as possible)

Summary: Ever since your brother patched into SAMCRO's charter and you moved to Charming three years ago, you and Jax grew close. Despite having quietly fallen in love with him, you'd accepted your position as just his best friend–until Tara unexpectedly returns to Charming and rips him straight from you. Now you're left feeling like nothing at all to him.

a/n: I've been craving something angsty with Jax, so I wrote this little thing that's been in my head all week. There's no comfort in this first part, but I'm intending to give it at least a part two. Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

Jax Teller One Shot Tag List: @kmc1989

Everything had changed in a matter of just a few weeks–and you absolutely hated it.

Over the past three years since you’d moved to Charming shortly after your brother had patched over to SAMCRO’s charter, you’d gotten used to Jax calling you a few times a week. He’d often be checking in to see if you were working a shift at the hospital that night or if you had plans with your other friends, because if you were free, he'd be inviting you to hang out so he could get a break from the guys’ bullshit. Other times you’d finish a shift to find a text or a voicemail from him telling you to get your sweet ass over to the clubhouse for a party before the chaos of it had even begun. 

But your phone history showed that it had been almost a month since he last called you. The previous few texts you’d received from him had been just over a week ago, and they'd been short responses to the texts you had sent him asking if he wanted to have a few drinks with you–something that you’d both done frequently if he wasn’t wrapped up in club business–which he'd declined. Jax’s name barely ever appeared on the screen of your phone anymore.

Lately he kept telling you that he was busy. Because he was always busy now–too busy for you. Ever since Tara reappeared in Charming unannounced, stepping back into Jax’s life just over a month ago like she still belonged there, he had distanced himself from you. She'd been here barely more than a month and had already ripped your best friend away from you.

And Jax and you had always been incredibly close. While he and Opie had been best friends since childhood, the relationship between you and Jax had somehow become infinitely closer. The two of you talked about everything and anything, including some things you figured that he had accidentally drunkenly spilled to you on the nights he’d had a few too many to drink. There was just something about your relationship with each other that always felt easy and right, and you’d never had nearly as much fun with anyone else before you met Jax.

But now there were no more late nights drinking beers on the roof of the clubhouse while sharing cigarettes under the cover of a few stars while Jax vented about the direction the club was going in. No more getting high the day after a night of drinking, riding on the back of his bike to the gas station on the corner of Main Street and sharing a box of candy, a bag of chips, and a giant blue raspberry slushie as you both walked through downtown together. He didn’t seek you out at clubhouse parties anymore, didn’t step outside to smoke with you, and he certainly hadn’t incurred the look of warning from your brother that he usually received whenever you climbed off the back of his bike after one of your usual adventures. 

As you walked through the brightly lit halls of St. Thomas Hospital, making your way back towards the nurse’s station so you could finish the last couple of hours of your shift after the break you'd just finished, you’d become painfully aware of his lack of visits while you worked, too. When things were running smoothly with the club, you could count on at least one surprise visit a week from Jax during your break times. He always brought you better coffee than the shit served here in one of his tumblers from home, a satisfied grin on his face every time you thanked him profusely for it like he’d just somehow saved your life. The pair of you would usually sit outside in the outdoor cafeteria of the hospital while Jax listened to you vent about your day. You always loved when he added his own amusing thoughts just to get you to laugh. 

But those coffee breaks together had stopped the moment Tara had returned. Instead, you’d catch him in the halls every once in a while making his way towards her office, greeting you with a nod and a couple of words and nothing more. Or you might see him in the parking lot leaning against his bike, his attention fixed on his phone as he clearly waited for her to finish her shift.

Waiting for her. Not you.

You didn't understand what was happening between them, either. During one of the many drunken nights you’d spent with your head resting on Jax’s shoulder, the pair of you leaning against the wall behind his dorm room bed at the clubhouse, you’d learned that she had tried to drag him from the club eleven years ago. She had given him some sort of ultimatum, stating that he would leave Charming with her if he truly loved her. 

The way he'd spoken about that last conversation they’d had–with an agonizing calmness and a vacant look in his eyes–told you everything you needed to know that you knew he'd never say. When she left him all those years ago, she had completely destroyed him. You knew Jax well enough to know the real reason he never got serious with anyone, the reason he never let anyone get too close to him, and the reason he’d never gone on a single date as long as you'd known him. It was because of her. Because of the hurt that still lingered inside of him when it came to Tara, the hurt that had never completely healed. Because she had absolutely done a number on his heart and his trust.

That was why you’d never pushed for anything more than friendship with him, never tried to see if he felt any of the things you did those times you two were more affectionate than friends should ever be. You’d come to understand that he’d never gotten over her from the very little he ever opened up about her. It was also why you’d reluctantly forced yourself to look the other way whenever he took some croweater to his dorm room when he was wasted. You knew those girls meant nothing to him, that they weren't anything but something more satisfying than his own hand. So you let it go because you always held onto the hope that someday he might realize there was something more than friendship between the two of you. You had hope that someday he'd see it. Stupid, foolish, steadfast hope.

Until Tara came back and set all your hopes on fire.

Turning the corner of the hallway as you navigated the hospital, you felt your heart sink to your feet at the sight of the white doctor's coat making its way towards you at the opposite end of the hall. Because of course you’d have to run into her today. St. Thomas wasn’t that large of a hospital after all, it was often impossible to avoid running into her here.

The second Tara spotted you, a bitter smile twisted her lips upwards. It was the same look she’d been giving you for the past two weeks now, ever since one of the other nurses mentioned that Jax used to come here and visit you all the time before he'd been stopping by to see her. And she’d very quickly decided that she didn’t like you after that, always shooting you dirty looks or making passive aggressive comments about how haggard you looked, or hinting at you being some sort of club pussy on your nights off. Always talking down to you with that petulant smile on her face.

“Don’t you have a bedpan to be cleaning up or something?” she commented as she neared.

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes at one of her many attempts to demean your position as a nurse, you set your jaw and kept on walking down the hall. Giving in to the urge to break her nose–to prove to her that she wasn’t nearly as tough as she thought she was–was always so strong whenever she opened her mouth. But you’d most likely end up fired, with an assault charge, and a guarantee that Jax would only continue to keep you out of his life. So you refrained from ever acting on the impulse.

“Oh, you're trying to ignore me now?” Tara asked, her words clearly meant to taunt. Her footsteps down the otherwise empty hall came to a stop behind you before you heard her voice again. “Still pissed at me for being the one he wants, are you?”

Arms crossing over your chest, you could feel your hands balling into fists as she goaded your retreating form. Just one hit. One right hook straight to her nose like your brother had taught you all those years ago. That would shut her goddamn mouth up. But instead you grit your teeth and kept on walking.

“You will never be what he wants, you know,” Tara called down the hall after you.

Stopping mid-step, you halted in the middle of the empty corridor. Those same words had echoed in your mind for years now, usually in your own internal voice. It was a fear you’d had for a while as Jax continued to keep you at arm’s length, burning through girls in his bed like it was nothing while still only playfully flirting with you. Until he’d gone back to following Tara’s shadow like an angry, lost puppy the first chance he got. 

“But you know that, right?” she continued, clearly pleased that she’d caused you to stop. “You’re nothing but a small town nurse who gets wasted and high in her free time at that clubhouse. No better than the croweaters sucking whatever cock swings their way.”

Head whipping over your shoulder, your eyes narrowed back at Tara. “I’m not a fucking club whore,” you snapped. 

“Right,” she said with a nod, stalking towards you with far too much confidence. “Because your brother is a Son. So you think that somehow makes you better than the other girls trying to catch their attention, right?”

She came to a stop just in front of you, the toes of her shoes practically touching yours. As she leaned her face towards you in an attempt to intimidate, invading your personal space, you found yourself struggling to keep your composure. Everything inside of you just wanted to take a swing at her, just one.

“But you’re not,” she continued, voice dropping into a low hiss. “You’re just as useless and forgettable as the rest of the stupid fucking girls that hang around the club with their tits and their asses out. You mean absolutely nothing to Jax. Just as little as all the other croweaters. You always have.”

A sick, roiling sensation hit you in the gut at her words. You wanted to spit something back in her face, to tell her that she was wrong and far too fucking full of herself. But you hesitated, the month long absence of Jax from your life making you question your ability to even argue otherwise before she was speaking again.

“He’s mine,” she warned you. “He’ll always be mine. And you will never, ever have a place in his life. Not just because you don’t matter to him like I do,” she continued sharply, “but because I’ll never let you near him.”

“You don’t even know him.”

The words that you’d been wanting to scream at her for weeks every time she’d looked at you wrong or said something cruel finally fell right from your lips. You couldn’t hold them back as you unflinchingly held her glare with your own despite the way it felt like a fist was squeezing your heart in your chest as the words ‘you don’t matter to him’ repeated in your mind. 

Tara laughed bitterly before she straightened, no longer directly in your face. “I know him better than anyone,” she disagreed. “Including you.”

“You know a teenager from eleven years ago,” you shot back, hands still balled into fists as your arms hugged your chest tighter. “You don’t know the man he is now–what’s in his heart and his head. You don’t know a damn thing about him anymore.”

Tara’s lips twitched briefly at the corners, her eyes still narrowed at you as they ran up and down the length of you in silent appraisal. “I know damn well you’re not what he wants,” she spat. “You’re forgettable. Not someone worth a second look. I can promise you, he will never want you like you so clearly and pathetically want him. So I suggest you let it go and stop trying to text him asking to spend time with you before I make sure he never wants to look in your direction again.” That ruthless little grin was back on her lips. “And believe me, I could do that. Make him hate you. Make him revulsed at the sight of you.”

As much as you wanted to call her bluff, there was a part of you that truthfully was afraid that she could manage to do exactly that. Pit Jax against you, make him hate you. With the way he’d been acting the past few weeks, he hadn’t seemed like the Jax you’d gotten to know over the last three years at all. And the last thing you wanted was to lose your best friend even if it felt like you already had.

A self-satisfied smirk pulled at Tara’s lips when she saw how quickly that threat had silenced you. She knew she’d gotten under your skin finally. But before either of you could say another word, a figure appeared at the other end of the hallway. The movement caused both of you to turn your heads before you caught sight of Jax just as he realized he’d stumbled into something happening between the two of you. His expression shifted between a mixture of things so quickly that you only managed to catch a couple of emotions–surprise, guilt, frustration–before he’d thrown that usual stoic calm over his features which often made him impossible to read.

“Everything good here?” Jax asked as he sauntered towards the pair of you.

You’d been about to answer, but Tara beat you to it as she gestured a hand in your direction.

“You really need to get a handle on the croweaters “ She sent you a sidelong glare before adding on, “They clearly don't know when their mouths are wanted.”

“She’s not a croweater, Tara,” Jax replied, sounding tired. 

He glanced over towards you, taking in your posture as you noticed how exhausted and worn down he looked. He looked as if he hadn’t been sleeping well for a few days. His blonde, shaggy hair was messier and more disheveled than usual, and even the way he carried himself seemed a little off–sluggish and weary. You wondered if it was his thoughts or something else keeping him up late at night before you quickly shut those thoughts down. You probably didn’t want to know the answer.

“I’ll meet you in your office, alright?” he said, focusing back on Tara. “Just gimme a minute.”

Tara stood there eyeing you, that smugness still radiating off of her before she finally continued down the hall in the direction she'd been going in initially. Your attention remained on Jax, studying his face as his eyes followed Tara’s retreating form until it was gone. Then he ran a hand across his mouth in agitation as his gaze drifted back to you.

“What're you doing?” he asked.

Your brows immediately drew together at the accusation in his tone. “What are you talking about?” 

Jax’s head gestured towards where Tara had just disappeared. “Talking to Tara,” he clarified. “Whatever that was clearly wasn't friendly. What're you doing?”

Lips parting in surprise, you couldn't believe he was blaming you for that tense situation he had just stumbled on. Jax had always known you to be fairly level-headed even if you were blunt and spoke your mind. You didn't start shit at the clubhouse despite the few times you'd shut a girl up when you'd truly needed to and he knew that.

“Oh, so I'm the one starting shit?” you shot back incredulously. “Is that the bullshit she's poisoning you with?”

Jax made a face immediately, his expression twisting into one of distaste. “Poisoning me? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

The look on his face gave you pause before you could blurt out everything that'd been on your mind about him and Tara since she returned. But you could see the way his brows had drawn together as his eyes narrowed back at you, his mouth a tight line. He was getting pissed. At you. Something that had never happened before. You knew Tara was a topic that had often been off-limits with him in the past, so calling out her bullshit seemed like it'd get you nowhere with him, even if he desperately needed someone to yank his head out of his own ass.

“She stopped me,” you said instead. “Trust me, I have no desire to have hallway chats with her. That was all on her.”

“Just stay outta shit with Tara,” he told you, moving to step past you like he was already done talking to you. “It’s none of your business.”

Your eyes finally fell to what he was holding in his hand as he took a step forward in the direction of Tara’s office. It was a tumbler. Probably a tumbler filled with coffee. Just like he used to always bring you. The sight of it left you breathless, feeling as if someone had just slammed their fist right into your chest and knocked the wind straight out of you.

“You're bringing her coffee now?” the question slipped softly out before you could stop it.

For the briefest moment, Jax looked guilty at your question and the tone of your voice as his eyes fell to the cup in his hand. But almost as quickly, his jaw tensed and he focused back on you.

“It's none of your business, like I already said,” he snapped.

“So that's it then?” you asked, your mouth suddenly having a mind of its own. “You only have time for Tara now?”

Jax turned back towards you, that frustration from a moment ago returning and setting him off like a lit match. He tensed as he stepped towards you, his eyes narrowed into a sharp glare.

“Maybe I've been fucking busy,” he snapped at you. “You think of that? Maybe I don't have time to sit and drink with you because I've got other shit going on.”

“For a month, Jax?” you asked in disbelief. “Too busy to call or text? Too busy to talk when I'm at the clubhouse? You've been like that ever since Tara came back–you're avoiding me.”

“What?” he snapped, shaking his head at you. “You think I'm avoiding you, is that what this is? You're mad cause you're not getting all my attention? Are you fucking serious right now?”

“I'm mad because you haven't been acting like yourself lately!” you shot back, waving a hand at him. “You never get mad at me like this!”

“Cause you're actually pissing me off right now!” he yelled back.

Those words quieted you, your mouth closing before another thing could come out of it. You'd clearly gone too far and now he was probably just going to push you further away. And dammit, that hurt. All of this hurt.

He pointed a finger in your face as he leaned in towards you, his voice growing dangerously calm as he continued. “Leave the shit with Tara alone, I'm not gonna say it again,” he warned you. “It ain’t your goddamn business. Stay the hell outta it.”

He didn't stand there another second longer before he turned and headed off in the direction Tara had left a few minutes ago, abruptly ending the conversation with you. You stood there watching the back of him, your eyes fixed on the reaper of his kutte until he disappeared towards her office and left you standing alone in the hallway.

A strangled, choked noise fought its way up your chest and out of your mouth before you threw a hand over it. Everything felt like it was suddenly crumbling around you, a burning ache exploding in your chest at the way Jax had just gone off on you.

Ducking into the empty room nearby, you could feel the sting of tears as you slipped inside. You abruptly shut the door after yourself before sinking to the floor, your back to the door as both of your hands flew over your mouth to muffle the sounds of the sobs beginning to fall out of you. 

That hadn't been like Jax at all. Not with you. He'd never gotten pissed like that at you before, never gotten in your face. Even when he was in a bad mood, he'd always been careful with you. Always immediately apologized the handful of times he'd accidentally snapped at you. 

But not this time. 

Warm, wet tears spilled down your cheeks as you shook with sobs against the closed hospital room door. The memory of the way Jax had looked at you just now had Tara’s earlier threat running through your mind again. How she could make him hate you, never want to look in your direction again. Was that what she was already doing?

Where the hell had the Jax you knew for the past three years gone? The one who'd held you close when you'd had a really bad week at the hospital and never minded if you'd cried on his shoulder? The one who used to make you smile with his smartass mouth, and who sent you voicemails to tell you about some ridiculous thing that happened when you'd been working a late shift at the hospital and couldn't be there to witness it? Where was the Jax who'd pick you up sloppy drunk from girls night outs with your friends and called you adorable as he made sure you got home safe?

What the hell had she done to him?

[toruforuu]

gojo satoru x reader || hogwarts au (18+)

wonderwall chp.5 incandescent glow

✼pairing:hogwarts au - slytherin!gojo x ravenclaw!reader

✼summary: gojo satoru, the golden boy of a famous family lineage of wizards sets his sights on you, a half blood defying his pureblood morals. he makes it a goal in his life to make yours a living hell. years of endless pestering, teasing and rivalry stretching out. as times goes on, he finds himself thinking about you more than he isn’t. he grows torn between his family’s beliefs and the forbidden ache tickling his chest whenever he sees you

✼meaning: wonderwall - the person you cannot stop thinking about (song by oasis)

✼genre/tags: hogwarts au, female reader, strangers to enemies/sort of academic rivals to forbidden lovers, slow burn, angst, eventual smut, pining and yearning (mostly gojo), built up tension, teasing, bickering and pestering, jealousy, slightly spoiled gojo, obsessed and lovesick gojo, both are pretty oblivious to their feelings

✼warnings: discrimination, death, grief, shitty parents, light bullying, mentions of hook ups, sexual topics, family pressure and trauma, mentions of injuries and violence, degradation, mentions of political views, escalating political situation, lgbtq representation, cheating

✼word count: 8.9k

✼chapter: 5/?

a/n: hello lovelies! I always wondered how these writes pull up with long ass chapters and I guess I get it now lmao. I also decided to include my favourite greek mythology legend of the star crossed lovers. the constellation is gonna play a little cute role later! anyway, i am taking another entrance exam this saturday and my graduation process is starting soon as well and i am not too sure when another chapter is gonna come out. hopefully soon, but my psychology and education topics for viva are sure giving me a hard time:<

based on this //  previous chapter // next chapter (pending…)

˚⟡˖ ࣪:link to the playlist

˚⟡˖ ࣪:link to the vision-board

Present, summer of 07’

The ripe age of adulthood felt bittersweet as you stood on a hill, one close to where Arabella lives in the countryside. You couldn’t help but recall those sweltering days in the countryside spent beneath the trees near her house or running up this very hill till your lungs might’ve given out. This nostalgia you’re feeling is a mere proof you are living a life to be proud of, what a privilege it is to yearn for your own memories. But now you’re both grown, almost old enough to use magic outside of the school walls and it’s almost melancholic. Couple of months and the power to wield magic would be yours.

It’s the start of July, only couple of days ago you were at Hogwarts, listening to the speech given by the headmaster. Nothing changed since then, only that you had managed to calm down your racing mind, which was filled with anxious whereabouts about the near future. Arabella stands at your side, a hat sitting on her head to shield her from the heat, strawberry blonde curls tucked away beneath it. The scent of sunscreen lingering in the air. You were anxiously picking at the cuticles around your fingers as you mindlessly waited for the arrival of the misfits along with their port-key. While the heat wave suffocates you and sweat builds up at the back of your neck.

Portkeys are magical objects that allow travel across extreme distances or to places that have been charmed against detection from entering or leaving. Portkeys may send unsuspecting people anywhere, and so they require Ministry authorisation to use and operate. Port-keys are usually disguised as ordinary rubbish so muggles are more likely to ignore them. They are set to activate either at a prearranged time, or as soon as the person comes in contact with it.

“Are you bloody sure this a good idea?” you protest impatiently with arms resting across your chest as bees buzz in the air, blades of grass itching the bare side of your lower thigh. You certainly weren’t keen on the idea of trusting such an important part of your weekend to the hands of the Slytherins who hate your guts since the start of your first year. The white haired disaster to blame for that.

“Do you want to see the semifinals or not?” Arabella huffs a bit grumpily due to the overwhelming intensity of the weather as she toys around with the adjustable strings of her backpack, which is hanging over her shoulders. Cool breeze hits your frames for a small fraction of a second, bringing relief.

“We could have used apparition,” you shrug your shoulder with the intention of blaming your friend for this obscene situation you found yourself to be in. Because your friend refused to use apparition regardless of the fact you had for license for it handful of months now (she was right though, it was dangerous to use it for such a distance). Given the fact it’s your dream to go to the World Cup, not even crossing paths with the boy who made your life a living hell and depending on him would stop you from going.

The Quidditch World Cup is held every four years since the 15th century. The competition has Quidditch teams representing themselves and their countries sprawled all around the world, fighting for the World Cup and the title of champions. It is simultaneously the most exhilarating sporting event and a logistical nightmare for the host nation, which happens to be your country after nearly fifty years of waiting. When it was announced, you begged all of your friends to attend with you. Sadly, the twins couldn’t afford such a luxury. You understood, the ticket was pricey. Whole 40 Galleons at its cheapest. You yourself had to save for months, skipping on your usual purchases. For your sake, Arabella promised to join you, leaving her to do such drastic changes in her shopping as well. However at the end of the day, it wasn’t only you she went for. Her girlfriend agreed to go along with her older brother who happens to be a part of the untouchables.

The poor girl is connected to both your ex boyfriend and the Slytherins, you thought.

“We’ll transport together and go our separate ways, it’s not a big deal,” she presses further, hoping you would drop the subject and take it as it will come. However, you’re not feeling like letting it to fizzle on its own.

“I don’t trust Gojo. He might as well leave us there,” at the sound of your scoff, Arabella tilts her body towards yours.

“But Margaret wouldn’t,” she lets the words out gently and it instantly fills you with guilt, causing your features to soften up. You were so preoccupied with the fact it’s Gojo out of all people, you didn’t realise Arabella’s girlfriend was going to make a difference. Their relationship was complicated and pointing out your worries didn’t do your friend any good.

Margaret came out of a pureblood household, her older brother mentioned earlier was sorted into Slytherin and is part of the group which includes the blue eyed menace. While she is a year younger than you and surprisingly got sorted into Gryffindor. One of a few in her lineage. Her views are not filled with poison and she is open, therefore, a romance could spark between her and the short strawberry blonde Ravenclaw. Though it has to be held a secret, disguised as mere friendship. The outlook of it was already bad if a pureblood of her rank befriended a muggle born witch (especially in the upcoming times). What would it be like if the truth bubbled up to the surface? Her family would perhaps forbid it, or worse. But you’re certain they wouldn’t let it slide.

“I know, I’m sorry,” you try apologising for doubting the intentions of her lover.

You couldn’t continue the interaction any further as a swirl of wind hurled into the space on top of the hill where you stood, bringing four figures along. The first voice you mapped out was the girlish voice of Margaret, her frame running into a prison formed by Arabella’s arms. She hugged her a little tighter. Something that goes unnoticed by those who don’t know, but not by you. You turned your gaze away from the two of them, the blinding sun making you narrow your eyes in order to catch a glimpse of the others. It’s the first time throughout the years you’re seeing Satoru Gojo outside of your shared school, more importantly in summer — the essence of your free time. The casualness scares you. And as you blink away the sun, the outlines of figures inch closer. When you can make out the their existence, you nod your head as a form of greeting rather than using your words, the three Slytherins chose to replicate the action. All of them draped with backpacks, hats and sweat. Margaret then walks over to you, hugging you in a similar way.

Seeing her reminds you of him, your ex boyfriend.

“I’ll crash in your tent, you won’t mind, Y/N, will you?” her sweet voice rings in your ears as she speaks while her hands cage you in a welcoming hug. You assumed she would since her brother and his company is overpoweringly manly, so you weren’t against it. As a matter of fact, you brought a bigger tent which would serve you over the weekend.

“You’re all good,” your hand pats her back in a comforting manner before you pull away.

She shoots you a grateful smile and proceeds to engage in conversation with Arabella, leaving you to listen to them from the sidelines. It doesn’t bother though, you know if it weren’t for this opportunity they wouldn’t see each other during the break as it was that way last summer. They wrote letters to one another, but writing is far from the magic of meeting in person. Your attention occasionally glides over to the intruders, who stand couple of feet away and watch you while they wait for the three of you to finish talking.

“Taking muggles, are we?” one of Gojo’s friends groans out and your ears perk up at the words, your blood pressure instantly rises. Sadly, all you three managed to make out the words. To Arabella it meant nothing. Sure, it still hurt, yet she was somehow used to the insults and willing to let it go. But you aren’t that open minded.

“Hey! I heard that,” you huff out for the sake of your friend and Arabella grabs your hand in the process and steps in front of you to prevent you from doing anything stupid. Your eyes fall onto the grip she has on your wrist . Then they bore into her orbs, which are filled up with pleading.

“I told you to behave, Robin,” another boy from the Slytherin house slides into the conversation and from his words you could already depict it was he, who was the older brother of your best friend’s girlfriend.

“Yeah, your dumb sister,” the initial guy whispers as he turns around to face the other way, utterly ignoring you and your attempt at putting him into his place. The blue eyed wizard next to him chuckles and without any further due begins to stroll towards you, the sight of you almost lyrical.

“Woah, couldn’t have been better,” you utter under your own breath with an eye-roll. Arabella squeezes your wrist before she lets it go, signalling and begging one more to remain calm. And when she steps out of your way, you’re once again facing the one and only, Gojo Satoru.

“Fuming, already?” he piques with his brows arching in playful curiosity, his other two friends closing up the distance as well. The burning sun, humid air and now this, was a dangerous combination for the sake of holding your temper back.

Yes, you were already fuming.

“You better keep your pretentious friends in check, Gojo,” your voice drops a tone so the words wouldn’t reach the said friends while burning a hole through the white haired prodigy with your sharp gaze. Unlike them, you are cautious about your intentions.

“Ah, you wound me,” he places his palm over his chest, long fingers sprawling across it as he pouts his lips in addition. To get even bigger rise out of you. Which he succeeds in, but you wouldn’t give him the pleasure of voicing it out loud.

“I mean it,” you said, firm and steady. No extra edge in the sound of your tone.

“Let’s gather into a circle and get this over with,” Satoru’s voice calls out a moment later, ending the conversation laced with your snarky banter. His two friends perk up at his words, finally closing up the distance fully.

Satoru pulls out the port-key, instructing you and Arabella on what to do. Or rather what to not do. You both silently listen. He then carefully places the port-key into the grass, crouching down to place a hand over it. His friends crouch down as well, gripping each other’s hands and reaching for their white haired friend. Arabella and Margaret falter down too, hands already intertwined and Margaret grabs her older brother. After that, it only comes down to you.

“You need to hold my hand for it work,” he holds out his hand to you from where he’s crouching and you hesitate. He waits for you to take it. They all wait for you to take it. All five pairs of eyes, however, only one boring into your soul with its depth.

“I don’t bite, come on,” you open your mouth to protest, but decide to close it. You huff out a low sound before you grab Arabella’s hand, squatting down in between her and the Slytherin’s menace. Then you finally take his hand in yours. The contact simple, yet soft. His skin smooth and untainted, a true hand of someone of his rank. He grips your smaller hand loosely, ensuring the teleportation goes without a hitch. The brush of his fingers leaves its mark.

In a blink of a crinkling eye you’re pulled into the port-key, the sensation of being teleported leaving your stomach in knots. The next moment you open your eyes you’re met with a vast quidditch field towering in the distance, busy chatter enveloping you. You watch in awe as other wizards brush past you, the atmosphere of the tournament fulfilling each fantasy you ever had about the World Cup and it hasn’t even started properly. As you scan your surrounding, you realise one small detail. Your hand is still lazily coaxed in his, which makes you instantly retrieve it to your side without sparing the boy any glance.

“Margaret, find some place near us, mkay’? Mom would kill me if anything were to happen to you,” the older brother of Arabella’s girlfriend says as we pick yourselves up from the ground, soothing out dust from your clothes.

“Yeah, I’ll stop by, don’t worry,” she answers with a simple nod of her head, urging her brother to finally take his leave. It was clear to you she couldn’t wait to be alone with her girlfriend. Her brother scanned all three of you without a word, turning on his heel and walking to the opposite direction. Robin, the guy who badmouthed Arabella, and Satoru following his lead.

You haven’t bothered to fetch a place for the tent. No, the three of you figured exploring the area and mostly the food stands would benefit you more. You checked out the menus of the street food businesses and the girls shyly admitted to not knowing the history of the tournament. So you started on with your rambling, explaining the truth behind the scenes as best as you could.

To be qualified for the world cup meant a lot of work. Each team played all of the other teams in their group over a two year period. During the group phase, there was always a timer of four hours on every game to avoid exhaustion of the players. On the occasion that the game ended after four hours of play and the Golden Snitch wasn't caught, the result was decided by the amount of goals scored. A win earned two points. In addition to these two points, a win by 150 points earned five points, by 100 points an extra three points and by 50 points an extra one point. If two teams were level on points, they were separated by whichever team captured the Snitch most often, or most quickly during their matches. The sixteen teams who finished top of the sixteen groups qualified for the World Cup. Throughout the tournament a team who won the most points played the team who earned the least, the team who earned the second most played the team who earned the second least, and so on. This theoretically allowed the two best teams from the qualifying phase to meet in the final. Making it all more exciting to watch. And you were clever enough to wait and pick tickets for the later games, tonight’s being the semifinal. Truthfully, Arabella and Margaret got lost somewhere in the bylines of your explaining, however, they remained focused.

You munched on chips dipped in ketchup while passing all sorts of shops, the backpacks heaving down onto your shoulders. You had to put your hair up by a clip, the heat stronger as it already hit past noon, which meant the sun was at its highest point. Due to that you all agreed finding a place to put up the tent and resting for a bit would be a wiser decision than to wander around.

The tent was easy to put together, one simple verbal spell and the job was done in a flash. You placed it few rows away from the Slytherins. Close enough for Margaret to be near her brother, far enough to ensure you a peace of mind. The tent looked tiny, but as you brushed past the flaps of entrance a humongous room spilled in front of you. Arabella voiced out her excitement through a little giggle, she then proceeded to share the fact she never even knew such tents existed. Clearly glad they did. Margaret was smiling from ear to ear as her girlfriend went on explaining how she missed out on so many things and how she can’t believe she lived without them. You both find it incredibly cute.

Originally, you were supposed to be seated at the highest lane in the very back in the stadium. However, your company ensured you better views and brought you to the VIP section. Mostly due to the charms of Margaret, who was quick to convince her brother to take both Arabella and you along, regardless of protests. From both you and the other Slytherin boys.

It was already past midnight when the mach ended and each step towards the tent felt like a knife to your worn out body.

“I feel bad for even asking, but could you maybe, go out for a bit? Margaret and I need to have a little chat. About us and well, to see if she’s embarrassed of being seen with me,” Arabella rubs the back of her neck nervously as she speaks, shy to maintain eye contact as you both stand in front of the entrance to the tent.

It was true Margaret acted a tad weirder than usual during the match.

“I was planning on taking a stroll around anyway,” you decide to ease her down with a small innocent lie. You are actually mad exhausted from the sprinkling heat and walking all day, nonetheless, you remain understanding of the situation and want to grant your friend a sense of privacy. She repeats the words “thank you” tons of times like a holy prayer, caressing your shoulder to show her gratitude.

“Arabella?” the sound of her name makes her head turn and stop her mid entering the tent.

“Yeah?” she whispers faintly as she looks over her shoulder.

“She would be a fool to be embarrassed by having someone like you,” the silky sound of your voice urges a twinkle of smile to form against her lips. She mouths one last “thank you” before she disappears into the tent. The sudden absence of her presence leaving you in the haze of a warm July night. Crickets crinkle in the background and you let out a heavy breath, wondering whatever to do.

After a small pause, your steps head somewhere in between the rows which separate the tents. You drag the walk out, slowly pacing back and forth through the made up streets of tents. The world is curled up in a blanket of stillness, the air still heavy and thick from the sunny day. You have no clue of what time it was, the passage unclear so you aren’t sure when to return. So you continue to wander, feet aching even in your most comfortable pair of shoes. Most of the stands around the place closed up already, some of them having yet to do so as the owners pack their stuff for the night.

You take one more lap around the area and then head back, unsure whenever they have finished talking, yet too tired to keep strolling around. When you reach your tent you place an ear against the fabric. Muffled voices of the two girls could be still heard as you stood at the entrance again. You don’t want to interrupt them so you sit down onto the damp grass. The stables tickle your legs as you hunch down your back out of soreness, head thrown back to look over the night sky. Leaving you to wonder if the stars look back down on you.

A sound of footsteps pulls you out of your trance, head twitching to the left. A figure walks down your way. A familiar one.

“Got kicked out?” he says when he approaches, you don’t bother to avert your gaze as you had already seen him coming from the corner of your eye. Even when he was meters away. You ponder whenever to answer. More like what to answer, your short-circulated brain unable to make up an act, which wouldn’t blow their cover.

“Look, I am not blind. I noticed,” it made you stop dead in any movement as he plainly hinted at the ongoing relationship between Arabella and the younger sister of his companion. Fear swallowed you.

You don’t answer.

“Can I sit?” the white haired wizard breathes out at last, close to being frustrated at your lack of responsiveness.

“Don’t have a choice, do I?” a snicker escapes your mouth, not attacking nor inviting him.

“Nope,” the p rolls on his tongue before he chuckles and takes a seat next to you on the ground, leaving fair amount of space between you.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he once more hints at their relationship and you don’t answer this time either.

“A constellation. Which one is that, do you know? I don’t think I’ve seen it before,” he asks as he points his finger towards the night sky, eager to make you speak. Your eyes travel in the direction of his fingers, meanwhile curiosity overflows his senses and you easily pick up on the untainted emotion. He’s different to what he normally sounds like.

“It’s called Lyra, and it can only be seen now, around midnight at the start of summer,” you share the information on the collection of stars. The one you are the most fond of ever since the professor introduced it in the advanced lessons of astronomy. Beatrice and you were thriving off the story the moment you came to acknowledge it.

To be fair, you don’t know why you are sharing it.

Out of feeling bad, you guess.

“Lyra? It sounds vaguely familiar,” the young man replies with fascination. His eyes edge the sky, not looking away still as if utterly mesmerised by the sight. Your gaze lingers too, though not on the stars. The side of his face shines, his porcelain skin reflecting the moonlight.

“It’s connected to the greek legend of Orpheus and Eurydice,” the sound of your voice brings his gaze back down to you and you manage to avert yours just in time for him to miss it. And if he didn’t miss it, he decided to go on without giving you a hard time about it. His eyes swirling with intrigue.

“Do tell,” two simple yet powerful words.

“Apollo, the greek God of sun, granted Orpheus a lyre which tunes were so beautiful no enemies nor beasts could resist, and taught him how to play. Later on, he fell in love with a woman named Eurydice and married her. She was a woman of grace and beauty. However, their marriage was prophesied to not last by the Gods. Soon after the prophecy was spoken, Eurydice died. Some stories tell she was bitten by a snake, some that she drowned. It’s unclear,” you flickered your eyes away from him before your lips opened to spill the words pinching your tongue. You chose to stay focused on the story rather than on the warmth building within your body as the white haired wizard truly seemed to be paying attention.

“I’m listening,” his voice is low, head nodding as he wishes for you to continue. This was also most possibly the longest time you two spoke without being at each other’s throats and he wonders what else lies in that thick skull of yours. What else he has no idea of.

“Orpheus portrayed his grief with the tunes of his lyre. The strength of it so strong it moved things in the world. Both humans and Gods learnt about his sorrows. At some point, Orpheus descended towards Hades — the God of the underworld. The God was moved to compassion by the lyre and told the musician he could return to the living world with his wife, under one condition: she would have to follow behind him while walking out from the caves of the underworld, and he could not turn to look at her as they walked. He thought it to be an easy task since he was a man of patience. He thanked Hades with delight and left to ascend back into the living world. Unable to hear Eurydice's footsteps, however, he began to fear the Gods had fooled him. Only a few feet away from the exit, Orpheus couldn’t resist and turned to see his beloved Eurydice behind him. The act immediately sending her back to be trapped in Hades's reign forever,” the sound of your voice dies down, the story picking up its end.

“So he turned around because he had loved her so much he couldn’t resist?” Satoru declares unsurely while you almost cannot hide your shock at how easily he assumes the reason behind the act, most would remain unaware or uninterested.

“Yes. They are star crossed lovers, doomed from the start. Hades himself would have failed the test, you simply cannot cheat death,” the edge of your tone gathers passion as you speak about what ignites a spark within you.

“He killed himself to be reunited with her in the underworld after. The constellation formed, because a God casted his lyre into the sky,” you go on, telling him how the heroic musician’s fate faded into a sloppy calamity at last.

“How tragic,” the dazzling boy mumbles underneath his nose and he smiles a little then at the thought of the story, a smile unlike any other he had given you. Disposed of any irony. The sight nearly illicit to drink in. It made you rethink everything, perhaps he wasn’t as bad as he painted himself to be. Just maybe. And you were willing to let the small acknowledged slip if it contained the small meaningless word maybe.

“I must say I wasn’t a fan of summer till recently, but the story is nice,” he announces as he leans his hand into his palm, elbow resting against his thighs. The sound of his delicate breathing hear-able in the dead of the night.

“What made you change your mind?” the question slips into the space out of politeness.

“Nothing in particular,” you look at him, only to find him already looking at you. A memory of seeing you last summer springs his mind. This moment serving as a mirror to it. Panic sweeps over you, making your gaze flicker away.

“Do you?” he questions in addition to your small talk.

“Yeah, of course. Not my favourite, but sure,” you answer nonchalantly while a wave of something unknown washes over you and then you bring your knees to your chest. Hugging them with your arms. Head falling down onto them.

“I heard your father has gotten seriously ill, by the way. I am sorry about that,” his words make you irk. It’s as if the sentence buries the unusual emotions you had just caught a glimpse of back beneath the surface. Into the unexplored depths.

Your parents returned from overseas in January, spending something over a month there. The treatment they used worked like a miracle, feeding your father with doses of life and you were over the moon to find out the life threatening sickness was retrieving. Only for it fall like a house of cards. It started out with symptoms showing up again, the same ones he firstly proceeded to ignore before he was diagnosed. It’s getting bad and they’re already scheduling another process of treatment. And most people knew. Of corse they did. Your mother had to make it public in order for her to keep her job, without it she wouldn’t be able to fly over to another continent. Without reasonable camouflage she would lose her spot at the ministry.

“Are you truly?” you scoff in disbelief, shaking your head lightly as you look down on the ground. Bitterness spikes your system, you bite down the urge to burst into your tent. To hide from him and the world.

“Yes, I am not a monster,” his voice declares, layered with customary coldness.

“But you do agree with your family’s views, don’t you?” you laugh out quietly and sarcastically, gathering yourself to stand up from where you’ve been sitting till now.

He quiets down, piercing eyes looking up at you from the low angle. And for a split moment it seems he is hesitant about his answer, eyes flashing with a flee of — and it’s gone. Like he flipped a switch.

It amuses you in all the wrong ways.

“I do,” he states sharply and gets up on his feet as well, towering above you with face set neutrally as if to corner you. You wouldn’t let him. What were you thinking he might be different? He is the pretentious douchebag you had him for. The one who’s been fed nonsense before he could even walk. It was certain, he would surely take after his parents, there was no need to question him. Yet that flicker of something in his-

No.

No.

“Then don’t pity me,” you empathise the word pity as you bravely stare back at him, the peaceful fondness of the conversation forgotten and left in past of the moment.

“I wasn’t. Isn’t it polite to give condolences?” you can’t stand how clever he makes himself sound, rubbing it smugly in your face like salt into a wound. He cunningly ticks his head. Witty charm reappearing.

“Not when you don’t mean them,” you mumble with a shaken voice, the crack in your words would be evident to anyone. He opens his mouth to respond, his shallow ego faltering, but he is not given the chance to speak back.

“Goodnight,”

And with that you brush past him to enter your tent, zipping it up. Thankfully, by the time you do enter, Arabella has finished talking with her secret lover. Margaret had actually fell asleep in her lap during the time spent sitting outside. Her head is cradled into Arabella’s lap, which causes you to grow cautious with your steps, tiptoeing quietly towards your bed after changing into a comfortable set of pyjamas. Your friend who is on the verge of falling asleep herself asks you what went on outside. She heard the conversation between you and the Slytherin distinctively. But you truly don’t feel like talking. So instead of that you wish her a good night of sleep as well, promising to share what’s happened tomorrow morning.

Despite your past exhaustion, falling asleep takes time as your thoughts spiral somewhere you would prefer to avoid.

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈๑⋅⋯ ୨˚୧ ⋯⋅๑┈┈┈┈┈┈•• ✼

The sun lowered itself down past the horizon, soft pastel spurts of orange, yellow and pink enchanting the sky. Sky clear of clouds, casting a ray of last bits of sunshine before the star would bid its goodbyes. Leaving for the night to take over. The match of the day was already over, not lasting the same amount of time as the night before since one of teams caught a Snitch. You’re leaving tomorrow morning, but it didn’t bother you, the time was well spent anyway.

And now you are lined up in a queue for pretzels, taking one for the team and ordering for everyone. Including the Slytherin boys. Your way of saying thank you for bringing you along with them to the VIP section.

You locate the larger ground chatting in front of the boys tent an eternity later (or at least if felt like an eternity standing in the queue) and give each one of them their pretzel, praying you mesmerised their orders right. They handed you money in return for the food and thanked you.

“Try mine!” you squal out laughing and hand Arabella your pretzel dipped in cheddar cheese. She takes it to take a bite and right away groans in pleasure at the taste. Approving your choice.

“Your sister sure knows how to pick friends,” Robin mumbles to his peers bitterly, the sight of you three happily together not resonating right with him. He hated seeing his friend’s sister tagging along with a muggle and a half blood who is so open.

Though he isn’t met with a reply, because Satoru is busy recalling the events of last night where he unsurprisingly once again caused harm with his actions. He meant to give you his sympathies, show empathy, however it came out wrong. His sights are resting on you and the way your head throws back in laughter. The sunrise throws a hue of colours against your cheeks. Making you glow.

And Margaret’s brother is too focused on enjoying his pretzel.

“I’ll be right back,” Satoru announces to his two friends whose sights are sewn into you three.

They hum. He’s gone. Lost in the crowd.

You finish your pretzels and throw the remains into the bin. All three of you then decide to take a walk through the stands once more time, just like yesterday. To look at trinkets and gifts you could bring home. Jackets of the teams, pins, broaches, hats, photographs. It’s all there. You purchase pins of your father’s and yours favourite team.

The world somewhere in between night and day.

And as you pay, the clouds start to form on the ivory sky. One moment it was clear and another it began to darken. You furrow your brows as the situation only escalates. The stratosphere dipping into darkness, when it was still alluring seconds ago.

The constellation of Lyra peaking from above one last time before it’s consumed by the hurling clouds.

“Margaret, go pick your things up. You two as well. We’re leaving,” Margaret’s brother orders you around and neither of you dares to have any objections. Well, there’s no time really as Margaret is already dragging you away.

Millions of questions pop in your head.

The three of you walk up to your tent, steps hurried and impatient and suddenly — a scream pierces through the air and the world goes temporarily quiet.

The silence bursts into pure horror and hysteria. People begin to yell over one another. Push past each other to get to safety and you wonder why, why, why. Why is this happening?

Do the Slytherins know?

Did they know it was gonna happen?

Another scream cracks into the open and you take notice of remains of a spell flying around in the distance.

“Do you need help?” Arabella panics as her and Margaret secure their backpacks onto their bags, bringing yours out of the tent as well.

“No, let’s go,” you urge them before you speak the bounded spell, the tent slouching down into a squared shape. You pick it into your arms, pressing it against your chest, and throw your bag over your shoulder. The intensity of terror around you spikes.

The three of you run. As fast as the crowd of bodies pushing against one another allows you to. Even though you don’t know what you’re running from. Another tormented screams pierces through the air and it makes you freeze in the spot. Wizards around you are nudging your shoulders, throwing you around while they bolt. You prop your head back and your watery eyes glimpse at the sky in the middle of dawn. The sight of smoke taking the shape of evil on it as if it were a canvas dethrones you utterly.

Incandescent green glow aligns the symbol of the wicked.

Death Eaters.

It hits you, this is truly happening and you’re in the eye of the storm. And another wave crashes over you through the passing moment, you had lost your friends in the crowd. You press the tent formed into a shape tighter against your chest, heart thundering in your body as ringing roars in your earbuds. You slump together a ball of courage to shove away others, slipping into an alley of tents out of the main route, where not as many people are rushing. You do your best and try to ease down the nauseous pit in your stomach. And your legs burn agonisingly, however, you’re not willing to give up.

Orientation in such a panicked state is hard thing to do, but you are successful of mapping the place after few turns and spins. One second you’re back on track running and another you’re shoved to the ground. You hiss in pain and get up anyway. Your knees and palms are muddy, a slight cut is painted over your palms. You mould it into a fist, which causes blood to spill.

You arrive back to where the boy’s tent should’ve been, instead there’s an empty space now. You look around in panic, trying to see anyone you would recognise. But it’s in vain.

They left.

They left

They left.

Fright seizes you, makes you utterly motionless as your gaze flickers between the rushing people. Your heart pounds against your ribs like a caged animal, every beat rattling through your chest. A cold sweat slicks your palms, making them clammy, useless. Your breathing is shallow. Too fast. Too uneven. Your stomach clenches and nausea creeps up the walls of your throat. You try to steady your hands, to make a valiant effort to think of a way to get out, but you’re met with betrayal of your body. And even though nobody can hear the deafening roar of panic flooding your head, drowning out all logic, all reason: it’s all reflected in your expression — body screaming for you to run, to escape, but there is nowhere to go.

Until one face turns into your direction. Your eyes widen in disbelief and this one look skyrockets your adrenaline, causing you to flee. To your dismay, the figure follows. A figure wearing a black hood and a mask with snake-like eye slits, covering the person’s identity. You race through the lanes, heart thumping so loud you can barely hear anything besides it. You don’t have the courage to look behind you, however, the sounds of footsteps closing in on you are unmistakable. You reach for your wand tugged away in the waist line of your shorts. You shouldn’t. You’re not allowed. Nevertheless, your safety is currently of importance. You’ll deal with the Ministry later.

“Protego,” you whisper out of breath and the wand in your grip fizzles out sparks of magic, casting a spell to protect you from any incoming attacks. And it seems it was right on time as the shield bounces off a curse thrown your way. It wouldn’t grant death, nonetheless, it would’ve been very painful.

You take turns in between the alleys, letting yourself fade into the crowd to shake off the masked evil tracing you. Roaring screams echoes again and overwhelming guilt suffocates you. You were the one to lead the evil into the sum of bodies.

“Fuck, L/N, here!” Margaret’s older brother calls out and immense gratitude washes over you. They’re still here. As soon as your eyes register where it came from, you feel like crying in bliss.

You’re too stunned as you reach them and before you can say or do anything, Margaret pulls you by your wrist into the port-key. The teleportation sets at the touch and sends you instantly to the hill where it all started. To safety.

“Merlin’s beard!”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,”

“I’m okay,”

Rushed whispers of reassurance pass between all of you. A brief worry for each other is spread through all of you, regardless of your unfriendly past.

“We gotta head back for Satoru,” Robin wheezes out and the sudden calmness of your surroundings startles you. Only then, when he speaks the words out loud and clear, you notice you’re indeed missing one member.

Right, you saw him leave earlier and head for the food stands.

“Don’t be crazy. We’re not going back there,” Margaret’s older brother declares and grabs his sister’s shoulder to shove her behind me in protectiveness.

“Knowing him, he’s already somewhere safe,” he adds and his eyes beam with something simple, only what they can decipher. A moment of understanding passes between. Robin nods and lets the whole situation go.

“Why didn’t you find him?” you make a lazy effort to understand what went on while you were separated.

“You think we didn’t look everywhere?” he spits fiercely. So much that it urges you to take a step back.

You have so many things you want to ask, but so little energy.

“Enough,” Margaret’s brother hisses “we’re going to check his family mansion,” he then places a hand over Robin’s chest to push him away from you and Arabella.

“Okay, be careful,” Arabella manages to mumble out in spite of the panic and rush, the meaning behind mostly served for Margaret.

You don’t say anything. And with that, they’re gone and you finally feel like breathing again. Your head spins and you truly feel like throwing up. You collide with the ground, knees hurting from the impact. Mild breeze caresses your side and you lie down into the grass to catch your breath. Arabella doesn’t interrupt the silence and lies down beside you, dropping her backpack first.

The cool grass cradles your body as it sinks into the earth, limbs heavy with exhaustion. The scent of summer—warm soil, dried greenery, the lingering trace of something sweet in the air fills your lungs. It does little to steady your racing heart. The echoes of what just happened still grip your mind, flashing behind your closed eyes like a movie you’ve just seen. Your fingers curl into the grass, grasping at something real, something solid, as if the earth itself might anchor you. The warm night air hums with the sound of distant cicadas, the world continues as if nothing has changed — though for the two of you, everything has.

Your breathings slow down. Not because the pain has lessened, but because there is nothing left to do but exist beneath the vastness of the sky, small and fragile and utterly human.

The sound of ruffling leaves and bending of grass crunches in the distance. Your friend sits up instantly out of fear. While you can’t be bothered as you’re somehow still processing the events.

“Gojo? Gojo!” Arabella huffs in disbelief and then squawks out as she realises it is truly him. She’s back on her feet, running towards the trees where he is. You tear your gaze away from the sky. His hand is cupping his shoulder. He’s hurt. You too sit up, but your reflexes aren’t as sharp as your friend’s after what you’ve been through so you remain in place.

“I panicked and this was the first place I thought of,” you hear his voice, the rest of their conversation unregistered. You curse under your breath, fingers gripping the stables of the grass and ripping them out before you do the same as Arabella.

“Where the hell were you?” your voice interrupts their conversation sharply and Arabella doesn’t protest, only watches. His head cocks towards you and your eyes slide down to his shoulder where the fabric of his shirt is slightly torn.

“Scared ya?” even at this moment he finds the strength to sound as cocky as ever.

You weren’t worried, although maybe a little, but you thought his actions to be misleading.

Strange.

“No, idiot, it’s suspicious,”

“And how did you manage to get splinched anyway, mister good at everything?” you ask instead of pressing further for answers.

“Wasn’t exactly in the right state of mind as they chased me,” this time his voice sounds more sincere and it’s clear he’s in pain, trying to mask it by his cockiness.

“I have herbs at home. I will bring them, hold on,” Arabella suddenly beams, shooting you both a worried look. Moment later she’s running down the hill through the meadows of tall grass and flowers.

“Herbs?” he echoes.

“She’s the best in herbology, you got nothing to worry about,” you say, not to reassure him down but to remind him.

“I know. She lives around here?” he huffs out, his breathing a little rough.

“Down the hill, behind the trees, yeah,” you look over your shoulder and point to where her house should be.

“Lucky me,” Satoru breathes out in relief and leans against one of the trees for support, his back sliding down.

Silence then hangs in the air as the two of you are alone in the dead of night, both still bewildered from the ruined tournament.

“Seriously, where were you?” you press again, voice smoother and less attacking. Still demanding.

“Picking up drinks,” he shrugs with ease and you can tell he’s not telling you the entire truth.

All sorts of scenarios bubble up.

You don’t pressure him, assuming he wouldn’t tell you anything anyway. You’re not friends after all. And he’s not your responsibility. However, the gnawing distress eats at you from the inside.

“Let me have a look at the splinch,” your body squats down next to him, eyeing his bloody shirt.

“Tenting to my wounds? How heroic of you,” he chuckles smugly with eyes baffled.

“Stop playing,” you flicker his shoulder and he winces in pain as a response.

“Ah, okay, okay. No need to get so aggressive,” voice filled with mockery and fake defensiveness. A pout decorates his lips, nonetheless, you can tell it’s all a facade right now.

Your fingers roll the fabric of his sleeve and he sucks in his breath, keeping quiet. The degree of the splinch didn’t seem to be a life threatening injury. His skin was torn open — no flesh nor muscles missing. Your eyes look up from his shoulders to see his expression, but to your dismay his eyes were fluttered shut so you couldn’t read it.

The wound was unusual. It was no splinching incident. Something else must have happened.

“You’ll live,” you tell him the outcome you’ve come to, pushing away the need for answers.

This isn’t yours to solve, you repeat to yourself.

You’re saved from the uncomfortable silence fizzling in the atmosphere by the return of Arabella who managed to seize the herbs from her room. You leave the job to her since she knows what’s she’s doing the best.

Essence of Dittany. The magical solution to his wound made from dried and crushed dittany leaves and salt water, which posses powerful properties that can be used on open shallow wounds for immediate healing and skin regeneration. You patiently watch your friend work her magic as his porcelain skin begins to bound together, leaving the spot flawless. Looking fresher than before.

From the look on her face you knew that she noticed it was no splinch wound either.

“Y/N,” the sound of your name jolts you back to reality.

You turn your head to the directions from where it came from.

“Mom, how did you-“ you fly to your feet, straightening yourself in an instant. You freeze as her hand lifts, gesturing for you to stop.

Silently telling you to leave it for later.

“You casted a spell, remember? You’re incredibly lucky I came across it before anyone else did,” she speaks slowly and gently, though her behaviour indicating that she is displeased with this whole situation. You open your mouth to defend yourself, but it’s no use, so you close it. You grip the denim fabric of your shorts, telling yourself to keep quiet. You know how vast the punishments for underage wizards were, sometimes so cruel as to expel you from Hogwarts if the circumstances were serious. Which a mere spell of deference such as the one you used wasn’t. Anyway, it could still land you trouble.

And the fact Satoru Gojo, out of all people heard — made you want to vanish from the surface.

He is already eighteen, free to cast spells.

While you aren’t.

And he’s free to report you.

“Get up, boy. I will get you home. Your mother must be worried sick,” her motions are robot like, cold yet polite as she makes the offer. Her gaze fleets towards the only son of the Gojo family. And for the first time you see your mother acting like the true Head Auror of The Department of Magical Law Enforcement she is and not like a parental figure. You saw her at work thousands of times, yet never before like this.

“Thank you, Ma’m,” the young white haired wizard blinks at her before managing an answer. He clumsily collects himself, his arm healed yet still lacking its usual flexibility.

“You two go back to Arabella’s place. Be ready in fifteen minutes,” your mother calls out to you and Arabella as she turns around to face you, wand in her hand. She reaches for Satoru.

“Please, let me explain,” you plea

You’re met with a firm answer: “In fifteen minutes. Go. Now,”

“Bye,” Satoru mumbles awkwardly. His eyes flying over to your friend and then to you, lingering unnecessarily a moment longer before he disappears with your mother. Out of your sights.

Dehumanising sense washes over you. This isn’t how your summer was supposed to start off. It was meant to be sweet.

You turn to look at Arabella who’s staring out into the open, plains of fields which are barely visible as they are tucked away beneath the darkness of the night sprawled ahead. Your voice breaks into the open to encourage her to move, to leave the terror’s of the night behind.

The walk to her house is alien like.

“The spell was a self defence, your mom will surely understand,” she speaks as you head down the hill, muscles of your legs burning from all the sprinting earlier.

“I am not worried about that,” you beam, heading down.

“What do you mean?”

“You saw the wound,”

Arabella hitched lightly at your words.

“I did,” she agrees “you don’t think he-?”

“I’m not sure about anything anymore,” you confess in defeat.

A vivid memory of your conversation with him in front of the tent replays and it bugs you.

I do.

He does.

He does share their views, but surely, he wouldn’t do anything stupid.

Right?

“It’s not any good. They are pressing down onto mom and if anyone finds out what she did for me then- then-“ you break out, however, tears don’t come. Perhaps you’re utterly spent, who knows, but nothing comes out.

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” a hand lands on your lower back in a gentle manner, seeking to soothe down your nerves.

“It’s gonna be okay, you’ll see,”

But you’re not so sure about it. Couple of hours maybe, not now.

You stop in front of Arabella’s house and it bittersweetly makes you recall all those times you spent at her house. Endless summer days filled with youth and deprived of any worries. The silly routine you two had leaves a sense of longing in your chest.

“Please. Don’t mention anything to my parents. They were already anxious enough to even let me go and if they figured what happened, it would only worry them,” her voice is low, the lights in her parent’s house out. They must be sleeping.

“Write me, will you?” you pull her into your arms and whisper small promises into her ear. Both about keeping quiet and reaching out. You held her for a moment longer, unsure of everything.

“Take care, Ara,” you rub her shoulder and bid your goodbyes.

And it isn’t long till your mother arrives, empty handed now.

“What were you thinking, trusting that boy?” she starts the second she appears and the words. They sting. You can’t comprehend how she’s able to ask such a thing when the history between you and the pure-blood of the Gojo family is known. And not for its fondness.

“He had a registered port-key and we needed to get to the tournament. That’s all. I never trusted him and I won’t. We were separated and kept to ourselves. When the attack happened, Gojo was missing and he stumbled here,” you explain.

“What if he had been there? Do you think they would have waited for you?”

“Mom, we’re not on good terms, but I am sure they-“

“You shall not be close to that boy again. I do not wish it,” her tone is light as she can’t bear to stay mad at you. Not now, at least. She had been worried sick the second the news of the attack reached her and when she saw your name in the register of the casted spell, she thought of the worst possibilities.

“You don’t need to say that twice,” you slum your shoulders. Your mother drops the act, steps closer to wrap you into her arms and whispers how glad she is you’re okay. Her familiar scent reaches your senses and then you’re hugging her back.

“Let’s go home. Your father is probably going crazy,” she mumbles into the shell of your ear before pulling away.

credits for dividers: [@enchanthings-a @cafekitsune]

[avocadorablepirate]

Beneath The Surface - 4

Pairing: Trafalgar Law x fem!reader

Summary: When memories, buried deep within your sea of emotions, resurface, you’re left to question what lies beneath the surface. Did he truly mean to leave you behind, or was there something more to his silence than you ever understood?

Word Count: 1.7K

Warnings: angst, swearing, mentions of death, mild gore, OP spoilers, this story follows the Dressrosa arc.

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Y’all, I’m so sorry I take forever to post 😭 but I hope this makes up for it…I’m actually kinda happy with how this turned out, and I hope you guys like it! Anyway, thank you for reading and I always love reading your comments, makes me 🥰

Pain. That was all your mind registered at first. Then his voice. His strings wrapping around you. Your limbs felt heavy, weighed down by the thin yet unbreakable thread coiling around them. The slightest movement sent more pain coursing through your veins, the rough edges of the fibre cutting into your skin.

You gasped, struggling, but it was useless.

Doflamingo stood over you, his usual grin morphed into something far more cruel. “You hesitated,” he murmured, his voice laced with disappointment.

His grip tightened, and you let out a whimper. “You questioned my order.”

“I-“ a sharp pull cut you short, forcing you to scream in pain.

“I’ve told you before Rosie. There’s no room for weakness in this family,” Doflamingo continued, crouching down slightly to meet your gaze. Despite his eyes being concealed by sunglasses, you could feel his eyes bore into you.

“Tell me, have you forgotten what Law did to our family?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out, your mind caught in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

The castle shook, and in the distance you could hear the cries of battle. A battle that had only just begun.

Doflamingo clicked his tongue, his lips contorting into a more evident scowl. "Tch. It seems we’re running out of time.” His fingers twitched, and the strings were pulled tighter, forcing a strangled gasp from your throat.

“I’ll have to deal with you later.”

Then you were consumed by the darkness. Cut off from the world.

xxxx

Law hit the ground - hard. But the pain that coursed through his body, the sea-prism cuffs that drained his energy - all felt like nothing compared to the emotional turmoil he was experiencing.

“Oi Traffy! You okay?”

Law gritted his teeth, rolling onto his side as he glared up at Luffy, standing above him, completely unbothered by the chaos around them.

“You can’t be serious?” Law’s voice was dangerously low, his patience hanging by a thread.

Luffy blinked, completely oblivious. “Did you hit your head or something? Of course I’m being serious.”

Law inhaled, trying to calm himself, but it was impossible given the circumstances.

“You idiot!” he finally snapped. “You ruined everything!”

Luffy tilted his head, confused. “Huh?”

“The plan was to keep Doflamingo alive and only destroy his S.M.I.L.E factory. Not kill him! Do you have any ideas how much harder you just made thing!?” Law seethed with rage, but he wasn’t done just yet. “Now that’s our only option! And once we do that we’ll have Kaido on our backs!”

He took in a breath and continued. “Not to mention, Doflamingo still has Y/N-ya! And who knows what his twisted fucking mind will do to her!”

Luffy crossed his arms, he didn’t glare, nor did he show any sign of anger. “Yeah? And what was your plan? Sit there until what? Doflamingo decided that he’d rather have your life instead of hers?”

Law’s eye twitched. Luffy wasn’t right, but he wasn’t wrong either. Law wouldn’t have just sat there, but he would have done anything if it meant keeping you safe.

The captain of the Strawhat’s sighed, shaking his head. “I get it, you care about her. She’s someone from your past that you can’t let go. But waiting around isn’t going to save her. Fighting for her will.” He cracked his knuckles, his expression shifting to a look of determination. “And I’m going to help you with that.”

Law clenched his fists, and exhaled harshly. “Tch…fine.” He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness. “But we do this my way, Strawhat-ya. Got it?”

Luffy grinned. “Heh…yeah yeah whatever. Let’s first get those cuffs off you though.”

Law knew just from that - things were not going to go his way.

xxxx

The crumbling palace was thick with tension. Law and Luffy had gone through hell and back to reach here, but the fight was not over yet. Doflamingo still awaited them in the now ruined throne room.

"You remember the plan, right?" Law said, glancing over at Luffy as they made their way through the palace.

"Kinda, but we don't have time to go over it now." Luffy's arm shot forward, wrapping around Law before he could protest. Then, he launched them both through the hole in the ceiling and into the throne room.

On their arrival they found Doflamingo seated in his throne, his usual smirk firmly in place.

"Well, well," Doflamingo drawled, pink shades catching the sunlight. Nearly invisible strings, shimmered in the light as they twitched under his fingertips, but what those strings led to, no one could tell.

"If it isn't my favourite traitor and his idiot friend. You really love sticking your nose in everyone's business, don't you?" Doflamingo mused, as he assessed the two.

"Yeah? And what about it? If it's to help my friends, I don't care." Luffy didn't hesitate, cracking his knuckles as a grin plastered across his face. "I'll kick your ass if I have to."

Law twitched at the statement. Provking Doflamingo wasn't the best idea. But there was no stopping Luffy.

Doflamingo laughed, loud and dangerous. "Confident one, aren't you?"

"I can only assume, there's one thing you're here for. But you'll have to go through me first if you want it." Before either Law or Luffy could react, strings shot towards them.

Luckily they were both fast enough, and just as they grazed him, Law reacted.

"Room."

His ability activated, just in time for him to avoid the full force of Doflamingo's attack. Luffy, on the other hand, dodged quickly, flipping over the attack before launching himself forward.

“Gomu Gomu no Jet Pistol.”

His fist rocketed towards Doflamingo, but the Warlord only smirked, sidestepping at the last second. With a flick of his fingers, strings wrapped around Luffy's arm, yanking him back, before violently slamming him into the floor.

Law gritted his teeth, and readied himself for his own attack.

"What's wrong Law? Still sore from those bullet wounds? I thought you would be stronger than that," Doflamingo mocked.

Law's eyes burned with fury, his grip tightening on Kikoku. He knew Doflamingo was only trying to rile him up, but he couldn't stop himself. He lunged forward, slicing through the threads in his path, then charging at his enemy.

Doflamingo managed to dodge him, but Law was quick, he anticipated it. Teleporting himself behind Doflamingo in the blink of an eye, he struck.

"Counter Shock!"

Electricity surged from Law's hands as he struck Doflamingo. The force of the attack, sent the Warlord skidding backward, grimacing as his fingers twitched.

"Nice one Traffy!" Luffy was now back on his feet, ready for his next attack.

"Shut up and focus Strawhat-ya!" Law snapped. He knew Doflamingo's strength, one single attack would not be enough to take him down.

He was right. Doflamingo was quick to recover, rolling his shoulders before he straightened himself. "Not bad," he said, spitting out blood, when his smirk returned, crueler this time. "But you're going to have to do better than that!" he cackled.

Law felt his heart pounding. There were still lingering effects of the sea prism cuffs that weighed on him, and that attack had drained more out of him than he expected. They needed to finish this - now.

The air crackled with power as Doflamingo lifted his leg. "Athlete."

Law gritted his teeth, "Damn it-"

Luffy stepped forward, "I got this!" he shouted, charging forward. He weaved through the threads, slamming into them with force and breaking through.

Law took the opening. With swift movements he maneuvered behind Doflamingo once more.

"Straw Hat-ya!" Law called. Luffy turned, grinning as if he already knew what Law was thinking. "Got it!"

Both moved quickly. Luffy leapt forward, readying his fist as he activated his Armament Haki. Law extended his sword, pinpointing his target.

"Injection Shot!"

Law's attack struck first, sinking into Doflamingo's back, sending violent energy coursing through him.

But something was wrong.

Instead of the sound of flesh tearing, instead of Doflamingo's pained gasp, there was a muffled cry.

Law's breath caught.

The moment he stepped back, his world came crashing down.

No, no, no, no.

Doflamingo stood tall, completely unscathed. Instead, in front of him trapped in a cocoon of razor-thin threads - was Y/N.

Blood seeped through the fibrous strings, staining them crimson red. Y/N's body trembled, her breath shallow. Barely conscious, she struggled to look anywhere but the ground she laid on.

"L-Law," she called out, her voice barely audible over Doflamingo's laughter.

His stomach twisted. He wanted to hurl.

"You bastard!" Luffy yelled, his expression darkening as he hurtled towards Doflamingo, only to be struck down. But Law didn't register any of it. The sound of his raging pulse was all he heard, and it drowned out everything else.

"My, my, that was quite the attack, Law," Doflamingo mocked, pulling Law out of his spiralling thoughts. "You nearly killed her."

Law staggered back, his grip on Kikoku loosening. "I-" His throat felt constricted. "No, I-"

"What? You didn't see this coming? That's quite disheartening Law," Doflamingo sneered, tilting his head as if in disappointment.

Unable to bear the weight of his actions anymore, Law fell to his feet as the Warlord continued his verbal assault. "Even as a kid you were far more cunning and calculating. Like me."

"Law-" her voice was so faint, but the desperation that had been so clear was cut off, and in its place came a gut wrenching scream.

Law watched in horror as Doflamingo yanked at the strings, sinking them further into her body.

"Y/N-ya!" He acted without a second thought. "Shambles!"

In a flash, she was in his arms - her skin cold, her breathing faint.

The Warlord’s laughter boomed, cruel and mocking.

"Who turned you so soft Law?" Doflamingo continued, his voice laced with ridicule. "Was it her?" He chuckled, a sinister grin stretching across his face. "Oh? Or was it Corazon?"

Law's breath hitched, his body tensing at the name, as the painful memory of a bloodied yet blissful smile flashed before him.

Doflamingo watched him carefully, his smirk widening when he saw the reaction he wanted.

"You know who reminds me of Corazon?" He mused, glancing down at Y/N's body before he looked back at Law with a twisted smile. "My little Rosie."

—————

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[hanniebaeee]

The Runaway(s)

Hyunjin x fem!reader

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy

Genre: established relationship, fluff

Summary: You run away from your husband to save his life. But your husband isn't exactly the type to let go.

a/n: Very short, but I had a dream. Blond Jinnie glaring at me. And I thought, why not. Trying to get off my writer's block.

The rhythmic clatter of the overnight train filled the silence as you sat curled up in your seat. It was dark, and your carriage was nearly empty. But your heart pounded, not just because of the creepy ambience, but at the thought of who you were running from.

Hyunjin.

Your husband. The man you had defied your father for, and had married in a whirlwind wedding. It was a dream. It was perfect. 

But now, you were leaving him. Because if you didn’t, your father, the most ruthless man you know, would make sure your husband didn’t live long enough to see your anniversary. Not that you underestimated your husband. 

You definitely knew he was capable of more than he let you know. But that wasn't a risk you were willing to take.

The overhead lights flickered. They had been all night, but just then, it felt way too ominous. Dramatic even. You had been gazing out the window into the pitch black night, your heart aching at the thought of Hyunjin.

A sudden movement at the end of the carriage had you looking up. And your breath caught in your throat.

No. No, no, no.

The figure stalked towards you, broad shoulders swaying with confidence, his long black coat billowing behind him. The dim lighting barely cast light on his features - but you knew.

You knew that silhouette. You knew that walk. 

Hyunjin.

You swore under your breath, running a hand down your face. 

"You know," his voice came smooth as silk, teasing, "for someone so determined to run, you really should’ve picked a better mode of escape.”

You swallowed. Hard.

"How did you -"

He tsked, tilting his head, golden hair catching the dim light like a halo. A very menacing halo.

"Sweetheart, did you really think I wouldn’t have someone watching you?" He asked. 

Okay, fair.

"You need to leave," you whispered urgently. "My father -"

"Is an old tantrum-thrower with a gun collection," Hyunjin drawled, closing the distance between you. "So, what? You think disappearing is going to stop him?"

You stared at him in silence. 

Hyunjin’s jaw clenched, and then, with a slow, knowing smirk, he murmured, "Ah baby. That’s not the only thing you were keeping from me, is it?"

Your stomach flipped. Your hands instinctively pressed to your lower abdomen.

Damn it. How the hell did he even know?

Hyunjin's gaze darkened, but not with the fury you expected. No, this was something else entirely. His lips parted slightly, as if suddenly breathless, his fingers twitching at his sides.

"So I'm right," he whispered, almost in awe. “You're pregnant.”

"Hyunjin-" Your throat tightened. 

"You -" His voice cracked. Cracked. "Are having my baby."

The terrifying, merciless mafia boss knelt in front of you right there in the dimly lit train, pressing a hand  against your stomach like he was touching something holy.

You had expected rage. Fury. Some kind of dramatic, chair-throwing, wall-punching response. Instead, you got a very emotionally fragile mafia lord looking like he just melted into a puddle.

His hands came up to cradle your face, his eyes wild, voice urgent.

"You ran. With my baby inside you. You left me. With my baby inside you." He sounded like he was going to punch a hole in the window. 

"I was protecting you -"

"I don’t need protection, you do," he snapped, but then his brows furrowed, and his bottom lip trembled ever so slightly. "God, I missed you. I was going to kill you, but now I can’t because you’re growing my spawn."

"Hyunjin, I swear -" You groaned. Right. Hyunjin killing you would be the biggest joke of the century.

"Does this mean I can’t stress you out? Will that affect the baby?" He grabbed your hands, placing them firmly against his chest. "Quick, feel my heartbeat. Is it too erratic? Is it distressing for the baby? Are you eating enough? Did you eat dinner?"

“Hyunjin, calm down.” you said, your hand still pressed against his chest, his heart pounding heavily against it. 

"You ran from me while pregnant. That's so offensive babe. I should be taking care of you, feeding you, rubbing your feet. Giving you baths." He ranted. 

You sighed, shoving at his chest lightly. But he didn’t budge. His lips curled into a slow, lazy smirk, that sharp edge of danger creeping back in.

"Are you done?" you deadpanned.

"Almost." Hyunjin hummed. 

And then, before you could react, he leaned in, his lips pressing against yours, stealing every ounce of breath from your lungs.

He tasted like power. And devotion. And the promise of a man who would burn the entire world to the ground before letting anything happen to you.

When he pulled back, his thumb brushed your swollen lips, eyes glittering with mischief.

"You’re never running from me again, sweetheart," he murmured. "You can try. But at the end of the day?" His lips ghosted over yours once more. "You’re mine."

You exhaled shakily, and said, "Possessive much?"

Hyunjin only grinned. "Oh, absolutely."

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @eastjonowhere @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan @hansmic @emilyywhyy @inlovewithstraykids @my-neurodivergent-world @nightmarenyxx @channie4lifeee143127 @lezleeferguson-120

[merlin-wolfgang-trades-hale]

I've taken three melatonin gummies so excuse any typos. I miss writing McDanno. I might write the sex scene later but the premise of course starts with these two being horny for each other which then leads to them being emotionally intimate with one another. In this scenario they're still newly shifted from friendship/best friends to actual lovers. Steve's learning to adapt to being out which in previous m/m situationships, his need and desire for his partner has never been so strong. Steve's got a mix of love, lust, possessiveness, and jealousy. Maybe a tourist was being flirty, maybe a suspect dared to get handsy with Danny idk but it leads to Steve jacking off Danny in the bathroom. Steve feels this primal need to prove to Danny that Steve can make him feel incredible. Them being at work and having to be professional just kind of reads as 'secret relationship' and they with the crime way and the kids they haven't had time to really do any of the romantic side of dating, it's all been physical. So Steve gets caught up in his thoughts. Which then leads to this exchange:

"What heavy thought's so damn loud that's got you looking like a grump since morning?"

"....you know I don't just...I'm not just...I don't just like you for sex. I mean that part's been fucking amazing! I just...it's not...just that!" If he actually was as much as an animal as Danny thought of him when they first met, he might have actually growled right then. He was so frustrated with himself for not being able to put into words what he was thinking...what he was feeling. In other relationships...it didn't matter. They never reached the point he and Danny have reached. They never felt as steady. As important.

He's studied every point of Danny's life. That included his divorce from Rachel. He wanted to learn what mistakes Rachel made so he wouldn't make the same ones. Or even remotely close ones. Miscommunication was something he wanted to avoid. But he was a military man who came from military men of different generations who thought talking was women's business. As much as he thought the best of his family members the best soldiers...he's had to grow and evolve. Mostly because he wasn't straight like them.

He was so deep in thought he failed to see when Danny closed the distance between them and cupped his face. Before, he might have jumped back to regain command of the room and the situation.

But things were different now. He was safe. He was happy. And it was because of his Danno. Steve leaned into Danny's touch before seeking a kiss. Danny happily gave into Steve's desires and they made out a bit.

When they pulled apart Danny kept his arms wrapped around Steve's neck, and Steve held Danny closer by the waist. "I get it. And I know babe."

"Do you? Really? I'll find the words if you need to hear em, Danno."

Danny smiled at him and kissed him again, which helped to soothe his worries.

"This is the healthiest relationship I've ever had. It might speak volumes to my taste in partners, but the difference is...we work. Speaking of work...given our lines of work and where we came from...the times we come from...physical touches have to do and say more than we can. For now. I'll always be here to listen...and until you find your words, babe, your methods of showing me love ain't bad."

"Yeah?" Steve preened a bit cockily.

"I shouldn't inflate your ego so much, but I'm not gonna be the one to ruin the moment. So yeah. I like being the center of your attention. I like it when you get handsy with me because you can't help yourself."

[gravity-between-us]

Gravity Between Us

Chapter 3: Cosmic Ruin

Caleb and I have known each other for as long as I can remember. We were once childhood friends, our bond as natural as the stars in the sky. But now, everything has changed. What used to feel like a safe, familiar orbit between us now pulses with unspoken desire.

Our friendship is no longer enough to keep the tension at bay, and the distance between us feels unbearable. Secrets, lies, and unhealed wounds stand in our way. I don’t know if we can survive this new gravity pulling us together... but I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to try. Pairing: Female MC x Caleb Rating: Explicit: 18+ Spoiler Alert: Potential spoilers for Caleb's Myth as well as memories. Read at your own risk for these. Lore spoilers. Warnings: Unlikely to be completely canon. The other love interests will not be likely to appear in this fic (I cannot bring myself to break any of their hearts, so you could consider this an AU with only Caleb in this timeline.) MC is named. MC is socially awkward. MC can be depressed at times. Slow Burn. Explicit Smut (eventually). Awkward blend of darker moments, angst, fluff, and humour. Drinking. Questionable life decisions. MC spirals. Protective Caleb. Both MC and Caleb are a little obsessive and overly protective of each other, which could be considered an unhealthy relationship. Limited plot - most focus is just on their relationship and interactions. More warnings could be applied, but as a general rule of thumb, please read at your own risk and do not continue if you find the content triggering.

The house is too quiet. I blink blearily at the landing pad, my sluggish brain taking too long to register what my eyes already know—Caleb’s aircraft is gone. It’s not unusual. He leaves early for duty all the time. But today, it feels… off. The space he’s left behind is heavier than it should be, like his absence has seeped into the walls, the air—into my bones.

I shuffle to the couch and collapse onto it, sinking into the cushions with a slow exhale. My limbs feel leaden, my mind foggy, like I’m moving through molasses, but I tell myself it’s just the morning. Just the remnants of sleep clinging to me like a second skin.

I tell myself a lot of things these days.

The silence stretches as I stare at nothing, trying to get my head on straight. My thoughts are a tangled mess, threads knotted so tight I don’t know where to start unravelling them.

Emotions have never been my strong suit. Not since Gran. Not since Caleb. Since they were declared dead, something inside me shorted out, like a failsafe I didn’t know existed kicked in to keep me from shattering. I flicked a switch and shut it all off because the alternative was unbearable. Grief felt too big, too endless—like drowning with no shore in sight.

So I threw myself into my work.

Being a Hunter meant never having to stop, never having to think, never having to feel. Every mission was a reason to keep moving, every fight a distraction, every kill a release. Adrenaline was easier to chase than ghosts. Blood was easier to wash away than memories.

It worked. Until it didn’t.

Pain, I’ve learned, is a funny thing.

Physical pain is predictable. It follows rules. A cut will sting, a bruise will ache, a bone will break and knit itself back together in time. You learn its language, its patterns, how to endure and wield it. You can grit your teeth through it, drown it in med gel, push past it until it fades into something distant and dull.

But emotional pain?

It doesn’t obey. It doesn’t follow a script. It seeps into the cracks of your mind like ink spilled on paper, bleeding into places it doesn’t belong. It warps time, making days stretch too long and nights pass too fast. It steals the colour from the world, leaves everything muted, drained, and hollow.

And the worst part?

You can’t outrun it. Not forever.

I press my palms against my eyes and let out a slow breath. I don’t know how long I sit there, lost in my head, but eventually, I sigh and let my hands drop, staring up at the ceiling. I need to move, to work—to exhaust myself before my thoughts drown me.

The gym is quiet, save for the steady thud of my feet against the treadmill. The rhythmic pace, the hum of the machine beneath me, the burn building in my limbs—it helps ground me, gives me something to focus on besides the ghosts clawing their way up from the depths of my mind.

But no matter how fast I run, they follow.

Caleb’s voice, low and teasing, calling me "pip-squeak" like it’s second nature. The way his fingers skim my ankle, kneading lazy circles into my foot while we sit on the couch.

The treadmill beeps, signalling the end of my run. I don’t hesitate. I move straight to the weights, pressing through the burn, chasing exhaustion—but it doesn’t stop the flood.

Him spinning me around last night, laughter tangled with mine, the heat that sparked when the moment stretched just a little too long.

I drop the weights onto the rack, my breathing uneven, sweat dripping down my spine. My muscles ache, but it’s not enough. I cross the gym in a few quick strides and slam my fists into the punching bag. The leather gives beneath my knuckles with a satisfying resistance.

I hit it again. And again.

Caleb used to be an open book to me. I knew every thought before he spoke it, every shift in his expression, every flicker of emotion behind his eyes. Now, there are pages missing—whole chapters he won’t let me read. Shadows cling to him in ways they never did before. Pain he won’t name. Secrets he won’t share.

I don’t know how to bridge that gap.

After my shower, my muscles ache, and my knuckles throb with the telltale promise of bruises. I feel like an overcooked piece of pasta as I sink onto the couch, remote in hand, flipping through the endless black hole of television channels.

There’s nothing on. Or maybe there is, but my brain refuses to process any of it. Every channel blends together into an indistinguishable mess of colour and noise. I should be able to relax, to let the exhaustion in my limbs lull me into something resembling peace, but my thoughts are restless.

Of course, they drift right back to him.

Slipping into bed beside him. The way his hand found my back in his sleep, fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt like he couldn’t bear for me to leave. The steady, rhythmic sound of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest beneath my palm. The feel of his skin beneath my fingertips—warm, solid, real.

Nope. Absolutely not.

I cannot sit here and think. Clearly, that is bad for me. I need a distraction.

Like divine intervention, it hits me.

Drinking.

Yes. That is the answer. A responsible, definitely healthy coping mechanism—just a little to take the edge off.

I make a beeline for Caleb’s liquor cabinet, fully prepared to make some questionable life choices. Unfortunately, my plan encounters an immediate roadblock. Apparently, Caleb does not stock normal alcohol. No wine. No beer. No fruity little drinks that go down easy, and let me pretend I am not actively making a mistake.

No, what he has is a collection of bottles with labels that look like they were designed for space mercenaries with a death wish. Dark Matter Blackout. Nebula Burn. Void’s Mercy. That last one feels ominous, but I grab it anyway.

I pour myself a shot. It smells like regret. I take it anyway. It burns like fire and bad decisions.

Perfect.

One more shot. Then another. By the time I down the third, my head feels pleasantly light, my body loose, the tension in my muscles finally unspooling.

Yet I still cannot sit still.

So I do the next logical thing: I turn on some music. Loud enough to make the floor vibrate beneath my feet, loud enough for the bass to thrum in my bones, loud enough to drown out every single thought trying to claw its way back into my head.

Then, because I am apparently on a roll with making excellent choices, I decide now is the perfect time to clean.

Everything.

Every room, every surface. I scrub, I dust, I straighten, I organize. I throw myself into it with an enthusiasm that should honestly concern me. The floors gleam. The kitchen sparkles. I rearrange the throw pillows three separate times before deciding their original placement was, in fact, superior.

The house is immaculate—a sharp, perfect contrast to the absolute mess inside my head.

At some point, between scrubbing down the counters and aggressively reorganizing the bookshelf, I pick up the bottle and start using it as a microphone.

Unfortunately for literally everyone who has ever possessed the ability to hear, I am now in full concert mode.

I crank the music even louder and dance like an absolute menace through the house—spinning, swaying, shaking my hips like I am the only person in the universe. Which, technically, I am. At least in this house. I belt out the lyrics, horribly off-key, the bottle clutched in my hand like a mic, and I am killing it.

Caleb is missing out. I am a vision. A drunk, chaotic vision.

Mid-spin, a new brilliant idea strikes me.

The furniture.

It is all wrong.

Which means, obviously, I must fix it.

I grab the couch and drag it to a new spot. Step back. No. Not right. I shove it to the other side of the room. Step back. Still wrong. The coffee table gets moved next. Then the side table. Then the couch again.

I am locked in a battle of wills with this furniture.

And I am losing.

I reach for the bottle to soothe the sting of my failure—tilt it back—nothing.

I blink and shake it. As if the laws of physics might bend to my will and magically refill it.

They do not.

Betrayal. How could Caleb let this happen? How could he have the audacity, the unmitigated gall, to not predict that I would one day get tipsy and need more alcohol than he has stocked?

I grab my phone, thumbs flying across the screen.

Inara: Wow. Unbelievable. Truly. I have never known such disappointment. Caleb: … What? Inara: You. Have failed me. Caleb: Okay. I feel like I should be apologizin’, but I don’t know what for. Inara: I am in crisis, Caleb. Crisis. And where are you? Off gallivanting around, leaving me to fend for myself. Caleb: … I went to work. Inara: Question. How do you feel about change? Caleb: What did you do? Inara: Why do you always assume I did something? I just had a thought. A vision. A great and powerful idea. Caleb: Oh no. Inara: What if… hear me out… we completely reinvented the living room? Caleb: … Caleb: What does that mean? Did you move the furniture? Inara: I am taking creative initiative for our shared space. Caleb: Where is the couch? Inara: Currently… in an experimental location. Caleb: Where. Inara: TBD. Caleb: … Caleb: Is it upside down? Inara: Not right now.

At this point, I toss the phone aside because this conversation is going absolutely nowhere. With a sigh, I yank open the cabinet and reach for another bottle, tucked away behind a terrifyingly strong one labelled Celestial Burn: Nova Strength Whiskey—which, frankly, sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen. Instead, I grab Black Hole Rum—Guaranteed to Suck You In.

Hm. Promising.

I take a swig straight from the bottle, wincing at the burn, then turn back to the disaster I’ve created.

The living room is in ruins. Half the furniture is positioned at angles that defy logic, like some kind of avant-garde art piece that only makes sense to the deeply unhinged. The couch is half-shoved against the wall, one leg somehow balanced on a precarious stack of books. The coffee table isn’t anywhere near the couch—just abandoned mid-movement, off to the side. Pillows are scattered across the floor like casualties of war.

It’s fine. It just needs… adjustments.

My brain stutters over itself for a moment before latching onto an entirely useless thought.

Caleb’s elbows.

His elbows.

Why? Who knows.

But suddenly, I can’t stop thinking about them—how they’re weirdly sharp yet somehow elegant. Is this a thing? Do people have attractive elbows? What is he doing to them? Moisturizer? Elbow exercises??

I scowl at absolutely nothing.

What the hell is wrong with me?

It must be the living room. The energy in here is all wrong. I need to fix it. Now.

Naturally, I launch myself back into the chaos, frantically dragging things around again, as if physically rearranging furniture might somehow realign the absolute mess in my head.

The living room remains a battlefield of terrible decisions and increasingly questionable interior design choices. I’ve tried every possible configuration—from asymmetry to something that’s probably a fire hazard. Nothing feels right. The universe is mocking me.

I stumble through the wreckage, gripping the bottle of Black Hole Rum like a lifeline, belting out the lyrics to some ancient pop song with the confidence of a rock star and the vocal accuracy of a malfunctioning AI.

Somewhere between a dramatic twirl on the rug and an ill-advised attempt to launch myself off the couch (which, to be fair, is mostly where it’s supposed to be), I realize the problem.

The real problem.

The root cause of my complete mental breakdown disguised as an impromptu home renovation.

Caleb.

I march to my bedroom, nearly tripping over an upturned chair, and grab the apple plushie from my bed. It’s soft. Innocent. Blissfully unaware of the fate that awaits it.

Flopping onto the floor amid the wreckage, I cross my legs and cradle the plushie as if it were Caleb himself. I glare at its stupid, stitched-on smile.

“You.” I jab a finger into its round little body. “This is your fault.”

It does not respond. Probably because it’s a stuffed apple.

I poke it again, more aggressively this time. “How dare you have such… offensively attractive forearms? And those elbows!” I shake the plushie like it can be reasoned with. “They’re not supposed to look that good, Caleb! They’re just bones! But noooo, even your damn bones are irritatingly good-looking! Why?”

The apple remains unimpressed.

I flop backward onto the floor with a groan. “I know you’re not actually Caleb. I’m not that far gone.” A pause. “…But if you were Caleb, I’d be yelling at you for scrambling my brain like this.”

I hold the plushie up, squinting into its beady little eyes. “This is your fault,” I mutter again, smushing its round face. “Your. Fault.”

Since the universe has a cruel sense of humour, it’s then that I hear the distant hum of engines, and my head snaps up.

I’m on my feet in an instant, pressing myself against the living room window like some kind of elite super spy. I think I’m being subtle.

I am not.

Caleb’s aircraft touches down smoothly, its sleek frame reflecting the evening light. The second the hatch opens, he steps out in his crisp uniform.

Colonel Caleb.

I sneer. He looks stupidly good in that uniform. I hate that uniform. All stiff formality, Fleet-approved rigidity, silent reminders of things I really don’t want to think about right now.

But also—ugh.

He looks obnoxiously good in it.

Caleb pauses at the bottom of the ramp, frowning. He definitely hears the music. His eyes sweep toward the house.

I duck lower, convinced I am hidden.

I am very visibly pressed against the glass.

I snort to myself. Angry. Happy. Frustrated. Relieved.

Because despite my spiralling, despite my brain being an absolute mess of elbows and bad decisions, I’m just glad he’s home.

Caleb steps inside, and his entire body tenses. He gawks, slack-jawed, at the disaster that was once a living room. The music is still blaring at full volume, and I don’t even need to look at him to know he’s staring at me like I’ve completely lost my mind.

I ignore the look. Irrelevant.

Instead, I scurry up to him—though, in my haste, I definitely trip over myself, catching a foot on the rug that I swear wasn’t there a second ago.

Whatever. Doesn’t matter.

I right myself and throw my arms around him, squeezing tightly before shoving my face against his shoulder—

And sniffing him.

Oh. Oh, he smells good. Too good. Unfairly good. That stupidly crisp, clean scent with just a hint of dark amber, spice, and him beneath it.

It is, quite frankly, mouth-watering.

I hum against his jacket in approval. He goes completely still. "Okay," he says slowly, his voice half-drowned by the music. "What—"

I cut him off before he can move, change, comment, or fix things. I grab his hand and yank, dragging him straight into the war zone that is our living room.

"Alright, resonate with me." I stop in the middle of the mess, gripping his hands and staring at him intently.

Caleb blinks. "What?"

I shake our joined hands as if that will somehow help. "Resonate with me. Right now. I need you to feel this with me."

He tilts his head, bending slightly to peer into my probably glassy, unfocused eyes. “Pip-squeak, are you drunk?"

"That’s not the important part here," I conclude, exasperated. "Listen, I think I need to use your Evol to move the couch—or possibly suck it into a black hole due to its sheer defiance."

Caleb exhales sharply through his nose, the sound suspiciously close to a suppressed laugh. "You want to use gravity manipulation—on the couch."

"Yes. It’s a menace, Caleb. A menace that needs to be neutralized."

He stares at me as if I’ve just proposed launching the couch into orbit. “Right. Okay," he says slowly, then looks back at the room, his eyes tracing the path of absolute destruction.

He’s clearly holding back a laugh, which only makes me more frustrated—because this isn’t funny! Okay, it is a little funny. But not in the ‘laugh at me’ way!

"Inara." He says my name, his voice dipping just enough to make my pulse stutter. There’s a teasing lilt to it, though—light, playful, knowing.

And just like that, my entire focus snaps to his lips. The way he says my name—like he’s savouring it, rolling it around like a particularly fine piece of chocolate. My breath hitches slightly, and then, because I’m this me instead of regular me, my brain promptly swan-dives into the gutter.

I wonder how it would sound when he’s moaning my name.

Nope. Nope. Don’t go there. Nope!

I jerk back too quickly, and before I know it, I’m stumbling—a disaster in motion. I swear the floor didn’t exist a second ago.

Caleb catches me like we’re in some kind of action movie, and I’m the heroine who somehow always trips over her own feet. His arms close around me, steady and unshaken, like he expected this.

And instead of letting me go—like a decent human being—he dips me. Full-on, dramatic ballroom-dance style. He doesn’t even look winded. He just looks... amused.

I blink up at him, still tangled in his arms as he holds me there, one brow quirked in silent amusement. He’s enjoying this.

"Fell on purpose, huh?" he drawls, voice laced with dry humour. "Just so I could catch you? You’ve got quite the dramatic flair, Inara."

I open my mouth to deny it, but the words tumble out in a mess of stuttered nonsense. "What? No! I—I didn’t mean to—uh, I wasn’t trying—" I cut myself off with an embarrassed laugh because this is exactly what I didn’t want to happen.

Caleb chuckles, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “Sure you weren’t.”

I glare at him, but it’s half-hearted because he’s already lifting me back upright, effortlessly resetting me on my feet like I’m nothing more than an unruly puppet. He’s so natural, like there is nothing remotely absurd about this situation.

"You should probably sit down.” He nudges me toward the couch, and I let myself be guided, flopping onto the cushions with an exaggerated huff.

Caleb grins and shrugs off his uniform coat, tossing it over the back of the chair like it’s an afterthought. It’s so casual and effortless. It still makes my heart flutter.

With a swift motion, he turns the music down, the thumping bass fading to a softer pulse. I watch him, still acutely aware of the lingering weight of his hands on me, though I try to shake it off. I shift in my seat, forcing myself to look at anything other than him.

Like the dangerous creature he is, he saunters into the kitchen. His eyes glint with something playful, mischievous—like he’s plotting.

He glances back at me, smirking. "If I’m going to understand what’s happening here, I need to get on your level, don’t I?"

Before I can even ask what the hell that means, he plucks a bottle from the shelf and pours himself a shot. Then, with effortless grace, he knocks it back in one fluid motion.

“You are a mess,” he mutters under his breath, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Okay, let me change first. I’m sure you’ve got more ‘furniture rearrangin’ plans for me.”

I cannot stop myself from grinning as he turns to leave, but the moment is fleeting. He is already heading down the hall to change. I wait impatiently, my foot tapping against the floor in anticipation.

When he returns, rubbing his hands together like a mad scientist on the verge of unveiling a grand experiment, I sit up straighter. "So? What’s the plan? Are we resonating or what?" My excitement threatens to spill over.

His lips curl into a smirk, and there it is again—that glimmer in his eyes, the one that says he is enjoying every second of this.

"Resonate, huh? Sure. Let’s not." His voice dips, laced with amusement, as he crosses the room. "You think I am going to give you gravity manipulation in this state of mind?”

I pout. "You are no fun." With a dramatic wave of my hand, I declare, "The couch must pay."

He arches a brow, a chuckle rumbling from his chest. "Right. And I am definitely not letting you use me as some gravity-defying superpower to exact revenge on the furniture. I will handle the moving while you—" he gestures vaguely, "—supervise."

I open my mouth to argue, but the way he is smiling—genuine, unguarded—makes me hesitate. I soften.

By the time Caleb has worked his magic, shifting the furniture into something resembling order, we have eaten dinner, cleaned up my earlier disaster, and now, I am sprawled face-down on the couch. 

The world tilts around me, spinning a little too fast, and the only thing keeping me tethered is my apple plushie, clutched as if my survival depends on it.

As the alcohol wears off, the buzzing in my skull morphs into a slow, gnawing embarrassment, making my head throb all the more.

Caleb, however, seems entirely unbothered by the ordeal. He is mostly teasing me, which—if I am being honest—I deserve. He is a steady rock while I am a hurricane of awkwardness.

He walks over and rubs my back, his voice soft. "Still awake, pip-squeak?"

I grumble something unintelligible, half-turned away from him, unwilling to admit it. I just want to curl up and disappear for a while. He asks again, his tone warm with concern. "Do you want me to take you to bed?"

Bed. The last place I want to be. Just another lonely void where my thoughts lurk, waiting to ambush me. I shake my head—but immediately regret it as dizziness crashes over me like a wave.

He chuckles, clearly entertained by my self-inflicted suffering. "Sit up and take these," he says, pressing a glass of water into my hands, along with two pills, which I eye with suspicion. 

The last time he gave me pills…

Caleb notices the wariness, and his expression flickers, guilt passing over his features.

“It's just for the hangover," he reassures. "You will regret it tomorrow if you don’t take em."

As much as I want to argue, I know he is right. With a reluctant sigh, I push myself up with a groan and swallow the pills, the cool water soothing my uneasy stomach.

He sits beside me, fingers flicking the top of my head. “Dummy.”

I stick my tongue out at him petulantly, and slump against him. My head finds his shoulder, and my sight blurs as I stare at the TV screen. Drowsiness creeps in like a tide, pulling me under. I start sinking lower, sliding from his shoulder into his lap.

"What happened today?"

The words slip out of me, slurred and accompanied by a half-hearted snort. "Forearms…"

Caleb goes still. "Forearms…?"

I nod, too sleepy to elaborate. "Ridiculously attractive forearms."

Silence. I think he is trying to decipher what the hell I just said. His hand rubs slow circles on my back, but I can feel the confusion radiating off him.

After a long pause, he exhales a soft sigh. “Come on." He slips his arms under my legs, cradling my back with ease. "Time for bed."

A small, contented sigh escapes me as he lifts me. He carries me effortlessly to the bedroom, his movements sure and practiced, as if he has done this a hundred times before. Settling me onto the bed, he tugs the covers up around me, tucking me in.

As sleep pulls me under, I mumble, barely conscious, “You’re a good man."

Chapter Masterlist Thank you for taking the time to read! I started this for fun, and decided it might be something silly others may possibly enjoy with me.

If you do, leave a comment, or don't, or you know, do whatever you're comfortable with!

Take care everyone!

[nori-thestranger-in]

Fuck it. I've been keeping this AU to myself for 10 years because I just didn't know how to approach it, but now I'mma share it, and you're gonna like it! Or not. I can't tell you what to do or what to like. I'm not your mom (I hope?) Different strokes for different folks, as they say. So again, not an artist. Best I can do is some scribbles. - I do write but I'm just not well versed enough in politics or war/combat to really turn this idea into a full fledged fanfiction. I dunno, maybe if enough people see this over time and show interest I'll give it a shot. Who knows. Quick Summary: The Biovolt corporation was only a tiny piece of a much bigger pie. It's collapse, though inconvenient, had ultimately only set the bigger operation back a few years, and perhaps it was to Kiril's advantage that it had. The US government had raided the abbey, "freed" the 1200 child soldiers within, and shut down the program. With the fall of Biovolt the United States was certain the threat had been eradicated and a war was no longer brewing. But they knew nothing of the bigger picture, and were still completely unaware that 300 of those "free" children had been mutated into bio-weapons with the strength of sacred beasts running through their veins. There had been concern for a time that some of the children might dare to speak out, but despite Vladimir and Voltaire's ignorance the youth had been programmed well. However, it wasn't just blind loyalty that kept them quiet. It was fear. Pure, unadulterated, fear. Those that felt any inkling to rebel (such as the members of Neo Borg) knew that to testify in a court of law, or to speak out in any manner would mean a fate far worse than death. They could never escape, and they knew that. When the time was right the children would be called to arms and would serve the operation resolutely. Those that refused to heed the call would simply be eliminated. What Kiril was unaware of, however, was that one of those children, one with a familial blood, had a rebel spirit much too strong to ever be quelled. With the power of the legendary twin phoenixes, one of life and the other of death, and his memories of the abbey nearly fully restored, 17-year-old Kai Hiwatari would soon be recognized as one of the most powerful, and most dangerous bio-weapons to have ever been created. And so.... Kiril's plans may yet be thwarted...

***

Interested??? Great! Alright *deep inhale* So this AU is set 2-ish years after the final season of Beyblade G-Revolution, though some parts of the series are altered (and the manga is entirely disregarded). Changes worth noting from the series:

Kai was in the Abbey from the age of 5 - 12 and didn't receive Black Dranzer until his final week there (more details later).

Black Dranzer was not created by Rasputin and is instead Suzaku's twin.

Kai is half Russian on his father's side, so legally his last name is Vetrov - though he uses his late mother's surname "Hiwatari". This means Soichiro's (who I will be referring to as Voltaire to distance him from Japanese origins) last name, for the sake of this AU, is also Vetrov.

Kai's family runs a Russian Pharmaceutical company, along with having many other investments including some of secretive military origins dating back as far as WWII.

The abbey was a military training facility first and foremost. Beyblading was only introduced as a way for them to get their hands on more sacred spirits to create more bio-weapons.

Yuriy did not take Takao to a different dimension in their battle at the end of the first season, he just used his abilities (more on this later) to wrap them in like an ice-cocoon... thing... I guess? (It's been 5 years since I last watched this series and my adhd brain does not retain information well so I'm likely to remember shit wrong.)

The events of Takao's battle with Brooklyn were not real and they did not destroy an entire stadium (because let's be real - people would have died). Brooklyn is a bio-weapon (more on this later) and used that power to get into Takao's head to create that reality as they fought. (maybe more on this in a later post.)

Vladimir offers Garland the power of a bio-weapon (though this is not explained to him properly) and it's this reason that he beats Yuriy so badly (because in this AU Yuriy is a badass who would never wind up in a coma after a beyblade match).

Kai's memory of the abbey does not fully return to him until after his battle with Brooklyn. Vladimir had to be incredibly careful not to unlock everything within Kai when he gave him Black Dranzer during the Russian tournament in season one (more on why later)

Dranzer's bit is gone - Suzaku is not. Kai is unaware that she still resides within him and has retired permanently from beyblading.

I -think- that's it for notable changes? I dunno, as I mentioned previously, the last time I watched Beyblade was during the Covid lockdown so I'm sure I'm misremembering things and forgetting others. It's an AU so just explain any other plot holes away with the power of your imagination. 🌈🦄🤷🏻‍♀️

The only ship I touch upon at all is Kai x Yuriy, and it's very light until the epilogue (which I might actually write as a standalone.)

Anyway, I've prattled on long enough I think. Thanks to anyone who read this - extra thanks to anyone who wants to tag along on this journey and learn about this AU through my terrible art, bad jokes, and sub-par writing! I'll be back with more soon!

[gyupappi]

genre - mythological, fantasy, (sorry dunno)

warning - a little violence (not extreme), (shit it's harder than it seems)

pairing - mingyu x reader

(a/n - (edited ver) wrote a note that was too self demotivating ig? But i swear you are so sweet. I am speechless like never felt so happy or loved for a long time. a BIG thanks to my luv luv @cheol-e-kat,for giving me ideas and the much needed motivation. Love you sweetieee. Shit I am crying again)

Undying envy

Chapter 6: Before the Storm

The battlefield stretched before you, endless and unforgiving. The air was thick with the scent of blood and impending war, and the low hum of clashing steel echoed in the distance. You gripped the hilt of your sword tightly, steadying your breath.

This was not your first battle. It would not be your last.

Yet, for some reason, today felt different.

“You’re nervous.”

The deep, lazy voice sent a shiver down your spine. You didn’t turn—you didn’t have to. Mingyu’s presence was unmistakable, looming behind you like an unshakable shadow.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, rolling your shoulders.

Mingyu hummed, stepping closer until you could feel the warmth radiating off him. “You should be,” he said, voice lower now, almost teasing. “But I don’t like the idea of you getting hurt.”

You scoffed, glancing at him. He looked infuriatingly calm, arms crossed, lips curled into a smirk. The way his sharp eyes traced over you made something in your stomach twist.

“I don’t need your protection,” you said, stepping away.

Mingyu didn’t follow, but his gaze darkened. “That’s the problem,” he murmured.

Before you could respond, the horns of war sounded.

It was time.

Chapter 7: A Life for a Life

The battlefield was chaos.

Steel clashed against steel. Cries of pain and fury rang through the air. Blood soaked the earth beneath your feet, and still, you fought—cutting down enemy after enemy, refusing to fall.

But exhaustion crept in. Your body was slowing, and when you turned to block another attack, you were too late.

A flash of silver. The sharp gleam of a blade slicing through the air.

And then—

Mingyu.

He moved faster than you could see, faster than humanly possible. One second, the sword was aimed at your heart. The next, Mingyu was in front of you, taking the blow instead.

The world tilted.

“No—Mingyu!”

He staggered, blood dripping from his side. But instead of falling, he turned, tearing the sword from his body as if it were nothing. His wounds were already closing, the curse of immortality working its magic.

Still, the sight of his blood made your chest tighten.

“Idiot,” you breathed, catching his arm. “Why would you—”

Mingyu grinned, as if taking a blade for you was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. “Told you, sweetheart. You’re mine.”

And that was when you realized—no matter how much you fought it, no matter how much you tried to deny it—

A part of you wanted to be his.

Chapter 8: Falling, Slowly

Time passed. And somehow, inexplicably, you found yourself drawn to him.

Maybe it was the way he always showed up when you least expected it. Maybe it was the way he fought by your side without hesitation. Or maybe it was the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in his world that mattered.

You tried to fight it. You really did.

But Mingyu was relentless.

He left small gifts—a necklace of rare jewels, a cloak made of enchanted silk, even a blade crafted from celestial metal. When you refused them, he only smirked. “Keep them anyway.”

He touched you more—nothing improper, just fleeting brushes of his fingers against yours, a hand on your back when you walked together, his warmth seeping into your skin.

And he never, ever let you out of his sight.

At first, it annoyed you. But then you realized something.

You didn’t hate it.

Chapter 9: The Proposal

Mingyu had never been nervous before.

But as he stood before you, a rare uncertainty flickered in his gaze.

The two of you were alone, standing under a sky painted in twilight. The war was over. Peace had settled. And now, there was only this—only you.

“I want you,” Mingyu said, voice quieter than usual. “Not just today. Not just tomorrow. I want you for eternity.”

Your breath caught.

Mingyu took a step closer, reaching for your hand. His fingers trembled.

“I know I’m selfish. I know I’m possessive. And I know I don’t deserve you,” he murmured. “But if you’ll have me—”

He dropped to one knee, a ring appearing in his palm. The band was carved from celestial stone, glowing faintly under the moonlight.

“Be mine.” His voice was raw, vulnerable. “Forever.”

Your heart pounded. You should have expected this. And yet—

You smiled.

“You were mine the moment you took that blade for me,” you whispered.

Mingyu’s eyes widened. Then, slowly, he grinned, slipping the ring onto your finger before pulling you into his arms.

And for the first time in forever, he felt whole.

Chapter 10: Love, Unbreakable

If Mingyu had been clingy before, now he was unbearable.

You could barely take a step without him following. If you so much as looked at another person, he was immediately by your side, arms crossed, glaring daggers at them until they walked away.

“You’re scaring them,” you muttered.

“Good.”

He refused to let you do anything alone. Carrying supplies? He did it for you. Training? He sparred with you—only to immediately pull you into his arms the second you started sweating.

“Mingyu,” you huffed, trying to push him away.

He just buried his face in your neck. “You smell nice.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re mine.”

He stuck to you like a lost puppy, never more than a breath away. Even in sleep, he wrapped himself around you, limbs tangled together as if afraid you’d disappear.

And when others dared to flirt with you?

The last time a soldier tried, Mingyu had loomed behind you, eyes glowing with something dangerous.

“They’re mine,” he had said, voice smooth but laced with a promise of destruction.

The poor soldier had run for his life.

But the worst part?

You liked it.

You liked the way Mingyu’s jealousy burned. You liked the way he touched you like he never wanted to let go. You liked the way he loved—fierce, overwhelming, all-consuming.

Because you loved him the same way.

And if this was what eternity with Mingyu felt like—

You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

[regency-monster-love]

Gargoyle arranged marriage, chapter 4

Master list for this fic

Male gargoyle x female human | Regency era | SFW: pining, romance

~ 😈🎩 ~

The way Hugo’s smile appeared and lit up the stony gray crags of his face when he first saw Winifred the next day, it made her forget that she had once thought him not to be handsome.

She didn’t have to wait and wait for him in the dining room this time; he accompanied her there on his arm. “I will continue to shift my schedule closer to yours,” he told her.

“And I will stay up later tonight, so that I might shift my schedule closer to yours as well.”

Still, there would always be a long stretch of hours in the middle of the day when their differing biology would force them apart. Today’s stretch had been a bit less lonely for Winfred, though, for she had met with a few human women to fill the position of her lady’s maid, and had settled on one of them to hire. She shared this with Hugo while she ate her supper, and he told her he was glad she would have a companion of her own kind during those hours where he was asleep. He ignored the faint twinge of longing that he’d never be able to spend that time with Winifred himself.

After supper, Hugo suggested they go on a flight together, as he went flying nearly every night. “I can wait to do it until you go to bed, but I would much prefer to do it with you.”

It pleased Winifred that he thought so highly of her companionship already. “Yes, of course, I would like to fly with you.”

On the terrace, he bent down to lift her under her knees and back, and she circled her arms about his neck. “Ready?” he asked, his silver eyes shining with enthusiasm.

“Yes”—and he shot into the air. Just like the first time he’d done this to her, Winifred’s stomach tumbled at the unfamiliar sensation, but she peered down without fear to watch the ground retreat away from them speedily.

At a certain height, he stopped climbing and began to arc out, swooping over the trees and fields and buildings of his large estate. She remained looking down, but he’d seen it all before, so he looked only at her, watching the brightness of curiosity and excitement play across her face, and he felt as if he was experiencing the joy of flying fresh again by seeing it through her joy.

“What do you think of this view of our estate?” he asked her.

“It’s remarkable! You’re showing me more of it in two minutes than I’ve seen in two days, even with how dark it is.”

“And what do you think of flying?”

She looked up at him then. Her face was only inches from his. “It’s exhilarating. Freeing. It makes me feel…”

“Alive?”

“Yes, precisely! How did you know?”

“It’s how it makes me feel. And I could see it on your face. You’re glowing with life. It’s beautiful.”

She ducked her head with a blush and a smile. “You say the sweetest things, Hugo,” she murmured.

“I only speak the truth.”

She tilted her head back up again to gaze at him in wonder, and Hugo closed the short distance to press his mouth to hers. She kissed him back quite willingly, but her mind was buzzing with what this meant. The first time they’d kissed, it was simply because they were both caught up in the romance of their wedding. And the second time had been a part of preparing her to make an heir for him. But these kisses had nothing to do with either of those things. He had kissed her just because…he wanted to? The idea of that set her insides fluttering, hope rising up so strongly that it overwhelmed her, and in confusion she broke away from his mouth and looked back down at the ground.

She swallowed. “The gardens look very different from above, and in the moonlight.”

Hugo was silent for a moment before he responded. “I can imagine.” He paused again, only the sound of the beating of his wings in her ears. “You visited the gardens during the day today?”

“I did. The weather was so sunny and warm earlier, and I enjoy being outdoors, especially at this time of year, when so many flowers are in bloom. I love flowers. You have some lovely flower beds in your gardens, so many colors!” She squinted below her. “It’s a shame I can’t really see them in the dark.”

Hugo’s heart twisted, at her saying your gardens instead of our gardens, and at her not being able to see at night the colorful flowers she so loved. It was a reminder of why she couldn’t be his mate. He had to harden himself to this reality.

Yet, he couldn’t resist also trying to make nighttime more pleasant for her. He swooped them down low, slowing so she could see better. “There are many varieties of night-blooming flowers here. See there?”

“Ah yes! Those white flowers almost seem to glow in the moonlight!”

He took them lower still, and landed softly on a path beside a flower bed, setting her onto her feet.

“But you’re correct that it is not as vibrant at night,” he said apologetically.

“It is still very beautiful, in its own way.” She reached out to a flower as if she would pluck it, then pulled back and looked at Hugo. “May I?”

“They are all your flowers, Winifred,” he said quietly.

“Oh. Yes, how silly of me.” She plucked it, and twirled the stem in her fingers. Hugo watched her do so, enthralled by how slender and delicate her fingers were, and was seized with the desire to draw them to his lips and kiss them. He had to tear his eyes away from her hands, settling his gaze on her head again, but this was no better, because now he was looking at her beautiful face and gorgeous curls framed by her bonnet. He wanted to pluck that bonnet off her head and drape her hair in luminous moon flowers instead.

He shook his head to clear away all these dramatic, fanciful notions.

“Would you like to walk for a bit?” he offered.

Just like when they were flying, on their walk, Winifred looked at their surroundings, everything fresh to her, and Hugo looked at Winifred. Only this time, she was positioned at his side, not immediately in front of his face, and the wide brim of her bonnet obscured his view of her features entirely.

“Would you take off your bonnet?” he asked suddenly. “If you please.”

She ceased moving and gave him a look of surprise. “Why?”

“I…should like to see more of your face, and your hair.”

“Oh!” She darted her eyes around as if making sure no one was there to see. “I suppose that is all right, since we are husband and wife.”

She was so charmingly innocent! Once her bonnet was off, his eyes danced over her red curls, still so bright to him, even in the moonlight, and he smiled. “Thank you, wife.”

They set themselves walking again, Winifred deep in thought. The use of their titles, husband and wife, had made her remember something she had been wondering about. “May I ask you something about gargoyles?”

“Yes, of course.”

“When you were telling me about the chains on your wings, you said they were part of being ‘mated,’ but then corrected yourself to ‘marriage’ instead. Is being mated different than being married?”

Hugo hadn’t meant to mention being mated at the time, but to him, that was the natural state of things, not marriage, so the mistake had just slipped out on their wedding day. His wings twitched in discomfort. “They are similar, but yes, they’re different things.”

“So I suppose, we are married, not mated, is that right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Ought we to be mated?”

An old wound he had thought was scarred over pulsed with fresh yearning. He wanted more than anything to be bonded to a mate, but he’d long since given up on ever finding her. He’d made peace with that, which is why he’d accepted this arranged marriage with a human. Winifred was sweet and affectionate, and might one day care for him, but that was far from the type of soul-deep love that being mates required. This was a marriage of convenience, not connection, and even if she did some day truly love him, how could he possibly plunge his vibrant daylight wife into his world of darkness and solitude? It was unconscionable.

“No, it was not necessary,” he told her. “Do not trouble yourself about it. I am satisfied with how everything was settled, with being married only.” He gave her a reassuring smile.

“Oh. All right.” But Winifred felt more doubtful now than when she’d brought up the topic. His words made it sound as though being married was something lesser than being mated, yet he didn’t wish for more? After all, if he had wanted to be mated to Winifred, wouldn’t he have arranged that with her parents when they were negotiating the terms of their union? No, being married alone, and not mated to her, must truly be his preference.

Even though she didn’t know what being mated meant, she felt rather disappointed by this. She tried to remind herself that this was silly—this was always meant to be more of a business partnership than a romantic connection. She shouldn’t be raising her expectations far beyond what was reasonable.

Another thought occurred to her: perhaps it wasn’t his preference to forgo having a mate, but it was biologically impossible for him to mate a human? This made her feel even worse, but with guilt, for wasn’t she preventing him from finding a gargoyle mate now that he was tied to a mere human wife?

“Winifred? Are you all right?”

She roused herself from her thoughts. “Yes, perfectly so.”

But she seemed listless to Hugo now, clearly no longer interested in the garden. It was probably too dark for her to enjoy. Perhaps he could please her another way. “Let us return to the house now,” he suggested. “May I take you back to your room?”

“I intended to stay up later tonight,” she reminded him.

“I don’t mean to take you there to sleep,” he said, his silver eyes glowing.

Oh. She blushed as something fluttered low in her belly. “I see. Yes, we may go.”

~ 😈🎩 ~

End of chapter 4 | Master list for this fic

I won’t make you wait too long for chapter 5!

Read all of my Regency monster ficlets and snippets at the tag #my writing or my master list.

Taglist: @apuddleonthelivingroomfloor, @graveblanketgreen, @slightly-knot-insane (comment if you want to be added to the list)

[jumpywhumpywriter]

The Siren and the Little Girl Part 1

Warnings: Siren singing, artificial unconsciousness, bite wound, hypothermia

The Siren was on the hunt for boats to approach, for new humans to play with and drag into the water to drown. For sailors to fall victim to her irresistible song, the power she wielded with her voice.

She had been swimming for miles in search of a human meal, with no luck, though she did encounter several wooden planks floating through the ocean -- possibly from a wrecked boat.

She enjoyed the feel of the saltwater rushing through her gills with every breath, her streamlined figure propelled forward with every beat of her tail. It was true freedom.

The Siren almost missed it, but she suddenly spotted movement in her peripheral vision, and veered toward it with a sharp flick of her tail and precise angling of the fins running down the length of it.

She drew close, staying below the surface as she observed what was before her. She saw a pair of small legs kicking -- human. Someone paddling loudly, clumsily, and wearing a bright orange life vest.

The Siren smiled viciously, circling the lone human once before coming up to breach the surface and reveal herself, ready to snatch the creature and drag it underwater. But what she found was... not what she was expecting, and all malicious intent vanished, replaced by confusion.

Because here, swimming in the middle of the ocean, was a young human girl -- no more than 10 years old. Wearing a bulky life vest that was likely the sole reason she hadn't sunk yet and drowned.

The girl spotted her, and stopped her frantic paddling to stare, eyes wide with wonder. Because the Siren was a strange creature, who had big black eyes and gills on her neck along with sharp teeth. And the tail -- scaled like fish skin.

The Siren's eyes scanned the horizon in every direction, across the endless waters, but there was no boat in sight. The girl was well and truly alone out here. Possibly from a sunken boat, or maybe swept away by a strong ocean current.

The Siren could see how hard the girl was shivering even from a distance, freezing to death as the hypothermia sank in.

She felt an odd sense of pity for the young life cut far too short. Even if she decided to help the small human child, there was no way she'd be able to drag her all the way to the nearest beach to safety before the cold waters killed her. It looked like the girl must have been floating for hours already, her lips tinted blue and face pale. She didn't have much longer before death claimed her.

The Siren swam closer, stopping an inch away. "Poor, sweet, innocent thing," she sighed, reaching out and brushing a strand of hair behind the girl's ear with a webbed hand while the child stared at her with huge eyes, gawking -- but unafraid.

It surprised the Siren to see such a complete lack of fear. The poor girl was too naive to understand the danger of encountering a wild Siren like her. Her human parents hadn't taught her to run yet, so she stared at the Siren with awe instead of terror.

"W-Who are y-you?" The girl asked through chattering teeth. "A-Are you here to h-help me? I'm l-lost... our b-boat sank... I want my p-parents..." She was shivering so violently she could barely get the words out.

The Siren pressed her scaled body against the girl's, giving her a fraction of warmth, and the child clung to her like a lifeline, trembling against her.

Something in the Siren's heart broke at that. She hunted humans for food or entertainment, and was used to being greeted by terror and panic whenever she showed her face. But before her now was an innocent human who's heart hadn't had the chance to harden with hatred yet. Someone who could learn to adore and cherish instead of blindly hate.

The Siren delicately wrapped her arms around the girl, combing her clawed fingers through her hair, which was crusted with ocean salt from hours of being battered by sea spray. She'd never felt sympathy like what was now tugging insistently at her conscience before.

It would be so easy to end the girl's miserable life and spare her further suffering. The Siren could feel the temptation vibrating deep in her bones, the creature part of her that instinctively wanted to kill and devour a fresh meal, to tear the human's heart out and sink her teeth into it. The predatory instinct.

But she hesitated. Perhaps she could take the child's life in a different way... mould her to her desires and care for her like her own. A human who didn't hate. A human she could teach to love instead.

The Siren flicked her tail to float on her back, the young girl laying on her chest and still shaking like a leaf.

"I will help," the Siren whispered, finally making her choice. "You won't be in pain much longer... I promise." She reached up with a cold webbed hand and cupped the side of the human's face.

The girl startled, instinctively flinching away from the touch.

"Shhh... be brave, little one," the Siren murmured softly. "Do not be afraid."

The girl nodded shakily, face tightening in what the Siren could only interpret as her trying to put on a braver face and hide her distress.

The Siren smiled sadly -- and opened her mouth to sing. The melody carried across the water's surface, more elegant than any other song, and the Siren watched it affect the human -- the girl's eyes sliding out of focus, going distant, lost, expression blanking peacefully.

The child's eyes were half-lidded as she laid her head down on the Siren's wet shoulder, her shivering rapidly coming to an end, breaths evening out after the peaceful bliss washed over her, numbed her senses.

She wouldn't feel a thing.

The Siren sang elegantly until the human was lulled into unconsciousness, on the brink of death from the biting cold water.

"I'll take care of you," she said quietly, gently taking one of the girl's small hands in her own, bringing it to her mouth.

So frail a creature she was, a precious life so easily snuffed out.

The Siren glanced at the little girl's pale face, relaxed under the artificial sleep she'd put her under with her deadly song -- and then she sank her teeth into the human's soft wrist.

Sirens feasted on the heart of the victims they lured into the ocean with their songs -- it was the way a human stayed dead. But to be bitten by a Siren and live... You'd become one, a secret few humans knew about. It's how more Sirens were made.

The girl didn't flinch, or twitch in pain, too out of touch with reality to know what was happening as the Siren took her sharp teeth out, licking the blood from her lips.

"You will live, little one," the Siren whispered, stroking the girl's back fondly. "You will be mine now -- and I shall teach you how to be one of us. You will not be alone."

She used her claws to slice through the straps on the life vest she was wearing, letting it float away. The girl wouldn't need it anymore.

The change would take several hours to fully transform her into a Siren, and the Siren would sing to her in the meantime, ensuring she didn't feel a thing as she grew a tail, scales growing on skin and gills forming on her neck – a normally painful process.

The gills always appeared first. And the Siren waited patiently for it to happen before dragging the girl underwater, and down into the dark depths of the ocean that would soon become her home.

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