#plainly in truth

[lesbianrobin]

ok so here is my pitch for my dream buddie catalyst:

eddie and maddie are trapped in some sort of likely-fatal time sensitive situation together (drowning related probably because it's Them) (have they overused it yes is it still thematically appropriate YES) where one person could potentially sacrifice themselves for the other to survive. i want eddie and maddie using their combined experience and ingenuity to survive together and discussing who should be prioritized which means they talk about parenthood and how they both feel they've failed their children by "running," how their lives have been so defined by trauma and they don't want to scar their children any further by leaving them again. of course they're doing everything they can to get out together, but as the situation deteriorates throughout the episode(s) (c'mon something like this could be at LEAST a two-parter) they can't help returning periodically to the world's most morbid debate.

i want buck and chim on the outside both going out of their goddamn minds. they know that eddie and maddie are stuck (wherever), know that they're probably alive, but aren't sure in what condition and if they'll stay that way. rescue operations begin as everybody walks on eggshells around buck and tries to comfort chim, who wants absolutely none of it. time is running out.

eddie says that he couldn't possibly let maddie sacrifice herself for him and look buck and chim in the eye afterwards. maddie says that she couldn't do that either. she says that at least jee-yun would still have her father, and eddie says that christopher would still have buck. maddie says that of course none of them would just abandon christopher if something were to happen to him but—

and eddie cuts her off and says it's in my will. if i die, christopher will have buck. buck will have christopher.

they just look at each other for a weighted moment. maddie makes a decision. she says ...i meant it, you know. that i couldn't let you die down here (wherever here is i don't KNOW okay i'm not here to think up convoluted emergencies i'm here for drama) and look my baby brother in the eye knowing that i could have changed it. eddie says i know, okay, but it's different, you're his sister, and maddie says, yeah, but you're his... and she pauses. and eddie says what? best friend? partner? that doesn't—

and maddie says you're his. eddie, you're his.

and eddie... i want to see something slot into place. i want to watch him understand as maddie spills everything she's been suspecting since the day that buck came out to her and maybe since before she and eddie even met. maddie says you know, when i first came to california, you were all he talked about? you're still all he talks about. you and christopher. you're his. i couldn't... eddie, you're out of your mind if you really don't think that losing you would break him just as much as losing me. he would forgive us both, because he's buck, but i couldn't... i'm no saint, eddie, i want to survive. i don't want my daughter to grow up without me. but i can't do that to him. i don't know if he'd survive it. even if he did, the guilt would eat me alive.

meanwhile. buck is barely holding on to his sanity as rescue efforts are underway and time is running out. chimney is keeping it together as best he can but there isn't much that he and buck can do. he can't let himself fall apart because buck is already a stiff breeze away from clawing his own skin off and somebody has to keep their cool. something goes wrong—suddenly, their short amount of time has gotten shorter, and they may only have enough of a window to get one out before it's too late for the other. buck, who has been ranting and arguing and screaming this whole time... is silent. he is silent, and he stares straight ahead at nothing in particular, and we know that no matter which way the scales tip, his soul will be destroyed all the same.

eddie regards maddie for a moment. grief, heartbreak, anger, all flicker over him, but what settles is determination. he says that neither of them are going to leave again. that they'll survive together, or not at all, or leave it to the universe to decide.

of course they make it out. by the skin of their teeth, they make it out, working together, clawing their way back to life and love and possibility. maddie makes it out first, and eddie sees buck as she falls into chim's waiting arms. he watches as buck sees his sister, and reaches out to take her hand with trembling fingers and white knuckles, but there is no relief, no happiness in his red-rimmed eyes. just a deep, unspeakable grief, until his eyes slide past maddie and meet eddie's.

finally: relief. and then he is in buck's arms, a perfect parallel to chim and maddie, and we see eddie's face over buck's shoulder, and we know. he is in love, and buck is in love, and eddie knows, and he sinks into his partner's embrace with joy and acceptance.

after that, who knows? maybe a grand confession. a moment of quiet understanding. a passionate post-rescue kiss. a chaste, tender kiss in some kitchen or other. maybe eddie panics later, or maybe he's found peace for once. maybe buck has realized something and he makes the first move. maybe it happens immediately. maybe it takes a while, takes discussions about how it'll affect work and christopher and whether it's worth risking all that they have for all that they want.

and maybe they'll ask whether it's even a risk at all.

[genderjester]

And the reason comes on the common tongue of your loving me

[sha-brytols]

i know i am far from the only bitch on the planet to say achilles come down is an anders song but what about achilles come down as a justice song too. what then.

[scoobydoodean]

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

prayers for my poor brother please

[sworn-in-blood]

@pretty-isnt-pretty-enough [leandro] to ALONZO OLIVEIRA.

“Remind me why Cata is making us dress up again?”

"She's taking us to some or other play , last I heard . Something about a dress code . Think it's a bit overboard , but she won't let any of us argue ."

A slight shrug and an amused breath , adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket . A dark green one , Alonzo technically hadn't worn this one before - similar to Leandro , he also wasn't always one for dressing up . Never really had an interest in it, unlike the three women the both of them were closest to . No, all three of them could probably put them both to shame on any given day , had they the opportunity . Catalina and Jess could handle their appearances on their own well enough, but the spy's girlfriend was practically a whole different story .

"I'd say we're lucky . Haven't heard from Jill the whole day ."

[kareofbears]

a fragile line, chapter 1/3

Newt and Thomas always had something going on—even in the Maze, Gally knew right away. But never did he think it would turn into something like this; a devotion fermented. A reverence that made the chapel look blasphemous in comparison.

—

Or, as they infiltrate WICKED, Gally notices the shift between Newt and Thomas.

read on ao3 or below the cut

The worst day of his life was when Gally realized he still fucking cares.

He always cared. Probably cared too damn much, back in the Maze. Cared so much it tore them all apart.

They had lost everything in the span of days. Crops burned, walls torn down, weapons picked up only to be dropped, dripping in blood. Gally tried telling everyone to stop breaking the rules, but nobody listened, and people died. Boys, his boys, died. And he tried so hard to save as many of them as possible, took that burden on himself, tarnished his palms with invisible callouses from the effort of forcibly keeping them all together. There's nothing worse than having the hands that helped kids out of the Box be the same ones to etch their names off the wall.

Gally was younger, then. It feels like years have passed even if it's only been months since it all went down. He was struck with terror, confused, determined to find answers, and most of all, he was angry. Angry with grief, angry at the situation, angry at change. Of course, nobody pissed him off more than the Greenie, sauntering around and making big speeches like he built the damn Glade himself. And guess what—Gally was right about that, too.

But what really got to him, what really made his nerves light up with fury and sink deep into his bones was that nobody listened to him about the Greenie. Yeah, Gally can see now that he was a massive dick back then, but all of his worries were valid. Thomas was dangerous. Thomas was working with WICKED. Thomas did lead people to dangerous situations without thinking things through or considering the consequences. And nobody questioned that, because they were making progress on the Maze for the first time ever.

It's not something he'll ever say out loud, but damn the Maze. Damn freedom. What the hell is the point of fighting your way out when you see the bodies lined up behind you? What's the price of escape? Too high. It would always be too high for him.

When they left him there, bleeding out on the floor of some busted up WICKED lab with a meter-long spear sticking out of his chest—Minho did always have one hell of a throw—Gally cursed every single one of them. Croaked out their names with whatever breath was left in his lungs, lips tracing the syllables in a haze of red and hate. Was still mouthing it when Lawrence's guys found him.

Months later, slouched on top of a combat vehicle for a routine trip of the Last City's outskirts, he sees them.

They looked like shit. Clothes that have been through the ringer, hair matted with grime, every inch of their skin covered in soot and who-the-hell-knows what, and eyes blazing with something only anguish from the Scorch and running from WICKED can bring to someone.

He wanted so badly for that same, familiar hurt to rise. That thorn on his side that he convinced himself would never leave, the phantom spear in his chest to make itself known. He waits for the anger to rear its ugly head again, like it always has. The need to feel hate.

It doesn't come. What does come, unfortunately, is knee-buckling relief.

They're alive.

After all this time, even after they left him behind to rot, they're Gladers. They're boys. They're Gally's boys, first and foremost. He protects his own until his last breath. For better or for worse, he still gives a damn about these guys.

If he's going to care, he's going to do it properly this time. And with these shanks? This is going to suck. It's going to be hell. But Gally doesn't do things in halves.

—

“Words?”

“Circulation. Novel. Badger.”

Thomas nods, taking a bite of his apple as he writes into that beaten up notebook of his. “Looks good today, too,” he says approvingly between chews. "And you're not—"

"I’m fine. Don't feel any worse than I did twelve hours ago," Newt cuts in, amused. "I feel bloody sparkling, Tommy. What's the next set?"

Gally watches as Thomas continues writing, brows furrowed in concentration. The three of them are sitting underneath the awning of the chapel's entrance, shielding themselves from the morning sun's abnormally hot rays, making last-minute preparations for when they head into the Last City tonight. Frankly, he was glad for it. Already they've lingered for too long, the paranoia of timing itching at his skin.

"Next words are 'narrow, switch, illusion,'" Thomas replies, closing his book shut. "Don't forget."

"I'll try my best," Newt says drily. "Can we move to actual business now, doctor?"

Thomas leans over and knocks on the wooden door, hard, taking another bite of his apple. "Brenda. Get out here."

Immediately, the door swings open and she peeks her head out, bob bouncing as she squints. "Done flirting?"

"Never," Newt says easily, scooching over so she has room to sit. "Lucky us, the doc cleared me to join the grown-up conversation."

Part of the last-minute preparations, apparently, is this. The Greenie playing Medjack and clearing Newt for a clean bill of health every twelve hours with little memory tests.

It's easy to make fun of, which Newt never hesitates to do. But when Gally first saw them doing it, saw Thomas' stone-faced expression as he insists on checking Newt every time, he's reassured, just a little. He still has his reservations towards the Greenie, probably always will, but if there's one thing they can both agree on, is that Newt's health isn't something to fuck around with.

Brenda flops down between him and Newt, giving Newt a side-hug and raises her fist towards Gally. Unhesitatingly, he bumps it with his own.

"Okay," Thomas swallows, passing the fruit to Newt, who takes his own bite in turn. Despite fatigue prevalent in his posture, Thomas’ voice is sure. "We're heading out tonight. The objectives are saving Minho, busting out twenty-eight Immunes, and taking the serum from the vault. We're taking the tunnels, like we did the first time." The way he's reciting the plan feels clinical, worn out, the same way sharp rock smooths down after years of being under rough waters. "Brenda's getting the bus for the kids with Fry's help—"

"Why isn't Fry here?" Gally interrupts.

"He's scavenging the place for something to mark the road with." Thomas slumps against the pillar like it was the only thing holding him up, before straightening again. At Gally's nod, he continues. "Newt, Gally and I are going in with Teresa to the main building. Gally and I will take point, Newt stays a few steps behind us as backup."

"Just a few?" Newt clarifies, coughing a little before biting into the apple.

"Just a few."

Newt’s teeth sink into the core, a piece falling with a loud crunch. There's still a hint of bruising still smudged just above his cheekbone; the only remnants of the mysterious black eye that appeared before they all had dinner a few days ago.

"Just a quick chat with Tommy," Newt answered when Gally raised a brow at him then. "Little trouble in paradise, just had to let out some steam, is all. You know how we are."

The thing is, Gally doesn't.

Individually, the two of them are pretty much the same. A lot happened in six months, and he'd be a liar if he said he's the same shank that was tearing his voice out in the Glade. Thomas is impossibly more difficult now, but he always was. At his core, though, he's still the brave, overly-observant idiot he pulled out of the Box. Newt's still the embodiment of wit, the patron fucking saint of composure, even if that's starting to chip away because of the Flare, judging by Thomas' twin bruise on his jaw.

But the two of them? As a unit? Gally has no idea who these bastards are.

It's as if the universe took a pinch of Thomas and a pinch of Newt, threw it in a barrel, and topped it with a gallon of deranged before stirring. A mixture of whatever the hell the two of them are now. It's something Gally doesn't want to put much thought into, because something about the two of them feels almost threatening. Warning bells, the presence of danger when something involves the two of them.

Newt and Thomas always had something going on—even in the Maze, Gally knew right away. But never did he think it would turn into something like this; a devotion fermented. A reverence that made the chapel look blasphemous in comparison.

Even asking Brenda about it, once, didn't help clear things up. "Those two? The only thing I get about them is that you should just get out of the way before you do something stupid."

"What, you make a bad comment or something?"

"Kissed Thomas." A pause. "Yeah. Don't ask. Newt laughed it off but Thomas wouldn’t speak to me for days."

Gally refocuses back on the meeting, as Thomas continues. "—into Sub-Level 3. Get the serum, give it to Newt right then and there. Get the kids out, meet with Brenda, get picked up by Fry." He pauses before nodding, as if he were confirming his own plan with himself. That, paired with his deep eyebags, Gally has to wonder if this guy's slept at all since they interrogated Teresa a few days ago. "Good that?"

Two good thats and one sounds good. Looks like Brenda never picked up the Glader lingo.

"Okay. Be back by sundown. We leave at nine." Thomas looks over them, voicd curt. “Don’t be late.”

"What Tommy means to say," Newt chides. "Is do what you need to do. Get some rest, pack what you need. Take care of yourselves, because who knows when we'll get free time again, yeah? Go on, now." Newt turns to Thomas. "Dick," he says, but it comes out oddly affectionate. "Never did pick up on niceties, did you?"

Thomas shrugs. "Figured they'd appreciate efficiency."

Gally gets on his feet, fully intending to slink away somewhere and get in the mindset for the infiltration tonight when he hears Thomas call out: "Stick around, Gally." A mild thump sounds out, like someone getting swatted. "...Please."

He doesn't repress a sigh, but doesn't complain—he has a thing or two to say, anyway.

They wait for Brenda and Newt to leave. Gally doesn't let him have the first word. "You look like shit," he says bluntly. "You can't go in there when you look like you can barely stay on your feet."

Thomas shoots him a glare but doesn't bother getting up from where he's sitting. "I'll be fine." Gally keeps staring, and Thomas visibly deflates, curling in on himself a little. "I'll be fine after we talk."

"Okay." Gally crosses his arms and waits. "Anytime, Greenie."

He doesn't answer, and Gally has the urge to tell him to just spit it out, but then Thomas' expression turns solemn. "Be honest with me."

"I don't think I have it in me to bother lying to you, man."

"Would you choose Newt over me?"

The question stuns Gally to silence. "Feeling insecure?" he asks instead of answering.

Thomas ignores the jab. "You would, right?" he insists, eyes intense. "You must. He has three years over me. You built the Glade together, one of the originals. You respected him even when he disagreed with you during Gatherings, I remember. You and I, we were never close. Got on each other's nerves a lot." He tilts his head, considering. "Still do."

Gally hesitates, honesty catching him off guard. "Shit, Greenie," he sighs, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it before. They’ve made strides, him and Thomas. They’re not as cut-throat with each other like they were before, as much as Thomas tried to reignite the feud between them. Is it good? Fuck no, but it’s better than before.

Nonetheless, it’s nothing on the affinity that Gally had towards Newt.

Eventually, he nods. "Yeah. If it came down to it and I had no other choice, I would choose Newt over you."

He’s not surprised when Thomas relaxes, tension easing from his frame. "Good," he breathes out, flopping down to the hot concrete and closing his eyes. "So if it came down to it, you'd make sure Newt would get out of there, even if it killed me?"

Gally gives him a hard look. “You planning on dying out there?”

“I’m planning on Newt coming back alive.” When Thomas opens his eyes slowly, gaze sliding to him, his expression is almost unbearably vulnerable. "Please," Thomas says quietly, and he almost doesn't hear it. "Please."

"You asked me to be honest." A hum sounds out in reply. "I think if I got Newt out of there, but you didn't make it, there would be nothing left of Newt to save."

Thomas frowns. "Yeah," he agrees, a little too easily. "But he'd be alive."

—

Gally peers over Newt's shoulder, standing on his tiptoes a little to get a better view. "You choose which one you're wearing yet?"

"Red one, I think." Holding up the WICKED jumpsuits, he watches as Newt's eyes jump between the three choices. "I like a good pop of color."

"Well, I don't." Gripping Newt's shoulder, he grabs the plain gray jumpsuit, and pauses briefly when Newt tenses underneath his touch. "I'll take the boring one."

"Doing us all a favor, mate."

Gally glances at Newt—who gives him a mild, withdrawn smile—before turning his attention back down to the jumpsuit. Tracing it with his fingers, he studies it, unseeing. A sick sense of premonition tingling down his spine.

"Well," Newt says, "I'm gonna—" he jerks his head to the door, clearing his throat, and Gally really, really considers letting him get away with it. But he can't, not when they're leaving in a few hours. Not when the stakes are so high. Newt, of all things, can’t be considered a variable. But it might be too late.

"Newt," he calls, still directing his gaze at the jumpsuit in his hands. "You have no idea who I am, do you?"

He stops in his tracks, turned away from Gally.

Dread grows in his stomach. Silence reigns for a long moment.

"No," he admits, finally. "But Tommy seems to trust you, so." Facing Gally, his smile, sickeningly foreign and apprehensive, is being directed right at Gally. "You must be a half-decent guy."

Gally laughs, because he knows Newt would want him to and he doesn't know how else to react. "Now I really know your memory's fucked." Hopping on top of a crate, Gally lets the humor drop from his voice, fist tight around the fabric in his hands. "How bad is it?"

That earns him a scowl, harsh and abrupt. "How the hell am I supposed to know the bloody details? I don't fucking remember."

"Calm," Gally placates. He has to constantly remind himself that, despite the fact that he hides it so well, Newt is sick. "Come on, man, we need to talk about this. You remember Thomas?"

Like a smothered flame, the fight immediately burns out of Newt. Carefully, he sits on the ground in front of Gally, crossing his legs. Gally wonders why Newt wouldn't just sit beside him when he remembers that he probably wouldn't want to sit next to a complete stranger. It stung, a little. "Yeah, I remember him."

"Does he know about this?"

"Yeah."

Gally narrows his eyes. "Really?"

"Yes," he repeats, exasperated. "You really think I can hide anything from that Tommy bastard? Especially about me and my—" he gestures at his head, circling a finger around his temple lazily. "I tried, mate, and that didn't work out for the two of us."

"Gally."

"What?"

"Stop calling me 'mate.' It's Gally. Just ask next time."

Newt scrunches his brows in concentration. "Gally," he stretches out, like he's hoping muscle memory of the name will kick in, a faint recognition flashing in his eyes. "It's kind of ringing a bell, now."

"Hope it's not alarm bells," Gally huffs. "How does the memory loss work? Are you going to be okay for tonight?"

"Not sure, it's kind of a new development. Sometimes I forget small details like what I ate for breakfast, and sometimes I forget you exist. Tommy's been trying to keep track of the progress with the little tests, but not sure that's doing a whole lot. Thinking that he's just obsessing over my health, like usual. As for tonight," he shrugs. "I have to be okay, don't I?"

"Newt."

"Gally," he groans out, matching Gally's tone. Looks like the memories are back; a quick recovery, for now. "I don't have a bloody choice. Besides, it's not that bad yet. It usually happens for a few minutes at a time and then I'm right as rain. So don't bother convincing me—"

"And I won't." During Gatherings, arguments with Newt had always been a losing battle, especially when the Greenie was involved somehow. Gally can count on one hand the times he's disagreed with Newt—this isn't one of them. "We need you out there," he says truthfully.

"Thanks," Newt says, eyes crinkling in relief, before morphing into a thoughtful expression. "Did Tommy say anything to you?"

Gally was shaking his head before Newt even finished. "Nope," he jumps down from the crate and walks out. "Not taking anymore bodyguard requests from anyone."

“Gally.”

Gally flips him off without turning around, mouth twisted unhappily. It’s a steep learning curve, but he thinks he’s starting to get it. Newt and Thomas are an old book that hasn’t been opened in years—you can’t separate the pages without risking both being torn in half. But what he wishes they knew is that he doesn’t want to have to choose between the two of them. He doesn’t like choosing lives, weighing the risks of success and death. There’s nothing more he wants than to leave that mindset back in the Maze. Especially between these two; they’re finally back in his life and they immediately get to talking about how willing they are to martyr themselves. Like they don’t realize how much this fucks with Gally’s head.

Just as the door is about to close, he hears Newt sigh, tired and frustrated. “Shit.”

—

"Punctual," is how Thomas greets him when he gets there ten minutes before the meeting time. He looks impossibly worse. Shoulders drooping and eye bags bordering on purple, he looks like he’s only standing on his feet through rage alone, as if it is only his heartache that propels him forward.

By now, the sun had long since set, replaced by a huge full moon that they ignored. They're both dressed in WICKED uniforms, masks in hand. He may not see it, but he knows both of them have weapons laced and hidden throughout their entire body like a second skin, like suits that he sees adults wear in the city. It flickers in his mind, sometimes, that in a normal life, they’d all still be too young to wear suits.

Gally snorts. "While you shanks were eating sand in the Scorch, I was in the military the whole time. Punctual made sure my ass didn't get beat."

Thomas' expression doesn't so much as twitch. "Makes sense," he says, effectively ending the conversation. Not that he minded. Greenie was a real stick in the mud nowadays. He almost prefers the hundreds of questions that spewed out of his mouth over the contemplative, fuming silence that's associated with Thomas nowadays.

“You always gonna be this much of an asshole?” Gally prods, because there’s time to waste and he’s never been afraid to ruin Thomas’ day.

“Well,” he replies, tone perfectly level. “By the end of tonight, I’ll either be the most pleasant, cheerful, carefree shank you’ve ever met—“ he lolls his head towards Gally, eyes dead. “Or I’ll be begging you to kill me.”

He doesn’t get a chance to respond. Footsteps, paired with the heavy thumps that only someone wearing a WICKED uniform can bring, paired with a throaty cough. "You alright, Tommy?"

The change was instant; it’s as if dawn broke at 8:56 pm. Thomas, the miserable, angry, short-fused Greenie, splits a grin brighter than the sun. A happiness sharp and abrupt and covetous that it felt like a weapon in its own right, an ax to grind so cutting that it makes the guns and knives strapped to their bodies feel like childrens’ toys. Ridiculously, Gally has the urge to take a step back out of its range.

“Could be better,” Thomas replies, reaching for Newt’s hand. One thing he’s grateful for is that these two always keep the PDA to a minimum. Small mercies. “Brenda?”

“Hauling our lovely Teresa over.”

As if on cue, the chapel doors barge open, Teresa and Brenda stepping out. If it weren’t for the sunken, lifeless expression plastered on Teresa’s face, they might have looked like two friends in a different life.

“Oh, and here you are,” Newt slips Thomas a folded piece of paper, clearing his throat. “Keep it somewhere safe.”

“What’s that?” Gally asks.

“Insurance. I’m supposed to give it to him, in case he—“ Thomas gestures vaguely, still unable to vocalize Newt’s sickness. There’s an emotion Gally can’t place scattered on his features. “Can I read it?”

“Sure,” Newt shrugs. “Nothing you don’t already know.”

He unfolds the paper, and it was quiet as they watched him read it. When he finishes, he looks up slowly. For some reason, Thomas looks overwhelmed.

New rolls his eyes. “I told you, it’s nothing you don’t already know.”

“Yeah, but still. It’s in writing.” With a care he isn’t used to associating with Thomas, he tucks the paper deep into his breast pocket. "Can I keep this?"

"No, that’s for me." Newt pauses, considering. "I'll write you your own letter, maybe."

Gally’s barely listening to them, much more interested in how Teresa looks like she just got her soul sucked out of her. “What’s wrong with her?” he asks Brenda.

“Beats me. Ever since the interrogation, she’s been out of it.” Cutting a glance at Thomas, “You have something to do with that?”

“You already know everything I did during the interrogation,” he says, hands up in surrender. “Haven’t even talked to her since then.”

Somehow, Teresa looks even more dejected after hearing that. An unforeseen benefit; she’s easier to handle this way. Gally catches Newt’s glaring at her, a mildly amused look etched into his eyes, and wonders how much is unforseen and how much is just Newt.

Turning his attention back to Brenda, he double checks his belt. Pistol, knife, dagger, radio, hacksaws, extra rounds. “Ready?”

Teresa’s head shoots up and blinks, suddenly alarmed. “Brenda’s coming?”

“Look who’s back from the dead,” Newt taunts, and Thomas frowns at him slightly. “You’re a bouncer now, are you? Of course Brenda’s bloody coming.”

“But isn’t she—?” Her gaze drops down to Brenda’s shin, where the Flare used to be etched. “She’s not getting treatment, right? Otherwise Newt would—“

Thomas sighs loudly, not bothering to look in her direction. “We need to go. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Where is she getting her serum?”

Gally looks at her like she’s lost it. “Do you think if we had any serum, we wouldn’t shoot that shit straight into Newt?”

Newt blows out a breath, eye twitching, and a tingle of premonition tingles along Gally’s nape. “Can we get a move on now? This girl’s just wasting our time. Don’t we have something better to do?”

Thomas gives him another long, long look. “Okay,” he concedes. “Let’s head out.”

Teresa opens her mouth, but Gally grips her wrist. “Haven’t you learned to just keep quiet?” he hisses, the question more genuine than he intended. It’s a wonder she’s still alive. “It’s a simple thing. Shut up. Get us in. And maybe Tom will hate you less.”

The venom in her stare could rival a Griever’s, but at least she doesn’t complain when they start walking.

—

The tunnel sucks. It always does.

It has a perpetual stickiness that seems to permeate into the aged bricks in the wall, a natural humidity that makes the heavy stink of a sewer rise and settle onto their clothes like a snowfall that Gally has only ever read about and has lost all hope of seeing in the sun-scorched world. With every step, an unnamable liquid would make their shoes squelch with a viscosity he doesn’t even want to think about; yet another thing to ignore if he wants to keep it together. It’s dimly lit, slippery, a nasty piece of work. The sound is strangely amplified there in a way he knows gives all of them hives—loud sounds get you attention. Attention gets you killed. Just how it works nowadays.

Thomas and Newt climb down first, then Teresa. Brenda gives him a dubious look, one foot on the ladder’s ring.

“What?”

Her tone is forcibly nonchalant. “Have a thing against going underground.” In the corner of his eye, he sees her twist her ankle this way and that. “You sure there’s nothing dangerous down there?”

Gally cracks a grin. “If you’re worried about Cranks, I think there’s technically one down there.” It’s the kind of joke that would get his teeth knocked out if he told it to Thomas, but it pulls a startled huff out of Brenda.

“Guess so.” Scraping something like a smile, she descends, and he follows her, closing the trap door with a thud.

Hopping down the rest of the way, his boots hit the ground with a splash. “Straight ahead,” he tells them, blindly reaching for the lever and pulling it up with some effort. Lights flicker on, bulb by bulb, as the tunnel stretches on for what seems like miles. “Let’s make quick work of this place.”

Thomas and Newt set the pace, a brisk walk that reminds Gally that Thomas was a Runner and Newt would still be one, in another life. Gally studies Newt’s leg from behind, nodding to himself when there’s only the barest stutter in his gait. He must have worked hard to train it up to where it is now.

“Anyone ever told you that you’re not as good at being a jackass as you think you are?” Brenda whispers beside him, soft enough that the sound doesn’t bounce against the tunnel walls.

Gally bristles. “No, actually, they tell me I’m worse than they remember.”

A scoff, then, loudly: “There’s only room for one brooding jerk in this group, and I don’t know if you can rip it from the lovestruck fools.”

“I heard that,” Thomas calls back, annoyed.

Brenda chuckles, before dropping her voice. “Listen, Gally. This tough guy act? It’s not doing anyone any favors. You don’t realize how quickly—” she falters. “How quickly it can go away.”

Irritation rises in him. “It’s not an act,” he rebukes, fighting to speak softly. “It’s more than that. You don’t think I know about loss? Give me a break.” He gestures to himself before Thomas and Newt, “What do you even know about this? Because, correct me if I’m wrong, it’s not really any of your damn business.”

“I’m the one who watched them for six whole months while you were gone,” she reminds him. “It’s not the Maze, but the Scorch is its own hell. It changes people, it changes priorities. And it’s also when Newt and Thomas became Newt and Thomas.”

He scrubs his face roughly. “And?” he prompts, because saying Who fucking cares? is probably rude.

“You can probably tell that they’re—” her lip twitches. “A little off.”

“Batshit insane?” he offers.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “And with how they trip over themselves to stare at each other, all I’m saying is that it’s nice that someone out there is watching where they’re going. Make sure their footing is alright.”

He gives her an incredulous look. “And that’s me?”

Brenda shrugs. “You and me. We can take shifts.”

Gally continues staring at her before throwing caution to the wind. “You still in love with him or something?”

It’s Brenda’s turn to be irritated. “Can’t you just accept the fact that some people aren’t ashamed to look out for their friends? Why do you have to make it weird?”

“Can’t you believe the fact that I’ve already tried looking out for my friends before and ended up with a stick in my chest?” His tone is more piercing than he wanted it to be.

She falls silent, and they walk for a few minutes with only the sound of their shoes slushing in sewer water and the muffled staccato of Newt and Thomas whispering with one another.

“I heard about that,” she says eventually. “It sounded deserved, if I’m being honest.”

Gally grunts, because she’s right and he doesn’t want to grace her with acknowledgement.

Brenda’s mouth quirks. “Who’s the sore loser now?”

Despite his best efforts, he cracks a smile. “Whatever.” And then, begrudgingly, “Yeah. It was deserved. But it was also—“

“Complicated?” Brenda finishes. “Look, man. We can grill those two all you want, but one thing about them is that they keep their shit simple and clean. There’s one priority: each other. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that. What you did is in the past, but you’re here for them now. Your hands are full enough as it is, so maybe—” she shrugs. “Try letting stuff go?”

There’s nothing to let go, he wants to retort.

I already let it go, he fixes.

I thought I let go already, he tries again.

I don’t think I’m allowed to let go, is what he actually wants to say.

A quiet, trilling voice, one Gally almost forgot about, made itself known. “You held them too tightly before.” Teresa mutters, eyes downcast. “So now you don’t even want to touch them now. Right?”

Bitterness coats his throat. “You, of all people,” he says, emotionless. “Don’t get to speak to me about that.”

He shoulders past Teresa, ignoring her. “I’ll go ahead and take the first shift,” he tells Brenda.

“That’s the Gally I’ve heard about.”

He scoffs without heat and has to jog to catch up to Thomas and Newt when he hears something that makes him stop in his tracks, liquid sloshing at his shin. Dread, cold and heavy, settles in his stomach.

“Narrow, beatle—no, it’s not beatle,” Newt’s back is to him, shoulders pulled in tight and fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Narrow, hoax…”

“Newt,” Thomas speaks quietly.

“No, Tommy, just give me a minute. I swear I’ve got it.” Newt takes a deep breath. “The words are narrow, insight—fuck.”

“They’re just words,” Thomas tries mildly, but even in the poor lighting, Gally can see how his hands tremble. “Nothing more to it. It’s a stupid thing I made up, anyway.”

“It’s not stupid,” Newt hisses. “It was bloody important to you twelve hours ago, wasn’t it? Don’t go changing the rules on me now.”

Thomas places a hand on Newt’s chest lightly but firm. Taking a deep breath, movements exaggerated, shoulder rising and falling, Thomas holds eye contact with Newt. In the next set of breaths, Newt joins him; reluctantly at first, until the tension in his shoulders gradually relaxes, their chests rising and falling in time with each other.

“We good here?” Gally interrupts quietly.

Newt turns to him, meditative state seemingly broken, and for a second, he thought that Newt was going to have that distant expression on his face again, the one that says he doesn’t recognize Gally anymore. Expects to be met with gritted teeth and wild eyes and black veins. Gally readies himself. Anger, he can work with.

But Newt lets out a sharp breath and casts his eyes to the ceiling, visibly deflating. “We’re good here,” he sighs, and when he glances back down, his expression is sheepish. “Sorry.”

Gally nods, eyes flickering to Thomas, who reveals nothing.

“Come on,” Gally says, brushing past Newt, gently squeezing his shoulder. “Tunnel’s turning soon.”

—

The trickiest part of their journey into the city was always going to be outrunning the train.

“There’s too many of us to go all at once,” Gally announces, all of them hunched in a cramped tunnel with jagged rocks pressed against their palms. He speaks with a raised voice, the train whooshing loudly, the lights rhythmically lighting up their faces like search lights. “We should split this up into two runs.”

He studies each person and doesn’t hide a grimace. The dramatics of how to split this group of shanks is annoyingly complicated. “Me, Brenda, Newt. Greenie, Teresa. Sound good?”

Thomas opens his mouth, and Gally gives him an unimpressed look. “What is it now?”

“...Nothing.”

“Great.” Gally pokes his head out slightly. It’s almost time. “Brenda, Newt. Ready?”

They nod. “Don’t trip this time,” Thomas tells Newt, a shadow of humor in his voice.

“Nice to see you well enough to make jokes, Tommy.”

“Now!” Gally calls.

The three of them hop down, one after another in quick succession. With the rumbling of the next train behind them, they didn’t waste time with idle conversation again. They set out in a sprint, and Gally lets Brenda and Newt pass him, opting to take the tail-end this time. He expects their serious expression, unyielding even in how harshly they suck in their breaths, but Newt’s brows are ruffled in together as he passes Gally.

It goes smoothly, thankfully. The rubble doesn’t even get a chance to truly start vibrating until they were long up the ladder, slumped against the concrete walls to support themselves as they catch their breath. Gally stares at the ceiling, lets himself zone out for a few moments, waits for his lungs to stop stinging, before glancing to his right.

Newt is sitting up, spine ramrod straight, a tense hand on his holster and unblinking.

“Newt?” Gally asks slowly, starting to recognize that vacant look in Newt's eyes.

He watches as Newt’s focus darts between Gally and Brenda, lips moving silently. There’s a glint in his eye that leaves Gally uneasy.

“Newt?” Brenda repeats, levity gone. “What’s wrong with you?”

“How do you know my name?” Newt presses his back tighter against the wall, like he’s trying to escape. Escape from them.

Brenda and Gally share a look. “We’re your friends,” she starts.

It wasn’t the right thing to say. Newt tightens his hold on his holster. For a fleeting moment, he wonders if this is what Teresa felt during the interrogation. “I’ve never seen you before in my life,” he mutters, and Gally strains to hear him. “Not once.”

Gally slowly attempts to sit up, but Brenda subtly shakes her head. He settles back down.

“Where is he?” Newt breathes out, low and urgent. It’s faint, but there’s the softest hint of leather creaking, like Newt’s considering pulling out his gun. “Where’s Tommy?”

Sucking in a breath, Gally tries to reply—he’ll be here in a minute—when the next train whooshes past them, drowning out his response. In this sporadic lighting, Newt’s eyes burn bright, rapacious, boring deeply into Gally’s. The train fully passes them, and for a moment, darkness swallows them whole.

Then the lights flicker back on and Gally is staring directly into the barrel of Newt’s gun. When he speaks, it’s guttural, very nearly inhumane. “Where’s Tommy?”

Gally doesn’t flinch. “He’s coming,” he assures him, refusing to let his voice waver. “Maybe in ten seconds, he’ll be here.”

Newt presses the barrel closer, actually touching Gally’s forehead this time. “He wasn’t supposed to leave my side,” Newt retaliates, but it comes out unsure. “I know that much. We—we talked about that, I think.” For a moment, he shrinks on himself, before anger seems to seize him once more. “Where?”

A hand grazes Newt’s shoulder. “Hey—” Brenda murmurs.

The barrel leaves his forehead and is pointed at Brenda, but her draw is the quickest out of all of them. In an instant, both of them have their pistols pointed at each other, Newt shaking uncontrollably and Brenda calm, the only sign of her worry is from the downward tilt of her mouth.

Then, out of nowhere, Newt lowers his gun. “It’s been ten seconds,” he states abruptly. The whiplash leaves Gally reeling.

“What?” Brenda asks, lowering hers. “What are you talking about?”

“Tommy, he—“ Newt’s face scrunches, thinking. “He’s fast. I remember that much. It shouldn’t take him long. It’s not like him to be late. There must be something wrong.” The tunnel they’re in is cramped, but Newt tries to stand anyway, and suddenly collapses. “What’s wrong with this bloody leg…?”

In the back of his mind, Gally is vaguely impressed. Never mind forgetting Brenda and Gally; Newt forgot his limp, but is able to recall that Thomas can run faster than the average person. “You think Thomas is in trouble?”

Gally doesn’t hesitate—he foregoes the ladder and jumps down directly from the platform when he hears them, voices raised and Teresa clutching onto Thomas' arm like a lifeline. A flash of disbelief flares in his chest. How did Newt know?

“—You see that Brenda's fine? Can't you see there's—"

"I'll let this train run you over Teresa, I'm not fucking—"

"Please, this can save Newt's life—" Faintly, the screech of the train becomes audible, but the two of them pay no heed to it.

"Keep his name out of your mouth. You're the reason why his life needs to be saved—"

Gally doesn't even try to break into their argument. When he's close enough, he grabs Teresa's wrists and forcibly tears it away from Thomas. "I'm really starting to regret not taking Greenie's offer to just chop your thumb off."

"You have to listen," she starts, eyes shining with frustration, but the screeching is getting louder and louder. "The cure—!"

"How dare you," Thomas lashes out, ablaze. "Taunt the cure in front of me when you know I'd skin anyone alive to get my hands on it."

"The train!" Gally yells, but neither of them look at him.

"I'm not taunting, I know how much this means to you, and I want you—"

"And I don't, Teresa. I don't want you, I don't even want to see you, I can't stand to look at you."

Enough is enough. "Newt's memory is blanking again," Gally cuts in. "Has no idea who me and Brenda are."

Thomas whirls on him, Teresa completely forgotten. "Shit." Without warning, he turns and runs, the soles of his shoes barely hitting the ground before it's up again.

Teresa stares at his back for a long moment before turning to him. Heartbreak isn’t a strong enough word to describe the devastation on her expression. it's as if she doesn't hear the train that's rolling closer and closer to them. Or maybe she doesn't care. "Will you listen?" she asks him.

Gally gives her a blank look. "If you don't run now, you'll die."

He sets off, and he can't help the surprise he feels when footsteps sound behind him.

—

Curiosity gets Gally this time around. “How’d you know?”

Newt glances at him. By the time they got back, breathless and exhausted, Gally doubly so, Newt seemed to have found his memories again.

After a long moment of silence, Newt simply shrugs.

It would have been naive to expect any other answer.

[yellowheartz]

Thinking about how DreamWorks perfectly captivated the brotherly relationship Moses had with Rameses in Prince of Egypt and the pained expressions and the conversations they had and the fact that even Moses was still questioning why God chose him because that would mean he would have to be separated from his brother once again and-

[irascibleblackguard]

For those seeking a link to the study and citations thereof:

"We have collected, from orchestral manage- ment files and archives, a sample of auditions for eight major orchestras. These records contain the names of all candidates and identify those ad- vanced to the next round, including the ultimate winner of the competition. The data provide a unique means of testing whether discrimination existed in the various rounds of a hiring process and even allow the linkage of individuals across auditions. A strong presumption exists that dis- crimination has limited the employment of female musicians, especially by the great symphony or- chestras. Not only were their numbers extremely low until the 1970’s, but many music directors, ultimately in charge of hiring new musicians, pub- licly disclosed their belief that female players had lower musical talent.

The question is whether hard evidence can support an impact of discrimination on hiring. Our analysis of the audition and roster data indicates that it can, although we mention var- ious caveats before we summarize the reasons. Even though our sample size is large, we iden- tify the coefficients of interest from a much smaller sample. Some of our coefficients of interest, therefore, do not pass standard tests of statistical significance and there is, in addition, one persistent result that goes in the opposite direction. The weight of the evidence, however, is what we find most persuasive and what we have emphasized. The point estimates, moreover, are almost all economically significant.

Using the audition data, we find that the screen increases— by 50 percent—the probability that a woman will be advanced from certain preliminary rounds and increases by severalfold the likelihood that a woman will be selected in the final round. By the use of the roster data, the switch to blind auditions can explain 30 percent of the increase in the proportion female among new hires and possibly 25 percent of the increase in the percentage female in the orchestras from 1970 to 1996. As in research in economics and other fields on double-blind refereeing (see, e.g. Blank, 1991), the impact of a blind procedure is toward impartiality and the costs to the journal (here to the orchestra) are relatively small. We conclude that the adoption of the screen and blind auditions served to help female musicians in their quest for orchestral positions."

Did you know that after they switched to blind auditions, major symphony orchestras hired women between 30% to 55% more? Before bringing in “blind auditions” with a screen to conceal the the candidate, women in the top 5 major orchestras made up less than 5% of the musicians performing.

[lunaastala]

time for tags.

[dxvotionis]

Name | Zephirin de Valhourdin Titles | Zephirin the Just, Ser Zephirin, Father Zephirin Occupation | The Very Reverend Archimandrite of the Heavens’ Ward Age | 29 Gender | Male; He/Him Species | Elezen; Wildwood Height | 5'6 Loyal to | Ishgard, The Holy See, The Archbishop, The Heavens' Ward

Zephirin's mother died in childbirth, and his father followed her when Zephirin was seven. His father had been the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights, and his busy life had meant he had limited time to spend with his son but Zephirin still idolised him. His father had many friends that helped look after Zephirin in his childhood years, but after his father had passed Zephirin spent a lot of time training in swordwork. He wanted to follow in his father's footsteps, but also because his home felt incredibly lonely. He was a small child and was a lot smaller than all those he saw training, and in his young mind, he desired to be seen as stronger. He found a greatsword in his home, along with a small maroon crystal. He didn't understand then what the Dark Knights were, or why Ishgard hated them. When he was met with criticism for his weapon choice, he pushed back with a deep seated stubbornness. With his greatsword in hand, Zephirin entered the Temple Knights' grand tourney at the age of fifteen and won. He joined the Temple Knights and due to his steadfast and unflinching self, began to be known as Zephirin the Just. At one time, he was the favoured candidate for the position of Lord Commander of the Temple Knights, but instead the title was given to Ser Aymeric de Borel, who had been the one person Zephirin had considered a friend. He did not want his disappointment to sully Aymeric's victory and so he did what he could to smile but ended up falling into a deep depression, as his singular goal in life was no longer accessible. His saving grace was Ser Vellguine of the Heavens' Ward, who did not wish his talent to be wasted among the Temple Knights and offered Zephirin a position within the Heavens' Ward and Zephirin accepted. He flourished within the Ward and when Ser Vaindreau 'retired', and Ser Vellguine turned down the position of Very Reverened Archimandrite, Zephirin was given the honour and became the leader of the Ward.

Verse | Main Set before and during the Heavensward expansion up until The Singularity Reactor Zephirin leads the Heavens' Ward - Ishgard's finest, tasked with protecting the Archbishop Thordan. They are aware and complicit in his plans to become an all powerful primal, allowing and encouraging Ishgard to fall into chaos so that Ishgard may survive. The ends justify the means. (Note - Zephirin was not tempered. All he did was truly of his own free will)

Verse | Survival The sole survivor of their battle, Zephirin awakens later on the cusp of death surrounded by the bodies of his men. The battle had taken its toll and Zephirin found himself unable to manipulate aether and so unable to teleport. It took a long time for him to get home, found collapsed in the snow not far from the gates one day. The frostbite had set in, the injuries lingering from the fight and then further hurting himself traveling, he had a long ways to recovery and so he was taken to Ser Vaindreau's Grace. Even after recovering, he will be disabled for the rest of his life. Mostly by his own request he is stripped of his knighthood and his position in the clergy, and now spends his time in his estate. (Note - I am just straight up ignoring the EW caster quests)

[pathologicalreid]

blowing smoke | s.r.

in which Spencer asks you out on a date, but you know better

[next]

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: maeve and that fucking book. mutual pining but with avoidant reader. this fic lowkey could've been titled waiting room because reader knows it's for the better. word count: 1.96k a/n: hey does this thing still work? hello?

The hand hovering over the small of your back didn’t go unnoticed. In fact, you were hyperaware of every movement that Spencer made. Every hitched breath, each time he shifted his weight, the way he guided you through the halls put you on edge. He herded you through your apartment complex as if it were a maze he’d scrawled on the back of his hand.

His apartment was in the opposite direction of yours, but he still offered to take the red line with you, citing a need to make sure you got home safely. “Did you have a good time tonight?” He asked, his voice breaching the painful silence that had coagulated between you, his hand remained above your back, skimming the fabric of your jean jacket as you stepped onto the elevator together, trapping you in a metal box together.

You nodded once, keeping your eyes focused on the muddled reflection of the two of you in the elevator door instead of looking back at him. “I can’t complain about good company,” you answered, curling your toes in your shoes, using the texture of your socks to stop yourself from abandoning your resolve.

Spencer hummed in response, “We should do it again sometime,” he told you, letting you get off of the elevator first before he trailed you to your front door.

“As long as Penelope’s around, I don’t think we’ll be in danger of losing team bonding nights.” Tonight had been dinner at a new restaurant in the district, a place that you’d never heard of but Garcia had found on social media. Of course, the restaurant served exclusively Italian cuisine, and Rossi—who you’d been sat next to—went around the table and explained what he’d change about everyone’s meals to make them more authentic.

He was quiet as you rummaged through your purse for your apartment key, zeroed in on the way you rifled through pens and chapsticks to find the right carabiner. “Oh,” he responded, following you into the apartment. “I meant maybe you and I could do something. Get dinner together sometime.”

You faltered, your hand resting on a hanger in your coat closet, “I think Penelope would take it personally if we started hanging out without her.”

“Bringing Penelope with us on a date might send people the wrong message,” Spencer countered, a soft chuckle carrying through his tone.

Closing the closet door, you waited until the latch clicked to turn around and face him, “Spencer,” you started, tilting your head to the side but refraining from moving any closer to him. “We can’t,” you stated plainly, shaking your head in disbelief—both at the fact that he was asking you out and at the fact that you were turning him down.

His golden-brown irises studied your face in abject disappointment; he searched your expression for the smallest sign that you were joking. Turning him down to mess with him only to quickly turn around and tell him you’d love to get dinner together. “Sure, we can, there’s no regulation that says two members of the BAU can’t be together. There won’t be as long as Rossi’s around.”

The corner of your mouth quirked up, “That’s not why.” You wracked your brain for a simple explanation. A little white lie would be easier than the messy truth, but every lie eventually circled back to the same thing—to the same person. You’d been so patient in waiting for this moment, living your life on the sidelines while you watched Spencer crush on coworkers and bartenders and waiting for the universe to put you on the same playing field.

Here he was, offering to pull you from the bench, but you weren’t interested. He shifted his weight from left to right, “Then why?”

Naming your issue would require bringing up a subject that had become taboo in the BAU. You found yourself wishing you still had your jean jacket on, the cold in your apartment brought on by freezing Spencer out, “Maeve.” Your one-word answer floated off of your tongue easily, a topic you had wanted to bring up since she died but had avoided for nearly a year now.

You found a spot on the floor and focused on it, desperately needing something to look at other than Spencer’s face as each stage of grief flashed across it. “I want to move on,” he assured you, “It’s time, don’t you think?”

A scoff escaped your throat before you had the chance to reel it in, “I don’t want to be a task to you. There’s no point in me being a checkbox on your therapist’s list.” It broke your heart to turn him down. It killed you to hurt him. It killed you to hurt the bright-eyed girl who fell in love with him on her first day on the job.

“You aren’t,” he insisted. “You wouldn’t be. I’m not doing this for anyone except for myself,” he took a determined step forward and you stumbled backward, and just like that, he had a final answer.

All of the words in the English language, and you couldn’t form a sentence that would concisely explain why you couldn’t go on a date with the love of your life. You shrugged helplessly, allowing yourself to look up at him, trying to unsee the haunted look in his eye that you’d grown accustomed to. It’d been there since the day she died, and you weren’t entirely sure he’d ever be rid of it. “You called her the most beautiful girl in the world,” you reminded him, unsure of why you chose this reason.

He frowned, the crease between his brows so endearing that you nearly forgot about the cracks forming around your heart. “What?”

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you considered your next words carefully, “That’s what you said to Blake, I heard you.”

Spencer looked pained, “She… I didn’t—”

“And you’d never seen her before,” you cut off his explanation. “You called her the most beautiful girl in the world without having any idea what she looked like,” you reminded him of the odd circumstances encircling his relationship with Maeve. Phone booth girl.

“She was my girlfriend,” he offered as if that was explanation enough. It wasn’t lost on you. People had a tendency to speak in hyperbole when they were in love, and despite his excessive rationality, Spencer was no exception.

Running your tongue over your molars, you hummed, “Look, all I know is that if you felt that way about someone you’d never laid eyes on, there’s no room for you to feel that way about me.” You weren’t trying to be brave or considerate, you were frantically trying to build a brick wall between you and Spencer that should’ve been erected years ago.

He shook his head, taking another step toward you, leaving you to back into the kitchen counter, “You don’t mean that.”

Tears started to line your eyes, silver wisps blurring the visage of everything you’ve ever wanted, “You have to understand, Spencer.” The determination in your voice slowly morphed into a plea. You found yourself begging him for mercy, “In my head, we’ve already dated, fallen in love, and broken up. I don’t need to relive that sequence of events.”

“You don’t think we even deserve a chance? Because of Maeve?” He continued to push, poking and prodding at you until you felt like you were going to break apart.

You couldn’t do it. You could no longer allow yourself the luxury of fantasizing about being with him while the skeleton in his closet was pushed up against the door, threatening to break it from its hinges. Your tears slipped down your cheeks, moving in a steady stream as your lips parted to respond, “Because you called her the most beautiful girl in the world, and I’ve been in front of you for eight years waiting for you to notice me.”

It wasn’t that you considered yourself a jealous person. At least, not in the sense that you were jealous of Maeve. You couldn’t be in a relationship where you were always cognizant of the fact that someone else always came first. In the past year, you’d seen the way her death followed Spencer’s every action firsthand, and you couldn’t let her haunt you too.

“Let’s say you mean this and want to be with me; I’ll never live up to her,” you explained yourself to him, hoping to fill the gaping wound in your chest with words that would never be able to repair the damage that was being done to you. “I will never be able to reach the standard that she set,” you told him.

Spencer held a hand up, trying to get you to stop speaking, “That’s not true.”

You waved it off, “Of course it is. Spencer, if not her, then someone else will always come first to you. I’d spend half of our relationship wondering if you’re being forthcoming in your feelings about me, and I refuse to use what’s left of my dignity to stand in front of you and beg for your love.”

“You won’t have to,” he insisted. “I have absolutely no intention of using you as some sort of placeholder.”

Spencer was always good with words. You’ve watched him bend truths and manipulate UnSubs into giving him exactly what he wants. That was what he was doing right now, as surely as you were holding a knife to your own throat, he was asking you to lay down your arms. He didn’t want to hear you out, everything you said to him went unprocessed by that beautiful brain of his, and a feeling of helplessness filled the void. “Do you still carry the book around with you?”

It was like you’d pressed a reset button, his demeanor completely changed when you brought up the book, “What?” He straightened up, pulling his shoulders back as he eyed you nervously.

“The Narrative of John Smith, is it in your bag right now?” You asked him. Spencer’s kinship with books was a trait that had previously fed your fantasy, but for the last year it had only ever been one book. You wanted to scream at him, to tell him off for having the audacity to ask you out while he had that book in his bag. As if the inscription didn’t imply that Spencer and Maeve were destined to be together.

Slowly, Spencer opened his bag, reaching in and pulling out the eerily familiar book. One-hundred and twenty pages of your precarious and unending heartbreak. There was a bookmark placed about halfway through, indicating he was in the middle of his umpteenth reread.

Something about it made you feel so pathetic that you weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh or cry. There was no escaping her, even now. You’d never be able to fully leave her in the past, there would always be the question of whether or not they’d be together had she not died.

Maybe he’d shelve the book someday. Maybe he’d read a book by your favorite author instead of clinging to Arthur Conan Doyle. Maybe he’d stop quoting E.E. Cummings on a daily basis. He just hadn’t reached that stage of grief yet, and part of you thought he’d remain in a permanent state of bargaining. You weren’t willing to be part of the bargain. You weren’t willing to be the one he defaults to just because you have a pulse.

Shaking your head, you walked around him and opened the front door, leaning against it and fidgeting with the deadbolt while you waited for him to get the message, “I can’t take being the last choice.”

"Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone; we find it with another." - Thomas Merton

[sworn-in-blood]

@pretty-isnt-pretty-enough [leandro] to ALONZO OLIVEIRA.

❛  ah, it’s such a good story. but i am legally prohibited from sharing all the details at this time.  ❜

"Legally prohibited my ass . Spill ."

Alonzo had always been one for stories - and the gall one of his closest friends had to tease him with a good tale wasn't something he'd let slip by. They were rapt with attention almost immediately, a raised eyebrow and a teasing glimmer in them - it was clear he wasn't going to let this go so easily .

Leandro definitely knew that too - so this was intentional . Intentional in the way he wouldn't even have mentioned it unless he was going to tell the revolutionary , and he waited expectantly to hear it - he'd put aside the intricate knife collection he'd been sharpening, putting all his attention into the moment . He was practically a schoolboy when it came to rumours and stories , and that would never change as long as he was alive - they wouldn't tell anyone , he'd swear it , but he was never opposed to hearing it .

[unintentionalseductress]

Hold Me Tenderly

Warnings: MDNI, sex, angst Summary: When woken up from a nightmare, you and Caleb are forced to confront some uncomfortable truths. WC: 3075 A/n: This week has been crazy. As I've mentioned in an earlier rant, there's more to Caleb than meets the eye and I'm here for it. I've seen a bump in toxicity since his launch, and I just want to take this space to say, please remember this is all FICTIONAL. Let people like who they like and if you have nothing nice to say, scroll on by.

It’s pitch black. You squint, your heart pounding frantically as you try to get your bearings. Up, down, left, right, direction seemed to have lost all meaning. It was dark. And quiet. Too quiet. The unsettling sound of your blood rushing through your own veins adds to the paranoia building inside you.

“Are you looking for me?” Your body jolts at the voice as you look around desperately for the source.

“Caleb?” You call through the echoing nothingness. He sounded so close but where was he? 

“Right here. Can’t you see me?” He sounded further away this time. You jog through the void, not even certain if there is ground beneath your feet. Were you actually moving? Or were you stuck in place, wasting effort to run through a medium that couldn’t be traversed?  

“Caleb, where are you? I can’t find you!” Your voice calls out, shrill, and panicked into the void.

“Here.” He sounded much farther away now, the faint sound of him disappearing into the dark. You give chase, plunging deeper into the unknown.

“Caleb!”

“Hey.” You’re shaken gently and your eyes fly open, your limbs tangling under the sheets as you thrash to free yourself.

“Whoa, calm down. It’s ok. It’s ok my little mouse.” Strong arms wrap around you and you’re pulled into a tight embrace against a firm, muscled, chest. You swallow, then blink your eyes open. The bedside lamp is turned on, and you feel relief flood your chest as Caleb’s face comes into focus. You sniff, burying your face into the comforting warmth of his skin. 

“Nightmare?” He asks softly, cupping the back of your head. You nod, feeling a lump form in your throat. “It’s gone now. I’m here.” He shushes you, patting your back soothingly.

You’re here, but you’re not here.

The thought enters your mind, unbidden, and suddenly, it’s too much. Your eyes squeeze closed, trying and failing to stop the cascade of tears that form. You couldn’t bear it anymore. Caleb came and went like day changing into night - too brief and without a trace. You hated it. You hated him acting like this tension between you didn’t exist, like the events at Skyhaven had been put to rest.

But most of all you hated that whenever Caleb visited, he never seemed to understand that you wanted him to stay. You had never said he was unwelcome, but he treated himself like an unsavory visitor, only packing enough clothes for a day, before leaving the next. 

And you hated yourself for being unable to shake off the question he had asked the last time he had visited. 

“Why didn’t you ask me who kept me up all night? Were you afraid I’d say it was you? Or were you scared I’d say it wasn’t?”

Wasn’t the answer to that obvious? Why else would you keep letting this man back into your life, over and over, like a moth drawn to a flame? Simply put, you were now in a precarious state, knowing you could never go back to a world where Caleb didn’t exist. It was infuriating, the way he thought he was being considerate, never overstaying his visits, when it was so plainly obvious you didn’t want him to go. Your heart broke each time he left without asking if there were feelings that went beyond the bond of growing up together. 

So you cry, and he holds you tenderly. You couldn’t remember the first time you had both done this, years ago, sharing a bed to avoid facing all the past trauma you’d endured together. But all you knew was that you never wanted there to be a last. 

“It’s just a dream baby girl,” Caleb murmurs in your ear. 

Your eyes snap open, and through gritted teeth you say, “It’s not just a dream Caleb.”

His hand pauses. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not a dream.” You sit upright, burying your face in your hands, your body racked with sobs, shaking and trembling on the bed. The sheets ruffle and Caleb pulls you against him, trying to console you. He seems to be at a loss about what to say. You take a shuddering breath and it’s like a dam burst inside you.

“You come when you want. And leave when you want. What about me, Caleb? Did it ever occur to you that I don’t want bits and pieces of you anymore?” You look up at him, tears streaking down your face, your heart skipping a beat as his eyes grow wide with shock. You ramble on. 

“I don’t know how we got here. And I’m trying to fix it but Caleb…I can’t fix it if you won’t stay.” 

You finally admit the things you’d tucked away inside, trying to bury them; now they were crawling out of your throat like ghosts desperate for a rebirth. You swallow, and Caleb grabs the glass of water from the nightstand and presses it into your hands. 

“Drink.” 

The word is said so firmly that you dare not refuse and you gulp, the liquid somehow helping dull the harshness of the lump in your throat. He puts it back before gathering you close to him.

“You realize that’s the first time you told me I could stay.”

“Well, I’m sorry! I thought it was obvious!” You hurl the words, which get muffled by the wall of his chest. 

Caleb huffs. “Well, it wasn’t. And who told you that I didn’t want to stay? I was trying to give you space.” He takes a deep breath. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me around anymore.”

Your heart clenches, and your hands tighten on his T-shirt. “Of course, I want you around Caleb. You’re my…” Your voice trails as you realize the term ‘best friend’ rang hollow. He was so much more than that. 

Caleb gently leans back so that he can look at your face. He cups your cheek, his eyes gazing at your face searchingly.

“What? What am I?” 

The question snaps the coil that had been steadily winding tighter during his stay. Frustrated, you move to your knees, hands springing out to capture his face. Before he can react, you roughly cover his mouth with yours. The kiss is raw, pouring out every moment of rage and loneliness you have felt since being reunited with him. You had never kissed him before, and a momentary flash of worry crosses your mind at the implications but they’re pushed out as you take what you had been desiring for so long. 

Caleb groans lowly at the feeling of your soft lips against his but his mind is fighting propriety. “Wait. Hang on, wait baby girl.” Caleb’s large hands catch yours and he breaks the kiss, trying to put some space in between you both. 

“Are you sure about this?” Caleb’s eyes are painted with confusion and doubt, but there is no denying the growing darkness at the edges of his irises. Despite everything, neither of you had dared cross that line, the one that threatened to upend your complete understanding of each other. 

“Never been more sure of anything in my life.” 

Your consent brings forth a growl from his throat, and finally, finally, he claims you back. You revel in the push of his body against yours, the hard muscles pressing against your softness as he wraps both arms around you and you’re crushed under his weight as both of you crash onto the mattress. Everything was fair game now, no qualms asked. His mouth, hot and demanding, finds yours, and your hands anchor onto his shoulder blades, trying to pull him impossibly closer to you than he already was. Everything about him was familiar, yet different. 

You’d held his body before, cupped his cheeks, and cuddled him during the bad days, but now, you feel the tension in his body as the boundaries between friendship and something more start to blur. The raging ache in your chest that had been clawing at you since you had left Skyhaven now had a name; possessiveness.

Because he was yours. And weren’t you his? Was it fate that had brought you two together at the shelter after the day of the Chronorift Catastrophe? It hardly seemed to matter but now, the both of you were intricately bound together and you couldn’t figure out where he ended and you started. All that mattered was that he was here. 

A gasp leaves your mouth as Caleb rakes his teeth down your lips, nibbling and sucking the soft flesh. Carding your fingers through his hair, you wait until the sting has passed before leaning up to pepper his face with little kisses, causing him to pause as he catches his breath.

“I was afraid you’d say yes.” 

“What?” Caleb’s eyes knit in confusion as he regards through the haze in his brain.

“Your question. I was afraid you’d say yes.” Your breath hitches as he cushions your head with his arm, gazing down at you with affection. 

“Why?” He murmurs as he dips down to lick and nibble your ear, sending currents of heat down your spine.

“Because Caleb. I’m always afraid. I thought I lost everything during the chronorift. I didn’t want to dare ask for more. Because asking for more means being vulnerable to getting hurt.”

Caleb’s eyes are full of emotion. “I didn’t want to ask you for more,” he admits quietly. “Because I know you are already empty from giving me whatever you have now.” 

The room falls into silence and the only thing that can be heard is the hammering of your hearts, pounding in sync with each other. 

“Take me, Caleb.” You murmur and his heart nearly stops in his chest. “I can never be empty if you’re here. But promise me you’ll stop leaving the way you do.” Your voice hitches. “I can’t do it all over again.” 

Caleb presses kisses to your temples, rubbing your noses together like a puppy and there’s conviction in his voice as he speaks. “I won’t. I promise I’ll never be gone long enough for you to start questioning my position in your life.” 

Your hands start to trace his face and he catches one of them, kissing your fingertips and sighing against your palm. The heat between you threatens to consume you whole. When his mouth touches yours, you open and let in his tongue, exploring the taste and wetness. His hands are now bruisingly dug into your waist like he’s steeling himself from going too fast and rough.

Primal instinct pours into his veins and visions of his past fantasies flood his brain; ripping off your clothes while his hands spread apart your legs. How wet you’d feel as he tasted the sweet nectar of your sex before plunging his cock so deep within you that you’d feel for him for days long after it was over. How long had he held back from acting on those impulses?

He grits his teeth as he rolls you over onto him, knowing he wouldn’t be able to control himself having you pinned powerless underneath him. You’re looking at him in a confused daze, then, with a gesture so cute that it almost made him lose restraint, you raise your arms above your head. He leans up, dragging the pajama shirt off your torso, swallowing hard as you reveal yourself to him. Those soft, inviting breasts, the ones he’d imagined for years now, were perfect. He cups them reverently as he presses kisses to your cleavage, squeezing and enjoying the feel of your flesh. 

Your body reacts naturally to him, responding so strongly that you feel like you might combust from the rising need gathering in your sex. Your clit throbs within its folds, swollen and delicate, as it waits to be unsheathed. Caleb’s erection was straining against the fabric of his shorts, brushing against your crotch and as he pinched and rolled your nipples between his fingertips, you started to grind against him. 

A hiss escapes from him as he looks up at you, crazed with desire, the sight of you rubbing against him pouring fuel into the fire. He sits up, crossing his legs and upsetting your balance before drawing you securely onto his lap. His head dips to suckle, the feel of his tongue and teeth on your nipple sending shocks of pleasure through your system. You struggle against him, finding the hem of his T-shirt and undressing him, amazed at the sight of his bare chest. 

You sigh before running your hands over the expanse, his mouth busying itself with your breast again. There was no shame or reluctance as you took from each other. A sheen of sweat covers your bodies as you tease and stroke each other. Every small gasp, whimper, and moan was part of a private symphony, and he was desperate to hear you sing. 

You could feel the drip of moisture inside your sex now and were growing impatient from the wait. Your eyes lock with Caleb’s, those smokey, purple irises watching you intently. When your fingertips hook into his waistband, he doesn’t question you, but with a show of strength, braces his palms on the bed and lifts his hips. You slide forward slightly but manage to yank off the garments below his knees, watching his cock spring free from its confines, weeping precum from the slit.

“Fuck. Don’t look at me like that.” Caleb’s cheeks are flushed and his voice is gravelly, a soft rumble of barely contained need. He bites back a moan as your fingers curl around his shaft, squeezing and pumping him tantalizingly, and his hips rock against you as pleasure floods his brain. His hand catches your wrist, stilling you as he tries to control the rushes of arousal that shoot through him. His cock felt painfully hard and your willingness was driving him to the edge.

Without missing a beat, Caleb pulls off your shorts and panties, panting as your wet sex hovers over the tip of his cock, your knees sinking into the mattress as you try to settle back on his lap. He groans wantonly as your pussy, moist and warm, brushes against his engorged head, mixing your essence with his. It felt divine, and your hips start to seek friction, dragging the length of his cock in between your folds, gasping softly into his ear each time it hits your clit. 

“That’s right baby girl. Use me. I’m all yours.” Caleb whispers encouragement into your ear and it only makes you want to claim him even more. You whimper as you raise as high as your knees will take you, sliding the slick little bud along his slit, trying to fit it into the little hole that was leaking those milky beads from his shaft. 

“Caleb.” Your voice is a whine as your nails dig into his back, dancing so carefully along the ridge so that your clit doesn’t miss any action. 

“Oh, that’s it little mouse.” Caleb coos at you while his hands stroke down your back. “My sweet girl. Take what you need.” His fingers indent into your hips to help guide your movements and you feel a similar series of small spasms flutter their way into your core. Knowing you’re close you use Caleb, solid and grounding, as an anchor and hump him with abandon, your breasts bouncing with each movement. You’re both in a trance, broken from it when you feel the tension in your clit suddenly start to feel wonderfully light and sublime. You moan as your climax hits you, continuing to stimulate the little bud on his tip as the rest of the orgasm follows, sending ripple after ripple of hot pleasure through you. Your mouth hangs open as you pant from the exertion, then are caught off guard as Caleb cups your face and kisses you.

While he was occupied with your mouth you raise your hips and ease your fluttering hole onto his length. A guttural grunt spills from Caleb’s mouth into yours as you continue to lower your pussy onto him, taking him further into your slick welcoming heat. His cock throbs as it slips further inside you and he watches your face as you settle to his size. You felt so full, the way his cock filled your inner space, and when he rolls his hips, you cling onto him for dear life. You’d never thought he could feel so good, feel so comforting as his meat thrusts up into you before easing back down. 

Your hips start to coordinate a rhythm to his movements, sinking onto him as he pushes up, helping him bottom out each time, and he swore he could see stars forming around him. You were so tight, so inviting, and so unbelievably sexy as you writhed in passion along with him. 

“Fuck little mouse.” Caleb’s vision blurs at the edges as he feels himself on the precipice of a climax. “You feel good. So damn perfect.” He chases his orgasm, his thrusts growing more urgent and sloppy as he did so. Your juices coat his cock and start to form a ring around his length, your walls quivering and sucking him further in towards your cervix. 

Caleb’s abdomen is rigid and he feels every part of him tensing up in anticipation for a mind-blowing finish. He moans, the noise sexily floating into the air, then holds you tightly against him as he finishes, spilling himself messily into your quivering channel, the thick jets of seed coating your walls white. He doesn’t move, savoring the closeness and intimacy of having you pressed up against him, sated and warm. After a few moments, he maneuvers both of you to lay down, his softened cock still nestle within you as you immediately move closer to snuggle into his chest.

“No more running away. Whatever happens, we’ll talk it out. And I promise I won’t leave you unless you’re screaming at me to get out.”

You chuckle quietly, then kiss his chin. 

“Never. Unless you refuse to make your braised chicken wings for me.” 

He laughs heartily and both of you feel some of the awkwardness between you ease. It wasn’t going to be easy but you were both determined to fix whatever had been lost. One step at a time, you reminded yourself, before snuggling into Caleb and finally drifting off into a dreamless sleep. 

© unintentionalseductress original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating

@tokyorevengersrin @brekkersgf @ladyparamount @otomegamesforlife @shddyboo @supernaturalbaesduh @sweets-kozume @theimmortalbuns @venussakura @prisjean @laddelulu30 @lethargiccryptid @ravenclaw-jojo @redactedbimbo @crypt-0rchid @fattybattysblog @xinnn6

[l0vergirlv0mit]

domestic caitvi ୨ৎ

caitvi x reader

cw: pet names, kissing, hickeys, biting, gets a little hot and heavy but idk what else.

a/n: I love writing domestic scenes this brought me joy:)

You met Caitlyn first when you got into the training academy to be an enforcer. She quickly took an eye to you watching you train combat when she would do walk throughs in the facilities. Meeting eyes through the window that goes into the hallway, she gives you an approving smirk. You smile back at her your face covered in sweat and chest heaving.

After that she made sure to bring Violet with her to show how good of a fighter you were. Violet was greatly amused watching you drop a man on his head. She leaned up against the glass becoming more invested in watching how your body moves with every hit you land. Caitlyn looks over at Vi and Vi looks back at her sharing the same look of understanding and excitement.

This leads to you getting called into her office for outstanding work and being taken out to lunch for it. Which leads into you meeting Vi and eventually being invited to outings having nothing to do with work. You were quick to accept their offer of going out as an item after building steady tension filled friendships with the both of them.

Caitlyn’s poise and Vi’s playful demeanor contrasted so beautifully. But you soon learned that wasn’t the truth about them, this only furthered your intrigue with the two women. They took care of you in a way you never thought possible. Making past relationships feel like a distant nightmare. There was only Caitlyn and Violet.

That’s what brought you to the present. Waking up in Vi’s boxers and Caitlyn’s silky tank top with the bed empty. You groaned at the sun hitting your eyes shoving a pillow over your face. There’s a depression on the side of the bed and the sound of a cup being place on the night stand. You feel two strong arms pull you and man handle you.

Vi’s dopey face looks down at you as you lay limply across her lap. “Good morning sunshine.” She giggles as you huff out an annoyed whimper not yet opening your eyes. “I know I know~” she pushes hair out of your face and litters kisses all over your cheeks in an attempt to pull you into consciousness. When your eyes finally do open your met with a beautiful vision of a backlit angel that is your girlfriend.

You smile sleepily and sit up to wrap your arms around her neck, pressing your face into her skin. She scoops you up holding you with one arm her other holding her coffee as she walks you to the kitchen. Your legs wrap around her waist and you place a kiss to her jaw inhaling deeply to fill your lungs with her scent. Caitlyn hears heavy footsteps looking over her shoulder. She abandons her place at the stove coming to rub your back.

“Are you hungry my love?” She whispers softly fixing the strap of your tank top. Vi let’s you down to your feet softly. “Very.” You move stiffly to go sit at the kitchen table eyes squinting from the light. Vi can’t wipe the dumb smile off her face as she makes you a cup of coffee. Her and Caitlyn giggle to themselves and you perk up. “What.” You ask plainly looking up at Vi as she hands off your cup to you.

“Nothin’ your just cute.” Her tone is sweet and low it’s like honey coating your ears. She winks at you before turning away. You sip your coffee watching Vi hold Caitlyn’s waist as she cooks. She hums to herself swaying the both of them. Watching them like this fills you with warmth. The way Vi whispers sweet nothings into Caitlyn’s ear. You overhear Caitlyn tell her, “It’s only 9 am.” And you roll your eyes resting your head against your palm.

“Do you need help Cait?” Calling to her she shakes her head. “No I’m almost finished honey.” She sweetly calls back you to.

“I’m not talking about the food.” You smirk smugly your eyes shifting from Caitlyn to Violet. Caitlyn laughs and Vi looks at you as she kisses Caitlyn’s shoulder smirking back at you. “You just stay put where you are sweet stuff, you’ll get your loving in just a second.” You throw her a fake pout bating your lashes in exaggeration.

Caitlyn plates up your food bringing you an almost mathematically perfect omelette. They sit down on either side of you talking about the plans for the day. That and internal affairs you probably shouldn’t be hearing. Not that you actually pay attention to all the technical stuff. You ramble on about your coworkers in the lower ranks. Being well on your way to being an esteemed officer Caitlyn listened intently while Vi cackled at the the shit you and your coworkers do during training.

Once breakfast was finished you join Caitlyn in the bathroom to get ready for the day. Leaning closer to the mirror to do your mascara you feel her come behind you, both her hands caging you in against the counter. Her hips pressed against you and you stand up straight with your back against her chest. Turning to be face to face with her, her tall figure looms over you. Caitlyn’s slender fingers move hair from off your neck and she presses a trail of kisses from your jaw to your collar bone. “So pretty baby.”

You smooth down her silk robe and bite your lip looking up at her. “Speak for yourself.” She raises her brows at you. “Yeah?” She questions her eyes trailing down your figure.

“Yeah.” You replied nodding as you spoke. Vi was watching in the doorway not daring to make a sound. That is until Caitlyn was pushing herself between your legs and kissing you deeply. Already messing up your makeup, when Vi pipes up. “It’s only 9 am!” She said in a mocking playful tone. Caitlyn continued even after hearing her only breaking away to to give her a short reply. “Well it’s 10 now actually.” Caitlyn retorts and you giggle but quickly stifle it seeing Vis change in expression.

“Somethin funny pip squeak?” She walks over and leans against the counter its hard to focus with Cait kissing and nipping at your neck. “N-no.” VI’s eyes reading darker than usual didn’t make you feel like challenging her. She smiles at you sweetly, “Didnt think so.” joining Caitlyn in attacking your neck.

“So pretty isn’t she?” Vi mumbles to Cait. “Mmm that’s what I said.” Caitlyn and Vi talk about you like you aren’t even there going back and forth. “Her skin is so soft.” Caitlyn adds. “I could just take a bite.” Vi says softly biting your shoulder. You were almost limp from all the affection, all of your senses stimulated at once, whimpering and lulling your head back. After they’d been torturing you for a little Caitlyn smiles into your skin moving to kiss your cheek. “Need a break sweetheart?” She asks stroking your cheek. You shake your head no but she stops anyway looking at the time.

Vi doesn’t get the memo instead taking up the space Caitlyn left. Her arms wrapping around your waist and her lips finding yours. Caitlyn rolls her eyes fixing her hair in the mirror before deciding the both of you had enough and pulling Vi by the belt loop. “What! It’s 10 am.” Vi remarked hand still gripping your waist.

“Go put your shirt on and finish getting ready we need to get going.” Caitlyn sets her straight and Vi backs away with her hands up. “Aye aye Captain.” Caitlyn looks at you with a soft annoyed smile and does a double take at your neck. “Shit.” She spins you towards the mirror with a look of utter shock. You were covered in small red marks except for one especially deep purple mark Vi left on your shoulder.

Both were equally guilty but Caitlyn was unfortunately right there to take the blow. You looked back at her in the mirror unamused your arms crossed. “Your covering this up.” Caitlyn nodded her lips in the thin line.

“Of course. You do look cute though.” She teases you one last time before you huff at her. She kisses your temple and pulls out her makeup again.

Thank you for reading!

[choerypetal]

Silent Vengeance / Lee Myung-gi

summarize: Who would have thought that a man who sees himself as powerful could be reduced to selfishness by obsession, only for a knight in armor to heal a broken heart?

English isn't my first language, so I apologize for any grammatical errors, but I really hope you enjoy it! based on s2 squid game so spoilers ahead!

Thanos’s pride and the attention he commanded among the crowd stirred bitterness in some of the contestants—yours included. It baffled many that a retired rapper would stoop to participate in such brutal games, especially one that involved splashes of blood staining his clothes.

It wasn’t until after the Green Light, Red Light game that his focus shifted. He noticed a particular figure—a silhouette that intrigued him more than he cared to admit. The way you sprinted with precision, timing each step perfectly to freeze at the exact moment, or how you yanked another contestant’s hair to throw them off balance, was a calculated display of survival. That endurance, paired with your quiet defiance of the chaos around you—including his own—captivated Thanos from the very beginning.

While Thanos reveled in his lingering popularity, relishing how some followed his every move like sheep to a shepherd, he couldn’t ignore one undeniable truth: for once, he wasn’t the center of attention. That honor belonged to you.

And never in a thousand of years would he see you here. In flesh. Not after the break up.

Like many others, you had joined the Games with hopes of a better life—a seductive promise whispered by the Salesman. His grotesque smile lingered in your mind whenever you stole a moment to rest, though such moments were rare. Still, your demeanor betrayed none of the turmoil beneath. Your stony expression, coupled with your tendency to linger at the edges, observing the chaos with silent disdain, set you apart. To you, the Games were a grim spectacle—a macabre theater of desperation and misplaced hopes.

Despite this, a few contestants managed to draw you into sparse, fleeting conversations. Thanos, however, stood apart—not because you sought him out, but because he was the last person you’d have ever chosen to engage with. And yet, it fascinated him. Knowing your shared history, he found it almost poetic to see you here, standing as a quiet, untouchable force while his own magnetism faltered in your shadow.

“This prick is getting on my nerves,” someone muttered, their voice sharp enough to cut through the murmurs of the room. The words belonged to 333. His number stood out just as much as his presence as he slid into the seat beside you. You’d learned his name was Lee Myung-gi. He extended a hand toward you, his lips curling into a soft grin that hinted at practiced charm. You nodded slightly, mirroring the gesture out of courtesy. “Y/N,” you said plainly.

There was a pause before Myung-gi’s gaze flicked toward Thanos, his tone lowering conspiratorially. “I don’t mean to stir the pot or anything, but... word is, you and Thanos were a thing. He says you’re pretending not to remember him. And that’s why you—”

“333!”

Thanos’s voice cut through like a blade, silencing Myung-gi mid-sentence. Both of you turned your heads in unison, meeting Thanos’s unyielding stare. You recognized that look immediately—brows furrowed, his glare burning with thinly veiled fury. It was a warning, one that promised Myung-gi wouldn’t survive another word in your direction. The intensity of it could rival any of the Games themselves.

“You should go,” you said quietly, your tone flat but decisive. Your eyes barely glanced at Myung-gi, let alone at Thanos. Yet the weight of his gaze pressed heavily on you, and something inside you churned—a mix of unease, defiance, and something far harder to name.

You wanted to let loose a string of curses, every sharp word you could think of—but you stopped yourself. The memory of a promise lingered in the back of your mind.

Never speak to one another after the breakup.

It was a fragile vow, one you both had clung to out of pride or necessity. But deep down, you knew it was only a matter of time before it shattered completely.

It wasn’t until the bathroom game that the tension reached its breaking point. Thanos never imagined he’d find himself mere feet away from you again, let alone in the confines of a separate room. Yet here he was, his determination undeterred, even as 333 hovered too close for his liking. Thanos wasn’t subtle about his intentions—he wouldn’t let anyone, least of all Myung-gi, encroach on what he still felt was his.

The image of you and 333 pressing X together during the last game still burned in Thanos’s mind, a fresh wound that refused to heal. It festered, replaying over and over like a mocking refrain, igniting a possessive anger he could no longer contain.

As he stepped into the bathroom hall, his focus zeroed in on Myung-gi, the irritation bubbling into something darker. “You’re getting all worked up. So there is something going on,” Thanos said, his voice low and edged with menace.

He stepped closer, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “If you press X again tomorrow...” Thanos leaned in, his words a venomous whisper, “I’ll cut off your finger and give it to her.”

Myung-gi’s jaw tightened at the threat, his discomfort evident. But what unsettled him more was the reason you’d pressed X with him in the first place. It wasn’t a calculated strategy or an empty gesture—it was a fleeting grasp at safety, something you rarely allowed yourself. While you were usually stoic, Myung-gi’s quiet acts of care had chipped away at your defenses, enough to make you question your own resolve.

Thanos couldn’t stand it. The rules of the Games were unambiguous, but what he thought he saw—the almost imperceptible closeness between you and Myung-gi, the way your lips hovered as if to kiss—was enough to set his blood ablaze. The possibility, imagined or not, was more than he could bear.

And that was the last straw. 

“And ask her out. She’ll love it.” 

“You asshole!” Thanos barely registered the punch before his jaw throbbed, the sharp sting waking something primal in him. His thumb brushed over his chin, checking for blood, before he retaliated with equal ferocity. “You motherfucker!” he snarled, his fist connecting with satisfying force.

Chaos erupted as their hands found each other’s throats, both grappling for dominance. Myung-gi’s back slammed against the bathroom stall, the sound echoing in the tight space. They crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs, fists flying without restraint. “Your money, your girl, your life—they’re all mine!” Thanos spat, driving his fist into Myung-gi’s cheek with enough force to make his knuckles ache.

But then, everything shifted. Thanos froze, his breath hitching as blood sprayed from his own mouth, splattering across Myung-gi’s face. The sudden realization of injury shocked him into silence. Without a word, he pulled back, retreating to the shadows of the stall, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.

And yet, in that moment of pain and rage, his mind wasn’t on the fight—it was on you. Always you.

The bathroom games were over. The stalls were scrubbed clean of the chaos that had unfolded, leaving little trace of what had transpired. As you and Myung-gi stepped out, your eyes met briefly. The way he looked at you—earnest, searching—was impossible to ignore. The remaining contestants loitered nearby, their presence a quiet reminder of the fragile truce this space demanded. But Thanos was nowhere to be found. Somehow, the thought of his absence made your shoulders feel just a little lighter.

Despite the unspoken rule of no interactions before returning to the dorms, Myung-gi broke it without hesitation. He rushed toward you, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace. For a moment, you froze, unsure. But your hands instinctively found his face, fingers brushing over the bruise already darkening on his cheek.

You couldn’t stop the flood of thoughts about Thanos—how he’d reacted to other men during your relationship, the jealousy that often burned too brightly. The memories made your stomach twist with dread. But as your thumb grazed Myung-gi’s cheek, his eyes fluttered shut, leaning into the comfort of your touch.

“I don’t want to hear it,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the tension lingering in the air.

He let out a quiet scoff, his lips curling into a faint, tired smile. “The prick’s finally getting what he deserves anyway.”