#this image will never fail to be so real and true to me

[formylovetodaryldixon]

"His only one." Daryl Dixon Imagine.

You are his only one, Daryl told you that the day you got married, that's why you don't mind the neighbors' blatant flirting with your husband, but the third time's the charm, and at that moment, you make clear to that woman that his ass belongs to you (literally)

A/N: Someone here asks for someone to write about Daryl and the flirty neighbors making him feel uncomfortable haha ​​so this is my failed attempt, although it made me smile a little so I hope you like it at least a little, too. Thanks!

The first time it happens, you let it go.

It's not that you don’t care, but you know that a relationship is built on trust, and if there is one person you trust even after someone had put a blindfold on you, that’s Daryl. Daryl was quiet most of the time, but his personality was actually very funny after you saw who he really was when you two were alone, when you saw his true self behind his crossbow and the way he used to push others away for fear of getting too attached. But when Daryl became open about showing his own vulnerabilities, only with you, it was so easy to fall for him, plus, the love and shyness in his gaze every time he saw you coming was sweet—a love only reserved for you.

After Daryl let you in, you realized he had a lot to offer as a person with a good and brave heart, so willing to protect others even if it put his own life at risk. Daryl was always a good company: he spoke little but paid attention, remembering even the smallest detail that you swore was unimportant, just because to him, everything related to you was important. But when he asked you to marry him along the way, that was a big surprise. However, you found a shelter in his arms, a real home with him: and maybe because his gaze always made you trust that there would be no one else, you never doubted him even after you saw how the neighbors turned to look at him. Maybe it was also because everyone was focused on his exterior, on that almost pornographic image that Daryl was, (with his broad shoulders, his arms in that sassy sleeveless shirt, and that face that seemed carved by God when HE was in a VERY good mood) but no one paid attention beyond the obvious, so you never felt threatened.

Now, slowly, like a pretty moving photograph, the sun starts to hide away in the infinite horizon, painting the calm sky of that new world with beautiful shades of orange. The end of the day is quiet on your home, with your husband sitting on the porch steps, carving an arrow because several are never enough, Carol on the wooden floor close to you while she solves another crossword puzzle, and you, rocking lazily in the rocking chair, eyes and mind on the book you managed to find in the last search for supplies.

A comfortable silence abounds in the air, until Miss Ellie walks by on her way to her own home.

"Hi, neighbor." She practically purrs, with a bright smile and the way the corner of her lip curls like a kitten's.

Like meerkats when danger is latent, the three of you raise your heads (almost in a comical way) to see her walking away, watching her lowering the hand with which she had just greeted Daryl, and only Daryl: although his first reaction is to look in your direction, like he’s asking for help to understand what the hell was that. You know Daryl has a tough exterior, but his personality, when it came to accepting flirtations, almost reached the point of stuttering.

“Wait a sec, weren't there three of us here?” Carol asks, frowning playfully.

“Yeah… did we suddenly become Casper the damn Friendly Ghost or what?” You chuckle, turning your attention back to the book. “Not to state the obvious, but I think the neighbor has a crush on you, love.”

Carol chuckles too, but your disinterest in the matter and his best friend's mockery makes Daryl frown even harder.

“Whatcha waitin' for, woman? Go over there an' defend yer husband’s honor.” He says with a swing of his hand.

Carol shrugs, agreeing with him.

“Well, she just looked at Daryl like he was a piece of meat, (Y/N).”

You nod, but you don’t even bother to look up.

“I know. But going there would only prove Daryl has some interest in her, and since I know he doesn’t, I don’t see why I should bother.”

Daryl scoffs, but he knows you are absolutely right, so he returns his attention back to the arrow.

“I see yer not even the slightest bit afraid of losin’ me, woman.”

Carol chuckles at your silence.

"Yeah, (Y/N), I mean, Daryl's such a great catch, especially with his gruff personality."

You chuckle.

“I know. I know the neighbors have been staring at him ever since we arrived in the community, but I don't blame them because, look at him..." From top to bottom, you point at him with one hand, still paying attention to the words in the book. "Daryl is like walking porn."

Carol laughs, longer this time, but your unfiltered words make Daryl blush under the sunset as he keeps his eyes down, still carving the same arrow.

The second time it happens, you are a little far to say something.

At the end of the day, you arrive last to the community meeting after your rotating job at the infirmary, taking your place against the concrete wall in Deanna’s backyard. Alexandria’s head keeps talking, directing people and you pay attention for a moment, until your sight catches the image of Mary several steps away from you, who is probably one of the most striking neighbors, and the way her mischievous fingers try to touch the exposed skin of Daryl’s bare arm as she keeps trying to make a conversation with him, who looks like a kitten cornered in an alley by a pack of dogs, while giving her weird looks that she doesn't seem to notice.

The comparison makes you laugh, but you stifle the laughter with a gentle smile when some of the neighbors in front of you turn around. Waving back, they turn their attention to the front, and you keep your eyes ahead too even after you feel your husband’s presence next to you, after a very short while.

“What did I miss?”

Daryl shrugs.

“The same shit as always. How was work?”

“Quiet, just two people with a cold and a baby who came for his second vaccine.” You try to keep a calm expression as you speak your next words through a softer voice. “You are a grown ass man, Daryl Dixon, and yet you looked terrified of a small woman.”

Embarrassed, he grunts.

“Whatcha want me to do? Fight her? That’s yer job n' ya ain’t doin’ it.”

You chuckle.

“I don’t fight over a man, love, never did, never will.”

Daryl crosses his arms over his chest, eyes still ahead.

“I forgot ma wife is the most unbothered person in this damn world.”

You chuckle again.

“There are priorities even in this life, my dear husband, but if you want, next time we go on a supply run we can take her with us, and something mysterious can happen to her. We can make it look like an accident.”

You’re joking and Daryl knows it, so he chuckles, the corner of his lips curling adorably.

When the meeting is over and everyone returns to the safety of their homes, you and Daryl are one of the first to leave, walking side by side to your house that is almost on the other side of the community. The weather is warm during that season, and for the first time in a long time, the night doesn't grow deeper, darker or scarier. However, your gaze travels from the moon to your hand when you feel your husband's on yours.

You frown, making an amused expression.

"What are you doing?"

Daryl mimics the look on your face.

"What? I can't take ma wife's hand?"

He scoffs, making you shrug while looking ahead again, but you know that some neighbors are behind you two, with Mary between them since her house is close to yours.

You know why he's doing that like never before. Daryl is reserved with his married life, always keeping his displays of affection within four walls or while being alone with you, too shy and slightly awkward to let other people see how needy for your love he became sometimes.

"But… uh, ain’t yer job to mark yer territory or some shit like that? Like, make it clear to her that m’ yer husband?"

You frown playfully, looking back at him.

“I'm not a damn dog, Daryl. Or do you want me to pee on your leg?"

A little surprised, Daryl chuckles.

"Yer really not worried? Or slightly jealous?"

You shrug again.

“No. I mean, I trust you, but if you start bringing squirrels just for her, that’s when I will get worried. You are like those cute penguins who bring the most beautiful stone to the love of their life: believe me, the squirrels are your stones.”

Daryl chuckles again, letting go of your hand only to slide it over your shoulders and pull you into him, doing it because he wants to.

The third time it happens, you intervene.

A few minutes earlier, you walked out of your house to sit on the rocking chair with a sandwich on a plate, eager to continue with your book after a successful supply run. Daryl and Rick took the lead to leave the things found in the community warehouse, walking down the street towards your house about half an hour later. But too engrossed in old poems from the last century, you miss the way Daryl is intercepted by Ellie two houses away, until the voice of one of your family members catches your attention.

"Aren't you going to save your husband, (Y/N)?" Rick chuckles, standing near the porch steps. You follow his gaze, lingering on the way that every time the female neighbor tries to make a subtle step, Daryl takes one back. “Please, do, this went from being funny to being sad.”

You roll your eyes, leaving the book aside.

“Fine.”

“Wait... are you going to fight her?” With his gaze slightly more open, Rick stands there as you walk past him. “Because I've seen you take out walkers for less.”

“Goodnight, Rick.”

He chuckles, walking towards his own home.

Maybe it's your height, maybe it's the way your gaze turned serious, with a quiet but menacing personality when the occasion called for it, but there's something about you that makes the neighbor take a step back when you stop next to them, slapping your husband’s butt playfully but shamelessly, almost making him jump in place.

“Whatcha doing, buttercup?” You smile at him, with his surprised look on you, even after you turn your attention to Ellie. “Hi, neighbor, I didn’t see you there like you didn't notice me last week when you greeted my husband. Ellie, right?”

She nods, surprised by your calm outburst.

“Don’t be scared please, I’m not going to hurt you, although, I could, you know? But I just wanted to ask you nicely not to try to suck all the air out of my husband’s face because you make him uncomfortable, and he’s not going to do anything about it, but I will: trust me, I’ve killed people for less, so imagine what I’d do for his ass, which is mine, so… yep, I guess that’s it.” Keeping the cutest smile you can muster, you take Daryl’s hand to make him walk with you. “Say goodbye to the neighbor, sweetheart.”

As all words have left Daryl’s mind, he simply waves goodbye once. And he lets himself be guided in silence until you’re within the four walls of your home, but once the door lock has clicked and a second after you let go of his hand, he catches it again to pull you towards him, lifting you up in those strong arms of his until you have no choice but to tighten your legs around his waist.

Daryl is smiling, in the way he only does with you.

"Fuck, woman, I dunno if m’ scared of ya, impressed, or turned on."

You chuckle, holding his face in your hands.

"Your ass is mine, Dixon, why do you think I married you?"

He chuckles along with you, before pressing his lips to yours.

@fluffy-dixon

[taegimood]

— nudes?! (k.th) ♡

pairing: kang taehyun x fem!reader genre: best friends to ?, non-idol au, suggestive rating: nsfw, mdni wc: 1.4k warnings: mention/description of reader's nudes, mention of reader in lingerie, implication of sexy time at the end, tyun gets hard and is v clear abt what he wants, they’re both horny asf synopsis: what happens when your best friend who secretly has the hots for you accidentally sees your nudes?

requested forever ago by @mapofthemazeinthemirror <3 [blog status: semi-hiatus, requests closed]

| yeonjun ver. | soobin ver. | beomgyu ver. | kai ver. |

masterlist

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taehyun considers you one of the bros.

right up there along with his 4 other crazy best friends, you fit right in, no sideways feelings to worry about and endless wingman opportunities to gain — hell, he even forgets sometimes that you've got a pair of boobs under there somewhere.

and all of this, of course, is completely and absolutely:

not true.

it's exactly what you seem to think in that pretty little head of yours, though, as taehyun often observes; it's quite cute actually, he thinks.

"out of all the guys i could like, why does it have to be the one guy in my life who would draft me onto his football team if he had one?" he'd overheard you complaining to yeonjun one day.

(sorry, but trust me, sweetheart - you wouldn't even make it past tryouts, he'd thought afterwards upon fighting back a laugh and an endeared little grin.)

oh, if only you knew.

if only you knew the steady breaths he has to take whenever you stand so temptingly close to him; or how many filthy images he has to shake out of his mind when he's helping you with your workouts; or that annoying little shadow called jealousy that he has to push down when you smile so sweetly at a man that isn't him.

taehyun is a man of self control, and a man who would do anything for the people that he loves — which means that no matter how much he'd enjoy changing your mind about what exactly you assume he perceives you as, he knows for the sake of your friendship that he can't.

and so he doesn't.

but oh, you wish that he would.

taehyun is quite good at keeping his feelings in check, to the point where you're convinced at this point that if you were to strut naked across the room in front of him, he wouldn't even pay you any mind;

pft, you scoff at your own silly thought, as if something so ridiculous would ever happen. (…well....)

today you've decided that you're getting real tired of your own pining and yearning and eyes that shoot hearts like confetti every time your best friend walks into the room —

you pout at the sight of yourself reflected on the open camera screen of your phone as the self-timer counts down yet again. this has become quite the routine of yours.

body bare save for the lacy lingerie that doesn’t cover much of anything as you perch at the edge of your bed, posing so prettily, so sensually, just the way you imagine taehyun would like; just more photos to add to the naughty little album in your camera roll that you wish you could send to him but know that you never will.

there was a time where you used to try testing the waters a bit, some flirting here, a fleeting touch or two there. but you'd quickly learned how pointless it was. after all, a brick wall is never gonna flirt back.

you sigh. it's time to get going anyway; speak of the devil, he'll be here to pick you up in 20 minutes.

~

taehyun can see in his peripheral the way you keep glancing at him from the passenger seat of his car.

as usual, he maintains an even expression. "excited to see me or something?"

his lips quirk as you jump in your seat a little, quickly looking forwards and crossing your arms as you grumble, "you wish. i just saw you like two days ago."

he merely hums in acknowledgment, which gets you even more grumbly — ("no fair that i can never get a reaction out of you! why is it always me?!" you'd wailed in defeat one time after a failed attempt to get him back, your cheeks flushed pink and pretty).

taehyun smiles.

when he soon pulls up outside your friend's apartment building that you’d needed to drop something off at first on the way to yeonjun’s, he decides to be nice as he asks,

"where was that new cat café you wanted to go to? we can stop there before meeting the guys."

bingo. the smile that lights up your face is exactly what he was looking for as your previous pout melts away and you gasp, "really?! okay wait, i took a screenshot of their instagram page the other day, you can check and put the address in! i'll be super super quick!"

he bites back a laugh as you shove your phone into his hands and excitedly rush out of the car.

"5 minutes tops or i'm going without you!" he calls out the window, to which you shriek and scurry away even faster.

he grins to himself, shaking his head as you disappear into the building and he turns to click open your camera roll.

"alright, cat café, where are............ you."

taehyun feels as if a lightning rod has just shot straight through his entire body.

his muscles tense. all his breath escapes him in a rush.

you...

the sight of you is what greets him through the screen...

you,

completely naked.

it's like his skin is consumed by fire as his eyes roam across the rows of pictures in the album you'd left open; most taken on your bed, some in the shower at the gym that you both go to together, some where you’re donned in sets of delicious lingerie — his eyes widening and pants tightening when he even spots one from his own room, your skirt hiked up in the reflection of his full-length mirror as your panties dangle cheekily from one finger, leaving the delicious curve of your ass on full display.

when did she even take that??

he scrolls, and he's barely hanging on by a thread as his best friend who's supposed to stay his best friend poses so irresistibly pretty from the screen; his cock is so hard that it's painful as your big innocent eyes look up at him in complete contrast to the lewd position that you'd put yourself in.

god, the positions he wants to put you in...

alright, reel it in, kang taehyun. this can't go anywhere. you have to take it to the grave. you’ve gotta think about the friendship. you’ll just pretend you didn't see it. you’ll act aloof like you always do.

but every single ounce of self control that taehyun has spent so long holding together finally crashes down around him like a breaking dam when his gaze lands on the name of the album at the top of the screen.

— t ♡

his cock jumps.

fucking hell, these are for me.

when you skip your way back to the car minutes later, you don't notice at first how firmly he's gripping the steering wheel or the fact that he isn’t even looking at you, remaining staring straight ahead as you climb back into the passenger side.

you don't notice — that is, until your phone catches your eye, set neatly on the middle console with your worst nightmare staring right back up at you from the screen.

it feels as though a bucket of ice water has crash landed down on your head (both the water and the bucket) as you realize what happened.

but you barely even have the time to panic or react or beg for mercy, or perhaps for a lobotomy on you both, before taehyun is asking you:

"back seat or my place?"

his voice is so calm that you almost don't process his words. your thoughts buffer as you pause.

"wh... what?" you breathe.

that's when he finally turns his head to look at you, and the intensity of the hunger swimming in his stare is enough to leave you even more winded than you already were before as a familiar feeling stirs between your legs and your thighs clamp together of their own accord.

"back seat," he repeats slowly, "or my place?"

you swallow hard.

this.. t-this is... he means.…

your head is reeling, and dumbly you stammer back, "w-what about the guys..?" as if the plans with your friends really matter anymore in a moment like this.

fuck the guys. fuck the cat café. taehyun has already decided: he’s done holding back from what he wants, and what he wants is to make you his.

you blink at him wide-eyed as he leans towards you slightly in his seat, his voice low and assertive as he replies,

"we're not going."

he taps your phone as if to draw your attention back to it. as if it should be obvious.

"so, you choose." your eyes fly back up to his —

"where do you want me to fuck you?"

your lower belly explodes with heat as an electric shiver rolls down your spine, and you swear that this is the best day of your entire fucking life as you see the promise that flickers in his eyes.

maybe you won't be finding yourself on the football team after all.

──────────────────────

— taglist: @razsberrie, @saejinniestar, @hyukalyptus, @florestalio, @beomiracles, @kiss4baku, @kejingken, @hyukascampfire, @cherr4es, @stawmerry, @choikanghuening, @dawngyu, @soo-blue, @paradigms13

if you want to be added to my taglist and get notified whenever i post any writing, drop a comment or an ask and let me know! ♡

[b3ach-bunn7]

4ME 4ME

You and Touya are assigned together for a project and friendship blossoms

Support student touya, quirks, fluff, strangers to friends

————————————————————-

(quirk was found on r/BNHA_OC_Characters)

October 9th

4:47 pm

Touya: Is this starshot

You: in the flesh 😝

You: u can call me Y/N tho

You: ur touya right? The support student?

Touya: Yes

You: delish :P 

You: r u excited to be my partner for this project x

Touya: No

You: right.

Touya: Come to the lab in two days we can run through what gadget we r gonna make

You: sounds gooddd

October 14th

1:34 pm

You: SORRY IMXOGNNA BE LATE AIZAWA TOOK AGES TO LET US OUT

Touya: Hurry up

You: I’m sorry 😣

Touya: Not forgiven

Touya: Not sure if I can go on

You: NOOOOO

You: don’t kys please🙁

You: I have peace offerings (m&ms)

Touya: Fine

You: wait where is the support lab again

Touya: Idiot

You: HELP ME

Touya: Second floor

You: thank you 🤩 

October 15th

8:54 pm

Touya: *image attachment*

You: WAIT OMG

You: U DID THAT IN ONE DAY?

Touya: It’s a drawing of gloves 

You: I coudont draw anything if u put a gun to my head

You: I love them 🩷

Touya: You don’t even know what they do

You: I still love them 🩷

Touya: Kissass 

You: HEY

You: so what do they do

Touya: Yk how when u create the projectiles u said they get hot

You: yh

Touya: I think if we make u gloves that can handle hotter and more energy ladden projectiles it can give u a lot more power 

Touya: And you’ll be able to handle a lot more when ur fighting

You: wait that’s perfect

You: hwo did u think of this so quickly

Touya: Its kind of my job and my degree

You: true

October 19th

12:43 pm

You: okay I didn’t have time to change

Touya: I can see that

You: not a word out of you 😒

Touya: You look like a tennis ball

You: SHUT THE FUCKUP

Touya: Stop laughing 

You: don’t be funny then ..?

You: the librarian is gonna yell at me🙁

Touya: Why the fuck is ur costume neon yellow

You: STOP LOOKING

Touya: Hard when ur glowing like a fucking street lamp

You: ENOUGH

October 20th

10:45 am

You: OMG U HAVE A BROTHER

Touya: Tf

You: He’s so funny

Touya: What the fuck

You: LMAO

You: he’s in my sisters grades and they r friends apparently

You: our lives… r so intertwined 🥺🥺

You: intertwineeeeddd sewnnn togetheerrrr

Touya: Ew

You: U don’t fuck with that song???

Touya: https/openspotify.dabi23

You: OMG

You: wait ur music taste is so real

Touya: Music rizz

You: LMAOOO

October 22nd

10:47 am

You: *image attachment*

Touya: Tf is that

You: I had some ideas for the design 😅

Touya: Yeah never draw again

You: I TOLD YOU

October 23rd

7:07 pm

You: hey so

You: yk how ur a tech support

You: does that mean ur good at physics

Touya: Obviously

You: plz help me with my physics hw tomorrow 🙁

Touya: Ur just using me 💔

You: NEVER NEVER

You: PLEAAAASE I’m literlaly failing

Touya: Fine

You: YIPPEE

October 24th

5:14 pm

You: yk ur really good at like all the support tech stuff

Touya: What?

You: YOU KNOW

You: like the building and whatever ur really good with ur hands

You: wait

Touya: U freak

You: NOT LIKE THAT

Touya: So obsessed with me

You: SHIT UP

You: I’m never complimenting you again

Touya: Shame

Touya: Loved the attention from you

You: hahahahaha SSSHSHHHH

October 26th

1:30pm

You: hey mr Todoroki 

Touya: Never call me that

You: Touya!!

You: can we meet after school plz I now have training at lunch

You: im sorry dont hate me

Touya: 😒

You: IM SORRY 🙏 ILL BUY US FOOD 

Touya: We can’t the labs r shut today after school 

You: shit

You: wait u can come round mine my parents aren’t home

Touya: 😏

You: okay u perv calm down

Touya :🙄

You: are we only communicating in emojis now…?

Touya: 🙂‍↕️

You: yeah all those fumes from the lab have gotten to ur head

You: I’ll send u my address then 🙈

October 26th

10:07 pm

You: u left ur coat here idiot

Touya: Fuck

You: ur leather coat… EMO ASS

Touya: Fuck u I’m not emo

You: I know what you are..

Touya: Stfu

You: dw I’ll bring it for u tomoz 😝

October 27th

9:27 am

Touya: Did u wear my coat

You: erm no….

Touya: Y/N

You: SORRY I GOT COLD ON MY WAY TO SCHOOL

Touya: It’s fine dw

You: r u sure

Touya: Smells like u now

You: my ariana grande mod vanilla???

Touya: Smells like shit

You: flip u

October 29th

1:47pm

You: TOUYAAAA OMG OMG

Touya: Yes

You: I TRIED THE GLOVES THEY R SO SO PERF

Touya: Really

You: YES they can handle heat sm better than just my hands

Touya: And theres no delay when ur shooting stuff?

You: nope they r litch perfect

Touya: Good

Touya: I was scared the exoskeleton under the second layer would mess with the haptics

You: yes talk nerdy to me🤤

Touya: Stfu

You: LMAO

You: but seriously i love them thank u sm

Touya: Dont worry about it

Touya: I’ll finish up the essay then we should be done

You: okay when do u wanna meet

Touya: Its cool i dont need help with the essay

You: yh but i wanna come anyway

Touya: Sorry forgot ur obsessed with me

You: NO

Touya: Come by after school

You: see u there 🙈

October 31st

9:07 pm

You: Touyaaaaaaaaa

You: are u going to hawks halloween party

Touya: Yh

You: OMG SAME

You: what r u wearing

You: im going as gumball and my friend is going as darwin 🐟

You: *photo attachment*

Touya: Why’d you make gumball hot

You: LMAO

You: thank u thank u

Touya: Im going as ghostface

Touya: *image attachment*

You: woah

You: sexy 😍

Touya: I always look sexy

You: narcisist much

Touya: Spelling much

You: SHUSH

You: I guess I’ll see u there then x

Touya: I guess you will 

November 1st

1:07am

You: touya

You: enu busy

You: r u bauy 

You: busy

Touya: I’m at a party 

You: UE STILL HERE

You: can. U plz drive me home daewin is making out with hawks

You: and she was m Trude

You: m sorry if ur having fun ill uber

Touya: Nah don’t worry sweetheart 

Touya: Meet me out front

You: hthank u sm

November 1st

12:09 pm

You: OMFG my head is killling me

Touya: Ur a very touchy drunk you know that

You: oh god

You: I’m so embarrassed plz forget everything that happened

Touya: I’ll try 

You: the worst part is EYE dont even remember

Touya: U wanna be reminded?

You: NO.

You: let me live in my ignorance

Touya: Whatever you say sweetheart

You: OMFG wait ur coat is here again

You: it smells like cigarettes yk

Touya: It’s almost like i smoke

You: EWWW 

You: Hello lung cancer 😒

November 4th

4:16 pm

You: Touya r u busy rn

Touya: No

You: come get food with me I’m bored and hungry

Touya: Ok

You; OKG that easy 🤑 

Touya: Ur paying 

You: :/

November 9th

1:07 pm

You: *video attachment*

You: GLOVE SIN ACTION

Touya: Is that u falling on ur ass at the end

You: FUCK I FORGOT TI CROP THE VIDEO

Touya: These r the heroes of our future

You: YH the hero YOU are designing tech for 😒

November 10th

2:08 am

Touya: R u awake 

Touya: Y/N

You: why is ur ass up we got school tomorrow 😒

Touya: I’m going Taco Bell do u wanna come with me

You: OMG YH

You: wait y r u going Taco Bell at two am

Touya: Hungry

Touya: Icl I’m high as fuck rn

You: LMAOOO

November 13th

11:40pm

You: *image attachment*

You: do u like my house

Touya: Grown ass hero playing mc

Touya: Go train

You: NO BRO I got my ass beat today 

Touya: Lock in 

You: *image attachment*

You: my cats Hamzah and Martin 

You: if ykyk

Touya: R u playing on bedrock

You: yes

Touya: Add me

You: YAY

November 14th

10:45 am

Touya: Who did that to you

You: huh

Touya: Ur face

Touya: The bruise

You: WTF where r u

Touya: In the same hallway as u

You: omg hey

You: I told u last night I got my ass beat

Touya: Tf who did that to u

You: TetsuTetsu.. he kinda got mad I was pissing him off when we were sparring 😭

Touya: So he punches u in the face

You: it’s fine nothing I can’t handle

Touya: Ok

November 14th 

2:34 pm

You: OMF 

You: Tetsu just came and apologised to me 🙈 

Touya: Good

You: he said he overreacted omg like

You: character development??

Touya: Sure

Touya: Get off ur phone in class

You: yes sir 😒

Touya: Hot

You: EW

November 15th

2:50pm

You: we r going cinema after school plz

You: and watching mickey 17 cause I wanna kiss rob pattinson

Touya: 😒 

You: Don’t play with me

You: he’s so fine

Touya: Yeah ik in twilight

You: ????

Touya: I have a sister

You: omg touya lore unlocked 🙏

Touya: Never speaking again 

You: SHUT UP HOE

November 18th

5:07 pm

Touya: *image attachment*

Touya: Get online 

You: WTF

You: OUT THE SWORD DOWN

You: LEAVE MY CATS LONE

Touya: Dabi_24 has invited you to play Minecraft!

Touya: Time is ticking sweetheart

You: WAIT IM ATASCJOOL I WAS TRUANING

You: GIMEE TWNTY MINS

Touya: Fine

November 20th

1:40 am

You: do u think we all have soulmates that r like our perfect romantic partner 

You: with the red thread and all that 

You: and that we’ll meet them one day no matter how long it takes

Touya: Hm

Touya: Idk love is overrated

You: u really think so?

Touya: Sometimes

Touya: Not always

You: cryptic….

Touya: Why do u ask

You: no reason I’m up late and contemplating life 🩷

You: and I just watched Your name

Touya: Goat movie

You: IKR

November 21st

11:05 am

Touya: *image attachment*

You: OMG U GOT AN A

You: WELL DONE

Touya: We got an A

You: AWW

You: SO CUTE

Touya: Ew

You: I hope they remark that and give u an F

Touya: Wanna go celebrate at lunch 

Touya: School ends early today

You: YEAHHH

You: let’s go to the mall 😏😏😏

Touya: Okay

You: WOOO

November 21st

1:09 pm

You: I’ll meet u outside the food court when I’m done

Touya: Why can’t I come with 🙁

You: ur ass is NOT coming into Victoria’s Secret with me

Touya: Trust I know bras really well

You: NO

Touya: Boring

You: I’ll see u later slime

Touya: Kk

Touya: Then lets go to that record shop

You: yes yes

November 21st

1:21 pm

Touya: Y/N

Touya: You need to get out there’s a villain

Touya: Y/N

Missed call

Touya: Y/N please

Missed call

November 21st

8:12 pm

You: never do that again touya

Touya: Do what

You: don’t put urself in danger like that for me

Touya: But I’m him

You: Touya this isn’t funny you could’ve really hurt yourself

Touya: I’m fine sweetheart 

You: ur in the hoosoifal you are not fine

Touya: I’m in the hospital actually

You: Touya.

Touya: Sorry

Touya: I’m fine and so are you 

Touya: That’s all that matters 

You: ur gonna make me cry

Touya: Don’t cry 

You: okay I guess

Touya: I’m fine

You: ur not fine ur body is covered in bandages bro

You: u weren’t even awake when I was there

You: that ugly nurse kicked me out I was gonna stay

You: ur skin is all burnt she said

You: I didn’t even know u had a quirk

Touya: Well this is why I don’t use it

Touya: My flames r too strong it fucks my skin up

You: I see

You: is that why ur a support student

Touya: Yes

You: okay good 

Touya: Good?

You: well if ur a hero and u hurt yourself what’s the point

You: heroes r overrated anyway

You: and ur good at what u do

You: really good actually

You: and if u weren’t a support student we’d have never met

Touya: U sap

You: says the guy who literally nearly died to save me…

You: now who’s the obsessed one 🙄

Touya: Shut up

Touya: Visiting times start at eight in the morning btw

You: okay good plz don’t be coma ridden this time

Touya: I’ll try

—————————————————————————

Btw it’s acc canon that touya is a alive and well and in the support course btw if u didn’t know

White hair Touya would fix me.. like I’ll fix HIMMM

bro I’ve been ill all week and I have the WORST FUCKIJG HEADACHE EVE it won’t go omg send help

A knee ways I hope u all enjoyed these text posts r my fav to write 🩷

[deepfivetraveller]

King Baldwin x Time!Traveler!reader

chapter 1

Chapter 2 here

Okay I’m a little new to writing romance so please take it easy on me. Btw I’ll try to keep y/n as neutral as possible but since this is set in the ancient era and religion is very important, y/n shall be hinted as being Hindu since that’s the only one that seems neutral in this situation.

“Alright that's all for the lesson. And since its complete I expect all of you to be thorough with ‘Life of King Baldwin iv’ during this weekend since there will be a test on this very topic next wednesday. Have a great weekend by the way.” The professor stands up and closes his laptop and all the other students start packing up.

“He had a pretty hard life didn’t he?” One of your friends chimes in. You look at her unsurprised. “You mean king Baldwins?”

“Duh! Poor man suffered an incurable disease almost his entire life! Imagine having skin infested in bacteria, euggh!” She recoils in disgust. “Imagine the cure to that disease being bacteria itself! Pretty sure Leprosy can be cured using multi antibiotic therapy.” Another friend joins in the conversation. You finished packing up your bag so you get up. “But no matter what, you gotta respect him. He never used his illness as an excuse to be a bad king.”

“That’s true….” Your first friend agrees. “He’s tough. When I catch a normal cold I give up all of my responsibilities since I’m sick. Wonder how hard it must have been for him.” All of you exit the classroom. A few minutes go by and topics have changed. A fun conversation lasted for a while before it was time to go, so you three parted ways.

As you entered your home your first thought was to take a cold shower after a long, hot and sweaty day. While eagerly hopping into the shower you get reminded of the conversation you had with your friends a while ago. What did king Baldwin even look like? There were no images in your textbook. Curiosity got the best of you, making you draw back the shower curtains to leave. You wrapped a towel and went towards the table where you kept your mobile, typed a quick ‘King Baldwin the 4th images’ and hit enter. Two images popped up. One being an actual painting from the 12th century while the other being an image reconstructed by scientists which looked…realistic to say the least.

His face in the second photo was majestic. His mouth and nose were almost non-existent, having only two triangular shaped holes instead of a nose. His skin was dry, withered and stretched while having the hue of a dry leaf during autumn. Even though he was severely disfigured his eyes were pure and bright, having a child like innocence towards them. King Baldwin was…Quite handsome.

Okay that’s enough now snap out of it! It’s probably just some AI prompt message image anyway. If anyone found out you found him handsome they’d call you crazy. Plus now is not the time to fangirl over a dead king, now's the time to study. In an attempt to distract yourself you pick up your books to do work. Hours painfully go by as you study but finally, finally it was bedtime. You could care less about eating dinner or even taking a shower, you plop yourself onto your bed and wrap the soft blanket around your body. Thoughts about King Baldwin strike your mind again. Seriously, what's wrong with you?! Why is this man plaguing your thoughts all day?

A sigh escaped your mouth from irritation. If only it was possible to console him for his losses or better yet, cure him entirely. The world would have been a better place if he had the lifespan of a normal man.

But there is no point thinking about this, time to go to bed now. As you try to go to sleep your body keeps doing the fake fall thing, annoying you to the core. And finally when your bodys heartbeat was steady and your breathing was quiet, your body did that fake fall thing again but this time it was actually a real fall.

Eyes widen as you try to grab onto the air to prevent your fall but of course, you fail. Adrenaline rushes through your veins for that split second before you finally make an impact on the cobblestone path?

Owch! That fall really hurt, especially at the back of your shoulders! You hope it’s not bruised there. But after that reality check, you look around only to find yourself in some village?

You can see a few small huts and buildings beyond the grassy field. Where are you? How are you here? Why are you here? Too confused and dazed from the fall, you try to look around for people for help. That is until a holographic screen with text pops up.

Congratulations Ms. Y/n. Your wish to cure King Baldwin has been approved by the ₦ł₥฿Ʉ₴฿₳Ʉ₦Ʉ₴. You are now at Jerusalem, Year: 1181.

“What?”

Yes it’s true Ms.Y/n, you really are in the 12th century.

Your blood is now boiling in anger. “Just because….Someone wishes pity over a dead king DOES NOT ACTUALLY MEAN THEY WANT TO CURE HIM!” You try to grab onto the screen to shake it vigorously but your hands go right thru.

Now now, let’s calm down and try to get over with this together I’m sure we’ll find a solution.

“Calm down…CALM DOWN?!?!?!? I’m in the middle of nowhere in Jerusalem during the 12th century and you want me to CALM DOWN???? I don’t even know French and not to mention I’M NOT CHRISTIAN!” You were screaming with your hand in the air. Pretty sure you woke someone up.

Y-Yes but that’s why I’m here. Don’t worry about communication, the language module for french had been uploaded into your brain while you fell here.

The screen flickers a little, maybe due to fear.

Uploaded knowledge? “But I’m a woman from the 21st century! I can’t live here! I’m wayy to accustomed to the privileges of my time!”

That’s one of my perks miss! By using currency of this time you may purchase products of your time thru me! The screen changes to an online store. For now you have access to basic necessities like food and clothes. As you complete missions you shall unlock other parts of the online market! The screens display brightness increases due to enthusiasm, convinced it has impressed you.

You however look at it in exasperated shock. “How is this even possible?” You say with dread in your voice. “Who sent me here?” You ask, no, demand.

Like I said You’ve been sent here by ₦ł₥฿Ʉ₴฿₳Ʉ₦Ʉ₴. I’m pretty sure you can’t read that since mortals don’t have the capacity to….

Mortals? Is this the play of some higher being? God even? Too many questions float through your head, making you visibly tired. You can feel the bottom of the skin beneath your eyes folding, an indicator you’re developing dark circles.

Ah. It looks like you’re tired. It’s night anyway. You should sleep.

“But where do I-”

“Excuse me madam.” You turn around to see a man standing behind you. “I’ve noticed you’ve been talking to yourself.”

So he can’t see the screen. From his ragged outfit he seems to be a commoner. He also genuinely seems worried so you guess it wouldn’t hurt to ask for help.

“Yes, sorry for that.” You say embarrassingly while you get up. “You see I’m from the family of wandering traders, here to sell spices from my land. I was talking to myself since I was quite irritated at how I didn’t have an inn for the night.” The explanation seems responsible enough I guess.

“But I don’t see any goods with you… And how did a young lady such as yourself travel alone? Where is your husband?”

Crap. He’s doubting you. You need to give him a reasonable explanation fast or he’ll call you a witch or something.

“Oh no sir you’re mistaken! My father is the one who has the spices, it’s his business after all. We had to split ways during travel due to inconveniences, I’m merely here to help him!” You put on your best smile to convince him.

“O-Oh I’m sorry madame! H-Here let me lead you, I know an Inn nearby.” Good. Looks like he believes you. But now it’s your turn.

“I’m sorry sir but how can I trust you?” You step back a little. “What if you take advantage of me? How shall I testify my innocence? The locals would definitely believe you over me.”

“No no please don’t! I’m a married man. My wife’s right there.” he points at the lady standing just outside the house, looking worried. You look at her and she nods her head in reassurance. “You seem like a noble from your land madame judging from your colorful dress, why don’t the both of us show you where the inn is?”

Hmm….Guess colorful clothing is rare here. And he really does seem like he wants to help.

“Very well then. Both of you show me they way.” The man eagerly tells his wife the incident and both of them show you around. The screen follows you, showing you a winking emoticon.

Congrats Ms. Y/n! You have officially begun your first mission!

[moonveiltarot]

How Do You Intimidate Your Haters?

Okayyy let's go! As usual, pick the image you're drawn to for your reading. Only take what applies. This is not advice and I am not a professional. You can change anything by manifesting what you prefer. You are a beautiful soul. I use my unpublished bratz oracle deck. Entertainment only.

Profanity.

Minors do not interact or read.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　˚　.　　　　　 . ✦

This should be juicy!

Sorry for the het terms, it's just what naturally came out, please use the pronouns that fit if it resonates with you

"Bitches want you to compete with them so bad. Bitch it's YOU against YOU & you're still losing! LEAVE ME ALONE."

Songs: Miss Possessive - Tate McRae // Exes - Tate McRae

Cards: Monster. Victim. Power Couple. Femme Fatale. Innocent. Hometowns. The Intellectual. Daydreamer. Tattletale. The Moon. Leap of Faith.

The "leap of faith" card looks like it has been chewed up and spit out. Considering the other cards, I'm getting the vibe that someone misunderstood the assignment. While you, pile 1, understood it very well.

You are perfect at playing the role of an innocent bystander or a harmless person, but someone made a mistake and saw what you were capable of. You have your haters saying you a split personality because, whatever they did to push you over the edge was enough to make your nice girl facade disappear. Immediately, they saw the horrors that lurk within and do NOT want to experience it again.

Some of you may have been in a situation where you were innocent and acted like "bait" just to expose someone's true colors. It worked. Your haters are watching and waiting for you to slip up and show them your ugly side, but they will never see it. They are too scared to provoke you to that point.

Whatever the situation was, it made you stronger. You know how to play the role strategically and get your way, whatever that means.

You probably have an ex saying you're crazy and they may actually have gotten a new partner to believe you are crazy. The truth is, you are fucking crazy when you have to be. They could never get you out of character though.

In fact, you probably staged a situation so your ex would harm or abuse you in a way that you could finally record it or get them to do it in front of someone, so you would be believed. Even though you may have strategized to exploit this side to them, they had already been this way to you. You did what you had to. And that is incredibly badass, to be honest.

Now, their reputation is ruined and yours? Glowing! Because you are a venus fly trap, darling. So alluring, so easy to get one over on, but wait! You were two steps ahead the whole time? And now everyone who tried to set you up essentially failed and now everyone's looking at them crazy.

2. "The 'loser' in you is so loud."

Songs: The Boy Is Mine - Ariana Grande // Von Dutch - Charli XCX

Cards: Gifts. Self Care. Victim. F*ck-Boi. Saboteur. King of cups. 6 of Cups. Knight of Swords. 3 of Swords. 6 of Swords.

Oof. Somebody, a little pathetic player, tried to come between you and your boo. You have something solid already and they really thought they could steal your partner away?? Or steal you from your partner? If that's not the case, this is an ex who is comparing themself to your new relationship.

He knows this King of Cups is "big daddy" vibes because he can see that you are being treated the way you always should have been. Flowers, dates, romance, love. You're being cherished and valued. You are up-leveling yourself and have more offers.

This man-child is feeling like a real clown. They are embarrassed and feel like they aren't up to your standards anymore. This loser from the past is really plotting to or heavily fantasizing about home wrecking.

They are taking your boundaries personally (their problem). What a creep.

Your new person probably victimized them or bullied them in some way. Ngl, that made me laugh. Imagine your new partner bullying your toxic ex and just walking away. lmao

Anyway, you could also be victimizing them. It is breaking their heart, if you were wondering. They are crying all the time about it, but won't let you see. Unless they are one of those toxic, whiny crazy ones. Yikes.

Played the player, pile 2. Now that your energy is going to yourself, this op can't stand it.

3. "Why fight a b*tch when you're already beating her in life?"

Songs: American Beauty - Nessa Barrett

Cards: Queen of Swords. Ace of Cups. 6 of Swords. The Moon. Queen of Wands. 3 of Wands. Cheater, Cheater. Baddie. Blocked. Divine Couple. Trophy Wife. Rabbit hole.

You are incredibly gorgeous. Your haters don't trust their partners around you. They know their partners talk in the group chat about how hot you are. They know their partner would love to spend with you or talk to you. It's giving "fan / simp" energy. They know their partner doesn't simp for them like they do for you.

This is kind of sad … They have insecurities. They probably had to block you because of how beautiful you are. That or they had their man block you.

On the other hand, once you find out men in your DMs have someone you cut them off cold. This makes them feel a certain type of way.

They get obsessive and stalkerish, though mostly they just search for you online with no intent to harm you. The "cold cut-off" is what does it. They like that little bitchy side you have.

Your haters are the men who can't get you to cheat with them. You are the kind of woman bad boys want on their arm. You make them simp for you and meanwhile they are stringing along some "good girl" who has never been used like this before.

You are the woman every man wants. While you have a hood-side to you, you've got that under wraps.

You are polished, well put together, on top of your shit, could be an entrepreneur or witch (idk, don't ask me it just came through) and that badass side to you is simmering just beneath your carefully curated surface. You are polite and diplomatic.

Let's be honest here, you are the prize. Men view you as what they really want vs their current woman who is just a placeholder.

You may deal with guy friends blocking you out of nowhere. This is their women blocking you when they find out their man was in your DMs or was even your friend.

You're at the top of the "sexual desire" hierarchy. You are considered an accomplished person who looks very attractive. You literally could have your pick of anyone on the planet. Men / fans / simps / women / anyone who you attract can get a little delusional and sick about you.

They might spend hours and hours of their day just spaced out fantasizing about a real life with you. They could end up neglecting their own life because of how much they think about you.

This is their problem with you. You win. They literally can't fucking compete. Cheerleader, prom queen, pageant queen … you name it. You're considered gorgeous and accomplished by many.

To be honest, no one likes to feel that all of the love and nurturing they poured into someone will go out the window the moment they think they have a chance with you. Nobody.

The partners of these "fans" feel beneath you and it hurts them, it cuts deep, that if you chose to take their man they'd be helpless and have to sit there and watch their life walk away. The fact that you aren't evil makes it worse for them because then they have to sit on pins and wondering if you'd ever actually do it.

Their chest aches when they go to sleep, they cry themselves to sleep sometimes beside the same partner who waits until they think their girl is asleep then goes on their phone and looks at pics or vids of you.

You could have one ex who watched your come up from a distance and can't reach you now, but is longing for you despite having a family and maybe even kids.

They desire you, but do they even have what it takes to stand beside you? They just objectify you and it's sickening how they act. If they are blocked, good. If not, they can die mad just watching from the sidelines.

Some of these people / your ex (whichever scenario resonates) believe strongly you were supposed to be their wifey/hubby/partner for life. Their dream partner. Their partner in crime. They think they would gain the world if you were by their side. They want the lifestyle that comes with having a beautiful woman like you.

4. "People do weird sh*t, then go to a weirdo to get it validated."

Songs: Leah Kate - Get In Loser // F U Anthem - Leah Kate // Leaving This World Behind - Starset Cards: Spoiled Brat. Anger Issues. Hidden Enemy. Divine Feminine. Mentor. 2 of Pentacles. Page of Wands. 5 of Cups. 8 of Swords. Queen of Swords. The lovers.

I'm picking up a clown show. This isn't the kind of fuckery that makes me cringe or want to bully said "clowns." It's cute. It makes me giggle.

Anyway, because you are attractive, you have a "player" in his head. You confuse him. You're free spirited and just do your own thing. Like a manic pixie dream girl meets a meathead who is actually goofy and cute. He's kind of an asshole though.

He sees you living your life after he did something mean and is spiraling a bit. Good leave him there. You're not going to like what I have to say probably, but you're in love with each other. You both are "players," not quick to get attached or anything. Living your life just for you and having as much fun as possible.

This person is in their head. Why did their games not work on you? If they bullied you, why in the Hell did it not work on you?

Like, they literally asked someone if doing "insert their stupid action" was a good idea and that person was dismissive as fuck, but it went over your person's head. "Yeah…" was pretty much the response and for some reason that's the only validation your person needed.

They wanted to conform to something and did it, but saw that it had no effect on you. Sure their buddies might have laughed about it, but you? You just kept on going (at least it looked that way to them). Now they know you view them a certain way because your cute little self just kept on trucking and brushed it off like he was nothing.

Suddenly, out of no-fricking-where he has feelings for you. He tells himself he doesn't. He likes to be the impulsive one. But then you happened. He saw you just overcome that shit like it was nothing. Like he was nothing. He got to see a good person be done wrong because of him. He feels so stupid and embarrassed by his own actions. He'd never say it out loud.

You wouldn't either. You're a dreamer and a doer. You kind of like to go where the wind takes you. You can be impulsive too, which leads to really good times. But then the other person has withdrawals.

Your person casually did this to others and didn't give a fuck, but then they met you. Your vibrant, bright and fun energy was like medicine for their soul. Then you took it away. All the sparkles just disappeared. The magic was gone. You took it with you.

You two could be really great friends, like actual besties. Because you both give the "funny, cute oddball" couple energy (without the couple). You might currently view each other as enemies outwardly, but the truth is that you're both in love. The lovers was on the bottom of the deck and I almost didn't turn it over. When I did I felt incredibly relieved.

You could definitely end up together. Or this is someone who will play a key part in finding your someone somewhere. The truth is, they are just like you, but they crave the validation of others and conform way too easily.

They want to be respected and admired, they want to be a leader. They could do it, but they won't stop trying to win over others. They want fame, they want money. Their aim is to be one of those people others wish they were.

This is their divine path, but they have to overcome the fear of being judged by people who only use them and don't value them anyway. As long as they are surrounded by toxic people, they will absorb that shit.

You intimidate them because they secretly fucking wish you were their wifey. They want you. But they aren't ready yet to cut off the other people in their lives. You set a hard boundary and act like they don't exist. They may have psychic abilities too, but never talk about it because they don't want to be viewed as a "weirdo" which they have probably called you. For shamelessly being yourself and surviving what you've been through.

This person is as cute and sweet as you are in a "higher perspective" kind of way. I am seeing that now, you're so inspiring to them and made them realize they didn't want to go down this path anymore. They want to change, but their greed and materialism still has a strong hold on them. Something about parents, trauma and abandonment is coming through.

They were thrown into the world to navigate it on their own. They learned some tough lessons on the way, some of those leading to them having to shut off their emotions. They had to do toxic, sick things to get attention.

His past self is holding on for dear life, but eventually (not yet, as he's still gotta face some more consequences) he will learn and move out of this behavior. You will cross paths again in the future. For now, follow your bliss and do what brings you joy. One day you will be so happy with where your life leads you with them.

They are toxic, I know. Please don't ask me to judge them. You're both such cutie pies. I just can't… because I can see that there is a future here. They view you as an inspiration. You are who they wish to become. You are attractive, cool and loner. But you're not bitter or mean.

You are smart. You are strategic. You look like you just don't give af about others and their opinions and that you're happy-go-lucky all the time. The truth is, you've been through what they have and you still chose a brighter path. You chose those lessons and learned them. You're vibrant and strong. Your soul is fully present in your body.

He knows you deserve the whole entire world because you are pure. He knows you love him. You both know, don't you? And no one is saying anything. This is a little sad. He isn't ready or willing to give up his life yet. Whatever he did to you, there is one far worse who will do it to them. His journey isn't important right now though.

He's intimidated because you played the player, you turned the tables then left. Like poof and then he was left with his mind reeling. Like, you literally duped the meanest bully on the playground. He might feel a little vengeful, but the divine is stopping this shit if he tries it again. He already tried once and failed.

You're basically equals in opposite ways. If you're a clown it's because you know how to put on a good show and entertain everyone. His clown show would end in someone getting amputated.

He is so fucking baffled. Like why and how is he attracted to a "weirdo" like you? Little does he know, you're leading him. He wants to teach you some lessons too! But they're mean and he can go kick rocks. Or his clown friends.

He knows you're his counterpart and his mind is blown. Like to pieces. He also communicates with you telepathically.

5. "I can't tell if you btches hate me or want to live in my pssy."

Songs: Purple Lace Bra - Tate McRae // Dirty Little Secret - Nessa Barrett // Sports Car - Tate McRae

Cards: Spiritual Journey. Divine Masculine. Pacifist. Green Light. Unexpected Twist. Heartbroken. The Tower. The Devil. Ace of Pentacles. King of Pentacles. The World. Death.

You were set on a Divine Masculine's path. You were such a temptation to them that they would have left their current committed partner for you.

They are on their spiritual journey and it's his lesson. I'm seeing that you weren't scorned, but rather shut things down yourself because of this masculine's partner. He probably turned to you or tried to turn to you in his weakest moments because he is having problems at home. His partner / wife has done a return to sender on him.

You were caught up in this. You were sent to break this man's heart because he hurt hers. She chose not to physically harm anyone in the situation and let the chips fall where they may.

I'm feeling like you aren't heartbroken at all. This man did someone that pissed off the divine, something he knew would make him feel guilty and hurt his partner. Now they're both hurting!

You were the greatest temptation this man has ever met and now it's over forever. He really embarrassed himself because now people are talking about it.

He is being judged by the divine and the locals. Ouch.

When you entered his life you were such a shock to this person. He's intimidated because he's scared he will face divine judgement if he steps out on his wife with you. He's intimidated because he knows you are a lesson, but he wants you. He saw an opportunity and took it.

Oof. Oh well. A lesson he has to learn.

Toodles, loser~! Pile 5 is doing perfectly fine. It's over now. You learned whatever you needed to, got your coin and bounced. You don't even need him, haha!

He and his partner can pick up the pieces. This is literally over. He doesn't like that. The end was very shocking when you pulled away forever. He and current partner have to "endure" and get through this together. I would have left his stupid ass but anyway this ain't my reading

6. "One of the best feelings is when you finally say 'I deserve better' and the universe starts conspiring to prove you right."

Songs: Bitter - Fletcher, Kito // Cate's Brother - Maisie Peters

Cards: The Sun. 6 of Cups. Queen of Pentacles. The Hierophant. Strength. Judgement. Ace of Cups. Phoenix Rising. Seeking Revenge. Neurodiverse. Victim. Karmic Feminine. F*ck-boi.

You may have a crush on someone who is definitely crushing back. They have a girlfriend though, this person who has feelings for you. In fact, you may have been innocent in this.

Like completely innocent. You aren't malicious at all and you probably don't acknowledge social hierarchies.

Because this person didn't tell you they had a partner, you may have been labeled a boyfriend stealer.

After you found out, you probably hired someone to cast a breakup spell or did one yourself. If not, it's cool. You may have good astrology with this fuck boy. He was playing you and just wanted to use you.

Now, his ex-girlfriend is single, you left him in the dust. He's the one feeling intimidated.

The karmic feminine is still hating, but now the masculine is feeling incredibly guilty for what he did to you. You're still going through your transformation and he knows you're going to be out of his league.

You decided to stop letting him string you along. You have a strong sense of self and wanted better. You deserve better than whatever he was trying to do. He might have made you think he'd be in a relationship with you.

You had to make a difficult decision, but you did it. It hurt for a while, but now you're in your "I'm doing me" revenge era. Welcome to the dark side! You're still as sweet and lovable as before, but now you're more wise. You know what you deserve and you are taking it all for yourself with a vengeance.

The karmic feminine may have made her presence known or something. Especially after watching him toy with you. She may have even encouraged him to do it. That or she got tired of him cheating and broke up with him. Either way, this man is a joke and he's hating on you for knowing what you deserve. An immature ass-hat to be certain.

You could be into the craft and have done a protection or return-to-sender that bit them in the ass. You could have just prayed to the angels or the universe (or whatever protects you) and asked for them to help you move on and forget this fool. To make them see what they did. To watch you glow up and move on. To know how irrelevant they are.

Good job for doing better! You absolutely deserve it, beautiful. <3

7. "Bitches do NOT intimidate me at all. I'll sit right next a person who doesn't like me. Hey girl!"

Songs: Say It - Tori Lanez // Daisy - Ashnikko // Venom - Little Simz

Cards: Baby witch. Wounded Feminine. Wounded Masculine. Solitary witch. Wifey. Sadist. Seeking Revenge. Strength. 7 of Pentacles. The Lovers. Knight of Cups. 6 of Swords. Justice.

You found out someone wanted you to feel unwelcome or did some action against you. You somehow made it very well known that you don't take that shit sitting down.

You inserted yourself into this hater's personal space or got a little too close for their comfort.

They see you as competition and they were trying to trash you or sabotage you. If they didn't they want to. You somehow found out and stood up for yourself.

You interjected yourself into their space and let them know just where you stand with them.

You trigger a lot of insecurities in this person.

They don't have anything to say suddenly when you're around, but there is tense energy between you. And silence. You are the type to look them in the eye and dare them to lie on your name right in front of you.

Shortest pile, but to the point. This person is just beginning a path that you already know and can do alone. They are still learning and know you could help them or hurt them. So they tried to destroy you / your reputation / your relationship/s.

8. "You're a little too comfortable running your mouth because no one has checked your sh*t yet. Come over here and do it."

Songs: STFU - Pink Guy // One of Us - The Word alive // Lucifer - Eminem

Cards: 10 of Pentacles. 4 of Pentacles. 8 of Cups. 4 of Cups. The Sun. The Hierophant. Death. Seeking Revenge. Wounded Masculine. Protection. Divine Daughter. Spoiled Brat. Dark Feminine.

Your hater is intimidated by how chill and abundant you are. You have so much going for you and you have wisdom.

They may have said they would fight you and all that, but when you actually showed up, radio silence.

Now they know not to run their fucking mouth unless they want to say it to your face.

I'm feeling like this is a triggered ex that is running their mouth to trash you or ruin your reputation. The divine is protecting you from this.

The fact that you are protected from their schemes makes them feel very intimidated by you. You have so much, but it looks like it is just handed to you.

It makes them feel stolen from. It makes their sense of lack all the more obvious.

They think you just get things and are God's favorite while they have to suffer, slave and work hard for anything they get.

They also feel the need to assert their masculinity over you.

You just sit there unbothered as fuck and pleasant to interact with and it just triggers them. You are the favorite. It could even be a sibling who is competing with you.

You're obviously the favorite.

You use your dark feminine qualities to get what you want and they hate that about you. People like you and this person feels like they need to expose you.

Please don't steal! I hope it was good? I wish I could get more energy for this reading. <3

[misshoneyimhome]

What's up buttercups ♥️

We’re almost there—the second final chapter of the series. And really, what says true love more than a little cross-checking? Sometimes, a good hit is exactly what it takes to knock sense into our favourite couple 😉

As always, I hope you enjoy the chaos, the emotions, and everything in between. Happy reading, darlings ♥️

Tropes & warnings: inexperienced!reader x Auston Matthews, meet cute, strangers to friends, fake relationship, language

Word count: 7.8k Chapter one ; Chapter two ; Chapter three ; Chapter four ; Chapter five ; Chapter six ; Chapter seven ; Chapter eight ; Chapter nine; Chapter ten; Chapter eleven; Chapter twelve; Chapter thirteen ; Chapter fourteen; Chapter fifteen; Chapter sixteen ; Chapter seventeen

Some who might have interest: @hockeybabe87 @tonyspep @thesecretestblogever @delayed-delusions @kurlyteuvo @emsdevs

➼｡ﾟ

Chapter eighteen: Checkmate

::

“Dearest Toronto,

Did you really think I wouldn’t see it?

That I’d miss the flick of his gaze at the gala? October 20th—mark it, frame it, tattoo it across your chest. The beginning of the greatest performance this city’s seen since 1967.

He touched her waist like they’d rehearsed it. She leaned in like she’d practised the smile. The camera flash caught everything—but so did I. Hidden in the blur of velvet gowns and highball glasses. Just out of sight. Just in reach.

The Queen dressed to impress. The Ice King with his mask of profession. The pose too perfect. The kiss too close. And suddenly, poof—a couple born, headlines drafted, narratives spun tighter than Auston Matthews’ top line.

You didn’t see me then. You never do. But I’ve always been here. Watching. Waiting. Connecting the dots, you tried so hard to keep apart.

Like the physio room kiss—yes, that kiss. Tiled walls. Locker room echo. One jersey sleeve half-off. The air so thick with tension I nearly choked on it through a wall. You think security cameras miss things? I don’t. I see everything.

Or that morning she left his building in a hoodie three sizes too big—for those playing along. You really think that kind of domesticity hides well behind tinted windows?

There’s a pattern here, Toronto. A pulse.

From the first dog walk. Felix leading, Auston trailing, our Queen looking a little too comfortable for someone “new” to his life. No paps, no press. Just one woman—me—with a long lens and an excellent sense of timing. Oh, and my little songbirds of course. They never fail me. Feeding me with just enough content to continue the saga. 

Then the first game night. WAG suite. Pink lipstick. One laugh too loud when the Leafs scored. Auston on the ice, but eyes in the crowd. Don’t believe me? Zoom in on Getty Image #374920. Third row. That look? It’s not part of the playbook.

Next one? She meets the team. Post-game hallway banter. Mitch chirping. Nylander watching too closely. A brushed knuckle here. A muttered “you did good” there. The play was still on. But so was something else.

Moving on – The first kiss. In his car after that dinner in Ossington. Fogged windows. Fingers twisted. A moment too raw to be scripted. And yet—they both kept pretending.

Pretending so well it became real. That’s the cruel twist, isn’t it?

They thought they were playing me. Or you. Or maybe just the media. A neat little PR stunt to distract from October losses and career plateaus. One well-timed gala appearance, and suddenly she’s the face in every crowd shot, every recap.

But it was me who made people look at you. Me who whispered into inboxes, stirred the speculation, sharpened the angles. You’re welcome.

Because without me? She’s just a ghost in corporate heels. He’s just a player riding a streak. Together? They’re a story. My story.

You think the photos leaked themselves? You think the sauna scene—the record—just magically found its way onto gossip threads? No, darling. That was surveillance. And not the government kind.

There was the family dinner—hers. The stiff posture at the table. Her mother dissecting Auston like he was under lab glass. The moment she touched his thigh beneath the tablecloth. You think love looks like roses and violins? No. It looks like fear and fire under flickering chandelier light.

His low games. Her first viral photo with another man—Ryan. Coincidence? Maybe. But Auston’s post-game stats dropped harder than his jaw in that parking garage.

The charity event aftermath. Her hands shaking when she thought no one was looking. His fingers brushing hers like they were still on stage. The kiss they shared behind the curtains when the crowd clapped for someone else.

And now? Now the illusion fractures.

Because someone finally asked: what’s real and what’s marketing? Was it ever love—or was it leverage?

Well, let me ask you this:

If the kiss in the tunnel wasn’t real…

If the breakfast with Ema wasn’t real…

If the sauna, the physio room, the car kiss, the hallway breakdown, the post-game tension, the WAG suite laughter, the ice-pack apology, the bruised-knuckle defence, the borrowed hoodie, the crying-in-the-dark honesty—if all of that wasn’t real…

Then why did he punch a man in front of his teammates to protect her?

Why did she keep coming to the rink like her heart had forgotten what fake meant?

You can’t rehearse that kind of reaction.

You can’t PR-spin a bloodied lip and a whispered thank you’s.

And yet, despite it all—they should be thanking me.

I gave them the audience. The stage. The lights. I curated the myth and fed it just enough truth to keep you salivating. They basked in the glow of the fire I started.

And now they’re crying about the burn. Poor unfortunate souls…

Every queen’s gambit leads to one final play.

And this? This is Checkmate.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

_

Wednesday –

You woke to the sound of chaos—not a fire alarm or sirens, but the insistent, endless thrill of your phone buzzing against the nightstand like it was possessed.

6:41 a.m.

You blinked against the pale morning light; body tangled in sheets you didn’t remember curling into. For a split second, everything was still normal. Quiet. Warm. Then you rolled over, picked up your phone, and saw the screen:

91 unread messages. 84 missed calls. 321 app notifications.

Twitter. Instagram. X. Threads. Slack. Even LinkedIn.

Your heart skipped once. Then twice. Then dropped.

The first text was from Jess.

Jess: Call me. Now.

The second from Maya.

Maya: Um. Holy shit. Are you okay??

The third—

Unknown Number: You’re trending. And not in a good way.

You didn’t have to ask why. Your thumb hovered over Safari, over Instagram. But in the end, it was the Twitter feed—no, X feed now, whatever—that gave you the truth.

#Fakemance

#MatthewsPRGirlfriend

#TheBenchwarmerWasRight

There were screenshots everywhere. Blurry photos. Grainy captures. Comment sections filled with popcorn emojis and armchair analysts combing through your life like it was an unsolved crime.

📸 Gala: You in that outfit. Auston’s hand on your waist. That smile.

📸 WAG Suite: You laughing too hard at something Stephanie said. Auston glancing up at you mid-shift.

📸 Physio Room Rumour: A shot from the side of a hallway. Half a doorframe. Half a jersey. A knowing caption.

“She wasn’t even trying to hide it lmao.”

“He’s definitely in on it. Look at the hand placement.”

“They think we’re blind??”

 And then the ones that weren’t supposed to exist.

One of you slipping out of Auston’s condo. Hoodie-draped. Sleep-flattened hair.

One of the sauna, the corner of your leg—pixelated, cropped, and horrifyingly recognisable.

One of the tunnel, the kiss after Utah. 

Your stomach twisted so violently you sat straight up.

The captions were merciless.

“Staged? Or the worst PR move in hockey history?”

“I love a fake dating trope as much as the next girl, but this ain’t Wattpad.”

“Hope it was worth it. What a loser.”

Instagram comment sections beneath your last work post had turned toxic overnight. Threads dissected your entire timeline, quoting articles, cross-referencing dates. People had matched your outfits to game days, linked you to Auston’s road schedule, theorised about “strategic PDA” and “media manipulation.”

The most viral thread?

A side-by-side of your gala photo and a still of Auston defending you against Chase. The caption read:

“From fake to fists. You can’t write this shit.”

You stood abruptly, nearly knocking over your water glass. The room blurred. Your breathing went shallow.

This wasn’t a rumour anymore. This wasn’t Benchwarmer snark. This was blood in the water—and you were the headline.

So, naturally, you called in sick.

Voice hoarse. Apology half-mumbled. You didn’t even fake a cough. Just said, “Something’s come up,” and hung up before they could ask questions. You barely made it to the bathroom before the nausea hit.

You sat on the cold tile floor, clutching your phone, watching your own life implode in 144-character bursts. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone was certain. And worst of all—someone had seen things they should never have seen.

How did they know about the physio room?

The sauna? The goddamn hallway after the event?

That angle from Auston’s parking garage… how—

Your thoughts spiralled faster than you could control them.

It wasn’t just that the relationship had become complicated. It was that someone had been watching from the start.

Someone who knew where you’d be. When. With whom. Someone who hadn’t just guessed. They’d followed. Your name wasn’t just trending. It was dissected.

Every decision. Every outfit. Every word. Your professionalism was called into question. Your ethics. Your reputation.

Tears burned at the edges of your eyes. You blinked them away. Fast. Fierce. You couldn’t cry. Not yet.

Instead, you crawled back into bed, pulled the covers over your head like they could shield you from the noise, and let yourself whisper the one question you were afraid to ask out loud:

“How long have they been there?”

And the even worse one:

“What do they want next?”

Because this wasn’t a ripple anymore. It was a flood. And you were drowning in it.

_

You almost didn’t show up.

You’d stared at your phone for hours, Jess’s texts unread, the group chat with Aryne, Stephanie, and Estelle hovering like a loaded gun. The last message had been Aryne’s.

Aryne: Some of us are in the lounge before the guys fly out. Thought you might want to say something…

No exclamation mark. No emojis. Just that.

So, you came.

The lounge was quieter than usual��muted televisions droning over SportsCentre highlights, the low hum of conversation trailing off the moment the door clicked shut behind you. You stepped in slowly, every pair of eyes lifting and turning.

Burning.

The room smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and leftover coffee. Light pooled through the skylight above the velvet sofas, casting long shadows on the tile. Sanna sat on the arm of a chair, Stephanie perched upright across from her, Aryne leaning against the counter by the kitchenette. Tessa held her baby tighter than usual, and Estelle didn’t look up at all.

Silence spread like fire.

You opened your mouth, but then closed it again.

But then Stephanie stood with arms crossed, heels clicking against the wooden floor. Her tone was cold. Almost too level. “How long were you going to lie to us?”

Your throat tightened. “I wasn’t lying. I just… didn’t know how to explain. It started out as—”

“A PR stunt,” Tessa cut in, arms folded. “Yeah. We read the blogs.”

Her eyes were sharp, but there was hurt there, too. Not jealousy. Not anger. Just betrayal—sharp-edged and quiet.

“You made us look stupid,” she said flatly. “We defended you. Every time someone said something shitty online. Every time a rumour came up. We backed you.”

Aryne’s jaw was tight. She didn’t speak. Just sipped her water and looked away.

You stepped forward, hands shaking slightly at your sides. “It wasn’t supposed to go this far. I didn’t plan for it to be… whatever it turned into. We both thought it would be short-term. Strategic. Nothing personal.”

“But it did turn personal,” Stephanie said, still standing, still studying you like she was watching something crack open. “Didn’t it?”

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. So, you just nodded.

“It became a mess,” you whispered. “And by then… it was already too late.”

A heavy beat passed before Estelle stood and tucked her phone into her bag. She didn’t say a word as she simply walked out.

Then Aryne. She hesitated just long enough to give you a look—not cruel, not cutting. Just exhausted.

“I liked you,” she murmured. “Still do. But you broke the rule.”

Your brows furrowed. “What rule?”

She gestured around the room. “This. The trust. You don’t fake your way into it. You earn it. And if you don’t… you leave the rest of us exposed.”

Then she followed Estelle out, slow and deliberate.

Tessa leaned back and exhaled through her nose. “You know what hurts the most?”

You waited.

“I wanted you to be different.”

And just like that, one by one, the others drifted off—Sanna with a soft shake of her head, a few awkward murmurs from newer girlfriends you barely knew. Only Stephanie remained.

She studied you for a long moment, expression unreadable, before she said, “The worst part is it’s not even the fake dating. He’s done that tons of times. It’s that you didn’t trust us enough to say something.”

“I didn’t trust myself,” you said quietly. “It all got… so real so fast, and I didn’t want to screw it up.”

Stephanie’s laugh was hollow. “Too late.”

You nodded. “I know.”

She finally turned toward the door but paused just before leaving. “You might win him in the end. That happens in stories like this.”

Then she looked back at you, eyes colder than before.

“But don’t expect all of us to clap when you do.”

And then she was gone.

You were left alone in the lounge, standing in the fading light, the silence settling around you like ash.

It wasn’t the words that broke your heart. It was the absence.

The women you’d once joked with. Sat beside. Shared nail colours and spa drinks and side-line whispers with. You’d been one of them—or at least, it had started to feel that way.

But now? The door had closed.

And for the first time since all this began, you weren’t sure if it would open again.

_

The Panther’s training rink was empty.

Just the echo of pucks ricocheting off iron and the dull thud of Auston’s stick against the ice. He hadn’t counted how many shots he’d taken—just knew that the more he fired, the less it hurt. Until it didn’t work anymore. Until his breath came fast and hot in his throat and his knuckles ached from clenching the stick too tight.

He was the last one off the ice. By design.

Skates still in, shoulders heavy, jersey sticking to his skin, as he shoved open the door into the locker room expecting silence.

But he didn’t get it.

Waiting just inside the locker room were Mitch, John, William, and Morgan.

No gear. No smiles. No banter.

Just four teammates with crossed arms and tired eyes. There were no jokes. No chirps. Just the heaviness of something none of them wanted to say—but all of them needed to.

Auston slowed, skates echoing against the floor. “If this is about practice, I stayed late to prep for the game. That’s all.”

“It’s not about that,” Mitch said, flat and cold, before William added 

“We saw it, man. All of it.”

Morgan gave a low whistle. “You’re trending higher than the team account.”

John didn’t crack a smile. “Is it true?”

Auston’s shoulders twitched. “Which part?”

“That it was fake,” John said, voice even. “That the whole relationship was a stunt.”

Mitch stepped forward. “Because we’ve been out here defending you. To reporters. To the partners. Telling everyone this wasn’t some PR bullshit again. That this time—it was real.”

There was an edge in Mitch’s voice Auston hadn’t heard in a long time. Not since juniors.

“You really let her use you like that?” William said, quieter. But sharper. Like it hurt to ask.

The words stung like a slap, causing Auston to blink. “What?”

“You think we don’t know how this looks?” Morgan asked. “She got headlines. Press. A nice little career glow-up. And you—what? You just let it happen?”

Auston’s chest ignited, breath flaring sharp through his nose.

“You think she used me?” His voice pitched higher. Rough, almost wounded.

Mitch raised his palms. “Look, it looks bad. Especially after today. People think you got played.”

Auston rolled his eyes. “Are you serious?” He took a step forward. “You really think I didn’t know?”

There was a moment of silence. Then, with a breath like a match-strike:

“It was my fucking idea!”

The words dropped like a puck in overtime. No one moved.

He ran a hand through his damp curls, throat tight. “After the gala—I pitched it. I planned it. I asked her to act. Not the other way around.”

John blinked. “You’re saying—”

“I started it,” Auston said. “I needed to clean up the headlines. She was just trying to help. One week. Maybe two. Then… things changed.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you just tell us, man?” Mitch asked confused. 

“Because I was fucking embarrassed,” Auston snapped. “Another fake relationship? I just couldn’t. Didn’t know how… cause this time, I lost control. And I didn’t know how to fix it without breaking everything.”

“But,” William let out a long breath. “You’ve done this before. We all have.”

Auston shook his head. “Not like this.”

Then John’s voice cut through. “Because she’s different.”

And Auston didn’t argue. Didn’t hesitate. He just swallowed; throat thick. “Yeah. She is.”

The room held still. No one sat. Even the fluorescent lights seemed to wait.

Then Morgan crossed his arms tighter. “Then say it.”

Auston blinked. “Say what?”

“That you’re in love with her,” William said almost with a light chuckle. 

But Auston looked away.

“Hey, we saw it,” John continued. “How you looked at her. At games. In the hallway. Believe me, it stopped being fake for you a long time ago.”

Mitch nodded. “And it sure as hell wasn’t fake when you threw a punch for her.”

Auston’s voice cracked. “I didn’t think. Chase cornered her. He humiliated her. And I just snapped.”

“No,” John said quietly. “You told the truth.”

Auston’s mouth opened, then closed again. He sat, elbows on knees, head bowed.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” he said, voice hollow. “It was supposed to be easy. Some PR fix. But then she started showing up. Asking questions, I wasn’t used to answering. Talking to my mom. And… then she wasn’t just part of the plan anymore. She was the plan.”

He paused and swallowed hard.

“She made me feel like more than a headline. More than the ‘Ice King.’ And I didn’t know how to go back.”

There was a moment of silence again.

Then Mitch stepped closer. “Hey, we’re not mad you caught feelings, man.”

“We’re mad you didn’t trust us with it,” Morgan added.

“You’re our captain,” John said. “We cover your blind side. On the ice. And off it, too.”

“And when the story blew up, it looked like you left us behind,” Morgan said. “Like we were just side characters in your next little PR drama.”

Auston looked up, eyes rimmed red. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“We know,” Mitch said, as they all nodded. Like they’d already forgiven him a long time ago. 

But then William spoke again. “So… what now?”

Auston exhaled shakily. “I don’t know. She’s not answering. Everyone’s pissed. The media’s killing her.”

He stood. Slow and heavy. “I don’t want it to be like that for her.”

Mitch arched a brow, his voice dry but with a flicker of his usual charm. “So… you are in love with her?”

Auston didn’t answer. Just breathed in hard through his nose.

He didn’t nod. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t need to. Because his silence said it all.

“Damn,” Mitch muttered. “That bad, eh?”

“Like, bad-bad,” William said with a deep chuckle.

“Shit,” Morgan breathed, laughing lightly. 

But it was John who held his gaze. Calm and direct. The way former leaders speak to each other when the noise falls away.

“You don’t have to say it,” he said. “We already know.”

Auston blinked, throat closing as he nodded gently.

“But the problem is,” John added, “I’m not sure if she does.”

_

The hotel room was too quiet.

Muted city lights leaked in through the curtains. The hum of the HVAC unit filled the silence, but it did nothing to drown out the noise in Auston’s head. He sat on the edge of the bed, still in his team sweats, muscles aching from practice, film review, and the weight of everything he hadn’t said.

Dinner with the guys had been quick. Awkward. No one brought up the blogs or the kiss or the fight in the hallway—but he could feel it hovering there, just behind the laughter, between bites of steak and stats talk. A presence. Like smoke.

Now he was back in his room, alone, slippers on his feet, laptop balanced on his thighs as the screen glowed against his tired face.

A video call rang once. Twice. Then connected.

“Hola, mijo.”

Ema’s face filled the screen, soft lighting behind her. She was in the kitchen back in Arizona, cardigan sleeves pushed up, a tea towel draped over one shoulder. Brian stood behind her, arms folded, eyes serious. Bree leaned into frame from the edge, chin propped on her hand, phone forgotten beside her.

“You look tired,” Ema said gently.

Auston ran a hand over his jaw. “I am.”

There was a pause before Brian spoke. “We read everything, son. We saw the video of the punch. And… The comments...”

“Yeah.” Auston looked down at his feet. “I figured.”

“You going to explain it to us,” Ema asked, “or do we have to guess like everyone else?”

He exhaled, long and low. “It just started as a lie,” he admitted. “After the gala. I pitched the whole thing to her. PR clean-up. Nothing real. Just a distraction for the media.”

Ema didn’t say anything. Neither did Brian. But Bree raised her eyebrows. “And now?”

“Now it’s a disaster I can’t walk away from,” Auston muttered.

Ema’s tone was softer. “You care about her.”

“Yeah.”

Bree sat up a little straighter. Her voice was quiet, but clear. “Was any of it real?”

The question hit harder than he expected. Auston blinked, his chest tightening.

“All of it,” he said. “I just didn’t realise how real until I’d already messed it up.”

On screen, Ema moved into view a little more, closer to the camera. “You lied to your team. To the press. To us.”

“I know.”

“And to yourself.”

“Well…” His voice was rough. “Yeah…”

Bree leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “So what now?”

“I don’t know if she’ll talk to me again.”

“Then don’t talk,” Ema said simply. “Show her.”

Auston looked up at the screen. “How?”

Ema smiled faintly. “You’ve always known how to make people watch, mijo. But this time—make her feel it too.”

He swallowed hard. Nodded once.

The video feed flickered slightly as Bree sat back again. “The whole internet knows you’re in love with her,” she said. “Except the one person who actually matters.”

“I don’t have a playbook for this,” Auston said quietly.

“Then stop playing,” Brian said. 

Auston stared at them. His family, tired but still showing up, even through a screen.

And for the first time in days, he felt something shift—not clarity, not yet. But a direction. Because maybe it wasn’t about fixing the mess anymore. Maybe it was about proving that even when it started with a lie—what came after didn’t have to be.

_

Thursday –

The office felt colder than usual. Not in temperature—though the AC was humming, as always—but in the way people looked at you when the lift doors opened, and you stepped out.

Or rather, the way they didn’t.

No one made eye contact. No one greeted you. Not even the usual half-hearted nods from reception or the tight-lipped smile from Lisa, who always offered you a second coffee when hers brewed.

Today? She didn’t even glance up from her screen.

The open-plan layout felt like a minefield—eyes flicking up and away just as fast, hushed whispers trailing behind you as you walked the corridor towards your desk. You kept your shoulders square, your chin lifted, even as your skin burned with awareness.

Your badge didn’t beep right away at the glass security door. It stalled. Finally clicked open on the third try.

Figures.

You made it halfway through the bullpen before a voice called your name.

“Conference room. Now.”

You didn’t need to turn to know it was Mr. Mansion. You just followed.

The door shut behind you with a weighty click. Mr. Mansion stood by the window, arms folded, back rigid. His usually flushed face was pale with controlled fury.

He didn’t offer a seat.

“You’ve put shame on this company.”

The words hit like a slap.

“I didn’t intend—” you started.

“Intent doesn’t matter. Outcome does.” He turned then, eyes blazing behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “Your name is trending again. But not for a campaign win. Not for a media scoop. But because of an orchestrated relationship with one of the most high-profile clients we’ve ever represented!”

“It wasn’t supposed to be—”

He cut you off with a raised hand. “It doesn’t matter what it was supposed to be. The optics are disastrous. For you. For him. And most importantly—for us.”

You stood straighter. “I’ve still done my job. I’ve delivered on every brief. Every pitch.”

He laughed, cold and humourless. “Oh, trust me, you’re not being fired. The optics of that would be even worse. No, you’ll keep your title. Keep your badge. But you’re off every major account effective immediately.”

“What?” Your voice cracked.

“You’ll move to a support role. Internal content and copy. Desk-bound.”

“But—”

“And you’ll keep your head down,” he said, voice tightening. “No media. No statements. No further ‘appearances.’ Understood?”

You couldn’t speak. You just nodded.

It had all backfired… big time.

He turned back to the window, dismissing you with a flick of his wrist. “Close the door on your way out.”

You walked back through the bullpen like a ghost, numb and weightless. And when you reached your desk, you found a small stack of folders with your name scrawled in pen. A sticky note read: Internal transfer begins Monday. New seat: 4B.

You were being shuffled. Quietly exiled.

And of course—of course—Chase was waiting. Propped against the partition with that smug, unbothered smirk. One foot crossed over the other. A fresh suit. A phone in his hand, already buzzing.

“Rough morning?” he asked innocently.

You didn’t answer. You were too busy holding back tears.

He grinned wider. “I’m doing a piece with The Star this afternoon. They want my ‘perspective on professional boundaries in PR.’ Isn’t that rich?”

You clenched your fists.

“Don’t worry,” he said, tapping his phone. “I’ll make sure your name isn’t technically mentioned. Just enough breadcrumbs for people to know.”

You stared at him. “Why are you doing this?”

He tilted his head. “Because you got the story. And the guy. And then you thought no one would notice.”

He walked away before you could reply. But he was wrong. They had noticed. All of them.

And the cost was just beginning.

_

The following days you stopped answering texts.

The group chats dulled into silence on your end—threads that once buzzed with hockey and girl gossip, outfit photos, and inside jokes now sat unopened at the top of your screen. Jess messaged you four times a day. Then twice. Then once. Then not at all.

You left her on read every time.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to talk to her. You did. Desperately. But what could you even say?

Sorry I faked a relationship.Sorry it stopped being fake.Sorry it became real and ruined everything.

So instead, you disappeared.

You stopped walking past mirrors. The sight of yourself—drained, dull-eyed, and shadowed by shame—was harder to face than the headlines. You dressed in oversized hoodies and leggings, hair unwashed, makeup untouched. Dishes piled in the sink. Laundry remained in the basket. The curtains stayed drawn.

Your only companions were the muted hum of the fridge and the flicker of late-night sports recaps playing quietly on the television. Because you watched the games.

Of course, you did.

Auston was on the road—two away games, back-to-back in Florida.

And he played like a man possessed.

He didn’t smile when he scored. Didn’t fist bump his linemates. Didn’t even glance toward the bench after a clean assist. Just skated through the motions like they were the only things keeping him standing.

He looked like you felt.

Empty. Cold. Unravelling by inches.

You sat curled up on the sofa, a blanket pulled to your chin, fingers tight around a mug that had long gone cold. The game played on, volume low, Auston’s face flickering across the screen like a ghost.

And in the dark, you whispered the truth you hadn’t said out loud.

“I miss you.”

_

“Hiding in the dark while he bleeds on the road?

I thought you were stronger than that.

Or has the Queen fallen completely—and it’s only the King still standing?

You’re making this game almost too easy.” – The Benchwarmer”

_

Jess showed up on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.

No warning. No text. Just three sharp knocks on the door until you cracked it open in your hoodie and joggers, your face pale, bare, and puffy from sleep—or crying.

She stood in ripped jeans and a leather jacket, rain still clinging to the ends of her curls.

“You look like shit,” she said flatly.

You simply looked at her. “Thanks. It’s a new fashion trend.”

Jess pushed past you into the flat, boots squeaking slightly on the floor. “You hiding doesn’t make this shit better.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“You are. You ghosted every person who gave a damn, work from home, and haven’t left your flat in what—four days?”

You sighed. “Jess—”

“No.” She turned on you, arms folded. “Do you even know what people are saying about you?”

“I don’t care.”

“Bullshit. You care more than anyone I know.”

You moved past her and sat heavily on the edge of the couch. Jess studied you for a moment, then crossed the room and dropped onto the coffee table in front of you.

“I read the new Benchwarmer post,” Jess then said.

Your stomach knotted. “I thought they’d stopped.”

“They had,” she replied. “Until this morning.”

You looked up, throat tightening. “What did it say?”

Jess hesitated. “Nothing new, technically. But… it felt different. Less snarky, more personal. Like the writer knows you.”

A cold weight settled in your chest. “What do you mean—knows me?”

“I mean they know you,” she said softly. “Your background, your work stuff, family stuff. Little things—memories, habits, insecurities. Stuff that feels… intimate. As if you’d told them yourself.”

You sucked in a breath. “But why would someone do that?”

Jess shrugged. “Maybe jealousy. Maybe resentment. Maybe they think you got something they deserved. Or maybe they just thought it was fun.” 

Your thoughts churned, trying to make sense of it. “Still… how would they know about all of it? All the details, like literally everything. Things I’ve only told…well…”

Jess’s gaze drifted around the room, scanning the clutter. But then her eyes paused on your everyday handbag, slouched by the couch. And her expression shifted. Then she stood and crossed the room.

“Wait,” she murmured, reaching into the side zip.

She leaned down, searched the bag for a few minutes before she unzipped the side pouch, and pulled something small and silver from the lining.

“What the fuck is this?”

You blinked. “What?”

Jess held it up. A tiny microphone.

Your blood ran cold.

“I’ve seen this bag everywhere with you,” she said slowly. “Arena. Work. Games. That girls’ night last month.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t put that in there,” you said, throat dry.

“Me neither,” Jess looked at you sharply. “But someone planted it.”

You nodded.

“Fuck,” she said sharply, though her expression remained taut. She set the mic down gently, like it might explode.

You both stared at it.

Jess exhaled. “So, this is bigger than we thought.”

You covered your face with your hands. “Fuck… I need to figure this shit out somehow.”

“Well, you don’t figure it out by spiralling alone,” she said. “You start by remembering who the fuck you are.”

—

Saturday -

You showed up late.

The elevator ride had been silent but suffocating, each floor ding echoing louder than your heartbeat. You could already hear it—muffled roars from the lower bowl, rising in waves that rattled through the concrete foundation of Scotiabank Arena. It wasn’t a game anymore—it was a battlefield.

And you were walking in like an intruder.

The elevator doors slid open with a sterile hiss, revealing the private suite cloaked in blue and white shadows. The hum of anticipation filled the air, thick with tension and unspoken things. You stepped forward, slow and unsure, your breath shallow, nerves scraping raw. The door clicked shut behind you with a soft, unforgiving finality.

And every head turned.

Estelle. Aryne. Stephanie. Sanna. Tessa. Alice. 

All seated in a loose row near the glass, drinks forgotten, backs straight. Like queens in a quiet tribunal. Their eyes weren’t on the ice anymore. They were on you.

Judging. Watching. Yet waiting.

You’d dressed your best tonight. The kind of outfit and make-up that felt good. Made you feel good. Confidence even. 

You took a few slow steps forward, throat tight, the suite lights suddenly too harsh, your coat suddenly too warm. You offered the smallest smile—a pale, worn-out thing. A peace offering. A white flag.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, voice thin, cracking at the edges.

No one answered at first.

It was Tessa who spoke, bouncing her baby slightly on her lap without looking at you. Her voice was quiet—low and sharp, like a knife slid carefully between ribs. “Better late than never.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak yet. Not trusting them to listen.

“I know,” you said softly, humbly. “And… again, I’m really sorry. About everything.”

Tessa shifted the baby to one arm and looked up. Really looked at you. Her eyes weren’t cruel, but they were tired. Tired in the way people get when they’ve defended someone, they wish they hadn’t.

“We know,” she said. “We just need you to suffer a bit more.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. You swallowed the apology sitting behind your teeth. You’d already said it enough. Anymore and it would sound rehearsed.

So instead, you stayed silent.

The air between you thickened. A single beat passed. Then another.

Stephanie finally turned slightly; eyes unreadable. Her voice was neutral, almost too smooth. “Come on. The game’s about to begin.”

She gestured to the open seat in the second row near the back, just one step removed from the group. Still close—but not quite with them.

You nodded once and slipped into the chair, legs trembling beneath you. Jess was there right behind you, her coat still on, her hands folded tight in her lap. And as you sat, her arm brushed against yours.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. She just reached out and gave your hand a soft squeeze.

A quiet thaw.

Then the puck dropped.

The game started hard—no warmup, no easing into it. Washington came out swinging, aggressive from the first shift. Bodies slammed against boards. Blades carved into the ice like knives. Passes were fast and brutal. The kind of hockey that didn’t breathe. It roared.

The Leafs struggled to settle, their rhythm off. Missed passes. Mistimed hits. Tension coiled tighter with every line change.

And by the end of the second period, they were down by two.

Still, no one in the suite spoke. Not really. They watched in silence. Sipped their drinks, arms folded. Eyes flitting from the ice to the jumbotron to their phones and back again. Every time Auston hit the ice, the suite seemed to collectively hold its breath.

You did too.

He was skating hard. Sharp. Like he had something to prove. Like the only way to outrun the headlines was to leave them in his wake.

And then—third period. 7:12 on the clock.

You felt it before you saw it. Some shift in the air. A ripple of unease, like the ice itself knew what was coming.

Auston picked up speed through the neutral zone, cutting left, weaving through defenders like smoke. The puck stuck to his blade like it belonged there.

Then—

Crack.

The hit came from behind.

Blindside. Elbow high. Shoulder first. Full force into the numbers.

You didn’t process it at first. Just a blur of movement—a shape colliding with Auston, and then…

The sound hit a second later—a sickening crack against the boards that vibrated through the glass and up into your chest.

Then he crumpled. And your heart stopped.

The arena erupted. Screams. Gasps. A thousand voices raised in chaos. Two rows down, someone knocked over a full beer, the cup tumbling and rolling like a forgotten afterthought.

The whistle blew, sharp and urgent, and the ref’s arm shot up. Ten-minute major for game misconduct.

But Auston didn’t get up. He didn’t move at all.

The jumbotron cut to a close-up—his helmet slightly askew, mouthguard half-out. His body twisted in a way that nobody should bend. Motionless.

And then… nothing.

No sound. No movement. The air drained from the building, sucked out in one collective breath that never came back.

It was like someone had muted the world. Everything came in slow motion, like a Hollywood movie in motion. 

Even the baby in Tessa’s arms stopped fussing.

You could feel it in your teeth. In your skin. That kind of cold buzz that comes right before grief. 

The seconds stretched as trainers ran onto the ice.

Still, he didn’t move.

You felt your blood boiling. Your heart suddenly pounded fast and hard in your chest. Tears were pressing on as it became harder and harder to breathe. 

It wasn’t just Auston Matthews, the athlete, the captain, the headline, lying there anymore.

It was him. Yours. 

Whether you were ready to admit it or not.

Your fingers dug into the armrest of your seat; knuckles bone white. You couldn’t feel your legs. Couldn’t hear the crowd anymore. Only the blood rushing in your ears, and Jess whispering your name.

“He’s okay,” she said. Barely a whisper. “He’s okay.”

But you couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think.

Your stomach twisted so violently it felt like it might rise in your throat. Panic licked at the edges of your vision. You wanted to scream but you couldn’t.

Then the stretcher came out. They were already strapping him down—neck brace, leg stabilised, arms secured. And then—his glove twitched.

Just once. A breath. A heartbeat. A sign.

But it wasn’t enough.

That was the moment something in you snapped.

You didn’t think, you just moved.

The seat scraped behind you. The door to the suite opened with a hard click, and you stepped through before anyone could stop you.

You didn’t look back. Didn’t see Aryne blink and stare at her drink. Didn’t see Stephanie sit forward, her nails tapping the armrest. Didn’t see the way Tessa leaned into Estelle, murmuring a soft, “Fuck.”

You didn’t see Jess stand a beat later, her eyes locked on the exit.

You just ran. Down the hallway. Past the catering table. Past the press box, the VIP signs, the branded corridors you once walked.

Now, it was just you.

You. And the tunnel. And the sickening fear that you were about to lose someone that mattered most.

_

The world spun—quietly, slowly—on an axis that had nothing to do with gravity and everything to do with the man in front of you.

The room was too bright. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with a soft, relentless hum. The scent of menthol, sweat, and metal filled the space—sharp and sterile, but beneath it… something else. Something aching. Something like heartbreak, hanging thick in the air.

Auston lied on the medical table, half in his gear, half stripped down. His jersey hung off one shoulder, sweat-soaked and wrinkled, clinging to him in patches. One sock was still bunched around his ankle, and a bruise was already blooming ugly and purple across his torso. A shallow cut sliced across his cheekbone, the skin-tight around it from the swelling.

But the real damage wasn’t in the bruises or the ice packs.

It was in his posture.

Rigid. Guarded. Like one wrong breath would crack the armour he was holding together with sheer force of will.

He noticed you the same moment you saw him. But his gaze didn’t soften. His body didn’t ease. He just blinked once, slow and unreadable.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low and rough, just staring into the ceiling.

You stood in the doorway, still gripping the strap of your bag like it might anchor you to the floor. “You’re hurt.”

He scoffed under his breath, jaw tightening. “So?” His eyes flicked toward the wall. “Just, please go. I look like shit.”

“I don’t care,” you said, the words steadier than you felt. “I needed to see for myself. Make sure you’re okay.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t answer for a beat, then said, quieter—but not kinder, “Why do you even care?”

He looked at you now. Sharp and tired. “The deal’s over, right?”

You flinched.

He didn’t apologise.

“Look,” he said again, slightly lifting his hands as if he wanted to express something more. “Just go. This isn’t how I want you to see me. Not like this.” His voice cracked a little. “Beaten up. Pathetic.”

But you stepped forward anyway, shoes soft against the tile. “You think I care about how you look?” You stopped just shy of him. “You’re lying here with a target on your back and a concussion protocol waiting—and you’re worried about how you look?”

“I’m worried about you seeing me like this,” he snapped.

There it was. The edge. The heat beneath everything else.

You stared at him, but then he continued.  

“Why did you come down here?” he asked, quieter this time. “Why come now, after ignoring me all week?”

You couldn’t answer. Not immediately.

So instead, you walked closer. Sat down beside him, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal. Like if you moved too fast, he might shatter.

For a moment, he didn’t move. But then, you reached for his hand. And he didn’t pull away.

You laced your fingers with his, felt the tension in his grip—the way his hand trembled slightly against yours.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “For all of it. Ignoring you. Ryan. Chase. The distance. The fucking mess.”

Silence bloomed thick between you. You felt the tears pressing on, allowed one to roll down your cheek, but held back the flood. 

Then he exhaled, the sound sharp and bitter.

“I hate this,” he muttered. “All of it. The lies. The headlines. The way it went so far and out of control.”

You nodded, looking anywhere else but directly at him, as another tear ran down your face . “Me too.”

His jaw clenched. “I’ve been trying not to think about you. Trying to focus. Trying to be the guy everyone still believes I am.”

You looked down at your hands, still threaded together. “And how’s that working out?”

He laughed—just once. A hollow, broken sound. “Terribly.”

His voice dropped. “You’re in everything. The playlist I drive to. The hallway outside the locker room. My apartment. My bed. You’re everywhere.”

He turned his head slightly. “I close my eyes, and I see you. I feel you. I want to kiss you so fucking bad it hurts.”

The words struck something inside you, raw and aching.

“And how do you think I feel?” you asked, barely louder than a breath as your eyes then returned to him. “Watching you get torn apart on every screen, every thread. People thinking, I used you—like it was all just my play.”

He looked at you again. Really looked. And something broke open behind his eyes. Something that had been sealed too tight for too long.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he said, voice hoarse.

You nodded. “I know. I never meant for it to—”

You stopped. Let the moment stretch. But then, you knew you could keep it in any more. Couldn’t choke it down. You had to say it. 

“I never meant to fall in love with you.”

The words rang out between you like a bell in an empty cathedral.

Auston didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “But you did?” he asked, voice catching.

You nodded again. “Yeah.”

His face softened. Just slightly. “Good,” he simply murmured.

You blinked again. “Good?”

“Yeah…” he said with a deep breath. “Because I don’t think I can keep pretending anymore. I’ve been trying to play it cool. Trying to act like I’m still in control of this. But I’m not.”

He looked down. Then back up.

“I’m fucking crazy about you. And I don’t want to make that smaller just because it’s inconvenient.”

Your throat closed. Words were stuck as your mind went 100 miles an hour. All you could do was to give in to instincts. To allow your gut and emotions to guide you. So, you leaned forward.

And kissed him.

It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t scripted. It was soft, slightly desperate, and it was real.

Your hands sliding into his hair, his finding the back of your neck like muscle memory. The salt on his lips. The heat beneath your skin. The ache in both of you—finally, finally let out.

And when you pulled away, the world stayed still.

Your foreheads rested together; breaths caught between your mouths. His hand intertwined with your hair. Yours clutched the hem of his jersey like letting go would make this moment less real.

It was a moment with no words yet filled with everything unspoken. 

You didn’t even hear the footsteps. Didn’t notice the hush that had fallen just outside the doorway.

You just stayed right there—in the warmth of Auston’s touch, in the shaky rhythm of a kiss that had undone everything you were pretending not to feel.

You stayed in the moment. With him.

But they had seen it all. All of them.

Mitch. William. Morgan. John. Stephanie. Aryne. Tessa.

Standing just far enough to be polite, just close enough to witness everything. The way your bodies leaned together like you belonged. The rawness in Auston’s eyes. The way he didn’t flinch when you rested his forehead against his again.

They didn’t need to speak. They didn’t need to guess. Because they saw the truth. And then—of course—Mitch broke the silence with a scoff and a crooked grin.

“Finally.”

A few of them chuckled under their breath. Aryne blinked slowly, like she’d been holding back emotions. William folded his arms, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to grin or groan. Stephanie didn’t smile—but she didn’t walk away either.

None of them did. They stayed there in the hall. Watching and realising that everything between you and Auston truly was real. 

And for the first time since everything fell apart, you didn’t feel like a fraud.

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

thinking about transfem metal sonic again bc she’s like. the most transfem character in fiction whos not in any way actually transfem or coded transfem like it’s entirely unintentional and that’s what makes it so interesting to me. bc like her entire Thing is identity issues she was built to emulate, surpass, and be a superior version of sonic which like. we can talk about eggman hating sonic so much he literally made a better version of him as his own child another time but besides that metal's entire life has been being forced to fill the expectations placed on her to Be someone she can never be. and this is something that causes her a great deal of anguish! she literally has a mental breakdown over it it’s something that’s clearly traumatic and distressing to her bc she can’t do it! defeating and proving herself superior to sonic is something inexorably linked to her, and both cause her nothing but misery and are both very literally dehumanising towards her. she clings to them, bc she has nothing else and it’s the only path that she’s been allowed to even consider, but they don’t make her Happy. she wouldn’t be so fucking angry all the time if she was happy! but it’s what she’s literally been programmed to believe she wants even though chasing that ambition provides her no joy or relief.

and in sonic heroes, the pressure makes her snap. if she Has to fill the mould she’s forced into, then it’s the outside world saying she’s doing it wrong that’s the problem, because she Has to be perfect, right? metal sonic is the golden child out of all of her “siblings”, and while that means she’s not outright going to be destroyed by her father and faces much less verbal abuse and marginally more affection, it also means she’s forced to uphold the perfect image her father sees her as, else she fail and face the same treatment she’s seen her fellow badniks go through. and that image she’s always tried so, so hard to force herself to fit is that of her father's magnum opus, his masterpiece, a superior version of his enemy. and to be superior to sonic she has to Be sonic and so if everyone says she’s Not they have to be the ones in the wrong and not Her she has to be the real true superior sonic and she has to Prove it.

but the thing is, not only is she forcing herself into performing the perfect role set on her- one that’s specifically masculine- she also reinvents Herself. this is something in heroes a lot of people miss, but neo metal sonic isn’t an upgrade From Eggman to her (and also came After her breakdown, she did it Because she felt she couldn’t Beat Sonic And Therefore Be Him if she stayed the same) her neo form is entirely self designed, and it was done all by her own hands. neo metal sonic is probably the closest we can get to how metal actually wants to present herself to the world, that’s Literally just named to be the New Her, and. ma’am this is a goth girl.

like. not only is she Literally Wearing A Skirt, not only does she Literally Have Eyeliner, she's also designed in such a way it looks like she’s wearing clothes, which feels silly to bring up until you remember sonic anthro characters almost universally only wear clothes if they’re female. and neo metal sonic straight up has hatsune miku sleeves a belt with a flowy skirt and leg warmers but with spikes. like it’s already fem as shit (in a emo edgy fourteen year olds oc way) but like i'm pretty sure by mobian standards this is about as feminine as a murderous robot can reasonably get. and while obviously that doesn’t = gender, metal specifically presenting as feminine in her idealised form she designed herself, while having a meltdown because she’s unable to Be A Specific Boy and is having an identity crisis bc she’s miserable trying to chase that is… like, that’s just a closeted trans girl innit. like this is Very Obviously not the intended read but like… it’s an extremely obvious and resonant one?

metal is, canonically, a scared teenager. as in, she herself says that she was scared Before her transformation. she’s mentally like 15 afraid of failure with an abusive and neglectful father figure suffering from psychotic episodes brought about by golden child burnout. like that’s not how it’s phrased in a 2003 game rated 3 and up but that is like, objectively what’s happening in sonic heroes she’s very open about her motives that’s just canon. which doesn’t make her Trying To Burn A Toddler Alive in any way not absolutely horrible like people forget how excited she was to murder a group that included Multiple small children in it brutally she’s fucked up. but her issues with her identity are more tragic than anything. her being dehumanised and treated only as A Superior Sonic broke her. and when she finally is able to express herself in any way, she's able to present as, well, a very edgy teenage goth girl but in robot form! she’s a fucked up and evil person but she’s also unable to be her true self and she’s scared and frightened and alone. and she’s not incapable of good! she Did sacrifice her life for shadow in rivals 2 like she can care for people she’s not inherently evil she’s a Person just one that steals your IP address. but what Makes her evil is sticking to a path and presentation that makes her evil.

tl;dr: canonically transitioning would have saved her (this was not an intentional story decision they just accidentally made her ideal form goth girl hatsune miku before hatsune miku was even an idea)

[missredherring]

Set Up

Javi Gutiérrez x Harry Castillo

Rating: M

Word Count: 1.1k

Contents: kissing, frottage.

Summary: Matchmaker AU. What are the odds a matchmaker sets you up with a former hook up? Asking for a friend.

A/N: I loved the parallels in the gifs and this idea quickly followed. Thanks to @perotovar for their encouragement.

Not beta read.

Divider by @saradika-graphics.

Javi takes a deep pull of wine and barely tastes it before he swallows. It's not how he was taught one should enjoy wine, but enjoying isn't his goal right now. Maybe he should've gotten something stronger if he really wanted to dull some of the nerves twisting in his stomach.

He's dressed nicely in a fancy restaurant whose waiting list goes out years rather than weeks or months. That he made this reservation a couple of days ago is a testament to the power of an old family name like his, but it makes him feel like even more of a failure.

It'd been a secret wish to find a partner organically. A chance encounter set up by fate where interest sparked with a moment of eye contact, a brush of the hand, an exchange of shy smiles. He knows real life is nothing like the idyllic movies he adores, but the small hope clings to his heartstrings and pulls at the worst times. Besides, when was the last time he's spent enough time in a coffee shop to have a proper meet-cute?

He'd thought Gabriela was the one for a few sweet months of heated kisses and whispered daydreams of a better future out from the thumb of his family. In the end he couldn't bare to trap her in his golden cage just because he was lonely and desperate for companionship. She understood better than he did that his family would never approve of them together.

The pressure to marry and marry well only increased after Lucas' failed coup d'état. The family needed to repair its reputation and present a stable, powerful image to the rest of the world. What better way to do that than with a wedding?

Javi's orders were clear: marry soon or they'd marry him off themselves by the end of the year and he would have no say in the union.

He understands. It's the least he can do to repay the wealth and power that's let him live such a carefree and privileged life, but that hope swings like a pendulum in his chest and he wants one last chance to find love for himself. That's happened before, right? There are a fair few movies that have the protagonists finding true love with the threat of an arranged marriage hanging overhead. Of course they also portray those marriages as a soul-crushing union that's a fate worse than death. He doesn't want to crush anyone or be crushed himself.

Hope swings away and he had to admit that maybe his family isn't wrong about the arrangement idea. So he negotiated one last chance to find a partner for himself and reached out to Nic for advice. His friend (his friend Nic Cage) had offered up the name of a New York-based matchmaker who he swore was one of the best. Some of the successful Hollywood couples? Her doing.

It was a strange experience to trust a total stranger to match him up with another stranger based on a form he filled out, but Javi is the kind of person who wants to trust other people, no matter how many times life delighted in proving him wrong.

Harry C.

He hadn't wanted to see pictures, charmed by the idea of a true blind date, but maybe that had been a mistake. The matchmaker had assured him they matched on the important things and now it was up to them to see if there was any potential in person. He hoped this whole thing wouldn't turn into a disappointment his family would see as another failure.

Javi reaches for his glass again but redirects to the water instead.

His phone vibrates from where he'd placed it next to the table setting. The phone going off during the date would be rude, wouldn't it? He turns the sound off before checking the message. It was from the matchmaker:

"I hope you have a wonderful time with Harry. Of course, if you're not feeling it let me know and I'll get you out of there!"

The emojis depicting a person running away makes him smile. He replies with a thank you and the fingers crossed emoji.

He starts to put the phone back on the table, but should he put it in a pocket instead? Would the phone on the table signal that he wasn't wiling to give his date his full attention? Should he have left his phone at home? No, meeting a stranger in a city he was only passingly familiar with was too naive even for him.

"Javier?" a voice asks as shined leather shoes come into his line of sight just beyond the table.

Javi finishes the movement of slipping his phone into his pocket and stands to greet his date.

"Please, call me 'Javi.'"

"Javi," Harry confirms and doesn't hesitate when Javi takes his outstretched hand and uses it to pull him in for a quick embrace. He lets Javi guide his face to the left and right for two presses of smooth skin against his cheeks. It's over in seconds, leaving Harry with a lingering sense of warmth and a pleasant, familiar cologne.

"Ah, please, have a seat," Javi says, gesturing to the empty seat opposite of him before sitting back down at the table.

It's a nice restaurant with packed tables spaced far enough apart for privacy in low lighting. It would be easy to forget about the city outside when all you can hear is the quiet hum of conversations and the occasional clink of silverware.

With his prize in his sights, Harry's patience feels boundless as he watches Javi finally settle in his seat and look him in the eyes for the first time that night.

Belt buckles rattle and the hiss of zippers are echoed in exhalations as ruddy cocks are freed from pants.

The recognition is slow but steady as Javi studies his face, his eyes darting from feature to feature before landing on his lips when Harry can't hold back his smile.

Harry could spit, but the other man takes his hand and licks along his palm and fingers instead, grunting when Harry uses it to press and hold their dicks together while he kisses him again and again, dizzy with the taste of alcohol and wedding cake.

"I finally get to know your name and of all people a matchmaker is the one to give it to me. What do you think the odds of that are, Javi?"

Seeing Javi's face among the candidates had been a shock. Harry had never expected to see the man he'd hooked up with at his brother's wedding again, but there he was, smiling at the camera wide enough to bring out the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes, just as he had when they'd locked eyes across the room at the reception.

"Small," Javi croaks, taking what can only be described as a 'swig' from his wine glass. "but apparently not impossible."

[lapileaf]

Theory time

For a while I thought Nox had replaced the Villain Key, but I don’t think that’s true anymore. Violet says “Our family” when talking about the other keys. If Nox had replaced her actual brother, I don’t think she’d be talking like that. Vi doesn’t seem like the type who’d just accept a replacement and act like everything’s fine. There would probably be a heavy tension between them if that were the case. And they seem genuinely close. I don’t think they’d have that kind of bond if she knew he’d taken someone else’s place, especially someone important to her.

That said, I still think Nox might’ve come from something broken. Maybe there was a Villain Key that didn’t work—like one that never turned into a person and couldn’t enter stories, and Nox was turned into a key afterward as a second attempt. So he could be a replacement, but not for Violet’s brother specifically. More like a general solution after something else failed.

Violet doesn’t like humans, but she’s fine with Nox. And honestly, he doesn’t seem like he has much experience with people. He’s awkward when he’s not being defensive, and he really can’t read social dynamics well. So maybe Vi doesn’t see him as a threat. And just as her little brother. (Also if Nox really is a storybook character that could also lead Violet to not fully see him as ‘human’) if you have no idea what I’m referring to go read inc0mples theory: https://www.tumblr.com/inc0mple/785297363741917184/before-he-was-a-key-buddy-was-actually-a

And about the timeline. Some people think the keys have been around for decades or even a hundred years, but that doesn’t fully make sense. The keys were asleep in the library for most of their existence. So even if they were only made recently, it could feel like years have passed. Time wouldn’t mean much to them in that state. They’d have no real way of knowing how long it’s been.

Also, if they really have been around for a century, that kind of complicates things, especially with people shipping Nox and Chase. Nox doesn’t have a confirmed age but he seems like around 19ish to me and doesn’t age now, but if he’s secretly a hundred years old, that adds a weird layer. (Full offense to twilight. Don’t hate me. Also Punko confirmed the age gap would be normal. Nothing creepy) It makes way more sense if the keys were created recently, since they have no idea of what’s actually going on in the real world while at Ex Libris.

[eternallyordinary]

“He Belongs to You” - Part 26

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series masterlist<3

Summary: You face the unbearable truth—you now fear the man who would’ve destroyed the world to save you.

Warnings: sexual assault, violence, death, kidnapping, power imbalance, possessiveness, manipulation, emotional tension, stalking, implied violence, murder planning, toxic relationship dynamics, yandere

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Homelander looks at you like a wounded animal—confused, devastated, afraid to move too fast in case you bolt. You’re trembling. Blood-soaked. Hollow-eyed.

This is all Butcher’s fault.

Fucking Butcher.

The old Homelander would’ve torn him limb from limb without a second thought—smiled doing it. And yet… he let him walk away.

Let him live after he shattered the fragile thing between you. Your trust. Let him live even after he looked Homelander in the eye and pulled his darkness into the light—darkness that cracked you in half.

But even now, even through the rage, Homelander knows…

Butcher didn’t ruin this alone.

Some of the blood is on his hands, too.

He was supposed to be your savior. The one who ripped heaven and hell apart just to bring you home. And he did—he did. He imagined this moment a thousand times: the way you’d look at him, broken but grateful, clinging to him like a lifeline. The way he’d wipe away the blood, the fear, the pain, and replace it all with safety.

He killed for you. Tore men apart. Crossed lines even he didn’t know existed. This was supposed to be the part where you collapsed into his arms. Where you let him be the one thing in this world that never failed you.

Instead—he sees it in your eyes.

You’re afraid.

Terror drags behind every step, but you keep going. Somehow, you’re still moving. You don’t know where—you just need to be anywhere but here. Away from them. From the random British man who shattered everything. From the man you loved, who did the unthinkable… and doesn’t even seem to understand what he did.

Or does he?

Does he know he raped Becca?

Or is he so lost in his own power—so used to fear and silence—that he can’t tell the difference between consent and submission?

You’re not sure which one is worse.

Your legs barely carry you past the edge of the porch before they give out beneath you, and you collapse onto the grass like your bones have turned to smoke.

Everything hurts. Your chest. Your skin. Your soul.

You can feel blood drying on your body. Bellamy’s. Yours. You don’t know where one ends and the other begins.

“Sweetheart—”

His voice.

You flinch.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, voice trembling like it might break under its own weight. “Let me explain. Butcher’s wrong—he’s a fucking—”

He cuts himself off. Even he knows this isn’t the time. His jaw flexes.

“He’s wrong. It’s not true.”

Silence floods the space between you—thick, suffocating, alive with everything unsaid. You don’t look at him. Not at first.

But eventually, you can’t help it.

You lift your gaze—and it nearly rips you apart.

You want to scream. You want to hit him. Break something. Break him.

You feel betrayed. Deeply. Utterly.

He lied to you.

Held back the ugliest parts of his truth while you handed him yours, bare and trembling. You told him things you hadn’t said out loud in years—peeled yourself open for him like it meant something.

And all the while, he was hiding this.

Keeping the truth sealed behind that perfect smile, letting you fall deeper into something built on dishonesty. What else has he lied about?

You always knew Homelander had a son—everyone did. He mentioned him once or twice, casually, like it was nothing. Just another piece of his carefully curated image.

But whenever you tried to ask more—to really understand—he shut down. Changed the subject. Said Ryan was doing well, that he was at some top-tier supe academy, destined to be “better than him one day.”

He sounded proud.

But now you know the truth. The real truth.

Ryan wasn’t the result of love or even some messy mistake. His mother didn’t choose Homelander. She didn’t want any of it. It wasn’t some complicated past—it was a crime.

And suddenly, the pride in his voice feels sickening.

Because what kind of man beams about a legacy built on fear?

And the fact you even believe Butcher—a man you’d never even met until one of the darkest moments of your life—that should tell you everything.

Because why would you trust a stranger over the man you love?

Unless deep down… you already knew.

Knew this is who he is.

Not just the savior. Not just the protector.

But the monster, too.

You feel stupid for believing him.

For loving him.

For thinking you were the exception.

But more than all of that—God, more than rage—you want to grab his face in your hands and tell him you still love him after all.

Tell him about the nights you disassociated to survive—chained and bleeding and lost—and dreamed of him. Of his arms around you. Of a life you thought was waiting on the other side of all this pain.

Hell, you even imagined a baby.

Not a Vought legacy. Not a science experiment.

Just a child.

Yours.

His.

A family built from something real.

You imagined being the kind of mother you never had. The kind of woman your past never allowed you to become.

You imagined being his wife.

And now… now you don’t know what any of it means.

You shake your head, numb, the words trapped somewhere between your lungs and your heart.

How will you ever look at him the same way again?

You force yourself to speak, your voice barely holding together—shaky, thin, on the edge of breaking.

“I—I don’t know who you are. I don’t think I ever did.”

It falls out before you can stop it, raw and trembling.

You swallow hard, eyes stinging.

“This… us… it felt like… everything. You felt like everything. Like the world finally tilted in my favor. Like someone actually saw me and didn’t want to break me.”

You look up at him, heart in your throat.

“But none of it was real, was it?”

The tears come faster now. You’re not even sure what you’re mourning—him, yourself, or the version of this that you let yourself believe in.

He’s on his knees in front of you, eyes wide and frantic, like if he can just say the right words, do the right thing, maybe you’ll stop looking at him like he’s already gone.

“Hey, hey…” His voice is a whisper. “You do know me. Every look, every word, every time I held you like you were the only thing left in the world—I meant it. It’s me.”

He reaches out, but hesitates just before touching your bloodied hands. His fingers tremble.

“You’re hurt. You’re freezing.” His eyes dart over your face, the bruises, the cuts, the dried blood at your temple. “Let me help you. Let me clean you up. Please.”

You say nothing. You don’t move.

And he can’t take it.

“I should’ve been faster,” he chokes. “You shouldn’t have had to do it yourself. You shouldn’t have had to bleed. That bastard should’ve died screaming in my hands.”

And that’s the moment.

The one that cracks it wide open.

You turn your head, eyes burning with betrayal.

“You killed them.”

He freezes. Confused.

“The guys who raped me,” you whisper. “You found them. You hunted them down. You said it was for me.”

“It was,” he snaps, too fast. Too defensive. “They deserved worse.”

You stare at him, trembling.

“You.”

A beat.

“Raped.”

Another beat.

“Her.”

He shakes his head, jaw tightening.

“You’re them,” you say.

And the second the words leave your mouth, something in him shifts.

His whole body locks up.

“What did you just say to me?” His voice drops low, dangerous—but shaking.

“You’re no different from them,” you say, softer now, but no less sharp. “They cornered me. You cornered her. They didn’t care if I said no. And neither did you.”

“I’m not them!” he explodes. “Don’t you dare compare me to those fucking animals!”

You flinch.

It’s small. Instinctive.

But he sees it.

His rage shudders, falters—like it realizes it’s exposed something he didn’t want to see.

You shrink back a little, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He sees that too.

And for a second, he’s not angry anymore.

He’s terrified.

“No, no, no, sweetheart—please, I didn’t mean—” He steps toward you, but you jerk back.

“Don’t.”

That one word cuts deeper than any of the others.

Because now it’s not just what you said.

It’s how you said it.

Like you don’t feel safe.

And that—more than any insult, any accusation—is what shatters him.

His hands tremble at his sides.

“I’m not them,” he says again, barely more than a whisper now. “I’m not. I didn’t know. I thought she… I thought she wanted it.”

“She didn’t,” you whisper. “And this—us—won’t be, if you can’t admit it.”

He stares at you, breathless, broken, afraid. Now he sees what you see. And he doesn’t know how to come back from it.

In his mind, what he did to Becca and what they did to you aren’t the same. Because he’s still holding onto the lie that he’s better than them.

He closes his eyes like the words physically hurt. “I’m not like them.”

“But you are,” you say. “Because they didn’t think they did anything wrong either.”

Homelander’s breathing sharpens—ragged, desperate, broken.

“I’d kill for you a thousand times over,” he says. “You know that. You felt it. What I did—for you—that was love. I love you so—“

“Stop it!” You choke on the words as they rip from your throat. “You don’t get to play the hero for killing my monsters, when you were someone else’s!”

The silence that follows is deafening. Homelander doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His eyes—so wide, so impossibly blue—just stare.

“I killed them for you,” he says quietly, like he still doesn’t understand how this moment turned into ruin. “Because they hurt you. Because they took something from you and I— I couldn’t live knowing they were still breathing.”

“And yet,” you spit, “you’ve lived just fine after what you did to her.”

His face twists, almost pleading. “That’s different.”

“It’s not.”

Your voice cracks as the tears spill over, hot and shaking down your cheeks.

“She didn’t scream. She didn’t fight. She stayed. Just like I did when I was scared. And you—you convinced yourself that meant it was okay.”

“I didn’t know,” he breathes. “I didn’t know she was afraid of me.”

“You never asked.”

Silence. Again. It swallows everything.

And then, quietly, almost in disbelief:

“You lied about Ryan.”

His shoulders stiffen.

“I told you everything,” you say, your voice shaking. “I gave you every piece of me—every scar, every truth I’ve kept buried for years. And you couldn’t even tell me the truth about Ryan. About who his mother was. Is he even in some superhero academy like you said? Or was that just another lie to make yourself look good? Do you even know where he is?”

He doesn’t answer.

Of course he doesn’t.

“You made me tell you what happened to me,” you go on, louder now, breath starting to break. “You pushed for it. Dug your claws in and made me relive it because your ego couldn’t stand not knowing every detail of how I was hurt—who hurt me—because it wasn’t you first.”

You’re crying now, chest heaving, the words ripping from your throat like they’ve been waiting to claw their way out.

“And the whole time… the whole fucking time, you were holding onto this. You never told me. Not once. Not when you kissed me. Not when you held me. Not even when I gave you all of myself.”

You laugh—sharp, broken, bitter.

“And here I was… locked in some grimy, freezing basement… imagining a future with you. Dreaming about a baby. A life. A home. Like some fucking idiot.”

Your knees give out and you nearly double over, a sob choking in your throat.

“God,” you gasp, “I’m so fucking stupid!”

He doesn’t speak at first.

Not while you’re sobbing. Not while you’re calling yourself stupid, breaking in front of him like glass dropped from too high.

He just stares—helpless, stricken.

And then, quietly, like he’s never said anything more dangerous in his life:

“I love you.”

Your breath hitches.

His voice is rough, almost childlike. Like he’s still learning what it even means.

“I don’t know how to do this right,” he says. “I don’t know how to be soft the way you deserve. I don’t know how to be good. But I know I love you.”

He kneels slowly in front of you, hands shaking, eyes red—not glowing. Human.

“When I’m near you, everything else stops. The noise, the chaos, the part of me that wants to tear the world apart—you quiet it. You make me feel like I could be more than what they made me.”

He leans in, like he’s scared you’ll flinch. Scared you’ll run.

“I never told you about Ryan because I didn’t want you to see me the way I see myself. I thought if you knew, you’d leave. And the truth is…”

He swallows.

“I wouldn’t survive it.”

He reaches out, but doesn’t touch—not unless you let him.

“I love you,” he says again, softer this time. “Not because you’re mine. Not because you make me feel strong. But because you’re the only person who’s ever looked at me like I’m not a monster. And now that you do… I don’t know how to breathe.”

A tear slides down his cheek, and he lets it fall. He lowers his head, as if the weight of it all is finally too much.

“I haven’t slept,” he whispers. “Not once. Not since the day you disappeared.”

His hands tremble at his sides, fists clenching against his thighs like he’s holding himself together by force.

“I searched everywhere. Every second of every day. I tore through cities. Raided Vought satellites. Threatened anyone who even looked like they were lying. I screamed at people until they pissed themselves because they said they didn’t know where you were.”

He lets out a broken laugh, but there’s nothing amused in it.

“They called me unstable. Said I was losing it. Maybe I was. Maybe I still am.”

He looks up at you then—eyes red, lips parted like the words might choke him.

“I’d see your face every time I closed my eyes. Hear your voice. Your laugh. That stupid little thing you do when you’re annoyed but trying not to smile.”

He shakes his head.

“And then I’d see someone else’s hands on you. I’d think about what they might be doing, what they might be saying, and I’d want to kill the whole fucking planet just to make it stop.”

His voice cracks.

“You don’t understand what it did to me. I’m not made to wait. To wonder. To not know. And for two weeks, you were gone, and I couldn’t find you, and it felt like I was dying every second you weren’t in my arms.”

He finally reaches out—just barely, fingertips brushing your knee.

“I didn’t care what I had to do to get you back. I didn’t care how much blood I had to spill. The only thing that mattered was you.”

He pauses, breathing hard, like he’s been holding this in for too long.

“I didn’t know I could feel like this. And I don’t care how broken I am. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be whatever you need—if you let me.”

He pauses, chest rising and falling with the weight of the moment.

“I love you. And I’m begging you not to walk away. Please. Let me take you back home.”

He reaches for you again. This time, you don’t pull away.

But your body gives out before he can touch you.

Your knees buckle.

The world spins.

He’s under you in a blink, catching you before you hit the floor. His arms wrap around you gently, carefully—like you’re made of glass now.

Maybe you are.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”

Your head falls against his chest.

You hear the frantic rhythm of his heart beneath his suit.

You feel his breath tremble against your skin.

You hate how safe it still feels.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you whisper.

“I’ll wait,” he says. “As long as it takes.”

And he holds you there—bloodied, broken, silent.

Because for once, there’s nothing left for him to say.

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tags: @raginginkedslut @emily048 @lilyalone e @harlowedoktravelsthemultiverse @helreyy @naty-1001 @slytherinroyalty16

[skzdarlings]

bodyguard: the first guard | part five | chan/reader

masterlist.

(part one of the previous story.)

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | tba

( read on AO3 )

A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh’s daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: sequel to the bodyguard (felix/reader). this is a new reader perspective. this chapter contains explicit sexual content. this chapter also has a content warning for descriptions of torture and dehumanization, plus the aftermath of trauma, themes of identity loss and healing. the previously established story dynamics are prevalent. chapter word count: 10,200 words.

enjoy <3

-

B E FO R E

Felix returns to the base and he is scrutinized, as expected.  They all want to know why he was taken, what the enemy wanted, how he escaped.   Felix has never played so many sides all while obfuscating his real objective.  Alone, he guides himself through the venomous viper’s pit that is this war: Miroh and his enemy, Miroh and the world. 

Where it concerns the enemy, Miroh will always intervene.  He sees the enemy as the antithesis to the house of Miroh.   A rich, spoiled fool, holed up in his golden cave, oblivious to what he has and the work it takes to acquire it.  Miroh is jealous. Miroh is hateful. 

Those are emotions that Felix can manipulate.  He learned it from the best. 

“It was an ambush,” Felix tells him.  “They knew I was going to be there.  They were waiting for me.”  He uses his reputation, formed by Miroh, against Miroh.   

Felix would never lose a fight.  Felix would never fail a mission.  Felix would never surrender.    Felix is a reflection of Miroh so he presents the most flattering image. 

“What information did they want?”  Miroh asks. 

Felix can see the gears spinning in his head.  What could the enemy be seeking so determinedly to lay a trap for Miroh’s asset?  Oh, Miroh has a suspicion.  Felix can see it, because he knows exactly what it is.   

“They asked about Project Twenty-Three,” Felix says.  “I told them I had never heard of it.  Even if I had, I wouldn’t tell them anything.” 

Project Twenty-Three.  Chris has vented about it to Felix.  It is a cyber mission, striking against the enemy’s tightly guarded servers.  It intends to blackout the grid and lay virtual traps while they re-calibrate, compromising not only the enemy but everyone else on that grid: civilians, their homes, their hospitals, their shelters. 

It is a significant job for its scope and because it is the first time a mission will be helmed by Miroh’s daughter. 

Miroh’s daughter, Chris says, intends to sabotage the operation. 

It is Felix’s worst fears coming true.  Miroh’s daughter rebelling against Miroh is doomed to be a catastrophe.  She will inevitably go down and when that blaze tears through the sky, Chris will crash and burn in a similar inferno.  He is too blinded by proximity, too idealistic to see how it is impossible to truly destroy a man like Miroh. 

No one but classified personnel are supposed to know about Project Twenty-Three.  Miroh’s daughter let it slip to Chan, who let it slip to Felix.   As far as Miroh is concerned, Felix should not know about it.  As far as Miroh is concerned, Felix is telling the truth. 

As far as Miroh is concerned, someone is leaking highly sensitive data to the enemy. 

“I’m smarter than that, though,” Felix says.  He appeals to all that haughty vanity and says, “I was trained by the best.  Of course I got away.”

“Of course,” Miroh says.  Where before, he was wary, his guard comes down. 

Felix can sneak in.  Felix can lay his attack. 

“What else did they say?” Miroh asks. 

“I overheard them,” Felix says.  “They’re going to try and kill you.  And it’s going to happen inside your house.” 

The trap is laid.

-

P R E S E N T   D A Y

Miroh only put one soldier through a reconfiguration program.  And it wasn’t me.  It was you.   

Chan looks at you as if you shot him even though he was the one who fired at you.  

The words land with more violence than a bullet. 

It can’t be true.  That is your first reaction: denial. He is lying or he is confused or something, something, something. Anything but whatever he just said. 

He tries to step towards you.  You look at him and think of the First Guard: him in that corridor, a hand around your neck.  He fought just enough to make it real, the way you and Changbin sometimes fight, but it never went too far, did it?  You think back to that first fight in the ring.  You commended yourself for lasting so long, but that should have been a hint.  You would not have lasted a round with the First Guard on a good day, never mind after fighting several others.   He never came at you with the full brunt of his fatal capacity like you would expect, like you should have considered at the time. 

His eyes in the van, the tilt of his head.  

Trusting as your car stopped an inch from his body. 

His hands out like you were a wild, unpredictable animal, a weapon, something lethal he had to contain.   It’s me, he said.  It’s just me.  As if you knew who that was.

He does the same thing now.  You wrench away from him.   

“No,” you say.

He says your name but it doesn’t sound like a name; it sounds like begging, it sounds like please, it sounds like desperation, painfully barbed on his tongue.  You half expect him to start bleeding from the mouth. 

“No,” you say again.  You jerk away even though he has stopped reaching for you.  You feel a phantom hand on your chest and on your head, a cold fire in your veins. 

You slam shoulders as you dart past.  He says your name again, this time like an alarm, only barely short of a scream as he chases after you.  You get as far as the door before he catches you, his hand wrapped around your bicep and your name a weapon on his lips.

“Stop it,” you say.  It isn’t loud but it is brutal all the same. 

He lets go as if you electrocuted him. 

You look at him.  He stares back, all that begging in his dark eyes. 

“You can’t – you can’t leave,” he says.  His panic bubbles into frustration and he says, “You just told me off for doing that, didn’t you?”

You think of him on that rooftop, not even blinking at Miroh’s dead body, like he couldn’t care less, his eyes rivetted to you alone.   

“Do you trust me?” you ask. 

You think he would rather get hit.  A moment of pain, a scar to join the others. Instead, he has to endure the intensity of your eyes, suffer whatever fucked up expression is haunting your body, and then he has to let you go. 

You do not look at his face when leaving.  You don’t want to see this side of him.  There are already too many versions of him in your head, just as there are too many versions of yourself. 

The denial does not last long.  You walk through the brisk night, destination nowhere.  The sky feels too big.

It’s preposterous, isn’t it?  You are in your body right this moment, looking at the world with your own eyes.  How can anything be wrong inside?   But even while attempting to convince yourself otherwise, you know the truth.  It has been long unfurling in the back of your mind.   You have not felt like yourself for days, maybe weeks, maybe the entire three months since this downfall began. 

You don’t even remember what it means to feel like yourself. 

All the nightmares, the visions, the flashes of dreams that feel more like memories – maybe memories is exactly what they are.  So suppressed it feels like watching a movie rather than your own life, but your story regardless.   Sifting through those fragments feels like searching through rubble in a collapse. How are you ever expected to find a person under that much annihilation? 

When it happens, Changbin said, what feels like a lifetime ago.  When it’s just you and you’re trying to decide who you want to be, not who your father wants you to be…  When you’re trying to remember everything and you can’t decide what was real and what was just training and what was Miroh…”

A sob rips out of you.  You have cried more in days than you have in years.  You cover your face and fall into the dark of your closed eyes.  You see your friend, not a fragment or broken memory, but a whole person.  The scar on your palm twinges, reminding you that you are real and here. 

Remember me, he said. 

That was the very first thing you did.   You saw him on that rooftop and you remembered something.  Him, younger, bleeding, emerging from a fog of smoke.  He lifted a weight off your chest.  He made you a promise. 

You try to chase the memory of that dream, try to hold the image of him in your mind, but it moves like water through a sieve.  It’s like he’s standing right there, just in the corner of your eye if you could only turn your head to look.  But you are trapped in place.  Pinned down, a weight on your chest. 

You lose track of time under the stars.  You are too numb to feel the cold.  Only when the sky purples with the very earliest streak of dawn do you move.  You look at your feet as you walk and it feels like someone else is moving you.  You know it’s just exhaustion, a trick of the weary eye, but a shudder moves through you.   

You don’t want to think about it.  Whenever your mind starts to go there – to that room, to that hole, to the cell – it backs away screaming.  It is probably why you can’t hold any picture for longer than a second. 

A small part of you still rebels, insisting it isn’t true because it’s can’t be true, but you know intrinsically that it is. 

This confirmation solidifies when you get back to the room and find Chan still awake, sitting in a chair with his head in his hands. 

He lifts his head.   You can’t hold his gaze for long, swallowed up by the dark depth that sees something in you, far beyond the surface, buried so deep you can’t find it. 

You turn away.   You climb into bed. 

It isn’t an escape.  You know that, even as you close your eyes and shut out the world.   It’s all waiting for you there, your subconscious caught in a perpetually crashing tidal wave.  

You fall asleep, ready to face the nightmares. 

-

It feels like swimming against an acidic current.  You push through but it bears down; you struggle but it burns your skin, sloughs down to the clean marrow.  Pieces of you are lost to the tide.  You try to catch each flaking sliver of personhood but then your arms are full and you can no longer swim.

You are going to drown. 

“Let go,” says a voice, colder than the water.  “This will all stop.  Just let go.” 

Just let go.  Just let your skin unravel.  Just let the tide take it away.  You will never get it back.  You will be a living corpse, a half-consciousness puppeting your bones. 

You decide to drown.  You slip further and further into the blackness behind your lids.

“Hey, it’s me!  I’m coming!” 

Changbin.

You can hear his footsteps as he thunders towards you, but you can’t see him.  Your eyelids are so heavy, as if being held shut by a hand in the water.

Another hand reaches straight through the corrosive cold and seizes your face in a desperate grip. 

“Wake up,” Changbin says.  He taps your cheek repeatedly, a little harder each time, a little more frantic.  “Hey, wake up.  Please.  Please wake up.”

It feels like he is prying your eyes open.  One moment there is nothing but darkness, then Changbin is there.  He looks like he did when you last saw him, grown, fight-ready, a little scar on his face.  It bleeds more than such a tiny mark should.  A droplet hits your cheek, burning hot compared to the water. 

“It’s me,” he says. “Hold on.  Keep your eyes open.  Don’t go.  I promise I’ll get you out.” 

Don’t go.  Don’t go.  An echoing reverberation that circles the wooden beams high above your head.  You look there, staring at the ceiling as your lungs slowly fill with oxygen. 

The ceiling shatters in a spray of splinters, the world vanishing in a cloud of grey smoke.  Changbin is gone and your father stands over you, keeping that weight on your chest with a press of his fist. 

“You’ll thank me one day,” he says, and plunges you back under water.  Ice cold currents and electric hot fire twine in and around you in an unfathomable vice.  Your vision flickers as you twitch and flail, avoiding one sensation to succumb to the other. 

“Don’t go,” Changbin says.  “I promise I’ll get you out.” 

Another bolt of lightning slices through you. 

“Just let go.”  A cold and clinical voice.

There is a war between those voices.  Time passes slowly as you volley in the current, slamming into one or the other. 

In the bubbling frenzy, you hear a whisper.  

“Let her go.”  That is not Changbin.  That is not your father.  It’s too soft – soft, until it’s not, until it sounds like speaking through an open chest cavity, heaving up its heart with every cry.  “Please,” the voice begs.  “Let her go.” 

“Thank me,” your father says.  He stands with his back to you, angled just enough you can see the gun in his hands.   You can’t see the person on the receiving end.  You just know it’s a soldier.  You just know it’s a boy. 

You have to stop it.  The thought overwhelms you and you reach for the gun, but your hand never makes contact, splashing through cold water. 

“Subject recognizes control,” says that clinical voice.

There is a hand on your chest.  It pushes you back under water. 

You are alone in the current and the corrosion and the cold.  The hand pushes you deeper and deeper into the endless darkness under you.  

You are going to drown.  You are going to let yourself drown. 

“You don’t want to do that,” you say. 

Your father still has a gun in his hand.  It is pointed at that boy. 

“Subject— Control—”

You need to get that gun.  You need to swim.  You need to see him.  You need to save him. 

You finally let go. 

-

You open your eyes. 

Unlike in your dreams, it’s fast.  You jolt awake in a cold sweat.  The ceiling is unmoving, the air cool and dry from the motel’s cheap, noisy air conditioner.  The blinds are closed but the neon light outside the window creates a fuzzy square halo.  It brightens the room just enough to see  the outline of everything clearly.  

That includes Chan.

He is still awake.  If this was just one night ago, you would tell him to get into bed and sleep because you can’t have him tired for the mission.  But now, you find yourself staring back at him, at his bare and open face, his tired eyes and the uncomfortable tension in his shoulders.   

When you went to sleep, he was sitting on that same chair in the corner, and it looks like he hasn’t moved once.  He’s been waiting for you. 

He’s been waiting a lot longer than one night.   If she ever came back to me, he said, revealing years of hope, of watching, waiting for you to break through your conditioning and show him a sign.  He was never brainwashed, just trapped in a precarious situation, bound to a bargain with no way out that didn’t compromise you.  He could have saved himself at any time but it wouldn’t have mattered.   

“You were never reconfigured,” you say. 

“No.” 

The question and answer breaks a dam.  A flood of questions pour to the front of your mind, overwhelming you, taking you back to your dreams where you almost drown – again and again.  You remember the report, stating too much recollection could trigger some kind of breakdown.  Yes, you could ask Chan to tell you everything, to string together all those gaps in your nightmares, but you already know that would not help.  It would either feel like a story about a girl you do not know, or it would just throw you deeper into the whirlpool.

You let those questions turn over themselves like a crashing wave.  When it settles, you ask the one question that remains.

“Were we friends?” 

He doesn’t answer right away.   He leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands under his chin.  He is impossibly strong but right now he looks too weak to support himself.

“No,” he finally says.  His eyes dart to the floor.  “No, we weren’t friends.” 

He looks at you and you fall into the unspoken story within his eyes.  You have been conversing without words since you met.  He has been looking at you with that wanting tilt and desperate stare since he stepped into the ring. 

You remember a fragment from a dream.   Him, younger, his face ravaged with tears and his mouth open on a muted shout.   It would be easy to mistake that as him being tortured, his pain that palpable.  But your memory is not of his suffering, just his watching, just his waiting.   

All this time, he has been waiting.  

“Did you love me?” you ask. 

This answer comes faster, but rougher as if guarding against vulnerability.  His voice is low.

“Yes.”

A phantom spark fires up your arm, straight into your heart. 

“Did I love you?” you ask.

He holds your gaze, though it feels like he is looking just a little past you, seeing something you can’t see.  Then again, maybe he doesn’t see it, maybe he is just searching, and maybe he comes up empty.  Because when he answers, his voice is airy, and the word is like a hiss of pain, like getting hit in the chest and all the air leaving the body at once.

“Yes,” he says.

You feel the weight of that hit too.  Wavering under the force of it, you blurt, “I don’t remember.” 

“I know,” he says.  He drops his head into his hands and rubs his palms over his face, scrunches his eyes shut tight and shakes his head.  “I know.”    

You want to go to him.  You are not sure where the urge comes from because, despite what he said, you have never loved like that.  Is it something buried inside you, something that remembers?  Maybe it’s just you, who you are now, the person who has spent the last few days with this man at her side.  His proximity has been a confusing comfort from the start.  Maybe it’s a memory or maybe it’s just him. 

You stand before thinking it through.  He doesn’t even notice, a sign this competent soldier is very far gone, his face still buried in his hands.  When you touch his shoulder, it catches him off guard, both arms jolting as if stung. 

He looks up at you, his hand instinctively flying to the one you rest on his shoulder.  He clasps it, holds it there, presses it down like he needs convincing it is real. 

He meets your eyes.   You do not know what you look like; you just know it hurts him, that it makes everything so much worse. 

A child-like sob punches out of him.  His eyes close tight, his face going red as he fights to hold it in.   He cried earlier and it looked like the typical outpouring of stress and hurt, but it did not look like this. 

After that first sob, reminiscent of the little boy he never really was, years of torment come tearing violently out of his chest.  Flashes of memories melt with the sight, his young face twisted as he wails, that muted shout filled in with his voice now. 

He holds his forehead, doubles over.  When you see the top of his head, those other images fade away.  It is just him, here, now.  Whoever he is, he has been good to you.  Your hand is still on his shoulder and he is still clinging to it. 

“Chan,” you whisper.  You’re not sure if he hears it, but his breath catches when you nudge him upright.  You are certain he can’t see very well through his tears, but he looks up anyway. 

When you climb into his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck, he does not hesitate to throw his arms around you.  His hands find your back and he presses you so close, it feels like he is trying to push you right into his heart.  He puts his face in your neck where he fights to steady his breathing. 

You touch the nape of his neck.  You shiver at his long exhale. 

You feel miserable and choked for a myriad of reasons.  For him, everything he as endured and lost.  For you, who doesn’t even know what she lost at all. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.  His breathing is less laboured, though his voice sounds sore.  He exhales again, some tension leaving his shoulders where you rest your hands. 

You squeeze those shoulders and lean back to look at him.  His expression is more than a little abashed, gaze uncertain.  You are not good at smiling but you try, even though you think your brows are furrowed and his sorrow is reflecting back through your eyes. 

“Thought we agreed to stop apologizing,” you say. 

His laugh is as weak as your smile, but certainly there.   You touch his face with your scarred palm, feel the curve of his jaw where that wound runs sharpest.    You think you can only touch him because of that scar.  You used to balk at the sight of someone else’s tears, even deride them.  You don’t remember being a lover.  You didn’t even realize you had a friend until it was too late.

You might not know who you are, and you might not know how to describe how you feel, but you certainly understand it feels different, and you certainly know what kind of person you do not want to be anymore. 

So you do not rip your hand away.  You curl a tuft of hair behind his ear. 

“I just—”  You trip over your own words, wishing you were a better speaker, more personable and warm than your stiff recitation.  “I can’t be that person,” you say.  “I don’t know what person I will be, but I’m not – I can’t—”

“I know,” he says, sincere.  He is holding your waist and he gives it a small squeeze, a reassuring touch that moves through you with a burst of warmth.  It simmers in your bloodstream when he smiles – his eyes still sorrowful despite the dimple in his cheek.   “I don’t wish you were someone else,” he says.  With a wince, he says, “I wish I was.” 

Your stomach twists in an awful knot.  You think of all that blood on his hands.  Despite his efforts to keep it away from you, you feel it on yourself.  You have to close your eyes to push away the flood of images, unsure which are imaginative fabrications and which are potential memories.  You just know he looks too young to have that kind of red on him. 

You open your eyes and look at him.  His eyes are open but his gaze is faraway, lost in thought.  You touch a tendril of curly hair, feel it under your fingers like you have the past couple nights.  He looks at you with eyes that have already shared multiple conversations. 

“I wish you hadn’t suffered,” you say.  “I don’t think anyone should suffer that way.  I don’t think the ends justify the means anymore.  But also I—” 

Even while your heart is changing inside, getting those words outside is a different struggle entirely. 

Chan looks at you with that tilt to his head, that questioning brow, his eyes a lot softer with his curiosity.  Your breath is jagged, a messy gasp as you gather yourself.  You look away, wholly incapable of maintaining eye contact.

“I got in the car with the First Guard,” you say.   “Not with some other version of you.  This soldier.  This Chan.”   You look down at your hands, absent-minded in the way you move them, from his shoulders down to his chest.  “This is the man I trusted,” you say.  “The one I still do.”

Your eyes lift.  They meet his.  His expression is a mix of confusion and amazement. 

His lips part with a question, but it gets caught.  He stares a little longer, then he asks, “Why?”

An unexpected laugh bubbles and bursts right out of you. 

“I have no idea,” you say, giving in to that bubbly feeling, letting it fill your chest and lift you up like a safety raft.  “I don’t know anything at all.” 

You realize there is something freeing in that thought.  No, you don’t know who you are.  No, you don’t know what is going to happen past right now.  You have to save your friend.  You have to end your father’s business.  Everything else, the becoming of you and the world and your place in it, is unanswerable.  You can’t find blueprints or scour maps or form battle strategies.  You don’t know where the water leads.  You just have to swim. 

“Maybe it doesn’t even matter,” you say with a shrug.  “I don’t know.  Nothing about yesterday, nothing tomorrow—”

“Just right now,” he says.

His voice is a little lower.  Just right now.  That was the pact you made the other night. 

Your whole body comes alight, waking from the ice cold state it has been frozen in.  It warms under his palms on your hips and where his dark eyes roam. 

“Just right now,” you repeat as softly.  You look at your hands again, realize more consciously how intimately they rest on his chest.  Rather than retract, you swipe your thumb across the exposed strip of skin where his flannel is buttoned askew.   “Maybe that’s all I need to know.” 

This right now feels different than before.  You don’t blame his emotional reaction to your earlier intimacy if it was an affect of all his memories, all he had lost, and all he was.  You think your straightforward trust in him – not in spite of his identity, but because of it – has shifted things again.  Your hands on his chest and your words in the open seem to have changed the shape of this whole room. 

“I’m the First Guard,” he says.  His eyes drop to your mouth then back up.  “You’re Miroh’s daughter.” 

“Yes, you are,” you say.  “And no, I’m not.”  You see the shiver that moves through him when you run your hands up his chest and curl your hand around the back of his neck.   You feel his thighs get tense under yours, his whole body reacting.  “Say my name,” you say.

When he does, it is not like a weapon or alarm, but spoken in a way that makes you feel like you have never heard your name spoken properly before that moment. 

You kiss him first and this time it lands deliberately, catching him mid-breath and stealing the rest of it.  When you start to lean away, to see if it’s all right, he puts his hand on the back of your head, curls his fingers in your hair, and draws you right into him, stealing back that breath with a desperate kiss. 

In a way, this is familiar to you.  You always liked and used sex as a grounding exercise.  You feel present in your body, regardless of how floaty and detached you felt before.  From the tingling top of your head to the curling of your toes, you feel every inch of yourself, alive and hot. 

But it feels different too.  You were always eager to chase the high, to reach the final destination with little care for the journey.  You realize, maybe, it is about the becoming, itself.

“Chan,” you say, squeezing his hips between your legs when he runs his hands under your shirt.  You climbed into bed still wearing your pants and shirt, wishing differently now as you rock your body against his. 

You buck a little eagerly, sensations going to your head quicker than intoxication.  Chan brings you back down, shushing you gently, guiding your open mouth back to his.  He kisses you slowly, touches you like he is memorizing every contour.   You make a sweet sound into his mouth, cupping his face as you kiss him back. 

“Can we—” you start.

“Yes,” he says.  “Yes, yes.” 

You stand on shaky legs and strip your bottom layers away.  The few seconds apart are dizzying, the whole world around him fuzzy as that neon yellow light leaking into the room.   Because he is staring at you, looking dazed and dishevelled, it takes him longer to unbutton his jeans than it did for you to remove your pants altogether.  You climb back onto his lap and do not help at all, distracting him with another kiss. 

A kiss always felt like a waste of time, but you think you could content yourself with just kissing him forever.   Slow or fast, gentle or needy.  

You are kissing when he gets inside you, gripping your bare thighs with a possessive hold that will feel tender tomorrow.   You luxuriate in the pleasure and the pain, your body yours, shared with him, reciprocated in turn.  

Whatever else existed – or could exist – ceases to matter for a time.  You come together and come apart in each other’s arms, chests pressed together, hearts racing against each other.  You tug his hair and pull his face into your neck, moaning under the press of his teeth and the heat of his lips. 

“Mm, fuck,” he groans into your skin, clutching your hips even tighter, rocking up into you while you roll down against him.  His gentle curse has you whimpering, his mouth on your throat making you shake.  “Mm, get all tight when I bite you, you know,” he murmurs, and leaves no time for argument or embarrassment because he nips at your neck again.  You do exactly what he said, clenching around him with an involuntary shudder. 

“Fuck,” is all you say.  He breathes a laugh against your skin. 

You clutch his shoulders when he gathers you and stands, moving the couple small steps towards the bed where he lays you out.  You are apart for only seconds, but you feel so cold and empty that it is almost terrifying.  When he shucks his jeans and gets back on top of you, you unbutton his shirt with shaking fingers, body in convulsions from the angle he is fucking you.   

You have never been fully alive in your body until right now. 

You come while he fucks you and you come again, when he puts his hands on you, like he really does need to feel every inch of you with his searching fingers.  When he keeps touching you, you are so stimulated you slap his chest, making him smile at your loss of words. 

 You lay in a tangled heap, your legs twined together.  Your shirt is gone and his is unbuttoned, your cheek on his chest as he lays on his back.  You let yourself be a little lulled by the cadence of his breathing.

Your eyes eventually wander.  You realize the sun has joined that neon light, the fuzzy halo around the window now a clearer glow.  The day is beckoning.  It brings you back to reality, to the world outside this re-shaped room. 

“I know I need to face it eventually,” you say.  “I don’t know what will happen. But right now – I can’t be distracted from the mission.  I need to rescue Changbin.  I need to stop my father.”

Miroh is dead but everything he did haunts you, like a ghost around every corner.  You can’t afford to confront the other ghosts, including your own. 

“Whatever happens after right now,” you say.  “I guess I’ll see.” 

“I understand,” Chan says.  He is caressing your spine, fingertips stroking up and down the slope of your back.   He scratches a little at the nape of your neck, making you hum in contentment.  “Really,” he says.  “I know things got crazy earlier but… I think right now… I can do right now.”

You look up at him.  He smiles down at you, dimples digging into his cheeks.  You have to look away, because you just promised yourself no distractions, but that smile causes a flush of warmth that goes beyond the physical. 

“Well,” you say with a sigh, patting his chest.  “Maybe by then you and me will be friends for real.” 

You feel his body stiffen, shoulders dropping, the hand on your nape freezing.   You look up to see his face, a questioning brow quirked.  He is returning the expression, though his countenance is a little more drole. 

“What?” you say. 

He answers with a firmer grip on the back of your neck.  He rolls you over, onto your back, keeping your head lifted in his hand.  The length of his open flannel drapes over your warm skin, a soft tickle as he leans down and kisses you.  It starts gentle but doesn’t last, his tongue parting your lips and the hot, needy press of his mouth pinning you to the bed and his arms.   You kiss back but hardly keep up, dizzy with breathlessness as he licks into your mouth, as he chases down the breath of you, as he keeps your lips on his for as long as he possibly can. 

Then he leans to one side.  His breath tickles your neck before he kisses just below your ear.  He whispers, “I don’t want to be friends.” 

He looks at you with a far too innocent dimpled smile.  You think Chan might be a bigger threat to your well-being than the First Guard. 

“Okay,” you say, breathless.  “Noted.” 

-

You open the blinds.  Once the room is full of sunlight, you revert to soldiership and work on your next strategy. 

There is no doubt the Miroh corporation is floundering in a state of panic.   They are not only dealing with the loss of its boss and heir, but also destabilizing insider attacks on various sectors while vulnerable.  On top of everything else, stocks have plummeted and investors are running for their lives and their wallets. 

You and Chan have watched the company as well as the social reaction.  With different leaks and financial fallouts, especially given Miroh’s connections to governmental and military divisions, it is no surprise that different stories have been cycling through the news.  You have kept an ear on the radio and an eye on tv stations. 

As you scour blueprints and map your next manoeuvre, you have the news playing at a low volume in the background.  They are currently reporting the combustion of a Miroh facility.  Their research and sources have led them to deduce it is an inside job.  

That much is fairly obvious as no one else could do what you and Chan are doing, though you are not suspects.  The media believes you are dead, that both you and your father were assassinated at the same time.  You are not sure if the company honestly believes you died, that the First Guard killed you then disappeared without Miroh to corral him, or if they reported that so they could kill you without a fuss in the future. 

There are no reports on Chan, of course.  No one outside of Miroh’s world even knows he exists. 

The major suspects are disgruntled investors and former employers, so far mostly scientists and research assistants given the targeted facilities.  With some of the government leaks, there are also theories that some deals with legislators went sour and resulted in a target being painted over the name Miroh. 

This seems to the angle the current report is taking.  At first, you are only half-listening, as the news reporter does not mention anything you have not heard before. 

Then you catch the latter half of a sentence you are not expecting.

“—of greater potential concern as this latest attack was on a military base.”

Both you and Chan whip your heads up at the same time. 

You have not attacked any military bases. 

“Turn that up,” you say.

Chan is already on his feet and moving towards the bed where the remote was discarded.  He turns up the volume on the television and you both watch the report. 

It is not impossible that a domino effect could ripple from one facility to the next.  The more attacks you make – targeting all the little chinks in Miroh’s armour – the more likely it is that certain institutions will collapse entirely on their own.  Either people will chase the money, like a lot of former investors, or they will abandon course altogether.  Eventually, Miroh’s world will eat itself alive, with or without your help. 

But you have so far only targeted a couple smaller research facilities.  Yes, there have already been consequences, but not enough that a totally unrelated military base on the other side of the country would spontaneously combust. 

You stare at the screen.  That base is big.  It isn’t going down without a fight.  No one outside of the house of Miroh would have dared target it.  No one else would have known how. 

“Changbin,” you say. 

Chan puts a hand on your shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.  You look at him then at the television, at the story unfolding rapidly in front of you. 

“It’s him, isn’t it?” you ask.  “It has to be.”

There might be just enough chaos in the ranks that if a solder of Changbin’s calibre was being held, something might fall wayside and he would have an opportunity to escape.  

You are just not sure he would try.   Changbin has obviously undergone changes of his own, all seeming to stem from that final confrontation with Lee Felix before the enemy went down and took his world with him.   Changbin clearly decided once and for all what was really important to him.  Changbin has always played the game carefully, but in the last few months he repeatedly put himself between you and your father.   He intercepted multiple interactions with Miroh’s men, altercations you dismissed as nuisances at the time but shudder to realize the weight now. 

Changbin threw himself in the middle, again and again, painting a bigger and bigger target on his back.  He seemed resigned to his demise.  For that reason, you are not sure how much he would fight even if given the opportunity.  He seemed whole-heartedly certain he would be left behind, no matter what happened. 

You curl your hand into a fist, digging your nails into your scar.  There was so much you should have told him.  If he knew that you were willing to fight this hard.  If he knew you would find out the truth.  If, if, if—

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Chan says. 

You look at him just as he kneels down beside your chair.  He takes your hand, the one with the scar, and unfolds it carefully. 

“Kicking yourself won’t save him, yeah?”  Chan says. 

“Yeah,” you say with a huff. 

The report continues.  It details this attack as being an inside job as well.  Supposedly, according to rumours breaching the walls, multiple people have gone missing, but their identities have not been given to the press.  Hearing that, you become marginally more hopeful that Changbin is among them.  The company would not report their supposed missing persons because they are most likely prisoners being held in less-than-legal circumstances.  Changbin would be that type of prisoner.  

The fight is ongoing.  He could still be there. 

“It’s a lead, at least,” Chan says, echoing your thoughts. 

“Maybe we’ve been looking in the wrong place this whole time,” you say.  You have been targeting the science sector when maybe your father kept it all in the military house after all.  Maybe after the initial pass through that research facility, he was moved onto a more secure base, given his background as a former child soldier of the special-ops program. 

Well, if that is the case, their extra security did not work.  Of course it didn’t work.  It’s Seo Changbin.   You could laugh at their idiocy. 

“We need to find out either way,” you say. 

You manage your expectations for now, but as you sit at the table and change course to plan an entirely new strategy, it is with a hope as clear and bright as the sunlight.

-

It is a lot of driving to the military base.  You will get there at nightfall the next day if you stop only sparsely. 

You and Chan are swift in packing and climbing back into that car.  You take turns sleeping and driving, though the last leg of the journey is spent on edge.  You are braced and ready for a fight, all that determination exacerbated by the very real possibility that you are about to see Changbin again. 

What will you say to him?  What will he say to you?  You wonder how much he knew about the reconfiguration.  Clearly, he knew something, if not the specifics, as he went to great lengths to keep you away from your father. 

You thought Changbin had saved you on an emotional level, but you realize now how it crossed into every sphere of life.    

You close your eyes while Chan drives.  You see Changbin on that rooftop, saying he will not leave you behind.  It was the first hit that shattered the glass around you.  Miroh had so carefully built that clear coffin around your consciousness, and Changbin smashed right through with the sheer brute force of his friendship. 

You glance at Chan.  Miroh did everything in his power to make sure you forgot about him.  Bang Christopher Chan, the First Guard.  Someone you loved and who loved you.  Your father would have focussed on that.  He would not have seen anything. 

Why would he care about a friendship?  What does that word even mean to a man like him?  He would have looked right past Changbin.  He spent all that time wiping Chan from your mind, that he never thought to look for anything else. 

Your body gets cold as you remember – something.  You close your eyes.  You are standing in front of Changbin.  He’s young, in his late teens, about the age you would have been when they reconfigured you.  He is looking at you with uncertainty.  You feel an uneasiness looking back at him. 

Don’t you know me? he asks.  He pulls a face, makes some dumb noises, waves his hands.  Then he frowns.  Changbin can be funny, but he turns it off in a second, as deadly as the rest of them.   So much anger floods his eyes, they look black with the focussed intensity of his fury.  You know me, he says.  Think.  Remember me. 

You see a slant of moonlight, a windowpane, a streak of blood.  Remember me. 

You feel a weight as it is lifted off your chest.  You hear him shouting your name.  You hear him running. 

You know me, he says. 

You flinch – in your memory? – right now? – and a piercing wail floods your mind.  You don’t want to go towards that scream.  You can’t go there. 

It’s me, he says.  Hold on.  Keep your eyes open.  Don’t go.  I promise I’ll get you out.

“Changbin,” you say. 

“Hey, hey, baby, hey—”  That is Chan.  He is shaking your arm.

Your eyes pop open. 

You have never had flashes of recollection while awake.  It feels like a bigger adrenaline rush than waking from a nightmare, very little to divide your mind from reality. 

You take a few steadying breaths while Chan rubs your shoulder.  He was driving but the car is now stopped on the side of the road.  You did not even feel him braking. 

“What happened?” he asks when you are settled enough to speak.

“I don’t know,” you say.  “I just—I was thinking.  Remembering.  Not like that.  It’s complicated.  I just—”

You close your eyes.  A teenage Changbin is still standing there, looking at you warily. 

You know me. 

I know you.

“Changbin,” you say, choked up.  You blink your eyes open and take another breath.  “I’ll be okay,” you say.  “We can’t stop for long.  Let’s get back on the road.”

Chan does not look convinced, frowning as he stares into your face.  You blink at him, then narrow your eyes into a squint.

“Did you call me baby?” you ask. 

He clears his throat and turns back to the steering wheel.  Looking out over the dashboard, definitely not at you, and with the tips of his ears more than a little red, he says, “You’re right.  Let’s get back on the road.”

In spite of everything, you find yourself smiling. 

-

It is only natural that you are waylaid at the very last minute, right on the cusp of sunset as you approach the vicinity of the military base.  Not only is your path to finally rescuing Changbin obstructed, but it is halted by the most asinine, mundane nonsense in the world. 

Soldiers, agents, entire convoluted military operations – those you can easily take.  Minimum wage workers, on the other hand, are impossible combatants.  More grizzled than the worst of ancient servicemen, they blink at your pleading with a harsher chill than a mob boss.   You are certain this gas station attendant has seen some shit because he is not remotely inclined to assuage anyone’s anxiety. 

“The till is down,” he says with an icy tone, face pinched unpleasantly.  “It’ll be back up in a minute.” 

He goes back to talking to his manager on the phone, smacking his computer till at random intervals.  It does not exactly inspire confidence. 

While you and Chan have been getting by with theft and subterfuge, you do everything in your power to not draw attention.  That means you pay for gas as many stations have security cameras that log and report drive-offs and defaults. 

That means you are stuck in this line with several other customers while the hapless cashier whacks his computer.

The little bell above the door rings as Chan steps inside the shop. 

“What’s taking so long?” he asks. 

“I want to hit him,” you say, pointing to the disinterested cashier.  “He’s never gonna get that thing fixed.  We have somewhere to be, we can’t just stand here all day—” 

“Ah, ah, ah, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Chan says soothingly.  He interrupts your rant as you were raising your voice.   Not that it matters because the incompetent cashier is not paying any attention. 

“I’ll take care of it,” Chan says.  “You just have to know how to talk to people, yeah?” 

The cashier paid you absolutely no mind when you tried to complain.  He gave you a nasty look and ordered you to get to the back of the line.  Chan, on the other, receives a quick onceover and a blink of seeming approval. 

Chan leans on the counter and smiles a devastatingly charming smile, those dimples blinding.  The cashier puts the phone on his shoulder and looks at him expectantly.    

“Hey there,” Chan says. 

“Hello,” the cashier replies, coolly but not as rudely.  “The till is broken, sir.  We’re going to have to wait for a repair.”

“You know, I’m pretty good with my hands,” Chan says.  “I bet if you let me under there, I could figure something out.” 

The cashier blinks at him.  One blink, two blinks, three.  Then he hangs up the phone and opens the gate to let Chan behind the counter. 

You cross your arms and roll your eyes. 

Chan, perhaps unsurprisingly given his necessary breadth of skills, helps the useless cashier get his dumb register running again.  You all but throw the money at his stupid pretty head before marching away. 

“Thanks, Wolfgang,” the cashier says, using the made-up name Chan gave him.

“No problem.”  Chan winks back at him.   “Have a good day, uh—”  He squints at the name tag, gives it only a sparing glance as he steps out the door.  “Hyunjin,” he says.

The door swings closed and you continue on your way. 

-

Fortunately, you have no more preposterous interludes.   You approach the base differently than the facilities, especially because you have not been able to do a proper sweep.  However, that should be fine given the entire operation here has already been massively destabilized.  All the main assets have moved along, either because of imminent danger or because the media now has its eyes on its actions. 

Either way, you get inside without much fuss.  You stick together for longer, not trusting the dark corridors and labyrinthine tunnels. 

It is a lot emptier than anticipated.  The fight seems to have ended some time in the last couple hours.  There is an eerie, unsettled feeling, like a house abandoned in the middle of a meal.  Unlike the dusty underground hovels at the research facility, this place is still breathing.   You are not sure what it will cough up. 

“Still think he’s here?”  Chan asks, likely coming to the same conclusion as you: that even if Changbin was here, he has probably moved on.  He has either escaped and gone of his own volition or he was caught and reprimanded and has been relocated. 

“Maybe,” you say with a sigh.  “Maybe not.  But it’s still a lead.  Treat it like one.” 

You finally split up to cover more ground, agreeing to reconvene at the central warehouse in half-an-hour. 

Maybe Changbin is no longer in these walls – maybe he was never here at all – but there might still be answers.  You suspect there are questions too, because you cannot imagine who outside of the special-ops program would have both the calibre of skill and necessary intel to pull of an operation like this.  Someone reached right into the heart of this base and yanked at its ventricles like it was nothing.  And if not to escape, then why?

It has to be Changbin, you tell yourself, even while a sense of wrongness creeps under your skin.  It is the same odd, unsettled feeling you get when you think about the night the enemy died – specifically when you think about that security system somehow being wiped after the house burned down with everyone inside it.  It is that strange discombobulation, where the answer is probably simple and right in front of your face, so blatant that its absence haunts and distracts you.

You are distracted with thought.  Maybe that is why you make your first mistake.

You turn a corner and crash right into someone.  You are shocked because you did not hear their approach.  Even distracted, you should have heard footsteps in an empty corridor, especially in heavy combat boots.  You are quiet but you have unique bodily control that even well-trained soldiers cannot replicate.  No one else can walk that quietly.

It is clear the same startled reaction ripples through their body. 

You draw guns at the same time, firing with equal speed and precision.  You also both duck at the same time.  Smooth as a dance, you whirl around each other, firing and re-loading until they do a spin-kick and knock the gun aside.  

As you fight with your hands, you only catch glimpses of your opponent.  They are dressed all in black but not in Miroh’s uniform, a balaclava pulled over their face and head.  They are very slender, but they land a hit like someone twice their size. 

Your second mistake is your own fault.  You underestimate them based on their build and it earns you a good right cross. In the ensuing dizziness, they make a break down the corridor at an alarming speed.  It leaves you reeling more than the hit. 

“What the fuck,” you say, staggering after them. 

This person does not work for Miroh, that much is obvious.  It also definitely isn’t Changbin.  This person has the completely wrong build, opposite of Changbin in almost every way.   No, it isn’t your friend, but it might very well be another prisoner.  They might have an idea of what happened.  They might know if Changbin was here and where he went. 

The thought propels you into a determined sprint.  You cannot follow sound as the person is good enough to keep their footsteps low, but you are just as skilled so they likewise do not see you coming. 

They coincidentally head straight for the central warehouse.   The warehouse previously functioned as a pseudo-armory, but it has already been completely cleared.  It is two levels, the top floor a balcony walkway overlooking the main warehouse floor. 

The warehouse is empty except for the intruder. The person seems to be deliberating.   They remove their head covering for a second, long enough to catch their breath.  You see a flash of black hair and a hint of a masculine profile before you are spotted.   The man tugs the fabric back over his head. 

He leaps right off the balcony. 

It is too high for a normal person to jump without breaking a leg.  Naturally, you run to the railing to look over.

Your adversary is a step ahead of you.   He is dangling there, waiting for you to approach so he can swing back over and knock you down.  You skid across the balcony level, the metal walkway rattling under your weight. 

You don’t stay down for long.  Another fight begins, a back and forth tussle that makes you think you need more training.  The past day has been more than a little hectic, but you should be able to take down even a well-trained soldier. 

He does another spin-kick, a solid roundhouse that knocks your mask right off.   You stumble sideways while the mask clatters across the balcony before spilling right over the ledge.  It is a long descent before it smacks the ground. 

You ground your footing, assuming a defensive stance with a swift upward swing.

“Who are you?” you ask.

At the exact same time, the man says, “You.” 

That prompts another question, a bigger question, why on earth this stranger would recognize you in this context.   You cannot even think about your question, however, because the man abruptly flies at you with twice the verve as before.  Caught off guard, at first you struggle to defend yourself.   When he finally swings too wide, giving you an opening, you do not waste the opportunity. 

You tackle him, fully and bodily, arms around him as you charge the balcony.   You shove him right over the railing.  It is not so high that he’ll die, but you don’t want to kill him anyway.  You need to ask him questions – like did he do all this and how and why?  Are there others?  Is Changbin among them? 

You grasp the railing.  You are prepared to swing and jump over but you stop short at what you find.  The man, who should be nursing a fractured leg right about now, is instead getting to his feet.  He looks a bit dizzy, shaking his head and rubbing his temple, but he is otherwise unscathed. 

You just stand there for a second, gawping at him like an animal. 

That shielded face finally lifts, eyes finding yours across the space.   His head cocks, seemingly a dry and irritated, Really?

You launch yourself off the balcony, landing heavily but safely.  You absorb the shock and straighten, not taking your eyes off this man for a second. 

“I’m not interested in hurting you,” you say. 

He scoffs, pointedly looking down at your uniform. 

“I don’t work for Miroh anymore,” you say.  “I’m just trying to blend in.” 

“You?” he says.  It is so far the only thing he is willing to say.  His voice has a darker, deeper tone, scratching at the back of your head, but his monosyllabic replies do nothing to help place him. 

You want to say more but he doesn’t let you, jumping back into action.  You huff in aggravation, wanting to shout, we’re on the same side!   But he is fast.  You expend your energy just keeping him at bay.

Your stamina is fairly well-matched, just like everything else.  You move around the warehouse, kicking and punching and flipping around each other, losing track of minutes. 

A sheen of sweat breaks under your uniform.  He is slowing down too.  There is just one difference: he still has his gun. 

He gets you behind the knee and puts you on your back.  Before you can retaliate, he draws his gun and points it at your face. 

You freeze, staring down the barrel.  You slowly lift your eyes to him, just in case any sudden movement convinces him to fire.  So far, he is holding, though you are not sure why.  If he truly wanted to avoid detection, it would have been in his best interest to kill you and move on. 

He hesitates.  His hand is steady but his eyes are darting around inside the masked fabric. 

Your eyes continue to wander up, up.  Your heart leaps when you see Chan approaching on the balcony, silent and serious, gun in hand.  He has a longer-range weapon, not a little pistol like you and the adversary.   He takes aim from his perch but you shake your head.

You know Chan can make the shot, that he could get the man through the head and not so much as graze you under him.  But if this man dies, his answers go with him. 

“No!” you shout at the same time the gun goes off. 

You wrap your legs around the man’s midsection and yank him to the side.  You roll, one over the other until you are pinned once more.  You are both unharmed.  With the head covering, it is hard to tell if he is frazzled.  He certainly whips his head around quickly, trying to see where he dropped his gun. 

You spot it at the same time.  You glance at each other then bolt, stumbling over one another as you charge the discarded pistol. 

Chan jumps down off the balcony.  He takes more of a running leap, jumping forward rather than just down.  It gives him far more momentum so he hits the ground and tucks into a roll, riding the wave of that momentum until he is in the middle of the room. 

Chan reaches the gun first.  He kicks it out of the way and comes at the adversary with his bare hands.  He may not understand why you wanted to save an enemy who had you pinned under a gun, but Chan must trust there is a reason because he fights to incapacitate rather than kill. 

It is a good fight, but the man is already tired from fighting you. 

And you are good, but Chan is better.  If he could not beat you, only tie, then he cannot beat Chan. 

Sure enough, it takes a few more moves before the man is on his back.  Chan, still wearing his half-mask, straddles the man’s chest, pinning his arms at his sides and his body to the floor.  He draws a knife out of a thigh holster for good measure.   

“Got him,” Chan says.  “Who is this guy?”

“I have no idea,” you say, jogging over to them.  “That’s what I want to find out.”

“Let me go,” the man says, wriggling uselessly under Chan’s weight.   “I have nothing to say to her.”

“I told you already, I’m on your side,” you say.  “Or at least I’m not on Miroh’s side.”

“Whose side are you on?”  Chan asks with a jerk of his head. 

“Mine,” the man answers.  “Now let me go.  I have a job.”

“We have a job,” you say.  “We’re the ones who have been taking out the facilities so far.”

That gets the man to stop squirming.  He looks at you through the narrow eye slits in his balaclava, eyes darting to where you stand behind Chan. 

“You?” the man asks, seemingly his favourite word. 

“Yes, me,” you snap.  “And who are you exactly?” 

“One way to find out,” Chan says.  He does not wait for any further acknowledgement, ripping the man’s mask right off his head.  It is not a cruel or violent action, more a casual shrug of his arm than anything.  You are not expecting to find anything more than the scowling face of a stranger.   

You and Chan freeze.   

Staring back at you, with his hair returned to its natural pitch, his dark eyes narrowed in an intense glare, and a face full of unmistakable freckles, is a former agent of Miroh’s special-ops program.  One of the last and a traitor, not to mention supposedly dead. 

“You,” is what you say.

You do not know what else to say to Lee Felix. 

[caelivir]

[ 12:42 am ] — OLIVER AIKU | angst

the door bell rings, followed by a vicious pounding on the wood. your name is called out numerous times, muffled by the walls that separate you and oliver.

the tears spring into your eyes, and it takes a moment for you to steel yourself for what comes next. one breath in. one breath out. then you’re up from the couch.

you unlock the door, not shocked to find oliver standing on the other side of it, huffing for breath. he rushes past you, and his presence inside your home makes your heart clench in ache.

your eyes shut. one breath in. one breath out. the door shuts softly. you follow him, stopping until you’re only a couple feet away from him.

oliver’s standing in the middle of your living room. “i know you’ve probably already seen it, but it’s not what it seems.”

you saw it alright. you saw the tweets, and the ongoing chaos taking over your feed. you’ve read each speculation, each nasty dig, and each sentence of support. you felt your heart crush. you’ve felt the last of your will disintegrate, all because of one of many article titles.

UBERS DEFENSIVE STAR OLIVER AIKU SPOTTED WITH SUPERMODEL AT DINNER

“it doesn’t matter.” you mumble to him, rubbing at your eyes. your head’s starting to hurt.

“just listen to me-”

“it doesn’t matter, oliver.” you repeat sternly, causing your boyfriend to blink.

his face contorts in confusion. “what? what do you mean it doesn’t matter?”

you don’t have the guts to look up. your gaze locks onto your feet. your tongue pokes around the inside of your cheeks.

“hey,” oliver tilts your chin up, forcing you to look him in the eyes. his hand slides to cup your cheek, and the gesture that was so common place in the past makes you sick. “talk to me, baby.”

such simple words, yet they cause you to break so ferociously.

“i’m so tired,” you whisper pathetically. the first of what is probably many tears slide down your face. “i’m tired of this, tired of us, tired of you.”

you can feel oliver’s hand falter against your skin. “huh? wait, baby, you’re not making any sense. i don’t get it. what are you-"

“there’s only so much i can take.” you cry, pushing his hand off you to wipe your cheeks. you can sense that he didn’t expect that. some sick part of you is proud that it wounds him. “i can’t keep making excuses for you. i can’t keep forgiving you. i can’t keep doing it. it’s killing me, oliver.”

“please. just let me-"

“no.” you shake your head. “just stop. don’t. i already know.”

“come on. you’re not being fair.”

those words make you laugh. “fair? of course it’s not fucking fair. i have to look at pictures of my boyfriend with other women. i have to watch the world speculate on whether you’ve settled down or if you’re in another fling. i have to take it all without uttering a single word.”

“but we both know what’s true. it doesn’t matter what they say.” oliver tries to reason, but it fails to work on you.

“if it doesn’t matter what they say, then why do you refuse to let them know about me?” you fire back. “if it doesn’t matter, then let them know i’m here. i’m the person you’ve settled down with. tell the world i’m yours. oliver, i’m right here.” your voice breaks.

oliver’s never looked so torn before. he’s caught in a mental battle. “i’m trying to protect you.”

you scoff with a shake of your head. “you’re not. i never asked to be protected by you, and even then, the protection that you swear you’re giving did nothing to prevent my heart from breaking. if anything, oliver, you’re protecting yourself.”

“in what way does this protect me?” his eyes are desperate and lost.

“you really don’t get it, do you?” you strain a smile. “i would hurt your reputation, wouldn’t i? because surely, i’m not the person who made infamous playboy oliver aiku fall head over heels in love because oliver aiku only hangs with actresses and supermodels and idols.

“you’re scared, scared of admitting that you’re with me because then that would make everything real, and that image you’ve curated for yourself would come crashing down. people will know to back off. your fans will stop trying to flirt with you as you sign whatever item they shove in your face.

“and we can’t have that, can we now, oliver? you thrive off of the attention. you’re fucking high on it, and i am the one person who can ruin it all.”

oliver reaches for your hands. his rough fingers caress yours. “baby, come on, that’s not true.”

“it’s not?” you challenge. “then you should be able to clear it, no? tell the world i’m here. tell them you belong to me, oliver.” you say these words through sobs.

your boyfriend’s thumbs stop tracing your skin, and he’s silent. it’s so heavy it could crush through the floor.

there it is — the final nail in the coffin.

you can’t even see him through your blurry vision, but your hands slip out of his grasp. you cast your head down, utterly defeated. “i think you should go, oliver.”

“(y/n). don’t do this. please, baby. let me fix this.” you’ve never heard him beg like this. it almost makes you surrender. it almost makes you pull him in for a kiss, a hug, or whatever would allow you to feel his familiar warmth, but you’re able to catch yourself.

“oliver, maybe one day someone will be able to handle hiding. maybe they’ll love you so much that they can bear it, but it’s not going to be me. not anymore.”

your words hang heavy in the air. they settle into your bones. and without another word, oliver cups your face in his hand. he places the most delicate kiss on your forehead.

you shut your eyes in fear that if you saw him, you would break all over again. you keep them shut as he backs up. his steps are slow across your floor. oliver stops at you assume to be your door.

“i’m sorry, (y/n). i-i love you.”

you’re not sure if that was his last resort in trying to fix this. it’s pathetic, but it nearly works. you have to bite your bottom lip to prevent it from trembling. a fresh wave of tears threatens to spill from your eyes. you wish you could say it back. you wish you could run into his arms, and oliver would whisper into your ear that everything is okay. but not all wishes can come true. you know you can’t cave.

instead, you clench your fists at your sides. you can’t turn back. one look at his face would break your resolve. you’ll have to bear the hauntings that come with the ‘what-if’s’.

“it’s too late for that.” you say instead.

for a moment, the stillness of the air makes you wonder if oliver had left. that is until you hear your front door shut. your eyes fly open.

one breath in.

one breath out.

and you finally let your cries carry throughout the room.

notes. thank you guys for 200 followers!! i threw this together as fast as i could just to have something to celebrate, but i’m writing this before sleeping so it’s probably ass. oliver might be ooc too so i apologize ab that in advance. i just really wanted to write for him lol. i only gave it one read over so forgive any mistakes i made. again, im too tired for this. hope you enjoyed!! i’ll see you in the next one <33

[mania-sama]

Mondstadt and Its Religious Implications

One thing that I will NEVER get over about Genshin Impact is the iconography used in the designs for Mondstadt and the implications it has. Now, don't get me wrong, as a rule of thumb, Hoyoverse has done a really good job in creating unique environments for Genshin's nations that more or less accurately portray a real-life cultural region. Liyue is based on China, Inazuma on Japan, Sumeru on India and Egypt, Fontaine on France (and Australia, if you squint), and Natlan on African and Native American tribes.

Mondstadt is based on Germany. More specifically, many of the designs and icons seem to resemble the Holy Roman Empire. Now, an important thing to note is that most of Western and Southern Europe was some denomination of Christianity at this time, with some exceptions due to various holy wars that occurred kind of all of the time. Anyway, the point is that the Holy Roman Empire was an established Catholic nation (and Germany still is predominantly Christian in modern-day). One thing about the Catholic denomination is that they proudly display religious symbols anywhere they can or in ways that they can carry with them, usually coming in the form of a rosary or a cross. When it came to specific places of holy worship, they would obviously spend no small amount of effort to completely embellish the place with gold, art, and symbols. Catholic churches are known to be the most extravagant of the denominations for a reason.

When a design team looks at The Holy Roman Empire, they will see this religious imagery everywhere. Namely, they will see the cross, because that is kind of, you know, THE Christian symbol. So it makes complete sense for them to note that down and underline it in red; for a mostly-accurate portrayal of the region they are taking from, a church and crosses HAVE to be included.

Places of worship are obviously not unique to Christianity, nor is the "cross" as a religious symbol even born from Jesus Christ. There are a few cases from different regions in which crosses and cross-like images were used for their gods. HOWEVER, with the specific cross that Mondstadt displays, and with the fact that not only is it based on Germany/Holy Roman Empire but that it is the ONLY Genshin region to use the cross in its designs (along with the usage of distinctly Christian/Catholic roles like nuns)... it is safe to assume that this is representative of the Christian cross.

You can see the issue we are about to have.

The fact that Mondstadt displays crosses as a religious symbol in CHURCHES and on the KNIGHTS' ARMORY (because most knights were historically Christian), that characters like Barbara are seen wearing in their designs, implies two things:

Crucifixation is/was a method of cruel execution in Mondstadt's history.

SOMEBODY of high esteem and worship had to be crucified, and thusly held up as the ultimate symbol of religion...

For the first point, while it IS still crazy to think that Genshin would imply this, I can, indeed, believe it to be true to canon. Why? Well, Mondtadt's history is already rife with the same abuses as Europe's actual history. From slaves to gladiator fights to rebellion to cruel monarchs, Mondstadt has not had a pretty life. Crucifixion honestly fits right in. I can imagine, in failed revolts against the aristocracy, those rebels who survived were later crucified. Other victims may be those who try to falsify gods or improperly worship Barbatos in a manner that the ruler doesn't agree with, those who commit treason, etc. etc..

Is it insane? Perhaps a little. But if we really get into it, Hoyoverse has done some crazy things with their lore so it's not really out of place, no matter how cruel the actual punishment is.

The second point is a little more complicated. Let's first rule off Christianity being a thing in Genshin - while you could consider the most of the nations to be monotheistic because they technically worship one god, the respective one of their nation, they most certainly do not obey/follow one god holistically, nor is there one mortal representative that god, nor is there a specific spirit that lives on in every believer who follows that god. So, there is no Holy Trinity; no Jesus Christ, no Holy Spirit, and there is no God, so to speak. No Christianity.

However.

One thing about Genshin Impact is that it takes from biblical mythology heavily, for some reason (and I say mythology because modern denominations don't consider the demonology stuff canon). For example, Paimon is the name of a demon who was more or less a servant of Lucifer (interpretations may vary). It is well known that the Archons are based on demons from biblical demon mythology. Even in the latest Natlan Archon Quest, Ronova, the Ruler of Death, looks unnervingly like Ophanim, the one everyone draws when they make "biblically accurate angels" or whatever.

Mondstadt accomplishes biblical references in two ways: one, that Barbatos, the demon, had four main kings/knights that rode with him. This can be seen represented in the Four Winds. Two, that these Four Winds can be viewed like how the Catholics would view a saint. Saints were, in simplistic terms, mortals who achieved great things and helped many people, and were then canonized after the death (usually). The church essentially declares them a Saint and worthy of worship. Idols and imagery are produced of these saints and hung like one would a cross or other images of Jesus Christ.

The most clear representation of that in Genshin would be in Venessa, who is a mortal who dies and then ascends to Celestia. She then becomes the Falcon of the West, one of the Four Winds of Mondstadt. So, a saint, essentially. Even though Mondstadt isn’t Christian, it certainly is Catholic.

The reason why I am going over all of this is to say that, well, it may not be necessarily implying that Venti was the one who was crucified. That is the popular opinion when discussing the crosses - that somewhere along the way, Venti was crucified. I am here to say that that really might not be the case. While the Holy Trinity is interpreted by many denominations to all be one and the same as each other, it is still a fact that it was Jesus Christ who was crucified, not God Himself. Jesus is the son, not the God.

Which is to say that it could be anyone, really. The most clear "child" of Barbatos that comes to mind is Venessa, who we could interpret as someone who could have been, at one point, crucified (though she was not). Rulers and people of high esteem also claim her titles and name like monarchs would claim holiness and divine right in Europe. Again, the problem with this is that she was not crucified and lived a very successful life post-rebellion.

The other option that comes to mind is the Unnamed Bard. He also could have been crucified. Even though we know he died in battle, it is not unreasonable that his corpse would have been strung up by pissed-off nobles upon the defeat of Decarabian. But, again, the problem being is that a. the timelines don't match up (Barbatos was not yet the Anemo Archon), and b. they won the rebellion so he still probably wasn't crucified.

So, it could be someone we haven't heard of, or someone deep in Genshin lore that I don't know about. Or, you know, perhaps Venti really was crucified. I don't know.

THIS is what Hoyoverse is implying. AND I DON'T LIKE IT (it's fucking hilarious).

[thiccsys]

can u dump random error facts.. maybe..

FACTS?? cracks my little knuckles

TW FOR SUICIDE MENTION!

okay. im gonna go off memory. so if i get anything wrong someone correct me.

- Error’s glasses have been around since Aftertale! Geno got them from Alphys with the wrong prescription. Because Geno is.. well, himself, he decided that the shitty prescription was “good enough” and rolled with it.

- Error is nearsighted. In the askerror comic Swap paps is seen standing far away. He is blurry. The closer he got to Error, the clearer his image became

- Error’s REAL name is Gaylord Scooter Brighton (im not making this up)

- Contrary to popular belief, Error can feel guilt. Guilt is hinted at in CQ’s summary of what could’ve been (a completed Error comic much like Aftertale).

- Error Papyrus and Error Undyne are canonical characters within his story. I, however, don’t enjoy them as much as I enjoy Error himself, so they’re irrelevant to me

- Errors are literally some sort of species. Error isn’t the only one (Circuit, Proferror, the ones mentioned above, Blueberror). My memory might be failing me but I remember hearing that an Error’s “last thought” before becoming corrupted is very important. Why? I forgot. Is this actually true? I forgot, but i cant be bothered to check

- Error IS suicidal. After destroying all fhe AUs, he will kill himself. In addition, Error would kill himself if he ever became mentally sane enough to understand how hypocritical he is.

- Error has a sensitivity to Papyrus. He doesn’t like being asked about him, or “his brother.” In addition, he struggles to kill them, shown in the AskError comic as well. Geno’s still in there and it’s sooo so amazing to think about

- Error’s very insecure. Although the idea of him being this slay girlypop feather boa wearing king is amazing, he could never. I remember seeing a comic where he indirectly says he dislikes himself. Which makes sense— his narcissistic characteristics definitely stem from insecurity. “i feel like i’m the worst so i’ll act like im the best” mentality (we genuinely relate too much to this).

- Error canonically has five blue tongues

- Error’s glitches temporarily blind him at random. Yes, it happens when he is agitated or upset, but it also comes and goes as it pleases.

- Error’s glitches are painful. Crashes are painful. The scene of him first pulling strings from his sockets was likely EXTREMELY agonizing (i’m pretty sure he said it hurt himself while showing it all to blue).

- Error’s portals do seem to have some sort of replay ability. After all, how else could he have shown Blue what happened to himself?

- He’s very lonely. He wants friends. Living friends.

- CQ stated that Error is INTENTIONALLY made to make no sense. His character doesn’t make sense to you? Good! That’s the point! He’s an enigma that doesn’t even understand himself.

- Error can see and read code as if he were looking at a computer screen. He likes picking through the code of an AU before he destroys it

- Error loves Outertale and Undernovela. He will never finish his little job.

okay thats all i remember ty for asking :3

[podiumackles]

the moments that stay (they turn out all wrong)

In which the man she could never forget suddenly turns up at her cell, but he has no remembrance of the woman in front of him. And the moments that stayed with her for decades, turn out to be her memories only.

series masterlist

CHAPTER 2

A/N: English isn't my first language!! apologies in advance.

Outlines: After being his sidekick in Payback for years, you-better known as your supename Fury-ended up on the same end of Soldier Boy's violence as every other person. What you didn't realise, however, was that your old team had set you both up for betrayal, right when you thought you were helping them in getting him. After decades of being stuck in Vought's testing lab, you heard Soldier Boy got out. But the man who appeared in front of your cell wasn't the man you knew.

Warnings: not much in this chapter. mentions of power imbalance, possibly swearing, Soldier Boy's incorrect view of what a man needs to be, mentions of (mental) abuse and manipulation, and possibly wrong storytelling in lines of the canon events. I'm not that good at remembering, guys. and the boys was just kinda complicated. forgive me.

1980s

Soldier Boy had noble intentions to protect and serve his country. He had dignity, honour, and believed every man should grow up to be a “real man”, as his father had repeatedly told him.

Enduring the Second World War wasn’t enough.

Becoming a superhero wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough. Not for his father.

His father’s words echoed in his mind, a constant reminder that no matter what he achieved, it was never sufficient.

A real man builds his own success, with his own two hands. He doesn't cheat his way into power.

Those words shaped him, pushing him to become something greater than just a soldier, more than just a hero in the public eye. But no matter how many enemies he thought he vanquished or how many medals adorned his chest, he couldn't escape the feeling that he was failing his father’s impossible standard of manhood.

But the 1980s were a far cry from the battlefields of his youth. Superheroes were no longer symbols of patriotism and sacrifice—they were products, controlled by Vought, manipulated into glossy icons for public consumption. Soldier Boy's clean-cut, all-American image had become a brand, slapped onto cereal boxes and comic books. In private, however, he was chafing under the weight of being Vought’s golden boy. He was a symbol, a puppet, but to his father, he was still just a disappointment.

The breaking point came when Vought began assembling a new team of supes- as Vought would call them- to form the latest supergroup. Ben, a natural leader in his own eyes, felt a simmering resentment. He wasn’t a team player. He was meant to be the star—the hero who stood above the rest, not one who shared the spotlight. To him, the team would only drag him down, undermine his own success, and ruin the carefully crafted image he had worked so hard to build.

But, despite everything, Vought’s grip would always have been too strong. So, despite his disdain, he reluctantly agreed. They understood him. And he needed them. He had been sure he would be appointed the leader of this new group. When he was, he would ensure control over every aspect of the team so they wouldn’t lead to his downfall. This was his time.

As he stood in Vought’s headquarters, a sense of superiority coursed through him. He was the seasoned war hero, the one who had fought on real battlefields. These supes were nothing more than attention-seeking showboats, eager for fame rather than true service.

You, dressed in an orange-red suit, stood next to him with wide-eyed curiosity. You looked like you were barely out of your teens, your youthful face betraying your lack of experience. "Is it true, then?" you asked, your voice a mix of awe and disbelief. "You killed the president?"

Ben thought the suits Vought had made for the team were ridiculous. He wouldn't need a special suit to be the best version of himself. He wouldn't need anything but himself.

Without looking at you, he growled, “You believe everything you hear?”

You blinked, taken aback by his gruff response, but quickly recovered. “No, I just…” you tore your gaze from him, focusing on the other supes getting in the final pieces of their attire. “Would be a shame to be on the team with a murderer.”

Your words lingered in the tight air between you. He realised you had put up a facade, a mask to hide your wariness of the man next to you. You didn’t idolise him. In fact, you might have been close to despising, if he didn’t know any better.

Ben finally turned his head to face you, his eyes cold and unwavering. Your suit tied around your body, but it seemed loose enough to not reveal too much to the outside. Cloves hugged your delicate hands and reached until well near your elbows. A small cape was fastened onto your wrists, which Ben found all the more ridiculous. Who the fuck needs a cape?

“I’m no murderer,” his words were short, harsh. This woman had no right to speak to him like that. “At least not to people who didn’t deserve it.”

“Did he deserve it?” You started, looking back at the slightly taller man next to you. “The president.”

“I didn’t kill the fucking president.”

Soldier Boy’s glare intensified as he sized you up. Your audacity infuriated him. He had dealt with enough scepticism from his father—he didn’t need it from some rookie in a costume Vought had only designed to sell toys.

The room around you buzzed with activity as the other members of the team prepared for their first group appearance. Ben seethed in silence. These so-called superheroes were nothing like the comrades he fought alongside in the war. They lacked discipline, focus, and the hardened edge that came from seeing real combat. They were actors in a carefully orchestrated performance, and to him, that was a disgrace.

You still stood beside him and seemed to sense his irritation, but you didn’t back down. Instead, you tilted your head and raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to lash out.

“You think you're better than us, don’t you?” you asked, your voice quieter this time, but laced with a subtle challenge.

Soldier Boy scoffed, crossing his arms. “Better? I don’t think, doll. I know.”

Your lips curled into a smirk, and for the first time, Ben noticed a flash of something in your eyes—something darker, more calculating than the wide-eyed naivety you'd shown earlier.

“Maybe you do,” you said, your voice a low murmur now. “But this isn't the ‘40s anymore. It’s not about who’s the toughest soldier out there. This world, Vought’s world, is about control. It’s about image and playing the game.” You glanced around the room at the other supes. “And you, with all your medals and war stories, are just another player.”

Your words rang through his ears more than he’d like to, and he started to think he thought of you wrongly. You weren't an ordinary trophy girl- you weren't someone to idolise him. You had your own strong opinion, and it wasn't something Ben was sure he could live with.

He clenched his fists, a storm of rage starting to brew inside him, but before he could respond, a booming voice cut through the tension.

“Alright, team!” The commanding voice belonged to Vought’s newest public relations handler, a slick man in an expensive suit. “It’s showtime!”

You shot Soldier Boy a final, knowing glance before you turned away, your cape swishing dramatically as you moved toward the centre of the room. Ben remained where he was, his jaw clenched, watching you. He hated your arrogance, but deep down, he knew you weren't wrong.

This wasn’t the battlefield. This wasn’t about sacrifice, honour, or even survival. This was a new kind of war, one he wasn’t sure he knew how to win.

But win it, he would.

Because failure? That was never an option. Not for him. And certainly not for his father.

As the team assembled for their public debut, Soldier Boy straightened his shoulders and put on his best, most patriotic smile. No one in the crowd would ever know the battle raging inside him, the war he fought against the crushing weight of expectations.

He would play the game, for now. And when the time was right, he would remind them all just how dangerous a man like him could be.

Cameras flashed; eight new heroes to represent America, to supposedly save the residents from upcoming threats, upcoming wars.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the commanding voice rang through their ears again. “May I present to you, your heroes, your idols, your team; Payback.”

Pictures were taken, but Ben paid it no mind. He was used to all the attention, to all the girls swooning over him. He stood front and centre, flashing his most practised, toothy grin. The name Payback echoed in his ears. A team to stand up for their people. But this wasn’t about anything but pride to Ben—it was about staying on top, holding onto the power and prestige he had built over decades.

And the team around him felt like a joke.

You stood a little behind him, a faint smirk still playing on your lips. Your audacity lingered in his mind, taunting him. Despite himself, he couldn’t shake the way you had spoken—calm, deliberate, and entirely sure of yourself. That was rare. Most of the other heroes around him were too obsessed with fame and too concerned with their image. They fell in line because Vought told them to.

Ben clenched his jaw, his father's words echoing in his mind once again.

A real man builds his own success, with his own two hands.

But was this success? Standing here, posing for the cameras, while Vought puppeteered them all? It didn’t feel like the heroism he had once envisioned. The battlefield, the grit, the true sacrifice—it had all been replaced by PR campaigns and flashy photo ops.

Still, he knew better than to show weakness. He had perfected the art of hiding his inner turmoil, just as his father had taught him. To the world, he was still the unbeatable war hero, the icon of American masculinity. No one would ever see the cracks beneath the surface—the doubt, the frustration, the endless quest to be enough.

As the cameras continued snapping, Soldier Boy’s mind wandered your words. It’s about control. Image. Playing the game. You had said those words so matter-of-factly as if you had already accepted the new rules of this world.

After the press conference, the team dispersed to prepare for their first mission together—a staged event, of course, meant to show the world how “heroic” they were. But Soldier Boy lingered, watching as the others left the room.

One thing was certain: he wasn’t going to let anyone take his place at the top. He would play the game his way, and when the time came, he would show them all—Vought, Payback, his father—that he was still the strongest, still the best.

Because if there was one thing Ben knew, it was that in the end, power didn’t come from suits or smiles. Power came from dominance, from control, and from the ability to crush anyone who dared to stand in your way.

And that was exactly what he intended to do.

As he turned to leave, Soldier Boy caught a glimpse of himself in one of the giant mirrors that lined the hallway. He stared at his reflection—his square jaw, broad shoulders, and the tight-fitting mask over his head. He looked every bit the hero Vought had made him out to be. But simultaneously, he looked ridiculous.

“Suits are cool, huh?” your familiar voice spoke up as he left the previous room and wandered the hallways of the slightly known building. “Kidding. You look awful.”

Ben hadn’t thought he looked awful altogether; the green hugged his features wonderfully, the gold details shining as a representation of his pride. Just the mask was a reject.

“Can’t say any different about you.” Ben said matter-of-factly.

The hallway was dimly lit, and he continued walking with purpose, ignoring the voice behind him. He didn’t need anyone's approval—especially not from the cocky rookie now catching up with him. The smirk he had seen earlier was back, and you walked with a casual confidence that irritated him even more.

You weren't one to shy away from confrontation, clearly. Your snarky comment about his suit wasn’t just meant to jab at him; it was part of the ongoing game you seemed intent on playing. Ben found it annoying, yet there was something about you that stood out. You weren't like the obedient pawns he was used to, always falling in line and praising him without question.

"Aw, don’t be like that," you teased, still walking alongside him. Your cape fluttered with each step, an accessory he couldn’t understand the need for, as if to taunt him for eternity. “Just saying, for someone who’s supposed to be the leader, you sure look like you're heading into a costume party instead of a mission.”

Ben clenched his jaw but kept walking. He wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction of a response.

You continued, undeterred by his silence. “But you know, maybe that’s the point. We’re all just playing dress-up here, aren’t we? Vought dresses us up, makes us look shiny, and sends us out to wave at the cameras. Nothing heroic about it.”

“Speak for yourself,” Ben finally muttered, his voice low. “I’ve seen real combat. I’ve been in the trenches. What have you done, other than talk?”

Your smirk didn’t falter, though your eyes darkened slightly. “You’re right,” you said, a hint of venom in your voice. “I haven’t been in your precious war. But I’m not stupid. I know how things work now. And this… all of this,” you gestured around the hall, “isn’t about being a hero. It’s about staying relevant. It’s about power.”

Ben stopped walking, turning to face you. His eyes narrowed as he looked you up and down, sizing you up again. “Power?” he scoffed. “You think prancing around in that cape gives you power?”

Your smirk faded, replaced with a more serious expression. “No, I think understanding how to use what I’ve got gives me power. You’re strong, Soldier Boy. No one’s doubting that. But strength doesn’t mean anything if you don’t know how to play the game. And that’s where you’re going to lose.”

Ben’s fists clenched. “I don’t lose.”

“We’ll see.” You stepped back, eyes locked with his. There was no fear in them, just a cool, calculated calm. “But you should know, they own you, just like they own all of us.”

Silence fell between them, only the annoying presence of you urging him to keep on walking.

“Name’s Fury by the way. For the public, that is.”

He glanced at you quickly, frowning before letting his eyes fall on the relics on the walls when they continued their way.

“Soldier Boy.”

Ben could’ve sworn he heard you laugh; just the faintest hint of a breath leaving your mouth in a way that angered him.

“I know that,” you spoke, and he grew to feel more frustrated at the feeling you wouldn’t leave him alone. “You got a real name?”

“Yes.”

“Mine is Y/n.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

“Alright, I’ll figure it out eventually." Your words echoed in Ben’s mind as you walked away, pace speeding up to leave him alone in the hallway. He stared after you, his mind racing with a storm of thoughts he wasn’t used to entertaining. He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to force his mind back to what mattered: control, power, dominance. But your words lingered like a stubborn itch he couldn’t scratch.

You were audacious, irritating, and worst of all, you had a point.

Ben hated to admit it, but you seemed to understand the game better than most. Vought didn’t care about his war stories or his medals. To them, and to the world they controlled, he was just another pawn in a machine far bigger than the battlefield. For all his strength, for all the wars he had fought and won, Ben was no longer the master of his own destiny. He was trapped in a world of PR stunts and corporate interests. And that gnawed at him, more than he cared to admit.

He had always believed power came from raw strength, from being the toughest, the strongest. But this new world, this world of superheroes-for-hire and manufactured images, was different.

Ben’s jaw tightened as he turned and continued down the hallway, alone with his thoughts. Vought owned him, you had said. That was the part that stung the most. He had spent his life trying to prove to his father that he could succeed on his own terms. But the truth was, his success had always been shaped by someone else. First his father, now Vought.

As he entered the large meeting room, where Payback's first mission briefing was about to take place, he felt a new kind of resolve building inside him. He didn’t like playing games, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Vought—or you—think they had the upper hand. He was still Soldier Boy, the greatest hero America had ever known, and he would prove it.

The team was already gathered, some stretching, some chatting, all waiting for their cue from Vought’s handlers. You werethere too, standing off to the side with your arms crossed, your eyes scanning the room with that same calculated coolness. You caught his gaze for a moment, but there was no smirk this time. Just a flicker of something that almost looked like respect—or perhaps it was just curiosity.

He didn’t care.

Ben straightened his shoulders and strode to the front of the room, where the mission briefing was about to begin. As far as he was concerned, he didn’t need anyone to tell him how to lead.

The lights dimmed, and a large screen flickered to life. A Vought executive appeared, slick and polished as always, ready to guide them through their heroic PR spectacle.

The exec began, his voice oozing with rehearsed enthusiasm. “Your mission today is simple: protect, serve, and show the world why Payback is the team they can trust.”

Ben barely listened. The mission was standard fare—save some politicians from a staged crisis, and make it look good for the cameras. Easy. What he cared about was how he would position himself at the top of the group. This wasn’t just about completing the mission; this was about showing everyone that Soldier Boy wasn’t just another cog in the machine.

After some specifics and unnecesary questions from his lower ranked team, they filed out toward the transport that would take them to the mission site. Ben was the last to leave the room, watching as the others chatted excitedly, eager to get into costume and play the part Vought had crafted for them.

He glanced once more at you, your back to him as you spoke quietly with another member of the team. You were different. You weren't a puppet like the others. That made you dangerous.

But Ben wasn’t worried.

Because at the end of the day, he knew one thing for certain: he didn’t lose.

And when the time came, when he reminded the world just what a real man, a real hero, could do, You—and everyone else—would be forced to recognize that.

He was Soldier Boy. And this? This was just the beginning.

A/N: as always, feedback is appreciated! let me know if you want to be added to the taglist.

thanks for reading! <3

taglist: @demodemo909 @deangirl96 @mostlymarvelgirl @n-o-p-e-never

[badgalsasuke]

Hi, how are you? I was on Twitter/X when I came across this thread by a Sakura fan, and I got curious to know your opinion on it.

(I will make a part 2 because the post is kinda lengthy)

Hey!

Please next time send a link, it'll be much easier for both of us. I can't read some of the manga panels through a screenshot.

Okay, let's go by bits. The first image is from a databook and since they're not canon I don't see why we should take them into account, there's no way she's the second smarter of the generation (maybe second best grades? lol) because Sasuke, Shikamaru and also Naruto are brighter ninjas, Ino is also smarter in what little we could see from her.

Sakura does have incredible chakra control, this is her outstanding ability throughout the series, although she was born with it, she didn't train to develop it.

However I don't like that in the third image (Naruto calling Sakura amazing) it's kinda omitted that she didn't defeat Ino because she was unable to come up with a strategy and could only throw punches and if it wasn't for Naruto who helped her break Ino's spell she would've lost and even then the best she could do was to be tied.

Sasuke did acknowledge her genjutsu skills or rather her ability to get out of them when they were genin to uplift her mood. But then Kishimoto being the troll he is, made specifically Sasuke (the person who had once praised her skills) put Sakura under a genjutsu.

Another place where Sakura stans are lying is the first part of the written test of the Chuunin exams. Sakura didn't understand the test. It's not about "she didn't need to cheat because she knew the answers that's why she didn't cheat". The point of the test is to retrieve information because they're ninjas, in the real world they're going to be sent to retrieval missions and they need to have the skills necessary to complete them succesfully. If Sakura had understood the point of the test then she would've showcased her retrieval skills (that she actually doesn't have).

The only person from team 7 that understood the first part of the written test was Sasuke, who showcased his information gathering skills with his Sharingan. Sakura never showed the instructors how she would, in a real life mission, retrieve information. In real life she won't know the answers because there's no study guide for missions but her stans refuse to get that.

Naruto, on the other hand, although he failed the first part, succesfully answered the second part (the tenth question). Sakura failed both and also showed us she has no confidence and trust in her teammates when she attempted to get her team out of the examination.

So praising Sakura for her (lackluster) performance during both parts of the written test is just Sakura stans misreading the text (again). Also Sakura being praised for knowing the answers is filler, no one praises her in the manga, the only person that impresses the proctor is Naruto.

As for her work with Chiyo, it was mostly Chiyo who did the strategy and Sakura let herself be used as a puppet.

The hundreds healing seal is true that she's the second person to obtain it but something about them mention "and the youngest" rubs me the wrong way because Tsunade created the seal, even if she was older in age, she still came up with it, unlike Sakura who didn't come up with her own jutsu

I mean yeah but she also just cried for Naruto to save them, but hey at least she saved Hinata from dying after that stupid suicide-attack. But again, it's not like Sakura did something to fight Pain.