#terminally long post tw

[brooklynislandgirl]

Beth x Gareth for the ship meme (if it's okay, if not, just ignore this!)

Come Together || Accepting

RATE: NOTP | Ew | Nah | Alright | Cute | I LOVE them | They are perfect | OTP | THEY ARE MY BEAUTIFUL, SWEET CHILDREN AND I SHALL PROTECT THEM AS THEIR MOTHER

I. Who's the big spoon and who's the little spoon? Beth's hand splays across his belly, slightly crumpling his worn and comfortable 'I Hate Sand' shirt beneath her fingers. She'd laughed the first time she'd seen it when he'd come into the bedroom, and feigned hurt on behalf of sand everywhere. She cheekily pointed out that sand comprised a good deal of her life. She isn't laughing now. To say she is a light sleeper is to say the sun is bright, that it is hot. For their own carefully guarded reasons they share the curse of insomnia in common, and she's more likely to toss and turn than she is to rest. Over coffee, tea, and one each copy of the Times and the Daily Telegraph he ventures forth the idea of separate beds, his only response being a crisply turned page and a scrunch of her nose. Perhaps they would revisit the topic at some point. But for now she presses her face into his spine and holds him close. The sound he'd made that woke her was one she'd heard before. They have a gentleman's agreement about asking questions, but she knows terror when she hears it.

"S'just a dream, Gar." The rest of his name is more a drowsy sigh than actual syllable. "You're home and in bed, but I could go get you a book an' a cuppa if you like."

"No." Shaky, so he repeats himself, firmer now in conviction. "No."

He takes hold of her hand and lifts it to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. After a moment she slips a hand free and turns over. He follows suit and she rests her arm over his as he curls it around her.

She watches the sky start to lighten through the seam between the curtains. His breath is even and deep as he holds her close. She smiles and finally closes her eyes.

{If they can be said to sleep, they often end up swapping between the two options depending on which one is experiencing distress} II. Adult!Verse Heights: He looks no more comfortable in her flat than he does his own house. But maybe it's because she's wearing denim shorts that mould across her backside. Or because he's caught her precariously balanced on the minor slice of solid wood that pretends to be a counter top. Or just maybe it's because unfortunately, her scar is on full display. From just below her knee to just above her ankle the almost oval shape ~still deep purple even after so many years~ dominates the lower portion of her leg. The space inside that outline has all the distinct hallmarks of missing tissue. What is left is unsightly. Is atrophied. The fact that she can still use it and still has sensation is a testament to the Admiral's skill in the field of neurosurgery. No one but Beth sees the inherent cruelty in how she'd been healed.

Before he can say anything, she holds up a hand, index finger raised. "I have a perfectly good explanation. The housekeeper my auntie hired is a lovely Swedish man named Johan Anders. He is, however, ridiculously tall and thought to use the dead space here to hang my elephant-ear pathos." She indicates the thriving vine plant. "Unfortunately, he had to call out sick today, and I can't reach Freddie to give him a drink. So, what do you say? Spare a house-plant dehydration and get him down for me, or decide right now that I am entirely too short to live and watch me try to circus-clown my way up here."

The giggle implies she is not bothered by whatever choice he makes.

{Gareth is just a shade over six feet, while Beth is much smaller at five foot even.} III. Who Suggests Watching Romcoms?

Gareth had to explain to her what exactly a television licence is, and why they had one, even if you tended to stream rather than watch broadcast. At first she thought the idea was bizarre, until she realised the average American spent more than the yearly fee each month for cable in their own homes, though they often had that bundled with with internet and phone service as well. Not that it truly haunted her conscience, she's never actually had to pay a bill in her entire life; her trust was in capable and respected accounting hands. Most of the time though, they don't actually actually bother with television. Gareth reads, as does Beth. Or she might unwind with knitting. It is a companionable silence. They might play chess or practice yoga.

Tonight, he's elbows deep into a book and she's laying across the couch with her frozen little toes tucked under his lap. Her laptop is open on the coffee table and she's pulled up her Netflix account. She starts a movie and seems excited about it. Her volume is off so as not to disturb him, and she prefers subtitles anyway, especially an old favourite. And it is old. Dates back to 1961, long before she was born. But she has loved Gregory Peck, Anthony Quinn and--

"David Niven." There's a certain shape to his tone.

She smiles. "Guns of Navarone is one of my favourites."

"Mine, too." IV. Who falls asleep while watching romcoms? Gareth indulges her with a smile and puts his book down. At the pressure of his gentle hand on her knee, she reaches out and fiddles with a couple settings on her laptop, and then the remote. The video comes up on the television. And when the movie starts to play, captions and all, she shifts. Not so abruptly as to shake him from the pleasant quietude of their former lounging, but she moves until she's pressed against his chest, half tucked under his arm. Presumably for a better view. In truth, she simply enjoys being close to him. He radiates a comforting warmth, a solidity that belies his leanness that draws her to him. Fifteen minutes in and she experiences ever increasing long blinks. By twenty-five minutes, her head is dipped low, her lashes graze her cheeks, and her breath is slow, steady. One arm is wrapped around him the way it coils normally around her pillows. V. Who makes all of the decisions?

"Are you free for dinner Saturday evening?" He suggests.

She winces. "Yeah, no. Working. Late lunch Friday?"

"Oh, sorry. Meetings all day, don't know when I'll be able to get away."

A momentary pause, then they flash smiles at each other, arriving at the solution at the same time. "Brunch, Sunday."

Gareth and Beth have gruelling schedules and neither of them have jobs that easily allow sudden changes in plans or lack of coordination. Occasionally weeks go by before they finally have a chance to meet up, and when they can make it work they both try very hard to be amenable to one another. They are still learning how to navigate things as a couple. Gareth has more experience in that arena but Beth's irreverence toward authority sometimes drags him out of his carefully constructed shell. VI. Who carries the other one to bed when they fall asleep on the couch?

Beth could try and move Gareth if he dozes off, but to do so would be an exercise in ridiculousness. She'd have to consider him a single-person transport, without any assistive equipment. She'd have to lift him high enough to rest against her chest, while she wraps her arms around his chest, then she has to drag him off the couch, across the room, up the stairs. Maybe a hundred times of distance than she might have to move a patient. And in doing so, she'd end up waking him and thus defeating the purpose. More harm than good. So instead, if he falls asleep in his chair or his sofa, she will drape a throw blanket over him and let him be.

She knows the reverse is true; if she is the one who falls asleep, it takes very little for him to slip an arm under her shoulders, one under her knees. She might stir at the motion ~not dissimilar of being rocked in a hammock, or the motion of a boat, surfboard, other water craft. He might only run into trouble when she curls her arms around his neck and nuzzles into his chest.

"I've nevah slept a day in my life," she giggles. VII. Who proposes?

The small cathedral at the end of the street rings their bells; in the door way are a bride and groom fending off rice ~Beth doesn't mention that birdseed for the local population is a far better choice~ from onlookers. It draws both his attention and hers, and while she looks on with a smile, Gareth looks down at her. Observes her face. Her expression is open and unguarded as she mumbles a blessing for the couple. She doesn't let go of his arm to make the Sign of the Cross. So much fondness clouds her eyes that it makes him ask if that's the kind of wedding she envisions.

If anything, she shrinks away from the mere mention. "Oh, no I…I don't think…" She shrugs. "I don' know about gettin' married. No one's beatin' down my door to ask, an' I could not imagine asking, either."

She has nothing to offer; she can't cook. She can clean but works to much to really contribute. It's a reason she has a house-keeper. She can't provide children to secure a future. At best, she is a respite from a stifling organised world. She is cooling rain in the middle of summer. A fleeting thing, and she knows it. Gareth will surely see it too. "Is that something you're looking for?"

VIII. Will they have a big wedding?

Gareth lets her answer lie between them for a few weeks, but over dinner and a glass or two of wine, he asks her what she would imagine her wedding to be like. Her lips purse as she swallows a sip of Shiraz. "If I ever finally managed it, the announcement alone would run internationally. The Admiral would use it as an excuse to boost his poll numbers, and my auntie would throw her full support behind it. They would have at least three hundred guests and it would rival some of the royal weddings. Swords, carriages, antique jewels, jus' a whole logistical nightmare, really." She imagines he regrets asking. "If I had my preference, it would be a small handful of people if that many, on a beach in the North Shore of O'ahu. Do things the way my ancestors have done for ages. But honestly, I think it should be something for both partners t' agree on, something that would make them both happen. Might be civil ceremony in front of a Judge, or…whatever. What do you think? If you were to have a service, you'd likely want your bride to be Anglican, yeah?"

IX. Who accidentally eats all the popcorn while sharing a box?

The black and white film festival was the perfect sort of charity endeavour for them. It's far quieter compared to the party they'd met at, there's something to take up the lapses into silence they might have. It is absolutely companionable, being drawn into beloved films ~the Maltese Falcon being one of her favourites~ is not unexpected. Best of all, it's outdoors so they can lounge on the spread blanket beneath them. Casual, comfortable. And maybe conducive to a few kisses under the stars. The whole reason she decided not to bring her own spicy garlic pepper saki ika. No one wants fishy-breath. On the other hand, she isn't aware until her knuckles brush his at the bottom of the bucket that she's eaten a majority of the popcorn. She looks up and at him, but only sees the smile on his face before he leans in and finds the salt and butter on her lips in a gentle kiss. X. Who pays for dates?

There's always a moment in which Beth feels her belly tighten and not in the good way. Anxiety has a mighty fist. Traditionally, society rules dictates that the gentleman should pay for the date. But things have changed since that was the rule of the day. Even if she had to budget an monthly indulgence, Beth knows she can't run through her funds even if she splurged like crazy. She doesn't want to trample his pride. She doesn't want him to feel as if she doubts his ability to orchestrate, see through, and pay for an outing.

"Compromise, then," she murmurs. "If I ask you out, then it's on me to handle everything. If you ask me, then I will defer to you. Deal?"

She holds out a small hand to shake. XI. Who's the most romantic? A year. Twelve months. Fifty two weeks. Three hundred sixy five days. One revolution of the earth around the sun. This is a milestone, every book and magazine article ever written about relationships say so. They have a quiet dinner in. An exchange of gifts. Hers is a little potted plant, that mostly looks like a stick shoved in deep loam. But the corners of her mouth quirk, her eyes water with tears unshed before she throws her arms around his neck. She knows what it is on first sight, this little ugly duckling that will soon bloom into a swan. A piece of home, the one she talks about with love and reverence. The florist called it frangipanni, but they both know it as lei flower.

"For…for the garden," he says, returning the hug. He means the one outside of his little house, the one she's meticulously brought back to life with hard work and gentle care. Maybe it's a metaphor for what they share.

Hers? She presents it gingerly. Holds the box with oven mitts which come away once he's taken hold of it, and bare fingers rise to her lips, guarding her mouth, her breath, her worry that he won't like it. The tissue paper surrounding it is a shade of blue similar to his eyes, a contrast to the rich, cream colour of the Aran sweater within, merino wool. From sheering to carding, to making the skeins she needed, and the knitting itself. She has had a hand in all of it. A secret affair that began with draping herself across his back when he worked from home or other little hugs here and there, to measure him without being obvious. A belated explanation when she's turned down plans to meet with him so he doesn't see the near blistered skin and swollen knuckles from her work ~she's allergic to wool, after all~ but this is a symbol just as much as her plant is. A promise of warmth, of sacrifice, of beauty, of the deep care she will always take of him, as long as he lets her.

Neither find it easy to express the deeper things, there's always the catch of fears their past has turned into nets, but sometimes… even the quietest things sing the loudest. XII. Random headcanon

Beth noticed them the first time Gareth fully smiled at her. His canines are long as hers, and just a little crooked as well. His teeth are beautiful and make his smile even more appealing to her. She's not used to meeting people with similar teeth, and it makes her less self-conscious of her own, to the point that she is quick to not hide her smile behind her hand or beneath closed lips. And when his kisses eventually make their way toward the column of her throat, she always finds herself pressing her skin to them. An invitation to graze them across her neck. To bite down and leave their impressions behind. And to make no mistake, sometimes she runs the tips of her fangs along his lower lip or in sharp kisses against his collar bones and shoulders.

[prince-honeypaw]

WARNING: This post contains mentions of terminal illness and parental death! Proceed with caution.

♡ There are no secrets kept between Tamaki and Mirio. They've grown up together since they were just developing their quirks and have been attached at the hip for just as long. Where Tamaki went, Mirio was never far behind! They're in perfect tandem.

♡ Up until their first year at UA that is.

♡ Going to a prestigious hero school was already very stressful for Tamaki, but that wasn't all that bore down on his frazzled mind. Not long before he was accepted into UA, his grandmother had passed away. She was his only living family member after his mother passed from a terminal illness when he was rather young, which meant that he was hopping from foster home to foster home his entire first year. It was terrifying for him!

♡ He was so afraid of being alone again.

♡ Mirio was at a loss on how to help his closest friend. He knew that Tamaki was struggling with moving every month or so, but nothing he tried seemed to alleviate that stress. From putting time aside to help him try to regress or taking him out to do something fun, it only ever ended in Tamaki going home in tears.

♡ It wasn’t until he started his work study with Fatgum that someone finally found the solution to—at least one of—Tamaki’s anxieties. He was adopted by the BMI Hero and finally had that stable living situation that he desperately needed in order to thrive! And, with that settled, Tamaki’s little slowly started to come back out one step at a time. He was hesitant to let Taishiro know about his regression, but Taishiro is one of the most understanding and open minded heroes out there. Different strokes for different folks!

♡ And, while happy that Tamaki was starting to feel better enough to regress again, Mirio couldn’t help but feel this little twinge of disappointment. Disappointment in himself for not being able to help his best friend when he needed it most. He tried his best to not let it get to him, but oh did his smile not quite reach his eyes for a time afterwards. He was afraid of not being needed anymore.

♡ Soon after, things went back to how they used to be! For the most part. New routines filled the cracks and became the new norm... Up until another wrench was thrown in the cogs a year and a half later.

♡ UA's dorm system was implemented for the safety of the students, but Tamaki feels like it was an attack on him personally. He had gone through so much to settle in with Taishiro! He paced and fretted over the new stressor for days upon days before it was time to move in. Taishiro promised that everything would be peachy keen, and that he'd always have his home in Esuha when all was said and done! It wasn't like he was being exiled.

♡ His words went in one ear and right out the other the moment he had to pack away his regression gear, squawking and fretting that someone would find out! He couldn't- He shouldn't- He WOULDN'T! And, regretfully, he didn't. Taishiro said that if he changed his mind, he'd have it all packed and ready to go when he saw him next, but Tamaki was stubborn in his decision.

♡ Moving into the dorms was suspiciously simple to Tamaki. He didn't drop anything, didn't trip up the stairs, didn't spill water on the new carpet in his dorm- And having dinner with the rest of his class wasn't a disaster either. It was actually... Very fun! Nejire was in the dorm across from his own and Mirio was just a floor away, so he didn't feel as alone as he thought he would be.

♡ It was nice. Something he would have to tell Taishiro about later.

♡ However, he hadn't noticed just how much later it had gotten! The sky had grown darker and most of the class had already disappeared into their dorms, leaving a chilling quiet to bear down on his mind. He'd been so content with the company of so many familiar faces that it never occured to him that his schedule had been thrown off entirely.

♡ First was brushing his teeth. Then was taking his medication with a bottle- A bottle he didn't have. That was fine, it was fine! There was no need to freak out, okay... He could just skip that part and take his medicine with a glass of water. Then he could get dressed and get Lilliput r- Lilliput was still at home. Okay... Okay, that would be harder to do without, but he didn't need to freak out! He... Papa could fix it-

♡ Like the shatter of glass, Tamaki's already slipping headspace crashed to the floor with that realization. Papa wasn't there. He was all alone now, all alone without the comforts he'd grown to rely on when the world felt so much bigger and he felt so... so small. Tears fell hot and thick, hiccups burning his throat. He was alone, he was alone, he was alone, he—

"Tamaki?"

♡ His breath caught and he snapped to attention. Mirio, suddenly understanding the situation with only a look, wore an expression that was as warm as sunlight, reaching out and taking Tamaki's hands.

"Hi there, sunshine! What's going on up here?" He asked with a gentle tap of his fingertip to the baby's forehead. Tamaki blinked through the tears and immediately jammed himself into Mirio's comforting presence and fit against him like a puzzle piece, hiccuping when he managed to speak. His words were jammed together between panic and his headspace, but Mirio nodded along as though it was just another conversation.

♡ Because, to him, it was! He knew baby Tamaki just as well as he knew big Tamaki, through timid mumbles and teary babbling, Mirio understood him. Rough thumb pads gingerly wiped the still falling tears off his ruddy cheeks, and Mirio spoke in a soft voice he knew was just for him.

"Okay, I gotcha, I gotcha! I still have some of your stuff on hand, remember?"

At the slow nodding, Mirio smiled, "That's right, so we can text your papa that you need your stuff and go get it after class tomorrow, 'kay? It's no big deal."

♡ Tamaki, still sniffling, echoed the words, "No big deal...", before letting Mirio guide him through his nighttime routine with what they had. A sippy full of water and a puppy plush suited him just fine, but following Mirio to his room was just inevitable. He felt so much less lonesome with him there and Mirio couldn't find it in himself to take Tamaki up to his own room.

♡ So, they settled in for the night in Mirio's dorm. Tamaki picked out a story on his tablet while Mirio washed the spare pacifier he kept around for Tamaki when he would stay over. With the pacifier clean and the sippy refilled with fresh water, Mirio returned to tuck in under the covers and pop the soother in Tamaki's mouth. They were in for a night of reading fairy tales and just being together.

♡ Tamaki barely lasted more than five minutes before he dozed off, his head resting against Mirio's chest. The thrum of his heartheat against his ear was like a lullaby soothed him into letting out a murmured, "N'ni, Mewi..."

♡ While holding Tamaki in his strong, scarred arms and stroking calloused fingers through indigo blue locks, feeling Tamaki's breathing slow into a gentle purr of sleep... Mirio wonders what he ever had to worry about in the first place.

[zairas-realm-gateway]

OFF ramblings: Batter's Purpose

Content warnings for discussion of canon and speculated canon content: violence, medical trauma, abuse, child neglect, terminal illness, child death.

This post is a basic layout of the general conversations I had with my sister when I showed her the game OFF recently. These are just our speculations, observations, and headcanons.

This post will discuss our deductions behind Batter's in game creation and his opposition to the other characters.

As we all know, Batter (in universe) is created at the start of the game. He has never before existed in the lonely, tormented world of the Zones before. My sister and I discussed why he never existed in the world before that point. We think we have deduced why from the information given in The Room level.

First, we have to note the importance of Batter, Hugo, and Queen. Hugo has manifested representations of his parents in his fucked up world. His father is Batter and his mother is Queen.

Now, my mother is chronically ill, so I've spent a lot of time in hospitals. So, when Batter enters a new location at the end of the hallway when you enter the Room level, my sister and i immediately recognized it as a hospital. It reminded us of many we've been in before and left us uneasy.

In the Room, Batter goes to the small room on the left. This room is returned to many times. It paints a painfully vivid picture:

There is a sick child (Hugo) in the hospital. Probably between the age of 10-17 because they can talk in complete sentences but are still referred to as "the boy". This child is terminally ill and immuno-compromised. You can tell when the note says that his father (Batter's human counterpart) says they can go outside tomorrow but that trip outside never comes. The notes say that his father comes regularly to play with him but he doesn't like his father and wants his mother instead but she never comes to pick him up or visit.

This tells me a lot. It says that Hugo's father (we'll keep calling him Batter) is cold but holds deep affection for Hugo. Based on Spectral Batter's personality, Human Batter probably has difficulty with emoting. Meaning he has trouble displaying and expressing emotion both physically and vocally. To a sick and distressed child, this would appear as if his father doesn't love him despite Batter visiting constantly and playing with Hugo.

This could explain why he wants his mother over his father. Affection and emotional support are needed for comfort when sick. It seems like Queen can probably express emotions in a way that would be comforting.

Or, she would, if she ever showed up.

It's speculated that Human Queen has a job that makes her a lot of money but forces her to work/travel a lot. Spectral Queen's later argument with Batter makes it clear that's she's pretty much phoning it in as a mom. The cadence of Queen and Batter's conversation is that of a divorced couple. If this is true, it sounds like Queen has primary custody but just is never around.

Batter is his most emotional during his argument with Queen right before their battle. He is still flat in dialogue tone but it is clear he is passionate about the subject. He accuses her of taking all the steps of being a mother with none of the emotion, care, or memory for who her actions are for (Hugo). Rather than defend herself, Queen just deflects until Batter gets angry.

To argue the point of Queen doing the right moves with none of the personal touch, I want to talk about the three guardians. It is said the Queen appointed them and I think this really happened.

My sister and I speculate that the three guardians represent the specialists that Queen hired for Hugo while she was away on business. Dedan is speculated to be a surgeon based on his temper and excessive need for total order and demand everyone be efficient at their job. Japhet being a bird, dove, and loving books is probably a priest. Enoch would be a private chef. These three were left with explicit orders to keep an eye on Hugo, which is why they're called his friends in the notes. This would also make them opposing forces to Hugo's father and the hard decisions he has to make. One of those decisions is massive and we believe it is what manifests Batter for the first time.

It's the decision to unplug his terminally ill child from life support.

Now, I see a lot of speculation that Hugo bases Batter on Ballman. But I think that Batter is a dual manifestation of Ballman and Boxxer. This would make Batter both the hero and the villain, hence the choice at the end of the game.

This is what brings Judge into the mix. We speculate that Judge is Human Hugo's high consciousness, the one aware of the pain and suffering of the world. Judge thought Batter was a savior but after Hugo's death, he calls Batter a monster. If Batter is both hero and villain, it makes sense that Judge trusted him to help but was unaware this is the action that would taken. He had no clue that this was the only solution that Batter could see.

If Judge is Hugo and Batter is Hugo's father, then the truth that his father is taking him off life support would paint his father as a monster. A villain that is murdering him.

Meanwhile, Hugo's father had to live with that truth and the reality that it is his duty to keep his child from suffering. And the end stages of terminal illnesses are only suffering.

I feel this is why Hugo takes the form of an infant. Because a child, no matter how old, is always their parent's baby...

[batneko]

Getting a little heavy again. (But then we swing right back into fantasy.)

[prev]

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[angededesespoir]

On another note, though, very proud of myself.

Last month, for the first time in my life, I managed to get head lice from a friend, and all the scratching I did wound up causing me to develop multiple abscesses. 😔 Wound up having to go to the er for one and it was lanced and drained twice. (I will say, if you have to have them drained, opt to get numbed first. The shots hurt, but after that, all I felt was pressure when they were squeezing. [They did warn though that sometimes when they try to numb the area, you could wind up feeling pain due to the area sometimes not absorbing the medication well enough. Or something like that.]

In comparison, I had my partner drain one of my abscesses at home (which is not advised) and it was some of the worst pain I’ve experienced in my life and I nearly passed out after. 🥹)

Also wound up having MRSA in that wound. 😔 Fortunately the antibiotics worked, but they gave me pills, so I had to endure 10 days of crushing them up and struggling to take them. 🥹

And I also have had to do multiple check-ups. Still need to go for more and also schedule other appointments, but oh God, all of this is absolute hell for me. Hospitals make me so anxious and I have severe agoraphobia. This is the first time in like 7 years I’ve been to the doctor. So I’m proud of myself for going, but each time I go, I’m fighting off an anxiety attack and I have to endure a 20 minute ride each way (and we don’t have a car rn, so we have to Uber, which makes me more anxious) and then however long I have to wait in the waiting area.

I really need to set up more appointments, but I’m so full of dread. And I can’t predict how my body is going to feel any given day, so it makes it so hard to schedule things. I’m so stressed about it ahhh (I tried scheduling a cervical cancer screening that I’ve been holding off on and I wound up canceling both due to the anxiety and the lack of money to get down there. 🥹 I don’t know if I’m gonna be able to get myself to go down to my eye exam.)

But, yeah….. I don’t know how I’m gonna be able to do what needs to get done. Yay for me for taking care of some of it, but God, I wish I didn’t have to fight myself so hard to. 😔

[im-tempted]

As an aromantic person who used to have a terminal illness

Oh my god I have so many hanahaki thoughts and none of them make sense

[wordstome]

Shrike pt. 3 - who we are

König x high school sweetheart reader

2nd person, she/her pronouns, reader is Austrian/has lived in Austria and speaks German for most of the story, romance, pining, friends to lovers, reader's nickname is Thorn, König's first name is Alexander, absolute tooth rotting fluff, corny as hell towards the end

2.8k words

tw: physical and emotional abuse, violence (chokehold, stabbing, throat slitting)

Hello to everyone reading this from my main blog! In case you haven't seen the pinned post on bucca2, this is my new writing blog. Everything I publish will be here on wordstome now. Please feel free to unfollow bucca2 and follow me here!

also PARIS PALOMA TEASED HER NEW SONG "DRYWALL" JUST FOR SHRIKE CHAPTER 3 SPREAD THE WORD

[PART 1] [PART 2 (PREV)] [MASTERLIST]

What I had left here I just held it tight So someone with your eyes Might come in time To hold me like water Or Christ, hold me like a knife

When you’re in total darkness, your eyes adjust. You can see everything around you, but it’s all devoid of color. Then when the light turns on, it blinds you, but it’s better to be blinded momentarily than to live in the dark forever.

That’s how it feels as you prepare to travel home. To escape. You’re antsy, excited and petrified at the same time. Before, it felt like the days flew past in a murky haze. Now, even the seconds crawl.

It feels like moving in a dream, like you’ll wake up any day now and it will all be taken away from you. Your hope, your new dreams for the future, your König.

A shiver runs through you. Where did “your König” come from?

When you’re not occupied with the anxiety of keeping such a huge secret from your husband, all you think about is König. You’ve spent the past few weeks in a haze, like he’s put some sort of spell on you. You do get a kick out of imagining him as a witch with a hat and cauldron.

But you know it’s something simpler than that. All the feelings you used to have for him have returned.  It’s different than the heady rush you used to get with your husband. It feels sweeter, like you really are a teenage girl with a crush all over again.

It feels naïve, but you also don’t care. You feel safe despite the situation you’re still in, for the first time in a long time. You never would have expected to see König again—even less so for him to become your saving grace.

It seems silly in hindsight that you had been so frightened of him. Sure, the mask was a lot. But it had been something about his energy. It was different than you had ever felt from him, before or after your reunion. If he was that way on the battlefield, then no wonder he had earned the nickname König. You’re not sure if it scares or awes you.

You’re about to find out.

An anxiety attack is the worst feeling in the world.

You dry heave. Your chest feels like a roiling ball of angry carrion birds hollowing you out. You shake like a leaf in the wind. You fall down a long, dark pit of despair as your stomach seizes with nausea.

The train’s delayed. There’s been an issue with the tracks leading out of the city. No trains will be leaving for 12 hours.

You should have just sat in the terminal and waited, or tried to contact König, but you’re not thinking straight. All of your thoughts are focused on your husband, and what he’ll do if he comes home and finds you gone. You decide, somehow, that it would be wiser to throw yourself back into the lion’s den and pretend everything’s alright instead of waiting for him to come raging into the train station and pull you out by the hair. The thought of that is the only thing that gets you up off the wall you were hyperventilating against and back towards home.

The plan is to get home before he does and hide your suitcases. He’s usually not home by this time, anyway. You chalk the rising sense of dread in the pit of your stomach up to your anxiety and turn the handle to go in.

Fuck.

He’s standing in the kitchen.

The years have not been kind to him. He’s far from the charming young man you married. He’s wretched, unkempt, angry. It’s clear he’s been drinking, maybe even before he left work. The shadows etch themselves into the lines of his face as his expression twists into something awful, inhuman. You stand, frozen, as he approaches you.

“Planning a trip without me?” he asks with an awful grin.

You can still salvage this. “Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, but I just received word. My mother’s not doing well. I have to go see her.”

“You lie like a whore,” he snarls. “Don’t think I haven’t been paying attention. You’re different nowadays. Not the nice obedient woman I married.”

Your fear turns to anger in an instant. Years and years of this horseshit, waiting on him hand and foot, placing his smallest whims before your own needs and wants—it rushes up through you like hot steam. His nice obedient woman. And the worst thing is, you hate that he’s not wrong. That is what you’ve become.

“Yesterday I came home and you hadn’t even started dinner. Where were you, huh? Running around on me behind my back?” It’s difficult to describe, but his smile is oily: sleazy, untrustworthy, dangerous. “With that big fuck in a hood that came here with the mercenaries, perhaps?”

Your blood runs cold at that. Has he seen you with König? When? Why hasn’t he said anything? It feels like you’re stepping into a trap, but you must move forward if you want to get out.

“He’s going to get what’s coming to him, alright. My manager has a direct line to his boss. One word from him will get that fucker deployed to the middle of nowhere on a suicide mission.”

It’s an absurd threat, and you know it. This drunken idiot has no idea what he’s talking about—as if some middle-management bureaucrat could persuade a PMC to dispose of a soldier like König. But it’s the audacity that irks you. You’ve lived your life serving this man for too long, and now he thinks the world will bend to his whims. There’s absolutely no way he can touch König, but an old and familiar anger rises in you.

A long overdue revelation dawns on you now. He’s a bully. The same as Andreas: little boys with petty insults and empty threats. Pushing people around because their own lives are empty and unsatisfying.

An eerie calm breaks through you like the sky cutting through a storm. The man before you is just a feral animal, snarling and snapping in desperation. You’re not afraid of him anymore.

You reach behind you and slowly roll open the knife drawer, grabbing the first one your fingers land on.

“I’m leaving. I’m leaving this house, this country, and this marriage,” you say, gripping the knife in a defensive position. Your father taught you how to hold a knife like this: backwards, with the blade along your arm, sharp edge facing outwards.

“This way, it’s much more difficult for someone to turn the blade against you,” he had told you, demonstrating the motion by moving your arm towards your chest. The memory makes you smile. At the time, you’d been indulging your old man—he had always said that violence was a last resort, but that the world was unkind and one day you may have to defend yourself. He was right, just as he was when he told you he had reservations about your marriage.

You’re going home. You’re going to see your father again. And you’ll never have to tolerate the loathsome toad before you again.

The beast laughs. “What do you think you’re going to do with that? Stab me?” He’s up against you before you can react, the breath leaving your lungs in a gasp as he pins you against a wall by the throat.

“You. Are. Mine. You will never raise a hand against me because I own you,” he hisses, his alcohol-laced breath foul against your face. “And it’s high time you remembered that.” His grip tightens like an iron vice around your throat, but you’re not afraid. Even as your vision begins to blur and blacken, you stare directly into his eyes. They’re like red-hot coals of fury, but you see what’s behind them now. The fear. The cowardice of a desperate man who has no recourse but to lay his hands on someone who can’t fight back.

“You’re pathetic,” you rasp, lips tugging into a smile. The coals burn brighter. The hand squeezes tighter. The adrenaline surges through you like a tide—and your body acts to protect itself, in a way that you haven’t allowed it to in a long time. A feeling as sweet and familiar as an old friend.

The knife makes its home right between his ribs.

He staggers away from you, as if you had slightly winded him instead of stabbed him in the heart. Your hands instantly go to your throat as you cough and sputter, lightheaded and dizzy but alive, so alive. You’ve never felt so alive as you do right now, watching the demon of your own personal hell look down at the blade sticking out of him.

“You stupid little bitch—” He makes as if to lunge at you, but time slows. Your eyes widen as the shadows behind him melt and solidify into a figure. Tall and hooded. No knight in shining armor, but an assassin of deepest night.

König slashes through your husband’s throat in one deadly, beautiful motion.

Your husband falls to the ground like dead weight, gasping and choking on his own blood. Your eyes are fixed on him, a strange sensation bubbling through you. You’re making some kind of noise, loud and cacophonous, as König steps over the dying animal who has controlled you your whole adult life.

His arms find their way around you as you slowly sink to the ground, howling and wailing. He’s so patient, you think numbly with some corner of your mind that remains untouched by the mania seizing the rest of you. The two of you sit there, his body warm and solid against yours, as your body slowly exits fight or flight mode.

“Alex?” you say hoarsely once you’re in your right mind again.

“I’m here,” he rumbles.

You turn to look at him as he pulls the hood off his head. There he is, your Alexander, all grown up. He’s rugged, with nasty-looking white scars streaked across his face, but so, so handsome. His eyes are still the same as he looks at you with something akin to rapturous adoration. Your green-eyed boy.

“You’re back, rosethorn,” he says with a wide grin. There’s a touch of madness to it, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Was I…” Exhaustion sets in, seeping through your whole body. “Was I crying or laughing just now?”

He shifts you onto his lap, cradling you like a baby as you look up at him.

“I think you were laughing.”

The police release you after just over half an hour of questioning.

You aren’t going anywhere, of course. They’re leaving you, exiting your hospital room with murmurs of well-wishes for your health. They’ve hardly left the room when König comes striding in, instantly moving to your bedside and holding your hand in his.

He looks tired too, his eyes soft as he takes in your small smile. You’re sure he was being interrogated for much longer than you, but it looks like he passed muster as well. Not as if you had anything to worry about—what could the local police have done to the commander of the mercenaries taking down their local terrorist cell anyway?

“Are you alright? Did they clear you?” His expression hardens as he glances at your neck. You nod weakly. Your throat is going to be bruised for a while, but your attacker hadn’t done any lasting damage.

Attacker. Husband. Corpse. All of these words describe the same thing now.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner,” he says mournfully. “He shouldn’t have had the chance to attack you like that.”

You shake your head at him. He didn’t know that you weren’t on the train heading home, after all. The room is quiet for a few moments, save for the distant beeping of a heart monitor.

“Why…” you manage to ask. He knows what you’re trying to say.

“Why was I there?” He glances around to make sure nobody’s listening, and leans in to whisper in your ear.

“I was there to kill him, of course.”

You shudder a little. He admits it so casually, that he was in your house because he was there to commit a murder. You should be afraid of him, but you feel around in your brain and come up empty-handed.

Instead, you find yourself worried. For him. “What if you had gotten in trouble?”

He snorts. “You underestimate me, rosethorn. I would have just framed it as a robbery.”

You nod. Oh God…does that mean he had planned this? Why doesn’t that horrify or disgust you? You’re just going to have to dissect that later. Right now, you only feel a warm affection towards the man stroking his thumb along your hand in a soothing motion.

“So…what comes next?”

“You’re asking me? We can do whatever you like. I can take you home.”

Home. Where is that, now? It’s certainly not in the house you’ve left behind, where the ghost of the man you were married to settles in every nook and cranny. It doesn’t feel like your childhood home where your parents are, either.

It’s such a corny saying, “home is where the heart is”. But home feels like it’s already here, sitting next to your hospital bed with the fondest look in his eyes.

“I’d like to travel,” you whisper. The with you goes unspoken.

“I have plenty of leave time saved up.”

You flip your hand so you can hold his. It’s huge next to yours. This is the hand that slit your husband’s throat, a hand that has killed countless people.

You’re not sentimental enough to pretend that’s not an issue. You’re not entirely sure this is happily ever after: that all of your problems are solved because you’ve replaced one violent man with another. But another part of you yearns to be the one who gets protected. You’ll take care of König, and you know he’ll take care of you. In his own way.

You can ask the questions later. Right now, you have lost time to make up for.

“Are you sure you should be wearing that scarf?”

The air is cold, but the wind is soft instead of feeling like tiny blades against your face. You tug said scarf down from your face and take in a lungful of crisp, icy air.

“I’ll be fine,” you reassure König as he hauls himself up the last ridge to where you’re standing. “It’s loose enough. And it’s chilly.”

“If you say so.” He tugs his neck gaiter further up his nose. “What a view, hm?”

You’re standing on Mont Blanc, blanketed by serene white snow just as the name promised. Further below you, the skiing slopes are crawling with tourists, but here in this little outcropping, the only sound is the occasional rush of wind and your voices.

“I think I can see Salzburg from here,” you say, pointing off into gorgeous landscape spread out before you.

“That is most certainly still Switzerland,” König says, amused. You turn to look at him instead and are rewarded with his shining green eyes looking right back at you.

“Whatever!” You let out a dissatisfied hmph, which draws a hearty laugh from him.

“You came all the way to Chamonix just so you could look at Austria again?”

“It’s a very tall mountain,” you argue.

“It’s one of many very tall mountains. We could have just gone to Großglockner.”

“That’s boring. I’ve always wanted to visit France.”

“You wanted to visit a very expensive ski chalet.”

“Bite me.”

“I just might!” You giggle and squeal as he grabs you, chasing your face with his as you squirm around.

“It is beautiful,” he concedes as he holds a hand above his eyes to keep off the sun. “Almost as beautiful as you.”

“I should push you off this peak right now.”

“You couldn’t move me an inch.” He grabs you by the waist and holds you tight to emphasize his point. You can’t even shift his arms off you, no matter how hard you push.

“Ok, fine, you win.” You pout at him, but he doesn’t let you go.

The dynamic the two of you share is so easygoing and relaxed, it’s like you had a rhythm all along that both of you just fell back into. But of course, there are some things you’ve never done together. Like travel together.

Or kiss.

“Are you going to do it this time?” you ask him, smiling.

His nose wrinkles up, uncharacteristically cute for someone like him. “Well, I was going to, but then you had to open your mouth.”

You cackle. “Go on then.”

“Can I?”

“I just said yes!”

“I forgot how much you like to talk,” he complains. Before you can say another word, he captures your lips in his.

The sky is vivid and blue as the whole world stretches out before you.

#RIPBOZO

Here we are! We're at the end of this little story I started writing on a whim. Honestly, this means a lot to me personally: I wrote a lot when I was younger, but high school and university were very difficult times for me, and I stopped writing fanfiction. I tried to get back into it during the pandemic, but I was never able to finish anything beyond a long-ish drabble. I'm quite proud of this.

Even still, I feel like there are a lot of stories that I still want to tell about this couple. There's quite a lot that I decided to cut from these main 3 chapters for the sake of pacing and time. There's a little bit of dissatisfaction at not having crammed in every little detail that I wanted, but if there's one thing that writing university papers has taught me, it's that perfectionism will keep you from getting anything done. So you will be getting more from Alex and Thorn in the future!

I know a lot of you were anticipating what delicious revenge König was going to exact on Thorn's husband, so I hope you weren't too disappointed ;; While I personally would have loved to have König strap him to a chair in the basement and do some morbid things with a knife, I think it was important for Thorn's character that she's involved in it. While of course the main focus of this story is König, Shrike is also about his beloved Thorn. I hope to explore König and the darker (and pervier) aspects of his character more in subsequent stories. But for now, they're getting a well-deserved happy ending.

One last thing before I go: Chamonix is a resort town in central/southeast France, not far from Lyon. (Sorry, I don't know whether Lyon is south enough to be considered southern France lol). Mont Blanc is Chamonix's main peak of the Alps, and is known for how pretty it is and being at the border of France, Switzerland, and Italy. As König said, if you wanted to visit a mountain as an Austrian, there are several of them at home you could visit, but since I visited it a few years ago, Chamonix has a special place in my heart. I just had to cram it in!

As usual, I'm excited to see your comments and feedback. I've read every single thing everybody has commented about this fic, even if I couldn't respond to you all, and I appreciate it so deeply. Whenever I get feedback I literally feel like kicking my feet and giggling. And if you want to ask questions or request specific scenarios with Thorn and Alex, please do send me an ask!

@crowbird @poohkie90 @cumikering @iytatsworld @papaver-decervicatus @anxietyrain @riotakire @ax0lotly @kneelingshadowsalome @cookiepie111 @kacchasu @no1runawaymilkdad @chthonian-spectre @backwards-readings @yxllowtxpe @garbau @hexqueensupreme @queenthorin1 @violetstyless @her-majesty-theking @vegan-peppermint @peonytarian @ghostslittlegf @euuuuuuun @e1x03 @kokonoiwife @deaddainish @dragonfang @teehee-47 @catluvwr @fireballoveraltanta

psst. to my tag list people while I have you here: naturally I will continue tagging you in other Shrike stories, but I'll also be using this same tag list for every other König fic I write. If you'd like to opt out of that, let me know. (No hard feelings, of course :3)

[brooklynislandgirl]

@tangleweave {{because tumblr.}}

When Beth first found him confused, alone, and hunted the only real thought in her head was to offer him sanctuary so that he might collect himself. Take a metaphorical breath and have the space and safety to process his circumstances. To figure out what it was he wanted to do with himself. She'd had no ulterior motives beyond the desire to help a friend. Beth knows all too well what it's like being out of touch with the world around you. She knows what it feels like to be alone and uncertain, and she knows what it is to need something that cannot be easily explained if it can even be acknowledged. At first even the smallest offers met with a hesitant sort of resistance. She took no offense to that ambivalence because it's only natural. She continued to be supportive. It is in her nature to nurture others. To offer the little kindnesses that are often overlooked or taken for granted by those who have them in excess and yet mean the world to those who are deprived. Slowly but surely he began to regain his new interpretation of himself, both in terms of his humanity and his willingness to interact with her. That was the start of their deepening friendship and trust in one another. They talk until they are hoarse, something that might be presumed to be an affectation on his part though if she were to be honest, she doesn't at all understand the way his body works, including the modulations of his voice. And sometimes, she feels almost giddy about that. The white noise of the organic form doesn't distract her and for once, it feels like everything is normal in so far as other people are with one another.

He does not wince at the chill of her hands and feet. If anything he does his level best to provide her with the warm her extremities lack and sometimes makes a quip about her having more in common with her poikilotherm relatives. She could tease back and mention she has blood in her veins, but in his own way, he does too. She ensures that her fingertips and palms carry enough of her vitality that he need not worry about compensating. The task is aided by just how fast her heart is starting to beat. She's never hidden the fact that she lacks experience with certain kinds of physical intimacy. Silly as it might seem, she'd often look away when a programme or film they might be watching when such acts would occur, and if discussion was had, she'd speak of it in clinical terms as often as possible. She doesn't believe he missed the physiological signs of embarrassment she experienced then, before she became more comfortable with him. When they spoke of her own sense of attraction or lack thereof, her often blatant disinterest in the act itself more often than not, and what it might mean for him. She'd been careful not to pry at the brittle edges of memory, not willing to push him to any sort of conclusion. If wasn't that she was so stupidly jealous of the life he had before but that she wasn't so sure that he was that sentient being, that man that he'd been before and therefore she had no right to push him toward something similar if anything had changed. Existential debate that far outreaches her ability to really participate, at least in her estimation. But things change, as they must. That is the nature of the world, of life itself. People, and she always was quick to reassure him that he was, in fact, a person regardless of his material components, grow. And so too do their thoughts and feelings, and she finds herself stricken with a humble heart that they've grown toward each other. She's determined now to cherish every moment they share without an eye on a shadowy future when he must, inevitably, grow beyond her. Beth allows herself to love him, to fall in love with him, without her typical temerity. Without the questions she never has answers for, nor the ones she can't word properly. These are the steps that lead them here. His hand light against the small of her back, synthetic skin warm to the touch and she can almost feel his pulse within that tender press. He watches her eyes and she does the same perhaps out of habit ~he has none of the micro-expressions that most people do, sometimes making it more difficult for her to find context in their conversations, though though these few simple questions exchanged between them are relatively easy to follow. They glow a gentle blue, but their pattern is breath-taking, like lightning across stormy firmament. She swears she can hear the way his skin brushes against her own even if it doesn't make a sound. Neither do his lips when they impart the softest of kisses. She's both pleased and reassured by those two words, and some of the tension drains from her narrow frame. "Good."

She offers him that self-same kiss when he touches her face in return. The fullness of her mouth, always generous in proportion, slides its way from fingertip to palm before she returns her cheek to it. Remarkably, he's given thoughts to the lines and seems that criss-cross the surface, the texture is perfection.

"And you, you're the song of the tides in me." She thinks of pulling his hand to settle it against her sternum so he can feel the truth of it, but it is a matter of faith. The sea is sacred to her and he knows that to be true. She doesn't make such comparisons lightly. Though her breath might be shallow in draft, its sweet as she exhales and that too seems intent on caressing his face though now in their proximity to one another, her gaze diffuses. Becomes that half-lidded closing he has become familiar with. But for all the closeness between them they might still be thousands of miles apart. She is intent on savouring this. There is no need to rush and perhaps regret missing a single moment. Her chest presses against his, and below his shoulders her collarbones find space to nestle, causing her chin to tilt upwards as he traces her face. Her fingers curl so that her knuckles can skim his jaw before lowering and wrapping themselves around the back of his neck. Her other hand is far more rational and seeks to anchor itself at his hip. Her thumb makes lazy designs there without any purpose other than to enjoy the sensation. So close. He can likely feel her mouth move to form an answer. "Mmh?" A need for focus that isn't easy to achieve. "..ʻAe…yes. I t'ink it's…well, is really good." Of her own accord, she leans in that negligible distance. At first the press of her lips to his is achingly slow, little more than the idea of a kiss, and off-kilter so that it's mostly at the corner of his mouth. It is purposeful, neither miscalculation nor mistake. What a tender test-bite might be in equation. Chaste in acclimation. Those fingers at his hip tell a wildly different story though, telegraphing as the tighten and pull him closer still, a torrid sort of tale regarding her desire. She pulls back by millimetres and then returns to him after she's tilted her head slightly. This time she captures his lower lip between hers and exhales with a soft sort of sound. It becomes discernible then that she's trying to coax him into responding. That she wants him as delirious to taste her as she is in chasing a deeper sort of kiss, all the while making certain that he knows he has agency in it, and if this is enough for him, she'll stop if he wants her to, but not a second before.

[prismaticfaery]

Little Bunny

John Price x Fem!Reader

Summary: Never in a million years would Captain Price think that he'd have a chance at a family, but with how dangerous his profession was and his chances of becoming a father becoming a reality, you and him have to learn the hard way that moving on is the best you both can do.

**TW: Pregnancy, vomiting, swearing, mentions of sex, alcohol, labor, childbirth, anxiety, panic, angst, unrequited love. (Forgive me if I miss any!)

Rating: Mature

This is not short, it's 10K words! Also, don't expect too much of a happy ending!

Part Two

A/N: I was debating posting this for so long out of fear it was trash, please be gentle with me! To add, termination is always going to be your choice and it’s okay to consider that option!

Fluorescent lights hung overhead, your eyes poorly adjusting to the harsh lights as you fumbled with a pen nervously between your fingers. You had filled out a small packet of papers on a clipboard, the receptionist telling you that your doctor would see you soon and to make sure every bit of information was filled in. When you had initially told the receptionist that it would only be you when she asked if you were accompanied by a partner for a confirmation of pregnancy ultrasound, she gave you a look, and you knew she was silently judging you for your situation. 

“Y/N?” You hear a nurse call out while propping a door open, breaking you out of your trance.

It was two weeks ago when you had realized your period was late, your work schedule and general hecticness in your life made you suspect that it was stress at first but when your period never showed even a week later, and with having a pretty normal cycle, you darted to the commissary on base and bought two boxes of pregnancy tests– two different brands to make sure. Yeah, you had been more tired lately, and you had lost your appetite more than a few times, but you knew that those could also be normal premenstrual symptoms. 

With your uniform pants and panties down to your ankles, you held two different pregnancy test in your hands, the trembling in your arms and hands from fear only became worse when the test slowly turned positive. With a harsh breath in, you hold it for a moment, fresh tears stinging your eyes when you finally release your breath. Your body felt frozen in place, unsure of what to do next. Do you tell him now? Do you wait? You were on birth control and never missed a dose, but of course, it’s not always foolproof. You weren’t even with the baby’s father on an exclusivity level, only really depending on each other for comfort and pleasure when you both needed it– not to mention he was your Captain, your superior. 

A hiccup leaves your throat, the metaphorical golf ball stuck in your throat nearly choking you as you place your head in your hands, those fresh tears gathering in the corners falling into your hands. You were active duty in the SAS and newly recruited into Task Force 141, though just a Sergeant, and you were living in the barracks, which was not the place to bring a baby up in, nor was it even allowed. You weren’t prepared for a baby to come along, and you knew that your Captain had no intention of having children while he always had a target on himself. You knew he wouldn’t take this news well. 

“It looks like you’re reaching nine weeks, strong heartbeat at 168 bpm– see it here?” the doctor pointed to the tiny fluttering heart on the ultrasound monitor. 

“I do,” you smile lightly, your eyes never leaving the small floating jelly bean that jerked and wiggled inside of your body. 

“Do you have support at home?” The doctor asked, her eyes meeting yours with a certain softness, knowing that you checked your marital status as “single”.

“Well I have my mother, but as for the other half of the child, he won’t be very happy,” you say, sitting up and adjusting the paper blanket draped across your nude bottom half. 

“Reach out to your mother, okay? Best of luck with everything,” the doctor takes her leave, giving you the privacy to clean up and put your uniform back on. 

You sat for a moment, the silence deafening save for the nurses speaking at their station outside the exam room door. You peek over at the ultrasound monitor, which had been paused on a picture of your tiny baby. Your heart ached, and you found yourself struggling to turn your head away, until a knock at the door sounded. 

“Here are your papers, there’s also a script for prenatal vitamins and some brochures,” the nurse smiles, handing you the small stack, “take care of yourself.”

The door closes behind the nurse and you decide that it’s time to finally get dressed. You wipe the ultrasound gel from your abdomen and lower region, and silently slip your clothing back on, your eyes never leaving the monitor until you notice a small black and white photo had been printed and attached to your after appointment papers. Your heart skipped, quickly tearing the photo from off of the stack to hold in your hands, your little baby’s side profile had been captured and you could see the tiny arms and legs scrunched up to its body. 

Checking the time on your watch, you pick up speed, remembering that you had a debriefing on a Task Force affair with your Captain soon and you were definitely going to be late arriving at it. You knew he wouldn’t be happy with your lack of punctuality, but you had proof that you were tied up in a last minute affair. 

Once arriving back at base, you could see the familiar form of Soap who was also a late arrival to the debriefing, but you knew it was because of his poor time management skills, or he was just waking up from one of his naps. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he spins around in a wild fashion. 

“Good grief, ya scared the shite out of me,” Soap held a hand to his chest. 

“Sorry, I was just curious if we could walk together to the debrief,” you question, your eyes pleading for him to agree as to save yourself from being individually called out by your Captain. 

Soap nods, his longer legs falling into step with yours, “you’re not usually late to these things, something must have had you tied up,” Soap scratches his head, yawning into his unoccupied hand.

“Oh you know, women’s issues,” you shrugged, Soap wincing at your words. 

“Ah, I don’t think you need to explain,” he chuckles, knowing damn well that he was treading into territory he was very familiar with, having to be around female soldiers– especially with being around you so much– taught him more than enough. 

Opening the door to the small debriefing room, you could see Ghost leaning back in his chair, one leg over the other while his arms crossed against his chest, his usual black balaclava covering his face. Gaz was in the seat adjacent to Ghost, his face blank– an almost bored expression showing. 

Price’s body language was showing very clear annoyance as he watched you and Soap enter, the awkwardness in the room causing you to fumble into your seat, the loud scraping of the chair leg against the tile floor made Price audibly sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“You two are late, don’t let this happen again or I’ll have you assigned cleaning duty for a week,” Price points his finger first at Soap, then at you, your eyes casting downwards in embarrassment. 

As the debriefing went on, you could feel the familiar crystalline blue eyes of your Captain steal glances of you. You make yourself small and scarce in the meeting, your arms folding across your upper body and your body slinking into your chair. You felt strange about having such a huge secret being hidden away from your Captain who was more than deserving to know about it, but you needed time to formulate a plan on how you were going to carry out telling him. It would be better to tell him sooner than later though because you could be deployed at any time and that would be a dangerous situation for you and the life that was growing inside of you. 

“Ghost, you and Gaz will be going to Russia for some recon, I need intel– any intel on where they’re moving next,” Price nods his head in Ghost’s direction, handing Gaz a debriefing packet on his and Ghost’s deployment that they’ll go over together at a later time. 

You feel your body tense as a very heavy wave of nausea washes over you, Soap noticing your eyes fluttering and your skin becoming ashen and shiny from sweat. Pushing his seat out with the back of his legs, Soap rushes over to the trash bin, knowing all too well you wouldn’t make it yourself. He shoves the bin into your lap where you attempt to shield yourself with your arms as you empty the contents of your stomach. Gaz winces, and Ghost is pretty much unbothered but keeping a watchful eye on you. 

“You alright?” Price askes as he makes his way over to your hunched over form. 

“No, I really need to go,” you heave a sigh, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

“Leave that, I’ll have someone clean it,” Price nods, motioning for you to leave. 

Long having discarded your uniform, you sat on your bed, staring at the white wall across the room. So many thoughts flooded your brain, and you felt like you were losing control of everything in your life all in the span of a few hours. You were young, and still inexperienced in life, halfway to reaching your thirties. The dried yet still sticky feeling of tears coated your cheeks and you felt like your heart would leap out of your chest every time you even thought of mentioning this pregnancy to Price. How the hell was he going to take it?

You knew that it would go two ways most likely– one: he’d walk away and break all contact, or two: he would tell you that he would support you and the baby, but would not be present.

A knock on your door broke you out of your thoughts, your voice cracking as you told the visitor to come inside. Price’s tall body stands in the doorway for a second before stepping inside and closing the door behind him softly. He knew it was risky coming into your room so early in the evening but he was willing to take that chance. 

“Everything alright? Soap said you were dealing with something– didn’t know the pain got so bad for you during that time of the month,” Price sits beside you on your bed, his taller form making yours tiny in comparison. 

“I’m alright, I just need to rest,” your voice is small with a tinge of exhaustion, playing into Soap’s assumptions of you being on your period. 

“You been crying, love?” Price’s large hand caresses your neck, his thumb dancing across your cheek soothingly.

“A little, yeah,” you smile softly, leaning into his touch. 

“You want to tell me about it?”

“Not really, if that’s okay?” Your breath catches in your throat, you knew damn well you should tell him, but fear froze you in place. 

“I understand, hormones and all that lot can be difficult,” Price sighs, the hand that rested on your neck falling back into his lap. 

You suck in a breath as his words repeat in your head. Did he already know? Or did he have an inkling of an idea? No, that wasn’t possible. 

You feel the familiar burn of bile rising into your throat, your legs making a mad dash for the bathroom across your small barracks room. Heaving what little was left in your stomach, you could feel your Captain’s cool hands gather your loose hair from your sweat covered neck and forehead. As you breath in and out heavily, a soft cry escaping your lips from the horrifying nausea pounding through your body, you feel Price’s free hand rub soothing circles along your back. 

“You’re alright, sweet girl, let it out,” the deep gravel in his voice was soothing. 

You gag and heave one last time before you begin to feel like the nausea is subsiding, Price’s arm reaching over to flush the toilet and then bring your body back to lay against him as he leaned back against the tub. Your shorter legs are pulled up to your chest as his thick arms engulf you. 

“I’m pregnant,” a sob escapes your throat, a trembling hand brought up to your now teary eyes, wiping away any stray tears that escape. 

Everything goes silent around the two of you, and you could tell John was formulating his response and keeping himself from reacting in a way he would regret. His arms go slack around you and you begin sobbing even harder at his action. 

“Did you not take your pills?” Was all he could muster asking. 

“I did, I did-!” you cry, turning your body to face him now. 

“Y/N, you know what this could do to us– to me, right?” Price’s voice was dangerously low now, a look of pure anger painted on his face. 

You knew all too well what this situation could do to you both. Demotion, dishonorable discharge, enemies who had a target on both of you– but more specifically him, would know that there is something precious and innocent that could be easily taken away. 

Price goes quiet, his eyes downcast as he thinks to himself for a moment, “I think you should consider your options.”

“So that’s it? You’re putting all of this on me?” your heart begins to sink into your stomach, knowing damn well that this was his way of telling you that he wanted to cut all contact and act like this situation never happened. 

“What will you have me do, Y/N, hm?” He points a finger at himself, the tip poking into his hardened chest. 

“At least consider options with me– it takes two-!”

“No, Y/N. No,” Price rises to his feet, leaving you in a puddle of anxiousness on the bathroom floor, your eyes frantically watching his hand swing the bathroom door open. 

“Please don’t–,” you reach an arm out to him, but he’s gone so quickly from your sight. 

You find out the next day that you were pardoned from work, formation, and PT for a full month, knowing that Price did this to allow you time to think about what to do with the pregnancy. You hardly left your room, and when you did, it was usually just to eat and do laundry. Soap tried to stop you a few times to catch up and ask how you were doing, but you instead offered a smile and a quick, “I’ve gotta go,”. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried out of his mind for you, sad eyes watching you disappear down the hallways. He was often your partner in missions and would offer a helping hand if and when you needed it. Maybe he just needed to wait for you to come to him? He would always wait for you. 

You stared at your discharge papers for days, the blanks filled out neatly, and the pen you used sat atop the thin packet. You were sure that this is what you wanted, and this would save John from the possibility of having everything he worked so hard for to be snatched away. No one would know he was the father of the baby, and you weren’t going to make him be something he didn’t want to be. You wouldn’t inform him of the gender, due date, name– anything, if he didn’t want to know, in which you knew he wouldn’t. 

You wanted to make this as easy as possible– slowly cutting off your military life, and going back home to make a new life for yourself and for your baby. Your mother was in agreement, telling you to come home and to get yourself back on your feet, that she’d be happy to watch over the baby while you worked. You would have your childhood room back and your mother’s cooking, and that was enough to put a smile on your face even for just a moment through the rough patch. She knew that having support was the most important thing for you. 

You gather the papers in your hands, tapping them on the counter to even them out. Taking a moment to think one last time if this was truly what you wanted, you let out a shaky breath, leaving your room and making your way to John’s office, your fingers grasping the papers tight enough to wrinkle them. 

You knock three times on Price’s door, waiting for him to call out an answer for you to enter, “come in,” you finally hear him say. 

He straightens in his desk chair, the air in the room becoming thick and tense. He looks to be stressed out, his hand soon covering his forehead as he attempts to relax. You sit in one of the two chairs across from his desk, sliding your filled out discharge paperwork over to him. Price’s vascular arm reaches over to grab the papers, keeping his eyes on you the whole time. At first, he thinks that these are adoption papers for the baby, in which he would sign the parts that said “father’s information”, but he soon realizes that’s not what he was given. 

“You’re leaving the military?” his eyes darted up to look at you. 

“I won’t make this difficult. You don’t need to know a thing if you don’t want to, you won’t need to be present, just sign those papers and we’re gone.” 

“The Task Force needs you,” Price’s voice falters, his usual soft tone you were so used to is back. 

“I want to raise this baby, John– our baby,” you feel yourself spiraling, your hormones making it difficult to keep your composure. 

You could see his eyes flutter closed, his body shaking as he releases a large huff from his lungs, “you’ll be discharged immediately. I don’t want to see a trace of you left in that room.”

“Yes, sir.”

You had very little to pack up in your room, your mother having come from London to help you carry anything heavy. Soap had stopped by your room after hearing the news that you were being discharged. His thoughts soared wildly as he watched your mother pack away your things as you carried out items to her car, thinking of how sick you must have been to have to leave the military immediately. You must have been in need of serious medical treatment to just drop everything and leave. His form standing outside your door caught your mother’s attention, making his entire body tense. Turning on his heel, he prayed to whatever or whomever that your mother hadn’t seen the stray tear fall down his cheek. 

Your civilian clothing felt a little tight around your lower abdominal area, your belly poking out slightly, bloating from the pregnancy hormones and constipation since the baby was still very tiny to make an appearance quite yet. You were half tempted to keep your jeans unbuttoned but with it being so hot out, your shirt was cropped right above your belly button. You had to keep cool somehow and you weren’t sacrificing your style for your growing belly. You and your belly bump can be stylish together. 

“Is this the last of it, darling?” Your mother questions, placing the last box in the trunk of her sedan. 

“Yes,” you answer, looking around one last time before opening the passenger door of the car and slipping inside. 

Your eyes caught a glance of Price, who was outside on the training field with a group of soldiers. He was looking right at you, and it sent a flood of different emotions to wash over you. Tears stung your eyes, your throat swelling as you tried your best to keep yourself from falling apart. You were prepared to do this whole parenthood thing alone, but you were hoping that you would at least have him present for the sake of the child– not even for the sake of you because you weren’t what mattered in this situation. 

You had fallen madly for him but your job had made it very apparent that feelings for your superior could be a whirlwind of repercussions to pay. You had to play it safe in the shadows. John would have been a liar if he said he hadn’t also felt the same feelings as you, but kept it no more than a hook-up every once in a while. This was the most difficult decision you could ever make– deciding to walk away. 

It had taken you weeks to acclimate to civilian life after being in the military for so long. You were freshly 18 and had just graduated secondary school when you joined the Royal Army, just entering your mid 20’s when you passed selection for the SAS, Price was the first to congratulate you, shaking your hand and offering you a warm smile, the creases in the corners of his eyes sending you into a tizzy– goodness he was so handsome. His face was shaved then however. You loved his chops when he started growing them out, your eyes catching his own as he carefully combed through the thick auburn beard hairs with a sandalwood comb in the middle of his debriefings. 

You sat at the dining room table of your childhood home, scanning over the words on your laptop screen. You had gotten a new job and you were going to start working remotely from the house, which was perfect because of the baby coming around February. You had since gotten into a new doctor’s office, your mother accompanying you for support. Her face lit up when she saw the baby floating around on the screen, their little arms covering the front of their face. You had cried more than you liked and your nausea had increased dramatically once leaving the base. You thought it may have been from the stress of leaving your old life behind intermingling with the pregnancy hormones. 

Your mother was a huge support, telling you that you could take time to yourself before you found a civilian job. You waved her off however, saying that she had no business having to pick up the slack for her adult child. She had already taken to knitting small items for the baby, and your favorite was the small floppy bunny beanie that was a light cream color, the inside of the ears a dusty pink. 

“Have any of your military friends contacted you since leaving?” Your mother asks, peeking up from the cream colored blanket she had started days previous. 

“Soap has, but he ended up being deployed before I could answer. He probably thinks I’m dying with having left so suddenly when I was experiencing morning sickness during debrief,” the sigh that left your lips was a sad one, as Soap was someone you had grown quite close to over the years of being in the same barracks and then being on the Task Force together for a short period of time. 

“Well hopefully you can remain friends,” the nimble fingers of your mother placed a stitch marker into the blanket. 

“One can hope,” you lie. 

You were entering your 20th week of pregnancy– halfway to the finish line is what your mother said to you that morning. Her excitement was easy to spot as today was the day you would find the gender of the baby out. Your belly had grown some, but not enough for it to be immediately recognized as a baby bump. Maybe you just ate an entire pizza? 

Drinking the last bit of orange juice, to which your mother swore would make the baby more lively in your belly during the ultrasound, you look over the texts in your phone, Soap’s name popping up suddenly. It catches you off guard when you open the text, seeing a picture of Ghost and Price out on the firing range, Price’s hat sitting on top of Ghost’s head as he lay prone on the ground with a sniper rifle. Price had his arms crossed and was seeming to refuse being in the photo, his hand covering his face. Soap hadn’t sent so much as a “hi” in weeks, and you had hoped that he just moved on from the thought of you staying in touch with your old roots. Closing out of the text app, you place your phone face down on the kitchen counter, your heart dropping. You just won’t reply, just like you had been doing before. 

Patiently waiting in the exam room at the midwife’s office, you placed a hand on your belly, hoping that soon you would finally be able to feel movement. Your midwife said it’s normal to not have movements until now or even a little later but you were so impatient. Once entering the room, the midwife went over her routine questions, and took your blood pressure. 

“Your blood pressure is a bit elevated, are you getting enough water and rest?” The midwife asks, placing herself on the stool next to the ultrasound machine. 

“Mum wouldn’t let me live it down if I weren’t,” you answer. 

“I believe it,” the midwife chuckles, looking over at your mother who had taken a seat next to you on the exam table, “I would like for you to continue what you’re doing, and if you’re feeling any strange symptoms like dizziness, faintness, seeing stars in your vision, or pains in your chest or ribs, go to the hospital immediately.”

You nod your head, and the midwife starts setting your ultrasound up, helping you lie back on the bed as soon as she’s done. Unbuttoning your jeans, she places a flannel over the top of your jeans to keep the gel from staining them. The lights are then turned off and you begin to relax and clear your mind, ready to see your baby after weeks of waiting. Squeezing a large amount of gel onto your abdomen, the midwife places the transducer of the ultrasound machine onto the mound of gel, rubbing it around to find where the baby is positioned. 

“Look at those little puckered lips,” the midwife smiles down at you.

“Oh darling, look at that sweet baby,” your mom was in tears, her emotions always outmatched yours. 

As the midwife continues looking at the baby through the monitor, she takes her time going through all of the anatomy of the baby, noting it on the keys of the machine. Your hand was being squeezed so hard by your mother, you thought that your circulation might be cut off after so long. The tiny fingers of the baby were by their mouth, their legs stretching out and scrunching back up. 

“What were your bets on the gender, mum?” the midwife asks your mother, the two smiling at each other. 

“That’s a little girl in there.”

“Mum is correct,” the midwife points her finger to the wiggling baby, a clear picture of the baby’s gender boldly displayed. 

You’re going to have a little girl, Captain. 

Squealing with delight with fresh tears coating her cheeks, your mother squeezed your arm and kissed your cheek, “I’m so proud of you. I’m a grandma to a baby girl.”

While there was downtime, Price often grabbed drinks with the Task Force, his usual military uniform shed and his dog tags resting on his bedside table. The black jumper he wore had gotten a little loose, his appetite scarcely there since you told him about your pregnancy. His anxiety made his mind wander more than he liked. How were you doing? Was your belly finally popping out? Did you start purchasing baby items? He would always ground himself after some time, his internal voice telling him that this was for the safety of himself, and the safety of you and the baby. His baby. But not his baby at the same time, he made that clear with you all those weeks ago. 

Clutching a rocks glass in his hands at the bar, Price took a quick swig of the amber liquid as Soap sat to his right, scrolling through his social media timeline. Ghost was at the pool table across the bar, talking with Gaz, who had just taken a shot at a cue ball. It had been raining for days straight, the cool air flowing into the bar with each time the door opened. Were you also experiencing this weather? Or had you gone countries away to escape staying in the same country as your former friend with benefits with whom you now had forever ties with? 

“You know, Y/N’s social media was deactivated and she never answers my texts. I wonder if she’s okay?” Soap mumbled, unable to put his mind at ease as to where you went or what happened to you. 

“She was honorably discharged from the special forces, she’s probably cutting ties with her old life as much as possible,” Price’s voice was grim, however Soap didn’t quite catch on. 

“That’s not like her though– she used to post everyday–!” Soap gestured his hand to his phone, his social media app still open. 

“I think it’s best to allow her to move on,” Price slammed the rest of his whiskey, placing the glass back down on the bar with a loud clunk, “she’s been shot, wounded, seen death, caused death, stayed in hospital for weeks altogether in her career– she deserves peace.”

“She was ill, Captain,” those baby blue eyes of Soap’s were now filled with worry. 

“You said it yourself: she was experiencing her time of the month.”

“You’ve turned cold recently Captain–.”

“Move on, Soap. That’s the best you can do, for her sake and yours.”

Soap’s emotions were crushed, his heart sinking to the very bottom of his belly. Price knew Soap always cared too much, and that’s what set him apart from many people who had grown a bit cold and cynical while in the SAS– like Ghost for example. It was time for everyone to move on, it had been many weeks since your departure, and the only one who seemed to hold on the most was Soap… at times. Price struggled too but he was a Captain, he needed to be a leader and offer guidance to his soldiers, even if it wasn’t what they wanted to hear, but needed to hear. 

Holding his glass up to signal the barkeep for another pour, Price sighs, watching Soap scroll some more on his social media timeline, hitting the search bar and typing in anything and everything he could think of just to find you. He then sees him type in your mother’s name, his body language picking up in relief when a profile popped up, he just hoped your mother’s timeline wasn’t completely private. 

“Shite,” Soap mutters, disbelief flooding his tone, “she’s fuckin’ pregnant?” 

The Captain’s heart might as well have stopped beating right then and there when he heard Soap. Looking over at Soap’s phone, Soap adjusted the phone to show Price the screen, a post from two weeks ago exclaiming that you had just found out about the gender, a picture of you attached with a pink cupcake in your hand. 

“It’s a girl,” Price stared at the photo of you for way too long, his eyes softening when he saw that pregnancy glow, your cheeks becoming more filled out, and the swell in your lower belly being caressed by your hand. 

“Lucky lad, the father is,” Soap locked his phone, placing it face down on the bar, soon cradling his head in his hands. Soap is now trembling, a relieved yet saddened sigh leaving his mouth. 

Yeah, a lucky lad he would have been in a different world. 

Lying in the bath, the bubbles that had been added to the water thick and covering most of your body, your hands rested on your belly, rubbing the soft and stretched skin gently. Twenty two weeks along and you still hadn’t felt movements, and it was starting to worry you. Most people felt movement already. Sinking lower into the warm bath water, you feel the tension in your shoulders release after having worked all day. Come to think of it, your desk was still in a disarray with papers and pens and you had no energy to clean it up at the moment. 

Stilling yourself in the water and staring ahead at the faucet, you notice your stomach twitch, thinking that at first it was just a reflex, until it happened a few more times. You place the tips of your fingers where the twitches were happening, flinching when you could feel little taps. 

“Is that you in there, trying for your mummy’s attention?” You whisper, and another tap could be felt. 

Tears escape your eyes, quickly rolling down your cheeks when you think about how John is missing out on these moments. He would never be able to feel his little girl’s first movements. You wanted to imagine him being right there after you called out his name, his large hand reaching down into the tub, brushing softly against your swollen belly. He would wait patiently, at first discouraged that he missed those little kicks. Until finally, those little taps started up again, his baby blue eyes lighting up as he felt the tiniest movements against his palm. 

Wiping your tears away with the butts of your palms, you let out a shaky breath, attempting to ground yourself as much as you can in this moment, knowing that tears and sadness were not going to help get yourself through this. But it did feel good to cleanse your soul with a few tears after they built up for so long. 

When John had gotten to his room back at the barracks after downing three glasses of whiskey, he could feel his body give out from under him as soon as he shut the door behind him. His back slides down the door, his bottom meeting the cold tile, hands cradling his face as he chewed his bottom lip raw, the dull sting of the open wound radiating on his mouth. Hot torrents of anxiety begin to course through his body, tears stinging his eyes as he feels like he might crawl out of his skin. Clawing at his jumper collar, he feels like he’s suffocating, his breaths uneven and raspy. 

He missed you– missed those nights where he crawled into bed with you, your limbs entwining in a warm and comforting embrace after a hard day of work. His hands would search for the feeling of your soft skin in the darkness, only to feel an empty coldness on the sheets where your body should have been. You weren’t even his and vice versa but his attachment to you was obviously present from the beginning. His eyes always sought you out in the room, always scanning the battlefields to make sure you were safe. He should have pulled out all those times, knowing damn well that no birth control was 100% effective, other than abstinence or sterilization. He had gotten too comfortable with you, too lost in the warmth, the comfort you brought him. The smiles and the joking, the playful smacks you would give him, the wrestling and tickling matches that very often turned into that hot and heavy sex that left you both breathless and in a heavy daze. 

John knew he needed to move on, and to allow you the opportunity to live a happy and safe life with the baby, away from the military, the SAS, and the Task Force, but he was stuck on the idea that things could have been so different. If his duties weren’t so important– ridding the world of everything ugly and scary, meaning that his daughter wouldn’t have to one day live in fear, he would do it a million times over. No matter how much it hurt– no, how much it killed him, or how difficult it was to go day after day not knowing who or what she might be when she finally came into the world. How he’d never be able to see you become the mother you talked about being one day, holding a brand new baby while coming down off of the adrenaline, sweat still clinging to your forehead and cheeks. How he wanted so badly to witness that ecstatic yet exhausted “I did it,” come from your mouth, your tired eyes peering up at him. Being your support system while you struggled to nurse, changing the baby’s first nappy, letting you rest while he gently rocked and soothed the fragile bundle, whispering how much he loved her already. 

“Fuck–!” Price shouted, throwing his car keys across the room. 

At 32 weeks, your baby shower took place, friends that had kept in contact with you over the years came, as well as family members that you hadn’t seen in some time. You were in a comfortable maxi dress as your belly had gotten too big and it felt like the skin on your belly was always itchy so the soft fabric of the dress played a part in keeping that feeling away. There was a mountain of gifts that sat around the recliner in the den and you were overwhelmed with how much people cared to spoil the baby this much. 

As you sit in the recliner unwrapping the gifts, you smile for the pictures your mom begged to take so she could show you off, holding up each and every item you received. Blankets, nappies, outfits, baby gear, necessities, and even postpartum kits sat in a corner neatly. You were crying, feeling so undeserving of the kindness, but as your family and friends saw you, they all offered their comfort in the form of words of affirmation and bone crushing hugs. That you were loved and supported in this particularly difficult and confusing time. Your friends and family would have loved John. 

Your mother brings in another gift out of nowhere, her arms barely able to wrap around it, let alone carrying it over to you. Confused, you make her drop it, your body lifting from the recliner to help her set it down, her hand waving you off to not help her with something so heavy in your condition. She gives you a look and shrugs, saying there was no name on the gift. Tearing the wrapping paper off, you see a beautiful bassinet pictured on the large box. No one had fessed up to getting the gift for you, so you sat confused for longer than you would have liked as everyone else mingled. 

It had taken days for Price to figure out what he wanted to do for your upcoming baby shower. Your mother had posted an event, not realizing it was a public post, and fortunately for John, he knew your address from your paperwork and files. He found the sweetest bassinet, a cream color with a lacey pink border. It had a little storage area at the bottom so that you could keep any baby items at arm’s reach. Once he had put his payment and your address in, he hit the confirm button. He just hoped it would arrive on time. 

Sitting back in his desk chair, he listened to the busy hallways in which soldiers congregated and conversed while on their down time. His mind wandered to the most recent pictures your mother had posted, and your belly had grown bigger and you smiled so large. He imagined lying in bed, shirt removed, sweatpants on, your warm body next to his in a night dress that had become too short on you with your bump, his hand caressing the bottom of your abdomen, whispering sweet words. You were pressing your lips to his own, lingering for a moment and breathing in each other’s breath. 

“God, I hope you’re doing alright,” Price’s voice came out in a near whisper. 

Work has become a distraction of sorts, the meeting on your screen with several of your coworkers becoming something like a white noise as your mind wanders, your pen hanging loosely between your fingers as you stare into the void. A plate of biscuits and a cup of tea had been placed on your desk almost an hour ago by your mother, but they hadn’t been so much as even touched. You had a pretty significant headache that had gnawed away at the back of your head for the past few days that not even a paracetamol here and there helped. Thinking that the hormones had everything to do with it, you brushed it off without a second thought. 

“Y/N, what do you think about this?” Your coworker asks, pulling you from your thoughts. 

“I think it’s a great idea,” you answer, nodding and smiling into your webcam. 

Catching the fully set up bassinet that had been put in the other corner of the room in your video feed, you smile, placing your hands on your now nearly full term belly– 36 weeks to be exact. Your coworkers dismissed the meeting after agreeing to start the new project that had been outlined for a few weeks now, the small details and start date finally figured out. 

You stand from your desk chair, a hand placed on the underside of your belly to keep your center of gravity balanced and to keep your pelvis from hurting from the weight of your belly. The dress you wore swayed as you waddled over to the corner of the room where all of the baby’s things had been set up. Grunting as your knees bend to the floor, you drag the hospital bag you had been slowly putting together over the past few days. There were folded onesies, and knitted cardigans that you still had yet to pack away, as well as a small bag of toiletries. John would have chewed you out for being so carefree on such important things such as the hospital bags. He would have had his bag packed for weeks and sitting at the front door. 

Wincing from a twinge of pain in your chest, you stop what you’re doing for a moment to wait for it to subside. It could have been a trapped gas bubble– pregnancy and all of its little quirks. When the pain doesn't subside, you attempt to get onto your feet, but cry out when the pain worsens. 

“Mum–!” You cry out, bracing your hand on the bassinet and clutching your chest. 

Hearing your mother stomp up the stairs quickly, she barges into the room, rushing to your side and helping you up, “what happened, sweetheart?” she questions, eyes wide. 

“I’m having really bad pains in my chest,” you begin to cry, hot tears pooling in your eyes, scared out of your mind for the baby. 

After little to no convincing, your mother packed you and the bags into the car. It felt like the longest drive to the hospital ever, the diaper bag sitting in your lap and your own hospital bag at your feet, the baby kicking the wind out of your lungs, so you thought that she was hopefully doing just fine with all of her movements. There was a fresh sheet of snow on the ground and icicles formed on the trees, the freezing January air nipping at your skin. 

A nurse brought your mother and yourself over to triage, hooking you up to a non-stress test, the nodes placed cozily around your stomach, and wrapping a blood pressure cuff around your upper arm that was inflating and squeezing the life out of you. You knew that 140/90 was not where a pregnant person’s blood pressure should be, and you were certain the nurse was going to have you pee in a cup to check for proteins. 

Sure enough, you had to pee in a cup, handing it over to the nurse when you were finished and it was a hard enough feat to reach under your belly. Thankfully though, the non-stress test wasn’t alarming, the baby’s heart rate staying in a normal range even with the issues you were facing. 

“I think it’s safe to induce you right now, I’m not liking the looks of your blood pressure and labs,” the midwife sits in a stool across from your bed. 

Everything started off manageable– the pains, you were able to breathe through. Your mother stood by your side the whole time, clutching your hand when you needed it. You sat cross-legged in a hospital gown, the bed placed at the highest position, and an IV placed in the crease of your elbow. It was five hours later when the pitocin had started causing the most excruciating pains you had ever felt, and you had been shot many times in the SAS. 

Crying out and grasping the handles of the bed, your breathing became ragged and your mouth dried out and you were so happy when your mother applied lip balm to your mouth to keep them from cracking. Each time your progress was checked, the pain worsened, the labor pains feeling like a searing hot knife was dragging across your lower abdomen. You wanted so badly for John to be here, sitting across from you on the bed, letting your arms wrap around his shoulders while you groaned through your pains, but it was your mother who stood in his place, her tender touches breaking you out of your swimming mind. 

Hours later, your water had broken on its own, and now you were in the home stretch and the anxiousness began to flow throughout your body, knowing that your little girl was to make an appearance by the beginning of the next day. 

John’s body was wired, sleep not taking him this evening, his hand resting on his bare stomach as he splayed out on his bed, the blanket barely covering his waist. He scrolled mindlessly for hours on his phone when he finally decided to browse your mother’s social media, hoping that she had updated with anything that had to do with you. He shot up from his pillow when he saw a photo of you sitting up in a hospital bed, and IV and wires hooked up all over your body. 

“Posted three hours ago,” he mutters to himself, tapping your photo and zooming in on your face– you looked so angelic. 

His baby would be here so soon and it made his heart skip beats, anxiety flowing through his veins. He could be there right now in place of your mother, whispering sweet words of encouragement in your ear, rocking with you and helping you breathe through the pain. Even when on the battlefield while injured, he knew you were terrible at controlling your breathing, often passing out and waking back up with him chewing your head off. 

“Make sure to breathe, sweet girl, you’ve got this,” he spoke almost silently– a whisper off his lips. 

Lying back down, he knew immediately that he was not going to sleep until he knew you had delivered safely and that the baby was okay. Knowing how much your mother posted updates about you, it was surefire that she’d post a picture of that sweet baby as soon as she arrived. What were you going to name her? Would you give her your surname? Of course you would, he doesn’t have that badge of honor– of his kid taking his name, when he wasn’t present. What would his daughter look like? Hopefully like you because you were the most beautiful creature on God’s green Earth. 

The smallest hand was wrapped around your finger, swaddled in the cream colored blanket your mother knitted just for her. The baby came out kicking and screaming after almost two hours of pushing. You cried out for John, wanting him by your side more than anything. To hold your hand, to kiss you so deeply when the baby came and was placed on your chest. Your mother knew how much you missed John, your forlorn looks never fooling her, and so she felt great sympathy hearing you scream out for your past lover. 

“Look at you, Bunny,” you whisper, stroking the soft cheek of your little girl ever-so-softly. 

“Oh, you did such a good job, my love,” a kiss was placed on your cheek by your mother, her hand resting on the back of the baby’s bunny hat covered head. 

You would go through the pain of carrying her and bringing her forth a million times over, your heart swelling so much it might have exploded when your eyes caught the looks of her face. She was so perfect, so tiny. The moment she was placed on your chest, her eyes peered right into yours– those same crystal blue eyes she shared with her father. 

It was late morning the next day. John hadn’t slept a wink, his eyes heavy and Soap was late to debriefing– like that was a new thing though. He decided to sit at the table instead of the podium at the front of the room where the projector screen hung behind it, too exhausted to stand for more than needed. Gaz was away on deployment, leaving Ghost and Soap to sit in the seats to the right and left of him. Ghost’s eyes peered at his newest deployment papers, flipping through the pages pretty quickly as he was a fast reader. Soap had his head down, phone hidden under the table while there was a moment of silence– a break of sorts, in John’s meeting. 

“She had the baby, bonnie lass she is,” Soap says out loud, Ghost looking up from his papers with a quiet hum.

John frantically dug his phone out of his pocket, searching your mother’s name on social media. There you were, holding the tiniest bundle in your arms, swaddled inside a knitted blanket with her hands tucked under her chin. He had to leave, he needed a moment. The chair screeches when he stands, Soap’s attention snapping to his Captain, who started rushing out the door. 

Sharing a confused look with Ghost, Soap stood from his seat and left the room. Why did he leave in such a hurry? Why did he react like that in general? Soap was searching his brain for the possible answer. Come to think of it, Soap never noticed a gentleman by your side during your pregnancy and your mother had mentioned in posts how you were so strong and she was lucky to be by your side during this new adventure. Was John that baby’s father? Why was he not there with you? But then it all began to make sense the longer Soap thought– the SAS and Task Force were always keeping themselves hot on the tails of dangerous people, and those dangerous people would stop at nothing to take everything away from them. Maybe this was a mutual decision– and exactly why you left the military. 

John’s breathing was heavy as he shut the door to his room behind him. He felt unstable on his feet, nearly tripping on his way to sit on his bed. Your photo was zoomed in on his phone, your hair was disheveled, your hospital gown hanging from your shoulders– he was guessing you’d already attempted to feed the baby with how lazily it had been tied back up. John’s eyes focus on the baby, his heart skipping a beat when he looks at her sweet button nose and wispy little hairs poking out from her knitted bunny hat. Oh how beautiful his girls looked after all of their hard work. Pride swells in his chest, he knew this must have been so difficult, but you did it and looked even more beautiful than before as a new mother. 

The nights were long, the days melted together, and you found yourself lost. Though your mother lent a hand when she was available, you had taken on so much so quickly and had no adjustment time, as having a baby would do. Between nursing the baby and running on less sleep than you had gotten on some of your deployments, you were ingesting more caffeine than you liked, and you often found yourself nodding off at random times. But that little girl had been the easiest to please so far. As long as she got milk, had a clean nappy, warm clothes, and cuddles, she was content. 

John would have been the one to wake up at the first signs of movement in the bassinet– he was an incredibly light sleeper and would often rise earlier than most of his team. He’d say how much of a waste it was to sleep the morning away when you could be productive and get more important things done before the day actually needed to start. You weren’t much of a morning person and would often tell John to let you sleep in until the last possible minute if you stayed in his room for the night, but you always managed to slip out of his room before anyone came into the halls. 

Your mind wandered more during your maternity leave, often you questioned what John was doing, if he knew his daughter had arrived safely and if he knew how beautiful she was. Did he have any deployments in the time you were discharged to now? You were sure he was busy, as he always had been. 

A few weeks passed and John was on leave for three weeks, visiting home and executing plans he made with Soap for the day, who was taking a leave around the same time as John for a wedding. While walking the streets of London, hands stuffed in his pockets, and Soap to his side, the two talked about quick bite options nearby. John had a cafe in mind, mentioning that they had great coffee and sandwiches.

The late winter air nipped John’s nose, the tip dusted a light pink. He had a black beanie placed atop his head and a black peacoat over his jumper. Soap’s outfit resembled the outfit John wore, save the beanie, but add a scarf. Soap had attempted to reach out to you on multiple occasions since having the baby, but of course, you didn’t answer. Soap knew that he shouldn’t keep trying to pry and answer out of you, but he also knew that you needed the support of a friend, even though he wanted to be more than a friend. 

Price felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket, telling Soap to go on ahead and order for them both– Price wasn’t picky. Opening the door to the cafe, Soap felt an immediate warmth wash over him and the heavy smell of coffee filling his nose. Taking a spot in the short line, he stared at the menu above, until he became distracted by the woman in front of him, kissing a very small baby on the head, cooing and rocking her body as her hands caressed the sling that held the baby to her chest. He knew your voice anywhere. 

“Y/N?” He places his large hand on your shoulder, spinning you to face him. 

Your eyes were wide, a scared look on your face until you noticed Soap’s familiar face. Barely able to string words together, Soap took you by the arm and dragged you to the side, his arms engulfing you in an embrace, careful as to not smoosh the baby’s head between your two chests. 

“Why didn’t you answer my messages?” Soap’s low voice vibrates the side of your face as your arms wrap around him. 

“I didn’t want my old life to follow me because of her,” your voice trembles.

“But you didn’t have to face this alone.”

“I do though,” you pull away, looking at Soap with watery eyes. 

Feeling his heart sink, knowing that what you said was true, he didn’t want it to be. He wanted to be the one to hold you– support you, and keep you safe. Even though what Price was doing was carrying out the same purpose. 

“She’s a beauty,” Soap nods to the sleeping baby covered almost entirely inside your sling, her little face settled against your chest, lips puckering as she stirs to get more comfortable. 

“Thank you Johnny,” you smile, stroking her cheek softly, then adjusting the knitted bunny hat to sit closer to her eyebrows. 

Johnny– he hadn’t heard you say his real name in so long, it was like a treat hearing it leave your soft lips. 

“Reach out to me from time to time, just so I know you’re doing okay?” Soap pleads, his hands resting on your shoulders, squeezing them lightly to get his words through to you. 

Nodding with a soft smile, you could hear your name being called by the barista. Grabbing your coffee, you turn to exit the cafe, offering Soap a soft “bye,” as you pass him. You wrap your thick shawl around the baby tight, holding onto her with one hand while you balance your coffee in the other. You were only minutes from your mother’s house, and the fresh air was something you needed after being cooped up in the house for so long. 

Then you see him– John. He was ending a call on his phone, placing it back in his coat pocket before setting off on his walk to the cafe to meet back up with Soap. Your heart was pounding, and almost as if the baby senses your unease, she begins to stir and whimper. You walk closer and closer to where John’s position is by a lamp post. His eyes spot you and his body freezes in place. You keep walking, shushing the baby softly, your hand placed on her back to let her know her mother was right here. 

“You’re alright, Little Bunny,” you say into her hat, softly kissing the crown of her head as you pass John. 

His daughter was right there, cozily pressed against your body in the chilly climate. The baby wore a cream knitted bunny ear hat, one ear flopping over the side of the sling. She looked so much like the both of you, it almost scared him. He wanted to hold her— hold you. It ate away at his insides, turning his guts to liquid as he watched your eyelashes flutter down to the ground, watching your feet. 

Tears were falling like mad down your face as you passed him without a word, John watching you in disbelief– he didn’t think he would be able to rest his eyes upon you again, not after going this long without contact. But it was for the best, you both knew this. 

His eyes followed you until you were no longer in sight, making sure you were absolutely safe with the baby. Life could be different, he could run after you and grovel on his knees for forgiveness. To beg you to forget he was ever cold to you and to start fresh. But he couldn’t, especially not after how things ended and with knowing he’d jeopardize yours and the baby’s safety.

It was days later that you had run into Soap and John while out in London. You hadn’t slept right in days and it was a mixture of having a newborn who needed your attention and the anxiousness of seeing your old lover and not being able to think about a thing other than him. 

Your mother’s footsteps can be heard ascending the stairs and she soon appears in the doorway with a small parcel. Handing it to you and planting herself on your bed next to you, she waits for you to open it. As you tear into the parcel, peeling the tape and opening the box, you look inside and see a knitted bunny, the yarn pink and soft. Pulling the bunny out, you notice a note attached to it, neatly folded and taped shut. As you carefully open the note, your eyes scan over the words written on it. You knew that handwriting— John’s handwriting. 

“For Little Bunny.”

[forwhump]

a/n; sorry !!!!!!!!!!!!! (either for the delay or the fact that I’m posting again depending on how you feel about me)(I’m from mountains, canada and I drove to prairies, canada & at one point completely out of nowhere my friend was like “you could hide a military base out here so easy” I was like 👀)(silas could literally be in flatlands, manitoba we don’t even know)

anyway LOL this is for the anon that asked for more outside pov !! I was actually looking for smth hal ‘cause I have a lot more lighthearted stuff & sort of caretaking healing things from hal’s pov BUT !!! I felt partway through june needed more screen time & I went back and wrote a lot of early stuff from her pov & this is some of that & it is TOO GOOD not to post !! more wren backstory 😏 but nothing good has happened to wren in his life so y’know

tw/cw: sexual violence, rape, noncon, transphobia, misgendering, graphic depictions of violence, serious bodily harm, forced imprisonment, captivity, mentions of kidnapping, sexual slavery, medical torture

outside pov, military whump, mentions of super soldiers

June has been in the unit for about two years — she thinks — when Point comes to escort her from the common room, and it isn’t unusual. Not at first.

She safely assumes it’s for combat or field training, which are two of the only three things she ever gets escorted from the unit for. The third is medical. She’s never seen anything else, she’s never been taken to any other part of the district, and the hair on the back of her neck starts to rise as Point leads her deeper and deeper into the labyrinth, farther and farther from familiarity.

“Sir?” She tries, and he doesn’t even look at her.

He leads her to a door at the end of a long, empty hallway. He stands with his back to it, finally looking at June. Something in his jaw twitches. “Against my better judgment,” he says, and has to stop, to calm himself, closing his eyes, breathing in slowly through his nose. When he opens his eyes again, he looks at her and says, “if I had another choice, you would not be here. You are about to become privy to information only my most trusted men have been entitled to. It is contraband. If, for any reason, my superiors find out, and she is taken from me, I will not be happy. And if I’m not happy, your employment with me will be terminated by means of your life. Do I make myself clear?”

June had never seen any farther into the district than the arenas, even further underground. This is a single, armoured door, at the end of a long, empty hallway, at the junction of more long, empty hallways. “She?” June asks.

“Do I make myself clear?” Point repeats, and June’s body nods with no help from her brain.

“Sir,” she says.

Point clicks his tongue, irritated, before he unlocks and unarms the door.

It opens to the worst thing June has ever seen in her life.

“Fuck!” She says, and she doesn’t mean to, taking a quick step back. She can see Point watching her, blank, from the corner of her eye, but she can’t look at him. She doesn’t want to look anymore but she can’t pull her eyes off the body laid flat on its back on the concrete.

The costume dress is ripped and stained, tulle and gingham soaked through with blood. The body is so emaciated that June can clearly make out every bone in its leg beneath its waxy, bruised skin.

She fixates on the long, white hair. Robin has the same hair.

“Oh my fucking god,” she says.

Robin speaks of him, still, but he hasn’t been the same since this place got to him. None of them are. He isn’t frantic in the same way, but he still talks about him. When Robin talks, it’s most of what he talks about.

When he’d been taken, escorted here, his brother had been with him. The artist. They’d taken him, too. The soldiers all staunchly denied him ever even having a brother with him, so June had always assumed he’d been killed at the scene. Robin had insisted as long as he’d been there — they’d taken his brother, too. He was here somewhere.

He was right.

June feels cold all over.

“I think her pelvis is broken,” Point explains, and she has never experienced the rush of emotion she feels now, wet and hot, like a tide that breaks in her chest.

“You think her —“ she starts, and it almost makes her gag. She has to take a long breath in through her nose. She still can’t look away. “You think his pelvis is broken?”

“No,” Point admits. “Her pelvis is definitely broken.”

“Oh my fucking god,” June says again, and her voice sounds really far away. Robin’s brother has been real this whole time and Point’s been keeping him as a pet. “Oh my fucking god. You raped him to death.”

“She’s still alive,” Point says, and he says it like she’s dumb. He steps closer to nudge him in the side with the toe of his boot and Robin’s brother makes a quiet, wet sound June has only ever heard from dying men.

She reacts without thinking, shoving Point away from him. He moves, but he sneers as he looks down at her. “Stand down, January.”

“Get the fuck away from him!”

One of his eyebrows lifts, menacing. She doesn’t like Point, and she’s never liked Point, but one of the things she’s growing to loathe is his almost cartoonish villany. His mood swings are goofy and violent and it sets her teeth on edge. “I own her,” he says, low and dangerous. He leans in close. June is a big girl — Point is a massive fucking man. She doesn’t want to be intimidated by him but he speaks like a threat and his breath is hot against her face. “I can do whatever I want to her. That’s not why I brought you here.”

June would be shivering if she let herself, which is interesting because she’s actually as hot as if she’s running a fever. The sweat is cold as it trickles down her spine. “Why did you bring me here?”

Point looks down at the blood dried on the concrete, at Robin’s bleeding, broken brother, and says, “I don’t know what to do.” He looks at June slowly and his face is completely void of any emotion that June knows or recognizes.

“What?” She says.

He looks down again, back up, and she still can’t read his face at all. “I don’t want her to die,” he finally admits.

“Oh my fucking god,” June says, and she doesn’t mean to. She doesn’t know what else to say. She knew Point was a mean bastard but she never would’ve thought he would’ve been capable of this. “You should’ve thought about that before you raped him to death.”

“She doesn’t have to die,” he says.

“What do you want me to do?” June cries.

He looks at her like she’s a little stupid, which is just mind blowing, and motions to Robin’s brother with one arm. The other is held at his back, at ease.

Wren.

The name comes to her out of nowhere.

Robin’s brother is Wren.

“You’re also female,” Point explains, and kind of tilts his head, “I think.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” June says. “So?”

He motions at Wren again.

June looks at him, too, and it’s so much more horrible now that he has a name. He’d had family before, loved ones, somebody who was worried about him, and that was bad enough, but now this small, bleeding thing, broken down the middle, has a name.

Wren.

What was their last name? Some other kind of bird, wasn’t it? Was it Heron?

“I don’t know why you think I can help him,” June says.

Point’s eyebrows lift. “I figured you would’ve dealt with your share of female hysteria.”

“Female hysteria?” June repeats. “He was raped to death!”

“She isn’t fuckin’ dead!” Point snaps.

“He’s dying right now!” June cries. “You know that or you wouldn’t have come for help. What the fuck do you expect me to do? Really?”

Rage simmers in Point’s face for only a second. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced by something shier, almost more bashful. “Word is,” he says tightly, “you were a big…female advocate during your time. I thought you might’ve —“ and he cuts himself, exhaling sharply. “I thought you might’ve known somebody who’d been…hurt like her before. I thought you might know what to do.”

“They died,” June says.

“No,” Point says.

“Yes,” June corrects. “I worked around a lot of men like you. They were always civilians, always young, and they always died. Always.”

“You just let them die?” Point says, like he’s horrified by that.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” June says. “He needs a doctor. Have Medic —“

“No.” When he’s not speaking with too much emotion, Point doesn’t speak with a lot. Still, this is the flattest June’s ever heard his voice.

“Oh my god,” she says. “I know what to do and that’s what I know. If those girls in the field had been allowed access to a doctor they might not have died. They would’ve had a fucking chance, at least. What do you think is —“

“No,” he says.

“You’re really just gonna let him die here?” She protests.

“She’s contraband,” Point says, flat. “I thought I made myself clear.”

“So?”

Point looks her up and down once, lip curling disdainfully. “On paper,” he says, “she was terminated on site.”

Something shivers in June’s chest and makes her breath rattle. “Oh my god.”

“She is an unsanctioned pet,” Point says, “and —“

“Oh my fucking god,” she says. She takes a step away from him and she isn’t sure when she had gotten so deep into this room. She doesn’t like it, but she’s standing between Point and Wren and she can’t bring herself to stand anywhere else.

He kind of rolls his eyes at her. “And —“

“So he was always going to die here!” June cries, and the spike of hysteria in her voice surprises even her but this is fucking unbelievable. This is unreal. This place was a hellscape when these men were just working guard detail at a fucked up mad science program making super soldiers.

She should’ve known better. She was in the military, and she knew what those men were like. Point was right, kind of; she didn’t really work as an advocate, she just got a nickname. She used to fight, physically fight stationed doctors to try and get them to help the girls the soldiers always left behind. But they were always locals, civilians; the military’s doctors weren’t authorized to help them.

She should’ve known they’d never just be working guard detail.

She just never would’ve thought they’d be keeping a fucking sex slave in the basement.

What the fuck?

“What the fuck!”

Point exhales through his nose. “Yes,” he agrees.

June puts a hand to her chest and her heartbeat is like gunfire. Robin had been so hysterical about his brother when he’d gotten here, but he’d been going through withdrawals. June had never doubted that he was real, like Hal had, but she really thought they’d killed him, and that Robin had probably just blocked it out. That he’d completely forgotten it after the lobotomy, or whatever the hell they did to him.

He’d been real this whole time and Point had been keeping him as a pet.

“Oh my fucking god.”

“I don’t want her to die,” Point admits again, and June can feel it under her hand, the way that makes her chest constrict.

“At this point it’s probably the least you can do,” she spits, and her head is spinning.

“No,” Point says, and she hates that she agrees with him, but he’s right.

She can’t let him die down here. Not like this. “He needs a doctor,” she says.

“No.”

“That’s all you can do!” she protests. “There’s no other way to help him! You broke his fucking pelvis. He probably needed a doctor six months ago but if he doesn’t get one now he’s going to die. If you don’t want him to, tell Medic.”

“They’ll take her from me,” Point says.

June throws her arms up. “Then he’ll just be dead!”

Point looks down at her for a long time and she looks right back. She thinks he’s probably trying to intimidate some hidden medical prowess out of her, but she’s serious, and at some point he sees it in her face. His lip curls back from his teeth and he leaves. Without a word, he leaves, and he locks the armoured door behind him.

“Fuck,” June says out loud, and she doesn’t mean to. Her voice breaks.

But they’re alone. At least they’re alone.

Slowly, she turns to Wren, and slowly, she sits beside him. “Hi, Wren,” she whispers. He doesn’t respond and she doesn’t really expect him to. Slowly, she reaches out to him, brushing bits of crusted hair out of his face. He looks like he’s probably really beautiful, and he looks young. He looks so young that it makes June nauseous and she has to do everything in her power to keep her voice soft and calm and sweet. She wants to scream for him. She wants to cry.

She starts to push his hair out of his face and his eyes don’t open but he flinches with his whole body. “It’s okay,” June whispers. “It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. My name’s June. I’m a friend of your brother.”

It stirs something in him. His head turns slowly against the concrete and his hair is so white the parts dried with blood look like they’re rusting. Blinking open his eyes, he looks up at her, and he has eyes so much darker than June was expecting. He has really, really dark, really wide eyes, bloodshot and bruised underneath, and he looks up at June from beneath wet eyelashes and it makes him look even younger and she cries with him, then. She can’t help herself.

“Robin?” He asks, but just barely. His voice is really small, but when June strains to hear it, she can hear Robin’s accent, softer and sweeter. “He’s alive?”

“Yeah,” June agrees, smiling wetly, “and he’s clean. He’s all big now, looks like a real cowboy. They fixed his teeth, too. He’s got a great smile.”

He chokes out a wet sound that June only realizes is a sob when a tear clears a track in the grime on his face.

“I know,” she agrees softly. “Really seems like you got the shitty end of the deal here.”

He makes another choked sound and June likes to imagine that in another life, he got to laugh towards the end. “I’m gonna die,” he says, and June can hear it in how thin, how wet his voice is, that yeah, he probably is, “aren’t I?”

“I think so,” June whispers. “I hope not.”

He chokes out another sound, another sob. “I think I want to,” he whispers, and his brittle voice breaks. “I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

“I know,” she agrees. “I think I would, too.” He moves his head, tips his face up towards the ceiling, and strips of flesh have been peeled from the side of his throat. She takes his hand so carefully, and she doesn’t look at the bruising around his wrist or every one of his broken fingernails. “I don’t think I’d want to be alone,” she explains.

He makes a choked sort of sound. “I’m never alone.”

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “Do you want to be alone now?” His fingers tighten around June’s, almost frantic, and she says, “it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.” She squeezes his fingers as much as she’s comfortable, which is just barely. “Couldn’t get very far if I wanted to.”

She’s crying, but that feels rude. What does she have to cry about? She tries to wipe her eyes with the back of her other hand and says, “I’m really sorry this happened to you.”

He doesn’t say anything but his fingers are still shaking so June knows he’s still alive. He’s so cold she thinks it would be hard to tell, otherwise. She doesn’t think she’d let go of his hand either way.

They sit there for such a long time that June thinks that Point’s left them both to die. She holds Wren’s hand and cries for him when he isn’t conscious to hear it. When the door is finally opened again, she jumps so hard it feels like it throws something out in her back.

Jumping to her feet, she keeps Wren safely behind her as Point filters back in, face blank. Close at his back is Medic and June sobs out loud.

She would go as far as to say she likes Medic. A trauma surgeon, Medic is a good doctor and he’s kind to them. He’s a prisoner, too. He doesn’t want to be there, either. Him and the entire rest of his team are fitted with collars, flickering at all times with dangerous red light. Insubordination will lead to electrocution which will lead to death.

Medic is a prisoner and he’s one of if not the only person down here with any sort of humanity left. He reacts to Wren like any normal person would — with horror.

He recoils so hard it makes him take a step back, and he bumps into June. Neither of them acknowledge it. “What the fuck?”

Point opens his arms, dismissive. “Fix her.”

“Who is this?”

“Who cares?” Point says. “Can you fix her?”

“What the fuck?” Medic repeats, ragged. “What did you do to her? Who is this?”

“Robin’s brother,” June says, and Medic looks at her with eyes blown wide with horror.

They blow even wider with realization. He looks at Point slowly. “What the fuck?”

“You’re wasting time,” Point says. “She’s dying.”

“His pelvis is broken,” June tells him quietly, and Medic sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“Fuck me,” he says. He rubs his face slowly, but if there’s one thing June likes best about Medic, it’s that she respects him. When he lowers his hands, he looks at Point. He says, “get the fuck out. Take June back to the unit, and stay the fuck away. If you try to see him at any point while he’s in my care, I will fucking kill you. You understand?”

Point’s lip curls back from his teeth. “You’re in no position to tell me what to do, doc.”

“Then maybe we’ll have Weaver come down here and take a look at him instead,” Medic says.

Point snarls, actually snarls, like some kind of fucked up beast, and the way the sound reverberates through the room is deeply unsettling. But he takes June by the arm, and he turns.

June turns to look over her shoulder, but Medic closes the door between them. As she turns back around, she sees it’s because Point tried to look back, too.

She doesn’t say anything to Robin. Maybe that’s the wrong choice, she isn’t sure. What would the right choice be? Would she wanna know, if it was her? What if she’d been lobotomized?

She doesn’t say anything and she doesn’t see Medic for months. When she does she’s sitting in a bed in the medical bay, trying to peer around for any sign of him. The medical bay, unfortunately, was designed for privacy; the size of a large airplane hanger, there are enough beds for a small army but spaced out far enough that June can’t peer end to end.

When the door is pushed open and Medic lifts the corner of his mouth at her, she has a bullet in her arm but she forgets that it hurts and blurts, “is he okay?”

Medic smiles a little more properly and the relief that crests in June’s chest almost makes her start crying out of nowhere. “No,” he says, “but he’s getting there. He’s alive.”

“Oh my fucking god,” she says, and he laughs. “Can I see him?”

“Let’s get this bullet out of you,” he says, “and we’ll see.”

A few months after that, somebody new is introduced to their unit. Like every other time, they don’t know until the guards show up with them. The new guy, this time, has long white hair, the same colour as Robin’s.

June cries pretty uncontrollably.

Robin doesn’t cry — can’t, maybe? — but June cries enough for him, too.

[joleneghoul]

Booster Gold vs Disability

AKA, how Disability is an integral part of Booster Gold’s character

Foreword: This is a LONG personal essay and will use mostly casual language.

 This will be an analysis of the character Booster Gold from the perspective of a physically and mentally disabled reader— thus will include a lot of my opinions. I will consider only canonical moments for this essay, no elseworld or alternate universe comics will be included in this specific analysis. Every image used in the essay is described.

TW: Topics of ableism, classism, addiction, death, eugenics, and violence will be mentioned.

 Thank you for reading.

THE FUTURE, A closer look at 25th Century ideals.

    The topic of disabilities has been ingrained within the story of Booster Gold since his first solo series ‘Booster Gold volume. 1 1986’. This not only is the base point of where his character jumps off from and thus is important to any conversation to be had about this character’s past and future— but also contains the context of the 25th century society views on disability and is crucial to talking about how he would view himself. Specifically within Booster gold Volume 1 we will be looking at the “Back To The Future” arc, aka issues #13-#15. 

    Booster Gold Vol. 1 Issue 13 starts with Dirk Davis, Booster’s manager, telling Jack Soo and Trixie Collins (fellow members of Booster’s team) that Booster is dying and there is nothing they can do about it. Even doctors seem to be “bamboozled” about the origin of his illness but it’s clear it is fast acting and terminal. In order to save Booster (and repair skeets, who was broken in the previous issue) they devise a plan to travel to the future where a cure may be possible. Jack Soo calls Rip Hunter, who he knows from college, and for the first time in the series Booster actively travels back to his home, the 25th century. 

    This arc, besides being the first introduction of some notable characters to the future of Booster Gold (like Rip Hunter and Michelle Carter) gives us an insight to the society Booster grew up within. Specifically, I want to focus on how this society views illness and disability for this analysis. The first bit of information we get is a call to Booster's backstory, the fact his father had a gambling addiction that he inherited as a way to cope with poverty. 

    Illness becomes one of the main themes of this 3 issue arc. At the end of Issue 13, Booster, while dying of his own illness attempts to visit his mother but learns she passed away from an illness shortly after he left for the past. As we move into issue 14 Booster continues to blame himself for his mothers death— claiming it a result of his own greed. This shapes how Booster’s backstory evolves.

ANIMAL, the post nuclear future and eugenics. 

    As we return to Booster Gold Volume 1 issue 14 we are introduced to yet another aspect of the 25th century Booster grew up in. While Rip Hunter and Jack Soo are searching for information of their whereabouts they find out that centuries of information has been lost due to a nuclear fallout. We don’t learn much about this future but one thing we do learn is that eugenics apparently has a place in the post-nuclear government. Eugenics, in general, is known to often have resurgences after and during global catastrophes, war, or pandemics. 

    In this issue it’s revealed that the government hunts down “Genetic Mutations” using people they strictly refer to as “Animals”. While an ‘Animal’ is sent after Booster he tells us that ‘Animals’ themselves have mutations but are raised to be unthinking, ruthless, and loyal to whoever is in control of them. While Animal is a small piece of this story over all, we can use him to look into how the America Booster is from treats people with disabilities.

    Would I say that this character is a good representation of disabled people? Not at all, but it is clear to me what he is supposed to represent. I feel as though the way he is treated is more of a reflection of how a lot of people with mental disabilities/disorders were treated in the media at the time. Animal is shown to have either a limited vocabulary or to be partially non-verbal. When he speaks it is using grunts, made up words, or other sounds. He is large and brutish as well, all of these are tropes that were (and sometimes still are) prevalent in the writing of disabled characters.  

    Though does that mean those traits are always bad? No, of course not. I often find myself feeling the most sympathy for characters like Animal. But instances like this are more like looking at a skewed representation of symptoms me and others have than an actual mirror. It’s a matter of how it’s handled, and here I can’t help but feel torn. 

    We as the readers are meant to feel sympathy for Animal through the arc but it feels as though the narrative treats him more as a tool than a person— which very well may be the point because that’s how the world views him. Animal ends up saving everyone during Booster Gold issue #15, making sure that everyone is able to travel back to the past and escape the cops and his master. In this process Animal sacrifices himself, dying at the hands of his master. Thus he fulfills his purpose to the plot outside of being an actual character himself.

    Furthermore, throughout this arc Booster is terminally ill and is treated extremely poorly despite it. We meet Boderick, Animals “master” and federal agent. He is a cruel man who treats Booster (on account of him stealing a time machine, which is treason in the future) in an abusive/violent manner. A notable scene is when Trixie is begging for them to get Booster help and Boderick taunts Booster’s illness, shoving him out of his chair onto his already broken arm. 

    Within this arc Booster is cured of his illness before his trial and his arm is healed with future technology. Which proves furthermore that they are capable of healthcare but unwilling to provide it to individuals deemed “unworthy”.  

    This story is not the last time Booster will get sick or injured, and in fact it practically becomes a running theme with the character as we move forward. As this three part arc stands in the timeline of Booster Gold, it serves as coincidental foreshadowing of his future.

GAMBLING, Boosters backstory.

    Booster’s backstory gets retold again in both ‘Secret Origins #35’ and ‘Justice League Quarterly #10’. While this is not the first or the last time his backstory will be revisited, I find it one of the most notable. 

    Booster tells his best friend, Ted Kord (Blue Beetle II) and the rest of the JLI, that the main reason he started gambling on his own games was that his mother had a degenerative heart disease and needed to pay medical bills. Booster admits that he couldn’t stop and became addicted to everything gambling brought to him. Addiction itself is a topic that comics in general struggle to portray in a sympathetic light.

      Often people (including writers) will use Booster’s past gambling as a piece of evidence towards a narrative that Booster is a selfish or bad person— and while Booster does have flaws it is harmful to use his backstory to further an ableist ideology. Rather, I feel as though Booster’s addiction and family history is a truthful story of how poverty, disability, and illness can make things like gambling feel like less of a choice as time goes on. 

    A line that gets repeated throughout Booster’s backstories is some variation of “I couldn’t of hurt them more if I were a murderer.” in regards to Booster and his addiction. That quote itself is a reflection of how people view addicts, and in the real world it’s not much different.

    Genetic, environmental, and mental health factors are the main causes of addiction. We see Booster grew up under abuse, lived in poverty, and had a father who also struggled with the same addiction. As previously stated societal shame plays a huge role in Booster’s decision making and view of himself. 

    Continuing with Justice League Quarterly issue 10, within the story ‘Killing Time’, we are told about the Rubenicos. The Rubenicos are a group of sports gamblers who promised to win Booster big money to save his mother, thus kick-starting Booster’s problem with gambling. 

    Only, in this story Booster has a chance to kill Rubenico and insure that his past, in the future, never happens. ‘Killing Time’ while full of action becomes more of an internal struggle within Booster as we see him angry not just towards Rubenico but towards himself. 

    During the climax of the story Booster comes face to face with the chance of killing Rubenico, only Rubenico’s daughter is watching. Ted, stands in the room as Booster tells Rubenico that everything is his fault. But before Booster can kill the man he claims to blame the most, Ted speaks up revealing that the only person Booster blames more is himself. Booster leaves without killing Rubenico.

    Later as the story comes to a close we get one of the most impactful scenes regarding Booster’s view of himself. A conversation between two best friends where Ted and Booster discuss what had happened previously. Booster tells Ted that he had some nerve to step in like he did and Ted explains, maybe but he’s his friend. 

    We get a genuine scene where Ted explains that while Booster may have messed up in the past, he needs to look at who he is in the present instead. Booster balanced the scales the moment he decided to be a hero. Even if it was initially for selfish reasons, as time went on he grew and his perspective of heroism changed with him. 

    The heart to heart concludes with Ted talking about second chances. He tells Booster to stop punishing himself for his past in pursuit of forgiveness— because the only person who can forgive Booster and make himself feel better is himself. 

    This scene also is a reason that in the future Booster ends up viewing being a hero as his atonement for the mistakes in his past and we will see how that challenges him when the cost of being a superhero affects his health.

EXTREME JUSTICE, physical ability vs self worth. 

    When it comes to superhero comics and physical disability it is a real toss up of how things will be handled. These are worlds where magic, hyper-technology, and retcons are abundant. Despite being thrown through walls, beaten down, or even killed and brought back we hardly see the toll on a hero's body as time goes on. Though, sometimes there is an exception to that— and for a moment in the 90s Booster was a pretty good representation of what it’s like to struggle with a new disability and ptsd from a traumatic accident.

    During Judgement Day, an arc that takes place throughout multiple comics,the league takes on The Overmaster. Booster Gold who was a history major in his past proclaims that the league will win the battle and leads everyone into battle. In the process The Overmaster inflicts a critical wound, cutting Booster's arm off.  Later Booster dies on the operating table as the world's best doctors and his best friend, Ted, try to save his life.

    Only Booster doesn’t actually die. Instead due to all new life and all death being paused because of The Overmaster, Booster stays alive. We instantly see Booster struggle with his body, calling himself a “dead man walking” and proclaiming that because of this event everything he knows is out of the window— that he has nothing to go on for. Amidst this Ted manages to get Booster a prosthetic arm from STAR labs as he also builds him a new suit. By the end of this arc, even as the cycle of life is un-paused, Booster manages to survive because the suit Ted built him doubles as life-support— but this is just the start of this era in Booster’s life.  

    During the Extreme Justice series we get a more in depth look at how this traumatic event affected Booster. His life support suit and arm are revealed to be faulty and causing him chronic pain despite keeping him alive. Often Booster is seen hiding this chronic pain from others. There is even a scene where his life support suit stops working, nearly costing him his life in battle, and he begs Ted to not tell anyone. 

    Outside of the chronic pain there is also the mental health factor. It’s clear that Booster views his body as one of his most valuable assets. Booster in the past has viewed his ability to be a hero as his redemption for his mistakes. He has been a model throughout the years to make money alongside being a hero. Further back than that his physical ability to be a star football player is what helped make the money to keep his mother alive. For the first time, Booster is faced with his body having a drastic and detrimental physical change resulting in body dysphoria.

    Constantly through this series Booster talks down to himself. He refers to himself as a “clock-work man” who is breaking down and considers himself a burden to all of his friends. Booster begins to internalize any jokes or snide comments from his friends that in the past wouldn’t have bothered him. As his anger and frustration with his situation builds, more of a strain is put on his relationships, especially with Ted. 

    Ted obviously doesn’t view Booster in a negative light because of his disability. He cares enough about him to have built him his suit and encourages Booster to come to him with any issues he may be having with it. There are multiple instances where Ted promises he will make things better for Booster as he adjusts to his new disability. While all Ted wants to do is help, Booster views this as once again being a burden to his friend.

      This internal struggle is not helped by the fact the main villain of this arc, Monarch, is introduced by healing a kid's physical disability. Making the kid magically able to walk again. An event that Booster is there to see and instantly begins to consider the possibility of Monarch healing him too.

    Booster grapples to find control in his life during this time. A common experience for many people who have a traumatic event happen to them. He ends up going as far to find his old manager, Dirk Davis, who had stolen all his funds in the past, and takes over his company by force. I personally see this as Booster also trying to prove some worth to both his friends and himself internally. 

    Unfortunately this leads Booster down the road of magically wishing his disability away with the help of Monarch. And that causes problems of its own but eventually everything is fine again. While this may seem to be a happy ending to abled people it actually is a very harmful trope. The idea that disabilities can just be wished away or that someone cannot be whole with a disability is a trope deprived from eugenics— not to mention in general is erasure. I find myself wondering anytime this trope is used, what message are the writers trying to send? 

    While it may make sense for Booster to struggle with internalized ableism towards his disability, and want to wish it away, when you consider the society he grew up within. The narrative going through with this only supports those ideals instead of challenges them.

   What purpose does this arc serve when it ends with Booster's possible growth towards learning he is worth more than his physical ability is cut short? This could have been the perfect opportunity for Booster to confront both the ideals he was raised around and his internalized ableism. 

    This is an arc that is important to me as a physically disabled person and IS important to Booster’s character, but the ending never will sit right with me. 

FISH OUT OF WATER, Booster Gold and Neurodivergence.

    When it comes to neurodivergent characters in comics, we typically don’t get a story outright putting a definition or label to a character. This is especially true when it comes to older comics. Instead Neurodivergence lies between the lines and the actions of a character or how they are coded. 

    There is a decent amount of evidence towards Booster being ND both within and outside of the comics throughout the years. In his introduction series he struggles to fit in. He has trouble understanding the society he finds himself in. Even after years of living in the present he still struggles with social cues, so it can’t be solely attributed to being from the future. Especially when there’s other heroes from the future who don’t struggle. 

  We also often explicitly see him not understand when things are jokes as well. In Justice League International issue 18 we see a moment where Booster misunderstands a joke Ted tells him and drops a bunch of debris in the Free’s neighbors yard.  As he gets to know Ted better he gets better at telling when things are jokes or sarcasm. I think this is helped by the fact Ted Kord is a notably autistic coded character himself.

MODERN DAY, how is Booster’s disabled history represented now?

    Unfortunately in the modern days of comics there are far too many portrayals of Booster Gold and his disabilities that are borderline cruel in their depiction. Rather than tell a meaningful story about mental illness or disability instead some writers turn him into a caricature of public stigma of mental illness. Some examples of this are Heroes in Crisis and The Gift arc from Batman. I won't go into further details about this specific writer's works due to personal reasons, and the fact I feel the works are counter productive to representation. 

    Otherwise the topic of disability comes up in genuine occasionally for Booster still. As disability is still a core part of his backstory that gets retold from time to time, Like in Action comics’ “Booster Shot”. Booster and Superman in that story end up traveling to the future where Clark learns about Booster’s past and meets his parents.  Another occasion of when Booster’s backstory is retold is in the early 2000s when the addition of Booster’s father pressuring Booster into gambling is added to the narrative. 

    Mental health (particularly post-trauma) seems to have taken the spotlight in modern Booster characterizations. In the 52 series we see Booster struggle with stability after the loss of his best friend Ted.  Booster is not only shown to be grieving but also to blame himself for Ted’s death because he was in the hospital during the time.

 He puts all his energy into sponsorships and being a public figure. There’s one point in the story where Booster has a public meltdown in front of the press and superheroes because things don’t go as he planned. His relationships fall apart as he struggles with coping and putting up a persona, often having outbursts towards others. These are all signs  of C-PTSD.

    The exploration of Booster’s ptsd continues in Booster Gold Volume 2. Throughout the series Booster uses time travel to effectively re-traumatize himself over and over multiple times. He tries to save Barbara Gordon repeatedly, failing each time, being traumatized and beaten each time. He attempts to save Ted’s life, destroying the timeline and being forced to see all of his other friends die horribly, then in the end loses Ted once again. Later on Booster continues to visit Ted in the past, hurting himself emotionally in the process by reopening trauma. 

    Booster has multiple public outbursts during Booster Gold volume 2, most notably in issue 39. Booster runs into a 16 year old on the street attempting to be a Robin Hood type vigilante. Booster starts to have a ptsd episode, reminded of Ted. He begins to yell at the kid as if he WERE Ted, about how he kept hoping Ted would come back to life like other superheroes but he never did. He shoves the kid to the ground before flying away in the midst of an episode.   

    There are still times when Booster is shown to be physically disabled also. When we have gotten a glimpse of Booster as an older man in modern comics and each time he is depicted as being physically disabled. He has a missing eye and uses a cane for mobility purposes to the point in DC Comics: Generations he uses a metal pipe as a cane in one scene as a backup. He uses a cane as well in the Cybernetic Summer special.

CLOSING,

    Overall I feel as though it’s important to remember Booster Gold when talking about disabled heroes. He has been depicted as being some form of disabled since his introduction to comics in the 80s. To ignore this fact is to let DC comics get away with cruel and ableist modern depictions of the character and other disabled people as well. Disabled people should be allowed to see themselves in hero media as much as abled people are allowed to.  

    I wanted to write this to bring attention to all of the ways Booster is an impactful character, at least to me a disabled fan.This was also a way for me to just infodump and get all of my thought’s i’ve had onto paper.

    Booster Gold is one of my favorite characters ever, next to Ted Kord who is also a canonically disabled hero. One day I might write up an analysis on him as well! 

    I hope that anyone who reads this enjoys this analysis and if you made it all the way through thank you so much!

[lilithsaga]

Selen Tatsuki and the Dangers of Corporate Mismanagement

Before the announcement, the community was divided into two groups.

One side consisted of Dragoons (Selen's fanbase) and other pro-Selen fans who just wanted to have any update on Selen's status regardless of what the outcome may be, campaigning #WhereIsSelen across Twitter/X.

The other side consisted of anti-NijiEN fans who would holler about Nijisanji EN and ANYCOLOR being a black company that treats their talents like shit and only cares about their own greed and reputation.

These two sides would argue about the speculation behind Selen's weeks of disappearance following the removal of the "Last Cup of Coffee" cover song by NijiEN management.

Then, on February 5th 2024, the dreaded white document was posted... and the internet exploded in rage.

Link to the full document here.

We could go through all the different warning signs and the timeline of events that led to this announcement, but I guarantee other people on the internet have that covered. If you decided to read this rant, I'm 90% sure it's because you've heard about Selen Tatsuki's controversial termination from other sources.

Instead, I want to reflect on Selen's situation in a corporate company and how that affected her mental health... citing some of my own personal experiences as well.

DISCLAIMER: I am not a medical professional or a professional of anything. I'm a random succubus on the internet with an opinion and experience, so take it however you wish. This is just reflection and personal speculation.

TW: mentions of harassment, depression, and thoughts of suicide. Reader discretion is advised.

My Background

I am a vtuber (or rather, PNGtuber), but not a corporate vtuber. However, I work for a corporate company in my IRL job in a 9-to-5 office setting. I started as an intern, came back to work with them after graduating university, got laid off after 6 months because of interest rates and over-hiring, and was brought back 2 months later in a different role to help them with demand.

Despite not working for a corporate vtuber company, I think it can be agreed upon that corporate is corporate no matter the industry, at least at the very core of their operations. Corporations are just large companies at the end of the day.

The reason I wanted to make this post is that, from one corporate worker to another, I 100% understand why Selen did what she did and feel that I am still facing a similar situation.

I may not have been a Dragoon, but I have always admired how she interacted with her community and created so many fun events for everyone to enjoy. Even though she wasn't my Oshi, I was deeply concerned about Selen's well-being.

And while I believed you couldn't trust Nijisanji EN any further than you could throw them, I was waiting to see how it would turn out. Because there was no way Selen, one of the Vtuber community's most beloved gamers and content creators, would stay missing in action forever. It wouldn't be long before Nijisanji EN would make their move.

Selen's Termination

Again, here's the link to the white document that set the internet ablaze.

I want to make one slightly controversial take here before we break it down... what Selen did is within grounds for termination.

Listen! Before the pitchforks are brought out, I'm not saying that Nijisanji EN should have fired Selen the way they did. There was sooo much they could have done to avoid this outcome that they clearly neglected to consider. But knowing how corporate jobs operate, or honestly, how any job or role operates, Selen clearly failed to follow Nijisanji protocol. She essentially went rogue.

We won't be analyzing the document word for word. Please read the full termination announcement by Nijisanji EN if you haven't already.

Instead, we're going to be analyzing key parts of the termination announcement by Nijisanji EN that I feel need further discussion.

Selen's Permissions

One thing I've noticed many people confused about is why Nijisanji EN removed the Last Cup of Coffee cover when there is evidence of Selen having permission long before posting it.

Selen "Last Cup of Coffee" After Party Stream clip, from FalseEyeD's video

LilyPichu's tweet confirming Selen had permission since August 2022

Artist who worked with Selen, Madi/@weeniedesu, shares how Selen paid her back personally when Nijisanji EN never got around to it

Selen got permissions from the creator and producer of the song. She got permissions from the artists that she commissioned. She took care of anything that could have been copyrighted, so why is Nijisanji saying she didn't check all the boxes for approval?

There's only one possibility. She never got approval from management.

Because if you work for a corporate company, you need to get approval from supervisors before ANYTHING goes out. Large companies have a reputation to keep, and if something goes out without supervisors getting a chance to review it... it could be bad shit. Maybe it's information that isn't supposed to be leaked; maybe it's an offensive joke; maybe it's as simple as a typo. The list goes on.

However, if their management is as awful as we think it is, I doubt Nijisanji EN even follows their own protocol.

The process of getting checks and approvals from other parties is always going to be longer than doing everything yourself. With good management, this is usually not a problem. But with bad management... this is a nightmare.

Personal Story Time!

When I came back from being laid off, I had new job requirements, a new role, and a new supervisor. As a person, I actually like my supervisor. She is very creative, knows what steps need to be taken for the company, and we have similar attitudes and humor. Unfortunately, this does not translate to how she manages a team.

My main issue with my manager is that she does not take the time or show interest in my work. She runs around like she's a chicken with her head cut off, will bury herself in her office and demand team members not interrupt her physically or virtually unless it's urgent, and will only speak to you if she needs something from you without really checking in on you.

Forgive me, for I am still young, but growing up, I was always under the impression that it was a supervisor's job to check in on their team and set them up for success. With this environment that I still find myself in, I'll be honest... I don't really feel supported at all.

I feel like I have to walk on eggshells around my supervisor and can only contact her whenever a 5-minute happy hour presents itself. I have work that needs to be done within a day, sometimes a week for bigger projects, but I struggle to get my supervisor's attention because my work is less crucial than that of some of my teammates. I often feel like the only way to get attention for the work I need to do is if I kick down the door and shove a printed copy in her face. Even so, that very rarely guarantees anything gets done in time that clients expect it to.

I understand that supervisors in high leadership positions don't always have a lot of time. Because of that, I was told that it was my responsibility to go to them when I have problems or stuff that needs done.

And yes, I should be more assertive about my work. Everyone should go to supervisors for situations that they need help with.

But if supervisors don't make that easy for you to do, what is the point?

Story time is over! Back to Selen!

Given my experience, I can understand how Selen feels. For a cover song of this scale, it must have taken months... maybe even a year—for it to be created in the first place. So the fact that Nijisanji EN management claims they first saw the video on December 24th is very concerning.

If this statement is true, then that means that they didn't do their job of checking in with Selen on the progress of this cover project. Or worse, Selen didn't trust them to work with her on releasing the cover song on time, so she took matters into her own hands.

Either way, it shows little to no support from Nijisanji EN management on an important project and reveals a damaged relationship between the two parties.

Honestly, I don't blame Selen. Yes, she did break company protocol, and it is a fire-able offense. But if her management was anything like mine, I would have done the same thing. Hell, I shouldn't be saying this, but I have done the same thing to a lesser degree. (It is rule-breaking, but not illegal. Best if I don't go into detail.)

But if Selen's management is as hard to get in contact with as my supervisor, how the hell does ANYTHING get done? Companies need to conduct business. But how can business be done if employees cannot progress due to management delays?

If they're not going to take the time to work with their employees to get proper permissions on time for upcoming projects ON TIME, I don't think they should be surprised at how things turned out.

Selen's Harassment

The worst part of this announcement is the blatant disregard for Selen's side and point of view on behalf of Nijisanji EN management.

"She claimed that she was no longer able to engage in her activities as a Liver due to the decisions made by ANYCOLOR, was being harassed by other affiliated Livers due to mismanagement, etc., while refusing to acknowledge her responsibility for violating the Activity Rules."

This sentence sticks out to so many people, especially the second part of it. But both parts are important because of Nijisanji EN's response.

We will get to that in a moment.

But let's focus on the claims Selen makes here:

"She claimed that she was no longer able to engage in her activities as a Liver due to the decisions made by ANYCOLOR."

This ties in to what we talked about earlier with the lack of support from management. Selen's claim expressed that she could not move forward with what she wanted to do because of the barriers to ANYCOLOR's decisions. Her feelings here make sense, given how it isn't the first time that her plans have been prevented by management.

More importantly, though, Selen also claims she

"was being harassed by other affiliated Livers due to mismanagement."

While many people want to know who these livers are—believe me, I'm curious as well—I want to know something else. If one of your talents is claiming there is harassment within your company, why aren't you investigating this?

Harassment is not something to be taken lightly or brushed off as an inconvenience. If your employee feels unsafe working at your company, I think it's worth taking a step back to try and understand where that employee is coming from, regardless of whether you think it's true or not.

So how do Nijisanji EN management and ANYCOLOR respond?

"ANYCOLOR believes that the claims raised by Selen Tatsuki are in fact referring to situations that arose when she was warned about her breaches of the Activity Rules and attempts to shift the responsibility for these violations, damaging ANYCOLOR and NIJISANJI EN's image. This led to the deterioration of the relationship between her, ANYCOLOR, and other Livers affiliated with ANYCOLOR. ANYCOLOR firmly believes that we and other Livers under our affiliation have not engaged in unjust practices towards Selen Tatsuki."

So instead of listening to her concerns, they brush off her claims as Selen crying wolf and blame her for making Nijisanji EN look bad.

HELLO???

I'm honestly not sure why I'm surprised by this blatant disregard for human emotion by a greedy corporate company. They clearly decided they didn't want to take the time to understand how badly Selen was hurting from their decisions.

And why would they? Especially when they clearly see her as bad trouble ruining their precious image.

However, they were aware that all of the stress from their company landed their employee in the hospital. So now, let's talk about the heaviest part of this story.

Selen's Attempt

TW: mentions of depression, and thoughts of su1cide. Please skip this portion (by finding the next smiling Selen screenshot) if you are not in a good mind to be reading about this!

Let's go back to Christmas... or rather, a few days after.

After the removal of "Last Cup of Coffee" from her channel, Selen stayed eerily silent. It was unusual for her to skip streams, especially collab streams, without notifying her followers. But given what just happened, it was very likely she was upset.

From her official Twitter/X account, only two tweets were created after Christmas. Whether she tweeted it or Nijisanji EN tweeted it, it only slightly matters to me. The fact of the matter is this: the events described in those tweets are true.

"I apologize for the silence. I've been in the hospital after an accident and will be staying there for a few days to be under supervision. I just got back access to my phone yesterday."

As soon as I read this tweet, my heart sank. Selen just had a negative incident at her company, where she had lost so much both financially and mentally. What part of "I've been in the hospital after an accident" makes anyone feel calm?

And the worst part... "an accident." Not a car accident, not a fist fight, just... an accident.

(In hindsight, the quasi-vague wording fits Nijisanji's modus operandi perfectly. It's specific enough to indicate something had happened, but not specific enough to indicate what that event was.)

But saying something is an accident... that's an easy cop-out for saying that someone attempted and survived... I think.

At least, it made the most sense to me at the time. Selen just lost $15,000 on a passion project that had a single unmovable barrier in it's way. Regardless of whether she is financially well-off or not, that's an enormous amount for anyone to lose in a day. If she had decided to attempt after something like that, I honestly wouldn't blame her in the slightest.

But the part of it that really had me suspicious that this was an attempt was that she was under supervision and "I just got back access to my phone yesterday."

This part is going to get a little personal here...

As someone with major depressive disorder, crippling anxiety, and suicidal ideations, I've found myself in inpatient care before. For those unaware, an inpatient is someone who stays in a hospital while under medical treatment. They receive lodging, food, and medicine to help them through whatever they are going through. It's the easiest way for someone to receive medication while also being watched closely to see if any changes to their health occur.

My reason for being inpatient is a bit personal. But at the very least, I was in an unstoppable depressive fit of constant crying where I couldn't even answer the simplest questions and didn't know what to do to stop crying.

As I was taken to the inpatient facility, saying goodbye to my mother, stripped of all my belongings (including clothes), and told I needed to sleep in a thin bed with nothing but a hospital gown on... the impact of my new reality away from the rest of the outside world terrified me and made me more depressed.

So, when Selen said she was under supervision and had her phone taken away... it instantly reminded me of what I experienced in the inpatient unit. I had my phone taken away, I had others think I was going to harm myself, I was allowed 1 hour of visitation at a specific hour every day where my emergency contact came to sit and talk with me, and the supervision was still very strict, with night guards poking a flashlight through your door to make sure you didn't do anything at night.

That's all I'm going to say about my experience.

Naturally, given what I had experienced, it didn't seem unreasonable to me that Selen's accident could have been a serious attempt on taking her life.

And who knows how long she had to fight to keep her sanity working as a corporate vtuber for Nijisanji EN? The job is stressful enough whether management is good or bad. But if the management is bad and stays bad for a long time with no improvements, patience can run out very quickly. One bad day can snowball into an avalanche.

For Selen, I imagined the pressure was becoming too much to handle. This heartfelt cover song could have been the breaking point that pushed her over the edge.

But, at that time, there was no proof.

So I stayed quiet, because people suggesting this narrative were getting flamed online for saying it. And honestly, with no confirmation at that point, it would probably inspire fear in a lot of Dragoons. It would cause them to assume the worst.

However, I said this at the beginning. The events described in her final tweets as Selen Tatsuki are true.

Confirmed by a little birdie.

"I will not be silenced anymore. On Dec, I was hospitalized for an attempt that was caused by a built up of bullying from within & being in a toxic & poor environment for numerous months that lead to my breaking point. I requested to leave first but on more neutral terms on 26th Jan."

This tweet is courtesy of Selen's previous life before joining Nijisanji EN, and is where she is now. Dokibird tweeted this not long after the announcement dropped, fully prepared with her statement.

It broke my heart knowing that what I had suspected was indeed true. For someone so talented to be going through so much turmoil, it would have been the biggest tragedy in vtubing history if we were to lose her in the worst way possible.

But, at the end of it all, I'm so glad to know she is alive, well, and will continue to move forward with more support than she ever expected.

It is the end of Selen Tatsuki's journey, but the beginning of Dokibird's next chapter.

Selen's Legacy

With the scarier stuff out of the way, I want to mention one last thing that irritated me about Selen's termination.

Nijisanji EN did not value Selen as much as they should have.

Yes, terminations are looked at a lot less positively than graduations. But to only do the bare minimum of acknowledging Selen's achievements with the company??

"Since becoming a part of NIJISANJI EN in July 2021, Selen Tatsuki has undeniably played a significant part in the growth of NIJISANJI EN. We fully understand that our decision to terminate the contract will have a significant impact on Selen Tatsuki's fans and supporters of NIJISANJI EN."

That's it. That's the only positive thing they had to say about her in the whole 3 page document.

She has hosted multiple tournaments, introduced the company to VR chat entertainment with AR Live events, commissioned lofi covers of all the Nijisanji EN Debut songs, connected bridges from other top vtuber agencies that seemed impossible, and is overall a fun entertainer with an infectious laugh and smile.

The fact that all she has done for the company is just summed up in 1-2 sentences is unforgivable.

And again, I understand that this is a termination, not a graduation. Terminations are for firing "problematic" people, not honoring their accomplishments. But only two sentences that vaguely acknowledge she made an impact as Nijisanji EN grew?

She deserves so much better than that.

While this does not cover everything that she has done for her community, especially as of recent, I recommend watching The Selen Tatsuki Experience, made for her 2021 birthday by devoted fans and clippers.

And here is a fan project for her birthday in 2022 showcasing the Top 15 Selen Tatsuki Streams.

While these are the videos that first come to my mind, there's so much Selen content out in the wild, even if her channel has been wiped by Nijisanji EN. So many memories, clips, fun experiences, and moments that will never be forgotten by her community and beyond.

If you have any you want to add to this, feel free to do so. I know the Dragoons can say so much more about her than I ever can, and I'm ashamed that I don't have more moments to add.

No matter where she goes or what she does, Selen will always have the support from every person she touched and inspired.

But it's time we thank Selen for all that she brought us and say goodbye.

Because now that this part of her life is over, it's time to move on to newer pastures and new beginnings. Because that is what Selen would want.

Or rather, it is what Dokibird wants.

Dokibird - YouTube Channel

dokibird - Twitch Channel

@dokibird - Twitter account

dokidoggu - Etsy

Final Thoughts

As I read back through everything I wrote, (which holy shit, it is a lot more than I expected; I think I really just needed to get this out of my system more than anything else), the more it makes me realize that Selen is not alone.

She never will be alone again. But I mean it a bit differently.

Selen is not the only one who has lived through corporate mismanagement. Far from it. Following her situation had made me realize just how similar my situation is to hers.

Following management that does not care about the employees enough to set them up for success. The depression that follows where you feel like you're gasping for air trying to make it through every day. Staying in bed late because waking up and going to a toxic work environment is too much.

This isn't a blanket statement of "all corporate companies are bad." That was never the point of this post. And, there are plenty of good corporations who will work with their employees and look out for their well-being. Even other corporate vtuber agencies do this!

However, I think it goes to show that corporate mismanagement can easily torture someone who feels trapped by decisions out of their control.

You can blame the employee all you want by saying "It's a corporate company! You should know that you have to follow the rules even if you disagree with them." But it isn't always that easy.

Sometimes, rules change. And once you are a part of a company, it isn't always easy to just quit and move on. Some people can't afford to do that.

I wish I had some kind of lesson I could leave behind related to all of this. Something like "Watch Out For These Warning Signs Of Mismanagement!"

But, I'm still working for a corporate company as my day job. I can't really leave until I find a new job or get fired.

So what can I tell you?

Selen's situation has motivated me to work harder to find a better work environment.

I've worked for this corporate company for a while now. It started as something I enjoyed because I was given more creativity and feedback on projects than previous positions. But it's not like that anymore.

No job is worth giving your life over.

And if Nijisanji EN management doesn't realize how messed up it can be working for them, and aren't willing to change for the good of their talents... they aren't worth a single cent.

Your happiness > Your job

If you managed to make it through all +3,000 words of ranting, I hope you find your own happiness. Thank you for taking the time to read all the way through.

I wish Dokibird nothing but the best as she kicks off this new chapter in her story.

As for Nijisanji EN, I hope they learned their lesson. If they keep their management the way it is, there will be more instances like this to the point where eventually no one will want to work with them anymore.

I have stayed up till 2am writing so I could say all I wanted to say. I should get at least 5 hours of rest before I have to wake up and go to my corporate IRL job. Hopefully, this year I'll be able to move on to a more promising environment in the not too distant future.

Thank you once again for reading, and I hope you have a lovely rest of your day! 💜

[i98pm]

oneshot #1 — i will make a masterlist soon ^ ^ summertime sadness a seongjoong oneshot.

tw : mentions of death , pretty heavy angst , major character death , terminal illnesses mentioned , mentions of cystic fibrosis , sad ateez ensemble. summary : two years after the tragic death of his first love, kim hongjoong, park seonghwa returns to their small coastal hometown for a summer with friends. every corner of the town is haunted by memories of hongjoong – the laughter they shared, the dreams they built, and the love they lost. seonghwa spends his days revisiting the places they used to go, each one stirring a deep sense of melancholy and longing. a/n : i posted this on ao3 also , so if you've seen it before — you know where! ^ ^

the sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm, golden hue over the small coastal town as seonghwa stepped off the bus. the salty breeze greeted him like an old friend, bringing with it a rush of bittersweet memories. it had been two years since he last set foot in this town, two years since he lost his first love. he had left to escape the pain, but now, returning for the summer, he realised that the town was filled with memories he could never escape — not until he faced them. their old friends had been the ones to convince him to come home, promising him that the summer would be a good chance for him to heal. 

he was supposed to meet his friends at the bus stop, but as soon as he stepped off the bus he was making his way towards the lighthouse. he didn't know why, he just knew he was aching to be there. as he walked through the familiar streets, every corner seemed to whisper hongjoong’s name, the cafe they used to eat breakfast in was closed down. he wasn't surprised, it should've shut down decades ago. his feet carried him to the lighthouse almost on their own.

climbing the winding stairs, seonghwa felt a lump in his throat. he reached the top and looked out at the vast, endless sea, just as they used to. the sight of the waves crashing against the rocks below brought back a flood of emotions. 

hongjoong used to say the waves were like their love – powerful and unending.

seonghwa closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him. he could almost hear hongjoong’s laughter, feel the warmth of his touch. the pain of his loss was as raw as ever, a constant ache in his chest. he had hoped that coming back would bring closure, but now he wasn’t so sure.

~~~

“come on, hwa, we don’t have all night!” hongjoong’s voice was full of excitement as he grabbed seonghwa’s hand, pulling him up the steps of the lighthouse. it was a warm summer evening, and the sky was painted in hues of orange and pink.

seonghwa laughed, trying to keep up with hongjoong’s energetic pace. “what’s the rush, joong? the sun isn’t going anywhere.”

“but the perfect moment might,” hongjoong replied with a grin, though a shadow of exhaustion flickered in his eyes. seonghwa noticed, but said nothing, not wanting to dampen the moment.

they reached the top, breathless and laughing, just as the last light of day kissed the horizon. hongjoong turned to seonghwa, his expression softening. “this is it,” he whispered. “our perfect moment.”

seonghwa felt a surge of affection, his heart swelling with the intensity of their love. “kiss me before you go,” he said softly, his voice carrying a hint of sadness. the phrase had become a part of their private language, a reminder of the bittersweet nature of their time together, with hongjoong being terminally ill, it was only a matter of time before a kiss they shared was their last. 

hongjoong’s smile was radiant as he leaned in, capturing seonghwa’s lips in a tender, lingering kiss. everybody around them knew. they knew too. it wasn't long before hongjoong would be admitted into the hospital, and then who knows how long they'd have left. 

pulling back slightly, hongjoong rested his forehead against seonghwa’s. “i just wanted you to know,” he murmured, “that you’re my everything, truly."

seonghwa’s throat tightened. “i think i’ll miss this forever,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “fuck, joong... i think i'll miss you forever.”

hongjoong’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and he took seonghwa’s hand, intertwining their fingers. he didn't say a word, not a single thing.

they spent the rest of the evening wrapped in each other’s arms, watching the stars appear one by one.

~~~

seonghwa could hear strained breathing behind him, pulling him from his daze.

"i'll meet you at the bus stop, huh?" 

he turned to look at the man who's voice he knew all too well, "wooyoung...i'm sorry, i started walking before i could even think about it," seonghwa murmured while he scratched the back of his neck, "how did you find me?"

"well, the cafe is closed...and the others went to your house, but i didn't think you'd be there." wooyoung said, a hint of worry in his eyes, "what are you doing here hwa?"

seonghwa sighed before leaning against the railing, looking out at the sunset, "thinking, woo, just thinking."

he heard some shuffling before a set of arms were draped over the railing next to his, and a head was weighing down his shoulder. 

wooyoungs presence was comforting...he hadn't felt comfort in so long.

"you know," wooyoung began softly, "hongjoong wouldn't want you to be alone like this...living so far away with none of your family..none of your friends..he wouldn't let us get away with it if he found out we let you go alone."

seonghwa swallowed hard, his throat tightening. "i know, woo. but it's hard not to be when everything here reminds me of him."

wooyoung lifted his head, looking at seonghwa with a small smile.

seonghwa turned to face wooyoung, the setting sun casting long shadows across his face. "it's just... being back here, it feels like he's everywhere. every street, every corner, every sunset... it's all him."

wooyoung nodded, his expression slightly amused. "maybe that's not such a bad thing. it's okay to remember him, good to remember him, even."

seonghwa sighed deeply, the weight of his emotions pressing down on him. "i just - i miss him so much, wooyoung... it's like there's this constant ache that never goes away."

"i know," wooyoung said quietly. "but hongjoong wouldn't want you to be stuck in this sadness. he would want you to find a way to live, to be happy again."

seonghwa nodded slowly, the truth in wooyoung's words sinking in. "you're right. it's just... hard to let go."

"you don't have to let go," wooyoung said with a small smile. "just learn to live with it, to carry him with you in a way that brings you peace."

they stood there for a while longer, watching the sun dip below the horizon in a comfortable silence. 

"come on," wooyoung said eventually, breaking the silence. "let's go back to the others. they're worried about you."

seonghwa simply nodded, pushing away from the railing and heading down the lighthouse steps with wooyoung.

~~~

the night was clear, the sky dotted with stars as seonghwa and the rest of the group sat around a crackling campfire on the beach. the warmth of the fire and the company of his closest friends brought a sense of comfort to seonghwa, a welcome contrast to the ache in his heart. the flames danced, casting flickering shadows on their faces, and the sound of the waves provided a soothing backdrop to their laughter and conversations. he was still a bit upset despite the atmosphere, the conversation from earlier weighing on him slightly.

wooyoung, sitting close to san with their hands intertwined, poked at the fire with a stick. "remember that time hongjoong tried to build that makeshift tent at the beach?"

san chuckled, leaning into wooyoung. "oh god, yes! he was so determined to make it perfect, but it kept collapsing on him."

yunho, sitting next to mingi with their arms around each other, nodded enthusiastically. "he spent hours trying to get it to stand, even using driftwood and seaweed as extra support."

mingi laughed, "and in the end, we all had to sleep at my place because the tent was a crumpled mess."

seonghwa smiled, the memory warming his heart. "he was so proud of his 'engineering skills,' though. he even called it 'rustic charm.'"

jongho, with his arm around yeosang, added, "or that time he decided to surprise seonghwa with breakfast in bed but set off the smoke alarm instead."

everyone burst into laughter at the memory, the sound echoing across the beach. seonghwa felt a pang of sadness mixed with joy, grateful for these moments they could share together. he could see tears falling down yeosangs cheeks, sans too. it wasn't long before he was crying too, though he still had a smile on his face.

"he tried to make pancakes," san said, wiping tears from his eyes. "but he ended up burning everything, including the 'backup toast'."

yeosang groaned, though a smile tugged at his lips. "and then he insisted on serving the burnt food with a big, proud smile, saying it was 'extra crispy.'"

jongho chuckled, looking across at seonghwa. "you were so kind, pretending to enjoy every bite just so he wouldn't feel bad, i couldn't do that."

yunho grinned, leaning forward. "what about the time he convinced mingi to join him in starting a garden on the rooftop? they ended up with more weeds than vegetables."

mingi rolled his eyes playfully. "hey, we were just trying to add some greenery to the place. who knew gardening could be so complicated?"

seonghwa listened, a bittersweet smile on his face. "he always knew how to make us laugh."

wooyoung nodded, his expression softening. "he had that special way of making even the silliest moments unforgettable." "seems we're sharing joong stories..."

~~~

the summer sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden glow over the rooftop where seonghwa and hongjoong had retreated to escape the bustle of city life below. they sat side by side on a patchwork quilt, the skyline stretching out before them like a painting.

hongjoong leaned back on his elbows, a contented smile on his face as he gazed at the horizon. "isn't this perfect, hwa?" he said softly, breaking the comfortable silence between them.

seonghwa nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "it really is," he replied, his gaze following hongjoong's towards the setting sun. "i'm glad we decided to come up here."

they had stumbled upon the rooftop garden by chance, seeking a quiet place to unwind after a long day of rehearsals. surrounded by potted plants and fairy lights, with a gentle breeze ruffling their hair, it felt like their own secret sanctuary above the city.

hongjoong turned to seonghwa, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "remember that time we tried to stargaze up here, but ended up having sex and falling asleep?"

seonghwa chuckled, slapping hongjoongs arm. "yeah, we woke up to the sound of pigeons cooing in our ears."

hongjoong laughed, his laughter contagious. "and then we had to sneak past the security guard as quietly as possible!"

seonghwa shook his head fondly. "we were lucky he didn't catch us. i don't think we would've lived it down."

they sat in companionable silence for a while, watching the sky shift from blue to pink as the sun dipped lower. the city below them buzzed with life, but up here, they were cocooned in a tranquil bubble of their own making.

"you know," hongjoong said softly, breaking the silence once more, "i'm really glad you're my fiance, hwa."

seonghwa turned to him, a warmth spreading through his chest. "me too, joong," he replied sincerely. 

~~~

seonghwa stopped the story there, looking down at the ring on his finger. "fuck cystic fibrosis for taking him from me before we could even get married..." his voice cracked with emotion, his eyes welling up with tears. 

seonghwa took a deep breath, wiping away a tear with the back of his hand. "sorry," he murmured, his voice steadier now. "i just wish we had more time together."

the group fell into a solemn silence, each lost in their own thoughts and memories of hongjoong. the crackling of the campfire and the gentle lapping of the waves provided a comforting backdrop to their shared grief.

it was wooyoung who finally broke the silence, his voice soft but filled with determination. "we may not have more time with him physically, but he's still with us in every memory, every laugh, and every tear."

seonghwa looked around at his friends, their faces illuminated by the flickering firelight. "thank you," he whispered, his voice catching with emotion. "for being here, for remembering him with me...and for getting me to come back to town."

jongho squeezed yeosang's hand to keep his voice steady, his expression tender. "that's what family does," he said quietly. "we're here for each other, through everything."

his friends nodded solemnly, their agreement unspoken but understood. around the dying embers of the fire, they made a silent vow to keep hongjoong's memory alive, to cherish the moments they had shared, and to find happiness for him.

~~~

it was a warm summer afternoon, the sunlight filtering through the curtains of their small apartment. seonghwa sat by hongjoong's bedside, holding his hand gently. hongjoong's breathing was laboured, each breath a struggle against the illness that had slowly weakened him over the months. the hospital couldn't do anything, new lungs would be near pointless. 

"i love you, hwa," hongjoong whispered, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

tears welled up in seonghwa's eyes as he squeezed hongjoong's hand tighter. "i love you too, joong," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion.

they had known this day was coming, had prepared themselves as best they could. but nothing could truly prepare seonghwa for the moment when hongjoong would slip away from him.

hongjoong smiled weakly, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before opening again. "thank you for loving me," he murmured, his voice barely audible now.

seonghwa leaned closer, pressing a gentle kiss to hongjoong's forehead. "always," he whispered back, his heart breaking with each passing second.

they sat together in silence, the only sound in the room the soft hum of the ventilator and the distant murmur of the city outside. seonghwa held onto hongjoong's hand, unwilling to let go even as he knew he had to.

suddenly, hongjoong's breathing became more erratic, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. seonghwa's heart clenched in his chest as he watched helplessly, tears streaming down his face.

"hongjoong," he whispered desperately, willing him to hold on just a little longer.

hongjoong's grip on seonghwa's hand slackened, his breathing slowing until it finally stilled altogether.

time seemed to stand still as seonghwa sat beside hongjoong's lifeless body, the reality of his loss crashing over him like a tidal wave. he pressed his forehead against hongjoong's, his body shaking with silent sobs.

"i'm sorry," seonghwa whispered brokenly, his voice barely audible. "i'm so sorry, joong."

the room was filled with a profound sense of emptiness, the absence of hongjoong's presence a gaping hole in seonghwa's being.

[blukiar]

"The Play Factory" AU [Part 1-General edition]

Edit: I now have a name for it! :)

welp now that I have more of a reason to draw Poppy Playtime content, I can finally share some of my cringy HCs I have for the characters so let's hop in. (Sorry for the long read)

ALSO- TW for mentioned cannibalism (again sorry)

First and foremost! In my AU, much like the game, the toys are experiments created by humans, HOWEVER, they were NOT created from kids/human bodies. Although they still need human elements to be made (like DNA/blood samples) they do not inherit the consciousness of the source of those samples. In other words, they are all sentient toys with their own personalities, traits and mindsets.

Their role is their job: Each toy is assigned a role to play for the kids' enjoyment and comfort by the workers of PT.co. This role is to be fulfilled everyday for 12hrs. Some toys have shifts like Catnap working at night while Dogday works only in the mornings. Those who have to work the full 12hrs do get breaks so they don't get overworked

The toys are basically paid actors: Despite their assigned roles, the toys aren't exactly what PT.co portray them as to the kids and outsiders after working hours. For example, Huggy isn't a jolly, want-to-hug-em-all type of guy outside of work, he's more of a tired uncle who's the voice of reasoning among the big toys. Regardless, the PT.co workers would leave them be as long as they stay out of trouble and do their job correctly

Toys cannot reproduce: Kind of self-explanatory, helps to keep the toy population in check and avoid numerous problems that would come with it. (howeverthisdoesn'tmeantheycan'thave"playtime"thothisrarelyhappens)

Dysfunctional toys are executed: Before the toys are brought to the kids, each are tested and tried to ensure they are kid friendly and safe to be around. If a toy fails to meet the requirements during this process, they are taken to the deeper parts of the facility to be terminated and have their remains recycled to create a better version of them. Worst case, they would be executed and their remains would be fed to the bigger toys whenever they misbehave.

Troublemakers will be punished: Despite meeting the safety requirements, toys still tend to misbehave from time to time, and thus they are sent to the containment room for timeouts. Mommy Long Legs and Boxy Boo, are the two big toys that misbehave the most due to their aggressive nature, both play their roles perfectly yet - Mommy isn't quite friendly to the adults (both Human and toys alike) and Boxy, although obedient, can be unpredictable at times (thankfully he hasn't hurt a child) In addition to the previous HC, both have had their fair share of "dysfunctional snacks" after 2 days of starvation (sometimes Boxy would eat them alive)

Toys are not allowed to roam and leave their work posts: Toys aren't allowed to roam the facility without staff supervision and like their roles, toys are assigned a working area that they cannot leave until working hours are over. This rule ONLY applies to the big toys (Huggy, Kissy, Mommy, Boxy, Daddy, The Delight sisters and smiling critters) the little toys can roam freely with only a few restrictions.

And that's all I can think of for the general stuff, I'm gonna do one for ships and characters separately, in the meantime, feel free to ask questions. and thanks for reading :3

[bakuliwrites]

Devotion- Cicero x Listener

Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI)

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim

Relationship: Cicero x Listener

TW: mention of some blood (nothing too violent though), smut, fluff

Summary: He worships her, every piece of her. All of his Listener must be worshipped, as ordained. Cicero, sweet Cicero, eager to please. Eager to serve. His lips on hers, his hands roving, searching, exploring. Venerating. He dies inside her, and it is glorious. He would die a thousand times in her, as many times as she wanted. Immolating in her light over and over and over again. Cicero is unsure of this new Listener, but his feelings are muddled and confusing. What will happen when the Listener is forced to choose to take or spare his life?

A/N: I have been trapped in an airport the past two days and am shamelessly writing smut in the terminal. I don't care, I'm so bored and thirsty for this mad jester. I had to do what I had to do, and if writing smut in the middle of the goddamn airport is what I want, then it's what's happening. As I write this, my flight has been delayed yet again. I'm losing my mind. As always, thank you for reading! Any likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I've loved Cicero for a long time. I know he's not everyone's cup of tea, but I've been desperately wanting to write for him. He's a favorite Elder Scrolls character of mine for sure. Thank you again! Hope you are all having a great end to the year! Lots of love <3

Read here in this post or over on my AO3.

Silence. Deafening, deafening silence. For so many eons it feels as if all Cicero has heard is laughter and silence. Echoing endlessly in his mind, filling it to the brim, pounding against his skull. He wonders, sometimes, as he lays awake at night if the silence and the laughter will be enough to rupture his skull. If they’ll pour out into the world and drown everyone with the jester’s final words to him. And then here she is, listening. Always listening. Hearing the very words he has longed to hear for over a decade now. 

And she’s so ignorant with it all. A rube. A newcomer into this underground society, stepping into his territory, granted with a blessing that should rightfully be poor, loyal Cicero’s. Cicero, who lives in abject silence, forced to watch as a stranger is gifted with the boon of Her voice. Mother always knows what’s best. He wouldn’t dare question Her, and he wouldn’t dare question Her authority on gracing a new Listener with the Gift. He’ll be loyal. Oh so loyal, as Cicero always is. But it does not stop him from hating her. Oh, he’ll serve her, faithful and devoted as he is. If this is what the Night Mother wants, he won’t question. He will only do as he is told. But he doesn’t have to like it. 

These months, he’s watched the new Listener with scrutiny. Watched as she’s gained the favor of the other members in Falkreath, as she’s wormed her way into the good graces of that harlot, Astrid. He doesn’t trust anyone here. There’s no reason to, not when they question the ultimate authority of Mother. Especially that Astrid. But the Listener… 

Well, Cicero isn’t so sure yet. Her kindness made itself apparent when she helped him on the road just outside Whiterun. He recognized her face immediately when he arrived at the sanctuary. She still had that look of bewilderment and awe that fledgling assassins always have. That he once had in his early days in Cheydinhal. Over the months, he watched the Listener’s dazzlement fade and be replaced with the acceptance of life, such as it is. Yet, there was a certain brightness in her that never seemed to fade. A gentility and strength. She’s been genial with Cicero, but he can glean little else from her. Is she a traitor or an ally? Someone he can trust to upkeep the authority of the Night Mother? Or someone who seeks to tear down everything he holds dear? 

The Listener speaks little to Cicero. She speaks little to anyone, really, opting to keep to herself on her downtime. She usually works alone, her skills honed enough to take on even the most difficult of contracts. It’s admirable, really, watching her work. He’s had the pleasure of witnessing her train with the others. From the corner of the room, his dark eyes fall on her, observing every swift motion, every swipe of her blade. And every once in a while, she catches his eye and a spark of something curious lights the facets of her irises. Heat blooms across dear Cicero’s cheeks. How confusing. How strange. Best not to think about it, he reasons, returning to his duties. 

“Do you ever have time to train, Cicero?” she asks him one day, innocent curiosity softening her features. 

“Oh ho ho!” he returns, confusion muddling his already muddled mind, but he wouldn’t dare let her see that, “Cicero has no time to train. Not when the Night Mother needs tending! Cicero has no need. He takes no contracts. Keeps to himself. Does what he needs to for our Sweet Mother.” 

Silence. Such deafening silence. But she smiles softly.

“Well, if you ever want to train, I’m always looking for new partners,” the Listener concludes before gliding off through the snaking corridors of the sanctuary. Cicero is left to stew in annoyance and confusion. Doesn’t she understand his role as Keeper? Doesn’t she understand that he doesn’t train anymore? Why does she ask him such things? 

This isn’t the last time she asks this question, and ones like it. Cicero is busy, he returns, but should the Listener require other services, he’s a drop of a hat away. 

***

She brings him gifts sometimes. Sweet rolls and honey nut treats, little flowers she stops to pick on her journeys across the continent. 

“I thought the Night Mother might like these,” the Listener offers, handing him a small bouquet of nightshade, their purple petals flowering out from their dark centers.

“Oh, yes!” Cicero greets, finding himself delighted by the offer despite his distrust of this woman, “Mother will most certainly love these! Thank you, thank you!” 

He places the flowers at Mother’s feet and watches as the Listener passes him a tender beam, before disappearing once again into the shadows. Cicero is even more suspicious. Is this her clumsy attempt to gain his favor? To lull him into a false security? This isn’t the first time he’s dealt with traitors and usurpers, false prophets and charlatans. But the Listeners words were the sacred words:

Darkness rises when silence dies. 

And she’d said it with such conviction. Surely, the Night Mother wouldn’t lead him astray.

“No, no. Musn’t question Mother. She knows all,” he mumbles to himself as he sweeps up the area in front of Mother’s coffin. He sweeps furiously, fragments of the booming laughter in his head falling to the floor, shattering into pieces and littering the ground with the final moments of the jester. He sweeps them away, but he just ends up breathing them in again, endless dust, endless laughter, endless silence. 

He wonders when the Night Mother will speak to Her Listener again. Wonders if he stood beside the Listener, pressed his ear to her, if he could hear the echo of Mother’s voice in her. If the Listener bleeds, will she bleed the Voice? In her final moments, would her death rattle exhale Mother’s words? Would he finally hear? He wonders if he pressed himself to her, tight and close, if her whole body would act as a shell at the beach, echoing Mother’s voice like the powerful waves of a dark sea. 

***

“Dear Cicero?” her gentle voice sounds from the doorway, halting his endless humming. He whips around to look at his Listener and freezes. Cicero hates when she prances about in her nightclothes. They’re billowy and thin. Revealing, in a modest sort of way. He can see the silhouette of her curves, outlined underneath her nightgown by the dull light of the sanctuary. The pinpoints of her nipples peek through the fine cloth, and her bosom rises and falls gently with each breath. Silence abates in him for a beat. The laughter ceases for a moment. It’s been a long time since he’s felt- since he’s felt whatever this is. And then she calls him, “Dear Cicero,” and it drives him mad. Mad, mad, mad. 

“Yes, my Listener?” he returns, ever loyal. Always ready to serve.

“May I join you? I can’t sleep and- I’d like some company,” she goes on sheepishly, eyes bright and searching. Cicero obliges. Loyal Cicero would never deny such an innocent request, but he wonders why she doesn’t ask Nazir, or Gabriela, or Festus. Why him? He’s wary, but he won’t fight it.

So she huddles up in a chair beside him while he works, while he tends to Mother and talks aloud to himself. The Listener says nothing. She sits in silence and watches curiously as the Keeper goes about his duties. Occasionally, she chuckles at a limerick or song Cicero lets slip from his ever chattering mouth. Her laugh is musical. Her laugh is grating. He hates it. He loves it. Cicero doesn’t know what he thinks.

Eventually, Cicero looks over and she’s fallen fast asleep, head resting against the chair back, knees huddled to her chest. She looks so terribly uncomfortable and yet, so utterly peaceful. Silence abates, laughter ceases. As if he can’t help himself, Cicero brushes back a strand of her hair, gloved fingers lingering for a moment on her cheeks. There is something lovely about this Listener, in all her silence and shroud of mystery. In her small kindnesses and attempts to befriend him. Perhaps Cicero is too cold. Perhaps he’s not cold enough. 

“Poor, tired Listener shouldn’t sleep in such discomfort,” he mutters, carefully lifting her from her chair. She stirs, but does not wake, sighing softly and snuggling up in his arms. Heat blooms along Cicero’s cheeks as he carries her towards her chambers. Gently, the Keeper tucks the Listener into her bed and leaves behind only a single nightshade on her bed stand. For a moment, Cicero knows peace. Momentary peace, a mind clear for once, before confusion takes over again. Maybe he hates her. Maybe he's infatuated. It all feels the same. That same deep cutting emotion. Friend or foe? Enemy or ally? Cicero has learned not to trust, but Mother wouldn’t lead him astray. No, Mother would never lead him astray. Right?

***

Sometimes, at night, when Cicero dares to sleep, he dreams of her. Of the Listener, beckoning him into her bed. Temptress, siren. His lustful dreams fill his core with a heat he’s not felt in years. Her naked form greets him, pulling him closer. She takes him in the sanctity of her bedroom, in his, in every room of the sanctuary. He worships her, every piece of her. All of his Listener must be worshipped, as ordained. Cicero, sweet Cicero, eager to please. Eager to serve. His lips on hers, his hands roving, searching, exploring. Venerating. He dies inside her, and it is glorious. He would die a thousand times in her, as many times as she wanted. Immolating in her light over and over and over again.

He wakes in a confused sweat, regretting falling asleep, and continues his duties. He tries desperately to push these lustful fantasies from his mind. But it’s so terribly difficult when she brushes past him, when she gifts him flowers and sweets. When she smiles at him and asks how his day has been. When she speaks to him like he’s a person, and not just the ghost of a jester long dead. 

***

Wrack and ruin. That devil Astrid is up to no good. Cicero knew never to trust her, he rages as he stumbles through the snow. Charlatan, pretender, imposter. And that damned sheepdog chasing after him, wounding him. Well, Cicero gives as good as he gets. Better, even. That stinking wolfman can’t chase after him now, not after the slash dear Cicero’s given him. 

Dawnstar is a wreck, but it’s better than nothing. Cicero clutches his injured abdomen, crimson seeping between his fingers as he staggers down the stairs and retreats into the inner rooms. He’s always known he wouldn’t get any sympathy, any understanding from any of Astrid’s underlings. But the Listener… Now they’re an entirely different matter. Will she believe that liar Astrid? Side with that devil? Or will she find sanity in madness? In Cicero’s conviction? In their beloved Night Mother? 

Protected by an army of ghostly assassins, a feral troll, and layers of branching corridors and locked doorways, Cicero awaits his fate. For hours, it feels, he shivers in the depths of the abandoned Dawnstar sanctuary, pressing his hand to his wound, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. He needs some amount of strength if the Listener chooses to end him. He’s not going without a fight. 

And then, after what feels like eternities of silence and of laughter, he hears the door to the sanctuary open, a distant creak . And he laughs. He laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

“Listener! Is that you? Oh, I knew you'd come. Send the best to defeat the best. Astrid knew her stupid wolf couldn't slay sly Cicero,” he calls out, waiting eagerly for a response. But he’s met with what he’s always met with: silence. No matter, he thinks to himself. He doesn’t need them to respond to make this entertaining. No, if he’s going to go out, he’s going out with a bang and a laugh.

He can hear them moving through the corridors, swiftly putting down the specters that haunt and protect this sanctuary. Cicero knows it’s the Listener. He can feel it in his bones. And their silence does little to assuage his fears. His death is coming. It’s imminent. 

“Oh, but this isn't at all what Mother would want. You kill the Keeper or I kill the Listener? Now that's madness,” he trails off. He doesn’t want to have to plead, but he will. Though he can’t hear Mother’s voice, he knows this isn’t what She would want. All Mother wants is to keep Her family together. Not see it destroyed. Not again. No, Cicero doesn’t want to be left alone again. 

“All right, so Cicero attacked that harlot, Astrid! But what's a fool to do, when his mother is slandered and mocked? Surely the Listener understands!” he begs. She’s moving so fast. He’s hardly gotten a chance to steel himself for the battle to come. Surely the Listener wouldn’t kill poor Cicero. She gives him gifts, asks for his company. Smiles at him, talks to him. Like he’s just as much a person as she is. As anyone else is. Not like some madman. Surely this kind Listener wouldn’t end his life so cruelly? Surely the two of them wouldn’t rip this family apart? Because he’ll be as much a part of this tragedy as she is.

The doors creak open and there she is. Relief and fear flood the Keeper’s heart. The Listener appears in the doorway, a shadow opposite the flickering light of the fire in the hearth behind him. Cicero smirks.

"And now we come to the end of our play. The grand finale."

Damn her, she still won’t talk. Her brows are furrowed, eyes lit with anger and mouth set in a deep frown. He’s never seen her look so upset. This is it, Cicero thinks. The end of the Keeper. The end of the Listener. He’s disappointed his Mother so deeply. How will She ever forgive him?

"You caught me! I surrender! Ha ha ha ha,” he chuckles before dissolving into a coughing fit. 

“There’s only one cure for your madness, Cicero,” she finally, finally, speaks, but it stings him, “ Me. ”

And then something wild sparks in him. Something fiery and warm. A devilish grin pulls at the corners of Cicero’s lips. His eyes meet the enigmatic gaze of his Listener. 

"Oh, I like that!” Cicero purrs, before loudly adding, “Very good, very good! Creative! But killing me would be a mistake! Oh yes. You would displease our Mother, hmm? For she's your Mother too, isn't she... Listener? Walk away! Let poor Cicero live! Tell the pretender Astrid you did the job! Stabbed, strangled, drowned poor Cicero! One little itty bitty lie!"

“You want me to lie to my superiors?” the Listener returns, something unreadable crossing her face as she strides purposefully towards the crumpled up Keeper. He gulps, unsure of her tone. 

“You, my dear Listener, are Astrid’s superior,” he reasons, trying to maintain the grin on his face, though finding it difficult in this moment of uncertainty. The Listener steps ever closer. Cicero grips the knife at his side. This is it. It’s the end for one of them. He’s failed his Mother so spectacularly.

And then, something strange happens. As she approaches, the Listener kneels down, features softening, brows relaxing and eyes filling with sorrow.

“You’re hurt, dear Cicero,” she breathes, looking at the crimson blooming through his clothes. She gently removes his hand from his wound, inspects the injury, and tugs off her gloves. She hovers her hand over the slash in his abdomen, Cicero watching with growing curiosity and confusion. A spell, radiant and warm, emanates from her palm. 

“I know that you are wary of me,” she begins, her voice quiet, “But like you, I hear a voice long dead. Long passed on. I know about the jester, Cicero. I know about your life before.”

“You- know about the jester?” he offers, wincing as his flesh repairs itself, stitches itself back together with the help of her restorative powers. 

“We are both Listeners, in our own ways. Heeding the calls, the orders, the perplexing whims of the past,” she continues, gazing into his eyes, some strange understanding glittering in her irises, “We do not always choose who we hear. But we do not have to be alone in our suffering. Or our boons. Whatever forms those take.”

“I am loyal to the Night Mother, Cicero,” she assures, pulling her hand away, satisfied with the closure of his injury. Good as new, Cicero thinks, poking at the newly healed flesh, flabbergasted by this odd Listener. 

“And I am loyal to you,” she goes on, “And should you need more proof, I would be glad to give it. Ask me to cut my hand, to bleed as a pact. Ask of me anything to prove to you that I can be trusted, and I will do it. You have shown me nothing but loyalty and kindness, dear Cicero. Your devotion is admirable. I know you have struggled to believe I am an ally. I have tried to show you, in my own clumsy way. But I assure you, I am with you. I am at your side, now until the end of us.” 

Silence. And then laughter. Endless laughter. Oh, how silly he’s been! How utterly silly, foolish Cicero has been! The halls of the Dawnstar sanctuary echo with Cicero’s maniacal laughter. What utter foolishness, imbecilic and doltish. This Listener, in all her kindness, would never betray him. Would never betray the Night Mother. She’s offering up sacrifices to prove it, and here Cicero has been, doubting her. And more confusingly, dreaming of her. Visions of adoring her, of knowing her and her knowing him, fill Cicero’s mind. 

“Your imprudent Cicero has been so utterly foolish, dear Listener,” he chuckles ruefully, “You’ve proven your devotion to our Mother well enough. Cicero is the one who needs to prove his devotion.”

Her fingers sweep a limp strand of Cicero’s copper hair out of his face, and he takes the opportunity to gently grasp her hand in his. He holds it by his cheek, a silent “thank-you” for sparing his life. Her pulse is quick, fluttering. Her cheeks are flushed and rosy. When he lets go of her, she does not withdraw, instead tenderly caressing the angle of his cheek with the soft pad of her thumb.

“Your devotion is unmatched, dear Cicero,” she whispers. A breathless tension hovers weighty in the air. A tension that has existed from the moment he set eyes on her. And she, him. Cicero’s outfit is hot, so hot, suddenly, when moments ago he was shivering from blood loss and the chill of winter. No, his devotion hasn’t been showcased nearly enough. Cicero’s Listener must know how utterly, completely, entirely devoted he is. 

And so show her, he shall. His lips press against hers, hungry, yearning, desperate. And she is equally as needy. Her fingers tangle in his hair, grip the short ones at the nape of his neck, knock off the cap that rests atop his head. 

“My dear Listener, my devotion to you is body and soul,” he proclaims, ripping off the bodice of her armor as she makes quick work of his trousers and shirt. She gasps into him, filling Cicero’s lungs with her warmth. He breathes her in like smoke, letting her ignite him. Destroy and rebuild him. Silence abates. Laughter ceases. The Listener is his sole focus. His loyalty is unsurpassable. 

Her skin is warm. So warm. So much warmer than he expected. Warmer than the cold flesh he’s been tending to this last decade or so. It’s been so long since he’s felt anyone’s touch, anyone’s warmth. So long since he could give any part of himself to another, other than as the role of Keeper, and Keeper alone. So long since he’s received. And her touch is so gentle. This savage assassin, brutal and cold, yet so tender and sweet with poor, dear Cicero. 

“My dearest Cicero,” the Listener coos, trailing kiss after kiss along his jawline, suckling at the tender flesh of his neck. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, digs his fingers into the supple flesh of her ass. 

“My sweet, loyal Cicero,” she praises, nails tickling the sensitive flesh of his thighs. 

“My Listener,” is all he can manage to utter, voice cracking as she sinks her teeth into his neck. Gods, he welcomes her markings, her claims on his body. She is his Listener and he is her Keeper. Bound to one another in a union that no one else in the whole world could ever understand. 

As Cicero’s hands rove over her body, his eyes drink her form in. He traces the branching veins underneath her skin, each wiry sinew of her muscles, the fibrous tendons of her arms. He can feel the pulse of warm blood flowing through her. Feel the thrum of her heart beating, strong and powerful, behind her ribcage. He lays his lips to the pert bud of one of her nipples and loses his mind at the sound of her keens and gasps. 

“Such a pretty voice, my Listener,” he purrs, “You should sing with dear Cicero more.” To this, she gives a twittering laugh. He’s forgotten what a pleasant laugh sounds like and basks in the glory of it. His mind quickly abandons this thought as her hand cups him, massaging and insistent. Gods, he’s so sensitive. It’s been so long. So very long. He won’t last much longer if this keeps up. 

Her fingers wrap around his dick, stroke up and down in a languorous fashion. He swallows up her gasp as he swipes a finger along her cunt. She’s so wet already, ready for him. Husky grunts and tiny mewls fill the room, mingling with the crackle of the fire, as she picks up her pace and he dips two fingers into her heat. He pumps, rhythmic and slow, each motion an attempt to show her that Cicero lives to please her. To venerate and worship his beloved Listener. 

“Cicero,” she whimpers, breath fanning softly against his lips, her breathing shallow and rapid. She’s close. He can feel her walls quaking around his slick fingers, and he’s not far off either. Her free hand grips his back, digging her fingernails into his flesh, a silent plea for him to fill her. And fill her he shall. Cicero would do anything for his Listener. He would lie prostrate at her feet if she asked him to. Stand guard over her until the very stars in the sky fizzled to nothing but dust. 

Cicero withdraws his fingers from her, frowning at the little whine she gives at leaving her empty.

“Hush, dear Listener,” he coos, drawing her in close, “I won’t leave you empty for long. Worry not. Dear Cicero isn’t that cruel.”

His lips press kiss after kiss down her abdomen. He feels her body shiver as he reaches her heat. Cicero’s eyes glimmer with mischief in the firelight, and hers with that ever-present inquisitiveness. She is a vision from any angle, but this one especially. Her breasts rise and fall with each labored breath. She is open to him and he will respect this with every fiber in his being. Now, to worship his Listener as she deserves. Cicero dives into her folds, tongue lapping her up. Her moans are enough to send him into a whole new kind of madness. A welcome, drunken madness. His tongue darts in and out of her entrance, nose bumping against her inner thighs. He grips her legs, tight to keep her in place, but not so tight as to injure her. The feeling of her fingers carding through his hair alone could make him finish. 

He lays her on her back, atop his discarded clothes. The floor is cold, hard, and covered in layers of ash and grime. He wouldn’t dare lay her down on this filth. Cicero wouldn’t dream of letting his precious Listener scramble around in the dirt. Cicero will take it all. All the pain of kneeling on the rough stone flooring, fragments digging into his skin. He’ll take the markings and the layer of dark soot that will stain his fair skin. For his Listener. All for her. And he would have it no other way.

This act is sacred. Her pleasuring him, him pleasuring her. This is a reverence he has never known. His tongue swirls around her clit and she breathes his name, a hymn in this temple of night and shadow. She tenses as she comes closer and closer to undoing, her legs shaking in his grasp. 

“I want us to finish together, my darling, Cicero,” she begs, and thus he shall oblige. He withdraws from her, licking his lips, lapping her up, luxuriating in the taste of her. She smashes her lips against his, sloppy and desperate. Cicero positions his Listener on his lap, lining her entrance up with his hardened cock.

The scent of iron hangs heavy in the air, his own blood mingling with soot and smoke. His hands grip the supple flesh of her ass and thighs. He kneads and massages as she lowers herself onto his erection, so painfully slow. He handles her carefully. Not like porcelain, no. The Listener is not fragile. Far from it. But he treats her like a fine, ceremonial sword: something elegant and sacred, but sharpened and ready to dole out damage when needed.

“Are you ready, my Keeper?” she questions, eyes dark with lust, cheeks flushed with arousal. 

“Cicero is always ready,” he growls. With this, she rocks her hips against his. Sheathed inside of her, Cicero knows what it feels like for the first time to be unioned with the Listener. This bond is beyond anything else he will ever know. 

She grinds faster into him, his tip hitting her deep, making her whimper joyously, aching and longing. He’ll gladly let her milk him for all he’s worth. Anything his Listener wants, he’ll oblige. His core tightens, releases, tightens. Her nails dig into his back, his knees into the floor. He’ll be so sore tomorrow, but he cares not. He’d do it again, and again, and again if she wanted. In the enveloping shadows, the Keeper and the Listener come undone for one another. Cicero spills into her, giving all that he has. She tightens around him, walls pulsing, drawing from him everything she needs. Everything he needs. He cries out her name, and she his, prayer-like and hallowed. This sanctuary has become a temple for devotion, for ultimate veneration and reverence. To the union of the Keeper and the Listener. 

As they settle, Cicero runs his fingers through her hair, presses kiss after kiss to her cheeks, to her lips, to her temples. Her fingernails tickle his arms, his chest, his cheeks. Is this what peace feels like? He knows the laughter, the silence will return. But for now, he and his Listener can bask in this new silence. This tranquil, unadulterated silence. When he pulls out from her, he lays his lips to hers, an apology for having to separate them. Cum drips down her thigh and he’s swift to help her tidy up. 

“My Keeper. My dear Cicero,” she whispers, beaming tenderly as she leans her forehead against his. 

“My dear Listener. My beloved Listener,” he returns, drawing her in, letting her rest in his protective embrace. He will protect her, love and cherish her, always and forever. Cicero’s devotion is unmatched, except perhaps by his dear Listener’s devotion to him. He knows the Night Mother will approve of this union. Surely, certainly, wholly and absolutely. 

[stardusthuntress]

What is Lost, Can Also Be Found

Fives Lives AU! 

Fives x gnMandalorian!reader (yay for beskar) 

Word Count: ~4.3k 

Summary: while out on a mission with Rex and Echo (post-TBB s3), you discover something you’d all thought you’d lost a long time ago

TW & A/N: angsty story, but happy ending! Fives has had a rough time, something along similar lines to Echo’s story… so expect mods… sorry. I swear this whole thing came to me in like a waking fever dream sorta thing, it was outta the blue when I was just relaxing one day and I had to let the story become words on a page so I could share a hug with all of you guys <3 

dividers by: @/djarrex

“Ok, I’m in the armor…ry…” your eyes are wide, unsure of what you’re seeing. 

This room had been labeled “armory” on the schematic Echo was able to get ahold of. But aside from a single rack of blasters and droid poppers in the middle of the room, visible from the door, this did not look like an armory. It was a huge room, tubes of liquids lined the ceiling connecting everything. And the walls… there was no way this was any kind of armory. 

The walls are lined with… well, some strange type of cryotubes… filled with familiar, identical faces, identical personalized faces. Faces of troopers who’ve already seen battle, already been out there in the thick of it long enough to individualize themselves and bare the scars of many tough battles. But what are they doing here? And why was this room labeled armory in the schematics if they aren’t… oh… OH… KRIFF… as if this couldn’t get more horrifying than it already was…. 

You step closer to the pods as you walk further into the room, needing more information. 

Each of these men has a pair of blinking lights just under the skin of their temples, as though they are droids sitting on their chargers, waiting for a signal. 

And many of them seem to have mods, or evidence of mods, or other scars from intense surgery that wasn’t properly healed on or around vital organs. 

You keep walking further into the room until something catches your attention as you step past one of the pods, forcing you to halt in your tracks in disbelief. 

It was the lights flashing on their temples that caught your attention, but not just the lights on all the men, the lights on this one in particular. One of his lights has a weird dim shape to it, at least out of the corner of your eye it seems to. 

As you cautiously step backward and turn to face the sleeper in question you feel your stomach plummet. If the little tattoo on the side of his temple hadn’t given him away, the goatee that matched the blue and red symbol you knew so well on his helmet would have. But that was impossible! He was declared mentally unstable after voluntarily modifying himself and had to be terminated. Or… that’s what you had been told… but here he was… And he was very much not dead according to the vitals status panel. 

“NO!” The word bursts from you in a cowering whimper before you can stop it. 

“What happened? You ok?” Naturally, your comm was still on and Echo and Rex heard that… kriff. 

“Oh fuck… force’s sake…” is all you can manage, brain racing to figure out what to say to them. You can’t tell them, you just can’t. It would hurt them more than anything else, but they can’t blow the ship now either. 

“What is it? We’re on our way to you!” Rex’s voice can be heard over the sounds of blasters firing in your earpiece. 

“NO! I’m fine. I’m fine. We can’t blow the ship. Oh, stars, there’s… we have to protect this room! We can’t let it get taken, and we can’t let them signal anyth—” There’s movement behind you, and you dive out of sight behind the cryotube that had caught your attention. 

In your ear you can hear Rex and Echo asking what happened. Knowing they will go quiet in a moment if you don't answer, you remain silent, watching the movement in the room. 

Back near the door, one of the tubes opens, the lights on the man’s face blinking faster. 

His eyes open slowly, revealing blank eyes, and the light goes steady and then turns off. He’s clad in familiar white armor decorated with brown accents and ram horns. As you watch, he steps out and moves methodically towards the door, picking up a blaster as he passes without even looking at it on his way out of this strange room, his movements strangely… robotic…

“Keeli?” You whisper. 

“What?!?!” Rex is confused. Keeli was listed as KIA. 

“Uhh, I think… Captain Keeli is on his way to you?” You try to explain, but you can practically hear their eyebrows raising as they exchange glances during their firefight in the hallways not far away, so you keep going, hoping something makes sense to them. “Except it’s not really him. I mean, it is, it’s him, but he seemed… kinda… blank… didn’t seem to notice me though, but we gotta get him back here and back into his pod. Preferable without hurting him. And we gotta steal this room… the whole room… and we can’t let it get activated when we do that… Karking haran [fucking hell]… yeah, it's not good Rex. I’m fine, but what’s in this room is bad. Really bad. Just… knock him out… and get him back here… asap….. Echo, is there a way to disconnect this room from the rest of the ship? It doesn’t look like the rest of the ship, maybe it is removable or something?” 

“On it.” Echo must have scooped into the ship again. 

“Don’t look into what’s in it yet!” you warn, dumbfounded that you forgot that crucial bit of information earlier. “Just get us out of here and block all signals being sent to this room, yeah?” You instruct. If he finds out when he’s digging through the ship, that would be the worst way to learn about all this, especially the if the man whose cryotube you’re currently hiding behind is who you fear he is. 

“OOOkay,” Echo seems to think it’s a weird request, and he’s right, but he trusts you, so he’s running with it for now. “Yeah, it can disconnect, it's a later addition… ship wasn’t designed to have it… I’ll need some time to scramble signals sent to it and decrypt the disconnect controls. Rex?” 

“I’ve got you,” Rex replies. 

You hadn’t realized it, but while listening to them, your eyes had glazed over, drifting to stare at the door but only as a subconscious safety monitor, you weren’t really seeing the door. 

As the conversation ended, you blinked, crawling out from your hiding place and standing up. You’d bought yourself some time to figure out what the fuck was going on in this room and how to get these men out of it. You turned to look at the control panel on the side of the weird, coffin-shaped boxes the men were each stored in. 

Hmm, difficult to say what was done here, the keypad was no indicator, just a status panel with basic controls. You glanced back at the man inside for a fleeting moment and froze, staring at the status panel. 

Were his eyes open a minute ago? 

You blinked and looked around, not sure if you were seeing things. A quick glance around the room confirmed the men’s eyes were all closed. So you looked back at the man in front of you. 

His eyes were definitely open, and they were starting to look panicked and pained as they bore into you. You had to get him out. 

You slammed your hand on the “open” button on the controls, eyes glued to the man’s face as the doors to the cryotube opened with a dramatic swoosh of fog. 

“Trooper, is that you? You ok? What happened? How did you get here? Who put you in this—?” But you cut yourself off. he was being weirdly quiet. That wasn’t like the man you knew. 

His eyes were growing larger with fear. He clearly didn’t have any answers either. 

He gasped for a breath, but didn’t move. He seemed to be struggling, his whole body was trembling, but he wasn’t moving much. 

His breath came out in gasps. He was clearly trying to break free from something while also trying desperately not to panic. 

You needed to get him out, and fast! 

There were no visible restraints on him, but clearly something was holding him back. Your attention went back to the control panel. 

On the screen a single question was lit up “status: ready. Activate?”, and three buttons blinked to life below it “activate”, and “release”, and “terminate”. 

Well that last one was unsettling, to say the least… 

You jabbed the release button as quickly as you could. Turning immediately to the face you knew so well. 

A tear raced down his cheek, but then a look of surprise raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes, and he gasped again, yanking a hand up in front of his face so he could stare at it. 

His breathing was still erratic and gasping, but he seemed to be rediscovering his mobility, though his whole body was quivering, probably from shock. 

“Good! Good job, trooper! Fight it, that’s it!” You encouraged. 

He looked past his trembling hand at you, a pleading look in his eyes. 

He probably wanted answers, but you didn’t have any, so instead you offered a hug and a comforting smile. 

Two shakey hands reached for you and he started to lean forward, albeit clumsily. 

In the back of your mind a warning flared, reminding you this was not a good idea, that you had no idea what they had done to him. Based on Keeli’s movements a moment ago, it wasn’t good. But the desperation and sadness in his eyes was too much to resist. He needed someone right now, and you wanted to be here for him. 

You immediately stepped forward and cradled him against your shoulder and chest. One hand comfortingly stroked the hair that had begun to grow back slowly during his time in cryo, the other rubbing his back. 

He took a ragged breath, and you could feel tears starting to stain the garments beneath your armor. 

“Easy now trooper, I’ve got you. We’re gonna get you out of here. Breathe with me, trooper. In…… and out…… good! Keep going! In… and out… in… and out…” 

commotion in the hallway alerted you to Rex and Echo’s approach. 

“Incoming!” Rex called. “Echo needs a socket,” he warned. 

You shielded the man on your shoulder, a hand automatically coming up to cover the pulsing light on his temple, hiding his identifying mark from view as you scoured the room for a port for Echo.

Echo burst in, brow furrowing for a moment in confusion. He too thought this was the “armory” but it sure as haran [hell] didn’t look like one, and a strange man is crying on your shoulder, but when you pointed him to the terminal he needed, he pushed aside the confusion and began working on freeing the room from the confines of the ship as fast as he could. A true ARC, compartmentalizing and focusing on his task to protect everyone. Aware there would be time for questions if he could do his job and get everyone out alive first. 

Rex was hot on his heels, covering his back, with Keeli draped over his shoulder, unconscious as requested. 

You pointed to the empty tube you had seen Keeli step out of, and Rex placed him back in it, clocking the “sleep” button to keep him under for the time being. 

Only a few minutes later, the room was freed, Captain Howzer had swung by in a stolen ship, grabbed the container of a room you were all in, and you were safely in hyperspace. 

“Ok, now, what the FUCK is this place?” Echo was rightfully angry. This appeared to be some continuation of what the Techo Union had been doing to him. Clone bodies, but controlled minds, kept alive by mods, but slaves to the Empire’s will. 

“Yeah, I don’t know either, but tell me how many of these men you thought were dead?” You offered, eyes wide with pain and anger and hate for the Empire, still cradling the man crying on your shoulder, though his breathing pattern was calming slightly as he let it out. 

Rex stood still and silent in the middle of the room, his back to you, but you could see his fists clench. He was angry too. You all were. 

“But they can fight it,” you said, looking at Rex’s back. 

Rex and Echo immediately turned to you. 

“They can fight it. This one did. He’s a strong one. He broke through whatever they did to them while I was standing here.” 

They approached, Rex putting on his comforting Captain demeanor, ready to talk to this brother to see what he knew. The man was still a sobbing mess on your shoulder, gripping your waist tight with white knuckles like he was afraid of the truth of this room too. 

“He doesn’t know either.” You explained, “He was so scared, I had to do something. I don’t know what they’ve done to him or how to deactivate it, but I couldn’t leave him in there alone and immobile and very much awake.” You tell Rex, worry making it a bit of a rambling mess. 

“It’s ok,” Rex pats your back, “One thing at a time,” he takes a deep breath, trying to release the anger to comfort you both. 

“Well, it’s gonna be more than one thing at a time, it has to. You’re not gonna like this,” you glance at the man in your arms. 

Rex looked at you with concern. And then his eyes widen with horror. He realizes you meant he knew this one. More than he’d known Captain Keeli. He knew this man, whoever it was, well. His gaze drifted to the man, racked with sobs, though they were beginning to subside. He did know this man. The posture of his grief was so familiar. And the way his thumb dug into your bicep as his hand shifted to your arm. He remembered holding this man in the same way you were… years ago… 

Echo approached now too, aware of the elephant in the room as you glanced between them. He too knew this man, your expression told him. He and Rex exchanged a worried look as your attention diverted to the man in your arms. 

“Hey… you ready, trooper?” You asked gently. 

He took a deep stuttering breath and nodded into your shoulder. 

You held his gaze and took another deep breath, and he matched it. And then you let your hand fall away from his temple. 

Rex and Echo’s faces went from concerned to stunned. 

There, beneath the light on his temple was one little number. One little number that meant everything to them. One little number belonging to a man they thought they’d never get back again. But it couldn’t be him… could it? 

Rex stepped forward and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. 

The man’s head lifted, a watery eye appearing slowly over your shoulder, red and puffy. A fresh tear streaked down his cheek as he looked at them for a moment. Then his eyes widened, and he sat back and looked at you as you watched him with kind eyes. His eyes held a look of disbelief in them. But you nodded at him, and he turned back to the men behind you. 

“Rex?” The trooper asked, his voice hoarse from disuse. 

Rex nodded, and flicked away a tear of his own he’d never admit to. 

“Fives?” A far more tentative voice behind Rex asked. 

The trooper blinked and looked past Rex, nodding. He knew this man too, but he was struggling to place him. Which seemed odd, given the amount of mods on this trooper, surely those would be hard to forget! …unless the man hadn’t had them when he’d known him? Those big eyes he knew well though. Not because every brother shared the same eyes, but because he knew how to tell a brother apart from their eyes. And these eyes he’d known since he was small. Always full of stronger emotions than any other brother he’d ever met, but always reserved and hidden, behind his helmet and regulations and adherence to being a perfect trooper to the letter… 

“Echo?” He asked, receiving a teary nod in return. “But… you died…” he mumbled. 

“So did you,” Rex chuckled, no longer trying to hide the tears on his cheeks as he clapped the man on the shoulder. 

You tried to step aside so Rex and Echo could hug Fives, but his grip on your waist tightened. He was staring in shock at Rex’s hand on his shoulder like he didn’t think he was real until then. 

“Easy, Fives, it’s ok. They’re really here too. It’s really them,” you encouraged. 

“Oh, Kark it,” Echo swiftly stepped forward and smooshed everyone into one big hug. He knew it was him, he didn’t have to ask, he knew his brother too well to be fooled by a fake, and so did Rex. 

For a few moments, none of you could say anything. Fives was alive! Which only made the reality of this room that much more horrible… but right now you wanted to focus on the fact that your favorite trio of the 501st was alive. 

Soon your shoulders were wet with tears from all 4 of you. 

No doubt it would also be filled with endless questions very soon when Howzer and the others inevitably came to investigate what created the change in plans that resulted in the theft of an entire room. But that could wait until the time came, right now, you had 3 tearful troopers to comfort. 

Fives lay on the exam bed, though it was more of a table honestly, only equipped with light padding… if it counted as padding at all, and you stood at the medical console adjacent to it. 

The droid on the other side of the bed was still scanning him. it had been for several minutes. 

That was odd, wasn’t it? Fives wondered. He looked up at you. 

Your eyes were wide and your face was growing more and more pale by the second. As he watched, you closed your eyes and looked away from the screen, swallowing hard. You held still for a moment, then shook your head like you were trying to clear it, and looked pointedly over at him instead of the screen, only to find him watching you with a question on his brow. 

You shook your head, glancing at the droid. “Just let us know when you have it all,” you told it. 

The droid simply kept scanning. 

You looked at him and perched on the cot next to him, shaking your head. “I’m so sorry they did all this to you. You hanging in there okay?” You ask gently. 

He nodded, nonchalantly, “Still doesn’t feel real. I remember it. Dying. Rex was there… and then I remember seeing your face looking at me in that tube… there are bits and pieces I can’t place. Bright lights overhead, voices I don’t know, blurs of dark and light mostly… then watching the cryotube closing around me… and starting to panic because I knew I couldn’t open it from inside… and then you, Mesh’la… I’m glad it was you that found me. I don’t know what I would have done if it had been someone I didn’t know. I’ve never been that scared before…” 

You took his hand and placed it in your lap, playing with his fingers in order to pointedly ignore the medical screen for a while longer. 

“I’m glad I found you too,” you told his fingers. 

“Scan complete,” the droid said, moving away to scan the sleepers in their cryotubes next. 

You took a deep breath, preparing yourself for how bad it was. 

Fives looked up at you, the fear returning to his face, his breathing pattern trending towards hyperventilating. Something told you he was afraid of the scan results too. 

“Easy,” you patted his shoulder, “I don’t want to look at it yet either. Let’s just take a minute, okay?” 

Fives nodded, still staring at you, unsure what else to do. 

So you offered him a hug again. 

He immediately sat up to accept it. 

The broad-shouldered, strong, warrior seemed to shrink as he nestled into your arms like a scared tooka. 

“You’re safe here, Fives, I’ve got you. I’m here,” you muttered to try to comfort you both. 

Rex paused in the doorway, watching you comfort Fives for a moment, listening to you both avoid looking at the results of the medical scans. So he stepped forward to do it so neither of you would have to. 

He reached the screen at the same time you stood up, but he watched the color drain from your cheek as you skimmed it, and patted your shoulder, gesturing for you to sit back on the cot with Fives. 

You complied, but not because you wanted to, because the contents of your stomach were threatening to revisit the room if you didn’t. 

You swallowed hard, eyes trailing to the collar of Fives’ blacks, where it had begun to slide down his neck as he moved around. It didn’t quite fit like it used to, it seemed loose to him. 

He knew you must have seen something there in the scan, on his neck. 

Fives needed to know what, so he reached for the collar of his blacks and pulled it down, but he wasn’t looking at himself, he wanted to see your reaction to know how bad it was first as he undid the fasteners on his blacks and revealed his chest to you. 

Your eyes widened. After a moment you reached out to touch, then suddenly pulled back and covered your mouth, closing your eyes again. 

Fives looked down at his chest and froze. That sure seemed like more than just the blaster hole that he remembered… 

You tried again to reach out and touch the scar, but you seemed either unable to or unwilling to touch it without his permission. 

“Please,” was all he could get out. He looked up at you, to find you watching him with concern. “Please,” he said, desperation lacing his tone, though he wasn’t sure exactly what for. 

Your eyes went back to the scars on his chest, and your hands slowly, slowly finished their journey to his chest and made contact with the scar. 

He watched your fingers brush the raised skin so gently he wasn’t even sure if you’d actually touched him. But the coolness of your fingers made him shiver, so you must be in contact with his skin. 

Your fingers traced lines around his chest, out towards his limbs, and back in and around the circular patch on his chest. 

So that hadn’t been a dream. He’d actually… died? Or he’d at least been badly wounded? 

Beneath the skin knarled with the scar of a direct hit from a blaster burn, he could see the dark coloration of metal parts and scaras in perfectly straight lines radiating away from the scar, likely from surgery. That seemed to make his stomach churn uncomfortably. He didn’t want to look at it, so he placed a hand over yours, pressing your hand flat against his chest and focusing on the feel of your warm hand on his skin. He closed his eyes and let the warmth of you ground him for a moment as he took deep breaths. 

Echo appeared in the doorway. He’d had to leave when the droid started the scan. He couldn’t watch it knowing Fives had been through something similar to what he’d gone through. 

“Woah, Deja vu,” Echo’s voice sounded like it was lost in a memory. “Except last time… I was there.” He pointed to where Fives sat with his scomp. 

Fives opened his eyes, looking at his best friend, with watery eyes. 

Echo finally found the motivation to keep moving his feet into the room, but he was sniffling. 

Echo came up behind you and nestled into your shoulder as he sat behind you, resting his scomp on Fives knee, just to make sure he was actually there and this wasn’t a dream. 

Rex sniffled too as he glanced at the three of you. You always were the Domino Twins' favorite, and right now you were his favorite too. Favorite what didn’t matter, just favorite. 

“Geez, Fives… they really did a number on you,” Rex’s voice lacked its usual confidence as he continued to stare at the screen, knowing he was failing to mask his emotions as he stared at it. 

Suddenly he turned to the trio on the bed and placed a hand on Fives’ shoulder. “When they took your body from me…….. they never let me see you again……... Kenobi had to use the Force to calm my mind. I never thought I’d see you again…… certainly not… alive…” 

Fives grabbed his hand too, tears tracking down his face as the three of you looked up at Rex. 

You giggled through the tears a bit. 

“What?” Echo’s voice sounded like he was grumpy that his pillow was giggling. 

“Nothing, I just… I didn’t think you two could become more like twins, and now…. Well, here we are,” you chuckled, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. 

The three men laughed and squeezed you tight for a moment. 

Rex placed a kiss on your hair in thanks, and turned back to the screen. “Alright, well, that’s something to start from at least. How similar are you to Echo? What are the most important pieces to keep you functioning, and is there anything you know you need to change right off the bat? Then we can worry about disconnecting you entirely from whatever activation system is in that damned room.” He started mumbling to himself as he flipped through the pages and pages of finds from the droid. 

Regardless of what happened, you knew only one thing: the four of you had survived the war and would find a new normal, together. 

Rex laughed when he and Hunter found the three of you snuggled together, fast asleep by the bonfire that night, the ocean breeze keeping you company. You had each other, and you’d all find a way to get through this, whatever the Empire decided to do with you next. After all, he needed to find a way to get his brothers out of their cryotubes and back to being individually functioning people. Fives was still wearing your beskar helmet, as you’d discovered that it blocked the signal and kept him safe from reactivation, but it wouldn’t last forever. Time to see what Omega had told him she was preparing. It was a good thing Tech and Nala Se had trained her, Rex didn’t know what he’d do if she wasn’t there to help with this one. 

Please don’t steal my work! I pour my heart into these so if you like it please reblog to share instead of reposting it! And NO dropping it into an AI to finish it for me! That’s stealing my work and feeding it to an AI without my consent. It is not okay to give an AI something you didn’t write yourself! 

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