#what if shes gone and shes doing just fine where she is now and she doesn't miss me like i miss her

[woso-story]

Overprotective

Alexia Putellas x Reader

The Barcelona training facilities were alive with their usual energy—players chatting, balls bouncing on the field, the rhythmic clang of weights in the gym. You had retreated to a quieter corner of the gym to do your light stretches, the only exercise you were allowed these days. It had been like this since you and Alexia learned you were pregnant: no strenuous activity, no risks.

Alexia had been over the moon when the two of you found out about the baby. From the moment the doctor confirmed the pregnancy, she had become fiercely protective, to the point where it sometimes felt like she was wrapping you in bubble wrap. She insisted on doing everything for you—chores, errands, even the smallest tasks, like tying your shoes. It was sweet but also exhausting.

Today was no different. Alexia was somewhere else in the building, busy with media obligations, but you could almost feel her presence hovering even in her absence. She had made it very clear to your teammates to keep an eye on you, and you knew they were taking their mission seriously.

As you eased into a stretch, Aitana and Ingrid walked over, their expressions curious and warm.

“How’s it going?” Aitana asked, settling onto the mat beside you.

“And how’s the little one?” Ingrid added, her eyes flicking briefly to your baby bump with a smile.

You grinned at them. “Everything’s perfect. The baby’s doing great, and I’m feeling good, really.” You paused for a moment, then leaned in conspiratorially. “It’s just… Alexia.”

Aitana immediately chuckled, exchanging a knowing look with Ingrid. “What’s she done now?”

“She’s always hovering,” you said, your voice tinged with affection and exasperation. “She’s so worried something will happen that she won’t let me do anything. And she’s got all of you spying on me too, hasn’t she?”

Ingrid raised her hands in mock surrender, laughing. “Guilty as charged.”

Aitana smirked. “She’s worse than your shadow. I’m surprised she’s not hiding behind the weight rack right now, watching you.”

The three of you burst out laughing, though you quickly glanced over your shoulder, half-expecting Alexia to appear out of nowhere.

As if summoned by your thoughts, the door opened, and Alexia strolled in. Her sharp eyes immediately locked onto your group, narrowing slightly. “What’s so funny?” she asked, crossing the room toward you.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, smiling up at her.

She didn’t look convinced, but she let it go, crouching beside you and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “You okay? How’s everything?”

“Perfect,” you assured her, standing up and resting a hand on your bump.

Before Alexia could press further, the gym doors burst open, and a whirlwind of chaos swept in. Pina, Patri, and Mapi barreled into the room, laughing loudly and spraying water at each other with their bottles.

“Be careful!” you called out, but they were too caught up in their antics to hear you.

It happened in an instant. Mapi, not watching where she was going, accidentally bumped into you as she dashed past. You stumbled backward, falling back to the mat. It wasn’t serious—just a minor tumble—but it was enough to send Alexia into full-on mama-bear mode.

Alexia was by your side in a heartbeat, her face a mixture of fear and fury. “What were you thinking?!” she snapped, her voice ringing out like a thunderclap.

Mapi froze, her face draining of color. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Go away,” Alexia cut her off, her tone icy. “All of you. Go be reckless somewhere else.”

Pina and Patri grabbed Mapi’s arm, pulling her toward the door. Mapi looked devastated, glancing back at you with wide, guilty eyes.

Once they were gone, Alexia turned her full attention to you, her hands trembling slightly as she checked you over. “Are you okay? Is the baby okay?”

“Lex, I’m fine,” you said gently, placing a reassuring hand on hers. “It was just a little stumble. Nothing happened.”

“No,” she said firmly, helping you to your feet. “We’re going to the medical room, just to be sure.”

At lunch, you followed Alexia into the cafeteria. You immediately spotted your usual table, where Mapi, Ingrid, Aitana, Frido and Esmee were sitting. Mapi looked miserable, her shoulders hunched and her gaze fixed on the table. But as you headed toward them, Alexia steered you to an empty table instead.

Knowing there was no point in arguing, you let her lead you there. The medical staff did a thorough check-up, confirming that everything was perfectly fine. Alexia let out a long sigh of relief, her shoulders sagging as the tension drained from her.

---

“Alexia,” you said, exasperated, as you set your tray down. “What are you doing?”

“We’re sitting here,” she said simply, her tone leaving no room for argument.

You sighed, trying to stay calm. “You can’t stay mad at Mapi forever. It was an accident. She didn’t mean to bump into me.”

“She should know better,” Alexia said sharply, her fiery gaze meeting yours. “You could’ve been seriously hurt.”

“She’s your best friend,” you reminded her gently. “And she feels awful. You know she’d never hurt me or the baby on purpose.”

Alexia didn’t respond, her jaw tightening. Frustrated, you grabbed your tray and stood up.

“Where are you going?” she asked, her tone sharp.

“To sit with my friends,” you said firmly, walking away before she could stop you.

When you sat down at your usual table, Mapi didn’t even look up. You placed a hand on her arm, and she finally met your gaze.

“It’s okay,” you said softly. “Really. I’m fine, and the baby’s fine. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mapi whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

You smiled at her reassuringly. “It was just a little accident. Don’t worry about it.”

That afternoon, Alexia found you outside with the others. “Ready to go home?” she asked, ignoring Mapi, who was standing beside you.

Slowly, the tension began to lift, and soon you were all laughing at one of Frido’s jokes. You noticed Mapi glancing nervously at Alexia from time to time, and you leaned over to whisper, “She’ll come around. She’s just… a little intense right now.”

---

“Actually,” you said, “Ingrid, Esmee, and I are going to the mall. You can drive Mapi home.”

Alexia opened her mouth to argue, but the look you gave her stopped her in her tracks. Begrudgingly, she agreed.

The car ride was tense at first, but eventually, Mapi broke the silence. “I’m really sorry, Alexia. It wasn’t on purpose. I’d never want to hurt her or the baby. I’ll be more careful in the future. Please don’t be mad at me.”

At a red light, Alexia finally looked over at her best friend. She could see the genuine distress in Mapi’s eyes, and her own anger began to dissolve. With a deep sigh, she said, “It’s okay. I overreacted. I was just scared. I know you’d never hurt her on purpose.”

Mapi nodded, relief washing over her face. “Thank you.”

When Ingrid dropped you off at home later, you found Alexia on the couch, watching TV. You sat down beside her, and she immediately pulled you into her arms.

“We’re good,” she said simply, resting her chin on your head.

You smiled. “So my plan worked.”

Alexia chuckled, placing a hand on your baby bump and rubbing it gently. “You’re sneaky.”

“I love you,” you said, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Even if you’re a little overprotective sometimes.”

“I love you too,” she murmured, her voice soft. “Both of you.”

And in that moment, everything felt perfect again.

[hanniebaeee]

Without you

Hyunjin x fem!reader

Warnings: lots of tears

Genre: established relationship, angst, fluff

Summary: When Hyunjin comes home after a week away for work, he finds you gone. And he's furious because you didn't say a word, just packed and left. And he knows it has everything to do with the dinner you had with his parents just before he left.

a/n: writing my pain away. I'm sorry if this is too angsty.

Hyunjin’s knuckles rapped against Jisoo’s front door with such force you feared that it might come off its hinges. You glanced at Jisoo, your face streaked with tears, your heart racing.

“Y/N!” His voice came through the door, sending a jolt of panic through your chest. “Open the damn door, or so help me, I’ll kick it down.”

Jisoo shot you a glance, silently asking if you wanted her to handle it. You just shook your head. You had to face him at some point. 

“You sure?” Jisoo asked, her protective instincts flaring.

You nodded, and she sighed before walking towards the door.

Memories of that night flashed through your mind painfully. Dinner at his parents’ place. Everything was going fine until his mum cornered you in the kitchen as you helped her put things away. She was so polite as she suggested that her son was very impulsive, and rarely thought things through.

You heart nearly stopped as she said that, because you had a feeling where this conversation was headed. And then she told you with a smile that if you really loved him, you'd stop holding him back, and let him have the life he truly deserved - a life with a Korean girl who'd fit better with his family. With him. 

And she had proceeded to pretend like everything was ok the rest of the night, while you had to do everything in your power to not break down. He was their only son. You didn't want to ruin his relationship with them, considering how wildly protective he was of you. 

The man loved you with everything in him. And Hyunjin literally wore his heart on his sleeves, and you would never knowingly do anything to agitate him. And so you'd gone home silently that night, spent a long time silently sobbing in the bathroom as he packed for a one week trip. He had multiple shows scheduled for the week, all outside Korea. 

Obviously he knew the minute you emerged from the bathroom with a smile. He had stared into your eyes, his mouth opening and closing like he desperately wanted to talk. But he had to leave in another hour, and he didn't want to start a conversation that he knew he couldn't finish before he left. So he engulfed you in a hug, kissed you deeply and told you that he loved you. And that you're his entire world. 

But sadly, that didn't make your aching insecurities vanish. Because after he left, you'd packed your own bags and called Jisoo, panicking.

He called out again, this time a little softer, but his tone was dripping with frustration.

“Jisoo, I know you’re in there. And I know she’s with you. Let me in.” he said. “Please.”

“Fine! But if you make her cry again, I'll make you suffer.” Jisoo opened the door, shooting him a glare as she moved aside. “She's in the guest room.”

Hyunjin stormed in, wearing his travel-worn hoodie and sweatpants, looking so tired, but furious at the same time. 

His sharp eyes locked onto you immediately as he stepped into the guest bedroom. Hyunjin stood there for a moment, staring at you. Your face was nearly unrecognizable - eyes swollen, skin blotchy from crying for days. You could barely keep your eyes open. 

Hyunjin’s chest rose and fell with deep breaths, and you could see the tension radiating off him. 

“You wanna explain to me what the hell is going on?” he asked finally, his voice tight with barely suppressed anger.

You tried to hold his gaze, but the intensity in his eyes was unbearable.

“Hyunjin, please don’t do this right now,” you muttered, wiping your face with the sleeve of your oversized sweater.

“Oh, we’re doing this,” he said, stalking toward you like a predator who’d just spotted its prey. He crossed his arms, towering over you. “Start talking. Now.”

You folded your arms, a weak attempt to put up a barrier. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Nothing to talk about?” He scoffed, letting out a humorless laugh. “That’s rich, considering I came home to our apartment looking like a ghost town. All your stuff gone. My gifts left behind like they were trash. And you dodging my calls?”

His voice was rising, and it was clear that more than anger, he was hurt.

“I didn’t dodge your calls,” you countered weakly, your voice breaking.

“You didn’t answer them. Or my texts,” he fired back. “What the hell, Y/N? I want you to tell me why you thought it was okay to pack your things and leave without a word."

You tried to muster the courage to stay firm, to push him away like his mother had suggested.

“I… I think we’re too different, Hyunjin.” The words tasted bitter on your tongue. “It's for the best…”

His jaw clenched, his angelic features hardening. “Bullshit.”

Your eyes widened at his bluntness, and how he took another step forward. 

“You don’t get to pull this ‘too different’ crap on me now,” he snapped. “If you don’t want to be with me anymore, fine, say that. But don’t lie to me. Is that it? You don't love me?”

“No, no,” you insisted, though your voice was shaky. “Hyunjin, please-”

“Then tell me why you cried your eyes out after that dinner,” he challenged. “Tell me why my mom’s been calling me nonstop asking if you’re okay.”

Your heart sank. Of course, he’d piece it together. He wasn’t stupid.

Hyunjin exhaled, running a hand through his short hair, his frustration giving way to something softer. “Baby, what did she say to you?”

You bit your lip, shaking your head. “Hyunjin, it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” he said, his voice cracking. “It matters if it’s enough to make you leave me.”

Tears welled up in your eyes again, and your eyes burned as you blinked them back.

“She loves you, Jinnie…whatever she wants for you, it's for the best…you do deserve better,” you admitted quietly. “Someone who fits into your world better than I do.”

Hyunjin let out a low curse, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He turned away for a moment, running both hands through his hair as he paced the room, trying to calm the storm brewing inside him.

“You deserve someone who won’t hold you back.”

He froze, his gaze darkening as he asked, “You think you hold me back?”

“Hyunjin -”

“I don’t care what she said,” he snapped, cutting you off. “I’m asking you. Do you think that?”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out.

“Y/N,” he whispered, stepping closer until there was barely any space between you. “You’re my world. No one else fits better into it than you. My mom doesn’t get to decide who’s good enough for me, baby. I do. And guess what? You’re it. You’ve always been it. Don’t you see that?”

“I just…” You shook your head, your voice trembling. “I don’t want to cause problems for you. I love you too much to -”

“To what?” he interrupted, stepping closer again. His hands found your face, his touch firm but gentle as he tilted your chin up to make you look at him. “To stay? To fight for us?”

You swallowed hard, your heart aching at the sincerity in his voice.

“And if my mom can’t see what we have, that’s her problem,” he continued, his tone fierce. “But you don’t get to decide for me. You don’t get to run away without even talking to me.”

You felt your resolve crumbling, your walls breaking down under the weight of his words.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you muttered, trying to push him away.

“Like what?” He smirked, his confidence creeping back. “Like I’m madly in love with you?”

“Hyunjin…” Your voice was barely audible as you mumbled, “I don't want you to regret this. Ever.”

“Don’t you dare,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Don’t you dare say that. Because it's bullshit. You’re everything to me.”

The tears flowed freely now, and you couldn’t stop them even if you tried. “But your mom -”

“I’ll handle my mom,” he growled, cutting you off again. “You’re my choice, Y/N. My family. My life.”

His words shattered the last of your resolve, and before you knew it, you were sobbing into his chest, clutching at his hoodie. He held you close, his arms wrapped around you so tight. 

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your hair, his voice trembling. “And I’m yours. Don’t ever forget that.”

You nodded against him, too overwhelmed to speak. A small tearful laugh escaped you, despite the tears still streaming down your face.

“There’s my girl,” he teased, brushing a thumb over your cheek to wipe your tears away. “Now, grab your things. Let’s go home.”

You hesitated, still unsure if you could ever face his mother again.

“Don’t worry about her,” he added, as if reading your mind. “I’ll handle it. This is not your battle, okay?”

And just like that, the weight on your chest began to lift. In that moment, nothing else mattered. It was just you and Hyunjin - two souls refusing to let go of each other.

And you knew, deep down, that you never would.

Divider: @saradika-graphics

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

[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

Anger - A Joel Miller Drabble

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader Rating: E (is there anything else with him?????) Truly this is the least crazy thing I've written in days. Unprotected p in v. Word Count: 1155 a/n: Sometimes I spend all afternoon trying to write Joel and get nothing and other times I write 1000 words in less than 30 minutes. There is no in-between. Written for TLOU Sundays!

"You've really gotta do something about him," Ellie tells you from where she's sitting at the kitchen table.

You're barely through the door, coat still covered in a layer of snow from outside. "Well hello to you, too, Ellie," you respond, pulling off your boots before you track any more water into the house. It's strange, how something like keeping the floors dry didn't matter for twenty years and now suddenly again it does. "You're the fourth person to say that to me today though, so I assume you also are talking about Joel?"

She's flipping through the pages of a comic, barely paying you any attention. "Yes, Joel," she emphasizes, not that you need any further confirmation. Maria had cornered you at the saloon, the other half of your patrol had been on your case, and you had a run-in with Jackson's resident grandma first thing in the morning, who gave you an earful about how you needed to learn how to satisfy your man so he would stop torturing the entire town with his bad mood.

You sigh, shucking your coat and flexing your toes in your thick socks as you make your way into the kitchen. "Any idea what's wrong with him? He seemed fine this morning."

Ellie shrugs, still engrossed in the pages in front of her. "I don't know, Dina just told me he was being a real fucking asshole. You know how he gets."

That you do. You're well aware of the way Joel Miller can make or break an entire day based on his mood, especially since you've been at his side to witness it longer than anyone else.

Before you can contemplate further, the man in question storms through the door, a grumble on his lips before it's even closed behind him. Ellie meets your gaze, glancing over at him before turning back to you and then quickly rising. "I've gotta get going," she says quickly, sneaking past Joel to grab her jacket.

She's out the door before he can even say a word.

"Where the fuck is she going?" he questions, ignoring the way his boots squeak on the floorboards as he makes his way to the couch, collapsing into it. A part of you wants to scold him for the wet spots now littered all over the floor, but based on the furrow in his brow, there's no use, and you simply follow him instead, swinging a leg over his thigh to climb into his lap and settle there.

Only he has the audacity to grumble. Again.

"Joel," you say sternly, "don't do that."

"Don't do what?" he fires back, and now you know exactly what everyone had been warning you about. "I didn't do anything."

"What's up with you today?" It's a simple question, an inquiry that he should have no problem answering, but he doesn't, so you continue with a follow-up request, "Just tell me why I had four separate people tell me that I needed to figure out who you're so angry today."

"I'm not angry."

You frown. "Bullshit, Miller. Tell me what the fuck is wrong."

His answer is to seal his lips to yours, his rough grip dragging your hips against his so you can feel the hard press of him between your thighs. This felt familiar, especially since he'd been in an equally shit mood the day you first met, something you'd promptly fucked out of him later that night. And usually, that did the trick, but there was always something else lingering beneath the surface.

Not that you have time to contemplate what it might be because he pushes any thought of his mental well-being from your head when he rips your shirt from your body and latches onto one of your breasts. Likewise, any train of thought is gone just as quickly as the remainder of your clothing.

It's a good thing Ellie left quickly, because within minutes he has you spread out on the couch beneath him, one of your legs hitched around his hip as he pounds into you. There's little space left between you, the moment feeling intimate even with the intensity of the way he's pressing you down, grunting with each thrust until he has you clenching around him.

His fingers are on your clit before you come down from your climax, already drawing you higher a second time. "Joel, fuck, I can't," you whine, gripping at his hand.

"You can," he emphasizes, "you're gonna take every fucking inch of me."

And then you can see it. The rage behind his gaze, the emotion that has his eyes glassed over. The anger he has to unleash somehow. It scared you when you first met him, the first time he had you like this back in Boston, pressed up against the door, the first time you watched his fist collide with a FEDRA officer who tried to touch you, and the first time you saw him have to kill someone who definitely wasn't infected.

But now, you know better. You know that he won't hurt you, but he still needs a way to release the pent-up emotion that boils beneath the surface. You don't know what happened to get him here today, but you do know how to fix it.

Joel groans when you shift to wrap your legs fully around his waist, pulling him down so the soft expanse of his stomach presses against your own, increasing the pressure of your walls wrapped around him. It's all he can do to rut into you, your back slowly snaking up the arm of the couch as he fucks you. The angle changes the higher you move, guiding his lips to yours so he can catch the scream that rips from your throat when you clench around him a second time.

He follows you into the abyss, pulling out seconds before he spills against your center, jerking himself off until the last drops drip down onto the fabric.

When he regains his breath he stands, cock softening as he moves to grab a cloth to wipe his spend from your core. And then he's pressing you into the couch again, settled in the safety of your thighs as his head rests on your chest.

"Do you wanna know what Mrs. Davis told me today?" you ask softly, fingers curling through his hair.

Joel rests his chin on your breast as he looks at you, eyes softer now, more playful. "Fuck, what did she say?"

You smile. "She saw me at the store and pulled me into the corner to tell me that I needed to get you home and ride your cock because she was sick of your shit."

His laugh is rough, but he says nothing else as he settles back against you.

"Was she right?" you ask, your own laughter threatening to bubble up.

He doesn't answer, but he doesn't deny it either.

[somnus-lucis-caelum]

She was calling out his shortcoming right away. Though Somnus had not seen it like this. He had always done everything himself, often under bleak circumstances. He was a Prince, but he had spent more days in the fields among soldiers than he could count. He had preferred it. Far away from the court, where…

Where no one was as kind as Aerith was.

He avoided looking at her like a scolded child, though he obeyed. Letting her continue to fuss over him – and slowly her magic worked a small smile on his lips. He could let go of his reservations and hang-ups, even if just a little bit.

He would have to learn. A lot, by what he saw. And he hoped Aerith would teach him some lessons. She was just… genuinely like this. There was no game she was playing, no manipulation at all, nothing she wanted to coerce or gain from him later on. She just treated him like a god because she wanted to.

Though her last little tip gained a small laugh from him as he took the little flask.

“Oh, I know how to use oils… and I prefer citrus, always. I am surprised… I thought your fine farmlands nose would be able to tell that.”

With how close they had come these past days… well, the travel had to be exempt from that.

Stepping back a little more seriously, he nodded: “Thank you, Aerith. For all of this.”

What she did here. But also how she had welcomed him here. This could have gone so much worse and in his mind it had. He would have to make up for all of this to her. His fingers still were covered a little in the citrus and lemon oil, though now he used it to tease her. Dabbing some of it on her cheeks, just playfully, because he kept her face cupped for a moment.

“Now I am all fresh and you? You deserve the same kind of pampering, as you call it.”

And with that there was no mercy left. She could order him around – and he could do it in a similar style. It was easy to lift Aerith up in his arms, one hooked beneath her legs, one around her back.

“I heard in some kingdoms its custom to carry your new bride through doors? It’s for good luck, is it not? Well I think we have not done this rite yet.”, he nudged at her, before simply carrying her across the room. He was not yet dressed, of course, still wearing the robe and fur mantle. They probably looked a little wild like this. But Somnus was insistent now, turning to open the door with his back before he simply walked across the open corridor. This time without much haste.

“And? Already feel more lucky?”

These reactions were from someone who was used to independence, though just as Aerith thought he was surely relaxing into the little indulgence Somnus reached to still her hands. Her head tilted as he moved to stand up.

Had she broken some Lucian custom? Did he feel offended being directed around?

She looked up at him with her big eyes, watching as he stumbled over his words. It was amazing... but she shouldn't have? Her mouth opened as if to protest, then he insisted he was just Somnus. Her lips closed again and she seemed to search his face for further answers.

"... that's it?" she softly asked, giving a hesitant kind of smile. "You really don't know how to let someone else do nice things for you, huh?"

Her tone wasn't accusatory. She wasn't seeking out a fight. But it really hit her like a sudden hand struck her forehead — he did things for himself. He took care of himself. He wasn't used to others being that close to him.

He seemed to 'apologise' by kissing over her hands and holding over them. Her gaze lowered briefly... and she eased her hands free before he could pull the rug out from under her, instead she reversed the hold, her delicate fingers holding his stronger hands in a firm but careful squeeze.

"If it makes you feel better, you can repay the kindness. After you sit your butt back in that chair, Somnus. Go on." That was an order.

"Whoops~" Aerith singsonged, her tone light, and it truly sounded like she were singing to him as she fussed his strands into place. "You don't part your hair in the middle. Not this side, oh Gods, it's fighting me. Your hair is leading a rebellion, stop, no, please do as you're told."

Then she leaned a little into his view. "Not that you would know anything about being unruly." Honestly, she was trying to keep the mood light. It wasn't until he stood up that she realised how red-in-the-face he had looked and this was all just supposed to be... simple and sweet, really.

When his hair somewhat resembled his usual style, then and only then did Aerith step to one of his sides. "Roran always rubs his hands clean on his robe here and drives me wild. You're supposed to do this instead." She gently lifted one of his hands in hers, and her other hand came to rest on top of his, massaging the miniscule remainder of what had been rubbed into his hair over one of his hands, and then the other. "One thing you may already notice, we're big about layering scents. But we don't like to be... overpowering. It's a lot of subtle little things that add up." she explained.

Finally she waved her finger indecisively to and fro. With a hum she selected a small bottle, offering it to him. "This one smells like lemons and citrus. I... really only have flowers besides this one, do you like it? It's the finishing touch. You dab the oil on your fingers and you apply it like..." she mimed out applying some under her arms, then pretended she was rubbing over her neck. "I'd dry your feet, but I fear you might call the guards on me. So with that, you have survived your first pampering." she claimed with a sharp smile. "It's not too bad, right?"

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #03 死

† breakfast and training †

"His eyes are the kind of dark that makes you forget there was ever light in the world. And you hate that you're starting to notice details about him."

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 5.4k

rating: mature

content: training violence, weapons, strong language, sexual tension

☠ author's note ☠

HELLO MY FELLOW SLEEP-DEPRIVED CREATURES. Welcome back to another episode of "Kiki makes questionable life choices and writes fanfiction instead of sleeping"!

Can we talk about how I wrote like three different versions of the gun scene before my perfectionist brain was satisfied? And by satisfied I mean "fine whatever just post it I guess." Don't @ me about gun accuracy, I play Call of Duty sometimes that's research enough (ㆆᴗㆆ)

Also yes, I am absolutely living for the whole "oh no they're training together" trope. Sue me. Or don't, I'm broke. All I have is caffeine and the ability to make my characters suffer. Speaking of which - Jeon in combat mode? chef's kiss My boy is out there being all professional and grumpy while Y/N is just trying her best not to get shot. We love that for them.

PSA: The whole "Cookie" thing was totally self-indulgent and I regret nothing. V is here to cause chaos and honestly? Goals.

Special shoutout to my cat who watched me write this at 3 AM and judged me silently. You're the best beta reader a girl could ask for, even if your only feedback is knocking my coffee over.

See you next Tuesday, you beautiful disasters! Remember: sleep is for the weak and fanfiction is for life.

crawls back into writing cave while mainlining espresso

Kiki

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

Mornings in the castle hit different. Through your window, the sky's doing that thing where it can't decide if it's still night or already dawn—all soft blues mixing with hints of gold. Everything's quiet, like the world's holding its breath.

Then your alarm goes off.

"Why did we agree to this again?" Yunjin whines from her bed, fumbling to shut up the annoying buzz. Her pink hair is a mess, splayed across her pillow like cotton candy gone wrong.

"Croissants," you remind her, stretching until your joints pop. "Fresh, buttery, heavenly croissants."

"Not hungry." She burrows deeper into her blanket cocoon. "Too early for hunger. Too early for existing."

You swing your legs off the bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor. "What happened to yesterday's 'new me, new goals' speech?"

"That was yesterday's Yunjin. Today's Yunjin chooses sleep."

With a snort, you pad over to her bed. It's literally two steps away—your shared room is cozy like that, with just enough space for two singles and matching bedside tables. You give her shoulder a gentle shake.

"And what's tomorrow's Yunjin gonna think about that?"

"Tomorrow's Yunjin's problem," she mumbles, death-gripping her blanket. Smart girl. She knows your next move would've been stealing it.

"Then it's tomorrow's me problem too!" You can't help but laugh, and it finally gets her to peek one eye open.

She lets out the longest, most dramatic sigh. "Fine. Fine. You win."

Your shared laughter is soft, comfortable. It's weird how quickly Yunjin became your person here. Maybe because she's as new to this as you are—no pressure to measure up to badasses like Chaewon or keep your guard up around intimidating figures like V and Jeon.

She joined two months before you did. For her, it meant saying goodbye to having her own room, but she says it was worth the trade-off. Girl's a mess when it comes to sleep schedules, but she keeps your shared space spotless and her determination is s̶c̶a̶r̶y̶ impressive. Like, you've seen her practice seduction techniques until 3 AM, and now here she is, dragging herself up at dawn for... well, croissants and self-improvement.

There's something genuinely good about Yunjin. She's always there—to help, to listen, to just be. Five months in and everyone in Seduction already adores her. Yeah, she's clumsy as hell during physical training, but her mind is sharp. Nothing gets past her—it's like she's got a built-in lie detector.

After yesterday morning's... incident, you're extra grateful for her company.

You both grab your digital cards from your bedside tables—can't go anywhere in this place without them. They're basically your whole identity here, determining which doors open for you and which stay firmly shut.

The castle corridors feel endless this early. Most members are probably still sleeping or doing whatever gang members do at dawn. Your footsteps echo softly as you and Yunjin make your way to the cafeteria, keeping the conversation light.

"Have you had breakfast here before?" you ask, watching her stifle another yawn.

"Once." She nods, her pink ponytail bouncing. "Got up at 10 though. Wasn't worth sacrificing sleep for."

You can't help but smile. "Early breakfast hits different. You'll see."

When you reach the cafeteria, Yunjin taps her digital card against the scanner. The light blinks green, and suddenly your nose is filled with the heavenly smell of fresh pastries. Inside, only a handful of early birds are scattered around the massive space. Makes sense—most people here prefer their beds at this hour.

Your eyes do their usual sweep of the room, casual and practiced. But then something pulls at you, like a magnet finding true north. Your gaze locks with dark, piercing ones.

Jeon.

"Oh, that's Jeon, right?" Yunjin's voice cuts through your thoughts. "Guess he likes mornings too."

You nod, still watching him from the safety of the doorway. Something about the distance makes you feel almost safe. He's got that thing about him—that unmistakable aura of authority that even 6 AM can't dim.

"Damn," Yunjin says after a beat, blunt as ever. "He's hot."

"Let's get food," you mutter, rolling your eyes and heading for the pastry section.

You and Yunjin load up your plates with a bit of everything, especially those famous croissants. Finding a quiet corner, you settle in to enjoy both the food and each other's company, pointedly not thinking about piercing dark eyes or brooding corners.

You try to look casual as your eyes drift back to Jeon for the hundredth time.

He's sitting there, both hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee like it's his lifeline to sanity this early in the morning. The sight of those tattooed fingers curled around plain white ceramic does something to your brain that you'd rather not examine too closely.

"You know, I heard something interesting about him." Yunjin's voice makes you jump. S̶h̶i̶t̶ Great, she caught you staring.

"Oh?" You tilt your head, hoping your voice sounds more curious than guilty.

Yunjin leans in conspiratorially, her pink hair falling forward as she drops her voice to barely above a whisper. It's kind of unnecessary given how far away Jeon is, but there's something about him that makes everyone speak in hushed tones.

"Apparently, he's got this whole... ritual thing going on. Every single morning, without fail, he makes sure he's the first one to get fresh coffee. Like, the first cup from a fresh pot."

Your eyes track back to that cup held between ink-covered fingers. Now that she mentions it, you've never seen him drink anything else in the mornings. The way he's savoring it, eyes closed and expression almost peaceful, makes you think Yunjin might be onto something.

"Every day? He's literally the first one here?" The mental image of Jeon lurking outside the cafeteria doors, waiting for them to unlock, is both hilarious and weirdly endearing.

"From what I've heard. Maybe it's a power move?" Yunjin suggests with a soft laugh. "You know, asserting dominance through caffeine consumption."

The idea of someone as intimidating as Jeon—co-leader of the Assassination Division, member of the Council of 9, literal professional killer—climbing the ranks of one of South Korea's most dangerous gangs just to secure his morning coffee makes something bubble up in your chest.. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing too loud.

"Imagine that being his master plan all along," you snort. "Join gang, become assassination chief, get first dibs on coffee."

You both dissolve into quiet giggles, but the moment shatters when something shifts in the air. It's like thorny vines suddenly wrapping around your lungs, making it hard to breathe. You don't need to look to know who it is.

"Mind if I join the fun?" V's voice slides over your skin like honey laced with poison, playful but with that edge that makes your hair stand on end.

His arms drape over your shoulders without warning, caging you and Yunjin in what should be a friendly gesture but feels more like being trapped. Your muscles tense automatically. There's something about V that keeps you perpetually on edge—like admiring a rose only to remember it's got thorns that could draw blood.

Yunjin manages a wobbly smile, but you can tell she's as unsettled as you are by his sudden appearance. "We were just... talking about coffee."

"Coffee?" V drawls the word like it personally offends him. He pulls back, throwing his arms behind his head in that carelessly graceful way of his, but stays close enough that you can smell cinnamon. "Boring. Now, this new training program? That's something worth discussing."

His eyes glint with mischief, reminding you of a cat playing with its food. "I'm keen to see what you girls bring to the table. Should be... intriguing, don't you think?"

The way he says it makes your skin crawl. There's nothing overtly threatening about his words, but the undercurrent is clear—the Assassination Division isn't known for playing nice, and V seems to view the upcoming cross-training as his personal playground.

"I'm sure it will be enlightening," you say carefully.

V's energy is infectious, but not in a good way. More like a disease you're trying not to catch.

He chuckles, and those thorny vines around your lungs squeeze tighter. "Oh, I'm sure it will be. And don't worry, yours truly will be there to add a little spice to the mix. Can't let things get too dull, can we?"

Before you can respond, his attention snaps to something—or someone—across the cafeteria. With a dismissive wave that somehow manages to feel both elegant and insulting, he strides off as suddenly as he appeared.

You exchange looks with Yunjin, both of you sagging with relief once he's gone. She looks as drained as you feel, like V's presence alone sucked all the energy from the room.

"Well, that was... something," Yunjin says, and you could write a whole essay about everything packed into that single word. Her pink hair is still slightly disheveled from where V's dramatic entrance messed it up.

"That's one way to put it." You try to shake off the phantom feeling of thorny vines around your lungs. V's presence leaves you feeling like you've been through some kind of emotional washing machine—tumbled around and wrung out.

"But oh my god." Yunjin's whole face suddenly lights up like she's remembered something amazing. The whiplash from her mood shift almost gives you vertigo.

"What?" You ask, though part of you already knows where this is going. Yunjin might be shy and perceptive, but she's also a total simp when it comes to pretty faces.

"He is SO handsome?" Her voice rises with genuine awe. "Everyone kept saying he looks like a prince, but I thought they were exaggerating. They were not."

You raise an eyebrow, wondering if you were even in the same conversation just now. Sure, V's gorgeous—that's kind of his whole thing. The dangerous beauty, the dripping poison. But after feeling his aura wrap around you like a boa constrictor, 'handsome' isn't exactly the first word that comes to mind.

"Did you miss the whole creepy vibe?" You keep your voice low, even though V's long gone. Some habits die hard in this place. "He talked about the training program like he's planning to turn it into his personal episode of Squid Game. With popcorn."

"Yeah, but like..." Yunjin waves her hand dismissively, "have you seen his face? Those cheekbones? That jawline?"

"The way he's probably plotting our deaths as we speak?" You counter, but you can't help the smile tugging at your lips. Trust Yunjin to focus on the aesthetics while completely ignoring the red flags. It's kind of adorable, in a concerning way.

"Doesn't change the fact that he's eye candy," she says with zero shame, stabbing her fork into her breakfast. "Like, premium, expensive, imported chocolate level of eye candy."

"True," you admit, finally taking a proper bite of your croissant.

And it is true—V's got that whole ethereal beauty thing going on, like a masterpiece painting that happens to be slightly cursed. The kind of face that belongs in museums but also probably comes alive at night to terrorize security guards.

But even as you acknowledge V's obvious appeal, your eyes betray you, drifting back to that other corner of the cafeteria. Back to dark eyes and hurricanes.

Back to Jeon.

It's not like you mean to look.

It just... happens.

Like your gaze has some kind of magnetic programming that keeps pulling it in his direction.

Which is s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ inconvenient because the last thing you need is to get caught staring at one of the most dangerous men in Kkangpae while you've got croissant crumbs on your face.

The rest of your morning slips by without V popping up again to make your skin crawl. You try to focus on getting ready for what's coming, but your mind keeps drifting to the upcoming training.

Working with Jeon and V's division? Yeah, that's not anxiety-inducing at all.

When you step onto the training field outside the castle, the change of scenery hits different. After being cooped up in the gang's concrete maze, the open space and towering trees feel almost surreal. The cold morning air bites at your lungs—a wake-up call you didn't ask for but probably need.

Today's not just another training day. It's your first cross-training with the Assassination Division, and the tension in the air is so thick you could cut it with one of V's knives.

Your stomach does this weird flip-flop thing as you walk towards the gathering crowd. Working with Jeon after... that incident? Not exactly on your bucket list. The memory of your last encounter sits heavy in your chest, making each step feel like you're walking through mud.

The Assassination Division is already there when you arrive, looking like they stepped out of some action movie poster. Some look ready to murder, others look ready for a nap. But it's Jeon who catches your eye—impossible not to, really. It's like the air itself is swirling around him like a storm about to break.

He's got that look on his face—you know the one. All business, no bullshit, could probably kill you with his pinky finger.

No sign of V though.

Makes sense, when you think about it. Those two aren't exactly besties—more like two wolves forced to share the same territory. Their whole approach to killing is different as night and day.

Jeon's all about precision. Clean shots, minimal mess, maximum efficiency. He's the type to plan every detail, calculate every variable. Need someone taken out from two buildings away without anyone even knowing what happened? That's his specialty. The human equivalent of a surgical strike.

V though? He's chaos incarnate. Gets up close and personal with his kills, leaves a message written in blood if he feels like it. He's the guy you call when you want someone dead and don't care how messy it gets. Planning? Fuck planning—V works on pure instinct and improvisation.

The crowd goes quiet as Jeon steps forward. The atmosphere shifts, less like a raging storm now and more like the heavy air before thunder breaks. When he speaks, his voice does that thing where it demands attention without actually raising in volume. And despite everything—despite knowing better—you find yourself leaning in slightly to catch every word.

"Your state of mind is everything in this line of work," he says, dark eyes scanning the crowd like he's reading everyone's potential in real time. "A calm, collected mind can mean the difference between life and death."

The task he lays out seems simple enough: shoot the cardboard target, hit the center, don't mess it up. But as you watch others take their turns, that knot in your stomach keeps getting tighter.

The gun feels wrong in your hand. Not that you haven't held one before—basic training covers that—but this is different. This is him watching, and somehow that makes your palms extra sweaty.

Then your turn's up.

Walking to the mark feels like crossing a minefield, every step measured and tense. Your heart's going so hard you can barely hear anything else.

Focus. You need to focus.

But Jeon's standing right there, making the air thick and hard to breathe. Your finger hovers over the trigger, but doubt creeps in like poison.

The target blurs in and out. You can feel Jeon watching, that heavy gaze picking apart every flaw in your stance. The pressure builds in your chest until you're sure something's gonna snap.

Just a bit longer. You need to be absolutely sure before taking the shot.

It's not like Seduction gets much practice with actual weapons—your arsenal usually involves batting eyelashes and strategic flirting, not bullets and gunpowder. So it's no wonder the gun starts slipping through your sweaty fingers.

You tighten your grip. A surge of determination hits you like a shot of adrenaline. Come on. It's just cardboard. You've handled way worse situations than this. You can do this.

Your finger starts to squeeze the trigger—

BANG.

That... wasn't your gun.

You flinch, turning toward the sound before you can stop yourself. Through the corner of your eye, you catch smoke curling from Jeon's pistol.

He's standing there looking bored, arm extended like this is just another one of his daily mornings. The gun fits his hand like it was molded for him, an extension of his body rather than a weapon.

When your eyes snap to the target, there it is—perfect shot, dead center, because of course it is.

A̶s̶s̶h̶o̶l̶e̶ Show-off.

You lower your gun, lips pressed tight. His gaze sits heavy on your shoulders, hurricane pressure bearing down until you want to scream. His face gives nothing away, but those dark eyes say plenty—and none of it's good.

"If you're not quick enough, you'll get killed." His voice cuts like ice. "Let that be a reminder for everyone else."

The words hit like a slap. Heat rushes to your face—anger, embarrassment, frustration, all mixing together into something that makes you want to either punch something or crawl into a hole. Preferably punch him, but you're very aware of everyone watching this little show he's putting on.

Both divisions are staring, and you've never felt more like a fish in a very small, very exposed bowl.

Your eyes meet Jeon's, and suddenly breathing gets hard. His stare hits different—those dark eyes boring into yours like he's trying to read your soul, pupils blown wide in a way that makes your stomach do weird flips.

That silver lip ring catches the light when his mouth twists into something s̶e̶x̶y̶ condescending. He opens his mouth—probably to tear into you some more—but then—

BANG.

Everyone drops like puppets with cut strings. Pure instinct.

It's instant chaos. Voices rise into a crescendo of shouts and commands, bodies moving with practiced urgency.

It's kind of beautiful, in a messed-up way—how quickly personal beef gets shelved when shit hits the fan. One minute Jeon's looking at you like you're dirt on his boot, next second he's barking orders to keep everyone safe.

Your heart's in your throat as you scan the crowd for a flash of pink hair.

Yunjin.

But Yunjin's nowhere.

The sea of faces blurs together—no Kazuha, no Eunchae, not even Sakura. Even Chaewon's vanished, which is weird because she's usually got this sixth sense about danger.

Another shot cracks through the air. Your fingers tighten around your gun until your knuckles go white. Your eyes keep drifting to the treeline, where shadows dance between patches of dark green.

A calm, collected mind can mean the difference between life and death.

His words echo in your head, which is ironic considering how not calm you feel right now.

Fuck it.

You're moving before you can second-guess yourself, legs carrying you toward the forest. Maybe it's stupid, but you need space to think. To be calm, like he said.

Plus, the trees might give you cover—an advantage you desperately need right now.

The forest swallows you up. Sunlight filters through leaves overhead, painting everything in shifting patterns of light and shadow. Every step crunches on dead leaves, making you wince. So much for stealth.

V wouldn't be happy.

The chaos from the training ground fades the deeper you go, replaced by normal forest sounds—birds chattering overhead, small animals rustling in the bushes. It's almost peaceful, if you ignore the whole possible death situation.

You spot it then—a ridge overlooking the training ground, hidden behind thick bushes. Perfect vantage point, if you can reach it. The climb makes your muscles burn, but you manage. Up here, you force yourself to breathe slow and steady, trying to quiet your racing heart. Your fingers trace the gun's cold metal like a lifeline.

Your back hits the tree with a thud. The bark scrapes against your spine through your shirt, but you barely notice. Every nerve in your body is focused on that rustling sound behind you.

Footsteps.

Your breath catches. They're quiet—too quiet to be some random person stumbling through the woods.

No, these are the steps of someone who knows how to move silently. Someone trained.

Adrenaline floods your system as you press yourself flatter against the tree. Your fingers tighten around the gun until your knuckles go white. Through a gap in the leaves, you try to catch a glimpse of whoever's approaching, but the foliage is too thick.

Friend or foe?

The question pounds in your head with each careful footstep drawing closer. Your mind races, too many possibilities—it could be an enemy, could be another member searching the area.

Could be death or salvation walking your way.

The steps are almost upon you now. Your breathing goes shallow, controlled. You might be exposed up here, but they don't know that. Surprise is your only advantage right now.

Shoot or strike?

The dilemma tears at you. A gunshot would alert everyone to your location. And if it turns out to be an ally... F̶u̶c̶k̶ No. Hand-to-hand is safer. Quieter. Less explaining to do if you're wrong.

Your muscles coil tight as a spring. When the footsteps are close enough, you launch yourself from behind the tree in one fluid motion, aiming to take them down hard and fast.

Instead, you slam into what feels like a brick wall.

Oh.

It's Jeon.

His reflexes are insane—before you can even process who he is, he's already moving. The air sweeps around you as he twists, disarming you with embarrassing ease. Your gun hits the ground with a clatter that seems to echo through the whole forest.

Recognition hits you both at the same moment. That flicker of shock in his eyes quickly turns to his usual look of disdain, because of course it does.

Then—a misstep.

Your ankle rolls, sending white-hot pain shooting up your leg. You stumble, sucking in a sharp breath. His grip on you loosens just slightly, and something that might be concern flashes across his face before his usual cold mask slips back into place.

"You okay?" His voice is gruff, like the words are being dragged out of him against his will.

"Just perfect," you snap back, because fuck his concern when your ankle feels like it's on fire and your pride hurts even worse.

He just stands there, staring at you with those dark eyes that see too much.

"What the hell were you thinking?" A pause, one eyebrow lifting. "You have a gun, don't you?"

You almost laugh. Because of course. If you'd shot at him, he'd be lecturing you about trigger discipline. Attack hand-to-hand, and suddenly you're an idiot for not using your weapon.

You seriously can't win with this man.

"Well, good thing I didn't use it on you then." The words come out lighter than you feel, dancing between playful and pissed. "And what are you doing here anyway? Shouldn't you be back there playing commander?"

"That's what deputies are for." The casual way he says it makes your teeth grind. "Besides, I dispatched a team to check the gunfire. Just my luck, running into you instead."

"Pleasure's all mine, chief." You load the title with all the sarcasm you can muster.

"And you?" His dark eyes study you like you're a particularly puzzling target he can't quite line up. "Any reason you're out here instead of following orders?"

"Didn't get any orders to follow." You cross your arms, ignoring how his presence makes your skin prickle. "And that ridge over there?" You jab a finger toward the overlook. "Perfect vantage point. I was trying to be strategic before you showed up."

He actually grimaces at that, like your logic physically pains him. But before he can open his mouth to deliver what's surely another lecture, you add:

"Just my luck, running into you instead."

The words—his own words turned back on him—hit their mark. His eyebrow twitches just slightly, and satisfaction blooms warm in your chest.

Score one for you.

But before you can inwardly celebrate, he grimaces. He actually grimaces before he opens his stupid mouth again.

"That?" His voice drips with condescension. "You think that's prime real estate for observation?" The asshole holds back a laughter. "Alright." He says, and you ponder the merits of hitting him with a rock.

But then he begins walking, and you trail after him, partly because s̶c̶r̶e̶w̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶ he's wrong and partly because... well, where else are you gonna go?

"Remind me again—which one of us specializes in persuasion and observation?" You can't keep the annoyance from your voice. His arrogance is starting to give you a headache.

"And which one of us is known for sniping?" He tilts his head just enough for you to catch the silver flash of his eyebrow piercing. "You think I don't know a thing or two about picking vantage points?"

"Just because you can shoot from far away doesn't mean you know the best places to shoot from." The words come out sharper than intended. "What works for a sniper might not work for surveillance. They're different skill sets."

"How so?" He doesn't even bother looking back now. "A lookout's a lookout, smartass."

Your hands find your hips. "You know what? Ask me that again when you sit in on our cross-training. Might learn something useful."

"Learn from an ensign?" His tilt is mocking. "No—learn from you?" He lets out a low chuckle that makes your teeth grind. "Pretty sure it works the other way around."

"Forgot about Flower?" You can't help the snark in your voice. "She's a chief too, and I'm sure she'd love to put you in your place."

The exhale he lets out is so exaggerated it has to be for dramatic effect. "You're insufferable."

"Feeling's mutual, chief."

You trail behind Jeon through the darkness, trying to ignore how his mere presence makes the night air feel electric against your skin. The silence wraps around you both, broken only by your footsteps until—

A rustle in the underbrush.

Before you can react, his hand clamps around your wrist. No warning, no words—just the firm press of tattooed fingers against your pulse point as he yanks you behind a massive rock. You crash against him, bodies colliding in a mess of limbs and s̶h̶i̶t̶ startled breath.

You open your mouth to tell him exactly what you think about being manhandled, but his finger presses against his lips. Shut up. His eyes scan the darkness beyond your hiding spot, focused and lethal.

And suddenly you're way too aware of him.

The moonlight paints him in silver and shadow, highlighting things you've never noticed before. Like how his eyebrow piercing catches the light—two tiny beads of silver that draw attention to the way his brow furrows in concentration. Or how that lip ring glints when his mouth sets in that stern line you know too well.

There's a scar on his left cheek—barely there, really. Just a whisper of a mark that makes you wonder what story it tells. Your eyes drift lower, catching on the small mole decorating the left side of his neck. It's such a delicate detail on someone who radiates danger, like finding a flower growing through concrete.

But it's his eyes that f̶u̶c̶k̶ y̶o̶u̶ u̶p̶ catch you off guard. Dark and deep, framed by stupidly long lashes that flutter when he blinks. They're beautiful in a way that makes your chest tight—and isn't that just f̶u̶c̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ fantastic? You didn't need to know that about him.

This close, you can see the tiny lines at the corners of those eyes. They speak of sleepless nights and heavy choices, of burdens carried too long alone. Watching him like this—he feels different now, less like a storm trying to drown you and more like standing in summer rain.

The realization hits like a punch to the gut: you're seeing Jeon. Not the cold-as-ice division chief or the intimidating Council member. Just... him. Human.

Complex.

His fingers are still wrapped around your wrist like an iron band. If anything, his grip's gotten tighter, and you're caught between wanting to yank free and being weirdly aware of how warm his hand is against your skin in the cool night air. It's hard to tell if you're feeling trapped or protected.

The footsteps draw closer—deliberate, confident. Not someone trying to hide.

You watch a muscle tick in Jeon's jaw, the kind of tiny detail you wouldn't normally notice if you weren't pressed so close to him. It's fascinating, in an annoying way, how he can look so calm while radiating such intense energy.

His eyes flick to yours for just a second, but it feels loaded with... something. Like you're suddenly partners in this mess, whether you like it or not. It's more communication than you've had in all your previous conversations combined.

The rustling gets louder. You hold your breath. Jeon's gone statue-still beside you, but you can feel the coiled tension in him. His dark eyes snap to a spot in the trees, then back to you with unnerving intensity.

"Shoot there."

You stare at him like he's lost his mind. "What?"

"There." His voice is barely a whisper, rough with urgency. He jerks his chin toward whatever he's seeing that you're apparently missing.

"You want me to shoot a tree branch?" The skepticism in your whisper could cut glass. "Seriously?"

"Just do what you're told." The words rumble out of him like distant thunder, crackling with impatience.

You give Jeon a look, but arguing isn't an option right now.

The gun feels heavy as you line up the shot. Your finger finds the trigger, and for a split second, everything goes quiet. The bang echoes through the trees, making your ears ring. You watch as the bullet hits exactly where Jeon wanted—that innocent-looking branch that apparently wasn't so innocent after all.

A net explodes from the darkness like some kind of ninja trap, shooting toward the approaching figure. But whoever it is moves like water—fluid, impossible, beautiful in a terrifying way. The net hits empty ground with a sad little flutter while your brain tries to process what just happened.

Beside you, Jeon goes still. If you weren't pressed so close, you might have missed that tiny hitch in his breath—the only sign that this wasn't part of his plan. His eyes narrow just slightly, that crack in his perfect mask making your stomach do weird flips.

He pushes you back against the rock, putting himself between you and whatever's coming. The stone digs into your spine, cold and rough through your clothes.

Then everything happens at once.

A shadow vaults over your hiding spot, moving with deadly grace. Gunshots crack through the night, and suddenly Jeon's shoving you down, his body covering yours. The world spins into a blur of motion and sound, your pulse drumming so loud you can barely think.

When reality settles back into focus, you watch the figure reach for their mask. Your fingers tighten on your gun, waiting to see what kind of threat managed to dodge one of Jeon's traps.

The mask comes off.

Oh for fuck's sake.

V's grinning like the cat that got the cream. "Paintball night!" he announces with way too much glee for someone who just scared the shit out of you.

Relief and irritation war in your chest. Of course it's V. Who else would turn a simple training exercise into their personal dramatic performance?

You watch Jeon's shoulders drop, but the annoyance is written all over his face. His jaw's so tight you can practically hear all the curses he's not saying.

Always the professional, even when he's irritated.

V's eyes dances with delight as he watches Jeon simmer. "Don't look at me like that, Kookie," he coos, lips curling into that signature smirk that makes you want to take a step back.

Cookie?

You blink, trying to process that nickname. Looking at Jeon—all dark clothes, silver piercings, and intimidating tattoos—the last thing that comes to mind is anything remotely cute or sweet. The mental image of him buying cookies from some terrified boy scouts makes you bite back a laugh.

Now that's a story you'd pay to hear.

Jeon's eyebrow shoots up in that way that somehow manages to say f̶u̶c̶k̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ more effectively than actual words. His tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek, jaw working like he's physically holding back whatever he wants to say. He's irritated.

"I'll give you some advantage," V sighs dramatically, thorny vines wrapping around your lungs even from this distance. "No fun beating you when you're unarmed." The words drip with amusement, like this whole thing is his favorite game. "See ya."

With one last unsettling grin, he melts into the darkness. Because of course he does. Dramatic asshole.

You're still sprawled on the ground, processing what just happened. Leave it to V to turn a regular night into some twisted paintball training session. The man's idea of "improving stealth skills" is giving everyone heart attacks.

Beside you, Jeon's muscles finally uncoil from their battle-ready stance. He looms over you, and you can't tell if the expression on his face is more annoyed or relieved.

"You gonna get up or what?" The words come out gruff, but there's something else there. Something that might be concern if you squint.

Then his hand appears in front of your face. You stare at it for a second, surprised. It's weirdly bare compared to his tattooed arms, and you hesitate before taking it. His grip is firm but careful as he helps you up.

The whole night feels surreal —one weird training session bleeding into another. You glance at Jeon as he stretches, working out the tension in his shoulders.

The mystery of "Cookie" tugs at your curiosity, but one look at his face tells you now's not the time to ask.

Some mysteries are probably better left unsolved.

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[sequinsmile-x]

Alone Together

“My name is Emily Prentiss. I…live with Jack.”  

The nurse furrows her brows, “Are you his mother?” 

She clenches her jaw, cursing herself for correcting the other woman in the first place, for letting her worry fluster her to the point where she didn’t even think about letting the half-lie slip by her. She can see where this is going already, and it makes her tense, her shoulders so tight she thinks she might snap in half.

AKA - the one where Jack is in the hospital, but Emily isn't allowed to see him.

-x-

Hi besties,

Hope you are all okay <3

We are finally out of the longest January on record and at the end of another week! Here is some family hurt/comfort with our two idiots and Jack for you <3 I know a lot of you love Jack/Emily content so this is for you - you know who you are <3

As always, let me know what you think!

-x-

Words: 3,6k

Warnings: none!

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

Emily doesn’t remember a single moment of the drive from the office to the hospital. She’d been on autopilot the entire time, her hands so tight around the steering wheel her knuckles were stark white, her skin so taut over bone she was surprised it didn’t split open as she desperately tried to think back to first thing that morning, to go over her interactions with Jack again and again to see if there was anything she could have missed. 

It had been a busy morning, like most mornings were in their house, and Jack had seemed fine. He’d been a little slower than he usually was in the morning, more tired, but when she and Aaron had both asked if he was okay he’d nodded. She wished she’d pushed, that she’d asked again, but her phone had rung, and so had Aaron’s and the day started in a hurry as work pulled them in different directions. She’d left the FBI shortly after she and Aaron got together, had grabbed the opportunity that Clyde offered her of going back to Interpol with both hands, any doubt she had about it gone as soon as he told her she didn’t need to leave DC for the offer to stand. She hadn’t regretted it for a moment, had always known it was the right thing for her and her relationships with the people she loved, but right now she wished she still worked with her fiance so she knew where the hell he was. 

The school had called her because they couldn’t get hold of Aaron. It was only after she was in her car and had got hold of Dave after leaving Aaron two voicemails, that she remembered he said he was going to a prison to conduct some interviews. He wouldn’t have his phone for hours, which meant she was all Jack had for now. Dave had promised her that he’d do his best to get hold of Aaron, even if it meant going to the prison and dragging him out of the interview room himself, and it had helped calm her down a little. 

She just about remembers to lock her car behind her as she marches into the hospital, still every part of the Interpol agent that she had been when she left the office, her gun and badge still on her hip, but with an undeniable air of a concerned parent too. She walks up to the nurse's desk and clears her throat, barely waiting for the nurse to look at her before she starts speaking. 

“I got a call about Jack Hotchner,” she says, sounding less anxious than she feels, “The school nurse called to say that he has suspected appendicitis. He was fine this morning, I don’t-”

“Mrs Hotchner,” the nurse replies, her smile annoyingly kind as she cuts over her, “These things can come on very quickly in children. Your son is currently being looked over by the doctor.”

“I’m not…” she clears her throat, stopping herself before she says too much that might get her nowhere fast, “My name is Emily Prentiss. I…live with Jack.”  

The nurse furrows her brows, “Are you his mother?” 

She clenches her jaw, cursing herself for correcting the other woman in the first place, for letting her worry fluster her to the point where she didn’t even think about letting the half-lie slip by her. She can see where this is going already, and it makes her tense, her shoulders so tight she thinks she might snap in half.

“I’m engaged to his father,” she says, digging out her wallet from her purse, slamming her driving license on the counter with more force than necessary, “Look, we have the same address.”

“Be that as it may, Miss Prentiss-”

“Agent Prentiss,” she corrects, again with more force than she means to, her desire to see Jack, to see the little boy she knows she couldn’t love more if he was hers, overriding her need to be polite. She sighs and looks at the nurse's name badge, “Look, Sophie, I poured his cereal this morning. It’s me he wants when he’s sick. Can you please just let me through?” 

Sophie smiles politely, clearly sorry that her hands are tied, “I’m sorry Agent Prentiss, but we can only let a parent or a legal guardian see him.”

She thinks of the paperwork they’d filled out, the paperwork to make her his legal guardian that was currently with the courts, and she curses herself for not doing it sooner. They’d waited until the purchase of the house had been finalised, until both her and Aaron’s names were on the deeds, to organise it. Their lawyers had told them it was better if their lives were more obviously intertwined, that family court would look on the addition to her in Jack’s life in a legal aspect more favourably if they were living together permanently. 

“His dad is at work,” she says, “I’ve tried to get hold of him.” 

“And his mother?” 

“His mother is dead,” Emily replies, half shouting it, and she sighs at herself, pinching the bridge of her nose when she realises she’s drawn the attention of more people around her. “Sorry,” she chokes out, blowing out a slow breath, “Is there really no way? He’s back there by himself.” 

Sophie shakes her head, “Not until his father gets here. But a nurse is with him, he isn’t alone I promise.” 

Emily considers pulling her badge from her belt, the weight of it almost pulling her down, and waving it around until someone lets her through. She considers doing what her family had always done - throwing money around, offering to buy the hospital a new wing until she was told she could see her little boy, but she knows it won’t help her. That it won’t help Jack. So she nods and heads towards the waiting area, swallowing back the emotions she won’t set free here, letting them sink into the lowest parts of her chest as she settles into an uncomfortable plastic chair. She twists her engagement ring around her finger and sucks in a breath. It’s bitter when she blows it back out, makes her feel nauseous as she thinks of Jack in a room just out of her reach with only strangers for company. 

“Damn it,” she says, wiping away a single stray tear from her cheek, determined it will be the only one she lets slip free before she goes home. She pulls her phone from her purse and groans when she has no missed calls from Aaron, “Where the hell are you?” 

___

Sophie takes pity on her about 30 minutes after she arrives and comes to tell her that Jack needs surgery. She still can’t let her see him, something is even harder to swallow now she knows the little boy needs an operation, but Sophie says she’ll tell Jack that Emily loves him and that she’ll see him later. 

Emily watches the clock, each minute a lifetime until she gets a call from Aaron. She has to be the calm one, has to tell him everything is okay, that Jack needs his appendix taken out but that he will be fine. He says he’ll meet her at the hospital and she makes him promise that he’ll drive safely, wryly jokes that she can’t deal with both of her Hotchner boys in hospital at the same time if he gets himself into an accident. 

At least, she thinks sadly to herself, if Aaron was in hospital she’d be able to see him. 

Almost two hours after she arrived, two hours of sitting in a hard, uncomfortable chair, the ache in her back nothing in comparison to the ache in her chest, Aaron finally arrives. She hears him before she sees him, his voice calling out for her the second he spots her. 

“Emily?” 

She stands up, her purse slipping from her lap to the ground, but she doesn’t pay it any attention. Instead, she lets Aaron pull her into a fierce hug, and she hugs him back just as tightly, her hand running soothing circles on his back. 

“He’s in surgery,” she says, cupping the back of his head as she pulls back, hoping that her smile is comforting, “He should be done soon.” 

He nods, and he looks older than he usually does. Anguish and fear pressed into the lines on his face, making them and the bags under his eyes deeper, “Why are you out here? Is something wrong-”

“No, honey,” she says, cupping his cheek, making him look at her as his eyes dart around the room, “They…” she clears her throat, tries to make sure her voice is even and doesn’t give way to her sadness and stress. He was the one she had to focus on for now, him and Jack. She could fall apart later when they were both okay, “I’m not his mom. Or his legal guardian yet,” she says, pressing her lips together to stop them from shaking, “They wouldn’t let me see him.” 

His eyebrows furrow, the line between them so deep she can’t stop herself from pressing her thumb into it, trying to soothe the anger she can see building there, “What?” He says, his voice low and stern as he looks around as if trying to find someone, anyone, to tell them exactly what he thought of that, “They wouldn’t let you see him? He was alone-”

“Aaron, baby, look at me,” she says, grasping his chin, “It’s okay,” she says, even though they both know it isn’t, even though she knows he can see how much it’s upset her too, “Jack is the most important thing right now, okay?” 

He nods sharply, his breath stuttering across her face as he presses his forehead against hers, desperately trying to seek out her strength and comfort. It’s enough to let her know just how stressed he is. Their displays of affection, their need for each other, were usually kept just for the safety of their home. The walls that surrounded them were the sanctuary neither one of them had had in years, or, in her case, ever. They sought each other out constantly, always pressed up against each other in one way or another whilst they were at home, as if they were storing up the love they had for each other for when they were apart. It felt like theirs, so it was rare for them to seek it from each other in public, to let other people - especially strangers - in on what felt so precious. 

She cups the back of his head to keep him close, gives him what he needs with her forehead pressed against his. She’d let him take all her strength if he needed it, would let it leech from her skin into his, because she knew when it was her turn, when she needed his strength, he’d give it to her in return. It was a give and take that they’d had since they simply friends, a cornerstone of their relationship that she knew made them as strong, that she knew allowed them to weather whatever storm life threw at them. 

“Come on,” she says, stamping her lips against his and smiling softly as she pulls back just enough to grab her purse from the floor before she sinks into his side again, her hand tight around his, “Now you’re here, they’ll tell us more.” 

They are shown through to the pediatric ward so quickly it feels absurd. Jack is already back from surgery and in a room, and the doctor tells them that he’ll be awake soon. It’s a relief, a weight off of both of their shoulders, when they see him. He looks smaller than usual, drowning in the starched sheets in a bed made for an adult, but other than that he looks like he’s sleeping. Aaron sits in the chair closest to the bed, and Emily sits next to him, their hands still linked together as they look at the little boy.  

“We’re going to have to fill the freezer with ice cream,” Emily says, resting her cheek against Aaron’s shoulder, “We both know he’ll ask.” 

Aaron chuckles dryly and turns his head to kiss her temple, “We both know you’ll give him anything he asks for.”

She gasps in fake outrage and pulls back to look at him, “Like you’re any better at saying no.” 

He hums and leans forward to kiss her, “We’ve got to get better at it before we have any more kids,” he quips, “Otherwise they’ll run rings around us.” 

The thought of it makes her smile, just like it always did. A baby that was half her and half him, physical proof of their love for each other out in the world for everyone else to see. The happiness doesn’t linger like usual, it fades as she looks at a sleeping Jack, as she rests her hand on his leg, because she wonders if, even when she is legally his guardian, the wider world would view him any less her son than any other children they may have. 

Jack groans, pulling her out of her thoughts, and she and Aaron both turn to look at him. 

“Jack, buddy,” Aaron says, standing up so he can sit on the edge of his bed. Emily stands up too, her hands on Aaron’s shoulders as she smiles down at the little boy, “How do you feel?” 

“My tummy hurts.” 

“You had to have an operation,” Emily says, breaking away from Aaron to sit on the edge of the other side of Jack’s bed, her hand reaching out for his, smiling when he holds her hand as tightly as he can, “Your tummy will feel sore for a few days but then you’ll feel better.”

He nods, “The nurse told me that you were here but you didn’t come to see me.” 

It’s like a knife to the heart, his innocence, the lack of understanding shining in his eyes, each a fresh wound that makes her want to take back her decision to sit peacefully in the waiting room. 

“I know, sweet boy,” she says, leaning in to kiss his forehead, “I’m sorry. I would have been here if I could. But she told me that she’d let you know that I love you.” 

He leans into her hand as she strokes his cheek, “I always know you love me,” he says, and he looks between her and Aaron, “Can we go home now?” 

“You have to stay here tonight,” Aaron says, running his fingers through Jack’s hair, “But if you’re feeling better tomorrow, the doctor said you might be able to go home. I’ll stay here with you tonight so you’re not by yourself.” 

Jack looks at Emily, “Are you staying too?” 

She shakes her head, and feels Aaron’s gaze burning into her cheek, “I can’t, honey. Only one of us has to stay and it has to be Daddy.” 

It was something else the doctor told them, that one parent or guardian could stay overnight, and it had been another kick in the gut. 

Jack furrows his brows, “But then you’ll be alone at home.” 

She sucks in a breath, covering it with a smile as she looks up at Aaron for a moment before she looks back at Jack, “I’ll be okay,” she says, not sure which one of them needs to hear it the most, “And I’ll come back tomorrow with some clothes for you and Daddy.” 

“And you’ll bring Rupert?”

“And of course, I’ll bring Rupert.” She smiles as she thinks of his favourite toy, a stuffed rabbit that Aaron told her had once been bigger than Jack, and she nods, Aaron reaches over Jack for her, seeking out the hand that wasn’t in Jack’s, and she takes it, squeezing his palm against hers in an attempt to comfort them both. “I’ll be okay.” 

This time, when she says it, she thinks she might be trying to convince herself. 

___

She gets takeout on the way home. 

She eats it in the kitchen, the house unbearably quiet around her, and as soon as she puts food down for Sergio, she heads upstairs. She showers quickly, the rush of the water a welcome distraction from the emptiness of her home, and then changes into a pair of Aaron’s sweatpants and one of his swearers - cuffing the pant legs so she can walk without tripping over - settling for trying to seek comfort in the clothes of the man she loves since she can’t be in his arms. 

Before she gets into bed, she goes into Jack’s room. She picks up Rupert from his bed, buries her face in his worn fur and breathes in. She takes him with her to the master bedroom, and she sneaks under the covers, the vastness of their bed bigger than ever without Aaron next to her. She was used to sleeping without him when he was on cases, but having to do it when he was just across town felt different - especially because Jack wasn’t here to sneak into bed with her. She sighs as she pulls the covers around her, smiling sadly when Sergio jumps onto the bed with a muted thump, his meow loud in the otherwise quiet room, she reaches out to scratch between his ears.

“It’s just the two of us tonight, Serg,” she says, sighing sadly, “Just like it used to be,” he meows again, “I know, buddy. I don’t like it anymore either.” 

She jumps when her phone rings, and she sits up, scrambling for her phone, panic she’d pushed down earlier making a quick return the second she sees Aaron’s name on the screen. She answers quickly, her hold on Rupert against her chest tight. 

“Aaron? Is everything okay? Did something-”

“Em, he’s okay,” he assures her, his voice low and quiet as he cuts her off before she can spiral any further, “He’s asleep. I thought I’d call to check on you.”

She chokes on a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and she shakes her head at herself as the tears she’d been suppressing all afternoon spill down her cheeks, “I’m okay.” 

“Sweetheart,” he says, “I’m not okay. Today was a lot. It’s okay if you’re not okay too.” 

She hums, almost mad at him for how well he knew her, and she wipes her cheek before she rests it against the top of Rupert’s head, her tears dampening his fur, “I just…I forget sometimes.” 

“You forget what, baby?” 

“That I’m not his mom,” she says, unable to stop the sob that tears from her throat, the sound turning into a wet laugh as Sergio nudges at her hand, his head tilted to the side as if he’s trying to work out what’s wrong, “God, I’m sorry,” she says, sniffing, “Your son’s in the hospital and I’m the one crying.” 

“He’s our son, Emily,” he says, his voice firm and loving, “He’s yours just as much as he is mine and Haleys,” he laughs wryly, “I think we both know if given a choice, he would have wanted you to stay with him.” 

“That’s not true,” she replies automatically, “You’re the centre of his world and you know it.” 

“And you’re the sun,” he says, and she scoffs, shaking her head even though he can’t see her, “It’s true. We Hotchner men are unable to stop being drawn to you.” 

She chuckles and wipes her cheek, “If Reid were listening in, he’d remind you that the planets orbit the sun because its mass is bigger, and therefore it creates a gravitational pull,” she scrunches her nose up, “If I didn’t know better, or if you were my mother, I’d think this was a very creative way of telling me I’ve put on weight.” 

“Never, Em. You know that.” He laughs at her joke, the sound music to her ears, a far cry from the strain in his voice earlier when he’d shown up at the hospital, “Sometimes I forget I’m marrying a nerd.” 

“You love it, and you know it.” 

“I love you,” he says, and he sighs, “We’ll get the paperwork fast-tracked, Em. I know a guy who can help. This won’t happen again.” 

She hums, “Well, his appendix can’t get inflamed for a second time anyway.” 

“You know what I mean, sweetheart.” 

“Yeah,” she says, swallowing thickly as she wipes a tear from her cheek, “I know. I love you too, by the way,” she looks over at his empty side of the bed, “Our bed is cold without you.” 

“We’ll be home tomorrow night, Jack seems to be doing well.” 

“And until then, I have Sergio and Rupert for company.” She says, and she can practically hear his smile down the phone and it’s a comfort she hadn’t known she’d needed. She sinks into the bed, pulling the covers around herself again, and she sighs contentedly. 

“Want me to stay on the line until you fall asleep?” He asks, and she almost tells him no, almost shakes off the offer and tells him she’ll be fine, but she wants this. Wants him. And until she can have him and Jack back with her, she’ll make do with what little bits of him she can have. 

“Yeah,” she says, tucking Rupert against her chest, “I’d like that.” 

She falls asleep as he tells her about his day at work, about the interview she never got to ask him about, and she knows that whilst tonight she might be alone, she certainly wasn’t lonely. 

[redicillin]

i’m at the point in the series where Cameron and chase are sleeping together as fwb, can I request doctor reader who finds out about this and is really upset because she thought there was something between her and chase, but maybe chase thinks that he’s not good enough for her and that she’d never go out with him and that’s kinda why he goes fuck it and starts sleeping with Cameron? sorry if that doesn’t make much sense!! 😭💗

𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫. (𝐫.𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞)

chase made a stupid mistake, and it ended everything between the two of you before it even began.

gn!reader ☆ 1.0k ☆ masterlist. ☆ sorry—

You’ve always prided yourself on being rational. You don’t get involved in workplace gossip, you don’t let emotions cloud your medical decisions, and you certainly don’t engage in petty jealousy.

But right now, sitting in House’s office as he drones on about a new case, you can feel the tightness in your chest, the sting behind your eyes, and the unrelenting weight of something ugly and unspoken pressing against your ribs.

Chase is sleeping with Cameron.

You wish you hadn’t found out. That House hadn’t been an ignorant prick and outed the two in the middle of the diagnostics room.

Maybe you could have gone a little longer in blissful ignorance, believing the stolen glances between you and Chase meant something.

Maybe you could have continued thinking that the lingering touches, the way his gaze softened when he looked at you, the easy banter—it all meant something.

But it doesn’t. Because if it had, Chase wouldn’t have fallen into bed with someone else.

You swallow down the lump in your throat and focus on House as he scrawls nonsense across the whiteboard. No one else in the room seems remotely aware of your inner turmoil. Foreman is scribbling notes, Cameron looks perfectly composed, and Chase—

Chase won’t meet your eyes.

That hurts most of all.

You don’t know how you missed it. Looking back, the signs were there. The subtle shift in Chase’s demeanor, the way Cameron would smirk at him from across the room, the way they seemed… closer. More comfortable. And now, knowing what you know, you can’t unsee it.

“You still with us?” House’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You blink and realise that everyone is staring at you.

“I’m fine,” you reply, keeping your tone even.

House gives you a look like he doesn’t believe you but, surprisingly, doesn’t push. “Great. Go do doctor things.” He waves a dismissive hand. “You especially.” He points at Chase. “I need a coffee, British people drink coffee don’t they?”

“Australian,” Chase rolls his eyes but stands, shooting you a hesitant glance before leaving the room.

You should let it go. You should get back to work, shove your feelings down where they belong, and pretend none of this affects you.

But you don’t. Instead, you follow him.

—

You catch up to Chase in the break room, where he’s waiting for the coffee machine to finish brewing. He notices you instantly, posture stiffening as he glances over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says cautiously.

You cross your arms, leaning against the counter. “Hey.”

For a moment, there’s only silence between you. The sound of coffee dripping into the pot is the only thing filling the space, and the tension is suffocating.

Finally, Chase sighs. “I should’ve told you,”

The confirmation makes your stomach twist. It’s not even a denial, not even an attempt to play dumb. Just quiet resignation.

“Does it matter?” you ask, voice quieter than you’d like.

He exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess not,”

You want to be rational about this. You want to be mature. But all you can think about is how stupid you feel. How blind you were to something happening right under your nose.

“I just…” You shake your head, trying to gather your thoughts. “I thought there was something between us.”

Chase’s jaw tightens, his gaze dropping to the floor.

You swallow hard. “Was I wrong?”

“No,” he admits. “You weren’t,”

His voice is quiet, but the weight of his words slams into you with full force. You weren’t wrong.

“Then why?” The question leaves your lips before you can stop it.

Chase exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “Because it wouldn’t have mattered,”

Your brows furrow. “What?”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and there’s something almost painful in his expression.

“You’re… you,” he says, as if that’s supposed to explain everything. “You’re brilliant. And focused. And incredible. And I—” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I didn’t think I had a chance,”

Your heart clenches. “So instead of even trying, you just… what? Slept with the first woman you spoke to?”

He flinches. “It wasn’t like that,”

“Then what was it like?”

He hesitates, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Easy? Safe?”

That stings more than it should. “So I wouldn’t have been easy or safe?”

His gaze sharpens. “No. You would’ve been real,”

The words knock the breath from your lungs.

Chase shakes his head, jaw tight. “Look, I know I screwed up. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. Hell, I didn’t even think I had the ability to hurt you,” He huffs a bitter laugh. “Guess I was wrong,”

You don’t know what to say to that. Because he did hurt you. And the worst part is, you don’t know if he even realised he had the power to.

Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating.

Finally, you speak. “Do you love her?”

Chase doesn’t answer right away. And that tells you everything you need to know.

“No,” he says at last, voice barely above a whisper.

You nod slowly, processing his answer.

Chase steps closer, hesitating before speaking again. “Do you love me?”

Your breath catches.

It would be so easy to lie, to tell him no, to walk away and pretend none of this mattered. But you’ve never been good at lying to yourself.

“I could have.”

Chase’s expression twists with something unreadable. Regret, maybe.

You don’t say anything else. You just turn and walk away, leaving him standing there with the weight of everything unspoken between you.

Because maybe, in another life, in another version of this story, things could have been different.

But in this one, Chase never even gave you the chance.

[cjsmalley]

A Reveal:

“Maman, Papa,” Marinette said after she raised the wards around the Bakery like she had been taught to by Miss Zatanna and was sitting down, clasping Adrien’s hands tightly with him beside her, “me and Adrien have something to tell you, okay? You can’t tell anyone else.”

“Okay,” Sabine agreed warily as her husband nodded.

Marinette inhaled, exhaled, looked to Adrien who nodded, and said, “Tikki, Spots On.”

The transformation overtook her and it was Ladybug who sat before Sabine and Tom Dupain-Cheng, still clutching Adrien’s hands.

Adrien who said, just as quietly, “Plagg, Claws Out.”

Sabine started weeping, standing up to hug the teen heroes; oh, god, they were just kids.

“Maman?”

“Anything you ever need,” Sabine pulled back, a hand on a cheek each as the teens looked up to her, “anything, Marinette, Adrien. Whether that be food or medical care or a safe spot to change, the Bakery, the house is open to you. Adrien, do your—”

“My adoptive parents know,” he explained, “they’re not any happier than you are. But they…they know magic, understand it. That’s another thing we have to tell you—I, er—Don’t own my soul?”

Marinette facepalmed as her parents gasped in horror, “Kitty, bad choice of words.”

“What do you mean—is it—is Marinette—” Tom struggled for words.

“Marinette’s fine. Her soul is fine,” Adrien rushed to reassure, “nothing to do with being Ladybug or Chat Noir. My…birthfather,” Adrien spoke quietly then, tiredly, resignedly, “my birthmother was very sick and my birthfather was trying to heal her. So he summoned the King of Ghosts and…sold my soul for my birthmother’s health…Papa—the Ghost King—adopted me instead of enslaving me like his predecessor would have. All my siblings have been sold to him too. Him and Mama and Uncle Tucker are barely older than me but they became my parents. Better parents than my birth ones ever were. They got me—and eventually Marinette—into therapy for all the horrible things we’ve seen, done because of Hawkmoth. I’m also in therapy because of the emotional abuse my birthfather put me through. That’s how I’m adopted but Papa does technically own me.”

Sabine had cupped a hand over her mouth in horror, eyes tearing up again.

“Can we meet them?” Tom demanded

“Not yet, one of their advisors, a ghost with power over Time, said that to reveal them in this timeline now would cause too many complications with Hawkmoth. But—” Adrien paused, “I could give you their phone number? Maybe. I’ll have to ask Grandfather if that’s okay.”

“Son, do you have a way to contact them?” Tom asked worriedly.

Adrien brightened, “Oh, yes! They taught me everything I needed to know to get into and out of the Palace safely and say I can bother them at any time, day or night. Gabriel never wanted to be bothered, you understand, too busy with stuff. But everyone in my new family says I can call, text, visit, or even Summon Papa and Danielle whenever I want for whatever reason!”

“I’ve been to the Palace,” Marinette added, shocking her parents, “I think you saw us leave? I was seriously injured and Adrien brought me to his parents to be healed by magic. It’s when I learned his Identity—”

Sabine and Tom looked gutted; they did remember seeing that battle where Chat Noir ended up taking a bleeding and dying Ladybug through a swirling green portal.

That had been their daughter. Their daughter had almost died that day and they might never had known. Would Adrien have been allowed to tell them, as Chat Noir, that their daughter had given her life for Paris? Or would she have just gone missing and been replaced as Ladybug with him unable to say anything?

The teens detransformed and two little creatures? Beings? Appeared.

“Maman, Papa, meet Tikki and Adrien’s patron is Plagg,” Marinette introduced the two beings; the red ladybug one alighting on her shoulder as the black cat looking one sat on Adrien’s head, “they’re basically gods and as their Chosen we channel a portion of their power each.”

Tikki giggled sweetly and waved at her Chosen’s parents, “We’re not really gods but that’s the closest human word for us. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Sabine stood up from her seat and bowed lowly, “Your Majesties.”

“No, no, no bowing or scraping or nothing like that,” Plagg rolled his eyes, “we’re not those types of gods anyways. Just give me cheese and Tikki sweet things and we’re good.”

“They have to eat to quickly recharge their powers,” Marinette explained, “especially once we use the Cure or Cataclysm. Then we’re on a timer before the transformation fails. It’s a safety measure since we’re not adults; channeling power like that can have major physical consequences.”

“How so?”

“My organs can fail,” Adrien explained bluntly, “especially my heart, channeling Destruction. I have regular check-ups now with a doctor that knows magic. My body could just wither away if I use Plagg’s power too much.”

“My holders are cursed in a way,” Plagg admitted, “early deaths, health problems…general bad luck. Destruction is not a nice thing, though it is necessary for Creation to flourish.”

“My Chosen are also cursed,” Tikki agreed, “they can get…cancer, I think you call it. My divine power working their cells into overdrive. They are also extremely fertile, especially with Plagg’s holders. Multiple births used to be a death sentence for the woman and the babies. The fertility is why I work best with female holders. Women are, in a way, goddesses of Creations themselves. I also tend to go for artistic types. I need a creative mind to wield me, no matter what sort of creativity it is. Jeanne for example, she was no artist but she was creative and I still wish she had let me save her. She—” Tikki broke off with a sob.

“Jeanne?” Tom questioned his daughter quietly as Plagg flew over to comfort his other half.

“Jeanne d’Arc,” Marinette murmured, “she was a Ladybug; her Black Cat went crazy after she was killed. Started murdering children. Destruction without Creation or Creation without Destruction becomes…unbalanced, wild, holders can be driven mad without their equal and opposite and destined partners. There is…no one else that can rein them in. Ladybugs and Black Cats are always…soulmates in some way. Platonic, familial, or romantic it matters not. Usually,” Marinette licked her lower lip, “usually if one soulmate dies, the other can soldier on. Not with Ladybugs and their Black Cats. They need to be together somehow or they become…they go mad.”

“My kit could probably survive his Ladybug’s death,” Plagg spoke up, “he’s stubborn and he’d do his best to honor her, but he wouldn’t be entirely sane anymore. And Destruction or Creation going insane is never good either way…”

“I…we have more protection now,” Adrien admitted, “because Papa owns my soul it’s all but certain that I’ll become a ghost. If…if something happens to Marinette, Papa can stop me before I go too far by yanking my soul from my body. Without a soul the body is…empty, braindead basically. Easily biddable. If anything happens to me, I can still fight alongside my Marinette as a ghost.”

Marinette squeezed his hands, saying lowly to her parents, “I’m…they call it contaminated. By the stuff that makes up ghosts. Ectoplasm. The healing pools they put me in, they’re made up of pure ectoplasm and some sort of primordial energy that heals even those on the brink or death or beyond even that. So I do have a higher chance than I used to of becoming a ghost as well. Not like Adrien, who’s guaranteed to become a ghost. If my previous chances were fifty-fifty, now they’re fifty to fifty-one. Adrien’s family, they’re so contaminated by ectoplasm they’re classed as Liminal. That means they too are all but guaranteed to become ghosts as well and have access to certain ghostly abilities while living still.”

She gave a trembly smile that was no less genuine for it, “And I’ll do my best to become a ghost so I don’t leave Adrien behind for eternity in the Realms. We—don’t know what would happen if two soulmates don’t become ghosts together and I don’t want to risk it.”

“Are you soulmates because of these gods or were you—?” Tom started.

“Fate has a way of working out the kinks,” Plagg explained, shrugging, “we always end up in the hands of soulmates. Never happened that we haven’t. But like the Bug says, it’s not always romantic and if it is, it’s not always acted on for whatever stupid human reason or other. This pair,” he gestured with a paw to Adrien and Marinette, “just happens to be romantic and able and willing to deal with all that goes with that. And Fate doesn’t force it to be a certain relationship or other. We’ve had Cats and Bugs who were siblings or like siblings, parent and child, niece and uncle, aunt and nephew, best-friends, even one or two worst enemies who put aside their problems when they were needed. Just means that, for whatever reason, Fate decided that, yep, Cats and Bugs are matched sets like me and Tikki here. Can’t create without destroying something, can’t destroy anything not already created. Oh, and we’re called Kwami, not gods.”

“Is Fate a—Ka—Kwami,” Sabine stumbled over the word slightly.

Plagg snorted, “Nah, Fate’s not sentient, not like us. We can’t understand it any more than you humans can. We know it exists and works its’ way somehow but that’s about it. Most of the time destiny’s a crapshoot anyways,” the little god sneered, “My kit and Tikki’s Bug have already stopped so many nasty destinies for this silly little city and planet. Very few things in this universe are really destined like humans think. Most of it is random chance with maybe something pulling strings very occasionally.”

He shrugged again, “Even these two, soulmates, yeah, Fated to meet, yeah, but not destined to meet like they did. They could have met in a thousand different ways. They didn’t even have to know each other’s civilian identities ever. Had that happen a few times.”

“Always so sad when that happens, especially if they are romantic soulmates,” Tikki finally spoke up.

Plagg gave a bark of laughter, “Remember your Bug who managed to pass off my kit’s kittens as her husband’s?”

“She was lucky they looked so similar, but your kits have brought my Bugs’ children into their marriages without problems too.”

“They’re lucky their wives had no other option but to grin and bear bastards,” Plagg shot back.

“Okay!” Marinette interjected, “While the history lesson is interesting, that won’t happen this time! Any of my children will be Adrien’s.”

“And I will never be unfaithful to my Marinette,” Adrien said firmly.

“Kids…” Sabine started slowly, “are you two…active…with each other.”

“No. Not yet.” Marinette said simply, “We’re Destruction and Bad Luck matched with Creation and Good Luck.”

“That is just asking for children,” Adrien agreed, “and while my parents would support us, they would also skin me alive first.”

“Don’t they have—?”

“Adopted. Well, not Danielle but she’s the result of non-consensual weird science.”

“I think we need that number.” Tom said faintly.

“I’ll ask Grandfather if it’s alright,” Adrien repeated.

Wished Away 9

Tylers meet Phantoms:

“Christ, Mum,” Rose said as she took in how Jackie, Pete, and Tony were dressed, “we’re just meetin’—”

“Royalty!” Jackie squeaked. They were all done up like they were meeting the Queen at Buckingham Palace itself!

“Honestly, Mum, they don’t care,” Rose rolled her eyes, grabbing her mother’s wrist and tugging her through the console room and to the wardrobe room, “I told ya ta dress casually. Let’s just hope the Ol’ Girl has clothes fer ya.”

It took about an hour to get everyone redressed, in things much more casual but still nice, before Rose led them back to the console room.

Jackie was clearly anxious, “Are ya—”

“’m sure, Mum. Danny an’ Sam don’t do formal unless they have ta. Unless you’re an annoying subject or someone threatenin’ war, ya don’t even have ta call ‘em by their titles. They’re just Danny an’ Sam ta family.”

“Lookie what I found,” Jenny bounded from the innards of the TARDIS, holding a tiny bike helmet.

She went to her toddler uncle and put it on him, making sure it fit right, “Landings in the Realms are worse than normal ones. The TARDIS does Her best but the Realms give her…nausea? A headache? She just doesn’t do good.”

“Oh, goody,” Jackie said lowly, hugging a strut for dear life already.

“Let me protect Anthony,” Bad Wolf came out, holding out her arms; without hesitation, Pete handed his son over.

Bad Wolf settled Tony in her arms, against her chest and shoulder, and then spread her feet and crouched slightly, clearly bracing for impact; she stayed steady even as the TARDIS began Her flight.

Everyone else was thrown about the console room, the Doctor and Jenny barely holding on to work the console, but Bad Wolf and Tony did not move an inch.

The landing was rough, just as Jenny said it would be, throwing even the Time Lords to the grated floor before the TARDIS stopped quaking.

Jenny recovered first and stood up, rubbing her shoulder, to peek out the doors, “We’re in the Palace. Uncle Danny and Aunt Sam are waiting…”

Slowly, everyone picked themselves up and Rose reemerged, straightening with some popping from her knees.

Jenny led the procession out, racing to hug a man and a woman, “Uncle Danny, Aunt Sam! How’re you?”

Danny and Sam chuckled and hugged her as one, “Good, doing good. You?”

“Perfect!”

She let go of them to drag Jackie, who was hesitant, forward, “This’s my Gran, Jackie. Mum’s side, duh. Completely human. He’s my step-granddad, Pete, and Mum’s holding my uncle, Tony.”

“Yer Majesties,” Jackie tried to curtsy even though she was in trousers, “an honor ta—”

“Oh, enough,” Sam chuckled, “didn’t they tell you? We don’t do formalities with family.”

“Family?” Jackie’s eyes were wide, “I know Rose said—but—”

“We count Clockwork as family,” Danny explained, “and he’s claimed the Doctor as family. The Doctor and Jenny. Rose’s basically married in by this point. Common-law, you understand. That makes her family our family. Welcome to the Palace, your home in the Infinite Realms.”

“My god,” Pete muttered, somewhat disbelieving.

“Not a god, not yet anyways,” Danny winked.

“Where’s Dani?” Jenny burst out, “Is she still in school?”

Sam grinned, “With Anakin, in the nursery. We let her stay home today.”

“Oh, Gran! Can I introduce Tony to Anakin? Please!” Jenny nearly begged.

“Anakin’s our youngest,” Danny explained kindly, “around Tony’s age, actually. We also have a nanny looking after them, Nanny Clara. He’d be perfectly safe.”

“Well…” Jackie looked to her husband, who nodded, “if you’re sure.”

Jenny cheered and took Tony from Rose, dashing off with him deeper into the Palace.

“Jenny knows the Palace as well as anyone,” Sam assured, “and if she gets lost, she can flag down a servant for help. She’s heading directly for the nursery. It’s the most defensible part of the Palace.

Danny stood up, helping Sam, “C’mon, we can talk over food; stay close, Tylers. Doctor?”

“Rose and I can bring up the rear,” the Doctor agreed, taking Rose’s hand as they began walking.

The Palace was a gothic masterpiece, in a very literal sense, though even Sam had wearied of all the gloom and had sought artists and artwork to fill the halls, soft, plush carpets and tapestries to keep the warmth, glassworks to fill the once barred windows. Statues and busts dotted the hallways, some classical, some avant garde

Masters had given their masterpieces, their magnum opuses; they were paid handsomely of course, in either coin or material.

Oils, watercolors, acrylics, textiles, glass, all created for Her Majesty the Ghost Queen. For His Majesty the Ghost King.

It wasn’t yet a riot of color, nor would it ever be, but it was more alive.

Jackie gasped and the group stopped, turning as one to see what had captured her attention.

“When they said the family was huge…”

Ah, it was the most recent family portrait; all the children were gathered around Danny and Sam, all in formal wear.

“We…sometimes people sell the souls of children to me,” Danny started, causing her and Pete to whip around to him in horror, “I know, it’s horrible, isn’t it? But anyways, we adopt the kids. Only Dani—Danielle—isn’t adopted.”

He pointed out each child and gave their backstory.

“Good Lord, you were young!” Pete said at Damian’s story.

“Old enough to be king,” Danny shrugged helplessly, “it…it wasn’t easy, we had help, so much help, and we made mistakes…”

“All parents do,” Jackie told him softly.

“So we’ve been told,” Sam smiled just as softly, “and we’ve learned and made new ones with each kid.”

Danny coughed and continued to point out kids and tell stories, until all had been covered and then they moved on.

As they neared the dining room, Danielle and Jenny joined them with each holding a toddler.

“Oh my,” Jackie said, taking in the Anakin Skywalker; she knew who he grew up to be, or would have if he had not been adopted.

“We’re hungry, Dad,” Danielle said.

Danny waved them into the dining room where the smaller table was already set for a meal; there were two chairs with booster seats and Jenny and Danielle put Tony and Anakin in them before sitting beside them and helping them get food.

The group chatted over the meal, Jackie and Pete slowly relaxing at how easy going the Royals were, and generally had good cheer.

After the meal was done, Jenny asked, “Do we put their photo up on the family wall now? I know you’ve got me, Dad, and Mum…”

Danny chuckled, “We can, if they’re okay with it.”

“Family wall?” Pete questioned.

“We keep walls of pictures of the extended family,” Sam explained easily, “you know, like Rose, the Doctor, and Jenny. Harry’s and Neville’s parents. Damian’s paternal birth-family. The Royal Portrait is just the immediate royal family. The walls are for everyone and everything else.”

Danny and Sam led the group out of the dining room and down another hallway; the walls were plastered with photographs. Some were professional, most were candid and amateur.

A common camera sat on a small round table; a high-end camera but nothing too expensive or professional.

Danny picked it up, saying, “If Jackie, Pete, and Tony don’t mind—”

Jackie decided it would be a family photograph and dragged the Doctor in; Rose and Jenny came without complaint.

Danny took a set of pictures.

After that was done, it was decided it was time for the Tylers to leave, taking pity on the still disgruntled TARDIS.

They were, however, invited to the next family gathering.

[stubz]

"CALL A <--<>] MEDIC!! A HUMAN YOUNGLING IS BLEEDING TO DEATH!! OH MY <--<->{} GODS WHY IS THERE SO MUCH IN SUCH A SMALL BODY?!"

"WHERE ARE THE HUMAN ADULTS?!"

"IN THE BATHROOM!!"

"BOTH OF THEM?!"

"THEY HAD CO-FEE!!"

"Am I dying?" whimpers the tiny small human child.

"JUST KEEP PRESSURE ON THE WOUND!"

"ELAVATE IT! SHE SHOULD ELAVATE IT!!"

"But I'll swallow blood if I do!"

"..." "..."

"YOU'LL WHAT?!" screeched both adults

"TILT DOWN! DOWN CHILD!!"

"YOU <--<>] FOR BRAINS! THAT'LL MAKE HER BLEED EVEN MORE!"

"THEN WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO?!"

"WHAT THE FU--FUDGE IS GOING HERE! WE WERE GONE FOR LESS THAN 5 MINTUES!!"

"Aw, Agnes sweetie, is your nose dry again? Come here, let's get you some tissues and clean you up. Keep your head forward." soothed the human adult.

"Can I change my shirt too?"

"Of course buddy."

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! SHE NEED MEDICAL-!"

"Would you zip it?! She's fine! It's just a bloody nose from her nose being so dry--the inside skin is sensitive and a small blood vessel was probably ruptured. It sounds and looks bad but honestly it's not a serious thing."

"...are you sure?" they fearfully asked.

"Positive. I get the same thing all the time when sick. It'll go away in a few minutes. Now for future reference just give the kid lots of tissues and have them hold it to their nose. Keep their head facing forward; if they tilt back the blood will flow into their throats, and if they tilt forward they'll bleed more."

"...understood."

"Good. Now maybe go apologize to Agnes for traumatizing her for the past 5 minutes."

"That's a good idea."

"I'll give her some of my blood as an apology."

"...that's nice but maybe don't."

[georgeweasleyslostearhq]

MY SILENT VALENTINE

Pairings: Eric Sutton x Fem! Summary: Despite everything going on, Eric still wants to give you a special Valentine's Day Warnings: mention of tears. A/n: yes, I know he's supposed to be gay; I respect it, and I support, I just personally don't write for Male!reader and this is just a fic.

Valentine masterlist

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⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

You sat next to Eric as he stared ahead of him, staring at the cracked tiles of the floor beneath you.

You leaned your head on his shoulder tiredly, stretching your legs out in front of you.

How you ended up finding him again in this city, you don't know, but you're glad you get to spend what might be your last days with your boyfriend.

You'd known each other for a few years, meeting through a friend he was going to law school with, a few days of texting and a drunken night together at a shitty pub, you decided he was quite cute.

He hadn’t made a move that night, even when you’d half-drunkenly tugged on his sleeve and told him he had the prettiest eyes you’d ever seen. He’d only laughed, shaking his head before helping you into a cab.

You thought about that now, the way he’d always been- reserved, careful, like he was holding something back. Even now, with the world in pieces, he sat still, shoulders tense, jaw tight, eyes fixed on nothing.

Your eyes flicked toward Sam, curled up a few feet away, breath too quick, too uneven. You knew what that meant. So did he.

Eric’s fingers twitched. His leg bounced once, then stopped. His whole body braced like he was already preparing to move.

You reached for his sleeve, barely a touch. He stilled.

Slowly, he turned his head. His expression was tight, set, but his eyes flickered- hesitation, exhaustion, fear. You exhaled softly, squeezing his arm once.

He leaned away as you let him go, facing Sam on the bench, grabbing a bottle and twisting the cap, bringing it to her lips as she layed on her back.

Her eyes were closed, and she looked on the verge of death, it made your heart ache as she leaned over and coughed most of the red-tinted liquid up, letting it dribble down her chin as Eric held her to make sure she didn't fall off her seat.

After a moment, he looked down at the floor to the notebook. Taking the pen, he quickly scribbled down the words 'what meds do you need?'

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The church was silent, but your heartbeat was so loud it filled the space where sound should be. The only other noise was Sam’s uneven breaths as she shifted in her sleep, too weak to do anything else. You sat in the dark, knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped tight around yourself.

Eric had been gone too long. 3 hours- at least.

Frodo gone for just as long, he was sat on your lap when he jumped off and left just a few minutes after Eric.

You told yourself he was fine. That he’d come back. That he wouldn’t just-

Your fingers curled into your sleeves. The thought made your throat close.

The candles had burned low hours ago, leaving the church in deep shadows. The stained glass was nothing but black shapes now, no color, no warmth. Every small creak of the old wood, every shifting shadow made your breath catch, made your stomach tighten. You tried to stay still, tried to listen. For what, you didn’t know. Footsteps? A sign?

Or maybe- maybe nothing at all.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your forehead against your knees. He promised. He said he’d be careful. He wouldn’t just disappear, right?

Right?

You didn't know the time, you're not even sure you knew the day, all you know is that you'd be even more lost without Eric...and as much as she pretends, she doesn't need him, Sam probably would be too.

But then you saw a shadow.

Soft, hesitant. A shift of weight. A scuffed step against stone.

Your head snapped up.

Eric stood in the doorway, backlit by the dim glow of the city beyond, his silhouette stiff, breathing hard. His eyes met yours, wide and searching, and for a moment, he just stood there, like he wasn’t sure he had really made it back.

You moved before you could think, standing up to tiptoe towards him. He caught you, arms tight, solid, real. He smelled like sweat and blood and dust, his breath shaking against your hair.

For the first time in hours, you breathed.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. It would echo. It would ruin the moment.

Instead, you pulled back just enough to look at him. That was when you noticed his grip was still tight around a bag. He exhaled, quick and shallow, and knelt down next to Sam, unzipping it with shaking fingers.

Pulling out a box named Fentanyl Transdermal System, he held it up, making sure it was the right one.

Sam tiredly nodded and you took the box from him, seeing how his hands were shaking.

you took one of the bandages, quietly peeling it open before handing it back to him, watching as he careful applied it to her side, Sam holding her shirt up just a smidge for him to place it where she needs.

He silently pants as he pulls away, leaning his back against the bench, his head leaned back as he wiped his forehead, stretching his legs out.

His hand landed beside yours as he looked up to the ceiling. You took it, gently squeezing, silently thanking whoever would listen to you that they brought him back to you

Eric looked over at you, his eyes heavy when he pulled away, grabbing something from his bag. You heard a pen come in contact with paper and thought he was trying to say something before he handed it to you.

A heart shaped card with a bright red background stared back up at you, a cherubic little angel with curly hair and delicate wings is depicted in a soft cream color, playing a trumpet displayed in the centre.

You smiled as you opened it, finding his shaky writing beneath the 'happy valentine's day' already provided. It was three simple words that he had written beneath, three small words that you hadn't been able to hear from him for a couple days now, which is probably why you felt a tear fall from your eye.

You may not remember what day it was, but Eric did, underneath every spec of anxiety that rattled your boyfriend's bones, he always took the time to do something for you.

You stared at the card for a while, then back at him. His face was unreadable, tense, like he didn’t know if he’d made a mistake bringing it back.

You shook your head, a small, shaky breath escaping you as you held the card close.

It was perfect.

You leaned closer to him, pressing your body up against his, seeking any warmth in him to give you comfort.

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pressing a chaste kiss to your head as your curled up next to him.

Closing your eyes, another tear fell down your cheek, slowly rolling down to your chin before he wiped it away.

"I love you too" you mumbled under your breath, hoping he'd hear it.

He did.

You swallowed a lump in your throat as you stared ahead.

You noticed all the candles, melting onto the floor, you noticed all the people, shivering and hugging themselves for warmth, you noticed every grain of dirt on the tiles, the blood smeared on the walls, every piece shard of glass from the windows and every whisper fallen onto somebody's lips as they comforted a friend, a family member, lover and even a stranger.

You noticed all of it.

But you didn't notice the tears rolling down Eric's face.

He was so scared, petrified, even, but at least you were still in his arms, at least he still had the chance to tell you- write to you- that he loved you.

It just so happened that Valentine's Day would fall upon an alien invasion, but that didn't mean he still couldn't give you a second of happiness, even for a minute.

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[hrts4nagi]

she's the man!

she's the man inspired au.

pairing :: itoshi rin x f!reader

synopsis :: hiori y/n is devastated after the news of the girls soccer team being cut from the sport program and unable to join the boys team. to rub more salt on the wound, she just broke off with her long-time boyfriend. devising a plan, she disguises herself as her twin brother to take his place at blue lock academy, an all-male prep school.

what she doesn’t expect is falling in love with the academy’s star player.

01.

wc :: 775

“i’m home!” you hear a muffled ‘welcome home’ as you go to the kitchen. 

“yo?” your twin brother throws up a peace sign as he munches on last night’s leftovers. 

your leftovers.

“that was mine,” you mutter plopping down next to him as your eyes fixate on the current game your brother was playing. 

“sorry, we can get takeout again tonight. your choice.”

you sit in silence for a moment. watching yo's character move across the tv screen. your cat, miso, notices your presence and snuggles up to you. she rests her head on your leg as you gently pet her. you sigh contently, feeling the stress melt away from your shoulders. after gathering your thoughts once more, you finally work up the courage to break the ice.

“i broke up with tobito today,” you mutter, burry your hands in your knees, recalling the events. 

“huh? really, what happened?” 

“he told me i’d never make it as a soccer player just because i’m a girl.”

“that’s a bit harsh.”

“a bit?” 

“sorry, i’m a little preoccupied with this fight right now.”

you frown, tapping your foot impatiently at your brother's antics. he hums in response.

“what happened to the girls team?”

“budget cuts. stupid school board.”

“ahh."

you notice he doesn't glance your way. not even once.

“yo!” you exclaim exasperatingly as you flop face down onto the couch, nudging him in the process. he throws you a light glare before sighing.

“hey, this came in the mail today.” the blue-haired boy fixes his eyes back to the tv as he slides you a pamphlet.

curiosity strikes you as you flip through the pamphlet, eyes widening at the offer presented. “woah, a full semester at blue lock academy scholarship? this is amazing yo!"

“eh, i’m not all’at interested. i dun wanna spend the school year with the old man this time around.” he argues

“hm, that's true,” you ponder. 

suddenly, an idea pops into your head. oh you were a genuis.

“hey,” you stand in front of the tv to gain your brother’s full attention.

“y/n,” yo moves his head to the side attempting to watch where his character was moving. “you’re kind of in the way, y’know.”

“okay okay, but hear me out.” you clasp your hands together.

“’m listening,”

“what if, instead of you attending this program," you hold the pamphlet up, shoving it in yo's face much to his displeasure. "i can take your place at the academy!”

“sure, why not. i won't have to worry about the old man isn’t pestering me and the missus is more tolerable than that guy."

“great!” you beemed.

"what are you going to do about your hair tho?" he points to your locks trailing down your shoulders.

you freeze realizing the one fatal error.

sure. you and yo were identical but it only spanned so much. he had vibrant, cyan hair while you sported sleek honey-brown hair, courtesy of a box of hair dye.

hiori yo stood at 6'0, while you were barely peeking at 5'7. that being said, you were tall for a girl but yet, your brother still towered over you. but hey, at least you had the same eyes!

another idea pops up in your head.

"i'm sure i have an old wig lying around!" he raises an eyebrow at your words.

"the one's from your middle school days?"

"yup! good thing i had a cosplaying era!"

"fine by me, just don't embarrass me alright?"

you throw him a thumbs up. you happily spin miso in your arms in celebration. you pause before turning to him.

"so, what are you planning to do while i'm gone?"

“actually," yo rests the controller next to him, before placing his hands to the back of his head. "i was planning to take a semester off to relax."

“can you do that?” you tilt your head at him.

“probably not, but i just want a break.”

"that's fair."

yo gets up and throws the pamphlet right in your face. “move in day, is in a week so you better start packing now. let me know if you need any help."

you watch as he slides his shoes on and throws on a jacket. "but first, i'm gonna go grab dinner. text me what you want."

you nod at your brother before rushing upstairs, almost slipping in the process.

"okay, miso! time to pack up everything i've ever known into this suitcase!" she meows.

the plan was going smoothly. you hum to yourself, neatly folding your clothes into the suitcase as the soft tune emitting from your speaker fills the room. what could possibly go wrong?

navigation ::

she's the man!

next -> 02.

previous <- profiles.

taglist [OPEN] :: @x3nafix @sugacor3 @yanderebluelockfan @lucid1tty @x-vivi-v @shydefendorcoffee @sellomaybe @ovrthe-moon @nensi @90s-belladonna

[viajandopelomar]

I just saw a post for IC from the person putting the QUOTES where Cassian and Morrigan talk about females training as warriors " — No born fighters in this lot? — Three, actually, — Mor said. — Three out of ten isn’t bad at all. The others, I’d be happy if they just learned to defend themselves. But those three... They've got the instinct." and are still angry because there aren't many, saying yes, they are trying hard to get the females to train.

If Cassian and Rhysand want to encourage training as a good thing for girls, then why are they talking like they SHOULD be warriors? We could start there now. They should train because they want to, if they want to, but instead they are debating whether there are born warriors. It's obvious that the males who put them on household chores because it's "light work" don't want them to be soldiers, you idiots! from the Illyrians' point of view, females would only be like them, cannon fodder (not just that, obviously, but this thought IS even THERE among females), in the same way they were in the two wars against Hybern and even females joined in the revolt 🤌🏻.

What's interesting is that in that same excerpt Rhyand says that his father didn't prohibit wing clipping because there was a war coming up and he couldn't take the risk of isolating the Illyrians. Do you know who is doing the same thing, despite knowing which villages remain with the cuts? Rhysand. he himself says that villages in the deepest corners of the mountains still did it, even when he banned it. and now everyone did it again when Amarantha emerged. and he's not doing anything. he said it, he KNOWS IT, but he doesn't do anything.

The problem wouldn't have gone so far if the IC hadn't just stayed in Velaris, we started from there. and when Rhsyand left he hunted down the legions that did the same thing as him 🤡, and when Feyre came he paid attention to her instead of worrying about the court, that's why he was so incredible to her and she hated Tamlin's departure. Tamlin only prioritized his people over Feyre who would be perfectly fine if he used his brain and realized that he was going to die if he went to dangerous places 🤌🏻 (I'm not saying he didn't arrest her, but let's use his brain too. She did worse to her sister, who is by blood, she threatened to take her by force. Tamlin had only been with Feyre for months. Feyre was infinitely more of a traitor).

🇧🇷 Acabei de ver um post pro IC da pessoa pondo as CITAÇÕES onde Cassian e Morrigan falam das fêmeas treinando como guerreiras " — No born fighters in this lot?— Three, actually, — Mor said. — Three out of ten isn’t bad at all. The others, I’d be happy if they just learned to defend themselves. But those three … They’ve got the instinct." e ainda estão irritados porque não tem muitas, dizendo que sim, eles estão se esforçando para que as fêmeas treinem.

Se Cassian e Rhysand querem incentivar o treino como algo bom para as meninas, então por que estão falando como se elas DEVESSEM ser guerreiras? já podíamos começar por aí. elas deveriam treinar porque querem, caso queiram, mas invés disso estão debatendo se há guerreiras natas. é óbvio que os machos que as colocam com os afazeres domésticos porque é um "trabalho leve" não querem que elas sejam soldadas, seus imbecis! do ponto de vista dos illyrianos, as fêmeas só seriam como eles, bucha de canhão (não é só isso, óbvio, mas esse pensamento ESTÁ LÁ mesmo entre as fêmeas), da mesma forma que eles foram nas duas guerras contra Hybern e até mesmo as fêmeas se juntaram na revolta 🤌🏻.

O que é interessante é que nesse mesmo trecho Rhyand diz que o pai dele não proibiu o corte de asas porque tinha uma guerra se aproximando e não podia correr o risco de isolar os illyrios. sabe quem está fazendo a mesma coisa, apesar de saber quais vilarejos permanecem com os cortes? Rhysand. Ele próprio diz que os vilarejos nos cantos mais profundos das montanhas ainda faziam, mesmo quando ele proibiu. e agora todos voltaram a fazer quando Amarantha emergiu. e ele não está fazendo nada. ele disse isso, ele SABE DISSO, mas não faz nada.

O problema já não teria ido tão longe se o IC não tivesse ficado apenas em Velaris, já começamos daí. e quando Rhsyand saiu ele caçou as legiões que fizeram a mesma coisa que ele 🤡, e quando Feyre veio ele ficou dando atenção a ela ao invés de se preocupar com a corte, por isso ele foi tão incrível pra ela e ela detestava o afastamento de Tamlin. tamlin só priorizou o povo dele invés de Feyre que estaria perfeitamente bem se usasse o cérebro e percebesse que ia morrer se fosse para os lugares perigosos 🤌🏻 (não estou dizendo que ele não a prendeu, mas vamos usar o cérebro também. ela fez pior com a irmã, que é de sangue, a ameaçou a levar a força. Tamlin só estava com Feyre a meses. Feyre foi infinitamente mais traidora).

[redquackredemption]

Hello cat! I have a request!! This is silly omg.. but could you write something with Hosea Matthews comforting reader? (So im thinking a kinda angsty but then comfort and fluff?? Reader is male teen, and Hosea is like "oh no poor kid, father figure mode on" (I hope this aint cringe, but ive been having a rough week and Hosea is nr 1 comfort caracter)

My main idea for how the story goes is pretty much, at campfire, Hosea realized kid is gone, oh no, looks for kid, finds them hidden somewhere very upset, talks, " its going to be okay"

(its 1899 what is a panic attack?? also overstimulation never heard of that)

something like that!! but you have the reins on this one!

[Anyways thank you, hope you have a great day!!] ‼️‼️

A/N: This one was really awesome to write actually TT it was super sweet and i hope u enjoy it <3

Hosea Comforts You (m!reader)

•◌•◌•★•◌•◌•

Spare thyme, a sprinkle of salt—Hosea lays down the fillet of bluegill, a satisfying sizzle and smell of fish wafting from where it cooks. He promised you a good dinner for your birthday, and he's gonna give it to you.

He flips the fish, squeezes some lemon. More sizzling, and a side of canned green beans, sweetened with sugar, are laid down on a clean dish. There's a fine dinner for a fine lad. Now's to find him—

Hosea stands, calling your name. By your tent, crickets. Certainly not by the campfires. You're not even at your usual spot under one of the shady trees overlooking camp. It's too late to have gone out of camp, especially for that kid. "Abigail," he calls, strolling over with the fish in hand. "You seen the boy?"

She glances up from her sewing, clear-sky gaze zeroing in on him and the plate in his hands. "That for him? Sure, he was out by the horses last I saw."

"Thank you, Miss Roberts."

That's that. If you're by the horses, chances are you're grooming Lucky. Maybe feeding him another one of those apples you can't help but sneak into your pockets every time you tag along to Valentine. That's how they found you, after all. Huddled under the gallows, clutching a bag close while the shopkeeper in Blackwater searched high and low for a street rat and his prize of a measly two apples. Dutch ended up paying for those while Hosea talked you down and searched for Lucky with you.

Those were good days. Still are good days, despite it all. Hosea calls your name again once he reaches the outskirts of the camp. Nothing—save for the babbling of a creek nearby, and a gasping whimper. "Hh....ah....ghh—"

Hosea pauses. He knows what a nervous fit sounds like from miles away. And there you are, huddled behind a tree, palms digging into your eyes as you exchange quick breaths with the frigid night air. "Hey, kid," Hosea calls. "You—"

You shake your head. At what, you don't know. At everything, perhaps. Trying to patch yourself together by clutching at your own hair, one hand reaching for your chest—God, why can't you breathe?

"Breathe, son," Hosea murmurs beside you, as if it's the easiest thing in the world to do. "Look, do it with me. Son?"

He demonstrates. In, out, and in, and then out again—and as much as you try to force your body to obey, it panics like a feral animal, scrambling and scratching for the air it doesn't realize it already has.

And then it fades. You're alive again, only just.

"Hos—Hosea," You whimper, tears hitching your voice. God, a goddamn kid again, helpless and sniveling, so easy to burn like the trash you are. Those words, those fateful words press against your lips, the ultimate treason. "I'm—I'm s-scared."

Hosea, maybe he remembers what that's like. "That's it," he croons. "You're doing just fine, son. Gotta let it pass." The flat of his palm presses to your back, and you shudder, the tears sinking into the roots beneath your feet. 'Round Hosea, you reckon anything could be made alright.

"Good lad," He murmurs once your face has dried, your breathing evened. "Ain't nothing gonna hurt you. None of us are fixin' to kick you out, now, we picked you up and brought you 'long for a reason. You're a good kid. We're gonna make it out of here, go west...West of this mess. We'll be alright."

You cling to him like a babe to his mother, no shame befalling you. Nor should there be. Hosea's hand pats the back of your head, a warm embrace to remind you that you will forever fall back into someone's welcome arms. Then, the smell of food pervades your senses. "Good. Now, how ‘bout we get you somethin’ warm in that belly of yours?" Hosea nudges the plate toward you. "Made you a fine dinner. Can’t let it go cold, now. Happy birthday, son." The fish is crisp, the green beans lightly sweet, and a perfect contrast to the salt of fish. It's a good birthday meal, in addition to that bound journal Arthur got you, and the crown of flowers Jack made you. This will pass, as everything does, you realize. Things will be okay.

•◌•◌•★•◌•◌•

Request Archive

[frenchy-and-the-sea]

There is a very exquisite agony in playing a game you love so so so so so much, and realizing that one of the other players is trying to play a totally different game than you.

[why-fucking-bother-anymore]

I swear I've gone through every emotion known to man.... (And then some) today...

[justablah56]

damn I miss playing wolves in my friend's back yard .... rb to play wolves with your mutuals in their back yard<3