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studioeisa · 3 days ago

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the final defense of the dying 🥀 jeonghan x reader.

jeonghan has escorted twelve tributes to their deaths. he will do everything in his power to make sure you don’t face the same fate.

🥀 pairing. hunger games mentor!jeonghan x tribute!reader. 🥀 word count. 13.1k. 🥀 genres. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: hunger games. heavy angst, action, friendship, romance. 🥀 includes. minors do not interact. minor character deaths; hunger games-typical depictions of blood, gore, violence; themes of ptsd, sex work; sexual content; mentions of food, alcohol. childhood best friends, jeonghan yearns :(, cameos of svt members. 🥀 footnotes. this is part of the angst olympics collaboration. i did say this would be above 5k. a direct hit for @diamonddaze01, and for everyone who soldiered through sunrise on the reaping. my masterlist 🎵 doomsday, lizzy mcalpine. meet me in the woods, lord huron. growing sideways, noah kahan. we hug now, sydney rose. no light, no light, florence + the machine. without you without them, boygenius. the prophecy, taylor swift.

I. YOON JEONGHAN, THE FRIEND.

Jeonghan’s nightmares always start the same.

The middles and the endings vary. If he’s lucky, he doesn’t have to suffer through an entire run of his Games. If he’s unlucky, he wakes up gasping for breath like he had his head dunked underwater the entire evening.

It always opens with the sprawling fields of District 11.

The very lands he had once thought to be so commanding. On his first train ride to the Capitol—when he was being sent out like a pig for slaughter—he knew, even then, that the sight was one to behold. Bountiful orchards, fruit trees in full bloom, tilled land as far as the eye could see.

When he sees them in his nightmares, there is always something wrong. An infestation. A wildfire. His loved ones, spilling blood all over the hay.

Tonight, it’s you.

Jeonghan’s subconscious is caught off-guard. It’s not the first time he’s dreamt of you, after all. And so he thinks it’s going to be pleasant, thinks he’s going to enjoy some ethereal adventure.

But then you open your mouth and nothing comes out. Not your sweet voice. Not your call of Hannie. Your face contorts, twists, like you’re in pain. It’s the very last expression Jeonghan would ever want to see on your face.

He tries to reach you. He takes a couple of paces forward. He breaks out into a run. But the fields stretch, and stretch, and stretch, and all the while, you stare straight at him with that soundless look of terror.

Jeonghan wakes with his chest heaving.

It takes him thirty seconds to realize he had been dreaming. It takes him another five minutes to clamber out of bed, unsteady on his feet as he makes his way to the en suite bathroom.

Here, in the Victor’s Village, it’s only him. And he doesn’t mean that in the sense that he has no living relatives to stay in this big, empty house with him. He means it in the sense that he’s the only district’s Victor, the only one to have come back alive after 73 iterations of the Games. It had its advantages.

Being all alone means nobody can hear Jeonghan when he screams. When he sits in the tub, head between his knees, and screams until his voice is hoarse.

He chalks up the eerie dream to what awaits him later in the day. The reaping looms over him like a storm cloud, but there’s also a silver lining he holds on to as he goes through his morning routine. It’s morbid. It’s cruel. He would never admit it to anyone.

For once, Jeonghan is looking forward to the reaping.

On average, the reaping was considered the worst day for any district. An annual lottery that decided who would be sent off to participate in that year’s Games. Behind New Year’s, Reaping Day was the second-most likely day for people to get drunk.

Today was your last.

The last day you had to have your name in the bowl. The last reaping you would have to endure.

You and Jeonghan were twelve when your names first got added into the mix. When he came back from his Games, he made sure you would never have to apply for tesserae—a year’s worth of grain and oil. He was richer than the gods, anyway, with all his winnings. And who else would he share it with but you?

So, in your final year, there are still only seven slips of paper with your name on it.

Jeonghan likes your chances.

The reaping kicks off at around three in the afternoon. Obligations keep Jeonghan away from sneaking out to find you, but he knows where to look once the ceremony begins. You’re in the roped-off area of the town square, towards the front where all the older eligibles await their fate.

Jeonghan doesn’t bother to hide the fact he’s staring, that he’s waiting for you to look his way. Almost willing it, even, and he can sense your vexation from the stage where he’s forced to stand.

You finally look up at him. For a moment, he sees the face in his dream. The one screaming.

It passes like a mirage, leaving your familiar expression of exasperation.

Stop, you mouth, trying to look somewhat stern. Failing. (A corner of your lip has twitched upward.)

He raises one shoulder in a shrug. Can’t help it, he mouths back, the knot in his chest loosening ever so slightly.

For the first time that day, he feels like he can breathe.

The mayor steps forward to recite the history of the founding of Panem. The Dark Days brought upon by the uprising, the Treaty of Treason that institutionalized the Games. There’s a measly attempt to discuss the spoils and riches that come with winning, but nobody is convinced. Not when there’s still only a solitary victor on stage.

“District 11’s victors,” the mayor rasps. This part is required reading, has been included in the program for the past six years. “Yoon Jeonghan, the 66th Hunger Games.”

There’s a smatter of polite applause. Jeonghan offers the gathered crowd a small nod in acknowledgement, but nothing more.

The list ends there.

The district’s escort since gods-knows-when moves up to the microphone. Bauble lived up to her name; she was a stout, shimmery thing embellished in absurd shades of gold and glitter. You once told Jeonghan that her voice was like a coin in a tin can, and he’s been unable to unhear it ever since.

She waxes poetics about the honor of being a tribute. Jeonghan tunes it out, focuses on staring straight ahead. He wonders, briefly, what he should have for dinner.

Bauble steps towards the glass bowl containing hundreds of folded pieces of paper. Hundreds. Some have their names in there on twenty-something slips.

Not you. You only have seven. Seven, because Jeonghan had made sure to keep the odds as low as possible.

“Ladies first,” Bauble warbles.

And perhaps that’s Jeonghan’s first mistake—that he does not worry.

He’s so sure, so certain, riding on the high of this reaping being your final one. His mind is already halfway into next week, into the special brand of kindness you afford him in the aftermath of the Games.

You were always a little softer to him whenever he came home from the bloodbath. A consolation, he had thought during his first year as a mentor. Perverse as it is, he soaked it all up.

The nights you’d spend at his home in the Victor’s Village. The cooked meals and the reassuring touches. The words you’d murmur whenever he woke up from his nightmares; your sweet nothings of you did what you could and no one blames you and it was just a dream, Hannie, you’re safe here.

He’s thinking of those, of you.

And so he nearly misses the way Bauble calls out your name.

The very name he had shrieked as a child when the two of you played games in the corn fields and rice paddies. The very name he had murmured soundlessly while he was delirious and sick in his own arena. (The thought of you, the only thing that kept him alive.)

It’s your name, but everybody in the crowd—from the farmers to the ranchers to the Peacekeepers, even—know you as something else.

Jeonghan’s darling. Jeonghan’s sweetheart.

The love of his life, now sentenced to die.

He can feel it. The tangible shift in the air.

The camera trying to get a tight shot of his face. The probing eyes, all flickering between you and Jeonghan like the district doesn’t know who to focus on.

You may be the reaped, but the slip of paper in Bauble’s hand has condemned you both.

Jeonghan doesn’t give anyone the satisfaction of a reaction

He watches, tight-lipped and steely-eyed, as you move through the crowd like a summer breeze. You don’t look towards him. A small grace.

You take your place on the stage. Bauble—ignorant as ever of the tension that has rippled through the district—flashes you a toothy smile.

“Lovely,” she sing-songs. Jeonghan barely resists the urge to tear the escort’s wig off.

She moves over to the boys’ fishing bowl and pulls out a name. It’s some rancher’s son, someone who got a little cocky about the amount of tesserae they thought they could get. He stumbles forward from the back row of eligibles, which means he’s young. Probably only thirteen or so.

Jeonghan doesn’t dwell on it it. He’s too busy holding his hands behind his back, his nails digging into his palms in a way that will leave crescent-shaped marks.

“Ladies and gentleman, join me in welcoming the District 11 tributes of the 73rd Hunger Games!” Bauble trills.

During Reaping Day, there is already barely any applause or cheers. Why would anyone celebrate when Jeonghan was still the only one to have come back after all these decades?

Today, though, it’s silent as a tomb.

Bauble looks like she’s at a loss. A quiet district doesn’t make for good television. “And may the odds be ever in their favor,” she’s saying hastily, but her words patter off when it begins.

A low hum. Somebody from the back of the crowd starts it up, and then the rows follow suit one after the other.

People are always angry in District 11.

The days are long and the work is hard. The sun is unforgiving; the labor, unjustified. And so the people have learned to sing, have taken to music so they could bear the strife. The two of you grew up to hymns in the fields, ballads on birthdays—

Songs at funerals. Grief shared in rumbling baritones, in lyrics passed down from one generation to another.

The weeping women begin to croon.

The fields whisper low where the tall corn sways, Calling your name in the hush of the days. Summer was golden, but frost’s moving in, Taking the bright ones again and again.

It’s a song as old as time, an honor as recognizable as the three-fingered salute. Jeonghan dares to steal a glance at you. You’re clutching the male tribute to your side, and your jaw is set with defiance.

The sun kissed your brow as you worked through the rows, Hands stained with labor, a heart no one knows. Now they have sent you where none should be sent, Leaving us hollow, our backs tired and bent.

Your parents. Gods, your parents. Jeonghan’s gaze skips over the crowd as he tries to find them. There’s so many, too many people. He’s a little grateful he can’t locate them. He wouldn’t know what to do if he saw the looks on their faces.

Back when the two of you had been playmates, your father had always teased Jeonghan about bringing you home before the sun set. Jeonghan had been so diligent, had never failed your father once, but now.

But now.

Gone like the harvest, gone with the wind, Taken too soon, though your roots ran deep in.

The earth holds your footsteps, the sky holds your name, But nothing will ever grow quite the same.

Bauble is getting restless. The mayor keeps throwing helpless glances at Jeonghan. He stares straight ahead. He has no plans of interrupting. Not this. Not when it’s for you.

In the corner of his eye, he can see you mouthing along to the words. In his honest, unbiased opinion, you were one of the district’s best singers. It kills him that no one will hear you, no one can hear you, as you give what may be your last performance for the people that have raised you.

The song crescendos. Dozens of voices, furious as the storms that rampaged through Panem and left the district on its knees.

Let the wheat bow, let the vines grieve, Let the rain fall for all we believe. If we had a choice, if we had a say, Not one of our own would be taken away.

Jeonghan hopes the Capitol cameramen are getting this, even though they’ll probably cut the broadcast. A district united in its sorrow is a dangerous one, and Jeonghan will pay a small price for letting it happen.

He will pay an even heftier price for singing along.

His tone has always been a bit on the nasally side, but the years have made it sweeter, sharper. He doesn’t have to pitch his voice particularly loud. The people see his mouth forming the words, see the way he joins in on the last chorus.

Gone like the harvest, gone with the wind, Taken too soon, though your roots ran deep in. The earth holds your footsteps, the sky holds your name—

But nothing will ever grow quite the same, he finishes, and then he finally looks towards you.

II. YOON JEONGHAN, THE VICTOR.

It had been his first reaping.

His name, in the bowl only once. His cousins had told him it was unlikely. You had reassured him it would not be him, although his concern, even then, had been that it might be you.

He had been basking in the relief of the female tribute not being you—instead being a wine-maker’s daughter—that he didn’t immediately register the fact his name had come out of Bauble’s gold-painted lips.

Twelve-year-old Yoon Jeonghan. District 11’s male tribute for the 66th Hunger Games.

You had screamed bloody murder. He remembers that. He remembers you running forward; you had always been quick on your feet.

You reached Jeonghan just in time to give him a bone-crushing hug, to babble something helpless like Come back, swear it, before you were shoved down into the asphalt by the nearest Peacekeeper.

Jeonghan had felt rage, then. Felt like he could win the Games solely based on the fact the violence had chipped one of your teeth and bruised your cheek.

He had to be dragged kicking and screaming onto stage, had to be placed next to the female tribute who looked sick at the thought of heading into the bloodbath with a literal child.

Cherry. That had been her name. Jeonghan remembers finding it ironic, because she smelled more like grapes.

He had tucked away most of his memories of the pre-Games activities, or maybe the trauma had them blurring all together. The lack of victors for District 11 meant that his mentors had been pooled from other districts.

There was District 3’s Beetee, who won the 34th Hunger Games after electrocuting the Career pack. There was District 6’s Maeve, who accidentally won the 44th Hunger Games despite being high on morphling the entire time.

Maeve trained Cherry. It didn’t do Cherry much good.

Beetee trained Jeonghan. The man had been critical, clinical. He pitied Jeonghan, though. Any time Beetee seemed to remember Jeonghan was only twelve, the victor would stutter and wince.

Jeonghan had hated that the most. That he was the youngest in the pool of tributes. That the Capitol citizens looked at him like he already had one foot in the grave.

A part of him wants to say spite got him to win. A desire to prove himself, to break the record previously held by fourteen-year-old Finnick Odair.

Jeonghan put on a good show. He charmed interviewers. He got a six as his training score after depicting particular adeptness at knife-throwing.

It didn’t matter. None of it did.

Going into the Games, Jeonghan’s morning long odds had been 60-1.

His arena had smelled of petrichor and blood.

Jeonghan blinked against the sudden glare of daylight as the plate elevated him into a clearing wreathed by towering trees. A canopy loomed above like a watchful eye, dappling the forest floor with fractured sunlight. The Cornucopia gleamed gold and monstrous at the center of the glade, its curved mouth yawning open with the promise of tools and terror.

Around him, the other tributes emerged, silhouettes sharpening into figures with each second. They looked older. Meaner.

Cherry had been across from him, eyes wide and frantic. Her hands trembled at her sides. She wasn’t looking at the weapons. She was looking at him.

Jeonghan shook his head once. A warning.

The gong sounded, and he sprinted.

The chaos unfurled behind him like a wave of shrieking metal. The sound of a throat being opened. Of someone crying for their mother.

Jeonghan didn’t look back.

His legs were short, but fear lent him speed. He vaulted a moss-slicked log, ducked beneath hanging vines, tore through underbrush until his lungs burned.

He only collapsed hours later, curled beneath the roots of a colossal tree, his palms raw, his clothes stained with dirt and sweat. He couldn’t stop shaking. Not from cold but from the weight of it all.

Cherry hadn’t made it.

He had heard her scream. High and shrill, cut short in the way all Capitol broadcasts made sure to capture. He had paused only briefly—just enough to register the voice—before running again.

It wasn’t supposed to be her. She was older, stronger.

Maeve had spent hours coaching her on traps and close combat. Cherry had taken to it well.

Jeonghan was the joke. The child. The one who should have been first to go.

He curled tighter under the roots, pulling fallen leaves around his body like armor. Beetee’s voice floated back to him: Observe. Hide. Let the others thin themselves out. You are not stronger. You must be smarter. Use their confidence against them.

Jeonghan’s fingers had closed around a flat, smooth rock. He didn’t throw it, just held it, letting the weight steady him.

That first night, the sky lit up with eight sepia faces. Cherry’s was among them.

Jeonghan didn’t cry. He thought he might never stop if he started.

Instead, he thought of you.

He told himself he wouldn’t die. Not until he saw you again. Not until he returned what the Peacekeepers took from your smile.

He slept with his back to the tree, one hand on the rock. Waiting. Listening.

Still alive.

Jeonghan stayed alive for 17 more days.

The arena was built to punish the reckless. A tropical forest that seemed quiet until it wasn't. The humidity sapped your strength. The mutant insects bit through your resolve. The rains flooded low ground without warning. Those who didn't know how to climb or swim were the first to go.

Jeonghan didn’t fight. Not at first.

He moved at night, listened more than he spoke, and memorized the rhythms of the forest. He watched the Careers from a distance as they slaughtered each other over dwindling supplies. He learned to tell which fruits made your stomach turn and which bark bled drinkable water.

He clung to Beetee’s instructions like a lifeline.

Lay traps when you can. Scavenge. Never sleep in the same place twice.

And always—always—keep your district token close.

His token had been something from you. A woven bracelet you’d made him one summer, years ago. Red thread with a tiny, smooth seed sewn into the knot.

You had called it lucky. He had scoffed.

In the arena, he held it every night like it might bring him back.

On day five, a small package drifted from the sky. Inside: a single strip of dried meat, a roll of gauze, and a note.

Keep going, little ghost.

He never did find out who sent it. Maybe someone who liked the way he vanished into the trees. Maybe someone who liked the tears he didn’t shed when Cherry’s face lit up the sky. He wasn’t sure it mattered.

What mattered was that someone out there believed he might make it.

The days had bled together. He trapped a squirrel on day six. Found a dead tribute’s knife on day nine. Avoided a firestorm on day 11 by diving into a mudflat. He never got cocky. Never came close to the Cornucopia again. When the number of faces diminished in the sky—ten, then seven, then five—he started to dream of home.

When there were three left, he knew he would have to kill.

He hated himself for what he planned. Hated the way he sharpened his knife in the moonlight and hummed your favorite songs like it might somehow remind him of his innocence.

That very innocence, shattered the moment he found himself face to face with the last of the Games.

The forest burned on the morning of the final day.

The Gamemakers had set it ablaze from all corners. No more hiding. No more waiting. They were starving for a finale. The audience wanted blood.

Jeonghan emerged coughing, soot streaked on his cheeks. His hair, once so pale and soft, clung to his forehead, sweat-slicked and singed. He stumbled out into a clearing he had once used as a water source, now parched and cracked from the heat.

Two others waited.

Cassian, District 2. Large, broad-shouldered, trained from the cradle.

Rueya, District 5. Slender, fast, clever. She had a twitch in her jaw when she was calculating.

They turned to look at him like he was a hallucination. A demon from the woods.

“You made it?” Rueya asked, her voice hoarse.

Cassian just laughed. “Twelve-year-old freak.”

Jeonghan said nothing. He adjusted his grip on the knife. His fingers trembled, but not from fear.

He was remembering.

You, shouting at him for winning hide-and-seek again. Your face scrunched in disbelief when you couldn’t find him for an hour. How the others accused him of cheating.

He hadn’t cheated. He had just watched. Paid attention. Remembered where shadows fell and what cracked underfoot.

He remembered you throwing stones at him one summer afternoon, not out of hate but frustration, yelling, You ruin every game, Yoon Jeonghan!

Maybe he did.

Rueya had struck first.

Her blade aimed for his neck. He ducked. Rolled. Kicked dust in her eyes and used the moment to run. Not far. Just enough to get them to follow.

He was small. Quick. He led them where he needed them to go. Past the tree with the false trunk. Past the buried snare he had laid on day fourteen.

Cassian tripped it. Went down hard.

A branch spiked through his thigh.

Jeonghan didn’t look back.

Rueya was faster.

She caught up by the riverbed, cornered him. Her knife was longer. Her reach, better. He bled from a shallow cut on his cheek and another on his shoulder.

Rueya lunged. Jeonghan pivoted, let her momentum carry her too far.

She stumbled. He didn’t.

Without a moment of hesitation, he slammed the heel of his hand into her nose. The crunch was sickening. She dropped her remaining blade to instinctively hold her nose, howling, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Those would be her last words.

When Jeonghan had staggered back into the clearing, Cassian was still alive, but barely. He had been dragging himself forward, face pale with pain. He looked up, eyes glassy.

"You—cheating little shit—"

Jeonghan’s knife sliced through the air and landed squarely over Cassian’s left breast. Where his heart might have been, if he had one.

The bracelet, your bracelet, blood-soaked and fraying, glinted when Jeonghan was lifted into the hovercraft.

He had been shaking, his left ear ringing from the blow he hadn’t seen coming. His knee was swelling. Both injuries never quite recovered; later in life, Jeonghan would still hear best on his right side and always walk with a slight limp.

But then, in that moment, Jeonghan had been alive. In the arena where smoke was curling up in the sky. In the hovercraft where he was deemed dehydrated, underweight, and on the brink of death himself.

You always win, you had once tearfully seethed when he kicked your ass in Duck, Duck, Goose. You always win these stupid games!

III. YOON JEONGHAN, THE LOVER.

He hears your footsteps before he sees you.

They echo down the corridor of the train like they always have, steady and sure and just a touch impatient. Jeonghan already knows it’s you; he doesn’t look up.

He keeps his gaze fixed on the swirling ice in his untouched glass of Capitol liquor, something pale and sharp that burns in his nose more than it ever will in his throat. A good number of victors had succumbed to alcoholism, but he always had you to talk him away from the bottle.

Today was no exception.

The door creaks open.

“Bauble sent me,” you say, even as Jeonghan focuses on the drink in front of him. Your voice is clipped, professional. Not unkind. “She said you need to prep us.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He swirls his drink, then sets it down with a dull clink. The ice has barely melted. “Prep yourselves. I’m not your babysitter.”

There’s a beat. “You are, actually,” you say matter-of-factly. “That’s literally your job.”

“Then I’m off-duty,” he snips.

The car smells like expensive polish and expensive drink and Jeonghan’s expensive silence. You don’t move. He can feel you watching him.

“Are you going to be like this the entire time?”

“Like what.”

“Like a jackass.”

That finally earns you a glance. He turns to look at you, and gods, it nearly kills him.

Your arms are crossed, shoulders squared, mouth set in that stubborn little line he knows by heart. You’re trying not to tremble.

He forces himself to look away.

“You’re angry,” you say, quieter now.

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“I’m the one who got reaped.”

“Exactly.”

It shuts you up. For a second. Just a second.

Then you walk forward and sit beside him. Not across from him. Beside him. So close he can smell the faint traces of that soap you always used, the one that reminds him of lemon trees, wet earth, and the sun.

“You’re not mad at me,” you say delicately. “You’re scared.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“You’re terrified, Hannie. You think you’re going to lose me.”

His grip tightens around the glass until the ice shifts, clinks.

“You think you already have,” you murmur.

Something crumbles in him then. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t scream, doesn’t shatter. He just sighs again—longer this time—and sets the glass down gently. It’s an acquiescence, an acknowledgement.

“Come on,” you say, standing. You offer a hand. “Let’s go. My partner’s probably trying to figure out how to hold a fork.”

Jeonghan only stares at your hand for a moment. He doesn’t want to fall victim to preemptive nostalgia, but he does anyway. His gaze traces over the lines on your palm, the dirt underneath your fingernails, and he thinks of all the things you’ve done. All the things you have yet to do.

You flex your fingers wordlessly, urging him. He lets you tug him up, almost all the way to the door—

—and then his hand pulls you back.

Not roughly. Not urgently.

But when his arms circle your waist, he leans forward like a man caving to gravity. He presses his forehead to your shoulder. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

You let him hold you.

Because this is Jeonghan, and this might be the last time he ever gets to.

You card your fingers through his hair. He stays absolutely still, as if he can keep the two of you in this snow globe of a movement if he doesn’t move an inch. The seconds stretch into minutes, and he pulls away only when there’s a knock on the car door. Bauble, this time, eyeing the two of you like she knows something.

She doesn’t know a thing, obviously.

Back in the dining car, Jeonghan leans against the polished wood paneling, arms crossed. The smell of Capitol-grade roast duck and syrupy wine thickens in the air. He watches the way Barley picks at his food like it might bite back, eyes darting from plate to window to the unfamiliar silverware.

You’re sitting straighter, trying to model bravery, but Jeonghan’s known you too long. He sees the tremors in your hands and fights the urge to reach for you.

“So,” Jeonghan says, and the word is brittle, sharp. “You both get one question each. Make it count.”

Barley frowns. He’s all knees and elbows, a thirteen-year-old with a summer tan and a coffin waiting for him at home. “How long do you think I’ll last?”

Jeonghan doesn’t sugarcoat. “Depends. You follow instructions, you might last longer than an hour,” he says.

Barley blanches. You shoot Jeonghan a look.

“He’s scared,” you say pointedly.

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “He should be.”

Your voice is steady, though your eyes aren’t. “Then tell us what to expect,” you say.

He exhales through his nose, tilting his head like he’s heard this request a thousand times—and he has. But not from you. Not like this.

The annoyance coating your words isn’t amiss to him, either. It brings him a perverse sense of comfort.

“You’ll be hungry. You’ll be hunted,” he says slowly. “And you’ll be alone, even when you’re not. Trust no one. Run the second the gong sounds. Don’t stop until your legs give out. And for the love of all things holy, don’t look back."

Barley is pale now, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Did it hurt? When they—when they came for you?”

For a second, Jeonghan sees it all again. Cherry’s panicked expression, the glint of Rueya’s blade, the snarl on Cassian’s face. He has to blink the memories away, has to focus on the fact you’re watching like you already know he’s going under.

Jeonghan clears his throat. “All of it hurt.”

Bauble waltzes in, then. “There you all are!” she chirps. “Oh, Jeonghan, you simply mustn’t hide my victors-to-be away like this. What if someone needs a morale boost?”

Jeonghan deadpans, “Morale died when you called her name.”

Bauble clicks her tongue, unfazed. While Jeonghan wouldn’t necessarily call the escort his friend, they did have a certain rapport built over years of sanctioned bonding. “Still so dramatic,” she tuts. “You’ve always had such flair.”

“You mean trauma.”

“You say tomato—” she flutters her fingers.

You smile faintly. Jeonghan sees it, the corners of your lips tugging upward despite everything. It’s too soft. Too real. It guts him.

When Bauble finally prances away to inspect dinner settings, when Barley decides he might as well spend his last few hours enjoying the pleasantries of the Capitol, Jeonghan shifts closer to you.

“You’ve always listened too well,” he says. “Even when I didn’t want you to.”

You look up. “I thought that was the point. To listen when no one else does.”

He tries to scoff, but it comes out too fond. He remembers every time you sat beside him in the fields, every time your hands were gentle when he woke screaming, every time you pretended he was still human.

He leans forward, lowering his voice. “You’re smart.”

“I learned from the best.”

Jeonghan watches you, the defiance in your posture warring with the fear you don’t want him to see. He can’t fix any of it. He knows that. But he can give you this—this small, ridiculous moment.

“You know,” he says slowly, “Barley’s too small for the Capitol tuxedos. You’re gonna have to teach him how to fake confidence. Smile like you’re selling poison as perfume.”

You laugh, short and tired. “And what about me?”

Jeonghan’s smile falters. Softens.

“You… just be you. That’ll be enough.” He pushes off the wall, straightens up. “Come on. I’ll give you a tour of the train.”

You start to move past him, but his hand finds your wrist, halting you. He doesn’t speak. Just tugs gently until you step into his arms.

He holds you like it’s the last thing tethering him to earth. Like letting go means losing everything.

“Just… hold on,” he says quietly as he slots his fingers through the spaces of yours. Usually, you told him off when he got too clingy or touchy. You weren’t together or anything, after all, and so you demanded that he be more conservative. That he reel himself in.

For once, you let him.

For once, he lets himself.

He holds your hand the entire way to the Capitol, where it’s a blur of color and shine.

For a moment, even with the dread curling tight in his stomach, Jeonghan finds himself admiring the splendor. He isn’t surprised to see you and Barley equally speechless, craning your necks as the train pulls into the station; your faces, framed in the tall, sterile windows mirroring your awe back at you.

Barley presses his hand against the glass, wide-eyed. “Is that... a moving sidewalk?” he breathes.

Jeonghan doesn’t answer. He’s too busy cataloging every flinch, every blink, every breath the two of you take. Watching the way you stand slightly in front of Barley, like you’re already trying to shield him from whatever came next.

Jeonghan loves you so much at that moment.

Bauble is chattering beside you, of course, gesturing wildly with one hand. She barely notices when Jeonghan steps between you and a Capitol attendant, his hand curling lightly around your arm.

“Stay close,” he says below his breath.

You look up at him and nod. The ease of which you trust him, the lack of questions you have, nearly bowls him over. He sticks by your side the entire way to the Tribute Tower, where the apartment is all sleek marble and warm gold accents. Impossibly high ceilings and digital fireplaces that don’t throw any heat. There’s fresh fruit on the tables and beds the size of entire haylofts. It looks more like a presidential suite than a prison.

“Holy shit,” you whisper under your breath, fingers grazing the frame of an oil painting taller than you. Barley finds the snack cart and marvels over a slice of something custard-filled.

Jeonghan hovers. He can’t stop himself. Not when you were somewhere the Capitol could get its claws in you.

When the time comes for the Tribute Parade, he’s still on edge. Still worried the stylist team will do their jobs too well, while also simultaneously dreading them not doing enough.

District 11 had always had a reputation for agricultural simplicity, which the Capitol liked to glamorize with varying degrees of taste. This year, apparently, they’d gone for mythical harvest gods. You’re draped in molten gold and deep, forest green, your arms dusted with shimmer like pollen. A long cloak of woven vines trails behind you, the ends studded with jewels shaped like pomegranate seeds and tiny bushels of wheat.

Barley dons something similar; a shorter tunic with a circlet of laurel around his head, a wooden staff in his grip that sparks gently with gold.

Jeonghan doesn’t know what to say when you step out from the dressing area.

He swallows hard. He had seen every horror the Games had to offer. But this—seeing you, radiant and ready for slaughter—is the cruelest thing.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

He shakes his head. Tries to say something. Fails. It’s a far cry from the practical, utilitarian clothing the two of you have grown up with. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you wear something so glamorous, and the thought of it only makes him want to run and hide.

“Hannie?” you prod.

He gets it together.

“You look—” He clears his throat. His voice goes imperceptibly softer. “You look like something no one should be allowed to destroy.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Maybe you don’t have to. After a quick glance around the backstage—to ensure nobody is looking—you reach out, give his arm a comforting squeeze.

He knows he’s doing everything wrong. It’s your Parade, your Games. He’s supposed to be holding himself better, supposed to be the one offering you reassurance and solace. Instead, you’ve taken up your typical caretaker role, and he falls apart at the mere sight of you.

When the chariots roll out and the cameras turn, Jeonghan has to stand just out of frame, mouth tight, hands clenched. The crowds react to you and Barley. Jeonghan hears none of it.

Instead, he keeps his head slightly bowed; his gaze, away from all the other tributes who will all have a kill-or-be-killed mentality.

Maybe if he wishes hard enough, Jeonghan thinks, he can stop the Games before they even begin.

IV. YOON JEONGHAN, THE MENTOR.

Jeonghan stands at the head of the training room, arms crossed, jaw tight. From this angle, he can see both you and Barley moving between stations. You’re focused, determined, adjusting the way you grip the rope at the knot-tying corner. Barley, less so. He keeps fumbling, looking over his shoulder for approval.

It should’ve been easy, this mentorship. He’d won. He knew what it took. He could recite Beetee’s advice in his sleep, every trick he’d used in his own Games carved into his memory like tally marks.

And yet, his throat burns and his hands won’t stop shaking.

He’s going to lose you.

The thought returns like a hammer strike. Over and over. No matter how hard he tries to bury it. Jeonghan drags his fingernails down the length of his arm as if pain might chase it away. He’s fairly sure he’ll have gashes by the time this week is over.

You approach without warning, your face sweaty from training, your eyes sharp.

“You can’t keep looking at me like that,” you tell him.

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve already got a gravestone for me in some plot back home.”

Jeonghan barks out a laugh—a surprised, hollow one. Your dry humor always did know how to cut through him. “I’m not doing that,” he snipes.

“You are. You haven’t looked at Barley once without wincing. You flinch every time I handle a knife. You’re not helping. You’re scaring us.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder,” you say simply. “You’re Yoon Jeonghan. You survived at twelve. You have to be stronger than this.”

He turns away from you. You didn’t know—couldn’t know—what it’s been like. Watching years of reapings, standing on the same stage, seeing child after child go off to die while he stood there, the only victor District 11 had to offer.

Every year, he makes himself hope. Every year, he trains them, watches the light in their eyes go dim as they were outmatched, outarmed, outplayed.

Every year, he fails.

He had never cried for them. Not once. Had never allowed himself to grieve. It was easier that way. To believe he’d done all he could. That they were always going to die, with or without him.

But not you.

You, who used to sneak into his house when he came home, just to leave honey cakes on the windowsill. You, who sang lullabies to him when the nightmares got so bad he couldn’t sleep. You, who had always seen him not as a victor, not as a killer, but just—

Jeonghan.

He turns back around and finds you still standing there, stubborn and unflinching. He lets out a breath.

“Okay,” he says hoarsely. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

Your shoulders relax slightly.

“I won’t flinch anymore,” he promises. “I won’t wince. I won’t look away. I’ll train you.”

“Good,” you say, “because you’re our final defense, and you’ve been a pretty shitty defense so far.”

He laughs. For once, it’s not forced.

You, of all people, know just how much Jeonghan’s word means. He drums up support with prospective sponsors. He talks with the victors and tries to find alliances.

He teaches Barley how to hold an arrow. He watches you throw knives and shouts out instructions.

By the time your private training sessions come around, Jeonghan is fairly sure he’s never done this much work as a mentor in the past couple of years. As you and Barley get ready to face the Gamemakers, there is only one thing left for him to do: trust that everything you’ve learned will not fail you.

The scores come in just after dinner, during a quiet lull where the four of you—Jeonghan, you, Barley, and Bauble—sit in the quarters, feigning calm over cups of Capitol-brewed tea. The screen crackles to life, and the room stills.

There’s an introduction. A reminder of why this is all done. Capitol citizens are given an idea of who to bet on based on the scores ascribed to each tribute. The private training sessions were a matter of who could put on the best show, but not too good.

Score low, you would lose out on sponsors. Score high, you would be deemed a threat by other tributes.

Scores range from one to twelve. The Careers, unsurprisingly, get nines and tens. The girl from Four gets a ten. The boy from Nine gets a four.

And then it’s District 11. Your face flashes first. A moment’s silence. Then: eight.

Barley is the first to react. “An eight?” he breathes, nearly sloshing his tea. “That’s... that’s good, right? That’s really good, isn’t it?”

Jeonghan doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He’s staring at the number, willing it to hold still, like it might evaporate if he looks away.

Then Barley’s face appears on the screen. Six.

“Hey!” Barley exclaims, grinning at you. “We didn’t do half-bad!”

You laugh quietly, nerves still wound tight beneath your skin. “Guess not.” You glance at Jeonghan, whose brow is furrowed as if the numbers have personally offended him.

“Not half-bad?” you repeat to Jeonghan, as if urging him to confirm or deny your odds.

He snaps out of his haze. “It’s good,” he says, but his voice is tight. “It’s good. You both did well.”

Barley’s too thrilled to notice the tension. He retreats into a quiet hum of excitement, and Jeonghan watches him go to his room, heart aching at how young he still is.

You stay behind. You know better.

“He’s proud of his six,” you say softly. “You should be proud of us, too.”

Jeonghan finally meets your gaze. “What did you do?”

You shrug, but your eyes are shining. “Used a sickle. Told them I’d only ever used it on weeds, not people. Then showed them I could take the heads off three practice dummies in under ten seconds.”

He stares.

“Okay, maybe eight seconds,” you admit with a sheepish grin. “But still.”

“Gods,” he mutters. “Why would you tell me that?”

You tilt your head. “Because I need you to believe I have a shot.”

Jeonghan presses his fingers against his eyelids. Eight. A real shot. That’s what it means. But the Capitol loves nothing more than raising hope just to snuff it out.

And so he tries not to feel hopeful. He tries.

“I’ll be ready,” you say, your voice pure as the driven snow. “You made sure of that.”

He exhales slowly. He has to believe it. For your sake. And Barley’s. And for the twelve other faces in his head, the ones he couldn’t save. He opens his eyes and looks straight at you.

“Just keep doing what you did today,” he says. “And I’ll do the rest.”

He does what he can, but there is only so much he can do.

By the time the pre-Games interviews come around, he knows you will have to write your own ending. Even in the viewing room where Jeonghan sits with Bauble and a glass of untouched wine, it feels like every bulb is trained on the screen, on you.

He hasn’t breathed since your name was announced. He probably won’t breathe until your interview is over.

Barley’s had gone well. Nothing to call home about. He had been your typical young tribute, showing off boyish charm and vouchsafed innocence.

You, on the other hand, look devastating.

The prep team had broken their backs to make it work. Your outfit—woven in silks dyed the color of ripening wheat, dotted with reddish sequins like the leaves from trees—catches the light with every small movement. Your hair is twisted back in a braid like the reapers wear during harvest. And your smile, shy but steady, is enough to hush even Caesar Flickerman.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he croons, gesturing with flair, “from District 11, please welcome our stunning tribute!”

You walk forward, gracious and poised. Jeonghan clenches his fists in his lap. It feels like every step you take toward that stage is a step further away from him.

“Good evening,” Caesar says. “You’re quite the sight tonight. The Capitol is enraptured already!”

You laugh lightly. “It’s not every day someone from my district gets to wear something this fine. I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.”

Jeonghan flinches. He knows that tone—modest, self-deprecating, practiced. You’re playing your part. He just wishes you didn’t have to.

Caesar chuckles, his teeth gleaming. A shark, ready to draw blood. “Now, I’ve heard you’re quite the singer. Is that true?”

“Depends on who you ask,” you reply, to the laughter of the crowd.

Jeonghan stares. He knows how nervous you are. He knows how tightly you were wound in your quarters, how your hands shook as you ate. But here, under the scrutiny of all of Panem, you are luminous. You can joke around with Caesar; you hum a little tune when asked.

You are everything they want you to be.

He hates it. He loves it. He doesn’t know what to feel.

Caesar leans forward after your little song. His eyes glitter. “And tell me—I think everyone wants to know,” he says conspiratorially. “Our only Victor from District 11. Jeonghan. The youngest ever to have ever won the Games. A little birdy has told me the two of you are… close.”

Jeonghan goes rigid.

Bauble mutters something under her breath; Jeonghan thinks it might be a cuss. On screen, Caesar keeps his smile, but the question lands with precision.

You tilt your head, feigning thoguthfulness. “Jeonghan is my mentor,” you say. “But more than that, he’s my best friend.”

The audience lets out a collective murmur.

Jeonghan grips the arms of his chair.

“He’s the strongest person I know,” you say. “And I’m lucky he never gave up on me. I’m going into these Games with more than most. I have his faith.”

The crowd bursts into applause.

Caesar touches his chest theatrically. “Well, if that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”

You smile. It’s a momentary slip in your carefully curated image, as if the thought of love and Jeonghan brings you a genuine sort of joy. The audience catch that, too, and the applause only gets louder.

Jeonghan lets out a breath. Not quite a sob. Not quite relief. But it’s something.

Because if he can’t protect you with his own hands, then he’ll let the Capitol fall in love with you. Let them send gifts, parachutes, lifelines.

Let them see what he’s always seen.

Later that night, Jeonghan finds himself staring at the ceiling.

The lights are off, the room mostly dark save for the faint Capitol glow filtering through the windows of his bedroom. It bleeds silver against the walls, but Jeonghan’s eyes are trained on the shadows.

He’s been lying here for over an hour now, still in his clothes, hair unwashed and face unshaven, unable to summon the will to move. The interview replays in his head, your dress still shimmering in his memory, your voice steady and luminous beneath Caesar's showmanship.

You’d been a star. You—his star. And tomorrow, you will be in the arena.

He breathes out, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes until colors burst behind his lids. The pressure does nothing to stop the ache in his chest. Jeonghan sits up.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t.

He should stay put and not make this harder, but his body moves before his mind can catch up, and he’s halfway to your door when he finds you already there.

You’re barefoot. Wrapped in a soft Capitol robe. Your hair is tousled from tossing and turning, and your arms are folded tightly around yourself.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur.

His breath catches. “Me neither.”

For a long second, the two of you stand like that, inches apart, both unsure of what to say. Then Jeonghan steps back and pushes the door open wider.

“Come in.”

You don’t hesitate. You pass him with a soft rustle of fabric. He closes the door behind you and watches as you climb onto his bed without a word.

You’ve done something like this before. Too many times to count. But tonight, there’s no laughter. No quiet jokes. Just the hum of something deep and heavy.

You lay down on your side. Jeonghan crawls in after and faces you.

Usually, you’re the one who pulls him close when he startles awake from a nightmare. Usually, you’re the one whispering him back to sleep, pressing your fingers to his hairline and reminding him that he’s safe, he’s here. There’s no fire, no forest, no bloody bracelet.

Tonight, he wraps an arm around you instead.

Your nose brushes his collarbone. He feels your breath, warm and steady, and he shuts his eyes.

He wants to say it.

That he loves you.

That he has loved you from the moment you first yelled at him in the fields for cheating. That he has spent years loving you in silence, nursing the shape of your name in his chest like a prayer.

But the words rise to his throat and die there. They taste too much like a goodbye.

So instead, he presses a kiss to your forehead. This one, he thinks, is for the notes you two passed each other back in school.

Then one to your temple. For your parents, who he will now never be able to look at.

Then your cheek. For the time you threw out all the alcohol in his home and yelled at him until he agreed to only drink on special occasions.

A soft one to your eyelid. For your singing—the best in the goddamn district.

He kisses every part of your face except your lips. He doesn’t think he’d be able to stop, if he ever started there.

When you whisper his name, when you tuck yourself tighter into his arms like you mean to mold yourself into his very body, Jeonghan only holds you closer.

In a few hours, he will have to let you go.

But not yet.

Not yet.

V. YOON JEONGHAN, THE SINNER.

The arena comes into view and Jeonghan feels his stomach turn.

It’s a swamp.

Endless, waterlogged land choked with moss and trees heavy with rot. Mud so thick it might as well be quicksand. A heat haze distorts the sky in a way that makes it seem closer, like the clouds might melt onto the kids below.

The air looks like it stinks. Jeonghan knows it does. He’s smelled swamp before in the southern end of District 11, in the marshlands after the harvest. Stagnant water swallowing the weeds whole.

But the Capitol has made it worse. Of course they have.

The swamp is dotted with platforms. On screen, the tributes rise, one by one, as the countdown begins. All of them retch. A few are already shaking. One kid—the boy from 10, maybe—looks like he’s crying. Good. He won’t last an hour.

Jeonghan doesn’t look for Barley. He looks for you.

Your vitals blink steady on his monitor: elevated heart rate, but within reason. No signs of panic. Your face is unreadable on the screen, jaw set, eyes cutting ahead toward the Cornucopia or what passes for one in this muck.

It’s a wrecked fishing trawler, run aground in the center of the swamp, half-covered in algae and rust. Supplies are lashed to the deck with ropes, weapons tucked into fishing nets. Booby-trapped. Jeonghan knows it. The Gamemakers always hide teeth under the sugar.

“Swamp,” Seungcheol says, appearing beside him. The District 4 mentor. Tall, sun-weathered, wearing that half-smile Jeonghan used to think was charm and now knows is armor. “Our kids might actually stand a chance this year.”

“Let’s hope so,” Jeonghan replies without looking up.

He stares at your vitals. At your small figure on the screen. Still not moving, not even a twitch of hesitation. Just watching, waiting. The same way he’s seen you watch the sky from the train window, like you’re searching for something worth staying for.

The countdown hits zero. The gong sounds.

The Games begin.

The cameras flicker between chaos and slaughter. Screams crack the air, tinny and sharp over the Control Center’s monitors. Blood is spilled in less than five seconds—twin blades from District 1 find the neck of a smaller boy, and the Career pack forms with terrifying speed.

Jeonghan’s eyes scan screen after screen until he finds you.

You’re running—not to the Cornucopia, thank the gods—but to the left, where a pile of knapsacks and canteens are scattered among debris. You duck, swipe two, and pivot just as another tribute lurches at you.

Jeonghan’s heart stutters. You use the knapsack like a flail, slam it into their face, and bolt toward the trees.

Fast. Smart. Alive.

Barley is slower. He lingers too long, fumbling with a coil of rope. He nearly loses it when someone charges at him, but a girl from Six takes the hit instead. Her scream rises—then cuts off abruptly.

Barley scrambles, barely escaping with a dented pot and a bottle of water. He doesn’t make it far, but he’s alive. For now.

A cannon fires. The first.

The room of victors stills as the screen flashes the casualty to them.

District 12’s girl.

Jeonghan glances to his right, where Hansol is already on his feet. The victor doesn’t say a word. He just unplugs his data pad and walks out, the steel door hissing shut behind him. Jeonghan watches him go.

No one says anything. They rarely do.

District 12’s boy goes down not long after. Another cannon. Another name. Hansol won’t be back.

The bloodbath drags on. It’s brutal, but not long. Six tributes die before the hour is up. Jeonghan leans forward, tracking the green blip that marks you on his pad. You’re tucked in the trees, breathing hard. You’ve stopped to bury yourself beneath leaves and branches, taking a note straight out of Jeonghan’s playbook.

Next to Jeonghan, Seungcheol lets out a breath and mutters, “Good luck.”

“I don’t need luck,” Jeonghan replies, voice hoarse. “I need a miracle.”

Your green blip continues to blink.

Please stay that way, Jeonghan thinks.

You eventually make your slow, measured way through the muck of the arena. The swamp is vast, ringed with spiny trees, their roots like skeletal hands clawing out of the fetid water. Fog coils through the underbrush. Every few hours, something hisses or howls from the shadows. It's hell in technicolor, broadcast to every screen in Panem.

You move with caution, dragging your left leg slightly—favoring the ankle you twisted on the first day, slipping on moss-covered stone. He winces every time he sees you falter.

Capitol patrons have been generous.

You’re pretty, and that counts for something. The dress they stuffed you into during the Tribute Parade did what it was meant to do. More importantly, you spoke like someone worth listening to during the interview. You’ve earned your sponsors. Jeonghan watches the pledge count climb.

But the funds dwindle faster than he likes. Bandages, food, painkillers—they cost more than you’d think. The sponsors pay for entertainment, not mercy. And half the job of being a mentor is making the calls no one else wants to make.

Barley hasn’t eaten in two days.

Jeonghan sees the boy stumbling along the banks of the stagnant pond, mouth cracked dry, trying desperately to chew a reed that isn’t remotely edible. His heart twists. Barley’s vitals flicker. Pulse dropping, dehydration setting in.

Jeonghan’s finger hovers over the interface. He has enough to send a protein bar. It’s not much, but it’ll get the kid through another day.

Then, you scream.

It’s sharp, sudden, a sound that guts him. On-screen, you go down hard, hand clutching your side. Blood blooms at your waist, seeping into the saturated soil. A mutt. Something you had gotten away from through the skin of your teeth.

A silver parachute of life-saving supplies cuts through the arena. It is not for Barley.

The cannon fires that night. A low, guttural boom. It is not for you.

Jeonghan closes his eyes. He can imagine it already. The projected photo of Barley, lighting up the night sky. Announcing his death. Broadcasting Jeonghan’s failure.

He exhales slowly, jaw clenched. It should never have come down to a choice.

But it always does.

He doesn’t check your reaction. He doesn’t think he’d survive it, anyhow.

Hours later, the camera feed switches to your sector. For the first time since the Games have started, you’re not alone.

District 7’s boy—the one with the heavy shoulders and steady hands—and District 9’s wiry, sharp-eyed tribute fall into step beside you. Glances are exchanged. Supplies are shared. It’s enough. For now.

Jeonghan doesn’t like it.

“She always this trusting?” Jihoon asks from where he’s perched near one of the monitors, arms crossed tightly.

“Not usually,” Jeonghan replies, cool. “Must be desperation.”

Seokmin leans against the paneling, softer, more optimistic. “They seem like they’re good kids. Maybe it helps her chances.”

“Or maybe they’ll gut her in her sleep.”

Jihoon frowns. “They’re not like that.”

Jeonghan doesn't respond. He watches you divvy up some dried fruit, offering the larger portion to the boy from Nine, who grins and says something the cameras don’t pick up. You smile back, faint. Tired.

A part of Jeonghan wants to tell you to run, but he also knows you won’t get too far.

The tentative truce lasts for three nights.

On the fourth, you’re the one on watch. Jeonghan knows you haven’t slept more than a couple hours at a time. You’re running on adrenaline and stubbornness.

At midnight, the boy from Nine rolls over. Pretends to murmur in his sleep. You lean in to listen, and Jeonghan nearly screams at his screen.

The boy from Nine pounces.

The boy from Seven follows a second later. They work in tandem, practiced.

They hold you down, your legs thrashing against the swampy ground. You’re muffled by the palm of a hand over your mouth.

These things happened. Jeonghan watched it year in, year out. But never to one of his, never to—

The cameras zoom in just in time to catch the glint of your blade as it drives upward into the shoulder of District 9’s boy. Always keep your weapon within reach, Jeonghan had advised you. Even when you’re half-awake. I had a rock. Have—anything.

Seokmin’s tribute howls. You break free.

Jeonghan’s fists are clenched. He doesn’t breathe until you’re sprinting through the trees again, bleeding but alive.

A couple of seats away—Jihoon and Seokmin share twin looks of horror.

“I didn’t know,” Jihoon croaks.

“Neither did I,” Seokmin murmurs, paling. “Jeonghan, I’m—”

But Jeonghan rounds on them like a storm breaking over the Control Center. He’s up on his feet in the next moment, angry in a way that nobody has ever seen. It confirms the rumors that had been swirling, puts down the cards that he’s held so close to his chest.

“Didn’t know? That’s all you’ve got?” Jeonghan snarls as he yanks Seokmin away from the panel, nearly sending the victor to the ground. “You raised these motherfuckers!”

“They’re tributes, Jeonghan,” Jihoon snaps back, maneuvering so he can also face Jeonghan’s rage. “They’re just trying to survive.”

“So is she!”

Bauble grabs Jeonghan by the elbow before he can do any more damage. “Enough,” she commands. “Outside. Now.”

Jeonghan shakes her off but lets himself be steered out of the room. The door shuts behind them with a heavy click. He presses his back against the cold wall, jaw clenched.

Bauble doesn't say anything. Just waits. Escorts typically didn’t interfere at this point in the Games, but Bauble had taken it upon herself when she seemed to realize how much of a hold you had on the man that was supposed to be keeping you alive.

Jeonghan covers his face with his hands. He doesn’t cry. He just breathes like he might come apart.

Inside the Control Center, the screens roll on. You’re alone again.

When Jeonghan returns, nobody talks about his outburst. There have been worse. Actual physical alterations. Victors spewing cusses, calling each other monsters. Forgiveness always came after the fact, but Jeonghan chooses peace and refuses to look at anyone else for the next hour.

The swamp only grows crueler.

There’s a haze that clings low to the ground, thick with spores and heat, and it makes the cameras flicker with static.

The Gamemakers let it linger. They always do when the numbers dwindle. Suffering looks better through distortion.

Jeonghan leans forward in his seat, eyes locked to the primary monitor. Your figure stumbles into frame—mud-caked, limping, one arm clutched uselessly to your ribs. The blood there isn’t fresh. He knows what that means.

The camera’s too far to see your expression, but he doesn’t need to. You’ve gone quiet. No more traps, no more clever distractions. No more running. You’re just trying to stay upright.

Something shifts in the mist behind you. Fast. Deliberate. Another tribute.

Jeonghan’s fists slam into the console.

He doesn’t hear the rest. The monitor blares as the tribute from Two emerges—a heavyset girl with a jagged blade and fury behind her eyes. You try to run, but your body gives out two steps in. Your knees hit the water first.

It’s not a fight. It’s a beating.

Jeonghan’s knuckles go white. He watches you crawl, desperate and drowning, as the girl drags the blade across your calf to slow you further. The water goes dark. You barely scream.

The camera cuts to a tight shot. Your face, smeared in blood and mud. Mouth slack. Eyes unfocused.

Then—

Your lips move.

Tiny. Cracked. Fragile.

But he sees it. He swears he does.

His name.

Hannie, you’re mouthing, pleading, praying.

Bauble says something behind him. A warning. A reminder. Jeonghan doesn’t hear it.

Jeonghan stands too fast. The chair clatters to the floor behind him. His hands press to the screen like he could reach through it, like if he could just touch you, anchor you, you’d remember how to live.

But the screen stays cold, and you go still.

Jeonghan’s breath shudders in his chest. He turns wildly like he might find something in the corners of the room to fix this.

The remaining victors pointedly ignore his panic. They can’t do anything, either. They’re not about to waste their few resources on a tribute that isn’t theirs, even if Jeonghan begged and bled himself dry at their feet.

There’s nothing. Jeonghan has given you everything he has, and it wasn’t enough.

Until the vitals blink.

Once. Twice. Slow, but there.

A faint pulse.

You’re alive.

Jeonghan stares, disbelieving. The tribute has already vanished into the haze, too bloodied to check if you’re breathing, or cruel enough not to care. Either way, it’s a mistake. One Jeonghan won’t let stand.

He reels back from the screen. “Stay with her,” he tells Bauble, voice rough. “Monitor everything.”

Bauble looks up. “What are you—”

But he’s already moving. Out the door, down the corridor. The Peacekeepers outside the Control Center don’t stop him.

There had always been whispers.

That Jeonghan was the victor they couldn’t market. The one with the too-sharp tongue and eyes that didn’t flinch when Capitol cameras pressed too close.

He smiled wrong. Loved wrong. Didn’t cry when his family died in that fire.

Too clean. Too convenient.

It had given him nothing to lose.

But now—

Now he has you.

He finds her at the champagne bar just off the Viewing Floor. Gilded, powdered, draped in silk. The richest woman in the Capitol within arm’s reach. Her name doesn’t matter.

Jeonghan takes a breath. Thinks of you.

Then he smiles.

The kind of smile they remember. The kind that sells promises he’ll never keep. His voice is velvet when he approaches, belying the desperation thrumming through his veins.

“You wanted to know what it was like to be wanted by a victor,” he says in lieu of a proper greeting, brushing her wrist with his fingertips. “How lucky. I’ve just remembered how to want.”

The socialite laughs. Bright, predatory.

He keeps smiling, even as his stomach turns. Even as the shame claws at the inside of his throat.

Her room reeks of expensive perfume and debauchery.

It’s in a suite at the top of one of the Capitol towers, walls made of glass and floors of velvet. It's the kind of place meant to make you feel small, make you grateful. Jeonghan doesn’t feel anything at all.

She kisses like she wants to devour him—painted nails digging into his back, her breath warm with wine and old longing. He lets her.

He performs.

Every soft sound, every graze of his lips, every practiced flick of his tongue—he gives it like it means something. He moans where she wants him to, touches her the way she’s probably imagined in her loneliest hours. He thinks of your face, dirt-smudged and bloodied, of the shape your mouth made when you whispered his name.

It’s not her he’s kissing. Not really.

He imagines it’s you beneath him. Imagines you needing him like this, touching him like this, loving him like this.

It doesn’t help.

She arches beneath him and calls him beautiful. He’s a bit clumsy, having never done any of this before, but it only serves to make him more endearing. A gorgeous thing that had to be broken in.

He had wanted it so badly to be you. He can almost picture it, can almost taste it. How you’d laugh in between kisses. How you’d moan as his hands roamed. How you’d be everything and more.

When the woman cries out, Jeonghan doesn’t answer. His eyes are already on the ceiling.

It’s over in minutes. A quick, efficient transaction wrapped in silk sheets and false gasps.

She sprawls beside him, sated, smug. Jeonghan slips from the bed before she can say anything else. She doesn’t ask him to stay. She already knows how these things go, having sampled her fair share of male victors who were just as desperate.

Jeonghan doesn’t shower. Doesn’t have the time for it.

He just dresses in silence, pocketing the cred-chip she leaves on the table beside a crystal flute of champagne. He doesn’t drink it.

The elevator ride back down is quiet. His hands tremble.

By the time he returns to the Control Center, his mask is back in place. Bauble doesn’t say anything, just glances at the chip he slides across the desk.

“Enough for a full care package,” she confirms. “Weapon, medicine, some soup. We’ll drop it.”

Jeonghan nods and looks back to the monitor.

You’re still breathing.

He presses his palm to the screen again and thinks of the myth you had loved so much as a child. The one with the fool—Orpheus, his name might have been—trying to lead his lover out of hell.

“Wait for me,” Jeonghan croaks to no one in particular. To you. Always to you. “I’m coming.”

The silver parachute lands. You reach for it with quivering fingers.

You live for two more days.

In those days, the swamp falls quiet.

No more cannon fire. No more mutts. Just you and the girl from District 4, standing ankle-deep in water that smells like rot and victory.

Your blade is slick in your grip, hands trembling. You don’t even know where you’re bleeding from anymore. Every inch of you aches. Your body doesn’t feel like your own.

The girl sways on her feet. She’s young. Too young. Her cheeks are streaked with mud and old blood, her breathing ragged. Her eyes are empty.

You both know it ends here.

“Please,” you choke out. It takes a moment to register that you’re not begging to survive.

The words come with tears, with all the wreckage of what’s been done to you. “Finish it,” you rasp, your fingers tight around your scythe not with the intent to strike. Just to have something to steady you.

Your opponent doesn’t move.

Up in the Control Center, it’s just Jeonghan and Seungcheol.

Everyone else has gone. The other victors. The escorts. This is between two districts, two tributes, two victors.

Jeonghan doesn’t look at Seungcheol. He can’t.

Back in the arena, you crumple to your knees, exhausted beyond belief. The swamp laps at your legs.

“Please,” you whisper again. “Please.”

The girl’s hands tremble. She looks at you like she’s seeing something else—someone else. She takes one step forward, then stops. Her fingers close around the handle of her knife.

You don’t flinch.

Then she speaks.

“You know Seungcheol, right?”

You blink, confused.

She forces a smile, small and broken. “My mentor,” Seungcheol’s tribute offers. “Tell him—tell him I’m going to miss him the most.”

Manipulated footage makes it look like you pushed her backward.

Jeonghan and Seungcheol see it as it happens. How the girl takes an intentional step back. How you reach for her, trying to stop her, only to watch her sink in quicksand that has been exacerbated by the Gamemakers.

The arena swallows her up.

The cannon doesn’t fire for several long seconds.

The sound, when it comes, is muffled. Like the swamp itself is mourning her.

You scream. You scream until your throat gives out. You’re still screaming as you’re declared the victor, as you sob into the wetlands, as you’re lifted out.

In the Control Center, Seungcheol’s hands curl into fists in his lap.

His eyes fixed on the screen. Dry.

Jeonghan finally turns to him. “Cheol—” he starts, but Seungcheol shakes his head.

“She’s coming home,” Seungcheol says, flat. “There’s your miracle, Yoon.”

And Jeonghan is sorry for it, sure, but he’s still much more grateful.

V. YOON JEONGHAN, YOURS.

Jeonghan doesn’t remember the walk to the Capitol hospital. He remembers leaving the Control Center. He remembers running.

The hallway is sterile and humming when he gets there. He knows where they’ve taken you. Of course he knows. He’s watched every moment of your suffering. He could trace the outline of your wounds with his eyes closed.

The nurse outside your room says something—protocol, maybe. He doesn’t hear her.

He shoulders his way in.

The lights are dimmed, the machines are quiet, but the sight of you lands like a gut punch. Jeonghan falters in the doorway.

You look like you’ve been hollowed out.

There’s barely anything left of the tribute he watched fight through blood and betrayal. Bandages snake around your limbs and torso. Your face is pale beneath layers of grime they haven’t scrubbed away yet. Your lips are split. Your eyes—

You don’t even blink.

He takes a step closer, slow, careful, like approaching a wild animal. His hand lifts, fingers reaching for your cheek, like he might cradle it the way he used to in the dark of the Control Center, whispering to your image like you could hear him.

But the second he touches you—

You flinch.

Hard.

Jeonghan’s heart stops. His hand drops back to his side like it’s been burned.

You don’t look at him. You just tremble, shoulders curling in, your breathing shallow, your eyes still fixed on something beyond him. Beyond the room. Beyond now.

It’s the first time you’ve ever pulled away from him.

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

Part of him wants to fall to his knees. To apologize. For what, he couldn’t name. For not stopping the Games? For not being able to keep you from breaking? For still being here when so much of you has been scraped raw?

The silence presses in like swampwater, like a forest fire. Suffocating, unforgiving.

Jeonghan turns and lowers himself into the corner of the room. The floor is cold. The chair is too far. He needs to be here, close, even if you can’t stand his touch.

He wraps his arms around his knees and stares at you.

Your stare doesn’t move. Not to him. Not to anything.

He’s seen this look before. He wore it once, too.

Jeonghan swallows past the ache in his throat and speaks, barely audible. “I’m here. I’ll stay here. As long as you need.”

You don’t respond.

He doesn’t expect you to.

He settles into the silence like a penance and waits.

He waits for you to go through all the medical procedures. He waits for you to get an entire day's worth of sleep. He waits, even as the stylists dress you up like a doll.

Gossamer fabric, soft pastels to soften your image. Something that whispers vulnerability, not violence. They work in silence, careful around the raw edges of your skin, the lingering bruises.

You don’t wince anymore. You just endure.

Jeonghan watches from the wings of the stage, heart in his throat.

The stage lights bloom too bright. Caesar’s teeth gleam under them like weapons. The audience cheers. Applause swells.

And you? You walk out on trembling legs.

There was a time your smile could light up a room. Now it flickers, half-formed, and dies before it reaches your eyes.

Caesar catches your hand, holds it up for the crowd. You don’t pull away, but Jeonghan sees it—the way your fingers twitch, like they remember what it’s like to hold a weapon.

“Our newest victor!” Caesar announces. The crowd roars.

Jeonghan leans forward in the shadows. He wants to run to you. To shield you from the cameras, the crowd, Caesar’s well-meaning questions that twist into knives.

“How are you feeling?” Caesar asks.

Your voice is soft. Hoarse. “I’m alive.”

A ripple of awkward laughter. Caesar tries to coax something out of you, a joke, a quip, the spark you once had. But it’s gone. Buried so deep, not even you know where to look.

Your fingers keep trembling. You tuck your hands in your lap to hide it.

Jeonghan watches every second.

They want a victor. A hero. A darling. But all they get is a shell.

And Jeonghan can’t do anything but watch.

They crown you in front of Panem.

Golden laurels rest atop your bowed head, catching the light like a final joke. President Snow stands behind you, hand heavy on your shoulder.

You don’t shirk. You don’t cry. You barely breathe.

Jeonghan stands at the lower steps of the stage, jaw clenched tight.

The crowd is euphoric. Flashbulbs pop. Your name chants through the air like a war cry, over and over, and all Jeonghan can think is how hungry they look. Like they want to eat you alive.

You rise slowly when Snow lifts your chin. He presents you as the Capitol’s newest sweetheart—shattered and bloodstained and beautiful.

Jeonghan’s stomach twists. He hates it. The theatrics. The flowers. The falseness. The way they cheer for your trauma.

Later, at the afterparty, the music swells and champagne flows. You sit somewhere under a too-bright chandelier, being toasted by strangers with leering eyes.

Jeonghan tries to keep to the fringes, but he doesn’t escape for long.

The President finds him near the garden terrace, glass of something untouched in Jeonghan’s hand. The air stills around them like the world knows something dangerous is coming.

“Quite the victor,” Snow says mildly. “She’s memorable. Fragile in a way that sells well.”

Jeonghan says nothing.

Snow steps closer. His smile is polite. Tight. “You should be proud. The Capitol hasn’t felt this invested in years.”

A beat.

“Of course,” Snow adds, sipping from his flute, “such devotion comes at a price.”

Jeonghan’s throat tightens.

Snow glances at him, all cool amusement. “Do thank that patron of yours again. Very generous. Desperation makes strange bedfellows, doesn’t it?”

Jeonghan goes cold. His skin prickles. He can’t move.

“She’s lovely, your girl,” Snow goes on, seeming unconcerned by the conversation that has been one-sided insofar. “I do hope she doesn’t become... inconvenient.”

And with that, the devil leaves.

Jeonghan stumbles through the crowd, past gilded dancers and glass towers of champagne. He finds a bathroom, locks the door behind him, and falls to his knees.

He vomits until there’s nothing left.

Even then, he doesn’t stop heaving.

He empties himself out and drinks some more until he’s sick again. He thinks of what it means to be a victor—what you stand to lose if you don’t bend to the Capitol’s will.

Will you blame him for doing his job as a mentor? Will you wish you could’ve been like Seungcheol’s tribute, could’ve ended things clean and quiet like Barley?

On the way back to District 11, the train hums softly beneath the two of you. A lullaby for no one.

You sit by the window, forehead pressed to the glass, eyes on the blur of passing scenery. Home. Whatever that means now.

Jeonghan sits across from you. Not too close. Not too far. Just... there.

It’s been hours since either of you spoke. Days, really, because the most you’ve given Jeonghan are pleasantries and nods and thousand-yard stares.

Sometimes, a cruel part of him thinks it’s a fate worse than death.

Your voice breaks the silence like a match in the dark.

“I’m sorry.”

Jeonghan blinks himself out of his hungover stupor. His fingers tighten around the edge of his seat as he looks towards you, searching. “Why?”

“For flinching.”

His chest caves around the answer. “No,” he says quickly, too quickly. “Gods, no. I should be the one apologizing.”

You turn to him. Just barely. But he sees it in your eyes. You know.

He swallows. Tries to laugh, like it might smooth the sharp edges.

You don’t smile in return.

Jeonghan’s heart beats like a war drum. He wants to say something that makes it okay. That makes any of it okay.

But there’s nothing. Just the soft hum of the train. The ghost of everything that can never be undone.

“You saved my life,” you whisper.

He looks at you, really looks at you this time, and it almost ruins him.

Because he did. And he didn’t. Not really.

He pulled you out of the arena, but the arena never left. It will never leave. It lives in your eyes now. In your silence. In the way your shoulders curl inward like you’re still waiting to be hurt.

This is it.

Your lives now.

This train. This distance. Mentorship, and memory, and never quite touching because love is too heavy a thing to carry on top of nightmares and broken backs.

Jeonghan turns his gaze back to the window. He tucks his love for you deep, where it can’t rot anything else. It won’t do you any good now.

You may warm up to him one day, may come to forgive all he did to keep you around for longer. But as the song once did go—

Nothing will ever grow quite the same.

The train speeds on.

Outside, the sprawling fields of District 11 come into sight.

#jeonghan x reader #jeonghan imagines #jeonghan angst #svthub #keopihausnet #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #svt angst #seventeen angst #svt imagines #seventeen imagines #jeonghan fic #(🥡) notebook #(💎) page: svt

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bubblesxo · 2 days ago

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Pope Francis didn’t just talk about climate change a few times—he wrote whole encyclicals on it, the first one 20 years ago!! That one is Laudato Si, and then he wrote a follow-up called Laudato Deum in 2023.

20 years ago and he was dropping bars like “This sister [Mother Earth] now cries out to us because of the harm we have inflicted on her by our irresponsible use and abuse of the goods with which God has endowed her. We have come to see ourselves as her lords and masters, entitled to plunder her at will. The violence present in our hearts, wounded by sin, is also reflected in the symptoms of sickness evident in the soil, in the water, in the air and in all forms of life. This is why the earth herself, burdened and laid waste, is among the most abandoned and maltreated of our poor; she “groans in travail” (Rom 8:22). We have forgotten that we ourselves are dust of the earth (cf. Gen 2:7); our very bodies are made up of her elements, we breathe her air and we receive life and refreshment from her waters.” (Link)

(I do a little bit of yapping on Pope Francis and Catholic Church politics under the cut)

Pope Francis obviously wasn’t perfect, and while that doesn’t absolve him from responsibility, he has been inclusive to openly gay priests (so long as they remain celibate alongside their straight counterparts) and said “If they [gay priests] accept the Lord and have goodwill, who am I to judge them? They shouldn't be marginalized. The tendency [same-sex attraction] is not the problem... they're our brothers.” (Link - which shows a range of quotes on differing LGBT topics.) This is a great direction to go in, and he’s been saying stuff like this since 2013. There’s a reason people call him disgusting names like “antipope” and worse, and why sedevacantists were able to pick up so many homophobes in this time. (Sedevacantists believe that there was no legitimate pope during Pope Francis’s papacy and even beforehand; they’re associated with Vatican II denial and right wing rhetoric; “sede vacante” = seat vacant, which it actually is, but only because Pope Francis passed away. Link.)

As a Catholic myself, Pope Francis’s actions and words have been an incredible step in the right direction. Last year he held the Synod on Synodality (link), which has been described as the most important event in the Catholic Church since Vatican II (link). Women and other laity were able to vote in a synod for the first time ever, and though we can’t tell for sure what the concrete changes are going to be, if any, this is what conservative Cardinal Gerhard Ludwig Müller had to say about it—he said that "some in the assembly are 'abusing the Holy Spirit' in order to introduce 'new doctrines' such as an acceptance of homosexuality, women priests, and a change in Church governance." (Link)

Catholics are, by far, not one-size-fits-all. Within the Church, we have different theologies and philosophies and viewpoints stretching back centuries or more. For example, the Jesuits—of which Pope Francis was one—are well-known for their focus on social justice since their 32nd General Council under Father Arrupe in the 1970s (link), which has roots in their Jesuit heritage going back to their work with confraternities, hospitals, missionaries, and more in the 1500s on. Some people might remember Fr. Daniel Berrigan, SJ, who, among others, burned draft records and broke into and vandalized nuclear weapon manufacturing during the Vietnam War and other events going on in the mid-to-late 1900s. The Jesuits also have a history in Latin America, where many were killed after CIA-backed coups put in right-wing military dictatorships in the ‘80s. The Jesuit Refugee Service is still giving humanitarian aid to people along these routes and even in Nicaragua, where all Jesuits have been expelled and Catholics are very much censored.

Anyway, I digress. Sorry for going on a bit of a side tangent. My main point was that Catholics can be conservative, but also have been moving in a good direction for quite some time. Those who tend to appreciate going forward also tend to appreciate Pope Francis. Those who tend to prefer what many will picture when they think of Catholicism (as strict only-Latin Mass judgy heretic-haters) will tend to be less favorable toward him, or even go so far as to say some truly despicable things. My point is, I agree with the previous points that—while no one is under any obligation to stop disagreeing with someone or to like someone—‘perfect’ tends to kill ‘better.’

Pope Francis cannot be said to be conservative within the bounds of the Catholic Church—outside of it, that’s up to others, but inside, his announcements and quotes have been very straightforward in advocating for social justice, an end to war (notably, recently, and repeatedly he called for peace in Gaza—link), real action against climate change, an end to the mass-deportations in the USA (and in 2016 said that anyone who builds a wall to keep out migrants is “not Christian”—link), and a love for all of our neighbors.

I can’t police what anyone thinks about him, and while he has said things before that people can be upset about, he has also said many things that people would appreciate and agree with. I personally would say that he is progressive—and moreso than many secular progressives I’ve seen in the modern day. Obviously he couldn’t do everything that he wanted to, but he did a lot, and I appreciate him for being a good role model for the youth of the Catholic Church today.

fondly remembering when pope francis said he hopes hell is empty. top pope francis moments. right up there with him saying some seminaries are too faggy

#NOT TARGETED TO PREV #I just love talking about Laudato Si #also pope formosus mention goes hard here

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dcxdpdabbles · 2 days ago

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Do you have any plans to continue https://www.tumblr.com/dcxdpdabbles/758079736394170368/dcxdp-fanfic-idea-lights-and-camera?source=share ?

It's just so good!

Tim was in the fetal position in the corner of his closet. The rest of his team was trying to coax him out with various offerings- Kon held up soda, Cassie had steaming brownies, and Bart was waving around comics- but nothing seemed to be enough to get Tim to crawl out of his hiding place.

Dick watched form the bedroom doorway, wondering if the Young Justice team were able to handle another one of Tim's meltdowns. He figured he would give them the benefit of the doubt and let them handle things until he needed to step in.

"Psh psh psh" Kon coos, croching just outside the open doorway of he closet. "Here, Timmy, Timmy, come on out, buddy. Psh psh psh"

"He's not a cat, Kon!" Cassie sighs before she lowers her voice in a sharp command while snapping her fingers. "Timothy. Come! Now, boy, come here!"

"Treating him like a dog isn't going to work either, Cassie." Bart laughs, looking far too amused to be leaning over the heavy hitters of his team.

Dick wasn't entirely sure what Tim had said to the Ghost King but whatever he said was bad enough that he had ran straight to his room and thrown himself dramatically in the closet with a wail. It's a strange habit he's had since he was young.

Once Dick witnissed Tim hide inside his closet for missing a step at WE and rolling down the stairs. Instead of being mad that he broke his leg, Tim was more horrified that the people in the lobby had watched him fall.

If Kryptonite was enough to stop Superman, Public Embarrassment was enough to stop Red Robin.

"I can never be seen by mortal eyes again!" Tim wails, hand reaching out to snatch the brownies from Cassie's hands. His following words were muffled somewhat by the treat he attempted to eat in one bite. "I told the prettiest boy to ever walk the Earth that I wanted to get him out of his pants for the right price and he thinks I called him a whore when I meant I wanted to buy his pants!"

"Just tell him, English is your second language, and you messed up the translation!" Bart offered cheerfully. "You can pretend to be Russian!"

"Or French," Conner counters, wagging his eyebrows. "You know the language of love. Let that pretty boy know what your intentions are."

"I think he let his intentions be known pretty well when he offered that money to get that boy out of his pants. How much was it again, Tim? A hundred dollars?"

The wailing increases in volume and Dick sighs deeply. He uncrosses his arms, moving away from where he was leaning on the door. Kon already knew he was there, but Bart and Cassie both sent him surprised looks when he moved to crouch down beside them.

It was always fun to scare people with the training that Bruce had carefully taught him.

He smiles at the sight of his brother, who is now lying on his side, in the fetal position. Tim was attempting to eat the brownies from the corner of his mouth, tears rolling down his face, and looking for all intents and purposes like he was having a proper meltdown.

"Hey there bu-dy" Dick sings grinning when Tim's eyes sharpen long enough to realize he's just teasing before he goes back to attempting to become one with the floor. "Bruce wants to have a debrief on how to apologize to the library boy."

"What?" Tim blinks, lifitng his head slightly to give Dick a overly hopeful expression. There are brief flashes as thoughts race through Tim's mind, reflecting in his eyes before he seems to brighten. "Bruce got me a second chance!?"

"Officially, this is to prevent a level 15 threat from destroying half the planet over a potential personal offense." Dick shrugs smiling more as Tim sits up, wiping the crumbs from his face. "Unofficially, he doesn't like his son to be heartbroken and set up a chance for you to apologize with the Level 15 threat."

"I'm sorry, what do you mean the library boy is a level 15 threat?" Kon cuts in, voice flat. "Was he not just some guy who could make really cool Fandom clothes?"

"Oh, Danny is the Ghost King, but that's beside the point,t" Dick waves his hand dismissively. "We have to go over the advice I gave you. I honestly don't understand how you butchered it that badly."

"You said to complement his interests!" Tim counters angrily. "To avoid giving compliments that involved his appearance, especially if it wasn't something he could change! I did, and all that happened was that he got upset!"

"Yeah, that's why Bruce set up an entire simulation in the cave, for you to practice with, because honestly, Tim, how could you mess up that badly with simple instructions?"

"I have to agree with Disco-man," Cassie says, disappointed. You need training before you talk to the Library boy.

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #Light and Camera #Part 2 #Dead Tired #Bruce set up exact repulica of the libary in the basment #tim is a simp #When he gets nervous he just speaks faster then brain can keep uop with #Dick is used to the melt downs

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rafescherie · 2 days ago

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✮⋆˙ rafe accidentally finds out about your praise kink.

warnings — none, really! praise + praise kink, sexual tension.

cherie's note — i was inspired by a tweet on twitter and i knew i had to write it for rafe omg... this is your sign to get your license if you don't have it yet ˵ •̀ᴗ•́˵

a perfect stop.

the infamous black truck idles in his driveway, your fingers gripping against the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary, heart racing.

you glance over at rafe, the boy sat comfortably in the leather seat of his passenger side, waiting for the inevitable commentary. his leg bounces absentmindedly, giving you a small nod of approval — a job well done. not that you had gone far — riding down the dirt marsh roads out of sight from any other vehicle and back, but it was something.

"well?" you ask, a little too eager, a little too nervous.

he doesn't answer right away — lets the tension build between them in that egotistical way he always seemed to do. rafe had a way of making people uncomfortable, he knew that. he watches you for a second. you look flushed — focused and proud and still kind of buzzing from the adrenaline.

"you did good," he remarks, popping the seatbelt out of the lock, "proud of you, kid."

it lands in the silence like a dropped match.

your entire body reacts — shoulders stiffening, breath catching, and your eyes very pointedly avoid his. like if you stare straight ahead long enough, he won't notice how your cheeks had just gone pink — how the heat had crept up your neck, and tinted your ears a shade of red.

but rafe notices everything.

he tilts his head. "...what?"

"nothing."

his brows furrow, confused. just minutes ago, things had been good between you both — normal. but now, you shift uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze while sitting in his driver's seat, flustered and itching for relief from the mortification.

but you look almost... shy — bashful, like his comment had struck something deep inside of you, something not even you were certain about.

"you good?"

"i'm fine," you mutter, eyes darting out towards the window in a hopeful attempt at escape.

oh.

it clicks in his head, the silence between you cracking open just wide enough to let the truth push through. the conversation replays in his mind, each word now laced with meaning he'd missed before. his lips twitch — not with malice, but with something far more dangerous.

a knowing grin spreads across his face like wildfire. he shifts, slow and casual, slinging an arm over the back of your seat, fingers just brushing your shoulder. warmth trails where his skin almost meets yours. "no fucking way..." he breathes, eyes locked on you, "you like being praised."

the words hang in the air like smoke, thick and stifling.

you freeze. the heat rushes to your face, flooding down your neck, settling in your gut like liquid fire. his tone is cocky — but it lands like a challenge. you can't seem to meet his gaze.

"i do not!" you fire back, weakly, the protest wilting on your tongue even as it leaves your lips. you sound unconvincing — it sounds untrue to your own ears. because it is.

a low, triumphant laugh rumbles in his chest. he leans closer, "that's why you always get all weird when i say that shit — compliment you. i thought you were just shy." his voice dips, an octave above a purr, all too pleased with himself. "but — damn."

you cover your face with your hands, wishing you could melt into your seat to avoid the embarrassment brewing in your chest. "can we please talk about something else?"

but he's watching you too closely now — every twitch, every breath. his expression is unreadable, but the look in his eyes is anything but innocent.

and for a second, he looks like he had decided to drop it. finally.

"hey," he says, after a pause. his voice is quieter now, closer. there's something softer beneath the teasing edge.

"what?" you murmur, reluctantly glancing over at him. your eyes shine — with embarrassment, with frustration, with shame.

"you did good today, baby."

it hits harder than it should. like a punch to the stomach and a hand to the threat. you groan, half a protest, half a plea, and shove at his arm — weakly, pointlessly. his laugh fills the truck, deep and unfiltered, vibrating through the close air.

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novahreign · 3 days ago

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Sinners

Elijah “Smoke” Moore x Lucinda “Lu/ Lil bit” Hawkins.

A/N: I wanted to give it a try. I’m a Smoke girlie. That’s my type of man.😜💙 I hope that you enjoy.

“Elijah. Please, don’t do this.” I begged gripping his bicep. “Please.” He gathered me in his arms.

I had been cheesing and humming all morning. Mama had gone into town and daddy was working, this was the only day that both of my parents would be gone and Elijah could come over. I finished my morning chores and freshened myself up from this hot Mississippi weather. I had been having sex with Elijah or Smoke, what most people called him, although I never taken a liken to it, for two full months and my folks were non the wiser. I smiled to myself, I just didn’t understand how something that was such a sin, felt so good. Elijah always knew how to me feel good, how to make me feel like a woman. He was always gentle too. Never harsh with me like he was to everyone else. My mother didn’t know what I saw in him, she just I didn’t understand, that’s all.

When Elijah came in, I was prepared to make love. He always did know how to work that thing between his legs to bring me so much pleasure, oh, and his tongue, sweet Mary, did he know how to use it on me, have me saying swear words that my mama would have my hind for, but instead of my sweet Elijah, I got the one with fear in his eyes. One I only saw a few times. He rushed inside and told me that he and his brother were leaving town. I could feel my heart bout to beat outta my chest. He gathered me in his arms, kissing the side of my head. “I gotta go Lu, don’t make this any harder for me.”

“Why are you doing this? Where are you going?!” I could feel my heart slowly crumbling as he worked to avoid my eyes. “Elijah, what did you do?”

His twin brother Elias “Stack” laid on the horn “Hurry nigga. We gots to go.” He seemed nervous as he scanned the dirt road. A man, I didn’t recognize sat in the drivers seat, kept his gaze straight ahead. “Smoke, let’s go!”

He looked at me with wary eyes “I gotta go baby.” He kissed me harder than he’d ever had before. I tried to savor every moment as I melted in his arm. “Promise me you’ll write.” I sensed his hesitation “You don’t have to say where you are, just let me know that you’re alright and that you’re thinking of me.”

He nodded his head “I’ll do that. I promise.” He kissed me one last time but before he made it to the end of the yard, I yelled out to him. “I love you Elijah.” He smirked “I love you too Lil bit.” I smiled faintly at the nickname that I hated, but would give anything to hear him say it forever. He hopped in the back of the car.

“Don’t forget to write.”

“I won’t! I promise.”

The car sped off down the road, leaving a cloud of dirt behind. I waved until I couldn’t see them anymore.

Sometime later, I learned that the twins killed their daddy or that’s Bessie’s grandmother was telling everybody. I know how cruel and evil his daddy could be and if that’s why he left then I could accept that. That was seven years ago. He never did write like he promised. I waited for years for a letter. Eventually I picked up the pieces of my heart and moved on as I best I could.

“Alright. Class is dismissed. You all go and make it home. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

“Bye, Ms. Hawkins.” The cute little brown faces of boys and girls exited the white painted barn that was used for schooling during the weekdays. I sighed as to face one little grumpy face child. I bit my cheek to keep from smiling but I put on my serious face.

“Lester Sims, You oughta be ashamed of the way that you carried on today.” His little frown loosened up some. “I expect better from you. You’re a smart boy and have a brain.” I tapped his head “Use it, because the next time you act like this, I’m liken to take a switch to you and I don’t want to have to do that, You hear me?”

He nodded his head and let out a gruff “Yes ma’am.”

“Alright now, gon and head home. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He stomped his way out of the barn as I began tidying up. I unsnapped the button to my blouse, it was hot as Satans tail in this classroom. Hearing footsteps I turned around.

“Lester, you’re always forgetting something, I tell you ever-“ my words got caught as I looked up.

“You as hard on poor Lester as your mama was on me and Stack.How you doing, Lu?”

I gripped the chair, to keep myself from falling, it was like looking at ghost. Elijah Moore stood in front of me. Bigger and more put together than I’ve seen a colored folk before. He tipped his hat “Elijah.” I said, my voice coming out way softer than I wanted or needed it to. Hell, I was mad at him. Seven years you’ve been gone and got the nerve to come back looking like this?! I cross my legs at the ankles. Seven years wasn’t enough time for my body to forget the only man to ever touch me. Then anger boiled in my chest. I dropped the broom, brushed past him, stomping my way out of the school, like Lester did. I was almost far enough when I felt a grip on my arm. I turned so fast bumping into his rock hard chest.

“Can we talk?” Tears welled up in my eyes.

“I don’t want to talk to you.” I tried my best to keep myself together. “Just stay the hell away from me.” I jerked from his arm, headed down the road, not once looking back. I couldn’t, not yet.

#elijah smoke moore #elias stack moore #sinners #michael b jordan #Smoke x Black oc #smoke x reader #Smoke x black fem

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theladybrownstarot · 2 days ago

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ꨄ︎𝐏𝐢𝐜𝐤-𝐀-𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐝: : 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ? ִֶָ

ꨄ︎-> ۶ৎ𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ִֶָ |۶ৎ𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐝-𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ִֶָ |۶ৎ𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞 ִֶָ |

HOW TO PICK A PILE ? Take a deep breathe , close your eyes after your open them up choose the pile where your sight goes first in calming inner silence . If you are called up by more than one pile you please feel to choose it .

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟏.

𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟏 ! 𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠:

۶ৎ In the month of May I can see you all being quite dominant , sharp , rude , straight and commanding for your things especially your own happiness . You won't mind cutting of people from your life who are not being of a part of your happiness but sadness . This month it's about being practica and rational for your emotional needs which needs to fulfilled , you are aligning yourself with respect to what you want most although be aware that whatever you do shall be always with a good purpose remembering whatever you are doing is for your own growth and happiness not some end goal pleasure . But anyways, let's not forget how happy you will be getting few wishes fulfilled also making your own way to be happy. I can well Feel that you have some deep questions regarding yourself in your life , which are being answered this month. Also,Possible that you may meet someone soon in this month only but I see you quite like keeping distance from them- for what? Perhaps because you want to focus on yourself . You will be taking care of yourself this month , protecting your energy and changing yourself accordingly to adjust with few things .

ᯓ★ EXTRA-MESSAGES : Chameleon , panther, squirrel , 9 , air signs , 11 th house , 8th house with Saturn or Jupiter them transiting.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟐.

𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟐 ! 𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠:

۶ৎ Okay so I can see that this month you will face a heartbreak than will receive something. I know it's quite up and down trying to grasp the meaning but let me make it simple - you might have Worked hard for something later on You didn't get it because of any reason then later on after some time you are getting it now this month only perhaps a pain taking experience or hard working leading to the results but if you won't get it than it's Just one of a significant experience in your life to shape you for further. This month is going to be challenging - being indecisive , facing things at once , people taking advantage , being insecure and pessimistic & somewhere being judged . Other than that you are being told to not reveal your thoughts to anyone for now this month or anything in significant or any detail that people can take and use it against you . Someone is leaving from your life . But the good part is that all these experiences will change your perception and mentality but yes how do will you take all these experience will decided things at last , apart it feels this month will block the path you were always stubbornly taking than changing so this is will removed and new will come after some time. Other than that you are being told to ground your energies since experiences will upside them down draining you, be open to this coming transitional time also keep less interaction with people .

ᯓ★ EXTRA-MESSAGES : Otter spirit , elephant spirit , 3 , 7 , 8 , air signs , significant Saturn/mars/rahu mahadasha going on .

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟑

𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟑 ! 𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠:

۶ৎ Okay so this month you all seem to be hopeful yups ! And infact I can see you wining here a lot with things you are working on despite the fact that you will be facing bit of obstacles which is only for enhancing you and your skills . There's is someone or something coming up in your life - an opportunity through communication . You are going to be fast this month infact things will be keeping you occupied here but it doesn't seem to faze or bore you infact you are enjoying the thrill taking new you experiences. You are going to successfully end the complete the healing period here you were on from previously before . Your health will be good too plus I can see you people having some major glowup this month or some voluntary changes! Perhaps hairstyle or something. Minor travels on the cards here .

ᯓ★ EXTRA-MESSAGES : Spider and ladybird spirit , 7 and 8 significant , fire sign and aquarius prominent here .

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grapejuice32 · 2 days ago

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Too Clingy?

Rafe x angel!reader

more angel!reader here main masterlist here

word count: 1.2k a/n: after speaking to Topper, angel worries that she's too clingy for Rafe

Since Rafe had confessed his love to you, things had been strange. There’d been a slight tension in the air between the two of you. You’d heard him, and he knew you’d heard him, but you hadn’t said it back. The only people that’d ever said the words ‘I love you’ to you, were your parents and they hadn’t said such words to you since you were fourteen. You were afraid to say the least, afraid that now he’d said the words, things were going to go downhill, you didn’t know any different.

So, in an attempt to try and make things better, he had surprised you by taking you out to dinner at the country club. You weren’t the biggest fan of eating at big restaurants, not that you’d ever told him that. You didn’t like that so many other people could see you eating, it made you strangely uncomfortable and you weren’t sure why, you’d just always felt that way. The two of you had just finished eating when he’d gotten up to go to the bar, wanting to get you guys more drinks and also having been waved over by Topper, Kelce and a couple of his other friends. He’d been gone for a while, and you had started to feel uncomfortable with all the kooks that keep glancing over at you disapprovingly. With your discomfort came a growing anxiety, and so you stood up to go and find Rafe.

When you got to the bar, Rafe wasn’t there, but his friends were. You attempted to turn away unnoticed, but luck wasn’t on your side. As you tried to make your escape, the sound of Topper’s voice calling your name out had you stopping in your tracks. You released a long breath and turned to face Rafe’s friends, a small and unconvincing smile tugging at your lips. “Do you guys, um, do you know where Rafe went?” Your voice was small as you spoke, avoiding meeting any of their eyes.

“What’s that? Can’t hear you, sweetheart.” Came his voice again, his words were mocking but you tried not to take it into account.

“I um, do you know where Rafe went?” You asked again, speaking up louder now, fiddling anxiously with the fabric of your skirt.

“What are you, his keeper or something?” The words were cruel, a bitter tone lining them, and they hit you harshly as you swallowed.

“I um-“

“You’re just so goddamn clingy,” he continued, his friends nodding along and chuckling at his words. “We barely even see him anymore since he got with you. You trying to pull him away from us all, huh? Recruit him into your freakish little cult or something?”

“No, I-“ you tried to speak again, tears burning your eyes. But you were cut off once again, only this time by the feeling of Rafe’s warm hand on your back.

“Hey, there y’are.” He spoke, softly to you, not looking much towards his friends. You didn’t say anything not wanting him to catch sight of your glassy eyes and be the cause of issues with his friends. “Y’want dessert?” He asked, knowing that you had a sweet tooth. So, when you shook your head, he was caught slightly off guard but nodded nonetheless and pressed a kiss to the side of your head. He began to lead you out of the club, waving over at his friends. You were completely silent on the drive back to yours and when he pulled up you got straight out of the car, not giving him time to open your door for you like he usually would.

You heard him swear under his breath as he followed after you, “Hey, hey, what’s goin’ on with you?” He asked in exasperation when you didn’t acknowledge him, just curling into the plethora of cushions that took up your bed. He huffed and sat on the side of your bed, “ ‘s this cause of what I said the other night?” You stayed quiet, your face buried in your pillows to hide your running tears. “If is cause of that, ‘m not gonna take it back, okay? I meant it, and you don’t, y’don’t have to say it back. ‘m not, I don’t expect that of you, okay? So, if that, if that’s what’s wrong, ‘s fine, I don’t mind that you didn’t say it back.”

“Am I too clingy?” you asked, voice muffled by pillows.

“What? Oh, baby, no. ‘f course not. Why would y’think that, huh?” His words were lined with concern.

What he said didn’t do anything to make you feel better though. “Am I with you too much? Do I take you away from your friends?” You felt his hand on the back of your head, his fingers beginning to run through your hair.

“No, course not. What makes y’say that, huh angel?” His words were warm like honey as he tried to soothe you.

“Just been thinking,” you said, your face still hidden in your frilly edged pillows.

He sighed, “Yeah? Thinkin’ ‘bout what?” Once again you didn’t answer and instead just shrugged. Rafe licked his lips and tried again, “Did the guys say somethin’ t’you? ‘s that what happened?” You froze up a bit, your form becoming rigid. “ ‘m gonna talk to them, alright?”

That got you to sit up quickly, “No, don’t, don’t do that.” The questioning gleam in his eyes and the way he tilted his head was enough to make you continue, “Don’t want them to hate me more than they already do.” He wanted to tell you they didn’t hate you, but he couldn’t, you wouldn’t believe him, and he knew his friends disliked you, that they judged you. A lot of people did. He moved to sit with his back to the headboard and scooped you up in his arms, pulling you into his lap and holding you close to his chest. He hummed as you lay your head in the crook of his neck, your warm puffs of breath against the skin of his neck cooling his rising anger.

“Look. What they think about you, or us, or any of it. It means nothin’ t’me, okay? Nothin’.” You tried to interrupt him, but he kept speaking. “ ‘m with you cause I wanna be. ‘m with you all the time cause I wanna be, cause I like bein’ around you. Your everythin’ to me, okay? Everythin’. Don’t give a fuck ‘bout any of them, okay?”

You nodded, “Okay. Yeah.”

“Yeah?” he repeated, so you nodded again in response.

“You know that I do, right?” You whispered shyly, not ready to say the words.

“I know.” He nodded.

You mimicked his actions, your hair tickling his neck as you did. “I just, I can’t um. Can’t, I just.”

“I know, ‘s okay. You jus’ can’t say it yet, and ‘s okay. Cause I know.” He assured, kissing the back of your head as he rubbed your back. “But I can say it, and ‘m gonna. I love you, angel. So, so much. Don’t care what anyone thinks, okay? I love you with everythin’ in me.”

a/n: requests are open

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vampni · 17 hours ago

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Bad advice, do not.

They can only properly help you if they know what‘s going on with you. If they have to play 20 questions and having to guess whether or not you‘re lying and not telling them things, they obviously can‘t properly help you.

Despite the stories of the few (yes in comparison to all the people you don‘t hear about it‘s few) people that didn’t do their job good or were stressed and snapped or are straight up assholes, most people in the medical profession actually want to help you. If they didn’t they wouldn’t deal with the whole stress and find any other job.

Also the blood donation story, while funny and a good story that does get you upset is doubtfully or happened in a very bad place. If alone for the nurses not wanting to clean up more blood and thus stemming the wound. Or a de-facto double donation not being something that‘s done. There‘s a reason the limit is set as it is.

#key rambles #stop mistrusting everyone pls #especially when their job is to help you #post against misinformation #post against hate #medical student #medblr #medical misinformation

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iibgdrgn · 2 days ago

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not a rookie anymore | kwon ji-yong

pairing: kwon ji-yong x male reader

word count: 4.4k

warnings: age gap, reader is 26

a/n: hellooo first time posting here! i'm really excited to share my works, hope you enjoy them. likes and comments are rlly appreciated. btw english isn't my first language so i'm sorry if there's any mistake!

He saw you for the first time when you were just a rookie at the agency. A skinny, quiet boy who barely spoke unless spoken to. You didn't stand out much back then, not in the way that you made people turn heads in the hallway now. You were polite, focused, and tried your best not to be a bother. He never really talked to you while you were there. That wasn't surprising. G-Dragon wasn't known for idle chatter, especially not with rookies. Everyone understood that his time was sacred, absorbed by his music. And you? You were just one of many hopefuls trying to build a name in the same building that already echoed with his. When he walked past, you and your group would line up like soldiers, bowing in sync with the well-practiced chorus. "Good morning, Mr. Kwon."you'd all say in unison. In response, he would just give a slight bow. That small gesture was enough to send your group into chaos once he was out of sight.

G-Dragon was already a star at YG at the time. He was around 29 years old, and you guys were about 18 or 19, so yeah, it was pretty normal to feel overwhelmed just by his presence.

Time moved forward, as it always does. Years passed, and your group actually found success in the industry. By 2023, G-Dragon had left the agency, leaving your group as YG's main male artist. It was strange, at first, being the ones younger trainees bowed to, watching your posters replace the ones you used to stare at. Your fifth and sixth albums did well. The fanbase grew louder, the stages got bigger. You signed a five-year contract a few months ago, keeping the group active at least until 2030. You were happy with how things were turning out. This was everything you used to dream about back when you were just a trainee. Sometimes, it felt like a dream, like one day you'd just wake up as a teenager again, dreaming of becoming the man you were now. But fortunately, that never happened. The only thing you ever woke up to was your alarm telling you it was time to head to the studio.

You weren't much of a fan of naps, sleep was never something you craved in the middle of the day. But today had been long, the gym had drained more energy than usual, and your body gave in. Just an hour, you told yourself. Just enough to recharge.

The alarm buzzed again at 8:00 p.m, dragging you reluctantly out of sleep. You lay there for a minute, still tangled in the warmth of your blanket, wishing you could ignore it. But the album was almost done, and the timeline was tight. With some luck, and a few more long nights, it'd be ready before 2024 ended.

You pulled on a hoodie and a beanie that hid your still-messy hair. The drive to YG didn't take long. It never did. That was the point. You'd picked your apartment for this exact reason, because inspiration didn't care what time it was. When a melody hit at 3 a.m., you wanted to be five minutes from a mic, not twenty. You didn't like waiting.

A few minutes later, you arrived and headed straight to the studio. Security knew you by now, so you passed through without much pause, nodding politely before heading to the elevator. The button for the sixth floor lit up under your finger, and a soft hum filled the space as the elevator began its climb.

You leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, letting your mind drift over the tasks ahead. Nothing too intense tonight. Just stitching the members' vocals together, adjusting the mix so everything sat just right. It sounded actually pretty fun.

The studio was at the very end of the corridor. As you walked through the hallway, you passed BLACKPINK's dance practice room, TREASURE's, and what used to be BIGBANG's. It didn't carry a name anymore. The plaque had been removed. Now, it was just another practice room, available to whoever booked it first. You glanced at it, only briefly, and kept walking. Your own group's room came into view, but you weren't heading there tonight. That room was for choreography, and for that, you needed to finish the song first.

Three hours slipped in a blink, music always had that effect on you. When you were deep into a track, time stopped making sense. Still, your body knew what your mind refused to admit, you needed a break before the frustration took over completely.

You left the studio and headed down to the cafeteria. At this hour, it was nearly deserted, just a couple of late staff. You grabbed a coffee and a small box of milk from the fridge for your usual combo; latte. Back at the studio, you leaned against the desk, your coffee in hand. The screen still glowed with the open track, the same section playing on loop. You ignored it for now and reached for your phone as you noticed you hadn't checked Instagram in hours.

A few messages waited in your inbox, mostly from friends, or stylists sending you stuff to approve. You answered the ones that needed it, then tapped into stories. A few updates from the guys private accounts, someone out to eat, another complaining about dance practice. Then came the reels, your favorite thing. You liked one about cute bunnies eating carrots, another one with a cover of one of your group's songs. Then came the scroll. Thirty minutes disappeared like vapor, your thumb moving almost on autopilot. You didn't even realize how long you'd been lost in your phone until the room started to feel too quiet again.

Break over.

But before getting back to work, you opened the camera. Your coffee still sat on the desk, and behind it, the track was still open on the monitor. You snapped the photo, added a black-and-white filter and posted it to your story. Then, you locked your phone and pushed it face down. Time to finish the song.

Your plan to avoid stressing, to just let things flow, fell apart. Another three hours passed, but this time they were heavier, slower. The song wasn't coming together, no matter how many layers you adjusted or how many takes you revisited. Something was missing, not in the feeling, but in the structure. You isolated the rap section, played it again and again, counted every beat, scanned the waveform until your eyes blurred.

That was it. One beat missing or misplaced, either way, it threw the whole thing off. You stared at the screen, shoulders slumped. Re-recording wasn't in your plan, but now you didn't have a choice. The track wouldn't sit right until it was fixed. But your patience had long burned out. You hit save, closed the project, and leaned back in your chair.

The clock read 1:53 a.m. Your mind was fried, and you didn't want to think about the song anymore. Not tonight. So you stood, grabbed your phone, and left the studio.

The elevator dinged softly as it started descending. One floor, two floors. You leaned against the wall, shoulders slouched, thumb grazing your phone screen almost absentmindedly. You had completely forgotten about the story you'd posted earlier. The photo, that black-and-white shot of your coffee and the unfinished track, had gathered its usual storm of likes, enough answers to scroll for minutes.

But one notification made you freeze.

@ xxxibgdrgn had replied to your story.

Your stomach twisted. At first you didn't believe that was real. It had to be a fan account, you thought. But the blue check was there, the account was verified.

He didn't even follow you, you were sure of that. He had never interacted with you. Not once. Not being able to wait anymore, you tapped the notification, not really breathing.

"good taste."

That was all it said. Two words. But they came from him, G-Dragon. The idol of idols.

You stared at the message like it might disappear if you blinked too fast. The elevator doors opened with a soft ding, but you didn't move. You typed slowly. Paused. Deleted. Typed again.

"didn't think u'd even watch it. thanks tho."

And you sent it.

Then, your fingers hovered again. That reply had been polite, safe. But your thoughts were spinning too fast to stop. Your hands were already moving before your mind could fully catch up.

"kinda stuck on the track tonight. guess that coffee wasn't magic after all haha."

You hit send before you could overthink it more. The elevator doors had opened onto the lobby, and someone was waiting outside. A woman in a blazer stood there, eyebrows raised slightly, clearly wondering why you hadn't stepped out. You blinked like waking up from a trance, cheeks warming when you realized the small smile still on your face. You gave her a quick bow, muttering an apology, and stepped aside. As you slipped your phone into your pocket, you tried to school your expression, like it was no big deal. Like he was just another senior artist. Like you weren't currently texting one of the most legendary names in the industry. You wouldn't open your phone again until you were home, safe in the privacy of your living room, where you could stare at the screen in disbelief, smile and react like a complete idiot without anyone around to see it.

The parking lot was nearly empty. Only a few cars left under the flickering lights. Yours was parked right where you left it. The drive was short, just as you expected.

Inside your apartment, you dropped your keys onto the table with a soft clatter, slipped out of your sneakers, and let your bag slump beside the door. Your body headed straight for the couch before your mind even caught up. You sank into the cushions, the room dark except for the ambient glow from a streetlight filtering through the curtains.

You unlocked your phone. One message, the answer you were expecting.

"It's okay to be stuck sometimes. Keep digging."

You smiled. The words were simple, but they hit differently coming from him. You didn't even care about the text content, not really. It was the fact that it was real, a conversation between just the two of you. You stared at the screen, thumbs hovering. Then finally typed.

"noted. any recs?"

Three minutes passed. Then four. You got up, wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge just to grab a bottle of water you didn't really need. Every few seconds, you glanced back at your phone like it might light up from across the room.

Ten minutes. You gave up and turned the TV on. Some late-night drama flickered across the screen, but you weren't really watching. Your mind was elsewhere. You were halfway through considering turning everything off and going to bed when your phone buzzed on the table. Your hands moved faster than you meant them to.

"Listening to old music always work for me. Maybe start with jazz. Then go somewhere weirder."

You smiled, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. You felt weirdly proud, the words felt like advice passed through some secret doorway, these were his methods, his go-to comforts, and for me reason, the idea made your chest feel a little lighter.

"thank you. i will :)"

You picked up your headphones and scrolled through your spotify library. You found a playlist, Coltrane, Davis, Baker. The soft brass tones filled your ears as you leaned back into the couch again, one hand resting on your stomach, the other still loosely holding the phone. That's when the questions came.

Why was Ji-yong texting you?

No. Mr. Kwon. G-Dragon. You corrected yourself, out of instinct.

Years ago, it would've made sense. Same agency, same building. But now? He wasn't part of YG anymore. He didn't owe you a reply, or even attention. You weren't even sure he'd ever looked directly at you when he still roamed the company halls. Back then, he hardly spoke to anyone, an untouchable figure orbiting on a higher level, unreachable even to other idols.

Did he remember you from those years? Was this some moment of nostalgia? Or was he just bored, scrolling through stories and replying on impulse?

You didn't have the answer.

But at some point, it stopped mattering.

Your thoughts blurred, softened by the music and the weight of the day. Somewhere between the second and third track, your breathing slowed. Your phone slipped from your hand, your headphones loosened and slid down to your shoulder.

The saxophone played on, a gentle lullaby for a mind still trying to understand what had just happened.

[...]

You didn't even know the reason for the party. One moment you were sprawled out on your bed, mind half-asleep, and the next, you were in the backseat of a car. Plus, you weren't alone, two of your group members tagged along, one of them being the one who actually got the invitation in the first place.

You arrived fashionably late, 1:30 a.m., to be exact, and the second you stepped inside, you understood what kind of party it was. A post-release celebration for a JYP group. You didn't recognize them at first, not by name, but the glossy poster set up by the entrance helped. You made sure to memorize a few of the members' faces, just in case you ran into them and had to offer the classic "congrats on the release" with a polite smile. Probably wouldn't happen anyway. The place was packed. Loud music, flashing colored lights, bodies moving to the beat in the center of the room while the songs of the group were being played.

You and your best friend, Yoon, gravitated toward the bar, not necessarily to drink, at least not yet, but because it was quieter there, away from the whirlwind of neon and sweaty excitement. You sat side by side, half-dancing to the rhythm as you sipped on sparkling water. Your best friend leaned his head on your shoulder with a dramatic sigh.

"Hey!" he shouted over the music, too close to your ear. "What if you text him? He's taking too loooong."

You raised an eyebrow, amused. "He's probably just late" you said, reaching for your phone anyway. He watched you like a hawk as you unlocked the screen. You opened Instagram to message the friend who was supposed to join you but hadn't shown up yet.

But the moment you opened your DMs, your friend bolted upright like he'd just been electrocuted.

"WHAT?" He said after jumping from your shoulder.

You blinked, confused and a little startled.

"What—what's wrong?"

He didn't even let you finish. He pointed a finger straight at your phone like it was a crime scene.

"YOU TALK TO G-DRAGON?!"

You froze, thumb hovering above the screen where the last messag with @ xxxibgdrgn sat quietly, far down in your inbox. Two weeks old now.

"I mean..." You shrugged, already feeling your face warm. "Yeah?"

"Yeah? Yeah?" His jaw dropped dramatically, exactly as you expected. He looked like you just told him you could time-travel. "So you're just casually dropping that you're friends with, like... a literal legend?"

"'Friends' is a stretch" you said, raising your brows. "He talked to me once."

Your friend gasped like he'd been stabbed.

"And he talked to you first?"

You looked back at your friend, trying not to smile.

"Don't make a big deal out of it."

He groaned loudly, sinking back onto his stool and running both hands through his hair. "This is—this is criminal," he muttered. "You've just been sitting on this information like it's nothing?"

You gave him a look. "What did you want me to do? Post a screenshot?"

"Yes!" he said instantly. "Wait — no. But also yes! Maybe on your private account or something! I just— how are you so calm about this?! I physically cannot not make a big deal out of it."

You laughed under your breath and slipped your phone back into your pocket. "Well, he hasn't messaged again, so maybe it wasn't a big deal."

He narrowed his eyes. "That's because you haven't messaged again."

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. He had a point.

A smug grin spread across his face. "Mhm. That's what I thought. You better send a 'hey' before someone else becomes his next muse or creative soulmate or whatever."

You rolled your eyes. "You're actually delusional."

"And you're in denial. Which makes this so much more entertaining."

You were about to answer when your phone buzzed in your hand, not a text this time, but a call. You raised your brows and showed the screen to your friend, Haeon. It was the one person missing from your golden trio.

"About time" you muttered, answering. "Where are you?"

"I think I'm lost" his voice came through, slightly muffled by the music and the unmistakable sounds of a party happening not where he was. "I ended up in some garden? There's, like... a statue of a dolphin? Or maybe it's a seal. I don't know, it's dark."

You pressed your fingers to your temple, trying not to laugh. "We're coming."

[ ... ]

You lost track of time. It had to be close to 3 a.m., maybe even later. But no one at the party seemed interested in checking the clock. The energy in the air was still alive, like it had just started an hour ago, not like people had been drinking and dancing for hours already. After finally locating your lost friend, the three of you made your way back to the bar. You didn't drink much, but enough to feel a little lighter, funnier. Your smile came easy, and your body moved without overthinking.

The three of you eventually made it to the dance floor. The music had shifted, it wasn't the JYP group's album anymore, but a mix of random tracks. You closed your eyes, letting your head move in slow circles, a grin tugging at your lips. Your friends were next to you, pulling out ridiculous, chaotic moves. You joined them, throwing your body into it, laughing so hard your stomach hurt.

"Show me what you got, show me what you got!" one of your friends shouted, pointing at the other like he was challenging him to a duel. Immediately, Haeon broke into a sloppy remix of your group's choreography. You clutched your stomach, wheezing with laughter, until he grabbed your hands and tried to get you to join in. You stumbled forward, giggling, trying to keep up. You attempted a few of the moves, but your limbs didn't fully cooperate, your balance thrown off by the drink and the sudden spotlight. You must've looked ridiculous.

That's when you heard a soft, amused laugh from nearby. Your head turned. It was a girl, unfamiliar face, but something in her energy made you instantly like her. She clapped playfully for your dancing, then gave you a slight, graceful bow.

"Can I borrow your friend?" she asked, gesturing toward the boy who still held your hand. You smiled and nodded before even thinking. She had the kind of presence people didn't say no to. You turned to your friend for confirmation, but he was already halfway through a spin, pulling her along with him. You laughed and stepped back, watching them disappear into the crowd.

You chuckled, then turned to Yoon, who was still grooving beside you.

"I wanna go to the bathroom," he said, breathless. "Wait for me, yeah?" You nodded.

Alone now, with no one to dance with, you decided it was time to rehydrate. You slipped away from the flashing lights, crossing the room until you reached the bar.

You sat at the bar, elbows resting against the cold counter. The bartender approached and you ordered a gin and tonic, something simple that wouldn't hit too hard, at least not immediately.

You took a small sip, relishing the way the cold spread across your tongue, the bitterness cutting through the heat rising in your face from all the dancing and laughing earlier. The air was cooler near the bar, a reprieve from the heat of the dance floor, and you let yourself enjoy the stillness.

And then you heard a voice.

"Good taste."

You blinked. For a second, you didn't move.

Kwon Ji-yong. You hadn’t noticed him sit down. Of course you hadn’t. He was leaning casually against the counter, a half-smile on his lips, one arm draped along the bar like he owned the space around him. Maybe he did.

He wore a loose-sleeved shirt, silky and half-unbuttoned, the light catching the fabric just right to show there was a tank top layered underneath, white, fitted. Around his neck hung a tie, barely tied, more decorative than anything. It was sky blue, with little daisy flowers printed all over it.

You found yourself staring. Too long. Way too long.

He was talking, probably, but your brain had gone momentarily blank. All you could think was that he looked like something out of a music video, and not one set in reality. Like a dream had decided to become physical. You blinked. Once. Twice. And then, finally, words stumbled out of your mouth.

"Do you only know two words or is that your thing now?" You said without thinking.

His smile didn't fade. "Depends who I'm talking to."

You laughed "I mean," you shrugged, turning toward him fully, "it was a decent opener."

He nodded once, like he already knew. "Mm. I liked it the first time," he said, his gaze steady, relaxed. "Thought I'd try it again. See if it still worked."

Then he chuckled, low and warm, shifting slightly on the barstool. One leg angled toward you now, knee brushing lightly against yours, not enough to call it a move, but enough to feel. There was no arrogance in the way he did it, no show. Just a quiet kind of presence, like he knew who he was and didn’t need to prove it. You let your eyes drift to his tie, to the small embroidered flowers dancing across the fabric. You bit the inside of your cheek, then gave in. He looked like a damn super model.

"You always dress like this at 3 a.m?"

He smirked. "Only when I think I'll meet someone worth impressing."

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling again.

"Smooth."

"I try."

And then there was silence, but not the kind that pushed people apart. The kind that asked you to stay in it. You let yourself keep looking, too long maybe, but he didn’t look away either. His gaze dropped briefly, tracing the curve of your jaw, then back up, slowly.

He leaned in just a little, not enough to close the space, just enough to make the air between you feel different.

"You know," he said, glancing down at your glass, "you've got a way of making it feel like we've done this before."

You blinked once, slowly. "Like we've met?"

He nodded, eyes still on you, soft and steady.

For a second, you didn't know what to do with that. So you brought your glass back up, hiding behind it as you took another sip, long, unhurried. The cold edge of the drink pressed against your lip, grounding you just enough to organize the words that were trying to form.

He didn't say anything else. Just waited, patient in a way most people weren't anymore. He wasn't filling the silence to make himself feel more interesting, wasn't trying to prove anything. That made you feel... strangely safe.

You lowered your glass slightly. "Actually... yeah. We did meet. Kind of."

His brows lifted, curious.

You smiled a little, more to yourself than to him. “Back when I debuted. I didn’t introduce myself or anything. I just… said hi. Maybe twice. You were always surrounded. And I looked—I looked really different.”

“How different?” he asked, low voice edged with intrigue.

“My hair was silver back then,” you said with a faint laugh. “Like, full-on mirrorball silver. I was also… skinnier. More bones than confidence. I avoided eye contact like it was radioactive.”

That smile of his grew, not wide, not flashy, just crooked and soft and real. “I remember.”

You looked up at him, a little startled. “Wait, seriously?”

He nodded again, eyes never leaving yours. “You were with your group. You all sang something for me.” A pause, then a light chuckle. “Crayon, right?”

Your jaw dropped a little. "Oh my God."

The scene crashed back into your brain like a splash of cold water, the harsh lights of the practice room, your group lined up awkwardly in front of him, voices cracking with nerves as you shouted Get your crayon! like your lives depended on it. YG had told you to do it. Said something about "earning respect the old-fashioned way."

“You’re kidding,” you whispered, half-mortified.

Ji-Yong chuckled softly. "It was cute."

You groaned, dropping your head into your hand. "YG encouraged us to serenade you. Like, seriously. Told us it might 'set the tone for our reputation.' So we just... went for it."

"I remember thinking you looked scared out of your mind," he said, amused.

"I was. I didn't even look at you."

Before he could answer, your phone buzzed sharply in your pocket, jolting you back to earth. You pulled it out with a sigh.

You snorted.

Ji-Yong raised an eyebrow. "Trouble?"

You held up the screen for him to see. "Emergency. Apparently Haeon is defending our honor with a handstand battle."

He laughed, quiet and sudden, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes crinkling. It was stupidly cute, and it made you smile too, involuntarily. “Sounds like a crisis.”

You pushed your chair back and stood, smoothing out your shirt. “I should go before someone films it and it turns into our next viral concept.”

“Could be iconic,” he teased, still grinning.

“Oh, we’d never recover,” you said with mock seriousness. Then, a little softer, “Thanks. For the drink company. And, you know, the unexpected blast of rookie-year trauma."

Ji-Yong leaned on the bar, fingers tapping lightly. “Anytime.” He gave a small, crooked smile.

You dipped your head slightly, a small, playful bow, and turned to go. You didn’t glance back right away, you made it to the edge of the crowd first. But curiosity won. You peeked.

He was still watching. Of course he was.

And when your eyes met again, his smile curved a touch more.

You didn’t wave. Didn’t say a word. But something warm nestled behind your ribs as you turned away again. Maybe that message he’d sent weeks ago wasn’t the whole story.

And then, in the corner of your eye, you spotted Haeon attempting a handstand, arms flailing, legs everywhere, before collapsing to the floor with a dramatic thud.

You sighed.

Yeah. Definitely a crisis.

#bigbang x reader #gdragon x reader #bigbang x male reader #gdragon x male reader #kwon jiyong x reader #kwon jiyong x male reader #kpop x male reader #kpop x reader

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corgoship · 3 days ago

Text

Fandoms vs. The inconceivable goodness of fictional cultures

It's strange and a bit worrying how (often adult) fans look at fictional marginalized cultures (in kids media) that are by default written to be virtuous, and they twist themselves into knots to try to prove how they were horrible people all along, and I'm left wondering: Why? Not to mention it's often coupled with apologism for the actual, textual bad guys, who are often straight up fascists.

This is mostly about the Jedi (Star Wars) and Air Nomads (Avatar: The Last Airbender) but feel free to add more if you know any.

My analysis and observations are under cut! Fair warning, this is a long post, and I'm writing this on the fly, so please forgive me if this isn't as coherent as it was in my head.

(Sidenote: It appears as though both of these cultures were inspired by Buddhism to certain extents, way more blatantly in atla. However, I would argue that the some of the philosophical conflict regarding attachment in atla was pretty heavily influenced by Star Wars: the season 2 finale is emotionally almost the exact same thing as the climax of Empire Strikes Back! But that's a story for another post...)

In a nutshell

Both of these cultures are described as wise and peaceful. They both put a lot of emphasis on meditation and enlightement. The Air Nomads are pacifists and vegetarians. The Jedi preach love and compassion, as per Anakin in Attack of the Clones. Both of them value love, but are discouraging of attachment - which a lot of people wrongly conflate with love in these texts, I believe. It is not specified whether or not Air Nomads could marry, but they lived in monasteries separated by gender, and the Jedi were not allowed to marry. Both of these cultures were victims of genocide by a fascist regime. And both the stories of Avatar and the original Star Wars trilogy are about an individual, who can be considered the last of their extinct kind, and the resurgence of their forgotten beliefs of kindness bringing peace to a war-torn world.

(Sidenote no. 2: they both have Mark Hamill. On the actual opposing sides of the spectrum, too. He went from being the hero electrocuted by the Emperor to... Being the Emperor electrocuting the hero. Which is kind of funny to me.)

With all that said, it will always boggle my mind how people will say these fictional cultures were conservative, arrogant, harmful towards children, dogmatic in their religion, and worst of all, DESERVING of being murdered. This is something I will NEVER understand or agree with.

The many crimes of the elemental monks and the space wizards

Let's dig into the criticisms they often receive, shall we?

To rapid fire list off a few: being too isolated from the rest of the world, indoctrinating children, having strict rules that restrict freedoms, deeming feelings to be inconsequential and a bad thing, considering themselves to be superior, and being too arrogant to notice their coming demise, which some consider to be justified by the aggressor.

Now, I will say not all of it is without merit, and some of these things could be taken as real flaws that were intended by the creators of the respective stories. The Air Nomad elders are dismissive of Aang's fears and that fear is what essentially forces him to run away at twelve years old. The Jedi Council tells nine years old Anakin that his fear for his slave mother could potentially lead him to the Dark Side and make him evil. Both cultures teach their children from a very young age, and the children are raised communally - which isn't in itself a bad thing, but I can see how some people mind find that uncomfortable, especially with the Jedi, who take in children from various cultures. Both Luke and Aang are advised to not only forego attachment towards the people they love, but they are actively asked to stand by and potentially let their loved ones be hurt or killed. (Take this last point with a grain of salt because neither Aang or Luke were ready to do what they did, and they both paid for it dearly, so the advice does have real merit, despite what some people might tell you.)

This is about the extent of the textual flaws I could find. So what do fandoms do? They take these flaws and completely blow them out of proportion. I have seen takes that claim both the AN and Jedi steal children from their families. That they are dogmatic in their religious beliefs, ostracize those who don't conform (or don't have their special powers), and they are condescending to other cultures, even considering themselves to be superior to others. That their ideologies were harmful and that they deserved to be eradicated for it.

How do you make a leap like that? In a story made for children, no less? We are presented with these cultures as being good, and the text never urges us to question their goodness. And this is by design - because again, these are stories for children, so there isn't much moral ambiguity when it comes to the murdered peaceful pacifists and the evil imperial super power threatening the world. So why do people still twist the narrative in spite of this?

Grey morality only gets a story so far

My best guess is that they DO want that moral ambiguity to be present, even if there is none, because that's "more realistic" and "better storytelling". I can agree with both of those statements to a point, but realistic doesn't automatically equal better. Sure, added nuance can often enrich stories and prompt more philosophical questions and more interesting conflict within the story itself, but is it always necessary? Does it always enhance the themes the story is trying to tell?

We are told to take the fact that the AN/Jedi are are a force of good at face value. And why wouldn't we? What is it that makes people question this, despite there existing little canonical information to disprove the innate goodness of these cultures built on love and compassion? Again, I believe that people - mostly adults - crave for things to not be black and white. Real life usually isn't. But stories aren't real life. There isn't some hidden secret that proves these bad-faith right. There are some flaws present at worst, but that is enough to spin headcanons and straight up lies that further the idea that there is no such thing as a paragon of goodness. Because of such a thing not existing in reality, it cannot exist in fiction either.

To love or not to love

The biggest issue people take with these two cultures, as far as I have noticed, is their view on love and attachment.

And then there is the most extreme version of this - the people who claim these cultures were the true evil all along, and that they were deserving of being victims to genocide by the imperial power. This is more rampant in atla fan spaces, and the agenda there is a bit more spite-motivated, because while the Air Nomads didn't hurt anybody (unlike the Jedi who could be seen as hurting Anakin, as far-fetched as that claim is), Aang is an Air Nomad, and a certain part of the atla fandom really doesn't like him (not gonna beat about the bush: it's certain zutara shippers). By painting his dead culture - which Aang loves and holds in high regard - as bad, they either make him supportive of harmful beliefs, or naive and ignorant, unwilling to take criticism, therefore stubborn and bigoted.

This is of course connected to his romantic relationship with Katara, which a lot of people claim is a bad thing. I will not get into the specifics here, but a large chunk of the fandom doesn't understand what the act of "letting go of your attachment" means, and that Aang achieves this in the s2 finale (which is what allows him to enter the avatar state on command), and that he's not, in fact, unhealthily obsessing over Katara. A different shade of this criticism is that in being the Avatar (similarly in Star Wars, a Jedi), Aang cannot love Katara in a full, meaningful way, because he is held back by his duties, and he must put the world over her.

Much like in Avatar, in Star Wars, attachment IS an obsessive form of love that impacts people negatively and should be avoided. In the more extreme cases, such as the case of Anakin, it leads to ruin, and it is his inability to let go of his feelings and think rationally that creates problems. In the case of Luke (and Aang in s2) and his love for his friends, he gets punished by the narrative for indulging his fear - he gets mutilated as a direct result of choosing his friends over taking the time to become stronger and have a better chance against his enemies.

Now look me in the eye and tell me where do either of these stories state that love is bad. You can't, because that's not what the stories are claiming at all (there is a reason why Aang ends up with Katara, and why Luke redeems his father through his love), and some people are incapable of drawing that distinction. They would rather claim that the AN/Jedi are dismissive of love and feelings as a whole, than to admit that the sort of love THEY personally value might be unhealthy.

Because I do honestly the believe that most of these detractors are the type to find "i would burn the whole world down for you" to be the truest form of love and devotion... When that, is in fact, the exact thing these stories caution about, and by pointing that out, they're not claiming that love is bad, but that it has the potential to grow into obsession, which we can all agree, is objectively bad.

Lastly, let's look at the other side of the equation...

Long live the empire!

The evil Fire Nation and the evil Galactic Empire are just that - point blank evil. This has never been put in question by either piece of media. There is nuance to be found, sure, with the Headband episode in atla and Zuko as a character, and... I actually can't think of a single not-blatantly-bad thing about the Empire/Sith in the original trilogy + prequels, lol. Maybe that the separatists had a point, and that the republic was collapsing in on itself under bureaucracy and corruption - but that's still no brownie point for the Empire nor Palpatine, lol.

Palpatine's derision and disdain for the Jedi is used to manipulate Anakin to... Become evil. And while his words may have a grain of truth in them, they are deliberately twisting the Jedi ideology and making the Dark Side look not only palatable, but necessary for Anakin to save Padmé, something the Jedi had failed him in (as far as Anakin himself believes). Why would people readily believe the bad guy, who has been lying and deceiving everyone, about the things he deliberately said to manipulate Anakin? Because it makes Anakin's turn seem more... Justifiable that way? It sure did in his eyes, but we as the viewers are supposed to see past that, since we have all the context, and he doesn't.

Atla takes a bit of a different approach and tackles the anti-Air Nomad propaganda head on. In the afforementioned episode The Headband, we go inside a Fire Nation school, and we see how they are being taught lies in order to justify the FN's attack on them (claiming they had an army, etc.). And yet there are still people who claim otherwise, that the FN was indeed right to do what they did, despite canon making it very clear that they are lying about what happened! (Also, let's just throw away the entirity of s1 episode 3 where Aang comes across the charred bones of his people and his mentor... Let's just not touch that, I guess. Don't worry about it.).

In both cases, the common thread is that the FASCIST bad guys are given grace, while the marginalized minorities are demonized. They are excused for their crimes time and time again, because what? Their aesthetic is cool? Their weapons/fighting style are cool? They're badass? You can appreciate these things for what they are, sure, but when does liking how something looks swing over into condoning the very bad things these people are guilty of? Probably when you start preaching how they, in fact, "did nothing wrong", and how the resistance are terrorists, and that people are inclined to be on their side only because the narrative paints them as the good guys... Yeah. You've lost the plot.

Or... Maybe you just like the person committing the atrocities...

It's not my fault my blorbo is a fascist warmonger!

This is the last point I will go over, I swear. There certainly is an overlap between fans who hate said marginalized cultures, and fans who love a certain character... Who happens to be a part of the fascist regime. Respectively for these fandoms, it's Zuko and Iroh in atla, and Anakin/Vader in Star Wars. Now, I am not saying Zuko is a bad person by the end of atla, don't get me wrong, but he spends the majority of the show flaunting the fact that he's a prince, and he's actively oppressing and terrorizing people in the first season. A huge part of his growth is recognising how the Fire Nation is crushing the world in an iron fist and reigning terror - Zuko says as much in his conversation with Ozai before he defects. I feel like the vast majority of people recognise that his words ring true, and that he's become a better person by confronting his father and his evil regime. But there are still some, who will bend over backwards to make the Fire Nation look better, so that Zuko and/or Iroh are absolved of their earlier crimes. Because god forbid my favourite character did bad things in the past, right? It's blatantly clear when people do this, and why they do this. An extended version of this is when they make the FN seem less evil so that Zuko can be shipped with Katara without any hang ups about her becoming the Fire Lady or similar common tropes in the zutara fandom.

And then we have Anakin. To keep it short, a lot of people view Anakin and Vader as two different people (Anakin didn't murder the younglings. Vader did!) and believe that he's not responsible for his actions after falling to the Dark Side. How to deal with his actions pre-fall, you ask? Well, he was justified, because the Jedi were holding him back, because they lied to him and belittled him, and refused to help him. All of Anakin's actions up to that point are the Jedi's fault, of course! I'm not saying their treatment of him was inconsequential to how things turned out, but he was very much in control of his actions and chose to do the things he did. The Empire wasn't going to magically fix the problems of the republic (and by extension, the Jedi) and I have no idea why certain people would think so.

Just kidding, I know why...

So... Where do we go from here?

I don't know man, I don't have a conclusion drafted. I just think this phenomenon is quite sad to see - people are refusing to see past their own biases, and they would rather twist the story to their liking than engage with the text in a more meaningful, constructive way.

I do think this needs to be called out when you see it, because it's a very relevant issue today. Fascism isn't cool just because the people doing it are someone you identify with in some way. Genocide isn't cool because the people affected are someone you disagree with.

It's just fiction, but these problems are present in the real world, too. People are very quick to forgive someone they support, and very eager to stone anyone they disagree with. They are not past creating and spreading misinformation about those they hate, just to get more people to agree with them.

It's quite worrying to me, especially since in these fandoms in particular, it boils down to the same thing - if people can't understand right and wrong when it is being spoonfed to them by a story crafted to be understood by children... Then how will they act in the real world, when met with more complicated matters?

Thanks for coming to my ted talk.

#star wars #avatar the last airbender #atla #pro jedi #pro air nomad #fire nation critical #empire critical #atla meta #star wars meta #fandom problems #anti zutara #aang #luke skywalker #anakin skywalker #long post #THIS TOOK ME LIKE 2 HOURS TO TYPE OUT I SWEAR #i hope it's actually comprehensible oml

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alpali · 2 days ago

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Having happy 700 I love your writing can you do Sakusa from hq possibly college au where you're in an on and off situationship w/ him (but it's kinda confusing on what's going on between you two) and he sees you chatting with another person and gets jealous. Do what you want with the prompt!! (o^－^o)

Being in a situationship, a relationship with no labels, whatever you wanted to call it with Kiyoomi was by the far the most gut wrenching entanglement for you.

The soft glances, especially the way he looked at you—the gentle touches and knowing just how snappy he could be with anyone else, his words were always kind to you.

But then somewhere along the lines, after all the nights, after all the “dates.” Never once did he say he wanted more, that he wanted you to be just his. It’s not like you didn’t hint at it either, leaving teasing comments that floated in the air because he wouldn’t take the bait.

You groan as you check your phone once again. Delivered. Where did he say he was again?

Practice?

A party?

You’d love to see that.

As an attempt to clear your mind, you gather your things, heading to your campuses library. You sigh for the umpteenth time, scattering your belongings on the table. The minute you open your book, you hear a chair screech from in front of you.

You glance up and find a guy with blonde hair, he’s tall almost as tall as Kiyoomi. He smirks at you, as he rests his chin on the palm of his hand.

“What ya workin on?” He says with a tilt of his head. You blink at the book, then at him.

“Well I was going to.” His smile widens, his eyes flirtatious and lidded.

“You know Omi-Omi right?”

You stop for a second, omi-omi?

As in your Kiyoomi—As in Kiyoomi?

“Um, yes.” He laughs.

“Ya look cute all confused, he’s got good taste.” You immediately pout but Atsumu is loving this all too much.

“How come he ain’t with ya? He’s always in this hell hole.” You glance to the side, your brows twitching.

“Hes not at practice?” Atsumu blinks.

“No practice today.”

“Then I don’t know.” Atsumu sucks in a breath.

“Yikes.”

Well not like this conversation has made you feel any better. Kiyoomi enters the library with his books in hand but you’re spotted quickly, he could always spot you in a room full of people.

The most disgusting sneer rises to his face when he finds Tsumu across from you, he’s laughing and he had just raised his hand to flick at your forehead making you pout.

Even from this far away Kiyoomi can catch it, the small smile that rises to your lips. A soft yet bashful smile. The one that you always gave him.

That’s when Kiyoomi draws the line. With his brows furrowed he’s walking with a purpose, beelining it to your table.

Atsumu smirks, already knowing who was approaching. He turns his head swiftly and once Kiyoomi sees his smirk, he knows the little shit is messing with him.

“Omi-Omi! We were just talkin about ya!” If looks could kill, Kiyoomi would’ve strangled him by now.

“Leave Tsumu.” He pulls out Atsumu’s chair, he sighs loudly, standing up with his hands in the air.

“Fine, fine. I’ll see ya around ‘mkay pretty?” Atsumu doesn’t even look at you when he says it, he’s staring straight at Kiyoomi.

“Leave.” He says once again, yet this one is more stern and Atsumu knew better so he pads away with his hands in his pockets.

You sit there, not meeting his eyes and all of a sudden he feels a little embarrassed.

“Why were you talking to him?” He genuinely wants to know but it was also rubbing him the wrong way. You caught that.

“Dunno he just came up to me.” You fiddle with your pencil.

“Well don’t talk to him.”

You frown.

“Why? You jealous?”

Now it’s his turn to frown.

“I have no reason to be jealous of him.” He rolls his eyes even crossing his arms.

“Then why are you pouting.” You bite back a smirk. He blushes, turning his head to the other side.

“M not. Just don’t smile at him like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you like him. You only smile at me like that.” He locks eyes with you.

“I don’t smile at you like I like you.” You say, a way to deflect.

“So you don’t like me?” He quirked a brow.

“Do you?” He deadpans, rubbing at his eyes.

“Of course I do stupid.” He mutters the last part.

“W-What do you mean?”

“What do you mean?” He asks back.

“Kiyoomi it’s been almost two months and you never asked me out.” You glare at him. He looks like a scolded child.

“Sorry.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes as well.

“Just take me on a nice date you idiot.”

He smiles at you, reaching for your hand across the table, he holds it gently rubbing his thumb along your knuckles.

“Sounds good.”

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galacticneighbor · 2 days ago

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Children who for any number of reasons did not align with the Nazi ideology- physical or mental disability, parentage, behavioral reasons including bed wetting, being born out of wedlock or having alcoholic parents, etc- were put on registries (this is where RFK is at with autistic people in the US) and sent off to children's hospitals where they were not only straight up euthanized by way of lethal injections and gas chambers, but experimented on. The Nazis referred to autistic children as "useless eaters-" literally not worthy of the food needed to keep them alive. Lots died of starvation, medical neglect, overdose of sedatives and other drugs, or as a result of inhumane experiments. Am Spiegelgrund, the hospital where Dr Asperger sent his patients, was responsible for the deaths of 800 children. After their deaths, their parents would be sent a bill for their care along with falsified death certificates.

"Autistic people don't pay taxes" is step one. "Let's put them all on a list" is step two. Shipping children off to institutions to die in pain and fear is, I am afraid, not too far off the radar at this point.

Nazi Doctor Hans Asperger separated autistic children into "Useful For Society" (Asperger's Syndrome) and "Unworthy of Life" (Autistic Psychopathy) in Nazi era Austria as part of the Third Reich's CHILD EUTHANASIA PROGRAM and y'all are out here mindlessly parroting back his talking points to argue against modern day eugenics like you're doing anything but proving him right.

Autistic people are worthy of life whether or not they ever pay taxes. Autistic people are loved by their families and communities whether or not they experience romantic love. Autistic people deserve care and respect whether or not they are able to play sports.

Where is the line between "contributing to society" and "unworthy of life?" What makes you as an autistic person who is able to hold down a job better or more deserving than someone who needs full time care? Why do you feel the need to throw other autistic people under the bus to defend yourself rather than trying to uplift your community?

Also stop saying you have Asperger's we need to cut that Nazi shit right out. Okay thanks <3

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reidyourpalms · 2 days ago

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switching sides

summary -> you wear jj's jersey to the charity match and george isn't happy about it | geroge clarke x reader

wc -> 1.2k

WARNINGS -> tbf i don't think there are any, maybe a bit of jealousy

masterlist | main masterlist

you were supposed to be there to support your best friend. keyword: supposed to.

george clarke had been buzzing about the sidemen charity match for weeks. he trained like it was the world cup, talked your ear off about tactics (which mostly involved chaos), and even tried to bribe you into designing a ridiculous banner for him. you declined, kindly reminding him you weren’t his personal hype squad. well—not officially.

but the morning of the match, you decided to do something cheeky. jj’s jersey. no. 10. bright, bold, and a tiny bit evil considering you knew exactly who it would get under the skin of.

you definitely wore it on purpose.

and when George saw you before kickoff, his reaction was immediate: a stare, a head tilt, and then the slowest blink of betrayal you’d ever seen. “you’re joking,” he said flatly.

“what?” you asked innocently, tugging at the collar of the shirt. “can’t a girl support one of the greatest players on the pitch?”

george’s jaw ticked. “i’m literally better.” you grinned. "so that means you don’t need the extra support.”

he glared. “unreal.”

before you could respond, one of the coaches called him over and he jogged off, still shaking his head and shooting you dirty looks over his shoulder. you tried not to laugh.

but during the match? oh, you pushed it.

every time jj got the ball, you cheered louder than necessary. when he made a pass, you gasped dramatically. and when he scored, you actually stood up and clapped.

george? he noticed. every. single. time.

you caught him throwing you glares mid-game, muttering to teammates, and once—once!—he even kicked the ball a little too hard into the sidelines near where you were standing. coincidence? doubtful.

then came the chaos. midway through the second half, play paused. someone was down at the far end of the pitch, and the medics ran in. the crowd buzzed, people grabbed snacks, and players stretched.

and then george stormed over.

like, actually stormed—jogging straight toward you with fire in his eyes and sweat clinging to his neck. you barely had time to process what was happening before he was standing right in front of you at the barrier, chest heaving.

“take. it. off.”

you blinked, “excuse me?”

he pointed to your jj top like it had personally offended him, “i’m not playing another second with you wearing that.” you grinned, tilting your head. “you jealous, clarke?”

he didn’t answer. just yanked his own shirt off in one ridiculously smooth motion and tossed it over the barrier at you. “put it on,” he said, completely serious.

you stared. “are you actually doing this right now?”

“dead serious. you’re my best friend. you don’t wear his kit. you wear mine.”

the crowd around you went mental—cheering, laughing, someone even yelled, “ooohh he's in love!”

you hesitated for only a second before peeling jj’s shirt off over your head (to the sound of more screams), and pulling George’s on. his kit was still warm, smelled like him, and was a bit too big. it hung perfectly.

george’s expression softened. just slightly. “that’s better,” he muttered.

you raised an eyebrow. “you good now?” he leaned in a little, “just needed to remind you who you came here for.”

then he jogged back onto the pitch like he hadn’t just had a whole main-character moment in front of thousands of people.

you stood there in disbelief, george’s name on your back, his scent in your nose, and your heart hammering against your ribs like maybe - just maybe - he hadn’t been joking at all.

the game ended in a blur of sweaty hugs, pitch invasions, and screaming fans. george found you in the chaos, his hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed. you were still in his shirt.

“you alright?” he asked, catching your arm and steering you toward the tunnel, away from the crowd.

“i’m fine. are you?” you teased. “you caused an entire scene just because i wore a jj top.” he made a face. “you know i don’t care about jj.”

you narrowed your eyes, “sure didn’t look that way.” he looked at you for a second—really looked at you. then: “i care about you.”

Oh.

you swallowed. “george—”

“i know we’ve always been…” he scratched the back of his neck, suddenly bashful, “you know. just mates. but when i saw you wearing someone else’s name on your back, i just- ”

“you got territorial.”

he gave a sheepish grin. “a bit, yeah.”

you stared at him, heart thumping. this wasn’t new. you’d danced around each other for years. late-night calls. inside jokes. glances that lingered a second too long. maybe you’d just never said it out loud.

you reached for the collar of his shirt and tugged it lightly.

“well,” you said softly, “guess i’m yours now.”

his eyes searched yours for any sign of hesitation. when he didn’t find one, he grinned—wide, boyish, and victorious.

“bet.”

INSTAGRAM

liked by georgeclarke, chrismd and others

@/yourusername it’s about damn time 🤍

userone: oh my godd this is so cute

georgeclarke: looked amazing with my name on your back 😉

usertwo: did anyone see them at the match??? it was so funny

chrismd: i see football isn’t the only game he had 👏

first time including anything smau in a story eek.

feel free to request anything!

#george clarke fanfic #george clarke fluff #george clarke #george clarke fics #yt #british youtubers #sidemen #charity match #chrismd #george clarkey #smau

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miniwheat77 · 2 days ago

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No fun. (Captain Price x Reader.)

!nsfw, smut, p in v sex, reader dealing with a crisis, unprotected sex, alcohol, choking, talk of suicide. NO MINORS!

Please enjoy the shit show I’m going through, happy birthday to me or whatever.

They only want you when you’re seventeen. When you’re twenty-one, you’re no fun…

Eyes glossed over, world spinning. This is normal.

This is completely normal, most people spend their birthday sitting at a dingy bar, on their fifth glass of the cheapest liquor they have. Oh who are you kidding…

You had dried blood on your knuckles, underneath your black jacket was a blood stained shirt. It was a mix of your blood and whoever else’s after the mission you’d been on. It didn’t go so well and you’d been beat and slashed but it was a better way to spend your birthday than how you’d originally planned it. Though you expected someone to notice what day it was. Everyone always remembered birthdays, even last year on leave you got a text from Johnny at least.

But after she joined the base, you rarely if ever heard from any of them anymore. A new recruit, freshly out of boot camp. She was only on base for a few short months before they shipped her off somewhere else but she’d grasped the attention of the entire task force.

You weren’t jealous or angry. You actually quite liked the girl. She had her head screwed on straight for being so young and that’s what the military needed.

It was the nostalgia that killed you. You missed being a teenager. You miss the innocence that came with not being battle hardened. You missed when people showed interest and now, you were getting older and people wanted maturity. You missed the high school flings, breaking the rules. But here you were. Where you always seemed to be anymore.

Tipping back another glass of Jameson.

Most days you spent hungover. Sick to your stomach and you skipped meals like crazy but who really even gave a damn. They saw it but they didn’t ask. The abnormally pale skin, weight loss. More specifically, the shaky hands when you chugged coffee in the mornings to hide the liquor on your breath.

It was part of the military, who cares. They sure as hell didn’t. They only cared about themselves and that girl.

It didn’t end. Falling into bed shitfaced, eyes full of tears as you thought about the fact that there was no end in sight of this suffering. Only a black hole, sucking you deeper and deeper until you bottomed out and gave in. Either to the voice in the back of your head telling you to end it all, or to the addiction that slowly consumed you. At this point? You didn’t care anymore. Who would’ve guessed that your mid-to-late twenties held more staggered walks home from the bar than random hookups or a baby on the way like everyone else at this age.

Your lip was split, cheek was slashed. Busted knuckles clutched a bottle as you sat on the sidewalk and ignored the way you felt. And that was it.

Happy Birthday Y/N.

Captain Price was looking for you. He always checked up on people after missions and you’d taken a particularly bad beating but you didn’t really seem to care.

Captain Price had all but watched the spark burn out in your eyes. Something he hated but was rather familiar with. The military did things to people. He couldn’t find you anywhere, which made him worry. “Has anyone seen Y/N?” He asks. The young girl bites her lip. Looking away quickly and he notices immediately. “What is it?”

“Think she’s at the bar again Captain…” she trails off. “What? Y/N never goes to the bar.”

She looks utterly shocked. “Than we clearly don’t know the same Y/N.” She mumbles. “What?”

“She’s been at the bar every single night for the last few months. I didn’t want to say anything but I’m getting rather worried.” He thinks to himself. Had he noticed anything off about you? “That doesn’t sound like Y/N at all.” He mumbles. “That’s the truth. She’s got all the tale tell signs too. Pale, shaky, doesn’t eat. I mean she comes in late all the time. I’ve asked her a few times how she’s doing but she just brushes me off with an ‘I’m fine’ and goes on with her day. I mean… Y/N is insane on the field and that guy nearly took her head off with a knife today.”

Captain Price’s stomach drops. The spark in your eyes really was fading. Your love for the field was dissipating rather quickly and he’d missed it. All of it. He looks down, confused. He walks away without another word, to his office. You’d been struggling this bad and he’d never noticed it before? Who went to the bar after such a bad mission anyways? As bad as you’d been hurt, you should be recovering in the infirmary. That’s where he went to check on you, where you said you’d be. You must’ve slipped out then. He opens your file on his computer, seeing the photo that had been on that folder for years now. You smiled so wide. He’d hate to see how unhappy your next photo would be.

Y/N Y/L/N

DOB: xx-xx-xxxx

Something felt off about that… the numbers on the screen.

He glances down to the corner of the computer, reading the exact date.

Nine o’clock.

He stands up, nearly shoving his desk over as he hurries. He grabs his jacket, rushing for the door. “In a hurry, cap?” Soap smiles. “Yeah. It’s Y/N’s fucking birthday and we forgot.”

The look of horror on Gaz and Soap should’ve been something you’d laugh about usually. But you wouldn’t have been interested, not anymore.

Your mind races as you look down at the rushing water, how good it would feel rushing over your injured skin. Carrying your lifeless body down a rapid current, pulling you under. The buzzing, floating. It sounded like peace. Like an end to whatever this is. You don’t remember walking here. You thought when you woke up this morning to your Captain calling each of you for a last minute mission that it was a surprise party. They’d given her one.. the new girl. She had balloons and so many gifts from the task force you’d lost count. You’d gotten her a set of customized grips for her sidearm. She was ecstatic.

You got nothing in return.

Your hands shook violently as you held them over the rapid flowing water. You were so close now that it misted your shaking hands. You were so close…

It was so cold. It won’t be long now.

The five of them rushed into the bar, nearly knocking over barstools and a rack of pool cues as they went. Rushing up to the bartender. “Have you seen this girl?” Captain Price asks in a hurry. Holding up a photo of you. “Y/N? Yeah. Like every night for the last few months.” The young guy behind the counter smiles. “Have you seen her tonight?” He asks. “Of course I have, she just left bout twenty minutes ago. Although tonight she looked rough. You guys must be her military buddies. When she first started coming in she talked about you guys all the time.” He smiles. “Although these days she keeps to herself.” He mumbles. “Anyways. I’m not supposed to tell anyone but when she leaves here, she buys a bottle of Jack and goes for a walk, tonight she said the bridge over the river.”

Captain Price’s stomach drops. “You let her leave with alcohol? Isn’t that against the law?” Ghost asks, angrily. The guy smiles. “You’d have to have seen her these last couple weeks to understand. Poor girl is really going through it.” He looks sympathetic. He scoffs, turning his back. “I’ll stay here in case she comes back. You guys go.” The young girl nods.

They hurried back out into the pouring rain, piling into Captain Price’s truck and he speeds down the road to get to the bridge, only hoping things weren’t as bad as they seemed.

You’d staggered your way back up the bank to the bridge. You were soaked head to toe and you sat on the brick railing of the old bridge. Who knows, maybe the old thing would give way and you’d die in a terrible accident.

Your feet swung back and forth as you tipped the bottle of Jack back. It didn’t burn anymore. You were too hammered to taste anything. Your jacket was sopping wet, not providing any warmth anymore. You dreaded going back to that base. Having to look them in the eyes and pretend as if nothing is wrong when everything so clearly was. You’d tried so hard to talk about your feelings to anyone who’d listen but they wouldn’t. Even Laswell had shrugged you off when you’d mentioned to her how bad these days have been. It was a “chin up, you’re just tired.”

You are tired. So… so tired. You wiped your mouth, another set of headlights illuminated the bridge behind you. But nobody stopped.

You didn’t expect them too. You were just a lonely person dressed in black. Contemplating the depth. How many feet was it you think? One-hundred feet? One-fifty? Not too bad anyways…

Your eyes barely stayed open, everything was so blurry but the rush of the rapid river was so peaceful. You tilt your head back and let that spinning feeling wind you up. It usually made you sick, but tonight felt different.

“I’m such a bad fucking Captain.” He shakes his head, mumbling angry to himself. “Captain you can’t blame yourself. She hasn’t asked for help, she hasn’t confided in anyone.” Soap mumbles. “How are we supposed to know if she doesn’t tell us?”

“She has been trying to tell us. For weeks now. Even Laswell brought up how Y/N had come to her about a few bad days. I thought nothing of it. I swear if she’s jumped…” he hisses. “I should have noticed. She was in my office talking to me everyday for a week and it was so out of the ordinary for her and I just sat there doing my work, ignoring her. And forgetting her birthday…” he trails off. Everyone in the truck feels shame. “I’ve noticed it too. The shaky hands and late nights. I just thought maybe the work was getting to her.” Ghost mumbles.

Captain Price is nearly there, speeding to get to you.

You had tiny rocks, from when you’d slipped down the bank. Dropping one of them every so often and counting how long it takes before it hits the water. It was getting rather hard to see with the darkness surrounding you. Besides, you were heavier than a little rock, surely you’d hit the water faster than that.

Headlights lit up your back this time, only now, you heard the tires on the wet pavement coming to a stop behind you. Some bystander coming to play hero most likely. Maybe you’d entertain it so they’d leave you alone. “Thank you sir or ma’am. I don’t want to kill myself anymore!” You smile at the joke.

“Y/N?” You hear his deep voice call from behind you, your stomach falls. You didn’t want anyone to see you like this. You stay quiet, hoping they’d think it was someone else. You hear his footsteps getting louder as they approach. Course it’d be your Captain no less.

“Trying to kill yourself? We can’t have that. You’re discharged!”

You smile to yourself again. Head spinning. “Y/N. Darling?” His steps have slowed and you turn to look at him. “You don’t have to be all gentle, sir. I’m not going to jump if you get too close.” You give him a lazy smile and that’s when he knows it’s bad. Really fucking bad.

“You’re supposed to be in the infirmary. Healing.” He mumbles. “I did go. That was hours and hours ago, sir.” You mumble. “Bandaged my arm.” You hold it up. The bandage was completely ruined with water. “I stuck my hand in the river, wasn’t thinking and got it all wet.” Your voice is slurred. “You.. you were down there?” He asks. “Mhm. I go down there all the time. Good fishing in the summertime I hear, sometimes I see the fishermen. I’ve talked to a few of em.” You move to tilt the bottle back for another swig but he grasps it, pulling it away. “Think that’s enough. It’s time to go.” He mumbles. “Don’t think so, Cap.” You mumble. Sniffling. He watches you drop another pebble between your feet, whistling as it descends to the water. He can clearly see what you’re doing. “Y/N…” he mumbles. “We.. we forgot your birthday.” He mumbles. You laugh. “That’s okay, I hoped everyone would. I mean I’m at the age they don’t really matter anymore, anyways.” It stings.

“That’s not true Y/N. You’re young. Too young for this. Please get down.” He breathes. He’s got a tight hold on your shirt that you didn’t realize he’d had at first. You spin around, rolling over the railing and facing him. You smile. He can tell you’re about to say some fucked up stuff just from looking at you. “You know.. I had this.. whole thing. Every-“ you hiccup. “Everything I’d say. If I ever found myself like this. I told myself I’d go to you and I’d say “Captain Price. I’m really struggling and I need help. And you know what I got?” You smile.

“You wouldn’t want to be like your dad, would you Y/N?”

Captain Price forgot that he’d said it. He knew about your past with your dad and everything you’d gone through as a kid and why you were so tough on the outside. He doesn’t know why he said it. Your presence was bothering him that day because he was just trying to get his work done.

“Oh he’d be proud wouldn’t he.” Your lip quivers and your smile falters. “I am young. Too old to live, too young to die.” You mumble. “If it’s okay, I’d like to walk back to base. Don’t think you want to leave your truck there.” You look at it. Spotting a pale white skeleton mask through the slightly tinted window. “Ah shit.. you brought everyone. That’s great.” You mumble. “I’ll start back.” You push past him, staggering down the sidewalk.

He rushes across the street, pulling the back door open. “There’s a coat back there, hand it to me.”

“Is she okay?”

“No. Far from it.”

Ghost hands him the jacket. “I’m going to walk with her, drive my truck back to base please.” He mumbles. You hear his quick footsteps behind you. Sighing. “Here.” He passes you the coat and you take it with hesitation. “I’m already soaked sir.” You mumble. “I don’t care.” He says. “How much longer do I have?” You ask. He looks confused. “What are you talking about?” He asks. “Surely I’m off your task force for this. How long?”

His heart shatters to pieces. How little do you think he cares about you?

He pushes you back into an alleyway, off of the main road and underneath the edge of the roof to keep you out of the rain. “Swap your jacket, go on.” He mumbles. Holding his hand out. You sigh, shedding the soaked jacket. “I’m not going to remove you from my task force for something we all go through Y/N. It’s a bad day, not a bad life.” He mumbles. “It’s been a bad few months, Captain.” You mumble. He sighs. “I know Y/N… I know.” He mumbles. “It’s going to be okay. Come on.” He mumbles. The walk back to base is slow you seem to be dreading the return. Captain price has never felt so poorly before. He had missed so much, look at you.

When you finally make it back, the concrete entrance coming into view, he stops you. “Listen. We’ve got a lot to work on okay? And you’re far from sober now. So I’ll come find you tomorrow. Go in and go to bed okay?” You nod your head. He makes sure you’re in your room. It doesn’t take you long to pass out but John waits outside your room to make sure you actually stay inside.

The next morning, you wake up. And something is off.

You wake up completely sober with a massive headache, which can only mean one thing. You’d overslept.

You dart out of bed, snagging your phone and seeing the clock read 11:00. You were usually up at 5:00 every morning. You scrambled to get dressed, struggling your hardest since this is the most sober you’ve been in weeks. You reach for the door handle, and that’s when you freeze. The events from the previous night come flooding back to you. Not only were you most likely already on thin ice with your Captain, but now you’d slept in late. You were furious with yourself. You rip the door open and head straight for his office. You open the door, not bothering to knock and walk straight in. You see her sitting in front of desk and want to scream, you probably look like hell. “Ah. Y/N.” He smiles. “Was just getting ready to come find you.” He goes to stand. “Uh.. yeah. Sorry sir, my alarm didn’t wake me up like usual, I’m not sure what happened.” Your hands shake, you look pale. He worries the moment he’s got eyes on you.

“It’s okay. I went in and turned it off, I figured you’d need the sleep. We were just finishing up, take a seat.”

“I can come back another time-“

“No, we were just going over her discharge.”

You look concerned. “Excuse me- discharge?”

“Yeah.. it’s not going to work out with her here.”

“Well obviously there’s not enough work to go around but she shouldn’t be discharged, brought to another base maybe but she’s rather good-“

“Y/N.” She laughs, getting your attention.

“I’m pregnant.” She laughs. Your eyes widen. “Shit.” You sigh. “I mean shit- that’s exciting. That sounded horrible. I’m sorry.” You mumble. Sitting down.

“Thanks, I know what you meant. We decided it be best before I get in too deep here you know?” She smiles sadly. “Yeah.. yeah I guess so. Your kid deserves a mom and that’s not guaranteed in this line of work. You’re making a good choice.” You mumble. She smiles. “Thank you Y/N.”

Captain Price smiles. Despite how fucking bad you were struggling you still cared so much for those around you. But he’s saddened by the fact that on two ends of the spectrums, your lives had severely changed. You were an alcoholic bordering rehab and she was pregnant, giving up her career. It was fucked up.

“Oh. And I got you this, I totally had your birthday mixed up with someone else’s- I’m really sorry.” She passes you a box. “I’ll be going now though, planes leaving here in about thirty. Thanks for having me.” She says her goodbyes and exits through the door. You look sadly down at the box she’d given you.

“Why’d you let me sleep in?” You ask. “Because I’m willing to bet good money that’s the most sleep you’ve had in weeks, no?” He smiles.

You nod. “But uh.. you’re not gonna like what I have to say.” He sighs, sitting down in the chair that she had just left, right next to you rather than across his desk from you. You swallow hard, nodding your head. “I want you sober in no less than a week. If you can’t do that, I’m shipping you off my base and to a rehabilitation facility. Am I clear?” You nod your head. “Yes sir.”

“Good. Now that that’s squared. We need to talk.”

You sigh. “Can we just skip this part and go to me being sober?” You look sadly. He laughs. “No. You scared the shit out of the entire task force last night. What’s been going on?” He asks. You sigh.

“To be honest? I don’t know.” You mumble. “The biggest thing is like.. I guess I thought I’d just have done more by this age. You know? A family? Kids? A sugar daddy at least?” It takes him off guard and he laughs a bit. “Christ, you haven’t changed a bit.” He rolls his eyes. You smile. “I just feel disappointed in myself, and seeing her really made me realize what a failure I’ve been. I’ve done all of this work and have nothing to show for it. I thought I’d made a bigger impact on everyone yknow? And then everyone forgets my birthday and it’s just like.. it was just a punch in the gut.” You sigh.

He sighs. “Us forgetting your birthday is no excuse. Time slipped our minds and then the mission. I made a huge distraction for everyone, if you’re gonna blame anyone, blame me. I didn’t even realize what day it was until last night when I sat down for just a second and saw the date.” He mumbles. “I don’t blame anyone sir. It’s not that big of a deal of course, I guess I just thought I was more important than I am.”

It stings.

“Y/N.. that’s not true okay? You are important to us. Yesterday on the mission and last night, you gave all of us a really good scare. Which reminds me, we need to be on our way to the infirmary to get you looked at.” He mumbles. He rests his hand on your thigh. “It was shitty of us to forget. We will make up for it, I promise. But for now? We’ve got to get you back on track.” He runs his hand back and forth. “You shouldn’t be disappointed in yourself either. It’s not too late to start a family, and now you’ve got a solid career for yourself. You could easily slip back into a desk job and never see the field again if you decided to have a family.”

“Though I will be really sad because you are one of the most skilled soldiers I’ve ever seen, that’s why you’re on this task force.” He laughs. You smile.

He stands up and helps you up. The both of you making your way to the infirmary where you get checked out and re-bandaged. The next week you’re on the road to being sober again.

The guys don’t say too much to you, which hurts you beyond repair. It makes you wonder if staying on this base is worth it. You seemed so close to them for so long and now?

It’s how it seemed anyways, until day 7.

You were on day 3 with absolutely no alcohol and it was getting easier. The first couple days were hell, but now it felt just like you were back into your same old routine. It was Sunday and you slept in longer than intended but eventually crept out of your room into the mess hall. You gathered your breakfast and sat down at a table and began eating by yourself.

You were fine until the four of them appeared. But they weren’t getting breakfast which was unusual. They approach your table, each of them carrying grocery bags. You looked up from your toast, confused. “Uh.. something wrong?”

“No, actually. We’re happy to see you eating real breakfast rather than pounding coffee with shaky hands.” Ghost chuckles, seeing you smile. “Yeah, well. I keep everyone on their toes it’s what I do. What’s with the grocery bags?” You bite into your toast, looking at them. “Ready?” Johnny looks at Ghost than back to Gaz. “Ready.” The four lift their bags and dump them onto the table. You watch candy and all sorts of stuff fall from the bags onto the table. Captain Price sets a six pack of non-alcoholic beer on the table. You laugh. “That’s funny Captain, really. Might just be my 13th reason but a good one.”

He rolls his eyes. “What is all of this?”

“All our favorite candy cause we’re gonna sit here today and we’re gonna catch up, cause we’ve clearly missed so much.”

“Ah- yes. My birthday included.” You take another bite of your toast, seeing them all flinch. “Yeah- well. We’re idiots what do you expect. Besides, we had this big huge plan made up this year and lost track of time so you’ll have to wait until next year. But anyways, here’s your stuff. Stop talking back.” Johnny shoves the pile of your favorite candy toward you. “Awe! You got me gummy life savers I haven’t had those since I was a kid!” You pick them up, looking at them. He rolls his eyes. “I know, you told me about it on our mission to Iran. Same with The… pixie sticks? Gummy sharks? And uhhh.. gaz said something about gummy frogs.” He pushes them all toward you.

You felt like crying.

Even though these assholes forgot your birthday. They remembered the little things.

You swallow hard. “That’s uh.. that’s really sweet.” You set your toast down. Your eyes zero in on the candy, and you feel the biggest breakdown of your life coming on. You feel so guilty. “Y/N?” Captain Price rests his hand on your shoulder. “Y/N, are you alright? Can you hear me?” You look up at him, standing up. But he wasn’t going to let you go this time.

“Hey- it’s okay. We know how you feel and there’s nothing wrong with it okay? Just try to relax.” You nod your head, tears stream down your cheeks and you look away from them. You don’t want them to see you like this. “Sorry- it’s been a rough few months.” You clear your throat, wiping your eyes furiously with the sleeve of your shirt. “It’s alright. We’re all here for you Y/N. You scared us.” Gaz mumbles. You nod your head. Your nose goes red, as it always did when you got upset. And you sat silent for a while with tears spilling over your eyes as the five shared a normal conversation, waiting for you to calm down. There was a long road of healing needed to be done for you, but you’d be alright.

And you’d have your brothers along for the bumpy ride.

———

The sound of your door knob jiggling makes you scramble to hide what you’re holding. Shoving it under a blanket and sitting on top to secure it.

Captain Price gives you a look, letting you know that he’s just seen it and crosses his arms after shutting the door behind you. “What is it?” He asks. “It’s- it’s nothing sir.” You feel your face going hot but he doesn’t see it. “Y/N. Tell me what it is. Is it alcohol?” He asks. “What? No. I told you- I’m sober.” You swallow hard. He narrows his eyes. “Well. I told you. I’m checking your room weekly and that’s why I’m here. So give it up.” He crosses his arms, moving in closer. “Sir-“ he sighs, moving toward you and pushing you away. “Please Captain- you have to believe me. It’s not alcohol I’m telling yo-“ he draws your blanket back and when he sees it, he can’t help the crimson running up his cheeks and his earlobes.

A little pink bullet vibrator. “Hm.. okay.” He laughs to himself, covering it back up with your blanket. “Before I search the rest of your room- is there anything else like that I might find?” He turns to look at you, seeing the look of pure embarrassment on your face. “N-no sir.” You swallow hard. “I’m usually on top of hiding it but I forgot you were checking tonight and I was us-“ your eyes widen in horror. “I lost track of time.” You swallow. He turns away from you to smirk, not wanting to embarrass you further. “I believe you. Step out for a moment?” He laughs. “Yes sir.” You rush out the door. You could crawl into a hole and die.

He usually sent you out when he searched, but you’d been good. No alcohol at all, you’d been sober and on the road to healing. With a little help from your pink friend when things got extra tough.

You’re sitting outside your door reading a magazine when he reappears, opening the door and leaning on the frame. “I’m impressed. Not even a drop.” He laughs. “Told you sir, I’m sober.”

“I know, I can tell. But we’re going to keep doing this. Least for a while.” He laughs. “I understand sir.” You blush, looking down. “Y/N- I gotta ask.” He mumbles. You turn and look up at him as he leans against the door frame. Hovering over you slightly since you’d sat just outside the door. “Hm?”

“What’s the reason behind you not being married with kids already?” He asks. You chew at your lip. Thinking over an answer. “To be honest? I don’t know. I’ve never clicked with anyone, let alone gotten far enough into a relationship to even discuss the topic of kids.” You mumble. He nods his head. “You have to cut men some slack, who are we to compete with this?”

You shoot out of your seat, eyes wide as he holds up your vibrator. “Captain!”

“Y/N.” He says your name steadily with a smile.

“I’m wondering if it’s the booze I should worry about, or this?” He smirks. Seeing you narrow your eyes. “Yeah well. If you confiscate that one, can you at least return it with new batteries? Those ones are going dead.” You smirk. He raises his eyebrows. “If I’m not mistaken, I think you’re trying to flirt with me.” He moves from the door, stepping in front of you. He crosses his arms. You lower your voice, taken aback by what he’s saying. “And I think you’re the one holding my vibrator.”

He smirks. He’s moved closer, his face merely inches from yours. “Never cared enough to ask about a boyfriend or kids before Captain, what are you getting at exactly hm?” Your eyes are dark, voice is low and sultry. Never in a million years did you think this would be happening.

Captain Price? And you? Come on.

He bites at his lip. “Go into your room Sergeant.”

“Yes sir.” You step to the side, walking into your room and spinning around as he follows you. He closes the door behind himself.

When it’s locked, he’s stepping toward you quickly, backing you up a few steps as he moves closer. “I’m not reading this wrong, am I?” He asks. He’s got a beanie on. Jeans and a black jacket. You look up through your eyelashes at him, eyes snapping to his and locking eye contact with him. A look in your eyes he’s definitely never seen before. “No.”

“Good.”

He smashes his lips to yours, kissing you deep and passionate. It’s sloppy, teeth knocking into each other. It’s something the both of you have needed for far too long now. Someone to just get lost in.

He cups your jaw, fingers locking at the nape of your neck and he pulls you closer, kissing deep and hard.

When he draws away, you’re in a daze. You’ve never been kissed like that before. Your fingertips feel numb.

Numbness starts at your fingers and moves up your arms, down into your toes. You’re frozen in the spot until he’s pushing you back into your bed. He parts your legs, pushing himself up against you and rocking his hips into yours. He kisses you again and you moan into his mouth as he grinds up against you. His cock is hard and you can feel it through your soft sweatpants. Ironically, a pair he’d bought you a few weeks before when you were having a particularly rough night.

He’d spent countless nights holding your hair back for you as you threw up from the withdrawals. Shaky and sweaty, sobbing your heart out. You thought you couldn’t look worse to him.

Now here he is, about to fuck you raw on a metal cot in your room.

He nudges the striped sweatpants down your legs, feeling how soft they are on his skin. He gets his jacket and shirt off, not even bothering with his jeans. Once the both of you are unclothed just enough to get his cock inside you, he’s notching his tip at your entrance and sinking into you. You gasp and he cuts it off with a kiss. Drawing back and thrusting fast back inside. You’re wet and he slides easy, feeling how warm and soft you feel around him. “Fuck you’re tight-“ he hisses.

Words you NEVER expected to hear out of your Captains mouth.

Who would have thought you’d love them so much, anyways?

Your legs shiver from his rough pace. He’s relentless with his thrusts. Holding your thighs up and thrusting deeper. Keeping your eyes locked to his when he’s not kissing you. He forces you to focus on him as he fucks you deep.

“I think I get it now.” He draws back, raising himself up onto his knees, still thrusting but not as hard. “W-what?”

You tilt your head back and close your eyes. Waiting for an answer. You gasp when he presses the vibrator against your clit. Slowing his thrusts and fucking you deep as he holds it there. You look down for a second, seeing his hands on you. It hits you like a freight train what’s happening. Your eyes snap straight to his in a heated stare and chills run down his spine. The way you look at him always has him on edge. You had a harsh look about you sometimes.

“S’not supposed to be competition.” He smirks. You can’t help but laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

He chuckles. He lays over you once more to kiss you. Pushing your legs up further into you and sliding deeper. He keeps the vibrator pressed into you. “Can you stay quiet?” He asks. “Yes sir-“ you shiver slightly at his tone of voice.

“Good. Deep breath now, you’re going to need it.”

He clamps his hand around your throat, taking your oxygen away as he hammers his hips into yours. You clutch your eyes shut, trying to swallow but you can’t. You feel the pins and needles in your face from your lack of oxygen but the intensity from the pleasure you feel takes over. You can barely hear him.

“Cum for me. Go on sweetheart.”

You grit your teeth. Your whole body feels numb except for that one spot.

You try to cry out but can’t, reaching your peak in silence as black pin pricks fill your vision. You shake and twitch, walls throbbing hard around him. You try to draw away from the vibrator but he draws it back. He finally lets go of your throat and you gasp in air just as he finishes with a groan. Clenching his eyes shut. You take a few seconds to breath, brain no longer foggy as you look at him.

It’s the best sex you’ve ever had by far.

Your chest moves up and down as you breathe hard. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth.

He draws back, standing up. The reality of what he’s just done hits him hard. The two of you had just had sex. On base. And he’s your captain and you’re a sergeant on his task force.

He can’t help but smile.

“You alright?” He asks. “Y-yeah. Mhm.” You look up at him, cheeks on fire. “Not how I saw my night going at all but I’m fine.” You laugh softly. “Yeah.. me neither. It’s your fault really, you’re a temptress.” He barely finishes his sentence before you’re slapping his shoulder. He can’t help but laugh. “Hey- I got you something, actually.” He mumbles. “What?”

“I’ll be right back.” He stands up, getting redressed quickly and exiting through your door. You take the time to get redressed and cleaned up. Fixing your messed up hair and sitting down. You pick the magazine up once more, reading through it. He’s gone for a few minutes before reappearing. He sits on your bed in front of you, holding out a little black box. “What’s this for?”

“I saw something like it and thought of you.”

You look confused as you open it, drawing out the little gold necklace. It’s an old dried clover pressed between two tiny thin pieces of glass, turned into a keychain. A keepsake pendant.

“But I don’t think I understand.” You look confused. He smiles. He looks at his watch, reading that it’s past midnight. “Well, I meant to give it to you tomorrow but since it’s midnight.” He laughs. “Today technically marks three years since I recruited you for my task force. The day we officially met each other and you joined the base. You beat me to the base and didn’t have much to do that day so you spent it outside. We were on our way back from a mission. You found a four leaf clover in the grass and when I arrived I saw you waiting outside. I introduced myself and you said “hi, I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.” And passed me the clover and said “it’s a good luck charm. With me here, you’re gonna need it.” He smiles. You smile down at it. “You.. kept it?”

“Of course I kept it.” He laughs. “I figured you’d have just thrown it away. That’s.. that’s really sweet John.”

The use of his first name takes him off guard.

“Yeah well. You’re a really sweet girl who deserves better than this but I’m not too thoughtful.”

“That’s such a lie. This is the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever gotten.” You look up at him. He laughs.

“I uh.. hope this won’t be the last encounter like this with you.”

“Hm?”

“I’d like to take you out on a date. A real date. If you’re okay with it. I know I’m a lot older than you.”

“I would love that, Captain.” You smile. “Thanks for being here for me these last few weeks.”

“I would never leave you hanging. I hope you know that.” He grasps your hand, taking it into his. “You’re doing really good and I’m proud of you. And I’m sorry for what I’ve said to you.”

“Thank you.”

“What are you going to put it on?” He asks. You think for a second.

“I’m thinking my vest.”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

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