#maybe it would've been more strong if the song was longer

[maxsix]

Song Mingi | FIX OFF: Tunnel (2024)

[adammilligan]

wait sooooo how many years WERE there in between the creation of michael and the creation of lucifer. how many years did michael spend being the only one of his kind. maybe that's why he's so distant about it when it comes to any love he has for the other archangels. none of them or the angels for that matter have ever known what it is to be alone like that. michael might not have been actually alone because god and the darkness were there and maybe he wouldn't even recognize the loneliness for what it was back then because it was all he ever knew and he had nothing else to go off of and he WAS created to be a good soldier and loyal son so maybe it never even occured to him. but maybe after everything when it's just him and adam down in the cage and all the other archangels are dead he's like ah. so that's what that was

[grugruel]

Say it Again

Pairings: Cooper Howard x f!reader

NSFW/MDNI

Masterlist

Summary: For a long time, there'd been a quiet, reciding fondness between you and your companion. And when you finally journey back to your old vault, feelings are stirred from the depths and brought to the surface.

Word count: 5.2k

Warnings: (mentions of blood, violence, death), angst, pinv sex, passionate sex, strong feelings, "I love you", pet names (darlin', sweetheart, honey), hair pulling (squint and you'll miss it), overstimulation, creampie, praise (both recieving).

AN: Not yet proofread! Let me know what yall think about the music inserts. I figured since its such a big part of the fallout universe, I might aswell ad it in a fic too! Enjoy yall!!

The vault was open. . . It took my mind a few moments to wrap around the idea.

The thought of it being perpetually shut was so hard-wired into my being that I would've thought the gaping door a hallucination had it not been for my own departure a few months prior.

And I knew- I knew it ment nothing good. But perhaps they'd all left–alive, wandering the wasteland in search of better luck–a better life.

♪ Yes, pretending that I'm doing well

A familiar melody rang faint, barely reaching through the howling wind as it sang up a storm of scorching sand, whipping and tearing at my clothes.

In abivalence, I made my way toward the facade. Eyes examining the number 33 written in a bold, weathered font on the hefty external door.

A pang of guilt hit me–maybe I shouldn't have left, maybe I could've prevented whatever happened here. With the inhale of a calming breath, I stepped up to the construction, running the flat of my palm along the beaten but familar metal.

Then, without so much as a single thought of caution, I stepped over the threshold. The safety of a vault- my vault, was too fresh in my mind. That allong with the trust I placed in the hands of my shadow, suspecting his vigilance to be enough for the both of us.

Tracing the cool, grand archway with my fingertips as I entered, feeling the wear of oxidisation on its surface. Such a small detail I'd never payed any mind to before. How aged it was, yet still standing strong. A reminder of its resilience- of its impenetrable metal, planned to withstand outside threats for hundreds of years. And now, there it stood–wide open. The derision of the situation nagged me terribly.

♪ I'm lonely but no one can tell

When no longer veiled by the wind, the song sang clearly, its notes reverberating throughout the metal in a forboding fashion. Setting off a feeling of unease in the pit of my stumache.

While I stood familiarising myself again, I could feel a pair of eyes watching me, observing me. Monitoring my grief-struck and conflict ridden mind with a commiserating gaze. Their constant and reassuring prescence hovering behind me in semblance of a specter, keeping a respectful distance as my mind worked through what might have transpired while I was away.

♪ Oh yes, I'm the great pretender

The volume grew stronger as we made our way inside, my feet moving with slight hesitation as they clanged along the grated flooring.

♪ Adrift in a world of my own ♪

Stepping on the elevator, I steadied myself against the railing, feeling it vibrate beneath my hands with the frequency of the music. Those sweet well-known tunes only growing more and more eerie as we descended, accompanied by that strange constant hum from the bedrock, from the quiet. A white noise that only lived in vast open constructions such as this. Inhabiting the walls, the floor, and open spaces made from metal and stone.

A shiver ran down my spine, I'd never liked the quiet, despite the volume of the music, the quiet resounded. It'd always made to much noise in my mind.

♪ You've seen and you've left me to dream all alone

But when the doors opened to the floor below, a reassuring hand placed itself on the small of my back, amicably giving me a final push when I'd stood too long hesitating.

And it helped, it really did. The eclipsing stillness of the vault and the distorting of the music softened, fading and returning to that of good times–when they'd still existed.

♪ Too real is this feeling of make-believe

But the possibilities of what I might find ahead launched a gruesome assault on my mind. I tried distracting myself–thud, thud, thud. Our dull steps tapped against the floor. A pair of spurs clicking along with the steady rythm, leather groaning. Turns out I could only hear him, and I prefered it that way.

♪ Too real when I feel what my heart can't conceal

It was a better focus then the constant searching for bloodsplatter and unmoving bodies, splayed out on the floor or tucked into a corner, seeking shelter, protection–spurs, leather-

I snapped back, the lyrics echoing in my mind and bouncing of the walls simultaneously, resonating throughout the empty halls as I jumped off of that dark train of thought before it could spiral further. The hands scrunched the fabric of my clothes, silently checking on me, attempting to refocus my mind. On the music, on him, anything was better.

♪ Yes, I'm the great pretender

I followed the words, thinking of the ones before and those to come. I still remember the list of songs. They'd played during weddings and social gatherings. We had them in our houses. I remember dancing in the kitchen, with swaying to the music with those I love. It was one of those moments which you knew you'd remeber forever, which would become a core part of you. Always to be looked back on, and sure enough.

I could't help myself from smiling, such fond memories. In my peripheral, his eyes softened. Still keeping his vigilant watch over my well-being, returning my smile with no intention of ever telling me, unkowing that I had indeed noticed him as he did so.

♪ Yes, just laughing and gay like a clown

But now, as I wandered the abandoned halls of the vault, they were only a tragic reminder of a time gone by–yet, I could see no bodies, no evidence of a fight or struggle–relief flooded through me. However, I still didn't dare make my way down to the compost section, I'd walked that path to many times on my last day here.

♪ I seem to be, what I'm not, you see

The hand angainst my back brushed my clothed skin with a thumb, circling a vertebra, moving to squeeze my arm as it then fell back to his side. The loss of his touch was dissapointing, but the closeness of his body made up for it.

We took a turn, away from the chance of decaying bodies and toward the fields of crop. I wanted to see it one last time, remember that last wedding–the good times, before I left and the place had become this, before it was reduced to a graveyard of memories.

♪ And I'm wearing my heart like a crown

I found my eyes wandering as we walked, constantly sliding to the man beside me. An aching arose in my heart, the two of us could've been something real sweet. Something true, something strong. If only we had the freedom of chance and opportunity. But as it were, we simply coexist, solely striving to survive in a world swallowed up by nuclear waste and feral brutality. I don't know what I would've done without him, it was a long road for us to grow this close–we didn't get along too well when we first met.

♪ Oh yes, I'm pretending and praying that you're still around

The music tunes out, fading into quiet nothing, like dust particles leaving rays of light–simply seizing to exist. I felt the comparison too familiar for my liking, turns out anything is just a methapor for something else.

After waiting patiently and biding it's time, that strange hum takes up again. Making me wish he'd hold me steady, a d let the drumming of his heart be the only thing I hear. A wish that frequented my mind a lot as of late.

It's interesting how much you learn about yourself and the world when leaving the safety of your vault. The most ironic thing–radiation, and the fact that its the least to be worried about on the surface, the real danger being what dwells in the midst of it. Creatures–beasts, savages and monsters. The rad mutated animals are nothing compared to the barabarians that the human species have become, I really had no idea what stripping someone of their basic needs and a guaranteed future could do to a person before I entered the wasteland. And now, I cant help but marvel at the fact that only a few have resorted to eating eachother and worshipping radiation.

Dog-eat-dog is an old expression that comes to mind. Apparently it was used way before all of this befell us, and I can't help but imagine how bad we could've been back then to create such a phrase in a law-abiding society. But they were the poeple to destroy the world and we to rebuild it, so perhaps its not that strange after all.

Either way, I don't remember it personally. I wasn't alive back then, but it was told to me by someone who was.

The next song started up, the sorrowful tune keeping the deafening white noise at bay, and as I had predicted the list, it was my favorite to be played.

♪ There's a place where lovers go

To cry their troubles away ♪

The tape, surely damaged–played a slower version than I remembered, but it was all the same to me as I let it envelop me in a veil of comfort before finally laying eyes on what we'd come here for–corn. I felt their green stems beneath my fingers as I walked along the field, it was a miracle they were even alive and surviving whatever hardships they'd encountered. Another metaphor.

There came a rustling behind me, my companion doing the same as I had. A scarred hand reaching out to slide his fingers through the crop, keeping a stunned expression on his face, the corners of his lips curling upward.

♪ And they call it Lonesome Town

Where all the broken hearts stay ♪

It must've been a long time for him since feeling something living like this. Much, much longer than it had for me. And I'd just taken it all for granted.

Keeping our pace, we followed the path through the crops until fianlly, the familiarity of a huge wall welcomed me home.

Surrounding me was a vast sky with millions of stars and endlessly stretching mountains, following a path so distant I could not spot the end, all the while the high moon cast silvery blue light upon the world. A projection of the Nebraskan countryside. I used to stare at it for hours, dreaming myself away to a place that no longer existed. 'Did it really look like this? The world- I mean.' I hatched out of me.

♪ You can buy a dream or two

To last you all through the years ♪

'It sure did.' My companion turned to face me, choosing a lesser view over the pretty one before him. He was a mere arms-length away. 'It could be real beautiful.' He said, his eyes roaming my face.

♪ And the only price you pay

Is a heart full of tears ♪

He was a brute, that is true. He was the outcome of living through literal hell, but he'd fared quite well through it all in my opinion. He had his humanity left, which is more than I can say for the majority of the population. Charming and quick-witted, dangerous and cold. He'd seen who we were and what we had become, it's no wonder he acted the way he did. But it was all the same to me, he was strong and handsome, he could even by kind-hearted at times, and I loved him through it all.

♪ Goin' down to Lonesome Town

To cry my troubles away ♪

The implication made me blush, and shy away from his eager eyes while I averted my own, leading them back to the contryside. 'I wish I could've seen it.' I tried to focus, studying the sight meticulously, jotting down every detail in my mind. I hadn't had time the last time I was here- not to dwell. Too late now it seemed, the memory resurfacing with a passion as my eyes drifted over the scorching cloud in the sky, burned into the irreplaceable film. My lips drew into a thin line as I swallowed, it was reality, it was life. But it didn't stop my stumache from churning, the stench of wet metal revisiting my nose.

♪ Goin' down to Lonesome Town

To cry my troubles away ♪

A scarred hand reached up to brush strands of hair from my face, again, distracting me mercifully. Rough knuckles gently sliding over my cheek and the neighing of my jaw. 'I wish you could too.' He grasped my chin between this thumb and index finger, tilting my face upwards, our gazes meeting eachother.

♪ In a Town of broken dreams

The streets are filled with regret ♪

I leaned into his touch, for it was rare. Rare that he allowed himself simple pleasures such as touching me, even though I would willingly give myself to him at a moments whim. 'I love you.' I whispered. 'Please, please let me.'

♪ Maybe down in Lonesome Town

I can learn to forget ♪

The music glitched, the sound warping spookily as the needle scratched and jumped the groves in the needle. Shutting off for a second and then coming back on, restarting the song.

He shook his head, eyes uncharacteristically soft as met mine. Uncharacteristic to anyone but me. 'I can't feel ya', sweetheart.' He reclaimed his hand and took a step back, squeezing it into a fist, frustration shaking it as he cursed himself. The music tuned out, and all I see was the blue light contrasting his red-burnt skin, enforcing its texture as shadows settled in the contours and the pale silver on his high points. All I could hear were his words, the frustration and insufficiencies hinding in his tone, mirroring my own. 'Can't feel your fuckin' softness, cant feel your skin.'

'You can–' I followed his movement, gaining on the distance he'd created between us. '–it might not be ideal, but it's us.' I slid my fingers along his clothed arm, grabbing his coarse hand.

'I'm here, not perfect, and that's what you can feel. Imperfection. . . It's something that belongs to us.' I gave him a faint smile, doing my best to reassure him. To truly make him understand.

'I dont deserve you.' He leaned his forehead against mine, his cowboy hat sliding up his head as he did so.

It was my turn to shake my head now. 'Oh, but if you only knew what you desvered.' My voice broke, eyes watering. 'The world, coop. You've been through so much, you survived the bombs dropping for fucks sake, and the following 200 years after that. What you did during those years was for your own survival, please do not ever feel bad about any of it.' The silence that ensued became too long, too deafening. 'I wish you could see yourself through my eyes, so beautiful in your own right.' A tear fell down my cheek.

'I dont feel bad 'bout it sweetheart, thats the problem. I aint any of that, 'm a selfish killer. There's nothin' left of who I were–the good part. . .' his hand slid down my arms, squeezing my biceps to emphasize. '. . .what little good there was, it died a long time ago.' His drawl thick as he spoke, kissing my forehead. 'You can do better, 'n I cant allow those precious years of yours to go to waste on somethin' like me.' He wrapped his arms around me, placing one hand on the back of my head, cradeling it to his chest as he pulled me close, resting his chin on top of my head. The wetness of my cheeks transfering to his shirt. 'Don't cry, sweetheart. Dont cry 'cause of me.' He kissed my forehead again, working his way downward–cheekbone, jaw and finally–my lips.

His hands slid down the outline of my body, shoulders and ribs, then settled on my waist. He pulled me closer, deepening the kiss in the same motion.

♪ Maybe down in Lonesome Town

I allowed him to kiss me for too long, I allowed him to believe his own words for too long. I pulled free, tearing away to breathe, to lock my eyes on his. 'I dont want who you were, dont you understand?' I cup his face, truly feeling him beneath my fingers, and loving every bump and dent. 'I want who you are now, scars and all. It's not for you to allow me anything. Get that in your head.' My voice had gone harsh, and even though he needed to hear it with all the conviction I muster, I added 'Please. . .' As softly as I could.

♪ I can learn to forget

The last notes of the song died out.

He shook his head as a small, breathless, humorless chuckle erupted from his lips. '. . .I love you too. . .'

♪ Only you

The next song started, the voice vibrating through his bones. A song he'd danced to when it was first released, twirling a life that no longer existed in his arms. He closed his eyes, humming along to the tune as he embraced the memory, arms wrapping tightly around its waist, hugging it lovingly one last time. Then let go.

♪ Can do, make this world seem right

He mouthed the words as he opened his eyes, finding her sweet face looking up at him, his pretty girl. It'd taken him more than he wished to admit, to say those three words. How such meak and fruitless words had cause him so much turmoil, he didn't know.

♪ Only you

Because when he looked at her now–stars projecting in her glimmering eyes, the wetness of tears remaining on her cheeks, anf with the backdrop of a countryside from a bygona era–the prevailing feeling was grief, a mourning over the precious time wasted, time he could've spent in admitant love with her. Holding her, kissing her, loving her. Things he just hadn't allowed himself to concede to, to fall slave under it. To truly feel it from the bottom of his heart–instead, reciding in the pit of it, in some dark, tucked away corner, was the feeling of being lesser and undeserving of her softness, her own kind heart.

♪ Can do, make the darkness bright

'Come.' She said, a faint smile on her lips as she grabbed his hand, pulling him with her. Away from the corn, away from Nebraska. He followed her willingly, blindly trusting her as she pulled him to wherever. He didn't care, as long as he was with her.

♪ Only you and you alone

The music grew fainter, devolving into a sweet hum, a lullig as the distance of the speakers tossed the sound boucing after them, echoing along the vaults longevous walls while they moved through them.

He turned her hand over as they walked, observing it quietly as he rubbed gentle circles into the plush skin of her hand, admiring what softness he could feel, his distorted hands dulling the sense unbareably.

♪ Can thrill me like you do

But it didnt matter in the end. Imperfection is what she'd said, and it belonged to them. His heart ached, eyes drifting over the small form leading him. The way her hair swayed and body moved, he could feel himself harden. Guilting himself. It was love for a woman, a family, that had once driven him to survive- with that life now long gone, it was that beautiful girl infrontnof him that kept him going.

♪ And fill my heart with only love for you

They passed several doors with accompanying mailboxes, until she slowed and halted her steps so suddenly, she almost collided with his chest. Her form stood frozen, contemplating, just as she'd done when they first entered the vault.

A scorched finger rose up to stroke her cheek. 'You alright, sweetheart?'

♪ Oh, only you

'Mhm. . .' She hummed. 'One moment.' And whipped around to face him, opening his saddlebag to rummage through it.

Unsuspectingly, a blush crept it's way up her cheeks, seemingly caused by the intent gaze he focused so tightly on her.

♪ Can do, make all this change in me

They'd just kissed, professed their love. Yet, it was his closeness, his warm breath against her that made her blush. He'd never want to be anywhere else. His gaze wandered, studying the home they stood infront of. Eyes landing on a mailbox, he read the full name aloud with a loving smile on his lips.

'I like the way it sounds when you say it.' She whispered, a coy smile on her lips. Suddenly- her eyes widened, finding what she'd been looking for, she pulled the object out of the bag, holding it up for him to see. An old pipboy.

"Welcome" it read, and as she turned one of the kogs, the door to the house opened.

♪ For its true

It was exactly the way I remembered it, not a detail out of place–rather an added layer of dust coating every surface of the place.

I ran a finger along the top of my scratched desk, gathering a pillow of dust on top of it. And then I saw it, standing lonely and abandoned–my old radio. Glee filled me as I turned it on, reflecting the song that was already playing outside. Filling my little house with soft waves of sweet tunes, all thr while weighing my heart terribly. Strong nostalgia splitting me in two. 'I used to love dancing.' The words left my lips in a soft murmur. 'Some of my favorite memories are from this kitchen, and now. . .' My voice broke. Inspected the dust and rubbed it between my fingers, observing how it crumbled to the floor. Perhaps another meatphor–how I myself am responsible for my old life crumbling.

♪ You are my destiny

A pair of hands found my waist, a chin coming to rest on my shoulder. He pulled me close, my back thudding against a strong chest. 'Its alright. . .' He breathed against my neck. 'We can make new ones.' Kissing my skin softly as he began moving with the music.

♪ When you hold my hand

My lips curled into a smile as I declined my head against his chest, snaking my hand behind his neck as the other fell on top of his hand, squeezing it with gratefulness. 'Thank you.' I whispered.

♪ I understand the magic that you do

He twirled me around, luring a giggle to erupt. He caught and pulled me close again, this time face to face. His eyes were still so clear, such a stark contrast to his muddled skin.

♪ You're my dream come true

The lyrics seemed to speak for us as my fingers interlocked behind his neck, my thumbs brushing his jaw. While his hands squeezed my sides, exhaling a long breath as we swayed, his eyes intently searching mine. 'I love you, sweetheart.'

♪ My dream come true

Without hesitation, my lips met his. 'Then prove it to me Coop. . .' Coyness tugged on my lips, my hands sliding to the buttons of his vest, '. . . Let me feel it.'

♪ Oh-oh, only you

He grinned against my lips. 'Anyhtin' for my girl.' And his hands wrapped around mine, helping them unbutton his clothes, skiding them off of him. Barechested as he was, he twirled me again. Back to chest, he whispered in my ear, 'Your turn, darlin'.'

♪ Can do, make all this change in me

Gladly, with my hands still guided by his touch, I brushed them along my torso, undoing every button of my shirt as I did so and slid it off my shoulders, my bra coming off next. He cupped them eagerly, a groan leaving his lips as he massaged them. Ingiting a pulse deep in my uterus. The music seemed to tune out off my mind, selective hearing I suppose.

Moaning in response, I could feel him harden as he pressed his hips into my ass. 'Need to feel it.'

'Undress.' Was all he said, removing his own clothes as I did mine.

A short moment later, he had my back pinned against a wall and my legs wrapped around his hips as he held me up with a firm arm around my waist–the other busy lining himself up with my core.

Suddenly- he pushed inside, leaving me as a whimpering mess. 'Good girl, sweetheart. . .' He whispered, doing nothing to ease the aching matter. '. . .sound so pretty for me.'

And without warning, he pulled out, and thrusted back into me again with full force. 'Mmh- Fuck!' I cried out. But his lips were on mine before I could fully register how big he was. Again and again, he trusted right into my core. His tongue fighting for control as it battled my own. My body was aching with a burning want for him, a need so strong I already felt myself closing in on my orgasm. '. . .'M gonna cum, Coop. Slow down, p- please. I stuttered the words, strained breaths dividing the sentence.

'Its ok sweetheart, you're doin' so well.' He reassured me, then took my words as a direct command and pushed us off the wall, walked over to the bed and threw us onto it with a cloud of dust kicking up around us.

Obiding my request, he backed up, hooked my legs over his shoulders and re-entered me with a shuddering moan. The feeling of my core effecting him as badly as his member effected me. With one hand burried in my hair, the other palmed a breast while his lips found my neck, gently taking my skin between his teeth as he pushed so deep inside me I almost screamed, but managed to bite my lip to keep quiet. That's when I felt him shake his head against me. 'Don't go all quiet, let me hear ya', honey.'

And so I did, releasing a string of curses disguised as moans while I wrapped my arms around his neck, placing kisses on his cheek while nuzzling my face against him. But I felt that blinding pressure building again, slower this time, but with an unrelenting force.

His warm breaths against my neck accompanied by the feeling of him inside me and the slick sound we created had my head swimming. It was too much, too fast. But this time, I wanted it. '. . .'M close Coop.' I whimpered.

'Me too, honey. Real fuckin' close.' He panted, voiced muffled as he kissed and sucked at my neck, hands fisting my hair and squeezing my breast. His thrusts began faltering as we both approached climax. 'Fuck, feel so good.' He cursed, groaning the words in my ear as our bodies rocked together, moving in sync. I was aflame, the pulsing in my body acting the accessory to his own members pulsing inside me. My eyes screwed shut, he felt so fucking good it was a simple reflex.

He kissed his way along my throat, pulling on my hair to angle my jaw for him, his lips trailing along it's sharps points, then up my cheek, settling in my lips. 'Look at me.' He breathed.

I wanted to listen to him, but my eyes did not. The pleasure was to much, the wall inside me so near collapsing-

'Look at me, sweetheart.' He ordered again, his voice sharper this time.

Having no other option I forced myself to open them. But it was worth it, listening to Cooper always was.

'Good girl.' He praised, his lips colliding with mine. And that wall burst, his words being the final battering ram. Tidal waves of pleasure rolled through me, roiling like crashing waves inside me. 'Love you, sweetheart.' He moaned.

No words would ever spur me on like those ones did, my uterus was quaking with every act of him. 'Say it again.' I pleaded.

'I love you' he whimpered. . . Whimpered. Strong and dangerous as he was, he whimpered as he came inside me. His rocking thrust strained as he continuing rutting into me, doing his best to lead us through our orgasms.

'Good boy, Coop. Again. . . Please.' I begged.

And he listened, repeating the words "I love you" against my lips, his voice pitching and breaking from the sheer pleasure he was submitted to. And when moving to softly nip at my ear, he whimpered those same three words in my ear over and over again until I felt a wetness on my cheeks–tears, I realised. He was overstimulating himself, crying as he made love to me. 'Fuck-' he shuddered the word, the slickness he'd created only coaxing more sounds out of him. 'Love you real fuckin' hard, darlin'. . .' He cried again. And I could've reached a second orgasm from that alone.

'I love you too Coop, love you so much. Youre so good to me.' I reassured him, my own voice near a cry as he was putting me through the ringer in the process. Finally, he began slowing down, his entire body shuddering from the way my insides clenched around him, milking the juies out of him. He kissed me one final time, then pulled out and collapsed beside me.

I had to take a moment to collect myself before turning to face him, my hand reaching up to brush the wetness from his cheeks.

His eyes met mine, both full of unconditional love. We laid like that for some time, loosing ourselves in eachothers gazes as we regarded one another in silent contemplation. All the while I could feel his seed leaking out of my core. 'You're a good man, Cooper Howard.' I whispered.

'I do what I can to deserve ya', sweetheart. The day I'm anythin' else but good to you-' He began. But I stopped him, not wanting his thoughts to walk down that road.

'You'll never be anything but good, Coop.' I inclined my head, kissing him softly before I nuzzled my head into the crook of his neck. 'Don't forget it.' My voice a murmur against his strong neck as I slowly drifted off to sleep within the safety of his embrace.

♪ We'll meet again

Hand in hand, our gazes stay on the halls infront of us as we walk back the way we came.

♪ Don't know where, don't know when

My eyes were on the sand as we left, attempting to distract myself by studying the way the the kernels dent beneath my weight. But with a deep breath, I stop and raise my pip-boy clad arm, looking back toward the falling night, toward the empty timecapsule.

♪ But I know We'll meet some sunny day

The words once again faint as they stab through the howling wind. I turn a kog on the pip-boy, and the vault door rolls into motion. The world around us painted in red-pinkish hues as the door's mechanics shut in the echoing vocals completley, the entrance closing with a heavy, reverberating grating sound.

I can feel my heart thudding hard, beating with a sadness and re found happiness. Revisiting my old home had given me melancholy and a new love. 'You coming?' The voice was soft, considering–unwilling to leave my mind wandering through old, lonely thoughts.

'Let's go.' I murmured, my eyes still on the weathered number 33 as the wind whipped at my cheeks.

'Look at me, sweetheart.' my love drawled, gathering my attention, and I redirect my gaze to his. 'We'll come back.'

I nod. 'We will.' A faint smile make its way to my lips as I stood on my toes to place a kiss on his lips.

Then, with his hand in mine, we wandered the wasteland. Searching for better luck–a better life.

[doomandgloomfromthetomb]

Sonic Youth - CBC Studio Q & Massey Hall, Toronto, Ontario, June 30, 2009

Holy schizophrenia, Batman — we're in the homestretch of our #SonicSummer trip, which began way back in May of this year. Here we join Sonic Youth on tour promoting The Eternal, their final studio album (of "songs" anyway). It's a strong LP with some interesting fresh wrinkles — more group vocals, hard-hitting grooves and that rarest of rare things, a Lee Ranaldo-centric single. But when I want to revisit these songs, I head for the live stuff — specifically the officially released Berlin show. It smokes!

This day in Toronto smokes, too, kicking off with a unique Lee/Thurston duo situation in CBC's Studio Q. (A little content warning — the host here is Jian Ghomeshi, who would later be exposed as a total creep.) "Unplugged" maybe but far from folkie. After that, Sonic Youth hit the venerable Massey Hall for an Eternal-heavy set, the band sounding very energized by the new material. Highlights include a rip-roaring "Calming The Snake" and a beautifully extended "Massage The History," a great showcase for Kim Gordon's more-hushed vocal stylings.

Things close out with that aforementioned Lee-led "What We Know" — a totally sweet ride across the great divide that would've no doubt been a live standard if the band had lasted longer — and "Death Valley 69," Sonic Youth spiraling into the heart of darkness one more time. Hit it!

[ooops-i-arted]

Look, I know only like 5 people including myself care about Cara Dune The Character, but season 3 really missed a chance to give her a good character arc that could mirror a "redemption" arc for Din. (This assumes the show actually goes into that instead of solving it in two episodes.)

Cara may only be a secondary character but she's been one of the more significant ones, and she has had a lowkey character arc + character development each season.

Season 1: Drifter with no purpose/no longer caring finds something to stand for and rekindles her desire to fight the Imperials. She goes from an opponent to a trusted friend for Din. At the end she starts to set down roots on Nevarro.

Season 2: She's been actively helping clean up Nevarro and has found purpose in helping protect its people and continuing to fight Imps. She accepts a role of New Republic Marshal despite previously leaving the New Republic because she felt it "wasn't what she signed up for." She still prioritizes Din over her New Republic duties.

In season 3 we get the see the New Republic up close. Cara would've been the perfect character to see it through. She knew the Rebellion and fought for the same future as Luke, Han, and Leia. We could have seen Coruscant through her eyes, perhaps starting with her being honored for capturing Gideon. At first she sees the good intentions and glitter on top, but slowly the layers are peeled back. Perhaps she sees conflict in what to do about Gideon and is ignored when she says how dangerous he is. Maybe she mentions Nevarro, or the scattered Mandalorians, and is told "the Outer Rim isn't our business" and she questions why they're bothering to patrol it. She gets a medal for her actions but her input isn't valued by those in the Core Worlds. She starts to get disillusioned again - she has been "redeemed" in the eyes of the New Republic, but she sees the same things that caused her to leave ("protecting delegates, suppressing riots" instead of fighting the evil of the Empire and its ideals) creeping back and no one is listening to her try to help her friends back in the Outer Rim by offering the perspective of someone who's been there.

Cara potentially could've faced conflict if the New Republic went so far as to take up a position against the Mandalorians or she was required to go against her friend Din in this season or future ones. Maybe this once again leads to her striking off on her own - but this time she isn't a lone drifter but has a community to return to. Maybe Greef funds her own independent anti-Imperial militia based on Nevarro. Or, Cara becomes an ally working with the Mandalorians with Din vouching for her. This could also mirror an arc of Din learning to walk his own path, on his own terms, as a Mandalorian.

Perhaps Cara could even choose to become a Mandalorian herself, and finally finds peace in belonging in a new community in a way she hasn't experienced since she was on Alderaan with her own people. If the showrunners decide they have to have a romance, this would slot in a LOT more smoothly imo than "Bo and Din are allies using each other and things are tense whoops Bo's character suddenly got half-erased so we can pretend she was always straight heroic and now she and Din are friendsies." (Tbh my first choice is ace Din in canon, but I do like some Caradin and it's because they have a strong friendship.)

Anyway I'm really sad about Cara Dune being written out of the show because I think they could've done some really exciting things with the character. Cara Dune's song was not ready to be ended. Although season 3 in general makes me kinda glad she escaped.

[septembersghost]

in a timeline where Elvis had been in good health and lived longer or even was still alive! what do you think might've happened with his career?

this is a great question, and i love it despite it also making me unspeakably sad. obviously so many things would have to change for this to happen, and there are endless hypotheticals that can be asked about him - what if he'd gotten, and been willing to accept, help with the pills and his other struggles, what if he hadn't been trapped in vegas, what if he'd left parker, what if he had had the chance to make dramatic pictures and choose/record more music that inspired him rather than the movies and soundtracks he ended up having to do for so long, what if he hadn't been drafted, what if his mother hadn't died when she did - any one of these changing potentially changes the whole course of his life. but let's say nothing is different except he's healthier and survives. keep in mind elvis would've only been 45 in 1980, and, all things being equal, his voice would still have been strong and clear and beautiful. i don't think he's the type of person who ever would've wanted to stop creating and performing. the 80s gets us into an interesting time with music, disco fizzles out, a bunch of fresh rock and pop and country sounds rise and flourish, hip-hop begins to enter the mainstream. another big thing that happened was the revitalization of broadway, with particularly flashy, sweeping musicals. barbra streisand, who'd primarily been recording various forms of pop as it shifted for a good decade or so, along with her successful film soundtrack music, returned to her roots and released the broadway album in 1985 (one of my albums of all-time), when el would've been 50, and it was seen as a gamble, but turned out to be a huge hit. elvis may not have been a musical theatre performer in that sense, but he had a natural affinity for drama and flair, so it'd be cool to know if he would've taken to any of that or incorporated aspects of it (in my head, he'd totally enjoy the phantom of the opera). the rock sounds, the r&b, the fusions in pop and country, all of that would've piqued his interest, i think, because he was so passionate about music and was so skilled (and such a sponge for it across genres) at adapting it. so he could've experimented with new sonic forms, kept expanding his abilities and repertoire. i'd love to imagine that he'd have flown away out of vegas and finally gotten to tour the way he wanted. i even think he would've added innovation to the culture and music happening at the time. if he'd remained well and found creative outlets that inspired him, it's something he could've kept going on and building for a long while. i feel certain he would've done more gospel records too eventually, while still staying current at the same time. i imagine any of that would've somewhat altered how his legacy has been viewed, especially the wrongfully disparaging commentary. maybe he'd be like some of the other artists we've seen, paul, elton, bob dylan, billy joel, and so on, and kept playing well into his 70s. maybe eventually he'd have retired instead and taken time for himself (and you asked career specifically, but i hope he could've found some personal peace and love that he kept looking for too), but...part of me really does think he never could've left making music or being onstage and sharing that love and energy with an audience, as long as he was able. he would've found those songs to keep singing. which is what he did do in life. if only he'd had more time.

kind of off-topic/an aside, but i honestly believe he'd be so, so touched, and so amused regarding some things (i simply know he'd dissolve into that contagious laughter), that the young women on the internet, even a generation behind me, (after i explain the internet to him, i will tell him <3) are listening to and watching, and writing and reading about, and making countless fanvids and edits/gifs/etc for him in 2023. i hope in 2027, when he's been gone for fifty years, all the fans right now, new and old alike, still hold onto part of what they're currently experiencing. there's something indescribably wholesome about it (even in the thirst posting tbh, because it's still his power?!). i just cannot fathom any current star having this effect decades later, including the ones i adore. not because they aren't great, not because they aren't creating wonderful, lasting work, they undoubtedly are, but so much has shifted in how we absorb and keep and pass that on which alters it along the way. elvis' status as the best-selling solo artist of all time could *maybe* be broken eventually (although it's not in the foreseeable future), but it won't actually be comparable because streaming and everything within the industry has vastly changed. another difference, unfortunately, also lies in the tragedy. i hope our current young musicians have long careers and carve out happy, peaceful lives free of as much of that torment as possible, but the immense sadness and mythic rise and fall of it all are why we culturally still cling so much to certain people - as i've oft mentioned with EP, MM. to those eternally young and heartbreaking figures. if they'd experienced recovery, and lived the long, contented lives we wish they had, would we be this captivated by them now? or do we look into the abyss of their absences and hold them closer to keep them alive, to understand and feel that connective empathy? it's deeply human nature to be drawn to trying to understand the shadow of that darkness chasing their light. we want them to live and we can't give it to them, so we find ways to bring them to life instead.

i wish he was here to know how beloved he is, and i wish he was here because it would mean the trajectory of his life was far more gentle. i wish he was here to laugh with us about it and see us singing and dancing along to his music as if it was brand new, but i do believe he often looks down at us like:

[lgcsaem]

✰ … HAPPY FEET. just call him mumble ( solo ).

misaki has always loved to perform, the urge to take center stage innate to his very core, prevalent from his very first memories on this earth— there isn't any room to hesitate, no reason to hold back, not when he's so eager, determined, but most of all, ecstatic, to put himself on display. it's something he's done for years now, both before his time as a trainee and especially so now.

his capabilities with dancing, while having already been solid, have come a long way, his stiffer, prim foundations taking surprisingly well to the wilder, more involved choreographies often excepted of male idols and trainees. maybe that's in part to finally being allowed to let himself go more while under legacys watchful eyes, no longer held back by the restrictions a more classical genre was ruled by. it's all still technical, still intricate and taxing on the body, but it's fun.

fun, underneath it all, is what he lives for— freedom and energy and fun.

his song choices weren't ones he needed to heavily deliberate on, clear winners springing to his mind almost immediately.

even before he'd been required to pick a song he felt best showcased his best skill, hot sauce was a routine he'd already known like the back of his hand. it was loud, attention-grabbing from the start, cool— it allowed for a fairly large range of skill to be shown, certain segments requiring strong but precise movements, while others needed more relaxed, but still involved, actions. it's a little different from what he believes nknd will ultimately be, a choice he's not sure if anyone would have expected him to pick, a bit grungier, rebellious, but the same energy is there ( it's just in a different font ).

go big or go home was energetic, but energetic in a way that felt like fun for the whole crew, just as misaki needed it to be— a track that still allowed for bouncing movements while also showcasing interesting formations and duo ( and sometimes, even trio! ) moments throughout. it's a dance track, through and through, a great b-side he would've killed to have his own group originate, but it's not as intense as hot sauce. light without being too bright, tame while still delivering an impressive dance break, and somewhat adjacent to the funky fresh beats carried in new kidz on the block— yeah, this is a song he'd have wanted for himself, and he makes it known throughout every second of his performance.

[acecreamcone]

Warning: Below, I will be talking about The Marvels a lot, and I do mean a lot. It might be a little rambling. I just needed to get it all out. I wasn't sure what to expect going in. I really didn't want to believe all the negativity surrounding it, but I am so happy I went!

Firstly, Nick Fury's ability to instantly vibe with all the Marvels? Him and Kamala giving each other little smirks while fighting was just great. They didn't even know each other. Him and Carol must have chats over coffee every weekend. They have to. Monica immediately going into immense detail about her switching theory and Nick listening to every word while fighting off a Kree soldier. I loved it.

The Flerken kittens! That scene set to Cats' Memory? The pure joy that scene brought me! I feel like on paper it would be a scene I'd be skeptical about but how could I not adore it?

I have yelled so much about Carol Danvers' ballgown. I wish we had more instances like this. Heroines should have the opportunity to be feminine and beautiful and badass if they want. I'm so glad we got this scene. I wish it was longer though. I understand it could be because of the short runtime (and it's probably very subjective) but when I heard about the musical element I expected at least one full length song that would've been stuck in my head for days after.

The dynamic the team had was awesome. You could tell they were having fun with each other training and figuring out the switching, but I'd like to think half of that was just genuinely having a good time. I do wish we got a little bit more into the emotional bits though, like how Kamala felt leaving behind the Skrulls and seeing this new side to hero life and her idol, or how Monica felt like she'd been abandoned. Even Carol's reaction to Monica sacrificing herself. I suppose you could say she felt like she had to be strong for Kamala or that she still had a job to do in reviving Hala's star, but even then, I thought when we saw her doing that, we might've got a shot of her letting her emotions out, breaking down or screaming in sheer agony or willpower to honour Monica like this.

I really liked Kamala's introduction in the movie. I'm glad they kept the animations and comic strip sequences for her because they were one of my favourite parts of her show. It was different, fun and light just like her. It might've been nice to see it be carried on throughout the movie but I get how it might not have fit the tone. Maybe in the lighter scenes like when they were training and dancing on Aladna, although there were a few cartoony sparkles there. We already know Kamala's fangirl brain was going wild so I feel like it could've really added to it seeing the scene in her point of view with a few more effects added to it.

Valkyrie and Carol were something I didn't expect but that I could easily get behind. I'd like more exploration of them because as far as I can remember, they only met and fought together in Endgame, so I'd like to know what went on between then and now. I want to know the story. I want to see them growing closer. I want to see more of them.

Overall, I just loved so much of this movie. Was it perfect? No, but no movie is. Still doesn't mean it wasn't a fun time or that I'm not looking forward to a second watch.

[veliseraptor]

If ILCBT Xue Yang outlived his daozhangs do you think he'd revert, or attempt to stick with his vague estimations of what they probably would have wanted, or start with the second and slide into the first, or...

oh boy, this is a good question and one that Xue Yang has never considered because in his head it's just a straight up given that he's going to die first. like, that's not even a question for him, particularly since Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan both have at least decent odds of cultivating to immortality if they try and certainly are strong enough to live longer lives, and that's...not out of reach for Xue Yang but his lifespan is almost certainly going to be truncated relative to theirs (on account of both rough living for years, the fact that he's very hard on his body generally, and the demonic cultivation/general historical lack of investment in making an effort in that direction). like, he's going to live longer in this verse than he would otherwise (already has!) and probably longer than your average non-cultivator, but even if he doesn't die violently (and that's still kind of low-key his assumption, warranted or not) his ability to survive to an old age is...dubious.

but say hypothetically that he's wrong about that...the next question is how the other two go down. if they die peacefully then that's one thing; if they die because they get killed that's something else.

(if they were killed by a person there is no power on earth that would keep him from absolutely shredding them. and making it really, really, really hurt, for a while. and then bringing them back from the dead so he can keep going. there are limits! and if his daoshi are going to be disappointed then they can damn well show up and do something about it. and if he ended up getting arrested/executed for it I think he'd consider it worth it and not the worst outcome.)

but generally speaking and in a broader sense, I don't think he'd...go completely off the rails in either case. at that point he'd have longer living with the moral guidelines/guardrails than without them, so if it's not natural or intuitive it's at least more familiar than not. and depending on how far this is in the future, a-Qing is still very much a present tether in this universe, too. so while I think some things would probably slip a little, I don't think he'd actually drop right back into all his old habits.

like...if somebody did something that really pushed his buttons and pissed him off, I think it'd be a lot dicier for him to not react more violently than he would've had there been actually present daoshi figuratively over his shoulder, but I think the habit would still be there going "that's not what we do, remember" that would hold him off from acting purely on impulse.

I have a lot of feelings basically about the fact that I think...okay, morality and ethics don't come to Xue Yang automatically or easily, it's not how he thinks and for a long time he didn't really make an effort to change that. but the thing is that that's something you can learn, and with learning come to make habits that stick. you're establishing a new way of thinking and with familiarity and custom that can become...not automatic, maybe never automatic, but something that does surface in a way it wouldn't have otherwise. and that's kind of what I see Xue Yang doing, or starting to do, in Yi City - not consciously, but at least partly through necessity of needing to behave as though he is A Not Suspicious Non-Murdery Human Being for a long time, but also because it turns out that he likes some of the results of putting in that effort.

but then everything comes crashing down and the changes haven't taken strong enough of hold to keep him from turning to what's still more comfortable and familiar. when he's distressed and confused and I think surprised by how much Xiao Xingchen's anger is hitting him in a bad way, Xue Yang knows how to hurt people. that's safe, and easy, and comforting, and what's always worked for him before.

but in this universe there's much more time put into that work, and significant rewards for doing it, and so I think he becomes less and less likely to make that reversion, because it's no longer so much what he knows best; it doesn't so much define what's served him well.

honestly I think the hardest part for Xue Yang might well be not just fuckin. bringing them back from the dead anyway. yeah they'll be mad about it probably but whatever, they'll get over it right???? it'd take some serious work on both Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen's part to get him to promise to not do that and even then it'd be hard to resist the temptation if he thought there was a remote possibility of it working.

[queerofdenial]

have fun (that is if you actually do this 🤨):

molly cobb

ava daniels

kathryn janeway

judith jones

bestie i hope you have a warm pillow tonight bc having to "least favorite" any of these blorbos hurts

questions are:

favorite thing about them

least favorite thing

brOTP

OTP

nOTP

random headcanon

unpopular opinion

song i associate with them

"here’s to selfish pricks, ‘cause we move the ball forward for mankind."

she's wholly uncompromising about who she is and what shes capable of, but still takes criticism and grows as a person! her confidence and ego are 100% earned and never feel like a Strong Woman Schtick

she had to keep walkin' straight into the destroying thing, didn't she. god damn hero.

i want an entire season of molly and patty mercury 13 backstory

molly x margo would have the best gay enemy sex and i would be so amused (but not as much as molly would) by stoned!margo

honestly don't think there are enough bad ships on famk, i adore wayne

she definitely spent months actively hitting on margo when she started ascan training just to annoy her. she and patty probably placed a bet on it.

she should've been stricter with the guys, and margo was right to fire her

hypnotized by fleetwood mac (second song on my molly x margo playlist)

"...you don't know where a woman gets fingered?"

i love that she's a wreck. i love that she overshares as a way to push people away because in reality she's lonely as hell and scared of true connection. i love that she uses generational stereotypes as jokes for the bit (and to rib at deb) when in reality she could really not give a damn. i love that she does drugs. i love that none of those things change the fact that she's talented and hardworking and fucking thriving. i love that she and i have the same relationship with growing up a gay loser with conservative parents in a new england suburb. i love that she's hot and spreads chocolate on her tiddies when she forgets shes wearing pants.

i hate that shes not real. jk, my least favorite thing is that she cannot for the life of her keep it in the drafts.

carl and hannah get along so well that every time ava and marcus interact i just knoooooow they want to genuinely admit to liking each other. i want more.

avadeb has in fact had my heart from day 1 and that will never change (its not gonna be canon you stupid sluts...ruby's cool too)

ava x not being woken up for breakfast

she's actually allergic to dogs and sucks it up for barry and cara only

unpopular opinion is that i am looking forward to seeing her absolutely thrive in season 3

kitchen light by xana

"There are three things to remember about being a starship captain: keep your shirt tucked in, go down with the ship… and never abandon a member of your crew."

everything about janeway is my favorite thing about janeway, but especially what i said to you the other day about her being a woman and a captain but never feeling like a caricature of either or the other. her leadership feels different than the other pre-disco captains, but it's never tokenism.

she's got a questionable taste in men. also generally too nice to aliens that usually want to kill her.

if they were stuck in the delta quadrant any longer, tom paris would've named his second kid after her (maybe he already did? who knows what went on on that planet)

j7! i'm always a sucker for a former drone x person who gave the drone their name (a shortened version of their designation). also this (x)

sorry mutuals but ch*kotay takes the cake on this one by a mile

she thinks about that puppy q almost gave her pretty often on voyager, and has programmed a dog into every holodeck program she runs. when they get back to earth she adopts one of the puppies her old dog had from her ex. she names it neelix.

she made the right call with tuvix

all the things you are frances faye

"i'll be your eyes." "what?" "i'll. be. your. eyes."

above anything else, she does the work and supports the people she thinks are worthy, she thinks have something important to say, regardless of prestige. she's cute as a button and loyal to a fault and is exactly the right amount of talented and full of grace and humility for what she does.

she maaaaaay need to start learning what professional boundaries are (mainly irt how much of peoples' personal issues she can carry on her lonesome)

i could watch an entire season of judith and paul attempting to bake bread using the scientific method

blanchejudith my beloved. my milfiest ship. my repression central. my women who desperately need a weekend in vermont.

if julia/judith was a thing ig i do not want to see

i have lots of headcanons ab the cabin in vermont and how she uses that space to better both her editing and her writers' work

i don't think there are enough people in this fandom for anything to be controversial? she is an absolute gem

slip away clarence carter

[highwaytothedangerzone502]

India Lima Yankee - Chapter 9

Pairing: Rooster x Female OC

Word Count: 1374

Warnings: None

Summary: Juliette Kazansky discovers Maverick is back in town for a special training detachment, but she's more than a little blindsided when her Rooster arrives too. Having not spoken to him for almost ten years after their less than amicable break-up, Juliette can only imagine how the next few weeks are going to play out when she remains head over heels in love with him while he wants nothing to do with Juliette other than to forget her.

Or so she thinks.

Notes: Chapters in italics are flashbacks.

Chapter Songs: Just Want You To Know Whatever It Takes Nothing

Chapters: Chp 1 Chp 2 Chp 3 Chp 4 Chp 5 Chp 6 Chp 7 Chp 8 Chp 9 Chp 10 Chp 11 Chp 12 Chp 13 Chp 14 Chp 15 Chp 16 Chp 17 Chp 18 Chp 19 Chp 20 Chp 21 Chp 22 Chp 23

"Crash and burn, huh, Bradshaw?" Hangman teased with an arrogant smirk that Rooster wanted nothing more than to punch off his perfectly chiseled face.

Ignoring the insult, Bradley said, "Not as hard as your wingman did today."

"Not my fault he couldn't keep up."

"That what you're gonna tell their families at the funeral?" He stalked off to the piano before Hangman could muster up a response. From the corner of his eye, Rooster noticed Juliette walk back into the bar with Phoenix at her side. The two girls were grinning from ear to ear, the unmistakable sparkle of mischief in their eyes while they laughed. They joined Hangman at the pool table, where Rooster could overhear his ex say, "Teach me how to play?"

"Of course, sweetheart." Hangman handed Juliette a pool stick. "By the end of the night, you'll be a pro."

Rooster bit back a smile. If Jake only knew… For the first three rounds, Bradley watched Juliette struggle to hit the balls into the pocket, Hangman guiding her with his hands and body on how to shoot. Rooster's heart constricted more and more the longer he watched them, aching to be in Jake's position for once, to have his hands on Juliette, to be the one she flashed her beautiful blue eyes and bright smile at. To be honest, Rooster would've despised seeing any guy get that close to Juliette, but his rivalry with Hangman made it a thousand times worse. To rub salt in the wound, Juliette appeared to be falling hook, line, and sinker for his southern charm, even if she was about to hustle him at pool.

Rooster admired Juliette from afar. Seeing her last night knocked the breath out of him. At first, he hadn't been able to tell if it was her. Between the crowd blocking his view a majority of the time and with her back to him the few times he could catch glimpses of her, Rooster hadn't been able to confirm it was Juliette until he approached the bar, her signature, wavy blonde hair tumbling down her shoulders, her shirt and skirt hugging her curves that Rooster remembered all too well from their nights together. He recognized the small scar on her shoulder from a motorcycle accident she'd been in when a driver knocked her off the bike. He'd damn-near lost his mind when he found out, paralyzed with fear over losing her like he'd lost his mom and dad. He refused to leave her side until she forced him to get on his original flight to head to the academy, reminding him how long he'd been trying to get into the Navy. And then Juliette had spoken his name, sounding strong and wholly unfazed by his appearance, and that's when he knew he could never make up for what he did. No amount of apologizing could ever repair the fracture in their relationship. It'd take a miracle, and miracles didn't run in his family.

Then Juliette showed up at training- the last place Rooster expected her to be- looking like a God damn model. Throughout his time knowing her, Jules had never failed to have her hair and makeup done, no matter how ill or upset she was, but something about her outfit and composure put her on a completely different level today. Or maybe it was just because Rooster never stopped loving her, despite what he'd made her believe, and seeing her again reminded him of this with more force than any Gs he'd ever experienced. Juliette had a hold on him he'd never been able to shake. No girl could ever come close to her, and Rooster doubted any girl ever would.

"If looks could kill, Hangman would have a thousand daggers in him right now," Phoenix observed, sliding onto the piano bench next to Rooster. "Seriously, how do you two know each other? And don't tell me old acquaintances."

Realizing he couldn't avoid this forever, especially after Phoenix picked up on his grudge against Maverick earlier, he caved. "Jules is my ex. Long-time friend to long-term girlfriend. I planned on proposing to her, but before I did, long story short, I found out she knew Maverick was going to pull my papers and didn't try to stop him or warn me. I went ballistic on her. Stormed out and never looked back. The shitty thing is, everything she told me that day was true, and I couldn't take it. Not from her."

"What exactly did she say?"

"That I was reckless and not ready to be a pilot, that I'd end up in an early grave, and she didn't want my funeral to be the next one she attended. I didn't want to admit she was right back then, but she was. She's still right. I get reckless when people get under my skin. It may take a lot for it to happen, but once it does…"

"Like how you were flying with Maverick today," Phoenix remarked, leaning back on her arms. "When was the last time you two talked? I mean, before you two saw each other yesterday."

"The day of the fight," Rooster mumbled, feeling foolish and stupid. Before his friend could get onto him about it, he continued, "She called me about a year after we broke up, and when I drunkenly called back, I heard an unfamiliar guy in the background. I panicked and hung up. Then, cue my Top Gun graduation, I saw her there and tried to find a time to talk to her, but she high-tailed it out of there after the ceremony. Found out later on that she started dating one of my peers afterward."

"Does she know you tried calling her?"

Rooster shook his head, pressing a few random keys and trying to figure out what song, if any, to play. "No. I never told her. I didn't see the point."

"I know she's your ex and all and that you still love her, but if she's stupid enough to fall for Hangman's charms-"

"She's not," he interrupted, a surge of protectiveness coursing through him at Phoenix's words. Juliette wasn't stupid. Far from it. Something about her interactions with Hangman, as flirty and handsy as the two were together, made Rooster believe Juliette hadn't fallen for Jake completely. Not yet. Otherwise, the couple probably wouldn't even be at the Hard Deck right now. Still didn't mean he liked seeing her with Hangman. "Jules is a pool shark. She could absolutely whip Hangman's ass at the game. She's just leading him into a false sense of security before she strikes. Her dad, brothers, and Maverick all taught her how to play. She can more than hold her own against any one of us."

Phoenix beamed impishly. "I want to watch this."

"No, you want to make money off it," Rooster corrected, staring pointedly at her with an entertained smile.

"You don't?" she countered.

"I'm going to respect Juliette's wishes and keep my distance."

"Did she say outright that's what she wanted?"

"No, but she didn't need to. I still know Juliette well enough to know when she doesn't want to be around someone."

"The looks she keeps sending this way say otherwise, and I'm not going to let you wallow in a self-pity party or miss out on the fun," Phoenix declared, standing up and grabbing Bradley's hand. She dragged him over to the pool table, where the rest of the group had assembled. While he positioned himself as far away from his ex as possible, Phoenix grabbed a pool cue and said, "Hey, Juliette, want to be my partner for a game?"

"Sure. Maybe you can make up for my skill," Juliette said.

"I've got your back." The two girls shared a look missed by the other pilots, one that said they were absolutely about to demolish Hangman and Coyote. Phoenix convinced both players, along with Payback and Fanboy, to pay her and Juliette a hundred dollars each if they won the game. The boys, whole-heartedly believing the girls couldn't pull off such a feat, readily agreed. Rooster, feigning pity for his friend and ex, offered up his own money and bet on them. Internally, he had a hundred percent confidence that they'd beat Hangman. Bob, not knowing any better but doing anything he could to support Phoenix, bet on her and Juliette too.

"Lady and gentleman, first," Hangman said, motioning at Juliette and Phoenix, respectively. The latter flipped him off.

"You break?" Juliette handed the cue ball to her wingman. Phoenix took it in stride, landing two solids on the first strike, followed by one more before narrowly missing sending the fourth into the pocket. The boys seemed unfazed, all of them banking on Juliette's 'novice' skills. Hangman went next, sinking four balls in quick succession. On the fifth one, he missed by a hair's breadth.

"Don't worry, just remember what I taught you, sweetheart," Hangman told her, resting both of his hands on her hips and giving her a peck on the cheek. "You've got this."

"I hope so. There's some money riding on these next few shots," Juliette replied innocently, bending down and lining up her shot. She sank the ball in the pocket, and the boys congratulated her with claps, attributing it to beginner's luck. Rooster hid his grin by taking a sip of his beer. On the second in-the-hole shot, the boys shared confused glances but repeated their clapping. Again, it had to be beginner's luck. What else could it be? 

However, by the third one, it was evident Juliette knew exactly how to play pool and, more importantly, how to win. She nailed the third ball in the pocket. The only saving grace for the boys now was the fact one of their balls blocked her from getting the fourth and final solid before the eight ball.

Juliette analyzed the situation, ignoring the jesting by Hangman, Coyote, Fanboy, and Payback. Finally, she lined up her cue with the ball, jumped it over the stripe, and knocked the last remaining solid into the pocket. The move left the boys' mouths hanging open. Even worse for them, the eight ball was in perfect position for her to hit it. Taking no mercy, Juliette struck it with ice-cold precision.

"Did we just get hustled?" Fanboy asked, staring in shock at the Admiral's daughter, who wore a shit-eating smirk as she held out her hand and motioned for Hangman to pay up.

"Well played, Kazansky," Jake replied, accepting his defeat. "Well played."

"You knew how this entire time?" Coyote demanded, counting his cash.

"Would you expect anything less from Iceman's daughter?" Juliette countered, happily taking the money being handed to her. "My dad, brothers, and Uncle Maverick taught me how to play."

"Iceman's daughter? Uncle Maverick?" Payback repeated, his eyes bulging out of his head. "Fuck me, you're Admiral Kazansky's daughter?"

"You just now making that connection?" Hangman inquired, raising an eyebrow at his comrade.

"I'm so confused right now," Fanboy remarked, shaking his head. "I'll also have to pay you back tomorrow because I don't have enough cash on me."

"What about you, Bradshaw? Did you help teach her how to play too? After all, you two are old acquaintances," Hangman stated, staring coolly at Rooster. Something about Jake's tone told the aviator his rival had discovered the truth about his past with Juliette. Hangman would only use this against him, and whatever was said next, Rooster couldn't let it get to him. "Nah. She's too good for you to have helped teach her. I bet you were playing a whole different game with her involving balls-"

"Jake," Juliette warned sharply, pointing menacingly at him with her pool stick. Had she not been standing between them, and had Hangman finished his sentence, nothing would've been in Rooster's way to stop him from lunging at the aviator and knocking his teeth out because Bradley had no doubt what the following words were going to be coming out of Jake's mouth.

"It's a game you'll never play with her if you keep opening that mouth of yours," Rooster retorted, the glass of his bottle threatening to shatter under his ever-increasing grip. 

"Boys, that's enough," Juliette said, flipping her pool stick horizontally. The movement might've appeared to others as a mindless action, but Rooster recognized that if either he or Hangman lunged for the other, Juliette could and would be able to butt them in the stomach with the end of her cue to stop them.

"My apologies, Princess," Hangman told her, lifting his hands in surrender. "Old habits die hard of teasing Rooster here. It's so easy to ruffle his feathers."

"I don't care. We're here to have fun, not a pissing match. Am I clear?"

Hangman nodded but kept his eyes trained on Rooster, the corner of his lip tugged upward into a smirk. "Crystal."

"Bradley?" Juliette said, locking eyes with him. He nodded but said nothing. She must've believed the sincerity of it, though, because she lowered her pool stick. "Thank you. Now, who wants to play another round? See if they can actually beat Phoenix and me?"

Bradley slipped away from the group while they formed new playing teams, heading to the bar and ordering another beer. If he didn't have training in the morning, he'd absolutely be drinking himself into oblivion right now. Rooster wanted to forget Hangman's hands all over Juliette, her smile at the contact, and the pain that came with the confirmation that he had absolutely no chance of getting her back. Bradley had waited too long. Time had maybe healed the gaping wound, but it had also built a defensive wall around Juliette's heart that refused to let Rooster back into her life. Of course, he didn't blame her. Their relationship ended because of him. Still, of all people, why did she have to go for Hangman? The one guy who pushed all of Bradley's buttons without ever trying? The one who would undoubtedly and unequivocally give Rooster hell for letting Juliette go once Hangman inevitably found out?

Bradley dropped his gaze from Juliette before she caught him staring at her. He pulled out his phone, finger hovering over their conversation. It only had one text, which was from Rooster himself from last night. Juliette never responded to it, not that he'd expected her to. He debated texting her a warning about Hangman, not to trust him because he would only live up to his callsign and leave her hanging, but Rooster stopped himself. Juliette held little, if any, respect for Bradley's opinion now. If he told her not to do something, she might just do it out of spite. 

"I'm sorry about Hangman," Juliette said, coming to stand next to Rooster. She kept a conservative distance between the two of them. 

"He was bound to figure us out," Rooster responded, feigning a nonchalant attitude. He stood and closed the distance between them, giving in to the urge to be close to Juliette but fighting the one to reach out for her, to hold her and never let her go again. "Be careful around him. We don't call him Hangman because he's good at the game."

"I know. Phoenix already warned me."

"And you're still going for him?"

Juliette raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him. "Is that judgment I'm hearing?"

"No, I just- he's more likely to walk out on you than form a commitment. I know his type and him, and I don't want you getting hurt."

Juliette bristled. "I know his type too. I expect him to never reach out to me after his time here is done because then I'll either be right or pleasantly surprised if I'm wrong."

"Do you want to be wrong?" The question tumbled from his lips before he could stop it. Still, Rooster had to know how deep Hangman had gotten his hooks into Juliette's heart.

"Like I said," she replied, crossing her arms, "I'll be pleasantly surprised if I'm wrong."

"You like him." He meant for the words to come out as a question, but the defensiveness in Juliette's posture and answer told Rooster the answer. The knowledge stung.

"He's not half bad when he's not around you."

"And that makes it okay?"

"No, and I'm going to call him out on his bullshit when we're alone, but I'm not going to cause a scene. I also need you to stop pretending you care about me when-"

"Who says I'm pretending?" Rooster demanded indignantly.

"How about the past nine years of silence?" The truth in her comment caused pain equal to having a knife repeatedly stabbed into his chest. Rooster wanted to come back with the fact he had reached out to her; he'd called her back, but how could Juliette confirm or deny that when Rooster hung up before he even uttered a word? 

"That's what I thought," she said, and Rooster saw the briefest flash of disappointment and hurt in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to start anything again. I promised I wouldn't berate you earlier-"

"You're not," Bradley interrupted, sensing she was about to leave. Despite their heated discussion, all he wanted was for Juliette to stay by his side tonight. His time stateside was limited, and Rooster wished to have as much time with her as he could, as much as she would grace him with at least.

"I just wanted to make sure you weren't still plotting Jake's murder after his comment earlier. You looked ready to throttle him."

"If you hadn't been between us, I would've. I know we aren't together anymore, Jules, but that doesn't mean I want to see you getting hurt, either in a jet or by a pilot who thinks he's the best thing to happen on this earth since electricity."

A ghost of a smile crossed her lips at the comparison. "I won't. Good night, Bradley."

"Good night, Jules." Rooster leaned against the bar and watched her go, his beer bottle tapping against the counter, spelling out the words he wished he could say to her but had no right to after the way he'd treated her, after the way he'd left things between them: Dot dot. Dot dash dot dot. Dash dot dash dash.

India. Lima. Yankee.

***

Tags: @lgg5989@shanimallina87@polikszena@summ3rlotus@souslesyeuxde@gleasonmalfoy @icemansgirl1999 @supernaturaldawning@thedarkinmansfield@lyannaforpresident@lapilark@getmyprettynameoutofyourmouth@simpofthecentury

[writer-in-theory]

Come Back, Be Here (Spencer Reid x Reader)

summary: a continuation of sad beautiful tragic, spencer realizes what he’s lost and is determined to prove their relationship is worth saving after all. he just hopes it’s not too late. series summary: a series of oneshots to celebrate the release of red (taylor's version). 19 songs, 19 fics. request?: no, but thank you to @fightingdragonswithreid for giving me the idea of making this a continuation of sad beautiful tragic 💜 pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst with eventual happy ending content warnings: language, mentions of divorce, post-prison!spencer, descriptions of a hospital resuscitation, mentions of getting shot, one mention of past drug use word count: 4.6k a/n: one more. i’ll see y’all tomorrow.

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“If I'd known what I know now, I never would've played so nonchalant..."

“There’s nothing left to save.”

Spencer didn’t realize his mistake right away. He had raged against you that night, letting out yells of frustration because how could you not see how much he’s hurting?

Recovery was never meant to be easy, but the longer he tried to return to his old life the more Spencer struggled to see how it would ever be possible. It felt like he was still back in prison; constantly checking over his shoulder to make sure he could survive the day, never taking anyone’s words completely at face value. He had time off of work but it hadn’t seemed to help, not in the way everyone had been hoping.

Then there was you.

When he looked at you, all he could see was your face as he was denied bail in that courtroom; the way you’d schooled your features into normalcy to give him the strength he needed, the glimpse of pain in your eyes as JJ prevented you from seeing him get handcuffed like the unsubs you’d spent so many years catching. You tried to be strong for him, to let him know that you would be okay while he did what he needed to survive.

That look from the courtroom never quite went away, after. Every time you hid what you were feeling to spare him, it sent a wave of frustration through Spencer’s body. All he wanted was his wife back, the same woman he’d known before. Spencer had expected this experience to change him, but he never once thought that it would change you. It made you a ghost of the person he knew, tip-toeing around him and hoping eventually everything would fall right back into place.

Spencer needed to be mad at someone, and you were an easy target. It was easy because you would fuel the fire. Everyone else still seemed to fear he’d break, but you’d begun arguing back. You were far too easy to shove all of his anger onto.

“You want to push me away so badly? Fine, you win.”

Spencer wished he could say he regretted the argument right away. Instead, he watched you walk out the door and didn’t feel anything but relief. Finally, he could be in his home, his safe place, and not have to worry about how he was acting. He didn’t have to wonder if you saw him as a monster, because he already knew the answer. He’d made sure of the answer.

So he’d set your ring on the dresser and climbed into bed, thinking this was the space that you two needed. Both of you had changed so much, and maybe the new versions just weren’t meant for each other.

It didn’t sink in until a week had passed.

No matter what, you had always stayed. Spencer had always been able to count on you, so he never once thought that you would leave permanently. Yes, you’d said it that night but honestly, Spencer had expected you to walk back through that door wanting to talk it out. You’d always been there, ever since that first date. It was hard to imagine a world where you weren’t there beside him.

When he woke up alone again exactly seven days after he’d last seen you, Spencer understood you were gone.

The ring felt heavier in his hands, a reminder of everything he’d willingly given up.

“Spencer,” you gasped the moment the elevator doors opened, not hesitating at all to wrap your arms around him. It was only when his arms stayed awkwardly between your bodies that your expression dropped, seeing the jacket purposefully covering his wrists and immediately knowing what restraints you’d see if you lifted it.

The walk from the jet to the BAU floor had never been so humiliating. Luke had wrapped the jacket over the cuffs, but it wasn’t hard to figure out why Spencer was there. Walking through the office, he was no longer SSA Dr. Spencer Reid, he was Spencer Reid currently being charged with murder, drug possession with the intent to distribute, and drug use. That night, he was no better than any other unsub they’d cuffed and led away.

That didn’t stop you from cradling his face with gentle hands, rubbing your thumb over a bruise on his cheek, and promising it would be okay. Spencer knew better than to think it was okay. All signs pointed to him actually being high and killing that woman, and he had no idea how to change that. For once, it truly felt like his life as he knew it was over.

“We’ll get through this, Spence,” you were telling him, over and over again until he came back to the present moment. He wanted to hold you, to apologize for not telling you about Mexico. He wanted to comfort you the way you were for him. Instead, he stood there with cuffs around his wrists and guilt shoved so far down his throat he couldn’t hope to speak.

“The team is going to figure this out, and I’ll be right here the whole time. You’re not alone, I promise.”

The words sounded like damnation on your angelic lips, as though he’d gripped your ankle tight with the intention of dragging you to brimstone with him. That night, your marriage was tainted with blood and handcuffs, with the fear of three months living in separate hellscapes.

Spencer had ruined you that night, and he was terrified for the day you figured it out.

The apartment had never felt so lonely than the morning Spencer realized how bad the argument had been.

Most of your stuff was still here, only the essentials missing. For all intents and purposes, it looked like you were only off on a temporary trip, but as he sat with your wedding ring in hand, Spencer knew you had no plans on coming back.

He’d finally convinced you of the monster he was sure resided within him. It didn’t feel like a victory, though, as much as he’d once thought it might.

It was the little things Spencer missed the most. It was waking up without a gentle good morning kiss and leaving for work without your voice telling him to be safe and come home to you. He missed trying to figure out what to have for dinner with you and he missed your quiet resilience.

He should have seen it before, the way you endured through everything. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to him, the moment you’d decided to leave the BAU. You were the strong one, the one people could count on not to crumble under stressful situations. The only time he’d ever seen your hands shake in the field had been the night he’d gotten shot; a brief moment where you’d cracked and allowed every ounce of fear you’d been holding back for years out.

Still, the next time he’d opened his eyes to you, that crack had been patched up so well it was like it had never formed in the first place.

After nearly being killed for the second time that night, and in a hospital no less, the team decided it was best for Spencer to stay with them.

They all wanted out of Texas as soon as possible, so he’d checked himself out against medical advice and allowed the team to haul him onto the jet. Everything hurt more than he wanted to admit, so the second he’d gotten to the plane he collapsed onto the one couch. Luckily no one complained.

You hadn’t been with them when the team came to get him. JJ told Spencer you were feeling guilty, the hospital staff member who tried to kill him had come by in the hour you’d left the hospital. After your own experience nearly dying in one, being around the sterile building quickly built panic up in your chest. Spencer didn’t blame you one bit, but he knew you’d feel so bad that Penelope had to fire a gun to save him, that he’d needed saving at all and you hadn’t been there.

Spencer expected to see the guilt written on your expression. For JJ to warn him, he knew it was bad. And yet, the second you stepped onto the jet, you tossed your bag onto an empty seat and sat on the couch, maneuvering Spencer’s head so it was in your lap. Your hands were gentle as they brushed through his hair, reminding Spencer of how exhausted he was.

“You can rest,” you told him, voice barely over a whisper, “you’re safe.”

Somehow, you’d known exactly what was troubling him before even he had realized it. If Spencer had been asleep when that hospital staff member had come by, he wouldn’t have survived. There would have been no way for Penelope to know he was allergic to that antibiotic.

When Spencer had died the first time, all the way back in that cabin with Tobias Hankel, he couldn’t say he had been too upset. The night he’d nearly overdosed and woke up on the bathroom floor of his apartment covered in his own sick, Spencer couldn’t say he was all too freaked out over the near-miss.

Tonight, he’d nearly lost everything twice. Your voice rang through his head repeatedly, begging him to stay awake, to stay alive long enough to marry you. Now, Spencer was exhausted but couldn’t stop fighting sleep, trying to will his eyelids to stay open a little longer. ‘Stay awake, Spencer, please open your eyes for me,’ you’d cried, and Spencer was sure he’d never forget the sound.

You stayed with him through the flight, talking until you were practically hoarse to remind him it was safe enough to rest here.

And when it was all over, neither he nor you mentioned your guilt. Spencer told himself that if you needed help, that you knew you could come to him. Instead, you endured.

“Please, Emily, tell me where she went,” Spencer practically begged, trying to keep himself from pacing about her office.

“I can’t release confidential information about employee transfers, Reid,” Emily sighed, and at least she had the sense to give Spencer a look of sympathy.

“She’s my wife!” Spencer protested, hands gesturing wildly as he spoke to give away the panic he was feeling. You had left without ever telling him where you were going. Not that he had any right to the information, but Spencer couldn’t help but worry that you were in danger wherever you ended up.

Emily shook her head, and Spencer knew this conversation was now friend-to-friend not as a boss and their employee. “She filed for divorce, Spencer,” Emily reminded him as gently as she could.

Spencer felt his expression twist up at the words, a visceral reaction to the heartbreaking situation he was in. He’d remembered the day he was served those papers, brought to the office where he had begun spending the majority of his time. He had spent that night in Derek’s spare bedroom, unable to bring those papers into the apartment you’d once shared with him.

“Neither of you was happy. Maybe this is for the best,” Emily told him, and he knew deep down that there was some truth to it. You hadn’t been happy in a long time; Spencer had seen it in the defeated expressions and hesitant touches. He’d known for a while, Spencer supposed, that things weren’t okay between the two of you. Even before he’d gone to prison, things hadn’t been okay.

The first time he’d noticed it was after you’d been shot on the job.

He hadn’t been able to sleep that night.

Spencer wasn’t able to pinpoint why, but a deep fear had settled in his gut and prevented him from drifting off.

At midnight, his phone rang. Even before he looked at the caller ID, he had a sinking suspicion. Why else would anyone be calling him at midnight? The team was split up after Emily, Spencer was separated from working at the BAU, so it wasn’t a case.

“Hello?” Spencer asked as he answered the call, trepidation making his voice shake a little.

“Is this Spencer Reid?”

“Yes, why?”

“This is Alex Roman at the Memorial Hermann Texas Medical Center. I’m calling because you were listed as the emergency contact for Y/N L/N?”

It was happening. The one thing Spencer had nightmares about for weeks was actually happening. He thought they’d made it out; you were set to come home next week. He’d already planned the surprise at the airport for you, bringing all of the team members still left in Washington.

Instead, he’d be boarding a redeye flight to Houston, wondering if you would survive a gunshot to the chest.

It took several hours to find a flight and get to Houston. By the time Spencer got there, your old teammates had all gathered in the waiting room. They seemed to know who he is, which any other time would have made his heart flutter at the fact that you’d obviously showed off pictures of him.

“How is she?” Spencer asked instead, sure his expression was as wild as his hair currently. It was the one time he wished he didn’t have an interest in statistics, the stat that there was nearly a fifty-fifty chance of survival ringing through his head like an alarm.

“She’s out of surgery and in the ICU right now,” an older man told him, “our chief is with her right now. I’ll call to let him know you’re here.”

When Spencer could only nod, the man added, “This isn’t how we all wanted to meet you, Dr. Reid.”

It was looking at the tear-stained faces of your old teammates that broke something in Spencer. This was real. He was really sitting here waiting to see if you’d recover from this. So he cried, his lip quivering and eyes squeezing shut as he tried to force away the stinging tears. “How did it happen?”

Another man sighed, the one sitting bent over in a chair. He looked more stressed than the rest, shoulders tensed. Though his hands were clean, Spencer could see blood staining the sleeves and front of his shirt. This was the man who’d found you. Spencer thought his name was Owen, one of your closer friends from the Houston team.

“We got a red signal from her. We got our extraction team together as fast as possible but by the time we got there...we heard the shot. I’m so sorry, man, we tried to protect her.”

“It’s not your fault, you don’t have to apologize,” Spencer told him, heart cracking at the image his words had conjured up. You, sitting scared in a strange apartment, holding your gun and waiting for help to come. You, seeing the lights that signaled a rescue and being shot anyway. Had you seen it coming, had enough time to register the fear of death?

Spencer thought seeing you in that hospital bed would be the worst image he ever saw. He was proven wrong when an hour later, you crashed.

It was like time had stopped.

One minute. You weren’t moving. You might’ve even looked peaceful if it weren’t for the alarms sounding from the machine beside the bed.

Two minutes. The crash team arrived. They pushed Spencer out of the room, even as he was screaming for you. He could see them through the glass of the ICU room; large hands trying to shove air back into your lungs. Needles of chemicals meant to revive your heart shoved harshly into skin.

Four minutes. The defibrillator was pulled out, charged up. Spencer winced at the sound of 3000 volts being shoved into your chest. He could lose you. Right now, this could be it. You’d said forever, that was the last thing you said to him. The last thing you ever said to him couldn’t be a lie.

Eight minutes. The machine picked up a heart rate. You were alive. There was a tube down your throat attached to a machine that was pumping air in and out of your lungs, but you were alive. The doctor told Spencer it was absolutely critical that you made it through the night. If you made it through the night, the chance of survival was good even with extubation.

So Spencer settled into the hard plastic chair in your room, knowing he would sit with you through the night and as long as it took for your eyes to open again.

Weeks turned to months, and Spencer was sure he would never recover from you.

He’d been able to figure out you were back in Houston. It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots when Penelope announced she was heading there for the week.

You were gone, back to the life you’d had before you met him. It became easier for him to picture what your life was like now. Spencer would lay in the bed you used to share, wondering what you had been up to that day.

Spencer was sure you’d gone back to fieldwork. There were times you mentioned missing it which had made him wonder why you ever left the BAU in the first place. Would you return to undercover work? Did you ever think of him too?

The ring still sat on his finger, Spencer not having the strength to stop wearing it yet. The divorce papers still sat unsigned in his office desk too, as if he were holding out hope for a happy ending. Because as time went on he realized one thing: there had been something worth saving. There was so much to save and instead he’d tossed it away. He’d forced you away.

You promised each other forever, and Spencer had ripped it to shreds. So he did the only thing he could on nights he was reminded of that fact: he remembered the forever that he had actually gotten with you, the precious moments before the fall.

The day before the wedding, Spencer was a nervous wreck.

The two of you decided to wait only until his neck was healed enough that there wouldn’t be a bandage or stitches in the wedding pictures. After dating for so long without an engagement, and after the nightmare of a case you’d experienced, neither of you wanted to wait for a second more than you needed to.

The plan had been for you to grab your dress and makeup then head over to JJ’s house for the night. The thought of being split apart for the night send anxiety straight through Spencer, but Penelope had been insistent that the bride needed to spend the night with her bridesmaids.

The next time Spencer was meant to see you would be at the end of the aisle.

He never once thought to check if you’d gotten out of the apartment before coming home.

What was an innocent mistake turned into Spencer standing in the living room, watching you cry in your wedding dress.

Ignoring the tears, you were absolutely stunning. Spencer’s lips had parted, eyes wide and filling with his own tears as he saw you in that dress. In just twenty-four short hours, you would be walking down the aisle in Rossi’s backyard in that dress, ready to become his wife.

Sometimes it didn’t feel real.

This moment, though, was horribly real. “Oh my G-d, Spencer, you saw me,” you cried, wiping under your eyes in a desperate attempt to reign in your emotions, “you weren’t supposed to see me in my dress.”

“It was just once, it’ll be okay,” Spencer immediately said, stepping forward to comfort you. His hands made their way around your waist, pulling you close to him in a tight hug.

“Now we’ll have bad luck,” you sniffled. “They say if you see me in my wedding dress then our relationship will be cursed.”

“Did you know that this idea can be traced back to the old misogynistic tradition of arranged marriages? Men weren’t to see their brides before the wedding day so they couldn’t back out of an arranged marriage based on the appearance and desirability of the woman.”

“Are you serious?” you asked, and Spencer couldn’t help but smile as he knew his last-second plan to cheer you up was working. “You’re not making that up to make me feel better?”

“I’m not making it up, I promise.”

“Then fuck that tradition,” and Spencer let out a loud laugh at that even though he’d seen it coming.

“It’s okay that I saw you in your dress?”

“Only if you tell me I’m pretty,” you teased back, wiping away the last of the tears and smiling up at Spencer in a way that had his heart melting. Sometimes it felt like he didn’t deserve you, like one day you’d wake up and realize there were so many other people who could make you happy.

“You, Y/N L/N, ar-”

“Soon to be Y/N Reid,” you interrupted with a coy smile. The name sounded heavenly on your lips. Y/N Reid. Spencer would never grow tired of hearing his last name after your first.

He laughed, shaking his head and gripping your waist a little tighter. “Don’t interrupt me when I’m complimenting you, Mrs. Reid,” he said back in a faux scolding tone. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. I wake up every day so lucky that I get to go through life by your side.”

“I love you so much, Dr. Reid,” you said back, giving his heart wings and letting it take flight in his chest. “I can’t wait for forever to begin.”

Eight months after the argument, Spencer hit his breaking point.

It was cruel to have to love like this, to miss someone so much after he was the one who sent them away. The rest of the team could see it too. He’d been slowly recovering from prison, and while he’d never be the same person he was before, he was in a better headspace.

It wasn’t the same without you there. So when the rest of the team went out for drinks, Spencer stayed in the apartment. He tried to distract himself at first. He read books, played chess, even made a solid attempt at cooking a late dinner. Nothing was enough to keep him from pulling out his phone and dialing the number he knew by heart.

He wasn’t actually expecting an answer. His breath hitched in his throat when the dial tone stopped and your voice was asking in a slightly panicked voice, “What’s wrong?”

It had been eight months since Spencer heard your voice. He stood in the kitchen and tried to imagine where you were now. Would you still be at work, or were you also at home, cooking a much more successful dinner?

“I miss you.” It was the wrong thing to say, and he knew it before you even answered.

“You told me to leave.” The words were harsh on your tongue but not altogether wrong. Spencer had told you to go, and he wished with every fiber of his being that he could take those few words back.

“I know I did,” he answered, wincing at the pained inflection entwined in the words. “Please come back.”

“I’m not uprooting my life again just for something that didn’t work out the first time.”

“Please, Y/N,” he begged, because while he was normally talkative, now Spencer couldn’t find the right words to express how much he missed her. “I can’t keep missing you like this, I need you.”

“I needed you too, Spencer,” you sighed and the words felt more like a bullet than a sentence, “and look where that got me?”

“I know, I know I messed up, Y/N. I took you for granted but I promise I will never do that ever again. If I would’ve known then...” Spencer sighed, frustrated at his own inability to get his feelings out. “I never would’ve pushed you away, Y/N. I love you, and I think I forgot that for a while, but I’ve never loved someone like I’ve loved you. I was wrong that night, there was so much to save.”

“I can’t get hurt again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We grew apart, Spencer. Sometimes that happens and it’s not anyone’s fault but we shouldn’t try to force it.”

“We could find each other again,” Spencer tried, but even as he said it he knew your answer. “Please come back, be here.”

“I’m sorry,” you echoed him, allowing a few moments of silence to pass before repeating, “I’m so sorry.”

You hung up the phone, leaving Spencer stunned. Was this how you had felt that night: cast away and discarded? No longer wanted or needed? He had well and truly fucked it up, had ruined the one thing he could always count on.

It was over, between you two. Years of loving you turned into this: Spencer curled up on the couch with a blanket, crying until he couldn’t anymore and wondering how he was meant to move on. He cried until he physically couldn’t keep his eyes open and when he awoke the next morning he went to work as normal, no one saying a word when his eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.

Three days after the phone call, Spencer woke up to a knock on his door. House visits late at night were never a good sign, so he was quick to grab his gun and head for the door.

The person behind the door wasn’t a burglar though, or some unsub desperate for revenge on him. No, it was you, standing there in sweatpants and a t-shirt he was sure had once been his. You were carrying a bag, a nervous smile on your lips.

You were still the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.

“Y/N?” he asked, wondering how she was standing here after the clear goodbye you’d given him. “Is everything okay?”

You responded with a statement that took Spencer’s breath away. “I can’t start from where we left off.”

“Okay,” Spencer said, unwilling to say anything that could potentially jeopardize what your plan was for being here. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, not when it would shatter his heart irreparably, but it did sound strangely as if you—

“But I want to be here. I want to save this.” And oh G-d, this must be what heaven feels like. “It wasn’t just you. It was you who put the final nail in, but...we both did things that got us here. We both are gonna have to put in so much effort to fix this.”

“I will,” Spencer promised immediately, feeling lighter than he had in months. There was a chance that this relationship wasn’t over. He could save this, you both could. “I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you admitted, and when your face twisted up in warning of the tears, Spencer surged forward to hold you. For the first time in ages, you were back in Spencer’s arms and it felt like he was home again. “We’ll get through this. We will.”

“Of course we will,” Spencer answered, squeezing you a little tighter, “we have forever to try.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

SERIES TAGLIST

@samuel-de-champagne-problems @alexlovescriminalminds @reidsbookclub @givemeth @fightingdragonswithreid @eurydice-but-gay @girloncorneliastreet @silverhetdanes @just-a-human-witha-pen @shemarmooresfedora @rexorangecouny @awesomebooklover17 @wintrrrsoldier

[undercoveravenger]

Be More Chill Masterlist

All of my oneshots and longer fics listed alphabetically by ship/character; just click the link to go to the fic!

Be More Chill

BMC Soulmate AU Preferences: Soulmate preferences for the boys of BMC (GN)

Michael Mell

The Boy with the Pac-Man Tattoo: For the past year, this guy in Michael's class has been glaring at him. Then the school art show comes around and he finds out why.

The Cure For A Bad Day: After a shitty day at college, Michael takes it upon himself to make your day better.

Jake Dillinger

Shy: All this time Jake had thought you didn’t like him. It turns out that you’re just shy.

Strung Out: In a world where soulmates are bound by thin red threads, you’re burdened by being able to see and alter them.

Light Up My World: You may not be the most popular guy in school, but that’s not going to stop Jake from crushing hard.

Cute Faces: This wasn't your first party, but it was the first time that Jake Dillinger had approached you at one.

Rich Goranski: Ultimate Wingman: When Rich finds out about his best friend's hopeless crush on one of the theater techs, he makes it his mission to get them together.

Pins and Patches (Michael Mell X Jake Dillinger)

No Complaints (18+): Okay, so maybe Jake wasn't entirely sure how he and Michael Mell had ended up in his room when there was a perfectly good party raging on downstairs, and maybe he wasn't exactly sure how he ended up with Michael's tongue in his mouth, but Jake certainly wasn't complaining.

Expensive Headphones (Michael Mell X Rich Goranski)

Welcome to Starbucks: Rich has been trying to flirt with the cute Starbucks barista for ages, not realizing that it was the antisocial kid with the headphones that he'd always picked on.

It All Started With Apocalypse of the Damned (COMPLETED FIC): Even the people who didn't know Rich Goranski well could tell you that he was one of the most traditionally Alpha guys to ever step foot in Middle Borough High. He was strong and stubborn and protective of those he cared about. He was aggressive when it came to chasing down what he wanted, and his family line had no shortage of Alphas. Naturally, he and everyone else expected him to present as one. There's only one problem; Rich presented as an Omega. Now that he's classed as a member of the lowest secondary gender, it seems like the world is against him. Well, all except for Michael Mell, who had essentially taken over as his best friend after the S.Q.U.I.P. situation. Michael was there for Rich when no one else was, so for them to fall for each other is almost as easy as breathing, but will it be that easy to get together and stay that way?

The Greatest Showman (WIP FIC): Michael Mell has always been better at communicating through music notes than by talking, so it was only natural that he express himself by performing song covers online. Even after his best friend abandoned him to be cool, Michael was content. He kept to himself and focused on his channel. Then when his tormentor discovers he can sing and forces him to join the school's failing Glee club, Michael's life of avoiding the spotlight comes to an end. Can he lead the club to Nationals, or will sabotage be their downfall? And will he be able to balance a relationship on top of putting an end to the S.Q.U.I.P.ocalypse?

Party for Two (18+): When Rich asked Michael to help him get back at his S.Q.U.I.P, having sex with him was the last thing that Michael would've thought that he meant. But hey, if it allowed him to get a little more information about the computer chip in his best friend's head, Michael was willing to try anything.

Never Have I Ever: When Jeremy dragged Michael to a party, he assumed he'd spend the whole night alone in the corner, not that he'd get roped into some stupid ice-breaker game with the rest of the squad. On the other hand, maybe Never Have I Ever wouldn't be so bad if Jeremy didn't know all about Michael's little crush. Secrets get spilled, shots get taken, and Michael might even get the guy!

Canine Companion (COMPLETED FIC): Rich had never told anyone that he was a shapeshifter. It was strange, and different; who could say what would happen if anyone found out. Then again, using his gift to get closer to his friend/crush Michael Mell couldn't be such a bad thing, could it?

Dating with the Stars: When Rich Goranski comes across a famous face when swiping through his matches on a dating app it's natural that he's a little skeptical, but when he messages the suspected troll, he gets more than he bargained for and lands a date with a celebrity.

[corrupt-fvcker]

Good Grief (Din Djarin x fem!Reader)

Good Grief ( Din Djarin x fem!Reader )

Warning: angst!angst!angst!, sweet ‘n fluffy ending

Word Count: 3.3K

Author’s Note: inspired by bastille's song good grief as well as this one sad poem my sister read to me a while ago that i just can't remember the name of. i originally wrote this as a din x ofc but i didn’t like it as much. 

Nothing would ever be the same. His absence like a lost limb; a supposed constant, something you relied on — but now it's missing. He's missing. And it still catches you off guard, making your heart stutter tightly in your chest with the shock of it, sharp like twisting a rusty knife. You are no longer sure of which pain was worse — the piercing shock of what happened or the longing ache of what never will.

You can still hear his voice echoing in the caves of your mind, urging you to take the Child and run. Asking you to leave him behind, granting him his wish of a warrior's death even if that meant leaving you in return.

Perhaps it was selfish, but you had refused to leave him for death. Because Din Djarin was not the Grim Reaper's to take. He was Mando, your Mando. The father of your adopted green child that ate frogs and almost killed Cara with some sort of fucking magic because he thought she was hurting his dad. The Mandalorian that removed his layers of beskar so that you could feel something new, something other than cold cuffs around your wrists and the incessant emptiness that had hollowed out your chest all those years ago. The man that trusted you with his entire life despite your reputation of being dishonest and greedy. Din Djarin, who you loved even though you’re reluctant and too stubborn to ever mutter the three words that always caught in your throat whenever you looked at him.

And you selfishly didn't want to lose him.

You didn't want to feel yourself missing him whenever you heard his favorite song on the radio -- an old tune by some one-hit-wonder that had been popular decades ago. You’d always catch Din tapping his foot to the beat when it played in dingy cantinas despite claiming that he didn't like music because it was just orchestrated excess noise. And maybe that was true with all the other songs in the galaxy, but this one particular song managed to seep through the thick layers of beskar and sneak into Din's ears. But if he left you, you could only grow to hate the song, dreading to hear it because you wouldn't be able to stop yourself from instinctively turning your head to flash a teasing grin where he would've been standing, tapping his foot along. 

But more than you could ever hate a song, you’d hate yourself. For allowing someone to hold such a firm grasp around your heart when you know that they could be ripped away from you at any moment, surely taking your heart along with them. But most of all, you’d hate yourself for not being enough — fast enough to save him, brave enough to give him the final goodbye he wholly deserves.

He had collapsed, lying helplessly on top of a table that only Cara was strong enough to lay him on. You couldn't see the blood but you could smell it, flooding and then suffocating your senses until your head spun and you felt yourself stifling back a sob until a coarse lump lodged in you throat.

"This is the Way," he told you, choking through the phrase as his visor steadily focused on you after you insisted on removing his helmet so that his head wound could be treated. And you could feel a shred of dignity wither and welt as the words left your quivering, chapped lips. You knew just as well as Din what it meant to break such an oath, you knew how deeply Din was devoted to the Creed. Din was a Mandalorian, he was before he met you on Arvala-7 on the vapor farm. When he had met you all that time ago, he had intended to die a Mandalorian and some things just never change.

Your muscles had turned to stone as you stared down at him, your lips parted but no air filling your restricting lungs. You didn't need to remove his helmet to know that he was gazing up at you through the black visor, memorizing every curve, freckle, blush, and blemish of your face because he had the feeling that this was going to be the very last time he would ever have the pleasure of admiring your beauty for a long while.

Tell him, the voice in your mind prodded, tearing through your dazed state.

You blinked, your wide eyes lining with tears that threatened to spill over. A shaky breath hissing through your clenched teeth as you unwillingly cried, salty droplets streaking down your soot and blood dusted cheeks before dropping off the edge of your jaw.

Din's heart tightened. In all the time he's known you, he's never once seen you cry. You shed no tears even when a blaster bolt had hit you directly in your torso, stumbling to the ground and seething with pain. Your eyes were dry from the point the plasma struck you up until Din was spraying a thick layer of bacta over the wound. He had thought it was strange that you had never cried, wondering if you just bottled up your emotions until you are in the privacy of the 'fresher or if you had a weird anti-crying medical condition that you didn’t like to talk about. All Din knew was that he never wanted to see you cry — but now you’re bawling and it was because of him.

Words strangled through thick and heavy sobs, your hands lifting to press against your eyes, rubbing at the tears, and blocking your vision. "What's gonna be left of the world if you're not in it?"

His chest deflates. 

You hear him call your name, though between the thrumming of your heart and the crackling fire surrounding the two of you, his voice sounds distant. 

The cracked leather of his hand startles you as it brushes against the soft skin of your wrist before seizing your trembling hands. His grip is strong and firm, his thumb stroking the lines of your palm as if he was trying to determine your future so he could promise you that you’d be okay. Even though you knew you wouldn't be.

And as you clasp your other hand over his, holding him in place, the painful lump solidifies in your throat and blocks of any words that your mind is desperately trying to push through your paling lips.

"You need to go," Din told you, giving your hand a squeeze that was supposed to be reassuring but only made your chest rack with another pathetic sob.

Now or never.

"Din," you mutter in a broken voice, savoring his name on your tongue like it was your last meal. His helmet tilts slightly, his grasp on your hand tightening as he awaits you to say your goodbye. Because even though you are dreading the three words that you could only ever think quietly in your own mind, Din was praying for them because he wanted so desperately to know. He would've told you if he surely wasn't going to die, it would only be cruel to tell you now.

You swallow thickly, the lump strangling you. You pause, forcing yourself to kriffing breathe before squeezing your eyes shut tightly, focusing on the feeling of his hand.

You choked. "Thank you."

It's like the entire world— the entire universe stops. Halting as Din gives your hand one last final squeeze and nodding because he too would forever be grateful to have stumbled across someone as beautiful as you on Arvala-7. He'd forever be thankful for you for being so easy to love.

And then you left, stumbling through the kicked open grate without daring to turn to look over her shoulder, leaving the only man you could ever love behind in thick clouds of smoke. 

Your mind is broken, all you knew was that you had to get to Cara and Karga.

You’re sprinting faster than you’ve ever in your life, tears streaming down your face as you race through the tunnels. 

Karga and Cara lower their raised weapons when you round the corner of the tunnel, your usual mischievous and calculating eyes bloodshot and burning.

Your heart is pounding in your ears, deafening loud as your footsteps falter and you nearly fall flat on your face if it wasn't for Cara's strong arms that caught you. You’re still sobbing, uncontrollably and you can't fucking hear or see now because the tears are so damn thick and your heartbeat is so loud.

In the distance, hidden in the thick and constant thrumming of your heart, you can hear Cara calling your name. Her voice was fainter than a whisper, despite Cara nearly yelling in your numb face as she shakes your trembling form. But every word Cara spoke slipped through your ears, your thoughts on Din who was now only a memory that would involuntarily fade in time.

He's dead. He's dead. He's dead.

Din and probably the Child. Your weird little family that you had accidentally found was gone. Like it was never there to begin with. Leaving you with nothing but the sweet memories that would surely turn painful.

You didn't know how long you were in Cara's arms, losing all control of your senses and your words. You don’t remember when but you’re suddenly begging Cara to help you, grabbing at the arms that are pulling you into former-shock trooper. Pleading through your tears, asking over and over again like a chanting of a prayer to help you. Save you from this misery and put you in your place. Show you what you need to do because there's nothing else that you want to do.

You’re about to ask Cara to just put a bolt between your eyes — because nothing is worth it if you had to suffer through such emptiness for the rest of your life — when you are yanked from Cara's embrace, too numb to yelp or fight back as two strong arms heave you into a solid chest.

Tears are still streaming down your face unable to care to stop them, not that you could have if you even wanted to. Your mind too hazy to fully understand the blur of it all. Din's arms wrapped around your waist and the Child cradled by IG-11.

Your world had been torn away from you so quickly that when it all snapped back into place you were still stumbling, the sudden shift of everything knocking you over again.

"Cyar'ika?"

You’re suddenly back on the Razor Crest, you’re still in Din's arms but everything else is different. You’re no longer on Nevarro, on another planet that you don’t remember the name of. The Child wasn't in the arms of droid but rather tucked away in his pod sound asleep. Din isn't wearing any armor, not even his helmet, the two of you basked in the safety of darkness as you laid in your shared cramped cot. You’re not crying and you no longer feel the blinding numbness of grief, but rather an aching pull of guilt.

Din calls out to you again, propping himself up on an elbow with a small grunt so that he can tilt your chin to face him. You can't see him in this degree of darkness, and luckily he can't see the look of pain etched in your features.

"What's wrong?" His voice is familiar and solid, grounding.

You don’t answer, not even willing to give him the simplicity of a dismissive "it's nothing."

Din puffs out a small breath through his nose, fanning faintly over your face. You close your eyes, focusing on the comforting warmth that radiates off his bare body like a furnace. You don’t want him to pry because you knows that no good could come from it. You feel too guilty to face him, but yet you are still too cowardly to admit your feelings. You’re not sure that it's rejection that you fear but rather the spoken acknowledgment of your attachment to him. Because once you speak of your love and the words are out in the open, the universe is free to rip your love away from you.

He leans forward, his nose brushing against yours delicately as he rests his forehead atop of yours. The action was stabilizing, pushing your broken pieces together and sealing them back in place. But you felt intoxicatingly lost in his touch, his skin invitingly warm yet you knew that if you allowed herself to touch him you’d completely lose it.

"Kal Viinir'ika," Din coos, running the calloused pad of his thumb along your cheek as his fingers weave through your hair. Blade Runner — a title given to you by mercenaries and bounty hunters because you are fast on your feet and even faster with your swords, but you had never been too fond of it. But then you met Din and he had somehow managed to turn it into a teasing nickname that you grew to adore when it came from his mouth in his native tongue.

His nose grazes your nose before he presses it into your cheek, kissing you purposefully on the corner of your lips. "Please talk to me."

And his words shatter you, breaking you into a million pieces so that you are too far gone to repair. The lump in your throat is firm and strong, scaring you of what your voice might sound like in his ears.

"I'm sorry." It comes out as pathetic as you had expected, barely a whisper and wavering, you aren’t even sure that Din heard you.

Din's eyebrows draw together, lifting his head up and gazing down at you blindly. "For what?"

He doesn't know why you’re practically shaking in your small bed, you had seemed more than fine a few moments ago. You had fallen asleep in the cockpit and Din had somehow managed to carry you down to bed without waking you.

"For being a coward," you replied weakly, your eyes screwed shut to keep yourself from crying. You refused to cry in front of him for a second time.

Din would've laughed if he didn't hear the unadulterated pain and sincerity in your voice.

"What?" Din scoffed, cupping your face in his warm hand. He was confused and a little hurt that you’d even try to speak that way about yourself. "Cyar'ika, what's the meaning of this?"

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

"I couldn't say goodbye," you murmured, your throat aching as your muscles restrained a sob from racking through your form. Your whole body was shivering, Din's warmth unable to break through your unforgiving emotions bottled in your chest. "You were dying, and I couldn't say it."

And then it clicked, the mixed puzzle of Din's brain coming together in an instant as the words stumbling from your lips. All of it made perfect sense. How you wouldn't look at him in the eyes for days after you’d left Nevarro. The way you would practically hide from him, not wanting to touch him or speak to him, closing yourself off from him to keep yourself safe — maybe to keep both of you safe. He had initially thought you were just pissed at him for some reason that he must've missed, but this, this made sense.

"You're not a coward," Din assures, brushing his fingers through the wisps of hair that framed your face. He can feel your gaze on him, burning through his silhouette like a beam of plasma. He kisses you softly on her cheek, his facial hair prickling your soft skin. "You're the bravest person I know."

You shake your head, ripping his words to shreds. "I couldn't say it."

A heavy breath swells in Din's chest, pressing himself a little closer to your trembling form. "Then tell me now, cyar'ika. I'm here, I'm alive, so tell me now."

Your body stiffens, your muscles tightening at the thought. Why does it have to be so hard?

"I can't."

Din huffs out a chuckle, shaking his head. "Yes, you can, Kal Viinir'ika."

It should've been simple, it was three simple words that carried great weight. You had never spoken them before, the only times they were spoken to you ended with you running off. You didn't do love. Love was dangerous, it would kill you.

"Tell me," Din urges, pressing his lips delicately against yours like he was wary that you might shatter if he applied too much pressure.

Fuck.

It hurt that he was so sweet to you, it hurt to know that you were denying the one thing that he deserved to know.

Din Djarin deserved to know that he was loved unconditionally and completely by you. 

You swallowed thickly, praying that the words don't get caught in your throat because you suddenly feel like you might die if you lose him and never got the chance to tell him.

Din hummed, waiting patiently for you to speak.

You quickly wondered if anyone had ever told him before.

I love you. You think it, questioning if those words were even ones you deserved to speak. Probably not.

Din nudges you softly. "Cyar'ika—"

"I love you."

Your blood runs cold and you feels like the entire universe freezes over, trapping you in this insufferable moment of vulnerability. And you wait for the urge to flee to take you, or for it to instead seize Din, but neither of you move.

"You love me?"

The question hurts a lot more than it should. 

You nod, not knowing whether your voice would work if you tried speaking. Your silence followed by an eternity of nothing except for an uncomfortable tension that makes you beg that Din does something, anything. Tell you to leave, storm out of the room, kriffing shoot her— absolutely anything.

And thank the Maker, he moves. His thumb brushing against your plush bottom lip, applying the smallest amount of pressure before dipping his head forward. His kiss strange, almost out of character, but it sets you on fire nonetheless. It wasn't the first kiss you’ve shared and you prayed that it wouldn't be the last.

His lips are desperate, pouring every flicker of affection and adoration out of his body and into yours, filling you with his love. It's intensely carnal, yet almost too sweet for you to comprehend that it's Din Djarin kissing you.

Then he's pulling away, ripping his lips away from you painfully and sudden, gazing down at you half in a daze as you whimper at the loss of his warmth. You crave his affection.

"Cyar'ika." Not even the darkness can hide Din's grin, his forehead resting atop yours as an airy chuckle shakes through his chest. It's heavenly. You relish in the sound of his rare blissful laughter, wishing to bask in the warmth that fills your chest as it echoes in your ears. And for the first time in your life, you feel nothing but peace.

His deep baritone voice is lifted from a mixture of relief and bliss.

"I love you too."

━ ━ ━ ━

so... this is no edited, hehe... i’ll tryyyyyy to edit tomorrow but i always forget. i originally wrote this in third person but i changed it so there might be some weird sentences. i’ll proof read tomorrow. pinky promise :D

Also, quick PSA, if you ever find that my “reader” isn’t a true reader insert (i mean if i have description about the reader that may not fit everyone), please tell me. i want all of my readers to feel welcomed.

translations: Cyar'ika = darling, beloved, sweetheart Kal Viinir'ika = Blade Runner

[hansolmates]

jeongguk; a royal exchange (02)

feat. the rom-com college!jeongguk x princess!reader au no one asked for

she’s the man!au where the princess impersonates her brother yoongi in order to finish his degree on time while yoongi is thrusted into princely duties. jeongguk is in the mess purely through room arrangement.

notes: p.2 is a straight up roll of pure crack and fluff. lil sexy for like .2 seconds. super self indulgent and inspired by the princess diaries. princess is stressed the whole time and we live to see her suffer

w.c: 7.1k 

01, 02

“I’m sure this is probably the hundredth time you’ve heard since you’ve landed, but welcome to Illyria! The palace welcomes you to your new home away from home.” 

“Ho-ly,” Jeongguk slaps a hand in front of Taehyung’s offending tongue, in case swearing is forbidden on royal territory. Wouldn’t want their scholarships taken away over Taehyung’s potty mouth. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Hoseok, sir?” an exchange student from a university in New Zealand (yet Korean-born, ironically) pipes up, “why does the infrastructure of the building look like that?” 

The student is referring to the ravines of gold metal that stream the walls of the palace. While the architecture is classic, the sheen of the metal definitely gives it an air of regality. 

“Good question, Namjoon. The castle is wired and designed after our main export, Illyrium. The element was discovered in the early 1850s in what is now the ruins of Oros,” Hoseok quips brightly, patting the stone affectionately. “It has a conductivity percentage of 106% percent, more than silver. It is also quite durable.” 

Namjoon’s deep laugh echoes throughout the pavilion, “I was just asking because it makes the castle so beautiful. Thank you.” 

Jeongguk takes the time to snap more pictures of the castle, switching between his Sony and his phone. He zooms in on a low balcony overlooking the terrace they landed from. A figure rolls into his shot, stumbling barefoot with a ruby silk robe swishing between steps. You’re tired, sleep-laden as you clutch a snow white mug between your two hands, leaning your elbows against the metal bearing. You’re staring at nothing and everything, glazed over your backyard that seems to stretch on for eons. 

“You’re right,” Jeongguk marvels at your visage between his lens, “absolutely beautiful.” 

“Can I please get a better assignment, Jimin?” 

“Your highness,” Jimin frowns, following after you, “you love teaching the exchange students, what has changed?” 

“Exactly, Jimin,” you sigh, stopping in the middle of the hallway. Jimin’s nose nearly bumps into yours, “nothing has changed. I teach students every quarter, the same subjects every time. It’s not to say that I don’t love teaching,” you exhale, blowing into Jimin’s honeycomb bangs, “but can’t I have a more challenging assignment? Conversing with dignitaries, renovating the town square, I’ll even do culinary!” 

Your poor secretary squeaks, pushing up his rose gold iPad to carve some distance between you two. “You-you know those jobs aren’t suitable for a Princess,” Jimin cuts himself off once he sees your eyes soften in defeat, “b-but! I’ll see if Hoseok would be willing to take on another class? And maybe we could arrange a presentation to the King in regards to your proposals?” 

“Right,” you smile sadly, folding your arms and stretching the tight blazer your mother forced you in, “as if another Google Slideshow will impress him.” 

Jimin squeezes your shoulder, as if he could tell you all the things he could never say through body language. “Showtime’s in two minutes, your highness.” 

You nod, making haste to the large double doors that lead to the main living room. Normally, the scholarship program’s presentation is done in the throne room, a big show of bravado and an ego booster to your family. However, this particular class is entirely post-grad and under ten students, so you figure they were placed in a more intimate area for the sake of comfort. 

Jimin pulls a lint roller out of nowhere, careful to catch every bit of dust that dares meet your presence. You tug uncomfortably at your collar, and give the signal to the door bearer. You fight the urge to flinch at the usual bombastic announcement. 

“Introducing, the Princess of Illyria!” 

The students and staff are bowing when you enter, and you send a look to Yoongi, who only offers you a lazy smirk. It’s a look you’ve feared since childhood, an explicit tell that he knows something you don’t. Nevertheless, you tack on a smile, standing in front of the ten students who are still dutifully lowered. You have to hand it to them, the undergrads would already be turning heads to get a peek at the princess. 

“You may rise,” you voice floats. As mother always said, your voice must replicate a dandelion seed, bouncing in the wind. 

The student directly in front of you elevates, a pair of doe eyes taking his sweet time to appreciate the view. 

Jeon Jeongguk gives you a lazy smirk, mirroring your brother’s. The smile evaporates from your face, taking in the handsome man that you lived with for two months over two years ago. His eyes have certainly not lost their spark, but his hair is trimmed and showing off his forehead. A Sony camera wraps around his neck, held tightly by a strong pair of hands. He’s even dressed brightly, wearing a navy blazer over a plain white tee and a pair of dark jeans. Something twinges in your heart when you see that a familiar pair of black combat boots remain. 

Jeongguk is the first to break eye contact, deciding to at least pretend to care about Hoseok’s presentation on the flatscreen. An overplayed video about Illyria’s history drones on, while Hoseok and Jimin are exchanging schedules in between. You’re sure that Jimin is passing on your word about choosing not to teach this quarter, and now it’s personal. 

This urges the students to take seats on the couches, while staff floats around with various pastries and refreshments. 

Your family takes their respective seats, and you fight the urge to pinch Yoongi as you hiss, “You knew about this?” 

“Surprise,” Yoongi sing-songs, munching on a linzer cookie. “I handpicked all the students.”

“Couldn’t give your sister a heads up?” you snap hotly, making sure no one was looking as you pop a whole cream puff in your mouth. 

“Sorry,” Yoongi leans over the shell of your ear, “Your hot ex-roommate is here, just wanted to let you know before you eat the dessert table.” 

You mouth a fuck you, taking a stab at him under the table with your heeled foot. 

After Yoongi’s not-so-subtle reveal of each other’s identities in a crowded Chinese restaurant two years ago, you’ve since cut off all contact with Jeon Jeongguk as you resumed your life as Princess of Illyria. Simultaneously shocked, but not surprised due to the obvious hints of suspicion, Jeongguk had forgiven your lie and allowed you to leave in good spirits. You remember leaving him at the front door of your dorm, hugging you warmly and bidding you safe travels. 

It confused you, because it would've been easier to leave if Jeongguk had gotten angry at the complete breach of trust and kicked you out. 

Hoseok is now presenting a slideshow of the intended schedule and itinerary for all students. You’re now glaring at the back of Jeongguk’s head, trying your damn hardest not to shove three brownies in your mouth in the presence of guests. Your tiny dessert spoon picks pathetically at the measly crumbs, and Jimin is urging you to smile from his position opposite you. 

“And as always, our lovely princess will be conducting our class on Modern Illyrian Anthropology and will be organizing your field studies!” Hoseok practically shouts across the room, where you’re sitting wide-eyed with your family. You feel Yoongi reach over to dab the crumbs off your lips, enjoying your suffering. 

You shoot a look at Jimin who was supposed to take care of things, and he gives you a pained expression that reads don’t fire me.  

With a tight-lipped smile and feigning ignorance to Jeongguk’s interest in you teaching, you reply to the expectant students, “It’s always a pleasure to teach, I promise to not bore you with Illyrian history, that’s Hoseok’s job.” 

“Hey!” he scrunches his nose, then turns to the students who are hiding their giggles, “Better get on her good side if you want a nice field assignment.” he warns good-naturedly, giving you a mock glare. 

You suppose giving Jeongguk a field assignment far, far away from the castle. 

After the long-winded presentation and a handful of brochures, the royal family is escorted out to retire for the day. As the youngest in the family you're the last one to leave.

Out the doorway you hear Taehyung utter, "That's her? What a babe!" 

As to not arouse suspicion, it takes longer than anticipated to get a private moment with Jeongguk. No one but Taehyung and Jimin know of your circumstances, and it is to remain that way due to the fact that you and Yoongi committed fraud, royal or not. 

Jeongguk is a quiet student, surprisingly. Choosing a seat by the window, he spends most of your classes doodling and looking out the pavilion. As stimulating as Namjoon and Irene’s questions are, you’re a little disheartened at the fact that Jeongguk has made little effort to talk to you, even if it’s as impersonal as classwork or office hours. 

Today Hoseok’s teaching, and that gives you ample time to work out where you want to assign the students for field study. You’ve shaken off Jimin for now, and you’re currently roaming the halls with your phone, checking off your schedule. 

Called the Museum of Modern Illyrian Art for Namjoon … check. 

Sent staff to the villa in prep for the kiddies’ weekend getaway … check. 

Sent e-vites and physicals to the Genovian royals … next.

Find a quiet corner to stress cry before 2:30—

A hand flies out of nowhere, grabbing your waist roughly and throwing you in a small room. The hand clasped over your mouth swallows your scream as the door shuts tight. 

The captor turns on the singular lightbulb, grinning at you like a madman. “Hey Princess—what the fuck!” 

You grimace, putting down your switchblade that was dangerously close to Jungkook’s jugular. “What the hell, Jeongguk! I could’ve killed you!” 

“Dang, princesses are something else nowadays. Where on your body are you hiding knives?” Jeongguk marvels as if he wasn’t ten seconds away from being dead!Guk, patting down your lavender pantsuit in a way that’s highly inappropriate. “What are you, Ty Lee?” 

“Self-defense secret,” and under your breath you add, “and Mai’s the one who hides knives. Ty Lee’s the acrobat.” 

The grin easily returns to the tall boy’s face, burnt eyes shining against the naked bulb. This is the most emotion you’ve got out of him since classes started, and it’s doing nothing to ease the butterflies in your stomach. “So, come here often?” 

“To the storage closet?” you snort, “not particularly.” 

“And where’s a place I can go that you do come often?” 

“My office hours,” you deadpan, “in which you haven’t visited, by the way. As a friend and as a teacher, I’m insulted.” 

A low whine erupts from his throat, and he leans against the shelves, long arms spread across the three-ply toilet paper. “But your little secretary’s always there. It’s awkward when we’re not alone. I don't know if I should act like a friend or a student. Speaking of, where is he?” 

“Ah, Jimin’s getting Starbucks.” 

“Lit, can you tell him to pick me up a pink drink?” 

“No,” but you send a text to Jimin anyway. “Shouldn’t you be in class?” 

“I’m supposed to be coming back from the bathroom,” he air-quotes, “AKA, running around the palace until I can corner you.” 

You sigh, fiddling with the hem of your blazer. 

“Are you annoyed at me?” and for a second, Jungkook’s eyes betray a hint of vulnerability. “Am I being too forward? Or do you not want to catch up? I don’t know, I figured you’d be excited to see me but you’ve just been so busy.” 

“Jeongguk,” you put a hand on his shoulder, ceasing the rambling. He opens his mouth to add more, but you squeeze his bicep. “I’m not annoyed at you. I’m annoyed at the situation. I’ve missed you,” you offer him a shy smile, and he returns a small, hopeful one in return, “but you’re right, it’s been really busy with the usual duties and I’ve been a little on edge with keeping things together without letting any secrets out.” 

You’re also confused as to why you’re still harboring feelings for him, but that’s another secret you keep to yourself. 

“Well, your duty is doo-dy.”  Jungkook huffs, but is placated by your confession. “Don’t worry Princess, I’ll think of something.” 

A knock startles the both of you, and Jeongguk squeaks, brandishing a plunger in defense. With a dainty finger, you push the plumbing tool back to the ground, as the knockings did not stop. 

“Ohmygod—am I going to be beheaded for kidnapping the Princess?” Jeongguk panics and checks his phone, realizing his bathroom break turned into a straight up game of hooky. “Do you guys still behead? I mean if you’re pulling out knives from who knows where—” 

“Guk, relax,” recognizing it immediately as a code between you and your brother, you swing the supply closet open. 

Yoongi looks between the two of you, gauging the situation. When he notices that no, you two did not just romp between the 3-ply and were in fact only talking, he huffs. “Losers,” he mutters under his breath, hiding a grin as he leaves you two to splutter. 

It’s already well over twenty minutes past your class time, but Taehyung just wouldn’t shut up. 

You can’t blame him, he’s thrilled that you managed to snag him a field study with your personal couture designer. He’s lit up like a good boy on Christmas eve, getting his present early. He’s gushing about how excited he is to use authentic Swarovski crystals and rub noses with the fancy fabrics. 

“I’ll make you the perfect dress for the upcoming gala, Your Highness.” Taehyung’s vibrating in a manner you never imagined on a human before.

“Thank you,” you reply awkwardly, “I’m sorry, but what gala are you referring to?” 

He shrugs, “I’m sure there’s a gala you have to go to sometime. I’ve just always wanted to say that, makes me feel special.” 

“Tae,” Jeongguk is sitting on your desk, heels bumping into the mahogany. With a stiff jerk of his head, Tae’s lips morph into an ‘O’ and he finally gets the hint, bowing to you and scurrying off. 

“Y’know, his fashion’s kind of eccentric.” he nods over to the excessive fur lining on Taehyung’s slippers, “I’d make sure your designer keeps a close eye on him.” 

“And what do I owe the pleasure of your presence,” you click, “twenty minutes after class?” 

Jeongguk has the audacity to roll his eyes, rolling his head back to crack out the stiffness. “The chamber choir, really?” he exhales, dropping the itinerary you spent the better half of your nights preparing. 

You raise your eyebrows, “What? It pertains to your major.” 

“For the past six years all I've done is eat, sleep, and breathe music,” he says, and you’re suddenly reminded that you had a glimpse of that version of Jeongguk two years ago. A slave to the music, as much as he loved the subject, it sometimes felt like a tether that weaved far too deeply under his skin. “Can’t my field assignment be something different? More eclectic?” 

“Do you have anything in mind?” 

“In fact, I do.” Jeongguk lolls his head to the side, chestnut bangs falling softly. “For my field study, I want to shadow the Princess’ duties.” 

You slam your hands down, standing up so you’re nearly nose-to-nose with the young man. “Are you crazy? Do you want Yoongi and I to get caught?” 

“Listen, I’ve thought about it all throughout class—”

“—what? You didn’t listen to my lecture?—”

“—and today in class you mentioned that you graduated with a Master’s in Public Affairs, because in fact I always listen to you,” Jeongguk presses a finger to your lips when you try to cut him off, “and lo and behold, one of my minors was in public affairs! What better way to get more experience in the business when I have the master right in front of me?” 

“I don’t know, Guk,” you try, mulling through all the possible situations and horrors that could occur because of it. 

“Princess, we’re killing two birds with one stone!” Jeongguk pleads, giving you the puppy eyes, “not only do I get a far better field study assignment, but it’s far better because I get to spend more time with you!” 

You hate how absolutely weak you’ve become under his gaze. In the span of less than three weeks, Jeon Jeongguk has re-entered your life like he never left. He wanted to spend time with you. The selfish part of your brain says you wish the same. Who are you to deny such a simple desire? 

“Fine,” you spit out, putting up a front and pretending to be annoyed, “but you better not get all huffy around Jimin.” 

He shrugs, throwing his bag over his shoulder. “Worth it.” 

“You’re different,” Jeongguk states bluntly, actively ignoring the way Jimin tries to push between you two. Jeongguk continues to press into your shoulder as you weave through the gardens. You’re picking flowers for a specific theme arrangement and pattern. A diplomat from Spain is coming and he is bringing her young daughter. You've heard that she’s recently taken in interest in constructing flower crowns. 

“Well, two years can do that to a person,” you reply airily, dropping a tiger lily in the wicker basket Jeongguk insisted on carrying. 

Having Jeongguk follow you around like a duckling is fun, to be frank. Jimin is no longer hyper-focused on you, forcing him to spread his attention between you and your overly-attentive  student. Jeongguk can’t attend every single one of your events because some of the information’s sensitive, but when he does it makes your job feel less of a job and more like a fun group project. 

Like when you and Jeongguk would stumble in the farmer’s market every Sunday morning, hungover but aching to fill your bellies. You two were walking zombies, forcing yourselves out of bed to feed yourselves. But it was always fun because you were together, whenever it was Jeongguk’s turn to pay, you’d sneak in more KitKats for yourself. Whenever it was your turn, Jeongguk would smuggle more cartons of banana milk. 

“No, no. It’s not that,” your friend admonishes instantly, “your personality’s still the same, even though it was Yoongi-fied. Your heart hasn’t changed,” you turn your head sharply towards a field of carnations, concealing your flush. “I mean, you’re more confident.” 

“In other words,” Jimin pipes, looking up from his iPad, “an air of regality.” 

You scoff, putting a hand on your hip and looking expectantly at the two boys. “You’ve changed too, Guk,” you reason, shaking your head. “Old Jeongguk wouldn’t be wearing white dress shirts and shoving princesses in closets.” 

“You shoved the princess in a closet—!” Jimin starts, having half a mind to cancel the field study all together.

“Well, Old Jeongguk didn’t have a chance to really get to know you,” Jeongguk twirls a baby’s breath between his fingers, tucking it in-between your ear. “That’s New Jeongguk’s job.” 

“So, you’re the Princess’ head of security,” Jeongguk tilts his head to look up at the slightly taller man, his visage covered by a pair of shades. The bodyguard is never really present, only when citizens enter the castle or you’re out of town. “You know you’re inside, right?” 

The man only slightly inclines his head to acknowledge Jeongguk’s prodding. Hmph, he looks like a talker. 

“If you’re her head of security,” Jeongguk leans closer, trying to avoid any further attention to his conversation, “do you know where she hides her knives? Because sometimes she wears those tight pencil skirts and I can’t help but wonder—”

“That’s classified.” 

“Alright, where do you hide your knives—”

“Also classified.” 

“Jeongguk,” you relent, sliding your footrest next to your throne, “leave Seokjin alone and come here, please.” 

You can’t blame him. It’s always been a pastime of yours to ruffle Seokjin’s feathers, but you must admit that meeting with citizens is a long and frankly, boring process. The routine is fairly simple, the citizen bows and offers something for the table, and in return you lend your ear and offer assistance if possible. 

“For your table, Your Highness,” the next citizen bows, carrying a foil-lined tray filled with fresh baked bread. 

“Smells delicious, Bertrand.” you beam, ripping open the tin to snatch a hot slice off the top. Rosemary and thyme are egg washed atop the brown bread, and you proffer a piece to Jeongguk, as you could imagine the poor guy is as antsy as ever. “And may I introduce you to my student, Jeon Jeongguk? He’s studying my diplomacy for his field study.” 

Bertrand tips his head, “Lucky you, she’s a true leader.” 

Jeongguk nods shyly, nibbling on the crust. “Truly an honor.” 

Jeongguk offers to bring the gift to the table with the other offerings across the room, and you nod, conversing lightly with Bertrand. His worries are simple enough, he feels pressured by a catering request from an Illyrian Duke, and wishes to serve a party fit for a royal. In resolution, you offer to send a palace chocolatier and chef to help with the preparations. Jeongguk returns to his seat next to yours just as Bertrand leaves. He pulls up his iPad, feigning notes that he should be writing while observing you. 

The next citizen hobbles over, holding a large ivory wicker basket covered by a beige tarp. “For your table, Your Highness,” they bow, “I hope you like omelets.” 

If you weren’t on the throne with an audience of one-hundred, you’d be delivering a very confused expression, coupled with panic. “May I?” you inquire, forcing a smile as you lift open the tarp.

In the basket there are two small jars of marmalade, and one huge chicken sitting fat and proud that its skin overflows between the gaps of the wicker. Its head twitches in your direction, barely turning because its neck is hugely bulbous with excess weight. Its beady little eyes mock you. It smells fear. 

“Her name’s Dixie,” the citizen supplied helpfully. 

“Holy shit,” Jeongguk whispers next to you, but not soft enough for it to not echo in the throne room, “Dixie, you are a thick chick.” 

“Jeongguk!” you exclaim, which causes the whole room to reverb at your shrill cry. 

Of course the chicken has to freak out, flapping its wings and freeing itself from the confines of its package. The animal dives for you, and you press yourself as much as you can against the throne. Jeongguk knows no bounds, throwing himself in front of you to catch the large bird. Feathers weave unto his umber tresses as the bird meets gravity, Jeongguk unable to calm down Dixie. 

 It’s more or less a wild goose chase (chicken chase?) after that, Jeongguk follows Dixie down the platform and around the throne room. The citizens and staff are clutching their stomachs in laughter, endeared by the young man following the chicken. Jimin is laughing and slapping Seokjin’s shoulder, his face breaking in an unabashed smile. 

And you can’t help but laugh along with them, trying to smother your giggles by covering your face with a silk fan. You peek over the thin fabric to see Jeongguk looking especially concentrated on his mission. It wasn’t like the chicken was going to escape the throne room because the doors are closed, but surely it will be a workout as Dixie’s a trooper and isn’t going down without a fight. 

“Don’t worry Princess, I got this!” Jeongguk’s voice reassures you from the far edge of the throne room. He’s taken a break, but the glint in his eyes show he’s committed to catching Dixie as she scuttles in circles.

He flashes you a breathtaking smile, all gums and pearly whites as he runs a hand through his wavy locks. Your smile falls slightly, and you clutch your fan tighter at the realization. Oh, you are besotted. 

“Hoseok’s had me on my back about teaching a full class before your weekend getaway but I’ve long decided,” you lift your chin haughtily in a way only princesses do, jutting out your lip in confirmation, “that you should enjoy the time you have here. Summer’s almost over. You all should get a headstart on your packing so you can get to the beach early.” 

Your class erupts into hoots and hollers, the Powerpoint presentation about the minerals of Illyria long abandoned. Two months have already passed, and in a couple weeks they’ll be saying their goodbyes. A twinge of sadness hits you as you relish in your students’ happy smiles. As each semester passes, each group leaves something behind you’ll never forget. This summer, as much as you taught them, you’ve learned a lot from them as well.

Students are already starting to pack up, but Namjoon’s butt is firmly planted in his seat, raising his hand. “Sorry, I have a question.” 

You smile goodnaturedly, already used to his usual spiel. “I can email you the Powerpoint and we can go over whatever you want on Monday.” 

“Ah, no. I was wondering if you were coming with us,” Namjoon mutters sheepishly. 

You’re surprised, even moreso when Irene and Yerin insist that you should go. “Yes, you have to go!” Yerin bounces in her seat.

“Oh,” you blush, “I can’t. I don’t normally go on these things, wouldn’t it be weird to have your teacher at your party?” 

“Hell no!” Yerin gasps shamelessly. It’s one thing you liked about this class, after class is over, they always managed to make you feel normal. Maybe it’s the closeness in age and education, but they remind you so often that you’re still young. After all, they weren’t Illyrian, and while outside of class they put on the whole shebang for you, it didn’t take long for them to get comfortable around you. “We can show you what real college life is like! We can roast barbeque on the beach and tell scary stories!” 

Taehyung snorts, already halfway out the door, “I’m sure the Princess doesn’t wanna see you shitfaced in the ocean.” 

You placate Yerin with a small smile, “I have to work after this, but I’ll see what I can do.” 

Namjoon walks up to your desk as the rest of the students file out. He runs the spine of his journal along your desk, “Prince Yoongi and Hoseok will be there too, if it makes you feel any better. Hope you can come.” 

The room is soon vacated, leaving you and your Star Student alone. 

“‘I’ll see what I can do’, really?” Jeongguk rolls his eyes, plopping himself atop your desk. Your eyes snap to the way the dark denim cords around his thighs, and you make a deal of slamming your laptop shut. “C’mon, of course you wanna come. I’m not taking no for an answer.” 

“Not really,” you admit. “I used to really like spending the weekend at the villa. I loved getting to know each class and know what it feels like to be like you guys,” you downplay yourself, stuffing books and electronics in your briefcase. “But ever since we roomed together two years ago, I can’t bring myself to go anymore. It’s not the same when you’ve actually had a taste of it.”

Jeongguk’s eyes soften at your confession. You could feel that he wasn’t prepared for your honesty, and you don’t blame him. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I leave in two weeks, you know.” 

“I know.” 

“Can you at least try to come, for me?” 

You lift your head up to reach his eyes, looking equal parts nervous and vulnerable. You’re suddenly thrusted back to two years ago, cornered in your dorm room where Jeongguk was upset at the thought of hurting him, lying to him. You didn’t want to hurt him, or yourself. 

But as Jeongguk’s large hand reaches across the desk to your smaller one, you don’t think to pull away. 

“Your Highness!” Jimin interrupts the two of you, and Jeongguk snatches his hand back with a glare. Jimin ignores him, looking breathless as he leans against the door of your classroom. “Your 3 o’clock is ready. We have to hurry if we want to get through the crowd.” 

With one last look, Jeongguk excuses himself, brushing past Jimin with a gruff “Bye, Princess.” 

“Today’s not your day to meet with citizens,” Yoongi mumbles next to you, looking disapprovingly at the way you wait for the next citizen to approach you. 

Seokjin holds the crowd off as you converse with your brother, who looks ready to leave to the villa. He’s dressed in a plain white t-shirt, foam slides and baggy slacks. If it wasn’t for the family crest proudly presented on his right breast pocket, he could easily be mistaken as the average citizen. “Mother insisted,” you reply shortly, growing more irritated by the second. 

“Really?” his brows disappear under his bangs, “because from the way she said it, you were looking for work.” 

Caught, you turn away from his watchful gaze. “I have a problem, okay?” you say stiffly, “I needed a distraction.” 

“Alright,” Yoongi shrugs, leaning close to your ear to murmur, “where’s the dead body?” 

You slap his arm, “Yoongi! I didn’t kill anybody!” 

“At this rate, it looks like you’re wasting yourself away.” Yoongi replies bluntly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “C’mon, Loverboy was all pouty in my room not too long ago. Don’t disappoint him.” 

With that, Yoongi turns on his heel and walks off. Citizens bow at him like dominos as he exits, your break definitively over. 

Whatever is blooming between you and Jeongguk, is and never will be fair to the both of you. In your eyes Jeongguk isn’t the type to settle, not relationship-wise, but life-wise. He wanted to grow and cultivate his art, and taste freedom every step of the journey.

You weren’t freedom or growth, and you could only hope he realizes that before you become too selfish. 

“Your Highness?” you break out of your reverie when a young woman your age looks at you shyly, “My name is Wendy. I didn’t get anything for the table but, I got you a caramel macchiato.” 

She brandishes a venti iced caramel macchiato, condensation dripping from her fingers. Your face lights up, accepting the caffeinated drink. “I really needed this!” you perk up immediately, taking a sip and letting the cool flavor soothe your tastebuds. “Thank you, Wendy. What is it that you request?” 

“Advice,” she admits, a blush creeping from her neck. She looks down at her work boots, caked in grime. “I’m an engineer who works in manufacturing Illryian technology.”

“We are eternally grateful for your service to this country,” you reply evenly. Engineers are highly revered in your country, as your economy is dependent on their brilliant minds. 

“But I have fallen in love with a man who is under my station, and wishes to find work elsewhere,” she bites her lip, her eyes growing glassy. “I haven’t told him my feelings yet, however I’m also worried for my family who finds men like him to be unworthy of an engineer like myself.” 

“Ah, bound by duty and expectation.” you reply grimly, “a rock and a hard place, huh?” 

“Yes, forgive me for my crassness. I felt as if you would understand my predicament.” 

Putting your drink down, you reach for her hand. Oil and dirt cake her fingers, and she attempts to pull away as to not soil you, but you hold on tighter. “Tell him how you feel, Wendy.” you whisper, a conversation so intimate it’s only proper it be for her ears and her ears only. “Whether he leaves or not after you tell him is his decision. However, I assure you it will hurt far more if you don’t give yourself a chance.” 

Her voice cracks, “But what if it doesn’t work out?” 

You start to feel a little teary at her candor, and you run a thumb over her palm. “Then you’re one heartbreak closer to happiness. Nevertheless, you are a strong, intelligent, beautiful woman. Don’t let your fears reject that.” 

Wendy finds the strength to squeeze your hand, and you belatedly realize that if this piece of advice was personified, it’d be slapping the shit out of you. 

“You came!” 

Hopped up on bitter caffeine and potential regrets, you stand in the living room well past midnight, party in full swing. Jimin trails behind you sans iPad, feeling lighter in a pair of trunks and a black tank. A playlist of Namjoon’s organizing is blasting from the surround sound, coupled with the flatscreen television projecting an intense lap of MarioKart. Irene and Taehyung are shoulder to shoulder, concentrating on getting that Mushroom Cup. The sliding doors that lead from your villa to the beach are cracked open, wide enough to hear the conversations the other students are exchanging. 

It was always nice to have your villa occupied like this. Less empty, more familial. 

Yerin is the first to greet you, throwing her arms around you and smelling like seasalt and vodka. She’s drenching your clothes, clad in a yellow polka-dot one-piece. “This weekend’s gonna be killer,” she whispers in your ear, causing the hairs on your neck to rise. For a petite thing, she really wastes no time cutting to the chase. 

You detach yourself, holding up a bag of pastries. “Snagged some munchies for your inevitable drunk crash,” you smirk, placing the container on the kitchen island. 

Yerin gapes, red tinted lips mouthing an ‘o’ at your language. “You’ve been hidin’ out on us, haven’t you Princess?” Yerin then brushes past you, ready to get her fingers on the confections. You’re over her shoulder, pointing out both Illrian delicacies and pastries she’s familiar with. 

After Irene snags the Mushroom Cup they’re joining you at the island, lips coated in powdered sugar and jam. The girls laugh when some powdered sugar gets into Taehyung’s hair, Irene patting him a little too hard on his bangs. 

“You’re here!” 

You whip around to see Jeongguk sliding the glass doors hurriedly, bare feet slapping across the tiled floor to reach you. He’s dripping wet, ocean water rivering around his body. Your eyes can’t help but follow the flow of the cool liquid, finding purchase between the planes of his chest and honeyed abs, glowing from the heat. 

Three years of your life were spent studying preparation and execution for war or nuclear threat. Unfortunately, at this very moment you feel way more prepared for war than Jeon Jeongguk standing in your villa, looking like that. 

Instead of the usual pleasantries, you hold up a leather wallet. “You left this in the classroom,” you chide. 

It’s a baldfaced lie. Somehow, Jeongguk’s wallet had conveniently ended up in your office between reams of paper. The bastard himself has the audacity to feign surprise, coral lips gaping in relief. “Wow, Princess. Totally not a ploy to get you to come here.” 

“Right.” 

“Give it here, I’ll drop it off in my room.” 

“Wait, wait!” you hold up both your hands, centimeters away from Jeongguk’s pecs. You’re nearly eye level with them, and you force yourself to look up at his smug face. “You’re dripping wet on the tile! Your feet still have sand you heathen! Do not get our carpets dirty!” you hold the wallet to your chest protectively, “where’s your room?” 

He tilts his head adorably, droplets flecking from his slicked back mane. “Third door on the right.” he doesn’t dare to argue with your sudden passion to keep your villa clean. 

You nod, “go enjoy the water. I’ll be right out.” You don’t give him a chance to reply, kicking off your sandals as you reach the cosier part of the villa. Soft carpet meets your toes as you pad off to the guest bedrooms. 

Jeongguk managed to snag the corner room, albeit smaller, it’s a single with a full mattress. You see his Superdry backpack open on the floor, its bottom worn with the white lining peeking through. Despite only arriving in the afternoon, his fresh scent is palpable. You drop the wallet on his desk, and you notice that his laptop’s still on. 

The Macbook Pro glows confidently, his screensaver revealing a photograph of you on your balcony. 

“Snooping around, Princess?” 

You whip around, seeing Jeongguk appear fully clothed, running a towel over his hair. He is no longer dripping water or sand, but he still smelled like salt and fire. He nonchalantly closes the door behind him, taking a seat at the foot of his bed. 

“You know it’s illegal to take unsolicited pictures of royalty, right?” 

“And who should I answer to, hm? The Princess?” he teases, face blooming from the fluffy white towel. 

You’re not upset about the picture, he knows that. But there you sit, slumped over his desk, looking forlornly at his picture of you. 

“I’ve locked the door,” Jeongguk pipes up, looking at you worriedly. “Yoongi mentioned that the room’s are soundproof. He said you looked upset today. Tell me what’s on your mind.” 

The room feels smaller, swallowing you whole. You’re tired from today’s events, both emotionally and physically. Jeongguk is having nothing of it, reaching between the two of you to pull the arms of the desk chair, wheeling you between his thighs. 

“Jeongguk,” you start, “why weren’t you mad at me when you were right? Right about me hiding something from you.” 

His brows furrow, “You made a sacrifice and protected your brother. Why would I be mad at that?” he says honestly, “sure, I was upset at first. Who wouldn’t be? But you did it out of love.” 

You smile wanly, knowing that there wasn’t going to be a chance that he’d be upset at you. It was out of your devices. “I wanted you to be mad,” you admit, wringing your fingers between your skirt, “it would’ve made it easier to leave.” 

“It would’ve, wouldn’t it?” he replies, his voice cotton soft. “After you left, Yoongi wouldn’t let me talk to you on the phone. Said you needed time. But I got him to tell me stories about you, stories that made me realize that I missed getting to know you.” 

It’s then you feel the weight of today express itself onto your cheeks, the wetness dampening your skin. You feel his thumb brush away the tears. 

“Tell me,” Jeongguk requests softly, “tell me what you really feel.” 

You let your head collapse in his hands, relishing the warmth and comfort it brings. “I feel hurt. And confined.” 

“More,” Jeongguk bids, his other hand squeezing your thigh, “let it out, Princess.” 

You are a strong, intelligent, beautiful woman. Don’t let your fears reject that.

“I miss acting like fools at the grocery store, falling on top of each other half-asleep.” Everything tumbles out shamelessly, like a waterfall. “I hate how frustrated I am when you call me Princess, because while it is my title, it turns me on in the most devastating way when you say it.” you drop your head in the crook of his neck, embarrassed to see his reaction. “I want to laugh with you, hold you, I want you, so badly. But I want you to be happy, to make music and art, and travel the world to find your muse,” you shake your head, pushing yourself away from him. “I feel so stuck here, I can’t hold you back when you’re free and—”

“That’s enough bullshit,” and he’s kissing you, a clashing of teeth that has you sensitive and reeling. His hands grasp your cheeks, and you’re stumbling in your chair as the wheels make moves on their own. You squeak against his lips before you’re wheeled back to the bed. Hot hands pull you forward to teeter your body onto the bed, keeping you in place. 

The man in question breaks apart, but close enough that his lips brush against yours when he speaks, “I’ve never kissed a princess before,” Jeongguk says wryly, cupping your cheek, “but if you make one more gripe about freedom and your stupid self-righteousness and I’ll stop.” 

A pure, unprepared whine escapes your lips, shame be damned. 

“You’re my muse,” he plants a kiss on your forehead, “I bothered Yoongi for weeks, working tooth and nail for that scholarship,” a kiss on both your nose, “you’re what it means to feel free.” 

And that’s all it takes for you to surge forward, toppling over him until he’s pushed against the headboard. Capturing your lips with his, you catch droplets of saltwater and a flavor that’s so distinctly Jeongguk, feeling high off the taste. 

Your skirt rides to your waist, your underwear damp from the ocean and arousal. You straddle him, feeling so unbounded and free as Jeongguk lets you do what you’ve both wanted to do. With a roll of your hips Jeongguk grunts, forehead pressed to yours. “Princess,” he rasps, meeting your thrusts, “we have until Christmas to do this, no need to rush.” 

Wait, Christmas? 

Jeongguk grins, kissing away your surprise. For now, you’ll ignore the burn between your thighs. “Before we left today, Yoongi and I asked the King, your father, if he would consider extending my scholarship for a full semester. I mentioned that Yoongi and I had some unfinished projects from undergrad,” he pecks your lips, “and he’s going to help me produce a full album for my final thesis.” 

“That’s amazing!” you cheer, pulling him into a hug. “I’m so proud of the two of you!”  

“Mhm,” he nuzzles your neck, pressing featherlight kisses to your skin, “can’t produce anything without my muse around, so I’d say Illyria is the perfect location.” 

Your fingers thread into his damp locks, and you feel your heart swell with happiness. Here, under the gaze of the beautiful boy who wanted to offer you his heart and his world, you felt free. 

extra.

It takes the strength of both your hands to pull Jeongguk in the storage closet, but it isn’t like he’s putting up a fight anyhow. 

“Come here often?” you drawl, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek. 

“Impressive,” he chuckles, “usually it takes you an hour to shake Jimin off ya. It’s only been thirty-five minutes.” 

“I just wanted to show you something funny,” you pull up your Instagram, and play the featured video. While it was posted weeks ago, it started to pick up traction after Yoongi liked the post this morning. Jeongguk is dashing around the palace, sweating bullets and cooing “c’mon Dixie!” to the sprinting chicken in the throne room. 

“You’re viral!” you giggle, “you put Illyria on the social media map!” 

Under the lowlights, it’s still easy to see Jeongguk’s skin has gone placid. “If I ever hit it big, that shit better not haunt me,” he groans into your neck.  

“Please,” you roll your eyes, “every famous person has a backstory. Aubrey Graham had Degrassi and the Yodeling Wal-Mart boy–”

“Are you really gonna compare your boyfriend to the Yodeling Wal-Mart kid? Tell me what you really came here for,” And like a teenager, Jeongguk reels it back in, winding his hands around your waist. He gives you bedroom eyes like it's a session of Seven Minutes in Heaven, “so, we’re gonna make out or what?” 

[bakugousbabygirl]

Tower Of Mistakes

pairings: bakugou x uraraka mentions, bakugou x ex!gf reader

genre: pure angst

word count: 1,623

cw: cursing|| mentions of self hatred|| jealously || self deprecation|| mirror punching

sypnosis: in which the reader realizes the split between bakugou and herself was her own undoing and she reminisces on where it all went wrong

short little song fic because i was bored also i didnt know how to end it so sorry that the ending is shit lmao😹😹

"Maybe you're better off with her?"

Her smile beamed brightening up the entire room, infecting everyone around her making them all smile and laugh also. She'd just given Bakugou a beaded bracelet for their 6-month anniversary making the blond boy blush and grow flustered as his friends gathered around to see the gift.

"Get the fuck away from us you dumb extras!" He yelled, but by now the "Baku-squad" as they'd been dubbed knew there was no real malice behind his harsh words.

"Cmon bakubro, let us see what Uraraka-Kun got you."Kirishima said playfully nudging him in an attempt to see the bracelet.

Behind Bakugou's yelling, you could see the slight smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. He was happy, he deserved it. She was good for him. So why do you still feel that sharp pang in your chest, the festering feeling of jealousy crawling through your veins?

Not being able to stand the joyous sight you get up from your seat trying not to make a scene calmly exiting the classroom. As soon as the door slides close behind you, you run. Tears cloud your vision-obscuring your view as you navigate your way to the bathroom luckily not bumping into anyone along the way.

Entering the restroom you slam and lock the heavy wooden door behind you making sure nobody can come in and ruin your pity party. God, you felt so pathetic like this. Crying over your ex who's obviously moved on. Raising your head to look at your reflection in the mirror you hate what you saw.

The bags under your eyes prominent and puffy due to the immense lack of sleep you've been getting and the constant crying in bed every night. Your skin was starting to break out from the stress and that glow you once held in your eyes was now dull. It angered you, what exactly? You couldn't pinpoint.

Was it the fact he was happy? Maybe it was that he got with Ms.Perfect and you felt as if you paled in comparison to her? How his face lights up every time he saw her approaching giving her a small smile that he never gave you? Or even the fact that this was all your fault? Yeah, that sounds about right. What angered you most is that you were the cause of this. You were the reason for the split. You're why he's with little miss sunshine and you're now left lonely and bitter.

" I had to use you to make me feel strong"

You were a leech, a parasite, nothing more than a pest who drained all of Bakugou's energy. While yes you were in class 1-A at the most elite hero school you were significantly weaker than your classmates. Your quirk was nothing to be scoffed at but by no means but you didn't know how to make it work efficiently and reach your full potential.

While your classmates excelled and grew it was like you were on the decline and Bakugou being the great boyfriend he was he refused to let you fail. Did you need help with your physical strength? Bet, he's waking you up at 6 am before classes start to workout with him. The physical recoil of your quirk wearing you out? No problem he's in your dorm room giving you a message to get all the kinks out of you back and brought over some food he cooked for you.

He saw no problem with doing any of this for you because he was your boyfriend but it was all give and no take for him. He was amazing for you but you were too consumed in your own need to get better you never paid him any attention unless you needed something.

He had an exam and he needed to stay up late to study for? You just gave him a kiss on the cheek and wished him good luck instead of bringing him snacks and water opting to sleep in his room that night like he would've done for you. The sweet caramel scent of his sweat after practice attracting bugs to his dorm room? You just laugh and tell him to "sleep tight and don't let the bugs bite" instead of getting him bug repellent like he would've done for you.

It was just the same level of effort he gave to you was never reciprocated. This frayed your relationship making you two grow more distant from one another as he stopped going the extra mile for you and returned the same amount of effort you gave him. That's when you started paying more attention to him. Vying for more of his time when one afternoon it all came to ahead.

Bakugou was getting ready to leave when you were pestering him to come to your dorm and cuddle with you when he snapped accusing you of only using him as your personal assistant and of course you clapped back with how he's been ignoring you lately.

"Duh, you fucking dumbass! I haven't been giving you any attention because that's what you've always fucking done for me! Nothing," He yelled in your face pushing your hand off him making you stagger back a bit. If looks could kill you'd be 6 feet under right now. The look he gave you was full of disgust and contempt.

"It's pretty fucking shitty that you only notice I'm gone when I'm not doing something that benefits you. you know what though (y/n) fuck you. I'm done with this shit." He said no longer yelling but the voice still full of anger as he shook his head exiting your dorm room.

" I see a tower built out of my mistakes and it all comes crashing down."

The realization hit you full force making a loud sob rack through your chest. It took you 6 months to realize you'd been a shitty neglectful girlfriend. Looking at yourself in the mirror only fueled your self-hatred and anger making you punch the mirror making it shatter and splinter into pieces as small shards broke off and fell on to the floor. The remaining pieces showing a broken image of yourself akin to how you feel inside making you give a small forced laugh. A sudden sting made you look down at your hand and see your knuckles were badly cut and oozing blood but you couldn't be bothered right now.

You stumbled back into the door of the stalls sliding down on to the cold tiled floor, the chill cooling down your burning body. Catching your breath from your previous sobbing you thought back on all the times he went the extra mile for you. He was a good boyfriend to you right down to the wire. You felt like such a fuck up and the worst part is you knew he didn't hate you.

After wallowing in your sadness you got up and went to your locker opting to just bandage up your hand instead of going to recovery girls' office and hear her nagging. With 30 minutes left of the free period you made your way back to class, you'd only been gone for 15 minutes but it seemed like an hour. Upon re-entering the room a few glances were on your hand but the demeanor you held stopped anyone from questioning you as you slowly sat back down in your seat.

Laying your head down on the desk folded your arms around yourself blocking out the rest of the world beginning to doze off.