#they keep trying to kill him and he keeps surviving

[devdozes]

Miss Manager?!

writin after 4 months. sorry gang ill try to be consistent now :( manager reader with saja boys!!

Contracts are annoying.

Especially the ones scribbled in infernal ink, sealed in divine blood, and slid across the table with a glittery Hello Kitty pen by five suspiciously pretty boys who claim they’re “gonna kill you if you dont sign it” but also argue about ramen flavors like sleep-deprived university students. You stare at them blankly as the last of your signature is scrawled across the binding clause, and boom. You are the manager of Saja boys, a group of five annoyingly handsome, idiotic men who don't even know what phones are.

♥ ♥ ♥ Who knew a human could be so terrifying?

You ran rehearsals like clockwork, knew their lyrics by heart, and still found time to slap glitter on their cheekbones before music show stages.

They gave you a nickname—“Manager-nim From Hell.” Ironic.

And despite your clipped tone and unsettling calm, they all kind of… loved you. Abby started showing you his abs and biceps first. You never complimented him, just handed him a protein bar and said, “Try doing legs next time.” He beamed anyway as you gave him his favourite protein bar flavour.

Romance flirted with you constantly, even though you never responded. He once said, “Manager-nim, if I die, it better be from your glare.” You replied, “Bold of you to assume you'd survive.”

Mystery hovered. Silent nd observing. The most introverted member, he lingered by your side often during busy events, like a shadow. He said almost nothing, but when you handed him his warmed-up tea without being asked, his ears turned red.

Baby, despite acting like he couldn’t care less, followed you everywhere like a bratty cat. He once sat on your desk and said, “You’re so boring, I like it,” then refused to move for three hours.

And Jinu—leader, ever-composed, pathetic loser boy, Jinu was the only one who pretended not to care and failed. He kept asking if you had enough sleep. He made excuses to sit near you during practice. He even updated the team calendar with “Manager-nim coffee break (DO NOT DISTURB)” in all caps.

anyways, they are ALL IDIOTS.

They’re all four hundred years old. At least. Probably older. They’ve fought wars. Seen kingdoms fall. Been summoned and sealed more times than anyone can count.

But ask them to microwave popcorn?

Silence. Blank stares. Romance whispers, “Is that like magic?”

You’re the only one with a braincell. Unfortunately, it’s the same one holding everything together with a fraying thread, a half-empty coffee cup, and two hours of sleep. You write their schedules, plan their meals, dodge assassination attempts from HUNTR/X and keep track of their skincare. But then they really crossed the line

You were at rehearsals. The boys had been annoying all day, and Romance—of course—pushed it too far.

“Manager-nim,” he purred, sliding closer with that irritating smirk, “if we’re both off the clock, does that make it a personal relationship?”

You didn’t speak. You just punched him. Square in the jaw.

He flew back five feet, crashing into Abby, who was mid-flex. Abby crumpled too, groaning.

Silence.

Even Baby dropped his lollipop.

Jinu stared at you, eyes wide. “You… You hit a demon.”

Mystery took off his sunglasses for the first time in weeks. “That’s against the contract.”

Romance groaned from the floor. “I felt that. What the hell—?”

You dusted off your knuckles, the faintest smirk playing at your lips. “Boys,” you said, voice calm, almost amused, “this contract was forged between a human and a demon.” "Not demon to another demon," You said, smile sharpening waitinf for their reactions "YOU'RE A DEMON?!" ♥ ♥ ♥

BONUS!! AFTER THE REVEAL :3 One night, you were all in the dorm living room, blankets everywhere, a movie playing that none of you were really watching. Romance was doing his dumb “stretch and yawn” trick to get closer to you on the couch until you smacked him with a throw pillow. Abby was trying to balance popcorn on his abs. Mystery was humming along with the background music. Baby had completely passed out using your thigh as a pillow. Jinu had fallen asleep sitting upright, neck bent at an angle that would give lesser men scoliosis.

And You were just sitting there, warm, buried under a weighted blanket and a bratty maknae, sipping your lemon tea and watching the show playing. Well, atleast they are a little more respectful of you now

[sebystann]

COFFEE AND CHAOS

synopsis - When a sleepless barista forms an unexpected bond with the Red Hood, late-night coffees turn into something deeper. But the truth behind his cracked helmet — that he’s Jason Todd, the best friend they thought they lost.

A/n - banter, fluffy, just over all cute.

Word Count: 3,000ishhh

Rain lashed the alley behind your café as you pulled the trash bag outside. Gotham nights always carried the scent of gasoline and stale rain, but tonight, it was worse — the crack of distant gunfire rumbled through the air like an angry drum. You froze, senses prickling. Something — no, someone — was coming fast. 

A blur of crimson and black crashed through your back door, slamming it open with a splintering bang. You stumbled back, nearly slipping on wet tile. A man in a red helmet staggered into your kitchen, cape flaring behind him, breathing ragged. His armor looked like it had survived a bear attack, and blood seeped from a gash in his side. 

“Whoa!” you shouted, brandishing your broom like a sword. “Gotham’s closed for business tonight, buddy!” 

The man — no, vigilante, you realized — turned his helmeted head toward you. Even through the distortion of his modulated voice, his exhaustion bled through. 

“Stand down, barista,” he rasped. “Not here for you.” 

“Uh-huh,” you retorted, eyes darting to the blood trail he was leaving on your floor. “You always break into people’s kitchens for fun? Or is this a new ‘Gotham nightlife’ thing?” 

He hissed, clutching his side. “Coffee.” 

You blinked. “I’m sorry… what?” 

“Black,” he growled, bracing himself against the fridge, voice dropping like a stone. “Stronger than my will to live.” 

Despite the fact that you were pretty sure he’d just murdered someone — or at least almost died — you found yourself snorting. “Well, lucky you. I’m closing up, but since you nearly killed my door, might as well caffeinate you.” 

He didn’t reply, only slumped into a barstool by the industrial espresso machine, dripping rainwater and blood onto the floor. You set to work, tamping grounds with shaky hands. 

You’d seen criminals before. Gotham had taught you to keep your head down. But something about this one — the raw anger in his stance, the way he hovered between predator and lost child — made you hesitate. 

“So… do I call you, like, Mr. Motorcycle Power Ranger?” you asked, trying to lighten the suffocating tension. 

He paused, the helmet tilting almost imperceptibly. “Cute,” he said, though his tone was flat. “You always this mouthy with armed men?” 

“Only when they break my door,” you replied brightly. “Sugar?” 

He barked out a short, humorless laugh — the first sign of life you’d seen from him — and shook his head. “Just coffee. Keep the sugar for yourself.” 

The espresso machine whirred. The scent of dark roast filled the air, mixing strangely with the metallic tang of blood. He watched you like a hawk, eyes hidden behind his visor, but you felt his intensity like a physical weight. When you finally slid the steaming cup his way, your hands brushed, and a jolt shot through you. 

“On the house,” you muttered, unable to meet his gaze. 

He lifted the cup with a gloved hand, hesitated, then inclined his head slightly — a silent thanks. You stood in the wreckage of your kitchen, heart pounding, watching him down the scalding liquid like it was the only thing keeping him alive. 

“Thanks, Beans,” he rasped when he finished, setting the cup down with a soft clink. 

“Beans?” you echoed, affronted. 

“Short for coffee beans,” he clarified, pushing himself off the stool with effort. “You’ve earned a nickname.” 

Then he was gone, disappearing into the Gotham night, leaving you with a broken door, a pounding heart, and a feeling you’d just met someone who’d turn your world upside down. 

After that first chaotic meeting, you thought maybe it was a fluke — a one-time Gotham oddity. But two nights later, he was back. This time, he didn’t crash through your door; he appeared silently, like a shadow, leaning in the alley outside your café as you took out the trash. His red helmet gleamed under the buzzing streetlamp. 

“Got any more of that rocket fuel, Beans?” His voice startled you so badly you nearly threw your trash bag at him. 

“God—!” You slapped a hand over your heart. “You can’t just appear like that, you psychopath.” 

He crossed his arms, armor creaking. “Technically, I’m a sociopath. Keep up.” 

You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. “Oh, pardon me. My mistake, Mr. Sociopath.” 

His helmet tilted slightly — you had the distinct impression he was smiling. “Coffee?” 

And so it began. 

Every night for the next week, he showed up. Sometimes at midnight, sometimes an hour before dawn. You’d hear a light knock on your locked door, or catch a glimpse of red on your security camera. At first you were terrified; then you realized you were waiting for him. Expecting him. Hoping he’d come. 

You started experimenting with his drinks: a new roast, a double shot, a dash of cinnamon you swore he’d secretly liked even if he never admitted it. Each time, he’d sit at your bar, dripping rainwater, eyes hidden, voice low. 

“You know, you’re like a raccoon,” you teased one night, sliding a fresh cup across the counter. “Always skulking around in the dark, eating trash.” 

He let out a sharp laugh, low and rough, like gravel. “Bold words from a barista who leaves the back door unlocked.” 

“Excuse you,” you huffed, folding your arms. “You broke my back door, remember?” 

He paused, as if considering, then nodded solemnly. “True. I’ll fix it.” 

You scoffed. “Oh, really? The Red Hood’s gonna put his carpentry skills to use? What’s next, you’ll knit me a sweater?” 

“Do you like red?” he shot back, completely deadpan. 

You spluttered on your own laughter. 

It wasn’t always playful, though. Sometimes he arrived with new gashes bleeding through his armor, or a limp he tried to hide. He never let you call an ambulance, but you kept a first aid kit stocked just for him. Your hands grew steady as you learned how to patch him up, even as your heart hammered with every hiss of pain he tried to swallow. 

“Don’t you have a Bat-First-Aid-Kit or something?” you asked once, pressing a butterfly bandage onto a cut on his jaw. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s called you.” 

You blinked, unsure you’d heard him right, but before you could respond he cleared his throat, jerking his head away. “You should really charge more for these midnight patch jobs, Beans.” 

“Hmm.” You tapped your chin thoughtfully. “You’re right. Maybe I’ll start charging in favors.” 

His helmet swiveled back to you. “Favors?” 

“Yeah,” you said with exaggerated innocence. “Like, oh, I don’t know… maybe I want to borrow your motorcycle?” 

“You’d crash it in a block.” 

“You have so little faith in me,” you gasped, pressing a hand to your chest. 

He chuckled, low and warm, and for a moment, Gotham’s darkness felt a little less heavy. 

After a month of nightly visits, the ritual became sacred. You’d close the café at midnight, lock the doors, and leave a light on just for him. He’d show up with fresh bruises or new stories of Gotham’s underbelly. Some nights, you’d share quiet conversations; others, it was just the soft clink of his cup and the hum of the espresso machine. 

The banter, though — that was the best part. 

“You know,” you said one evening, leaning over the counter as he nursed his coffee, “you’re basically a Gotham raccoon and a drama queen. All that red, the cape — it’s like you’re trying to win ‘Most Extra Vigilante.’” 

He didn’t even flinch. “You’re one to talk, Beans. You sell overpriced foam art to criminals at 3 a.m. That’s peak Gotham.” 

“Overpriced?” you gasped, dramatically clutching your apron. “I pour my soul into these lattes.” 

“Your soul tastes like burnt hazelnut,” he deadpanned, but the helmet dipped as if he was hiding a smile. 

Another night, he arrived before closing, slipping inside like a ghost as you were mopping the floor. He watched you work silently, arms crossed, until you finally broke the quiet. 

“You ever think about getting a hobby?” you asked, pausing to rest your chin on the mop handle. “Something less… explode-y?” 

“I have a hobby,” he shot back. 

“Oh?” You raised an eyebrow. “Blowing things up counts as a hobby?” 

He shifted, almost sheepish. “No. Annoying you.” 

“Ha! Mission accomplished,” you said, tossing the mop aside to start his drink. 

But beneath the playful jabs, you started noticing things. The way he froze when you mentioned Batman. The haunted silence when a news report played about a new gang war. The way he sometimes stared at you like you were the last warm thing left in the city. 

One night, you caught him staring at the framed photo behind your bar — you as a teen, arms thrown around an older boy with a lopsided grin. Jason Todd. Your childhood best friend who’d died in an explosion years ago. 

You felt the air go heavy. “You know him?” you asked softly. 

The Red Hood’s head snapped to you, almost startled. “What?” 

“Jason. You looked like you recognized him,” you said, voice catching. 

He paused for a beat too long. Then he shrugged, low voice flat: “Just a face in Gotham’s graveyard.” 

The lie felt like a slap, but you swallowed your suspicion. After all, why would the Red Hood know Jason? Or care? 

So you kept playing along with the game you’d built together. Nights turned into weeks, weeks into months. He started trusting you with more than just wounds; you’d hear snippets of his day, dry mutterings about incompetent mobsters, or dramatic re-enactments of how he’d scared off a purse snatcher. 

“I’m telling you, Beans, the guy tried to threaten me with a pocket knife,” he said one night, slumped across your counter like a tired cat. “I almost felt bad.” 

“Oh, the horror,” you drawled, pushing a fresh espresso his way. “Did Gotham’s biggest menace get threatened by a butter knife?” 

He huffed, low and amused, and lifted his helmet just an inch so you could see a flash of his smirk in the shadows. 

Each night, you found yourself looking forward to him more. Each night, you felt your heart sink a little deeper into something dangerous — something electric. Because every time he left, you were already counting the minutes until he’d come back. 

Gotham’s nights grew longer, colder, and somehow lonelier when he didn’t come. But most evenings, you’d find him already waiting outside your café when you locked up — a silent red sentinel leaning against your doorframe, helmet glinting in the streetlights. He’d always greet you with some quip: 

“About time, Beans. The night won’t terrorize itself.” 

“Miss me already?” you’d reply, slipping past him to unlock the door. 

He’d follow you in, dripping rain across your clean floor, but you never minded. The warmth of your café felt like the only oasis in the city, and somehow, you two had carved out a fragile peace there. 

It wasn’t just coffee anymore. Sometimes you’d play old vinyl records you found at the flea market, letting scratchy jazz or moody blues fill the quiet. Other nights, you’d sit on the counter, legs swinging, telling him stories from your day: weird customers, gossip you’d overheard, memories of the Gotham you grew up in. 

He listened, always. Under the modulated growl of his voice, you’d sometimes catch a softer note — a warmth that seemed to surprise even him. 

One night, he arrived soaked to the bone, his armor dented, his steps unsteady. You gasped when he stumbled inside, nearly catching him before he fell. 

“Jesus, Red,” you hissed, hauling him to a chair. “What happened?” 

“Ambush,” he muttered, voice slurred. “Didn’t… see it coming.” 

Your hands shook as you peeled off pieces of his chest armor, revealing bruises blooming across pale skin. You kept expecting him to snap, to tell you to leave him alone — but instead he let you tend him, eyes fluttering shut every time you dabbed at a cut. 

“Don’t you ever… scare me like this again,” you whispered fiercely, pressing a bandage over his ribs. 

One eye cracked open behind the helmet. “Can’t… promise that.” 

You glared, but your breath caught when his gloved hand brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment too long. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver through you. 

That night, instead of leaving as soon as he could stand, he stayed. He sat with you in your tiny café until dawn, both of you curled up on the couch you kept in the back. The storm outside raged, but inside, it was quiet — just the two of you breathing in time. 

“You should leave Gotham,” he said suddenly, voice low, helmet resting beside him on the couch cushion. His face was still hidden in shadow. 

“Why?” you asked, heart skipping. “Because I’m in danger… or because you care?” 

He stiffened, armor creaking, but didn’t answer. His silence spoke volumes. 

Another time, you found him staring at the photo of Jason Todd again. You almost didn’t bring it up, but the ache in your chest demanded it. 

“You remind me of him, you know,” you said softly, sliding a cup across the counter. “Jason. He was reckless, loud, impossible not to love.” 

He flinched like you’d struck him. His hand closed around the cup so tightly you thought the ceramic would shatter. 

“People change,” he rasped, voice barely a whisper. 

“Maybe,” you said. “But not everything does.” 

And sometimes — just sometimes — you’d catch glimpses of something raw and broken behind the mask. The way he watched you when he thought you couldn’t see, or the way his breath caught when you called him by his nickname. It felt like there was something familiar in him, something you couldn’t quite name — but your heart recognized it all the same. 

The night it all unraveled started like any other — or so you thought. Rain poured from Gotham’s bruised sky, thunder rolling like distant gunfire. You were closing up, wiping down the counter and humming a tune you knew he’d tease you for later. The silence outside was heavy, almost expectant. 

But hours passed, and he never came. 

You tried to brush it off. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he’d gotten caught up saving someone else, or chasing some criminal. But a gnawing dread wormed its way under your ribs, cold and insistent. By 3 a.m., you couldn’t sit still anymore. 

You grabbed your coat and stepped into the storm. 

It wasn’t hard to find trouble in Gotham. You’d learned his patterns over the months, the rooftops he liked to perch on, the alleys he claimed as his own. You turned a corner — and froze. 

A fight was unfolding on a rooftop across the street, illuminated by a flickering neon sign. Red Hood — your Red — was a whirlwind of rage and precision, trading blows with a squad of mercenaries. You watched in horror as one of them blindsided him with a crowbar, sending him sprawling. 

“NO!” you screamed, voice ragged as you sprinted for the fire escape. 

You clambered up, soaked and breathless, just as one of the thugs raised the crowbar over Red’s head. You didn’t think — you grabbed a broken pipe and swung it with all your strength, connecting with the attacker’s jaw. He went down hard. 

“Get away from my raccoon!” you shouted, adrenaline drowning your fear. 

Red twisted to look at you, momentarily distracted — and that’s when it happened. Another mercenary slammed into him, helmet cracking hard against the ledge. His helmet skittered across the rooftop, clattering to a stop at your feet. 

Time stopped. 

Rain poured into your eyes as you stared at the man on his knees before you. Black hair plastered to his forehead, eyes wide and stormy blue. A face you knew better than your own. 

His gaze snapped to you, raw anguish flashing across his features. “Y/N…” he rasped, unmodulated voice ragged and familiar. “I wanted to tell you—” 

“You lied to me,” you choked, fury and heartbreak tangling like barbed wire around your ribs. “You let me think you were dead!” 

A mercenary staggered up behind him. Jason’s eyes went dark with lethal focus. He grabbed the man by the collar, slammed him against the concrete hard enough to knock him out cold, and let the body crumple at his feet. Lightning lit his face, highlighting every scar, every drop of blood. 

He turned back to you, desperation cracking his voice. “I thought I was protecting you,” he gasped. “I thought if I kept you at a distance—” 

“Protecting me?” you snapped, tears mixing with the rain. “Every night you left, I thought you’d die. Every night I waited, terrified. That’s not protection, Jason — that’s torture.” 

He staggered toward you, hands trembling as he reached out, but he froze when you flinched. His eyes glistened. “I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he whispered, voice raw. “But please… don’t leave. I’ll do anything. I’ll spend the rest of my life proving I’m worth your trust.” 

You swallowed hard, fury fading into something achingly sad. “I don’t know if I can forgive you yet,” you said softly, voice trembling. “You broke something in me, Jason.” 

His breath shuddered as he dropped to his knees before you, rain splashing around him. “Then let me stay,” he pleaded. “Let me try. I swear I’ll never leave you again.” 

You stood silent, heart torn open, rain soaking you both. Part of you still wanted to run — but you knew you couldn’t walk away from him. Not again. Not when you’d finally found him. 

“Get up,” you whispered, voice unsteady. When he looked up, hope flickering in his eyes, you added, “I’m still angry. But I don’t want you gone.” 

A ragged breath escaped his chest as he rose slowly, eyes locked on yours. He hesitated before brushing a hand against your cheek, warmth seeping into your skin despite the storm. 

“I’ll wait,” he promised, voice breaking. “As long as it takes.” 

Lightning flashed above as your gaze met his, breath mingling in the cold air. Then, in a rush of desperation and relief, you grabbed his collar and pulled him down, crashing your lips to his. His arms wrapped around you instantly, crushing you to him like he’d die if he let go. The kiss was fierce and messy, tasting of rain and tears, but it was real — and it was yours.

When you finally pulled back, foreheads pressed together, he let out a shuddering breath. “I missed you so damn much,” he whispered.

“I know,” you murmured, voice raw but steadier than before. “Just… don’t ever leave me again.”

And though Gotham still raged around you, for the first time in years, you felt like maybe — just maybe — you’d both finally come home.

[revelboo]

(⁠•⁠ ⁠▽⁠ ⁠•⁠;⁠) can I request some overlord? He's been living rent free in my head lately.

Y’all keep asking for this guy, so it’s only fair to warn you that his and Sunder’s storylines are going to be a bit dark. Their readers can’t fix either of them, just play their games to survive. They end up loving their humans in their own twisted ways, but these humans aren’t going to be that okay.

The Wailing Waltz

Overlord x Reader

• Head lifting at the chaos and noise that’s not of his doing, Overlord strides through the hall. Hears a scream, the sound of terror twisting deliciously through him and its followed by a frantic chirping. The sound similar enough to a distressed sparkling to make him feel strangely off balance as he seizes a mech by the helm and shoves him out of the way to see what his crew has cornered. And he rumbles as he spots the tiny organic trembling and cowering, eyes wide as you chirp and sob dramatically. What are you?

• Almost hyperventilating as you try to avoid the huge hands and grasping servos, you sob and hit your knees to duck when one of them grabs for you, the giant, metal monsters snarling and rasping. Laughing. You’re almost certain that they’re laughing at your terror. Have no idea where you are or how you got here, but you just want to wake up from this nightmare. Screaming when one of them grabs your arm between two huge servos, your feet leave the ground. Wondering if they’ll rip your arm from the socket or crush it as you smack and claw at the servos holding you. Realizing they’re going to play with you like cats with a mouse until they accidentally kill you.

• Lips curling as that lovely sound of fear and terror sinks into him, he reaches to grab the dangling organic. “Let go,” he growls and you’re released into his hand and he can feel the rapid pounding of your heart. Terrified eyes stare up at him. Boldly meeting his optics as you chirp at him, cowering in his hand and crying out when he presses a servo against you. Watching you lay your soft hands on his servo while you squirm, getting noisier in distress. Why do your little features look oddly Cybertronian? Those features and the chirping noises almost obscene.

• He’s crushing you. Gasping as you struggle to get loose, you see his lips curl into a wide smile as you cry out feeling your ribs begin to bend. And you’re gasping, tears running down your cheeks when he finally relents and his servo slides against your cheek. Hearing him crooning at you, the sound an eerie, mechanical growl as he taps your chin and you lean away from his touch. “Stop. Please,” you whimper. Shuddering when he slides a servo down your body, growling when you draw your legs up, trying to curl into a ball.

• ‘You can’t mean to keep this filth. That’s a human, they’re worse than scraplets, you have to-’ Turning slowly to make his second in command trail off as you chirp and cower in fear, Overlord smiles lazily. “Have to?” He echoes, his other arm lifting as he jams the muzzle of his blaster against the other mech’s cheek and squeezes the trigger. And you scream at the blast of sound, cringing against his servos and splattered in energon. Pretty painted in pink, he decides. Turning toward the nearest mech, his smile widens. Because these two are always inseparable. Or were. Wonders if they were only close friends. Maybe lovers. If this one is brave enough to attack him. Using the muzzle of his blaster to tip the mech’s chin up, the hatred in those optics shivers through him to make his spike stir. “Congratulations, you’ve been promoted. Learn from your predecessor,” he purrs. “I don’t enjoy being questioned.” Wondering how long it will be before this one tries to murder him. How delightful it will be to put him down slowly, to whisper to him that he failed to avenge his lover. Smiling as you stare up at him in horror, splattered in energon, he lifts you and presses his mouth against you, glossa brushing you as you cringe and shove at him with soft hands. You’re going to be so entertaining.

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #20 死

† ghosts that haunt †

"Sometimes the most dangerous wounds are the ones that never bleed on the outside—they fester in silence until one wrong touch makes everything spill out."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 9.4k

content: post-mission decompression featuring motorcycle rides through neon seoul, convenience store philosophy over cheap beer, jeon's emotional walls slamming back up harder than ever, j-hope's seven-year sobriety streak broken to protect y/n from v's predatory games, ad and j-hope's complex friendship revealing itself through crisis, gang members arguing about getting high like college kids, and the discovery that everyone in kkangpae carries demons they're trying to outrun

☠ author's note ☠

This chapter gutted me to write. Not because of the action (though, yes, Fervio's eye contact is a jumpscare), but because it begins cracking open the emotional center of the story. What begins as a seemingly quiet moment—a late-night beer, a 7/11 pit stop, a chance to breathe—becomes a confrontation with identity, projection, and the illusion of normalcy.

The psychology of this chapter is all about what we don't say. What we deflect. What we bury so deep, even tenderness feels like violence.

Jeon isn't pushing the reader away because he hates her. He's pushing because she sees him. And when your entire survival has depended on being unreadable, invisible, dangerous on purpose? Being seen is fucking terrifying. It strips you. It asks, what's left of me once I put the gun down?

Reader's mistake—understandable, human—is thinking that wanting to understand someone is inherently safe. That intention equals permission. And it doesn't. Not always. The line between empathy and intrusion is razor-thin when trauma's involved. And Jeon is not healed. He's fragmented, coiled like wire, and for him, vulnerability is not romantic—it's lethal.

This chapter is also the turning point where the reader starts to understand that being in Kkangpae isn't about who you kill. It's about who you let live in your head. Hobi, Jeon, AD—every single one of them is haunted. You don't get to this point in the underworld without dragging ghosts behind you, and this is the chapter where those ghosts stop being metaphorical.

Some of you will hate that Jeon lashes out. That he refuses softness. That he uses cruelty as armor. But that's the point. This story isn't about quick healing arcs or morally sanitized character growth. It's about what happens when you try to love someone who doesn't think they're lovable. And what happens when you realize you might not be either.

I'll say this again, because it matters: you are not owed someone's vulnerability just because you want it. And love—real love, the kind that survives places like this—isn't about unraveling someone until they break. It's about waiting at the door and letting them open it.

And sometimes, they don't.

Anyway. Hope you like the chapter ♡

— read on

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

The thing about riding through Seoul at night with a man who's trying really hard to pretend you don't exist? It fucking sucks.

The wind whips past as you race through Seoul's neon jungle and it feels good—like it's scrubbing away all that weird tension from Jeon's ice-queen act earlier. At this point, the city's just a blur of lights and shadows, the bike's engine drowning out everything except your thoughts.

There's something weirdly freeing about being just another couple of idiots on a motorcycle at night.

Nobody knows you're gang members. Nobody knows about the psychos you just left behind. Nobody knows about whatever the fuck that 'Sylvia' thing was about.

Right now, you're just... existing.

You keep your arms wrapped around Jeon because you n̶e̶e̶d̶ have to. That cold dismissal of his still stings, but the speed and the night air make it easier to pretend it doesn't.

Almost easier.

The 7/11 sign catches your eye—this bright, artificial beacon of normalcy in the middle of all this chaos.

Something about it calls to you. Maybe it's because it's so fucking normal. Maybe you just need a minute to breathe air that doesn't taste like pine and secrets.

"Pull over," you say, tapping his shoulder and pointing at the store.

You're not even sure why you want to stop. Maybe you just need to stand on solid ground for a minute. Maybe you need to remind yourself that the regular world still exists outside of Kkangpae's bubble.

Jeon doesn't argue, just guides the bike to the curb with that nonchalance of his that makes everything look easy. The engine rumbles for a second before he kills it, and suddenly the night feels too quiet.

Your legs are shaky when you climb off, but it's not from the ride. It's something else—this weird mix of leftover adrenaline and... whatever the fuck that conversation did to your nerves.

You need something normal. Something that doesn't involve creepy yellow contacts or coded warnings or names that make Jeon shut down completely.

You watch the man himself pull off his helmet, his hair falling into his eyes in that annoyingly perfect way that one would think probably takes hours to practice.

He doesn't even steal a glance your way—just keeps this unreadable expression that doesn't give anything away.

Back to his usual self, huh.

He nods toward the store's entrance, and you think maybe he needs this break from reality too.

The 7/11's wacky lights hit different after spending so much time in that fancy-ass castle hidden in the woods.

The doors whoosh shut behind you, and suddenly you're wrapped in this bubble of artificial cool air and the smell of cheap coffee.

It's weirdly comforting, like stepping into a pocket dimension where you're just a normal person buying normal things.

If only.

You wander down the aisles, running your fingers over bags of chips and candy bars. It feels surreal—like playing pretend at being regular.

Four months ago, this was just another convenience store. Now it feels like visiting a museum of your old life, everything familiar but somehow distant.

Jeon's still outside, probably looking like the world's hottest security guard as he leans against his bike. You can feel him watching you through the windows, probably wondering what the fuck you're doing.

But he doesn't come in, doesn't rush you.

Maybe he gets it—this need to pretend everything's normal for five fucking minutes.

You grab some chips because your stomach's been doing that angry growling thing for the past hour. Add a drink because your throat's still dry from all that talking with Fervio and his creepy yellow contacts. Then your eyes land on the beer fridge, and yeah—after the night you've had? You definitely deserve alcohol.

The cashier looks about as dead inside as you feel, barely glancing at your random assortment of convenience store therapy. You kind of want to tell him "hey, at least you don't have to flirt with psychopaths for a living," but that might blow your cover.

Back outside, you hold up the beer like a peace offering.

"Thought you might need this," you say, trying to sound casual even though there's still this weird tension hanging between you from the whole thing.

His eyes flick from the beer to his bike, and suddenly there's this little smirk playing around his lips.

"You trying to get me fined?" The words come out all low and rough, and fuck—your body really needs to stop reacting every time he uses that voice. "Not sure how driving under the influence is gonna look on my resume."

You lean back against the bike, trying to look cool and unbothered even though your skin's still buzzing from earlier.

"Please," you scoff, "I've seen how you handle this thing. Pretty sure you could drive it in your sleep."

He smiles, but takes the beer, fingers brushing against yours, and god—even that tiny contact sends electricity shooting up your arm.

"Just one drink," Jeon says, popping the can open with this casual flick of his thumb that somehow manages to look cool. "Don't want you thinking you can lead me astray."

He takes a sip, and the inside lights from the 7/11 catch on the silver of his lip ring, on the curve of his throat as he swallows.

You find yourself staring for a second too long, because fuck—sometimes you forget how pretty he is when he's not being an emotionally constipated asshole.

You laugh, tension somehow bleeding out a bit. "Lead you astray? Please. You're already halfway to hell, and I'm pretty sure you bought a first-class ticket."

The sound that comes out of him is actually a real laugh—not that quiet chuckle he usually does, but something genuine that makes his nose scrunch up.

It's kind of adorable, not that you'd ever tell him that.

The night air shifts into something softer, like a warm summer rain.

"Can't argue with that," he says, and there's this little smirk playing around his lips. "At least I'm upfront about being a piece of shit."

The silence between you isn't awkward anymore. It's nice, actually.

The air smells like rain and city smoke, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wails.

Seoul at night—your new normal.

Jeon's looking at the skyline, all those fancy buildings cutting through the darkness.

He takes another drink, and you can't help but notice how relaxed he looks right now. His shoulders aren't carrying all that tension they usually do, like for once he's not expecting an attack from every shadow.

You get it, though. Sometimes you need these moments—these tiny pockets of almost-normal where you can pretend you're just two people sharing a drink instead of what you actually are.

Where the weight of everything you've seen, everything you've done, feels a little lighter.

Maybe that's why you fit together so well, in this weird, fucked-up way.

You both know what it's like to walk in the shadows, to wear masks and play parts.

To find comfort in the darker corners of the world.

God, you think, watching him take another sip. When did this get so complicated?

"Past has a way of being a real bitch, huh?" You murmur.

Jeon's still staring at the skyline when he responds. "Yeah. Can't let it fuck with the present though."

"Look at you, being all wise and shit."

You bump his shoulder with yours, trying to lighten the mood.

Because this? This feels dangerous. Like you're walking on thin ice, and one wrong step could send you both plunging into whatever darkness Jeon's carrying around.

Shadows morph his features when he turns slightly. You catch that little scar on his cheek again, looking deeper in this light, like a secret.

"What's got you thinking so hard?" His voice is quiet, curious. "Usually you're the one telling me to shut up and stop brooding."

Your eyes meet his, and fuck—there's something in that look that makes your chest feel tight.

"Just thinking about how we've all got our own demons to deal with." You take another sip of your drink, buying time. "Some people run from them. Some people let them ride shotgun."

The smirk that crosses his face is different this time—softer around the edges, less guard dog and more human.

"Didn't know you could get philosophical. Should I be worried?"

You laugh, and it feels real for once. Not the fake shit you've been throwing around all night with Fervio and his creepy yellow contacts.

"Fuck off. I contain multitudes."

It's quiet for a few seconds, comfortable until it isn't.

Because there's this annoying thing tinging your interactions with him ever since you asked about Sylvia.

"Hey," you say, keeping your voice gentle. "Whatever ghost you're carrying around? It doesn't define you."

For a second, you think he's going to shut down again, throw up those walls and go back to being Chief Jeon, the untouchable assassin.

You're already turning toward the bike, ready to pretend this conversation never happened.

But then he lets out this breath that sounds like he's been holding it for years, and that makes you look back at him.

His eyes now are less storm and more rain, like maybe he's too tired to keep the hurricane spinning.

"That simple, huh?" His voice is rough around the edges. "Just... let it go?"

You stay perfectly still, like he's some wild animal that might bolt if you move too fast.

Because this feels like the first time ever you've seen him less guarded emotionally.

"Nah," you say carefully. "Not simple at all. But maybe it doesn't have to be this heavy all the time."

The look he gives you then—it's like he's seeing you for the first time. Really seeing you, not just looking through you like he usually does.

Dangerous, you think again.

But maybe that's exactly what you both need.

"Maybe," he says, so quiet you almost miss it. "But when your past is full of fuck-ups and dead bodies, it tends to stick around."

The words hit different—not because of what he's saying, but how he's saying it. As if he's cracking open his chest and showing you something he usually keeps locked down tight.

You move closer before you can stop yourself, drawn in by this rare moment of honesty.

Close enough to see the way his jaw works as he tries to keep his shit together.

Close enough that you can smell pine and mint and leather and cigarette stubs.

"Jungkook." His real name feels heavy on your tongue, important. "The past doesn't have to define you. It's just... part of the story."

You take another step closer, watch how his whole body goes tense, and those dark eyes keep flickering between yours, asking questions he won't voice out loud.

He swallows hard—you watch his throat work—then suddenly jerks his head away like he can't stand to look at you anymore.

"Don't," he says, barely above a whisper, like hurts coming out.

You frown, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

"Don't what?"

He doesn't respond at first, just lets silence fill the void.

When he finally looks back, his eyes are different—harder, distant. Like he's building walls as fast as he can.

"Don't look at me like that," he says, and there's something almost angry in his voice.

"Like what?"

His mouth opens, closes, opens again. The muscle in his jaw jumps.

When he finally speaks, the words come out rough, almost accusatory:

"Like... like I'm something you want to figure out"

Oh, you think. Oh, fuck.

Because maybe you do want to figure him out. Maybe you want to understand him way more than you should.

You're not sure what to say—if there even is anything to say that won't make this worse.

Because Jeon's always been this complicated puzzle of sharp edges and hidden depths, but you're starting to realize it was never about solving him.

Maybe it was just about... seeing him. Really seeing him.

It's almost as if he's scared—not of you, exactly, but of being seen.

Of someone looking past Chief Jeon, the cold-blooded assassin, and finding whatever's left of the person underneath.

You stay perfectly still, barely breathing. It feels like one wrong move could shatter whatever's happening here.

Then something in him just... breaks.

He backs away so fast you almost stumble, his whole body going rigid like he's preparing for a fight.

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek—that nervous tell you've started to recognize—and when he speaks, his voice is freezing.

"I'm not your fucking project," he snarls. "Not some broken toy you can fix when you're bored."

You flinch, caught off guard by the venom in his voice.

"What? Jungkook, that's not what I—"

"Jeon." He cuts you off, stepping right into your space until you have to tilt your head back to look at him. "Not Jungkook. Not to you."

The correction hits like a slap, like an invisible wall slamming down so fast it leaves you dizzy.

"Jeon," you try again, but he's not done.

"You think I haven't noticed?" His voice drops lower, dangerous. "All your little questions, your fucking looks. Like if you just dig deep enough, you'll find something worth saving."

"I was just trying to—"

He laughs, and it's an ugly sound.

"To what? Understand me? Help me? Save your fucking pity. I see right through you, watching me like I'm some damaged little puppy you can nurse back to health."

The accusation makes something hot and angry flare in your chest.

"That's bullshit and you know it. I've never thought of you as weak."

"No?" His jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump. "Then why are you always trying to get in my head? Acting like you know me, like you have any fucking clue what I've been through?"

He spins away from you, dragging his fingers through his hair like he's trying to tear it out, violent.

When he turns back, his eyes are burning with something that looks too much like fear dressed up as anger.

"What, you think because we fuck sometimes that gives you the right to play therapist?" His voice drops low, dangerous. "A few heart-to-hearts and suddenly you think you've got me all figured out? You don't know shit about me or the things I've done."

"You're right, I don't," you snap back, refusing to back down even though your chest feels tight. "And not because I haven't tried."

His face twists into something ugly. "Yeah, because the last time I let someone in, it ended in fucking bloodshed. One I'm still paying for!"

That makes you swallow, the knot in your chest twisting more tightly.

But Jeon's not done—he's like a shark that's smelled blood in the water.

"I don't need your fucking pity. I'm not some broken little boy for you to fix up and save. I've been handling my shit just fine without your amateur psychology bullshit."

The words sting, but there's something desperate in the way he's throwing them at you—pushing you away before you can get any closer.

"I never said you needed fixing, you absolute—"

"Then what?" He cuts you off, voice sharp as glass. "What exactly did you want? Access to my tragic backstory? Keep your savior complex to yourself. I'm not interested."

"You don't have to be such a dick about it," you say, and fuck—your voice comes out shakier than you meant it to.

"No? Then how about this: there's nothing here for you to see. So drop the fucking act."

"Act?" You actually laugh, but it's not a happy sound. "That's rich coming from you, Mr. Big Bad Wolf. Should I howl at the fucking moon? Maybe then we'd speak the same language."

"That's the problem right there! You trying to speak the same language. There's nothing to try. Nothing to fix. Nothing to understand. So back the fuck off."

"Right. My bad. Sorry for giving a shit, I guess."

"Keep working on it. Maybe one day you'll achieve perfect emotional constipation like the rest of us."

The sarcasm in his voice makes you want to scream. Or cry. Or maybe both.

When you don't immediately snap back, he makes this sound in the back of his throat—this ugly, disgusted sound.

"Fuck this. We're done here."

He turns to leave, but something makes you reach out, fingers wrapping around his arm before you can think better of it.

The muscle under your hand goes rock hard, and when he looks down at where you're touching him, his eyes are cold enough to freeze hell.

You let go like he's burning you, but you plant your feet. You're not backing down, not this time.

"Look," you say, keeping your voice soft but firm. "I get it, okay? Opening up is scary as shit. But it doesn't make you weak, Jeon. Might even help, whenever you're ready."

He stares at you, and for a second—just a second—something cracks in his expression. Like maybe he's tired of carrying whatever weight is crushing him. But then the walls slam back up so fast it gives you whiplash.

"Then you can sit there and wait until you fucking rot," he says, voice colder than a morgue drawer.

He jerks away from you, spinning toward the bike with the kind of finality that screams conversation over.

You stand there, anger and frustration mixing in your chest until you feel like you might explode.

"Bold of you to assume I've got that kind of patience," you throw at his back.

He freezes mid-step, and you see his shoulders tense.

When he speaks, his voice is completely flat, like all the life's been drained out of it.

"Even better."

Then he's swinging his leg over the bike, waiting for you to climb on so he can pretend this whole thing never happened.

Like he can outrun his demons if he just drives fast enough.

Stubborn asshole, you think, walking toward the bike.

But you're starting to realize that maybe his walls aren't just for show.

Maybe they're holding back something that terrifies him more than any enemy ever could.

You swing off the bike on slightly shaky legs, yanking the helmet off and trying to get your hair under control.

Jeon's doing that thing where he runs his fingers through his hair, making it look effortlessly messy and hot at the same time, which is annoying when you're trying to stay p̶i̶s̶s̶e̶d̶ professional.

His face is blank, but you can read the tension in his shoulders. You get it—going against direct orders to play nice with MDF's resident psychopath probably wasn't your brightest moment. Not to mention that whole clusterfuck of a conversation outside the 7/11.

"Time to get our asses handed to us," he mutters, and his jaw is clenched so tight you're worried he might crack a tooth.

You follow him inside, each step echoing off stone walls like a countdown to execution.

The walk to the council room feels longer than usual, probably because your stomach's doing gymnastics while Jeon walks ahead like he's heading to his own funeral.

The council room hits you with a brightness that makes you squint. All nine chiefs are already there, seated around that stupidly long table like some corporate board meeting from hell. They turn to look at you both, and you brace yourself for the shitstorm.

But then—what the fuck?

The room explodes with cheers and applause.

You actually take a step back, wondering if you've somehow walked into an alternate dimension. Beside you, Jeon goes completely still, like someone hit his pause button.

The Council is losing their collective mind. J-Hope's whistling like he's at a concert, V's cackling like a hyena, and even RM's got this smile on his face that makes him look ten years younger.

What timeline is this?

"Brilliant work!" RM's voice cuts through the chaos, and you're pretty sure your jaw's on the floor. "You've exceeded all expectations."

You look at Jeon, completely lost. "What the—?"

And then it hits you—the earpieces weren't just for show—the Council heard everything.

Every word with Fervio, they watched you dance with the devil and somehow come out on top.

"A partnership with MDF as independent traders?" Moon sounds like someone just handed him a winning lottery ticket. "That changes things."

You're still trying to process how you went from expecting a punishment to... this.

But one look at Jeon tells you he's just as thrown as you are. His eyes are slightly wider than usual, which for him is basically the equivalent of screaming in confusion.

Well, this is definitely not how you expected this night to end.

The rest of the Council starts talking over each other, throwing around words like "brilliant" and "game-changing."

You feel your face heat up—partly from pride, partly because this is not the ass-kicking you were expecting. Next to you, Jeon's got that look on his face, the one that says he's about three seconds from calling bullshit on this whole situation.

"What the fuck?" he growls.

There it is.

"We literally did exactly what you told us not to do."

The room quiets down as RM raises his hand, and even through the chaos, everyone snaps to attention. That's the kind of respect he commands.

"Yeah, you went against orders," he says, and his voice has that careful neutral tone that could go either way. "But you also just handed us the biggest opportunity we've had in years. Sometimes disobedience pays off."

The Council members nod like those bobblehead dolls people put in their cars.

Jeon's eyebrow does that tiny twitch thing it does when he's really f̶u̶c̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ pissed.

"This could be huge for us." J-Hope's voice is serious, none of his usual snark. "But one wrong move and we're all fucked six ways to Sunday."

Flower leans forward, her dark eyes sharp. "Especially with that psycho Fervio involved. He's probably just waiting for us to slip up."

RM's got that look on his face, the one that means his big brain is working overtime. "It's a risk, sure. But it's one we need to take. And we'll need our best people on this."

The silence that follows feels like it weighs a ton.

Everyone's thinking the same thing—this could either be Kkangpae's biggest win or its worst nightmare.

"The cover story worked perfectly," RM continues, and you can practically feel Jeon's shoulders tensing up beside you. "Fervio bought the whole illegal arms dealers slash married couple act. We can use that."

Jeon exhales loudly; eyes darkening a shade. His face stays blank, but you know him well enough by now to see the storm brewing behind those dark eyes.

"I want you both to keep playing these roles," RM says, leaning forward in his chair. "The power-hungry married couple looking to make it big in the underworld. It's perfect."

Your brain short-circuits for a second because what? This means more pretending to be married to Jeon. More acting like a couple. More of...

"With Fervio thinking you're on his side, we'll finally get inside MDF." RM continues. "This is the break we've been waiting for."

He looks between you and Jeon, and his expression turns serious.

"Can you handle it?"

"Yeah, of course," is your reply.

RM catches Jeon's tension—of course he does, he doesn't miss anything. His voice softens just a fraction.

"I know what I'm asking, Jeon. Especially from you." He trails off for a second, like he's choosing his next words carefully. "We can't change what happened before. But this? This is bigger than personal history."

There's something heavy in those words, something that makes your ears prick up.

Is this about Sylvia? That name you caught over the comms, the one that made Jeon shut down faster than a computer during a power surge?

You want to ask—god, you want to ask so badly it hurts. But after that disaster outside the 7/11? Yeah, not happening.

Some secrets in Kkangpae are meant to stay buried. You're learning that the hard way.

Jeon just nods, short and sharp. "Understood."

"Good." RM's voice has that final tone that means orders are being given. "You'll be our inside track to Fervio's operation. Get close, find weaknesses, but don't take stupid risks."

The Council members nod along, looking all serious and determined. Everyone knows this is huge—dangerous as fuck, but huge.

The meeting breaks up, and reality starts sinking in. You're really doing this. Playing happy married couple with Jeon while trying not to get murdered by a psychopath who gets off on torture.

Cool. Cool cool cool.

You glance at Jeon, trying to read his expression. But those dark eyes might as well be black holes for all they give away.

You can't decipher what he's thinking. At all. But he's not happy about it, whatever it is.

Then he just... nods at RM and walks out. No goodbye, no look back, nothing. Just turns on his heel and disappears through the door like he can't get away fast enough.

You watch Jeon storm out like he's got hellhounds on his heels. Something about it makes your chest feel tight. J-Hope must notice you staring because he leans in, voice pitched low so only you can hear.

"Don't take it personal, kid. Jeon's got... history with this kind of thing."

You turn to him, frowning. "What, following orders? Or not following them?"

"More like..." J-Hope pauses, and you can practically see him picking his words like he's defusing a bomb. "Let's just say he's not a fan of the Council being flexible with rules."

Your frown deepens. There's something here you're missing, some context that would make this all make sense.

"Because he's a stickler for protocol?"

"Because the Council doesn't do flexible." J-Hope says the word like it tastes bad. "Never has."

He glances at the door Jeon disappeared through, something dark crossing his face.

"Rules exist for a reason. And when they get bent or broken... well. Let's just say Jeon knows firsthand what that costs."

You let that sink in for a moment, turning it over in your head.

"This is about Sylvia, isn't it?"

The name drops between you like a stone in still water.

J-Hope goes completely still, and for a second, you see something flash across his face—pain? Anger? But then it's gone.

"Sylvia," he says, like he's testing how the name feels in his mouth. Then he shakes his head. "That's not my story to tell. If Jeon wants you to know about that particular clusterfuck, he'll tell you himself."

Gentleness finds his eyes then, looking as if he feels bad for you, stumbling around in the dark while everyone else seems to know where all the landmines are buried.

"Just... give him time, Jeon's got his reasons for being the way he is. And pushing him to talk about it?" He lets out a low whistle. "That's a real good way to make sure he never does."

You chew on your bottom lip, processing.

It's obvious there's more going on here—some whole tragic backstory (funny how he mentioned those two exact words) you're not cleared to know about.

"Yeah, okay," you say finally. "Everyone's got their demons, right? He can keep his locked up if he wants."

J-Hope's smile is small but genuine. He squeezes your shoulder, and his touch is surprisingly gentle for someone who patches up gunshot wounds for a living.

"Smart girl. And hey—Jeon might act like he's made of ice, but..." He trails off, thoughtful. "Let's just say I've seen him care about things before. Even when he probably wishes he didn't."

Great, you think. More cryptic bullshit.

But maybe that's just how things work around here. Maybe some secrets need to stay buried until they're ready to come out on their own.

You just hope you're still around when they do.

You give J-Hope a grateful smile, making a mental note to back off with the Sylvia questions.

Some wounds need time to heal, and pushing Jeon before he's ready would just make him shut down harder.

For now, maybe it's better to focus on what you do have—even if that's just really good sex.

Your philosophical moment gets interrupted by V's voice, bright and chaotic as ever.

"Well, I think this calls for drugs and alcohol!" He sounds way too excited about potentially getting everyone high.

J-Hope's head whips around so fast you're worried he might need to treat himself for whiplash.

"Absolutely fucking not!" His voice goes full doctor-mode stern. "Or did you all collectively forget the shitshow that happened last time?"

V just grins that manic grin of his, the one that usually means trouble's coming. "Aw, come on, Doc! We're all grown-ups here. What's the worst that could happen?"

(You make a mental note to never ask that question in a gang full of assassins.)

"Fuck them drugs," AD perks up from his corner, actually looking interested in something that isn't computers for once. "I'm rolling a joint and zoning out in my corner."

"Dibs on the good stuff!" Jessi's practically bouncing in her seat. "It's been forever since I got properly fucked up. Let's make it a party!"

Flower leans forward. "Anyone got acid? Because I've been wanting to try that."

JM's watching all this go down with that calm lake energy of his, looking way too amused.

"Face it, Doc. You're fighting a losing battle here."

"You too, Jimin?" J-Hope looks personally offended. "I'm the medical professional here. You know, the one who has to deal with your dumb asses when things go wrong?"

Moon just sits there with his usual zen master vibe, like he's watching children argue about candy.

"Perhaps we can find a middle ground that doesn't end in medical emergencies?"

"Moon's got a point," RM says, and you can practically see him calculating the odds of this turning into a disaster. "There's probably a way to do this that doesn't involve J-Hope having an aneurysm."

You lean back, watching chaos unfold in real time.

Because apparently this is your life now—sitting in a high-tech castle while a bunch of deadly assassins argue about getting high like college students planning spring break.

What even is your life?

J-Hope throws his hands up like he's trying to physically catch his last shred of sanity.

"There's no middle ground with you hooligans!" His voice hits that pitch that means someone's about to get a medical lecture. "Last fucking time Hyunjoo nearly turned our whole operation into a bonfire because she thought her instant ramen needed to be cooked with actual fire!"

Jessi's trying (and failing) to hold back her laughter, which only makes J-Hope more agitated.

"And you—" He whirls on AD, who's slouching in his chair looking done with life. "Two days! You disappeared for two whole days!"

"I was finding peace with nature," he mutters, checking his nails. "Weed is enlightening."

"The only thing enlightening was how many bug bites you got on your ass, you absolute disaster."

J-Hope's not done though—oh no, he's just getting started.

"And let's not forget Tae's brilliant fucking idea to invite the cops over for a party." J-Hope's voice drips sarcasm. "All because he wanted to, and I quote, 'party with the law'."

V sprawls in his chair, looking delighted by the memory. "Come on, Doc. Live a little! What's the point of being criminals if we can't have some fun with it?"

You watch J-Hope's soul leave his body in real time. His shoulders slump, and he lets out this long-suffering sigh that probably took years off his life.

"Fine. Fine. You win, you bunch of walking medical emergencies." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "But when you're all hugging toilets tomorrow and crying about how you can see through time, don't come running to me!"

The look on his face says he knows exactly where he'll be tomorrow—patching up whatever chaos this lot manages to create while high off their asses.

But that's tomorrow's problem. Tonight? Tonight's about to get real interesting.

Well, at least being in a gang is never boring.

"Ramen's on the stove!" Jessi's voice bounces off the castle walls like a rubber ball on crack. "No naked forest adventures this time, Doc, I promise!"

The castle's kitchen usually looks like something out of a luxury real estate listing. But right now? It's more like a college party gone wild, if college parties were thrown by professional killers.

You're posted up against one of those fancy counters, watching chaos unfold with a mix of amusement and holy shit, are we really doing this?

The prospect of trying acid for the first time is making your stomach do this weird flippy thing—half excitement, half terror. Mostly terror. But hey, when in Rome (or in this case, when in a high-tech castle full of assassins planning to get absolutely blasted)...

J-Hope sidles up next to you, and his sandalwood scent cuts through the MSG-heavy air. His face says 'I'm so done with this shit' but his eyes are doing that thing where he's trying not to look amused.

"Look at these fucking morons," he mutters, watching Jessi wave a wooden spoon around like she's conducting an orchestra. "It's like babysitting toddlers. Toddlers with access to weapons and illegal substances."

You bump his shoulder with yours. "Aw, come on. Don't act like you don't love playing mom friend to this disaster crew."

He gives you this look that's half exasperation, half fondness. "The entertainment value? Sure. The aftermath? Not so much."

His eyes track Jessi as she does some kind of interpretive dance with the ramen pot.

"Last time, I spent a week dealing with the fallout. Do you know how hard it is to treat someone who's convinced their fingers turned into snakes? Because I do. I really, really do."

You can't help but laugh because yeah, that tracks.

"But look at everyone," you say, gesturing at the room full of deadly assassins acting like actual human beings for once. "When's the last time you saw the divisions mixing like this? Usually everyone's too busy being dramatic and mysterious."

J-Hope lets out this long-suffering sigh that probably took years off his life. "Yeah, yeah. Just... try not to lose your mind completely on the acid, okay? I really don't want to explain to RM why one of our newest recruits is trying to have a philosophical debate with the security cameras."

"Please," you scoff, even though your heart does a little jump at the thought. "I'll be fine. Just curious to see what all the fuss is about."

"That's what Tae said," J-Hope deadpans. "Right before he decided the trees needed a strip show."

You lean against the counter, watching the chaos unfold around you.

It's kind of wild how a bunch of professional killers can act like college kids at a frat party. But that's Kkangpae for you—one minute you're infiltrating rival gang territory, the next you're watching Jessi try to juggle instant ramen packets.

J-Hope's steady presence beside you feels grounding through the general mayhem. Even when he's complaining about having to babysit a bunch of 'walking medical emergencies,' you can hear the fondness in his voice.

He's such a mom friend, not that you'd ever tell him that to his face.

Having J-Hope here, with his medical knowledge and surprisingly good dad jokes, makes the idea of trying acid feel less intimidating.

At least someone will know what to do if you start seeing dragons or whatever.

Then V materializes like he's been summoned by the promise of bad decisions, carrying a tray of shots that probably contain enough alcohol to strip paint. His grin is all teeth and trouble as he slides up to you both.

"Special delivery," he practically purrs, pushing a shot glass your way. The liquid inside looks radioactive. "A little something to kick-start your journey to enlightenment."

J-Hope's hand shoots out faster than you can blink, blocking the shot like he's defending a goal.

"Absolutely fucking not. Mixing alcohol with psychedelics? That's a one-way ticket to the worst night of your life."

"Aw, come on, Doc." V's eyes glitter with that dangerous playfulness he gets sometimes. "Let the girl live a little. It's just one tiny shot."

You watch J-Hope's face do this thing where he's trying really hard not to lose his patience. His jaw tightens, but his voice stays professional.

"This isn't about living. It's about not ending up in medical because someone thought mixing drugs was a good idea."

V leans in, and suddenly the air feels thick with tension. "When did you get so boring, Hoseok? Used to be you knew how to have fun."

The use of J-Hope's real name makes his whole body go rigid, and something dark flashes across his face.

Welp, this is about to get real uncomfortable.

"This isn't about being scared," J-Hope says, and his voice has that edge he gets when someone's pushing his buttons. "It's about not wanting to spend my night pumping stomachs because you idiots can't make good choices."

V's smile turns sharp, thorny vines of his aura creeping into the air between them. "Or maybe you're just projecting your own issues onto everyone else, our pride and hope."

Oh shit.

The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.

You watch J-Hope's hands curl into fists, sandalwood notes in the air turning bitter.

"That's enough." J-Hope's voice could freeze hell. "This isn't about me. It's about keeping people alive."

"Alive? From what?" V's laugh has too many teeth. "The big bad vodka monster?"

"It's not about the fucking vodka, Taehyung—"

"I mean, I get it—"

"—for fuck's sake, she's not—"

"—vodka's Russian and all but—"

"—it's not about the goddamn—"

"—Putin ain't gonna jump out the bottle—"

The overlapping voices make your head spin, but then—holy shit.

J-Hope snatches the shot right out of V's hand and downs it like it's water. The room goes so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

V actually shuts up for once, thorns retreating like he's been slapped. Everyone's staring, probably thinking the same thing you are: What the actual fuck just happened?

The empty glass hits the counter with a clink that sounds like a gunshot in the silence.

"There," J-Hope says, voice empty. "Problem solved."

Then he just... walks away. Like he didn't just do something that has everyone's jaws on the floor.

V blinks like his brain's still buffering, but because he's V, he bounces back in seconds. That million-watt smile slides back into place like it never left.

"Well, fuck me sideways," he says, turning back to you with a laugh. "Looks like the good doctor's still got some surprises up his sleeve."

Thorns wrap around the room again, playful and dangerous.

"Now, about that acid trip you're planning. Just remember—if you need a spirit guide through the gates of perception, I'm your man."

He throws you a wink and floats off to terrorize someone else with his tray of shots, leaving you to wonder what the hell kind of drama you just witnessed.

Note to self, you think, watching J-Hope's figure make it out the doors. Never mention vodka around those two.

AD materializes then like some tech gremlin summoned from his cave, clutching a bag of weed and another one of acid.

He does that thing where he pretends not to care about anything or anyone, scanning the room with his typical 'everyone here is an idiot' expression.

"Well, if it isn't our favorite antisocial hacker," you say, watching him do his best impression of someone who definitely isn't looking for a specific person.

His face scrunches up like he's tasted something sour.

"Where's the walking medical textbook?" he asks, and you can hear the eye roll in his voice even though his face stays neutral.

Classic AD—pretending he's not worried about J-Hope's whereabouts.

"You mean J-Hope?"

"No, I mean the other mother hen who follows me around telling me to eat vegetables. Yes, J-Hope."

He starts unpacking his little bag of happiness onto the counter, then grabs a rolling paper with two fingers—gentle, like he's holding a butterfly wing—and brings it up to his lips.

"Lucy for the newbie," he mutters, holding up the other tiny plastic bag between his fingers like it's a USB drive containing nuclear codes.

"He left," you say, taking the bag and examining it because apparently that's what you do with illegal drugs now.

Your life is weird.

AD's eyebrow shoots up in that way that says 'elaborate before I hack your phone and set all your alarms to 3 AM.'

"V was being V, trying to get me to drink before dropping acid. J-Hope wasn't having it."

"What, did he storm off to avoid watching his precious patient make bad decisions?" AD snickers, but there's something almost fond in his voice. "He gets pretty pissy about alco—"

"Actually," you cut him off, matching his grin "he grabbed the shot, downed it like a champ, and bounced. Total power move."

The change in AD's face is like watching someone hit ctrl+alt+delete on his entire personality.

The smirk drops so fast it probably left skid marks.

"He did what?"

"Yeah, just... knocked it back and walked out. Pretty badass, if you ask—"

"What was in the glass?" His voice goes sharp, all traces of amusement gone.

"What?"

"The fucking shot, what was in it?" There's something urgent in his tone that makes your stomach drop.

"I don't know, V said something about vodka—"

"Fuck." AD drags his fingers through his hair like he's trying to pull it out. "Fuck fuck fuck."

"What's wrong with—"

"Where's V?" he snarls, and holy shit, you've never heard him sound like that before.

You can't help but inwardly panic as AD's face cycles through about fifteen different shades of murder.

AD's eyes lock onto V like a heat-seeking missile, and suddenly he's moving with the kind of purpose that usually ends in bloodshed. You watch him shove V hard enough to make the chestnut-haired man stumble back into Moon's drink setup, glasses rattling dangerously.

"What the actual fuck?" V catches himself, bristling with barely contained rage.

"You gave him vodka?" AD's voice is deadly quiet. The kind of quiet that comes before violence. "You fucking knew—"

"He took it himself!" V straightens up, getting right in AD's face, smile cruel. "Not my problem if your precious doctor can't handle his shit."

"I'm going to rearrange your fucking face—" AD's hands curl into fists.

"Try it, you basement-dwelling freak. Maybe if you spent less time obsessing over Hobi's sobriety and more time getting over your pathetic crush—"

You move before your brain can catch up with what a monumentally stupid idea this is.

Getting between two Chiefs when they're about to throw down? Definitely not in the Kkangpae employee handbook.

But guilt's churning in your stomach because you were there.

You watched J-Hope take that shot and did nothing.

"AD," you say, keeping your voice soft but firm. Everyone's staring at you like you've lost your mind, and maybe you have. "This isn't helping. We need to find J-Hope."

AD's practically vibrating with rage, and V's thorny aura is sharp enough to draw blood. But finally, finally, AD takes a step back.

"Fucking narcissistic asshole," he spits at V as he turns away. "Too busy jerking off your own ego to give a shit about anyone else."

V's laugh follows you down the hallway, high and unhinged. "Aw, don't be like that, Yoongi! I thought we were having fun!"

You follow AD, his muttered curses painting the air blue.

After that disaster with Jeon earlier, you're not sure you should push for answers. But worry's gnawing at your gut.

"Is he going to be okay?"

AD lets out this heavy sigh that sounds like it starts in his toes. His eyes keep scanning every corner, every shadow.

"I don't... fuck. He..." He drags his fingers through his hair, messing up the blonde strands. "Hobi's got history with alcohol, alright? Bad history. He's been clean for... Christ, I don't even know how many years."

Shit.

You watch AD practically vibrate with nervous energy as he searches, and suddenly his reaction makes a lot more sense.

"We'll find him," you say, and you mean it.

Because maybe you can't fix whatever's going on with Jeon (and it's not your job anyway), but this?

This you can help with.

AD nods sharply, his face set in grim determination. "Yeah. We fucking better."

You and AD split up to search the castle, which is exactly as fun as it sounds—like playing hide and seek in a maze designed by someone with a sick sense of humor.

But you keep going because it's J-Hope. The guy who patches everyone up without judgment, who keeps this chaotic family of killers alive despite their best efforts to the contrary.

He deserves someone in his corner for once.

The party noise fades as you climb higher in the castle, until all you can hear is your own footsteps echoing off stone walls.

It's weird seeing these halls so empty—usually there's at least a few people around, heading to missions or sneaking off for... whatever.

Then you turn a corner and your heart does this weird flip thing when you see J-Hope's there, crumpled against a column like someone cut his strings. His knees are pulled up to his chest, head down, and fuck—seeing him like this feels wrong. Like walking in on something you weren't meant to see.

The empty glass beside him makes your stomach twist.

"J-Hope?"

He lifts his head so slowly it hurts to watch. His eyes meet yours, and that's worse somehow. All that warmth and steadiness that makes him J-Hope is just... gone.

"Hey," he says, voice barely above a whisper.

"Hey yourself." You drop down next to him, trying to keep your voice gentle. "How're you holding up?"

"Just fantastic." His laugh is hollow, and the smile he gives you is about as real as the designer bags they sell in back alleys.

You bite your lip, wanting to help but not sure how. Your hand finds his shoulder, trying to say without words that he's not alone in whatever this is.

"What you did back there, protecting me from that shot? You didn't have to. But... thanks. For caring. You're good at that, you know? The caring part."

He looks at you for a long moment before his head drops again, but this time his smile seems a little more genuine. A little less broken.

"AD told you about the alcohol thing, didn't he?"

You tense up, your hand going still on his shoulder. Shit. You don't want him thinking AD was gossiping about his personal shit, but—

"It's fucking stupid," he says before you can explain, and his voice is so soft it makes your heart hurt. "Everyone here's got blood on their hands, trauma up to their eyeballs, and I'm falling apart over some fucking vodka."

Your grip on his shoulder tightens. "Hey, no. Pain isn't a competition. Your demons aren't any less valid just because they come in a bottle instead of a bullet."

J-Hope stares at his thighs like they hold all the answers to the universe, keeping quiet for a few seconds like he needs it. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough around the edges.

"Seven years," he says, like he's counting each one in his head. "Seven fucking years without touching a drop. Made that promise to myself when I joined Kkangpae. Thought I'd take it to my grave."

His eyes are different now—missing that sharp focus that usually makes him look like he's scanning for injuries. Instead, they're glossy with tears he won't let fall. The sandalwood scent in the air is muted, dulled.

"Used to be a doctor, you know? A good one. Fucking naive though." He lets out this hollow laugh that makes your chest hurt. "Thought I could change things from the inside. Make a difference in that corrupt shitshow they call healthcare."

You stay quiet, letting him get it out. Sometimes silence says more than words.

"You can't—" His voice catches. "You have no idea what it's like in there. The fucking politics of who lives and who dies. Had this kid once, sweet little thing. Needed emergency surgery. But some rich asshole's cousin needed a cosmetic procedure, and guess who got the operating room?"

Your stomach turns as the implications hit. J-Hope's face twists like he's tasting something bitter.

"I watched that kid die. Right there on my table. And you know what the hospital director said? 'These things happen.' Like it was a fucking paperwork error." His hands are shaking now. "That wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was how normal it was. People dying because they couldn't pay, while others bought their way to the front of the line."

He takes this shuddering breath that sounds like it hurts.

"Started drinking to numb it. Just a little at first—a shot before bed, something to take the edge off. But that's how it gets you, right? One shot becomes two, becomes a bottle, becomes..." He gestures vaguely at himself. "Becomes this."

"You were an alcoholic?" The words come out soft, careful.

"Yeah." It's barely a whisper. "Lost everything. My job, my license, my apartment. Ended up sleeping under bridges, spending whatever I could beg or steal on cheap vodka. Real fucking inspirational story, right?"

When he looks at you, the raw pain in his eyes makes your heart squeeze.

"Then RM found me. Saw something worth saving in this drunk piece of shit passed out behind a dumpster. Gave me purpose again. A chance to help people without all the bureaucratic bullshit."

He picks up the empty shot glass, turning it in his hands like it might bite him.

"That's why I swore off drinking. Not just for me—for RM, for everyone here who gave me a second chance when I didn't deserve one."

You watch him struggle with words, with memories, with demons you can't see but can feel in the heaviness of his words.

"Found a family here. Got to be a doctor again, on my own terms. Started putting myself back together." His fingers tighten around the glass. "But tonight, one fucking shot and—"

"You did it to protect me," you cut in, because you can't stand the self-loathing in his voice. "That counts for something."

His smile is sad, tired.

"Maybe. But that's not..." He shakes his head. "I can't go back there. Can't be that person again. The one who couldn't save anyone, not even himself."

The confession sits between you as you watch J-Hope—this man who patches up assassins and keeps everyone's secrets—look more vulnerable than you've ever seen him.

Fuck. No wonder he's so protective of everyone.

You squeeze his shoulder, trying to put everything you're feeling into that touch.

"You're not that person anymore, Doc. Look at you—patching up assassins, keeping us all alive, being everyone's voice of reason. One shot doesn't erase seven years of being fucking incredible."

His smile is small but real this time.

"Thanks, kid. I..." He swallows hard. "I needed that."

You bump his shoulder with yours. "Yeah, well, even newbies gotta remind you you're not just the grumpy doctor who yells at us for getting stabbed."

He actually chuckles at that, a quiet sound that makes his whole body shake.

"Newbie? You've been here four months. Pretty sure you've seen more action than some of our veterans."

"Maybe," you say with a grin. "But I still can't tell the difference between morphine and saline, so I think that keeps me firmly in the rookie category."

That gets a real laugh out of him, and some of the tension finally leaves his shoulders. He looks at you, and there's something warm in his eyes that wasn't there before.

"You know what? Screw the formalities. Call me Hoseok. Or Hobi, if you're feeling lazy."

Your eyebrows shoot up. "Wow, first-name basis? I feel so special."

"Don't let it go to your head," he says, but he's smiling now. "I just figure anyone who's seen me have an emotional breakdown in a hallway has earned it."

"Hoseok it is, then." You lean your head against his shoulder, feeling weirdly comfortable despite the cold stone floor and the lingering heaviness in the air. "Though I might go with Hobs. It suits you better."

"Hobs?" He doesn't shrug you off, which feels like a win. "I can live with that."

You sit there in comfortable silence for a while, just existing in the same space.

It hits you then, how human everyone in Kkangpae is.

Sure, you're all part of this big, scary criminal organization, but underneath all the tough talk and violence, you're just... people.

People with pasts, with regrets, with demons you're all trying to outrun.

"Hey, Hobs?" you say after a bit.

"Mm?"

"Thanks for trusting me with this. I know it's not easy to let people see the messy parts."

He's quiet for a moment, then his hand finds yours, giving it a quick squeeze.

"Thanks for giving a shit, kid. It's... it's been a while since someone did."

You're about to say something else when footsteps echo down the hallway. AD appears around the corner, looking like he's aged ten years in the last hour.

When he spots you both, the relief on his face is so obvious it almost hurts.

"You absolute fucking idiot," AD says, dropping to his knees beside you both. His voice is rough but his hands are gentle when they reach for Hobi. "Do you have any idea—I thought—fuck."

"Sorry," Hobi mumbles, and he sounds exhausted. "Didn't mean to worry you."

"Shut up." AD's already pulling one of Hobi's arms over his shoulders. "Just... let's get you to bed before you fall asleep in this hallway like some drunk college kid."

You help AD get Hobi to his feet, each of you taking some of his weight.

The party's still going strong somewhere below, but up here, it's just the three of you navigating dark corridors, trying to keep each other from falling apart.

Family. This is what family looks like.

The walk back to J-Hope's room feels longer than it should, like the hallways are stretching out just to fuck with you.

His words keep echoing in your head—all that stuff about hospitals and corruption and losing everything.

It's weird seeing someone you thought had their shit together turn out to be just as messy as the rest of you.

When you finally reach his door, AD does this thing where he opens it super carefully, like he's afraid of waking up a sleeping baby or something.

You both help J-Hope inside, and damn—his room is exactly what you'd expect from the guy who patches up assassins for a living.

It's all neat and tidy, medical books stacked up like little towers of knowledge. There are plants everywhere too, which is kind of adorable. You can just picture J-Hope fussing over them between stitching up bullet wounds and lecturing people about their alcohol intake.

J-Hope practically collapses onto his bed, letting out this sigh that sounds like it's been building up for years. When he looks at you both, his eyes are all soft and grateful. It makes your chest do this weird tight thing.

"Thanks, guys," he says, and his voice sounds steadier now—like maybe getting all that shit off his chest actually helped.

"Don't get sappy on us," AD grumbles, but you can tell he's worried because his usual grumpy cat routine is dialed down to about a three. "Just get some rest, alright? Can't have our medic falling apart on us."

J-Hope actually laughs at that, even if it's a weak sound. "I'll be fine. Just a little hiccup in the sobriety journey. Won't happen again."

AD nods like he believes him, but you can see the doubt in his eyes. He turns to you, all serious business now.

"Thanks for the assist. I've got it from here."

You nod, feeling weirdly relieved that J-Hope's not gonna be alone.

"Yeah, of course. Take care of our favorite doctor, yeah?"

J-Hope gives you this smile that makes him look younger somehow. He mouths 'thank you' as you head for the door, and for a second, you consider staying.

But nah. AD's got this.

And you? You've got a lot to process.

You start walking back towards your own room, mind still spinning.

Because if J-Hope—steady, dependable J-Hope—has skeletons in his closet, what the hell is everyone else hiding?

Fuck. You realize you're in way deeper than you thought. But the weird thing is?

You're not sure you want out.

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[illmoraineakoi]

Playing a legitimate game of Minecraft with TDL would mean you never have to make a mob farm, EVER.

Because that's all he'd do. Just kill everything and anything.

(Someone has to go along with him to pick up all the drops tho, bc he sure as hell ain't.)

[skay-ali]

All to save the world

“I stopped knowing how to live a long time ago. .... I'm just trying to survive.”

You were branded as the last Wayne...

From a great empire, with a millionaire and all his children, who dazzled the dark city, only you were left.

Oh, at least the majority of the society believes it, that's what the new fathers of the country wanted.

No great Bruce Wayne or Batman, leader of the resistance, no younger son Damian, loyal member of the Superman regime, no Dick or Nightwing, a victim of the Joker, none of your other brothers .....

Only you were left, ____ Wayne, under strict surveillance, not that you were a threat, it was just a precaution, they associated you as a troublemaker just like your old family.

“name” started with the questions the robotic voice inside the white room.

“____ Wayne”

Every day was the same, you being monitored, cameras recording your actions and words.

“have you done your job?”

“I intend to.”

“what do you think of the new order of our city?” wow that was fast, usually it's always 10 insignificant questions before they started in earnest with the interrogation.

You hesitated to answer, you wanted to burst out, let your mouth spit out so many things, you were so upset right now with the regime.

“it's ok” you faked a smile.

“it's a very vague answer”

you gritted your teeth trying to stay calm, you couldn't freak out and suffer the consequences.

“the truth is that I don't care, not while I am still alive and in good living conditions, I don't care, not while innocent people are still alive”.

It was a half-truth.

“have you had contact with your father?”

“you seriously keep asking that?”

“wrong answer”

“I will say the same as other times, I don't know anything about him, not since he decided to oppose the regime”.

“invalid answer” caused you great fright the alarms that went off when the robotic voice spoke again.

Angrily you massaged your face before speaking again.

“I haven't heard from him in years, not after two years under your care.”

That calmed the alarms.

After further questions you were kicked out of the facility.

You left again the big building towards the city, the beautiful city without color.

Since the new regime was imposed everything was chaos, destroyed places, war warnings, some deaths. Until a certain balance was achieved, some cities became ceding cities of the new regime, you lived in one of those cities.

You became a hostage, as well as other people with great influence, famous people, or millionaires. It was a strategy to win over the masses.

You arrived at one of the busiest streets, where a large group of people were walking or waiting at the traffic lights.

You followed the road along with the many people, among colorless clothes and inconspicuous faces.

“you know it's funny” you sat on the floor, still with the red, sticky, iron-smelling liquid on your body.

“you were always one of daddy's favorites, at least in my eyes” you looked up from the floor, you rested your eyes on the teenager towering over you.

“you had it all when you came” your hands were shaking, they were stained with blood, no matter how much you wiped them on your white clothes, staining them crimson, your hands still felt dirty.

“you had a father who loved you, brothers who loved you, a home, all the luxuries anyone could wish for”

"and even with all that, you... you... you left our father's side."

“You stabbed him in the back, you betrayed him.”

you didn't know if you were hallucinating, but for an instant you could see a hint of remorse on the young man's face.

You were surely hallucinating, because the person in front of you was nothing more than a monster, a terrible one, who evolved not only to torment you, but the whole world.

A monster that killed the only thing you had left.

Your fiancé, lying on the floor with blood on him and no sign of breathing.

“and... and surely he still loves you” your voice failed, again failed by the weight that sat in your mouth, the pressure in your body, the force that threatened to bring sobs out of you.

.

.

.

“and me, I had nothing, just leftovers” with tears in your eyes you blurted out your feelings.

“and now that I found something you... you take it away from me.”

You felt his hand on you, desperate for warmth.

And you endured it, you endured him reaching out and pretending you were family.

You accepted because you were scared to death.

You went on your way, head held high, but keeping your emotions in check.

Until you made a mistake. You could not blame yourself so much, you were human, you were a person who was not capable of evil actions, compassion was always with you.

You saved one of the enemies of the new state. You saved your father.

Then everything changed.

You died in one of the attacks on your father.

It's not that you joined him, you were only associated with him because you saved him once.

It was all supposed to end, darkness, a deep sleep, heaven or hell, reincarnation, any of those things.

But you ended up in the past, on a school day at your university.

You woke up from a break on the campus lawn with your friends chatting with you.

It was all a bad dream?

You went on with your normal days. Trying to get over your bad dream, the very scary and real future you dreamed, your painful death.

You even went to visit your family, even though it was strange.

It didn't matter how cruel or insensitive your brothers were, or how cold your father was.

You were relieved to see them alive, to see your younger brother being an almost normal teenager, not a soldier who killed.

“Why are you smiling, what a silly face you have” Damian commented in his angry voice when he saw you.

You ignored the comments and continued devouring the spaghetti that Alfred prepared, one of the good things about coming home is that Alfred always feels a little guilty or tries to get rid of you quickly, it's by fulfilling your wishes, so that you are satisfied.

You raised your shoulders without interest, nothing could stop your happiness, it was all a dream, you were not going to waste your life, nor would you be tied to your family.

Maybe that dream was just your subconscious, your adult self making you let go of all your family, who only held you back.

Maybe it saved you from the mediocrity of an unhappy life under your whole family expecting something from them.

Now you were grateful, because since that horrible dream, you decided to take distance and fulfill your dreams, or well look for one, until now you just wanted to have a dream and fulfill that dream away from your old life.

“Wipe off that scary smile already, freak” kept bothering you.

You just ignored it and locked yourself in a bubble of happiness.

You gave the kid a smile, if everything was okay.

From that day on you didn't visit your family much, you stayed in your apartment near the university.

You gradually ignored your family.

Everything was normal.

Well almost everything, the first thing is that you felt that something around you was wrong, as if something bad was going to happen, plus a feeling of deja vu.

And the second thing is that your skin changed, one near your stomach, on your right hip a line appeared, it was just like the ones that appeared when a glass is shattering.

At first you didn't take it seriously, but when you saw that it didn't disappear after a few days it scared you.

“You saw what was happening on the news” one of your friends commented with great surprise, her voice said it all.

And she was not the only one, all the people around you, something caused a massive commotion, which impacted many.

"Super... Superman... just killed the joker."

Ohhh, that was not good.

It wasn't good at all.

And suddenly a very familiar feeling of fear returned to your body.

Maybe it wasn't a dream...

just like happy day of your death, for lectora it was all a dream, and she went on with her life, on her first trip to the past, but after realizing that her dream only repeats itself and they felt so real I think she will take it all seriously.

I think her dream will have to be postponed a bit....

[scary-grace]

Designated Villain (Chapter 4) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

You loved BNHA's ending, mostly, but a few weeks after the last chapter is published, you get isekaied into BNHA on the day the story begins. That would be a dream come true, except you ended up in the body of a common criminal, and instead of enjoying life in your favorite fictional world, you find yourself struggling to survive in a world that's much crueler than you ever imagined. Armed with nothing more than BNHA Tumblr brainrot and a highly suspicious iPod Shuffle, you set out to fix the few things that are wrong with BNHA's ending. But as you learn more about the villains you hated and every change you make pushes the plot further off the canon storyline, it's not long before your feelings about the ending start to change. (cross-posted to Ao3)

(dividers by @cafekitsune)

Chapters: 1 2 3 4

Chapter 4

You’re not sure why you’re so intent on hiding. Shigaraki’s been shot four times. He’s not in any shape to chase you. It’s not until you’re tucked into a corner behind the TV cart that you remember where the certainty’s coming from. Some x reader headcanon post that broke containment, talking about how All For One would totally let Shigaraki fall in love with somebody just to let the heroes kill them, so he could cement Shigaraki’s hatred even more. Shigaraki’s not going to fall in love with you or anyone. That’s not in his programming. But all the same — you can’t shake the feeling that being spotted by All For One or Dr. Garaki right now would be a really bad thing.

Being spotted by any of these people is a bad thing, and Kurogiri already saw you. All you can do is hope that he keeps his mouth shut until the TV’s turned off.

Shigaraki doesn’t try to get to his feet. He’s lying almost facedown, a puddle of blood spreading beneath his hand, complaining about how All For One set him up to fail and All Might wasn’t any weaker at all. The TV comes to life and you hear All For One’s voice for the first time. What happens to you is exactly like what happens to Deku and the others when they hear his voice during the Kamino incident. It makes your skin crawl and your stomach lurch, and it fills your mind with fear-soaked fog. If you hadn’t hidden already, you’d be doomed, because it would paralyze you on the spot. It’s the worst sound you’ve ever heard.

No, it isn’t. You know the worst sound you’ve ever heard, and as horrible as it is, thinking of the crowd crush grounds you ever so slightly. That was the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. At least if Shigaraki kills you, it’ll be quick.

Kurogiri is speaking now. You haven’t heard him talk yet, and his voice scares you a little less than the others. “What about Shigaraki Tomura’s injuries, doctor? I can transport him to you at once.”

“No,” the doctor says after a moment, “they’re mild. They can be treated at home.”

“I got shot,” Shigaraki says from the floor. “With a gun. Twice. You aren’t even going to –”

“Think of it as an exercise in self-sufficiency. Your master has always handled his minor wounds alone.” The doctor sounds like he couldn’t care less. You can see Shigaraki’s face from your hiding spot, and you see a weird expression flit across it — confusion, and something else. “If they become infected, Kurogiri, then you may bring him by.”

The TV switches off with a pop, and the room goes silent other than Shigaraki’s ragged breathing and the sound of your heartbeat, so loud that it’s impossible to imagine the other two haven’t heard it. Kurogiri breaks the silence. “You may come out now,” he says, and you freeze. “We will need your assistance.”

“What?” Shigaraki struggles to his hands and knees. He looks right, then left, and then he spots you. His face distorts into a snarl at once. “Why are you here?”

He doesn’t even know you. You thought he’d kill you out of indifference, if he was going to kill you. Why is he mad? Shigaraki tries to stand, fails, then starts crawling across the floor towards you like some kind of monster out of a horror movie. “Why are you here?” Shigaraki snarls again. He’s almost within reach, and you could hit him with a flash before he can touch you — but where would you go afterwards? You’ve got nowhere to run. “Why didn’t you help?”

Help with what? You shake your head, mute and terrified, and Kurogiri fills the gap. “The flash of light which blinded Snipe came from her. It is likely that you would have been shot at least four times if she had not intervened.”

He did get shot four times. Didn’t he? “I still got shot twice,” Shigaraki spits. “You’re useless. Kurogiri, get rid of her. Or I will.”

“Shigaraki Tomura, I understand your frustration.” Kurogiri crouches down at Shigaraki’s side. “But even in your frustration, you have the ability to think strategically. Killing her may be satisfying in this moment, but in the long run, you will need allies. And in the very short term, we need someone who can move undetected in public. Your injuries are too severe to be treated with a simple first aid kit.”

“The doctor said they’re minor.” Shigaraki says, resentful. “We don’t need her.”

“I am charged with your welfare. For the moment, we do.” Kurogiri looks up at you. “I require supplies to treat Shigaraki Tomura’s injuries. You will procure them.”

From where? With what money? You don’t have a chance to ask, because he starts rattling off a list, and it’s all you can do to memorize it. You’re not going to get a choice in the matter, but you need to change some things about your appearance if you’re going to go undetected. You take off your goggles and drop them, then unpin the wig and cap and run your hands through your hair, trying to fluff it up. It’s not until you’ve been warped into an alley next to a drugstore that you realize you’re still wearing your mask.

Oops. You leave it on — without the wig and goggles, it’ll be harder for people to connect the dots, on the off chance your picture’s already been released — and get to work collecting everything on Kurogiri’s list. You like having a job to do. It means you don’t have to think.

But you can’t shut your brain off entirely, and it occurs to you as you’re piling things up in a basket that what you’re buying looks really suspicious. A ton of heavy-duty medical supplies and nothing else? You might as well wear a sign that says ‘I’m a minion shopping for my villain boss’. You need to add some cover items so the person checking you out will think — anything but that. On your way to the cash register you grab a chocolate bar, some sweet and sour candies, and a bottle of premade green tea on a whim. Now your cart says ‘I’m a minion making my villain boss a care package’. You need something weirder. Feeling unbelievably awkward, you detour into the next aisle and drop a box of condoms on top of the pile.

The clerk hits you with some serious side-eye while you’re checking out, paying with the money you lifted off the other villain right before the attack. You can’t tell if he’s suspicious of you or not. Would you be suspicious of you right now, if you were the clerk? No, you’d be weirded out, and that’s it. Now you just need to make it stick.

The clerk scans the condoms last, and takes a really long time doing it. He glances at you one more time, and you make eye contact. Your mouth is hidden under your mask, but you grin anyway. “It’s going to be a really good night.”

The clerk grimaces and chucks the condoms into the bag. You pay cash and leave, feeling weirdly accomplished.

The accomplishment fades when you step into the alleyway. A warp gate is waiting there, and you hesitate for long moments before stepping through it. Ultimately, though, you did your job — and you don’t want Shigaraki coming after you for skipping out once he’s healed. You step through, not into the bar but into a darkened, musty bedroom. Shigaraki is sprawled out on the unmade bed and Kurogiri is beside him, trying to compress the wound in his upper thigh. Neither of them notice you until you clear your throat. You hold up the bag awkwardly. “I got the stuff.”

Kurogiri beckons you forwards, and you obey, wincing every time you kick an empty can or step on a wrapper on the floor. “Unpack that,” Kurogiri orders you. “My hands are clean, and the field must be sterile. Give me the antiseptic wipes first.”

Right. You shift through the bag for the wipes, pry them open, and hand them off before sorting through the bag. You hear Shigaraki curse at Kurogiri, probably because the antiseptic stings, and scoot a little farther away. You don’t want to be within easy reach. “This is likely to be uncomfortable,” Kurogiri tells Shigaraki, who swears at him again. “It may help to distract yourself.”

“With what?” Shigaraki demands. Kurogiri nods at you.

So that’s why Kurogiri brought you back here — as a punching bag, something for Shigaraki to take his rage out on. Shigaraki props himself up on one elbow and glares at you from behind the hand. “Kurogiri didn’t tell you to buy yourself a snack.”

His voice is heavy with disdain. You aren’t some kind of clueless Shigaraki fan. You never headcanoned him as anything but a dick. But he’s being such an asshole, and you haven’t done anything except try to help. You want to cry. “It’s not for me.”

You don’t feel like explaining the cover item thing. It won’t matter to him. It’s quiet for a second, other than Kurogiri fussing with a package of sterile pads. You think you see Shigaraki’s expression shift behind the hand, but whatever it is, it’s gone fast. “A snack, and condoms. What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s a cover item,” you say. “Something for the clerk to focus on that’s not all the medical supplies I was buying. Those by themselves looked suspicious. Those plus a box of condoms is just weird.”

“No shit,” Shigaraki mumbles. He looks pretty weirded out himself. You move the condoms and the snacks to one side and start opening the boxes Kurogiri’s going to need to bandage the wounds. When Shigaraki barks another question at you, you almost jump out of your skin. “Hey. What were you doing on my mission?”

You don’t have a good answer. Thankfully, the bad answer makes you sound like the kind of criminal who belongs in the first iteration of the League of Villains. “Someone said there was a job. I needed money, and with my record I can’t really work a normal job.”

“What’s your record?”

“Forty-seven thefts, nineteen assaults, eighty-nine counts of unauthorized quirk usage with malicious intent,” you say. Shigaraki makes a surprised sound, and some insane part of you decides to flex. “And I broke out of jail six months ago. I don’t know what they charged me with for that.”

“That is an impressive record for someone your age,” Kurogiri remarks.

“I got an early start.” That makes you sound way more hardcore than you actually are. Back in your world you’ve never even gotten a parking ticket. You’ve finished unpacking. You sit back. “Is there anything else I can help with?”

The instant you ask the question, you kick yourself over it. You don’t want to keep helping them. You want to get the hell out of here with what’s left of the money and try desperately to undo the damage you just did to your attempt to figure out why you’re here. So far you’ve only influenced the way one event played out, and you influenced it the wrong way. Shigaraki got shot four times in canon. In this alternate timeline, he only got shot twice. Thanks to you.

“What’s your quirk?” Shigaraki asks you. “I need to know if you’re useful or not.”

“I can make light.” You’re not useful at all. “The flashes only last for three seconds. I can control how intense they are, sort of, but the more intense they get the shorter they are. A flash like the one I used while you were escaping is as big as I can go.”

“You can go bigger. If you train.” Shigaraki sounds way too confident. Maybe it’s because Kurogiri’s finally finished tending to his wounds. “What else can you do?”

“Steal,” you say. Why are you trying to convince him? This is a job interview. You really don’t want this job. “You don’t want me. I’m not minion material.”

Kurogiri snickers. Shigaraki glances at him, then back at you. “Minion is a stupid word,” he says. Really? That’s what he’s picking on? You muffle a snort of your own. “If you don’t want to be part of the League of Villains, why did you follow me through the gate?“

“It was follow you or go to jail,” you say. Your stomach clenches. “I’m not going back to jail.”

It’s quiet again. “Take your mask off.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Take your mask off,” Shigaraki says. You hesitate, and you hesitate too long. Shigaraki sits all the way up in a single unsteady motion, reaches out, and grabs your mask with all five fingers.

It Decays away from your face, and you cough on the dust. Shigaraki studies you for a moment. “You’re not going back to jail,” he says, and your heart seizes in your chest. “You’re part of the League.”

No. You don’t want to be part of the League. That’s not why you’re here. You’re supposed to be with the heroes, helping the heroes — saving Midnight, saving Sir Nighteye, making sure Hawks keeps his wings, making sure Deku keeps One For All. The League of Villains is the last place in the world you should be. “Um —“

“You’re welcome.” Shigaraki slumps back, eyes closed. “Kurogiri, make sure she stays here.”

You look hopelessly at Kurogiri. “I imagine you have belongings stashed somewhere. I will retrieve them,” he says. “Where were you staying previously?”

You’d be happy to throw everything you own to the wind if it would mean getting out of here, but you’re not going to be able to escape right away. And the longer you stick around, the more information you’ll have to offer the heroes when you do get free. You tell Kurogiri the address of the capsule hotel, as well as which capsule is yours, and he disappears, leaving you with nothing to do but begin to clear away the medical supplies. The bandages on Shigaraki’s hand and leg are the cleanest things in the room, and that includes you. You feel gross just being in here. You feel even worse when you think about what you did to get here in the first place. And yet — when you think about the jail, when you think about the crush, that still feels like the worst thing of all.

You lift the stupid box of cover-item condoms off the bed and chuck it into the bag with a vengeance, then go for the snacks. “Leave those,” Shigaraki says without opening his eyes. “How’d you know?”

“Huh?”

“Which ones I like.”

For a second you’re baffled. Then you remember what you said when Shigaraki took you to task over the snacks: It’s not for me. You meant that they were a cover item. Shigaraki thought you got them for him.

The idea of doing something nice for a villain pisses you off. The idea that you’d do something nice for Shigaraki specifically after he maimed Aizawa, tried to murder a bunch of kids, and threatened to kill you for helping him pisses you off even more. But even through your frustration, you’re able to recognize that Shigaraki’s assumption is working in your favor. That means it’s not one you should disprove. “Just a lucky guess.”

It wasn’t a lucky guess. You weren’t thinking about it consciously, but now that you think about it, you remember reading somewhere — probably some villain-stan post that broke containment and contaminated your dashboard — that Shigaraki has a sweet tooth, and likes green tea. That’s not the kind of detail you should remember, when there are so many other important things about BNHA that need to stick in your head. Maybe you should start trying to write them all down somewhere. It wouldn’t hurt to be able to see it on paper.

You leave Shigaraki in his filthy room with the snacks he picked on you for buying and step out in the hall. Kurogiri’s out there, dropping your bag and backpack just inside an open door on the opposite side from Shigaraki. “You’ll stay here,” he instructs. “I have procured basic necessities for now.”

The room is tiny. Bigger than your capsule at the hotel, though, so you’ll call it an upgrade. It looks like Kurogiri extracted the entire contents of your capsule and set it down inside the room, mattress and blanket and pillow and bedside lamp included. It says something about how far your standards have dropped that your first thought is about how the setup could be a lot worse.

You nudge your belongings inside. “The bathroom is down the hall,” Kurogiri continues. “You will be sharing with Shigaraki Tomura. I apologize.”

You decide not to think about that until you have to. You nod, and Kurogiri keeps talking. “Food will be provided. Other necessities are your responsibility.”

“If it’s my responsibility, am I allowed to leave?”

Kurogiri gives you a look. You think. It’s hard to tell if he’s giving you a look or just looking at you. “I would suggest combining errands with the ones you will need to run for Tomura.”

So you’re going to be Shigaraki’s errand girl while he’s recovering from his gunshot wounds. Or forever, because he’s shown himself now, and people — everybody — will be looking for him. It sounds like hell. On the bright side, though, it means you’ll have lots of trips outside. Lots of unsupervised trips outside. Time you could use to warn the heroes, or use to plan your escape.

You can think about that later. “Okay.” As far as you’re concerned, that’s the end of the conversation, but Kurogiri keeps looking at you. “What?”

“Shigaraki Tomura is not at his best today,” Kurogiri says. No kidding. “He is disappointed, and he is injured. The more time you spend around him, the more he will improve.”

“Okay,” you say. You doubt it. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“I do not know what instinct guided you to hide where you did when we arrived,” Kurogiri says, “but it was the correct one. Prove yourself to Shigaraki Tomura, but do not attract the attention of his master.”

A bunch of angsty Tumblr posts and sneakily tagged x reader fics flash through your head. “Why?”

“You do not want to find out.”

He’s right. Of all the things that have happened today that you haven’t wanted — ending up at USJ, assaulting another hero, joining the League — attracting All For One’s notice is the one you don’t want the most. You nod, and turn to step into your room, only to freeze in your tracks when a shout emanates from Shigaraki’s room. “Kurogiri! I lost — one’s missing — if Sensei finds out —”

Kurogiri visibly winces. “Where did you lose it?”

“Where do you think?” Shigaraki’s voice cracks. “The fucking heroes have it. They’ll never give it back, and Sensei will —”

He breaks off in a frustrated sound, and it occurs to you what he’s looking for. You pull your hand down over your sleeve, reach into the inside pocket of your coat, and fish out the hand. Kurogiri’s eyes widen when he sees it. He snatches it from you and disappears back into Shigaraki’s room. You take the opportunity to disappear into yours.

Yours smells like cleaning supplies. It probably used to be a closet. You leave the door open to let it air out and find yourself inadvertently eavesdropping on Shigaraki and Kurogiri. “Why?” Shigaraki is asking.

“Why what?”

His voice drops out of range, then comes back. “— think to grab that. And the snacks —”

“Considering the theft charges, she is likely skilled at cold-reading,” Kurogiri says. You wish. You always thought that would be kind of cool. “If she stayed hidden during the attack, she would have had ample opportunity to observe you. As for the snacks — your room contains more than enough evidence of your preferences for her to make an educated guess.”

“Shut up about my room.” Quiet again. “It’s weird.”

“Still, she did you a service in retrieving this.” You picture Kurogiri indicating the hand. “Would you like me to thank her, or would you prefer to do it yourself?”

“No.”

You don’t care if Shigaraki never thanks you. You’d love it if Shigaraki never talked to you again, forgot you existed, and drank so much BNHA world-equivalent Red Bull that he had a heart attack and died. You nudge your door the rest of the way shut, dig into your backpack, and extract your Shuffle and headphones. Although you never use more than one earbud when you’re listening at the hotel or out in public, you jam both of them into your ears and hit play. Closing time, open all the doors and let you out into the world. Closing time, turn all of the lights on over every boy and every girl —

Weird pick. You’ve wondered more than once if the order of songs is significant, if there’s a reason why each one comes up when it does, but you doubt it. The chorus comes and you squeeze your eyes shut. I know who I want to take me home, I know who I want to take me home —

You don’t, but you’d settle for anybody. And home? You aren’t dumb enough to wish for that any longer, so you’ll take anywhere. Anywhere that isn’t jail is better than here.

You stagger out of the free clinic, feeling like you’ve been stabbed in the gut — no, not the gut. Lower than that. Right through the stupid uterus, and because you did your errands in the wrong order, you now have to drag yourself to the goddamn game store with shooting pains from the goddamn IUD you just had shoved through your goddamn cervix. Like a lot of things you’ve done since getting isekaied, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

You didn’t get it because you’re expecting to actually need birth control — you got it to stop your periods, because you’re now stuck sharing a bathroom with Shigaraki and you don’t want to deal with the questions that will come up if he finds a box of pads or tampons under the sink. Sharing a bathroom with Shigaraki is awful enough as it is. No matter how carefully you time things, you’re somehow always in there when he needs it, and if you happen to be in the shower instead of actually on the toilet, he’ll just come in anyway. Not to use the bathroom. Usually to throw up. He throws up a lot.

When you’re feeling psychologically resilient, you admit the reality of the situation. The rest of the time, you pretend you’re just dealing with a couple of really bad roommates. Kurogiri isn’t the worst, but he’s the one who makes food most of the time, and he’s not a good cook. He’s also the one who gives you most of your orders, which means you’re annoyed at him most of the time on principle. Shigaraki, on the other hand — whenever you’re not running errands, you’re doing your best to stay out of his way. He’s still injured, so it’s easy. You’re dreading what will happen once he’s healed. You’ll be in more danger, sure, but the bigger problem is BNHA’s plot. It’s officially in motion now, and you’re here, much closer to the middle of it than you should be. You were brought here for a reason. What are you supposed to do?

You don’t know. In the meantime, you’re doing what Kurogiri and Shigaraki tell you to do, wedging your own needs and plans into the space that’s left over. Today that means getting your goddamn IUD. And then going to the goddamn game store.

The doctor said the cramps would ease up. They aren’t easing up. The cramps are the only reason you’re convinced it hasn’t just fallen out — your body is locked up so tight with pain that nobody could get the thing out even if they wanted to. You stop every block or so for a break, huffing and puffing like you’re in a Lamaze class, until you reach the game store. Shigaraki sent you to retrieve a specific edition of a specific game, and while you see lots of games with the right title and cover art, you can’t find the one he asked for. Then you remember that it’s supposed to be limited edition. Limited edition. Which means that there aren’t many. Which means you missed grabbing one. Which means that Shigaraki is going to kill you. You feel a surge of panic, but you force it down. Freaking out and doing something stupid is the kind of thing the person whose place you took would do, and you know better. You make your way gingerly towards the front desk. You’ll ask them to check availability at other stores, put it on hold somewhere, and go get it. It’ll be fine.

Then you spot something in the basket of the person ahead of you — a rich kid with a pile of games. And there, right on top, is a copy of the game Shigaraki wants. Limited edition. In fact, the kid has at least four of them.

You grit your teeth. You could ask, but you have a bad feeling about this kid — he looks like a reseller, somebody who buys out entire stocks of things to sell online with the price jacked up. Your best chance is to get one of the games away from him without him noticing, but how are you going to do that? The old flash-some-light, hey-look-at-that trick could work, but it works best without an audience, and there are other people in the store. Your disguise today is pretty solid — it had to hold up through an IUD placement — but it’s not your hot-girl disguise. Not that you have a hot-girl disguise. You’d have to be hot to make that work, and you aren’t. What are you going to do?

“Hey,” someone barks from behind you, and you almost jump out of your skin. Another kid, this one younger, brushes past you, aiming for the first kid. “Hey, asshole. Buy the whole store, why don’t you?”

“What’s it to you? I got here first.”

“Man, what is your problem? I want one. Hand it over.”

The rich kid sneers. “Or what?”

The other kid bulks out, suddenly. He’s activated his quirk. “Or I’m taking one. Your choice.”

The rich kid must not have a quirk that would let him compete. He starts blustering, swinging the basket behind him to keep it away, and you seize your chance. You step sideways to avoid the confrontation, pinch a copy of the game out of the basket, and book it up to the counter. “Hi. Just this today.”

You start feeling guilty on the way back to the hideout, but you talk yourself out of more easily than you used to. You didn’t actually steal it — the kid hadn’t bought it yet — and even if you had, he had three more of them, and you have a boss who was probably going to kill you if you came back without the game. You didn’t do anything wrong. So far, today’s biggest mistake is the IUD, and you can fix that by getting back to the hideout and laying down. Otherwise you nailed it.

You nailed it, and you deserve a reward. You duck into a convenience store to grab a snack — and before you check out, you remember to grab something for Shigaraki, too. If he associates you with video games and snacks, maybe he’ll be less likely to murder you if you screw up in the future.

It sounds reasonable, but as you sneak back into the hideout, it occurs to you that it isn’t. You’re trying to classically condition Shigaraki. He’s not a dog. He’s a person who can theoretically be reasoned with — at least he can later on in the storyline. At this point you’re probably safer with the conditioning.

He never leaves his room. You knock on the door. Shigaraki’s voice rattles out. “Go away, Kurogiri.”

“It’s not Kurogiri,” you say. There’s a thud from inside the room. “It’s, um –”

The door opens suddenly. “Did you get it?” Shigaraki demands.

“Do you think I’d have come back if I hadn’t?” You already separated your snacks and dumped his into the bag with the game. “Here.”

Shigaraki grimaces as he takes the bag from you. His right hand is still bandaged. Kurogiri changes it every day, and you make sure you’re somewhere else while it happens. “Was it hard to get? You were gone a long time.”

“It wasn’t hard. I lifted it off a reseller while we were still in line.”

“And then you bought it?” Shigaraki gives you a weird look. “Why?”

“The security tags,” you say. A cramp hits and you clench your jaw. “It was faster.”

“That must have been some line. You were gone all day.”

He got the game anyway. Why does it matter? Another cramp hits, worse this time, and you stagger. Shigaraki’s gaze sharpens. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” you say. “Don’t worry about it.”

The cramp’s not letting up. You press your hand against your lower abdomen, trying to relieve it, with absolutely no improvement. “Don’t lie,” Shigaraki says. “You look like you’re hurt. Are you hurt?”

“I’m not — hurt.” You can’t figure out why Shigaraki won’t drop it. He got his game and you brought him snacks. This interaction should have ended a minute ago. “It’s girl stuff. It doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean, girl stuff?” Shigaraki says, irritated. You straighten up, turn, and start shuffling back across the hall to your room. “Hey. Did I say you could go?”

“Is there anything else you need from me?”

“I want you to answer my question.”

So, no. “There are snacks in the bag. Have fun.”

You shut the door while Shigaraki’s still talking. It’s a high-risk maneuver to be sure, but you know his leg hurts, and the likelihood that he’ll actually leave his room to come bother you is low. He’s not irritated enough. And in spite of the various Tumblr posts you’ve seen about how the League would be soooooo nice about periods, you know he doesn’t care.

You’re right about the latter but wrong about the former. The door opens before you’ve even sat down. “You’re in my party. If you have a status effect, I need to know about it,” Shigaraki says. He’s glaring at you. “What’s wrong with you?”

You need to get rid of him. You decide all at once that it doesn’t matter how you do it. “Before I went to get your game, I got an IUD, because it’ll be easier on everybody if I don’t get my periods anymore. The IUD isn’t the most comfortable thing on the planet. Okay?”

Shigaraki’s expression went from irritable to blank a second or two into your explanation, and it hasn’t bounced back. “What?”

“Ask Kurogiri,” you say, losing patience. Shigaraki shuts the door.

It doesn’t occur to you until after you’ve laid down that Kurogiri, whose personality was at least partially constructed out of a teenage boy, probably won’t know anything more about IUDs and periods than Shigaraki does. And that’s fine. If neither of them knows, then they’ll leave you alone about it.

You’re trying to sleep it off, and part of the way there, when the door to your room opens again. “I looked it up,” Shigaraki says. You can’t muster a response. “You went and got birth control? You think you’re getting laid?”

“What?”

“Is that why it takes so long when you go out? Because you’re –”

“No,” you snap. “I didn’t get it to get laid. I got it so I wouldn’t have periods anymore.”

“I looked those up, too,” Shigaraki says. You cringe. “Why would it be easier for everybody if you didn’t have it?

“Because I didn’t want to have to put pads in the bathroom and have you ask me about them.”

Talk about influencing the story in a bad way — Shigaraki didn’t know about periods in canon, and now he knows, courtesy of you. He’s giving you a weird look. “Why would I care about that?”

“Because it’s girl stuff.”

“I care about if you can do your job,” Shigaraki says. Weirdly enough, you think you might believe him. “How long is this supposed to last?”

He’s gesturing at you. “The doctor said I’d be okay by tomorrow.”

“Good,” Shigaraki says. “I have a job for you the day after that. So don’t do anything else today.”

You weren’t going to, but you don’t need to tell him that, do you? “Okay.”

Shigaraki leaves without shutting the door, and you let your head fall back to the pillow, deciding to deal with it when you’ve had a second to rest. When you wake up again, the door’s shut. Kurogiri must have come by and shut it for you, right around when he came by to bring Shigaraki’s evening meal. And he brought yours, too. It’s sitting next to you on a tray.

That’s — nice. You pull the tray towards you, sit up, and start eating. Kurogiri’s not a great cook, but it’s not the food that’s leaving a weird taste in your mouth. You didn’t do all that much thinking about the villains when you were reading BNHA, but you remember a couple posts where villain fans were arguing with hero fans about whether Shigaraki was a bad boss, a creep, and a misogynistic incel who hates women. Unfortunately you’ve found yourself in a position to answer that question, and while the fact that you’re consistently worried about pissing off Shigaraki to the point that he kills you doesn’t speak well for his personnel management skills, he’s not a creep. When he barges into the bathroom while you’re showering, it’s to throw up, not to stare at you. And based on his response to the whole IUD thing, he doesn’t have a problem with women.

That doesn’t change anything. He’s still a villain, and as soon as your uterus gets used to the piece of plastic you jammed into it, you need to get back to finding a way to take him down. He’s got a job for you in a day or two. Maybe you can use that to find a way out.

<- Chapter 3

taglist: @lacrimae-lotos @baking-ghoul @cheeseonatower @clemsoup @absurdlogik @shigarakislaughter @chimaerakirin @lvtuss @commercialbreakings @deadhands69 @f3r4lfr0gg3r @shiggy-my-babygirl @hayesemmanuel @minniessskii @dance-with-me-in-hell @issaortiz @aikakuro33 @valentineshearts @stardustdreamersisi @xeveryxstarfallx @fiiveweeniies @boogiemansbitch @evilcookie5 @koohiii @sobaism @shikiblessed @warxhammer @sota-soka @agente707 @handumb @babybehh @atspiss @aslutforfictionalmen @frog-fans-unite @doumadono

[howi99]

The Knight and the princess(es)? Part 2

-> Walk towards the cabin

Jaune: *sigh* Well, it's not as if i'll make up my mind about whether or not this "Princess" you are talking about is dangerous or not without actually meeting her, right?

The Narrator: She is.

Voice of a Rusted Knight: Let him make his own decisions. I can already tell you that forcing him towards a path he doesn't want usually leads to unforeseen consequences.

Jaune: *frown* Wait, what's that supposed to mean?

Voice of a Rusted Knight: Your, or i guess our parents tried steering us towards anything but becoming huntsmen. And what did we choose? To become a huntsman. Which leads us to here... Wherever here is

Jaune: Oh, right.

_ _ _

The Narrator: You make your way up the short path to the cabin. You'll find the Princess within.

Jaune: *rolling his eyes* Will you describe my every move all the time? I don't need to be told what i'm doing right now, you know?

The Narrator: *deadpan* If you haven't noticed already, i am the narrator of this story. It is my raisons d'être, after all. *Clear his non existent throat* In any case, i need to warn you before you go any further.

Voice of a Rusted Knight: Let me guess; the Princess will try to lie, steal, cheat and survive?

The Narrator: That's... Exactly what i was going to say, yes. H-how did you-

Voice of a Rusted Knight: You really think someone would let themselves be killed that easily? Our little knight wannabe is no stranger to such tactics himself.

Jaune: *mumbling* I only did this to follow my dreams...

Voice of a Rusted Knight: For now.

Jaune: Hm?

Voice of a Rusted Knight: Nothing.

_ Enter the Cabin _

The Narrator: The interior of the cabin is almost entirely bare. The air is stale and musty and the floor and walls are painted in a fine layer of dust. The only furniture of note is a plain wooden table. Perched on that table is a... Weird, there's supposed to be a dagger on the table.

Jaune: Does it matter? *Point Crosea Mors at his hips* I already have a sword AND shield.

The Narrator: Huh, i hadn't noticed you were armed. That's... Good! Great even! A sword is far better than a simple dagger after all.

Jaune: I'm not planning on using them, you know? I'm not a murderer.

The Narrator: *exasperated sigh* Princess. World. Destroy. How hard is it to understand?

Voice of a Rusted Knight: Even if you don't want to hurt anyone, caution is the mother of safety. You should keep your sword at the ready, just in case.

[callsigns-haze]

A cousin mess

Pairing: Bodhi Durran x Sorrengail!Reader

Summary: Being Violet Sorrengail’s cousin was already hard enough—being caught sneaking out of your section leader Bodhi Durran’s bed at dawn by Xaden Riorson, fresh from Violet’s room, was a special kind of hell. What follows is a tangled mess of whispered arguments, loyalty wars, and night-time rendezvous no war college rulebook could prepare you for.

Warning: Explicit content, mentions of smut, mutual pettiness, and way too many cousins making bad decisions.

Being a Sorrengail had always come with weight.

You carried it like a second skin, worn and stretched tight across your bones since the moment you could walk. Expectations were stitched into your name, assumptions following like a shadow you could never shake. Mira blazed a path of honour and command. Lilith forged hers in steel and blood. Violet? Violet shattered every mould she touched.

And you? You were the cousin. The one tucked just far enough away from centre stage to be forgotten—until now.

Basgiath didn’t care who you were related to. It chewed on legacies and spat out corpses, and you were doing your best not to become one of them. Being in the same year as Violet made it… complicated. Mira had pulled you aside before Conscription Day, her hand gripping your shoulder with that unshakable Commander focus in her eyes.

“Protect her,” she’d said, voice low, urgent. “She doesn’t know how to survive in a place like this. Not like we do.”

Except Violet—blessedly stubborn, recklessly brilliant Violet—seemed to have no interest in being protected. She disobeyed the basic laws of physics with her ability to get herself nearly killed. Climbing trees to outrun other cadets, defying direct orders from Xaden Riorson, jumping headfirst into challenges with nothing but sarcasm and sheer nerve.

And now? Now she was bonded to Tairn—a dragon older than most mountain ranges and mated to Sgaeyl, the most terrifying creature in the sky.

Which meant your cousin was irrevocably linked to Xaden Riorson.

And you were stuck watching their growing bond unfold in terrifying proximity. Mira’s warning haunted you—“Keep her away from him”—but how the hell were you supposed to do that when their dragons were soul-bound lovers and Tairn would probably set the entire quadrant on fire if they didn’t breathe the same air?

So while Violet and Xaden bristled and burned their way toward whatever inevitable storm they were summoning, you were left fighting off Dust-born threats, surviving gruelling assessments, and covering for your cousin’s increasingly dangerous choices.

And somewhere in the middle of all that chaos… you fell for Bodhi Durran.

Gods, you told yourself it was just a crush. Something fleeting. A temporary infatuation born of stress and sweat and the way his hair curled at the ends when it got too long. But that was weeks ago.

Now?

Now you were tangled in his sheets, your skin bare beneath his as sunlight threatened the horizon but didn’t dare break through yet. The dorm was quiet. Everyone else had long since collapsed into sleep or vanished into early morning training. But Bodhi?

He had other plans.

“You’re not getting out of this quiz,” he murmured, lips brushing the slope of your neck, sending a shiver cascading down your spine. “You’ve got an exam in three hours, and you said you wanted to pass without cheating.”

His fingers lazily traced the curve of your thigh where it hooked over his hip, holding you close. Your body still buzzed from everything that had happened minutes ago, a warm ache spreading deep in your bones in the most satisfying way.

“Boh,” you sighed, drawing out the nickname only you called him. Your voice was thick with sleep and the remnants of pleasure, and he hummed at the sound of it against his skin. “You’re literally inside me and trying to quiz me on military history.”

“You’re smart. You can multitask,” he said, smirking, dipping his head again to place another maddeningly slow kiss beneath your jaw, your collarbone, lower. “Name the last battle Commander Melgren led before the Third Rebellion.”

“Gods,” you breathed, arching into him. “Are you seriously doing this right now?”

“You said you wanted to learn. I’m a very thorough teacher.”

You swatted lightly at his shoulder, and he laughed softly against your skin, nuzzling at your neck before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze was sleepy and warm and dangerous all at once—because Bodhi Durran had always been dangerous. Not in the same way Xaden was, all shadows and smoke and silent rage. No, Boh was sharp in a different way. Subtle. Patient. He cracked you open one kiss at a time.

You hated that you liked him. Loved that you did.

And in moments like this, when the world wasn’t watching and Violet wasn’t nearly dying and you weren’t buried under the weight of Sorrengail blood… you could breathe.

“You’re thinking again,” he said quietly, fingers brushing your temple. “Don’t. Not yet.”

“I have to,” you whispered. “Eventually.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, and the teasing was gone now, melted away into something real. Something that made your chest ache.

“You’re not your cousin,” he said softly. “You’re you. You don’t have to carry everyone.”

You blinked, and your heart stuttered painfully. “Yeah? And what if carrying her is the only reason I’m still breathing?”

Boh didn’t answer right away. He just kissed you—slow and deep and grounding.

And for a little while longer, you let yourself exist only in the warmth of his arms, your tangled sheets, and the promise of a tomorrow you might actually live to see.

You sigh against his lips and pull back—just slightly—pressing a hand to his chest. He’s warm under your palm, steady and solid like the only thing in this godsdamned place that doesn’t shift beneath your feet.

But your voice is soft when you speak. “I should go.”

Bodhi frowns, his dark brow creasing, but doesn’t move. “No.”

“Boh—”

“It’s not even light out yet,” he says, voice still husky from sleep and sin. His fingers flex on your hip like he could keep you here with just that touch, and honestly, it’s unfair how effective it is. “Stay a little longer.”

You shake your head, though it kills you. “If I leave when everyone else is waking up and sees me sneaking out of your room, it’ll be all over the quadrant by breakfast.”

He groans and rolls onto his back beside you, flopping dramatically into the pillow like you’ve mortally wounded him. “Let them talk. You think I care what they say?”

“I care,” you admit, pulling the blanket up over your chest as you sit up slightly, heart hammering as you glance at the door like it might swing open at any second and reveal a very judgmental Sorrengail sister. “I’ve got enough eyes on me already. Violet, Mira, Xaden—”

That gets his attention. His head snaps toward you. “What the hell does Xaden have to do with anything?”

You glance down at the sheets, twisting the corner of the blanket between your fingers. “He doesn’t, not really. But he’s always around Violet. And I’m always around her. And he’s your cousin. So, you know, it’s… messy.”

Bodhi pushes himself up on one elbow, dark curls a mess against his forehead, bare chest glowing gold in the faint predawn light sneaking in through the window. His voice is gentler this time, but still firm.

“Messy doesn’t mean wrong.”

You look at him, eyes narrowed. “We’re cadets sneaking around in the middle of a quite traumatic year. You’re my section leader. I’m a Sorrengail. You’re a Durran. And this—” You gesture vaguely between your bodies. “—is very, very naked.”

He smirks like the smug bastard he is. “Best part of my day, honestly.”

You groan and shove his shoulder, but he catches your wrist before you can pull away, lacing your fingers together.

His voice drops lower, almost serious. “I don’t want you to leave. Not yet.”

The honesty in his tone slices through you with all the gentleness of a blade. And for a second, just a breath, you hesitate. It would be so easy to stay. To curl back into his warmth and let the outside world fall away.

But you know better. Basgiath doesn’t allow easy.

So you press your forehead to his and whisper, “You’ll see me tonight?”

His smile softens. “Every night you’ll have me.”

Gods, you are so screwed.

You pull away—slowly, deliberately—feeling every place your body protests the loss of his heat. You collect your clothes silently, his gaze never once leaving your figure as you shimmy into your leggings, his oversized shirt still clinging to your shoulders like it belongs there.

He stays in bed, one arm thrown over the pillow where your head just was. His expression is unreadable, a strange mix of longing and something darker beneath it, something he’s not ready to say out loud.

You pad barefoot to the door, pausing with your hand on the handle.

“I’ll get points docked if you fall asleep in class,” you say over your shoulder, trying to keep the mood light.

“I’ll survive.” He leans back and grins. “But your punishment will be making it up to me later.”

You roll your eyes but smile—genuine and maybe a little too wide—and slip out before you lose your nerve.

The hallway is dim, the stone cool beneath your bare feet as you tiptoe your way toward your own room, Bodhi’s oversized shirt hanging past your thighs and still warm from his body. You’re three doors down—so close to freedom—when another door creaks open ahead of you.

You freeze.

It’s Violet’s door.

And stepping out—hoodless, shirt askew, hair unmistakably mussed—is Xaden godsdamned Riorson.

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s too busy pulling his jacket straight, running a hand through his dark hair, looking every bit as guilty as you feel.

But then he looks up.

You both stop.

Eyes widen.

And in perfect synchronicity, you both whisper shout at the exact same time:

“What the hell were you doing in my cousin’s room?!”

“What the hell are you doing in my cousin’s shirt?!”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He gestures wildly, pointing at the garment hanging off your frame. “That’s Bodhi’s! That’s his shirt!”

“And you were just in Violet’s room,” you hiss, stalking toward him with a level of righteous rage that has you vibrating. “You swore to Mira—you know what? No. I swore to Mira that I’d keep Violet safe from you!”

He scoffs. “Safe from me? I’m the only reason she’s still breathing.”

You jab your finger into his chest, teeth clenched. “That’s my cousin in there!”

He leans in, dark eyes blazing. “That’s my cousin down the hall!”

You both pause, breathing hard in the near-darkness, your whispered shouting echoing off the stone walls.

His voice drops, tight and clipped. “You’re a first year. I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

You blink at him, slow and deadly. “Try pulling rank on me again, Riorson. I dare you.”

He opens his mouth like he might try it anyway, but the stare you level at him—pure Sorrengail steel sharpened by years of being underestimated—makes him think better of it. He shuts his mouth with a snap and takes a half-step back.

There’s a long beat where you both just glare at each other. Silent. Fuming.

You mutter, “I’m gonna vomit.”

He crosses his arms. “Yeah, right after me.”

You spin on your heel, storming toward Violet’s door. “I swear to the wards, if you broke her heart I’ll find a way to make Sgaeyl regret ever mating.”

“Right back at you, sweetheart,” he calls after you, already stalking toward Bodhi’s door. “If you mess with Bodhi, I’ll tell Mira you slept with your section leader.”

You whirl around, whisper-yelling, “YOU WON’T—”

Both of you freeze again—guilty, caught, panting with rage—and then scramble in opposite directions.

You rush the last few steps to Violet’s door, knuckles already rapping in rapid succession, whispering furiously, “Violet, open up! I need to scream into your pillow or jump out your window or maybe shove you out of it, whichever happens first—”

Behind you, you hear Xaden’s fist slam against Bodhi’s door. “Bodhi, open the door before I throw you out the godsdamn window—”

Two doors creak open at once.

Two cousins blink sleepily in the thresholds.

Two pairs of voices say, in perfect, groggy harmony:

“What the hell is going on?

[anythinggoesbutme]

The Final Frame

Xander Hawthorne x Max Hawthorne (née Liu)

Warnings: Mild sexual content, playful teasing, light language, wedding day fun, themes of nervousness and intimacy.

Synopsis: At Max and Xander’s wedding, a long-standing family tradition takes an unexpectedly daring turn, leading to hilarious reactions, heartfelt moments, and a celebration of love that’s anything but ordinary.

Song: “You Make My Dreams (Come True)” — Daryl Hall & John Oates

Word Count: 3,010

Tag List: @anintellectualintellectual @aria-filomena @angelnextdooor @runningoutofink8 @saythewordheiress @lyrrrr @laurencelovesbooks @sp3ncerre1dsw1fe

Series Masterlist: Click Here

Eighteen months had passed since Lyra and Grayson’s wedding, and somehow, it was finally Xander and Max’s turn to tie the knot.

The girls were gathered around a big table in Max’s suite, half-buried in place cards, stray flowers, and tangled ribbon. Avery, who was now five months pregnant, sat cross-legged on the floor, reworking the seating chart for what felt like the twentieth time, grumbling about last-minute changes. Lyra, four months along, was fussing with small centerpiece decorations, rolling her eyes every few minutes. Libby focused on tying tiny bows onto napkin rings, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Max sprawled across a chair with her legs dangling over the side, lazily spinning a pen between her fingers and watching them all like a cat plotting something dangerous.

Then she sat up suddenly, her eyes sparking.

“So,” she began, almost too casually, “about the Polaroid tradition…”

All three heads snapped up instantly.

Avery’s mouth dropped open. “Absolutely not,” she said sharply, pointing her pen at Max. “Max. No. He’s too innocent. He cried last week because a baby duck got lost in the park.”

Lyra let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “He literally calls squirrels his little buddies. He still thinks Santa Claus is real and writes him letters every year.”

Libby covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. “He said he hopes the Easter Bunny ‘is getting enough rest in the off-season,’ Max. You can’t do this to him.”

Max only smiled wider, her whole face lighting up like she’d just discovered the world’s greatest prank.

“Oh, come on,” she said, voice low and teasing. “I’ll keep it… mostly PG-13. I promise. Just a little harmless fun.”

Avery dropped her head into her hands with a groan. “You’re going to kill him before he even makes it to the vows.”

Lyra muttered under her breath, picking at a rose petal. “He’s going to pass out right there at the altar.”

Libby started giggling, giving in. “At least have someone ready to catch him when he falls.”

Max just threw her head back and laughed, absolutely delighted with herself.

“He’ll survive,” she declared, eyes gleaming. “Probably.”

Max didn’t wait for anyone’s approval. The moment the room went quiet, she calmly stood, pulled a small bag from under the table, and stepped into the bathroom.

When she came back out, she wore simple black lingerie — elegant, minimal, more teasing than explicit. A long Jedi cloak hung from her shoulders, and she carried a lightsaber in one hand, the plastic glowing faintly.

She didn’t say a word. Just met their stunned stares with a smirk.

Avery raised her hands helplessly, resigned. Lyra muttered, “Of course,” under her breath. Libby let out a low whistle, shaking her head.

Max set up the camera on the dresser, checked the angle, and moved into place.

Photo one simple.

Max stood facing forward, cloak draped over her shoulders, only the outline of her lingerie visible beneath. She held the lightsaber casually at her side, her expression calm but amused — like she was sharing a private joke with the camera.

Photo two was more relaxed.

She sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed at the ankle, cloak open just enough to show the delicate lace detail. She leaned slightly forward, chin in her hand, eyes soft but direct.

Photo three was unexpected.

She turned her back to the camera, glancing over her shoulder, cloak slipping off one side to reveal a single strap of her bra. The lightsaber rested across her lower back, almost like an afterthought.

Photo four felt intimate.

Max sat on her knees on the bed, cloak pooled around her hips, one arm resting lightly across her chest, the other hand gripping the lightsaber handle beside her. Her expression was unguarded — warm, mischievous, almost affectionate.

Photo five said everything.

She stood again, cloak mostly closed now. In her free hand, she held a small note in bold black ink: “I love you, dork.”

Her smile was real this time — wide, bright, all teeth and laughter, the kind that only Xander ever really saw.

The ceremony was held outdoors, under a bright, cloudless sky that looked almost too perfect to be real. Rows of chairs curved around a simple wooden arch draped in wildflowers and small strings of lights that twinkled like stars.

Guests filtered in wearing everything from classic suits to subtle touches of cosplay — a lightsaber pin here, a tiny Captain America shield there. It was exactly the kind of offbeat, joyful chaos Max and Xander would have wanted.

Avery and Lyra, both noticeably pregnant now, floated around greeting guests and smoothing last-minute details. Libby was on photo duty, snapping candids and trying to corral the occasional rogue groomsman.

Max waited behind the archway, veil in place, hands fidgeting at her sides. Every now and then she muttered to herself, eyes flicking up toward the guests. She looked excited, perfectly herself — the kind of barely-contained energy that had always defined her.

When she finally stepped out, the music started — and it was actually a gentle acoustic version of one of Xander’s favorite songs. He watched her approach like she was the only thing in the world, wide-eyed, lips parted, barely breathing.

Max’s smile softened when she saw him. For all her mischief and noise, there was something quietly fierce in the way she looked at him now — like she was seeing him and only him.

They reached each other, hands clasping immediately, thumbs brushing over knuckles.

The officiant guided them through the vows first — surprisingly sweet, heartfelt words that left both of them blinking back tears. Max’s voice shook only once, when she promised to “never stop dancing like an idiot in the kitchen,” and Xander let out a shaky laugh that made half the guests sniffle.

Then came the rings. The officiant turned to Max.

“Max, do you take Xander to be—”

Max cut in sharply, her voice loud enough for the entire crowd to hear.

“I do not—”

Xander’s eyes went huge. He looked like he might actually faint.

A hush fell over the guests.

Max paused, relishing the beat of stunned silence, before she finished with a wicked grin:

“—without a song first.”

A few people gasped — then the speakers exploded to life with the opening beat of “Thrift Shop.”

For a moment, there was nothing but chaos: shocked laughter, cheering, a chorus of delighted shrieks, as Max threw fake money up in the air. Xander staggered back a step, both hands flying to his hair, eyes wide with relief and manic joy.

“THAT’S MY SOON-TO-BE WIFE!” he yelled, nearly doubling over laughing.

Libby threw her hands in the air, Avery wheezed into her hands, and Lyra looked like she might collapse from laughter. Even Grayson had his head tilted back, actually laughing out loud. Nash roared, clapping Xander on the back.

Max started dancing right there, loose and fearless, the veil bouncing behind her. Xander didn’t hesitate — he joined her immediately, arms waving, moving with the same chaotic energy they always shared.

When the song faded, they were both out of breath and grinning like lunatics.

The officiant cleared his throat, looking like he was trying desperately not to laugh.

“…So, should we continue?” he managed.

Max finally slipped the ring onto Xander’s finger, hands still trembling with laughter.

“I do,” she said then, quiet but sure, her smile almost gentle.

Xander’s eyes went glassy as he slipped the ring onto her finger.

“I do,” he echoed, his voice rough and overflowing with relief and love.

When they kissed, the cheering was so loud the wildflowers on the arch shook.

And for a few perfect seconds, there was only them — two best friends who had just fallen in love.

First Delivery

The reception buzzed with music and laughter, but Xander’s world shrank to the single envelope Avery slipped into his hand while no one was looking.

He sat down on a nearby bench, fingers trembling as he peeled the envelope open.

The Polaroid fell into his lap. Max stood tall, the black Jedi cloak cascading down her back, barely concealing the elegant black lingerie she wore beneath it. The soft glow of the lightsaber she held added an almost ethereal quality, but all Xander saw was the exposed skin — curves and lace, a side of Max he’d never imagined.

His mouth fell open, eyes wide like he’d just seen a ghost.

A flush swept his face, warmth pooling in his ears.

He felt like the entire room had suddenly shrunk to nothing but this photo, burning itself into his mind with impossible clarity.

Instinctively, his eyes darted toward the group of men standing nearby — Jameson, Grayson, and Nash, his older brothers, already casually chatting.

“Is… is this normal?” Xander’s voice cracked as he raised the photo slightly, practically shouting across the room. “Is this… what you all got at your weddings?”

Jameson smirked, shaking his head slowly.

“Welcome to the club, little brother,” he said, voice low but heavy with meaning.

Grayson laughed, clapping Xander on the back with brotherly amusement.

“Yup, this is just how it goes,” he said.

Nash winked.

“Better get used to it.”

Xander staggered back, clutching the photo like it was a ticking bomb, his heart pounding as the image replayed in his mind — Max, like he’d never seen her before, bold, fearless.

Second Delivery

A few minutes later, before Xander could recover, Libby appeared, holding the next envelope as if it were a secret scroll.

“Xander,” she called gently. He looked at her like a deer caught in headlights, hands still trembling from the first photo.

“Please,” he whispered, voice already broken.

Libby just smiled, pressed the envelope into his hands, and retreated.

He peeled it open, hesitant, peeking as if he was checking for a jump scare.

Max sat on the edge of a bed in this one, cloak sliding halfway down her arm. Her legs were crossed elegantly, lightsaber resting across her lap. Her expression was somewhere between playful and intimate, a small smirk playing on her lips.

Xander audibly whimpered.

“Oh, stars—” He slapped a hand over his eyes, then peeked again, unable to stop himself.

He turned, looking for his brothers again, but they had abandoned him temporarily, leaving him to his private meltdown.

“Why would she— How did she— When did she—” he sputtered to no one, the words piling up in his throat.

Third Delivery

By the time Lyra approached, Xander had hidden himself in a corner, still clutching the first two photos like they were cursed artifacts.

Lyra walked right up, eyes gleaming with mischief, and held out the third envelope.

“No,” he whispered instantly, backing up a step. “Lyra, no. You don’t understand—”

She ignored him, slipped the envelope into his pocket, and patted his shoulder firmly. “Good luck, Jedi.”

He slid it out, cracking it open like he was defusing a bomb.

This time, Max knelt on the bed, cloak pooling around her hips. One arm was draped across her chest, but it felt even more intimate than before. Her gaze was soft but fiery, the lightsaber resting by her side as if she’d just won a fight — or invited him to join her after.

Xander’s eyes went so wide they looked cartoonish.

He staggered to a nearby chair and collapsed into it, breathing hard, hair sticking up at odd angles from him raking his hands through it.

“I’m gonna die,” he wheezed, pressing the photo to his chest. “She’s going to actually kill me.”

Fourth Delivery

Avery snuck up with the fourth photo just as Xander was trying to recover, fanning himself with a napkin.

She placed the envelope in front of him, gave him a single look, and bolted — smart woman.

Xander groaned, cracking it open.

Max stood with the cloak wide open now, revealing her full lingerie set in sharp, elegant detail. The lightsaber was balanced over her shoulders, head tilted back in bold, fearless joy.

Xander looked like he was going to faint on the spot.

But before he could even process it, Max’s mother — standing a few steps away — caught a glimpse.

She gasped so loudly the entire group turned. Her face twisted with shock and horror, hand flying to her mouth.

“MAXINE LIU!” she screeched, voice slicing across the reception.

Max, sipping a drink across the lawn, turned slowly and raised her glass like she was saluting a queen.

Her mother stormed forward, sputtering. “This — this is a wedding, not your… your… movie set! This is shameful! Disgusting! How could you embarrass your ancestors like this?!”

Max just blew her a kiss. “Hi, Mom!”

Xander half-stood from his chair, eyes darting between Max and her mother, whispering frantically, “Oh no, oh no, oh no—”

Fifth and Final Delivery

Finally, Lyra approached again, expression almost gentle this time.

Xander shook his head frantically, hands up. “Please, no. I can’t take another one. I literally can’t—”

Lyra pressed it into his hands anyway and backed away quickly.

He cracked it open with trembling fingers.

Max sat cross-legged, cloak open but graceful, the lightsaber laid carefully across her lap. On her thigh, in bold lipstick, the words: “I love you, dork.”

Xander’s breath left him in one sharp exhale.

He set the photo down gently, hands shaking, a stunned, almost reverent smile blooming on his face.

He looked up, scanning the crowd, and finally found her. Max stood near the edge of the dance floor, laughing with her friends, radiant and completely herself.

His eyes softened, and he whispered under his breath, almost like a prayer: “I really, really love her.”

The night finally began to wind down, the lanterns glowing softly overhead, the last notes of music echoing across the lawn. Guests clustered around the edge of the dance floor, tossing handfuls of flower petals into the air, ready to send Max and Xander off.

Max stood by the archway, veil draped over her shoulder like a cape, watching Xander carefully.

He was trying to keep up the wide-eyed, goofy smile he always wore for her — but he looked wrecked. His hair was sticking up wildly from all his nervous fidgeting, his cheeks still flushed from the endless photo deliveries, and his eyes were slightly glazed, like he hadn’t fully returned from orbit yet.

Max’s smile faltered for the first time all night.

She stepped toward him, catching his wrist lightly. “Hey,” she said softly, so only he could hear.

He turned to her immediately, shoulders relaxing just at her voice. His eyes searched her face — and for a moment, all that panic flickered into something else.

Max lifted a hand to his cheek, brushing her thumb across his jaw. “I went too far, didn’t I?” she murmured, the mischief finally gone.

Xander blinked, his throat working. “I… I love you,” he said, the words tumbling out almost helplessly. “But you… you really— you surprised me.”

She let out a small laugh, breathless, then leaned in to press her forehead to his. “I forget sometimes you’re not as used to all this chaos as I am,” she admitted, her voice soft and sincere. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to… survive your own wedding.”

His lips quirked into a wobbly, crooked smile. “I mean… I did almost pass out. Multiple times.”

Max huffed a gentle laugh, eyes bright with warmth. “I’ll make it up to you. No more surprises tonight. Just you and me. Okay?”

Xander exhaled shakily, like her words alone finally let him breathe again. He nodded, leaning forward to steal a quick kiss.

The crowd began to cheer and whistle, a few people chanting their names.

Max turned to face them, slipping her hand into his. “Ready to disappear, Jedi?” she teased gently, her mischief returning just enough to make him smile.

He squeezed her hand tight. “As long as it’s with you.”

They ran forward together, through the tunnel of petals and cheers, laughter echoing behind them. Xander kept glancing at her, as though to make sure she was still really there, that it was finally just them now.

When they reached the getaway car, Max stopped him, tugging him close by the lapels of his jacket.

“For the record,” she whispered against his lips, “you looked pretty damn hot clutching those photos like your life depended on it.”

He let out a strangled laugh, then kissed her — a little desperate, a little relieved, and all-in.

And when they pulled away from the venue, petals still stuck in Max’s hair, Xander couldn’t stop smiling.

Because at the end of the day, no matter how wild the day had been, it was always going to be them: his chaos and his calm, his surprise and his safe place, all in one.

They all stood together at the edge of the drive, petals still in their hair and champagne glasses half-drained, watching Max and Xander’s car disappear down the winding road.

Grayson slipped an arm around Lyra’s waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. Nash bounced on his heels, already looking like he was planning the afterparty. Avery leaned into Jameson, her hand resting lightly on his chest, while Libby clutched her camera, snapping one last photo of the taillights disappearing into the dark.

There was a moment of sweet silence, a collective sigh at another Hawthorne wedding finally wrapped.

Then Jameson tilted his head, a devilish gleam lighting up his eyes. “Do we think Xander even knows what’s supposed to happen on a wedding night?”

Avery’s jaw dropped. She smacked his arm so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “Jameson!”

He just laughed, rubbing the spot, totally unfazed. “What? I’m just saying — if he could barely handle the lingerie photos, how is he supposed to—”

Avery slapped her hand over his mouth before he could finish, her face bright red, but she was half laughing too.

Nash doubled over, wheezing. Grayson shook his head, trying and failing to hide a smirk. Lyra snorted so loudly Libby almost dropped her camera.

Jameson finally peeled Avery’s hand off, smirk still firmly in place. “I’m just concerned for his well-being, Heiress. That boy might actually combust tonight.”

Avery rolled her eyes but pressed her face into his chest, giggling despite herself.

Grayson raised his glass, voice wry. “To Xander — may he survive the night.”

Nash whooped, Lyra let out a sharp whistle, and Libby finally managed to snap a final candid of them all, laughing together under the fairy lights.

[soggyfroggiee]

REUNITED AU

Okay a few other rants about my AU since you guys LIKE IT SM?!

(Notes)

Polites is permanently disabled after getting injured by Polyphemus. He can  walk, but it’s difficult (broken rib and leg) and he suffers from a little bit of memory loss.

I’d like to say he could handle himself in a fight if he tried hard enough, but not with all the suitors. 

Polites and the suitors definitely had beef. They knew he was liked by penny, so after the challenge (during hold them down), they also plotted to kill him too. Not because they thought he was gonna be the next king,but because they knew Penelope was stalling and he would get in the way…or try. Also they were just…mad. 

During their plotting, they started yapping about how it wouldn’t be hard to kill him because of his injury, which Odysseus heard and put two and two together that Polites survived. Which also made him extra pissed at the suitors because he just found out his husband is alive and he IS NOT ABOUT TO LOSE HIM AGAIN!! 

Polites and Penelope hear the screams and are like “omg hubby!!”, and Penelope has to stop Polites from trying to join the fight and help 😭so he just keeps her company

have a silly doodle

I will write more out in the future and post it!!! Trust!

[fireside-fanfics]

Thank you for the stories you’ve been putting out, especially that last one with Joaquin and Cami! 🫶🏾

For a request, Manny (The Last of Us) tries to do something special for his girlfriend’s birthday even though they don’t have much as they’re constantly moving and trying to just make it through the day 😊

Thanks for sending another request. I enjoy writing requests.

Still Choosing You

Sidney and Manny had been together forever. Not just in the way people meant after the world fell apart and you clung to whoever made you feel less alone. No, not even close. They were bound long before the outbreak ever happened. Their mothers waddled through Lamaze class together. Their dads built a joint treehouse between their yards when they were five. From the start, it was always Manny y Sidney—Spanish and English blurring together, meals shared between both families, matching outfits and scraped knees, summers spent chasing fireflies, their names always called out in tandem: ¡Manny y Sidney, vengan a comer!

By the time they were fifteen, all of that was gone. Her parents were killed during a riot in a collapsing QZ. His parents were taken by infection. And suddenly, it really was just the two of them. They never talked about the worst parts. About how she once gave up her portion of rations to keep him alive through a bad winter. About the time he killed a man with a shovel because he had gotten too rough with her when she ignored his advances. In the silence between those moments, something grew—something quiet and steady and true. They didn’t fall in love with a bang. It was gradual, natural. It was like breathing. 

By eighteen, they were a couple in everything but name. And then she kissed him one night in an abandoned library during a thunderstorm, and he kissed her back like he’d been waiting his whole life. Now they were twenty-four, still alive, still choosing each other, every day.

The night before her birthday, they camped in a small clearing just off an old service road. Their shelter was a battered tent flap strung between two downed trees and the fire was tiny, just enough for warmth, but it was theirs. Sidney was curled under the blankets beside him, fast asleep, dark curls a mess across her cheek and nose. Manny watched her breathe, chest rising and falling, arms tucked close like he was dreaming something safe.

He hadn’t forgotten the date; he never did. Manny reached for the notebook he kept folded under his pack—full of old notes and scraps of memories—and flipped to the page he’d marked weeks ago. Plan: Sid’s Birthday. Something good. Anything. Manny tapped the pen against his knee and smiled to himself. He placed the notebook back in his bag and crawled under the blankets next to her. Sidney scooted closer to him, which made him smile because, even in her sleep, Sidney sought his presence. He hooked an arm around her waist and nestled in beside her, dozing off quickly as his heart rate matched hers.

The next morning she woke to the scent of something vaguely sweet and a soft humming. Blinking groggily, she sat up and rubbed at her eyes. Her curls were wild from sleep, flattened on one side and puffed out on the other.

Her voice was scratchy when she asked, “¿Qué hora es?”

“Temprano,” Manny said with a grin, crouched over the little fire. “But it’s your birthday, so get up.”

“Liar,” Sidney groaned and flopped back down. “We don’t have birthdays anymore. It’s not allowed.”

“Too bad, mi amor,” he laughed, “I’m breaking the rules.”

She finally sat up, frowning sleepily at him. “There better be food.”

“Oh, there is,” he said, turning with a dramatic flourish.

He held out a battered metal plate, on which rested two lumpy, slightly burnt pancakes made from flour, a few crushed nut bar crumbs, and melted bits of chocolate. The best he could do with what they had.

She blinked again and laughed. “You baked for me?”

“It’s survival cooking,” he said proudly. “Fancy, right?”

Sidney took one, still warm from the pan, and bit into it. Her eyes widened and she gasped, “Manny! This is actually kind of good?”

“I told you—I’m a culinary genius.”

She ate both in silence, a small smile playing on her lips the whole time. When she finished, she looked at him more seriously. “You really remembered.”

Manny nodded with a wide smile. He took the plate and placed it on the kitchen counter. Cleaning could wait until later. He walked back over to Sidney who smiled sweetly up at him. 

Manny offered her a hand and said, “Come with me. I’ve got one more thing.”

“If you’re taking me into the woods to murder me…” Sidney narrowed her eyes.

“You’re too pretty to murder,” he laughed. “I’d never forgive myself.”

She snorted and took his hand anyway.

The walk took almost an hour. He’d found the place days ago, while scouting ahead for a safe spot to rest. And he’d quietly marked the path—bent branches, scraped bark, rocks turned just slightly the wrong way. Sidney didn’t notice; she trusted him wholeheartedly, without question. When they finally pushed through the underbrush, the broken cabin came into view. It sagged to one side, half the roof caved in, moss creeping down one wall. But the front door still stood, and sunlight filtered through the broken beams, catching on the dust like glitter in the air.

Sidney paused at the threshold and asked, “What is this?”

Manny nudged the door open and gestured for her to step inside. On the floor, carefully laid out on a tattered old blanket, was the surprise:

✸ A jar of wildflowers, loosely tied with twine. ✸ A sealed chocolate protein bar—one he’d been hiding for weeks. ✸ Two dented tin cups, still warm from where he’d filled them with melted ration cocoa. ✸ A hoodie—a little oversized, clean, only slightly patched, the soft kind of fabric no one saw anymore. ✸ And a folded piece of paper with her name scrawled on the front.

Sidney didn’t say anything, too stunned to speak. She stepped forward slowly, as if the floor might collapse, and knelt beside the spread. Her fingers brushed the flowers. Then the hoodie. Then the note, which she opened slowly

ꜰᴇʟɪᴢ ᴄᴜᴍᴘʟᴇᴀɴᴏs, ᴍɪ ᴀᴍᴏʀ. ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ɢɪᴠᴇɴ ᴍᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ. ɢʀᴀᴄɪᴀs ᴘᴏʀ sᴇʀ ᴍɪ ʜᴏɢᴀʀ. –ᴍᴀɴɴʏ

“Manny…” she gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth and she knelt down slowly to take a closer look at the items in front of her.

He stood awkwardly in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets. “It’s not much. But I wanted it to feel like a real day. A good one.”

Sidney turned to look at him, eyes shining. She reached for him and beckoned him to come join her 

“This is the best thing anyone’s done for me since the world ended.”

Many moved to sit beside her, their knees touching on the blanket. 

“You remember what I told you that night in the library?” he asked her softly. “When you thought I was losing it?”

She nodded slowly and giggled, “You said, ‘If I die tomorrow, I want you to know—I’ve only ever been sure of two things in this life. That I love you … and that I always will.’”

“I meant it then,” he said. “I still do.”

Sidney reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket, pulling him into a kiss. It was soft, slow, full of warmth—like the kind of thing people used to do when they had a home to return to. Her curls brushed his cheek. His hand cupped her jaw like she was the most fragile thing in the world. When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his.

“You know this means you’re setting the bar,” she whispered.

“I plan to beat it every year,” he whispered back.

They stayed in the cabin all afternoon. The hoodie fit perfectly. She wore it with the sleeves pulled over her hands, the way she used to back when they were teenagers. They split the protein bar down the middle and toasted with lukewarm cocoa like it was champagne. Sidney lay on her side later, curled into him, cheek on his chest. She traced slow circles on the back of his hand.

“You think we’ll ever stop running?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Manny said. “Someday. We’ll find a place. Somewhere green. Somewhere quiet.”

“You still want that radio repair shop?”

“With the chickens,” he said with a grin.

“You don’t know shit about chickens.”

“I’ll learn. For you.”

Sidney looked up at him, those dark brown eyes so full of love it made his chest ache. She was quiet for several moments, her eyes tracing his face, neck, shoulders—like he might disappear.  

“You’ve always been home, Manny,” she whispered, finally breaking the silence, “even when everything else disappeared.”

He kissed her forehead. “And you’ve always been worth fighting for.”

They left just before sunset. Sidney carried the wildflowers in one hand and wore the hoodie like armor. Manny walked beside her, fingers brushing hers. The world was still ending. Still cruel. But for one golden day, in a ruined cabin in the woods, Manny gave Sidney a birthday the world never would have allowed otherwise. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t safe. But for one day, in a place full of ghosts, Manny and Sidney remembered what it felt like to be alive—and to be loved.

[willothewispwisteriadawn]

A director comment about Chris dying during his chase + more about Chris’s death opportunities

I was watching an old Q&A with the director of Until Dawn, and he was talking about how complicated branching narratives can be and that, if you’re not careful, you’ll get plot combinations that don’t make sense.

Then he said that there’s a continuity mistake in Until Dawn. If Chris dies when running from the shed, then the plot for the rest of the game doesn’t make sense:

I have a few ideas about this that I’ve considered before, but they aren’t so terrible. They’ve just crossed my mind:

Chris has information that he ends up dying with if you fail his chase. I’d wondered before how Mike puts together that Josh is in the mines and thought “Well, Chris could have told him, while they walked back to the safe room, that Josh was taken.” But if Chris dies, this is kind of funky.

I’ve tried to see if I could find the story’s original skeleton. Though there’s no true “golden route,” in UD, it feels like it would still have a starting point or backbone. I’ve noted a few things like that Jess’s death is more baked into the story, but Chris’s survival is more in line with the story. Then there are minor things that you can tell were plotted one way then edited to create a branch, like Chris saving Josh in the saw trap merely cuts content (like when he picks up the beam in the shed) so this scene could have been crafted first by the idea you picked Ashley then tweaked for if you picked Josh.

But the few things that made me feel like Chris’s survival was part of the plotting were these:

The scene after the gun trap indicates Chris didn’t shoot anyone—regardless of what you did. When Mike and Sam hear him, he’s shouting “I can’t decide!” Then when the Psycho approaches him, he starts shooting and is surprised nothing is happening. The Psycho explains the gun has blanks. This happens every time, even if you shot Chris or Ashley—in which case Chris should know the bullets are duds. So, for my original path search, I ruled out Chris dying by Ashley locking him out. That branch is not where this duo’s building arc is leading either and just oddly implemented for Ashley in particular.

Sam tells Mike that the others are waiting at the lodge. This implies that either Chris or Emily didn’t die on the way back to the lodge. At the very least, for this line to work, you need Sam to believe plural people are alive. It can work out a few ways, but at the bare minimum you need one of these two to have survived his/her chase.

At the end, Chris runs past Mike, and Mike makes a motion to avoid him. If Chris is dead, Mike still does this, which is so minor but you can tell the initial thing here was for Chris to be alive. It’s a bit different than Jessica where you get dialogue/motions more leaning into the fact she died. An example is when the heads of those you’ve killed roll out from behind the mine door. You can tell the part where Mike sees Jess’s head was filmed first then edited a bit if she didn’t die.

Sometimes it’s just a behavior thing. Jessica’s death continues to weigh on Mike throughout the story, and he brings it up again multiple times—even if he didn’t expressly see her die (since the player saved her). Chris’s death does not have that weight. Everyone really reacts in the moment but Chris dying doesn’t continue to inform the characters’ attitudes or dialogue at all which is strange. The story keeps going with a tone that’s the same as if Chris is still there.

So, I’ve always felt Chris living was more baked into the story, even though I think the popular opinion is him dying since he’s so quiet in the safe room.

Trying to figure all this out was just for fun, not to be like “ONLY ONE ROUTE IS REAL.” Jessica and Matt lean more into dying, but them living makes for a fuller game. I can tell Jess’s death, in particular, was part of the original narrative idea (fun fact: She wasn’t even going to be save-able early in development. Byles has talked about this too), but her living also doesn’t break my immersion, and it’s cool to save this character who would be, by her trope, monster fodder in a movie. Having the ability to do surprising things makes this game what it is. I also think Chris can save Josh or Ashley, and it’s fine despite some seams. The gun trap thing ruins my immersion a bit, so I like having Chris do nothing.

I’m just really wondering what in particular Byles is pointing out here since he seems pretty adamant the game doesn’t work around Chris’s chase deaths. If I had to say, it would be about how Mike knows Josh wasn’t in the shed.

[aestariiwilderness]

[ghost-bxrd]

Prompt:

It’s not that Jason forgot, per se.

But between smuggling a toddler out of the League of Assassins, trekking halfway across the world, and finding a suitable hiding place that’s also child friendly… well, it kind of slipped his mind that he’s supposed to be… dead.

Something that comes back to bite him in the ass when he takes Dami out for some ice cream and just so happens to run into non other than Brucie-fucking-Wayne

[mossy-cobble-slab]

joel spends the whole first half of the episode helping the bamboozlers. giving them more diamonds, helping lizzie with her quizbot, saving jimmy from the ravager. and they don't stop trying to kill him specifically until theyre all dead. did he even notice they were doing that?