#who’ll stop the rain

[gatoraid]

Who’ll Stop The Rain / 青春並不溫柔 (2023) dir. Yi-Hsuan Su, Taiwan

[7698]

[rosielindy]

Relevant on many levels today, not really about precipitation, is it. Doesn’t mean we will stop trying.

Long as I remember the rain been comin' down

Clouds of mystery pourin' confusion on the ground

Good men through the ages tryin' to find the sun

And I wonder, still I wonder

Who'll stop the rain

[onlyforwoosan]

Heat Of The Night—✦

Pairing: Park Seonghwa (Racer!AU) × Female Reader (established relationship)

Wordcount: 5.8k

Synopsis: A brutal rivalry. A high-speed race. And Seonghwa, who’ll stop at nothing to win — including fucking you in the front seat while the world watches.

Genre: Smut, Enemies / rival tension, Dark romance, Racer!AU

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Public sex in a moving vehicle (during a literal race), Semi-exhibitionism (tinted windows), Fighting / violence, Blood mention, Possessive / dominant behavior, Praise & degradation mix

The night smelled like oil, concrete, and something sour—something violent waiting to happen.

The empty parking garage echoed with every footstep, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead stuttering and humming like they might give out at any second. It was the kind of place people pretended didn’t exist, a dead space between the city’s shiny surfaces.

Seonghwa stood under one of the flickering lights, head low, hands curled into tight fists at his sides. His black jacket clung to him, rain still dripping from the hem. He looked calm from a distance, still, controlled.

But up close, the storm in his eyes was undeniable. He was pissed. 

Across from him, His rival, Minjun, leaned lazily against a cracked pillar, a smirk tugging at his mouth. He looked untouched by the cold, by the hour, by the threat that hung thick in the air between them.

"You came," Minjun said, voice carrying easily in the emptiness. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his jeans, casual, cocky. Like, this was a joke. Seonghwa wasn't having any of it. 

"You called," Seonghwa answered flatly. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The promise of violence was put into every word.

Minjun chuckled, shaking his head slowly. "Man... all this for a girl?" His hair was dripping a little. 

At the mention of you, something shifted behind Seonghwa’s eyes — a barely contained rage, flashing like lightning just before it strikes. You were his. 

"You really think you’re untouchable, don’t you?" Minjun pushed off the pillar, walking a slow circle around him. "Big man behind the wheel. Big man when she’s looking at you like you hung the goddamn stars."

“You don't even know. Shes mine, for fucks sake.” Seonghwa snarled. He was irritated that the younger would even dare to mention you. 

The black haired boy just scoffed. “Probablys a slut for you. A whore if i may add.” He snickered. The taller was this close to killing him. “Chill, dude. She's only hung for you.”

He paused, letting the words sink in before he dropped the real poison:

"But what happens when you can’t get to her fast enough, Hwa?"

Seonghwa moved before the last syllable even hit the air.

He was on Minjun in a breath, fists slamming into him with the brutal precision of someone who wasn’t just angry — someone who was fighting for blood.

The first punch made a crackling sound against Minjun’s jaw, sending him stumbling back, but Seonghwa didn’t let up. A second hit, cleaner, harder, broke across Minjun’s nose with a wet snap.

Minjun cursed, stumbling, blood gushing between his fingers as he clutched his face.

"You touch her," Seonghwa growled, voice rough and lethal, "and I’ll fucking bury you myself."

Minjun spat blood onto the concrete and laughed — a low, ugly sound that scraped at Seonghwa’s ears and made his eye twitch.

"You’re already losing, Seonghwa. You just don’t see it yet."

He lunged then, slashing his nails across Seonghwa’s cheek, drawing a sharp line of red liquid. The sting barely registered.

Seonghwa grabbed him by the jacket, slamming him into the pillar with enough force to rattle the crumbling structure.

"I’m not losing anything," Seonghwa snarled, nose inches from Minjun’s. His hand tightened around Minjun’s throat for just a second — not enough to choke, but enough to make the threat clear.

Minjun coughed, grinning through bloody teeth.

"Keep telling yourself that."

Seonghwa’s fist slammed into his gut once more for good measure before he shoved him down onto the filthy concrete.

Minjun stayed down this time, laughing weakly.

Seonghwa staggered back, breathing hard, the adrenaline crashing through his veins like wildfire. His knuckles were split open, thick warmth dripping down onto the floor in slow, heavy drops.

He glanced down at himself — blood on his hands, blood on his jacket, the thin sting of the scratch across his face starting to throb.

Good. Let him bleed a little.. It was better than letting the rage rot him from the inside out.

Without another word, Seonghwa turned and stalked toward the open side of the garage, the cold rain slicing across his face the second he stepped outside. He didn’t look back. He didn’t have to.

Minjun’s words followed him into the night anyway:

"You’ll crash, Seonghwa. And when you do... I'll take everything you love."

The door creaked shut behind him.

Seonghwa shoved his hood over his head, jaw tight, vision tunneling in on one thing — getting to you.

It was nearly 11 PM when you heard the soft click of the front door.

You barely glanced up at first, curled into the far corner of the couch, your phone glowing in your hand, the low hum of the TV playing some forgettable late-night show. You had been waiting for him. You always waited for him.

The second you looked up, though, everything inside you stilled.

Seonghwa stood in the doorway, soaked from the rain, hood falling back to reveal the shock of his dyed white hair — only now, it wasn’t just rain dripping from him. There was blood. On his shirt. Spattered in thin, dark smears across the collar. A few bits in his hair, even a faint smear along the sharp cut of his cheekbone. His fists were still clenched tight, the skin across his knuckles cracked and were scraped.

You dropped your phone immediately, eyes wide open. Oh god.. You thought.

“Hwa—” you gasped, scooting down off the couch. You were only wearing a pair of thin sleep shorts and a tiny cami top, the cold air instantly biting at your skin, but you didn’t even feel it.

You rushed to him, arms half-reaching — but you stopped short just inches away when your eyes caught the state he was in.

Your heart twisted painfully.  "Baby... what the hell happened?" you whispered, eyes scanning every inch of him.

Seonghwa shook his head once, slow, deliberate.  "Nothing," he said hoarsely. "I'm fine, angel."

You frowned deeper, stepping closer despite his warning. He smelled like rain, blood, and concrete. The sharp scent clung to him like a second skin.

"You’re bleeding," you pointed out, voice shaking a little despite your effort to stay calm. "And that—" you reached up, gently brushing a finger against the blood-stained strands of his hair, "—doesn��t happen from 'nothing.'"

He exhaled hard through his nose, body stiff as a wire. "It's over. I handled it."

You crossed your arms over your chest — the movement “accidentally” pressing your breasts together under the thin fabric of your cami top, but you were too worried to even notice the way his eyes flickered down, then quickly away.

"Hwa..." you said more firmly, stepping closer until you could feel the heat radiating off his body. "Please. Just tell me."

For a long moment, he didn’t speak.

Then his shoulders sagged the tiniest bit — like he couldn’t bear the weight anymore.

"Minjun," he muttered, voice rough, bitter.

Your stomach dropped.

"What did he do now?"

Seonghwa’s jaw clenched again, remembering what had happened earlier, the muscle ticking visibly. His fists were still tight at his sides, liquid dripping slowly down the curve of his hand.

"He made it about you," he said tightly. "Threatened you."

A beat of silence. The world tilted slightly around you.

Your hands moved before you even thought about it — gently, carefully, you reached up and cradled his bruised face between your palms. His skin was cold from the rain, but under your touch, you could feel the barely-contained fire.

You leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.

It wasn’t a fiery kiss, it wasn’t desperate, just a grounding touch. A silent I'm here, you're not alone.

Seonghwa let out a shaky breath against your mouth, and for a second, all the fight drained out of him.

When you pulled back, you caught his hand, cold, bloodied, and laced your fingers through his without hesitation.

"C'mon," you murmured, giving a soft tug. "Let's clean you up."

You led him wordlessly down the short hallway into your shared bedroom, the rain still pattering softly against the windows outside. The room smelled like home, like you. It softened the hard lines of his body just a little as he followed you into the attached bathroom.

You flipped on the light.

The harsh, bright glow revealed every ugly detail — the split across his lip, the faint swelling at his cheekbone, the angry red scratch along his jaw. Blood smeared across the collar of his jacket, staining the fabric dark and rust-colored.

You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the sting of emotion rising in your throat.

Seonghwa sat heavily on the edge of the bathtub, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His head dropped back against the wall, white hair splaying messily across the tile, eyes closing like he was exhausted.

You pulled open the cabinet under the sink, grabbing the first aid kit with shaking hands. When you turned back, he was watching you — eyes dark, hooded, tracking every movement.

Wordlessly, you knelt between his knees.

The first wet cloth you pressed to his split lip made him hiss quietly. His thighs tensed under your hands, his fingers twitching against the edge of the tub.

"You’re such an idiot sometimes," you whispered, voice thick.

He smiled — just a little. That lazy, crooked grin that always made you feel like gravity didn’t work right when he looked at you.

"Yeah," he murmured. "But you love me anyway."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was already breaking for him.

As you worked — cleaning the blood from his face, wiping the mess from his hair, carefully bandaging his knuckles — the silence between you softened. Seonghwa didn’t protest. Didn’t move away. He just watched you with something raw in his expression, something unguarded.

When you finished, you leaned back on your heels, studying him.

He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Dangerous.

And he was yours.

All yours.

Without a word, he reached forward, threading his fingers through your hair, tugging you gently closer until you were between his knees again, pressed against his chest.

"Thank you," he whispered against your forehead.

You squeezed him tighter, feeling the wild thundering of his heart under your palms.

“Of course, Seong.” You muttered and smiled as you ran your fingers through his semi damp hair. “I love you..”

“I love you more, sweet girl.” He says back.

“Now go take a shower so we can cuddle after.” He chuckled and rolled his eyes at your words.

A few days passed, it was race day. The garage buzzed with noise and energy.

Wrenches clanked against metal, compressors hissed as tires were checked and rechecked, and the heavy scent of gasoline clung to the thick morning air. Seonghwa stood by his car, a sleek, deadly machine of bright pink with the number 3 and a silver star emblazoned across the hood — arms crossed over his chest, black racing suit already half-zipped up.

"Pressure’s running a little high in the front right," one of the mechanics called, crouched down near the tire. "You want it stiffer for the turns or softer for the straightaways?"

Seonghwa crouched down next to him, one knee on the ground, scanning the gauge with a practiced eye. "Softer," he said, tapping the rim of the tire. "She’s light on her feet already. I want her to glide through the pack, not fight it."

The mechanic nodded, grinning.  "You’re the boss, Park. Pink star’s gonna fly today, huh?"

Seonghwa allowed a rare, sharp smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. "She always does."

He stood back up, wiping his hands on a rag, glancing over the rest of the crew making the final tweaks to the engine and fins.

He was just starting to mentally settle into race mode when he felt it.. A tap, sharp and deliberate, on his shoulder.

Turning around, his stomach coiled instantly at the sight.

Minjun stood there, fully suited up, helmet tucked under his arm, smirk stretched wide across his face like he was enjoying some private joke.

"Fancy seeing you here, Park," Minjun drawled, voice slick with mockery.

Seonghwa's smile disappeared. His entire body tensed, fists twitching at his sides, the vivid memory of the blood on his hands, the concrete under his boots flashing through his mind like gunfire.

Minjun only laughed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "Relax. Wouldn't want your pretty little girl to see you lose your cool."

Seonghwa snarled low in his throat — a sound barely human — but before he could make a move, Minjun was already slipping away into the maze of racers and cars, his laughter trailing behind him like smoke.

Seonghwa stood still for a second, breathing hard through his nose, forcing the rage back down into his chest where it could simmer.

Not here. Not now.

Focus.

The minutes until the race start ticked by fast.

Seonghwa walked through the maze of engines and bodies, sharp-eyed, searching. And then — like the world sharpened into color — he saw you.

You were standing near the gate leading up to the stands, your hair pulled back loosely, wearing his jacket over your casual clothes. You looked soft and out of place among the metal and fumes, and yet somehow, you fit perfectly.

Before you could slip away toward the stairs, Seonghwa caught up to you, grabbing your hand gently but urgently.

"Ride with me," he said, low and serious.

You blinked, startled. "Hwa... that’s not—" "I know," he cut in quickly. "It’s not allowed. I know."

You glanced nervously around — mechanics, other racers, officials milling nearby. "Someone’s gonna notice."

"They won’t," he said, stepping closer, crowding into your space until your heart stuttered. His hand slid around your waist, tugging you just a little closer, his mouth brushing your ear as he murmured, "Windows are fully tinted. Nobody will see. And the crew—" he glanced over his shoulder briefly, "—they won’t say shit. They’re with me."

You opened your mouth to protest again, but he cut you off with a look — that intense, smoldering gaze that made your knees go weak every damn time.

"Please," he said, voice rough, almost desperate now. "I need you with me."

Your heart twisted painfully.

You could see it… The way his hands were tense, the way he wasn’t just asking to be reckless — he needed to anchor himself to 

You swallowed hard. "...Fine," you whispered.

His entire body relaxed for a half-second, pure relief flickering across his face.

Before you could change your mind, he tangled his hand with your hand again and led you back toward his car, weaving between the busy mechanics and racers like a thief sneaking away with stolen treasure.

At the sleek pink car, he threw open the passenger-side door with a flourish, holding it open for you like it was a damn royal carriage.

You bit your lip, nerves sparking under your skin, but you climbed in, the sleek black leather cold against your thighs.

Seonghwa slipped into the driver’s seat a second later, pulling the door shut behind him.

Inside, the car smelled like leather, smoke, and him — dark, electric, dangerous. The tinted windows wrapped you both in a bubble of secrecy.

Seonghwa turned to you, one hand already sliding over your thigh, possessive and grounding at once.

And as the chaos of race day rumbled outside, Seonghwa grinned — slow and wicked — and leaned closer, whispering against your lips:

"You’re mine now. All race long."

The engine purred beneath you, vibrating through the seat, through your body.

Seonghwa rolled the car up to the starting line, the slick pink paint gleaming under the brutal track lights. Beyond the tinted windows, the other racers were lined up, engines snarling and growling in the tense pre-race silence.

Inside the car, it was almost eerily still.

You shifted in your seat, nervous energy buzzing under your skin. Your legs bounced slightly, and you twisted your hands in your lap, trying to settle the storm inside you.

Three minutes to race start.

You glanced over at Seonghwa, only to find him already looking at you.

Something dark and hungry burned in his eyes, his lips twitching like he was barely holding back a grin.

"You’re antsy, Sweetie," he murmured, voice low and dangerous.

You swallowed, trying to laugh it off,  but before you could, he leaned a little closer and said:

"Ride me while I drive."

Your head snapped toward him, eyes wide.

"What the fuck—" you blurted, face heating instantly. "You’re fucking crazy, Seonghwa!"

He chuckled — deep, rough, unchanged. Like he had all the time in the world to destroy you.

"Windows are tinted, angel," he reminded you smoothly, reaching out and running his fingers up your bare thigh, his touch making you shiver. "No one will see. No one will know. Just you and me." His hand slipped higher, just barely brushing the edge of your skirt, teasing. "You've thought about it before... haven’t you?" he added, voice dropping a shade darker.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Because God help you, he was right.

Some stupid part of you had wondered what it would be like. The rush. The danger. The pure insanity of fucking him at full speed.  But you’d never dreamed he would ask.

"Seonghwa," you stammered, legs pressing together instinctively. "I– I don’t know if—"

He turned fully toward you, eyes black with need. His hand found yours, squeezing tight.

"Trust me," he said, rough and earnest. "I’ll keep you safe."

You hesitated for half a heartbeat. And then you let out the tiniest whimper, nodding once, your body betraying you.

Seonghwa’s grin broke across his face, wicked and victorious. "Good girl," he breathed.

The announcer's voice crackled over the loudspeakers:

"One minute until race start! Racers, get ready!"

Everything sped up.

Seonghwa leaned back in his seat, one hand on the wheel, the other already tugging down the zipper of his black racing suit, shifting his boxers enough to free himself. You caught a glimpse.. flushed, thick, already hard for you. Your our cheeks burned hotter.

"Hurry, angel," he urged, voice taut with adrenaline. His cock twitched a bit.

Heart hammering, you scrambled out of your seat and straddled his lap, your knees digging into the sleek leather seat on either side of him. Your short skirt bunched up instantly. No modesty left, not here, not now.

Seonghwa growled low in his throat as he slid his hands under the skirt, gripping your hips, rough and possessive. He found your panties, yanked them aside with a quick, practiced move, and paused, just for a second.

"I've got you, baby," he murmured against your lips.

You nodded desperately, clutching at his shoulders, nails biting into the fabric of his suit.

Another second passed, and then Seonghwa lined himself up, his hand firm on your waist.

The announcer started counting down:

"Ten."

Seonghwa thrust up just slightly, the tip brushing against you — so hot and achingly hard that you nearly cried out. “Hngh!-”

"Nine."

He grinned darkly at the way your body shivered, every nerve ending sparking.

"Eight."

You bit your lip so hard it almost bled.

"Seven."

Without warning, he pulled you down onto him — hard and deep.

You gasped, a choked sound bursting from your throat, your hands flying to his chest for balance.

Seonghwa groaned low in his chest, his forehead pressing against yours as he filled you completely, the stretch burning and perfect.

"Six."

He revved the engine, the growl of the car masking the broken sounds slipping from your lips.

"Five."

He shifted under you, adjusting his grip on the wheel — and then gave a slow, brutal roll of his hips that made your vision blur.

"Four."

Your hands fisted in the fabric of his suit, desperately clinging to him as you fought the urge to moan his name.

"Three."

He kissed you — messy, teeth clashing, claiming you all over again.

"Two."

The car vibrated harder, the tension unbearable.

"One."

The starting gun fired, and Seonghwa hit the gas. You were already riding him as the car shot forward, the world outside the tinted windows blurring into neon and smoke.

And deep inside the chaos, Seonghwa laughed low against your ear and whispered:

"Hold on tight, baby. We’re just getting started."

The tires screamed as Seonghwa floored the gas, and the car shot forward with brutal force.

You barely managed to choke down a gasp, the speed slamming your body harder against his chest. The harness that should've been holding you down was tangled around your thighs instead, abandoned in your reckless need to have him, to feel him, and every sharp lurch of the car made him shift deeper inside you.

Seonghwa didn’t flinch. One hand clamped firmly on the wheel, cool and in control — The other tight on your hip, grounding you, steering your body like he steered the car.

He didn’t look at you when he growled, voice low and dark:

"Bounce."

Your brain barely processed the word.

You were still dizzy from the feel of him stretching you open, still reeling from the way he'd filled you so deep, so fast. The world outside was a blur — engines roaring, neon lights whipping past — but inside this car, the heat between you could’ve set the whole track on fire.

You hesitated, thighs trembling on either side of him. "Seonghwa, I—"  Your voice cracked.

He squeezed your hip harder, almost bruising, dragging you flush down on him, making you whimper helplessly.

"I said bounce, love."

Rough. Commanding. Unforgiving.

You shivered because you loved that tone.  You loved it when he stripped you down to nothing but instinct.

With a shaky breath, you lifted yourself slowly — thighs burning, your hands clutching at the collar of his suit for leverage — and sank back down onto him.

The friction was blinding. The stretch, the depth, the filthy wet squelch of your body taking him in made heat crawl up your chest.

Seonghwa let out a low groan, head tilting back slightly.

"That's it…" he rasped. "Just like that. Fuck— ride me..  baby. Don't stop."

The car weaved through traffic effortlessly, one hand steering, one hand guiding you ruthlessly on his cock.

You started bouncing properly now — desperate little lifts and drops, every downward motion driving him deeper, harder, hitting spots that made your head spin.

"Fuck, Hwa—" you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. "I can't—" Your tits moved with you as you bounced. The man swore this was the hottest fucking sight hes ever seen. 

"You can," he grunted, eyes flashing dangerously as he flicked a glance at you. "You’re my good girl. You’ll take e- everything I give you."

You whimpered, helpless against the intensity in his voice.

Sweat beaded on your forehead, your skin slick against his. The tiny cami you wore clung to your chest, nipples hard and rubbing against the thin fabric, the sensation making you squirm even harder.

“A- ah.. S’deep S- seong..”

Every bounce sent shockwaves through your body — thighs burning, clit throbbing, overstimulated from the roughness and the speed.

The car jerked slightly as Seonghwa pulled a sharp turn, and you cried out, falling forward against him, your forehead pressing against the sweaty line of his throat.

He laughed — low and wicked — and shifted the hand on your hip lower, slipping between your bodies until his fingers found your clit.

He rubbed tight, brutal circles, making you jolt and sob.

"T- that’s it, baby," he growled, voice in a strained pant now. "Make a mess on me."

Your body was a disaster — shaking, leaking, clenching around him desperately with every roll of his hips. You barely realized how hard you were grinding on him now, chasing your release with raw, frantic little bounces that made filthy wet sounds between you every time he bottomed out inside you.

"You hear that?" he whispered in your ear, voice wrecked. "That's you, fucking dripping all over me. Fuckin’ slut.."

You whined brokenly — it was too much. “A- all yours!” You threw your head back, one of your hands gripping your boyfriend's shoulder, the other pinching your hardened nipple.

You were so full, so fucked-out, and it only got worse when Seonghwa slipped two fingers down lower — teasing your stretched entrance while still fucking into you deep.

"Seonghwa—" you choked.

He just laughed darkly again, pulling his fingers back and spreading the wetness up across your clit again, rubbing you even faster, even harder.

He took your other breast in your mouth, sucking harshly like a goddamn baby desperate for its mommys milk. You let out a mewl.

The car shot forward again — faster now — and you realized he wasn’t slowing down at all. 

He was going to win this race while buried inside you. While fucking you raw in front of everyone.

The thought made you tighten around him so hard he cursed under his breath, hips jerking up into you violently.

He let go of your nipple with a pop sound. Spit connecting from his lip to your red bud. "Shit, baby— g- gonna make me cum inside you if you keep doing that," he snarled, voice wrecked.

You moaned helplessly, nodding against him, needing it, needing him. Your thighs trembled violently now, every nerve in your body firing off at once.

Seonghwa leaned in closer, breath hot against your ear:

"C- cum for me again. Now."

The command broke you.

You shuddered around him with a sob, your body locking up, nails raking down his back as your orgasm slammed into you like a punch to the gut.

Seonghwa hissed through his teeth, feeling you milk his cock, squeezing so tight he almost lost it right then.

“H- hngh- Hwa!”

He shifted the car one-handed — cool as ice — and slammed his hips up into you harder, rougher, chasing his own finish line.

"Fuck— fuck, you feel so good," he grunted, his voice getting sloppier now, the control finally cracking.

You whimpered at how deep he was, how thick he felt inside you, how messy you were getting — your inner thighs sticky, his cock slick with both your releases mixing with every brutal thrust.

He grabbed your ass with both hands now, bouncing you on him harder, almost savage, using you to get himself off while the car screamed across the track.

"Take it," he growled. "Fucking take it."

You cried out, legs barely working, body collapsing into him fully, trusting him to do whatever he wanted with you.

He was close — you could feel it. “Sh– shit.. So t– tight.”

The way his breath hitched. The way his hips stuttered up into you. The way his fingers dug even harder into your thighs, bruising, desperate.

"Mine," he hissed, head dropping to your shoulder. "You’re mine. Gonna fill you up — fuck, gonna make you so messy."

You nodded frantically, moaning into his neck, needing it, needing him to ruin you completely.

With one last brutal thrust up into you, Seonghwa growled brokenly and came — deep, thick, filling you so much you gasped, feeling it leak out around him instantly.

He didn't stop.

He fucked you through it, dragging you down on him again and again, stuffing his cum deeper inside you, not caring about the wet, filthy mess soaking into the leather seat. His hand went back on the steering wheel.

Outside the windows, the checkered flag waved.

Seonghwa let out a shaky, wrecked laugh, his arms still locked around you tightly.

"First place, baby," he whispered against your sweaty neck. "You helped me win."

You could barely breathe.

You were trembling, your muscles spasming, your pussy still fluttering around his softening cock buried deep inside you.

The car coasted into the winner’s circle — And you were still in his lap, stuffed full, a sticky, wrecked mess against him.

Seonghwa pressed a kiss to your temple, so soft compared to the wreckage of your bodies.

"You okay?" he whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair out of your damp face.

You nodded weakly, smiling a little, dizzy with aftershocks.

He chuckled again, that low, dangerous sound.

"Good," he said, sliding his hand down to cup between your thighs — feeling the mess he made, feeling you shudder against him.

"Because when we get home…" he murmured darkly,

"I’m not stopping until you’re crying my name."

The crowd’s roar still echoed faintly outside the garage as Seonghwa pulled the pink race car into his designated spot.

You both sat there for a second, catching your breath — the engine ticking hot beneath you, the windows fogged slightly from the heat between your bodies.

Seonghwa gave a low, satisfied chuckle under his breath.

"Fans sound happy," he murmured, reaching across the seat to grab a bundle of towels from the glove box — clearly prepared for chaos like this. You flushed hot, face burning as he tugged your ruined panties back into place and carefully wiped the mess between your trembling thighs. His touch was oddly tender, almost reverent, like he was proud of the disaster he'd made out of you.

"Little messy, baby," he teased, smirking as he swiped the towel over his own lap, tucking himself back into his racing suit without shame. He balled up the towel — now clearly stained with streaks of white — and tossed it casually into the backseat.

You stared at it, mortified.

"Hwa—" you hissed, cheeks flaming. "You can't just—"

He grinned wider, unbothered. "The mechanics'll clean it. They won't care." He reached over, flicking your forehead playfully. "Besides... kinda like knowing my mess is all over this car."

You hid your face in your hands, groaning, and he just laughed again — low, rough, still riding the high of the win and the wickedness.

Outside, the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep, dusky purples and blues. The stadium lights cast long shadows across the garage as Seonghwa climbed out of the car, moving around to your side.

You opened the door yourself — or tried to — but your legs buckled immediately, still weak from how hard he'd used you.

Seonghwa caught you easily, one arm hooking under your knees, the other steadying your back.

"Still wobbly, angel?" he teased, voice low near your ear.

You buried your face in his shoulder, too embarrassed to answer.

With no effort at all, he lifted you up into his arms and carried you across the lot toward his other car — a sleek black one parked a little ways off.

He set you carefully into the passenger seat, brushing a kiss across your forehead, then your mouth, soft and grounding.

"I'll be right back," he promised. "Don’t move."

You nodded dumbly, heart thudding as you watched him jog back across the lot toward his pit crew.

The fans were still screaming his name beyond the fence. Seonghwa raised a hand, casually waving at them — that cocky, dangerous smirk still tugging at his mouth.

You could see his crew gathering around, clapping him on the back, handing him a heavy silver trophy.

One of the mechanics — a young guy with grease on his sleeves — caught sight of the towel Seonghwa had tossed into the racecar.

He burst out laughing, nudging one of the others and whispering something that made them all snicker.

Seonghwa just laughed along, completely shameless, grabbing the trophy and slinging it over one shoulder like it weighed nothing.

But then A different figure broke away from the shadows near the loading docks.

Minjun.

And he wasn’t alone.. a few of his cronies trailing behind him like a pack of hyenas.

Seonghwa stiffened when he spotted them, but didn’t break stride, just kept walking toward you.

Until Minjun stepped directly into his path.

"Congrats on the win, Park," Minjun drawled, fake-friendly.

Seonghwa didn't answer. His jaw flexed once — dangerously — but he kept walking, eyes locked on you, waiting patiently in the car.

Minjun fell into step beside him, chuckling darkly.

"Tell me," he murmured under his breath, voice dripping with venom. "Did you have little Y/N riding you while you raced?"

Seonghwa stopped dead in his tracks.

Slowly, he turned to face Minjun fully — body language pure, lethal, calm.

Without a word, he slammed his fist into Minjun’s jaw — a brutal, savage hit that dropped him to the concrete with a satisfying crack.

The crew scattered instantly, a few of them cursing and backing away, clearly wanting no part in it.

Minjun groaned, spitting blood onto the ground.

Seonghwa crouched low, grabbing the front of his jacket and hauling him up to eye level.

Voice low, razor-sharp, he whispered:

"Next time you say her name with that mouth, I'll break your jaw so bad you’ll be sipping through a straw for the rest of your fucking life."

Minjun gurgled something unintelligible, his hands scrambling to push Seonghwa off.

Seonghwa shoved him back down hard, standing tall and dangerous as Minjun's crew scrambled to pull him away.

"Come back, you cowards!" Minjun bellowed as his lackeys bolted toward the lot exit, leaving him cursing and bleeding alone.

Seonghwa didn’t even spare him another glance.

He just turned on his heel, wiped the blood from his knuckles on his jacket, and headed back toward you.

When he slid into the driver’s seat beside you, he was breathing hard — chest rising and falling under the open collar of his jacket.

You blinked, taking in the sweat, the new streak of blood at the corner of his mouth.

"...Hwa," you sighed, exasperated, spotting the crimson stain smudged across the sleeve of his jacket.

He followed your gaze, then just smirked — that same devil-may-care grin he always wore after he wrecked someone for you.

"You should see the other guy," he said casually, buckling his seatbelt with a little grunt of effort.

You rolled your eyes hard, but your heart twisted painfully in your chest — because under all that reckless bravado, you knew why he did it. Why he always did it.

Seonghwa turned the ignition, the engine of the black car purring to life, and threw an arm casually over the back of your seat, looking both ways before pulling out.

"You know," he said after a beat, glancing over at you with a crooked grin, "one day you're gonna realize... I'd tear down the whole goddamn world if it meant keeping you safe."

The night swallowed you both whole as he drove you away — the city lights blurring past, the blood on his hands cooling — But the fire between you never fades.

[solxamber]

Going to get my driver's licence and now I'm curious. How bad do you think the twst characters would be behind a car?? Cause idk if they have cars in that world or some magic equivalent, but I'm 90% sure almost none of them now how. Like imagine Lillia behind the wheel. He would either crash the car or get you yo your destination with mild injuries. And I KNOW leona sucks at driving that sonnova gun probs doesn't even have his permit.

good luck soldier, hope you pass first try 🫡

leona is canonically good at driving! his liongarb vignette part 2 has him driving everyone and they say it's a surprisingly smooth ride, he's had his license since before he enrolled in nrc!

ooo let's see (these are my hcs)

How I think the twst boys drive:

Riddle

“If you don’t use your blinker, you deserve a revoked license and public humiliation.”

has a laminated printout of the dmv manual in his glove compartment. refers to it. frequently.

stress-mumbles the rules of the road like it’s a ritual to keep the car from crashing

WILL tailgate someone going under the speed limit while also ranting about how dangerous tailgating is

6/10 driving skills. you’ll get there. your spine might not survive the journey, but you’ll get there.

Trey

drives like a dad and acts like one too. snacks in the glovebox. tunes to an “easy listening” radio station no one asked for

makes full eye contact with you while backing into a parking space like it’s nothing. terrifying.

won’t yell at other drivers but will mutter very passive-aggressive things like “oh, nice turn signal, champ”

actually a good driver, but if you’re in a rush he suddenly forgets where the gas pedal is

9/10. safe, boring, you will arrive calmly unless you say something that triggers “dad lecture mode”

Cater

treats every red light like a selfie opportunity. traffic jam? story time.

“oops lol i forgot i was driving”—said as he casually swerves back into the lane with one hand and no shame

will absolutely blast hyperpop or sad girl music at full volume and sing along

uses gps and still misses every turn. rerouting? he’s rerouting his soul

4/10. looks good while driving but he’s taking you straight to the afterlife

Ace

somehow thinks he’s in mario kart. will try to drift. is bad at drifting.

screams “WE’RE FINEEEE” after hitting the curb for the third time

brakes too late, accelerates too fast, thinks honking is just “assertive communication”

if there’s a speed bump he’s treating it like a ramp. bonus points if he makes you hit your head on the ceiling

2/10. he’s the reason riddle has ulcers. do NOT get in the car if you value your life or bones.

Deuce

follows every rule with military precision. 10 and 2. full stops. checks mirrors like he’s solving a crime

“Yes ma’am, no ma’am, I mean—uh, officer! No officer! I wasn’t speeding I swear—” (he wasn’t. he was 5 under.)

will cry if you scream while he’s merging. please don’t scare the boy.

starts off driving like your grandma, then randomly hits you with a tokyo drift moment and doesn’t explain

7/10. either safest driver alive or full menace. depends on how much sleep he got.

Leona

the infuriatingly competent kind of driver who looks like he’s not paying attention, but then parallel parks in one smooth move without even checking the mirrors

arm out the window, seat leaned back, one hand on the wheel, vibes immaculate

doesn’t drive fast, but drives scarily efficient. like you blink and you’re at the destination

will not turn down the music. you are listening to the same remix loop for 45 minutes and you WILL like it.

9/10 driver. good under pressure, hates driving in the rain, will refuse to pick you up unless you bribe him with snacks or flattery.

Ruggie

terrifyingly resourceful behind the wheel. the kind of guy who’ll be like “oh yeah there’s a shortcut” and you end up on a goat trail with no guardrails

speed demon. not by choice. he just doesn’t believe in arriving late. or braking.

eats while driving. talks while driving. does parkour with the car while driving. you pray while riding.

every time he drives you somewhere, you owe him one. including emotional damage fees.

5/10. you will survive. but spiritually? you left your body three potholes ago.

Jack

rule follower. actual golden retriever on the road. if you litter out the window he will make a U-turn to go back and make you pick it up

will not speed, will not honk unless someone is literally on fire, will not change the radio station unless everyone agrees

but if someone cuts him off? feral instincts engaged.

quietly competitive. if someone passes him, he WILL accelerate. you may hear growling. don’t question it.

8.5/10. safe, solid, dependable. would drive you home from a party and make sure you drank water first.

Azul

thinks driving is a power move. like. he paid extra for that quiet engine start just to flex

fully uses driving time to monologue about business deals, plans, or subtle threats. you’re not sure if you’re carpooling or in a hostage negotiation

signals three miles ahead. checks mirrors like he’s being tailed by the fbi. he might be

very good at navigating. if gps reroutes, he reroutes it back. he wins against the algorithm.

9/10, but unnerving. you’re safe, but at what cost.

Jade

why does he have a license. who allowed this.

drives like he’s setting up a prank for someone ten miles ahead

never speeds, but takes the creepiest, emptiest backroads imaginable. says it’s “more scenic”

always smiling while driving. concerningly calm if something explodes. probably listening to classical music or nature documentaries

6/10. legally fine. emotionally? you’re not coming back the same.

Floyd

no one is shocked he passed the test. everyone is shocked he was legally allowed to take it

drives according to mood. if he’s bored, the car drifts. if he’s happy, he’s swerving in rhythm to the beat. if he’s angry? start writing your will.

makes driving sounds while driving. “vroom vroom~ screeeee~” for no reason

WILL throw fries at other cars. WILL try to high-five a biker at a stoplight. WILL unbuckle his seatbelt to “stretch” mid-drive

3/10. you either have the best day of your life or a near-death experience. possibly both.

Kalim

loudest driver alive. music blaring, windows down, shouting "WHEEEE~!" every time he accelerates

constantly turns around to talk to people in the backseat. like fully turns around. while driving.

forgets he’s not in a flying carpet. every stop sign is an opportunity to launch forward like it’s a joyride

someone told him roundabouts are fun so he goes around twice. just for the vibes.

4/10. he loves driving. driving does not love him back. you’re clutching the oh-shit handle the whole time.

Jamil

the only reason scarabia hasn’t been sued for vehicular crimes

drives like a tired single parent with 4 kids in the back screaming about McDonald's

SPEEDS when no one’s watching. you blink, he’s five miles ahead. shadow clone jutsu behind the wheel.

has memorized every traffic light timer in the city. never hits red. it’s… weird.

9/10. efficient, smooth, and will absolutely sigh dramatically the whole time you’re in the car.

Vil

drives a clean car. spotless. smells like luxury perfume and judgment

interior is curated. no trash. no crumbs. one water bottle and it’s aesthetically pleasing.

signals aggressively. like he flips that blinker with intent

will slow down to give you a Look if you’re in the wrong outfit to be seen with him

8/10. elegant and competent, but if you scuff his interior with your shoes, you’re walking.

Rook

who gave him a license. seriously. who looked at this man and went “yes. let him command a machine.”

sings full operas while driving. makes direct eye contact through the rearview mirror. unsettling.

has taken you on backroads even you didn’t know existed. somehow it was scenic.

talks like he’s narrating a wildlife documentary about the local traffic patterns

???/10. is he a good driver? no one knows. he’s just... driving.

Epel

lives for off-roading. doesn’t matter if he’s in a prius, he’s driving that baby like it’s a monster truck

drives like a 90-year-old when vil’s in the car. drives like he’s in a nascar trial when vil’s not

says “it’s fine, I’ve done this before” and proceeds to take a left turn at 70 mph

threatens to do donuts in the parking lot and then does them.

5/10. he’s trying his best. unfortunately, his best involves sick tricks and zero concern for tire life.

Idia

doesn’t.

has a license “for legal reasons,” but he treats driving like going outside is the final boss battle

owns a tricked-out car he never drives. it has led lights, anime decals, and a built-in gaming console. he uses it as a portable man cave

the one (1) time he did drive, he wore fingerless gloves, anime osts were blasting, and he whispered “initial D style” before forgetting which pedal was the brake

2/10. technically can drive. emotionally should not. you’re safer ubering with floyd.

Ortho

doesn't technically need a license but downloaded the entire dmv handbook into his memory for fun

his “car” is less “vehicle” and more “sentient ai-controlled hovercraft with wifi and snacks”

offers in-flight entertainment. like you’re not even on a plane. he just projects movies on the dashboard

drives at optimal efficiency.

11/10. the future of driving. terrifying and amazing. please stop letting him hack traffic lights though.

Malleus

he has a license. he studied for it. memorized the entire rulebook. aced the written.

the problem is: he drives like he's never seen another car before

goes 25 in a 60 because “it is the safest way to protect my precious cargo” (YOU)

stares at traffic lights like they personally offended him

car is some luxury vintage thing that makes no sense. you have to open the door with a key made of bone or something

3/10. you are deeply loved. and deeply late.

Lilia

drives like he’s lived through every era of vehicular invention. he owned a horse-drawn carriage and a tank

owns a beat-up, pink minivan with a custom wrap and dice in the mirror

speeds. aggressively. will swerve into the drive-thru and order fifty mcnuggets “for the road”

talks with both hands while driving. both. hands.

4/10. unpredictable. fun. chaos incarnate. your insurance company hates him.

Silver

good driver. responsible driver.

...except for the part where he falls asleep at stop signs

you’ll be halfway through a deep conversation and he’ll just nod off with his foot on the brake

car is clean, smells like lavender, and has one (1) emergency granola bar in every compartment

very gentle driver. almost too gentle. like “you didn’t feel the turn because he was spiritually aligned with the wheel” kind of gentle

6.5/10. smooth ride, but someone needs to keep him awake with snacks and playlist bangers.

Sebek

shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel.

drives like he’s been assigned to escort the royal heir through enemy territory

yells at everyone on the road. pedestrians, squirrels, YOU—no one is safe from his critiques of your seatbelt position

insists on narrating everything. “SIGNALING LEFT. NOW SWITCHING LANES. REMAIN ALERT!”

the gps is set to his own voice. and you can’t turn it off

2/10. the only thing louder than the engine is his righteous fury.

Grim

that’s a cat.

(he tries to drive. he sits on the wheel. honks the horn with his butt. chews the seatbelt. it's a warzone in there.)

this was so fun to do lmao

[honey-tongued-devil]

[Arcane preference] reacting to their s/o wearing mobility aids

When I said I was prioritizing the illnesses I had, I didn’t expect the hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, but here we are. For those who don’t know what it is: it’s a genetic condition that affects the ligaments, making them longer and/or looser, which cause problems over time. In my case, it affects my legs, so I’ll write about those. As always, if you want to read more of my work, you can click on the coloured texts! here the Tumblr masterlist, and here are the first two chapters of Everytime it Rains.

socials: | INPRNT | | Tip Jar | | X | | BlueSky | | Ao3 |

Jayce:

He’s well-versed in what to do and not do, being around two people with a similar condition (though he’ll never call it a "disease" out loud for fear of making anyone uncomfortable).

His help is as subtle as possible: he’ll grab your backpack, shoulder bag, or anything else you’re carrying to keep you from overexerting yourself.

During walks, he’s the one who’ll suddenly mention it’s getting cold, too hot, or that he just remembered something, as soon as he senses you’re getting tired, assuming your fatigue is worse than his.

The first time you said, “I’ll pass, my knees are about to bend” he didn’t realize they bent backwards, and when he saw what that actually meant, he went pale.

He felt guilty about his reaction for at least a week.

Viktor:

Tell him something he doesn’t know.

He’s the one who’ll comment, “Where’s your brace?” if he sees you with bare legs and no aid, maybe tapping your foot lightly with his cane to emphasize his disapproval.

On the bad days—when fatigue, cold, or any external factor makes both of your legs useless—you end up helping each other out, spending most of the time on the couch with pillows under his knees and your legs draped over his.

If you have to do something alone while he’s busy, he’ll ask Jayce to accompany you, ensuring you don’t overdo it without realizing.

Ekko:

Honestly, he couldn’t care less. I mean, it’s not a big problem for him

The first time he saw your knees bend weirdly and too much, he just said, “Ouch.”

Other than that, there are hoverboards! If your legs stop cooperating at some point in the day, he’ll just have you balance seated on the hoverboard, saying it’s a gentleman’s duty to escort such an attractive lad/lady around.

He doesn’t ask what you want or need; he just does it, whether it’s bringing you food or removing your knee brace to let your skin breathe.

If he’s going to be away from the house for a while, he leaves a few things ready for you, like water bottles, so you don’t have to strain yourself carrying them up the stairs on your own.

When he sees you’re worn out, he’ll ask if you want a massage, using some body butter to improve circulation, relieve stress, and keep your skin elastic.

Vander:

His first instinct would be to carry you, but since that’s sweet yet sometimes awkward, you both agree that at night ‘it’s a man’s right to carry his wife/husband to bed, disability or not��.

He doesn’t know exactly how to help, so aside from asking if you need anything—like grabbing your aids, bringing them to you, or helping you put them on—he won’t push, knowing you’ll ask for help if you need it.

If you need to go upstairs, he’ll always walk behind you so that if your knees give out, he can catch you and avoid disaster.

At least two rectangular pillows appear in every useful room so you can place them under your knees. The problem is that you forget about them most of the time, so they’re not much help—at least until he comes along, lifts your legs, and places them in a more comfortable position.

"My legs hurt."

"Oh no, I’m sorry, I’m afraid we’ll have to cut them off," he jokes with a mock-serious expression, bursting into laughter when you swat at him in response.

Silco (old man):

Some things you could do on your own but feel more intimate when done together. That’s why you often trot into his office with the fabric sleeve and brace in hand, handing them to him, and he gives you his shimmer syringe in return.

There’s no specific reason beyond the mental closeness and vulnerability of the act.

“Too tight?” will always be his question, even though he knows by now how to adjust it perfectly and doesn’t need to ask.

When you’re together, he’s the one to carefully remove it, stroking your leg while lost in thought.

He never sends anyone to assist you; instead, he asks if you think it would be better to have someone accompany you, making sure you reassure him if you insist you can manage alone.

Silco (Young Man):

Zaun isn’t exactly suitable for crutches or unsteady footing, so as soon as you let him know about your condition, he feels even more compelled to improve the city (or at the very least, smooth out the streets).

He’ll ask questions—few but direct—to understand what it is and how he should act.

If you drop something, he’ll be quick but subtle about picking it up and putting it somewhere easier for you to reach.

“Do you want to go home?” is the question he’ll ask you most often, even if it’s just with a look, despite you explaining multiple times that you’ll let him know if you can’t keep going.

But he knows you push yourself beyond your limits, so he worries.

At night, he’s made it a small ritual to massage your legs when you stretch them out in bed, and it actually helps relieve the tension.

Jinx:

“I can make you a mechanical one.”

When you explain what the condition is and that you don’t need a replacement leg but help for the ones you have, she starts carrying around a notebook, taking notes on the “flaws” of your aid to make you a custom version better suited to your daily life and body.

“I’ll do it!” is her go-to response for anything you need to do that she thinks takes too much effort. She doesn’t even ask; she just throws herself into it with so much enthusiasm it becomes amusing after a while.

You don’t have many intact knee braces or aids left, because according to her, they were “boring,” and she’s customized them—though they still work pretty well.

Even if she won’t admit it, she’s become even more protective of you. For example, if someone bumps into you in the street, she’s ready to jump to your defense immediately.

Vi:

She doesn’t really know how to react or respond because of how versatile the condition is. How does she figure out which days your legs won’t work and which ones they will? Or when they’ll start hurting before it’s too late?

You two agree on a small code: you tap her hand or shoulder three times rhythmically when you start to feel fatigued so that if you’re in public or with company, you don’t have to announce it to everyone if you don’t want to. She’ll immediately understand.

She’s a little scared of doing the wrong thing. She doesn’t know how to handle it and, even though she tries not to, she starts to perceive you as more fragile, moving with a fear of accidentally hurting you.

But she learns over time. She’ll simply ask more often if you need anything when she’s going to the kitchen or the store.

And when you’re cuddling, she’ll pull your legs onto hers.

Caitlyn:

She asks you to explain the condition to her—what you can and can’t do and how she can help.

She’s the ultimate advocate for your aid.

If you skip wearing it one morning because you don’t feel like it or the pain hasn’t started yet, you can bet she’ll notice and say something.

Sure, it can be a bit annoying, but considering it’s a degenerative condition, you know she’s right, so you can’t really get mad at her.

If you’re just not in the mood, she’ll put it on for you herself, with such care that you start to wonder if there’s an instruction manual she got that you didn’t.

Beyond that, she’s not overbearing. She trusts that you’ll communicate when you don’t feel like doing something, and she doesn’t presume to know your limits better than you do.

Mel:

It’s not too much of a problem, considering most of your activities together don’t involve much walking or moving due to her work.

That doesn’t stop her from taking an interest, though. At least once a week, she’ll ask you how your legs are

If they hurt, if you need different support or more comfortable shoes, or if you just need a footrest or a cushion—she’s ready and ensures everything you might need is on hand. If she can’t get it herself, she’ll send someone.

During dinners, she privately asks whoever is in charge of arranging things to provide you with a footrest and an extra cushion on your chair. If you tell her it’s unnecessary, her response will be, “Can’t I spoil my partner a little?”

She knows you’ll let her know if you’re having issues, but she takes all the necessary precautions to ensure no problems arise in the first place.

Sevika:

Again, tell her something she doesn’t know.

The difference between your legs and her arm—besides the fact that yours are still intact—is that they require less messy and time-consuming maintenance than hers. So not only does she not mind helping, but she hardly even notices.

She won’t ask if you need anything unless you say so or show explicit signs of struggling. It’s a deliberate choice to avoid making you feel like she thinks you’re not independent or capable.

On the couch or in bed, she’ll have you rest your legs on hers and prop you up with cushions behind your back, making sure you’re fully supported.

[cameronsbabydoll]

GET TO KNOW CHERRY!PIE!READER ʚɞ ꪆৎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖

cherry!pie!reader is a trailer park princess with a cherry cola smile and heartbreak written all over her. she grew up on elvis records and the sound of her mama crying in the kitchen. her house always smelled like cigarette smoke and cheap strawberry shampoo, and she used to sit on the porch swing in her jelly sandals, pretending she was someone’s wife already — someone loved and kissed and taken care of.

she’s southern sugar with a mean streak, baby. calls everyone honey or darlin’ and bats her lashes like it’s a weapon. she’s always got sticky lipgloss on, usually cherry-flavored, and her cheeks are flushed like she’s either embarrassed or just finished cryin’. or both. she wears red — red nails, red lips, red ribbons in her hair. everything she owns is just a little worn down or secondhand, but she makes it look expensive with the way she carries herself.

she grew up in a broken home but still believes in fairytales. she’s got big dreams and a bad habit of loving people who don’t know how to stay. cries during old country songs and writes love letters she never sends. she still keeps her daddy’s lighter even though he’s long gone, and she wears her mama’s old perfume like armor. she’s soft, but she’s learned how to bite back.

she walks like she’s always headed to trouble. she talks sweet, but there’s something sad in her eyes — like she’s been through too much for someone who still sleeps with a teddy bear and hums lullabies under her breath. she loves hard. she breaks harder. and she’ll always choose love, even if it ruins her.

she’s the girl with the cherry earrings, the bite mark on her neck, the lipstick-stained love letter folded up in her bible.

she’s a mess in the most endearing way possible. she’s the girl who won’t let you leave without giving you a piece of candy or a hug, but she’ll leave her heart wide open for people who’ll hurt it. she’s that kind of girl. doesn’t know when to stop loving, even when it’s clear the other person isn’t. she wears her emotions like they’re her best accessory — she’s quick to cry, but she’s also quick to forgive.

growing up cherry!pie!reader’s home was anything but stable. her father, an abusive figure, was more of a shadow than a parent — someone who was supposed to protect but instead caused her to shrink into herself. he’d been gone before she was old enough to understand, but his absence left a mark on her that never really healed. when he left, her mother turned to drugs to numb the pain, dragging a parade of unsavory men through their trailer home. the kind of men who used her mom, who saw cherry as little more than a pawn in their game. in those early years, the lines between love, lust, and pain were blurred beyond recognition.

cherry!pie!reader learned early that love wasn't something that came from family; it came from attention — the kind of attention she could get from older men who seemed to show her a level of care that she never saw at home. but that attention? it was often manipulative. these men were always too good to be true, but she didn’t know better. she was too young, too starved for affection to see through their charm until it was too late. many times, she gave her heart away too quickly, trusting the wrong people, only to be used and tossed aside like a dirty secret.

the cycle of giving and losing love wore her down, but she kept searching for that one person who would look at her the way she’d always wanted — someone who would see through her brokenness and offer her real affection, not the temporary kind.

cherry!pie!reader’s need for love is real but tangled up in all of her past hurts. on the outside, she might seem sweet and carefree, the girl who dances barefoot in the rain and sings along to old elvis songs. but deep down, she’s scared of repeating the same mistakes. she’s terrified of being abandoned again, terrified of falling for someone who’ll leave her when she least expects it.

yet, despite all of this, she’s still someone who yearns for real, pure love. she craves the kind of innocent affection that most people take for granted — the kind of love she’s seen in old movies, the kind that’s simple, soft, and unconditional. her heart wants to be loved right, even if it doesn’t know how to ask for it.

cherry!pie!reader finds herself constantly seeking older men, not because she’s a “gold digger” or desperate, but because in her mind, the older men are the ones who offer stability, even if it’s an illusion. they’re the ones who don’t seem to want something from her — at least not in the way the men from her past did. but the truth is, she’s often attracted to the wrong type of older men — the ones who mirror the ones who took advantage of her in the past, or the ones who look at her like she’s just another pretty face to play with.

but even as she repeats these cycles, there’s always a part of her that knows this isn’t what she truly needs. the older men may give her attention, maybe even buy her things, but that’s not what her heart craves. she wants someone to care for her as a person, not as an object to be possessed. but it's hard for her to separate the truth from the comfort — it feels like she’s always searching for something real while also staying stuck in the pattern of being used.

beneath all the layers of pain and heartbreak, cherry wants what most people in her situation would shy away from: a love that is pure and simple. a love like the kind she saw in those old movies with marilyn monroe, audrey hepburn, and frank sinatra — a love that's built on respect and mutual care. she dreams of the quiet, gentle moments where her heart is fully seen and cherished, not just used. she wants someone who will hold her hand and look at her like she’s the only person in the world, someone who will listen to her heartaches without judgment, and take care of her without expecting anything in return.

the thought of a hopeless love, one that doesn't come with strings attached, makes her ache. but she doesn't think she deserves it. not after everything that's happened. in the deepest parts of her heart, she wishes for a knight in shining armor to come and show her what real love is — even though she’s afraid of what might happen if she lets someone in.

cherry!pie!reader’s past is a delicate thing. while she puts on a front of being carefree, fun-loving, and spontaneous, it’s a front that covers up the scars of her past. she’s constantly torn between wanting love and being terrified of it. her relationships, especially with older men, are marked by this conflict. she wants to be loved properly, but part of her is drawn to the dangerous patterns of her past — it feels safe to her, even though she knows it's not. she’ll give her heart away easily, but if you’re not careful, it can feel like a constant battle of pushing people away while secretly hoping they’ll stay.

the thing is, she’s a lover at heart. she does have that innocent longing for something pure. someone who understands her, sees through all her walls, and isn’t scared of her mess. cherry’s broken, but she’s beautifully broken. she just doesn’t know how to fix herself.

[hahaifolded]

141 x POC!GN Intelligence Operative - Not Your Savior Author's Notes: This was supposed to be short but I just kept writing. Also thanks to @wraithdance for helping me with this. Not very angsty in my opinion Warnings: MDNI, Angst?, Microaggressions/Racism

Johnny is a lover at heart. Sure he may be in the military, but how couldn't he? The world has always been kind to him. The least he can do is be kind to others.

Even if it's Americans who are trying to take the love of his life.

“Sweetheart, aren’t you gonna eat?” Johnny was going to gag. He should be focusing on his own work, but couldn't help eavesdrop on yours and Russ' conversation.

“Sergeant Russ, what have I told you about calling me sweetheart?”

“And what have I told you about calling me Sergeant Russ… sweetheart?” Silence followed before laughter came. Johnny hated it. 

In another life, maybe him and Russ could have been friends. But as of right now, Johnny just wanted to punch his stupid face. Because how fucking dare he get close to you. How dare he love on you when Johnny couldn't or at least shouldn't.

“I have to finish a few more things before I can eat.” Johnny could hear the distinct sound of your fingers tapping on your keyboard. He hears that more than your voice these days. 

“You know you can eat whenever you want, whether your work is done or not.” Your fingers stopped tapping. “You know that, right?” 

Silence.

“Keegan, c-can you please leave?” Johnny was taken aback. He has never heard your voice break before.

Did Keegan touch a nerve? Did you really think you didn’t deserve to eat? 

Now looking back at it, Johnny didn’t see you much in the dining hall these days. You normally sat with the 141 but after walking in the rain, you started to eat in your office. Or at least, he assumed you ate lunch in your office. 

“Only if you come with me to get lunch.”

“Sergeant Russ, I already—“

“No.”

“No?”

“Yeah, no.” Johnny could hear some heavy footsteps. “Get up and let’s go.” The 141 sergeant distinctly heard the sound of your chair moving. 

“Keegan, let me go, you can’t just—“

“Stop fighting me and let’s go!” 

Even if Keegan has a point here, that doesn't mean he can just man-handle you. He shot out of his seat and rushed towards your office. However, before he could step inside, Keegan started to speak again in a much softer voice. 

“I don’t know what these fucking Brits told you but you deserve to be here.“ Johnny heard you take a deep breath. “They might not care about you, but I do, so please let’s just—“

“Keegan, respectfully, fuck off.” You cut him off. “You‘ll never get it, okay? You’re a white man. You've never needed to prove yourself. So don’t come in here on your high horse and try to be my hero. I don’t need saving, I just need teammates who’ll let me do my job.“

Johnny could hear you breathing heavily, but he couldn't understand why you were so worked up? Keegan was just trying to look out for you... what's so wrong with that? Also what do you mean he didn't have to work hard? Johnny had to work hard and he's a white man.

Johnny tries to peer inside your office but had to quickly pull back as Keegan walks out. His eyes followed the American out.  

“Sergeant MacTavish, do you need something?” Johnny jumps a bit after hearing your voice. He couldn't help but stare at you. It's been awhile since he's had you so close. Maybe this was his chance to show you he still cares.

"Y-y-ou should eat," he stutters out. Your eyes widen and you ask him to repeat himself. So he does. Johnny explains that despite Russ getting on his nerves, he's right. You should eat. And that you also should have been a little nicer to the guy, he was just looking out for you.

You weren't sure whether to scream or fight Johnny right now. Instead, like you always have, you take a deep breath and just leave. You didn’t have time for this anymore. You hear Johnny call out your name, but you ignore him. You just shut your door. Maybe this time, they’ll let you work. 

An hour goes by and to your joy, no one bothers you. A small part of you hoped Johnny would come in and ask more questions, but you quickly pushed it down. He hasn’t cared about you in over four months, why would he suddenly care now? Now with that report done, you rush to the restroom. 

As you walk back to your office, you fight the urge to look into the temporary office of the allied task force. They were an… interesting trio but you honestly didn’t want to entertain them. You were not going to make that mistake twice. 

You swing your office door open and stop in your tracks. Sitting on your desk was a plastic bag with take-away boxes clearly in it. You slowly approached it and grab the note stapled on the bag. 

It read: eat it now or later, totally up to you. The boxes are safe for the microwave.

Sorry, your teammate, Keegan. 

You really couldn't believe it. You pointed out this man's privilege and told him to go fuck himself. Any one else would have had a fit and probably reported you, but instead he bought you lunch and apologized.

This had to be a trick… right? No one is that mature. You grabbed the bags and marched to the makeshift office.

And as you fly past a certain Scotsman's office, Johnny couldn't help but peak outside his door. For a moment, he was ecstatic to see a bag of food in your hands. But when he realized you were headed towards the new guys office, he couldn't help but feel nervous. What were you going to do?

"Sergeant Russ?" Johnny floats close to make sure everything goes well.

"Everything okay, sweetheart?"

"What's this?" Johnny connects the dots and realizes that Russ must have bought you food. Fuck. Why didn't he think of that?

"Lunch... or dinner. Up to you."

Your scoff rings out the door. "Why?"

Johnny hears Russ take a deep breath. He's probably annoyed. Now Russ is going to lash out when this could have all been avoided if you just had accepted his --

"Because you were right." Johnny hears a chair scrapping the floor before Russ continues. "I won't ever get what it's like to be you. And I can say all that I want but it won't change the fact that the rules are different for you and I."

"Keegan, I--"

"Please let me finish here." A heavy silence fills the air before Keegan continues. "But that doesn't mean I don't want to try to help you. And no, that doesn't mean I'm going to try to save you, because I know you can do that yourself. You've been doing that. Just... just let me help my teammate in any way I can." Johnny hears a few heavy steps. "Is that okay with you sweetheart?"

Johnny couldn't understand what just happened. Keegan was just trying to be nice and you get annoyed. Keegan leaves, buys you lunch, and then apologizes. What was going on here? Did Johnny miss something here?

He must have, because he couldn't understand why you would just say,

"Well, Keegan, help a teammate out then. I'm feeling like an early dinner tonight."

Word Count: 1231

More Thoughts - Next Thought

[norrisradio]

SHOW ME HOW

⚡︎ PAIRING: yuki tsunoda x reader | ⚡︎ WC: 1.7K ⚡︎ GENRE: best friends-to-???, yuki pines, hurt/comfort | based on be your boy by medium build ⚡︎ INCOMING RADIO: my love for @tsunodaradio is never-ending. i love you like all-fire. MWAH!

Every time you knock on his door, Yuki wonders if this will be the night you finally see him. 

It’s raining again (it’s always raining when you visit him, he realizes. Maybe it’s a sign) when you stumble into Yuki’s apartment, mascara smudged, heart heavier than it should be for a second date. 

You don’t even have to say anything. He’s already up from the couch, handing you a blanket, pretending it doesn’t tear him apart when you sigh into the soft cotton and tuck yourself into the corner like you belong there. 

“This guy sucked too?” he asks kightly, masking the ache with a smirk. 

You groan, flopping your head back against the cushion. “They always do.”

Yuki smiles – soft, tight, a secret he can’t tell you – and sits back down, close but not close enough. Never close enough. 

You don’t see it, the way his hands clench when you start listing off another man’s mistakes. The way his throat constricts when you say, half-laughing, “Why is it so hard to find someone who actually cares?” 

Because he cares. God, he cares so much it scrapes against his ribs, leaves him bleeding in ways he can’t even name. 

And yet, he stays. He always stays. 

You get drunk on the cheap wine he stores in the back of his fridge, just for you. When the tears make way for delirious exhaustion, you burrow yourself into his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He feels your breathing even out as you drift to sleep, half on him, half off the couch, your breath soft against his chest. 

And then Yuki watches you – really watches you – cataloging every twitch of your nose, every sleepy murmur, every exhausted piece of you you’ve never shown anyone else. 

He wonders what it would take for you to look at him the way you look at the guys who chase. The ones who never call back, who have never deserved you. 

Tell me how to be yours, he thinks miserably, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. Show me how. 

Yuki knows the sound of your knock by heart. – three quick taps, the third one softer, like you’re already apologizing (you never have to apologize to him. He just wishes you could see that). 

He’s across the room before you even finish, like he’s been waiting by the door all night. 

(He has.)

You’re laughing when he opens it, a little tipsy, eyeliner smudged under your eyes, heels dangling from your fingers. 

“He doesn’t like dogs,” you say by way of explanation, striding past him to the kitchen, where a bottle of wine is already waiting for you. “How can I date someone who hates dogs?”

Yuki’s mouth quirks up, a familiar ache settling in his chest. 

You don’t have a dog. 

You just like the idea of one, the same way you like the idea of someone who’ll love you properly. 

He locks the door behind you – locks the world out – and follows you to the couch. 

He knows you better than anyone should. 

The way you always take two quick, consecutive sips of wine mid-sentence when you’re angry but trying not to show it. 

The way you pick at the hem of your sleeve when you’re lying (mostly to yourself). 

The way you drop your keys a little too hard on his kitchen counter when the date was worse than you’ll admit. 

Tonight, it’s the wine thing. 

You’re mid-story, laughing about some guy who wouldn’t stop talking about his crypto-currency portfolio – and there it is: sip, sip. 

A little shiver of anger under all the humor. 

Yuki watches it all happen like a well-worn book. Familiar. Predictable. Hurting for you, because you’re hurting and don’t even know it. 

And sometimes (read: all the time), he wonders – aches, really – whether you can read him just as easily. 

Whether you can see the way he holds his breath every time you walk through his door. Whether you notice how his hands curl into fists when you talk about kissing other boys. Whether you feel how much he loves you, like heat pouring off of him in waves he can’t hide. 

You catch him staring. 

“What?”

He shakes his head and lies with all the steadiness he can muster. 

“Nothing.”

The wine hits you fast tonight. You’re loose and golden, bathed in the glow of the lamps you forced him to buy. Your laughter is loud, voice slurring the edges of his name like it’s a song. 

“Yukiiiii,” you draw out his name in a drowsy groan, poking his chest with a grin. “How come you’re the only good one?”

He raises an eyebrow, begs his heart rate to return to normal. “Good one what?”

“Good boy,” you giggle, pressing your palm flat against his chest like you need to feel his heartbeat. “Good boy Yuki.” 

The words punch all the air out of his lungs. You don’t even know what you’re doing to him. 

He catches your hand gently; holds it against his chest. 

“You’re drunk.” he says, voice rough. 

You tilt your head, studying him – really looking this time. His messy hair. His soft, careful mouth. His eyes, so dark and tender they look like they could swallow you whole. 

“You’re pretty,” you murmur, almost surprised. 

He swallows hard. 

You’re close enough he can smell the cheap wine on your breath, the flowery perfume fading from your skin. Close enough he could close the distance and kiss you. Just once, just to know. 

Your hand slides up, fingertips brushing the side of his neck. He leans in before he can stop himself; he feels the pull, the gravity. 

The space between you sparks and hums. 

You’re the one who closes your eyes first. 

But before your lips meet, Yuki pulls back, a fraction, breathing hard. 

“You’ll hate me tomorrow,” he whispers. 

You blink, dazed. Confused. He lets you go carefully, like handling something fragile. 

You pout but don’t push. Instead, you curl up next to him, murmuring something soft he can’t catch. 

It’s worse somehow, being so close, being so his, without touching. 

Yuki closes his eyes and memorizes the weight of you against his side. 

Another secret he’ll keep. 

Weeks later, after yet another terrible date, you’re sitting together on his kitchen floor, sharing a carton of ice cream because the freezer broke and it’s melting anyway. 

“You think I’m broken?” you ask suddenly, not looking at him. 

Yuki’s spoon clatters against the linoleum. 

“No,” he says, so fiercely that you finally glance over. 

“No?” you ask softly, studying the way his brow furrows. “But I’m a mess.” 

“You’re my mess,” he says, voice low and gravelly. 

You freeze. 

He’s not laughing. He’s not teasing. 

And for a second, the whole world tilts – you, him, the melting bubblegum ice cream between you – and something deep in Yuki’s chest pulls tight. 

You shove another bite into your mouth to kill the moment and hiss when your brain freezes. 

Neither of you talks about it. 

But it hangs there, waiting. 

It goes on like that for months. You, chasing the wrong people; Yuki, catching you every time you fall. 

A pattern. A punishment. A prayer he doesn’t know how to stop saying. 

Until tonight. 

(It’s raining again. Of course it is.)

Tonight, you come over different. No makeup. No excuses. No terrible date to blame it on. 

Just you, standing on his doorstep, shivering slightly in the night air, looking at him like you’re seeing something for the very first time. You’re soaked to the bone, and he resists the urge to bundle you up in his arms. 

Instead, he pulls you inside, peels your wet jacket off with careful hands, presses a mug of tea into your frozen fingers. 

You’re silent for a long time. 

When you finally stop shaking, you look up – and there it is. 

All the years you wasted on the boys who never stayed. All the nights Yuki kept the fridge stocked with wine he hated. 

All the ways he loved you without ever asking for anything back. 

He sees the pieces click into place. He watches in awe as you finally, finally, see him. 

“Yuki,” you whimper, voice raw, almost breaking. “Why do you always let me in?” 

The question guts him. Leaves him standing there, heart stuttering, mouth useless. 

You step closer, hands trembling a little at your sides. “Why do you always stay?”

Because I love you, he wants to say. Because I would move mountains if you asked. Because there’s no one else I want to stay for. 

Instead, he says, voice rougher than gravel, “I guess I’m just waiting for you to notice me.” 

Your mouth parts, a soft, shocked sound. A sound full of all the things Yuki’s never dared to dream about. 

You move first, surging into him, fists curling into the front of his hoodie, pulling him down. You kiss him like you’re trying to make up for every second you didn’t. 

His hands find your waist like they were built to hold you, steady you, keep you. 

The kiss is clumsy – all teeth and desperation and rainwater – but it’s real. It’s so real Yuki feels his knees buckle under the weight of his relief. 

When you pull back, gasping, you see it in his eyes: the way he’s loved you quietly, painfully, for so long. 

“I’m sorry for making you wait,” you whisper. 

He smiles then, wide and shaky and so, so in love. “Teach me,” he murmurs against your temple. “Teach me how to be yours.” 

“You already are,” you laugh, tears flowing freely now. “You always have been.” 

Two years later, Yuki watches you dance barefoot in your new kitchen – messy hair, wearing an old Red Bull polo – while rain slicks down the windows in silver sheets. There’s a half-empty bottle of cheap strawberry wine sweating in the fridge, forgotten, just like the laundry buzzing in the dryer and the half-folder takeout menus scattered across the counter. 

And Yuki thinks, This is what coming home feels like. 

And when you catch him staring, cheeks pink, soft and stupid with love, you throw your arms around his neck and giggle, “God, Yuki, you’re such a sap.” 

He grins, pulling you in closer, nose brushing yours. “Only for you.” 

Only ever for you. 

[joyswonderland1108]

Gentle Reminder (aka i’m about to throw hands gently)

Gentle reminder — and by gentle i mean loud, blunt, and potentially a little unhinged — that this fandom isn’t all just purple hearts and OT7 quotes slapped on aesthetic backgrounds. It’s also filled to the brim with Y/N-core self-inserters, casual homophobes playing it cute behind “i just miss the old BTS,” antis wearing “OT7” like cosplay, and people who’ll scream “love yourself” all day while tearing members down for daring to exist authentically.

It’s giving ✨"We support BTS unless they make us uncomfortable"✨ energy.

(Changed the previous gif)

Now listen, if any of the boys—any of them—decide to share their vulnerabilities, talk about their mental health, opens up in a way that challenges the rigid, sanitized version of masculinity and heteronormativity some desperately cling to. What happens when it’s not just "Yoongi cried in a documentary" but "one of them actually comes out"? Or rumors drop about one of them possibly having a boyfriend, this fandom will combust like it’s allergic to reality, the masks will slip. Quickly. And when it happens (because let's not kid ourselves, some are hanging on by a thread already), I’m gonna need the rest of us—the ones who truly care—to hold the line.

Let me say this loud for the people in the back: if that day ever comes, it’s not just about clapping for them on Weverse and then going back to thirsting over edits. It’s about showing the hell up.

Remember yoongi? man literally came out. proudly. clearly. and people are still acting like it was a translation error. Like their brain stopped working because “that’s not what he meant!” no, babe. That is what he meant. You just didn’t like it. Not again. When the boys come back from military service, things will change. They're not going to be the same wide-eyed teens from 2013-2014 anymore. They’ve grown. So we either grow with them or get left behind.

And to the Jikookers: hi besties. Let’s have a chat. Some of y’all disappointed the entire community when that stupid Weibo rumor about Jungkook dropped and you folded like paper in the rain. You abandoned Jikook faster than a fake OT7 deleting their stan account after a solo debut. And then — like clockwork — you slithered back in once it was safe, as if nothing happened. Like we forgot. Honey, we did not forget. We saw it. We screenshot it. We saved it for later. Gomawo.

Meanwhile, the rest of us? We stayed. We defended. We weren’t shaken by the antis or their cowardly rumors because we actually believe in what jikook stand for — and no, i’m not talking about shipping aesthetics. I’m talking about love, protection, truth. Things that don’t break under pressure.

So here’s what i’m saying: when the boys come back from the military — older, wiser, and probably done with everyone’s bs — it’s not going to be only about streaming goals or “let’s get 10M views in 24 hours!!!" and “OT7 comeback when 😭” anymore. It’s about building a fandom where they can breathe. Where they can be themselves without fear that their own fans will betray them at the first sign of controversy. And again, if one of them comes out, if a relationship becomes public, if they express their love for another man? You better be on the right side of that moment. Because here’s the truth: the world outside that safe little fandom bubble we try to create? It’s not kind. So we have to be.

Because trust: there are fans right now who say they support BTS but their loyalty is conditional. They love the idea of BTS, the safe, sanitized version they built in their heads. But real support? That means being there even when it challenges your own comfort or biases.

Don’t just say “we purple you.” show it. Show it when they’re vulnerable. Show it when they’re honest. Show it when it’s not trending. You can’t claim to love someone and then only support them when it’s convenient for you.

If you say you love them, if you say you’re OT7, if you say you care — then prove it. Be there when it’s inconvenient. Be there when it’s messy. Be there when it’s uncomfortable. Because they have always been there for us.

방탄이 우리를 지켜줬잖아. 이제 우리가 그들을 지킬 차례야.

(Bangtan protected us. Now it’s our turn to protect them.)

So yes. this is a call-out. This is a warning. This is a gentle reminder because the line between fake support and real love will become crystal clear. It’s not about agreeing with everything. It’s about loving them enough to accept them as they are, even when it shakes your little delulu universe. I just hope you're not standing on the wrong side of it when it happens.

[the-peak-legend-of-first-gen]

Okay, hear me out (I know this might be controversial but still…) I love both James and Jaegyeon but they are fundamentally different as lovers. Here’s my no-sugarcoating, brutally honest two cents on how each of them would be in a relationship:

Jaegyeon:He comes off like a total bitch on the surface, but deep down? He’s a devastatingly soft, pining, and hopelessly devoted puppy. At first, he won’t act gentlemanly—nope, not even close. Especially during his current blonde era, he gives off that annoying energy of guys who watch YouTube videos about how they're "too tough" to need a girl. But plot twist? He has a massive crush on that one girl who shows up at the same petrol pump as him.He’ll pursue you, but in an incredibly tsundere way. Like:

“Why are you even talking to that guy? He’s totally going to break your heart.”

“And why do you care, Mr. Na?”

Rough around the edges? No—very rough. But gradually, once you start noticing the little things he does—like letting you into his car even though it just came out of service, stocking your favorite drinks just in case, or quietly dropping you home—you realize there’s a tenderness there. He’s not bad. Not at all.

Once you’re actually in a relationship, though? Don’t expect roses and candlelit dinners. Sorry—no flowers and cheesy stuff. Fights will happen. Screaming, shouting—you name it. But in the middle of it all, he’ll catch himself, stop, and try to pull you into a cuddle. Still, he’ll give you space when needed… albeit very, very reluctantly.

You can be completely silly with him too—he’s totally down for theme parks, car cafés, and dancing in the rain.

Now the not-so-pretty part: If you guys ever break up, he will let you go. Not in a “get lost, I’m better off” kind of way, but because he loves you too much to keep hurting you. His maturity will come through here. It’ll hurt—a lot. He’ll be a mess after the breakup. Jealous if you move on. But eventually, when he sees you smile genuinely after a long time, that aching part of him will finally let go.

Now to ......

James: Let’s skip teenage James for now (that deserves a whole other conversation) and talk about adult James—both when he was an idol and now as he is.

When he was still in the industry and you two were together, he wouldn’t even look at anyone from the entertainment world. Not because you were some “special princess” above actresses or models—no. It’s just that the risk was far greater. He already had Charles breathing down his neck, and a relationship with someone inside the industry would be much harder to hide. So weighing on the scale of vulnerability, dating someone outside, someone “normal,” was easier to conceal, protect, and cherish.

That said, James will be a gentleman. Gallant, suave, respectful—he treats you like a lady.But he’ll make it up to you with luxury—gifts, trips, anything you want—except his time.

Even in arguments, he won’t raise his voice. He’ll stay calm and composed. He’s the type who’ll quietly keep track of your preferences, your quirks, your dreams—you’ll feel like the one person in the world he truly sees. And you are. You’re the tiny corner of his heart he protects at all costs.

So what could go wrong, right?

Here’s where it gets dark : At his core, James is a manipulator. He’s soft on the surface but harbors a cold, calculating fury beneath. During fights, he won’t scream—but the words he says will sting deeper than any shout. “Sorry” won’t fix the wounds he leaves behind.

He’ll say: “You don’t need to know everything, sweetheart. I’ve already taken care of it.”

He always thinks he knows best. And when your relationship teeters on the edge, and you want to leave?

He. Won’t. Let. You.

You’re his. The only one who’s ever held his heart—and he expects you to cherish that privilege.

Who are you going to leave me for? Who could possibly compare to "James Lee" or "Diego Kang"—for the world?

He has the looks, the money, the power. And if you try to walk away? He’ll make it painfully hard. You’ll suddenly realize what it feels like to pry something from a lion’s mouth.

Now, I’m not saying he’s some yandere (ew, please no—I hate that trope). But in my interpretation, this is just how things would unfold.

To wrap it up: Being with Jaegyeon is chaotic, rough, and emotionally intense—but the guy’s got the right heart.Being with James? It’s a dream… until it’s not. And if you ever try to end things, be prepared: leaving James Lee is not something anyone does easily.

[7698]

[jeon6yeon]

Who’ll Stop the Rain ‘青春並不溫柔’ (2023) Dir. I-Hsuan Su

[kivino]

OUT OF THE SHADOWS I || SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY X SHADOW!GN!READER

Word counter – ~6.9k words

Tags/Warnings – Gn!Reader, Shadow!Reader (it’s not for long lol, don’t get your hopes up), murder of civilians/corpses/blood mentioned, physical fights, reader likes to throw fists, Reader’s callsign is Bug to pay tribute to my original idea.

Summary – After the betrayal of Task Force 141 and the slaughter of civilians in Las Almas you decide to leave Shadow Company on the spot, which works out sideways, leaving you with simmering hate towards the man whom you used to look up to and new interesting figures in your life. 

also available on my ao3!

a/n after the fic because they’re too long. but just know that this is the first chapter of the series, feel free to let me know if you want to be tagged in the next part. enjoy!

Everything was calm. The sound of rain covering up the murmur of trucks helped you wind down after the adrenaline rush, and a sense of accomplishment for a job well done swelled in your chest. You already anticipated a long sleep and maybe a night out with your friends when you’re back home from the job. Maybe you’d even get a bonus from Graves and buy something nice for yourself. 

In all honesty, you didn’t even mind being crammed into the backseat along with those 141 guys. Working with them was a pleasure and they seemed like an interesting sort of crowd. Especially that man with the skull mask. Ghost, was it? He certainly attracted your attention the most, with his huge size, booming voice, and undeniable skill in what he did. You were willing to admit that the way he took out the enemies with ease and swiftness was mesmerizing.  And…your train of thought that consisted of pure fascination was interrupted by the abrupt stop of the convoy in front of the base gate. 

Everything was calm until you were surrounded by shouting and then eventual gunshots, along with muffled screams of your brothers in arms. You didn’t understand how it all escalated so fast. One moment you were sure about Shadow Company and Task Force 141 being on the same side, but now you didn’t know what to think of it all. And from Graves' words, it was apparent that Shepherd was behind this too. So naturally you, and many other shadows, the lower ranks, had no fucking clue what all of this was about. One would care to tell a mindless weapon where to shoot, but not why. Blood rushed through your veins and pulsed in your ears, turning the pleasant buzz in your body into strained sharpness. You hurriedly pulled up the rear sight to your eye level. Two bodies dropped to the wet asphalt with soft thuds right in front of you. You felt your heart sink right down to your feet. Instead of firing your shots, you hesitated, backing out to hide behind the bumper of the truck, while hearing agitated, aggressive shouts. You weren’t able to tell who was shouting. So, you leaned out and felt yourself freeze in place. 

And there he is. Ghost, eyes locked right on you. He sure has a…strong presence. And instead of shooting you he just…looks. You don’t like the stupid flowery language, but in this split second, it really feels like he is staring right into your soul. Or like someone is sticking metal rods right through your chest, with how hard breathing becomes in an instant. 

You knew that if you were to shoot him right now, you’d never forgive yourself, all because you were kept in the dark about the whole thing Graves had planned. And you were not willing to get blood on your hands because of some “mistake”. If you pull the trigger, there will be one less person who’s able to make a change. One less person who’ll be willing to get their hands dirty and save people. 

So, you lower the muzzle of your rifle and nod to the side, urging him to start his getaway, before other Shadows and Graves decide to check the perimeter. You see his dark eyes blink, or at least you think you do before he disappears into the darkness. Like he was never there in the first place.

In the end, you didn’t get even a single scratch. Three other Shadows were K.I.A.

Your head buzzed with so many different questions you wanted to ask Graves, and more importantly, the guilt you felt from whatever happened in front of the threshold. You had no idea what happened with that Los Vaqueros base or what was up with your CO, while you were escorting him and those 141 guys along with several other Shadows for this mission. Why was he taking it? What was he even thinking? You wanted to pull out your hair and claw out your eyes just thinking about all of it. Which, you weren’t paid to do, but that didn’t mean you weren’t concerned with the moral side of things. Unlike the majority of the Shadows, as you came to find out.

Confusion bubbled up inside of your mind, eyes burned by the white synthetic light of the gate when you looked up at it just to feel something aside from sheer distress and bewilderment. You didn’t want to believe that your Commander was the type of person to sell himself out, and you didn’t expect him to be, from all the time spent working with him. The man was nothing short of likable and friendly, with his beaming smile, confident attitude, and outgoing way of communicating… a natural-born leader, that was the first thing that came to mind when you thought about your boss. And with how Graves treated you and all other Shadows like you were more than just his employees, the realization was even more painful. Of course, you didn’t want to think about how he could so easily turn his back on people who trusted him.

It raised many questions in your mind about the price of his word, as well as made your stomach churn with acidic, flesh-eating poison full of doubt and suspicion. If it was so easy for your CO to cut out the men someone he told you all to think of as your brothers, then how long will it be before he sells you and other shadows out for…whatever was offered to him? 

“Find ‘em!” Graves barks and your chest swells with bitter disappointment. You thought you knew him before (as much as a subordinate can know their superior), but how can you even begin to understand him now?

You hear Shadows mutter a quiet “Yup-yup”, more to themselves than to your CO, and you could almost feel the doubt settle over them in a thick, transparent blanket. From the conversations you can pick up on while Graves is out of earshot, you guess that some of them don’t think betraying the 141 guys and trying to hunt the two of them down is the right thing to do. But it didn’t seem like they were going to do anything about it though. You, however, want to help. You know that it’s not right, so…screw it. You can always find another job, and if it comes down to it, 141 seem like an okay sort of people, the type that would have your back if you had theirs. At least, you have hope for it.

So maybe you could hold out until they come back for Los Vaqueros. And you were certain they’d do that, no way they’d abandon all these men. You haven’t seen how the things were on said base that was taken from them, but you were certain you could do more on the inside than if you were to leave right now. Maybe you could break Colonel out of there, or help the Task Force sneak in, you were sure they could use any help from you. 

That was the plan before you saw what Shadow Company did to Las Almas.

The picture that Shadows were painting with innocent blood on the rainy landscape was horrifying, to say the least. The metallic smell hit your nose the moment you jumped out of the truck right onto the flooded pavement. That was the exact moment when you realized you couldn’t stay with Shadows any longer. You were supposed to help these people. It was your job. Instead, you felt filthier than the dirt on your boots. Traitor. Backstabber. You choked on your breath behind the mask each time you noticed the bodies of the victims in every dark corner of the city, nausea coming up your throat when you could see rivers of crimson streaming down the road and right into the sewers. Your Shadow Company patch felt like the mark of a killer, etched into your skin permanently, instead of just being part of your uniform.

Limp bodies that didn’t even have the time to grow cold yet, scattered around warm homes. Some of the killed were probably already in their beds sleeping, coming back from work, watching TV, or cooking dinner when they got dragged out under the rain and massacred…Everything felt like a blur, your thoughts were a jumbled mess of whys, while you were led further into the town, to continue the revolting, disgusting crimes of your brothers-in-arms. You couldn’t stand to spend another minute in here. You need to get out before you do something you’ll never be able to forgive yourself for. You were many things, but you were not willing to go that far. Not here, not anywhere. 

“Hey. Where’s Graves?” You tap another Shadow, your “close colleague” with a callsign Kruk, on the shoulder. He turns to you, while you see several other soldiers passing by, yellow streetlights barely illuminating their swiftly moving figures. You knew why it was hard for you to even look in their direction. Kruk points towards the building to the left of you two and croaks something about “briefing the rookies”. You nod and thank him, stumbling in the general direction he pointed you to. 

“Commander, with all due respect, I think it’s time for you to discharge me.” You only came to your senses when you stood in front of your CO in the cramped space of someone’s living room. Wallpaper, creamy in color, dulled lights, tons of decorative cushions on the couch… Your voice is quiet, but firm, not leaving any space for compromise when you speak up to the blond man, and your politeness is as fake as this copy of “Guernica” you could see hanging on the wall. Blood pulses in your ears. You want to leave, you want out. Out of here.

“Bug, now’s not the time for jokes, I need you on the field now. We’ve got our orders.” Graves barely raises his eyes from tapping something on the tablet, that usual scowl that you got used to present on his face. His actions are as ugly as he is. Him not taking you seriously sure does a number on your confidence. But that only reassures you in your decision. You need out. 

“Do I look like I’m joking? I’m leaving, because I don’t think what we’re doing is right.” You try to stay calm, you really do. But how can you, when out of something so vile he makes a joke? Makes all these people a sick joke.

A crease lies between your brows, and shadows falling over your eyes make your face look similar to a carved statue. Before talking to Graves, you decided to take off the eyewear that obscures your face and pull down the thin mask, the signatures for Shadows who are lower in the chain of command. You’re the faceless sort, after all.  “And I don’t think you know your place.” You’re instantly taken aback by his sudden outburst, but you don’t let it show. “I point and you shoot. I sign your paychecks, Bug, and you take them.” You feel something inside of you flinch at the way he mutters your callsign. “I’m in charge. You don’t have a say in what we do.” With each statement, his gloved finger points from him to you, making the rage and frustration boil inside of your chest. You trusted Graves and he led all of your colleagues, along with you to dragging out unarmed, innocent people in the dead of night out of their houses on their streets and executing them. Hell of a leader he is. 

“Well, I’m stepping down. If that’s what we do, I don’t want to take part in it.” You wanted to tell him a lot more, give Graves a piece of your mind on war crimes and killing people in their own homes. On how drowning Las Almas in blood won’t fix whatever the fuck he was trying to fix right now. Instead, you kept it to yourself, tightening your fists just so you didn’t spit in his face or punch him.

“You’re putting a target on your back. Do you not understand how what you’re saying makes you look?” Graves leans in closer to you, the low volume of his voice making it even more threatening, similar to the hissing of a snake. Give him a minute and he will start spewing real venom right in your face. 

“You know that whatever you’re thinking is not true.” To be completely honest, you didn’t care what he thought right now. Graves’ mind and morals were clearly in the wrong place if he considered all this bloodshed justified. 

“Do I really? A moment ago I was sure that you were my subordinate, now I’m not even sure what to make of you.” You’re barely able to resist rolling your eyes at this. Your heart is picking up the pace with each minute. Getting more and more desperate to leave your body altogether, just so you don’t have to listen to his bullshit any longer. You wish it was that easy.

“I’m not taking orders from you. Not anymore.” Saying this took a lot more out of you than you expected, you felt your chest tremble when you met your CO’s eyes.

“Well, would you just look at that, you happen to be a fan of our local drug lord too?” If eyes could kill, Graves would’ve dropped dead right this moment. He smiles, his sharp canines peeking from under his top lip. He knows he’s making your skin crawl and your stomach flip from this interaction, which, if you’re lucky, would be the last for the two of you. “Helping the cartel and corrupt police won’t look too good on your resume”

“I see you’re just making it up as you go.” You let out a breath you didn’t know you held in your chest. Shaky. Uneven. Infuriated. Your eyes are drilling Graves’, a deep frown between them as proof of how much you despise him now, for the baseless assumption too. After a moment of silence, you add. “You know what my stance on this is. Whether I get your approval or not, I’m leaving.” Graves finally withdraws from your personal space, sliding the palm over his face with a heavy sigh, as his lips tighten into a thin line. You knew that this combination meant he was trying to calm down. After a moment of silence, he speaks up again. 

“Look, Bug, you’re a smart kid and frankly, I like you.” he makes a short pause, sighing. “So, I’ll give you a fighting chance. Five minutes – if you’re not out of the city, then you’re a target.” He wasn’t that fucking courteous with the civilians that lay dead a few meters away. Shot on sight. Without any questions. You grit your teeth.

What are you supposed to do with that? Those five minutes didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, most likely, you’ll be rotting in the ditch somewhere shortly after your time runs out - too little to get out of the city or find the Task Force you so desperately wanted to help. Graves won’t leave any witnesses. And you are one. He knows it’s not going to be easy for you to just turn on the Shadows like that too, even though you despised what they were doing while following his orders. They still were your family. Dysfunctional and disproportionately big, but family, nonetheless. Even if they deserved it for their lack of action to prevent what was happening now, you don’t turn on your family like that. What he’s doing is forcing your hand.

Regardless, you have no choice but to take Graves up on his last “generous” offer.

“What are you waiting for, hm? Get out of here while you can.” You didn’t need to be told that twice. So, still balancing your rifle on your arm, your free hand reaches for that patch on your shoulder. Tearing it off in a quick motion makes the sound of Velcro strips snapping open almost echo from how quiet it is. It felt like a whole mountain dropped off of your shoulders when you threw the patch on the ground and stormed out of the building right into the pouring rain.

You felt goosebumps and tremors creeping up your spine as you ran through the dark streets, getting more and more soaked with each second. You didn’t feel much better though. The resentment for Graves grew each second, with all the steps that sent ripples on the surface of the deep puddles, and every raindrop that fell from the copper-colored clouds. But now wasn’t the time to wallow in your misery. Although you wanted to. It did feel like the loss of a person you used to know, of someone you looked up to. The only thing is, he was still living and breathing, and the only thing that died was that idealized image of him in your head. 

There was a cold hollowness somewhere in your chest. Gaping with the darkness that, and you were sure of it, will eat you alive soon enough. Even though you backed out of the Shadow company, it won’t bring back all the people who are not here anymore. You won’t fix it, no matter how hard you try. That bitter guilt snaked its way into the back of your mind and it was there to help stay. 

You managed to pull yourself out of this to make things right. But why do you feel so helpless still?

Your footsteps get faster and faster, as you maneuver through the narrow alleyways, staying out of the range your former colleagues were in. It was easy to hear them, gunshots and voices echoed throughout the city in a weird cacophony that your ears got used to after a long time working for the Shadow Company. They were not afraid, probably feeling like masters here. Somebody has to give them a scare, you thought. So they know better in the future. But it wasn’t your job at the moment. Right now, you needed to get out and do it as soon as possible.

Stopping and coming up with any sort of plan that would help you was not an option - hang in somewhere for too long and you’ll be found. And you were sure you wouldn’t be shown any mercy. 

So instead of staying on the street, where you can be easily spotted with the help of the dim light of a flashlight, you decide to alternate between the corridors of empty homes, with doors wide open for anyone seeking shelter, and the maze of alleyways crawling with Shadows. It felt wrong, invading someone’s homes like this, but you knew if they were unlocked and lights beamed around them, giving out a warm glow the inhabitants were most likely not coming back.

You felt that tingle on the nape of your neck, ready to hide or flee in case you heard any sudden movement from any direction. It’s dead quiet, except for occasional radio talk from the shadows, which you tried to listen in on when you could. It didn’t give you much on where 141 could be. You would start losing hope if you had any left after Graves. But you continue your search nonetheless, reflexes instead of thinking, pure determination instead of hope, and fire in your veins, instead of blood.

That is until you quietly step inside another warm hallway, and you’re met with a wide-eyed stare from another Shadow that makes you freeze like a deer in the headlights. Something inside of you starts to churn with terror from the looming understanding – only one of you will walk out of here alive. Your eyes trail down to the raven patch on his tac vest. It’s Kruk. You want to ask what he is doing here, but you already feel his gaze studying you too. And as soon as he sees that the Shadow Company patch is missing from your uniform, the muzzle of his rifle points right at you. Fucking shit.

“Drop your gun, Kruk!” You warn the man, pointing the weapon in his direction too. He only shakes his head, refusing to stand down. With each second air is laced with tension more and more, you were sure that soon enough it’ll be so thick even a knife wouldn’t cut through it.

“You drop yours first.” His voice is shaky and unsure like he can’t believe what he’s doing right now either. “Commander gave us an order. You’re an enemy now too, Bug. Better get used to it.” Kruk started slowly approaching you, while pulling something out of the bag, strapped on his hip.

“Oh, fuck that!” You swing towards Kruk, trying to approach him in your momentary rage, but you’re immediately met with the warning “Don’t” from Kruk, who doesn’t stand down. “You know what they’re doing here. It doesn’t matter to you?” The man is silent. You don’t see his face behind his mask, so you’re left with even more questions instead of answers. Regardless of what he was thinking right now, you didn’t want to hurt him. So, you bend down and put your rifle on the ground with a quiet clack. If he needs a gesture of goodwill, he can have it. “Your turn.” Kruk only shakes his head.

“Turn around.” So, it was a mistake to trust him. Naturally. Your gullibility will be your downfall. You can almost feel the bitter taste spread inside of your mouth when you look at Kruk. Fucking asshole. But you comply, although reluctantly. He grabs you roughly by the wrists with one hand and by the neck with another, leading you toward what looks like a kitchen in the dim lights falling through the doorway. You get lowered on your knees and then pressed into the dirty floor. And it hits right then and there. He’s going to execute you. Oh, shit, shit, shit.

“You know that I don’t want to do this.” He says quietly so that any shadows passing by don’t hear him. You feel your heartbeat shake your whole body and nausea so intense like you are on the verge of throwing up all of your internal organs, but giving up is just not an option right now. So, you try to prevent him from tying your hands together with all the strength you have.

“Then don’t fucking do it!” He does not answer this as you continue squirming in his hold, trying to make it as hard as possible for him to restrain you. He only grunts but keeps a firm grip. Your head was a mess, you thought Shadows were a family. But all it took was one order from Graves, now they’re scouring the town like damn bloodhounds for you too.

“Get…off of me!” You grit through your teeth. You feel a zip tie slide over your hands and turn your head. The rifle he previously held in his hands was gone, probably so he could tie you up properly, so you take your chance and deliver a hard kick to Kruk’s stomach. He chokes out a pained gasp and finally lets go of your hands. You scurry to get up from the floor with wide smears of rainwater and dirt decorating it, but you get grabbed by the leg, which causes you to stumble and fall once again. You turn your head and kick Kruk with all your might, while attempting to take off the zip tie off your wrists, which, thankfully, he didn’t have the time to close.

You manage to shake the man off of you, as you scramble to your feet, knocking over a corner table with some decorations on it. Yet when you see Kruk fumbling with his hip holster you immediately tackle him to the ground, which causes him to drop the handgun. The whole fight is just a mess, nothing but blinding rage is pulsing in your temples, melting your bones and muscles into something no better than an animal. You get up again, while Kruk is on the floor, searching for the handgun in the darkness. You feel the heavy metal press against your boot and you kick it behind you. You hear it slide across the floor and here it is. Kruk’s eyes, are directed right at you. His hands claw at your leg, trying to drag you down to the floor. And then you black out completely. Kicking, punching, pained wheezes and screams are all you hear, a stuffy abyss with little to no specks of light surrounding you.

You come back to your senses when you don’t feel the familiar weight of your handgun pressing against your hip and then you see it again. Kruk managed to grab it while you were in your anger-induced frenzy. Everything around you slows down. His shaky fingers pull on the safety, but you reach out and grab his hands, pulling them up, not letting him aim at you. Kruk grunts and you see his eyes focused on you in fear, and desperation, as he tries to overpower you in the struggle. You see his weakened state, but the self-preservation is stronger than any compassion towards him at the moment. Kruk will take your life if you don’t take his. That’s just the gist of it. You can’t let him walk away.

Your hands tremble when he manages to overpower you momentarily, but it’s all in vain when you press the handgun harder and harder into his frame, feeling his hands start to yield more and more with each second, strength leaving him. The fear in his eyes is directed at you and only you, but you try not to look. The muzzle of your gun is pressed snugly under his chin. Your gaze trails to his eyes once again. They burn you with terror. Your fingers hook around the trigger guard. You hear a faint whisper.

“Please…”

Gunshot rings in your ears for another second, despite the earmuffs in your helmet.

“Fuck! Fuck…I’m so sorry…I’m sorry.” It all came crashing down on you in one moment. You wouldn’t feel guilty if it was the enemy, you wouldn’t care. He was an enemy now, so why do you feel so guilty, why is it starting to corrode and eat you alive even more? Your palms cover the profusely bleeding gunshot wound, going through his neck and cranium, hot blood pouring out with impossible speed, staining your hands, gear, and skin. Staining your whole being. How could you do something like this? Shadows are family. Killing an unarmed man who’s pleading for his life?

You’re no better than Graves.

The gunshot alerts the Shadows and they start scurrying around on the street. You have no time to mourn Kruk or search for your rifle in the dark, so you yank your handgun out of his hands which only started succumbing to rigor mortis, and sprint out the backdoor, desperately attempting to get away. You can feel your heartbeat booming in your ears, wet hair sticking to the nape of your neck, as you hear distant commotion and a chase stirring behind you, as you dart inside another building and run through the hallways, searching for a way out.

Back on the street, rain droplets are so cold that it feels like they’re splitting your skin open, you can barely feel the pain in your ankle from adrenaline pumping through your blood flow. You start slipping on the slick pavement, but you still refuse to stop, diving inside another doorway. Your head hurts, your lungs feel like they are about to explode, and you think you stepped into a puddle of someone’s blood. No time to ram through the locked door, so you jumped out of the second-story window and landed on your foot, twisting it in the process and swallowing the sob that welled up in your throat. You needed to move.

That bought you some time to get up and dip into the dark alleyway before you heard the loud footsteps approaching the window that you used to escape. You let out a heavy exhale, propping your back against the cold stone. You’re not completely safe, but…that’s better than nothing. The commotion of shadows quiets down and you hear it become more and more distant with each second. 

After a moment of silence, you continue moving, albeit slowly, trying to get used to the hot pulsing in your leg, that shot up right through your nerves with each step you tried to take. You wince and whine in pain, dragging your leg behind, grabbing at the moist stone walls, clinging to them for any sort of support. However, it’s not much of a help. 

Your escape is cut short when your legs finally give out, causing you to stumble and fall while crossing the church garden. Although it probably looked magical in the daylight, right now it was far from it, the smell of metal and smoke still lacing the darkness. You already feel your ankle swelling and some bruises forming under all your gear. You see the lights on the exterior of the church blend into the ribbon of lights and shadows and the thought crosses your mind. You can hide there.

You almost fly up the stairs despite the hurting leg, fumbling with the door for a second, before it creaks open. You shuffle inside with light steps and close the door behind you as quietly as you can. Your knees tremble as you slide down the cold wall and crawl further inside the building, barely feeling any strength left in you. God, you are so drained. Strained gasps are ripped out of your throat every second. You want nothing more than to lie down right there in this church and just let the darkness overtake you in a peaceful slumber. That would be so easy.

Your calm moment is interrupted by someone yanking you up on your feet, to which you let out a surprised yelp. You can’t see the person, but you can feel their hands tugging on your gear roughly and dragging you somewhere. It takes you a second to weigh your pretty limited options given the fact it’s so dark that you are barely able to make out your surroundings. So, you decide to take this fight head on and your heavy boot comes down right on their foot, which prompts the person to grunt, revealing a pretty low male voice, and let go of you.

You tear out from his grasp and almost tumble down to the church floor, bunching up dust with your loud, uneven footsteps. Your back is hunched as you look up at the dark figure from under your eyebrows, ready to deflect any blows if he decides to attack first. You stay silent, feeling like a cornered animal in his presence, small, feeble. Weak. Of course, you were at a disadvantage here, taking a beating, running from Shadows, twisting your ankle, and losing your rifle certainly didn’t help your chances to win, but you were ready to claw your way out of here with your bare hands, breaking your nails and skinning your hands if you had to.

But any punches or kicks you try to land the man easily deflects or blocks, not trying to attack or overpower you however, opting to just take up the defensive position in the fight. Which is, admittedly, a lot easier than taking the offensive one. Maybe he was aiming to exhaust you and then, when you are at your lowest point, he would attack. That seemed like a solid tactic, but you don’t want to let that happen. However, before you can think of anything you end up rolling with the man on the floor. You can hear him huff in frustration and exertion, the wood pressing harshly against your ribs and all the bruises on your lower body pulsing with pain.

After some struggle, however, you managed to tackle the man to the ground, pressing him down to the floor with your weight. Your hands snaked their way onto his neck as you glared at him, resisting the urge to bare your teeth akin to a stray, abused, and betrayed dog, crawling with fleas and parasites. Choking him out obviously wasn’t a nice thing to do, but you were trying to send a message here, that if you continue being followed, you will use your strength. If violence was the only language Shadows understood (and that’s who you believe the man was) then you were ready to become fluent.

“I swear, I’ll fucking kill you!” You press him into the floor harder, hands squeezing the man’s throat, your vision going blurry. You feel his hands grasp at your wrists, but he does not resist. Why is he not trying to shake you off? Why is he letting you choke him like this? Why is he not fighting back? 

“Let go, Bug.” The man’s voice is strained, but familiar, he whispers through his closed jaw. You can hear the way his throat tenses up, or his Adam’s apple bobs under your thick gloves, the warmth of his skin, and the moisture that seeped into the mask. Mask. More light falls through the window thanks to the momentary flicker of the streetlight. Skull. Eight lines on his chin, two on the forehead. Dark brown eyes.

Your hands shoot up like his neck is on fire. Guilt settles in your gut and your throat, pulling you in like you’re some puppet with no free will. You try to get up from the man’s midsection but tumble down on your side from trying to do it too quickly. It’s Ghost. How the hell did you not recognize Ghost?

“I’m sorry. I’m not…myself right now.” You were now sitting on the floor, palms resting on your face, wet from the rain, skin burning up, either trying to regulate the temperature or from all the exertion. Either way, it didn’t matter right now.

“Yeah, you made it pretty obvious.” Ghost coughs, trying to shake off your attempt to cut off his air circulation just seconds ago, as he gets up from his lying position. “At least now I know you’ve got a good grip.” He lets out a deep chuckle which only earns him an eyebrow raise from you. He was joking at a time like this? Must’ve hit his head pretty hard too.

“I could’ve choked you. Why did you not fight back more?” You were royally confused about that. He could’ve stopped the fight before it even began and avoided some bruises along with the sore neck if he just told you who he was or fought back. But he didn’t.

Ghost wants to say something, but stops himself right after opening his mouth. You see it in the way he looks at you. The pause stretches for an endless amount of time and you feel your skin crawling with anxiety while his eyes study your face.

“I was going easy on ya.” Ghost says in a rather blunt manner, which didn’t answer that many of your questions. Well, if he was going easy, he should’ve been at least going at you, which wasn’t true – you saw him only defending himself and blocking some of your blows. Did he?.. Was he trying not to hurt you? Okay, the more you thought about it, the wilder it sounded. Maybe you should just drop it. “I don’t suppose you came here to wash your sins away.” You want to scoff from the bad taste. “Lil’ birdie told me you ditched the Shadows. Any particular reason why?” The man inquires, turning to you. Sitting like this on the floor with him felt unusual, like some sort of weird church sleepover. Give Ghost a minute and he’ll bring you some ice cream so you two can watch some wacky TV shows together.

“Did your little birdie also tell you that Graves is hunting me down too?” You ask while pulling your drenched mask over your face. It brought some comfort and familiarity that were gone the moment you spoke to your CO in that living room. And, well, it would be awkward if Ghost was the only one in the mask.

“I guessed by the gunshots, some racket, and a horde of Shadows taking a night run through the neighborhood close by.” The man chuckles and you feel your face burn up in embarrassment under your mask. You try not to let it show, however. You knew that it wasn’t a very sleek move that you pulled with Kruk, but you were desperate and you didn’t need motherfucking Ghost telling you it was stupid. 

“You’re just hilarious. Is that how you became a lieutenant, by cracking jokes left and right?” You roll your eyes and hope he won’t notice it in the darkness. This banter was pointless, you knew it but…you needed it. It was not easy losing something familiar, so you desperately wanted to feel that camaraderie you experienced in the Shadows.

“You’ll find out once you’re a lieutenant yourself.” And Ghost indulges you. Which, you are thankful for. Isn’t such a scary guy after all, huh?

“Yeah, if I’m alive long enough.” You scoff at his concealed attempt to comfort and reassure you, but you can’t help that warm feeling in your chest. Weird.

“Well, you’ve already surpassed my expectations by staying alive until now.” The man stands up from the floor with a low grunt, pressing an arm around his midsection, right around where you might’ve pinned him to the floor with your body. “Let’s make sure it lasts, eh?” He extends a gloved hand toward you in an open, inviting gesture. Your eyes trail over his huge figure and land on specks of light in his eyes.

His eye black is all smudged and messy.

You have to shake off the sudden thought, observation too close and intimate for your liking, as you grab him by the forearm, trying to ignore the way your skin burns up when you feel his warmth through his gear. Ghost pulls you up to your feet, but doesn’t let go of your arm once you’re up. You don’t let go either. The silence rings in your ears. God, he’s so warm.

 “Are you like a human furnace or something?” You joke to fill the excruciating silence. Which you immediately regret. You wish it wasn’t so dark so you could see just how his face stretched the fabric of a skull mask, which you clearly heard happen by a small shuffle very close to you. Who knows, maybe he cracked a smile?

“Why? Need someone to warm you up at night?” Okay, this is terrible and stupid, and so damn corny, and why do you feel your cheeks grow hot and breath get stuck in your chest? Maybe that’s just how awful his jokes are. Ghost clears his throat and reluctantly lets go of your forearm, fingers still clinging to your sleeve as he pulls himself away too quickly for it to be something nonchalant or casual.

“So, are you answering my question, or do I have to use torture?” Fucking hell, his jokes are morbid. You almost forgot in those several hours you haven’t interacted with him. Although that would be quite hard, he leaves quite an impression, after all.

“Well, I suppose you’ve seen the…the civilians?” You can’t call them anything besides that. To call them corpses is to take away from their whole being. To call them dead would just be a lie. They were still alive in the walls of their homes, in the memories of their breathing relatives and friends, and in the pictures, their traces are everywhere. Ghost silently nods to your question, prompting you to continue. “Then here’s your reason.” You didn’t want to explain your feelings in great detail. And you didn’t feel the need to; you saw the compassion in his eyes. “Plus, the whole thing with the Los Vaqueros base.” If you saw Ghost’s face now you’d note how the expression darkened in a single moment. However, you do feel the temperature in the room fall several degrees lower, so you decide to joke again. “Pay wasn’t that good anyway, so…”

“Fair enough.” The man chuckles while rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll keep an eye on you though. Don’t think you can just waltz in here like this and be completely trusted.” Well, that’s understandable. If you were him you wouldn’t trust yourself either. Although you did hope that the mercy you’ve shown him earlier would influence his decision making. At least a little bit. “And you better toss that thing. Or else.” He points to the radio, still strapped to your tactical vest. You unclasp the device, detaching the small microphone that was holding on by a thread, and hand it to Ghost.

“You’re welcome to get rid of it for me.” And he doesn’t waste any time, dropping the radio on the ground, stomping on it so hard that the sound of it breaking echoes through the church. You assess the scraps of wires and plastic on the floor with a pitiful gaze, coming to a conclusion that you wouldn’t want to end up under Ghost’s boot. Or maybe you would, but under different circumstances. “Well, that’s…effective.”

“You good with the sniper rifle?” The man ignores your previous remark, immediately firing back with the question.  

“Decent.” You were a lot better in close quarters and preferred a more hands-on approach. But a sniper rifle wasn’t that bad. As long as he doesn’t ask you to use it without a scope.

“You’re on the lookout with me then. Don’t screw it up.”

Oh, you’re absolutely not going to.

check out my masterlist or send me a request!

a/n – first of all, thank you for reading this fic, and if you enjoyed it, consider dropping me a comment, i’ll really appreciate it! SECOND OF ALL.  I’M NOT A GRAVES HATER, DON’T COME @ ME. segment with him also was written before the campaign release, so in case there are some inaccuracies with the plot/his character – let me know, so I can fix it. all of this is a huge rework of the series that I started but never posted. Originally, it was supposed to be Graves x Reader, but for multiple reasons, moral mostly, it didn’t quite sit right with me. So instead of letting 6k words first part that I’ve written and abandoned go to waste, I decided to remake it into something else here, based on the idea of @mockerycrow (ily you have such a big brain)! so yeah, that’s it for now!

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“Brothers in the Making” pt.4

Command Squad x Reader

The new training was brutal.

You made good on your warning.

Every morning started with live-fire simulations — no safeties. No shortcuts. Hand-to-hand drills until they couldn’t lift their arms. Obstacle courses under pelting rain and wind so strong it knocked them off balance. You pushed them until they bled, and then made them do it again.

And they got better.

Fox stopped hesitating.

Bacara stopped grinning.

Wolffe started thinking before acting.

Cody led with silence and strength.

Rex? Rex was starting to look like a leader.

You saw it in the way the others followed him when things got hard.

But even as your cadets got sharper, meaner, closer — something shifted outside your control.

Kamino got crowded.

You noticed it in the hangars first. Rough-looking men and women in mismatched armor, chewing on ration sticks and watching the cadets like predators sizing up meat.

Bounty hunters.

The Kaminoans had started bringing them in — not for your cadets, but for the rank-and-file troopers.

Cheap, nasty freelancers. People who'd kill for credits and leak secrets for less.

You weren’t the only one who noticed.

You slammed your tray down in the mess beside Jango, Kal Skirata, and Walon Vau.

Skirata didn’t even look up from sharpening his blade. “So. You see them too.”

“They stink like trouble,” you muttered.

Jango grunted. “Kaminoans don’t care. They want results. Faster, cheaper.”

“They’re not Mandalorian,” Vau said coldly. “No honor. No code. Just teeth.”

You leaned back in your seat, arms crossed. “They’re whispering to the clones. Getting too friendly.”

“Probably scoping them out,” Kal muttered. “Seeing who’s soft. Who’ll break first.”

Jango’s voice was low and lethal. “If one of them talks — if any of them breathes a word to the Separatists—”

“We're done,” you finished for him.

Silence settled over the table like a weight.

You glanced around the mess. One of the hunters was laughing with a group of standard cadets, tossing them pieces of gear like candy. Testing their limits. Grooming.

Your blood boiled.

“They’re not going near my boys,” you said quietly.

Kal looked over, sharp-eyed. “You planning something?”

“I’m planning to watch,” you replied. “And if they so much as look at my cadets sideways—”

“You’ll gut them,” Vau said. “Good.”

That night, as the storm beat against the training dome, you walked past the dorms. The lights were dim, but you could hear muffled voices inside.

“—you really think we’re ready?”

“Doesn’t matter. Buir thinks we are.”

“Yeah but… what if those bounty hunters—”

You stopped outside the door. Knocked once.

The room went dead quiet.

You stepped in.

The cadets snapped to attention.

You gave them a look. “You worried about the new visitors?”

They didn’t answer.

Rex stepped forward. “We don’t trust them.”

“Good,” you said. “Neither do I.”

They relaxed — just slightly.

“You,” you added, “have one advantage those other clones don’t.”

“What’s that?” Bacara asked.

You looked each of them in the eye.

“You know who you are. You know who you trust. You know what you’re fighting for.”

Fox swallowed. “And the others?”

“They’ll learn,” you said. “Or they’ll fall.”

A long silence followed.

Then Cody said quietly, “We won’t let them touch the brothers.”

You gave a small, proud nod. “That’s what makes you more than soldiers.”

You looked to each of them in turn.

“You’re protectors.”

———

The first hit came during evening drills.

You weren’t there. You’d been pulled into a debrief with Jango and the Kaminoan Prime. That’s why it happened. Because you weren’t watching.

Because they were.

The bounty hunters had been circling the younger cadets all week. The ones just starting to taste their own strength — just old enough to be cocky, not old enough to know when to shut up.

The hunters pushed them harder than protocol allowed. Made them spar past exhaustion. Made them fight dirty. Gave them real knives instead of training ones.

Neyo ended up with a dislocated shoulder.

Gree broke two ribs.

Bly passed out from dehydration.

And the worst?

Thorn.

One of the bounty hunters slammed him face-first into the training deck.

Hard enough to split his forehead open and leave him unconscious for thirty terrifying seconds.

By the time you arrived, Thorn was being carried out by two med droids, blood streaking down his temple, barely coherent.

The bounty hunter just stood there, arms folded, like nothing had happened.

You didn’t say a word.

You decked him.

One punch — a sharp right hook to the jaw. Dropped him cold.

Kal held you back before you could go in for another.

“You’re done,” you snarled at the Kaminoans who came running. “Get these kriffing animals off my training floor.”

“We were merely increasing the resilience of the standard units,” one of the white-robed scientists said coolly.

You stepped toward her.

“You try to touch any of mine,” you growled, “and you’ll see just how resilient I am.”

———

Later that night, the cadets met in the shadows of the observation deck. Not just your five — all of them.

Cody. Rex. Bacara. Fox. Wolffe.

Neyo. Keeli. Gree. Thorn. Stone. Bly.

Monk. Doom. Appo. Ponds.

Even a few of the younger ones — still waiting to earn names.

They were tense. Quiet. Watching the door. Waiting.

Keeli spoke first. “They’ll come back.”

Fox crossed his arms. “Then we hit them first.”

“Without Buir?” Rex asked, wary.

“She can’t be everywhere,” Wolffe muttered.

Monk frowned. “This isn’t a sim. These guys aren’t playing.”

Neyo leaned against the wall. “Neither are we.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Rain drummed against the glass overhead.

Finally, Gree spoke. “We don’t have to fight them.”

They all turned.

“We just have to outsmart them.”

They waited for their moment.

It came two days later. A late-night combat session with three of the bounty hunters, deep in one of the isolated auxiliary domes. No cams. No observers. Just a handful of cadets, and three heavily armed mercs ready to “teach them a lesson.”

They never saw it coming.

Rex faked an injury — stumbled, cried out, fell to one knee.

Bly drew the hunter in close, under the guise of helping him.

Gree triggered the power outage.

Fox, Neyo, and Bacara moved in from the shadows like ghosts.

Monk and Doom stole their gear.

Keeli hit them with a stun baton he “borrowed” from the supply closet.

By the time the lights came back on, the bounty hunters were zip-tied to the floor, unconscious or groaning, surrounded by sixteen bruised, grinning cadets.

They didn’t tell the Kaminoans what happened.

Neither did the hunters.

The next day, those bounty trainers were gone.

You knew something had happened. Jango did too.

You pulled Rex aside, arms crossed. “We didn’t do anything.”

“I didn’t ask,” you said.

He stood a little straighter. “Then I won’t tell.”

You smiled.

For a second, you almost said it.

Almost.

But not yet.

Instead, you gave him a nod.

“Well done, kid.”

———

Tipoca City was never supposed to feel like a warzone.

But that night — under blacked-out skies and howling wind — the storm broke inside the walls.

It started with Jango leaving.

He met you, Kal Skirata, and Walon Vau on the upper platform, rain hammering down in waves, cloak rippling behind him.

“Got called offworld,” he said without preamble. “Client I can’t ignore.”

You frowned. “Problem?”

He glanced at the Kaminoan tower, where sterile lights still glowed behind long windows.

“Yeah. Ten of those kriffing bounty scum are still here. Kaminoans won’t remove them.”

Kal spat on the ground. “Let me take care of it.”

“You, Vau, and her,” Jango said, nodding to you. “Handle it before I get back.”

He walked off without waiting for a reply.

The next few hours passed too quietly.

You and Kal did recon.

Vau slipped through maintenance corridors.

Then — the lights flickered.

The main comms cut out.

And every blast door in Tipoca City slammed shut.

———

In the Mess hall Neyo was mid-bite into a ration bar when it happened.

The lights dimmed. The far wall sparked. The room went deathly silent.

There were thirty cadets inside — the full command unit. And five Republic Commando cadets, seated near the back. All in training blacks, all unarmed.

Then the doors slid open.

Ten bounty hunters walked in.

Wearing full armor. Fully armed.

The first one tossed a stun grenade across the room.

The cadets scrambled — diving behind tables, flipping trays, shielding younger brothers.

A loud, metallic slam.

The doors locked again.

But this time, from outside.

A voice crackled over the mess intercom.

“Don’t worry, boys,” you said, voice steady, cold. “We’re here.”

One by one, the lights above the bounty hunters started popping.

Out of the shadows stepped you, Kal Skirata, and Walon Vau.

Three Mandalorians. Blasters drawn. Knives sheathed. No fear.

“Let’s clean up our mess,” Vau muttered.

The fight wasn’t clean.

It was fast. Ugly. Vicious.

You moved first — disarmed the closest hunter with a twist of your wrist and drove your elbow into his throat.

Kal went for the one reaching toward the Commando cadets, snapped his knee and disarmed him with a headbutt.

Vau took two down in five seconds. Bone-snapping, brutal.

The cadets rallied. Neyo and Bacara flanked the room, herding the younger ones behind upended tables. Rex shoved Keeli out of harm’s way and grabbed a downed shock baton.

Thorn cracked a chair over a hunter’s back.

Bly and Gree tag-teamed one into unconsciousness with nothing but boots and fists.

But then—

One of them grabbed Cody.

Knife to his throat.

Your blood ran cold.

“No one move,” the hunter snarled, voice wild. “Open the door. Now.”

You stepped forward slowly, hands up, helmet off.

“Let him go,” you said, voice low.

“Back off!” he yelled. “I’ll do it!”

Then — he started cutting.

Cody didn’t scream. Didn’t cry out.

Just clenched his jaw as blood ran down his brow and over his eye.

You saw red.

You lunged.

One shot — straight through the hunter’s shoulder — and he dropped the blade.

Before he hit the ground, you were there, catching Cody as he fell.

He blinked up at you, blood running down his face, trembling.

You cupped the back of his head gently, voice soft but steady. “It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

Kal secured the last hunter. Vau stood guard at the door. The mess was a wreck of overturned tables, scorch marks, and groaning mercenaries.

You looked down at Cody.

The top of his brow and temple was sliced deep. Ugly.

He winced as you cleaned it.

“That’s going to scar,” you said quietly.

Cody met your gaze — steady now, strong, even through the pain.

“I don’t care.”

You smiled faintly.

“Good. You earned it.”

The mess hall had long since fallen silent.

The medics came and went. The unconscious bounty hunters had been dragged off to confinement cells. The lights flickered gently above, casting a soft blue hue over the now-empty space.

The only ones left were you and your cadets.

Twenty-three young men. Battle-scarred, bloodied, tired.

And very, very proud.

You sat on a table, legs swinging, helmet in your lap. A few bruises blooming on your jaw, a cut on your knuckle — nothing you hadn’t dealt with before. Nothing you wouldn’t do again in a heartbeat for them.

They lingered near you, some sitting, some leaning against overturned chairs, some standing silently — waiting for you to speak.

You looked at each one of them.

Wolffe, arms crossed but still wincing slightly from a bruise on his side.

Rex, perched beside Bly, both quiet but alert.

Fox, pacing a little like he still had adrenaline to burn.

Bacara and Neyo flanking the younger cadets instinctively.

Keeli, Gree, Doom, Thorn, Monk, Appo — all watching you.

Cody, sitting close by, with fresh stitches across his brow. His scar. His mark.

You let the silence hang a little longer, then finally exhaled and said, “You did well.”

They didn’t respond — not right away — but you could see the pride simmering behind their eyes.

You stood and walked slowly in front of them, glancing from face to face.

“You’ve trained hard for months. You’ve pushed yourselves, pushed each other. But today…” You paused. “Today was something different.”

They listened closely, the weight of your words pulling them in.

“You were outnumbered. Unarmed. Surprised.” Your voice softened. “But you didn’t break. You protected each other. You adapted. You fought smart. And you stood your ground.”

Your gaze swept across the room again, and this time, there was no commander in your expression — only pride. And something close to love.

“You showed courage. And resilience. And heart.”

You walked back toward Cody, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder.

“If this is the future of the Republic Army…” you smiled faintly, “then the galaxy’s in better hands than it knows.”

You looked at all of them again.

“I’m proud of you. Every single one of you.”

For a moment, the room was silent again.

Then a quiet voice piped up from behind Rex.

“Does this mean we get to sleep in tomorrow?”

You rolled your eyes. “Not a chance.”

Laughter broke through the tension — real, loud, echoing off the walls.

Fox clapped Rex on the back.

Cody leaned lightly against you and didn’t say a word — he didn’t have to.

You stayed there a while longer, sitting with them, listening to the soft hum of rain against the dome. For now, there was no war. No Kaminoans. No Jedi.

Just your boys. Just your family.

And in the stillness after the storm, it was enough.

—————

*Time Skip*

The storm had been relentless for days — even by Kamino standards.

But today, there was something different in the air. The kind of stillness that only came before things broke apart.

You felt it the second the long corridor doors opened.

You were walking back from the firing range, datapad in one hand, helmet under your arm — drenched from the rain, mud on your boots, blaster at your hip.

And that’s when you saw him.

Tall, cloaked in damp robes, ginger hair swept back, beard trimmed neatly — Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He stood beside the Kaminoan administrator, Taun We, as she gestured down the corridor, her voice echoing in that soft, ethereal way.

You blinked. “Well, well.”

Obi-Wan turned at the sound of your voice, brow arching in surprise.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you said, smirking lightly.

“Likewise,” Kenobi said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Though I should’ve known—where there’s chaos, you’re never far behind.”

You walked up to him, nodding politely to Taun We, who dipped her head and continued speaking about clone maturation cycles.

“Nice robes,” you said. “Still playing Jedi or are you finally moonlighting as a diplomat?”

“Depends on the day,” he quipped. “And you? Still collecting foundlings?”

That made you pause.

You glanced at the clone cadets moving through the hall up ahead — your boys. Young, serious, sharp-eyed. Already starting to look like soldiers.

“They’re not foundlings anymore,” you said, quieter now. “They never were.”

Kenobi’s smile faded slightly. “They’re… the clones?”

You nodded. “Each one.”

“And you’ve been… training them?”

You looked back at him. “Raising them.”

That gave him pause.

He walked a few paces in silence before saying, “And what do you think of them?”

You smiled to yourself. “Braver than most warriors I’ve met. Fiercer than any squad I’ve served with. Smarter than they get credit for. Loyal to a fault.”

Obi-Wan’s expression softened. “They’re children.”

“Not anymore,” you said. “They don’t get the chance to be.”

He studied you a long moment. “They trust you.”

“I’d die for them,” you said simply. “They know that.”

He nodded slowly, then leaned in, voice lower. “I need to ask you something.”

You met his eyes.

“A man named Jango Fett,” he said. “He’s been identified as the clone template. The Kaminoans say he was recruited by a Jedi. But no Jedi I know would authorize a clone army in secret.”

You held his gaze. “Jango’s a good man.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

You exhaled. “He’s… complicated. He believes in strength. In legacy. In survival. He was proud to be chosen.”

Kenobi tilted his head. “And now?”

You looked down the corridor, where the rain slashed against the long window.

“Now?” you said. “He’s been taking jobs that… don’t sit right with me. His clients are powerful. Dangerous.”

Obi-Wan folded his arms. “Separatists?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you said, “Jango’s alone in what he’s made. But not in the burden. He just won’t let anyone carry it with him.”

Obi-Wan looked at you, long and careful. “And if he’s working for Dooku?”

“Then I’ll stop him,” you said. Quiet. Unshakable. “Even if it breaks everything.”

There was silence between you for a moment. Only the soft hum of the lights and the sound of rain.

Then Kenobi said, “We may all be asked to choose sides soon.”

You gave him a faint smile. “I already did.”

And with that, you turned and walked down the corridor — toward the cadets. Toward your boys. Toward the storm you could feel coming.

————

The hangar was alive with the sound of marching boots and humming gunships. The Kaminoan platforms gleamed under the harsh light of early morning, and the storm above was quieter than usual — almost like Kamino itself was holding its breath.

You stood near the gunships with your helmet tucked under your arm, the rain catching in your hair, your armor polished but worn. This was it.

Your boys — your commanders and captains — were suiting up, double-checking blasters, loading onto transports in units of ten, fifty, a hundred. The moment they’d been bred for was finally here.

And you hated every second of it.

“Buir!”

You turned as Cody jogged up to you, followed quickly by Fox, Rex, Wolffe, Bacara, Bly, Gree, Keeli, Doom, Appo, Thorn, Neyo, Monk, Stone, Ponds — all of them. Every one of them now bearing their names. Every one of them about to step into a galaxy on fire.

“You’re not coming with us?” Rex asked, brow furrowed beneath his helmet.

“No,” you said softly. “Not this time.”

They exchanged looks. Several stepped closer.

“Why?” Wolffe asked.

You smiled faintly. “Because I’ve fulfilled my contract. My time here is done.”

“But we still need you,” Bly said. “You’re our—”

“I’m your buir,” you interrupted, voice firm. “And that means knowing when to let you stand on your own.”

They fell quiet.

You stepped forward and looked at each one of them — your gaze lingering on every face you had once taught to punch, to shoot, to think, to feel. They were men now. Soldiers. Leaders.

And still, in your heart, they were the boys who once snuck into your quarters late at night, scared of their own future.

“You’re ready,” you told them. “I’ve seen it. You’ve trained for this. Bled for this. Earned this. You are commanders and captains of the Grand Army of the Republic. You are the best this galaxy will ever see.”

Cody stepped forward, his voice tight. “Where will you go?”

You looked up at the storm.

“Where I’m needed.”

A beat passed.

“Don’t think for a second I won’t be watching,” you said, flicking your commlink. “I’ll be on a secure line the whole time. Monitoring every channel, every order. I’ll know the second you misbehave.”

That drew a few smiles. Even a quiet chuckle from Thorn.

Fox stepped forward, standing at attention. “Permission to hug the buir?”

You rolled your eyes, but opened your arms anyway.

They came in like a wave.

Armor scraped armor as they all stepped in — clumsy and loud and warm, a heap of brothers trying to act tough but holding on just long enough to not feel like kids again.

You held them all.

And then, like true soldiers, they pulled back — each nodding once before heading to their ships. Helmets on. Rifles in hand.

Cody was the last to go. He looked back at you as the ramp began to rise.

“Stay safe,” he said.

You gave a small nod.

“We’ll make you proud.”

“You already did.”

Then the gunships roared, rising one by one into the sky, and disappeared into the storm.

And you were left on the platform, alone.

But not really.

Because your voice was already tuned into their frequencies, your eyes scanning the holo feeds.

And your heart — your heart went with them.

————

She never returned to Kamino.

The rain still haunted her dreams sometimes, the echo of thunder over steel platforms, the scent of blaster oil and sea salt clinging to her skin. But when she left, she left for good.

The cadets she had raised — the ones who had once looked to her like a sister, a mentor, a buir — were no longer wide-eyed boys in numbered armor.

They were commanders now. Captains. Leaders of men.

And the war made them legends.

From the shadows of Coruscant to the deserts of Ryloth, from Umbara’s twisted jungles to the burning fields of Saleucami — she watched. She listened. She followed every mission report she could intercept, every coded message she wasn’t supposed to hear.

She couldn’t be with them. But she knew where they were. Every. Single. Day.

Bacara led brutal campaigns on Mygeeto.

Fox walked a knife’s edge keeping peace in the heart of chaos on Coruscant.

Cody fought with unwavering precision at Kenobi’s side.

Wolffe’s transmissions grew fewer, rougher. He was changing — harder, colder.

Rex’s loyalty to his General turned to quiet defiance. She recognized it in his voice. She’d taught him to think for himself.

Keeli, Thorn, Gree, Ponds, Neyo, Doom, Bly, Stone, Monk, Appo… all of them. She tracked them, stored every piece of data, every victory, every loss. Not as a commander. Not as a strategist.

As their buir.

She moved from system to system — never settling. Always watching. A ghost in the shadows of the war she helped raise. Never interfering. Just there.

But she knew.

She knew when Rex's tone cracked after Umbara.

She knew when Cody stopped speaking on open comms.

She knew when Pond’s name was pulled from a casualty list, but no one would say what happened.

She knew when Thorn’s file was locked behind High Council access.

And one by one, her boys began to fall silent.

Not dead. Not gone.

Just… lost.

To the war. To the darkness creeping into the cracks.

She sat in silence some nights, the old helmet resting beside her. Their names etched into the inside — 23 in total.

They weren’t clones to her. They were sons. Brothers. The best of the best.

She had given them names.

But the galaxy had given them numbers again.

So she remembered.

She remembered who they were before the armor, before the orders, before the war took their laughter and turned it into steel.

She remembered their first sparring matches. Their mess hall brawls. Their ridiculous, stupid banter.

She remembered Fox making them salute her.

She remembered Wolffe biting her hand like a brat and earning his name.

She remembered all of it.

Because someone had to.

Because one day, when the war ended — if any of them were left — she would find them.

And she would say the names again.

Out loud.

And remind them of who they really were.

——————

Previous Chapter

[jomiddlemarch]

If I should go

“If something happens to me—”

Grace had gone from pleasantly drowsy to full code, bleeding-out, last bullet in the gun, red alert in the infinitesimal pause Joel had left between to and me, the surge of adrenaline familiar as an old friend you better not be lumping me in with, dead-Lauren commented.

“What’s wrong? What would happen to you?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Joel said, stroking one hand down her back in a gesture that was intended to be reassuring, letting his palm rest at the small of her back. It could have worked if they lived Before, when they might have had a nearly congenial squabble about whether she had access to all of his passwords, when healthcare proxies and hospital visiting policies still meant anything. Grace could spend an entire afternoon trying to explain what a proxy was to Ellie and Ellie would still shrug and say things Before were weird, prompting dead-Lauren to pipe up Smart girl you got there, Grace. 

“You said if something happens to you,” Grace replied. “You’re thinking of something. What’s wrong, Joel?”

“Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart. I’m fine, I’m just thinkin’, nothing’s guaranteed, yeah?”

“Have you been having chest pain? Trouble breathing? Blood in your stool? I’m your doctor, you don’t have to be shy with me, or get all stoic,” Grace asked. He’d never complain, a horse could fall on him and he’d say he was fine, so she ran her list, the list that covered most of what could take out a man on the far side of fifty, older now than that would have been Before but still, to Grace, too young to lose.

“I’d tell you if I was shittin’ blood, sweetheart,” he said. “Could you do anything about it?”

“No,” Grace said. Maybe FEDRA still had access to chemo, to colonoscopies, maybe there were surgeons doing resections and pull-throughs, but not in Jackson, where most days she was the charge nurse and the president of the hospital, lucky if Rosario stopped by to help out or if Coach Beard was willing to do something resembling PT.

“Nothing botherin’ me except my knee when it rains and I busted that up a long time ago,” Joel said.

“Okay,” Grace said. She didn’t entirely believe him, but she couldn’t force him to tell her anything. Maybe if you used your feminine wiles, dead-Lauren suggested, but not seriously. Even Before, feminine wiles had not been part of Grace’s relationship arsenal. Your first problem is the idea of a relationship arsenal, dead-Lauren remarked and Grace smiled.

“That’s better,” Joel said. She wasn’t about to tell him about dead-Lauren and their running conversation, but it wouldn’t hurt him not to know.

“If something happens to you, then what?” she said.

“It’s not gonna be your fault, whatever happens,” he said.

“You can’t know that,” she retorted.

“Yeah, I can, when it comes to you. You’ll blame yourself, but it won’t have anything to do with you. Go to Maria, she’ll have her head screwed on straight. Tommy probably won’t be worth a damn,” Joel said.

If something happened to Joel, Maria was going to have her hands full, but Grace only nodded. 

“That it?”

“Take care of Ellie. She’s—she’ll say she doesn’t need anything, she might tell you to get the fuck out of her face, but she’ll need you. She pushes you away, you just wait for her to come back,” Joel said.

“She might not—she won’t want me,” Grace said.

“She will and even if she doesn’t, she’ll need you. She’ll need someone she can talk shit about me with, someone else who’ll hate my guts. Someone who knows how I make her something hot to drink and watch her drink it, when it’s fucking cold out,” he said.

Grace was silent and so was Joel. He’s saying you’re her mom and he’s her dad, dead-Lauren offered helpfully, as if Grace hadn’t already figured that out. As if she’d figured out how she felt about that. It’s a little late to play the I’m-just-the-girlfriend card, dead-Lauren added and even more distantly Grace heard the sound of her mother calling them to dinner, a voice without words, in a language no one else in Jackson spoke.

“It’s always fucking cold,” Grace said, by way of saying yes, okay, I’ll do it, don’t leave me, I love you.

“Yeah,” Joel replied, pulling her closer, big and warm and alive. Grace knew from experience you couldn’t choose which memories stayed the sharpest, which ones would come back to you in the moment before you picked something up or laid something down. Which ones would be unaltered in a dream. She hoped, though, that this would be one of those, that she would always have the sound of his voice and the strength of his arms with her, the way she had her own fingerprints.

“Just an if, sweetheart,” he said. “It’s good to be prepared.”

“Yeah, because you’re a fucking Boy Scout,” she said.

“Nearly made it to Eagle, actually, once upon a time,” he replied. 

“Once upon a time,” Grace repeated. It was the way a story began, but for Joel, it was an ending.

For @tessa-quayle and all the other Pedro fans out there who only want happiness and comfort for this sweet guy.