#Fallen Comrade Table

[nocternalrandomness]

"Missing Man Table"

The symbolism of the Missing Man Table:

--The table is round, to show our everlasting concern for our missing men. --The cloth is white, symbolizing the purity of their motives when answering the call to serve. --The single red rose; displayed in a vase, reminds us of the lives of these Americans and their loved ones and friends who keep the faith while seeking answers. --The red ribbon symbolizes our continued determination to account for our missing. --A slice of lemon reminds us of their bitter fate --A pinch of salt symbolizes the tears of our missing and their families who long for answers after decades of uncertainty. --The lighted candle reflects our hope for their return. --The Bible represents the strength gained through faith to sustain us and those lost from our country, founded as one nation under God. --The glass is inverted, symbolizing their inability to share a toast. --The chair is empty, the seat that remains unclaimed at the table.

[almostwisegalaxy]

On my knees In front of you standing for you

Yeon Sieun x Depressed fem!reader

in this story the reader is baku's sister

..................................................................................

The small restaurant, though modest, resonated with a familiar commotion that evening. Hu-min’s laughter, always too loud, drowned out the crackling radio playing an old Korean trot song. Gotak finished his bowl of ramyeon with fervor, and Jun-tae meticulously cut his kimchi, as if it were a surgical operation. Yeon Si-eun, for his part, kept his arms crossed, his eyes skimming the table, pretending to be interested in the texture of the wood.

He wasn't there for the meal. Not really. Since they had entered, he had sensed something—a weight, a draft, an extra heartbeat—something dissonant in that narrow space. He intermittently stared at the slightly torn curtain that led to the back of the restaurant, where Hu-min had disappeared shouting a “Be right back, gotta check something!” too exaggerated not to be a habit.

Then she had appeared.

Not in a beam of light, not with her hair floating in slow motion like in dramas. She was just there, suddenly, standing in the doorway, barefoot, arms hanging loosely. Her eyes were vacant. As if she saw no one, or perhaps everyone at once.

Y/N.

Yeon Si-eun didn't know why his stomach had turned. She wasn't doing anything. She was just there. He felt a cramp at the base of his neck, a strange tension he had only known once before, facing an unpredictable opponent. But there, it wasn't about strategy or threat. It was something else. A subtle panic. A curiosity with fangs.

She had approached her brother silently. Hu-min had turned around, surprised, then immediately smiling. A smile that, Si-eun now realized, was too rushed, too automatic. The kind of smile that says, "Don't fall apart in front of them. Please.”

"Aren't you sleeping?"

She shrugged almost imperceptibly. And in that simple gesture, Yeon Si-eun saw more than he had seen in some of his former enemies. A nameless weariness. A broken mechanism. Someone who wasn't made for words but had too much to say.

"I heard... you were laughing too loudly. I thought... you had fallen."

Her voice was cracked, like a silk thread stretched too tight. Hu-min caught her by the shoulder and massaged the back of her neck as one calms a wounded animal.

"I'm fine, Y/N. I'm just loud, you know that. Go back and rest, huh?"

She didn't answer. Her eyes slid across the room. They met Si-eun's.

It was only a second. But for him, it was enough.

There was nothing romantic about it. No projection, no idealization. Just a look, full of fatigue, shame, stifled anger. A frozen storm. And something, deep inside him, started to scream.

"Why her? Why now?"

He didn't know her story, but he knew that expression. He had seen it on the faces of some comrades before they disappeared. Before they left messages that no one really understood.

While Gotak wrestled with a sauce stain and Jun-tae tried to understand a math memo, Si-eun kept his eyes on her. She wasn't smiling. She wasn't doing anything to be noticed. And yet, every detail of her presence electrified him: the sleeves that were too long, the dark circles under her eyes that shouldn't exist at her age, the way she stood as if breathing was an act that required permission.

Hu-min had gently pushed her back towards the curtain.

"I'll join you in a bit. Promise."

She had turned her head. Another moment. Just long enough for Si-eun to feel his breath catch in his throat.

She wasn't pretty, in the classic sense. Not radiant, nor gentle. She looked absent. Like a photograph too many years old. But that absence, that was precisely what had captured him. That void that called out. That void that screamed.

Since that night, he hadn't been able to shake it off.

He didn't yet know if it was attraction, compassion, or an obsession born of his own loneliness. But Y/N now haunted his silences. His analyses crumbled as soon as he thought of her. He had surprised himself by returning to the restaurant two days later, alone. Pretending he had forgotten something. Then another time. And again.

But she didn't reappear.

He understood that she rarely went out. And only to follow her brother's voice, like a cracked compass.

This made her absence more present than any presence.

He began to observe Hu-min, to dissect the moments when his mask slipped, when his laughter was too high-pitched. He told himself that he had to know. That he saw her suffering. But that he couldn't do anything. Not alone.

It was then that Yeon Si-eun felt the first real shiver of fear in a long time.

Not for himself.

For her.

And something within him stretched, slowly, painfully, like a promise being born in the dark: he would see her again. He would understand her. He had no right to ignore her.

Not her.

---

That day, Y/N rose slowly, as if each movement was a struggle against gravity. The curtain of the small room where she and her brother usually slept was drawn, and light barely filtered through the holes. She knew it had been too long since she had felt Hu-min's presence. It was a sensation she couldn't ignore, a void that wouldn't disappear. Usually, he was there, with his loud laughter and his voice too loud to be ignored. But today, it was as if he had gone silent.

She got up, her legs trembling with the effort, her bare feet softly hitting the cold floor. Each step brought her closer to the door, but she felt as if her body was resisting this movement, as if it didn't want to let her cross that threshold. Yet, she went out. The house felt different when Hu-min wasn't there to fill the space with his noisy presence, his incessant attempts to make her smile.

When she arrived at the school, the boys were in a classroom at the end of the hallway. The place, like everything else, was steeped in a heavy, cold atmosphere. It was where they often gathered, together, away from prying eyes. When Y/N entered the room, she paused for a moment on the threshold, her eyes frantically searching for the three boys.

Jun-tae looked up and, before Si-eun and Gotak had even reacted, he noticed her, his face hardening for an instant. She wasn't supposed to be here. Not now. Not in this state.

"Hu-min…" Her voice, trembling, broke the heavy silence of the room. "Where is he? Where is my brother ?"

The boys exchanged a quick glance. Si-eun didn't need more to understand. He knew this question was coming. He also knew what it implied. He couldn't tell her the truth, at least not bluntly. Not yet.

"He… he went somewhere. But he'll be back soon." Si-eun's answer was measured, almost cold, as if it belonged to a different world than Y/N's. He didn't dare worry her too much, but he felt a heavy truth beneath his words. "Don't worry, he just has some things to take care of."

Y/N looked at him, deep confusion in her eyes. She frowned. Her lips tightened, an expression of vulnerability that didn't suit her. "He promised me we'd go to the aquarium... We were supposed to… he was supposed to come back." She lowered her head, then, suddenly, her gaze fell on Gotak, whose face was graver than ever, and who looked away.

"He'll be back, Y/N. Don't worry," Gotak repeated, trying to sound reassuring, but his tone betrayed a worry that even he couldn't hide.

Y/N didn't answer immediately. She stared at the floor, her mind lost in a thick, distant haze. She wasn't in this room. Her thoughts were elsewhere, further away, towards a place where promises were broken, and where Hu-min was no longer the person she had known.

Sadness, an unbearable weight, slowly seeped into her. She felt like a spectator of her own life. She could no longer connect with others, understand laughter, understand words. She only knew that, without Hu-min, this world became too vast and too cold for her.

Yeon Si-eun finally stood up, his gaze fixed on Y/N with an intensity he hadn't yet dared to show her. He had seen the hidden suffering behind her eyes. He had seen the way she fled from herself, the way she hid in silence, as if she were afraid of everything that was alive. But he couldn't leave her in this state.

"He'll be back," he repeated, but this time, it wasn't a promise, it was a statement. He didn't know exactly what was happening, but he knew it wouldn't be easy for any of them.

Y/N didn't answer. She turned slowly and, without a word, left the room. The sound of her footsteps faded in the hallway, taking with it some of the heavy air in the room.

The boys remained there, not knowing what to say. Jun-tae sighed deeply. Gotak clenched his fists on the table. Si-eun, for his part, found himself once again facing the reality of the situation. He knew Y/N wouldn't see it this way, but he now understood that everything was connected: Hu-min, his laughter, his secrets, and Y/N's invisible suffering. They were caught in a vortex far more complex than they could have imagined.

But for now, they only had one thing to do: protect this fragile balance, protect the facade they were maintaining. Because it was all going to collapse soon.

That night, Y/N went to bed early, as was her habit. Her body was heavy, almost numb. But before closing her eyes, she thought of a promise Hu-min had made her. A promise he hadn't been able to keep.

"I'll be back."

---

FLASHBACK – About ten years ago

Little Y/N was barely five years old at the time. Two big, curious eyes, round cheeks, and that clear laugh that sounded like a jingle bell shaken a little too fast. She was shy, yes—she hid behind her brother when strangers spoke to them—but around him, she transformed.

With Hu-min, she was a sunbeam.

"Oppaaaaaa! You're running too fast!" she cried one day, arms outstretched, struggling to keep up with the two boys who were dashing ahead.

"You're too slow, Y/N! You're a slug!" Baek-jin teased, laughing.

"Am not!" she retorted, puffing out her cheeks. "You're cheating because you have dinosaur legs!"

The three children burst into laughter, collapsing onto the park ground, out of breath. Hu-min had grabbed his little sister and spun her around in the air before setting her down, laughing.

"There's my super flying Y/N! Faster than a hungry pigeon!"

She started laughing so hard that she got the hiccups.

In those days, Y/N thought life was simple: running, laughing, teasing Baek-jin calling him Jin-nie, building forts under the sheets, and eating candy stolen from the cupboard when their father hadn't come home yet.

But the house changed when the sun went down.

And especially, it changed when their father came home.

The sound of the key in the lock froze the air. Silence fell like a contained storm.

Y/N would freeze. Always. Like an animal that hears the predator approaching. Hu-min, on the other hand, would switch to autopilot. He would go get their father's slippers, discreetly remove any bottles from the table, grab Y/N's hand, and take her to their small room.

"Close the door, okay? Don't say a word. Even if you hear shouting."

She would nod, trembling. Her hands were icy.

And the shouting would begin.

Not howls of pain. Not blows. But words that sliced through the air like blades.

"Two parasites. The girl sleeps all day. The boy plays the hero. You're ruining my life."

Y/N would cry silently. Her body curled up under her blanket. Hu-min would come join her, sliding next to her like an invisible barrier between her and the walls of the world.

And then he would start. The little theater.

He would begin to whisper in the dark.

"You know what I saw today? A magpie trying to steal a sandwich! I swear, it looked guilty. Like it was about to be arrested by the police!"

Y/N sniffled.

"Magpies... do they go to prison?"

"Unless they write a ten-line poem to apologize. But yours just said 'caw-caw,' so it was put in a cell with a pigeon with a bad reputation."

A small laugh escaped Y/N's throat. Weak, but sincere.

That was all he wanted. A spark. A tiny ray.

Sometimes, he would make faces in the dark. Other times, he would mime a fight between a sock dragon and a sock knight. He would invent absurd songs that rhymed "kimchi" with "spaghetti" and "rocket" with "holey socks."

He would have given anything for her to keep that laugh.

But every year, he saw her close in on herself a little more. Every insult, every silence that followed the outbursts, chipped away a little more at the light she carried.

And he, Hu-min, fought back. In his own way.

He became louder, more alive. He laughed loudly for two. He rolled his eyes at every criticism, pretending it didn't affect him. But inside, he was slowly collapsing.

Y/N, on the other hand, was fading away.

And he clung to her as to a silent promise. That he would get her out of there. That he would always be there.

Because she was more than just a little sister.

She was the only person who had ever looked at him like a hero.

And he had no right to disappoint her.

Even if she no longer laughed.

Even if she was slowly fading before his eyes.

He would continue.

Until the end.

---

The Next Day

Yeon Si-eun hadn’t slept a wink all night.

He had replayed the scene over and over—Y/N’s figure, frail, worried, standing in the middle of the empty classroom, her voice cracking with fear as she asked, "Where's my brother?"

She had only stayed for a few minutes. But since then, she hadn't left his mind.

He hated himself for it.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Not to him. He had built walls, erected defense strategies more complex than those of any opponent. He had always kept his distance. Observer. Neutral. Cold, some said. Prudent, he corrected.

But with her, there had been a hole in the armor. And through that hole, she had slipped. Not with words or smiles. But with her silence. With that pain suspended in the void of her eyes.

That morning, he had waited for the exact time he knew she would be alone. He had unconsciously memorized Y/N’s schedule. He knew she didn't eat in the morning. That she slept most of the time. But today, he was going to knock on her door.

Not out of altruism.

Not out of kindness.

But because he couldn't bear not seeing her anymore.

**

Hu-min had absentmindedly given him the address of the small apartment above the restaurant. Si-eun went there with a precise, almost military step. His hands were in his pockets, his thoughts hazy, but his heart beating fast. Much too fast. He hated this loss of control.

He knocked twice.

No answer.

He was about to leave, but the door finally opened. Slowly. As if it weighed a ton.

And Y/N was there. Her hair disheveled. Her face still blurred with sleep. She was wearing an oversized sweater, its sleeves falling over her hands. He read in her gaze the effort each step towards that door had cost her.

"Si-eun…?"

She seemed surprised. Almost wary.

He could have said he was passing "by chance." He could have made up an excuse.

But that wasn't his style.

"I wanted to see if you were okay."

She didn't answer. She blinked. Once. Twice.

And then, she stepped aside without a word.

He entered.

**

Silence settled in immediately. Si-eun didn't break it. He observed. The apartment was cramped, almost bare. Two mugs on the table, curtains permanently drawn, a mattress in a corner. And that smell of stale tea, of stagnant sleep.

She sat back down on the bed without looking at him. He remained standing at first. Then sat down on the floor, facing her, at a good distance.

Not a word.

And in that silence… something was born.

It wasn't a game of glances, nor an exchange of confidences. It was something else. A contained tension. A raw intimacy, without justification. A strange calm. He didn't need to understand her, nor to find the right words to soothe her.

She wasn't crying. She wasn't talking.

She was simply there.

And he was there too.

Then, slowly, her shoulders slumped. She rested her head against the wall, her eyelids half-closed. Si-eun didn't move. He watched her for a long time, until he felt her breathing regulate. And suddenly, he understood: she was asleep.

She had fallen asleep.

In his presence.

And it was an insane victory.

A shiver ran through him. Something feverish. Unhealthy perhaps, but irrepressible. She had granted him a trust that no one else had. She had let her guard down. He had become a fixed point in her blurry world.

And in his, she had become an obsession.

**

Since that day, he returned. Every day. At the same time.

He never warned her. But she always opened the door a little before. Sometimes barely conscious, other times already sitting, her eyes vacant. As if her body had sensed him. As if a part of her wanted to see him.

He always brought something. Jasmine tea. Pieces of sweet bread. A novel. A potted plant. Discreet, almost ridiculous things. And yet, every detail had been weighed, considered, chosen for her.

But it wasn't the objects that mattered. It was his presence. Constant.

He didn't ask questions. Didn't force anything.

Sometimes they talked.

About trivialities. The weather. A memory. A dream.

And sometimes not at all.

But he felt that something was changing. Slowly. A crack in the marble.

She was beginning to wait for him.

And he… he no longer thought of anything else.

The outside world had faded. Even his strategies, his fights, his calculations were erased. He no longer recognized himself. He would catch himself looking at his phone, listening to the slightest sound, hoping it was her. He observed the smallest details: the way she pushed up her sleeves, how her fingers absentmindedly twisted a strand of hair, how she stared at the ceiling when she thought he wasn't looking.

He didn't just want her close. He wanted to be everything to her.

Her thought. Her refuge. Her center.

And that thought, although he kept it silent, consumed him.

**

But Y/N was getting increasingly worse.

Some days, she didn't even get up. She would lie there, turned towards the wall, her eyes open without really seeing. Other times, she would talk about herself—rarely, but with a sharp lucidity.

"It's weird," she said one evening, her eyes vacant. "I feel everything. And nothing. As if I'm transparent… and heavy at the same time."

Si-eun didn't answer. He was too afraid that the slightest word would break this moment.

She continued:

"Sometimes, I just want to sleep… for a long time. And for everyone to forget I exist."

His own heart clenched. A dull ache. An icy fear.

And anger. A furious anger at this world that had broken her. At that father, at that indifference, at the weight she carried alone.

He wanted to scream for her. Fight for her. Pull her out of this abyss with the strength of his arms.

But he only did one thing: he placed his hand against hers. And this time, she didn't pull it away.

**

Since then, he woke up every morning with only one thought: to see her again.

He lived for that suspended moment between them, in that narrow room, where nothing hurt anymore. He didn't say it, but he knew: he was falling. And it wasn't pure love. It was deeper. More twisted.

He wanted her to see him.

To need him.

For him to be the only thing standing in her collapsing world.

And without realizing it, Y/N was letting him in a little more each day.

She didn't smile. But she listened to him.

She didn't always speak. But she stayed.

And for Si-eun, that was all it took.

He had promised himself, in silence: he would never leave her alone again.

Even if she didn't love him.

Even if she didn't look at him.

He would stay.

Until she no longer needed anyone but him.

---

POV Hu-min

That night, the air reeked of grease, stale tobacco, and lies.

Hu-min, now called "Baku" in certain circles he should never have approached, watched the purple neon lights of the bowling alley flicker like a warning. Each flash seemed to tell him: "You're no longer who you pretend to be." But he went in anyway. Because he had no choice.

Na Baek-jin was there, of course. Sitting on the worn leatherette bench, surrounded by two guys older than him. One was cleaning a baseball bat with a dirty rag. The other was finishing a bowl of tteokbokki with lazy gestures.

"You're on time. That's new, Baku," Baek-jin said without looking up.

Hu-min didn't answer. He had learned not to.

The game had changed a long time ago. Baek-jin was no longer the kid who ran around the park with him and Y/N. He had become the kind of guy who spoke softly but whose silences killed more than words. Hu-min knew what was hidden behind that calm. Anger. Resentment. A will to dominate that was no longer childish.

And he also knew one thing: Baek-jin was using him. But he also had everything he needed to destroy him.

"We spotted a guy delivering for a rival gang. He goes through the river road around 11 PM. You stop him. You get the bag. And if he resists, you shut him up."

Hu-min clenched his fists. "You mean I have to beat him up."

"You've always been quick to understand. That's what I like about you."

A sneer split Baek-jin's face. He loved this power. This control. And Hu-min felt every fiber of his being scream in despair. He wasn't that kind of guy. He had never been that kind of guy.

But he did it anyway.

Because one day, Baek-jin had come knocking on his door, a smile plastered on his face:

"Your old man owed money. A lot. Now you pay. With your time, your body, your loyalty. And if you try to run... I know guys who know how to make silent girls talk."

He hadn't needed to say her name. Y/N was the ultimate leverage.

Since then, Hu-min had taken it all. The blows, the orders, the shame. He smiled like an idiot at the restaurant. He cracked jokes with his friends. But he lost pieces of himself with every night spent with these guys.

And he had believed that as long as Y/N stayed out of all this, he could keep going. Until he found a way out.

But he hadn't expected her to look for him.

***

Bowling Alley, a few days later

Y/N had had to gather all the energy she had left to go out. A rare thing. But her brother's absence was a dull ache that grew with each passing hour. He hadn't come home for two days. He wasn't answering. He hadn't left any messages.

Something was wrong.

So she had gotten up. She had put on an oversized sweatshirt, her worn sneakers, and gone to where her friends said he sometimes hung out: an old bowling alley near the canal. A den of delinquents. She knew what people whispered. But she didn't care.

She walked through the door into a din of cheesy music and crashing pins. The smell assaulted her immediately, but she held her ground. She scanned the room, her throat tight.

And then she saw him.

Baek-jin.

He hadn't changed. Well, physically maybe. He had grown taller, broader, but his eyes… they were the same. Cold, calculating. And she immediately felt a mixture of annoyance, pain, and memories she wished she could erase.

She walked forward, straight, awkward, but determined. "Where's my brother?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly, but firm.

Baek-jin stared at her slowly. He tilted his head. "Y/N? Is that you? I almost didn't recognize you."

He smiled, but there was nothing kind in that smile. "Your brother is busy. He's doing what he needs to do to protect you, you should be grateful to him."

"Stop your bullshit," she murmured, her eyes shining. "You have no idea what he's sacrificing for you."

And that's when he arrived. Hu-min. Out of breath. Dirty. His jaw clenched.

"Y/N… what the hell are you doing here?!"

She turned to him. Her eyes pleaded. "I'm looking for you. You disappear. You don't come home. You haven't eaten. You don't look at me anymore. What are you doing, Oppa? Huh? What are you doing?!"

Y/N only saw her brother. And what she read in his eyes wasn't anger. It was shame.

And that's what broke her.

"Why are you doing this, Hu-min? Why are you doing this for him?"

"Because I don't have a choice!" he blurted out. "Because if I don't, he'll destroy you. He's pushing our shitty father to the edge. He's offing the guys I care about."

His voice trembled. "So I get dirty. Instead of you. For you. So you can just… sleep. Breathe. Without him taking away what little you have left."

She looked at him for a long time. And it wasn't anger he saw on her face. It was pain.

Naked pain. Raw. Immense.

"But you're destroying yourself," she whispered. "And I can't… I can't lose you too."

He wanted to tell her it was nothing. That he would handle it. But his words died in his throat. He couldn't lie to those eyes. Not to her.

He stepped closer, grabbed her shoulders. "You have to get out of here. Now."

"You think I sleep to forget? I sleep because I already feel dead. But you're not helping me come back. You're leaving."

The silence that followed was heavier than the shouts.

And Baek-jin, behind them, was amused. "Your sister's brave. I like her. She's grown up."

"Shut up," Hu-min growled without turning around.

He turned towards the exit. Spotted a familiar figure. Si-eun.

He waved him over. "Take her home. She shouldn't be here. She's not made for this."

Si-eun hesitated. Y/N struggled a little, her eyes wet, her body tense. But when she met Si-eun's serious gaze, she understood. He wouldn't force her. But he would protect her.

She nodded. Just a small nod. A silent pact.

And she went out.

But as she crossed the threshold, she swore one thing: She would find out everything. She would no longer let her brother sink into the darkness alone.

---

Outside, the air was glacial. A cutting wind. A fierce silence.

Y/N walked ahead, arms crossed, face closed off. Si-eun followed her without a word. He always kept that distance of a step or two, never too close, never too far—as if he were walking a fragile ridge between modesty and instinct.

But tonight, something was different.

Y/N hadn't uttered a word since they left the bowling alley. Her back was stiff, her fists clenched, and her figure seemed to float, as if she were walking without really touching the ground.

Si-eun felt it. A tension too strong. An invisible weight bending her over. And that, he couldn't ignore.

"Do you want to sit down for a moment?" he finally asked, his voice softer than usual.

She didn't answer. But she stopped.

They were in a quiet alley, a little off the road. A wooden bench, under a pale streetlamp, creaked in the wind. She sat down without a word, and he did the same beside her.

Silence settled in again. But this time, it wasn't a comfortable silence. It was a threatening void, filled with echoes.

Y/N hugged her knees to her chest. Her face turned towards the ground. And then:

"I don't recognize him anymore."

Si-eun didn't answer.

She continued, more softly:

"Hu-min. He smiles like everything's fine. But it's not true. I saw him tonight. He's not my brother anymore. He's a ghost. And I didn't see it coming."

She bit her lip, tears welling up in her eyes. Her voice trembled:

"He protected me, Si-eun. I didn't know. I slept while he got dirty to keep me away. I should have fought for him."

He looked at her, his heart aching. His throat tightened. He hated seeing her like this.

"You don't sleep to escape," he said gently. "You sleep to survive."

She turned her eyes to him, surprised.

"You do what you can. Like him. You're the same."

She looked down again. A tear rolled down her cheek.

"I hate myself for it."

Si-eun inhaled slowly. His body tense, but his voice calm:

"Then I'm going to tell you something you often forget. It's not your fault."

Y/N closed her eyes.

"Yes, it is."

"No, Y/N. It's not your fault your father was violent. It's not your fault your brother sacrificed himself. And it's not your fault you care about them so much it hurts."

He turned slightly towards her. She didn't dare move.

"You think you're weak. That you're a burden. But you're still here. You've survived things that would have destroyed other people."

She hugged her arms to herself, and her voice broke:

"And you, aren't you afraid of me? Of what I am?"

He barely shrugged.

"I'm afraid you'll disappear."

That sentence did something to her. She finally turned her head towards him. And what she saw in his eyes wasn't pity. It was deeper. Sharper. A mixture of contained obsession and wild tenderness. Something that said I'm here. And I won't leave.

They stayed like that, looking at each other for a long time. As if the world around them was fading away.

Then Y/N spoke, almost in a whisper:

"When I'm with you… I don't need to pretend. No need to talk. And yet… I feel less alone."

Si-eun lowered his eyes. A part of him wanted to take her in his arms. To hold her so tight she couldn't escape. But he held back. Instead, he murmured:

"It's the same for me."

**

The cold deepened. So they started walking again.

They walked side by side, in silence, their shoulders sometimes brushing against each other. Y/N seemed a little more present. More grounded. But a new fatigue weighed on her. An emotional fatigue, deeper than sleepless nights.

They crossed a small metal bridge, their steps echoing on the rusty plates. The street wasn't very well lit. A pale light filtered through the bare branches.

And then, everything changed.

A dull, brutal roar. An engine rumble that tore through the silence. A sound too fast. Too close.

Si-eun's phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out mechanically, just a glance… and that's when he saw it.

A truck.

A heavy truck, speeding, without headlights, without brakes. Heading straight for Y/N.

His heart exploded in a flash of panic. He yelled:

"Y/N!"

She didn't have time to react.

He lunged. Pure instinct. He threw his phone to the ground. His arm shot out, grabbed Y/N by the waist.

And he pushed her.

But not far enough.

The truck hit them.

A dull thud. A metallic crash. Then silence.

They flew. The world spun, turned upside down, blurred.

And everything stopped.

**

Y/N's body rolled onto the asphalt, inert. Si-eun's, further away, lay at an odd angle, his arm bleeding, his head against a post.

The wind whistled softly.

The neon signs in the distance still flickered, indifferent.

And everything sank into darkness.

---

Seoul University Hospital — Intensive Care Unit

The white ceiling pulsed gently beneath the neon lights, like a heart hesitating between beating and stopping. The sharp smell of antiseptic floated, mixed with the more subtle scent of dried blood, plastic, and anguish.

In room 407, two beds side by side. Two still bodies. Connected to machines that made the muffled sound of survivors being held back.

Y/N.

Si-eun.

Hu-min’s hands had been covered in blood when they found them.

He still remembered it. He was running, his feet slipping on the wet asphalt, his breath catching in his throat. Gotak was shouting behind him, but he wasn’t listening. He had just seen Y/N’s figure, lying in the pale light of a streetlamp. And next to her, a body. Stiff. Blood.

He had screamed.

He hadn’t remembered screaming so loudly since the last time their father had thrown a plate against the wall.

Juntae had called the ambulance. Gotak had crouched down beside Si-eun. But Hu-min hadn’t moved. He was looking at Y/N’s face. His little sister. Silent. Broken.

As if death had finally managed to catch up with her.

And he hadn’t been able to do anything.

Again.

**

He had been at the hospital for two days. He slept little. Barely ate. He spent long hours simply staring at the heart monitors, watching for the slightest sign. He spoke to no one. Even the doctors no longer dared to ask him questions.

He had sat down between the two beds. A metal chair. A wall behind him. His eyes fixed on the ceiling.

When Si-eun opened his eyes, it was first a flutter of eyelids, then a painful grimace on his face.

He moved. Slowly. Like someone returning from a long journey deep within themselves.

"Y/N…?"

His voice was hoarse. Crushed. He tried to sit up, but a groan escaped him.

Hu-min stood up abruptly, his heart pounding.

"Si-eun? You're awake? Damn… you're awake."

But the other barely looked at him. His eyes went from one wall to the other, then settled on the figure in the next bed.

"She… she is…?"

"Still in a coma," Hu-min replied in a grave voice.

Silence fell like a leaden blanket. Si-eun stared at Y/N without blinking. Her face didn't move, but her hands were trembling.

"I tried to push her."

"I know."

"I didn't make it."

"I know."

A breath. Hesitant.

"I should have… been faster."

Hu-min approached. He placed a hand on Si-eun’s shoulder, without saying a word. A simple gesture. But heavy. Full of unspoken gratitude.

Si-eun looked away. His teeth clenched.

"Why was she in the street that night? Why is she like this? Why does she… let herself drift as if she wants to disappear?"

He broke off. He couldn't speak anymore.

And Hu-min understood that this moment was coming. That he could no longer put off the truth.

So he sat down. Slowly. And spoke.

**

"She met a guy a year ago. Someone older. A literature student, I think. He had that charm… you know, the kind who speaks softly, recites poems, makes her feel seen."

"And then?"

"Then he started locking her in her own guilt."

Hu-min closed his eyes. The pain rose, thick, suffocating.

"He would self-harm. He told her it was because of her. That if he wasn't okay, it was because she didn't love him enough. That his suffering was proof of his love. And that if she left him, it would mean she was cruel. A bad person."

Si-eun froze.

"He made her feel guilty… for his own wounds?"

"Yes."

A long silence. The kind of silence that hurts.

"He broke her," Hu-min finally said. "Not with blows. But with words. He turned her insecurities against her. He dug into her weaknesses, gently, until she collapsed."

He inhaled. His fists clenched.

"And I didn't see it coming... I thought she was getting better. She was making an effort. She even smiled. But it was fake. She carried all that inside her… alone. Because she didn't want to worry me."

Si-eun looked at him, his eyes shining. He understood too well what that meant.

"She believed she had to earn love," he said slowly. "That she had to sacrifice herself to be accepted. That she had to fix broken people, even if it destroyed her."

"Yes."

The two young men looked at each other.

Si-eun looked away first. He wanted to scream, to hit something. But all he could do was grip the sheets until his knuckles turned white.

"I love her," he said in a calm, almost strange tone.

Hu-min stared at him.

"I know."

"But it's not a sweet, pretty little thing. It's not a simple love. It's a need. It's… visceral. As if I grew up to find her. As if everything in me had waited for her. Her sadness. Her silences. The way she speaks as if she doesn't want to disturb the air around her."

He began to tremble slightly.

"And it drives me crazy, because I want to save her. But I know I can't do it alone. And I don't want to become like the other one, the one who hurt her. I don't want her to think she owes me anything."

His voice broke.

"I just… want her to live."

**

Hu-min stood up slowly. He looked at Y/N. She didn't move. But her chest rose. Slowly. Weakly.

"Then you've already done more than most," he murmured. "You protected her without demanding anything. You put your body in the way of hers. And she'll remember that. When she comes back, she'll know. That you were there."

Si-eun closed his eyes. A tear rolled down his temple.

"She's going to come back, right?"

Hu-min didn't answer immediately.

Then:

"She's strong. Stronger than me. She holds on. Even in the dark. She'll find her way."

**

And in the blue light of the hospital room, two hearts beat slowly. A brother and a lover, sitting at the bedside of a girl who couldn't hear them.

But who, somewhere, far away in the darkness of her own coma, felt their presence.

And that, perhaps, was already a beginning.

---

Three weeks later

The days had blurred together. A bottomless hourglass, where the light only served to remind of the absence. Y/N had not woken up. But Si-eun had not left her bedside.

Every morning, he arrived with books. Crime novels, poetry collections, manhwas folded in half. He read aloud, even when he was sure she couldn’t hear him. He gently placed his hand on hers, as if trying to transmit a bit of human warmth.

He also talked to her. Not too loudly, just enough for her to know he was there. That she wasn’t alone. He told her about the taste of cold coffee in the cafeteria, Juntae’s nonsense, Gotak’s nervous silences, Hu-min’s dark circles. And sometimes, he shared his own thoughts, unfiltered. The regrets. The memories. The silly dreams. As if he were confiding in her his personal diary.

And even though she didn’t move, even though she didn’t speak, he felt that something was happening. A link. Silent, but real.

Hu-min also visited. Less often, lately. He had said he had "things to take care of." But in his eyes, there was something more. A fire. A decision.

And this morning, it was finally over.

***

It was a pale hour, almost silent. The sun was barely rising over the concrete rooftops. In an abandoned warehouse, somewhere near the port, four of them dragged themselves against the walls. Four bloodied silhouettes, clothes in tatters, muscles burnt out.

Baku.

Si-eun.

Gotak.

Juntae.

They didn’t need to speak. They had held on. They had won. Baek-jin was nothing more than a name to erase, a specter that would no longer have control over them.

Hu-min collapsed against a metal barrier, gasping for breath, his hands covered in blood, his eyes red. He felt as though the world had stopped. That there was nothing left to prove, nothing left to hide.

Then his phone vibrated.

An unknown number. The hospital.

He answered without thinking.

— Hello?

A soft, calm voice.

— Mr. Park Hu-min?

— Yes.

— I’m calling from the University Hospital. Your sister… she woke up.

The world stopped for a moment.

He didn’t respond right away. He couldn’t.

His heart was pounding like an alarm.

— What…?

— She’s still weak. But she woke up. She opened her eyes. She asked… "Is my brother here?"

He let out a laugh. Choked. Halfway between a sob and a sigh of relief.

— Thank you. Thank you. Thank you...

Gotak and Juntae froze. Si-eun straightened up, his face tense.

— What? What happened?

Hu-min lifted his eyes to them. And despite the blood on his face, the bruises, the crushing fatigue, he smiled.

A true smile. Rare.

— She’s awake.

No one spoke.

Then Si-eun sprang to his feet, unsteady. He barely managed to grab the edge of the wall to avoid falling again.

— Y/N?!

Hu-min nodded. His eyes shining.

— She opened her eyes. She’s waiting for us.

Without another word, they all set off.

Broken. Trembling.

But standing.

And alive.

Heading toward her.

---

The soft afternoon light barely pierced through the drawn curtains. The distant hum of machines, almost imperceptible, filled the room. The hospital, like a quiet prison, hung suspended between life and suffering.

Si-eun waited, silent. He had settled in a corner, arms crossed, his eyes fixed on Y/N’s frail figure, lying on her bed, a blanket draped over her legs. Her features had changed, as if everything about her breathed the fragility and gentleness of a return to life. She seemed lighter, closer to the stars, as if the depression that had gnawed at her for so long was, at least momentarily, behind her.

The others, Gotak, Juntae, and even Hu-min, were not far away. But no one wanted to be the first to cross that boundary. The crucial moment, the one where you know you must leave space, breathe, take your time. It was a miracle. But also a moment of absolute fragility.

And then, in an almost imperceptible breath, Y/N’s eyes opened.

She didn't remember the pain. She only remembered the void. Days, weeks where reality was nothing more than a blurry place. But there, suddenly, she could feel the light of the world penetrate her soul.

She blinked, disoriented. Then, she turned her head. She knew. She felt the familiar presence. She felt it before she heard it.

Hu-min.

He hadn't changed. He was still the same, the brother she had always loved. The man who, even in his darkest moments, had stayed there, by her side. And despite the pain that could still be read in his eyes, despite the scars that marked his soul, he was there. He was there for her.

"Y/N!" he cried, with such force that he could have knocked down the walls. A cry of relief, of pure joy. He threw himself on her, without thinking, taking her in his arms.

She smiled, weakly at first. Then a burst of laughter escaped her lips. A sincere laugh. A child's laugh. The one that used to fill their house with happiness. That laugh she had forgotten, but found again like a buried treasure.

"I… I'm here, Y/N. I'm here, don't worry. Oppa is here" he murmured, his eyes shining with tears. He caressed her hair, as he had done when she was little. An infinite tenderness, a raw, sincere, almost selfish love. Because he never wanted to lose her again.

The others were there too. Gotak and Juntae had stepped back, observing the scene with respect and a touch of awkwardness. Si-eun, for his part, couldn't even breathe anymore. His heart was beating faster. Too fast. Emotions overwhelmed him. He had seen Y/N suffer, get lost. He had seen her dark, broken, and there, before him, she was alive again.

She was there. She was breathing. She was smiling.

For him, for Hu-min, for everything he had always wanted. And yet, this scene, more than anything, gave birth in him to a sweet and fierce rage. A rage to want to protect her, to want to be the one who could save her from everything. He wanted to be the man by her side, the man she could lean on, the man who could make her smile forever.

He approached them, despite his pain. He stopped just behind Hu-min, and in an almost timid voice, he said:

"She… is she okay?"

He couldn't look at Y/N. He couldn't. He felt that if his eyes met hers, he wouldn't be able to contain everything he felt. But Hu-min then turned to him, as if inviting him into their bubble. He knew that, in a way, Si-eun was part of their family. He had understood that after everything that had happened. It was the first time he had seen him so vulnerable. Because Si-eun, all that calm, that inner strength he exuded, looked, at that moment, like a lost man. Like a man who had lost himself in a sea of feelings he no longer knew how to control.

"Yes, she's okay," Hu-min replied, with a smile that wasn't quite happy, but was that of a man finding peace again.

Y/N turned her eyes to Si-eun, almost instinctively. She stared at him for a long time. As if she sensed that depth in him, a form of pain he hid, but which she perceived perfectly.

Si-eun, slowly, moved to the bed, and leaned slightly, placing a trembling hand on the edge of the mattress.

She looked at him with an uncertain air, wondering what had driven him to stay. Why him? Why was he there?

Si-eun didn't have the courage to speak. He shook his head, a little lost, but her gaze made all the difference. He wanted to say something. To break the silence. But he couldn't. He didn't have the words.

So, in a surge of uncontrollable emotion, he leaned down slightly and placed a kiss on her forehead. A light kiss, almost like a caress, a kiss that carried all the warmth of his heart. That kiss was a promise. A silent promise. He would be there. No matter the cost.

She closed her eyes under his kiss. And, for a fraction of a second, she felt safe. She felt that presence, that warmth… He didn't need to speak. It was enough for him to be there.

But everything wasn't that simple.

***

Later, after the others had left the room to rest and tend to their wounds, Si-eun stayed. He was there, silent. He couldn't leave. He couldn't leave her.

He got up and went to the shelf. His eyes fell on an old photo of Y/N. She was a child, with round cheeks and a radiant smile. He had never seen such a sincere smile. A smile that wasn't tarnished by pain. A smile that still resembled her, despite the time.

"Was that you?" Si-eun asked, his voice soft.

Y/N joined him gently, her gaze locked on Si-eun's. She nodded.

"Yes, that was me. Before… before all this. Before I forgot everything."

He turned to her, touched. This photo represented the young girl he had always seen in his dreams, the person he had always wanted to protect. His heart ached.

"You still look a little like her," he said, his voice full of tenderness.

For the first time, Y/N felt her heart warm. It was the first time someone had spoken of her like that. Not as a victim. Not as someone broken. But as a person. A real person.

She looked at him, a slight smile on her lips.

"It's the first time anyone's spoken to me like that."

Si-eun approached, his eyes shining with emotion. He leaned down gently and caressed her face, his fingertips brushing the scratch that marked her cheek. He was hurting, but he didn't want to show it.

"Are you okay?" she asked him, her gaze worried.

He laughed softly, but his smile couldn't hide the pain in his eyes.

"Yes, it's nothing. But you… are you okay?"

She placed her hand on his face, feeling the warmth of his skin. It was her, this time, who wanted to take care of him. She gently took a small bandage and placed it on his bruised face. It was a simple gesture, but it had something significant about it. She was healing him, for the first time.

Their eyes met. Then, all of a sudden, he couldn't hold back anymore. He leaned down and, in a gesture filled with passion and affection, placed a kiss on her lips. That kiss… it was more than a declaration of love. It was the fulfillment of a dream he had kept within him for weeks. A tender kiss, almost desperate, but filled with promises.

Y/N closed her eyes under that kiss, and her heart began to beat faster. A shiver ran through her body. She felt, for the first time in a long time, a warmth, an inner peace. Something that made her feel whole, even if everything was still blurry around her.

They barely moved apart, their foreheads touching, their breaths mingling.

"I'll always be here," Si-eun whispered, his voice broken with emotion.

And she, without hesitation, placed her hand over his heart.

"Me too."

And for the first time in so long, she felt at home.

Because yes. Between the scars, there is love.

..................................................................................

New Geum Seongje fanfictions

@mariii-0001

[a99jazzybean]

HIIIII! I just binge read your date everything fics and I love them! May i ask for yet another Chance fic, where y/n is familiar with g&g and used to play with their friends from time to time - using his dice of course! And... y/n used to kiss the piece for the "lucky shot", doesn't matter if it worked or not. So now, with Skylars help, y/n can speak with him and even play a session or two and it is so much fun! But she is completely oblivious to the fact that he remembers every time y/ns lips touched his dice-y form and each time he silently yearns for her lips to touch him once again... The rest is up to you, lots of love!

I love this prompt so much! Thank you for the request!

With a Taste of Your Lips...

synop: You and Chance decide to play another session of G&G. Little do you know, a special tradition of yours has him feeling all sorts of hot and bothered. i.e. You discover Chance can feel when you kiss his die.

words: 4.7K

includes: chancexfem!reader, ttrpg playing, making out, fondling an object?, cumming untouched kinda, smut

a/n: I might make a part 2 to this one, thoughts? Also, its got smut. No minors!

“You feel yourself growing weaker. The spell the lich cast on you drains your life force. All of your comrades are downed. You are their final hope.” Your GM stares you down, brow raised. “What would you like to do?”

Looking around the table you see all of your friends' faces are grim. All eyes are on you. Taking a look at the battlemap before you, your eyes widened. 

“Past the cliff, it’s the Abysmal Pit, correct?” You asked the GM. 

“Correct.”

“And anyone who falls in is erased from existence, right?

“Correct.”

“No!” Sam shouted. “I know what you’re thinking. You can’t do it!”

You give her a solemn look, eyes filled with sadness. 

“I’m sorry.” You pick up your red D20. “But you can’t stop me. I’m going for a grapple on the lich, then I’m dragging him over the edge with me.” 

A chorus of gasps erupts from your party members. Some are getting teary-eyed. 

Two years of a campaign filled with adventure, friendship, romance, and tears. This is how it ends. Perhaps it was destined to be. 

“Make your roll.” Your GM feels tears prick in their own eyes. Not knowing whether they want you to succeed on this or not. 

As is tradition on major rolls, you bring your trusty die to your lips. Pecking it softly, you pray that this works. 

“Lucky shot,” you hear Sam say under their breath. 

Cupping the die in your hands, you give a good shake. Then you release it onto the table. Everyone in the room is holding their breath as it rolls. Finally, it stops. Natural 20. 

Normally, the table would erupt with cheers. This time, it wasn’t proper to celebrate. 

“Prim,” your GM took in a shaky breath as he spoke your character’s name. Trying to hold back tears. “You muster up the final dregs of strength within you. Pulling yourself up with a groan. Everything hurts, but your mind has been made up. Pushing through it all, you start to run. Taking one final look at your fallen teammates. This is the last time you will see them. Tell me how this ends.” Their voice wavered. 

“As I run toward the lich, I let out a final ‘goodbye’. I grab it around the waist, then throw both of us off of the ledge. No matter what it does I keep ahold of it. It’s coming with me.” Your own eyes fill with tears. 

“As you fall, the lich tries to get you off of it, but to no avail. For a brief moment you can see a flash of its past humanity. Fear filling its face as it realizes the one thing that it tried to run from has finally arrived. Death in the shape of a half-elf rogue who risked it all to defeat it.”

Chance sighed dreamily, remembering your great sacrifice. Seemed like you frequently played characters that laid their life on the line. No wonder he was absolutely smitten.

While you weren’t able to see his personified form at the moment, he was able to see you. Back hunched over as you typed on Mac. The computer feeling pretty good about themselves as you cranked out your latest self-insert fanfic. What else were you supposed to do when an AI took over your job? 

Chance wasn’t able to see what you were writing, but could see Mac occasionally blush and chuckle at the words you were typing onto them. 

“Care to share?” He asked the computer. 

Mac glanced over at him, then back to one of the screens in front of them. 

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. She’s kind of mortified that I’ve even read this stuff.” Mac turned back to read what you had just typed out, red blooming on their face. “Yeah, no. You don’t need to know about this.” 

Chance grumbled to himself. It didn’t feel fair that Mac got to see the sexiest innermost thoughts of yours. Actually, he was kind of jealous of many of your objects. Betty slept with you every night, witnessing the limited sexual exploits of yours. Johnny, he wouldn’t talk about it, too much of a gentleman. But the massage setting on his shower head? He might have alluded to activities you had accomplished with that. 

It was frustrating to say the least. Seeing how much better the other beings in the home got to know you intimately. All Chance wanted was a taste of that knowledge. 

He hoped you’d put your Dateviators back on again. Now that you had been able to see him, all he wanted was your attention. It didn’t help that you enthusiastically offered to play G&G with him. Only feeding into the ever-growing obsession with you. 

It didn’t start when you put those glasses on, no. It started when you came up with that damned tradition. Kissing the 20 side of his die body. You didn’t know, couldn’t know, really. But he felt it, every single time. It was special, something you only did when making a major roll. And you always picked him. Your “lucky shot” for your “lucky die”. 

The thing was, you hadn’t ended that tradition. When you began playing with Chance, you continued to make your lucky shots. Not realizing that although the personified version was sitting in front of you, Chance was still very much connected to the object he was. He would have you roll on something difficult, and as if it were instinct, you pressed your soft lips right on the20 side. Thankfully, Chance had been able to maintain his composure as you watched the die roll. However, it was beginning to become too much. 

Each press of your lips to the die had him falling for you harder and harder. 

With a sigh, you pushed away from your computer. Eyeing the die beside you with a smirk. Tapping on the desk, your gaze flitted over to your glasses. It had been a few hours since you had them on, couldn’t hurt to say hi to your office. And there might have been a specific object that held your affections.

“You know. I can feel you looking at me, right?” You teased the die before putting on the Dateviators. 

Chance’s face was ruddy when you looked at him, caught red handed. Rubbing his neck sheepishly, he gave you an apologetic look.

“What can I say? You’re nice to look at.” 

Now it was your turn to blush. The damned man always seemed to fluster you in such innocuous ways. Somehow always polite with his flirting. 

There were times he could be fairly forward, but he never pushed. It was sweet. 

Thinking about it, you could go for something sweet now. But nothing that was consumable. 

“Do you have a session prepped?” You asked.

Immediately, he perked up. A bright smile on his face complimented by an enthused flush. 

“Of course! Ever since you’ve come along, I’m like ten sessions ahead!” He leaned toward you, bouncing on his toes. 

“I’m glad that you’ve been so inspired. I love your stories.” You gave him a soft smile. 

His eyes widen, practically sparkling at your words.

“Y-you love my stories?” He held his hand to his heart, feeling the muscle pump faster at your compliment.

“Why do you think I want to play with you so often?” You pulled his die over with a finger, rolling it around. “I have a lot of fun with you.” 

“We could have more fun.” He raised a brow suggestively, looking over his glasses at you.

Red in the face, you waved him off with a giggle.

“Do you have time to play now?”

“I always have time for you.” 

You were sure you heard Timothy scoff somewhere in the distance. That was no matter though, for now you had the full attention of your favorite die. 

“Shall we play, then?” 

Chance nodded enthusiastically, then proceeded to get his GM station set up. When his screen and notes were all in place, he gave an approved nod. Looking up, he beamed at you again. Feeling his heart squeeze at the content smile on your face as you sat on the other end of the table from him. Oh how he wished to always keep you happy. He would play forever with you just to make sure that smile never fell from your lips. 

“Alright, where did we leave off?” He glanced over his notes.

“I managed to talk myself out of being eaten by a giant.” You had your own notes pulled out. 

Chance felt his heart swell again. You took notes! Oh, you truly were the perfect player. 

“That’s right! My charismatic girl!” He chuckled as your face grew red. 

He was glad that he managed to make you as flustered as you made him. Equal opportunity flirting to make the other squirm. Again, perfect. 

“You’ve gotten away from the giant, but you still have yet to find the gilded egg laying hen.” 

“Thankfully, you have quite the wise girl as well!” You let out a satisfied huff. “Can I make a perception check to see where the chicken is?” 

“You may.” He motioned for you to continue.

Shaking the die in your hands you urged it to roll well. 

“C’mon D20, show me what you’re made of!” 

You released the die, it clattered into your dice tray. After a moment of circling, it landed on a 16. 

“Nice! And that’s a plus four to my perception!” 

“Wonderful!” He cleared his throat, continuing his tale. “As you look around the foyer of the giant’s castle, you aren’t finding any indications of where a hen might be roosting. However, after a moment of hearing silence, there’s a new sound filtering down the hallway to the north.”

“What’s the sound?” You ask with a knowing smirk.

“It’s soft harp music, almost dreamlike.” 

After your previous character died valiantly saving a village from a dragon, Chance asked if you would mind experimenting with a fairytale themed game. Of course, you agreed, excited to see what he would come up with. While some of the quests you have been on so far were a bit predictable, he had many twists and turns added in. 

Like Cinderella’s slipper turning out to be a baby mimic. When you had managed to aid the prince in finding his lost love, the mimic revealed itself, chomping down on her foot. However, she didn’t scream. It turned out, Cinderella’s ballgown had already consumed her and was using her head and limbs to blend in. The fairy godmother revealed herself as a demon looking to collect on the souls of the kingdom. All she needed was the prince to disappear so she could take his place. 

It was a lovely twist that ended with a fairly hard battle. Thankfully the prince that accompanied you turned out to be part of the bloodline of very powerful sorcerers, so he was able to aid in the defeat of the fairy godmother. 

The prince tried asking for your hand in marriage, but you had other adventures to go on. Instead, you left with a hefty amount of gold. A token of appreciation for saving the kingdom. The engagement ring hidden amongst the coins didn’t go unnoticed, Chance giving you a cheeky wink when he mentioned it. 

You had noticed the man had been throwing romance options at you throughout each of the fairy tales. Many of them were love stories, sure, but it seemed like he really wanted you to get with someone. Little Red Riding Hood, growing smitten with you after you saved her from the belly of a wolf. A huntsman asking for your hand after you aided him in saving the kingdom from a corrupt king. Snow White practically begged you to marry her after you turned out to be her “true love's kiss”. He was laying it on pretty thick, so to speak.  

Truthfully, the reason why you never accepted was because you wanted Chance to stop hiding his affections behind characters in your game. The two of you had constant flirty banter, but it felt like he could only speak through innuendo when hinting at wanting anything more. While it was endearing, it was starting to become tiring. 

Though admittedly, you were a coward too. It would be hypocritical to judge the man considering you couldn’t muster up the courage to do anything either. Instead, you sat in a flirtatious purgatory. Something that could be viewed as a comfortable platonic relationship, but in reality had very, very heavy overtones of desire. 

Neither you or Chance could be subtle. There were times where you could feel the hunger in his eyes as he ran your game. Usually when you did something quite clever. 

That time when you answered his Latin riddle? The man was very glad he had baggy pants on. 

Then there was you. Easily bending to his dominating whims when he was GMing. Something about him having that kind of authority over you often had you clenching your thighs and squirming in your chair. And don’t even get started on the villain monologues. He pulled one of those out, you left the gaming table with your panties soaked. Giving Betty quite the show when you couldn’t get to sleep. 

Back to your current game, Chance asked for your next move.

“I follow the sound of the harp.”

“You feel almost entranced at the music. Your steps pulling you to the north hallway. After about an hour of walking (remember, this is a GIANT’S castle) you made it to the room the music was coming from. Peering inside, you see a giant sitting on a bed. She appears to be much shorter than the one you first encountered, but still clearly a giant. You can tell she is related to the other giant, both sporting the same nose shape. The giant girl is playing the harp, her fingers delicately plucking at the strings. You look across from her and see what you’ve been looking for. A hen nestled in a nest of straw. Its body swaying side to side with the music. Below it you see a peek of gold. What would you like to do?”

“I’m not going to try and hide.”

Chance looked at you with wide eyes, surprised at your blatant move.

“I handled the other giant with my words, I can easily do the same again.”

Oh, he loved your confidence. Your willingness to dive in despite the consequences. He just hoped that it wouldn’t end with your bones ground up to make bread. Quite the horrific way to depart this mortal realm.

“If you say so. You stride inside with confidence. Hyping yourself up from your previous encounter with a giant.” He rolled a die, giving a grimace. “The giant girl doesn’t appear to see you. She’s looking right at the hen, swaying side to side as she continues to play the harp.”

“I try to catch her attention by clearing my throat loudly.” 

“You clear your throat, and she stops playing. A sour look grows on her face as she looks for the source of the sound. Looking down, she finally spots you. Crossing her arms, she gives you a pout.”

“You know, it’s quite rude to interrupt a performance.” Chance put on the voice of a little girl, making you chuckle. “What’s so funny?”

“Chance, you know that wasn’t in-game.” You gave him a stern look. 

“I know, I’m just messin. Anyways… she looks at you, waiting for you to respond.”

“I apologize, your music is lovely.” 

“Then why did you interrupt me?”

“Well, I have some important matters to discuss.”

“Important matters? What’s important is that Bailey gets her proper rest.” Chance returns to his normal voice. “You follow her gaze to the hen in the nest.”

“Is Bailey your hen?” 

“Obviously!” The character voice returned. “And she won’t lay eggs unless I play for her.” 

“I see.” You ponder on that information for a moment, then ask. “Is the harp huge?”

“It’s giant, so is the hen.”

“Didn’t the asshole who hired me say he had been here before? Why send me up if there’s no way to bring the items down?” You huffed in frustration at the quest-giver.

“Who said there wasn’t a way to bring them down?” He clicked his tongue at you, admonishingly.

“Hmmm. I think I'll talk to the girl some more.” He motioned for you to continue. “I’m sure Bailey loves your music.”

“She does, she always lays an egg when I play! My daddy says I’m gettin just as good as my mama!” Chance goes back to narrating. “After she says that she goes quiet. Her eyes widening as if she’s just realized you were here. There’s a darkness in them that surprises you for a girl so young.”

“I don’t have a good feeling about this.” You bit your lip nervously.

“You’re a human. Humans aren’t allowed here!”

“Um, you’re dad let me go. At least I think it was your dad.” You give Chance a nervous glance.

“Roll on persuasion.”

Shaking the dice, you let it drop. Watching in fear as it lands on a three. Chance’s gaze grows dark.

“You only think you know? How can I know if you’re telling the truth?” Chance narrates again. “The giant girl stands up, towering high over you. A glare on her face as her eyes narrow. But you spot something odd, her eyes are watering.” The little girl voice is put back on. “All humans lie! I bet you’re no different!”

“I decide to stay quiet, letting her speak.” You say to Chance. Again, he’s surprised at your action.

“Your people killed my mom!” He switches back to normal. “You now see tears falling from her eyes. She’s going to reach for you.” He rolls a die, eyeing you expectantly. “Would you like to do anything to stop it?”

“No. I let her.” 

“A large hand grabs you with a crushing squeeze. You feel the air forced out of your body by the strong grip of her hand. She lifts you to her head.” He clears his throat, going back to the girl voice. “I should just eat you, show you how it feels.” He gives you another expectant look. “Are you going to try and do anything?”

“Nope. I’m gonna close my eyes and accept my fate.” 

Impressed, Chance sits back with his arms crossed. Pondering on what to do next. While you had managed to talk your way out of the last giant encounter, he thought you would at least try to fight your way out of this one. The giant child’s stat block was something that you could manage on your own. 

“Okay. I want you to roll persuasion, and I’ll be nice and give you advantage for what you’ve managed to do so far.”

Pumping your fist in the air, you reached for the die. This time, you brought the D20 to your lips, giving it a light peck. This was a roll that was gonna need it. 

“C’mon lucky shot, don’t let me down now.” 

The first roll landed on a 6. Again, you brought the die to your lips. The kiss to the dice slightly lingering, just for good luck. You shook it in your hand and released, crossing your fingers for a good roll. Slowly, it spun to land on a 20.

“Nat 20 babee! Let’s gooooo!” You stood up and cheered, your character saved.

Chance remained seated, face beet red. His breathing had become labored. For some reason, he couldn’t get himself to calm down. Maybe it was the fact that you had kissed the die in succession. Something he could feel burning through his body. 

Coming down from your high, you realized Chance hadn’t continued. Turning, you gave him a concerned look. Walking over, you eyed the state he was in. Face still extremely flushed. 

“Are you okay?” You leaned toward him, trying to figure out what was wrong.

“I-I’m fine. We can continue!” He rubbed his neck nervously.

“Are you sure? Your face is really red.”

“What did you expect after kissing me like that!” He clamped his hands over his mouth, face turning another shade darker. 

“What? I didn’t kiss…” You looked over to the die, feeling a heat crawl up your neck. “C-can you feel that?”

Hands still over his mouth, he nodded. You realized you had been performing your luck ritual the entire time you had been playing with Chance. He could feel it. Every. Single. Time. 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” You felt terrible, doing that to him without asking.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He said softly.

“But then I kept making you uncomfortable! Kissing you without your consent, ugh. I’m so sorry, Chance.” You gave him a sad look that pierced his heart. That wasn’t what he meant at all!

“I never said I was uncomfortable.” He composed himself somewhat.

“Huh?” 

“I might have liked it…” He trailed quietly. 

“What was that?” You couldn’t make out what he said.

“I like it!” He blurted. “I really like it when you kiss me.” His face grew red again as he waited for your response.

“Y-you do?” 

He nodded sheepishly. 

“Yeah. It feels… nice. Really nice.” He bit his lip nervously. “You’re always so soft and sweet.” 

“Oh.” Your face was burning.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” He gave you an apologetic look. 

“Chance…” This time you were nervous.

“Yes?” 

You leaned down toward his face. Arms planted on the headrest of his chair.

“Can I actually kiss you?”

“I-I mean technically you are ‘actually’ kissing me…” He stuttered out, eyes flitting between your eyes and lips.

You gave him an unamused pout.

“You know what I mean. How’s about this? Can I give you a reciprocated kiss? One that you also participate in?”

“Yes. Please.” 

With that, you pressed your lips to his. Chance froze up at first, eyes wide at the fact that this was happening. Leaning into the kiss, his eyes fluttered shut. You let out a content sigh at the feel of his lips against yours. Soft and plush, perfectly meldable with your own. 

With your tongue, you teased at his bottom lip. Gladly, he slightly opened his mouth for your tongues to intertwine. A low groan left him as he tasted you. So fucking perfect.

The man pushed the chair away from the table, letting you sink onto his lap. Your hand trailed up his neck, fingers lightly scratching at his scalp. He moaned against you at the action. His own hands trailed over your body, mapping out your slopes and curves. Ultimately they landed on your ass, giving it a quick squeeze. You giggled against his lips, pulling away to get a good look at him.

Face still flushed with kiss bitten lips and blown out pupils. He stared up at you like you were a goddess that was granting him a blessing. That was sure how this encounter was feeling. Something that he had only dreamed of. 

“You’re so handsome.” You pressed kisses against his jaw and down his throat, making him shiver. 

“And you’re beautiful. So perfect.” He pressed a kiss to your lips. 

Leaning your forehead against his, you smiled. Then an idea came to you. Biting your lip, you wondered if the man beneath you would oblige to your whims. 

“Chance…”

“Hmm?”

“When I kiss your die, where do you feel it?”

“Oh, um, I guess on my face? Like a whisper against my cheeks and the corner of my lips.” He let out an awkward chuckle. 

You shifted off of him to grab the die, then returned to his lap. Holding the die in front of you, you looked over the numbers.

“So what would happen if I kissed the other numbers?” You asked, gaze hungry.

Oh, oh, this was hot. So fucking hot. Chance thought just kissing you was a dream come true. You wanting more from him? That was merely a fantasy.

“I suppose I would feel you kissing me on other parts of my body.” He answered. Truthfully, he had no idea what would happen. You only ever kissed the 20.

“So if I kiss the one.” You brought the dice to your lips, pecking the side.

Chance giggled at the feeling. Right on the bottom of his foot. 

“I take it that was your foot?”

He nodded, excited to see where this was going. Already feeling himself growing semi-hard in his pants as  he watched you in anticipation.

You pressed a kiss to the five, eyeing Chance’s response. He twitched under you with a whimper. 

“Where was that?”

“My left thigh.” 

Okay, so if five was the left thigh then… you pressed a kiss to the six.

“R-right thigh.” He groaned out. Having your lips on him like this was something else. 

It was probably a good thing you never kissed the other numbers. He was sure you would make him cum from just kissing him alone. 

“So if six is your other thigh then that must mean seven or eight is likely your-”

“What if we avoided that area?” He cut you off, a nervous sheen of sweat on his forehead. 

“Why’s that?” You leaned in, giving him a deep kiss.

“I-I just…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. 

“Chance, would me kissing the dice equivalent of your crotch make you cum?” Wow, just right out with it. 

“Y-yeah, yeah. It would. I’m gonna be honest. With the way that you’re already going at it, I’d probably cum just from you kissing me.” 

“Really?” You sat upright, eyes sparkling. 

He nodded, blushing furiously. 

“Could we try it?” You bit your lip. 

The thought of having the man fall apart just from you kissing him had you riled up. You could feel yourself growing wetter at the thought. Seeing him squirm from your kisses before coming undone. Oh, that was very appealing. 

“You want to?” He was surprised.

“Yeah, I do. Only if you want to.” 

“You don’t have to ask twice.” He wrapped a hand around your neck, pulling you in for a kiss. Your tongues tangled with each other as you moaned. 

Pulling away, you brought the dice back up to your face. Eyeing the numbers, you decided to go for the 19. You gave it a slow kiss, watching Chance as he shivered and moaned. The feeling reached a sweet spot on his neck that had him keening. He was pretty sure he was addicted to your lips now. 

You continued to press kisses to various numbers. Loving every whimper and moan you managed to get out of the man. Occasionally you would lean back in to give him a proper kiss on the lips, only to return to tease him with the die. 

Chance could tell you were avoiding the seven and eight. Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore. 

“P-please.” He groaned through gritted teeth as he felt your lips on his chest. “I need you…”

“Need me to what?” You teased with a smirk.

“Kiss the seven and eight. Please.” He begged, squirming beneath you.

“Hmm. Good boy.” Oh fuck. That had his dick throbbing. 

Slowly, you brought the die to your lips. You pecked all over it, then finally pressed a kiss to the seven. Chance cried out at the feeling. Your lips right where he needed them. Feeling them press against his throbbing length. He was sure the next one would be the last he needed. You gave another slow kiss to the eight. It was his undoing. Cock twitching in his pants, releasing a sticky load into his boxers. His hands gripped at your hips as he rutted against the feeling of your lips. 

“Oh f-fuck.” He stuttered out. 

You pressed your lips to his, then kissed all over his face. The man melting into your affection. 

“How was that?” You asked softly.

“Amazing. Perfect. Wonderful. Perfect. Did I mention perfect?” He chuckled.

“I’m glad I could give you that.” You picked up the die again, giving it a peck on the 20. 

“Guess I’ll be keeping my lucky shot tradition for our other games.” You gave him a sweet smile. 

“Oh sweetheart,” Chance pulled you back to him, “did you think playtime was over?”

[literaryvein-reblogs]

do you have any tips on how to write for a quiet character living a comfortable life abruptly being forced to adapt to a rowdy and somewhat violent environment?

Writing Ideas: Quiet Characters

common literary & character tropes

Beware the Quiet Ones: When the character who is hardly ever upset about something, suddenly raises their voice, the world turns upside down and seems to come to an end. There is an unleashed raging or cold speech of epic proportions that not even the most demented character in the story would want to sit through. This rage is almost always expressed verbally, though violence can also be included. Another version could be when the heroes' team is in low spirits, and The Quiet One, fed up with all the sulking, throws the table (or something else) to the side and gives a Rousing Speech to their comrades.

Elective Mute: It turns out that a character assumed to be unable to talk actually can speak, they just choose to be silent most of the time.

Emotionless Girl: An enigmatic female character who appears to be entirely emotionless. Whether she actually is emotionless depends on the story and often on her level of characterization.

Heroic Mime: A hero who never speaks.

Silent Scapegoat: Somebody who willingly takes the blame for everyone else's wrongdoings.

Suddenly Speaking: A character who was initially silent eventually reveals that they can speak after all.

The Quiet One: A character who does speak, but not as much as the other characters.

The Stoic: Quiet demeanor tends towards the brusque or outright rudeness, though there are a few polite Stoics. Some stoics may try to give the impression of a lot going on inside, cultivate an air of mystery and confuse other characters with cryptic one-liners. The Stoic sometimes displays emotion when under extreme stress or in other highly emotional situations, but their usual repertoire consists of mild boredom, detached interest, Dull Surprise or dignified disdain. The Stoics in ancient Greece were philosophers who believed that self-control is the highest virtue, and detachment from strong emotions and passion would give them greater insight in their quest for truth. They also thought that emotional reactions to the inevitable were silly; given that We All Die Someday, what is grieving over death but a judgment that the inevitable was somehow wrong? Stoics would later be criticized for fatalism and apathy.

The Voiceless: A character isn't shown speaking, but might still be capable of speech.

Tranquil Fury: This character can range from happy or stoic, but their anger is more quiet (but still dangerous). What defines this trope is the tendency to become deadly serious when it gets deadly serious.

Examples

In the story "The Six Swans", collected by the Grimm Brothers and Hans Christian Andersen among others, a Fallen Princess must make six shirts out of nettles and can't make a sound for seven years or the spell that transformed her six brothers into swans will never be broken. She manages to keep all of these conditions and gets to break the spell. This is an example of the Elective Mute trope.

Peter in Jumanji, who talks to no one but his older sister Judy ever since their parents' death by car accident. Once Alan gets out of the game and finds his parents are also dead, Peter starts talking to him as well.

Charles Wallace was an Elective Mute trope a child in A Wrinkle in Time. By the time of the later books, he has grown out of it.

Irish Mythology: The battle trance Nuada enters before the first battle of Maige Tuired is sometimes described as a battle fury. However, unlike The Riastrad, the famous "Warp Spasm" of the hero Cu Chulainn, Nuada does not become a berserker, but instead becomes exceptionally calm. This is an example of the Tranquil Fury trope.

Older Than Steam. Shakespeare's Henry V has the eponymous character's Tranquil Fury reaction to the tennis balls.

Dead Poets Society: The shy and insecure Todd Anderson spends most of the film struggling to get out two full sentences and is overlooked by the school and his parents. After his best friend kills himself, the school tries to bully him (and the other boys) into pinning the blame on their favorite teacher — and he leads half the class in an outright rebellion against the headmaster.

Don Vito Corleone from The Godfather is famously very soft-spoken, even hoarse, but an extremely menacing screen presence.

In the original novel The Godfather, both Vito and Michael Corleone were noted as young men for being soft-spoken, understated, and reasonable, especially in contrast to many of their Sicilian immigrant and first-generation compatriots. They go on to become in turn the most feared "Family" heads of their generations, while still rarely raising their voices above a normal speaking tone.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

This is already quite a specific character, and it seems you have a rough idea of your storyline. I don't want to intrude too much on your story, so I compiled tropes and examples in literature as well as other media that are somewhat related to what you described, and you could perhaps incorporate these (& edit as needed/desired) to further flesh out your specific character and plot. Consider which direction you want your story to go; what reactions you want your own character to show once they're thrust into that new environment (Will they continue to be quiet? Will they go the other end of the spectrum? Perhaps somewhere in between? Will they succeed in "adapting" in this new environment?). Do go through the sources for more information and examples. Plus these previous posts that may be useful as well:

On Shyness ⚜ On Mutism ⚜ On Introverts

Word Alternatives: Quiet ⚜ Five-Factor Model of Personality

[theshipsong]

x drake x dom f!reader, cw: dubcon bondage, impact play, degradation, blowjob. canon au, takes place roughly during elbaph. companion to this fic. reader is in cross guild, formerly of the hawkins pirates, and implicitly racialized. wc: 3k | est. 11 min read

⸺

"What did you do?"

Drake woke in the Marine GS Hospital to Prince Grus slapping a densely printed flyer onto his side table. As his bleary eyes adjusted, he recognized the garish color scheme of Cross Guild's updated bounty announcement, the new dread of every Marine base. At the top was none other than Rear Admiral X Drake in his pirate regalia, with the five crown rating reserved for vice admirals. Bizarrely, he felt the corner of his mouth turn up in a grin.

"I relayed some news."

Drake, Grus, and Kujaku were the highest ranked members of SWORD, which officially answered to no one and followed no orders, so it was down to them to hold each other to account. Of course no one stopped Drake's partial-Zoan rampage on the hospital ship or warned him he was endangering his cover en route to Karai Bari.

His bounty, to his knowledge the first issued to a fellow pirate with a pre-existing price from the Marines, confirmed your position within Cross Guild.

"I read the med vessel's log. You took a detour."

"Seems you already know."

It was the closest Drake had gotten to apologizing to a fallen comrade's widow, but Hawkins was no Marine, and you were no wife.

"That, and those folders you have under your pillow." Drake felt a frankly pubescent blush rise to his cheeks. It was your slim file paired with a longer one on the Hawkins Pirates, of which the Marine—through Drake's intel—only recently confirmed you'd been a part. "Is she Wanoan? What news could you have for her?"

(You were darker than the women of Wano, your eyes subtly rounder, and Drake understood with perfect clarity how Hawkins was unmoved in the bathhouse after years at your side.)

"...if Cross Guild has some tie to that country, you should make an official report."

"You'll read for yourself soon."

Grus whistled. "Rest up, rear admiral."

"Rear admiral." Drake returned his short, joking salute even after Grus turned his back to leave.

The toll that Onigashima took on Drake's body was bad enough, but you reopened the wound in his neck left by the CP0 agent and broke his nose, a purely cosmetic change that wouldn't have bothered the scarred man if he wasn't suddenly self-conscious of being attractive. Not to women in general, but you. He decided to take it as a gift.

Besides these battle tokens, Drake was exhausted from two years under Kaidou and many more in deep cover. He should take this time to rest and take refuge in one of the Navy's most secure facilities, but part of him was relieved. Of course the ambiguity of his position meant he could change allegiances with the tide like he had in Onigashima, but if he as good as confirmed Cross Guild's—and Hawkins'—charge that he was "a Navy man," he could be free. Or a little less burdened. The problem was it gave him no reason to see you besides pursuit.

The sharp allure of your grief made Drake wonder how many siren's songs were elegies. He'd wanted to hold you despite meeting you that day. He wanted to promise you things he didn't have, like tender last words from Basil Hawkins, or a peaceful life he couldn't know held any appeal to you.

SWORD was the only unit in all the World Government capable of challenging an emperor like Buggy. They were stretched thin as it was trying to capture the other Warlords, and Drake now, bizarrely, thrilled at the duty before him. He'd take in Dracule Mihawk, return Sir Crocodile to Impel Down, and see you.

Rather than risk a repeat of Amazon Lilly, Drake opted for a battle at sea. Cross Guild's hideous flagship was on the move throughout Buggy's territory and expanding into that formerly held by Big Mom outside of Totto Land. Reconnaissance revealed Crocodile and Mihawk alternated captaincy as the other stayed behind to defend Karai Bari, while Buggy rarely appeared above deck, despite the masthead. Regardless of who had command of the Big Top Blaster, you were always aboard.

A captured former member of the Hawkins Pirates filled in gaps that their late captain didn't exactly rush to share with Drake in Wano. You were the crew's navigator with a strong preference for celestial navigation, something out of fashion for both the Navy and pirates who respectively relied on Vegapunk's radar technology and log compasses, and you left shortly after the Paramount War, when Hawkins entered the New World.

Cross Guild's ship had an observatory below the crow's nest. Drake was tempted to call you a princess in a tower, but you'd been sighted excising Crocodile's hook from Buggy's shirt collar, mediating between the men like you belonged there. Like you were happy.

Just like Drake told you your first love died, he'd take this crew from you, too.

It was after weeks of careful observation by the Navy's most discreet units, submarine and sailing ships alike, and two months since Koby's rescue from Hachinosu that Drake made his move. The Big Top Blaster left Karai Bari in the morning with Mihawk in command. If the soldiers Drake borrowed were cowed by the Marine Hunter, they didn't show it. He wanted to take the former warlords alive, and if Drake sank the ship, Mihawk could swim. As could you, Drake confirmed repeatedly with your former crewmate—"She's the only one Hawkins let save him from drowning"—unless you ate a Devil Fruit in the last two years.

Drake was astern a warship far, far away when he fell to his knees along with every other sailor on deck, and waves of utter despair worse than any he'd felt in battle hit him like a ton of bricks.

"Perona," he heard a low, dry voice say. "I thought you packed the sea prism cuffs."

"You know I hate touching those!" a high voice, much higher than yours, shot back.

"Keep him down, then."

Drake felt a boot knock into his hip, and saw the sky and Dracule Mihawk's plumed hat as the swordsman stepped on his shoulder, hard. Another rush of dread swept through him before Mihawk unceremoniously dumped him overboard, not into the sea but a small boat no one had ever reported travelling at the Big Top Blaster's side that could only be Mihawk's personal vessel.

Mihawk kept a cruel boot between Drake's shoulders, pressing the Marine's chest into the hull as he coldly bisected the warship and odd, feminine laughter bubbled in the air. Drake should have felt horror at the fate of his comrades, but his thoughts raced through sorry, I'm sorry for failing, for leaving him there, for coming here, for being born with such speed and acuity he almost missed the boat he was in being raised portside of the Big Top Blaster.

Another set of boots climbed into the boat where it hung from the davit. Drake felt the weight of stone handcuffs land on his back below Mihawk's foot, and slim fingers locking them in place.

He'd only spoken to you for a few moments those months ago, but his body knew your smooth, throaty timbre.

"Rear Admiral," you greeted as Mihawk dragged him to his feet. Your eyes briefly flicked up to his, an incredible distance that made Drake wonder, obscenely, how he dared dream of tasting you. "Who gets the bounty if we're the ones to capture him?"

Mihawk chuckled. "Like you need the money."

"You did most of the work."

"But," Mihawk said, "he's only back for you. Aren't you, Diez?"

Drake winced at his father's name, and tried his best to avoid looking at your face as the shorter man somehow kept his posture uncomfortably straight. He still had tears in the corners of his eyes, whether from Mihawk's strength or the despondence he'd been hit with. You looked him up and down, your gaze dragging down his bare chest and lower. To his humiliation, his blood followed you like a magnet, and—you blushed.

So damn pretty.

You ignored Mihawk's comment, ordering Buggy's men take Drake to a room below the fo'c'sle that could have been the captain's quarters, for all he knew, dimly lit by only a small pothole through which he could see men's shoes walk along, how it peeked onto the quarterdeck. In addition to the sea prism cuffs, they bound him to a too-small chair with ropes beaded in sea prism stone, and he had to splay his long legs to get anything resembling comfortable with the throbbing ache between his thighs. You closed the door to the passageway with your hip, and his eyes adjusted to the dark to see you leaning against it with your arms crossed.

"You'll want to compose yourself before anyone else notices," you said mildly.

What a euphemism.

The half-dark only refined Drake's other senses. He could hear you breathe like it was against his neck. He could smell your perfume like he was buried in you. He was so aware of you his skin burned.

He grunted. A rude response, but all he could do not to say anything.

"I'm so curious what part of all this does it for you," you continued. "Mihawk's very handsome."

Despite it all, he laughed. A short bark, more of a cough, but a laugh.

"Now," you said. "Would you like to meet your other captors—" plural captors other than Crocodile? "—after making a mess, or do you want some help?"

Help. "The price?" he said.

"Let's just add it to your tab."

"As if you get nothing out of it."

"Like?"

"Humiliating a Marine. Shooting the messenger."

"You think I hold grudges?" you said. "If anything, I should thank you. Though, of course, he's alive."

Hawkins survived? It was almost enough to shame Drake into composure, as you said, but then—

"W-what are you doing?"

You'd closed the distance while he was stunned silent at your revelation. Seated as he was and in such an inadequate chair, you were nearly eye level. You kept your hands primly behind your back, but you bit your lip as you studied his face, and if there was more light he knew he could look down your shirt.

"Just remembering what I'm working with."

There was absolutely nothing immodest about your attire, but to Drake you might well have been naked, how the spices of your perfume filled his nostrils besides your clean, natural sweat, which even now he thought of licking from every inch of you.

"Say the word, rear admiral."

"Please."

Your grin in the half-light was feline, and he knew more than ever that he was prey even as you sank to your knees. He could have cum just from your elegant hand ghosting over his belt buckle, how carefully you only touched the belt and his pants' button and fly, and he groaned aloud at the lightened pressure.

"What is your proper title?" you murmured as you nudged the fabric down, and he hissed. "Rear admiral, captain—"

"Does it matter?" he rasped.

"I like giving men their due."

"Whatever you want, please—"

He choked as you swatted his bulge through his boxers.

"Such a pretty sound," you cooed, and repeated the motion more gently. Drake groaned.

"R-rear admiral is fine."

You licked your lips, audibly. "Kind of a mouthful."

Siren, he thought as you finally dragged his underwear down. His heavy cock sprang free, leaking and proud against his bare stomach. You exhaled through your nose, an almost-laugh.

"What?" He was so sensitive in every sense of the word.

"I almost made an awful pun, is all," you said as you scooted yourself closer, your hands on his splayed thighs, bound at an awkward width by his partial undress. Your breath danced across his skin. "Why 'Red Flag'? Little piggie playing pirate," you went on, and he knew his neck and chest blushed so furiously he had to look on fire. "If that's not bad enough, you have to court class war."

"You talk like a revolutionary."

"So do you. So did you."

With that, you trailed your dominant hand to the head of his cock and spread the not insubstantial precum from his slit with your thumb, slowly massaging it down his length. Drake threw his head back, his groan echoing off the underdeck for every sailor to know what sort of torture he was experiencing, but he didn't care. Until—

Smack!

Your open palm connected directly to the underside of his cock. He futilely thrashed his head as if he had enough range of motion to muffle his shout of pain in his shoulder, tears stinging his eyes.

"I thought these sounds were for me," you said lowly.

"Yes, ma'am." It slipped through his gritted teeth before he could stop it.

"Good boy." You returned to your ministrations, soothing the impact with firm stokes, his cock only leaking more precum from your cruelty. Drake was transfixed watching your hand move, its long fingers curled just so, the contrast of his red, angry skin and pale thighs to yours, slow, sure movements that kept him on a knife's edge. He wasn't convinced you wanted him to get off at all, and surrendering that to you was...

"Feels g-good, ma'am."

"Yeah?" Drake noticed you shift your weight, like you rubbed your thighs together. "That's sweet of you to say. But what are we doing about this?" The callused pads of your left fingers traced his balls, and his breath hitched at the different texture.

"You decide, ma'am." You preened at that, and to his shock, you leaned in close and licked one into your mouth. "Oh my god—" Through the partial darkness, your eyes shone with mischief and curiosity, like he was your toy, and you continued your strokes as you played with him with your tongue and lips. "You don't have to—"

You withdrew, and he whined at the total loss of contact, your hot mouth, your warm hands.

"I'm doing you a favor, aren't I?" You slapped him again, above his sensitive balls now wet with your saliva, and he groaned, too loudly. "Huh?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he whispered.

You leaned forward, blinking up at him in a way that would look submissive if his hands weren't cuffed. Drake almost cried at the wet kiss you planted on his sore dick.

"Are you gonna cum for me?" you said. "Drain these pretty balls for me?" Another kiss, lower. "Isn't it embarrassing, rear admiral? Needing a pirate to help you cum."

"Just you," he admitted, closing his eyes.

"Just—?" Despite what must pass for Mihawk's teasing earlier, your eyes were wide with surprise.

"Of course, ma'am." Drake would seize this chance to tell you, no matter how desperate, delusional it made him look. "You have no idea what you did to me."

"Made you stupid, based on this mission you've failed." You were panting, on your knees, but still in control, and he couldn't say he never imagined being interrogated like this. "What was your plan?"

"C-capture—" Your devilish little tongue licked a stripe from his balls to his thick cockhead, and he stuttered. "Capture former Warlord Dracule Mihawk at sea."

You laughed, low and velvet. "Idiot."

And when you slurped your lips around him and drew him to the back of your throat, Drake knew you were his punishment for that hubris. You fisted the length that didn't fit, still longer than the width of your palm, and stroked his balls with your other hand. He whimpered at the grip of your tight throat, a vice rather than the sting of your slaps, and you let yourself gag before you pulled off for air.

"You still don't have a bounty," Drake said, and tears sparkled in your lashline as as you recovered yourself, still working him with your hands. "I was going to take you alive and hide you from Crocodile somewhere."

"Like a wife." With that, you spat on his cock, not for any lubricant but to show what you thought of that. "Is that what Diez Drake wants? A quiet life. A cumdump wife."

"No!" But he was lying. He'd never dreamed of leaving the Navy until the day he broke your heart, and you broke his nose.

You rolled your eyes. "Let's not forget our task here, rear—" The rest of his title was garbled on the hot, wet lick of your taking him again, with renewed purpose. Drake knew he wouldn't last with the visions from painkiller-induced daydreams you'd revived, of taking you from piracy whether you wanted it or not, filling you with his seed day and night, worshiping and punishing you like he doubted someone as austere as Basil Hawkins or someone as selfish as Crocodile did. Because you weren't real to him until now, just a beautiful would-be widow his mind turned like a doll, but the real you—

Was ruthless. Ate him up like the animal he was supposed to be. You had your own ideas of him and were unimpressed, but still swallowed his thick cock down your throat almost like you liked him, along with its load of hot, thick cum. You coughed around him from the sheer volume, but gamely continued to gulp. Some spilled out the corners of your lips, and you left it there as you smiled up at him, almost innocently.

"Better?"

Drake nodded stupidly.

"I said—" You stood and yanked the lapels of his coat harshly. "Better, rear admiral?"

"…Yes, ma'am." Inanely, he inclined his head, in a salute or a bow.

And to his bewilderment, you kissed his nose. "I'm ahead of you here," you murmured, tender for the first time. "Taking you away from the Marine. Aren't I?"

Drake couldn't help his smile.

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Paper Pirates

MDNI

An unconventional member of an unconventional crew, you find yourself wrestling with frustrations out of your league

Shanks x f!reader (more relevant in part 2)

It was supposed to be a one-shot.

There are many roads to piracy.

Paperwork shouldn’t be one of them.

Sailors fly the jolly roger for adventure, for freedom, for greed. Sweet or savage, pirates turn to the sea for a thrilling life away from responsibility. Not for double-entry accounting.

It should be all swords and swashbuckling, especially on a yonko’s flagship. Music and tuneless singing have steeped in the ship’s hull along with sea brine and rum, staining the Red Force with a mighty reputation.

And yet. Here you sit: ink-stained fingers, spectacles, and all.

The financial charts, ledgers, and reports from across the Emperor’s territory make a compelling excuse to skip the evening’s celebrations. Light from the overhead lantern trembles with the rhythmic force of a dozen idiots dancing – or fighting – on deck. You have a job to do and frankly can’t be assed to even feign interest, not that you put much effort into the pretense since your first introduction.

Shanks called for this particular event because it’s a day ending in y. No one has cannons aimed at the Red Force, and there’s no pressing need for sobriety. Standard practice, really.

The exposure to the crew’s merry making itches under your skin like sun blisters. You’ll burn if you get too much, but it’s an unavoidable hazard at sea.

Even if you’re only half-crew.

You’re a leap and a bound above a coddled passenger but so removed from the functional hierarchy you don’t even have a title.

Except. Well. There was always…

“Nerd!”

You drag your eyes away from ledger lines and decimals to blink at Yasopp. The sniper is drunk and enjoying himself. And pointing at you.

“Captain says you have to have a drink when you’re done.”

One finger curls over a notebook’s cover, and you contemplate how many more hours of work you can eek out before you’re too tired for responsible accounting.

“I swear the books get worse every time I come back.” It’s lighthearted, but also too fucking true. “I’ll be working late.”

Yasopp shakes his head. Grins. “Orders.”

Your eyes roll away from the pirate and back to the mathematic wreck on the desk. “Whatever. Just leave me something and I’ll lift a glass to your unconscious ass before I sleep.”

Cackling, Yasopp ferries your answer back to the party, and you work the puzzle of knotted equations until the lantern stops swinging and the racket falls silent. Pirates not on watch stumble through the corridors on their way to their bunks, slurring and laughing on the other side of the wall. Even that goes quiet eventually.

Your eyes burn from focusing too hard to blink for minutes on end, and you decide it’s safe to stop for the night. Off come the glasses, neatly folded and tucked into a desk drawer. They’ll be safer there than on your person, and you only need them for reading fine print. You didn’t used to. Not when you started. But that’s true of a lot of things.

With joints that creak like the steps you ascend, you head up on deck. Bodies of the fallen sleep under a blanket of stars – the ones who drank themselves to sleep or refused to leave the party before waking in the morning. The few on watch peer down from crow’s nests or attend minor chores around their comrades’ spread limbs and upturned bellies.

Yellow lights contrast with the velvet black-blue stitching together endless sea and sky, and you can’t help relaxing just a little as you approach the one table with a conscious crewman. The cherry of his cigarette burns bright, and smoke curls into the breeze.

“Benn.”

He nods, mumbling your name. As you sit, he slides a large tankard to your side of the table.

It doesn’t look like wine. Doesn’t smell like beer. It’s the wrong color for sake. “It’s rum, isn’t it?”

“Didn’t send Yasopp with a preference,” the first mate says. The telling glint in his eye betrays his good humor. “This was all we had left.”

“I’ve seen the inventory. There’s plenty for the next week of travel, even if the crew gets shit-faced twice a day.”

Benn shrugs. “It was all that was left on deck.”

You doubt it, even if it’s more plausible, but there’s no point arguing. Time to finish the last task of the day.

Lifting the heavy cup, you tilt your head back and chug.

“Steady.” Benn watches with his arms crossed.

You drink rather than answer. Swallowing fire, you drain half of what was left for you.

“I’m tired,” you say when you stop to breathe, “and I want to go to bed.”

Bed is a hammock in the groaning belly of the ship. Surrounded by other hammocks. Full of pirates. Who snore. Loudly. A night of drinking never helps the volume, but maybe your share will help you black out.

“If I drink fast enough, I’ll be asleep before it hits and it won’t matter.”

“If you say so.”

He’s very good at letting people make their own mistakes. You’ve watched him to it. But this isn’t the first time you’ve rushed through liquid social obligations on your way to rest. He doesn’t know you as well as he thinks, you’re sure.

The second half of the rum goes down like the first, and you aren’t even tipsy as you take your leave and head below. It’s a good plan. Maybe it would’ve worked, too, if it weren’t for the chaos you find in your assigned quarters.

While the little study always holds records, you aren’t aboard often enough to have a dedicated sleeping space. No cabin. Not even a bunk. Just a hammock in the hold with the lower ranks. You left your small trunk by one near the door, and you’d slept there for the past five nights running without issue.

Until now.

There must’ve been a brawl, or one of the bigger men misjudged his approach under the influence, because a wad of ripped and tangled hammocks sits piled in the center of the room. All the remaining options, including your unofficially claimed space, are full.

You can’t go to bed.

There is no bed.

Benn doesn’t seem surprised when you come back.

Sooner or later, the rum will hit, and you know better than to wait for it on your feet. So, you pick a place by Benn’s table and settle with your ass on the deck and your back against a wall.

Technically speaking, you’ve slept in worse places.

Realistically speaking, you usually sleep in better.

Honestly speaking, you’re too old for this shit.

This is the consequence of your actions. Today it’s glasses and rum. Tomorrow it will be a sore head and an aching tailbone. The day after it will probably be a cannonball to the face. No matter how lackadaisical the crew behaves, they’re all pirates at the end of the day, and so are you.

Why are you a pirate? Why are you here? Your life was so slow and orderly before a big grin and a thatch of red hair flipped it on its head. Did you ever actually agree to this life, or did you just fail to argue with the plan? That must be the problem. If you never learn to say no, whatever comes is your fault. But if you learn to say no, you’ll have to learn to say yes, too. That might be worse.

Of course, Benn can’t let you mope in peace.

“What’s eating ya?”

“Mosquitoes, maybe.”

“Nah.” He stubs out the butt of his cigarette and reaches for the pack. “Been off since your last sabbatical. Longer, if we’re being honest, but it really has its teeth in you now.”

“Nothing.” Gods. You sound like a teenager.

He hums, lights up a fresh smoke, and leaves it alone.

You can’t even explain why you’re in a bad mood. It’s just vibes. A feeling that makes sense until you try caging it in words.

You’ve been part of Shank’s entourage for years now, and you’ve seen the impact of his influence.

He makes things better. Things grow under his care.

That’s good. That’s great. That’s better than most folks in the New World ever expect to find in their lifetimes. But somehow it doesn’t apply to you.

You let your head fall back against the wall. The hollow thunk sounds as empty as you wish you could make your skull.

People drink to forget, or so some sad, broken soul tells you in every bar in every port you’ve ever visited. It’s a neat trick you never learned, though. Booze makes you think. Then it makes you speak. Then it makes you sleep.

It doesn’t make you the party girl the Red-Haired Pirates clearly hoped for the first time they dragged you into a night of carousing. It didn’t help your on-again off-again crewmate status. No one besides a handful of the most seasoned officers knew how to speak to you, and you could count those on one hand.

If you could bring yourself to care less about what you did, you would’ve flipped everyone the bird ages ago, refused to board the Red Force after one of your little layovers and made a home somewhere.

But you can’t, and you don’t, and the alcohol fumes up from belly to brain with old memories.

Once upon a time you bumped into a grey-haired man at the dock. His hands were full of loose papers and notebooks. When they clattered to the ground, you immediately helped pick them up, because that was just good manners. As you gathered the pages, you saw the numbers, and your brain leapt ahead of your mouth, so as you handed the collection back to Shank’s first mate, you blithely mentioned, “You have some transportation and duplication errors in the top account that are throwing off your totals.”

And, low and behold, the next day the first mate – one Benn Beckman – tracked you down and discussed working for one of the most powerful people in the Grand Line.

You almost turned him down. You tried, actually. But he insisted you at least hear his captain out, face to face. And then Shanks smiled, and it was all over.

They gave you a strange job.

Emperors reigned in their own ways. Force and threats were standard, but Shanks followed no rules. He governed without actually doing anything, relying on booty stolen at sea and the generosity of thriving island economies to maintain his ship and crew. At least it looked that way from the outside. But the system relied on more than luck and good looks.

Your tasks follow a cycle. The Red Force drops you at an island, leaves you there, then picks you up a few (many) months later. When you’re aboard, you review and balance the ship’s books. When you’re on land, you do the real work. You record how things work on the island, or how they don’t, and you gather the numbers to prove it. Then Shanks and his commanders use your data to find the best ports for long stays, to spot unrest before it became insurrection, and to generally handle pirate business.

Honestly, you enjoy it. You never thought your uncanny skills with numbers could lead to so much travel, and you like island hopping. It’s nice to be special. It’s nice to be needed, even a little. It should be enough. You have more than most.

The itch in the back of your mind has been getting worse, though, especially as you start looping back to hubs you visited in your early days as a quasi-pirate.

Things have grown. People have put down roots. They flourish and offer good fruit in return.

But you haven’t found a way to grow into the Red-Hair Pirates the way other people settle into their lives. Your roots grasp at salt water.

At the start of this adventure, years ago, you let the tide wash you out to sea. It’s no one’s fault but yours, and that doesn’t make you feel any better, so you self-isolate and avoid what you can’t explain.

Pirates aren’t big on feelings talk.

And you’re at least half a pirate.

“Eh, nerd still can’t hold her rum?”

Apparently, Shanks hasn’t surrendered to tomorrow’s hangover yet.

You huff as Benn’s chuckle rumbles over you. Without opening your eyes, which slipped closed at some point you can’t be fucked to remember, you say, “Nerd can hold her rum. Nerd’s hammock was a casualty of war.”

“Ah.” A chair creaks as the captain joins Beckman’s table. “Should’ve known you wouldn’t stay out voluntarily. And if you hold your rum so well, why don’t you have another with us?”

“I did my duty. I just want to sleep.”

Shanks tsks, and you finally crack an eye open. He’s taken the chair closest to your spot on the floor. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” You knock your boot against his bare ankle, frowning. “You should take better care of yourself.”

“Are you going to nip at me like a sheepdog until I do? Come on, you’re awake. Have another drink.”

The insistence is inching towards an order. While the Red Hair Pirates have never followed conventional standards of respect, when Shanks tells you to do something, you listen.

Groaning, swearing, and taking your precious time, you stretch and inch away from the haze of sleep. You spare a filthy look for Beckman as you clamber onto a chair, because you can easily reason your way into this being his fault. The bastard smirks around his cigarette.

Maybe he really did plan this. Maybe Shanks did. Maybe the rats are in this together. Fuck knows what “this” is, but you’re sailing through Tipsy on the way to Drunk, and clearly there are plans in motion to blow you to the far shores of Hammered.

Fresh bottles have appeared on the table as if by magic, and you pull your discarded tankard over, resigned to your fate. It’s already been refilled.

You drink. So does Shanks. Beckman enjoys his smoke.

It’s…companionable. If it was always like this, maybe you could set your roots in the Red Force’s planks. Trust it to be a home.

But you’ll be ashore again in a few days, and if you let yourself grow into the crew, you’ll tear yourself apart when they leave.

And if they never come back?

Even a Yonko can die. And Shanks is changeable. One day they may not come back for you.

Did you eat dinner? The rum glows warm in your blood.

You find yourself ready to forgive Beckman. For… whatever. He was responsible. He was never the problem.

Shanks is deep in his thoughts, famous red hair drifting in the breeze. As he quietly enjoys his sake, you glare.

“Do you realize how frustrating you are?”

His cup pauses against his lips. His eyebrows leap up. “Eh?”

Yes. This is what you’ve been wrestling with it. He’s the problem.

“You’re the strongest.” You gesture as you speak, and rum splashes out, burning the cracked skin over your knuckles. “No one else can take care of you, so you better take care of yourself.”

Another kick. You aim for your captain’s ankle again, but you hit his shin. It’s not a big deal. It’s not like you could hurt him if you tried. While you aren’t the weakest aboard the Red Force, you’re pretty damn far from the strongest.

Shanks whines anyway, and Beckman’s dry laugh sounds like old leaves rattling in the wind.

“Seriously.” You empty your cup. That gives the truth time to percolate. There’s no helping it now. You’re smashed, and your dignity has flown. Your fist props up your drooping head as tangled thoughts spin out into thread.

“It’s so frustrating. You have no idea what’s like being weaker than someone you love.”

The immediate silence takes a minute to catch up with you. The rum has floated you beyond a standard perception of time, and your head is too loud to notice everything outside hasn’t kept up.

You frown.

You think.

And you realize.

In that moment, you aren’t a ship. There is no chair, table, or lantern to keep you steady. You’re floating in the black abyss, and you know without seeing that a sea king is circling for the kill. There’s no air. Or light. Or distraction. Just terrible, dreadful awareness.

Oh, gods.

Stars, seas, and sabers. Fucking hells and all the horrors below.

You love Shanks.

It’s the stupidest thing in the world, and it makes perfect sense.

You just informed on yourself. To yourself. And possibly to the two men eyeing you, but there’s grace in nebulous phrasing, and no one should be taken too seriously after so much rum.

You leap to your feet and point straight between the captain’s eyes.

“I am drunk, and I refuse to face the consequences of my actions.”

Shanks just blinks at you, and Beckman keeps his thoughts to himself as you back away, trip over your chair, and stagger back down to the study. You hold your head so high you can’t see your feet, and you earn a dozen nicks and bruises on your way.

You sleep in the corner with your jacket as a blanket, and in the morning, you tell yourself nothing happened at all.

[novaursa]

The Hound She Loved (the princess)

- Summary: You loved him and he loved you, but he had to leave you behind. 

- Pairing: baratheon!reader/Sandor Clegane

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 1

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The air is filled with the stench of ale and sweat as Sandor and Arya approach the rundown tavern. Its warped wooden sign creaks in the breeze, announcing its name—something worn and illegible. From inside, the sounds of rowdy laughter, clinking mugs, and muffled jeers spill out into the dirt road.

Sandor pulls up short, his sharp eyes narrowing as he motions for Arya to stay close. “Keep your mouth shut and your nose clean, girl. Places like this don’t take kindly to little wolves.”

Arya smirks, her hands resting on the hilt of Needle. “I can handle myself.”

He mutters a curse under his breath and pushes open the door, his broad frame filling the entrance. The tavern is low lit, the smoky air obscuring most of the faces inside. Sandor scans the room out of habit, noting the handful of patrons hunched over tables, while a group of Lannister soldiers in tarnished armor lingers near the bar. They’re loud, drunk, and jeering at a cloaked figure sitting in the far corner.

“Come on, love,” one of the soldiers drawls, leaning closer to the figure. “No need to be shy. Let us see that pretty face of yours.”

The cloaked woman says nothing, her face obscured by the shadow of her hood. Her body is still, but Sandor’s practiced eyes catch the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her hands are clenched under the table.

“Sandor,” Arya hisses from beside him, her voice low. “Something’s not right.”

Sandor grunts, his eyes still on the scene. The soldiers press closer, their laughter turning meaner. One of them, bolder than the rest, reaches out to tug at the edge of the woman’s hood. The fabric falls away, revealing her face.

The room falls into a stunned silence as the soldiers step back, their drunken bravado replaced with shock and recognition.

“It’s her,” one of them breathes, his voice tinged with awe and fear. “The princess.”

Sandor’s heart lurches in his chest. He freezes, his mind reeling. He’d recognize you anywhere—the sharpness of your eyes, the set of your jaw, the fire in your expression. You’re a ghost, a memory he thought he’d buried, now standing flesh and blood before him.

Arya notices his reaction immediately. She glances between Sandor and you, her sharp eyes narrowing. “Is that her?” she demands, her voice quiet but insistent. “Is that your princess?”

Sandor doesn’t answer, his focus locked on you. You’re already moving, your chair scraping loudly against the floor as you rise. The soldiers hesitate, their initial shock giving way to determination.

“We’ve got orders to bring you back to King’s Landing,” one of them growls, drawing his sword. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You don’t respond. Instead, you step forward, your movements fluid and purposeful. One of the soldiers lunges, but you sidestep him with ease, grabbing his wrist and twisting until the sword clatters to the ground. With a sharp kick, you send him sprawling into a nearby table.

The tavern erupts into chaos. Chairs scrape against the floor as patrons scramble to get out of the way. Another soldier charges at you, his blade swinging wide, but you duck beneath it, driving your elbow into his gut. He staggers, and you follow up with a swift strike to his head, sending him crumpling to the ground.

Sandor finally snaps out of his stupor, his instincts kicking in. “Bloody stubborn woman,” he growls, stepping forward as if to intervene.

But you don’t need his help. You’re a whirlwind of movement, disarming and incapacitating the soldiers with ruthless efficiency. The last one standing hesitates, his sword trembling in his hand. He glances at his fallen comrades, then back at you.

“Go ahead,” you say, your voice cold and steady. “Run back to your masters. Tell them I’m not going anywhere.”

The soldier doesn’t need to be told twice. He drops his sword and bolts for the door, stumbling in his haste. You watch him go, your chest heaving as you catch your breath.

For a moment, he simply stares at you. The noise of the tavern fades into the background, the world narrowing to just the two of you. Then, without a word, you pull your hood back up and dart for the back door.

“Wait!” Arya calls after you, but you’re already gone.

Sandor curses under his breath, shoving past a toppled chair as he makes for the exit. “Come on, girl,” he snaps at Arya, his voice rough. “She’s not getting away that easy.”

Arya doesn’t hesitate, falling into step behind him. “Why is she here, Sandor?” she presses as they burst out into the night. “Shouldn't she be in the capital?”

Sandor doesn’t answer, his focus on the faint trail of footprints in the dirt leading away from the tavern. His jaw is tight, his thoughts a chaotic mess. You were here. After all this time, you were here—and you were still fighting, still defying the world that sought to control you.

“We’re catching her,” Sandor growls, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And then we’ll both get our answers.”

Arya doesn’t respond, her eyes gleaming with curiosity and determination as they set off into the darkness, following the trail of the princess who had just turned their world upside down.

The night air is cool and damp as Sandor barrels through the woods, Arya quick on his heels. The faint rustling of leaves and the crunch of dirt beneath their boots are the only sounds that fill the silence. He’s close. He can feel it in the pounding of his heart, in the way his body moves without hesitation, driven by instinct.

“There!” Arya hisses, pointing ahead. A flicker of movement, a shadow weaving between the trees.

Sandor pushes forward, his long strides eating up the distance until he sees you—a flash of your cloak, the glint of moonlight on your hair as you dart through the underbrush. You’re fast, but Sandor is relentless, and within moments, he’s upon you.

He grabs your arm, his grip firm but not rough, spinning you around to face him. “Stop running, damn it!”

The two of you freeze, the world narrowing to just the two of you. For a moment, neither of you speaks, your breaths mingling in the cold night air. Your eyes widen in recognition, and he can see the disbelief etched across your face, as raw and vivid as the moonlight illuminating your features.

“Sandor?” you breathe, your voice barely audible.

Before he can answer, your surprise twists into something else—anger. Without warning, you pull your arm free and swing your fist, catching him square in the jaw.

“Seven hells!” Sandor staggers back, his hand flying to his face. He scowls at you, half in pain, half in confusion. “What in the bloody—”

“You!” you shout, your voice trembling with fury. “You left me! You just—left!”

Arya, standing a few paces away, bursts into laughter, clutching her stomach as she watches the scene unfold. “She hit you!” she manages to choke out between giggles. “The big bad Hound, brought down by a princess!”

Sandor shoots her a glare before turning back to you, his jaw tightening. “I didn’t have a choice,” he growls, his voice low and rough. “I left to keep you safe.”

“Safe?” you snap, stepping closer. Your hands ball into fists at your sides, and your eyes flash with anger. “You call abandoning me safe? Do you have any idea what it’s been like? The lies I’ve had to tell, the people I’ve had to fight just to stay free?”

Sandor flinches at your words, though he quickly schools his expression into something harder. “And what was I supposed to do?” he bites back. “Take you with me? Drag you into the mess I was running from? You think you’d be better off with a target on your back?”

“I already had a target on my back because of Joffrey!” you shout, your voice breaking slightly. “I didn’t need you to protect me, Sandor—I needed you to stay.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and raw, as if you’d ripped them straight from your chest. Sandor stares at you, his scarred face unreadable, though his eyes betray a flicker of something—regret, guilt, longing.

Arya, still watching from the sidelines, crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. “So, this is your princess?” she asks, her tone light but curious. “The one you couldn’t stop talking about?”

“Shut your mouth, girl,” Sandor snaps, though there’s no real heat in his voice. His focus remains on you, his large frame blocking out the rest of the world.

You glare at him, your chest heaving as you try to reign in your emotions. “Why are you here, Sandor?” you demand, your voice quieter now but no less intense. “Why now?”

His shoulders slump slightly, the fight draining out of him. “Because I saw you,” he admits, his voice rough but honest. “And I couldn’t… I couldn’t just let you go again.”

Your anger wavers, your gaze softening as you search his face. For all the frustration and hurt bubbling inside you, there’s something else too—relief. After all this time, after everything, he’s here.

“I hate you,” you mutter, though the words lack conviction.

Sandor snorts, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You always were a terrible liar.”

Arya, now leaning casually against a tree, watches the exchange with keen interest. “So, are you two done, or should I go find some food while you figure out your feelings?”

You glance at her, startled as if remembering her presence for the first time. “And who’s this?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“This is Arya Stark,” Sandor says gruffly, his hand falling away from his still-sore jaw. “She’s my… traveling companion.”

“More like captor,” Arya quips with a grin.

You blink, the name sinking in. “Arya Stark? You’re supposed to be dead.”

“And you were supposed to be locked up in a castle,” Arya retorts, tilting her head. “But here we are.”

The corner of your mouth twitches, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through your tension. “Fair enough.”

Sandor clears his throat, his rough voice breaking the moment. “We can stand here all night, or we can get moving. Those Lannister bastards won’t stop looking for you.”

You nod, the weight of the situation settling back on your shoulders. “Fine. But we’re not done talking,” you warn, your eyes locking onto his.

“Didn’t think we were,” Sandor mutters, already turning to lead the way.

As the three of you set off into the woods, the tension between you and Sandor lingers, unspoken but felt. Arya walks beside you, her curiosity barely contained as she studies you with sharp eyes.

“So,” she says after a moment, her tone light but probing. “What’s it like being in love with a dog?”

Your head snaps toward her, heat rushing to your cheeks. “I am not—”

Sandor groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Seven hells, girl. Shut up.”

Arya just laughs, her amusement echoing through the trees as the three of you disappear into the night.

[ichore]

FRISSON | SNAKE (VINLAND SAGA)

synopsis: upon hearing the news of you becoming single, snake takes it upon himself to comfort you pairing: snake x fem!reader wc: est. 2.1k tags, warnings: smut, cunnilingus, unprotected p -> v, snake is obsessed with you, this fic is lowkey self-indulgent | @rottiens

Snake wasn’t one to meddle in his men’s personal lives, but the furrow between his brows deepened as he overheard his subordinates consoling their comrade with promises of a barrel of wine and a new girl to ease the sting of his parting from you. It was a mutual decision, the man claimed. Snake clicked his tongue against his teeth, unable to stomach any more of their foolish chatter.

His thoughts drifted instead to you — your hands deftly slicing vegetables as you prepared him dinner, the seagrass basket brimming with crops resting effortlessly against the curve of your hips. He wondered if your work on the farm ever left accidental bruises on your skin, and how sweet it would feel to kiss each one, tasting you as he soothed them away. No — he could never agree to leave you. 

With a swift kick of his heel, he urged his horse to gallop faster, putting distance between himself and the fool who had once been your lover. “You lot keep patrolling this area. I’m heading that way,” he barked to his men before veering off on his own. The closer he got to your house, the more impatient he became, each passing second only deepening his need to see you.

By the time he stood before your door, night had fallen. The moon hung high on the iron-hued sky, and the flicker of firelight glowed softly through the cracks in the wooden frame. The aroma of freshly made supper wafted out, but for once, his hunger had nothing to do with food. All he wanted was to see your face.

When the door creaked open, his heart sank at the sight of your tear-streaked lashes, your eyes rimmed with red sorrow, your chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. His fists clenched at the thought of your former lover finding solace in another woman’s arms while you sat here, weeping above the meal you had lovingly prepared for him.

“What brings you here, Snake?” you asked, your voice shaky, barely above a whisper.

“Heard the news. Thought you might need some company,” he replied, his tone gruff, an attempt to mask the ache your sad smile stirred in his chest.

“Come in,” you said softly.

As he stepped inside, his broad frame seemed to fill the room, the firelight casting shadows across his sharp features. He set his sword down as you poured him a bowl of soup, your hands trembling slightly.

“How come you came here and didn’t tag along with the others?” you asked. You knew very well how the guards console their heartbroken comrades, and given Snake’s reputation as a gallivant, it surprised you to see him at your table.

“I’m more interested in how you’re doing,” he said, his emerald gaze steady on you. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me. It’s about time I returned the favor.”

“Well, I was fine during the day. Work had my mind occupied a little, but I'm afraid the silence and the lonely night will break my heart in two at times. But it's just a part of life. You're a smart man, you know that,” you sat ahead of him, your tears pouring as you watched the steam curl above his bowl.

“Look at you,” he pushed the food to the side to be able to reach across the table and place his calloused hands on yours, his thumbs caressing the back of your gentle hands. “You're going through so much pain and you still find a way to flatter me. You deserve better than him. No sane man would leave a woman like you,”

“I hardly believe he's been viewing me as a woman in a long while, but … I shouldn't tell you this, you're his boss.”

Snake's hold tightened on your skin, his emerald stare studying your cheeks that you turned away in shame until he realized just what you meant by your words. “How long since…?”

“It's been months.” you took your hands out of his hold to wipe away your tears began to swell faster and played drums against the wooden table. You rested your face against your palms as you began to sob uncontrollably, your body trembling ahead of him.

This sight of you painfully clawed at his heart and set his soul into a flickering ember of rage. To think one of his men dared to make you think less of yourself by not worshiping your body every night angered him.

He was searching for you in every girl he chased after on Ketil's farm ever since he first laid eyes on you; your hair shining in the afternoon sunlight, the curve of your brows, the kind light in your eyes and the gentle simper sitting on your lips whenever you greeted him. No matter how many women moaned under him, he always wished it was your laughter vibrating against his lips. And to think he respected his subordinate's relationship with you to find out he took you for granted, “What an idiot,” Snake mumbled as he stood up and made his way over to you. “Come here.”

His shadow loomed over you before he sat down next to you, his palm finding the curve of your nape to lead your face to his shoulder as his other hand caressed across the length of your back. He smelled of horse sweat and leather, the frostbitten mud stench of wind still lingering on his shirt as your tears wetted the material. His warmth wrapped around you as his stubble tickled the sensitive skin of your temple, and his fingers massaged the back of your head and his other hand found the small of your back to pull you closer against him. “You deserve better than him. Someone who worships every inch of your perfect being, who thanks the Gods they get to wake up right beside you and the first thing they see is your beautiful face. Someone who yearns to have your pretty lips moan their name like a mantra every night.”

“Snake…” you whispered breathlessly as his words became hot against your sensitive neck, forcing you to hold your thighs together tightly while the liquid luster began to dwell in between them. You let go of his back, placing your arms between you and him to be able to pull away and look at his face. His dark locks framed his desire filled face, his eyes dark with wanton that threw your heart into a burning ache and need to taste his lips. But for a second, you hesitated. “So you're just a man, after all,” you whispered with a trembling voice. “Thought I'd entertain you tonight? After having my heart broken? I'm nothing but an easy prey to you.”

“There's nothing ‘just’ about the way I've been feeling about you. Had your love for another man not blinded you, you would've realized it a long time ago,” he smoothed his knuckles against the soft of your tear-streaked cheeks before his palms cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away the remnants of your lament. Your lips trembled, parting instinctively as he claimed them for his own that night; he tasted of dried meat and cheap, red wine as his tongue deepened the kiss with a fervor that made your breath hitch. “Your kiss is even sweeter than I've ever imagined,” he whispers, his fingers tangled in your hair at the back of your head to gingerly tug at it and open your neck for his trail of kisses.

Your heart was pounding against your ribcage with guilt and excitement; to make love with your past lover's boss in the same bed you adored him in for years on the same night you two parted ways. Yet, Snake's words and touches made such eager moans bubble in your chest. Heat rises to your cheeks as you notice the bulge tenting on his lap, a wet spot expanding on his pants while the tip of his tongue rushed across your collarbone.

“Don't think of him,” he whispered, sensing your hesitation from the way your moans got stuck at your throat. “Think of me. Only me. I'll show you how beautiful you are. Will you allow me? Yes?”

It was strange to see him like this - always so composed and calculated, now so eager, almost pleading, just for a taste of you. You nodded, and in an instant, his strong arms lifted you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you, laying you gently across the bed beside the flickering glow of the fireplace.

A soft smile tugged at your lips as he began to expertly remove your clothes, his movements precise yet reverent. His gaze swept over you, drinking in every inch of your revealed skin, his dark eyes heavy with desire that made your heart race as his face was between your thighs.

“I can't believe I finally get to taste you, gorgeous, and you're so wet for me already,” he took his pointing and middle fingers to spread your folds, rushing his fingerpads across while the thumb of his other hand found your clit. “Soaking fucking wet, dripping.”

“Oh, gods,” your cheeks flushed into crimson at his words and the way he never broke eye contact with you, not even when his upper lip teased your clit and his tongue sheathed into your gummy walls as two of fingers massaged them inside. It made your back arch and your face turn away as a sharp peak of pleasure was building at the pit of your stomach.

“Don't look away from me, sweetest,” he got on his knees to have his palm on your nape, gently forcing you to look into his eyes as his fingers took you to your first orgasm and tears of pleasure swollen in your eyes. Your wetness overflowed, traveling down on your body and pooling under you by the time he was done and he was licking his fingers while his thighs spread your legs open. The mix of your liquid desire and his saliva coated the tip of his dick while he rushed it across your folds. “I'll fuck that bastard right out of your pretty your head, okay? You want it?”

“Yes, Roald, please,” the sound of his real name falling from your lips, the eager arch of your pack to have his cock inside you immediately made him stop with any teasing and he slowly pushed himself in. His jaw hung low as he felt himself stretching you out, the vehement pulsing in your walls massaging his dick. His size snuffed the air out of you, making your brows furrow as the two of you watched him push the last inch in until his dark pubic hair was right against your clit. 

“You feel like you were made just for me, sweetest,” Snake placed his elbow right next to you, his naked chest resting against your breasts as he brushed your hair out of your face before he kissed you. “I love that you remember my name even though I told you about it once in a fleeting moment. Now, I want you to scream it to your heart's content. Don't hold back.”

As he began to move, his pace fast and measured, your nails raked across his back. Each thrust drew out a new whimper or moan against his groans, making you tightly wrap your legs around him as his hands rested on your shoulder blades to keep you in space. You felt your body reaching the heavens over and over again underneath him, your throat was dry from screaming the syllables of his name and your lips were raw from his kisses and love bites.

“Cum with me, gorgeous.” he groaned against your ear as his rhythm became uneven, but harder and faster. You felt the tip of his dick harden and throb before his seeds filled you up. His dark locks fell onto your face as he left gentle pecks all over your forehead, nose, eyelids and jawline while he kept cumming inside you. You whimpered each time his dick twitched with its last drop, and you moaned as he slowly pulled himself out.

“I made quite the mess here, darling,” Snake chuckled to himself as he found his subordinate's shirt to wipe you clean before he found a blanket to cover you with. Your gaze followed him as he put his clothes back on, your heart already aching at the thought that perhaps every word he told you that night was a lie.

As if he could read your thoughts, he sat right beside you and pressed his lips against your forehead. “I'm still on duty and I have to check on Gramps. I'll come back as soon as I can. I want you to rest now, sweetest.”

[fangirlfuel]

Puppy Proofed Promises

Turbo Series

Daniel Ricciardo x Reader

As Turbo starts chewing on everything you own, you and Daniel spend the weekend puppy-proofing the house and accidentally start making very real plans for a future neither of you expected to want so soon.

---

It started with a sock.

Then a slipper.

Then, Daniel’s favorite shoelaces the ones he refused to untie, out of principle.

Now, Turbo was gnawing on the corner of your coffee table like it personally offended him.

“Oh, come on, mate!” Daniel groaned, rushing in from the kitchen as if he’d just watched someone key a Ferrari. “That’s teak!”

You stood at the doorway, arms crossed, trying not to laugh. “I warned you about the teething phase.”

Daniel dropped to his knees dramatically, prying the slobbery puppy away from the furniture like a man mourning a fallen comrade. Turbo yawned in response, completely unbothered.

“This dog has no respect for heirlooms,” Daniel muttered.

“It’s from IKEA,” you pointed out.

Daniel glared up at you. “It was still expensive.”

You both stared at the table leg now glistening and slightly jagged and sighed in unison.

“Right,” Daniel said. “Weekend mission: Operation Puppy-Proof.”

---

The hardware store was a mistake.

You’d thought it would be a quick trip. Some cabinet locks, baby gates, maybe a chew toy or two.

Instead, it became a journey.

Daniel had a basket in one hand, Turbo’s leash in the other, and the manic gleam of a man who’d just discovered an entire aisle of solutions to problems he hadn’t even invented yet.

“Do we need foam corner protectors?” he asked, holding up a pack like he was on a game show.

“For the coffee table you cried over?” you teased. “Maybe.”

He threw them in with dramatic flair. “Add it to the pile.”

Turbo barked approvingly and tried to climb into a paint bucket.

An elderly couple nearby cooed over the “beautiful baby,” and Daniel didn’t correct them. He just beamed. You couldn’t help but melt a little.

“Do you think we’re overdoing it?” you asked as he compared two styles of baby gates with laser focus.

Daniel paused.

Then turned to you — quiet, thoughtful.

“I think I like… doing this,” he said, voice softer than before. “The normal stuff. The boring stuff.”

You blinked, surprised by the shift in tone.

“I used to think slowing down would feel like failure,” he admitted, eyes still on the gate. “But now? It feels like… I don’t know. Breathing for the first time in years.”

You stepped closer, bumping your shoulder gently against his. “You’re not failing, Daniel.”

He looked at you then warm brown eyes and crinkled corners.

“I know,” he said. “Because I’m doing it with you.”

---

Back home, chaos resumed.

Turbo chased a broom. Daniel chased Turbo. You chased Daniel, laughing so hard your ribs ached.

It took four hours, three minor injuries, and one nap break, but by the end of the day, the house was officially puppy-proofed.

Mostly.

Turbo still managed to climb onto the couch.

But when you found him curled up between the two of you head on Daniel’s thigh, tail wagging in his sleep neither of you had the heart to move him.

“You know,” Daniel murmured, brushing hair from your forehead, “you’re really good at this.”

“At what? Screaming while trying to block off the pantry with a mop?”

He smiled. “No. This. Us. Taking care of things. Building something.”

You felt it then that subtle shift in the air. Like the room had leaned in.

“You ever think about the future?” he asked, almost shyly. “Like… really think about it?”

You tilted your head. “You mean past next week’s vet appointment?”

Daniel laughed, then sobered. His thumb traced a slow circle on your hand.

“I mean, like… little shoes by the door. A second dog. A yard. A couple of bikes. Maybe a high chair that gets covered in spaghetti one too many times.”

Your heart skipped.

“And you?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes were steady. Sure.

“I’m already there,” he said. “Every time I see you with Turbo. Every time you make me pancakes. Every time you wear my hoodie and hum without realizing. I’m already living that life in my head.”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat.

“Well,” you said, blinking rapidly. “Let’s hope Turbo doesn’t chew up the high chair when we get there.”

Daniel grinned. “We’ll baby-proof early.”

You laughed, and he leaned in, brushing your nose with his.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “For this. For him. For choosing me.”

“I’ll keep choosing you,” you promised, kissing him gently. “Even when the house is covered in drool and destroyed furniture.”

As if on cue, a soft thud came from the hallway. You both turned.

Turbo had knocked over the umbrella stand.

Daniel sighed. “He’s a menace.”

You smiled. “He’s ours.”

And as Turbo came bounding back into the room all paws and tail and joy you realized something:

This life, this version of Daniel, this messy, heart-full chaos?

It was exactly where the road was always meant to lead.

---

[robthegoodfellow]

whenever I see a post about corvid intelligence or crows befriending people I wanna write this scenario where Eddie accidentally earns the loyalty of Hawkins' crows. Like it starts with him tossing his leftover sandwich crusts at a few hanging around the trailer park, and then...

A squawking fracas woke him one morning, so obnoxious that he dragged himself outside to investigate—to chase away the mob of birds fighting over dibs at the dumpster, he assumed. Instead, he followed the noise to the rusted fence behind his uncle's place that'd been holding on by a corroded thread for years—until approximately ten minutes ago, when the racket started up. Beneath the fallen section of flaking chain links was a tangled lump of black feathers, beaked head poking through to bay at the air. Its comrades ducked and bobbed around it, pecking at the metal bars, but every tug only ensnared the trapped bird worse.

On reflection, rushing in with an oh, shit wasn't the best move—the crowd of hecklers launched to hover in the air, feinting at him in screeching chorus.

"I come in peace!" he cried, hunched under pleading hands. Kept one arm raised like he sported an invisible shield, one eye on the dive-bombers, and crouching low, groped at the snarl of metal on the ground.

One bomber dove for his face, veering to avoid a defensive swipe.

"I'm trying to help. Quit murdering me!"

The hecklers heckled. Tough crowd. Eddie grimaced, trying to get a grip that wouldn't also give him tetanus, and managed to lift the shorn links. Soon as it raised off the dirt, the squished feathers wriggled and twisted, yanking free with a rattle.

"See?" Eddie shouted, as the bolt of black shook itself and took to the air. "You're welcome. Now shut the fuck up!"

They didn't, but allowed him to escape back to his trailer unmolested.

He hadn't thought anything of it, until a few days later, when he found a small pile of shiny trash on his doorstep. Broken teeny-bopper bracelet, a crusty nickel, a bottle cap... and a guitar pick.

A squawk drew his attention to the pair of crows perched on the roof. Bending, Eddie grabbed the pick.

"This?" he said, waving it. "This is legal tender! Not the rest of this junk. Although..." He crouched to get a better look at the bracelet. "This does have its charms," he admitted.

The crows heckled. Eddie ignored them, fiddling to detach the dolphin, repurpose the clip to latch the plastic chain round his wrist. Liked the contrast—garish neons against his leather cuff, dark bands of brown and black.

"Fuck it, right?" He raised his fist, newly bedazzled, to salute the supplicants with some devil horns. "Rock and roll."

And from then on, he and the crows had an understanding. If they were making a racket within earshot, he'd go check if they needed help, and if they found something he might like, they'd leave an offering on the stoop. Highlights included a BIC lighter and a tattered twenty dollar bill. Once, he'd accidentally left his keys at the picnic table where he did business and barely had time to notice, patting his pockets with sinking realization, when they clattered to the pavement—just dropped from the sky.

"Ah, killer!" Relieved, he scooped them up, then put fist to palm and bowed his thanks to the crow alighting atop the van.

As a sign of respect, he'd started incorporating crows as part of his aesthetic: got some sick tattoos on his chest and forearm, had a growing collection of feathers he kept in a jar like a goth bouquet, added a couple silhouettes to perch inside the Os of the Corroded Coffin banner. Even designed a druid character with a crow familiar, which he kindly gifted to Gareth when his player got roasted beyond revival by a wyvern.

"You're like Snow White," Jeff joked, as Eddie pocketed a quarter, binning the rest of the stoop offerings. Jeff was crashing there for the weekend to escape divorce drama at home.

"Quid pro crow, man," said Eddie, shrugging. "Do them a solid and they'll get you back."

A pair of hecklers cawed from the roof. Ed flipped them the bird. They were his regulars, the ones he’d dubbed Statler and Waldorf.

Jeff paused, squinting at them, speculative. Then dug out a packet of half-eaten peanut butter crackers and tossed them up, one at a time. Cue the jubilant, cackling duet.

“Yeah, that’ll do it,” Eddie predicted, motioning him inside.

Didn’t know at the time how right he was—or how closely his crownies were following his movements around town, monitoring from on high. And not just his movements, but the people considered part of his “flock,” so to speak.

One day, Gareth and Jeff showed up for practice a little worse for wear, victims of the knuckle-draggers that populated the football team. Ripped shirt, bloody lip. The usual.

Unusual was the crowd gathered in the parking lot the next day, a baffled circle around the quarterback’s hot rod, which that morning gleamed red but at some point during school had been treated to a fresh coat of bird shit. White gooey splatters from hood to trunk.

It was a convertible. He’d left the top down.

And stuck to the windshield, like a calling card: a black feather.

Eddie was quick to corral the guys away, hushing all vengeful laughter until they were safely in the van, then they let loose. Jeff was wiping tears of mirth, wheezing: “You weren’t kidding, man.”

“Look,” Frankie cried, pointing out the windshield, and lo—Statler and Waldorf were perched on the wipers, joined by Damsel, so named because Ed was pretty sure it’d been the one he found in such distress, way back when.

As one, the band saluted their benefactors, and Eddie swore the birds puffed their chests, bobbing their heads in satisfaction.

From then on, it was swooping season for anyone who bothered him or the boys under the keen surveillance of those eyes in the skies.

But Eddie knew he’d gone beyond Disney princess status that summer. He was fooling around on the Warlock outside the trailer, unplugged, lounging in a lawn chair, humming under his breath—just some Ozzy, flying high again—when a sudden flapping weight dipped the neck of the guitar.

“You scratch this thing, I will murder you,” he warned, eying the pinchy talons gripping between the pegs. Damsel cocked its head, like oh, really? Eddie gently jerked the Warlock, a shooing motion, and the bird hopped with a huffy flutter onto his knee.

They stared each other down for a sec—a measuring stare. Almost daring. Some of the feathers around its neck stuck out all scruffy where the fence had bit into it, left a scar. Halting, hesitant, Eddie extended a finger, then his hand, nice and slow, intending to… give a scritch or something?

An inch away, the beak snapped at him, barely missed, and he jumped so hard the damn bird launched skyward, flapping to hover.

Behind them, he could hear the hecklers in hysterics.

“Bitch!” he shouted, clutching the Warlock close to calm his racing heart. “See if I ever save your scrawny necks again.”

Heedless, Damsel swooped to land on his knee—again. Like it knew full well he would. Save them. Again. If it came down to it.

“Calling my bluff,” he muttered, aggrieved. “Gonna make me eat crow?”

Statler and Waldorf voiced their displeasure.

“Fuck off! You love it.”

They did, was the thing. Eddie knew it. They’d thrown their lots in with him, and he with them. So in the end, he wasn’t so much a princess.

More an accessory to murder.

Also on AO3

[letaliabane]

The Second Footman - Valet!SimonRiley and Maid!Reader

The downstairs of Downton Abbey had been filled with an air of awkwardness and continual gossip since the swift introduction of the new valet Mr Riley.

The maids fawned over his air of mystery, while many of the footmen looked at him in disgust and jealousy, muttering he only got the job for being old comrades with his lordship.

You, on the other hand, kept your thoughts to yourself. Perhaps it was the trust of comrades that made Mr Riley perfect for the role. Perhaps the great Earl didn't care about appearances and had empathy for the man. Either way, there had to be a good reason to hire him.

The day moved quickly, transitioning into the evening in full swing. After finishing your duties, you found yourself in the servant's hall, fixing up a loose thread on one of Lady Sybil's old dresses.

'Finally, dinner is served, can take a moment to breathe!' The kitchen maid, Daisy groaned as she stretched. She was the youngest of the staff, a bit naive, but had potential.

'You've been working hard Daisy, hopefully you can put your feet up later,' You said with a smile as the young girl leant in the doorway.

You saw her eyes squint before clearing her throat. 'Mr Riley, what was being in the army like? Did you enjoy it?'

Looking to your right you were shocked to see said man sitting beside you flipping through a tattered journal. When he got there you do not know.

'Grim,' He muttered, muffled through the metal mask, 'Anybody who enjoys something like being apart of war is questionable. But there are some good memories to come from it.'

'I'm sure there are,' You said quietly. He glanced towards you before looking away with a nod.

'Clear the table now Daisy! Servants dinner will be served in twenty minutes!' They heard a loud shout from the kitchens. Mrs Patmore never rests.

Daisy quickly moved towards the table to clear up. 'Mr Riley could you please hand me that tray there?'

The man quickly stood to help, shakily grabbing the tray from where it hung over the table, only for the cutlery that sat atop to go flying, clanging across the floor.

'Dammit!' Mr Riley cursed under his breath.

Putting your sewing to the side you quickly got to your feet, pressing a hand to his arm. 'It's alright, I can help!'

You heard him grumble as you got to your knees picking up the silverware that had fallen. Putting it back on the tray you handed it over to Daisy, you realised Mr Riley had pushed past Gwen who had stood at the door, a vague smirk on her lips before disappearing out of sight.

It wasn't too long before you were called to clear away the dining room upstairs with some of the other maids and footmen. You piled some used plates and cutlery onto a tray and moved towards the pantry, only to stop at the site of first footman Phillip Graves and Gwen.

Graves was an unkind man, constantly looking to gain more in his life at the expense of others. The maids of course took to him at first because of his decent looks but quickly dismissed it for his unkind nature.

Stopping behind the corner, you couldn't help but listen in.

'Her ladyship told his lordship that Mr Riley ought to go,' Gwen said to Graves as he set aside what he was holding, 'She said to me that 'if only his lordship had been content with Phillip he's more appropriate.''

You shook your head to yourself, frowning. Graves and Gwen had always had each other's backs to the point of sabotaging other hard workers within the house.

With a sigh, you moved towards the pantry, the two looking up at the sound of your arrival and moving apart.

'Why are you up here Gwen? Her ladyship won't need you until later this evening.' You asked as you pushed past them both.

The older woman scoffed. 'It's a free country ain't it?'

'And you two decided the pantry would be the best place for your plotting?'

'What's it to you Y/N?' Graves turned towards you. 'You've suddenly swallowed some confidence. Wonder why?'

'Is that the question of the day? Thought you'd have better things to think about Graves. Anyway I'm going down, I'll leave you two to your scheming.

With drinks poured in the drawing room for the family, you found a moment of reprieve outside in the garden, sitting on a bench below the large oak tree that sat not too far from the back entrance.

Looking up at the sky you couldn't help but let your mind drift to the second footman.

John McTavish, or Johnny when Mr Garrick wasn't around. A Scottish fellow that had already been working for Lord Price when you first arrived. Apparently he also had worked alongside his lordship during the war.

Ruggedly handsome, charming and constantly flirting with the maids who giggled and were flustered by him. He never did that with you though, not after you whacked him over the head with a newspaper. But he was very fond and took care of you ever since you first arrived.

He had been away visiting his mother in Scotland who had fallen ill. Surprisingly the Abbey felt strange without him around.

You sighed, looking up into the night, stars twinkling against the cloudless sky. It was so peaceful in the silence away from the hustle and bustle of the house.

'You alright?'

A sharp gasp left you, gripping your chest as you looked around. In a shadowed corner of the garden near the gate, she saw the embers of a cigarette, barely brightening the person's face.

'Is that you Mr Riley?'

A grunt was returned in reply. 'I didn't mean to frighten you, Miss.'

She quickly turned her head away, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, guessing his mask was removed.

'Its okay I just-I thought I was alone. An-And it's Y/N Mr Riley. No formality for a housemaid like me.'

Silence followed your words. He wasn't much of a talker not like other men. But where awkwardness was often found, there was a certain warmth, a safety you felt within his presence.

'I wanted to thank you for your help,' Mr Riley said, a brief pause before he spoke once more, 'I have some shakiness in my hands since the war ... Some days worse than others.'

You couldn't help but feel touched. He didn't need to explain himself to you, nor anyone else.

'Don't worry Mr Riley please, I'm happy to have helped-'

'Lass? That you out back?'

Another familiar voice cut through the night, this time from the other side of the fence. Quickly, you got to your feet, peeking over the top of the gate to see a familiar face.

Opening the gate with a smile, you were suddenly lifted off your feet, giggling as Johnny swung you around with a chuckle.

'What on earth are you doing here Johnny? When did you get back?' You asked when he placed you back down on your feet, taking him in.

His usually short brown hair had grown in the few weeks he had left, face was clean shaven, and though there were shadows under his eyes, he looked his usual happy self.

'Got back just a few hours ago! There were no more taxis at the station so I decided to walk it.'

'Goodness, you must be exhausted! Well, you got back just in time for dinner!'

When you looked back up after taking him in, you saw his gaze was focused past you, an expression of shock on his face.

'Well beat me over dead, that you Lieutenant Riley?'

You turned to see Mr Riley walk out of the shadows, mask now placed back on, cigarette squashed beneath his boot.

'It's been a very long time Sergeant.'

Johnny rushed past you, embracing him. Mr Riley was momentarily shocked, but soon returned the friendly embrace. You couldn't help but look away as if encroaching on such a reunion.

'Had no idea you were gonna be the new valet! Would'a changed my plans to see the look on everyone's faces!' He chortled as he pulled away from Mr Riley.

Johnny turned back to you. 'Apologies lass. Haven't seen 'im since our days in the army!'

You smiled, looking between the two. 'Not at all, please. I'll give you some time to yourselves. Remember dinner will be served soon.'

Beginning to make your way into the house once more, you failed to notice Mr Riley's gaze never falter from you until you disappeared out of sight.

Part 2 - Call of Duty Masterlist Thankfully didn't write this at 2 am again If you have any asks or thoughts about this send them through!

[soufflegirl]

Levi Ackerman & his fallen comrades + empty chairs at empty tables.

[mymoonisgrey]

you, my love, are All I Need.

synopsis: After the tragedy of the Star Plasma Vessel incident, Satoru Gojo loses more than just his closest friend, Suguru Geto—he loses the one person who made the chaos of his world feel bearable. She was his light, his tether to something more human, and just when he dared to imagine a future with her, fate cruelly severed their bond. With her sudden disappearance in his third year at Jujutsu High, Satoru is left reeling, torn between his duties as the strongest sorcerer and the ache of searching for someone he may never find.

pairings: gojo satoru x reader. (og jujutsu au.)

chapter warnings: profanities, mild violence, brief jealousy.

wc : 9k+

all i need's playlist!

series masterlist.

a/n: how’s everyone’s monday been? 😊

previously.

December 2007 

“You’re doing exceptionally well.” 

Sato’s voice is a low rumble that sends shivers crawling up your spine—ones you’d like to scrape off with a wire brush. He watches you with a strange intensity, his smile oily and unreadable. “Makes me wonder if we should start recruiting grade one sorcerers or higher for this program.” 

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Yeah, good luck with that. Everyone I’ve worked with so far fits your usual category: foreign, low cursed energy, expendable in your eyes.” 

His smile widens, smug and patronizing. “You’ve been paying attention. I like that. It means you’re learning.” He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. “And I assume you’ve been keeping your profile low? No slip-ups about your affiliation, why you’re really here, or your... connections?” 

Your jaw tightens, but you nod. “Captain Shepherd’s the only one who knows the truth. He figured out I’m a special grade. He also knows I was pulled out of Jujutsu High too early.” 

Sato’s expression falters for just a moment, his eye twitching with irritation. “Didn’t I tell you to keep your goddamn mouth shut?” 

“He’s not an idiot!” you snap, unable to hold back your frustration. “He’s a thirty-five-year veteran! He’s seen enough soldiers to tell the difference between someone like me and your usual recruits.” 

Sato slams a hand on the table, making you flinch. “And what’s next? Are you going to tell me he knows the whole damn story? That the reason the higher-ups handed you over to me was because of him?” 

Your anger fizzles as his presence looms over you. His scarred face, hardened from years of battle, and his piercing gaze bore into your resolve. 

You manage to steady your voice, quiet but firm. “He’ll find me.” Your hands clench into fists under the table. “And when he does, I’ll tell him everything—what you did, what the higher-ups did. He’ll kill all of you.” 

Sato stares at you for a long moment before chuckling darkly. “Oh, is that what you think? Go ahead, tell him. Let him come. He’s as good as dead.” 

You recoil slightly, your confidence wavering under his mocking tone. 

“Don’t hit me with the ‘he’s the strongest’ crap,” Sato sneers. “We can kill him, and you damn well know it.” 

Silence stretches between you, heavy and oppressive. 

Then you shake your head, defiance sparking in your eyes. “The higher-ups would never let that happen. Gojo’s their golden child. Their prodigy.” 

“Not the higher-ups, sweet thing.” Sato’s voice drops, his tone condescending and venomous. He leans forward, his face mere inches from yours. “Us.” 

Your breath catches. 

“And the higher-ups would let you do that?” you ask, your voice edged with disbelief. 

“They need us more than they need him,” Sato spits, slamming his palm against the table again. “We clean up their messes. We do the dirty work. Without us, the whole system falls apart. So, if you love him, you’ll shut your goddamn mouth. Or things will get ugly.” 

It isn’t the threat to your life that makes your blood run cold. 

It’s the threat to his. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You don’t exactly acknowledge him trailing behind you, his presence hot and unyielding, because your focus is on the bodies of your fallen comrades—laid out in neat rows on stretchers, or worse, on tarps. Some were intact, but others... dismembered, unidentifiable. You swallow thickly, the bile rising in your throat. 

Satoru is silent. His usual easy charm is buried beneath the weight of what he’s seeing. This wasn’t the jujutsu world he knew—pristine, organized, full of promise. No, this was raw and ugly, guns and missiles replacing talismans and hand signs. The air was thick with the sharp smell of gunpowder and blood. He glances around, his blue eyes scanning the navy camo uniforms, the weary faces of foreign sorcerers—low-grade curse users drafted from all corners of the globe. They didn’t sign up for glory; they were cannon fodder, drafted to protect a system that didn’t want them. 

You stumble forward, weaving through the chaotic hangar. Aircraft sit proud and powerful—some parked, others taxiing, and a few roaring to life as they prepare for takeoff. Around you, the injured are escorted to the med bay, their groans and cries blending with the hum of engines. 

“Watcher!” Shepherd’s gruff voice cuts through the noise. You turn your head, dazed, your severed hand clutched protectively to your chest. Leslie walks toward you, her sharp eyes softened by relief, a tablet cradled in her hands. Shepherd claps a heavy hand on your shoulder, halting your shaky steps. 

The sudden stop makes Satoru bump into you from behind. His chest brushes your back, and he mutters a quick, “Sorry,” before stepping to the side, his eyes flickering to your hand. 

“Good to see you all alive,” Leslie says, tapping on her tablet. Her professional demeanor doesn’t hide the relief in her tone. “Team 2-11 was just sent off to China. A group of curse users unleashed a significant number of spirits—grades unknown.” 

Shepherd frowns, his jaw tightening. “They need backup?” 

Your head snaps toward him, disbelief etched on your face. Your exhaustion screams louder than your words ever could. Not now. Not again. 

“I recommend you stay on standby,” Leslie replies, her voice even. “You never know when things get ugly, Shep.” 

He laughs, shaking his head. “Appreciate it, Les. Yer free to go.” 

Leslie nods, casting you a brief, knowing glance before retreating. 

“Shep—my hand—” you start, but he interrupts with a pointed nod toward your chest. “Ye’ gotta get that checked out,” he says firmly. 

“No shit,” you mutter, glaring at your mangled hand as if it had betrayed you. 

Satoru’s gaze lingers on your injury. His sharp intake of breath doesn’t escape Shepherd’s notice. The older man steps between you two, his weathered hand reaching out to stop Satoru from following you further. 

His fingers meet resistance. 

Shepherd flinches slightly, his hand repelled by an invisible force—the faint shimmer of Satoru’s infinity. 

“What the hell was that?” Shepherd grunts, pulling his hand back. 

Satoru turns slowly, his expression calm but his eyes hard. “Need something, General?” His voice is polite, but the disdain is unmistakable. 

“It’s Captain,” Shepherd corrects, his tone measured and steady. “And you’re not supposed to be here.” 

The words hang heavy in the air, a quiet warning. This wasn’t a place for outsiders. No students, no high-grade sorcerers—no one who might challenge the facade of order and control. 

Satoru feels it too. The weight of trespass. But he’s not leaving. Not yet. 

“I understand,” he replies smoothly. “I won’t overstay.” 

“Y’know, kid,” Shepherd begins, his sharp gaze assessing. “We can arrange a helo to take ye back to Tokyo or Kyoto—whichever school yer from.” 

Satoru tilts his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Appreciate the offer, but I can teleport.” 

He doesn’t wait for Shepherd’s response, slipping past the man and continuing after you. His eyes take in everything—the chaos, the desperation, the quiet resignation of those around him. This wasn’t a battlefield; it was a meat grinder. 

But his gaze always comes back to you. 

You haven’t stopped moving, your steps unsteady but purposeful. He quickens his pace to catch up, falling in step beside you, his voice soft. “Let me see your hand.” 

“Stay out of it,” you snap, your tone sharper than intended. 

Satoru doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver. His voice drops to a whisper, carrying an edge of quiet intensity. “Not happening.” 

You don’t understand why you’re being mean, why your tone is sharp and your words laced with coldness. Your love—your Satoru—was standing right in front of you. 

Maybe it was Sato’s threats echoing in your mind. His warnings of what would happen if you let Satoru get too close. Wasn’t it better to push him away, to pretend you didn’t care, than to sign his name on a death sentence? 

Your combat boots strike against the metal flooring as you continue walking, and Satoru, undeterred, stays on your trail. 

“Why are you still here?” you ask, glancing back at him with a hint of malice in your voice. 

“I came with you on the plane?” he replies, like it’s obvious. 

“Teleport away.” 

“No.” 

“Stop following me, then.” 

“You’re the only one I know here.” 

“Do you?” you snap, your voice low and biting as you push open the door to a sterile room. The sharp chemical scent reminds him of the infirmary back at Jujutsu High, a place he’d visited far too often. 

“The fuck does that mean?” Satoru frowns, stepping into the room after you as the automatic door slides shut with a quiet hiss. 

You ignore him and start unbuttoning your uniform, struggling with the motion since your injured hand makes the task painstakingly slow. You need to check your body for bruises, the aftermath of your fall from the crashing plane still fresh in your mind and aching in your muscles. 

Satoru watches in silence, his throat tightening as his six eyes take in the sight of you. The struggle in your movements, the injury you cradled protectively, the exhaustion etched into your expression—it all unsettles him. 

Without thinking, he steps forward, his hands lifting instinctively to help. 

“Let me—” 

“Don’t,” you snap, flinching back at his sudden closeness. The recoil stings him more than he expects, but he doesn’t retreat. 

“You’re hurt. Let me help,” he insists, his voice softer but still firm. 

“I don’t need your help,” you bite back, gripping the fabric of your uniform and turning away from him, willing your fingers to cooperate despite the tremor of pain. 

“You do,” Satoru counters, his tone growing more intense, a desperation laced beneath the words. “You can’t even unbutton a damn shirt right now, and you’re acting like I’m the enemy.” 

Your breath hitches as his words strike a nerve. 

“You don’t get it!” you snap, finally turning to face him, your eyes blazing with frustration. “You don’t understand what this place is, what it does to people! You shouldn’t even be here!” 

“I don’t care about this place,” he says firmly, stepping closer. “I care about you.” 

You flinch again, your resolve wavering under the weight of his words. Satoru notices, but he doesn’t stop. 

“I’ve been looking for you for two years,” he continues, his voice quieter now, raw with emotion. “Years, and I never stopped. Don’t tell me to walk away now that I’ve found you.” 

You want to argue, to push him away again, but the sincerity in his eyes holds you captive. 

Still, you turn your back to him, resuming your struggle with the uniform. “You should have left me lost,” you mutter under your breath. 

Satoru doesn’t let the comment slide. “Lost? Is that what you think? That I could just give up on you?” 

He steps closer again, his breath catching as his six eyes absorb the details he hadn’t fully seen before—the changes in you. The soft curve of your waist, the toned strength in your arms, the way your figure had grown more feminine, more breathtaking. Despite the exhaustion that clung to you, despite the pain you clearly felt, you were beautiful in a way that made his chest ache. 

“Stop staring,” you mutter, your tone defensive, but there’s a tremble beneath it. 

“I can’t,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. 

You freeze at the confession, your hands stilling. 

“I can’t because I’m trying to figure out how to keep you from slipping away again,” he says. “How to make sure you don’t shut me out.” 

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, silence fills the room, heavy and suffocating. 

“Let me help,” he pleads again, softer this time, almost a whisper. “Please.” 

This time, you don’t flinch when his hand hovers near yours, offering without demanding. His gaze is steady, unyielding, but so full of care that it makes your walls crack. 

Satoru doesn’t let go, even when your hand jerks in his hold, the motion sharp and defensive. His grip isn’t tight, but it’s firm enough to stop you from walking away again. 

“Let go,” you mutter through clenched teeth, your voice low and dangerous. 

He shakes his head, the stubborn tilt of his jaw igniting something volatile in you. “No. Not until you let me help.” 

“You don’t need to help,” you snap, yanking your hand free. “I’ve got this. I don’t need—” 

“Don’t finish that sentence.” His voice cuts through yours, sharp and unrelenting. “Because it’s not true, and we both know it.” 

You glare at him, the heat of his gaze locking with yours, but it only fuels the fire building in your chest. “You think you know me? You don’t know a damn thing.” 

“I know enough,” he replies, his tone steady but charged. “I know you’re hurting. I know you’re trying to carry this on your own. And I know that’s not you.” 

You scoff, shaking your head as you turn away from him. “You don’t know me anymore, Satoru. Things are different. I’m different.” 

He steps closer, and you hear the faint rustle of his uniform as he moves, his presence looming behind you like a shadow you can’t outrun. “You think I can’t see that? You think I can’t see how much you’ve been through?” 

“Then stop trying to fix it!” you snap, spinning to face him, your chest tight with frustration. “Stop acting like you can waltz in here and make it all better. You don’t belong in this world, Satoru. You don’t know what it’s like.” 

“And whose fault is that?” he shoots back, his voice rising. “You left. You disappeared, and I—I spent two years trying to find you. I’m here now, and you’re telling me to just walk away? That’s not happening.” 

His words hit harder than you want to admit, but you shove the feeling down, burying it beneath the ice you’ve built around yourself. 

“You don’t get it,” you say, quieter this time, but no less sharp. “You don’t belong here. You’re a sorcerer. You’re the strongest. You’re—” 

“Human,” he interrupts, his tone softer but no less determined. “I’m human, too, and I’m standing right here, trying to be here for you. You can hate me for that all you want, but I’m not going anywhere.” 

The silence that follows is heavy, your breath caught in your chest as you struggle to form words. 

“Fine,” you bite out finally, your voice low and controlled. “Stay. But don’t get in my way.” 

Satoru watches you, his jaw tightening, his gaze searching yours for something—anything—that might give him a clue to what you’re really thinking. But you don’t give him the satisfaction. You turn away, focusing on the task at hand, pretending he’s not standing there, his presence a constant weight on your already strained nerves. 

He doesn’t leave, though. Instead, he lingers, his eyes following your every move as you peel back the layers of your uniform with stiff, precise movements. When you struggle with a button, his hands twitch at his sides, itching to help, but he knows better than to reach out again. 

The fabric slides from your shoulders, revealing smooth, unmarred skin. Your cursed technique’s regenerative properties have left your body untouched by scars or bruises, a stark contrast to the destruction you’ve endured. But to him, it’s proof of your strength, a reminder of how untouchable you once seemed—and maybe still are. 

His breath catches, the sight of you momentarily stealing the air from his lungs. You’ve changed, matured. The lines of your body are more defined, your movements fluid yet restrained. You’re... breathtaking, and it’s not just the way you look. It’s the presence you command, even when you’re at your most vulnerable. 

You catch his gaze in the reflection of a nearby steel cabinet, and your eyes narrow. “What?” 

He swallows hard, his usual charm faltering as he scrambles for something to say. “Nothing,” he mutters, turning his head to give you some semblance of privacy. But the image of you, raw and unguarded, is seared into his mind. 

“Get used to it,” you say flatly, misinterpreting his silence. “This is the world you walked into. It’s ugly, it’s brutal, and it doesn’t have room for people like you.” 

He glances back at you, his expression unreadable. “Then I’ll make room,” he says simply. 

You scoff, grabbing a roll of bandages from a nearby tray. “Good luck with that.” 

As you wrap your hand with practiced efficiency, the faint glow of your cursed technique flickers around the wound, sealing it slowly but effectively. You feel his gaze on you again, unwavering and intense. His persistence grates on your nerves, but there’s a small, traitorous part of you that wants to believe him. 

But you don’t. You can’t. 

“You’ll leave,” you say quietly, not looking at him. “Eventually, you’ll realize you don’t belong here. And when you do, don’t come back.” 

His reply is immediate, his voice low and firm. “Not a chance.” 

You don’t respond. You can’t. Because if you do, you’ll crumble. 

And you can’t afford that. Not now. Not ever. 

You're quiet as you strip down, staying in your underwear—and he’s usually quiet, watching you like he’s been starved of sight, but this is different. He’s not seeing you with lust, not right now. His gaze isn’t hungry, it's desperate—yearning. There’s a raw intensity in the way he takes in your body, as though trying to reconcile the woman in front of him with the one from two years ago. He’s struggling, quietly, because you seem to deflect his attempts to reconnect, to bridge the gap between you two. 

But why? 

You know he can feel it. Both his heart and soul scream that something is wrong. He just doesn’t understand why. 

You feel shy under his gaze, the weight of it pressing into your skin like a brand, even though he has every inch of your body memorized. Every curve, every scar, every freckle. You know he does. Even two years apart, even with the pain of that time, you glance at him. Blink. The question hangs in your eyes—why are you looking at me? It’s the unspoken plea in your stare, but he doesn't look away. 

His voice breaks the silence, awkward and too loud. “You’ve grown.” 

“Excuse me?” you mutter, turning to face him, not fully aware of the way your breasts strain against that flimsy bra provided by the task force. It barely covers anything—half of it, at best. 

He gulps, his hands flexing at his sides before he rubs the back of his neck, his expression flustered and unsure. He doesn’t want to sound like a creep, but damn it, he’s just noticing what’s right in front of him. “Y-you’ve... grown?” he repeats, his voice cracking slightly, trying to sound casual. 

You almost want to laugh, but it comes out like a breath, empty. “Um... Thanks? You're... buffer?” You don't quite meet his eyes as you mumble the words, keeping your gaze fixed anywhere but on him. 

He blinks at you, taking in your awkward attempt at deflecting the situation. He looks down at himself—his uniform tight around his chest and arms, muscles straining at the seams from the training they’ve been putting him through. “Thank you—training.” 

“Must be vigorous,” you respond, distracted, but the words are clipped, your voice trailing off as your mind races with the real reason for your discomfort. 

“Yeah... well, they make it vigorous for me,” he chuckles darkly. It’s humorless, a low sound that hangs in the air between you two. You get the hint. They’re exploiting him, just like they did to you—taking away everything that made you both feel human. 

You want to tell him. You want to scream it all out, spill every secret. But the thought of him getting hurt, of the higher-ups turning their eyes on him, keeps your lips sealed. Sato’s words—those damn words—still echo in your mind, cutting deep. 

“And you accept?” you murmur, your voice quiet, strained, as you crack your fingers back in place and pour disinfectant over the raw wound in your hand. The sting is sharp, but not as sharp as the words you wish you could say. 

Satoru is quiet, taking a few slow steps toward you. He stands right behind you, his presence overwhelming. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the familiar warmth you once sought. His body language is tense, his eyes unwilling to leave the sight of you, but he tries to stay focused, not wanting to make you uncomfortable. But you know it’s no use. His eyes linger, and for a moment, it feels like nothing has changed. 

“I needed a distraction,” he says finally, his voice low as he takes the disinfectant from your hands, his touch soft but firm as he begins tending to your injury. 

“From what?” you whisper, your voice faltering slightly as you fight the tightness in your chest. 

He’s quiet for a moment, the words seemingly stuck in his throat. But then they come, gruff, low, raw. “You,” he mutters, his hand stilling over your wound for a second. He’s not even looking at it. He’s looking at you. “Your sudden disappearance... Thought you fucking died on that godforsaken mission you were sent to. Turns out they lied.” 

Your breath hitches, a quiet sting of guilt piercing you. You didn’t mean to hurt him like this. “I came here,” you say, your voice betraying you with its sharp edge. 

“Willingly?” he presses, his eyes piercing you with that intensity, like they always did when he was seeking the truth, seeking to understand you. 

“Yes,” you lie, barely believing the words as they leave your mouth. 

“Why?” he presses again, his eyes never leaving yours. There’s a quiet desperation behind the question, a longing for something—anything—that would make sense of this fractured puzzle you’ve become. 

“...I needed more money,” you say, and the words feel like ash on your tongue. 

He scoffs, disbelief flooding his face. “Girl, c’mon, I had money.” 

“The fuck does that have to do with anything?” you hiss, the frustration bubbling up, the walls closing in. 

“I’m sayin’ you didn’t need money. I took care of you, didn’t I?” 

“Yeah, well, I needed money, and—” You trail off, not wanting to finish the thought. Not wanting to voice the lies that have kept you alive all this time. 

Satoru stitches your hand up carefully, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone so strong. He could use reverse cursed technique on you, but he’s not Shoko, and she never trained him for this. Besides, he knows your cursed technique will regenerate in no time. The wound will heal, and there won’t be a trace of it. 

“You know your eyes twitch when you lie, sweetheart?” he mutters under his breath, his tone teasing, but his focus never wavers from the task at hand. 

Your heart skips a beat. “I’m not lying—” 

“I already know the specific way people get drafted here,” he continues, his voice low and knowing. “Foreign, low cursed energy, and it’s not voluntary. The higher-ups throw them here with no backtalk.” His eyes stay focused, but you feel the weight of his words like a crushing wave. “You’ve been through this before. You’re not stupid. You know how it works.” 

You wince when he pinches your skin to get the needle through. “How did you know I was in the fucking task force?” you snap, your voice trembling with the sudden wave of frustration. 

“Shoko and I saw some woman I thought was you—she had the necklace I fucking gave you—and she asked for her name, and we did some research on the old cranky computer.” He’s still working, his words flowing with ease, like he’s not talking about the most dangerous thing that’s ever happened to you. 

You stay quiet, your mind racing. “Hana,” you breathe out, her name tasting like hope on your lips. 

She made it out. 

“Atta girl. Told you you were smart.” Satoru bites his lip, continuing to stitch up the wound. His movements are practiced, steady, but you can see the storm in his eyes. “So, if my calculations are correct—you’re just foreign. That’s one box ticked in their list of preferences for sorcerers who get thrown here,” he murmurs, his voice soft, but there’s a sharpness to it now. “But what about the rest? You’re special grade. You have high cursed energy. So why?” 

Your heart stops. The question hovers in the air between you, thick and suffocating. You can’t say the truth. Not when it could cost him everything. Not when it could mean his life. 

“Money. They pay a lot here,” you breathe, the words stilted as you try to force yourself to believe them. 

Satoru scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Yeah, okay—whatever. I believe you.” His voice softens slightly, a tired edge to it. “But I don’t care anymore. I fucking found you. That’s what matters. You’re not dead.” His breath hitches slightly, but he doesn’t let it show. Not fully. 

And it hits you harder than you want to admit. You feel something twist deep in your chest, but you don’t let it show. Not to him. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The shooting range seemed like the perfect place to blow off some steam—at least it did when you first walked in. You hoped, maybe, Satoru wouldn’t follow you here, but of course, he did. You pity him in a way; you’re the only familiar face for him in this cold, strange place. 

“You can always just... teleport back home and then come back if you want. You know where I'm based now,” you mutter, wiping the sweat from your forehead with your black tank top. 

Satoru’s eyes briefly flick to your midsection, but he quickly drags them back to your face, a subtle shift in his gaze that doesn’t go unnoticed. His jacket is tossed on a nearby table while he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, his white button-up shirt loosely unbuttoned, likely for air—or for dramatic effect. You can't really tell. 

"I could," he replies, his voice smooth, but there's an edge of something more lurking underneath. "But I haven’t seen you in two years." 

You don’t respond right away, trying to ignore the unsettling way his presence feels like it’s suffocating you. Were you still soft inside there? Would you still sing him to sleep, play with his hair while he pawed at your body like it was the most natural thing in the world? That’s how it used to be, wasn’t it? 

You bite your lip, a little too hard. He notices. He always notices. 

“Why?” you ask quietly, trying to keep your voice steady despite the storm inside you. The pressure from his gaze is too much, but you won't break. Not here, not now. 

"You know why, don’t play coy. You’re my girlfriend," he replies, and it sounds too natural, too casual. Like it’s obvious, like it hasn’t been two years of separation, pain, and complications. 

“I think... we haven’t seen each other for two years. I don’t think we’re still dating,” you say softly, your tone almost as indifferent as you can manage. You cock your gun and focus on aiming at the targets in front of you. Anything to distract yourself. 

Satoru doesn’t flinch. He just tilts his head, a quiet chuckle escaping him. “We didn’t have a verbal breakup, and I still don’t believe you’d leave me willingly.” 

You scoff, trying to maintain a facade of indifference, but deep down, his words sting in a way you hate to admit. “You think that highly of yourself?” you retort, avoiding his eyes as you keep your focus on the target. 

But in your chest, there’s a hole. You want to hug him, go home with him, return to the life you once had. But you can’t. You know the cost. Sato’s warning echoes in your mind. 

"I think highly of our love for each other," Satoru says, sitting up straighter, his gaze sharpening, a bit of vulnerability creeping through the cracks in his confidence. "You still love me, right?" 

The question hits you harder than it should. You freeze for a moment, unsure of what to say. If you tell him yes, things could get messy. If you say no... you’d be lying to both of you. 

You’re saved by a cheerful voice breaking through the tension. 

“Hola! Hola!” Alec greets as he enters, a wave of lightness following him. You smile at him politely, grateful for the interruption. 

But Satoru, he doesn’t hide his displeasure. The shift in his cursed energy is immediate, a sharp spike of possessiveness and frustration. His brows furrow, a crease appearing between them as he watches Alec move towards you. 

"You look fresh," you smile at Alec, who grabs a heavy-looking rifle, clearly eager to blow off some steam himself. "Dios mio, tough day today—but we made it out. Of course, I'd cheer up!" He laughs, his energy infectious, but his eyes catch Satoru’s for a second, and the tension thickens. 

“Don’t like the gun?” Alec asks, glancing at Satoru as he loads it with ease, an almost theatrical nonchalance to his movements. 

Satoru raises a brow, a slight smirk playing at his lips. “I think guns are cool, just barbaric for sorcerers to use.” 

Alec laughs sheepishly, his energy still bubbling with excitement. “Well, we’re barely considered sorcerers, that’s why we’re here—" 

He cuts himself off when he notices what he was spewing. “I shouldn’t be saying this to a jujutsu student, right?” 

You smile, trying to keep things light. “Yeah, you shouldn’t. But he already knows everything,” you say, glancing at Satoru, whose calm demeanor doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The smile on his lips is polite but cold. 

Alec stares at you in disbelief for a second, then back at Satoru. "The hell! Did you tell him? You'll get into trouble!” 

You shake your head, barely containing the laughter that wants to escape. “No, Alec. I didn’t.” But the look in your eyes says more than words could. 

"Whatever, chica," Alec shrugs. "If you get hurt, please leave me out of it. I still love you, though." He gestures to Satoru with his gun, an easy smile on his face. “Introduce him to me.” 

Satoru raises an eyebrow, sensing Alec’s teasing nature. He decides to play along, though something about the situation makes him feel oddly... free. Here, no one knows him. He’s not the feared Satoru Gojo. He's just a guy, and in this moment, that feels kind of nice. 

“I can speak for myself," Satoru says, his tone light and unbothered. 

Alec shoots him a look, clearly eager to get the conversation rolling. “Come on, man. Don’t be shy. Tell me who you are.” 

“My name’s Satoru,” he says with a grin, relaxed. "I’m a student at Jujutsu High, twenty, graduating this year in my fifth year. Came here because she’s my girlfri—" 

“We used to be in the same class, we’re friends,” you interject quickly, shooting Satoru a warning look—one that says to keep some things quiet. 

Alec’s eyes widen. “What the—you were at Jujutsu High? So, you’re twenty too? Why the hell are you here?” 

“Low cursed energy, like the rest of you guys,” you fake a smile, trying to keep things light despite the pang in your chest. 

Satoru’s eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing.

Liar.

Alec lets out a low whistle. "So you came here for her? Damn, that’s some real friendship, man! My friends would sell me for a bag of taquitos," he laughs, shaking his head. 

Satoru laughs too, and there’s a genuine warmth to it this time. He’s enjoying this, this weird, ordinary little moment in the chaos of everything. “Tell me more about yourself,” he says, surprising Alec with his interest. 

Alec’s eyes light up, the excitement clear in his voice. “Well, Alec. twenty-six, I’m from Mexico, but I was born in Tunisia. One of my parents was a jujutsu sorcerer— my mother. Lived my life there—so many Japanese people live there, and tons of jujutsu sorcerers. There’s even a district, like in every country. So when I came to Japan to study jujutsu and get stronger, hoping to join that district, my cursed energy was... low. So they threw me here,” Alec says with a shrug, then adds with a grin, “But I’m happy! I’ve got friends, and a cool captain.” 

You raise an eyebrow at his last statement, a sarcastic edge in your voice. “Shepherd is cool?” 

Alec nods vigorously, smiling wide. “Hell yeah!” 

You roll your eyes and grin. “Alec, if he hears you say that—ten reps of push-ups,” you mutter under your breath. 

Alec laughs nervously, knowing you’re probably right. "Yeah, yeah, chica. But still, I love the old guy, even with the push-ups." 

Satoru examines the rifle in his hands, his fingers tracing the cold metal. He’s silent, focused, but there’s a hint of curiosity in his gaze as he inspects the weapon. His cursed energy vibrates around him, filling the room with an almost tangible hum. 

“Can I try it?” Satoru’s voice is smooth, measured—his tone more a statement than a question. There's a quiet challenge to it, but it's undercut by the calmness that only he can manage. 

Alec, still recovering from the earlier explosion, nods and grins, his eyes glinting. "Sure, Saturn," he says, completely unfazed, as though it's the most natural thing in the world. He fumbles with his words a little, clearly struggling to pronounce "Satoru," and just goes with it. 

Satoru doesn’t correct him, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays the annoyance flickering beneath his cool exterior. "Saturn," he repeats quietly under his breath, eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing how far Alec's teasing might go. 

You suppress a smirk. Alec’s obliviousness to Satoru’s irritation is a running joke, and you can’t help but find it mildly amusing. 

Alec’s grin only widens as he watches Satoru adjust the rifle. “I like it. Saturn suits you. You know, big, powerful—kind of like the planet, right?” 

Satoru’s hand tightens around the rifle. “Saturn’s a planet, Alec,” he mutters, his voice dry. “Not my name.” 

But Alec’s too distracted to notice. “Whatever, man. It’s catchy. And you’ve got that, you know, planetary vibe. Makes sense to me.” 

You can see the subtle annoyance creeping into Satoru’s face, but he bites his tongue. “Can we just... do this?” he asks, his patience thinning. 

Alec shrugs, seemingly unphased by Satoru’s subtle irritation. “You’re the one asking to try my gun, Saturn.” He laughs, as if this is some kind of inside joke that only he finds hilarious. 

You give Satoru an apologetic look, but there’s a part of you that finds this exchange amusing—if only because you know Satoru’s patience only stretches so far, and Alec doesn’t seem to be letting up. 

Satoru takes the rifle from Alec’s hands and steadies himself. “Let’s get this over with.” 

You step in, guiding his hands lightly. His cursed energy surges subtly beneath his skin, wrapping around the weapon as he tries to infuse it. The rifle hums with power, vibrating under his control—but then, a flicker of his immense energy causes it to backfire, an explosion of cursed energy erupting from the weapon, sending shards of metal in all directions. 

You instinctively duck behind Satoru, who is already lifting his Infinity. The world slows as his barrier expands, and you’re shielded from the flying debris by the familiar, invisible force surrounding you both. 

Alec stumbles back, eyes wide. “Dios mío! Saturn!” he exclaims, more out of shock than fear. His hands are raised, as if he expects the next explosion to be any second. “I didn’t know you were that strong!” 

Satoru lowers his hand, his Infinity flickering back to its neutral state. His expression is cool, but there’s a small twitch in his brow. “It was an accident,” he says, almost in a deadpan tone. He glances at Alec, who’s still frozen in place. “I... got carried away.” 

Alec laughs nervously, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Holy shit, man. I thought I was gonna die.” 

Satoru turns his gaze back to the rifle in his hands, the metal now slightly dented from the explosion. He shakes his head, clearly frustrated but trying to mask it. “I need more control.” 

“Guess Saturn’s a bit too much for this little thing,” Alec says, raising his eyebrows. “Maybe try something smaller. This gun can’t handle that much energy.” He holds out a pistol instead, his tone light but with a touch of genuine concern. “Try this.” 

Satoru takes the pistol, his fingers curling around it with a practiced ease. He holds it up to his face, inspecting it for a moment before glancing at you. The air between you both feels thick—an unspoken understanding lingering in the space. 

You step in close to him, your breath catching as you guide his hands once more, feeling his energy surge under your fingertips. The proximity is almost unbearable, the tension between you two sharp enough to cut through the air. 

“Remember, just a little at a time,” you remind him quietly, your voice steady but laced with something else you can’t quite place. 

Satoru’s gaze shifts to you, his eyes locking onto yours for a brief, lingering moment. “I know,” he says, voice soft, but there's something charged in the way he looks at you. 

You focus, but there's no denying the tension building between you both. The familiarity of his presence stirs up old feelings, things you try to keep buried under layers of steel and resolve. 

Slowly, Satoru pours his cursed energy into the pistol. This time, it's controlled. The weapon hums with power, but the energy is focused, directed. The shot rings out, precise—an almost unnatural accuracy as the bullet hits the target dead center. 

Satoru lowers the gun, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “That’s better,” he murmurs, his tone satisfied but still, there’s that underlying irritation in the way Alec continues to tease him. 

Alec, not noticing the subtle shift in the air, claps his hands. “Nice! Now that’s what I’m talking about, Saturn! You’re a natural!” 

Satoru raises a brow, his patience finally wearing thin. “Please stop calling me Saturn.” 

But Alec, ever the oblivious one, just laughs. “What? It’s a good name! You’re strong as hell, Saturn, deal with it!” 

Satoru glances at you, and for a moment, the two of you share a quiet, charged look. The air between you both crackles, the weight of the past two years hanging heavy in the space. You can feel the old connection, the tension—it’s still there, undeniable. 

You let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh. “You’re lucky he’s not serious,” you mutter, giving Satoru a half-smile. 

Satoru smirks, but it’s tinged with something more—something deeper, something he isn’t ready to voice. “I’ll let him have his fun for now,” he says, voice laced with dry humor. 

Alec cheers in the background, unaware of the silent exchange between you and Satoru. “Damn, Saturn, you’re gonna make a great addition to the team!” “Addition?—no, he’s not a part of us,” you say, and Alec frowns. 

“Well, I get that, but he’s pretty far from the hocus pocus school right now. Unless he can teleport to Tokyo, he’s sticking around here for a while, right?” 

“He can tele—” 

“I can’t teleport,” Satoru shrugs, lying. Alec gives you a ‘see?’ look, clearly amused. 

You gape, turning to Satoru. “What? You don’t think I’m capable?” 

“You’re more than capable.” 

“Then I’ll help y’all out until Shepherd sends me home,” Satoru shrugs casually. 

“Where would you sleep, huh?” you retort. 

“You guys don’t have extra rooms or something?” he asks, feigning innocence. 

“Yes, we do,” Alec interjects, “but those are for prisoners—criminals we take hostage.” He smirks. “But she’s got a pretty big room since she’s Shepherd’s favorite, apparently. You can stay there!” 

“Why’re you making the decision, Alec?” you sigh, exasperated, pinching the bridge of your nose. 

“C’mon, doll, I like him!” Alec whines playfully. 

Satoru’s brow twitches at the nickname, irritation flashing briefly in his eyes. He doesn’t like Alec calling you doll. He’s aware it’s probably just a nickname here, but hearing it still grates on him. It makes him feel... something. A slight twinge of jealousy. He doesn’t show it, though. He knows Alec doesn’t mean it the way he interprets it. 

“See? He likes me, doll,” Satoru says, dragging out the word as he looks at you with a look you identify as his jealousy. You’ve seen that look way too much for you to forget it. 

You want to blush, but the irony is too thick. Instead, you just groan in annoyance. “Whatever, we’ll see with Shepherd,” you mumble, reaching for your gun again. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You somehow managed to sneak an extra plate from the kitchens. Shepherd’s strict orders allowed one serving per soldier—ensuring everyone got their share. But you had a guest. A guest who, you knew, ate a lot. You even sacrificed some of your portion, piling more onto his plate. 

More rice, more miso soup, more seaweed, more seared tofu. It wasn’t fancy—just sustenance. Basic proteins and fiber meant to keep everyone functional, not satisfied. The higher-ups didn’t care about soldiers here any more than they cared about anyone outside their elite circles. The realization stung: sorcerers at Jujutsu High were glorified, while the rest of you were discarded when no longer useful. 

Balancing the plates, you pushed open the door to your room to find Satoru sitting on the edge of the bed. The sight caught you off guard for a second. The bed was big enough for two, but the thought of sharing it with him—after all this time—felt too... intimate. 

“Um... I’ve got food here,” you said softly, shyness creeping into your voice as you approached him, holding out the bigger plate. 

Satoru looked up at you, his lips quirking into a faint smile. The scene felt almost domestic, like you were... his wife. 

“Thanks,” he murmured, taking the plate from your hands. 

“I’m sorry it’s not much,” you added quickly, almost apologetic. “This is all they serve here—what they’re allowed to serve.” 

He glanced down at the plate before his gaze returned to you, something tender lurking in his eyes. “Good thing I can teleport then,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar playful lilt. 

Before you could respond, he reached under the bed and pulled out a crinkling plastic bag—a 7/11 logo emblazoned across it. 

Your jaw dropped. “You didn’t.” 

“I did,” he said, grinning smugly. 

“You didn’t just teleport to get yourself food,” you accused, crossing your arms. 

He tilted his head, correcting you with a casual, “Got us food, sweetheart.” 

“You’ll burn your eyes out,” you muttered, trying not to smile. 

“For you and my belly? Worth it.” 

You gave up, rolling your eyes as he pushed the bag toward you. Inside, you spotted greasy onigiri, a couple of bento boxes, and a can of your favorite drink. You hadn’t had anything like this in what felt like years. 

“Thanks,” you said quietly, unable to hide your gratitude. 

As you both ate, Satoru glanced at your plates, noting the uneven portions. His own was piled so high it looked like the plate might crack under the weight. “You didn’t have to give me half your tofu,” he said, pushing a few big pieces back toward you. 

“They’re for you,” you mumbled. 

“Thanks, baby, but I came prepared,” he teased, gesturing toward the 7/11 haul. 

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too much. It was small, but it felt like old times—before everything fell apart. 

“So, you always sleep here?” he asked through a mouthful of rice, his cheeks puffed like a squirrel. 

The sight nearly made you giggle. “No. Just after missions like these. This is a moving base. There’s a little house by the coast I stay in with Shepherd.” 

“Shepherd? The old gruff buff guy?” he asked, raising a brow. 

You nodded. “He kind of... took me under his wing. Said something like me was too precious to waste here.” 

“I agree with him,” Satoru said, his voice softening. 

For a moment, silence settled between you, filled only by the sound of eating. Then, he broke it. “Come home with me,” he said, the vulnerability in his voice catching you off guard. “God knows Shoko misses you—Yaga-sensei too. I miss you.” 

You hesitated, your grip tightening on your plate. “I can’t,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve gotten too used to this life.” 

“Liar,” he said, his tone sharper now. “I’m not leaving until you come home with me.” 

“This is my home,” you replied, setting your plate aside as your chest tightened. 

“I’m your home,” Satoru said, his voice quiet but firm, his jaw tightening as his eyes bore into yours.  

The words hung in the air like a challenge, daring you to deny them. 

You looked away, focusing on the empty plate in your hands. “That’s not fair,” you murmured, your voice trembling ever so slightly. 

“It’s the truth,” Satoru countered, setting his plate down beside him. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his crystalline eyes piercing through you. “You don’t belong here. You know that.” 

Your throat tightened, and you clenched your fists. “You think I chose this?” 

“I think someone made you believe you didn’t have a choice,” he said, his voice softening. “But you always have a choice. You had one when we first met, and you have one now.” 

You swallowed hard, the familiar ache in your chest rising. “It’s not that simple, Satoru.” 

“Isn’t it?” he asked, standing up. His height, his presence—it was overwhelming, and it reminded you of how small you felt in his orbit. “What’s stopping you, really? Is it fear? Guilt? Or is it because someone here convinced you you’re only useful if you stay?” 

You flinched, and he caught it. He always did. 

“It’s complicated,” you said, stepping back as he stepped closer. 

“Then uncomplicate it,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading. 

Your back hit the wall, and suddenly, there was nowhere else to go. He stood in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, but not close enough to touch. His hands clenched at his sides like he was holding himself back. 

“Satoru,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Please don’t do this.” 

“I have to,” he said, his voice breaking ever so slightly. “Because if I don’t, I’ll lose you. And I can’t... I won’t let that happen.” 

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. The raw vulnerability in his words, in his eyes—it was too much. 

“You think I haven’t missed you?” you asked, your voice cracking as tears welled up. “Every day, I think about what I left behind. About what we had. But I can’t go back. Not yet.” 

“Why?” he asked, his voice trembling with frustration and hurt. 

“Because I’m not the same person anymore,” you said, your tears finally spilling over. “And I don’t know if I can be her again.” 

He reached out then, his fingers brushing against your cheek, wiping away a tear. “You don’t have to be her,” he said softly. “Just be with me. That’s all I need.” 

For a moment, you let yourself lean into his touch, let yourself imagine a world where things were simple again. Where you weren’t bound by duty, by fear, by the chains you’d willingly wrapped around yourself. 

But then reality crashed back in. 

You tried to move away, but the sound of his fist slamming into the wall froze you. The reverberation rang in your ears, the dent just inches from your head. You stared at the deformed metal, then back at him, your chest tight with fear—or something far more complicated. 

His breaths came sharp, his hand still pressed against the wall as if steadying himself. But his eyes—his eyes locked onto yours with a desperation that made you want to cry and scream all at once. 

“Goddamn it, talk to me—tell me the truth.” His voice cracked, raw and unrelenting. 

“This is the truth!” you snapped back, your voice trembling despite the sharpness of your words. “I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but this is my life now! So just—just leave. Or we can sit down, eat whatever junk you teleported for, and pretend this didn’t happen.” 

You didn’t mean it. Not really. But the words flew out, your defenses building faster than you could think. 

“I’m not fuckin’ leaving,” he bit out, his voice low, gravelly, and trembling with anger. “I’ll figure you out—I’ll break through this. I’m so damn tired of everyone lying to me. Leaving me.” 

The last words hit you like a punch to the gut. You opened your mouth to speak, to tell him something—anything—but all you managed was a quiet, choked, “Please.” 

Something in your voice stopped him. His arm dropped, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of the world had finally caught up to him. He stepped back, giving you space, though the tension between you remained, thick and suffocating. 

You didn’t move at first. Your legs felt like jelly, and your heart thundered so loud you swore he could hear it. But when he finally sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, you willed yourself to follow, each step feeling heavier than the last. 

He exhaled sharply, breaking the silence. “It’s fine,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “I found you. That’s all that matters.” 

You hesitated before sitting beside him, close enough to feel his warmth but far enough to keep the invisible line between you intact. The food sat between you, untouched for a moment, until you quietly picked up your portion. 

You ate in silence, the tension slowly ebbing, though the ache in your chest remained. Every now and then, you’d glance at him, at his furrowed brows and clenched jaw. And as much as you wanted to stay angry, to cling to the walls you’d built, a part of you wanted to reach out—to touch him, to soothe the storm raging inside him. 

But you didn’t. 

Instead, you focused on the meal he’d risked so much to get, the quiet words he hadn’t spoken but had been etched into every action, every look. 

For now, this was enough. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Sleeping next to Satoru felt strangely natural, even after everything. The rhythm of his breathing, the warmth radiating from him—it all felt like coming home. You hadn’t felt this kind of peace in two years, and before you knew it, you were slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

But Satoru didn’t share the luxury of rest, not fully. His body craved it, sure, but his heart and mind couldn’t stop racing. He was right here, next to you, after two agonizing years of chasing ghosts and dead ends. He didn’t want to waste a second. 

He studied your face like it was a map back to better days, tracing the curves and lines with his eyes, then with his fingertips. Carefully, reverently, as if you’d vanish if he pressed too hard. Your lashes fluttered slightly, but you stayed asleep, your lips parted in soft, even breaths. 

His chest tightened as he leaned closer, his nose brushing against yours. Just one kiss, he thought. You wouldn’t wake up. You wouldn’t mind. Right? 

The kiss was featherlight, a gentle press of lips that tasted like a bittersweet promise. Satoru stayed close for a moment longer, letting his forehead rest against yours, breathing you in. 

Finally, he pulled back and exhaled slowly, threading his fingers with yours. It wasn’t just to hold you close. It was to anchor himself, to remind him that this wasn’t a dream. You were here, and for the first time in a long while, the crushing weight on his chest began to lift. 

If you woke up and tried to leave, he’d know. 

But more than that, he just needed to feel connected to you, even if it was only through the quiet strength of your intertwined hands. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

“I don’t understand why I’m here,” his voice echoed quietly, the calmness in his tone like it always had been, barely betraying the weight of his past decisions. “I’m... a criminal under your records.” 

The room was thick with tension, the air almost vibrating with the intensity of what was at stake. The elderly voice of the higher-up rumbled through the shadows, commanding authority with its gravelly resonance. 

“Yes, you are—" the voice boomed, thick with years of experience and frustration, "but in the end, you hate the Zen’in, don’t you? They want to overthrow our system, impose their own ideals—Naoya had us fooled. We thought we were making progress with him, but... no.” There was a pause, an exhale heavy with regret. “We need your help. We can’t do this without you.” 

A small silence followed, like a crack in the conversation, as the man stood still, his face a mask of indifference. He didn’t move, didn’t twitch a muscle as his mind ran through all the motives, all the options laid before him. 

“And why the hell would I care?” he finally spoke, his voice still flat, yet there was a deeper edge to his words now, cutting through the tension. “I have my own reasons, my own motives. Your visions, your politics—don’t concern me. And neither does the Zen'in family.” 

The elderly figure in the shadows could feel the defiance in his words, the weight of years of pain and betrayal weighing heavily in his heart. But this wasn’t about politics anymore—it was personal. 

“You’re different,” the voice rumbled again, with a certain conviction. “Naoya wants to eliminate sorcerers. You know he’s after Gojo, specifically. You care about him, don’t you? After all, everyone does. Isn’t that right?” 

A slight shift in his expression betrayed the fact that the mention of Gojo had struck a chord. 

“Sure,” he muttered, his voice softening ever so slightly as memories of his old friend flickered through his mind. “You can say that. But why do you need my help?” 

“Because," the elder’s voice dropped to a more sinister level, "you were once labeled the strongest. The one who could end it all. If you help us, we won’t detain you. You won’t be a prisoner after this is over. We’ll let you vanish, disappear. Go into hiding again. No one will come after you.” 

His lips twitched, a humorless chuckle escaping his throat. He turned slightly, his gaze steady as he let out a low sigh. 

“You all lie,” he said, eyes narrowing, a ghost of disbelief and bitterness lurking in his voice. “Why should I believe you?” 

“Because Naoya Zenin is a threat,” the elder responded with chilling finality. “He cannot—he will not—be allowed to control the jujutsu society. And neither will anyone like him. We need you to ensure that doesn’t happen. Help us, and we’ll keep our word.” 

The man stood there for what seemed like an eternity, contemplating the offer. His mind was a battleground of pros and cons, the weight of the past and the present crashing together in a maelstrom. There were risks, of course. But he couldn’t stand by and watch as the world he once knew spiraled into chaos. Not without doing something. 

And, if he was being honest, a small part of him still cared about the ones who had cared for him—Gojo... and you. You had been kind to him when no one else had. And perhaps... just perhaps, there was a chance to make things right. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of silence, his voice broke the stillness. “I accept.” 

The elder chuckled, a satisfied grin creeping across his face. “Good. You’re a smart man. Welcome back—Suguru Geto.” 

next

© All Rights Reserved mymoonisgrey

Taglist is open!

@lavnder311

[tw1l1te]

𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖘𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖔- 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓𝖊

ᨒ↟ ⋆｡°

Hyrule was no more.

That's what the elders told you, at least.

The sacred fields and forests of the kingdom have been blanketed with white snow for a millennia, the sun only behind the clouds. The population of Hyrule has dwindled over time, making this era lonely and full of decay.

Truly an era that should be forgotten.

An era that didn’t deserve a place in the historical archives. 

An era that was doomed to begin with.

Looking out onto the cold, dreadful expanse of Hyrule, you wonder what your life had come to. Being alone for a significant portion of your late teens and constantly on the run wasn’t your idea of a good life. A life where you got to be happy. But, no one really got to have that anymore, everyone lived to survive. They’ve all accepted that in this life, you lasted as long as you could, and that was that.

You felt a stinging cold brush of air against your cheek, instinctively causing you to bundle your scarf tighter around your face. An old habit.

It was about to snow soon. That’s all that Hyrule did anymore: snow. There were no more seasons or days of clear skies, the sunniest the fallen kingdom got was a gloomy gray sky, a white orb just barely being seen amidst the gray blanket. 

Getting up from the rock you sat on, you made your way downhill, back to the run-down village you called home, or the closest thing to that. The elders did their best with the limited resources they had, as after the Reawakening, there was hardly anything left.

The village was small, you could walk the entirety of it in just under five minutes. Being located South of central Hyrule, you were lucky enough to be shrouded in thick forests, protecting your little village. 

Walking through the main pathway, you wave to a few people, a small smile under your scarf. These people were the closest thing to family, as yours had been forgotten about long ago. It was for the best.

You walk up to the main entrance of the meeting house, knocking twice on the wooden door. You open the door and walk inside, making sure to latch the door behind you so the wind wouldn’t blow the damn thing inward. 

“Another storm comin’, aye?” 

You look behind you to see Arden, one of your closest friends and comrades. He was a few years older than you and taller, with shoulder-length black hair that was begging to be trimmed.

“Yep, second one this month and it's only the third week. Make sure your mother stores her plants in the cellar, her herbs are crucial to us.”

He nods, walking to the table in the middle of the shack. The table was littered with half-torn maps and old trinkets, most of them collecting dust.

“...Anything new?” he asks, arms crossed over his form. You knew what he was asking about. Your memories.

“Bits n’ pieces, they’ve been kind of blurry lately, its hard to even understand what’s happening.”

He nods, satisfied with your answer. 

“Well, at least you’re not having constant nightmares, I couldn’t even imagine the horrors you saw.”

You look away from him, recalling your last nightmare. Though so much of it was in fragments, you remember it being so vivid and… real. As if you were him.

“I haven’t had one in a bit, which is nice… I guess. Haven’t gotten any answers to our main issue though. Her.”

“Have you tried writing down what happens in your dreams? Maybe connect the dots after you’ve taken some notes?”

You shake your head, mentally tired from talking so much. After your journey a year ago, you’ve gotten so used to not talking for days or weeks at a time that even a few sentences makes you exhausted. 

“I see. Well, the others are supposed to meet us here-”

There were rapid knocks on the door, sounding impatient and frantic. Looking at Arden, you go to unlatch the door, curious as to what the disruption was about. You were surprised to see Colin, another comrade of the team, standing there looking worried, eyebrows creased.

“Y/n, Arden… I think you should follow me. You need to see this.”

You turn to look back at Arden, giving him a curt nod. Your meeting could wait.

ᨒ↟ ⋆｡°

You and Arden walk with Colin, the lack of information eating away at your brain. What could have possibly worried Colin so much? Did something happen?

You all walk up to the large tent where you kept most of your supplies and food, the thick canvas fabric flapping in the wind. You could hear talking in the tent, several people already residing ithin.

Colin turns to you, muttering “Y/n, they might recognize you based on your clothing. I’d suggest concealing your face a bit, we don’t know their intentions. Could be some of her’s.”

Taking in the tone of his words, you wrap the scarlet scarf around your face, making sure only your eyes were visible. Your hood was already up, so you didn’t have to worry too much about them seeing more of you.

“Thanks.” you murmured, already walking towards the entrance of the tent, hands balled up into fists.

“Be careful, Link.”

ᨒ↟ ⋆｡°

Immediately after walking into the tent, you halt at the number of people in the room. Including two of your other team members, there were twelve people in the room. All of their focus was on you.

Dusk, one of the women of your team, walks up to you.

“We found them while scouting the back woods. They’re armed, but not hostile. They say they’re the heroes of Hyrule, whatever that means.”

You nod curtly at her words, eyeing the group. Their eyes are glued to you, each one with varying degrees of frustration, confusion, or curiosity across their faces. Then it hits you.

It is them. Each one, from each era.

But all together? This is a first.

You wonder why they’re staring at you so much, but then you remember you are wearing the hero’s garb. Same green hat, full green getup. An obvious indicator to them.

You groan internally, you should've changed.

The blonde man with the blue scarf stands up and walks over to you, hand out for a handshake.

“You’re a Link, aren’t you? Pleasure to meet the hero of this era.”

You look at his hand, then back up at him. 

Is he serious?

You snort under your scarf, the casual interaction being so alien to you. The last thing you were interested in doing was being acquaintances with the past heroes.

Seeing your lack of response makes him pull back his hand, face full of confusion. What was up with this era?

The one-eyed hero from behind him suddenly stands up and makes his way to you. His good eye bores down at you before speaking.

“My apologies for my Captain’s forwardness. My name is Link, but we all go by monicker’s to diffuse the confusion. I go by Time, and the others will introduce themselves at a later time. We happened to stumble into your woods and are currently trying to find out where and when we are located.”

You raise an eyebrow at his statement.

When? Meaning… they time traveled?

Dusk beat you to the chase answering, “We don’t exactly count years, but based off of the last era counted, we are about 10,000 years after the Era of The Wilds.”

Time takes a moment to process the information, seemingly doing some mental calculations. He looks back down at you.

“And it’s safe to assume you’re the hero of this era?”

You nod slowly.

He takes a hesitant breath before continuing, “... what happened in this era? From what we’ve briefly seen, its the most destroyed time period we’ve seen.”

Dusk walks up behind you, saving you from the interrogation.

“Our country destroyed itself. No monarchy, no kingdom, barely anything left.”

His brows furrowed, “Ganon’s doing?”

You still at the name. You should have been prepared to answer this question. After all, it was inevitable.

You shake your head.

“Ganondorf?”

Again, you shake your head.

“Then who?”

You look at Dusk, silently pleading her to not tell them of your fate. This was something that needed to be eased onto them slowly. After all, most of them were devout to Hylia in one form or another.

Seeing your desperation, Dusk sighs.

“It’s better if you follow us back to the Resistance Headquarters. We have more information there.”

“And why would we do that? For all we know, this could be an ambush,” the pink-haired male responds.

Dusk rolls her eyes, sending you a smirk, “Because it would be way too much work to clean all the blood and guts up, plus, we don’t have the resources nor luxury to do that.”

You lightly shake your head, not knowing how her sense of humor was still intact after everything. In other circumstances, you would’ve scolded her, but you weren’t up for chatting at the moment.

Tossing a glance over your shoulder, you lead Arden, Dusk, and the heroes back to the headquarters. This was going to be a long day.

ᨒ↟ ⋆｡°

“So yer tellin’ me you’re Wild’s descendant? Surprised yer not feral or somethin’,” Twilight mutters, earning an elbow jab from the one referred to as “Wild”.

They seem… brotherly.

Wild turns to you, holding his chin, “Do you… still have the Sheikah Slate? It might be too old now in your era, but-”

You nod, taking out the slate from under your poncho. It was in much worse condition than Wild’s, but it had alterations and had been through a few thousand years.

He hesitantly picks it up from your hands, almost worried that the Slate would wither away from how fragile it felt.

“It looks… different, changed. Does it have new functions?”

Arden points at the screen, “Yeah, Link added a few alternate functions like a more expansive map and the ability to communicate with others.”

“Communicate?”

“A couple other groups across Hyrule have a similar type of slate, though they can only use it to communicate. It’s good for fast and quick communication.”

He nods, examining the slate some more. He shuts it off, handing it back to you.

 You choose to ignore the warmth coming from his fingertips.

“It seems you’re advanced in technology, and yet, so rural and primitive. Is there a reason for that?”

Arden looks at you while he speaks, “Well, technology was advancing right up until the Reawakening, and quickly declined after that. We managed to salvage a few things during the event, though a lot of it looks ancient now. Still works, though.”

He shoots you a lop-sided smile, “You should totally see Link’s snowbike though, that thing is a beast.”

Wild raises an eyebrow, “Snowbike? Like the Master Cycle Zero?”

You nod. You forgot he had one of those.

Time buts in, seemingly preoccupied with something else.

“As much as I am curious about your modern advancements, I believe we have more pressing matters at hand. Primarily, why we’re here in your era.”

You nod again, eyeing Arden and Dusk. You needed the room.

Arden walks up to you, murmuring “You sure? I don’t trust them.”

You place a hand on his arm, nodding. He looks down at your hand, eyes flicking between your hand and your eyes. He wanted to say something, but decided to bite his tongue. He wordlessly nods, and both him and Dusk leave you with the group, latching the old door behind him.

You ignore the strange interaction between the both of you, deciding to check up on him after.

You adjust your scarf, pulling it downward so your entire face is visible. The scarf muffled your speech and you were starting to get a bit suffocated with the fabric over your mouth.

“Y-you’re-”

“A female?”

The group seems to go silent at that, emotions ranging from confusion, shock, disbelief, even some excitement from a couple.

Arm over your chest, you kneel on one knee, your head bowed. Taking a small breath, you raspily introduce yourself:

 “My name is Link, the Forgotten Hero.”

ᨒ↟ ⋆｡°

[mya-valentine]

February 20th - Right My Wrongs by Bryson Tiller - Levi Ackerman x Reader

The dim light of the candle flickered against the cracked walls of Levi's office, casting jagged shadows across the room. Papers were scattered across the desk—reports, maps, strategies for the next expedition beyond the walls. But none of them held Levi’s attention. Instead, his sharp gray eyes were locked on the door, waiting for the inevitable storm.

And it came.

You walked in without knocking, your face tight with frustration. “Are you avoiding me again?” you asked, voice sharp enough to cut through the thick tension in the air.

Levi barely looked up, his jaw tightening. “I’m busy. Now’s not the time.”

“Now’s never the time,” you snapped, stepping closer. “Do you even care anymore, Levi? Or am I just another task you’d rather ignore?”

That hit a nerve. His pen halted mid-stroke. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet yours, eyes dark with exhaustion and something colder—defense. “Don’t start with this shit. Not tonight.”

But it was never just “this shit” for you. It was the accumulation of unspoken words, of nights spent in silence, lying back-to-back in the small bed you shared. It was the way Levi brushed past you in the hallway like a stranger, how he buried himself in work until the weight of his avoidance suffocated whatever warmth was left between you.

“You’re pushing me away,” you said, voice quieter now, almost pleading. “I’m trying, Levi. But I can’t keep fighting for us if you’ve already given up.”

Levi stood, his chair scraping against the floor. He was shorter than most, but the weight of his presence filled the room like thunderclouds before a storm. “I haven’t given up. I’m trying to protect you. Isn’t that what you want? To not end up another name on a damn memorial?”

You flinched. The words were meant to be cold, practical—so typically Levi. But they burned, because they revealed the truth behind his walls: fear. Not for himself, but for you.

“This isn’t protection, Levi. This is punishment,” you whispered. “You don’t get to shut me out because you’re scared of losing me. That’s not fair.”

Fair. What a ridiculous concept in a world where titans crushed lives without mercy, where soldiers were buried without ceremony. Levi had never believed in fairness—only survival. And love? Love was a luxury for those who didn’t wake up every day wondering if it’d be their last.

But you… you had made him believe, once. In stolen moments between missions, in the warmth of your hand brushing his under the table, in the quiet promises whispered when the world felt just a little less cruel. He had let himself want you, need you—and now that need felt like a liability.

His silence was answer enough. You swallowed the lump in your throat and stepped back, the fight draining from your body.

“I’m tired, Levi,” you murmured. “If you don’t want this anymore, just say it. But don’t keep breaking my heart piece by piece.”

And with that, you left, the door closing behind you with a soft click that sounded far too final.

Levi sat in the empty room long after you were gone, head in his hands. His heart pounded in his chest, not from anger, but from the crushing weight of guilt. He hated himself for the sharp words, for the way your face had fallen, like you’d finally reached your limit.

He didn’t blame you. He’d spent so long pretending he didn’t need anyone—losing comrades, friends, and family had taught him that love was just another thing the world could rip away. But you… you had fought for him, through his stubbornness, his coldness, his fear. And all he’d done was push you further away.

Levi wasn’t good with words. Apologies felt foreign on his tongue, and vulnerability was a luxury he couldn’t afford. But as he sat there in the dim light, the weight of loneliness pressing down like an avalanche, he realized something painfully simple.

He couldn’t lose you, too.

It took Levi three days to find you after that fight. Not because you were hiding—you were never the type to play games. But because he couldn’t face you without figuring out how to untangle the mess he’d made. He replayed the argument in his head over and over, each memory another jab at his already battered conscience.

On the fourth night, he found you on the rooftop of the Scouts’ headquarters, sitting on the ledge with your legs dangling over the side. The moon cast a pale glow on your face, highlighting the exhaustion in your features. You didn’t turn when you heard his footsteps, though you must have recognized the quiet, purposeful gait that always accompanied Levi.

“I figured you’d show up eventually,” you said, voice flat.

Levi stood there for a moment, struggling to find the right words. He hated this feeling—helplessness. But losing you would feel worse.

“I fucked up,” he finally admitted, the words rough and jagged like broken glass. “I keep pushing you away because it’s easier than admitting I’m scared.”

That got your attention. You turned, brows furrowed in surprise. Levi rarely spoke about feelings—his own, least of all.

“Scared of what?” you asked quietly.

He sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Of losing you. Everyone I’ve ever cared about… they’re gone. Petra. Isabel. Farlan. Hell, even Erwin. I didn’t think I had anything left to lose.” He paused, swallowing hard. “But then there was you. And the thought of watching you die because you got too close to me? It’s unbearable.”

The confession hung in the air between you, raw and unfiltered. For once, Levi didn’t hide behind indifference or harsh words. He just stood there, exposed and waiting for your judgment.

Your heart ached at the vulnerability etched into his sharp features. Levi Ackerman—the unshakable, unbreakable captain—was terrified. Not of titans, not of death, but of love.

“You don’t get to decide for me, Levi,” you said softly, standing and closing the distance between you. “Yes, this world is cruel. And yes, I could die tomorrow. But so could you. That’s why love matters—because we don’t know how much time we have.”

His eyes flickered with something—understanding, regret, hope? Maybe all three. He reached for your hand, hesitant, as if afraid you’d pull away. You didn’t.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not good at… us.”

You squeezed his hand, offering the smallest smile. “We don’t have to be perfect, Levi. We just have to try. Together.”

For the first time in days, the tension in his shoulders eased. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, but it was enough. A promise, fragile but real.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Together.”

The road back to each other wasn’t smooth. There were still arguments—Levi was stubborn, and you were passionate, a combination bound to clash. But the difference was in the aftermath. Levi stopped shutting you out, and you learned to understand the fear that drove his coldness.

Some nights, he still buried himself in work, old habits dying hard. But now, he’d find you afterward, pulling you into his arms without a word. Other nights, you’d sit together in rare pockets of peace, sharing quiet moments that spoke louder than any apology ever could.

And when the world outside felt too heavy, Levi would hold you a little tighter, his grip firm but reassuring. A silent promise: I’m here. I’m trying. I love you.

Because in the end, love wasn’t about perfection. It was about fighting—for each other, with each other—and never letting go.

.

.

.

Masterlist

[oddball08]

Kent After the War

TW: PTSD, Kent trying to adapt after the war. He slaps Vincent at one point. :(

just a little head cannon drabble after I noticed Kent lingering near the sidelines during the flower dance when I was dancing with my lovely wife Haley.

Thinking about Vincent not being sure whether or not to call Kent Daddy, Dad, or just Kent.

Thinking about Jodie getting annoyed by Kent going through a panic attack because she was popping popcorn.

Thinking of Kent standing at the edge of the dinner table not sure if he could sit next to Sam or not.

Thinking of Sam awkwardly sitting next to Kent on the couch watching a show because Kent wants to bond but has no idea how.

Thinking of Kent standing outside of the house smoking feeling guilty because he'd promise Vincent he'd stop.

Thinking of Kent feeling guilty about snapping at Vincent and Jodie for being loud one morning after he was up all night due to insomnia.

Thinking of how his children don't know how to react to having a father again.

Thinking of how his wife doesn't know how to react to having a husband again.

Thinking of how big spaces make Kent anxious which makes it hard to go to events like the Flower dance. (He still does cause Vincent wanted him to go)

Thinking of Vincent asking him to play battle with his plastic soldiers and he has a panic attack in the middle of playing.

Thinking of Kent crying after the farmer gives him a photo of his fallen comrade during the pirate quest.

Thinking of Kent framing the photo and putting it next to the family portrait in the hall to remember to be grateful he's still alive. (He feels guilty every time.)

Getting in arguments with Jodi over chores and one time he makes her cry, and he feels his heart shatter.

Getting really angry at Vincent one time for not picking up his mess that he smacked him. Jodi was pissed and Kent left for the night.

Vincent flinching every time Kent goes to pat/hug/touch him for a while after that.

Vincent making sure that his messes are picked up every time his dad comes home.

Kent knowing he's being distant with his family and being a bad father/husband, but he cannot get the flashes of hundreds dying from behind his eyelids.

Kent not being able to take off his uniform jacket with his carinal patch on it; constantly reminding him of all the lives he was responsible for. All the people he "let down" by letting them get injured or dead.

Kent who goes to his shed every day because he can feel the tension whenever he's home and makes bombs because he doesn't know what to do anymore.

Kent who notices the look in the farmers eyes during his late-night smoke breaks, seeing the exhaustion that only comes from battle and sends them the bombs the next day; hoping that it'll help the farmer in future battles.

Kent watching his sons hang out with his friends and feeling heart shattering guilt that he doesn't even know the friend's names.

Kent smiling as he watches his wife walk out the door, going to aerobics with the rest of the women in the town. (Trying and failing to ignore the sinking feeling of being so alone now that she's gone).