#wrong organ thank you for making this
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
clearlydusty · 3 days ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
me and my sisters played Mouthwashing for the first time, and even though I got a ton of spoilers from tumblr this game was still an AMAZING experience. Can you guess who my favorite is??
(also just found out that daisuke describes his experience on the tulpar to Anya, not J*mmy, so I put him there for nothing)
140 notes · View notes
washmouthing · 17 days ago
Text
I’ve seen the info about Daisuke and his parents and it’s made me sooo sad - BUT I am holding fast to Daisuke and his single mom unfortunately. I pretend I do not see it.
64 notes · View notes
bonefall · 1 year ago
Note
Willowpelt sounds SO autistic, it not being funny wraps around into being funny again.
My secret is being so autistic and so surrounded by so many other autistic people that I forget what tismless people even do. Everyone in BB ends up getting a touch of ADHDautism. As a treat.
But yeah when I was jotting it down I realized it too. Like wow, I really hit this one with the autism beam. Me and you, Willy, we will both have adamantine opinions. I cannot condone your hatred of apples but you do have a good point about oak trees.
98 notes · View notes
triglycercule · 30 days ago
Text
ok horror didn't go through all the different hundreds and thousands of resets that dust (and killer) went through sure but like. he went through something id consider pretty similar???? because through 7 years there HAD to have been a plethora of humans falling down into horrortale like we can see the countless amount of people that died there in toriel's home or in blue snow or in grillby's or even just that first human that aliza hides behind when she first enters snowdin!!!!!!!
and (i dont really know where this rant is going i will not lie 💀) horror (the prick he is) has to see all these humans he has to meet them and introduce him to all of them and at what point does it just turn into routine for him?? they all just blend into one skin colored bipedal figure and the only important part of them are their insides (which i could go on and on about how gross that probably is 🙁🙁) and how them eventually all fall to their deaths
everyone in horrortale is far too gone to particularly care anyways if aliza wasn't so smart and lucky (plot armor SMH) nobody except horror and paps would probably remember her name. and horror would only remember to add a name to the list of "spices" that are in papyrus's spaghetti and then forget it all again. it's all just an endless cycle of human falls down and eventually dies. nobody in horrortale cares enough (if the human doesnt make some sort of big event happen like how aliza stood up to undyne (i doubt snowdin monsters gaf about her b4 that aside from eating her)) and in the end theyll just turn into food again and then the cycle repeats. its kinda like a reverse dusttale (❓❓❓) where instead of the monsters dying over and over to the human's hands it's humans dying over and over to horror's hands
and now that i've established that 🤓👆 time to tie the trio into this! i mean technically dusttale is a loops of both those things happening with the human killing the underground over and over and then dust killing them in the end??? so i think both dust and horror could relate to that?????
a repeated cycle of a human entering the underground and eventually dying,,,, feeling everything go back to a fixed state (literally with dust's resets and a bit more metaphorically with snowdin not caring all that much in horrortale)
having to start off disgusted with killing and then eventually learning to find enjoyment in it (likely because satisfaction of death is the only reprise from the repetitive slog and boredom that is their aus),,,,
somehow feeling guilt for everyone in their world because of what you've doomed them to by your own hands but also being over it and having grown apathetic. theyre still alive. dust sees his underground alive all the time and so does horror his underground's still (mostly) alive. but dust's underground doesnt survive longer than a few minutes now when they see eithe him or the human (so does it even count as life or is it just a barely fufilled light snuffed out) and horror practically already considers them all dead men walking and theyll all probably die one day anyway with how things are in horrortale so whats the point in even trying and doing something fufilling when everything is so so so shit??? (on dust's end this next similarity is ambiguous :3)
& also what they did to their respective papyruses and how they feel??? ik horror probably feels like shit for tricking papyrus into eating humans but he did the right thing (in his eyes. his EYE). he made the right choice to trick him even if it was bad it was the only thing he could do to help snowdin (sure as hell better than undick's choice to try and use him as cannon fodder for the core) and dust i feeeeel would have a similar thought process. papyrus shouldnt die he doesnt deserve to die but its what needs to be done. he's giving papyrus the longer end of the stick by killing him because its better than being killed by the HUMAN. he doesnt like it but he does it anyway because its what "needs" to be done!!! more similarity,,,,,,, esuaghhhh mtt parallel,,,,,,,
how many more similarities can i milk out. i dont know but anyways i doubt they'd bother talking to eachother about their feelings on this because gawddamn these guys and vulnerability!!! horror wouldn't tell a soul (especially not some freak version of him that killed everyone with some cheap excuse that it was to save them from some freaky human that dust swears he should remember but doesnt. but for the sake of this rant just pretend they dont know about eachother's lore :3) about what he did and what happened in horrortale because THATS HIS BUSINESS!!! dont stick ur head into stuff that youre not involved in PRICK he never gave permission for dust to know that
and dust wouldn't tell either because (i think!!! this part is just me fanonizing dust's reason necessary for this part of my silly horrordust rant. also obligatory "this is all my fanon interpretation of them" because i ran out of space in tags) he doesn't think horror would relate nor would be care. he's gotten too used to not telling anybody what he's doing or why or explaining himself to those he knows and loves back in dusttale so why would he even tell any of that to some random stranger with his only connection to him being that they both used to be the same person b4??
he wouldn't horror wouldn't and they both live in not so blissful ignorance about eachother and just how similar they are. or maybe they only know surface level and make up assumptions and stereotypes because they dont care enough or simply just dont have any attachment invested into eachother to want to actually think things through
TRIGLYCERCULE THIS IS TOO LONG I DIDN'T READ!!!!!! ok 🤣🤣🤣 tldr horror has many parallels and similarities with dust that would only be realized by them if they got self aware enough (which like. when is that ever happening). maybe if they cared enough and liked eachother enough they'd probably bond over their shared similarities,,,,,,,, aka by hunting down horrortale frisk
#guess what song inspired this. no need to guess it was uminaoshi by maretu#i can just imagine him saying the last chorus in the song to aliza..... getting into his feels of faint pessimistic hope of her saving them#and then he just turns around and says the probably part. to distract from the fact that he was getting into his emotions#sure you can save us. sure you'll make us happy. all because you've done nothing wrong right? probably.#ignoring the fact that the song is about a girl giving birth repeatedly with the baby dying repeatedly just so she can get it right#i think the song fits horror preeeetty well!#the coward's easy way out as an mtt fan is saying horror is different from killer and dust#but the chad alpha mtt fan would say theyre all similar to eachother#is horror REALLY that different from dust and killer??? IS HE?????? not particularly#mtt all peak because they all connect with eachother SO well TRUST TRUST#i had this thought under hrkl mentality but maybe it could apply to all of the trio but#horror and dust have killed countless humans. i probably need to touch up my smthnew lore but killer only 1 (chara)#and bc he hasnt done much in the human factor of murder he might ask hrdt about it to see what its like#and maybe imagine it was chara he was killing perchance who knows maybe he'll project their experiences onto himself#imagine all the different ways he would've killed chara if he didn't have one risky shot to end them there#and its all thanks to horrordust's insightful experiences! thanks fellas!#again this is under the assumption that killer's only killed ONE human#but (again) since hrdt are desensitized to blood and gore and guts and stuff#and killer hasnt. would he be like. gore sensitive. cannot handle the sight of human death#he can handle monster dust sure fine! can he handle seeing acids and blood and organs spill out of a body#it remind him of chara and when he killed them. it was cathartic. but also he killed THEM. it was a conflicting moment#maybe a part of him would like it maybe a part of him wouldnt. both for the same reason that it reminds him of them#that last sentence is intriguing i should ponder that more. mtt hunt down ht frisk when and how and why and what lead up to it and#this is what my horror analysis google doc looks like. disgustingly long and rambling paragraphs#tricule analysis#horror sans#dust sans#murder time trio#utmv#sans au
16 notes · View notes
kuroosdarling · 1 year ago
Text
hello friendz !! i am packing my bags and moving to @tetzoro !!! please come join me if ya want ^_^
back to navi.
54 notes · View notes
softquietsteadylove · 21 days ago
Note
Love that broken up au. Maybe we can get some more? 🥹
love your works.🫶🏻
"Wow, it really looks the same."
It felt the same, watching Gil walk into Seri's old flat. It was hers now, but it felt just like when they used to all spend time together. Of course, it wasn't just her breakup with Gil which had put a damper on that. Sersi and Ikaris' split had been far more damaging.
Perhaps that was part of why Thena had always wanted to keep her split with Gil as civil as possible. Despite it being the single most devastating event of her life.
"I like what you've done with it, though," he smiled, pointing at some of the small additions she'd made, things on the wall or little historical things on the shelves.
She smiled, hanging up her coat, "thanks. You know how to make yourself at home."
"Sure," he tossed over his shoulder, slipping his hands in his jeans pockets as he drifted aimlessly into the living room.
Thena bent to get her heels off. She smiled; Gil had taken off his boots and carefully lined them up with the rest of her shoes on the doormat. It was nothing short of heartwarming, and that was not what she needed to be feeling at the moment.
They were two friends--just two people, reconnecting. It didn't have to be more than that. She had kissed him, and then he had gone and really kissed her back. But she shouldn't have. They weren't here to get back together.
But she had missed him. Seeing him in front of her again made her feel it in her bones how much she had missed everything about him. It was like seeing the glow of home after being away in the dark and cold.
Gil turned back to her, hovering in the middle of the room, wondering what she would do.
She tried not to seem like she was fidgeting as she moved sideways into the kitchen. "Have a seat. Do you want tea--or coffee?"
"You have coffee?" he asked immediately.
She rifled needlessly in her tea jar, facing away from him. "I may not drink it, but everyone else does."
It was a good enough excuse. And it kept her from having to admit that it was because she associated the smell of it with him, and every once in a while she would unseal the airtight container just for a smell of it. Because that would not be the behaviour of someone who was completely over her ex-boyfriend.
She put the kettle on, scooping some coffee for Gil and tea for herself. "You still drink it black?"
"Yep," he grinned back at her. He sat himself on the far end of her couch, leaning against the armrest. "Brings back memories, huh?"
Perhaps too many. But if he could reminisce about happier times then so could she (she decided). She left the kettle to boil and moved into the living room with him. "It certainly does."
"I remember when Sersi first got this place," Gil chuckled, crossing his arms and angling himself towards her at the other end. "All of us helping her move in."
"It was quite a day," Thena smiled at the memory. She could recall flashes of them all together, making light work of things, helping before things became complicated and their careers had completely consumed some of their lives. "I knew Ikaris was disappointed that she asked us to help as well."
"Guy was so obvious," Gil shook his head, rolling his eyes. He snorted, "gave me and Druig attitude all day because of it."
"That does rather sound like him," Thena lamented about her cantankerous brother. Not that she could claim to be any less unpleasant.
"I'm glad she stayed in this place," Gil added somewhat more sullenly, "after they split."
Their breakup had been...messy. There was an animosity there that hadn't escaped any of their friend group, no matter how much Sersi had attempted to keep their private affairs private. "I am too. I told him he was lucky I didn't kill him myself, but Sersi always insisted it wasn't his fault."
Gil scoffed, as did she. He turned himself more towards her, even scooched closer to her on the couch. "Did he ever tell you...?"
"No," she shook her head. It was no lie, if he had, she would have told Gil at least. "He still maintains they simply drifted apart until there was no repairing it. Unfortunately, I am well aware that he can keep things to himself to such a degree that he even he forgets then."
She was like that too.
But Gil didn't point any fingers. He shrugged one of his massive shoulders, "We've all got our own stuff to sort out. Maybe it was best for them that they did it apart from each other."
That was what they had ultimately decided for themselves, too--that there was too much else consuming them to give their relationship the care and time it deserved. She scooched closer to him as well. "I agree."
"But hey, I like Dane," Gil brightened again, hoping to draw up the mood. "Seems like a nice guy, maybe kind of quiet."
She smiled. She did like Dane, and he seemed like a good match for Sersi--so good she was ready to move in with someone for the first time since Ikaris. "Everyone is quiet standing next to you."
Gil laughed from his belly. On her bad days, she would wonder why it was always so loud. Now, she yearned to hear more of it. "Guilty, but I don't think that's it. He's more...thoughtful, like he really thinks about what he says before he says it."
She laughed faintly, unable to resist Gil's natural, easy charisma. "I have found that as well. Dane is considerate in a way I don't think my brother is capable."
She sometimes wondered if she was capable of it.
"You seen her lately--Sersi?" Gil asked, moving closer again. She did the same, merely to hear him better. "I haven't gotten to catch up with her since - probably - a few months ago?"
"I saw her a week ago, maybe two," Thena confirmed. They were approaching the line between the two long cushions which composed her modestly sized sofa. She didn't know what would happen when they met in the middle. "She's doing well. Her classroom is already decorated for the coming holidays."
"It's almost two months away!" Gil squawked, but then laughed again, offering her ears a deserved enrichment. "I should have known, she loves that stuff."
She did. Sersi was much like Gil in how warm they were and the gentle nature their hearts shared. Thena had often wondered how a sweet soul like Sersi had ended up with her adamant and immovable twin brother. When she got together with Gil, she had to wonder the same thing, but no longer wanted the answer.
"Even the children have told her it's too early," she added, recalling the devastation on Sersi's face even just recounting the story. "She's handled the transition from younger children to pre-teens well, though."
"Dane teaches sixth, right?" Gil asked, to which she nodded. "She won't admit it, but I still think she agreed to teach a higher grade because her new class would be across the hall from Dane's."
That was exactly the reason. She had drunkenly confessed it to her and Makkari late one girls' night. But Thena kept her lips sealed, in the metaphorical sense, "I suppose we'll never know."
"I'll get it out of her one day," he shrugged. He had always been somewhat of an older brother type within their friend group. It had always been something she admired about him. Even as an only child, he had a strong sense of protectiveness. It had always been attractive to her. "Thena?"
"Hm?"
"Water's boiling," he pointed.
As soon as he did, she realised the water was, in fact, screaming throughout the apartment. She rushed to take it off the burner, alarmed that she hadn't been aware of it in the slightest.
She poured it over their drinks, trying to calm her flustered heart. There was no reason for her to be so unnerved--they were just two old...companions. They were catching up, convalescing in a friendly way. There was nothing on the line, here.
But then why did she feel she had so much more to lose?
After making sure her hands weren't shaking, she picked up the mugs and padded back to the coffee table. She set hers down first. She smiled again; Gil had pulled out coasters for both of them. When he had developed these habits was beyond her. "And for you."
"Thanks." His hands rose to accept the mug from her. He didn't have to, and she almost told him not to let his hands get burned. But he had always shown off how much endurance his hands really had. He let his palm take the bottom of the mug while his fingers brushed against hers to secure the handle.
She had once asked if he still had the sensation of touch in his hands, and then he had proven to her that he very much did.
She rushed to sit down again, avoiding a look that she really doubted he gave all of his friends. She cleared her throat, reaching for her mug. "So, you hired some new help at the restaurant?"
He puffed through his nose, the steam from his coffee bending from it. He gulped down the boiling hot liquid without so much as blinking. "Yeah--finally, I mean. It's nice to have the extra help, and they're actually pretty decent at things."
"Hm," she offered lightly. She also took a sip, mostly to occupy her hands and her mouth. Her tongue got terribly burned from the heat of it but she kept quiet. "Did you ever hear from the friends you abandoned the other night?"
When they had run into each other and spontaneously gotten a late night coffee and then kissed?
"Yeah, they gave me some shit for it, but whatever," he waved off easily, taking more sips steadily. "I mean I'm not a young, dumb twenty-something. I don't think I even like partying with those guys anymore, they're just the only ones my schedule could actually align with."
Because they were always up for going out and getting drunk, their own jobs be damned. They didn't have early morning prep, or classes, or papers to edit.
"Did you mention," Thena paused, wondering if even asking the question was really a good idea. She shifted in her seat somewhat. They were awfully close to that line between them. "Running into me?"
Gil also looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "No, I, uh, just said I ran into a friend."
"Hm," she nodded, trying to disguise her anxious habit of playing with her hair by looking back into the kitchen. "Maybe for the best."
"Yeah," he moved that final last bit. he was all but sitting on the crack between the cushions, now. "Uh, Thena..."
"Maybe-"
"Would you-"
They both blurted it out at the same time, again. She set her mug down, although it left her hands vulnerable. She clasped them together. "Sorry, you go."
He chuckled, reaching for her hand. "Look, I don't...really know what this is either."
Her heart hammered.
"But that's okay, right? We don't have to figure that out right away?" He asked her genuinely, looking hopeful, although she wasn't sure what answer he really wanted.
She wanted to be cynical and believe this was his way of not wanting to label things despite their complicated history. Perhaps that failed relationship of his hadn't been his last foray into dating. Meanwhile she hadn't managed to conjure a single warm feeling for anyone but the man in front of her.
But she also didn't know what this meant for them. And she wasn't ready for him to find out that he was still the greatest love of her life, and that she had been prepared to bear that knowledge for the rest of her single life.
"Right," she agreed, although she sounded breathless. He had a point, though. She also wouldn't know what to say about them seeing each other, no matter in what capacity. They weren't getting back together, but she wouldn't say they were denying that it could happen either. At least, she wasn't, but she also couldn't afford to let her hopes get too high.
"Okay then," he smiled. It was so warm, and he always spoke so softly with her. His hand laid over hers more heavily, squeezing her fingers. "Is this okay?"
She nodded, and tilted her head up into the gentle kiss. For people not getting back together, the number of times they had kissed was getting awfully high. But she couldn't help but savour them, seeing how she didn't have the power to resist them anyway.
7 notes · View notes
sapphicautistic · 2 months ago
Text
gonna have a tiny breakdown trying to figure out what to wear to this funeral tomorrow
1 note · View note
yoshistory · 7 months ago
Text
my former therapist told me "everything you are and become and will be is something learned; you cant be something if you didn't learn it somewhere. nothing is inherent about anyone, except for something genetic" and honestly it is still messing with me on some level
#like i knew this technically but it still doesnt feel right. something about that feels wrong to me#its for everything like. good and bad about a person#but it gives me this sense of wanting to go back and find the original. does that make sense#if everyone learns something somewhere .. who was the first to do it. and why did it happen that way#yknow what i mean? i imagine this progenitor of all things good and evil about a person#i think the answer to this question is: does that matter? and.. i dont know that it does#like .. can it be quantified? no. but thats the same for most everything thats personal qualia like that#maybe what matters is who YOU learned it from. and what happened to have that occur. and what it means to you#but i still dont like that interpretation of personhood. even if its like scientific and true and shit or whatever.#makes me feel mechanical and not in control of myself instead of someone who's organic and can make my own decisions about my life#but i mean like. i taught people stuff yknow. we all do. right. but like. idk. it makes me feel like im not my own person#and maybe its like. part of wanting to ''feel special''. but i dont like the limelight. i think im really an average joe#i just want to feel like i have control of myself and who i am. and thats why my name feels like its so important to me. yknow what i mean#like i have to think about it a lot. but when nothing about me is original or inherent .. then i feel like im like. nothing#but i guess its like throwing stones or something. not the first stone thrown right. not the first stone in this pond#not the first with this composite. and not the last#but someone threw you that day and you landed somewhere and you eroded this way and you tumbled that way. and you're you#you're like every apple that grows right. not the first on this tree or in that soils or by that farmer.#not the first apple grown under the sun. but you grew and someone eats you#not the first apple eaten by this person. but you got snacked on then and there. and thats what matters about it right.#like whats happening right now. what am i doing about it instead of trying to do something out of my control about the nature of being#wow. i made myself feel better. thanks for reading
1 note · View note
barabones · 2 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
I forget exactly where I saw the initial post asking for volunteers, but on July 10th, I reached out to the listed email. Jane, the organizer, got back to me right away and within an hour I was added in their discord.
Up until this point, I had been maintaining an average 8 ESims myself, so I already had experience checking in on them on a daily basis. The folks there helped me onboard with the spreadsheets for keeping track, and now it's very easy for me to catalog new ones I buy and record daily data usage. The whole process takes me maybe 20-40 minutes a day depending now on how many ESims actually need to be topped off.
Jane has been very up front with lots of the group's information, with frequent announcements about the groups current funds and amounts of daily ESims sent out. She and the others have been super helpful with getting funds to us when needed, and I've almost never had to actually spend any of my own money for any of this.
Tumblr media
In the time that I've been volunteering, they figured out how to run a Business account with the Nomad ESim company. Which means that now and then they can just send 15 or so ESims my way, and I just catalog them and send the QRcodes towards Mirna and the Connecting Gaza folks. No more wasting time with the purchasing process, while getting a bit of a bulk discount on top of that.
We also share updates on whatever brand of ESims are most needed. When folks on the ground tell us that one network doesn't seem reliable, we are able to switch over for a while until either the networking issue is fixed, or we all pressure customer service enough to replace them for us.
There's also lots of complaining about new UI updates an general website bugs. There's surprisingly a lot of them and it's good to know other folks are getting info from customer service when things go wrong.
In August they made a meme channel
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Anyways....
Tumblr media
Lets get into some stats for myself. In 2 months (July 10- Sept12) I have:
Send off 171 ESims
Maintained around 60 active ones
Topped up these active ESims 139 times
Spend over $6400 donated dollars
I have multiple power users who have burned through close to 100GB. 2 of them have broken 200GB. These are most likely being used as hot spots.
Tumblr media
Why am I sharing all of this? Mostly to show how easy it has been to make a marginal difference. I have helped at least 60 people stay connected with the outside world in just 2 months. Probably more if we assume some of the power users becoming hotspots for other folks. This is 20-40 minutes of my time a day, and I honestly regret not signing up to do this sooner.
I was specifically limiting myself to this workload because I wanted to test the waters. Those stats was me specifically not wanting to push myself and see what impact a normal person could make with 20 minutes a day. At this point I think I will be taking more advantage of Nomad's Tuesday discounts to really bulk up my numbers. It's pretty easy to buy 15 or so every Tuesday, and then send em over.
If you would like to join us in this endeavor, please reach out to Jane at cripsforesimsforgaza(at)gmail
We are specifically looking for people in European time zones, since a lot of us are in the Americas and that's quite a difference between us and Gaza. If not, that's no problem!
If you can't participate, that's totally fine, but please donate what you can! Folks like you are the ones who keep us going!
Tumblr media
I hope this information has been useful in some way. Like I said, I wish I had heard about this group sooner, with how easy it has been to do. I can track my direct impact of what my daily time is doing for folks, and seeing the data be used up a little bit more day by day gives me hope for everyone in Gaza. Thank you for your time.
7K notes · View notes
luveline · 2 months ago
Note
Sorry if you’ve done this already, but if you’re taking Spencer Reid requests I would love to see one where his wife is struggling with morning sickness and he takes care of her. He has all the medical facts on deck and is the sweetest. 😊
“Morning sickness is super common.” A hand on your back. “It’s not known what the cause is, but they think it has something to do with low blood sugar.” He rubs your shoulder. Fingers spread, a slow side to side. “Because your hormones are changing rapidly, the body isn’t as efficient in processing your blood sugar.“ 
“Spence,” you say, breathing hard with your face in a toilet bowl, “that doesn’t make me feel any better.” 
“What about if I told you that it’s worse with twins?” 
It’s interesting.
You’re not having the most exciting of pregnancies. Some people get pregnant and feel that connection to the baby instantly, their foetus the size of a strawberry and somehow a whole world. 
So far yours just makes you sick. “I think there’s something wrong with me.” 
“Probably not.” 
Spencer hoists you back from the bowl. He clambers off of his knees to close the lid, flush, and turn to the sink where he washes his hands. You put a hand on the lid, not so sure you’re finished throwing up, but Spencer tends to know. He’s a good guess. 
“Here, dove,” he says softly, offering a face towel wet with warm water. 
He tried to wipe your face down himself last time and you couldn’t hide how much you didn’t want him to do that. He’s kind, and the gesture is sweet, but you’re feeling less human than ever lately. An in depth analysis of your face isn’t in the books for him. 
You hold the towel in both hands and drop your head. 
“Let me help you up.” 
“I’m gonna just live here, actually.”
“I don’t think so. You’re too cute to live on the floor,” Spencer says, not even slightly ironic, “you have to live in bed like every other adorable woman.” 
“I don’t feel adorable.” 
“You wouldn’t. Your organs are moving and your skin is stretching, and the valves in your veins are becoming fatigued.” 
“Awesome.” 
Spencer holds both arms out to you and helps you stand. Your head pulses, forcing you to rest your head against Spencer’s arm for a few seconds while you come around properly. 
“You’ve never been this beautiful, though,” Spencer says softly, “you really do glow.” 
“Thanks,” you say, your laugh muffled in his shirt. 
“It’s because your blood flow has increased all over your body. Maybe. It’s probably just because you’re you and you’re having our baby and…” Spencer lets his head drop gently atop your own. “You know. You’re the loveliest woman I’ve ever met.”
“Even when I’m sick as a dog?” you ask. 
“At all times… you know what I said earlier, about your blood flow? You know what else that causes?” 
You bring your arms up to curl them protectively behind his neck. He takes your waist. “What?” you ask his neck. 
“Your heart doubles in size.” 
“That happened when I met you.” 
“I think being pregnant has made you flirt more,” Spencer says fondly. 
“Nope. Just a side effect of all these certified Reid facts.” You know what he’s doing, distracting you from your nausea with other things. It’s working slowly, and you appreciate the effort. You might not feel a big connection yet to your baby, but you never feel alone.  
2K notes · View notes
momxian · 3 months ago
Text
AU where Shen Yuan gets transmigrated as an Original Character into the Demon Realm a few years before Bingge gets there. But even though he's not SQQ, he LOOKS like a near exact copy. So he figures that if he wants to survive he needs to make himself useful. First things first, he needs to know what the hell is going on, so he starts working with lower level demons setting himself up as someone necessary, and relatively important so he can figure out when in the plot they are. It's pretty easy, there's not much in the way of organization down here and despite everything he's not that bad an actor. It helps that SQJ's face is beautiful in every setting and he will quickly create a reputation of the stubborn beauty amongst the demon realm. It's around this time he starts wearing a veil to mask his resemblance to SQJ, but really it just adds to the mysterious allure aspect.
He utilizes his plot knowledge to get things ready for Binghe's arrival, tidying up the palace, setting up good staff, getting rid of some of the smaller villains that kidnap Ning Yingying and Liu Mingyan etc later. Actually a lot of smaller villains who kidnap, harass or belittle Bingge's harem. It's like every time he's running an errand he meets another piece of cannon fodder that will inevitably lead Bingge to another papapa scene. It's fine, by the time he's done with them (thank god this body doesn't have the same limitations as his old one) they follow him around with big demon puppy eyes and scramble to do chores and tasks for him.
By the time the Endless Abyss moment is set to happen, SY has thorough knowledge of the abyss and all of the special items tucked away in various locations across it. You can't be mad and murder someone who helped you through the torture torment evil maze of plot relevant trauma, right?
He finds Bingge post fall and does his best to act callous and only vaguely helpful, leading Bingge in the right direction and away from the biggest threats. His goal is to be a helpful and forgettable NPC. Someone who, if he runs into him again, Bingge will have mercy for and be left alone. Despite his resemblance to SQJ. But what he doesn't take into account is A) in no version of this story is he capable of being that hands off and B) Bingge was just shown kindness for the first time in years by a mysterious and elusive beauty with brilliant eyes and an obvious intelligence.
Since this is Bingge and not Binghe, he doesn't immediately fall for SY, and is in fact wildly paranoid, terrified and angry about things in general. But every time something seems to go wrong in the abyss, instead of taking the hits and becoming the stallion protagonist, SY shows up to give him a magic item, or rushes in to protect him from fatal blows and on two separate occasions thoughtlessly petted Bingge's hair when he was injured, which rattled Bingge so bad that he almost died again fighting the next monster.
Shen Yuan is gone often enough that he still makes his way to the Demon Palace, collects Xin Mo and builds his harem, though it's smaller than it was originally. Mostly because SY had taken out the smaller villains and then because SY had interfered with Bingge's quests so often.
Obviously Shen Yuan has a soft spot for Bingge now but doesn't admit it. But he's satisfied he can slip away now without too much consequence, except no he can't. Bingge asks for him, to collect something for him. To ask him something about another demon. To just stare at him for a half hour with a vein about to pop in his forehead as he tried to see through the veil before huffing and sending him away again.
Since Bingge is obviously not going to let him slip away, and SY isn't sure if Bingge is going to kill him or not he desperately makes himself useful again. He takes care of Bingge's harem. That's a lot of housing and food and clothes to take care of! The girls fight often! He'll just slip into the mix and keep the peace until Bingge forgets about him. And in the meantime sometimes he tends to Bingge and he and Bingge have dinner together. And isn't it so cute how the stallion protagonist can blush when he compliments the dish? And once or twice he combs out Bingge's hair. And sometimes Bingge rubs the scowl from between Shen Yuan's brows and lets his finger outline his jaw over the silk of his veil when SY is tending to tedious business.
Yeah, I'm sure one of these days Bingge will let you slip away SY.
Anyway Bingge is just relieved that Shen Yuan has accepted that he's part of the harem now.
1K notes · View notes
leilakisakabiri · 3 months ago
Text
Cut The Camera (LN)
Summary: Working as a reporter at the Miami Grand Prix when your boyfriend wins it.
Warning(s): None.
A/N: She's back! and with an F1 story of all things. Requests are open.
Word Count: 1.3k+
Masterlist
Tumblr media
It was a warm day in May and you and your team were gearing up for another race weekend, this time in Miami.
Since Miami was the home base of your organization, and also your hometown, you decided to take the trip over from Monaco a few days earlier than everyone else.
That meant you had also left Lando behind, promising to see him once the race weekend started.
You wanted to spend some time with your family before work took over.
Now the weekend had arrived and you were busy getting ready in the garage, running through your pre-race questions and attaching your mic.
You were beyond excited. This would be the first time since you began working with F1 that a race would be held in your hometown and you had the opportunity to interview the drivers. Nothing could go wrong.
Pre-race questions went off without a hitch and you were able to interview at least three different teams drivers, which was a win for you.
Of course, you interviewed Lando, who was more than eager to answer any questions you had for him. In reality, he was just excited to see you again after being apart for a week.
"Good luck today." You gave him a genuine smile that the camera couldn't pick up.
He grinned back, handing you back the microphone, hand lingering on top of yours for a second too long, "Thanks. Feeling good about this one."
Since you had started dating six months ago, the longest the two of you had been away from each other was only a measly two days when Lando took a quick trip to London - other than that you had been attached at the hip. Of course both of you working in the same place and traveling to the same locations helped significantly.
However, although the staff at McLaren and around the pit were used to you two being affectionate, the rest of the world was not.
To them you were just y/n, the F1 reporter, who interviewed drivers and had no relations to anyone outside of that. They had never even seen you and Lando interact outside of work. Half the fans didn't know your name, so you flew under the radar pretty effectively.
You and Lando had been talking about the possibility of making your relationship a bit more public, nothing crazy, but just something small so people got the hint that he might be seeing someone. You wanted a soft launch, in hopes of reducing scrutiny, and Lando just wanted whatever you did.
As you passed the six-month mark in your relationship both of you grew annoyed at the prospect of never getting to be around each other. If you guys went to dinner, you would have to arrive first, and then around 15 minutes later Lando would show up. If you went out in a group, again, one of you would have to go first, with the second trailing behind after a couple of minutes.
You planned to wait until the season ended before making any decisions.
That was until today.
Things slowly started unraveling the closer the race got to finishing. You were sitting in the reporter tent, eyes trained on the monitor with bated breath as you watched Lando take the lead. You couldn't help the smile that broke onto your face when he managed to break through, you clasped your hands together, resting your chin on them while staring at the TV and trying your best to seem unaffected.
You shot out of your chair as the race drew to a close and you had to squeeze your eyes shut to not get overwhelmed with emotion once you heard the crowd start chanting Lando's name and your co-anchor in your earpiece screaming about Lando's first win.
You wanted to celebrate with him, so badly. He had done it. And in Miami no less.
You rushed your team as you tried to get to the barricade to watch the trophy celebration. You saw the McLaren team running to the podium, letting out a laugh once you realized a certain driver had jumped on them.
The entirety of the trophy celebration consisted of you yelling your lungs out cheering for your favorite person while also trying not to cry every time he looked up at the sky in disbelief.
"Y/n we're on in 10 let's head back." Your cameraman yelled over the crowd.
Once the drivers started to trickle back into the paddock after the celebration it was pure mayhem. Everyone was excited about Lando's first win and didn't have much to say in the debriefs leading to very short responses.
Finally, the man of the hour himself, came out drenched head to toe in champagne, a large grin settling onto his features once he spotted you, prompting him to immediately cut his conversation short and making a beeline to you.
He reached out to hug you, eyes twinkling with sheer joy, seemingly forgetting the camera was there, and you had to push his hands away below the camera lens so no one would notice.
His eyes immediately shot up to yours at the rejection, and you hoped he would understand once you started talking,
"Hello, Lando! Congratulations on the win, you're very first! How do you feel?" You couldn't hide the excitement in your voice.
He continued to gaze at you for a beat longer before responding, "It feels amazing. I'm so happy to have won, I feel like our team really put in the effort this week and it paid off. I for one wanted to win this weekend in particular."
You arched an eyebrow, a smile ghosting your lips, "Any reason why?"
His smile mirrored your own, "I've always loved Miami. Think this city has my good luck charm," He boasted.
You felt your cheeks heat up at his response, his boldness taking you off guard, as you moved to hastily tuck your hair behind your ear, his eyes following your every movement.
You glanced back up at him, "What does this win mean for you?"
"It means everything." His words were rushed, almost like he physically couldn't hold them back any longer.
You waited for him to continue, "It means that all the sacrifices my parents had to make, all the years spent helping me, supporting me, and allowing me to chase my dreams even though it was a long shot, finally paid off. It means that I was finally able to make a team proud that has believed in me time and time again even when I gave them reasons not to. This win isn't just for me, it's for every single person who helped me get where I am, every person who made me who I am, and for those who continue to shape the person I'm becoming."
Your heart melted at his answer, and you could see the sincerity and passion so clearly in his eyes that it was hard to form a response,
"Well you earned the title you got today, and I'm sure every person you mentioned is immensely proud of what you've just accomplished. I'll leave you to celebrate with your team."
You wanted to end the interview there. After his emotional response, you weren't sure how much longer you could remain professional.
It seemed Lando had other plans though.
As you reached for his mic, his hand landed on top of yours, stopping you.
"No."
"No?" You looked up confused, but he was already leaning down.
His free hand wrapped around your shoulder, pulling you closer as his other hand pushed the mic against the camera, trying to block the shot.
Your head tilted back in his grip and your hand instinctively wrapped around his shoulder bringing him closer. It took your brain a few seconds to register what was happening, and where, and by then he was already pulling away, tugging you into his side as he looked down with a shit-eating grin.
Your cheeks were pink, and your mouth was slightly open, not believing what just happened.
You looked at your cameraman, and he seemed just as shocked, finally you spoke, voice unsteady, "Cut the camera?"
1K notes · View notes
daechwitatamic · 3 months ago
Text
cherrybomb || csc
Tumblr media
(banner by @sailorrhansol)
cherrybomb seungcheol x afab reader || angst smut fluff || exes2lovers, pacific rim universe NSFW - minors DNI
Summary: Piloting a jaeger requires a rare ability called drifting - a neural connection with your co-pilot. You and Seungcheol are masters of the drift... until you have something in your head that you don't want him to see.
wc: 19.5k
warnings: language, heavy angst with happy ending, fight scenes, fight scenes written by an author with zero fighting or martial arts knowledge lmfao thus they are vague as possible, feelings heavy plot light and smut light, kissing and pretty generic (and brief) p in v smut
Author's note: thank you for @sailorrhansol for 1) accidentally sparking this idea, 2) agreeing to collab with me, 3) reading this along the way and hyping me up, and 4) beta-ing my mistakes, a million smooches for you ily
This fic takes place in the Pacific Rim universe but I honestly don't think you need to know the lore, everything you need to know should be explained. If you think something is unclear without prior pacific rim knowledge, shoot me a message privately and I'll make some edits and credit you for the insight!
Also in this universe: storm breaker by @/sailorhansol
Tumblr media
Teaser:
“Marshall, with all due respect, I don’t know why you’re calling me,” you admit. “You were there. You saw what happened. Seungcheol and I can’t drift anymore.”
“You couldn’t then,” he points out. “That was three years ago. Things that were once too painful to carry into the drift… they’ve had time to mellow.”
He’s wrong, and you want to tell him so. Nothing has mellowed. You love Seungcheol just as much today as you did then.
“Have you talked to him about this?” You’re afraid of the answer. 
The Marshall’s voice hardens, and you can just picture his eyes narrowing. “Mr. Choi will follow orders,” he says evenly, “and so will you. Asking is really just a courtesy.”
“You can’t order us into being able to drift again,” you snap, pulse suddenly pounding in your arms, your hands, your face, your chest. 
“No,” the Marshall says, and any previous friendliness is gone from his voice now, “but I can - and will - order you to try.”
Tumblr media
Playlist: you're the smoke in my gun, blowin' like cherry bombs...
Tumblr media
The first time you ever saw Choi Seungcheol, he was flipping a man four years his senior over his shoulder and slamming him into the ground. Satisfied, he staggered backwards, chest heaving from exertion, eyes narrowed in preparation for the next move.
That’s what Seungcheol did - he leveled whatever was in front of him, and he started watching for what was coming next before the body could even hit the ground.
That’s what made him a great jaeger pilot. Not the brute strength - strong men are dime a dozen, always have been - but the watching.
You’d marked him as your first choice.
You were both nineteen. You’d grown up in the Shatterdome, the only child to a couple who piloted a neon green jaeger named Charron’s Revenge. You knew everything about how jaegers and their teams worked by the time you were nine. You started training to fight years before that. There was never a question that you would follow in your parents’ giant, mechanical footsteps one day. You just needed the right partner.
You needed Seungcheol.
The jaeger program didn’t turn away recruits - everyone could do something - but there was an organized process to match up compatible pilots. Applying recruits would fight before an audience of previously-accepted but currently-unmatched potential pilots. The pilots would rank the fighters, choosing their top five based on perceived potential for compatibility.
Then, the roles would switch. The applicants became the audience. The audience became the show.
When it was your turn to fight, you silently pleaded with the universe that Seungcheol would mark you high as well. This was the only guarantee that you’d get a chance to spar with him, to test it out before the Marshall, who would make the final call.
Let him see, you begged. Let him see how perfectly we’d work together.
And, by some miracle, he did. In fact, he rated you first, as well.
Your sparring match went exactly how you expected - he barreled at you, and you dodged every move. He could easily take you out with a single blow, but he couldn’t get his hands on you, not when you used his own inertia against him at every turn. What you didn’t expect was your own inability to land a shot. For the whole fight, you were unable to move out of the defensive - keeping out of his reach took all of your effort.
It was a draw - the first sign of strong compatibility.
You didn’t talk after the match - your father whisked you away to recover before your second-rated match, and you didn’t see Seungcheol for the rest of the day.
The second-rated match was a dud. But you already knew, even then, that it didn’t matter.
You’d met your co-pilot. You’d found your partner.
He found you in the mess hall that night, dropping into an empty spot on the other side of the table, his tray in his hands. His black hair was loose and wavy, and his right arm sported a sizeable bruise that he definitely didn’t get from you.
“I know who you are,” he said by way of greeting. You raised a brow at him, waiting. “Your parents piloted Charron’s Revenge.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “That better not be why you picked me.”
He gave his head an annoyed little flick. “Of course not. I picked you because you’re fluid - and I’m not.”
Appeased, you felt your hackles settle back down. “That’s true,” you allowed. “You’re not fluid. But you’re purposeful, and-”
You were interrupted when Yoon Jeonghan dropped into the seat to your left, chuckling under his breath as he fixed his long, dark hair into a spiky ponytail at the back of his head.
“Cherry, did you hear?” he asked you, ignoring the new-comer. “The crew for Fatal Rapids got called back in for misconduct.”
“Choi Seungcheol, Yoon Jeonghan,” you said, introducing the two young men. “Hannie does more than gossip, I promise. He’s one of the pilots for Devil’s Advocates. Their drop stats are insane.”
“In practice only,” Jeonghan demurred. “For now.”
“Cherry?” Seungcheol parroted, raising a dark brow. “That’s not what I wrote on my paper earlier.”
“Just a nickname,” you explained. When you were very small, you’d struggled with the name of your parents’ jaeger, calling it Cherry’s Revenge instead of Charron’s, and the crew - who doted on you like their own - started the habit of calling you Cherry. Somehow, it had spread, and stuck. “Only my parents use my real name. But you can call me whatever you’re comfortable with.”
“No,” he said, frowning as if deeply considering his options. “I like it.”
You folded your arms on the table, leaning in to peer at Seungcheol. “So, what’s your story? You’ve heard of me. I haven’t heard of you.”
He shrugged, glanced around, then decided he could talk freely. There’s something about being in a room that’s positively teeming with people and conversation - it gives you privacy without feeling too intimate. You’re not alone.
“Not much of a story, not like you,” he admitted. “I grew up thinking I’d take over my dad’s business. We lost my dad… then, we lost the business. I have no marketable skillset, and university was out of the question. But…” He trailed off, then met your gaze firmly. Something in his look demanded you forgo any pity or sympathy, demanded you take him seriously. “I’m strong. So I came here. I came to fight.”
You sidestepped the bruises he’d bared. “Not like me,” you repeated with a bit of a scoff. “I hate to disappoint you, but my parents are the pilots - the story is theirs. I don’t have one, not yet.”
Something playful glinted in his eyes, the first true sign of personality you’d seen. “So all the rumors about the Princess of the Shatterdome aren’t true?”
Your jaw dropped. You’d heard the nickname before - it was never meant nicely. You tried to ignore it as best you could - people could think what they wanted. When you had a crew, when you had a jaeger, you’d be able to prove them wrong. “What rumors?”
“You’re spoiled,” Jeonghan supplied, having decided he was part of the conversation after all. “Entitled.”
You spluttered as Jeonghan stood, giving you a cheerful pat on the shoulder. “And bitchy! That’s just what I’ve heard. Of course I know better. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Love ya!”
You stared incredulously after him as he disappeared, your face burning with embarrassment and your heart hammering with adrenaline. Fight, your systems told you.
If only you could.
Seungcheol bit back a smile, reaching out to pat your arm placatingly.
“I don’t…” you started to say, but your voice caught in your throat. You cleared it, tried again. “I don’t think I really deserve all that.”
He nodded, lips pushed into a semblance of a thoughtful pout. “What I’d heard,” he said calmly, “is that you’re a hell of a fighter, scary smart, and that you take no shit. Unless it’s from your friends, apparently.”
This made a bitter little laugh bubble from you. You still simmered with humiliation, feared that maybe he’d decide he didn’t want to co-pilot with you after all.
“I think it’s up to you which story gets told,” he said finally.
“Yeah,” you said, nodding. “That’s what I always said. So… let’s get started.”
You and Seungcheol lucked out - the team that had been recalled for misconduct were terminated from their posts in the weeks following the sparring trials, and their jaeger Fatal Rapids had been disassembled, the parts up for grabs.
You and Seungcheol repurposed Rapids’s main frame, your crew working to individualize the bot to your needs as best they could. You splurged on quad-processors for her legs to allow your jaeger to keep up with how you move - quick and lithe. Seungcheol lobbied for (and won) some extra power in the top half, and you compromised and chose a mix of red and blue sections for her paintjob.
Duellona Fury, you named her. Duellona for you, the destroyer. Fury for Seungcheol, because that was where his fight came from.
You got to know Seungcheol’s fury very well. Especially when you started trying to drift.
None of it happened fast - not the building of your machine, nor your neural handshake. In fact, you didn’t pilot Duellona Fury together for a whole calendar year.
You started with physical compatibility - you sparred almost all day, every day. You fought - with each other and against each other - until all you could do was lay on the ground and pant, blinking to make the ceiling stay in focus.
Seungcheol may not have grown up training in the Shatterdome the way you did, but he kept up without complaint. You learned his way - force and strength - and he learned the way you favored - to weave and dodge.
The fighting was the easy part.
You had never drifted with someone you had true drift compatibility with. Seungcheol had never drifted at all. The Marshall wouldn’t even consider hooking the two of you up to the machine until you went through the proper training.
On the day you and Seungcheol were officially declared as co-pilots-in-training, you both stood below the half-built shell of your towering jaeger, sparks flying and drills screaming as the crew worked on her.
Your Marshall looked seriously at his new team-in-training. “Starting tomorrow, you’ll meditate together. Talk to each other. Get deep about it. If you’ve talked about it out here-” he swept an arm across the deck, “-it won’t take hold so strongly in there.” He’d jabbed a finger in the upward direction of Duellona Fury.
Seungcheol didn’t look at you, nor the Marshall. Instead, he kept his eyes on Duellona's unfinished frame, stories above you. “Yes, Sir,” he said steadily.
Your parents weren’t technically retired yet, the year you and Seungcheol started training together. Charron’s Revenge still sat in the well below the Shatterdome. They still lived on the base, still took part in daily training. They hadn’t been called into a fight in years, though; the assignments went to the younger crews.
You took dinner in their quarters instead of the mess hall, that night.
“Congratulations,” your father said warmly from across the table. “You worked hard to get here.”
“Thank you,” you said, feeling shy beneath the praise. “I hope the drift will work for me and Choi Seungcheol.”
“What do you think of him?” your mother had asked, her sharp eyes honing in on you, watching your reactions.
“I think he’s a great fighter,” you said. “The rest… I guess I’ll have to learn.”
“Do you trust him? Can you trust him out there, when the sea and the wind are trying to knock you down, and hell itself rises up from the depths?”
You swallowed. She’s right for her intensity - they will be putting their daughter’s life in her co-pilot’s hands, every time there’s a fight. You knew firsthand how terrifying it was to stand in the tech bay and wait, not knowing if your loved ones will make it back.
You thought about how you and Seungcheol fight together in the sparring rooms. You thought about how you weaved and your opponent followed your movement, only to be knocked sideways. You thought of how Seungcheol followed your motion backwards, ducked in tandem with you to avoid a hit, and how you followed his momentum forward and up to attack. Your bodies followed each other like they were magnetized. And Seungcheol was always watching for the next hit.
“Yes,” you said, so quietly that you cleared your throat and said it again. “Yes, I trust him.”
“Then we wish you luck,” your father said, and raised his glass. “To Duellona Fury.”
“To Duellona Fury,” you echoed.
On your way out of the quarters, later, you slowed as you passed the wall where they hung their accolades and awards, the newspaper clippings, photos, and medals. Before your eyes they aged - the photographs changing through the years, no longer showing a bright, fiery couple, instead displaying proof of passing time: a baby bump, then a toddler, then a child beaming alongside them as if she’d done what they had done; greying hairs, softening bodies, deepening of wrinkles. Then the pictures stopped.
You never asked them if they missed it.
You and Seungcheol started meditating together the next morning; it seemed logical to begin at the easiest step. In an empty sparring room, you sat facing each other, knees touching.
“Have you done this before?” you asked, as you both settled in, shifting weight and adjusting ankles.
“Not with someone else,” he admitted, lips protruding in a bit of a pout. “Only alone.”
You nodded. You’d grown up learning all of this - the right way to fight as a team member, how to be in tune for a neural connection. It led to you teaching Seungcheol often - yet when you fought together, any leadership fell away.
“Normally,” you explained, “you focus on your breath, keeping your mind clear. But for our practice, you want to focus on our breath. We breathe together. And when your mind wanders, your awareness should be coming to peace with my presence there. Like, making a path for the neural connection - for later. So there’s no resistance.”
“Have you done this before?” Seungcheol asked.
You wobbled your head around - not yes, but not no. “I’ve practiced it - I’ve done the meditation with partners. But I’ve never moved forward to an actual drift with anyone.”
This seemed to appease him, and he settled his weight backwards, letting his hands rest near his knees.
You let your eyes float closed and inhaled, listening and feeling for Seungcheol’s inhale to end, letting your breath out when he did. It took no time to match your breaths, to let your mind go blissfully quiet. You focused on feeling open, readable - any thought that floated through your mind, you pretended he could hear, too. You tried to feel and release any defensiveness, any urge to close off.
When the timer went off, it surprised you. You opened your eyes, and the feeling that struck you was this -
It was surprising to see Seungcheol before you. It hadn’t felt like he was beside you. It had felt like he was you.
You meditated, you fought, and finally, you talked.
Laying on the sparring room floor, your head somewhere near Seungcheol’s shins, he asked you, “Where do you wish you were right now? If you weren’t here.”
You laughed at yourself before answering, knowing how silly you would sound. “In a tree.”
A disbelieving smile played on his lips, almost as if he wasn’t sure you weren’t making fun of him somehow. “A tree?”
“No, really,” you insisted, still smiling a little. “There’s not a lot of nature here, in case you didn’t notice. I grew up in the Dome - never got to leave, much.”
Seungcheol didn’t respond to this, just nodded like he understood, his small smile going a bit tight around the edges.
You frowned, reading him exactly. “You think I’m sheltered,” you observed. It wasn’t a question. He couldn’t say no.
He looked at you, then. “You were sheltered,” he said, voice low. “But when I say it, I don’t mean naive. I just think… there’s a lot of world out there. A lot of things to see. You won’t see any of it if you spend your entire life under the Dome.”
You nod, accepting this. “I won’t see any of it if it gets destroyed, either. There’s a lot of world out there - that we’re trying to keep safe.”
Seungcheol watched you intently for a moment, lips downturned and gaze heavy. Then, he asked, “Have you ever seen a kaiju? I mean - in person?”
“Sort of,” you mumbled.
He’d rolled from his back to his front, closer to you, putting you shoulder to shoulder. “Kind of seems like a yes-or-no question.”
Your lips twisted. “Then, no. But I’ve stood in the bay and listened to Mission Control talk my mom and dad through a fight dozens of times, watched Charron’s Revenge on the screens and prayed I wouldn’t see her get sawed in half.”
You stopped, trailed a finger through the thin layer of dirt on the floor. “I know it’s not the same as looking one in the face myself,” you whispered. “But the fear… shouldn’t that fear count, shouldn’t it feel the same?”
Seungcheol swallowed, trailed his own finger through the dirt until his fingertip just barely touched yours. It felt like energy sizzled in the centimeter between your pointer and his.
“When Menaceclaw attacked,” he said, “he missed my home by one block. We watched him go by from the sidewalk. I wasn’t even as tall as his foot. But even with him towering over the buildings, taking them down without even trying, I don’t think what I felt was afraid. I think I just felt resigned. Like I knew, at seven, that even though we survived this one… nothing was going to be… the same, or okay. I don’t know.”
“You knew what you lost,” you said quietly. “Part of you did.”
He looked up at you, nudged his finger into yours. “You never knew anything different. It wasn’t a loss. The fear was just always part of the deal.”
You rolled sideways, laying your head on your bicep for a pillow, regarding the dark-eyed, dark-haired young man across from you. His face scrunched in a laugh, brows furrowing and lips pouting.
“What?” he asked through the quiet laugh. “Why are you looking at me?”
“What else?” you mused. “What else am I going to find when we go tiptoeing through your memories?”
He smiled faintly and then mirrored you, laying his head on his arm, his eyes swimming as he thought.
“A lot of my family, probably,” he said. “A lot of fighting. Menaceclaw. Probably some very mid sex.”
You laughed without meaning to. “My condolences?”
He grinned at you, pleased. “Eh, what can you do? I try to treat everything like a learning experience.”
You laughed again, and his smile grew, gums showing. “What about you?” he asked off-handedly.
“Mid sex?” you asked, eyebrows raising. “I hate to inform you, Choi Seungcheol, but I don’t do anything mid.”
“No,” he protested, laughing, reaching out to gently shake your shoulder. “I meant - what will we see when it’s your turn?”
“The Dome,” you said, half-joking - but it was true. “Training. My parents. Their fights, their accomplishments.”
And, as a true drift partner should, he understood what you weren’t saying.
“We’ll have our turn,” he promised, pushing himself to sit up, then stand, reaching down to help you up. “We’re gonna be fucking unstoppable. Let’s go again.”
Fire sparking behind your ribs, you nodded seriously, then reached up to take his hand.
Weeks of sparring melded into months of meditation and talking. The next phase of training co-pilots was learning to drift in one of the simulators - but not in a jaeger. Not yet.
You and Seungcheol finished training in one of the sparring rooms shortly before dinner would be served in the mess hall.
“Meet you there?” you asked, still half-breathless, your body starting to ache as the adrenaline from a fight melted away.
“Sure,” he agreed, and you disappeared into the changing rooms, scrubbing the sweat and dirt away as quickly as you could. You changed into something clean and made your way to the mess hall.
You scanned for familiar faces, frowning when your normal table seemed to be occupied by a team of new recruits that you didn’t know.
Seungcheol appeared at your elbow, frowning dramatically. “Our table,” he whined.
“There’s Chan and Wylie,” you said, nodding to another corner where your friends sat practically on top of each other. Chan and Wylie had never understood personal space, not when it came to one another. They barely noticed when you and Seungcheol plopped onto the benches next to them, but Seungkwan did.
“You’re bleeding, Cherry,” he said, before inhaling an entire mouthful of rice.
You started to scan your arms - you didn’t feel pain anywhere - but Seungcheol found it first, gingerly swiping his thumb along your cheekbone.
“Sorry, Cherry,” he murmured. “I should’ve pulled that punch.”
“No you shouldn’t have,” you grumbled, swatting at his hand and wiping roughly at the spot, your hand coming away with a small smear of red - nothing to be alarmed about. It would stop on its own. “You pull shots in practice, you’ll hesitate in the field.”
“She’s right,” Chan said from his physical tangle with Wylie. “What you practice will show up in your muscle memory. You’ve got to mean it, every time.”
Wylie reached across his arms and took a bite from his plate, then asked, “Did you guys see the new jaeger?”
“I did,” Seungkwan said eagerly. “Chaser Supernova, or something like that? She’s smaller, but she’s supposed to be fast.”
“Is that her team at our normal table?” you asked dryly, shooting the rookies a dark look over your shoulder. Seungcheol jostled you playfully, sending you a smile that brought you back.
The bench dipped to your left, and you turned to see Soonyoung - one of Seungkwan’s two co-pilots - settle in.
“Talking about Supernova?” he asked, hands busy opening his drink. “They seem okay - they’re a trio, like us.”
“Where is Seokmin?” Seungkwan asked, scanning the room. “I haven’t seen him in like two hours.”
“Talking to Jihoon, I think,” Soonyoung answered absently, focused on his meal. “He lost another co-pilot today.”
“Not again,” you and Seungcheol both blurted, matching levels of exasperation.
“That was freaky,” Wylie said, just as Chan told you, “You two are acting like us, now.”
“We do not need another Chan-and-Wylie,” Seungkwan said seriously, shaking his head.
Seungcheol sent you a sideways, sheepish grin.
“We won’t be,” he promised the group, but his eyes were still on you.
The simulators were built to be exact replicas of the conn-pod, so that trainees could get used to the feeling of being strapped in, of moving with the gear. But the real purpose was to practice the neural handshake without risking damage - to the jaeger, to the tech bay, to each other.
“Don’t be nervous,” you told Seungcheol as the tech team worked around you both like a choreographed dance.
“I’m never nervous,” he said, suddenly cocky.
If you could reach his hand from where you were strapped in, you would have. If you understood anything about Seungcheol - if any part of him mirrored you - it was the way he showcased bravado, the way he used it as his most-familiar mask.
“It’s only practice,” you reminded him. “And it’s only me.”
He licked his lips quickly, eyes darting to the side and then back to you. Then, he gave you a small nod.
“Normally,” your chief tech - a beautiful woman with jet-black hair named Nainsi - told you, “right now, you would be ready for the drop. In the simulator, we skip that step because we aren’t dropping onto a jaeger. Instead, we’ll engage the pilot to pilot connection protocol sequence.”
You and Seungcheol nod in tandem.
“You’re all good?” Nainsi checks. “Then I’m going back into the tech bay - you’ll hear me through the intercom.”
Alone in the simulator, you met Seungcheol’s gaze and couldn’t help the excited grin that spread across your face. Finally, finally you were here. Once you could do this successfully, the next step was to fight in your own jaeger - to drop into Duellona Fury and walk into the sea.
He didn’t return your smile, instead giving you a tight nod, expression serious.
Over the intercom, you said clearly, “Ready and aligned.”
Nainsi answered, “Prepare for neural handshake.”
You took a deep breath and steeled yourself as the artificial voice of the simulator’s tech system spoke around you, 3… 2… 1… neural handshake initiating…
At first, you thought something went wrong. Everything went red behind your eyelids, and you blinked, instinctively trying to clear it away.
The red faded, and you found yourself in Seungcheol’s childhood home. You didn’t know how you knew that - you just knew. It was as familiar to you, inside the drift, as your own. You knew that to your left was a small kitchen with two broken floor tiles; you knew - without having ever seen it - that to your right was a narrow hallway that led to a bathroom and two small bedrooms.
Two small boys played on the carpet; rather, the smaller one played with some toy cars while the other watched the television with rapture. Behind them, at the kitchen table, a woman typed busily on an outdated laptop, bags heavy under her eyes.
Somewhere around you, a voice floated by, telling you, neural handshake strong and holding.
You could see Seungcheol in your periphery - the adult Seungcheol, the Seungcheol of now - as he looked at his mother, his brother, himself.
“It’s not real,” you reminded him gently. “It’s just a memory.”
“I know,” he said back, voice hushed, as if he might scare them away. “It’s just… good to see them.”
The house evaporated as gently as morning dew under a mid-morning sun; you stood in a schoolyard. Seungcheol, the small one, had a bloody lip and a mean swing.
You felt a rush of affection for him - him, the child, face contorting with misplaced anger, using strength as a bandage. You wanted to stand in front of him, between him and the anger, him and the other kids, and let him take a breath. You wanted to tell him to step with his punch to get more power. You wanted to put a hand on his shoulder and tell him, you’re going to be fine.
And he knew all of it, because he was in your mind.
Seungcheol - your Seungcheol - walked away from the swarm of children egging on the fight and opened a door. You followed.
Inside was not the school, but a hospital room. Your body jolted forward, distracting and alarming. You heard, faintly, a series of beeps, that robotic voice needling in your ears, saying, calibration failure… recalibrating in 3… 2… 1…
“It’s only a memory,” you said again, but the warning beeps were coming stronger, louder, more clearly. The hospital room looked opaque, and Seungcheol walked backwards towards you, away from it, herding you both out of the room. The room - a bed, a pulled curtain, a lot of white - flickered, like a glitch, and then vanished, leaving you standing in the simulator.
Neural handshake disengaged…
“Seungcheol!” you yelled, pulling your helmet off and wheeling on him as best you could with most of your body still strapped in. “What the hell was that? You pushed me out!”
He was breathing hard, eyes a little wild. “Not that,” he said, a little ragged. “I’ll let you in but - not that.”
“You don’t get to choose!” you snapped. Part of you knew this was just growing pains, he’d never drifted before, he was learning. But the rest of you smarted and stung - both from his rejection and from your failure to train, to succeed, to check off this final step before you could get inside your jaeger. “It’s kind of an all-or-nothing thing!”
He let out a billow of air, reaching a hand up to rub at his face. “Sorry. I’ll… let’s try again.”
You didn’t answer, fuming silently instead.
“I’m sorry, Cherry,” he said. “The stuff with my dad…”
“You can’t cherry-pick what we see and what we don’t,” you fired back. His eyes shot to yours and his mouth quirked and you read the joke all over his face. “Don’t you laugh, Seungcheol, it’s not funny!”
But you were laughing through the scolding.
“Stop,” you whined.
Your anger defused, he looked at you again, taking a bracing breath. “It’s not about you,” he tried to explain. “I’m not keeping you out. I’m keeping me out.”
“Don’t chase the rabbit,” you told him, shaking your head. “See what it wants you to see and move on. Find the next door. If you stand there and let your hurt - or your, I don’t know… grief - rise up… that’s when we’re going to have trouble.”
“Find the next door,” he repeated, eyes on the floor. “Got it.”
“You can’t push it away,” you reminded him, “but you don’t have to stay in it, either.”
He nodded, eyes already lighting up, ready to go again.
The second time, you saw him steel himself before opening that same door, watching carefully as he shuffled inside, only looking sideways at the hospital room that materialized around you.
“Seungcheol.”
He turned to look at you, wide-eyed, but you hadn’t called him. The voice, weak and hoarse, had come from the other side of the fluttering curtain.
The glitching started almost immediately - the image around you flickering like a bad wall projection. Something rocked beneath your feet, an earthquake only inside your minds.
You opened your mouth, started to tell him, you don’t have to stay, to remind him that he could move forward. Instead, you heard yourself say, “I’m here.”
The tremors under your feet quivered to a stop. You watched with trepidation and Seungcheol closed his eyes and took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. Then, he held his hand out, waiting.
You slipped your hand into his, and then he turned and continued walking, ignoring his father’s memory calling out to him. The flickering stopped, the picture you were part of brightening again as you found the next door, stepped through, left his pain behind.
It got easier quickly. Seungcheol’s ability to press on, to maintain focus, strengthened.
The strolls through your mind went easier - you’d had years to practice maintaining focus, waiting until after to let the emotions hit you.
Seungcheol learned to be ready for you, after. He’d sit with you, silent, and breathe in tandem as you worked to let go, to release the images of Charron’s Revenge on the tech bay screen, the sounds of your parents’ frantic communication as they fought together, the fear crawling its way up your legs every time until someone in the bay said, “Charron’s Revenge, cleared to return.” The loneliness of being the only kid in the Dome, having no outlet except fighting. Everything that threatened your mind while you piloted, everything that you had to save for later - save for him.
You were both freshly turned twenty when you got green-lit to drive.
“Seungcheol!” you called across the mess hall, practically racing to your table. He turned, eyebrows raised, as you crossed the large room.
“We’re approved to drop!” you told him excitedly. It churned in you - finally, finally you could fight, you could prove what you could do, you could help. “We’re on the drop schedule for tomorrow!”
His grin was unfettered, unfiltered, just for you. He reached up a fist and you bumped it enthusiastically. You were too excited to eat, too excited to sleep. You tossed and turned, imagining experiencing a drop for the first time, imagining striding through the mighty sea like it was nothing, imagining staring down hell itself and bringing it to its knees.
You were still awake when you heard the alarms down the hall. Yours didn’t go off, because you weren’t on duty, weren’t approved to fight.
Down the hall, there was a flurry of commotion - shouting, rushing, people pushing past you as they pulled on boots and jackets.
“Cat-3 in the west bay,” someone shouted.
“Deploying Devil’s Advocate!”
You reached the tech bay, trying to stay out of the way but not unseen. When the Marshall strode by, you stepped sideways.
“Let us drop,” you said quickly, knowing time was precious. “It’ll be like practice. We can be back-up. We’ll hang back.”
“Absolutely not,” the Marshall said, already moving to work past you. “You’re not approved yet. We don’t need a liability right now.”
“We’re scheduled for tomorrow!” you protested, and then you felt a hand on your shoulder.
“We’ll get our turn,” Seungcheol told you quietly. Of course he’d come out, of course he found you.
You deflated. “It could have been us. We are hours from approval.”
He gave your shoulder a tiny shake. “We’ll get our turn,” he repeated. “Don’t make trouble.”
You glowered, but you knew he was right. “Fine,” you grumbled as Joshua and Jeonghan slinked past you in matching jackets and matching shit-eating grins. You stayed out of the way as they prepared to drop.
You stayed through the fight, listened to the control room buzz and chatter, until you heard, “Devil’s Advocate, cleared to return.”
Only then did you try to go back to sleep. Seungcheol gave your shoulder one more squeeze.
“Tomorrow,” he promised.
“Tomorrow,” you repeated.
Some people feel God at church. The history of tradition and the sanctity of ritual speak to them, help them feel part of something, help them feel that unnameable swell of something spiritual.
Some people feel God in nature. The patterns of the universe, the way math exists without human touch, the harmonies and patterns that seem too intricate for coincidence help them believe in a planner’s touch. The beauty of the outdoors allows them to wonder, to feel like they belong as a piece of this clockwork.
But you - you felt God when you stood before your jaeger, marveling at the power, the beauty, how it feels like yours, how it feels like Seungcheol before you’re even inside it. Duellona Fury promises you power, promises you purpose.
That hand was on your shoulder again, and it slid down to the center of your back before removing itself.
Beside you, Seungcheol stared up at your glorious machine.
“She looks sick,” he said, the grin taking over his face.
“I can’t wait to fuck shit up,” you murmured, your reverent tone at odds with the flippancy of your words.
“Ready?” the Marshall asked you, coming up to your left. “We’ll get you calibrated and dropped, and then you’ll do a lap of the bay. We’re sending out Pretty Savage just in case you run into trouble.”
The defensiveness rose in you quick, like a snakebite.
“We don’t need a babysitter,” Seungcheol said, voice hard. You reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze - a reminder to watch it, just as his hand on your shoulder frequently did for you.
“It’s just safety protocol.” The Marshall was unphased by the outburst. “Have fun, you two. Enjoy your first joy-ride.”
You screamed when you dropped, the exhilaration rushing out of you as Duellona Fury fell story after story before slowing and attaching to your jaeger’s mainframe.
Goosebumps raised along your arms when the Shatterdome’s sea-doors slid open, shudders traveling your body as you and Seungcheol stepped together, Duellona Fury stepping with you, her gigantic, metal form following every movement.
For the first time in your whole, careful life, you felt powerful. Your jaeger cut through the ocean waves like they were nothing, making an easy perimeter of the bay. In your head, you could somehow both hear and feel Seungcheol’s delight, his low-simmering desire to fight, to do something a perfect mirror of your own.
“How is it?” Soonyoung’s voice crackled in your ears, reminding you that Pretty Savage wasn’t far behind you.
“Incredible,” Seungcheol answered him, at the same time that you said, “It’s everything.”
It didn’t matter that you came from a family of pilots. It didn’t matter that you were raised in the Dome, training since you were young. None of that mattered. You were born for this - born to fight for your planet, born for Duellona Fury, born for Choi Seungcheol.
The west bay became Duellona’s playground; you and Seungcheol were often assigned to patrol there.
It was only a few months in that you faced a kaiju for the first time.
“Come in, Duellona Fury,” Nainsi’s voice came through. “We have a reading just a few miles north of you. Cat-2. Approaching at -”
Duellona Fury was turning due north before the command was even given.
“Are you ready for this?” you shouted to Seungcheol as Duellona slid through the water, the adrenaline singing in your system already.
“You know I am,” he answered, something hard in it, and the thrill in your stomach sparked.
When the sea split in half, the kaiju rising from the depths with an unearthly roar, you sank into a defensive stance, feeling Seungcheol move beside you, doing the same.
“Let’s fucking go,” Seungcheol said darkly, and launched forward, your arms rearing back for momentum before the first swing. The punch landed solidly, your whole body shaking once as the kaiju faltered backwards a few steps.
It opened its mouth and you glimpsed three rows of teeth bigger than a cow before it was lunging at you; Duellona Fury lurched. You tried to duck sideways as Seungcheol tried to move towards your opponent.
The moment of indecision cost you - the kaiju got its teeth on Duellona’s shoulder, knocking you back several steps. Beside you, Seungcheol roared as sparks flew near the bite.
“Are we breached?” you yelled, trying to steady your balance again.
“Not yet!” he yelled back, and you swung again, a hit landing hard enough to knock the kaiju loose, spitting it back into the sea.
You tried to move into a defensive crouch again; again, the jaeger faltered.
“Cherry!” Seungcheol yelled, desperation laced in his voice. “Cherry, don’t fight me!”
“Move with me!” you answered, and he did, miraculously, Duellona dodging left before an incoming attack.
Don’t fight me.
You rocked forward with Seungcheol as soon as you were clear of the kaiju’s trajectory, just as you’d done in practice thousands of times. Back in sync, Duellona Fury landed a kick to the kaiju’s middle that sent it stumbling.
“We’ve got him,” you said, feeling a win.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Seungcheol warned you. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the kaiju exploded from the dark ocean, limbs flailing as it flew towards you.
Duellona’s arms came up and locked it in battle, the impact shaking you so hard that your teeth chattered against each other. You groaned with exertion as you tried to match its strength.
“I don’t think we can hold it,” you managed through grit teeth.
“We’ve got this,” your partner promised, and with a mighty shove, you managed to flip the beast over your shoulder and beneath the waves.
“Drop the bombs and head for the east side,” you said quickly, already moving. Duellona Fury followed your command, turning and starting an easy run through the bay’s churning waters, away from where the kaiju was struggling to its feet, furious and vengeful. As she ran, she dropped three small explosives, about sixty feet apart. The explosives slipped into the ocean depths.
“Ready?” Seungcheol asked, a little breathless. “Are we far enough away?”
“Light him up,” you replied. Seungcheol reached up and tapped the button; somewhere behind you, the ocean exploded.
“How’s your shoulder?” you asked, later, in the med bay.
“Not that bad,” Seungcheol said, but you could see the blood-stains on the bandaging.
“It won’t happen again,” you promised. “I think I just… practiced alone for so long. I forgot to listen. I’m sorry.”
Seungcheol shook his hand, eyes finding yours. “There’s nothing to forgive, Cherry. Forget about it.” Then, he brightened. “You know what I want to do?”
“What?” you asked, not entirely past feeling guilty.
His smile was devilish. “I want to go celebrate our first fucking kill.”
– 
You marked the passing of two years in statistics.
Three hundred and forty-six explosives detonated.
Two hundred and eighty-three drops. Two hundred and eight-three kills. 
Seventy-two mainframe repairs.
Twenty-eight achievement awards.
Nine television interviews.
Six upgrades.
One ill-informed “vacation” during which you both itched with anxiety, spending the whole time messaging your friends back in the Shatterdome desperately, praying you wouldn’t miss a fight in which you were needed.
Seven hundred and thirty days of living in and around Seungcheol’s mind and heart. But that stat should’ve gone first.
It was a good high. Your team had a good run.
It wasn’t a kaiju that reduced it to ash, not an attack that took your team out of the rotation of main fighters and sent your jaeger to gather rust and dust below the Dome. It was your own stupid heart.
There were a lot of moments that could have been it. Each time you walked into a fight knowing the danger, each time he ended up in the med bay reeking of antibacterial ointment and resentment. Each time you slid into your place beside him - space he saved only for you. Each time his voice bidding you goodnight from the bottom bunk was the last thing you heard at the end of the day. Any of these moments might have been the one to make you stop, gasp, suddenly slammed with understanding. That you loved him, that he was everything you couldn’t bear to be without, that he was part of you. But they weren’t.
There was no moment of realization at all.
Instead, it slowly seeped into your consciousness, as gently and naturally as morning dew collecting on pre-dawn petals. The knowledge clung to you, as impossible to ignore as damp feet after running barefoot through the yard just after sunrise.
If you knew something, that meant your co-pilot would know it, too.
Unless you tucked it away, pushed it down deep and cast his attention elsewhere, a mental sleight-of-hand. Look here instead. 
You were twenty-three, on a routine patrol, when Mission Control radioed Duellona that there was a reading in the bay.
“Looks like it’s only a Cat-1,” Mission Control told you.
“On it,” you told them, feeling your body already mirroring Seungcheol’s as Duellona picked up her pace, striding through the waves. 
You glanced sideways at him, and immediately wished you hadn’t. He was already zoned in, eyes focused and jaw sharp as he concentrated. 
He caught your gaze for only a second. “Focus, Cherry,” he cautioned. “Don’t get cocky.”
“I would never,” you retorted, and he laughed. You were both cocky; you both knew it.
For a second, things felt better. 
The fight was almost easy, when the ocean seemed to split in two and the waves fell away like wrapping paper to reveal the kaiju you’d been sent for. 
You swung and ducked, dropping explosives strategically, Seungcheol moving in unison with you. There was something graceful about it - something beautiful in the sync, something holy in the way your muscles mimicked each other’s. 
This is what happens when sunlight hits morning dew: it warms, lifts, makes the air humid and sticky until it burns away. 
It rose up in you, your love for him, infusing the air around you, infusing the neural handshake that he was deeply imbedded in.
No. 
You panicked, tried to do several things at once - tried to shove the feeling down, tried to think of something else, tried to push Seungcheol’s consciousness out of yours.
Duellona Fury lurched around you, shuddering. 
“Cherry!” Seungcheol screamed to your left, and then the kaiju hit, its full weight slamming into Duellona’s mainframe.
You both staggered, trying to right yourselves, as the machines around you blinked and beeped and rebooted. 
Seungcheol grunted under the neural weight of driving alone as you gasped and closed your eyes, trying desperately to fix it. Around you, you heard the floating words - recalibrating.
“Recalibrate faster!” you shouted, glancing sideways to see your co-pilot struggling to hold the monster in place, his face contorting with effort, arms straining against the machinery. He bared his gritted teeth, exhaling in a hiss between them. 
You gave yourself a shake, bouncing on the balls of your feet, desperate for the connection to take again so you could pick up your half, take the literal weight from him. As soon as you felt the neural handshake, you gave a mighty shove and Duellona flipped the monster backwards, the ocean receding and then coming back to slam her shins, swallowing the monster whole.
You both sank into a defensive stance, ready for the beast to rise again.
“What was that?” Seungcheol demanded, later, as he sat in the med bay, waiting for his nosebleed to stop. The nosebleed you’d caused by letting him carry a neural load meant for two.
“I don’t know,” you lied, still panicked and desperate. 
“Bullshit,” Seungcheol countered, eyes narrowed. He reached up and pulled the cotton away from his face, examining it. “I’m fine now,” he announced, and tossed the wad into a nearby trash bin, standing.
You fought the urge to cower, knowing he’d never let it go if you did. You followed him silently out of the med bay and back towards your dormitories. Halfway there, he slowed, then stopped.
Then, more calmly this time, he asked, “What happened, Cherry? You pushed me out.”
There was a slight pout to it, a sliver of hurt, and it sliced through you like something tangible, like you were actually wounded from it, like it might actually bleed.
“I don’t know,” you repeated. Guilt poked at you until you relented, gave him something that was at least partly true.  “I got scared.” 
“That can’t happen, and you know it,” he said seriously, his large frame casting a long shadow to your left as he leaned into your space. “You can’t keep secrets - that’s piloting 101. We’ve got to handle it. You know what’s at stake here.”
You did; you did, and that was entirely the problem. It wasn’t just feelings, it wasn’t just your relationship with Seungcheol at stake. It was your relationship with your co-pilot - your ability to fight was at stake, your ability to keep others safe. Your legacy.
Your parents’ wall of pictures flashed in your mind.
“I’m going to my mom and dad’s for a while,” you said quietly. 
He nodded, let you run away - trusted you to come back to him when you were ready, trusted you to let him in.
You weren’t sure if he was right or wrong, as you walked away and left him behind.
You didn’t go to your parents’, though. Instead, you went to the tech bay and sat, watching Duellona undergo simple repairs from her fight. You stayed there, the metal cold beneath your thighs, watching the tech team buff over a scratch on your jaeger’s torso, until someone dropped into the spot next to you, bumping their shoulder roughly into yours.
“Where’s Seungcheol?” Wylie, who co-piloted Fury Striker with Chan, was your closest friend in the Dome besides Seungcheol. 
“He’s pissed at me,” you answered, looking sideways, because the question had really meant, why isn’t Seungcheol with you? 
You weren’t sure she’d understand what you were going through - she and Chan had been obsessed with each other since they were kids. Neither of them had ever had to fear that their love for each other would mess anything up. It had been part of their deal from the start.
“What’d you do?” Wylie demanded, turning her full, unfettered attention on you. You wanted to shrink from the intensity of it - but that was always how Wylie worked: full wattage, all the time.
“Almost got us killed by a fucking Cat-1 tonight,” you muttered, angry at yourself, angry at your heart.
Wylie smacked your arm hard enough to send you sideways. “Cherry!” she scolded. 
“There was something I didn’t want him to see.” You said it in your head first, weighed the words, then forced them through your teeth. You hoped she’d just know what it was, hoped you wouldn’t have to force those words past muscle and bone, too.
Wylie’s face dropped into irritation. “Cherry,” she repeated, disappointment dripping from the two syllables.
You looked up at Duellona Fury again. 
“You can’t do that,” she told you, giving your ankle a little kick for emphasis. “You know you can’t do that.”
You can’t love him? Or, you can’t keep secrets from him?
You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to know the answer.
Seungcheol was waiting up for you when you finally returned to the dorm. You opened the door to find the first room - an entryway and kitchen, both - dimly lit. Beyond it, in the small sitting space, Seungcheol sat facing the door, his chin in his hand.
You knew the look on his face. You knew it so well that you almost ran from it, almost turned right around and went back out to the hallway.
Brows slightly furrowed, mouth a straight line, jaw tight. Eyes focused, locked in. It was the face he made in training before he bodied someone. It was the face he made in the field before an offensive strike. It meant he had his sights on a target, a problem, and he was about to throw everything he had at it.
And right now, you were the problem.
“Hey?” you tried meekly.
He nodded. Licked his lips. Stood. 
He’s pissed at me, you’d told Wylie. The energy radiating from your co-pilot was much more complex than that, the air around you palpably tense and teetering.
“How was it at your parents’?” he asked, voice low. 
You took one tentative step closer. “I didn’t go,” you admitted. One lie between you was already more than you wanted. “I watched them patch up Duellona instead. Talked to Wylie a little.”
He nodded, eyes still on you. Nervousness coursed through you, but it would be a lie - another one - to say it wasn’t laced with a little excitement. He was stunning, always, but like this - it almost took your breath away.
If he was in your mind right now, there’d be no question. He’d know all of it. The attraction, the desire, the fear, the affection, the love, the need. All of it. 
His eyes caught on a bruise peeking out from the short sleeve of your top. “You should’ve had them look at that,” he said, reaching out like he wanted to run his fingers over the dark splotch, but he was just too far away, fingertips closing around the air just an inch or two away. 
You shook your head. “You needed attention first. You carried the neural load alone.” Because of me.
“Only for a minute.”
“A minute too long. I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
It hung between you. You don’t know if you’d inched forward or he had, or both, but you were close enough to touch now when you hadn’t been just seconds ago.
He lifted his eyes, his gaze locking on yours. In the dim room, his eyes shone black. “You pushed me out.”
It was an accusation, but it was also a question.
“I’m sorry,” you repeated, barely able to say it, your voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. “Seungcheol, I was scared.”
Maybe he was in your head. Maybe he did know all of it.
“Don’t be,” he told you. “Don’t be scared.”
His arms were around you though you didn’t see him move. It wasn’t the first time you’d let him embrace you - after a fight, in relief, or in victorious delight, or sometimes just in sleepy affection at the end of a long day. It was far from the first time that you’d found comfort in the space between his arms, strong and capable around your frame, your forehead pressed against his sternum as his heart beat directly into your bones. 
But it was the first time that his fingers, confident and sure, tipped under your chin, guiding you to look up at him, guiding your mouth to meet his.
You don’t know if you melted or exploded - it was somehow both at once. You gripped his back, feeling the muscles move beneath his t-shirt, relaxing into his hold and focusing on the feel of his full lips firm and hungry against your own. This was everything - everything you’d wanted, everything you were afraid of, everything you needed, everything that could rip your life apart.
You didn’t mean to whine, but it slipped up your throat and into the gasped space between your lips and his as you tried to pull in a desperate breath. He responded with a grunt, walking you backwards until the edge of the kitchen counter jutted into your lower back. His hands traveled, up to the back of your neck, back down to the slight curve of your waist, around to the back of your ass. He tugged your hips against his roughly, and you let your head fall back, panting, head spinning.
“Cherry,” he breathed against the newly bared stretch of your neck, his lips close enough to drag against your skin as he spoke.
Your hands found the back of his neck, gave the slightest tug upwards, and he followed, bringing his mouth back to yours. His tongue pressed yours briefly, your moan muffled entirely by his mouth as you tried to press him closer, closer, as if you wanted your rib-cages to meld, to slip together like fitting puzzle pieces. 
His hand slipped lower from your ass and wrapped around your thighs, taking only a second to lift you onto the counter behind you. You wrapped yourself around him immediately, pulling him into the space between your legs, arms around his neck, pulling him in, wanting to feel every bit of him against you. 
His hands found the hem of your shirt and lifted; you raised your arms in compliance and felt the cotton slip over your head and your hands.
“Yours,” you murmured, but he had already reached back between his shoulder blades, his own top joining yours on the floor.
Your hands found him on their own, sliding over his skin, fingers dipping between muscles, thumbs sweeping over shadows.
You kissed until you turned liquid, molten, your fingers wrapped in his hair. His fingers mapped every inch of your skin, as if his job was to report back on every previously unknown dip, every rough circle, every beauty mark or blemish. His fingers traced them all, his hands passing over you reverently.
The brush of his bare chest against your own was torturous; delicious until you were full, until you couldn’t take it anymore, until the electric-sharp thrill became uncomfortable. You tilted backwards, creating more space between your torsos but pushing your hips firmly into his.
You both groaned at the contact. You could feel the heat and weight of him now, and everything instinctual within you urged you to shift further, to bring that heat and heaviness closer to the part of you that ached for it. 
He pressed his hips into you without reservation, your core clenching in response to the movement and the friction. 
Then he leaned back, his hands gripping the edge of the counter, his arms bracketing you on either side, his chest heaving as he struggled to control his breathing. He drank you in, his eyes as molten as you felt. You leaned back on your elbows and met his gaze.
The moment expanded; nothing existed but his eyes and the pant of his breath and the way he smelled like he’d just finished a fight and the way he felt between your thighs, unmovable and steady.
Neither of you was connected to jaeger machinery, but you may as well have been, because you knew without a shadow of a doubt that your minds were connected, the drift be damned. Your eyes locked, you knew he felt everything you felt - the gravity of what you were doing, the love that drove you, the fire coursing through you. If there was going to be hesitation or questioning, this was the moment, this was the pause. But you were one, your minds were one, and there was none of that. 
His unvoiced question definitively answered by the certainty that flowed between you, Seungcheol moved to lift you again, taking you easily from the countertop into the dark of the room you share, settling you on your back on his bottom bunk.
Above you, mostly shadowed, was your other half, the only person who knew and understood every cobwebbed corner of your consciousness, the only person who had walked through your mind and found himself mirrored in every way that mattered. He was beautiful in the fractured light, his expression serious and gaze intense. 
You reached up to slide your thumb along his jaw and his eyes fluttered closed, his breath leaving him as in relief, as if you’d made some kind of admission. 
Making love to Seungcheol felt like drifting. His eyes on you as his fingers pulled you apart felt the same as the careful way he’d watch you when your memories got emotional, like he was watching for any sign that you weren’t okay, that you needed more or less or him. 
The way his breath and shoulders shuddered when he pressed into you for the first time felt the same as when he faltered in face of his father’s memory; both times, his fingers laced through yours and held tight until you could both breathe again.
He felt how you’d always known he would. Perfect - a perfect fit for you, a physical compatibility you had never tested but had always trusted would be there. He took you apart without even trying, and all you could do was hold onto him, feel all of him, feel all of it, and try to remember to breathe.
You didn’t speak as you moved together in the dark; the only sounds in the tight room were muted gasps, tiny moans muffled against necks, skin on skin, the obscene squelching sounds that accompanied each snap of his hips. You didn’t say the words that your lips tried to form - it’s so much, go slow for a little, Seungcheol, I love you, more - please, don’t stop. Maybe he heard them. Maybe this was a different way to drift, one that didn’t need wires.
You did your best to hold his gaze, losing sight of him only when you strained up to kiss him, when you nuzzled your face into the warmth between his neck and shoulder and gasped against a wave of sensation, when you couldn’t help but close them as they rolled back, your toes curling. 
He pressed his forehead to yours when he finished, your name slipping out of him, as if it had been literally squeezed from his lungs. “Cherry… Cherry…”
You lay together in silence for a long time, feeling your hearts slow, your skin cool. Your thumb traced his jaw again and again, slow, worshipful. “Cheol,” you whispered. My Cheol. My everything. You didn’t say the rest as you lay together in the quiet, in the dark, your heartbeats competing. 
You didn’t know that you’d drifted together for the last time. You didn’t know that your ability to neural connect could be broken.
The wind whips around you, stinging your face. You barely flinch. When you’d first relocated here, three years ago, the cold had made you literally cry during your first month. Just from having to walk from the door of the dormitory across the yard to the mess hall dorm, the intensity of it had sent you spiraling into misery - damning the circumstances that had sent you here, away from everyone and everything you knew and loved, to a place where the air hurt. 
You were sure it would hurt, this intensely, forever.
But time eased the sting, and despite your doubts you did adjust. Now the early morning wind feels bracing and refreshing rather than painful. You’ve adjusted to a lot of things since relocating to a small training center in Alakanuk, Alaska: the climate, the food, the no-frills campus you lived and worked on. Being away from your parents, from Wylie and Chan and Seungkwan and Jeonghan and all the other pilots you were friends with at the Shatterdome.
Being away from Seungcheol. Being partnerless, a half instead of a whole. 
Being unable to pilot, unable to fight. 
Being brokenhearted.
Just like the cold, the pain of your losses was the same - the sting of heartbreak and loneliness and homesickness faded to something ignorable, something you could keep tucked tight in the back of your mind. 
You can hear the noise from inside the mess hall before you even cross the courtyard. There are short of fifty girls ranging from ages seven to eighteen being housed here, but from the noise you’d swear it was at least a hundred. 
The buildings are single-storied, painted with a heavily-chipping grey-blue that sometimes seems to belong to the mist you often get rolling in from the ocean. When you’d first come, you’d legitimately thought they were painted that way as camouflage, meant to blend in with the sea. The other trainers had a good laugh about that. 
As you cross the courtyard between the trainers’ dorms and the mess hall, you breathe deeply, eyes on the birds alight above you. After a lifetime in the Shatterdome, you don’t take for granted the fresh air you’re afforded as you pass between buildings, outside, the sky open and changing above. You don’t take for granted the rhythm of the ocean, the cries of the gulls, nor the distant treeline.
It was Seungcheol who had noted that you were sheltered, having never lived outside of the Dome. 
It was Seungcheol you could blame - at least halfway - for your relocation here, where there wasn’t a jaeger or even a city for hundreds of miles. 
When you pull open the flimsy door to the mess hall, the noise triples. Several of the girls call out to greet you, and you give them a quick wave as you head to the table where the staff eats.
“You’re later than normal,” one of the other instructors notes as you reach for a piece of bread.
You shrug lightly, unbothered. “Still have plenty of time before the first class. What day is today, Thursday? I’ve got the little ones first, right?”
The all-girls training center is meant to teach fighting and the groundworks for drifting, but no jaegers are housed here, no teams launch into the icy bay. The girls here will grow up to pilot - if they get selected, if they get paired with a partner. 
You’re mostly here to teach them to fight, the way you trained in the Dome, but you do plenty more. Help brush hair in the mornings, console tearful faces, teach games and sports, mediate arguments. You also got sucked into running one literacy class a week, though you still haven’t figured out how that happened. 
It would be a lie to say this wasn’t fulfilling, that you didn’t love the girls you cared for, that you weren’t happy here with the ocean and birds and trees and laughter. In many ways, the seclusion of this training center is exactly what you needed to get back on your feet, to find strength in yourself, to heal with distance and time.
But, god, what you would give for a real fight. What you would give to feel both loved and threatened by Wylie, to rib at the guys, to hug your mom. What you would give to hear Seungcheol’s teasing pout, to catch his gaze across the span of your jaeger and know what his body and yours will do, to feel his fingers just barely graze your back when he knows you need to be reminded to focus.
The final time you’d tried, the neural connection never took. It was like trying to connect with a stranger. It had simply been still, a thing that was never alive.
“Don’t do this,” Seungcheol had begged, and that had been the nail in the coffin.
Don’t do this, he’d said. It had landed like blame. Like everything was your fault, and only yours. Like you had broken the connection on purpose, were keeping him out, barricading your mind from his when you desperately wanted everything to go right back to normal.
After that failure, you didn’t tell him you were asking to be reassigned. You didn’t want to give him the chance to say don’t do this a second time.
You’ve just ended a class, the girls starting to filter out through the training room’s side door towards the mess hall for lunch, when the center’s Administrator calls your name from the door.
“There’s a call for you on my line. I have them holding.”
A call? 
Adrenaline races through you; it has to be an emergency. Your parents and friends can reach you on your own device, which is tucked into your back pocket. To call the mainline here at the center means this is a base-to-base call, not a personal one.
You’ve only been in this office a handful of times in your few years here, and you shuffle awkwardly around the desk and pick up the receiver that sits abandoned on the chipped, wooden desktop. 
You greet the person on the line with your real name. 
“Cherry?”
Your Marshall - your old Marshall, from the Dome - sounds unsure if he has the right person on the line. No one has called you Cherry in three years. Even your parents have used your given name the few times they’ve said it on your weekly calls home.
“It’s me,” you affirm. “Is everything okay? My parents?”
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, and you heave a relieved breath. “Everyone is fine. This is official business. I want to call you in.”
You shake your head, frowning, well aware that he can’t see your reaction. Your body has said no, but you force yourself to ask, “Me? Why?”
“We’re down a few teams,” the Marshall says. “And -”
“You’ve got more recruits than places to put them,” you counter before he can finish. “Call one of the new teams up. Call three new teams up. You don’t need me.”
“We do - we need teams with experience, teams that are ready. Not rookies bumbling around looking for mistakes. We need precision. We need Duellona Fury.”
Your Marshall lays out the situation: the teams that are out, the problems they’re having at the breach - less time between attacks, more monsters at once. You’ve seen this before, you all have, and there’s protocol in place - protocol that starts with all hands on deck. 
You shake your head again. From the door, the Administrator of the center watches you seriously, like she knows you’re being taken away. 
“Marshall, with all due respect, I don’t know why you’re calling me,” you admit. “What can I give you? I can’t pilot Duellona.”
Not anymore. 
The Marshall sighs, like he knew this argument was coming and didn’t have a good response. 
“I think you can,” he says finally. “I’m not saying it will be easy, and I’m not saying it will happen quickly or without effort. But I think you can.”
“No,” you say, the first time you’ve voiced it. “You were there. You saw what happened. We can’t drift anymore.”
“You couldn’t then,” he points out. “That was three years ago. You’ve both had a lot of time to…. You’ve both had a lot of time since then. Things that were once too painful to carry into the drift… they’ve had time to mellow.”
This blow knocks you into silence. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, eyes steadfastly on the warped wood of the desk, fingers toying absently with the Administrator’s pen. 
He’s wrong, and you want to tell him so. Nothing had mellowed. You love Seungcheol just as much today as you did three years ago. The splitting ache in your chest that you’ve felt every day since you became aware of loving him has only worked its way deeper with time. 
And Seungcheol’s anger? The anger and betrayal he’d leveled at you, when he was sure you were keeping him out of your head on purpose? You couldn’t speak for him, but if you had to guess, there weren’t enough years in a human life to let that hurt mellow into something safe enough to drift with.
“Have you talked to him about this?” You’re afraid of the answer. 
The Marshall hesitates. “Not yet.”
“You might want to do that first,” you point out. “Before flying me back only to have him refuse.” 
The Marshall’s voice hardens, and you can just picture his eyes narrowing. “Mr. Choi will follow orders,” he says evenly, “and so will you. Asking is really just a courtesy.”
“You can’t order us into being able to drift again,” you snap, pulse suddenly pounding in your arms, your hands, your face, your chest. 
“No,” the Marshall says, and any previous friendliness is gone from his voice now, “but I can - and will - order you to try.”
The girls cry when you tell them you’re leaving, and it makes you want to cry, too. You hold it together as you give them hugs, hold it together as you pack your single bag of belongings. You hold it together in the passenger seat of the center’s only beat-up van, waving out the back window as the training center fades away.
It’s standing on the deck of the ferry, the coast receding and the sea wind clawing at your face, that you let it go. You bury your face behind your hands and feel it release behind your ribs. You cry for all of it - for leaving the girls behind, for leaving a place that had sheltered you like a sanctuary. For the time you’d lost at the Dome, for the fights you’d sat out, for the years with your parents and friends that had slipped away like sand between your fingers. For your fear that Seungcheol will turn you away, just as hurt and angry as he was one thousand and ninety-five days ago. 
You’d been so determined to keep him from walking through the depths of your love for him, in the drift. You were so scared it would be too much, too intense, too much emotion for the drift. You’d been scared it would be too much for him - that the weight of it would inherently ask for more than he could give you in return. You’d been scared it would ruin your partnership, your compatibility, your capability to co-pilot.
But that had happened anyway. You almost have to laugh. 
As furiously as your tears begin, they peter out quickly. You take a few deep gulps of salty air, use the backs of your hands to wipe at your cheeks and beneath your nose. As you calm down, you keep your eyes on the horizon, your hands tight on the ship’s railing, and you let your mind wander back to Seungcheol. Here, thousands of miles away, you let yourself think back to those last weeks before you left the Shatterdome. You let yourself wonder, for the first time, what exactly caused everything to crumble.
You’d been so afraid to let Seungcheol into your head once the loving him had taken over. Why had it scared you so badly? As you keep your eyes on the grey of the horizon, you puzzle it out in your mind.
Had it been the uncertainty? That had certainly played a part. Did Seungcheol love you, back then? If he didn’t, everything between you could have changed - your friendship, your partnership, your ability to drift. It hadn’t seemed worth the risk to lose it all - his presence in your life, your ability to fight together. 
But maybe he had. If he did love you, back then… that would have changed things, too. What if starting something romantic affected your drift? There were too many maybes, too many variables. It had seemed safe to push it all down, to try and keep him away from it. To try and keep things the same.
Of course, you’d lost it all anyway.
Even if he did love you three years ago, you think as the sea air whips around you, did he love you the way you loved him? What if it had been too much - the way you could breathe once he was with you, the way you kept each other in check - what if he had loved you, but not that much?
Had it been a mistake to keep him out? Maybe. But it could have been just as catastrophic to let him in. There was no way to know, now.
You turn away from the ship’s railing, away from the horizon and the sea, away from your mistakes. There’s no use looking back like this. You can’t change it. You aren’t even sure you can fix it.
You were hoping to sleep on the plane, but you’re woefully awake well after take-off. Determined not to keep ruminating on what had happened before you left, instead you wonder what awaits you now.
The most-likely scenario, you think, professional and polite - but cold. Like you, he takes duty and responsibility seriously. The airplane bumps, a pocket of air jostling the small craft, and your hands find the armrests and cling tight until it stops.
The best case scenario, of course, would be that enough time has passed that Seungcheol’s hurt has faded. Maybe, you think, maybe he’s moved on from harboring that anger. Maybe he’ll greet you warmly, maybe you’ll pick up right where you left off.
This hope, this day-dream, aches, so much that you blink it away and turn to watch the clouds through the window, a desperate distraction. You crave Seungcheol - you crave feeling safe with his arms around you, you crave the elation you’d feel when he entered the room you were in, you crave the peace that comes with two minds engaged in neural handshake - the peace of someone’s mind interlaced with your own, understanding you, operating with you, picking up half of your mental lift.
You crave his giggle when you say something stupid in the dark of the dorm before bed, his pout when he feels like he isn’t getting enough attention, you crave his voice echoing in your head long after he’s gone asleep because you heard him talk to you all day long. 
You crave his lips on yours, his teeth on your neck, his hands on your body, even if you only had it once. You’ve craved it ever since.
You crave closing your eyes and pressing your forehead to his sternum, feeling safe and quiet and like you belong. You miss the sanctuary of that space, chest to chest with him, something sacred in the way it exists only for you.
You know you can’t have it - any of it. The daydream isn’t real. Your curse will be to crave it forever, alone.
When you arrive at the Shatterdome, it’s your parents who greet you just inside. For a moment, you’re happy to be back, overcome with emotion as you hug them tight. They’ve aged in these three years. You’ve missed them awfully. You only tell them the latter. 
They walk with you to the Marshall’s office, where you’re meant to report upon arrival. 
You hesitate, covering the moment by tugging your duffle’s strap higher on your shoulder. Your mother reads you anyway, reaching out and giving your shoulder a squeeze. 
“It will be okay,” she whispers. 
Your father catches on. “You’ve faced down worse,” he reasons. 
You disagree. There’s no monster in the sea bigger than your love for Seungcheol, no wounding possible that could hurt more than losing him has. But you appreciate the sentiment, so you give them each a grateful nod, tell them you’ll visit after dinner, and turn to knock on the door.
“Come in,” the Marshall’s voice carries through the door, and you turn the knob and step inside. 
All you see is Seungcheol; the Marshall, the office furniture, the flickering screens on the walls all snap into nonexistence in the presence of your former lover. He’s the only thing in the room that comes into focus. Everything else is just fuzzy noise.
His face wavers for a moment when your eyes meet his, the muscles rippling as he fights to get them under control. 
You don’t know what reaction he’s fighting. You don’t know if he’s feeling happiness or hatred. You don’t know if he’s fighting a smile or a scowl.
You give him a quick bow in greeting, and he returns it. His face is stone, now, his mouth tight and eyes flat. 
He turns to face the Marshall, to receive orders, so you do the same.
“I trust your travel went well?” the Marshall begins.
You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Even the single syllable of yes will come out of your mouth like gravel and dirt and sand, getting everywhere, leaving a trail.
“Your orders,” he says then, a bit of a sigh on his tone - as if he knows the uphill battle this will be, “are to reconnect as best you can. You’ll follow your old schedule. You’ll spar, you’ll meditate, and you’ll talk. After some time, we’ll try the drift again, see if the connection has recovered any.”
Seungcheol’s voice startles you when he speaks. “How long do you imagine it will be before we try?” he asks, just cold enough to have a sliver of sarcasm in it. 
The Marshall’s eyes narrow, just slightly, as if he’d caught it. “That’s entirely up to you two,” he says evenly. “When you were young and hungry to fight, you trained yourselves into exhaustion. You spent every waking second trying to cultivate the bond that would carry you into your jaeger. With the same intention and drive, I imagine you could be piloting Duellona within the week.”
You fight to keep your chin up, your eyes on the Marshall, instead of ducking your head and watching the floor. The Marshall lifts his arm and glances at his watch. 
“Your allotted time in Sparring Room 7 begins on the hour,” he says. This is his way of dismissing you.
In the hallway, you pause. “I’m just going to drop my bag in the dorm,” you say quietly, not looking at Seungcheol. 
He gives a tight nod. “Fine,” he says, and turns to go the other way, towards the sparring and training rooms. Clearly he intends to meet you there. You heave a deep breath, and turn back towards the wing with the dorms.
Stepping into the dorm you used to share with Seungcheol hits you harder than you thought it would. You’re not sure what you expected - to feel like coming home, maybe, or perhaps to be slapped with the memories of you and Seungcheol together, dancing around each other as you hurried to get dressed for a drop, lazing around in the sitting area after a full day of training. And, of course, the single night you’d spent together.
Neither thing happens. You aren’t overcome by a feeling of nostalgia and love, nor are you inundated by memories of what you’ve lost. Instead, the room feels exactly as it is: empty and still.
Your footsteps’ echoes taunt you as you walk through the kitchen, the sitting area, and into the bedroom. It’s pristine to the point of detriment; it feels like no one lives there. You set your bag on the floor near the foot of the bed - you can unpack later, after training - and turn to go.
Strangely, it’s stepping into the training room that slams you with memory and nostalgia. The wood cool beneath your feet, the vague smell of sweat and citrus-y cleaner, the sounds of punches landing and grunts of effort from the training rooms on either side - they all cocoon you in history, making goosebumps rise on your arms as the emotions surround you.
It makes sense, you think, as Seungcheol glances over his shoulder at the sound of your arrival. He doesn’t speak to you, just swaggers to the center of the room and takes a stance you recognize from Form One. Your body leads you opposite him, muscle memory guiding you into the first form you ever learned with him. It makes sense that this would be what felt like home - your minds going empty together, your bodies following the steps in unison. The sparring forms are the closest you can get to drifting without an actual neural connection.
Well, that and sleeping together, but you don’t see that on your agenda.
You stare at him across the invisible circle between you and try to read him. His face is cold and empty, but that already tells you so much about what he’s feeling. Seungcheol was never cold with you. When you fought together he slipped into that mode you loved so much - ready to level anything, chin lifted, eyes narrowed, confident and so very strong. But it was when you were together outside the fights that you had loved him best - often pouting, lips protruding, voice lifting into a whine. And the best of all - that smile, dimples creating shadows that beg for your thumb to press them, eyes squeezing shut with happiness or laughter.
Something must show on your face, because you watch the muscles in Seungcheol’s upper body untense, as if he’d been ready to fight and recognized that you weren’t.
“I’m good,” you mutter quickly, before he can ask. It feels better to lie to him before he actually asks you, like that’s somehow less dishonest. “Let’s go.”
Form One is basic - no hits, no fancy moves. At the training center, you’d teach it to the littlest ones until they had it memorized. It was really about control and communication - precision and alignment with your partner. You had to breathe together as your feet traced opposite circles across the knots in the wooden floor. You had to rise and bend in unison. It was about watching and listening.
You and Seungcheol could - literally, you’d tried more than once - do it blindfolded in perfect step with one another. Before. You don’t know if you still can. But, now, unblindfolded, it’s too easy.
You move through forms one through six without incident - both of you flowing as easily as water.
Form Seven is the first form that incorporates actual hits and blocks. You’ll have to touch for the first time, even if it’s forearm to forearm or ankle to shoulder. You move right as he moves left, crouch and circle as his right foot flies over your head, stand and punch where you know his open hand will be waiting to stop you.
It is, and you press your fist against it for just a second before spinning away to continue the form. You ache, even as your body continues following the steps, to have him entirely again - to meet his eyes and smile the way you both used to, because you were pleased with what your bodies could do. Because you had each other, completely.
After the tenth form, you bow, turn, and walk out of the ring. You drink some water, your back to him. Years ago you’d have used this break to chat, but you don’t know what to say to him. You’re scared that he’ll shut down anything you say, whether you choose small talk or go straight for the heart of the problem, and you honestly don’t think you can shoulder his rejection right now. So you stay quiet.
After a few short minutes of rest, you return to the center of the room. This is when you’ll spar for real.
You and Seungcheol had done this for years before things went wrong. You’d long ago adjusted to how hard you should hit, how to dodge his moves, how to make this a dance as much as a fight. Now, you feel like it’s your first time again.
Seungcheol attacks as you’d expect - all offensive, pushy, succeeding in herding you backwards even as you dodge each blow. You know his goal is to flip you, and normally you can avoid that by forcing him to go on the defensive as he avoids your own hits. Simply dodging won’t be enough - eventually he’ll cage you in unless you distract him.
You throw yourself into a summersault and manage to get behind him - an opportune moment to strike. You shift your weight to follow the blow as you twist your hips to send a kick towards his unprotected head. He turns just too late - the blow will land.
You can’t do it. You freeze, your core working to keep you upright as you fight your own momentum, halting the kick inches from his temple.
You know immediately that pulling the hit was a mistake. His eyes narrow, and he sweeps his foot at the ankle you’re balancing on. You crash to the ground, heaving a breath and taking quick inventory.
You aren’t hurt. Not this time.
“Get up, Cherry,” he says darkly, moving back to the center to start again. “And don’t do that shit again.”
He comes at you full force in the next match, too. You dodge and weave, but you don’t try to strike. You know he knows it; this isn’t how it used to work. You can almost feel him get angrier as you fight, but you can’t make yourself hit back. You want him to knock you down, you deserve to take some shots.
You take two blows to the back and one to a shoulder; you fall back unsteadily but manage to find your footing and roll away from his next kick.
The match continues - you taking a handful of blows, though none with the force to level you, and Seungcheol with his lip curled in fury.
“If you’re not going to fight, then leave,” he spits.
“Would if I could,” you retort without thinking. You mean that you don’t want to be here like this - not talking, cold, at odds. But you know it reads as not wanting to be here at all.
It seems like everything you say and do only hurts him more.
“I didn’t mean -” you start, and Seungcheol takes your arms and flips you over his shoulders.
“Don’t waste my fucking time,” he says, brushing his hands together and stepping back to give you room to pick yourself up.
“Don’t curse at me,” you answer, pushing yourself to your hands and knees, pausing to catch your breath before rising fully again.
He shakes his head, rolls his eyes a little.
You hate this side of him.
You know you deserve it. For pushing him out. For leaving him here. For loving him, messing everything up, when he never asked for that.
“Seungcheol,” you say, but he ignores you, pacing a few steps and then turning to face you, lowering himself into a defensive stance, ready to spar again.
“Cheol,” you try again. “Listen to me.”
“Marshall scheduled us time to talk later,” he says flatly. “Right now we’re scheduled to fight. So fight me, Cherry. Let’s go.”
The rest of the hour continues the same. By the time it’s over, Seungcheol storms out without speaking to you, furious over every single pulled punch.
You don’t know what to do to make it all better.
You shower quickly, dressing in dry linens, and then re-emerge for the hours you’re scheduled to meditate together. You hope that maybe this will help the situation - maybe not talking will be good for you, give you a chance to feel your connection without the chance to fuck it up with words.
You’re wrong; trying to meditate together is just as desperately fruitless as sparring had been.
You can’t focus at all - can’t shift your attention to your breath, to your body, to the earth beneath you, to the energy of your partner.
Your partner is the distraction, though he sits perfectly still, eyes closed. He might as well be yelling. His shoulders are tight, his jaw still clenched. Anger radiates off him so strongly that it makes your stomach hurt, makes you want to cower from it. You can’t stop watching him, hoping you’ll see him relax, hoping you’ll see the moment that he lets go.
He doesn’t.
“Your eyes are supposed to be closed,” he murmurs, and you feel your face heat, embarrassed that he knew you were watching him.
“I can’t,” you admit. Maybe, you think, you should just be brutally honest, starting now. It’s not like you could make this worse. “I can’t stop noticing how angry -”
“Then stop pissing me off,” he snaps, eyes opening. “Just a suggestion.”
“Don’t talk to me like that!” you cry, and push yourself to stand. You’re not sure why - maybe just to pace. “You never used to talk to me like this. Who are you?”
He looks at the floor, the first sign of guilt you’ve seen since you came home.
“Fine,” he finally bites back, and you know it’s as close to sorry as you’ll get. “I’ll reign it in. Sit back down.”
You shift your weight, arms crossed defensively across your chest, and close your eyes, deciding.
“Sit down, Cherry,” he repeats, and it’s gentler now. That’s what makes you cave, and you settle back across from him.
He’s less tense this time, so you eventually manage to close your eyes and count your breaths. But you’re still feeling for him, reaching for him in your mind, and coming up with nothing between you fingers. Touching him is as possible as touching the fog that used to blanket the training center, thick enough to blind you but impossible to grasp.
The pain feels like a cramp, except it’s behind your ribs instead of in your muscles. The pain grips and tightens, takes over. You want him, you want to be his again, you want to be inside these walls - where you used to fit comfortably. The fact that you’re out here, without him, aches so badly it makes you nauseated.
You want to beg him - let me in again, let me back in, let me be close to you again.
It won’t do any good, and you know it.
He was yours - you had him, you knew him, you could reach out to him and he’d pick you up. You’d taken it for granted, and you’d run away from it. You’d chosen to let it go, and now all you get is this: Seungcheol, cold and closed. Seungcheol, hating you for everything that happened.
Dinner is just as bad.
You go to the mess hall eager to see Wylie and Jeonghan and Seungkwan and all the other friends you haven’t seen in years. Wylie screeches like a banshee when she spots you, crossing the mess hall in a blur and hugging you so tightly that you both stagger, off balance, until Seungkwan joins the hug and rights you again.
“I missed you both so much,” you whisper, the only vulnerability anyone’s going to get out of you today.
“Then don’t leave again!” Wylie snaps, but you know the admonishment is full of love.
“I can’t promise,” you admit. Honestly, you’ve already made up your mind - you want to go back to Alaska. You’re not wanted here, not by the person who matters. What good are you, taking up a bed, if you can’t drift?
You’ve already given up hope that he’ll come around.
Seated at the table, you listen while your friends fill you in on what you’ve missed in three years - the fights in the bay, the new teams of pilots, the illnesses and injuries. You almost don’t notice Seungcheol silently takes a seat on Jeonghan’s other side, but something in you prickles, like you’ve sensed him.
The tension around the table heightens; the conversation goes a little stilted. When it’s apparent that he’s going to ignore you two seats down from him, Wylie slaps her hand flat on the tabletop.
“Come on, Seungcheol,” she scolds, and you’re sure no one wonders what she means.
His face goes dark so quickly it’s alarming. “Don’t,” he tells her darkly, one finger coming up to point at her in warning.
Her own eyes narrow and dart to her fork. Beside her, Chan’s eyes pingpong between them. He’s probably wondering if he should hold her back or join her.
“It’s fine,” you mutter, grabbing your tray and making to rise. “I’ll go.”
“Cherry, no,” Wylie protests, and then turns a glower onto your ex-co-pilot as if to say see what you did?
“It’s fine,” you repeat, standing. “I told my mom and dad I’d come by.”
You slink out before anyone else can argue.
You can’t even be mad at him - you did this by pushing him away. You hammered every last nail in the coffin by requesting to transfer. You pushed him out and you left him behind and now you have to face the reality that you can’t have him anymore. He isn’t yours, not anymore.
When you return to your dorm, he’s already in bed, the lights out. He’s facing the wall so you can only see his back, can only see the angry, tight shoulder poking out the top of the sheets. It tells you everything you need to know.
You don’t try to talk to him. You just go to bed.
You spend four days identically - fighting while sparring, not meditating, and avoiding Seungcheol’s ice-out. On the fifth day, your Marshall loses patience and changes your schedule. Your entire day is blocked to working on Duellona’s mainframe - buffing, repainting, greasing, and anything else you’re able to handle on your own.
“Since you can’t do anything else useful,” he adds, and you avoid Seungcheol’s eyes, ashamed.
Standing under Duellona’s unlit frame fills you with guilt. It feels like you’re letting her down, disappointing her by letting her rust here, failing your half of the bargain. You run your hands gently over the metal, finding the rough spots that need attention. Somewhere to your left, you can hear the telltale sounds of Seungcheol tightening bolts.
You work in silence for hours.
Eventually, you crack. You’re not sure if it’s the monotony of the task, the tension woven into the silence between you too, or being so close to your jaeger but unable to fight in it - maybe a combination. Something pushes at you from the inside, like a balloon trying to inflate under your skin and running out of room.
You flop backwards on the metal walkway, the grooves digging into your back. “What are we doing?” you ask, and you hear the tool Seungcheol had been using cling loudly as he sets it down.
“Following orders?” he says, stepping around Duellona’s side to look at you. “Fixing up the jaeger?”
“Fixing up the jaeger we don’t get to pilot?” you ask, sitting back up to look at him better.
“Is that what you’re here for?” he asks, the sudden ferocity of it surprising you. “To fight? Is that why you came back?”
You reach up to the walkway’s railing and pull yourself up. You feel yourself frowning at his question, at the heat behind it. 
“I’m back because the Marshall gave me an order,” you say slowly. 
“And that’s it?” he demands. 
You stare at him. You feel sure there’s more to the question, more that he’s asking. You feel sure, after knowing Choi Seungcheol down to the last molecule, that he’s really asking, you didn’t come back for me?
And it confuses you. You try to think about your split from his perspective: you’d shut him out, then slept with him, and then vanished. You’d made a lot of assumptions about his anger since then. You assumed he was angry at you for pushing him out of your head. You assumed he was angry at you for sleeping with him and then leaving. You assumed he was angry with you for ruining your drift, for ripping him away from the ability to fight. You assumed he was angry because he never knew why - never knew what it was that you were so desperate to hide, never knew why sleeping together had made things so much worse that the neural connection had fizzled into nothing altogether.
Is there more to it, his anger?
Should you call him on it, should you ask?
You take too long deciding. Seungcheol scoffs, like he’s disgusted with you. “I should have known,” he says coldly. “Princess of the Shatterdome, I should have known you only cared about piloting - about your legacy.”
This is something you’ve never said to him - that your desire to shine as brightly as your parents has weighed on you. This is something he’d pulled from the drift, something he only knew from tiptoeing around your mind before a fight. 
“That isn’t fair,” you say, your voice hard. “Is there another reason I should have come back? I’d love to hear it.”
He hears the challenge as it is - you didn’t ask me to come back, the Marshall did. You let me go.
He has nothing to say for himself, just stares back at you, eyes narrowed in anger, chest moving too quickly as he battles with his temper.
“Exactly,” you say curtly. The victory stings. It doesn’t feel like a win at all. “The bottom line is I’m here now, and we can pilot again if we can get our shit together.”
He shakes his head. “You left,” he says finally. “That’s the bottom line. You decided you were out, you decided you didn’t want me in your head, and then you left.”
He watches you, waits for you to say something. When you don’t, he lets out a derisive little laugh. “We’re both wasting our time here. The drift won’t work. We aren’t going to fix it.”
For the first time, fear slices through you like steel. “You can’t know that,” you say. You hear the fear in the way your voice comes out low and rounded, barely sounding like you at all.
“I can,” he retorts. “You know how I know? Because I don’t want to. You wanted me out of your head so badly? You got it. Can’t turn back now.”
He heads for the ladder, swings around and finds the third rung down with ease.
“So that’s it?” you ask his retreating form. Your heart is hammering and you’re starting to get tunnel vision. 
The only answer he gives you are his feet hitting each new rung with a clunk and a vibration that rattles up your legs.
You go to the training rooms alone and run through the forms just to do something; your mind turns the problem over and over as your body goes through the motions. After, you take a longer shower than normal, letting the water run hotter than you normally would.
After, you go to the Marshall’s office, determined. Or maybe resigned.
When he opens the door, he already looks irritated, like he knew exactly who would be on the other side.
“Requesting an audience,” you say flatly, fighting the instinct to cross your arms defensively.
He glances at his watch. “Five minutes.”
You step inside but leave the door open.
“I’m requesting transfer back to Alakanuk,” you tell him as evenly as you can manage. You’re sure he’s not surprised. “Seungcheol has made it very clear that we won’t be fighting together again. If that’s the case, then I can’t do anything useful here. But in Alakanuk I can.”
You pause, looking to see if you can read anything on the Marshall’s face - any hint that he’s considering what you’re saying, or that it’s a lost cause. He gives you nothing.
“Please,” you say. “Those girls need me. If I can’t help here, I can help them.”
The Marshall tilts his head just slightly. “Surely anyone can teach little girls the forms.”
You shake your head. “It’s more than that, and you know it. It’s not about the forms. I love those girls. I came back here to follow orders, and I tried. But if it isn’t going to happen… Please, don’t make me waste time here if I can be with them instead.”
The silence when you stop speaking seems to last for hours. Your heart pounds, and you work on keeping your breathing even. If he tells you no, you might just lose it, just give up entirely.
Finally, he takes a breath and seems to consider you. “If,” he says, and your eyes widen with hope, “your co-pilot agrees, then I will reassign you back to Alaska. But only if he will agree.”
“No problem,” you say quickly. Seungcheol was the one who said it was over. He should have no problem letting you leave.
When you step out of the Marshall’s office, Seungcheol steps out of the shadows. You should be surprised to see him, but in the Shatterdome it feels right that he just is wherever you are. That’s always how it was, before.
You look at him disdainfully. “I assume you heard that conversation?”
He nods, once.
“So?” you ask. “Will you tell him you approve, so I can go?”
For the first time since you returned, Seungcheol smiles, tight and sarcastic.
“No,” he says easily, like it’s kind of funny.
Fury erupts inside you; you can’t even pinpoint where in your body it stems from. “Why?” you demand. “Because you feel like I took something from you, so you want to take something from me?”
He doesn’t respond to this. You know you’re right. You know him. You know his mind.
“I hate to fuck up your narrative,” you spit at him, “but I’ve lost out here just as much as you have. You’re not the only one who lost the ability to fight. You’re not the only one who lost their partner.”
You wish you could tell him the rest - you’re not the one who spent three years with a broken heart on top of it. He had lost you as a partner and a friend - you had lost him in the same ways, and you’d had to harbor your broken heart.
He shakes his head. “Poor baby,” he bites sarcastically, and then takes off down the hallway, into the dark.
You stop sleeping at the dorm. Sometimes you sleep at your parents’, sometimes on Wylie and Chan’s tiny couch, sometimes in bed with Seungkwan, who kicks at you and whines that you take up too much space. Sometimes you sleep inside Duellona Fury, sitting up, your back against her metal frame.
The Marshall seems to have taken some pity on you. He schedules your mornings training the Dome’s recruits, and lets Seungcheol get back to what he was doing in your absence - which seems to be on track to move up in rank, to maybe become a Marshall himself, someday. It isn’t quite the same as being back with your girls, but training recruits feels at least somewhat fulfilling. And it keeps you and Seungcheol busy - separately - until afternoon.
Then, he schedules you to spar.
In your first week, you’d been unwilling to hit Seungcheol. You’d been feeling guilty for hurting him, sad for your time apart, hopeful that if you were soft to him, then he’d be soft back to you.
Now, you’re fucking furious.
For the first time, when the match begins, you hit him first. He’s surprised for only a second, eyebrows shooting up as he stumbles for balance, and then you watch something delighted and devilish fall over his face. Like he knows exactly what dance this is, and he’s been learning the steps in secret.
The match is brutal, reminiscent of your very first one, when you were both nineteen. You throw hit after hit his way; he blocks or dodges all of them. But he can’t get a hit on you either - you’re too quick, spurred on by fury. You’ve been angry in a fight before. But you’ve never been angry at him.
You spin and throw up a kick, expecting his forearm to rise and block it. Instead, you knock him in the jaw.
He grunts, hand flying up to cover his mouth, and you drop your stance with a gasp.
“Shit!” you cry, hurrying closer. “I’m so sorry! Are you bleeding? Let me look.”
“‘M fine,” he mutters thickly from behind his hand, but you ignore him. For a second, things are how they used to be between you. He lets you peel his hand away, lets you gingerly turn his head this way and that, even opens up so you can check his teeth.
“You’re gonna have a fat lip,” you tell him regretfully. “But nothing’s bleeding. Teeth look okay. Anything loose in there?”
He pokes around his teeth with his pinky. “Nope.”
You take a step back, cowed. “I’m really sorry.”
He laughs a little, wryly. “I bet you feel better, though.”
You bite back a smile. “Actually…” you say, and he laughs again. You both do.
Somehow, this seems to be the thing that cracks the anger you’ve both been encased in, unable to move forward or backward. You feel melted, and you wonder if he feels freer now, too.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you say. You mean the kick, but the words land heavy.
He avoids your gaze. “I need some water,” he says, turning and heading to the side of the room.
You do the same, sitting heavily on the bench where your water waits for you.
“Hey,” he says, and you look over, brows raised in anticipation. “Tell me about Alaska.”
You can’t help but smile.
“It’s so beautiful,” you tell him. “God, Cheol, the ocean there. And the birds, and the snow…”
He’s watching you, listening, but while he listens he stands and heads to the center of the ring, settling into a starting form. With a small smile, you follow, standing opposite him. He starts an easy match that’s mostly just following the eighth form. It includes some hits and blocks, but you both do them gently, easily, circling each other slowly.
“So you liked it?” he asks. You can hear how hard he’s working to make it sound casual.
“It was so beautiful,” you admit before ducking below a kick. “But it was also… really hard.”
“What was the best part?” he asks.
You smile, block a hit. He almost gets his hands on you for a flip, but you dodge around behind him. He turns to follow you. “Weirdly, it was taking care of them outside of class. We - the instructors - we kind of their moms, away from home, you know? I’m the one who knew Yejin won’t sleep unless someone sits by her bed for a while. I’m the one that knew that Farrah and Salome only argue because they’re competitive. I’m the one that knew that Maria and Anjali don’t know their times-tables, that Ximena can’t brush her own hair, or that Iseul is allergic to fish. I loved them. I loved knowing them.”
He looks at you for a long time. “Maybe you should go back,” he says finally.
It feels like a trap. 
You look at the floor, at the wall, then finally back at him. “If you’ll do this for real,” you say carefully, “then I’d rather be here. If we’re actually trying, then I don’t want to go.”
He’s quiet for a long time. Finally, he swallows hard, not looking at you.
“What was the worst part?”
There’s only one answer.
“Missing you,” you say. “Losing you.”
He manages to get both of your arms and hauls you over his shoulders. You land on your back so hard that the air is knocked out of your lungs and your eyes close protectively. For a second, you lay there panting, waiting for the pain in your back to settle down, waiting for the stars behind your eyelids to calm.
When you open them again, the ceiling coming into focus above you, the room is empty.
You have a hunch on where you can find him, and you head to the jaeger bay. Sure enough, he’s sitting below Duellona, knees to his chest, staring up at her.
You sit next to him and he doesn’t get up and leave, which you take as a good sign.
“I can’t do this if you’re not all in,” he tells you without looking at you. “You walked away from me once. I can’t let you back in my head if there’s any possibility you’ll walk away again. If you’re with me, I need you to be with me.”
Something prickles in the back of your head. You feel like you’re starting to realize something - the seed of an understanding is pushing delicately through the dirt, but hasn’t yet spread out its leaves under the warmth of the sun yet.
Something about his hurt. Something about why.
“I think we should try to drift,” you tell him.
This seems to startle him - he forgets to be cold, turns to look at you, eyebrows raised in surprise.
“I can tell you how much I missed you,” you reason, “and tell you about how I spent every minute just… steeped in regret. Or we can walk through it - you can see for yourself.”
You know what you’re risking. If he gets into your head now, he’ll see it all - he’ll know everything, he’ll be able to feel for himself the depth of your loss, the height of your love. 
But what’s the harm, now? You can’t lose him twice. Maybe it’ll be enough for him to realize you hadn’t left him because you didn’t care about him. Maybe it’ll be enough for his forgiveness. 
Maybe then, he’ll tell the Marshall to let you go back to Alakanuk. 
It’s Seungkwan you bother, since he’d been in mission control before finding his team of co-pilots. The sideways look he gives you as he walks to your conn pod is withering, but you know better than to take it personally.
You buzz with nerves. The last time you’d tried this, the neural handshake hadn’t even connected. There had just been nothing.
The second you hear neural handshake initiating, you almost sob with relief. You can’t even pay attention to the memories - Seungcheol’s memories - floating around you; you want to collapse, to press your palms to the ground and thank the universe for letting you back in.
His first memories are a breeze - the ones you’ve jogged through together hundreds of times: his first home, his school, his father’s hospital room, the Dome. Then you slow your pace, because this is new.
You’re facing the landing dock on the Shatterdome’s roof. Seungcheol stands with his back to you, watching through the glass walls as a helicopter waits, the pilot talking into his headset.
You watch yourself walk towards the chopper’s open door. You watch yourself leave, remember how hard it was to not look back.
You hadn’t known that Seungcheol had been there, that he had seen you go.
The pain that accompanies the memory hits you like you’re drowning, like it’s too deep and you can’t feel the bottom, and you feel the machinery falter around you.
“Hey,” you say quietly. “I’m with you.”
He nods, still doesn’t look at you. But the beeping stops, the connection holding. 
There’s knowledge in this memory, knowledge in this pain. Seungcheol’s thoughts in this moment read in your head as clearly as if he said them aloud - I did this. I pushed her too far; I made her run.
You can’t stay here, can’t let him wallow in the memory of pain. You had to move forward - that’s how the drift works. Reluctantly you step towards the door, glancing over your shoulder to see if he’s following. 
He is. His jaw is tight and fists are clenched, but he is.
When the next memory - not in order of chronology, clearly - appears before you, you want to vanish into the floor. You’re watching yourselves in Seungcheol’s bed. Thankfully, you’re sleeping - this was after. But in the memory, Seungcheol is awake, laying on his side, his eyes drinking in your sleeping form.
The emotions and the knowledge come with it in an instant. The tenderness and the love he felt in that moment surround you now in the memory, unignorable, impossible to mistake. 
He had loved you. He had known you loved him, and he was showing you how he felt. The understanding slams you so hard that you think you stop breathing.
“Seungcheol,” you whisper. Around you, the scene begins to flicker, the connection starting to react to the oversaturation of emotion.
“We can talk about it after,” he says, voice hard. “Don’t stay in it. Find the next door.”
Your eyes find the door, but you feel frozen. You want the connection to drop, you want to unlock yourself from the stupid drive-suit and throw yourself into his arms, you want to apologize for leaving him thinking he’d pushed you away, thinking that he scared you into running.
“Cherry,” he warns. “The drift can’t -”
You know. 
And you owe him your side of the story.
You take a steeling breath and head for the door. You don’t take his hand. You don’t know if you deserve to, if he’d want you to.
When you step through the doors, you’re confused - you’re still in your dorm. Your bodies are both in the bed.
Now, though, Seungcheol sleeps, and you - the memory of you - sits on the edge of the bed, your head in your hands. 
You feel the emotion the memory holds, which means Seungcheol does, too.
Fear. It’s still fear - fear that he’ll know, fear that what you just did together will make it worse, make it harder to hide. 
Beside you, Seungcheol’s eyes go wide. 
“We have to move on,” you tell him. He looks at you, then back at the memory. 
“You -?” he starts to ask.
“After,” you tell him firmly. “We’ll talk after.”
You open the door, and you’re suddenly outside, surrounded by white.
Alaska.
The emotion knocks you over with the fury of an ocean wave - even though you know you’re not supposed to let it. This was how you had felt every day that you were gone, and it screams at you now, determined to be heart, determined to be felt. The loneliness, the regret, the despair and heartbreak all rise up in you, overtaking you, as snow falls gently and silently around you.
And the love. That never went away. That never mellowed, as the Marshall had put it.
If he didn’t know before, he has to know now. There’s no way he couldn’t.
Seungcheol squeezes your hand, and you almost jump. You look down at your linked fingers in shock, then up at him, eyes wide.
“We should go back and talk about this,” he tells you, but his grip on you is firm, assuring.
“Okay. It’s this way,” you tell him, trying to breathe, and you lead him by the hand through the snow. The fog strengthens as you walk, until you can’t see anything but grey, can’t see anything but Seungcheol’s hand in yours.
You continue on. You know where to go. When you step through, the fog vanishes as if it was never there, nothing gradual about it. With the fog gone, you can see clearly where you are - inside Duellona Fury’s conn-pod.
As you begin to work on the straps, you call through the intercom, “Kwan? We… need some privacy. We’ve got to talk - alone.”
His voice crackles back at you. “Yes, I’m leaving, I’m already gone. If you hear popcorn crunching, no you don’t.”
Seungcheol gives you a flat look. “Let’s go home and talk,” he suggests.
Home.
You are so afraid and so hopeful. You don’t know how to juggle both.
Back in your small living space, you sit like you’re meditating.
“Let’s figure this out,” he says. “No lies.”
“No lies,” you agree. Your knees touch, and you reach to take his hands. He lets you, giving your fingers a squeeze.
“You knew,” you say first, bordering on accusation. “I was trying so hard to hide how I felt about you… but you knew.”
He nods, his eyes on you. “And you,” he says slowly, “didn’t… know? That I knew?”
You shake your head, confirming. “I didn’t know. I thought I hid it.”
He smiles at you, a little placating. “Not as well as you would have liked.”
“And you…” You chicken out, swallow, force yourself to be brave. “You… loved me, too?”
He nods. “I did.” 
The air leaves your lungs so forcefully that you bend over, pressing your forehead to the tops of your hands. He pulls his hands from yours and you feel his touch, firm and reassuring, cupping your shoulders and rubbing his thumbs along them.
“We felt the same,” you echo into your shins. “You loved me.”
“Cherry,” he says above you, his voice like a plea. “I don’t understand why - when we… when I… I felt like once I forced you to look at it, it was too much. You ran.”
You sit with this for a minute, stunned and processing. His hands are back in yours, which you take as a good sign. 
“You thought… wait. You thought, after that night, that I knew how you felt, too?”
He nods. “I thought you knew,” he says, confusion still present in his tone. “I thought we both knew. I thought if it was out in the open, the glitch in the drift would be fixed.”
You wipe at your face, trying to breathe. “And instead,” you realize, “we couldn’t even connect, because I was still trying to hide it from you, and then you were hurt. I thought it was broken. I thought we really broke it forever.”
He looks at you in wonder. “That’s why you left,” he breathes, and you know he’s understanding this for the first time. “You thought we made the problem worse.”
It’s your turn to nod. “After we…I mean, I knew if I couldn’t hide it from you before that night, there was no chance I’d be able to hide it after. I kept you out in the first place because I… was afraid. I was afraid for you to see how much I loved you. It seemed… hopeless to keep trying.”
The words lay bloody between you, but his grip on your hands is strong, and you take another breath.
You push on, adding, “I was afraid it would be too much. I was afraid everything would change.”
Which it did, you think. He nods, like he hears this, like he agrees.
He releases you and leans back, blowing out a loud breath. “We’re so fucking stupid,” he says, and you splutter out a laugh.
“We really are.”
“I can’t believe we lost three years over that,” he says.
“I can’t believe you thought it was your fault that I left.”
“I can’t believe you left in the first place.”
This makes you smile, guilty. “That’s fair.”
You push yourself to stand; Seungcheol mirrors you, as if you’re already in the neural handshake, bodies working in tandem. 
“Cherry,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “It could never be too much. I love you. I’m crazy about you. I’m only me when I’m with you.”
You remember him, the night you’d slept together, telling you, don’t be afraid. He’d told you, after all, and you’d missed it entirely.
You close the distance between your bodies and kiss him hard. His arms circle your waist immediately, like they were waiting for you. He kisses you back hungrily. His mouth meets yours eagerly, his tongue stroking yours confidently before he shifts his attention to your jaw, your neck, then your mouth again. His hands don’t wander this time - instead he holds you so firmly it almost hurts, like he won’t let you move an inch, won’t let you out of his grasp ever again.
You cradle his face between your hands, let your teeth gently scrape along his bottom lip. “Cheol,” you whisper, then kiss him again. “You’re everything.” It’s what you should have said aloud the night you’d slept with him.
When the kiss breaks, he presses his lips to the top of your head and holds them there, melting around you a little. You give his middle a squeeze, revel in his heartbeat surrounding you like music.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I didn’t just say it.”
“Me too,” you tell him, holding him just a little tighter. “I should never have tried to hide it from you in the first place.”
He kisses your temple, and you hold each other, silently, each grappling with the time you’d wasted apart. 
You’re interrupted by a knock. You break apart, puzzled. You’re even more puzzled to see your Marshall at the door, and Seungkwan literally bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement.
“I’ve heard your drift is working again,” the Marshall says dryly. 
You look over your shoulder at Seungcheol, grinning. “Seems like it.”
“There’s a Cat-1 reading in the bay. I was about to alarm for Pretty Savage to drop, but Savage’s team insisted I give you the opportunity first. They can follow as backup. How do you feel?”
Seungcheol is at your side. He looks at you, his face open and raw. “Well?” he asks you. “Are you in, or are you out?”
“I’m in,” you tell him seriously. “I’m with you.”
You thrum with excitement as a tech team helps strap you into the drive-suits, and you can’t help but shoot Seungcheol a wild grin, your happiness alive and unbounded. 
You tell mission control - Nainsi, probably, just like the old days - “Ready and aligned.”
Mission Control - definitely Nainsi - responds, “Prepare for neural handshake.”
The artificial voice bounces around you - 3… 2… 1… neural handshake initiating…
Around you, the machines flicker busily. Neural handshake strong and holding. Now calibrating…
You’re crying, but you ignore it. You beam through tears, looking sideways at your co-pilot. His eyes dance as he smiles back at you. You want to unstrap yourself to the drivesuit and go kiss his dimples, the dimples you hadn’t seen in years. You resist the urge.
“Ready to drop?”  He looks sideways at you, sly. 
You scoff at him, your own grin cocky and sure, like you’re twenty again, like nothing had ever been broken between you. “Been ready. Let’s light ‘em up.”
– end
Tumblr media Tumblr media
thank you so much for reading!!!!
stay tuned for more fics in this universe! Wylie and Chan will get their own fic written by @sailorrhansol, as will Woozi! I'm also planning a Vernon x Reader in this universe, too! Should be a fun time!!
935 notes · View notes
moonstruckme · 4 months ago
Note
okay sooo mae i have this idea for emt!marauders! you know how some people have mistaken appendicitis/ruptured appendix for bad period cramps (bc period education is so abysmal). im imagining a reader who thinks they’re having the worst period pain ever and the marauders are trying to help, but once reader describes their symptoms the boys are like ‘uhmmm no babes you literally need an organ removed rn’.
i hope you are having the best day <3 sending you all the good vibes!! <3
Sending good vibes back, thank you lovely <33
cw: stomach pains, mention of hospital/surgery
emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 974 words
“Shh, I know, baby.” 
“You don’t,” you moan bitterly, pushing your face harder into Sirius’ lap and clutching your heating pad to your stomach. 
“I—yeah, I guess you’re right. Sorry.” He continues to toy with your hair, fingernails scratching lightly at your scalp in an attempt to soothe you. On the other end of the couch by your feet, James watches you with a sad puppy look. Sirius’ hand brushes across your temple, and he makes a sympathetic whining sound. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re hot.” 
“It hurts,” you whine in earnest. 
“Do you want some brownies?” Remus peeks out of the kitchen. “I’m almost done with these, but you’re welcome to some batter if you can’t wait.” 
You nibble your lip, looking at him apologetically. “I don’t think I feel well enough to eat anything.” 
Remus gives you a compassionate look and disappears back into the kitchen. Another wave of sudden, sharp pain makes you suck in a breath, curling tighter in on yourself. Sirius coos. 
“Fuck, what did I do to deserve this?” You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to breathe through the pain. “It’s never usually this bad.” 
“Does it hurt in your back, too, angel?” James leans forward, rubbing tentatively at the base of your spine. 
“No, not—not this time. It’s so weird.” 
His eyebrows bunch. “Why don’t you at least have some of your tea? That usually helps, doesn’t it?” 
You press your face into Sirius’ stomach. He palms the back of your head protectively, thumb rubbing the skin by your ear. “Honestly, thank you, but I really don’t think I can. 
“You should, dove,” says Remus, coming in from the kitchen to crouch by your head. He takes your tea and presses it into your hands, brushing a kiss against your hairline when you take it. “Sit up and have a few sips before it gets cold.” 
Reluctantly, you do as you’re told, allowing Sirius to help you into a seated position. He pulls you gently into his lap, making sure your heating pad stays situated, and you raise the cup to your lips. James rubs your ankle encouragingly while you drink. 
“What’s wrong?” he asks at your pinched expression. 
You mash your face into Sirius’ shoulder, ashamed. You feel horribly dramatic. You must have the lowest pain threshold in the whole world. “I can’t decide whether to go to the toilet. I feel like I could be sick, but moving makes it hurt worse.” 
Remus takes your cup from you, setting it back on the table. He’s frowning. “Moving makes it worse?” 
You nod miserably. 
He touches his knuckles to your forehead, brows stitching together. “How long have you been feeling nauseous?” 
You make a low, piteous sound. It feels impossible to think clearly with your stomach radiating hurt. “I dunno. I think it’s because of the pain.” 
“Was it the same time that the cramps started?” 
“I think so.” 
“Alright, thanks, sweetheart.” He kisses the space between your brows. “Do you mind if we check on something really quickly?”
You feel your eyebrows furrow. You’re about to ask what he means when James takes your heating pad, pulling it off of your middle. 
“Just for a second,” he promises at your distressed expression. “I’m gonna feel your stomach, okay?” 
You nod, wanting whatever this is over with so you can get your heating pad back, but when James’ fingers push gently into your lower abdomen, the pain triples. You cry out. 
“It’s okay,” Sirius coos, holding you tighter to his chest while James backs up to allow you to fold your knees in again. “It’s okay, baby, he’s done.”
“Jamie,” Remus asks softly, “would you get us a bag ready, please?” 
You blow air out through your mouth, trying to calm yourself as the pain fades back to the way it was. Sirius pets the back of your head, his other arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders. “A bag for what?” you ask weakly. 
Remus looks at you, his face conveying both apology and tenderness. “We’re going to go to the hospital,” he says slowly. 
“Wha—why?” You feel immediately frantic. Tears press at your eyes. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”  
“He’s telling you why, baby, listen.” Sirius kisses your head. 
“You’re not having period cramps,” Remus says patiently. “The good news is, we can fix it. The pain will go away, and you’ll be completely fine. But to do that, we need to go to the hospital so you can have your appendix taken out.” 
As he explains, Sirius is pressing kiss after kiss into your hair, holding you close and rubbing your back when you get upset. You make your dissent known, but Remus is calm and understanding. He answers your questions honestly, tells you about the procedure, promises they’ll be with you for as long as you’re awake. Before long, James has returned with a backpack of supplies for an overnight stay and your pillow under his arm. 
He sets them both down on the coffee table. Slips one arm behind your shoulders, another beneath the crooks of your knees. 
“No sense in walking when you’re poorly, right angel? Sirius, you can carry her things, yeah?”
Sirius groans as he slings the backpack over his shoulder. “Fuck, did you pack all her books?” 
“Just the essentials.” James kisses the bridge of your nose. “Wouldn’t want you getting bored in there. You doing alright?” 
“I don’t see how it can get worse,” you manage. You know you must look awful, eyes red from withheld tears and face creased with pain. James’ brows hook sympathetically. 
“At least you’ll feel better in a few hours, yeah?” 
“Yeah,” Remus answers for you. He sets a palm on top of your head as he moves past you both to get the door. “We’ll have you all fixed up soon, dove.” 
1K notes · View notes
reidrum · 5 months ago
Text
like i would | s.r
Tumblr media
pairing: spencer reid x bau!fem!reader
a/n: ok im gonna be honest idk how i feel about this one, i just wanted to finish it and put it out so apologies in advance if its not the best lol. this was requested with the prompt "i bet he can't fuck you like i can"! feedback and reblogs are always appreciated ! thanks for being paitent while i got this one out <3
cw: 18+ minors dni, smut, fingering, munch!spencer, jealous!spencer, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you whack it), reader's bf has a name which i hate in fics but its so hard to write this trope without a name so, afab!reader,
summary: a confession about your sex life makes it's way to the one person you'd hope wouldn't hear, and now he's determined to rectify the way you've been wronged
wc: 4.5k
_____________
you were a great asset to the bau. it was why you were personally recommended by emily to transfer out of sex crimes, the skill set you brought alongside the field training you had proved to be vital for the team’s success lately. you were also a great asset to the team. the bau was notorious for having people turnover fast, and you knew they were apprehensive with newcomers. but you managed to hit it off with every single member, one more than others.
spencer reid did not expect someone like you to join the team. not that he didn’t have faith in your talents and skills, he’s read your file and obviously knows you’re more than qualified to be here. he just did not expect someone who looked like you to join the team, someone who didn’t look beaten down by the horrors of the world and still believed in pots of gold at the end of rainbows. 
it didn’t help that you were so beautiful he literally would feel his heart ache when you walked in. like literally, would have to rub his chest to soothe the pain. and as spencer would, he would logic out his feelings with science because that’s all they are, scientific chemical reactions in the body. but what he felt in your friendship, what he felt when he was lucky enough to be in your presence, was something no textbook, theorem, or equation could explain.
so imagine the size of the fucking hammer coming down on his head when he finds out you have a boyfriend who: 1. is not him, and 2. is an actual real life bozo.
apparently you’d been seeing damon from organized crime for about a month now, that’s what he heard from penelope, and you ‘claim’ to be super happy. 
spencer doesn’t buy it.
he’s seen the way your ‘relationship’ operates, and he’s got the facts to back it up. damon never lets you get a word in when you’re in group settings, even purposefully talking over you when you’re clearly attempting to speak. majority of the time he’s condescending about your job as a profiler for the bau, saying that him and his team bring down drug rings, but you guys ‘just read their horoscope or whatever and decide the killer.’
it made spencer’s blood boil hotter than the sun. he couldn’t figure out why you put up with it, and why you continue to.
the final straw that broke the camel's back about his disapproval on your relationship choices, is what he overheard on the jet one time on the way back from a case.
the girls were talking in the back of the jet, unaware of spencer’s very awake mind despite his visibly sleeping body.
“i don’t know guys,” you had started with a sigh, “you think it’s weird right?”
“that your own boyfriend won’t go down on you? yeah hon, that’s fucking weird.” emily strikes.
“what did he say exactly?” jj asked.
“he said it increases the risk of STIs on the mouth? and doesn’t like the feeling of thighs crushing his head? and that even with all the … grooming … it’s still unnatural ?”
emily gagged while jj continued, “um…but do you like…on him?”
“yes! he literally won’t touch me unless i do!” you rage whisper.
“i am about to give him an organized crime to deal with,” emily half jokes, “what an asshole, why are you still with him?”
“i don’t know, he’s still nice to me i guess, and maybe i’m just being dramatic. or maybe i’m just not someone people go down on, who knows.” you sigh.
spencer stops listening, he can’t hear you talk so poorly of yourself. not when it’s so far from the truth yet you’ve been indoctrinated to think it’s accurate. how anyone could take advantage of you like that is beyond him, but it did light a fire inside of him and made him determined to help you realize you deserve so much better. if that happens to be him, then who is he to fight that?
spencer doesn’t get his chance to prove it to you for another two weeks, when you’d come over to his apartment for a movie night after getting in a fight with damon, your date night being canceled and leading you to spencer’s doorsteps, all dolled up with tears lining your eyes asking to come in.
he doesn’t even have time to be mad at your shithole boyfriend when he’s ushering you inside, offering you to sit on the couch while he goes and put a kettle on the stove for tea.
“i’m really sorry to just show up like this, spence.”
he doesn’t even blink before calling out from the kitchen, “don’t apologize, i’m always here for you. anytime and anywhere.”
you give him a soft smile before returning your gaze to the soft glow of doctor who.
he returns cradling two mugs in one hand and a pack of haribo gummies in the other. spencer doesn’t care for gummies, he’s more of a chocolate guy, but he knows it’s your favorite. so he makes sure to keep a couple bags in his apartment for you.
“my favorite!” you gush. his heart warms at your smile as he sits next to you on the couch. you naturally gravitate towards him to lean your head on his shoulder, and it’s automatic for spencer to wrap an arm around your shoulders to pull you closer.
the whirs and whooshes of the tardis fill the silence for the next hour as you visibly become calmer than when you first arrived. he decides this is a good time to ask, “do you want to talk about it?” as he turns his head to look at you.
“i don’t know,” you say quietly popping another gummy in, “i’m starting to believe it's just a me problem. like, maybe i’m just objectively not a great partner, and that’s why we keep getting in these fights. you know this time, he said i’m not worth all the effort and stress i bring him and that because of me he’s gonna bald at 29? i’m not a scientist like you or anything but even i know that, at least, can’t be my fault.” you end with a chuckle.
spencer knows he should probably comfort you in this time of honesty you’ve graced him with, squash your insecurities like a pesky bug on the windshield, and tell you how beautiful you are in as many words it’ll take for you to believe it (and he knows a lot of words).
but right now? he’s just fucking pissed.
not at you, never at you. at your situation, yes. at that sorry excuse of a partner let alone agent, immensely.
so he can’t help what escapes his mouth next, “why do you let yourself get treated like shit?”
you look up at him in surprise, at both the cursing and what he said, “what?”
“you’re constantly talking about how awful he treats you, and yet everyday you still go back to him knowing it’s going to repeat the next day. i just want to know why you don’t respect yourself enough to not let that happen to you.”
pulling away to sit far from him on the couch,  you start letting the annoyance show on your face, “spencer, that’s not fair at all. you think it’s my fault? do you really think i want to feel like this?”
“yes!” he shouts, “you seem like you do with how much you crawl back to him everytime, and everytime you let him back in.”
“okay, i think i should go,” you stand up and grab your things, “it was a mistake to come here, goodbye spencer.”
he grabs your wrist before you can get too far, “i just have to know, what is it?”
“what’s what spence, let me go.”
“what keeps you going back to him, it can’t be because you love him. it’s obviously not because you’re happy with him,” he lets out.
“you don’t know anything about me or my life, spencer!” you snatch away your arm and start heading towards the door.
“it’s definitely not because the sex is good, because i know it’s not.”
any emotion you had on your face wipes away like an etch a sketch, staring blankly at the door, hearing the man you’ve harbored a crush on since you started at the bureau years ago, telling you he knows your sex life is abysmal.
your voice comes out small, “h- how would you know that?” you don’t dare to turn around, knowing that if you did any resolve you held onto, any denial of emotions you’ve stripped from yourself would come pouring out like a broken dam.
the couch groans at a loss of weight, and the floorboards creak closer and closer to you.
“i heard you, on the jet.”
you’re especially glad he can’t see the blood draining from your face. if your heart already wasn’t at your feet, it’s most likely six feet under at this point. 
he heard you?
“when you were talking with the others about how he doesn’t reciprocate, and won’t sleep with you unless you get him off.” he continues.
the room is getting hotter by the millisecond, temperature about to be comparable to the sun’s core. it’s one thing to have just anyone hear the intimate details of your life, but spencer? the man to which you’d been using damon to get over?
the only sound that can be heard is your increasingly heavy breathing, and spencer feels like he’s caught a fish on his line and is ready to reel you in as he inches closer to you.
“you’re okay with that? not being taken care of in the way you deserve?”
his presence is merely nanometers behind you, the ghost of his fingers looking for landing on your hips. when you don’t move away, and he hears your breath hitch at the contact, he sets his hands more earnestly on your curves as he leans down to the nape of your neck.
“just don’t know,” kiss, “how anyone,” kiss, “wouldn’t want,” kiss, “to give you everything.” kiss.
your head lolls back onto his firm chest as he whispers in your ear, “cat got your tongue, sweetheart? you were so mouthy not even five minutes ago. be honest with me, has he even ever made you come?”
the whimpers escape you without warning and you find a single decibel of voice to speak, “spencer…” hoping the whine would dissuade him to let it go.
“uh uh, i asked you a question,” his arm tightens around the front of your waist to press back and fully feel him, “answer me.”
your lexicon has depleted except for the one word you know he’s desperately waiting for you to say, and the one he knows is the answer. yet you know the second it leaves your mouth, everything changes. and maybe you’re okay with that.
“no.”
spencer hums lowly, “has anyone made you come?”
“no.” you say again, softer this time.
“should we change that?”
this was not what you expected when you came to see him after your failed night out. the amount of processing you’d done in the last year to essentially not be thinking about spencer 24/7 was extensive. and you were ready to render it all useless in a matter of seconds.
so you let the strap of your bag fall down your arm and hit the ground with a thud, and finally turned around to look the good doctor in his eyes. while his voice held traces of anger and frustration, you came to see his eyes were full of reassurance and comfort, the spence you always knew to prioritize your wellbeing more than anything.
he looked down at you and slid his hand to up to cup your jaw, and he hears the smallest murmur, so delicate yet so full of want leave your lips.
“yes.”
that was all spencer needed to catch your lips in a heated kiss, moving your body to the closest wall as he places a hand behind your head to protect you from the wall’s impact while the other pins your waist to the wall.
you move your arms to wrap around his neck and keep him pinned to you with no escape, like he’d ever want to. his lips detach from yours and make a descent towards your neck again, taking deliberate effort to locate the sensitive spots.
he finds one just behind your ear and spends time sucking and bruising up the spot, relishing in the soft whimpers leaving your mouth. while you’re lost in the sensation on your neck, you don’t notice spencer move one of his hands closer to the button of your pants, effortlessly (and impressively) opening it up.
detaching from your neck with a heavy pant, he moves back to lean against your forehead with his own and look you in the eyes to ask, “is this okay? we can stop if you want, i didn’t mean to be so forw-“
“please don’t stop.”
he searches your eyes for any conflict and finds none, considering it the okay to continue his downward descent. he returns his lips to the second home they’ve made on your lips and starts to push your pants down over the curve of your ass, leaving your panties on.
the flash of purple lace underwear glares at him when he glances down, and suddenly he remembers what got him in this position in the first place.
“were you wearing this for him?” he lets out condescendingly, “you really think he deserved to see you like this?”
spencer’s fingers brush against your front, leaving your heavy breaths hitting him in the face. you can’t think of anything to say. hell, you’re not even sure if you know any words right now. all you can offer is a pathetic moan, and spencer doesn’t think that’s enough.
“come on, don’t get all shy now. what were you expecting him to even do, hm? thought you said he didn’t care about making you feel good.” he taunts as his middle finger traces the outlines of your cunt through your panties.
you shudder at the contact, leaning your head back against the wall as he refuses to break eye contact. he’s waiting for you to say something, raising his eyebrows expectantly as he’s slowed down his movements on you. taking a shallow breath you open your mouth, “h-, he didn’t care, just thought if i ke-, kept looking nice he’d wanna, fuck, do something.” you moan out.
“and did he?” he moved his hand back up to slowly slip into your panties.
his finger dips all the way down to your entrance to gather your wetness and spread it all the way back up to your clit, your mouth dropping open as you let out a whiny, “no.”
“what a shame.” he dips a finger into your hole and you let out a pornographic moan.
he drags his finger in and out slowly making sure to watch your face as it contorts in pleasure. once he feels you’ve gotten used to it he slips in a second finger, increasing the pace and moving his thumb to circle your clit again.
“oh fuck,” you cry.
“baby, you’re so tight.” he whispers. the way you clenched around his two digits made feel almost pussy drunk, and he wasn’t even inside you yet. he starts to wonder if damon was doing anything really to prioritize your pleasure, and it only just worked him up more. he felt more determined to bring you to finish, so he picks up the pace and increases the pressure on your clit.
you drop your head to his shoulder no longer being able to hold yourself up anymore, the sensation of his fingers on you taking over, loose whimpers and moans falling out of your mouth every other second.
“spencer…shit, i’m gonna come…”
“let go for me, baby.” he whispers in your ear.
the pleasure barrels through you like a wrecking ball, knocking the wind out of your mind and body. your legs turn into jelly and you almost fall before spencer holds you up. you try to regulate your breathing into his shoulder, hoping to calm down before you look up and meet his eyes again.
he makes that choice for you when he gingerly lifts your head up, his eyes silently asking if you’re okay. you don’t even bother responding before softly pressing your lips to his again, hoping he can feel your response to his silent question.
the kiss picks up in urgency, and soon his hands are back to exploring your body again. they slide down to the backs of your thighs while he murmurs a small, “jump.” and lifts you to wrap your legs around his waist. without breaking the kiss he walks you both to his bedroom and places you on his bed with care.
his fists flank you on both sides as he leans down to kiss you, and he moves further down kissing along your neck and chest. you reach down to the bottom of your top to pull it over your head, leaving you in the purple lacy bra that matches your panties.
he detaches from you and stands at full height, gazing at the sight of you spread out on his bed with your hair framing you like a halo. he can’t even help himself when he says, “you look so beautiful, angel.” the blush rises to your cheeks, and you beckon him to come back down to which he happily obliges.
spencer moves down further towards your hips, and his lips ghost over the lace band spreading along your waist. his fingers play with the fabric and he moves his face to be directly in line with your clothed cunt. your breathing gets heavy, and you anticipate what he’s about to do.
“wait, you don’t, you don’t have to do that, spence. i already came.” starting to feel a bit guilty at the man above you potentially feeling obligated to do this, as you realize that if he heard you on the jet, he heard about the one thing damon refused to do for you.
“sweetheart, i’d love to keep making you feel good as long as you let me, okay? you gonna let me make you feel good?” he breaths, pressing chaste kisses to your inner thighs.
you give a slight nod and he gently pulls your panties off your legs, marveling at the light glistening off your cunt. he kisses up the plush of your thighs before pausing right where you need him the most. you look down at him and meet his unwavering eyes full of love.
he places a long kiss to your core before licking a long stripe. you moan out languishly, the euphoric feeling taking over every sense in your body. you’re unable to comprehend how you went so long without feeling this, it almost feels criminal. and the way spencer was eating you out, felt like this was doing it for him too even though you were the one getting pleasured. 
it turned you on even more to know he was getting off on how much you were enjoying this. your head was spinning off into another realm, and the only thing tethering you to this reality was the grip of your hands in his hair. his tongue made circles and shapes all over your cunt before dipping down to thrust into your hole.
your thighs shake and threaten to clamp shut on his head, and he uses his wide hands to wrap around your thighs to hold them in place. “oh my god fuck, that feels so good…spence…please..” you’re not even sure what you’re begging for, but of course, spencer does when he adds a finger into your hole and moves his tongue to focus back on your clit. the combined sensations were enough to tip you over the edge for the second time tonight, your release glistening on his chin as he moved back up to kiss your lips again.
your heavy panting tries to bring you back down from your high, a mix of sweat and the taste of you lingering everywhere. 
spencer smooths your hair back as he moves his body to lie next to you, “i think, damon’s a fucking loser, if he doesn’t think that’s worth doing.” he says between pants.
you hum in agreement, or just in acknowledgement at whatever he said since you’re still reeling from the endorphin release. hiking your leg over his body to straddle him, you clumsily reach for his belt and attempt to undo the clasps to reach his growing member. you pull his pants down and palm him through his boxers, reveling in the broken moans falling from his mouth. you start inching downwards when spencer grabs you by the forearms and flips you over so you’re back on the bed staring up at him.
“not tonight, sweetheart. it’s about you right now, wanna make sure you know what you deserve.”
“but…” you pathetically respond.
“i don’t know what that neanderthal tells you, but sex is not transactional. i think if i ever see that guy again, i’d punch him for making you think otherwise.”
the words go straight to your core, turning you on even more. spencer takes note of how your pupils widen and your chin tilts up towards him.
“besides,” he presses his crotch to yours, “the sex wasn’t even that good with him, right?”
you moan out again, unable to find words to satisfy his question. he leans back up and off the bed to fully remove his boxers and you finally get a good look at what was underneath.
holy fuck, he was huge. you propped yourself on your forearms to get a better look at him, and watched as he lazily stroked himself while he sauntered back over to you. the image was so lewd, you hoped you could borrow some of his eidetic memory so you could hold on to this moment forever.
his face held a smug smirk at your awestruck one, and he felt his ego inflate even higher, “by the looks of your reaction, i’m guessing he’s never been much of a, challenge, for you in bed has he?”
you dumbly shake your head no, “definitely not as big as you.” you whisper, more to yourself than him.
his smirk grows wider, “don’t worry, baby, i’ll take real good care of you.” he says as he climbs over you to line himself up to your entrance.
you feel him slowly start to push in, the sensation of being split open growing bigger by the second. your brows furrow and your eyes are shut tight as you wait for the pressure to turn into pleasure.
if spencer thought you around his fingers had him pussydrunk, what he’s feeling now has to be close to pussy poisoning or something because he cannot think of anything in existence that feels as good as the walls of your cunt clenching around his cock. it’s taking everything in him to not break, to just fuck you senseless and reach his peak.
once his hips are flush with yours and he’s fully settled within you, he waits for you to give him the okay to move.
you, on the other hand, have never felt more full ever. damon was not nearly this big, nor has any other guy you’ve been with. it’s a bit of a miracle on how it fit inside you, and how it felt better than anything you could’ve imagined. the pressure and slight pain subsides, and with a slight nod spencer takes the cue to start moving.
the first thrust has you both moaning out in harmony together, and he sets the pace nice and slow so as to make sure you’re comfortable.
but it's not enough for you, you need him to fuck you.
“spence…harder.”
he stills at your word, leaning up so he’s perpendicular to you.
“whatever you say, princess.”
and he starts pounding into you, hips rutting at a pace you can’t even keep up with. the whimpers and moans gush out as the familiar coil begins to build within you. he taps your leg to lift it up over his shoulder to allow him deeper access, and he’s able to reach that one spot you’d heard about from all your friends, on reddit, in movies. you had no idea this type of feeling even existed, and spencer was hitting it with precision every single thrust over and over.
“fuck,” you whine.
“that feel good, baby?” he teases, “the way you’re squeezing my cock so tight, i doubt that fucker ever made you feel like this, huh?”
your tits bounce with every thrust, and the deepened angle has you reaching your climax fast. spencer feels it too and drops his head to whisper in your ear.
“i bet he’s never fucked you like this,” he continues his taunt, “he’d never be able to fuck you like i can, make you come three times in one night like i can.”
you whimper, “spencer,”
“say it, sweetheart. say no one’s ever fucked you like me.”
he was trying to kill you, death during intercourse would be a crazy way to go out but it’s a fate you’d be willing to accept. nonetheless, you comply.
“never ever, fuck, been fucked like you, baby.”
spencer has never felt more satisfied, “good girl, now come.” and with a final thrust he lets you reach your peak as he releases himself into you.
in the midst of groans he gingerly pulls out of you and you whimper at the loss.
the next few minutes are just filled with the sounds of yours and his heavy breathing, before spencer leans over to you, “was that too much?”
still in your daze you let out a soft giggle, “spencer, i think you’ve ruined all men for me.”
he smiles back, “i meant what i said, damon’s really stupid if he’s not willing to do all that for you.”
you intertwine your hand with his, “you know, i never really liked him anyway. i was just using him to get over you.”
“me?” he says incredulously.
you nod, “i didn’t know if you would’ve felt the same so i just tried to move on to someone else, stupid i know, but i don’t know it made sense then.”
he pulls you closer to rest in the crevice of his chest, “i have been into you since the day you walked into the bullpen, and letting you slip through my fingers is a mistake i will never make again.”
you hug him tightly before groaning out loud, “shit, i have to tell damon it’s over now don’t i.”
“i mean, i could tell him if you want.”
“spence, no. i think you might kill him.” you laugh, “i can do it, i just don’t want him to get all ‘organized crime’ on me.”
“just tell him i have a gun.”
“so does he?”
“mine’s bigger.” he smirks.
you roll your eyes, “well, yes.”
3K notes · View notes
saturnicos · 9 months ago
Text
Giving a bracelet to them
With: Adam, Alastor, Angel Dust, Charlie, Lucifer
ps:: reader's gender is not mentioned
Tumblr media
. Charlie
She absolutely adores! Extra points if it have some decoration with rainbow.
She'll use all the time, only take off when goes to bed and when goes to take a bath — she is worried if she ends up breaking or losing the pieces, so try to be as careful as possible.
As she organizes and takes care of hotel paperwork she tends to feel stressed, and unconsciously looks at the bracelet, a smile forming and her spirits slightly picking up again. She's really happy with the gift.
"Wait, this's for me? Really? It's so pretty, thank you so very much!"
. Alastor
He... Definitely have it.
Like, don't get me wrong, he just not knows how really feel about it since he has never received a gift before from anyone, except from his mother.
Deep inside, he actually likes it! The color scheme matching with his clothes, and it isn't so much decorated and colorful; or how he would like to say, simple things are more pretty.
Alastor isn't using the bracelet frequently, most because he not like that type of accessories so much. He'll probably use when is far from you, like a way to remember of you and stuff (this man don't use phone not even if the world frozen), but in the most of the time the bracelet probably will be in the pocket of his coat.
"What do you have there, my dear? Oh, a bracelet, that's very interesting."
. Adam
He... Definitely have it/2.
But it's the opposite.
He's a bitch that will probably mock about it, but will quickly change when you feel upset and try to leave him alone, saying something like "Just joking, Sugartits/Hunk, I actually liked that, give me".
He'll use ALL the time, except when he's going to the extermination.
He will 100% brag about the bracelet to anyone when he gets the chance, saying how you spent your time making gifts for him (he's a complete idiot that loved this thing, but will never admit bc high ego lol).
Lute can't stand him talking about this damn accessory anymore, please, she begs you not to give him anything else.
TOTALLY extra points if it has a guitar pendant.
"Of course you make it for me, after all, you are madly in love with me"
. Angel Dust
Now, I think it's important to point out that Angel would act a lot more like Anthony with his S/O.
Using this as a base, he'll be SO happy receiving a gift from you. Obviously, he'll make some dirty joke about it, but deep down he wonders why he received it if it's not a specific date.
This poor boy is emotionally broken, little acts like this make him feel so moved and loved ☹️
Every time that him have a breakdown and isolates himself, Fat Nuggets comfort him, laying next to him and gently plays with the bracelet (or if he isn't using, Fat Nuggets will pick it up and take it to him, as if knowing it is an object of comfort).
"A gift? For me? You're so kind, baby~."
. Lucifer
Listen to me: this man would probably feel so much like crying — with joy — and nothing convinces me otherwise.
He'd passed the lasts seven years alone, without any love or compassion, having you in his life it's a great gift for him. Now, receive a gift from someone that he considers his greatest gift? God-
He would also be one of the will use all the time. Seriously, this guy probably don't take it off in any occasion, it's a regular reminder that there is someone else besides Charlie who loves him.
He's so grateful to have you.
Later, he'll make matching necklaces with duck pendants for you, he thinks that's a lovely way to say thanks :)
"What is this, sweetie? Oh... I'll use, that's so beautiful, thank you a lot."
Tumblr media
Thank you for read !! I'm so sorry if this is ooc, but I hope it was pleasant anyway :)
3K notes · View notes