#to live the last months of his life on his dying best friend's terms & to give him a space to make his own life into what he never allowed h

[violetsiren90]

The Light of Your Eyes

Pairing: best friend's younger brother!Changbin x f!Reader

Genre: one-shot; friends to lovers; smut and fluff; hurt/comfort

Summary: Can the gentle touch of an unexpected pair of hands on your body heal the wounds of your soul?

Drabbles: Arms Around Me

Content warnings: 18+ (minors, dni), age gap romance (consenting adults); mentions of break-up and unhealthy past relationship dynamics; depression and anxiety symptoms (mild); MC has self esteem struggles, some are body-image related; the ex was low-key emotionally abusive tbh 😒; depictions of alcohol consumption (no drunkenness); depictions of food and eating (MC has a moment of negative thought patterns in regards to food consumption); gaming/watching movies; emotional breakdowns; kissing (so much kissing, guys); Fluffy fluffy FLUFF 💕; making out; interrupted shenanigans; cuddling; shirtless Binnie 👀; strong and gentle Binnie 🥺💘 ; working through FEELINGS 😅 ; breast play; nudity; oral sex (f. receiving); feedbag position; confessions and new beginnings.

Word Count: ~9300

Author's Note: Well, here it is - my first Binnie fic! I wanted to make it as sweet and sexy as he is...which, I know, is impossible, so I gave it my best shot! Hopefully, it's something worthy of his face-claim. I'm not going to make any judgements as to whether I feel it fits the bill, but rather like the man himself, tell you to be the judge of your own opinions! Jutdae!! 😂💗 But in all seriousness, if you decide to read this story, thank you! I hope it brings you something warm and fuzzy!

*The poem at the beginning is an original, and is what inspired this story!

Acknowledgements: I cannot thank @moni-logues enough for beta reading this for me, and for all her hype and humor and general human decency - this story wouldn't be what it is without her! 💖

As always, if no one has told you today, please know that you're loved, and worthy of love! 🧜‍♀️💜

    

the

Bright color of my laughter and the

Melody of the curve of my hips and the

Soft velvet of my irises

     seemed

To have taken their first breath,

Opening gently - like flowers perfuming my soul

- When bathed in the light of your eyes.

"Changbin? What are you doing here?"

     "I could ask you the same question," he says with a little smirk, whipping a dish towel over his shoulder as he shuffles back to let you in.

     Fair enough, you suppose. You are showing up without notice. Not that you ever need to give his sister any notice - as your best friend, there's a key with all the others in your purse that unlocks the door you're closing behind you. You wouldn't have even knocked had his car not been parked in the driveway.

     "Where's Nari?" you ask, glancing at the gaming console hooked up to the massive flat-screen, and a bullet blender cup half filled with something thick, pale and probably protein-packed sitting on the coffee table.

     "She went out of town for the weekend," he calls, heading back toward the dining area. "Last minute work thing." 

     Damn. 

     Your apartment is boring and barren and lonely. You wanted to hang out. You've been coming around more than usual – almost as often as when you were in grad school together. But Nari had her own life, you understood. You had your own life too.

     And then three months ago, on New Years Eve, your long-term boyfriend called it quits. It wasn't as if you were heartbroken. Not really. The relationship had been sick and slowly dying. But returning to a life lived in solitude was proving a difficult adjustment – especially navigating the new and constant stillness which left you the mental space and dexterity to run up against the shadows of wounds unhealed. And you didn't feel like growing into your EQ. You felt like distracting yourself. So you ended up at your bestie's place more often than not, these days.

     You sigh, trailing toward the kitchen. You won't stay long - if her younger brother is house sitting, he'll probably have people coming over. It's Friday night, after all, and he's twenty-four years young.

    The sound of running water, and music from a little speaker playing a catchy beat laced with fast-paced rap draws you into the warmly-lit, open kitchen. You recognize the voice on the track.

     "This new?" you ask, dropping your bag on a barstool and rounding the island to where Changbin is up to his elbows in suds at the sink. He's in a black band tee and bright blue joggers, his curly dark hair unstyled.

    He looks over his shoulder and nods.

    "What do you think? Wait, no, lemme start it over..."

     You smile to yourself as he hastily dries his hands and whips out his phone, pulling the track back to the beginning. He braces himself against the edge of the sink, gnawing on his bottom lip as he bobs his head with the lyrical punches and runs. 

     You smile to yourself, leaning your back against the counter beside him.

     "This is good, Bin," you nod earnestly. 

     "Yeah?" he asks, returning to his soapy task.

     "It really is. Hyunjin's pretty damn fast. Not as fast as you, but who is?" 

You grin, bumping your hip into his side.

     He smirks down into the bubbles.

     He's wanted to make music for as long as you've known him, and even fifteen years ago he could spit out a diss track that would have you wetting yourself laughing. He and his buddy, Hyunjin, met in high school and started messing around with music senior year. They committed to the dream, and both worked full-time gigs - Hyunjin as a tattoo artist and Changbin as a personal trainer - while promoting their artistry in their spare time. Production was a tough road to take when they were counting on nothing but raw talent and guts, but you'd always been an unflinching supporter.

     "We've got a gig next Saturday...at The Eight Ball," he remarks, looking over at you as a proud smile presses a tiny dimple into his bread cheek.

     "What?!" you squeal, turning to smack him on the arm. "Dude, that's fantastic! Oh my god, congratulations!"

     "Thanks, and ouch!" he replies, rubbing his arm with a pout that you ignore. It couldn't possibly have hurt him, not with those biceps.

     He moves to the fridge, a grin still plastered on his face.

     "You should come!" he urges over his shoulder as he appraises his sister's stash before grabbing an energy drink. "I know the boyfriend isn't into rap, but you could come with Nari..."

     You scoff softly.

     "Doesn't really matter what he likes anymore," you mumble bitterly.

     Changbin freezes as he's about to crack open the beverage in his hand.

     "Wait, what? Did you guys...is that over?"

     You purse your lips and nod. Changbin looks completely taken off guard in a way that surprises you. 

“When did that happen?”

You reach back to clutch at the cold tile of the countertop.

“Beginning of the year.”

He scratches his head.

“Nari didn’t…why didn’t you say something?”

You shrug, your eyes falling. For reasons you'd never considered, you’d rarely brought your ex around or even brought him up to Changbin. 

He turns to the still open fridge and swaps out his energy drink for two beers, opening both and sliding one across the island between you.

     "How you holding up?" he asks in earnest concern, a little furrow appearing between his dark brows.

     You want to tell him that you're fine - it's what you've been telling everyone else - but from the way he holds your gaze before letting his eyes search your face, he's looking for a real answer. You pull your lip between your teeth. You're not ready to form the words that spell the truth. He sees it.

    "Ah," he waves dismissively, "Fuck that guy. You're too good for him anyway. What an idiot."

      You blink, a little smirk tugging at your lips.

     "You don't have to hate on him just because we're-"

     "I'm hating on him because I hate him," he stares at you unflinchingly, taking another swig of his beer. "He wasn't good to you, didn't make you happy. I'm glad he's gone. Seriously, fuck him."

     You didn't expect that sort of reaction out of Changbin. Not that you expected anything, but the strong, certain tone he took in regards to your ex's unworthiness has a tiny little warmth glowing in your chest. It was like him to feel strongly and take a stand, but to have his conviction aimed at you...

     "Thanks, Bin," you murmur softly, hiding your smile behind your beer.

     The young man nods, and his lips part as if to speak when his phone buzzes in his pocket. As he answers the call - clearly, from the nature of his greeting, one of his buddies - you're reminded that you’re trespassing on his Friday night. Draining your beer, you grab your bag and slip out of the kitchen. 

     You huff a little sigh as you pull on your shoes, lingering listlessly for a moment before pulling open the door. The thought of going home has your stomach churning. You can't go back and be alone there. 

You can't.

     You have to.

     How pathetic could you possibly get? you consider sickly, staring out into the darkness. Your self-loathing and mounting anxiety battle for dominance as you will yourself to take the step over the threshold that will carry you to your car…

     Click.

     The door swishes shut, and you blink in confusion before you note a bulky arm stretched over your shoulder, hand pressed to the wooden frame below the peephole.

     You turn into Changbin's frame and he jostles backwards, hand dropping to your shoulder.

     "Where do you think you're going?" he asks, a little smirk playing on his lips.

     You try to get your bearings as you resurface from the flash flood of inner turmoil, blinking up at him in confusion.

     "Uuhh...home?" you answer, jerking a thumb back toward your intended exit.

     Changbin shakes his head. 

     "You just got here."

     "Well...I came to see Nari but she's gone, so..." 

     When the faintest shadow of hurt seems to flicker over his features at your words, you stammer to clarify.

     "Bin, it's Friday, I- you've got plans, right? I don't want to be in the way...Like, it's really nice seeing you don't get me wrong, but, it would suck to have one of your sister's random friends underfoot if you're...if..."

     You trail off. He's watching you in amusement now, arms crossed and bottom lip pulled between his teeth, one eyebrow cocked just a little higher than the other.

     "What?" you press him, now a bit self-conscious at your rambling and still on edge from the surging anxiety of moments ago. 

     Damn, what was with you? You'd been a mess lately, and now you couldn't even get your words out with Nari's kid brother?

     "I do have plans."

     Changbin's words interrupt your muddled self-assessment. You glance up at him.

     What? Okay, that's what you had been trying to...

     "I plan to kick your ass at Super Smash Bros Brawl," he quips, turning to round the couch and settle in front of it before reaching for the blue controller discarded on the coffee table.

     Huh?

     You watch him start up the game and move through selections. Shuffling toward the back of the couch, you place your hands on it. He wants to hang out? Now that he found out you'd been dumped. Nari's away, so he's falling into stride, you think to yourself. You sigh. You should be grateful. Instead, you feel like a burden.

     "Um, Bin..." you murmur, "You don't have to do this..."

     "Do what?" he asks without looking back. "I'm not going easy on you, if that's what you mean. And I'm using Kirby - nonnegotiable."

     Your heart melts a little as your eyes rest on him. He's always been a good guy, and it was like him to do this sort of thing - look out for someone when they were feeling low. Leaving simply because you don't feel worthy of his care and attention risks hurting him more than you.

     You slowly slip out of your shoes and cross into the living room, retrieving a red controller from atop the console before sinking onto the carpet beside him. You toggle through your choices before landing on Link. Changbin glances over at you disparagingly. 

     "Link sucks."

     "Kirby sucks."

     "Hey!" Changbin, practically shouts in your ear, "Don't insult my widdle cutie guy..."

     You grimace theatrically at the baby talk.

     "Don't ever do that again."

     "Or what?" Changbin challenges as he immediately unleashes a combo move that has your character hurtling toward the edge of the battle stage.

     You hop around, avoiding him and trying out different button combos. It's been forever since you played this game. Your ex had been a Halo enthusiast. You were never big on first person shooters, but you tried to get into it for his sake. He hadn't the patience to help you learn, though, and after a couple of sessions of grimaces and apologies on your behalf mumbled into his headset, he'd stopped taking you up on your offers to join him. 

     Kirby darts back and forth across the screen after you on stubby pink legs. Eventually you get the hang of things and are returning his attacks, though he easily bests you in an embarrassingly short sequence of moves.

     "Sorry, I'm no good at video games," you mumble apologetically. 

     The smug look falls from Changbin's face.

     "Why are you sorry?" he raises a brow, dropping his controller into his lap, a little smile still playing on his lips.

     You shrug. His smile fades.

     "Who says you're no good?"

     Shit.

     You shift your focus to the screen and toggle for a new character.

     "Best two out of three."

     You can feel his eyes still on you as you opt for Princess Peach.  

     Two out of three turns into five out of eight, and around eleven out of twenty, the doorbell rings. When Changbin turns in surprise toward the sound, you take the opportunity to deliver a critical blow, winning your first match of the night. He rolls his eyes as you giggle wickedly and moves to answer the door.

     You pull your phone from your pocket reflexively to check the socials you've deleted, before sighing and tossing it across the room to land on the carpet with a thud.

     "Did you just throw your phone?" 

     Glancing over your shoulder, you catch him shooting you a quizzical look over a stack of pizza boxes tall enough to feed a small army. Clambering to your feet you trail after him into the kitchen.

     "You do have plans, you liar!" you elbow him as he opens the top box and pulls out a slice, hissing as the melted cheesy overflow burns the tips of his fingers.

     "Ow!" he snaps up a napkin and cradles it under the steaming piece of pizza, shaking his other hand before holding up his fingers in front of you.

     "Blow on 'em," he whines.

     You raise your eyebrows.

     "You're joking."

     He pouts and you want to laugh. This big, grown man is seriously going to give you the lip right now?

     "That's what you get for having no patience, Bin..." you tsk disapprovingly. 

     He lets out a little disappointed sigh.

     "Meanie..." he grumbles, and lets his hand fall.

     You return your focus to the obscene amount of food now stacked on Nari's kitchen table. 

     "So, I'm sure people are going to start showing up, so I'm just gonna..."

     Changbin hands you a paper plate with two slices of pizza and heads to the fridge where he fishes out two more beers. You stare at the plate in your hand.

     "I...Bin..." 

     "What, you don't like sweet potato?" he asks with a smirk, cracking open a can and handing it to you. 

     You blink at him in confusion. 

     "Please enjoy this meal compliments of Han Jisung, who never remembers to update the address on his delivery app. Now, load up on pizza and let’s get back to it because I'm not trying to let you act like you came out on top from winning that last match on a fluke."

     You scoff at his last remark. Watching him pile several slices onto his plate, you take a bite of yours. It tastes good, and you realize as it hits your stomach that you haven't eaten all day. When was the last time you ate a real meal? When was the last time you wanted one? 

     "Noona?" 

     Changbin's voice makes you realize you had zoned out and when you blink up at him, there's just nine inches of disposable dinnerware between you. His lips are pursed and his eyes trace your features, their gaze gentle but searching. 

    "You alright?" he asks.

     There it is again; the concern. He isn't just checking in. His voice is soft and low, like his eyes. As a rule, Changbin's voice is strong, resonant - saying everything from his chest without even trying. So when he's gentle, when he pulls himself back...

    "Do you miss that guy?" he murmurs.

     "No!" 

You say it so quickly.

     Changbin nods.

     "I'm just..." Fuck, why are you suddenly so emotional? "I think I'm...adjusting. Y'know?"

     He nods again slowly. Then he reaches up and touches your face, dragging his thumb over the side of your mouth and suddenly your brain waves flat-line. Your eyes widen and your lips part, but before you can even process what's happening, he drops his hand to swipe it on a napkin.

     "Had sauce on your face," he mumbles, and you can't read his.

     His mouth is tugged up in a small smile but somehow it looks sad, and his eyes look like they're still asking a question that was never really answered. Before you can consider any further, he picks up his plate and heads back toward the living room.

     You follow him, still half in your head.

     When you sit down next to him, there's something hanging unspoken in the foot and a half of space between your bodies. Something has shifted, gone taut. 

     Shit, had you made him uncomfortable? Why had you stared at him like a weirdo when he...wait, he touched you...

     Your eyes shift over to where he sits beside you. He runs a hand through the wavy hair over his ear. Has he always been so beautiful? He turns quick enough to catch you staring and you put your plate out of your lap. The pizza smells so good but suddenly you can't touch it.

     Changbin initiates another round, which you lose in record time. Your stomach grumbles.

     "You better eat if you're going to have any hope of beating me again," he goads, finishing off his third slice to abandon the crust with the others on his plate before launching another game.

     "I had enough," you deflect, pushing your plate toward him.

     "You took two bites."

     "I need to cut back."

     "Like...go on a diet?"

     "Yeah."

     His brows furrow and his tongue slips between his lips as he sends Kirby into a hammer flip that lands as a critical hit and you wince.

"What have you eaten today?"

"What?"

     "You heard me."

     "I...I don't know. I..."

     Your stomach twists. The hunger is there, but so is the anxiety. The fear of being judged for eating too much or too quickly or...

     The game pauses. Your plate slides back toward you over the carpet.

     "The rest of that piece. Or whatever else you want. But something." 

     His voice is gentle but firm. You sigh.

     "Fine," you murmur, grabbing the half-eaten slice.

     You take a bite, and slowly raise your eyes to his as they regard you patiently.

     "Sorry," you mumble, covering your mouth, shifting away from him.

     "Why now?"

     "I make gross noises when I eat."

     "What? No you d-" 

     A hand tugs at your elbow. When you look back toward him his handsome face holds so many things, and you watch as they take turns seizing his features. Horror...pity...anger.

     "Who told you that?" he asks lowly, but it doesn't sound like a question. "Noona..."

     He squeezes your elbow.

     You feel everything you've been shoving down in your chest begin to well up. 

Fuck, no! 

Your lip trembles.

He's shifting to face you.

You shake your head and press your eyes shut.

Your hand is encompassed in a larger one.

     "It's lies, all of it," Changbin whispers with desperate conviction...and your dam breaks.

     He pulls you into his arms as you sob with abandon. One of his hands encircles your waist tugging you against his broad, warm chest, and the other slips to brush tenderly over your nape as you tuck your face into his neck. 

     "He's a liar...shhhh...he's a lying piece of shit," he insists earnestly, into your hair. "You're perfect. He's the one who needs to fix himself. You're so, so perfect." 

     Perfect? You let your heart hold the word in its palm for one precious moment before pushing it away. Your heart had never been one to accept gifts it didn't think it deserved.

     You weep and weep in his strong arms until you run out of tears, and then he holds you while you breathe. As the catharsis of your breakdown begins to settle in, you wonder at the comedown - a softer, warmer one than you've ever known – and you consider the loveliness that has broken your fall.

     Soft and firm, everywhere he touches you. And warm. So warm. Not just the heat radiating from his body like a furnace – the velvet rasp of his voice, the absolute and unfaltering nature of his embrace.

     Your hands move tentatively against his back. Soft cotton stretches and bunches between your fingers over his sturdy frame. Where your face is pressed to his collar every breath draws in a comforting combination of detergent and cologne. When you close your eyes and sigh, letting your weight sink against him further, you feel his arms tighten in response. 

     "Sorry," you croak feebly.

     "Stop," he implores you, "Every time you apologize, I want to sock that guy in the face."

     "I...I'm so stupid, I didn't even really realize..."

     "No," his arms squeeze you again, "He had your trust. It was his job to protect you."

     Protected. That's how you feel right now. Safe. So, so safe. Letting him hold you and reassure you felt good...it felt right. But yet again, the voice in your mind that liked to remind you how much of a burden you always were speaks up in a sickly whisper.

     You pull yourself slowly from his arms and off his lap. Drawing yourself up to stand, you wipe your hot cheeks, puffy red eyes finding his like the needle of a compass. Unprepared for what awaits you in his gaze, your knees nearly give out beneath you.

     Changbin is looking up from where he kneels before you, the yearning in his eyes unchecked as they burn with  an unasked question and an unspoken promise.

     "I should go," you whisper, barely able to form the words.

     "Don't," he says, standing.

     "If I stay I'll just wreck your night," you mumble.

     "You could never," he insists, lips tugging into a little smile. His eyes are still pleading.

     "Changbin..." you breathe, suddenly drowning again in the fizzy serotonin his words ignite in your chest. "You don't want..."

     "You let me be the judge of what I want."

     His hands find your arms and he pulls you in. There are centimeters between you. His eyes rest on your lips. Your heart hammers in your ears as your brain begins to malfunction the way it had when he touched your face...

     "D-do I have something on my-"

     Mouth? His.

    The whole of your being floods with something beautiful and ineffable at the touch of his lips and no voice, no doubt, no force in the world could be stronger than the one that pulls you into him. Your arms fly up to wrap around his neck and tug yourself impossibly closer. His hands drop to your waist, pressing desperately in kind, and your bodies mold together. You flush with heat, sparks igniting in your belly and skittering through your veins as his lips move against yours. He stumbles back, pulling you with him as his knees buckle at the edge of the couch, and your body spills over his lap.

Your fingers card into his hair.

His hands drop to the back of your hips.

Your tongue brushes his bottom lip.

He moans.

     At the gorgeous, deep sound from his chest, you pull back, fighting the smile that pulls at the corners of your mouth. What the fuck is happening right now? You don't get much time to consider as his head falls against the backrest and his eyes flutter open.

     "Sorry," he grins bashfully. The tips of his ears burn pink.

     "Now who's apologizing for no reason?" you tease, pressing your hands to his chest.

     He smiles so sweetly in return you feel you might physically melt. And then the smile fades and the lids of his eyes grow heavy and he leans up to claim your mouth.

     His lips taste the same as a moment ago, but their press is slower, hungrier. His hands are powerful and assertive as they hook under your thighs and pull your hips flush against his own in a single tug. You gasp softly against his lips and you feel his smirk. You feel his smirk and something else - something beginning to press up into your ass through your jeans.

     Licking into his mouth, you push down, grinding your hips over his in a slow, deliberate undulation. The groan that falls from his lips unlocks something inside of you that needs to know every sound he makes and how to elicit them. Your mouth drops to his neck.

     Suddenly, he's gripping your waist and pivoting to lay you on the cushions, slotting himself between your legs. You're still dizzy from the sudden rush of movement, when your legs curl around his hips and over his ass and–

     A loud buzzing from the coffee table has you mourning the press of Changbin's lips to your throat as he glances at the caller ID. 

     "Shit!" he scrambles to sit up, hand still gripping your thigh above your knee when he presses the phone to his ear.

     "Hey," he runs a hand through his hair. "What? Nothing. No, I didn't forget. I will, I will."

     You recognize his tone of voice. There could only be one person on the other end of the line. You sit up, your head beginning to clear as the reality of the situation washes over you.

     "Okay, yeah. Yeah, yeah. Be safe. Love you." 

Changbin presses the end-call button and tosses the phone onto the cushion beside him. He leans back against the couch and claps his hand against your leg with a sigh.

     "She really knows how to wreck a moment for me."

     You crack a wry smile.

     "I mean, it's probably for the best that we don't desecrate your sister's couch."

     His eyes widen as horror, disgust, and amusement wage war across his features. You burst into a fit of giggles. He feigns a gag. You laugh so hard that you snort.

     "S-sorry," you clap your hand over your mouth, still tittering while your ears heat in embarrassment.

     Changbin's face softens again. He reaches for your hand and pulls it from your face, threading his fingers through yours.

     "Cut it out."

     "What? I can't be embarrassed about snorting like a pig?"

     "No. It's cute," he smirks.

     "It is not!"

     "Mhm. Everything you do is cute."

     He glances over at you, a lopsided smirk on his perfect lips, his eyes sparkling. He means it.

     You fluster, gaze dropping to your enjoined hands, and concentrate on tracing little patterns on the back of his with your thumb. He sighs.

     "Wanna watch a movie?"

     The request takes you by surprise and your heart squeezes. If it was any other guy, the night would have been over. For the fourth time tonight, you had been about to head for the door, and for the fourth time, Changbin makes you feel wanted. So you stay.

     You grab a big, fluffy blanket from the basket in Nari's room, and when you return, Changbin has the lights dimmed and Your Name ready to go on the TV. You smile as you settle in beside him, tossing half the blanket over his widespread legs.

     "We don't have to watch this just because it's my favorite, you know," you insist, but he shakes his head.

     "Taki's ma' boy," he smirks, shooting you a glance as he presses play on the remote.

     You're not quite sure what it means, but you feel your heart skip a beat just the same.

You love this movie. You love that you've seen it enough times that you can talk through it. You love that Changbin is more than willing to talk over the film himself. You're not certain when it happened, but by halfway through the movie his arm is stretched out behind your shoulders and your head rests on his bicep.

     "Do you remember seeing this together in the theater?" he asks suddenly, tilting his head toward yours.

     You grin.

     "You cried and Nari gave you shit about it," you recall.

     "You bailed me out. Told her all the sniffling was you. Never even teased me about it either."

     Changbin smiles down at you, his eyes sentimental.

     Butterflies flutter their delicate wings in your ribcage. How does he make you feel this way?

Your eyes dip to his lips for a moment. Sighing, you nuzzle into his shoulder, hiding your face as much as seeking his warmth. His arm slips off the back of the couch to curl around your shoulders and pull you into his side. The movie plays on.

     When the credits roll, Changbin stretches and yawns, and watching him it dawns on you that, working at a fitness center, he's an especially early riser.

     "We should call it a night," you offer, standing and stretching yourself, but you're tugged back down into Changbin's lap, yelping as you topple onto him.

     His arms encircle your hips as he regards you with a sleepy grin.

     "What, do I live here now?" you tease.

     "Stay the night," he urges, tightening his arms around you. "You really want to drive back now?"

     You chew your lip, eyes tracing over his face. This is all more than a bit unreal, and you haven't given yourself even one second to process what's happening, lest you utterly panic. All you know right now is that your little ship had been sinking and he had hauled you into a lifeboat. Everything outside of him seems like a raging sea.

     You nod.

     "Okay," you whisper, combing his hair away from his forehead. “I’ll stay.” 

     His eyes dip shut at your touch and the butterflies flutter gently once more.

     A few minutes later, you take Nari's room and slip into a pair of her cotton shorts, which do basically nothing to contain your ass, and tug on a plain white tee that stretches snugly over your torso. How a big guy like Changbin could have emerged from the same genetic pool as his teeny tiny sister was beyond you. As you glance in the mirror, your heart sinks. You don't like how the tight fit is pressing you out everywhere you're most self-conscious. But, they are just pajamas, and they're all you have at your disposal.

     As you're about to head into the master bathroom to finish your nightly routine, you remember that the toothbrush and toiletries you keep on hand at Nari's are in the little half-bath attached to the guest room. You groan, glancing at yourself again in the mirror, and pull a blanket around yourself before crossing the hall.

     Hoping Changbin hasn’t yet fallen asleep, you knock hesitantly on the door. You hear the bed creak before the door opens to reveal a head of mussed hair and hands scrubbing over bleary eyes. But it's not what you notice. Your apology for rousing him dies on your lips as your eyes glue themselves to his bare chest. Blinking dumbly, your eyes climb from his soft stomach subtly rippling with the presence of strong abdominals up to a pair of impressive pecs with wide-set, dusky nipples. His flannel pajama pants settle at his hips, accentuating how his body broadens as it rises from his waist to his full chest and wide shoulders flanked by bulging biceps. Thick. He's so fucking thick you could bi-

     "...Noona?" he rumbles, his voice husky from sleep. "What's wrong?"

     "Nothing...sorry..." you rush out, ripping your gaze up to his. "My toothbrush is in your room – I mean! in your bathroom. That's where I usually stay, so...but I didn't think you'd be asleep. Sorry, I can just..." 

     He rubs over one of his eyes with his palm as he steps aside.

     "You can grab it."

     Right. You shuffle in awkwardly, trying not to step on the blanket dragging around your feet. As you cross the dark room, you try not to dwell on the rumpled sheets of the bed that speak of his body having lain between them, or the soft smell of his cologne hanging in the air. You quickly retrieve the little toiletry bag and, as you move to squeeze past Changbin at the door, he eyes the fluffy shroud you're clutching to your chest.

     He raises a sleepy eyebrow.

     "I'm sure Nari has pants you could..."

     "I'm wearing pants!" you bluster, "They just...don't fit."

      You move out of the doorway to make your way back to your room, but a hand cups the side of your face and turns it as soft lips meet your forehead. 

     "Good night, noona," he murmurs with a little smile before retreating back into his room.

     You stand in the hall, staring at his door, the butterflies absolutely aflurry.

     Despite your best efforts, you can't sleep. Your mind is full of the last five hours. Full of Changbin.

     He had kissed you. You had kissed him back. And it had felt...

     You roll from your side to your back, sighing up at the dark ceiling. You chew on your lip as you remember breaking down and his arms around you. You would usually feel regretful and ashamed after baring yourself like that to someone. You despised moments of weakness. But you couldn't bring yourself to hate the moments in his arms. You didn't regret them. In fact, you wanted him to hold you again. You wanted to feel vulnerable in his hands, and you wanted him to keep you safe.

     You feel heat rush up from your neck as you recognize these feelings.

     You must be absolutely shameless, you conclude in wonder. You should be freaking out right now - this was Changbin, for Christ's sake – Nari's brother! You should be wondering what happens next, and what all of it means...but even so you can’t bring yourself to care. All your mind can focus on is how his arms felt like waking up after a nightmare to song birds and soft sunlight.

     After an hour or so of tossing and turning, the salty pizza from dinner has you parched and slipping out to the kitchen for a drink. You pull a glass from the cupboard and fill it at the fridge, gulping down the contents to refill it again. Suddenly, you feel two strong arms snake around your waist and you start, sloshing your water and smacking the back of your head into the man holding you. You hastily set your glass down and turn in his arms as he lets out a groan, one of his hands releasing you as it flies up to cup the front of his face in pain.

     "Bin, oh my god! Are you okay? You scared me!" you chide with a chuckle as you reach up to push his hand away and brush the tips of your fingers across his nose. 

    He pouts down at you and you smile.

     "Did I wake you?"

     He huffs.

     "Yeah. To get your toothbrush. Then I couldn't go back to sleep."

     "Sorry," you groan, still stroking over where you had struck his face. "Does it hurt?" 

     He nods.

     "Kiss it better," he mumbles cutely.

     You roll your eyes, but lift your lips to comply when suddenly he interrupts the motion with the soft press of his mouth to yours. It's slow and sweet, and you're struck all over again with how quickly you melt at his touch - a sensation you cannot imagine ever growing accustomed to, but to which you are fairly certain you are in danger of growing entirely addicted.

     "Bin..." you whisper against his lips, "Bin, what are we-"

     "Liar," he murmurs, pulling back.

     Your mouth parts in confusion as you stare up at him, still drunk on his lips.

     "You said the clothes didn't fit. You should wear this all the time," he smirks as he squeezes low on your waist.

     Your cheeks heat as you remember what you're wearing, but you don't have long to be anxious over it as he presses his lips to your nose...the corner of your mouth...your jaw. You tremble as you lean into him, fingers splaying over his warm, bare chest.

     "Let me show you," he whispers against your skin.

     "Sh-show me...what...?"

     He draws back, pressing his forehead to yours.

     "How perfect you are."

     You still, eyes flicking up to his. They're dark and tender and pleading. You let out a little shuddering breath.

     "I...you don't have t-"

     His arms hold you closer, gentle but insistent.

     "Let me," he whispers, the tip of his handsome nose brushing over the dip of your cupid's bow. "Please. I want to."

     You swallow, eyes dropping to his lips. You want it too, you find. You want his hands and lips and eyes all over you, bringing warmth everywhere they meet your aching body. You nod and take his lips again with yours. 

     "Yeah?" he murmurs against them.

     "Yeah," you breathe, slipping a hand up the back of his neck and into his hair.

     He groans in response, deepening the kiss as he licks at your parted lips and when your tongues brush, sparks burst in your belly. You feel it all slipping, the masks, the walls - every barrier you hold up to shield yourself from not being enough. His arms are strong and his lips are tender and you can't focus on anything but the perfection of being so utterly held.

     His mouth moves to caress your jaw, under your ear, down the column of your neck, and suddenly you feel the edge of the counter pressing into the small of your back. His hands grip your waist and he hitches you onto the tiled surface with ease. It's cold against your bare legs, but you don't have more than a second to register the discomfort as Changbin nudges his way between your knees. He runs his hands over your thighs as his eyes trail from your panting lips to your lightly heaving chest.

     You feel your nipples pebble under his gaze and a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, his eyes glinting with mischief as he runs a hand up your side, over your shirt, to rest under the swell of your breast. He flicks a thumb over the hardened bud and you whimper and jump. He laughs softly, his smirk spreading into a full smile as he squeezes your breast and brings his eyes to yours.

     "Your pretty body likes me, noona," he puffs proudly, massaging you deftly through the soft cotton of the tee.

     You don't have a witty retort. Your body likes him so much that it frightens you. And with the deep affection you already feel, have long felt, for him...

     You reach to gently tangle your hand again in his coarse, dark curls. He glances up, a sweet little smirk tugging at his pretty lips again. 

     "Bin..." you sigh.

     "Hmm?" he hums as he slips his hands to your bottom and tugs you forward so that you're flush against him.

     You dip your head and your lips ghost his.

     "Nothing," you whisper, and you kiss him again. Again and again.

     His hands slide from your ass to slip beneath your shirt at your lower waist and he kneads the soft flesh above your hips.

     "So soft. Feels so good," he groans into your mouth.

     You moan as the walls of your pussy contract. You're beginning to ache, beginning to drip – and his words seem to affect you as intensely as his touch.

     He moves his lips to latch onto the soft skin of your neck and suck, his hands bunching your shirt up and up until his mouth pops free from your skin and he's pulling the thin garment over your head and tossing it aside. The cool air pricks your skin and you become keenly aware, for the briefest moment, that you are sitting on your best friend's kitchen counter, stripped down to her sleep shorts, with her brother between your thighs. As your brain races to decide whether to find that incredibly arousing or absolutely panic-inducing, Changbin's cherry lips rewire your neurological pathways in favor of the former when they close around your right nipple. Your head lolls back, colliding with the cabinet door and it clatters. 

     "Shit..." you hiss softly, threading your hands into his hair and gripping it by the roots.

     Your eyes slip shut and you focus on the sensation of his warm tongue slipping over the peaks of your breasts, his strong, smooth palms cupping and caressing. And then you feel his little puffs of breath and the nudge of his nose at the valley of your chest as he groans and smushes your tits up to meet his face. 

     "I fucking live here now," he mumbles into the globe of your breast, and despite the heat of the moment, you softly laugh. You laugh and you feel his smile pressed to your skin.

     Then suddenly he's pulling you into his arms in a bridal carry. You know he's strong, as you wrap your arms around his neck, but can't push away a pang of self-consciousness as he bears your weight. 

     "Bin, I'm so heavy..."

     "You're not."

     "I don't want you to..."

     "Stop it," comes his voice in a soft, deep command as he halts in his tracks to kiss you.

     He kisses you and kisses you until you believe that he could carry you until the end of time, and then he takes you into the guest bedroom and sits you gently on the bed. The bed with the mussed sheets that smell like him. The sheets that he's leaning you into as you push yourself to the middle of the bed while he hovers over the top of your body, his lips never leaving yours.

     As he sinks down over you, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress has warmth licking through your veins. You move your hands to caress over his broad back, feeling his muscles ripple beneath your fingers as he shifts to prop himself up on his elbow. You use the free space to trace your hand down his chest and abdomen until you reach the waistband of his pants. If he'd just push himself a few inches up you could...

     He pulls away, just barely breathless, and his eyes find yours. He reaches down with his right hand to pull yours gently from between your bodies and to his lips, before threading his fingers through yours and pressing your joined hands into the sheets beside your head.

     "I want to eat you out."

     He says it so simply, so confidently, and you can feel more arousal gush to join what's already begun to paint your inner thighs. 

     "Fuck..." you breathe, your fingers trembling in his grasp.

     "Can I?" he asks, kissing your lips softly again.

     For a moment you're afraid of what saying yes will mean, of the intimacy of it all, of the possibility that you won't measure up, someway, somehow, or maybe...that you will - and what in the world you would do with that level of acceptance...

     You let out a shaky sigh, as you hold his gaze. It arrests you and washes over you. You remember his eyes as he knelt on the living room floor, and all they pleaded with you to disbelieve, to unlearn. 

     Yes. Yes...If it's him, you want it, whatever it means.

     You surge forward, pressing your lips to his, your hands weaving through his hair, pulling him in. He lets out a tiny whimper as you devour him, kissing him with determined abandon until you have to come up for air.

     "Yes, Bin, yes," you shudder into his mouth as he pants over you. “Yes I want you to.”

In answer, he presses one last tender kiss to your lips before moving to kiss down your body. He moves slowly, but with purpose, pressing an adoring mouth to every part of you that’s bared. He kisses your ear, your neck, your collarbones…he moves over your shoulders and down your right arm to the tip of each finger. He kisses your breasts and down your stomach. He kisses your belly button, and over your hips and down your left thigh. He kisses the inside of your knee, and bends your leg to kiss over your calf and down to your ankle. 

You can barely watch him, as he brushes his lips over you, but he flicks his eyes up to yours so often you don’t dare look away. There is something flickering in his gaze, something like a challenge - daring you to contradict, to doubt what he seeks to impress upon you - and you begin to feel something strange and new. Something you’d never found at the touch of a lover, blooming in your chest and unfurling like a proud little flower under the sun: the strong, heady beauty of esteeming yourself worthy of his desire. It terrifies you a bit, and the ugly voice that has heckled you so often tries to cast doubt, but Changbin’s lips and hands are too persistent and assured for the harbinger in your mind to linger long. And the tidal wave of lovely feelings crashing over you threatens to destroy the shabby prison your heart has lingered in for so long.

Changbin lays his head on your thigh as he brings his hand off the other to cup your pussy over the softness of your shorts. His groan is nearly as loud as yours when he rubs over your mound, and it makes you impossibly wetter. He’s so unabashed and liberal with reacting to what he enjoys, and he is clearly enjoying you as much as he ever has anything.

He moves to bring his face to your clothed cunt, hovering over you for a nanosecond to catch your eyes as he mouths down over you. Your jaw drops open, and when his teeth scrape dully over your clit, your hips jerk and you fist the sheets. Changbin pulls back with a smirk, and sits back on his knees between your legs. He pulls one of your legs up to lean against his shoulder as his hands instinctively knead over the muscles of your calf and thigh.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, with a little smile.

You nod with one of your own.

“I’m gonna lift you, okay? You can hold onto my legs, but I’ll have you, so don’t worry.”

You bite your lip and nod, suddenly a little shy. Look at him. Where did he get all this confidence?

He drops your leg briefly to tug off your shorts and panties, cursing at how wet you are, and gently slipping two fingers to brush between your glistening lips and over your clit. You gasp at the sensation - his fingers deft, his touch soft but firm where you ache for him. And then, suddenly, he is sliding your legs back up to rest against his chest and shoulders. His hands slip down to your hips and he effortlessly tugs your ass over the incline of his thighs and flush with his abdomen. Your heart starts to thrum in your chest. His body is warm and sturdy against the soft plush of your ass. Heat floods your cheeks when you sense a slickness against him where your arousal has begun to smear against his stomach. He, however, is far less bashful. Widening the gap between your thighs, he dips his head down, inhaling deeply.

"Fuck…" he murmurs, squeezing your legs where he holds them. 

When he raises his eyes to yours again, they’re unlike you’ve ever seen. They’re dark and hungry and hooded in a way that nearly intimidates you. His expression is full of heat, and manly in its sudden gravity. He watches you as he slips his thumbs under your waist and, slowly with strong hands, pulls your hips up beneath his chin. Your legs bend at the knees and drape around the crown of his head. Your spine curves where your upper back is flush with his thighs, your arm on either side of his kneeling form, and as he embraces you tightly around the hips and waist, you feel nearly every ounce of your weight suspended in his hold. The blood rushes to your head where it lays against the mattress, your neck curving just shy of his knees, offering a clear view of his gorgeous face as he wastes no time in pressing his open mouth to your labia. 

Your core muscles flex in response, hips pressing higher against him as you feel ripples of exquisite pleasure trickle through your body from above. The smooth muscle of his tongue slips past your entrance and begins fucking into you. Your head swims, the slightest dizzying restriction of oxygen dampening your ability to focus on anything but the bliss of his hot, wet mouth. Being tasted has never felt this intense. You whimper, your hands reaching around his body to find purchase on his muscular ass. You feel the press of his throbbing erection into your back as his tongue fucks unhurriedly into you. He’s rock hard, and all for you. From the sight of your naked body, the feel of you in his hands, the taste of you on his tongue. From the sounds pouring off of your lips as he worships your sex. 

Your legs begin to shake. You’re so totally in his hands. He holds you, lavishes you, consumes you. Nothing stands between you and ecstasy, and you can feel your climax fast approaching as pleasure ebbs and flows like a crashing tide on the rhythm of his firm, languid strokes.

"Ch-Changbin! Nhhh!" you mewl, you voice throaty and muffled from your position. 

He growls against you and you nearly cum then. One of his hands drops to squeeze the soft mound of your right breast. Your cheeks burn, sweat beginning to bead on your forehead and neck. You can feel your pussy throbbing - hot and sticky and swollen with stimulation - as he devours it like the flesh of ripened fruit. His lips encircle your clit and suckle as the tip of his tongue flicks over the erect peak of your bud.

And then it all goes white. You lose all sense but feeling as you rock your hips up to meet him, the tension in your abdominals adding sinfully to the fluttering pulsating of your pussy. There’s nothing but you and him and his arms around you and his mouth against the most intimate parts of you as your orgasm washes over you in electrifying slow-motion, pulling you under a tidal wave of bliss for what seems like an eternity. Your lips part in a silent scream of his name, your eyes pressed shut, as he works you through the longest and most intense climax your body has ever experienced.

You feel him place one last sweet, gentle kiss to your cunt before moving the hand on your breast to one of your thighs as he guides you back down onto the bed. You’re panting and boneless as you watch him draw an arm over his cum-slicked chin and cheeks. For a moment he simply looks down at you, a victorious air about him as his eyes trace your sated features and his gorgeous chest heaves with labored breath, then he crawls forward on the bed, stretching himself out on his side next to you, his body flush with your own. He slips his hand over the soft skin of your belly and rubs it soothingly as he watches you with a little grin.

“You good?” he asks in a raspy murmur.

You reach for his face, bringing it to yours as you kiss him with what wherewithal you have. You pull away, still breathless.

“Am I good? Seo Changbin, I think I could fly.”

His answering smile is so filled with joy and pride and affection that you think you truly may have sprouted wings. You roll to your side to press yourself against him, your hand tugging at the waistband of his pajamas, but he takes your hand again in his.

“Not tonight.”

“Why?”

“Tonight is yours.”

“Bin…”

“I’m yours.”

You blink up at him, his head resting on his hand, his eyes sparkling and soft.

“If you’ll have me,” he raises your hand to his lips to kiss your knuckles. “You don’t have to answer right now. I know you’re going through a lot, and this is all…new.” 

He smiles again, glancing down as his features take on a boyish shyness.

  “But I care for you. And, however things work out,” his eyes lock with yours again, “I’ll always protect you.” 

Your heart stands still. There are things that are too deeply lovely for words to be wasted on them. Any words but three - three that are already deeply true, but which have begun to mean something beautiful and different tonight, burying themselves like a little seed in your heart that needs time to grow. So for now you let yourself cry tears that fall like raindrops in the sunlight, and drift to sleep with the steady beat of Changbin’s heart.

“Ay!” Nari’s voice cuts through the din of chatter as her hand shoots out to narrowly prevent a fellow patron from snagging the chair beside her. “Sorry, seats are taken.”

She takes a sip of her beer and stretches her short legs as far as they will reach across the two empty chairs beside her.

“The guys are gonna have to hustle if they’re gonna sit with us,” she says reproachfully, dark brows rising as her eyes scan the venue for the bodies that belong in the seats you have been desperately attempting to reserve for the last hour.

The Eight Ball is crowded to bursting, and you scan the stage for signs of the evening’s openers. Checking your phone, you find that it’s nearly eight. You also find a text that brings a smirk to your lips.

“What?”

You glance up at Nari, who’s staring at you suspiciously.

“Nothing…” you mumble, flipping your phone back over onto the table. You sip your cocktail through a straw.

“Are you texting him?”

You nearly choke on your drink.

“What? Who?”

“You know who,” Nari mocks, narrowing her eyes at you. “The jerkwad.”

“Oh my god, Nari, no!” you sigh, as your phone buzzes again. 

She glances at it.

“Then what was with the look? Who are you…”

“Are these for us?” a voice belonging to a smiling, dimpled young man in a black hoodie with a matching beanie pulled over his head saves you from further explanation.

“Jesus, Chris, finally,” Nari admonishes as he takes the seat next to you, pulling her legs off the remaining chairs to free them up for the other two men that follow behind him. 

The freckled blond pulls Nari into a side hug which she returns, booping his nose before leaning across him to peer menacingly at his friend.

“Yo, Jisung,” she barks, “If you’re gonna order several hundred pizzas, how about taking some with you next time? My fridge is still stuffed.”

The young man blinks wide, surprised eyes at her before his brain catches up with her scolding.

“Sorry, but it wasn’t my fault!” he insists poutingly. “I ordered them because Changbin asked me to and then he canceled gaming weekend ‘cause he had a girl over.” he grumbles, causing the other two to snicker.

“Nice,” Chris giggles.

This time you do choke.

Your eyes fly to your best friend, watching the barrage of questions bubbling up on her face when a voice cuts through the din, silencing the crowd and unknowingly saving himself for the time being.

“Good evening, Eight Ballers!” Changbin rasps into his mic as Hyunjin waves, as ridiculously beautiful as ever, beside him.

You look at Changbin’s eyes.

They’re bright and confident and determined. You smile and cheer when he finishes introductions. As the band hits the first few notes of the opening number, his gaze finds yours, and it’s full of so many things.

His eyes sparkle with seven days worth of secrets – of waking up to your eyes and arms, of a weekend of nothing but bare bodies and hearts, of weeknight phone calls until the wee hours of the morning…of a new way of caring for each other that you’ll eventually tell the others, but that is just yours for now.

As you look at him, so full of adoration, you hope you can offer him even a fraction of the new world he’s only just begun to share with you – and the reflection you see a little more beautifully each day in the light of his eyes.

-Fin-

[starcrossedxwriter]

A Love That Never Fades (MBJ x OC)

A/N: My first request by the amazing @prettyisasprettydoes1306! Hope you enjoy it!!

Warnings: miscarriage

“Hey baby,” Chastity swung open the door to her apartment and wrapped her boyfriend in a deep embrace. She buried her face in his neck as he held her for a moment. Though they were not on the same page at the moment, this part, the love, was always there.

“How are you?” 

“J-Just tired and weirdly nauseous. Probably just the stress of these fuckin’ finals though. Can’t wait for this semester to be over.”

Michael glanced from his girlfriend and her very cozy leggings and sweatshirt to the cluttered mess of notes and open textbooks spread across her couch and coffee table, a realization hitting him. 

“Think you’ll still be able to go to this party with me? For the studio?” 

Chastity glanced at him and the clock and the mountain of work she still needed to do to finish her paper by tomorrow at noon. She rubbed her forehead in frustration at herself for losing track of time and not being able to finish her paper and the predicament she and Michael seemed to routinely find themselves as of late. 

His star in Hollywood was on the rise, which meant more events and opportunities for him to shine. Chastity could not be prouder. However, the schedule of a rising actor did not quite align with the schedule of a junior in a rigorous degree program. 90% of Chastity’s time was devoted to classes, studying to maintain her trajectory of graduating with honors, and her wide range of extracurricular activities. While she loved her boyfriend, her hustle and her desire to be the very best is what drove her, which meant there was precious time left in the day for anything else, including her long-term boyfriend. 

She and Michael met freshman year of high school, the pair sat next to each other in homeroom World History. There was an immediate pull that led them to becoming best friends by the end of the first week. It did not take long for them to become inseparable and for their feelings to bleed over the appropriate boundaries of friendship. Chastity still remembered the night Michael asked her to be his girlfriend at a local pizza parlor near his house. It remained one of the happiest moments of her life. 

Throughout their relationship, they were each other’s first in almost everything, sharing so many intimate and special moments of their formative years together. When Michael decided to move out to LA to pursue acting full-time, Chastity had no reservations about following him, especially since UCLA was one of her top choices for college. Their first two years in their new city were magical. They were two broke kids following their dreams and still managing to live their best lives. Chastity excelled in her classes and on campus socially and Michael laid the groundwork for, what they both knew, would be a long career in Hollywood. 

However, it felt like something shifted between them in the last year. Chastity’s school work exponentially increased as she settled into her major and got internships and other priorities. And Michael booked role after role that took him out of LA for months at a time, leaving the pair little to no time to spend together. 

Neither of them complained, one of the many things they fell in love with each other for was their work ethic. Neither of them were afraid to sacrifice and hustle to achieve their dreams. But they had also never had to sacrifice each other, that was new. And where did that hustle leave their relationship? What time did that leave to nurture their garden that required time, energy, and dedication to stay alive? And the last few months were living proof of the consequences of not tending to that garden, significant parts of their relationship dying because of it. 

“I don’t think so, babe. I’m sorry… I tried but I’m just not making progress on this paper. And it’s due tomorrow. I’m gonna be in this spot all night” 

Michael hung his head in disappointment, his hand scratching his head. He stayed silent as he tried to find words that did not fully showcase the extent of his disappointment and frustration.

“I’m sorry, Mike, seriously,” she interjected, closing the book next to her. “I can make it up to you? In two weeks, finals’ll be done and I’ll be all yours, half naked… on the beach.” She smiled slyly as she stood, wrapping her arms around him. She could not wait to get their vacation, Michael treating her to a beach getaway to celebrate the end of her semester. It was a needed vacation for both of them, a bright spot at the end of a dark and long tunnel, and given their lack of emotional intimacy as of late, she was looking forward to a week of spending time with only him. 

However, she was surprised to find a despondent look on his face as she mused about their upcoming trip. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Babe…” he started to say, Chastity immediately cutting him off. She removed herself from his arms, folding hers across her chest in frustration. 

“Mike. NO. What the fuck? We’ve had this planned for months!” 

Michael threw his hands up in the air. “What do you want me to say, Chas?! This director reached out and it’s a last minute opportunity. I-I can’t pass it up. I gotta go for table reads in New York the week of our trip.” 

Chastity glanced up at the ceiling, hopeful that it would stop her tears from falling. 

“I-I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you,” he tried to offer but Chastity merely scoffed. 

“Make it up to me when? You’re gonna be gone in New York, then you have another project all summer and then I’m back in school. There is no time to make it up to me!” 

“Shit! I’m doin’ the best I can, babe! I’m tryin’ to be there for you and get my career going.” 

She merely shook her head, her palms pressing into her eyes as tears started to fall. She hated crying.  

“I-If this is the best we can do…” she mumbled as she sat down on the couch. She was exhausted, finally feeling the compounding weight of their repeated failures on her shoulders. When she looked back over the last month, she did not see the fruits of their best efforts, the benefits of “trying.” She merely saw the destruction their failures left behind.  

She twiddled her thumbs as she stared at her hands, feeling his weight on the couch as he sat down beside her. 

“What if… it’s just not in cards for us, babe?” 

Michael turned around sharply, already feeling his world crumbling as her words hit him. “W-what are you saying, Chas?” 

Chastity looked up at the ceiling as tears stung the back of her eyes. “B-believe me, it’s not what I want, Michael. But our lives are j-just not… We’ve been trying our hardest for the last few months and its only led to this… mess. It’s not working… w-we aren’t working.” 

As much as it broke his heart, he had no argument to offer, not one that was rooted in logic at least. Because she was right. They had been ships passing in the night for months and despite efforts on both sides to adjust and compromise, there was only so much adjusting an actor and college student could do regardless of how much they loved each other. They wanted it to work, but in this iteration of their lives, neither saw a world in which it could. They could stay together and make it work just because they loved each other. But they both knew that would only lead to more resentment. Chasity was merely the first one brave enough to confront that fact. 

Michael’s hand roughly wiped away a tear making its way down his cheek. “Nah you’re right. I c-can’t give you need or deserve right now.” 

Chastity shook her head. “This is not just on you, Mike. You need someone who can support your dreams and be there for you always. Right now, my life is this,” she gestured to the stack of books on her coffee table. “I’m tryin’ but there isn’t room for much else.” 

“So this is it?” 

“I j-just don’t see another option. A-and it kills me. You have to know that. B-but this, this half life we are living together? It just hurts too much,” she whispered, her voice breaking. 

“Nah, nah. I u-understand.” 

“I-I love you so much, you know that?” 

“I l-love you too.” 

Michael pressed his lips to her head, letting out a strangled sigh before he turned to leave. He did not look back at her, he knew if he did, he would not be able to walk out the door. And she did not look at him, for if she did, she would not have been able to let him leave. But they both knew they had to - he had to leave and she had to let him. Because they deserved more than what the other could give them. And their careers deserved a chance to flourish without someone, even someone they loved with all their might, holding them back. 

“Bye, Chastity…” he offered a final word before he exited. 

“Bye Michael.” 

***

7 years later

“Oof I’m starvin’” Michael muttered as he, Steelo, and a couple other friends sat down at their table at the back of Nobu. He rubbed his hands together as he scanned the menu. Despite its popularity, it still managed to be delicious and worth every dollar every time he went. His eyes felt significantly bigger than his stomach as he wanted to devour everything he could. 

“Aye bruh,” Steelo gently hit him on his arm to get his attention. The man pointed toward a table of women on the other side of the restaurant. Despite the distance of the restaurant, Michael would recognize the woman at the center of the booth any day from miles away. “That aint’ Chas, is it??” 

Michael cleared his throat awkwardly. “Nah it is.” He had not seen her since they broke up years ago. Time had diminished his heartache, but it had not diminished his feelings for her. Since their break up, he had felt those feelings in tiny sparks at random moments. Something or someone or a place ignited a memory of her and those feelings flared for a brief moment. Then they disappeared, shoved back into the crevices of his mind where he could not feel them again. Until the next time.

However, in this moment, he did not feel sparks. He felt those feelings like a burning fire, consuming every other emotion in his mind like fuel until it was the only thing left worth feeling at all. And that was far worse, far more uncomfortable than the momentary pain. This forced him to remember it all, pine for it all again, and mourn what he lost when they broke up.

His life had moved on, his star had rose just as Chas said it would. And he kept up with her career, as much as he could without seeming stalker-ish, and knew her star was rising as well. However, his heart was stagnant, frozen in time with her. He had tried to find other partners, other women who could fade into the background and be the supportive woman on his arm. But none of them compared or even came close. 

Because recently, he realized the last thing he wanted was a supportive trophy girl on his arm. He wanted a woman with her own shit, who was a star in her own right and who knew how to stand alone without him. That was the definition of Chastity. And even across the dim restaurant, he could see her radiating the same beauty he remembered. If anything, time had only increased that glow. 

“Stop staring bruh. It’s gettin’ awkward. Don’t be a fuckin’ creeper.” Steelo instructed, Michael immediately removing his eyes from her table as his friends all snickered at him. He knew what he looked like, a love sick puppy. But he was who he was. A man still in love with a woman he knew he could not have. 

“Alright this is fuckin’ weird. Imma go say hey.” Steelo decided, tired of the awkward silence that drowned on as Michael stole glances at her table and ignored the conversations at theirs. 

“What?? Nah nigga. Sit yo ass down,” Michael instructed, his voice low and annoyed as Steelo stood up. 

“Nah nigga. We know them, went to school with them. Imma go over, gauge… I’ll give you the signal and then you come over and say what’s up. She’s gonna have to walk by this table to leave so let’s just get the awkward shit outta the way now, aight? Damn” he muttered under his breath. “This nigga always got somethin’.” 

Michael’s hands awkwardly rubbed against his jeans as he felt his palms get sweaty. With every step Steelo took toward the table, his heartbeat grew louder and louder in his ear until it was a thundering drum beat. He stood up abruptly. 

“Imma go to the bathroom,” he announced before scurrying away from the table and toward the back, locking himself in the restroom. He braced himself over the sink. 

“Fuck. What’s wrong with you, Mike?” He asked himself as he looked in the mirror. There was a time when he planned to spend the rest of his life with this girl and now he could not get the courage to cross a restaurant and utter a one-syllable word: hey. 

Michael usually did not give into his fear. He felt it, just like every other human being, but he refused to give it control. His philosophy usually was that if something scared you, you were on the right track. However, with Chastity, talking to her scared him and he did not know if his usual philosophy applied. Their break up was amicable at the time. But had time changed how she felt about him? How she viewed their teenage-into-adulthood romance? Michael certainly could have been a better boyfriend back in those days. He had learned a lot in the game of adulting and there were things he wished he could go back and do differently. Did she hold those things against him? 

He did not know and he was afraid to find out. But he knew he could not hole up in the bathroom until she and their friends left. He would have to find courage from somewhere, even if he had to pretend to be a version of himself he was not. He could act courageous even if he did not feel it. 

He swung open the door to the bathroom to find his way back to their table, shocked to literally run into Chastity on the way out. 

“Oof!” 

“My bad!” He immediately offered before he realized who it was. “C-Chastity?” 

“Wild way to say hello after so many years, Mike,” she laughed as she rolled her shoulder for a moment and moved around him toward the women’s bathroom door. 

“What can I say? Always had a flair for the dramatic, right?” He offered. 

“Yea, you did. We get older but somethings never change, huh?” 

Michael chuckled, immediately feeling a bit at ease as she started off with a playful jab. This was their way, their banter, constant jokes. He missed that. 

“You might be right about that.” He glanced up and down at her, she looked beautiful. Her body was still worth feasting on, her curves filling out in all the right places as she grew older. “H-how you been?” 

Chas shrugged, “Good, good. Just working, honestly. Long hours kill me but that’s the grind right? What about you? I see you taking Hollywood by storm, Mr. Superstar.” 

“Like you always said I would. Wouldn’t have gotten this far without you,” he offered humbly. And he meant it. Chastity supported every project and every dream, even the ones that seemed wild and outlandish. She had been his motivation and biggest cheerleader. And since he lost her for this career, he always felt this push to do everything he could to be successful so that sacrifice they both made would be worth something. 

“I don’t believe that for a second,” she laughed, her hand waving to dismiss him. “You were always a star. Long before you met me.” 

“Eh you brought it out of me though. Supported me through it all,” his hand grabbed hers, his thumb rubbing patterns on the back of her hand. 

Chastity’s eyes gently fell closed at his touch. She had forgotten how much she missed it, how much comfort it provided. When you go without for so long, time diminishes what the thing you lacked actually felt like. You start to get used to life without it, build a routine to the point where, it no longer feels like you are missing anything at all. But now that she had it again, she wanted to bask in it and never let it go. 

However, she knew she could not. That was not who they were, not anymore. It pained her but she gently and slowly removed her hand from his, using it the awkwardly scratch her arm just to appear to have something to do. 

“So you got the whole gang out here, I see?” He cleared his throat and gestured toward her table. 

“Oh yea. Shauna’s birthday so they all came out to visit. It’s been nice to have ‘em here. Crazy that we ran into y’all. Small world.” 

“For sure.” 

They stared at each other for a few moments, an awkward but not unpleasant silence settling between them. Chastity was the first one to decide to break it. Not because she wanted to leave but because she was fearful of what would happen if she stayed. Michael was her kryptonite and if she stayed too long in his lingering stare and touch, she would never be able to make herself leave. And she would not be able to keep certain skeletons buried where they belonged. 

“U-Um, I better head back before they think someone kidnapped me,” she joked, causing him to laugh. “It was really good to see you.” 

She started to return to the table, her mission to go to the bathroom to avoid Michael long forgotten. 

“Hey Chas!” Michael stopped her. 

She turned and glanced at him. “What’s up?” 

“What are y’all doing tomorrow night?” 

“Nothing right now, why?” 

“Come by the house. Still the same number? I can text you the address. I’m having a cookout. Low-key, just friends, music, food, and drinks. Maybe y’all could swing by for a bit.” 

Chastity nodded. She knew it was not a good idea. They had only been in each other’s presence for 5 minutes and they were already falling back into old patterns. However, she also knew she could not say no, not to him. Not to the chance of spending time with him again. Even if it was fleeting, she wanted it and needed it. 

“Sure, I’ll run it by the girls. And yea, same number.” 

“Ok cool.” He threw caution to the wind and wrapped her in a hug before letting her go. His heart smiled at the way her body instinctively relaxed into his. He wished they could’ve stayed like that, in each other’s arms all night, but they both had people to get back to. 

They broke apart and retreated to their tables, each of them stealing a glance back at the other as they went. 

“So ladies…” Chastity slid back into their booth, a sly grin painted on her face. “What do yall think about going to a party tomorrow?” 

“At Michael’s??” One of them asked. 

At Chastity’s nods, the girls only had one response: 

“Say less.” 

***

“You gonna go find your man?” Shauna asked as Chastity and the girls walked through Michael’s foyer. It was packed with people, the vibe feeling more like a party than a cookout but she recognized some familiar faces from school, guys that still were cool with Michael. They had not even seen the host yet, it was so crowded, Steelo had welcomed them into his spot. 

“We just got here, Shauna. And he’s entertaining and shit. I’m sure I’ll see him at some point.” 

Even as she spoke, her eyes intently searched the crowd for his familiar handsome face. But she did not see him anywhere. 

“You gonna shoot your shot when you see him?” 

Chastity rolled her eyes and huffed. “You know I can’t do that and you know why.” 

Shauna merely shrugged. “I know that nigga still loves you. And you still love him. And if you just tell him what happened, which he deserves to know anyway, maybe y’all can get back to where you were. The past is the past, Chas. Don’t let it dictate your shit for the rest of your life.” 

Chastity had little time to process Shauna’s words when someone grabbed her gently by the arm. She turned to find Michael standing behind her, a bright grin on his face. 

“You made it!” 

He handed her a drink, her favorite liquor and mixer inside it. She smiled, “Quite the party you got goin’ here. And you remembered?” 

He shrugged. “I remember everything about you, girl. And just like to get the folks together every once and while between projects. Have a good time n shit. You want a tour?” He gestured toward the house.

She instinctively nodded, though she regretted that decision nearly immediately. As she followed him through the downstairs and upstairs, she knew being alone was likely not a good idea for either of them but it seemed her common sense had little power over her legs or voice. Because she used neither to escape the situation. She just followed her heart, and that led her through Michael’s house. 

She was in awe of his spot, expansive and beautiful but it still managed to feel like a home. She lost track of the amount of times she commented on how amazing it was by the time they reached his bar upstairs. 

“Two bars, you got a problem you wanna talk about??” 

She asked jokingly as she sat on one of his barstools in his gaming room. He let out a barking laugh. 

“I just like to entertain and this gives me a couple different options. Also hate running around the whole damn house when I want a drink.” 

“Totally fair,” she remarked. 

“What about you? Got a good spot?” 

She nodded. “Yea, yea. A condo downtown in a high rise. It’s not this,” she laughed, “But it’s home.” 

Michael sat in the barstool next to her, the pair catching up in the quietness of his upstairs “man cave” while the party raged downstairs. Neither of them paid attention to the time that passed as they talked about their careers and their families, both of them sharing the latest family drama they had to offer. Chastity forgot what it was like to share intimate moments like this with someone, forgot what it was like to laugh this hard with him and joke and be free. The longer she sat there in seclusion with him, the more she missed him. And the more she realized how she never stopped missing him, how her love for him never truly faded, she just tucked it away where it could not bother her anymore. And the more she wondered if her best friend’s words held some truth.

“That’s hilarious… he sounds adorable, I’m glad they are doing good,” Chastity offered as Michael showed her a funny video of his nephew. “You were always excellent with kids so I know you're having a ball.” 

He nodded. “I really am. He's great.” 

The conversation lulled for a moment, Michael staring at her for a moment before he added. “I’m really happy you came. I fuckin’ missed you.” 

“I missed you too.” 

The pair locked eyes for a moment, years of pining and unsaid feelings passing between them. Chastity had not looked in his eyes for years and yet they held the same thing they did back then: immense love and adoration. Love and adoration she did not know if she still deserved from him. 

“U-Um, I should go,” she whispered, her eyes falling to her lap. “Find the girls.” 

She started to walk toward the door until she felt his hand grab hers. In one swift motion, he pulled her into his embrace, his lips crashing onto hers. She moaned as he kissed her roughly, her back hitting the wall. His lips searched for every inch of available skin to kiss and taste, both of them seeking a feeling that they had gone without for far too long. 

However, Chastity knew she could not let this go down the road it was headed without telling him the truth. 

“Michael,” she pressed her hand to his chest, breaking away from his kiss. It was not that she did not want it. She did, desperately so. However, if that kiss signified a second chance for them, she could not pursue it until he knew the full story, their full story. And if she did not do it now, she would never have the courage to do it again. 

“I-I’m sorry. I s-shouldn’t have done that. I-It’s just…” 

She shook her head, “No, no. I-I want it. I want you.” Their foreheads pressed against each other’s for a moment. “But before we… I need to tell you something. Something that happened after we broke up.” 

Michael took a step back, his anxiety immediately spiraling as he took in the look of pain and sorrow on her face. Similar to his love for her, his care for her as a person and her safety had not diminished either. 

“W-what happened?” 

Chastity wiped a stray tear that fell from her eyes. She never liked to think about it, the cramping that woke her up in the middle of the night, the fear that tore the sound and words out of her voice as she tried to call a friend to take her to the ER, the panic that dug its claws into her soul on the ride there, the sharp rollercoaster of shock and grief when she found out in a span of 5 minutes that she had been pregnant and lost their baby. 

She thought about calling Michael in the days after. She knew he would come if she called, knew he would support her and help her heal. She laid in bed and cycled between sobbing and staring at his name in her phone contemplating whether to hit the call button. But each time she came close, she always stopped herself. She knew he would come and if he did, she would never truly move on. She was still heartbroken on top of everything else, still yearned for him above all else. And she knew she needed to learn how to stand and heal on her own. And she decided it was unfair to drop this trauma on him when there was nothing that could be done. She may have had to live with the pain, but he did not have to too. 

She wiped a tear from her cheek. She had rarely spoken about the miscarriage, it had always been too painful. It was a period of her life she desired to forget. 

“Ummm… about two months after we broke up, I w-woke up one night in p-pain. L-Like nothing I had ever felt. Went to the ER and… I w-was pregnant.” 

His eyes grew wide. “P-pregnant?” He could not hide the shock in his voice. Though when he thought back to it, it made sense. In the weeks leading up to the breakup, he recalled her complaining of nausea and fatigue. They both assumed it was the stress of her school work. “W-why didn’t you t-tell me?” 

She shook her head. “T-there was nothing to tell. W-when I got to the ER that night, they told me I was pregnant… and that I m-miscarried.” 

Michael could not stop the tears that flowed like rivers down his face. He did not know how he could grieve a life he did not know existed and never met. But he felt it, waves of it crashing over him as he looked at her. They had talked about kids back then, even at their young age. How many, what they would look like, which of them they would be more like. Sure it was all talk, but a future they both had seen so clearly with each other, that it had felt real. 

And now, he knew that they had created something together and their breakup had cost them that. He also felt guilt, wondering if his inability to make their relationship work had led to this outcome. And that felt worse than any physical wound he had ever experienced, it was a searing pain he could not escape from. 

“W-was it the b-break up?” He asked quietly, his guilt clear in his voice. 

Chastity immediately shook her head, rushing up to him and pulling him in an embrace. She leaned back and held his head in her hands, her thumb wiping away his tears. She hated that he felt guilty, this was one of the many reasons she chose to keep this to herself for so long. She did not find it fair transfer this pain onto him, particularly so many years later.

“No. Listen to me. Th-this was no one’s fault, I promise you. T-the doctors said it c-could’ve been anything. The stress from finals o-or nothing to do with any of that at all. It just happens a-and there isn't really anything you can do, they said.” 

He nodded. “A-are you ok?” His hands went to her waist, holding onto her. 

She smiled and nodded. “Y-yea, yea. The weeks after were the hardest but over time… it’s gotten better. A-and the doctors said it won’t affect any long-term fertility so I guess that’s good?” She mumbled. “I-It was hard… doing it alone though. I wanted to call you so many times, Michael,” she whispered, her head thudding into his chest. His hands rubbed soothing circles in her back. “I-I just knew I wouldn’t be able to let you go a second time if I let you back in, even when I really needed you. S-So I dealt with it alone. It w-was h-hard. A-and I’m sorry I never told you. A-and am just dropping it on you like this. I-I just think you needed to know if we were gonna…” her words trailed off but Michael did not need her to finish the sentence, he knew what she meant.  

Michael tightened his arms around her. “Nah, I-I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you. You shouldn’t’ve gone through that alone." He pressed a teary kiss to her forehead. “I-I love you so much. I never stopped loving you, Chas. D-don’t think I ever will.”

“I never stopped loving you either,” she whispered. 

Michael held her for a few more minutes before her phone started to buzz. 

“Y-You should answer those, it’s probably your girls thinkin’ I kidnapped you,” he joked, cutting some of the more serious tension in the room. 

“Y-yea I should let them know I’m good.” 

She shot off a few texts before turning back to him. “S-sorry, they were just reminding me we made dinner reservations. I-I should go.” 

Her heart almost broke at the disappointed look on his face. However, before she left, he reached out for her hand. 

“I know this might be a lot to ask a-and we have a lot to talk about but… stay? I want us back, Chas. There'll never be another woman like you out there for me. You're it. Stay. Please” 

Chastity stared at him for a moment, before texting her friends. 

Head to dinner without me. I’ll be good here.

She then turned her phone off and slid it into her back pocket. She giggled as Michael pulled her back to his embrace. 

“So we really gonna do this again?” She asked, stifling a small moan as he kissed and sucked on the soft skin of her neck, immediately going to a sensitive spot there that he knew drove her wild. 

“Hell yea. And it’ll be better than it ever was.” 

“Yea, it will.” 

Fin.

A/N: ahhh my first request for MBJ. Such a fun prompt for me too! Not sure how many I can reasonably do lol but I liked it so I will keep doing the occasional one if you're interested/have a prompt! Thanks for reading! Leave a comment if you want to be tagged in MBJ fics!

[kamryn1963]

I remembered this was my blog and I could talk/rant about whatever I wanted so I decided to share my thoughts about 11x13.

But specifically Hank's hallucination of Al and specifically the line "Is this what it felt like?"

There's definitely quite a few emotional moments and lines in this episode but that one by far hit me the hardest.

Hank was dying, bleeding out and had come to terms with the fact he was probably going to die. And while I know it was for practical reasons and wanting to bring Al back at some point, if you look at it only from the characters POV, Hank was dying and the person he hallucinated in what could possibly of been his last moments, wasn't his late son or wife but his best friend.

And I just think this says a lot about Al and Hank's friendship that we didn't really see in the show or was really put into words. Al cared so much about Hank that he took the blame and sacrificed his life without hesitation. And Hank loved and missed Al to the point HE was the one he saw while Hank was on the verge of giving up.

But anyway back to the specific line. This also says a lot. The way Hank looked down at himself and his stab wounds before looking up at Al and asking "is this how it felt like" AND Al not answering. Like man...

I think it's clear Hank blamed himself for Al's death and I feel like Al not saying anything and just kind of shrugging was the answer. And it probably hit Hank hard. Like yeah he knew how Al died and that it wasn't a walk in paradise, but experiencing what actually killed his best friend (especially since it was to a lesser degree because Al was stabbed like 9-10 times) would've fucked with Hank.

AND even if Al was a hallucination, he still saw Hank experiencing what he did. Like idk if it's just me but that line is so incredibly sad and meaningful. I feel like I have more thoughts that I can't put in coherent sentences lol.

And getting in more of my personal thoughts, I've always felt like that part of why Al exactly took the blame of Bingham's murder is Al didn't think he had anything to live for. Lexi was dead, him and Meredith clearly weren't doing well, Michelle was nowhere to be found, etc. But Hank had the unit and people that counted on him and Al obviously saw that.

You take that and than add Al hearing that Hank was ready to go and give up like Al did. So Al reminds Hank that Hailey isn't ready for him to die. I wonder if Al wishes somebody reminded him he had things to live for too...

Anyhow if you read this all than I'm very happy. This was just the thoughts that have followed me for months since the finale came out haha.

[checkoutmybookshelf]

The last month and a half has been wild, so I don't have anything prompt-specific for Polin week, but I didn't want to do nothing, so...

I'm posting the prologue of the Polin shifter fic I'm working on. I hope y'all enjoy this sneak peek! It'll go on Ao3 eventually, when it's done.

Content Warnings: Battle wounds, minor blood, descriptions of battle wounds.

1806 – Germany

Artillery shells boomed alongside the long guns in the darkness, a rolling undertone punctuated by the sharp cracks of muskets, pistols, and rifles. The roar of men’s voices was a discordant counterpoint to the more mechanical sounds of war, and the screams of the wounded and dying...well. Harlow did his best not to hear those.

Muzzle flashes strobed through the darkness, utterly ruining the night-sight of every soldier and officer in the vicinity and costing more than a few poor bastards limbs—or lives. Torchlight—and light from the fires inside the fort—reflected off the low-lying clouds, bathing the entire hellish scene in a yellow-brown ambient light that washed the color and definition out of the uniform jackets of the writhing mass of soldiers climbing over bodies—living and dead—to take some meaningless fort in whatever cursed corner of the continent Bonaparte thought he could attain mastery of through little more than self-declared imperialism.

Not, he reminded himself, that Boney or that fort are your problems tonight. No, Harlowe crouched at the base of a tree within spitting distance of the battle wearing a borrowed infantryman’s uniform—a soiled one, it must be said—for another reason entirely. He couldn’t trust his vision enough to see details, so if his quarry was still, waiting for the opportune moment to leave the fort, to escape with his sorry life, Harlow would never see him. That was why he had planned. All around him, in the bushes and trees and tall grass where the fighting was thinnest or nonexistent, traps were scattered. Some noose traps, some snare traps, anything that would be nonfatal. Tonight’s quarry deserved the trial and execution of a traitor; a swift death was more than Harlowe was prepared to grant him. All that was left to do now was wait, and watch for the tell-tale flash of motion in the wrong direction that would mean the hunt was on.

Harlow was a hunter. Early in his military career—the usual lot of a third son in somewhat-less-than-wealthy ton families—he had proven that his worth was not in taking orders and charging selflessly into the fray to kill or be killed. His first commanding officer had banished the young lieutenant from his regiment for masterminding what his dismissal letter had termed “deeply dishonorable conduct and trickery unbecoming of a gentleman.” That behavior had led to his squad single-handedly ensuring that nearly half a French light company and its supply train had blundered into a bog. Once they were well and truly foundered, the squad had used rifles—and one seven-barreled piquet gun—to deluge the trapped enemy soldiers in bullets. Harlow had ensured that his squad was well-hidden in the surrounding landscape, so when the French commanders—and later their NCOs, once the officers were dead—wished to surrender, they could find no one to direct their pleas to. Harlow had refused to give quarter until it was requested, even when the Frenchmen had ceased to fight back and merely cowered against the ground, behind corpses...anywhere they could.

That stunt had drawn Harlow to the attention of Colonel Cole, a hard man who was convinced that no amount of military might would be enough to defeat Bonaparte if there was not military intelligence behind it. And military intelligence required men who were perhaps less married to their honor than British officers were meant to be. Cole’s personal regiment comprised men who were involved in intelligence, unsavory warfare in general, and the hunting and removal of traitors. Harlow had excelled in this environment, moving quickly up the ranks and making friends all along the way. Ultimately, he was put in charge of his own detachment, and their first real mission had been intelligence gathering and the removal of a particularly problematic agent in Prussia, near Jena.

On a cold October day, Jena fell to Bonaparte, and Harlow very nearly fell to Jack Harker. Jack had been Harlowe’s first and closest friend in Cole’s regiment. They had planned missions together, survived training together, held each other up on campaigns, and watched each other’s backs in combat. Harlow considered Jack more of a brother than his father’s other sons had ever been. So when Jack had stepped between Harlow’s pistol and their mark in a little house in Jena, it had cut Harlow more deeply than any disproportionate cruelty his blood brothers had visited on him. The wound caused by Jack’s treason compounded when Jack and their mark had shifted, escaping and leaving Harlowe and the rest of the squad to deal with three squads of French soldiers Jack had tipped off to their presence to take them prisoner. Harlow had been the only man of them to survive that particular captivity long enough to escape.

The wounds from Jack’s treason and lies were why, just over a year later, Harlow was crouched motionless in a forest that reeked of blood, shit, and powder, simply waiting.

There.

A flicker of movement in the corner of Harlow’s eye. He made sure not to turn his head; if movement had betrayed Jack to him, it would as easily betray him to Jack. Instead, he closed his eyes and listened, waiting. He had the rhythms of the battlefield in his head, so the trick was to listen for what didn’t fit.

“Battles are like drums,” Colonel Cole was fond of saying. “They have a rhythm, they have a cadence, and you must learn to hear the syncopation. That will tell you more than any number of trumpeted signals or officer bellows. Your environment is more than simply the battle raging around you. Hearing what it will tell you will keep you alive.”

The soft but unmistakable patter of paws on dead leaves and hard-packed dirt told Harlow that his quarry was making a beeline for the forest, but about fifteen feet to his left. Directly in the path of a noose trap that should be catching any moment now...

A nearly imperceptible yip followed the slither of a rope and the flap of a released springy branch. Something that wasn’t a smile and wasn’t a snarl twisted Harlow’s lips as he faded deeper into the cover of the woods and made his way toward the abnormally large fox that was deliberately backing up to give the long end of the noose around his leg enough slack that he could loosen it with his teeth and escape.

Simple snares and nooses didn’t hold shifters for long, Harlow knew. But this one had only needed to hold for long enough.

“Hello Jack,” he hissed, grabbing the fox firmly by the scruff.

The next moment his fingers were buried in human flesh as Jack shifted back to human. Harlow flinched violently, but didn’t relax his grip.

“Been practicing, Harlow? Last time I saw someone shift in your grasp, you dropped them.” For all his unusual size as a fox, Jack was a significantly smaller man than Harlow. He wasn’t bothering to struggle.

“That would have been the last time you saw anyone on that squad. They didn’t survive. Know how they got Greg?” Jack tried for impassive, but Harlow saw the feathering in his jaw muscle and pressed on.

“That boy never reached seventeen. The second Frog bastard into the room put a bayonet in his guts and left it there. It was there while they dragged us out of the house, all through that brutal wagon ride out of Jena. The blood and the bits of gut leaking out didn’t stop them from hog-tying him either, Jack. You hear the battle sounds over there? Those screams? They’ve got nothing on how Greg screamed. But that wasn’t the worst of it, no. The worst of it came hours later, when he was dehydrated and delirious. He was still trying to scream, but he couldn’t do it. Have you ever had to listen to a kid in that much pain force air through his mouth and nose in a scratchy, gasping scream through a sandpaper throat and parched lips? By God, Jack, when Greg finally let go, sometime the next day? When we all heard his death rattle? All I felt was relieved for the boy. He wasn’t suffering anymore. Wasn’t agonizing from a belly wound that was the fault of someone he looked up to like a brother—”

Jack’s fist connected with Harlow’s jaw. Harlow let the blow land, but didn’t loosen his grip. He only stopped talking long enough to spit the blood from his mouth.

“Hitting me doesn’t bring Greg back, or any of the other men from our squad. I’m bringing you in, Jack.”

“Letting them hang me for being a shifter won’t make you feel better,” snarled Jack.

“I’m letting them hang you for being a traitor. You being a shifter just proves that England’s shifter laws are a damn good idea. Only shifters and bastards betray their country.”

“I won’t speak for the bastards, but no shifter who jumps at the chance to live in a country that doesn’t make their very existence illegal unless they take on all the suicide and dirty-work missions the crown doesn’t want to send real soldiers on can be blamed for trying!”

“You got our entire squad murdered—”

A drawling upper-class accent interrupted Harlow with, “I know I taught you both better than this.” Colonel Cole shouldered through the woods and began tying Jack’s wrists. “The fort is all but taken, Harlow. Let’s get our man back to camp and secure him. The three of us are on a ship across the channel by tomorrow morning. Parliament wants this dealt with quickly.” Cole finished restraining Jack, then met his eyes. Something sad crossed them, and the older man sighed.

“Make this simple, son. Don’t shift on us. I won’t hesitate to nail you into a crate for the duration.”

Jack didn’t respond, but any fight he might have been willing to give Harlow had been knocked out of him by their mentor’s appearance.

As Harlow followed his mentor and former best friend through the woods and back to camp, he tried to tell himself that he was finally making up for how brutally Greg—a boy who was as much as younger brother to him as he had been to Jack—and the other men under his command had died. Greg’s parched, painful cries played in his head as Harlow and Cole secured Jack in camp and did the requisite paperwork. They haunted his dreams that night, and were his constant mental companion all throughout the trip back to England. They were silenced briefly as Harlow testified at Jack’s trial, affirmed repeatedly that Jack was a shifter who had eluded the law for his entire life and that being a shifter was part of his motivation for turning traitor.

The verdict came swiftly: Guilty.

The sentence was predictable: Death.

On the morning of Jack’s execution, there was a knock at the door of Harlow’s rented room in London. Cole had offered him a suite in his London townhouse, but Harlow had declined, instead taking the sort of room enlisted men did when they were required in London. It was cheap but clean, with more than a few options for men who wanted drinks or companionship. Harlow hadn’t left the room more than he was absolutely required to.

Opening the door, he found a young page, thirteen if he was a day, dressed in the livery of Cole’s regiment. He held an official set of beribboned paperwork, and a letter.

“Colonel Cole’s compliments,” said the boy in a high voice that didn’t crack even once. “He also said for me to tell you—in these exact words, mind—to get up off the mat and not to forget your hat.”

“The damn shako makes me look like a right pudding head,” Harlow protested.

“Colonel Cole says—and again, he specifically ordered me to say this—that you’re lucky he isn’t making you wear ostrich plumes. And he says congratulations, sir!” The boy attempted a pivot that would be impressive when he grew into his feet and marched himself off.

Harlow closed the door, sank down onto the bed, and opened the small letter first.

Harlow,

Stop blaming yourself about Jack. Even the best in our line of work can be bamboozled by men with something to hide, and friendship makes murky waters all the cloudier. We still require friends, and we still have work to do.

Make me proud, son.

Yours etc.,

Cole

Postscript: Wear your medals today, and the new bars. There will be people there who will be impressed by them, and people who will understand what it took to earn them. You need to know which is which and how you can use them for the next step of your career.

Next step? wondered Harlow, opening the official set of papers. Small gold bars fell into his lap from the parcel, and he picked them up, confused. Then he looked at the papers. Effective immediately, he was promoted to the rank of provost marshal.

Even Jack’s execution was to be a lesson in gathering information and leveraging people, it seemed.

1808 – England

“Miss Euphemia Worsley,” announced the herald as the doors swished smoothly open. “Presented by Her Grace the Duchess Worsley.” The young lady’s already-pale face turned whiter than the paint on the columns of the presentation hall, and she trembled visibly as her mama gently tapped her wrist and the pair stepped out toward the thrones where Queen Charlotte and Geroge, Prince of Wales, were seated.

Portia Featherington’s fingernails pinched the flesh of Penelope’s upper arm, still sharp through Penelope’s sleeve and Portia’s glove.

“Watch, young ladies,” hissed Portia. “Miss Euphemia is considered the least graceful of this year’s debutantes, so make sure you mark every error she makes so you will avoid them when you debut in a few years.”

“I could have debuted this year,” grumbled Prudence.

“Hush, child,” scolded Lord Featherington. “When you must pay to debut three girls, you may debut them one by one instead of together.”

“I shall be an old maid by the time I debut if I am to wait for Penelope to be a reasonable age!”

“Be silent,” snapped Portia, slapping her closed fan against Prudence’s arm.

Penelope, meanwhile, had been watching Miss Euphemia’s steps grow slower the closer she got to the front of the room. Her face had transitioned from deathly white to distinctly green, and her shoulders were inching up toward her ears. The ostrich plumes on the top of her head were slowly but undeniably slipping sideways. The poor girl looked absolutely miserable, and Penelope couldn’t help but feel sorry for the older girl.

“Do you think she’s going to faint?” asked Philippa, in a tone of interest that would have been more appropriate for commenting on a particularly exotic animal in the royal menagerie.

“Quiet,” ordered Portia.

Miss Euphemia had come to something that was nearly a complete stop about three quarters of the way down the room, and Duchess Worsley was quietly and rapidly muttering to her daughter. Penelope heard “take a deep breath, my love. You can do this”; words that were undoubtedly kinder than Portia’s word would have been in the same situation. Miss Euphemia placed both hands over her stomach, closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths.

“The chit cannot even walk the length of a room without panicking. She’ll never survive running a household,” said Portia.

Penelope wouldn’t dream of directly contradicting her mother, but it seemed that Miss Euphemia could get herself under control, because when she opened her eyes, her color was better and she managed to drop her shoulders a few inches. Shaking her head, Miss Euphemia accidentally caught Penelope’s eye. Penelope offered the older girl a small smile, and received a half-wink in return as the visible tension finished draining from Euphemia’s shoulders.

Perhaps her presentation will end better than it began, thought Penelope.

Which was when a small side door exploded open with a crack that echoed through the room, followed instantly by the baying of hunting dogs and the rough shouts of ungentle men.

The room exploded into sound as courtiers drew back against the walls to avoid the hounds. Queen Charlotte was ordering dogs to sit—and they were listening—while Prince George bellowed for his huntsman and the fellow’s assistants to control their dogs. However, what captured the room’s attention was Duchess Worsley’s screamed “Effie!” Miss Euphemia seemed to have disappeared. Then the Duchess dived for the floor and the small hedgehog that absolutely had not been there a moment before.

Lord Featherington pulled Prudence and Philippa behind him, obscuring their view of the room and ensuring that they would not be trampled. Portia had pulled Penelope to her—one arm around Penelope’s chest and the other closed around her upper arm—and backed them both against a wall. Unlike her sisters, however, Penelope had a clear view of what happened next.

“Shifter!” Bellowed a tall, hawkish man standing in the shadows behind the dais. He leapt the dais, looking like nothing so much as a highwayman from a ballad or a pirate from a story. He couldn’t have been older than thirty, but his presence was that of a much older, powerful man. Between the unfashionably loose cuts of his waistcoat, coat, and breeches; the hair that was slightly too long and queued in a style decades out of date; and the sharp planes of a cruel face, the man exuded a threatening energy that was not dispelled by how quickly his eyes darted around the room to assess the situation. Once he had fixed his attention on the clearly panicked hedgehog that was doing erratic laps of the room between running feet, he snorted once, nodded sharply, and stalked slowly forward.

His pace was deliberate, footsteps rolling smoothly from heel to ball to toe in his un-tasseled Hessians. The boots were hideously informal for court presentations, but even Charlotte—typically famous for her particularity about courtiers adhering to court dress codes—failed to object. None of the gentlemen in their flat shoes would have been able to walk so smoothly in that style without losing a shoe posthaste. He also had a range of motion from the loose cut of his garments that men in court dress rarely did, so his loose, smooth, fluid motion was an eye-catching contrast to the other courtiers in the room.

The man moved in silence, seemingly ignoring the others in the room. However, his focus and purposefulness seemed to intimidate every courtier he passed. Ladies drew back as he passed them, as did some gentlemen. The gentlemen who did not draw back alone found excuses to pull ladies—often mothers or sisters—back, and took the opportunity to put space between them and the black-garbed man. Anthony, Benedict, and Colin Bridgerton held the line, although they tucked their mother and four younger sisters behind them. The Bridgerton daughters were pale-faced but calm, in contrast to many of the screeching, sobbing girls in the room.

Penelope seemed to be seeing everything in the room at once, from overhead. The courtiers parted like the Red Sea before the man, and hedgehog Euphemia was running in smaller and smaller circles as the slow footsteps bore down on her. Duchess Worsley was trying desperately to ignore the man bearing down on her daughter, but still clearly had half a terrified eye on him as she attempted to collect her daughter. She might have had more luck on her feet, but the train of her skirts had caught in her heels and tangled about her legs, preventing her from rising even as the man drew level with her and slid his coat from his shoulders.

“No, no, no, no!”

Penelope’s heart constricted as Duke Worsley intercepted his wife’s hands before they could close around the man’s Hessian boots and hold him back.

“Peter—” she begged. Lord Worsley went to his knees, blocking his wife’s view of hedgehog Euphemia. Miss Euphemia had backed herself into a corner and gone largely still, apparently frozen. The man was barely four steps from Miss Euphemia.

Penelope suddenly felt nauseous. Miss Euphemia could have still escaped to this point, but now…if the man closed those last few steps…

Move, she begged Euphemia, silently. Please, move. Run. Don’t let him get his hands on you, please. She must have twitched or moved or something, because Portia’s nails dug into her arm, hard, just as the man halted his slow stalk and moved like lightning to toss his jacket over Miss Euphemia, bundle her into it, and stride from the room. The slam of the door was punctuated by a sob from Lady Worsley and Lord Worsley’s brokenhearted “Amelia.” It somehow managed to sound like an apology and a prayer for absolution simultaneously.

“Do you see, Penelope?” For perhaps the first time in her life, Penelope couldn’t hear any airs or arrogance in Portia’s voice. There was nothing there but seriousness and perhaps a tinge of fear. “Do you see what happens to shifters in the ton?”

Lord Worsley had gathered his still-crying wife into his arms, and from their place on the floor, his head came up and turned toward the dais. “Your Majesty, Your Highness,” he began. “That is my daughter, I beg of you—”

“We shall not hear you,” snapped the Prince of Wales, turning his attention to the red-jacketed marines who entered the room and bore down on the Worsleys.

“Please, your Majesty!” Lady Worsley’s voice was all sharp-edged desperation. “From one mother to another, please. Let me take my daughter home. We shall leave London, leave England—”

“Enough,” snapped Charlotte. “Your plea bores us. You know that there are no shifters in ton families, and all shifters belong to the crown, which graciously allows them to atone for the heinous crime of overthrowing Charles I through service in our ongoing war with the Corsican upstart.”

The marines dragged the Worsleys to their feet, facing Charlotte, who continued speaking.

“That you did not see fit to inform the crown that your house sheltered a traitor is of concern. You shall be taken into royal custody and made to answer before the court and parliament.” With a flick of her fingers, Charlotte dismissed the Worsleys and the marines hustled them from the room.

Court was then summarily dismissed, and the ton returned home to await further news. Eloise and Penelope had been forbidden from discussing the events, but that did not stop them from playing in the square out of earshot of their chaperones and talking over the events.

Duke and Duchess Worsley returned home a day or two later, having been released with massive fines in penalty for not turning their daughter over to the crown. Less than a month later, Penelope and Eloise were nearly run down by the royal coach that abruptly pulled up to the Worsley’s house and disgorged the same threatening-looking man who had taken Miss Euphemia away and a judge in robes and wig.

Penelope and Eloise had been sharply summoned back to their respective houses and not allowed out the rest of the day. Both read the notice in the paper the following day:

The Duke and Duchess of Worsley are deeply saddened to announce the death of their only daughter, Miss Euphemia Worsley. Miss Worsley was lost in service to Crown and Country, and Their Majesties, King George III and Charlotte of Mecklenberg-Strelitz, recognize her service and her role in atoning for the crimes of shifters against England.

As was standard for such announcements, no funeral date was listed. There was not even a date for a memorial, as was standard for soldiers and officers killed overseas, leaving the families without so much as a body to bury. Shifters received no formal recognition; they simply disappeared and the ton quietly pretended that they had never existed.

Less than a week after the notice, the Worsleys left England. For nearly a week, Penelope barely ate anything, couldn’t sleep, and couldn’t talk to anyone about why, not even Eloise. Genuinely worried for his youngest daughter’s wellbeing, Lord Featherington took her to the market and offered her anything she wanted—a tactic that tended to pull Prudence and Philippa out of any adolescent mood they might be in. He was expecting Penelope to ask for a new dress or other article of clothing, or perhaps some sweets. She chose a beautifully crafted writing kit, with letter paper, several bottles of ink, quills, and the tools to make and maintain quills.

Lord Featherington never understood Penelope’s choice, but within twenty-four hours, his daughter was happier and more herself, so he patted himself on the back for resolving the issue—whatever that had been—and avoiding his creditors the entire day at the market.

1812 – Spain

There were bullet holes in the thin, wooden walls. The thatch had held up remarkably well in the few months of Spanish weather that the little two-room house had been abandoned. The place was empty, so either its denizens had had time to pack and leave or else it had been picked over by soldiers and refugees in the intervening time. As he lowered a green, sweating, bleeding, and barely not-screaming Daniel Smythe-Smith to the dusty, gritty floor of the house that somehow managed to be hotter than the open in Spain in July, Colin Bridgerton regretted agreeing to Jathan Postlethwaite’s Younger Sons’ Iberian Peninsula Grand Tour.

Just let us get out of this alive, and I will never cross the channel to avoid Mother and Anthony trying to marry me off again, he thought desperately.

His mother and Anthony had both tried to talk him out of walking into a literal war zone, but the appeal of spending time with a group of younger brothers—all feeling as directionless and put-upon by parents and/or older brothers has he had been of late—had been too strong a siren song for Colin to ignore. The eight younger sons had been lucky so far. Visiting the sites of previous battles and sieges—including Badajoz—had been uneventful, and they hadn’t run into either Spanish or British armed forces for the first few weeks of their trip. When Jathan got wind of a big battle that was supposed to occur at Salamanca and insisted they go to watch, Colin had argued. It was one thing to go sightseeing months or years after a battle, but there was something macabre about watching British men die for sport. They weren’t Romans, after all, to enjoy gladiatorial blood sports. Unfortunately, Jathan plied the rest of the group with drinks and they overrode Colin’s protests.

That morning they had set out for high ground above Salamanca on foot, given the rough terrain and several of the party’s truly terrible horsemanship. Generally, two of them would have had maps and compasses out to ensure that they didn’t stray into any of the areas they had been warned away from by various military officers—each of whom who had rolled their eyes in a shocking disregard for manners and propriety—they had encountered and explained their tour to. However, Jathan had insisted that he knew precisely where he was going. The only early riser in the group, none of the other gentlemen had had the energy to check his headlong chivvying out the door and leadership across unfamiliar terrain in the pre-dawn light.

By noon they had gotten well and truly turned about. The entire party was hot, sweaty, tired, and hungry, and rising tempers had led to Jathan’s headlong rush through a copse of trees that had been sheltering a French patrol. For a long moment, Jathan and the patrol had stared, dumbstruck, at each other, until the officer in charge—who Colin would later swear was fifteen if he was a day; his voice kept cracking as he shouted orders—galvanized himself, pulled a pistol from his bandolier, and took a shot at Colin, the next of the younger sons to emerge through the trees.

Surprise and the shadows among the trees saved Colin’s life. The bullet sliced along his jaw, but did no further damage.

“Run!” came a cry from behind Colin. He and Jathan both turned and did so, followed moments later by the patrol. Shots rang out as the group ran. Thankfully muskets on the move and at this range were of limited accuracy, so the first few shots flew wide and bought the group time to head for a cottage for cover. It also widened the distance between the French and the young Englishmen, since the Frenchmen had to stop to fire.

They were nearly to relatively safety when a lucky shot took Daniel Smythe-Smith’s leg out from under him. He tumbled to the ground hard, nearly tripping two of the other men. Jathan took a flying leap over his comrade, barreling into the one who has stopped, hesitant to leave their companion but equally as hesitant to move back toward the steadily advancing soldiers. Colin, who had somewhat instinctually taken up a position at the back of the pack—as he had so often done when Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth were playing chase games on the grounds at Aubrey Hall—bellowed at the others to keep running before stopping just long enough to haul Daniel upright and carried him, more by main force than anything else, through the cottage door.

Someone else slammed the door closed behind them, and for a long moment there was nothing but the sound of panting and the twirling of dust motes through the columns of sunlight streaming through the bullet holes in the walls.

“My God Dan, your leg…” began one of the men, before words turned to retching.

“In the corner,” barked Colin, wrenching his hand away from the still-bleeding graze along his jaw to focus on his friend. As one of eight rambunctious siblings, Colin was no stranger to patching up scrapes, bruises, and a myriad bumps and nicks when games turned overzealously rough. Not even the time Gregory had knocked his head against an iron railing prepared Colin for his first gunshot wound, however.

The entry wound was innocuous enough; it was a small hole that bled sluggishly but steadily. The scream when he turned Daniel’s leg over—as gently as he could—was deeply unnerving in its involuntariness. The exit wound violently turned Colin’s stomach. It was ragged, gushing blood, and looked positively gory. Colin knew enough from his prior travels to be grateful that there was an exit wound—too many men died not of the bullets themselves, but of physicians digging about inside them to extract the missiles. Daniel would not need to undergo that particular ordeal. Colin reached up and roughly yanked off his neckcloth.

“Brandy,” he ordered, hand held out but eyes still on his friend’s glassy eyes and sourly green face. A flask was placed into his hand.

“Hold him.”

One man braced Daniel’s shoulders, supporting and restraining him. Another man held his leg still.

Not wasting time they didn’t have trying to get Daniel to drink, Colin poured brandy generously over entry and exit wound. Daniel screamed again and bucked, but his friends held him still as Colin dropped the flask without bothering to cap it and firmly wrapped the cravat around Daniel’s leg. As the first knot was pulled tight, Daniel passed out, making the rest of Colin’s job easier.

“He needs a proper physician, but he shouldn’t bleed to death before we find one,” said Colin, hoping he was right.

Another man had an eye pressed to a bullet hole and spoke up. “They’re getting closer!”

That seemed to jog Jathan out of whatever stupor he had been in. “Those curs, don’t they realize we are Englishmen?” he blustered, furious.

“I would imagine that’s why they’re shooting at us,” retorted their lookout. “They’re all coming toward the front; is there a back door we can get out of?”

“Nothing,” called another man. “The front is the only way in or out. The windows in the back aren’t even large enough to crawl out of.”

“Perhaps someone ought to go out and try to speak to them,” said Jathan, paling visibly. “Not I, of course, my French is terrible…”

“Nobody is going out there to get shot,” declared Colin. “There has to be another way.”

“We can’t surrender,” said Jathan. “We are members of the ton, it is simply not done. We shall have to fight our way out.”

“With bare fists?” snapped Colin. “By all means, you first.”

“Well we cannot simply sit here!” Beads of sweat were running down Jathan’s face. He trembled, and his hands clenched and unclenched erratically. He looked as though he might take a swing at Colin.

“Stop before you come to blows!”

Colin and Jathan both swung about to face the speaker. Atherton Swift was the youngest of ten in a minor ton family that rarely left their country estate. He had been invited on the strength of his acquaintance with one of Lady Danbury’s sons more than any particular friendship with any of the other gentlemen, but he had been an excellent traveling companion and friendships had quickly formed between him and the other gentlemen.

“There is another way out of this, if you gentlemen will trust me,” said Atherton.

“I think any plan would be better than surrendering or fighting muskets with bare hands,” said Colin.

“I can go for help.”

“Pfeh,” snorted Jathan, derisively. “You must have heatstroke to think so. There is no way out of here except through the French.”

“Do not be an ass, Jathan,” snapped Colin. To Atherton, he said, “That’s a suicide mission, we cannot ask you to do that.”

“It is less dangerous for me. I just require your help being let out the back window,” insisted Atherton.

Daniel stirred and moaned, briefly silencing the conversation as all eyes flicked toward him. Colin sighed.

“Atherton, we haven’t time. It’s a noble suggestion but we must be realistic—” Colin’s mouth snapped shut as Atherton shifted, and suddenly a plump dormouse was looking expectantly at him.

“Right,” wheezed Colin, before picking up Atherton and striding over to set him on the windowsill. Atherton squeezed through a crack in the counterpane and scurried off.

“Why that no-good little rat,” hissed Jathan. “And well done Bridgerton, you’ve let the criminal escape while we are left to be shot to death by the French in Spain!” By the end of the sentence, Jathan’s voice had gone from vicious hiss to a hysterical shrill. “He’s not coming back and we are dead.”

“He has gone for help,” retorted Colin.

“He’s a shifter, he’s left us to save his own skin! They’re all vile criminals with no honor—”

“Say another word and I will hand you to the French myself,” said Colin.

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Jathan went almost instinctually to answer it, but Colin grabbed his wrist, holding him back.

“It’s their officer,” said the man looking out the bullet hole. “He isn’t armed, and he has a handkerchief tied to a stick.”

“He wants to talk, at a guess,” said another man.

“Ouvre la porte, sil vous plait,” came a boyish call from the other side of the door.

“Well I shall tell him what for,” declared Jathan, yanking from Colin’s grip and throwing open the door before anyone could stop him.

The sudden opening clearly startled the young officer, he drew back in alarm with a shout, and a musket retort cracked through the heat of the afternoon. Colin yanked Jathan back into the cottage and slammed the door, listening to the rapid footfalls of the spooked young officer as he retreated back to his men.

“Anyone hit?” asked Colin.

“I…” The rose of blood blossoming on the shoulder of Jathan’s coat answered the question, and he sagged into the arms of the other gentlemen, who set him down next to a still-unconscious Daniel. One of them held another neckcloth over the entry wound to staunch the bleeding.

“What are the French doing?” Colin asked of their self-appointed lookout.  

“Milling about a bit; that officer is giving the man who fired the shot an earful. We’re in an awful position, Col. We can’t get out, and they know it. All they have to do is wait, we can’t stay in here forever.”

“We can give Atherton time to get back here,” said Colin.

“He’s not coming back, I told you—”

“Shut up, Jathan.”

As the sun moved through the sky and the afternoon wore on, the little cottage grew increasingly stifling. Within an hour, all the men were down to trousers and shirtsleeves. They were trying to ration the water in the few skins they had between them, but they continued to sweat more and more heavily, with one or two complaining of nausea and headaches. About thirty minutes after that, their lookout quietly called Colin over, and he nearly passed out on standing. Slowly and carefully he made his way over to the bullet hole in the wall.

“Problem?” he asked. The lookout drew back, gesturing for Colin to look.

The French patrol had advanced on the cottage, and arranged themselves in a semicircle around it. They were loading their muskets, and were kneeling to give themselves a more stable firing position.

Colin swore under his breath, feeling a small pang at using words that his mother would have roundly scolded him for. When was the last time she had scolded him? They had been from home for months.

“Is there any sign of Atherton?” he asked softly. The lookout shook his head. Neither man said a word as they watched the French take up their firing positions. There wasn’t anything to be said.

“Do you hear that?” Daniel’s voice was a pained rasp, but it was enough to turn Colin’s head.

“Hear what?”

“Hooves.”

“Ours or theirs?” asked Jathan, drowsily.

“Ours!” exclaimed another man, who had pulled himself up to look out the window. “I’ll be damned, it’s British cavalry!”

As willing as the young French officer had been to fire on unarmed gentlemen sheltering in an abandoned hut, he was ill-prepared to face a cavalry charge. The assault was swift and brief, and within a few moments of the thunderous cavalcade, there was silence, followed by a knock on the door and a gruff, “Are you lads alive in there?”

Colin opened the door to reveal a British cavalry officer in full uniform, horse’s reins in his hand. “Just barely, sir. We are grateful for your arrival and assistance.”

“A mouse told us you were in trouble,” the officer said. In short order Daniel and Jathan had been transferred to the custody of the company sawbones, and the rest of them had had a chance to cool off and drink their fill. Colin had yet to see Atherton, however.

The colonel himself was cagey on the subject, offering polite non-answers and generally brushing off any enquiries. Thoroughly rebuffed but refusing to let the matter lie, Colin collected some drinks and wended his way to the NCO’s fire. The sergeants were genially chatting, drinking, and cleaning their muskets, and Colin’s demeanor and gift of drinks meant he was quickly welcomed among them.

Before dark, Colin was being led across the back end of camp, to where prisoners were kept. Atherton was lying on a cot in his shirtsleeves in a tent that was too small for one person, and was positively claustrophobic when Colin slipped inside.

“Colin?” The disbelief and wariness in Atherton’s voice pinched Colin’s conscience. He should have pushed harder for information, gotten here sooner. But he was here now, and could put this right. Atherton had saved all their lives, and Colin would be damned if that good turn were not repaid in kind.

“I apologize for not finding you sooner, Atherton. Why on earth are you here?”

Atherton snorted. “You know the law, Colin. Shifters are illegal.”

“In England, yes. Not in Spain.”

“No court in England is going to argue that fine a legal point against the Lord Provost Marshal, Col. I knew what I was doing and what the risks were. Look, will you just take a letter back to my family?”

“You will take it to them yourself,” said Colin firmly. Sticking his head outside the tent, he used his best impression of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton to browbeat a guard into fetching the Lord Provost. Behind his back, the sergeant who had led him here jerked his chin at the guard, which was when the man actually went.

Retreating into the tent, Colin shot a smile at Atherton, who did not quite manage to smile back. “This is foolish, Colin. It’s not going to go anywhere, and you risk being labeled shifter-soft.”

“If you had given up this easily, we would all be dead in that hut right now. The very least I can do is try. It is the honorable thing to do, and it is the right thing to do for a friend.”

“Now what is all this rumpus?” The colonel’s voice was bombastic more than irritated, and Colin stood, pulling Atherton from the tent with him. Beside the colonel was a tall, blond, hawkish man with cool eyes that did not seem to miss anything about his surroundings.

Colin faced both uniformed men with his back straight and his tone even. “Colonel, I request the immediate release of my friend Mr. Atherton Swift.”

The colonel harrumphed uncomfortably. “On what grounds, lad? The man is an admitted shifter, and the law is very clear—”

“We are in Spain, Colonel. Spain has no such law against shifters, which I believe is part of why the army uses them here. Is this not therefore an inconsistent application of law, to arrest a shifter in a place where not only are they legal, but you yourself have taken advantage of this loophole to do the king’s work?”

Atherton’s jaw dropped as Colin—still impersonating Anthony when he was being the Viscount—spoke.

“You know he makes a fair point, Mowbray,” the colonel said to the blond uniformed man. “And we did secure a key victory today. Perhaps we can take that win and look the other way for a lad who went above and beyond to ensure his friends were safe? In the name of fair play?”

“In my experience, Colonel, releasing a shifter is a poor strategy. Every one of my acquaintance—and as you know, in my role as the Lord Provost Marshal, a significant part of my job is to oversee shifters conscripted for crown use—has ultimately proved themselves untrustworthy with treasonous impulses. Allowing this one to go free is, in my opinion, too great a risk. I would not recommend this course of action, sir.”

“Colonel,” said Colin with the charming smile of a cobra about to strike. “I imagine it will be difficult to find officers willing to take your orders and work with you if it should get about London society that this is how you reward loyalty and bravery above and beyond the call. As I am sure you know, my elder brother the Viscount Bridgerton and brother-in-law the Duke of Hastings are well-respected voices in the House of Lords and ton society, with Viscountess Bridgerton and Duchess Hastings hosting some of the most glittering events of the social season every year. I should hate for them to discourage men of good breeding from serving with you, sir.”

As Colin spoke, the colonel went red, then white, then red again, before turning to Mowbray. “I cannot have this affect my ability to staff my regiment, sir. Not to mention that Mrs. Hakesworthy would have my head if I got her cut out of society.”

“Colonel,” began Mowbray.

“No, Mowbray, enough. This, gentlemen, is what is going to happen.” The colonel surveyed the little crowd around him, making eye contact with Mowbray, Colin, and Atherton. “We shall release Mr. Swift here, and we shall not pursue him for being a shifter outside of England, as I believe is policy.”

“A policy I am working to change,” said Mowbray, through gritted teeth.

“Yes Mowbray, but we must not put intention before written law,” said the colonel. “Parliament would have a few things to say about that.”

“We appreciate your sense of honor, Colonel,” said Colin. “And I am sure that Mrs. Hakesworthy will enjoy many invitations in the seasons to come.” He made a mental note to write Anthony, Kate, Daphne, and his mother for help with said invitations.  

“I have not finished, Mr. Bridgerton. We shall not detain Mr. Swift here, but the dispatch about his status as a shifter has already been sent to England. I cannot and will not undo that. I recommend that Mr. Swift not return to England. I promise you that Mowbray won’t be so willing to let this slide there. Now, if this unpleasantness is settled, there is a hot toddy in my tent I should like to return to. Gentlemen.” The colonel turned on his heel and strode off. Mowbray on the other hand stayed where he was, staring down Colin and Atherton until Colin clapped his friend on the shoulder and the pair retreated to Colin’s tent.

“I can’t stay here,” Atherton said, immediately.

“Where will you go?”

“I have family in Germany I can go to for a while, and then…who knows.” Colin didn’t press as he helped Atherton pack his saddlebags and then saddle his horse. He did slip a purse into one of the saddlebags without telling Atherton, though.

 “I’m sorry, Atherton,” he said, once his friend was on his horse. “I didn’t intend to force you to run.”

“Colin…” Atherton raised his eyes to the sky. “So help me, if you walk around feeling guilty for ensuring that I didn’t die on a suicide mission for that madman Mowbray, I will strip down in the middle of Whitehall and shift in the midst of court. Nobody forced me to shift to run for help. And as much as I wouldn’t mind leaving Jathan to the French, Daniel didn’t deserve to die as a prisoner of war.” Atherton reached into a pocket and drew out a small packet of letters.

“It looks like I’m still going to need you to deliver some letters for me,” he said, softly.

“It’s the least I can do,” said Colin, taking the offered stack. “I’ll deliver the one for your family personally when we return.”

“There’s also one that has…special delivery instructions.” Atherton hesitated a moment, seeming reluctant to give Colin the direction for the unaddressed letter.

“Atherton, if your concern is secrecy, I swear on my family’s lives, I will not betray any confidence you give me.”  

“The final letter needs to go to Lady Whistledown.”

“The gossip columnist?” asked Colin, perplexed.

Atherton’s laugh had an edge of hysteria to it. “She’s more than just a gossip columnist, Colin. She’s…I suppose you would call her a safety net. Not even shifters know who she is—if she’s even a she—but thanks to her, we can get messages out to the shifters in the ton quickly. I hadn’t heard a word about Mowbray trying to get parliament to make it legal to arrest British shifters outside Britain, but if that truly is the case, others need to know.”

“How do I find Lady Whistledown to deliver the letter? Not even the queen can find her, despite some of the more pointed things she’s published about the crown.”

“You don’t find Lady Whistledown. You take this letter to the church on Fleet Street in London and you leave it under the loose flagstone at the center of the sixth pew from the door. And then you forget everything you know about this, Colin. I’ve warned Lady Whistledown in the letter that I’ve told a non-shifter about this dead drop and to stop using it. She’ll tell everyone that as well as about Mowbray.”

“Will you write me when you’re settled with your family?”

Atherton smiled, a little sadly. “I will if you wish, but I won’t expect a response. You don’t want Mowbray sniffing around your family, Colin. He’s ruthless, and he’s forced more than one shifter to reveal themselves by staging accidents for their families.”

“Is there anyone in your family you want me to warn to run?”

“I’m not answering that question. I have to go, but Colin…thank you.”

The two men clasped hands. Then Atherton rode off into the night.

Colin stood at the edge of the army encampment long after Atherton had disappeared into the darkness. The packet of letters was heavy in his coat pocket, and the weight of a friendship that had effectively been killed it its cradle—partially through his own actions—sat heavier on his mind.

The Bridgertons had no shifters in the family. Not every member of the ton believed that, but the personal and public family history agreed with that. In the very early days of the title, one Viscount had married a shifter, but none of those children had been shifters, and the cadet lines of the families had also remained shifter-free, whether through marital choices or the trait failing to breed true. As a result, the plight of shifters and the laws making their very existence illegal had weighed little on the family. For generations, they had largely stayed out of any political issues that dealt with shifters, and as far as any of them knew, none of their family friends were shifters.

Colin had quite abruptly learned that “as far as any of them knew” was not very far at all, and he did not know what to do with the unexpectedly deep feelings of discomfort this knowledge left him with. Could he have done more? Could he have protected his friend if he had been deemed trustworthy enough to know Atherton was a shifter?

“Regretting letting the monster slip our grasp?” Mowbray’s voice was too close to Colin’s ear. His back stiffened, but he didn’t jump.

Mowbray snorted gently, not missing the sudden tension in Colin’s body, but respecting that he hadn’t yelled or flinched. “Befriending shifters is a mistake. Take it from someone who made the mistake once; they will not hesitate to stab you in the back the first chance they get, and take out as many people as they can while they do it.”

“Have you misapprehended the facts of the situation?” asked Colin. “I and my companions would be dead right now if not for Mr. Swift.”

“So would he. Saving his own skin meant saving yours this time, but it won’t always. Take my advice, Bridgerton. If the shifter gave you any information, give it to me. Mitigate some of the harm you’ve done here tonight. I can keep people safe with more information, and even I didn’t know about this sniveling bastard—”

“Say another word Mowbray, and I shall be forced to call you out.” Colin was as near to seeing red as he had ever been in his life. Had he been wearing gloves just then, he wouldn’t have bothered warning Mowbray, he would simply have removed a glove and slapped the man’s face as hard as he could.

Mowbray sighed and stepped out of Colin’s personal space. “I have no time for duels. How you live with your conscience is your own business, but I will be watching, Mr. Bridgerton. You shall not find thwarting the law so easy once we are all back on English soil.”

[organicxslime]

letting go.

spoilers for jjk 236. tw: major character death

satoru had come to terms with the reality of his situation a very, very long time ago.

he would be the strongest until he was not, and at that point, he would be gone, no doubt beaten in a hard-fought battle and ripped to shreds or beaten to a pulp or one of any number of violent deaths that awaited him at the end of his life.

in most cases, the lifespan of a sorcerer was decidedly short. a sorcerer lived to die, sacrificing their existence for the sake of protecting others, never given the luxuries of promising their life to another or starting a family or retiring at a sensible age to travel the world. at every moment, they must think of the future - but never their own.

satoru was no exception.

every minute of every day was spent being the strongest. leading his clan, guiding his students, being tugged in one direction or another by the higher-ups - such was the life of the honored one, never a moment to sit, to rest, to think.

that is why it was so jarring to lay on the cold ground, severed just slightly above the waist, as thick, fluffy snowflakes leisurely float downwards to land on his face. for the first time in days, months, years, the world is quiet and he thinks only of himself.

it’s certainly odd to know that he’s dying.

satoru had never considered that he might be lucid for this part, always assuming that his death would be explosive, instantaneous. the blood loss is making him dizzy and the inability to move his arms due to his severed spinal cord is unsettling, but he’s calm despite it all.

the world is quiet, and for once he’s alone with his thoughts.

a flood of regrets wash over him as he considers what he’ll miss. he wishes he had visited that cafe he’d passed by a few weeks ago on his way back from a mission, deeming himself too tired to properly enjoy the treats on display and vowing to come back another time. he wishes he had accepted shoko’s invite to the movie she had wanted to see with him a few days ago. he wishes he had ordered the fast food he was craving last night rather than forcing down a salad for dinner like a sensible adult.

odd how the things he desired were so minuscule, so ineffectual. but in this moment, they seemed enormously important.

a few snowflakes land on his face, and he blinks them away, blearily attempting to discern between the white of the snowflake and the snowy peripheral of his lashes and ultimately failing.

he feels a rush of hot liquid bubbling up from his lungs, and he coughs, feeling it spill over his lips and trickle down the sides of his face, staining the snow underneath his head a vibrant red.

he knows there’s not much time.

worry claws it’s way up his chest, the reality hitting all at once. if he was not here to handle sukuna, who would? if the strongest couldn’t put an end to the king of curses, how many more would die before someone came along who could? and that bastard, kenjaku, puppeteering the corpse of his best friend. who would lay suguru to rest, gently delivering the last rites he deserved?

another thought…

with his death, would another child be born with the six eyes, cursed from conception to bear a fate that no one deserved?

his eyes flutter shut, snowy lashes resting against pale skin.

despite it all, a selfish part of him is almost glad that he’s reached the finish line. satoru is tired. he has been the solver of everyone’s problems, the punching bag of every formidable curse, the one kneeling graveside for far too long. he’s exhausted, and all he wants is be done, to pull the covers over his head and shut out the world.

he’s warm, despite the falling snow and freezing air. his brain feels fuzzy, and his head is heavy, sinking into the snow below.

he knows that this is it, and once it’s over, it’s over. he hangs on by a thread, silently willing prayers of protection and strength to the remainder of his students, silently apologizing to the ones who didn’t come out the other side. he wishes he could stay, to reassure the living, to properly grieve the dead, but he can’t.

he’s just so tired.

he lets go.

[donnerpartyofone]

This morning I left a long comment on a Facebook post by my dead friend's mom where she said she isn't ready to arrange a life celebration yet, and she urges people to keep sharing her daughter's memory. I had been meaning to do this for a month, but I often find Facebook too annoying to use just in UI/UX terms, and I had developed some sort of ridiculous paranoia that people would find out that I might have been the last person to speak to my friend, and that I was standing outside her apartment expecting her to let me in while she was dying. I fantasized that I would have to account for that somehow, to comb through details that I'm sure wouldn't be useful to anyone, and explain why I didn't do more when she strangely didn't come to the door or answer my texts. I still don't know what happened to her.

I reached out to the only acquaintance we shared in common, who was one of her roommates when we were neighbors. He regarded her as his best friend and has been completely shattered by this, especially as it came a year after the death of his ex-girlfriend, who who acted as their kind-of third musketeer. Privately I got a pretty good impression that he drove my dead friend nuts, but I wouldn't know if that was just a part of their "old married couple" dynamic or if they had a truly one-sided relationship. I guess you just don't always get to know how your dearest loved ones really think of you, and in fact maybe you shouldn't. He was the person I had asked to check up on her the day that she died, and he was the only person I could think to ask what happened to her, although I was afraid to. He texted me a detailed download of all the sad things that have happened to him since she died in September, and then he said he would have to wait until his day off to answer my question. I haven't heard from him and I don't think I'm going to. I'm sort of sorry I asked.

Tangentially: It struck me recently that cause of death has become the final frontier of privacy. This is fascinating to me, considering the constant state of overexposure in which most of us live. I've had several experiences in the past few years of someone dying--a casual acquaintance, a friend more than 3 degrees of separation away, a minor celebrity with a cult following in which I participate--and I just had no way of finding out what happened. These have been rare cases in which Google had nothing, not even a rumor; in the present case I was able to unearth the record of an arrest I had never heard about, but nothing about the death. Obviously if you're Michael Jackson or Prince or something then all bets are off, but below that line, if the bereaved don't choose to broadcast the cause or manner of death, then you'll just never find out what those things could have been. I'm thinking right now of another friend of mine who, we all tended to agree, had committed suicide, which was absolutely in-character for her as far as I was concerned...but at the same time, there were compounding factors that made her true level of deliberation ambiguous. I sometimes wish I could talk to someone about it, but I'm afraid it would just hurt her survivors pointlessly to hash it out. In her case, I just have to choose what I want to believe.

Anyway.

My plan that day had been to get a quick haircut before I went to London to record a commentary track for a new release of THE AMITYVILLE HORROR, based on my research into the creation of its mythology. This opportunity had come by way of a strange coincidence, and it seemed to justify the grueling self-directed project I had made out of it for the past several years. As I was preparing for my trip, which felt like the climax of a long journey with this subject, I started to feel silly about never having gone to Amityville to see the house. It's not an easy thing to justify; I'd basically be traveling for a total of 5 hours just to stand in front of the house long enough to annoy whoever lives there. But it felt like something I ought to do, as part of my devotion to the topic, so my plan was to see my friend for a quick trim, get on the Long Island Rail Road to do the thing, then return as fast as possible to pack in time to leave the house at 4am the following day. When my friend didn't let me in, only an hour and a half after we'd texted, and I waited around for 25 minutes in the boiling heat in case she had stepped out for coffee or something, before finally coming to terms with the fact that she flaked on me while I was preparing for a stressful international trip, I got all agitated and couldn't bring myself to do the rest of my plan. I've still never seen the Amityville house.

But later, after I found out what had happened, I was glad I didn't go. I imagined the alternative timeline: I went to my friend's apartment for a trim, couldn't make contact with her, went to see the legendary house where six people were brutally murdered and where, according to countless books and movies and podcasts etc, demonic possession took hold--and then I came home to discover that my friend had suddenly and mysteriously died. It would have been impossible for me not to connect these things. Not that I'm so eager to believe in curses; in fact my work has mostly focused on why belief in the supernatural has been easier to achieve than the availability of help for sufferers of mental illness, drug addiction, and domestic violence. But I'm not a hardcore skeptic either, which is exactly why this story has been so meaningful to me. We can't identify true mysteries if we don't train ourselves to analyze real-world events, and the reasons why certain events attract certain monstrous interpretations. For me this kind of training is urgently important, because I'm given to certain strains of magical thinking and I have to be vigilantly aware of what motivates my behavior and convictions. The circumstantial connection between my friend's unexpected death, and my plans for that day, could have proven irresistible to me.

Even now, obviously, I am connecting my plan to visit the cursed house at 112 Ocean Avenue to my friend's abrupt passing. The connection isn't as corrupting as it would be if I had put my feet on Amityville soil that day, but the experience I am currently having tells me exactly how potent this influence could have been at maximum. All my work has been about belief, where beliefs come from, what they do to us personally, even neurologically. I'm haunted by things I used to believe and where those beliefs came from, why I was so vulnerable to them, to the point of complicity in my own destruction. I'm sympathetic to people who believe in things that seem dicey, or in things that offer a seductive reward that outstrips the need to weigh evidence and consequences. But I believe that in many, perhaps most cases, skepticism is just as much of a belief system as faith. Hard evidence always looks that way as long as hard evidence is what you're looking for, an impression that seduces you away from noticing what personal choices you are making in the curation of your worldview. And at the risk of being overly cryptic, I have come to believe that people are only capable of perceiving that which they already believe in, whatever that might consist of. In any case, if you are really paying attention, you begin to notice that you find true proof of things less often than you simply have to prejudicially choose what you believe. These days I have tried to make agnosticism into a discipline, but at the moment I am consciously choosing to believe that my friend did not die in connection with a curse. And I am consciously acknowledging the fact that if that day of my life had gone as originally planned, it could have had a much graver impact on my experience of the death.

[afaramir]

20 questions for writers!

tagged by @emyn-arnens literally over a month ago and im finally getting to it now lol much love thank you for continuing to tag me in things even though im the worst at doing them sometimes.

1. How many works do you have on AO3? 65 (15 of them are under my archive pseud though lol)

2. What’s your total AO3 word count? 265,381

3. What fandoms do you write for? actively writing for lotr, pacific rim, my secret little marvel rarepair

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos? these are so funny they're all my avatar work from before i remade on this blog. well throwback i guess. they're still dear to me.

open arms, atla sokka coming out to his dad

earth system history, atla sokka/zuko college au where zuko is an earth scientist

[redacted h*rry p*tter work from 2016]

love's not for show, atla bato/hakoda sokka creates a master plan to get his dad and bato to admit that theyre dating but they're NOT

knife loves heart, human loves human, james bond 007/q post-spectre fixit fic (my Only 00q and possibly also my only fixit fic?)

5. Do you respond to comments? i try so so so hard but the executive function that allows me to say anything coherent only comes around every so often lol

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? a couple contenders for this one but if we're talking strictly the ending probably i'm not leaving (til we make it home) (exu calamity patia & laerryn / patia & the ring of brass exploring her relationship with love and loneliness and finally being free to express how much she loves her friends only in the last hours of her life and dying happy for it).

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? also a couple contenders for this one but i feel like many of them are tinged with not a small amount of melancholy. so we are going with a big throwback to sun through open windows (atlok mako/wu plotless little morning routines fic that is about nothing in particular but also about realizing you have everything your younger self thought you would never have).

8. Do you get hate on fics? not in a long long time (like probably 7-8 years) thank god!

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? yes although none of it is published (yet). what kind? idk man whatever im horny about this month. ok but for serious. really been into character developing smut. do u know what i mean. i’m telling you something about who each of these people are and how they view each other through the way they fuck. this probably says quite a lot about me

10. Do you write crossovers? i'm not much for the kind where characters from different franchises Interact, but i am partial to taking some guys and translating them to a different setting. ah to put characters in a situation and watch as the fundamental core of their being stays the same....

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? hope not lol

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? not that i'm aware of!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? yes! we have not finished it but it's absolutely CORE thesis-level influential on my entire psyche. even if we never get back to it i'll think about it until the day i die and that is not an exaggeration.

14. What’s your all-time favorite ship? of ALL TIME? i straight up dont know if i can answer this one. ALL TIME???? my long-term emotional permanence is NOT good enough and my recency bias is too strong for this. ok i think the only way i can answer this is with the ship that has gotten the deepest into my psyche and my soul. which is yancytendo pacific rim. they. affect me. on a level i will probably never be able to fully explain. the 'giving a guy built only to be a thematic device a personality and a history and deep gut-wrenching grief' of it all. the 'you are in love with a guy who is doomed by the narrative and despite your best efforts it means that he is a personification of all the grief you carry inside of you' of it all. yancy becket you will live forever in my heart tendo choi you will ALWAYS be famous. augh. yeah i picked right

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

hmm probably something about the way you look tonight, my mallorytanner thesis statement fic, the genesis of which was genuinely a life-altering event to me. i was listening to the titular elton john song walking home from a general chemistry exam in the snow and i was struck so violently with An Image for truly the first time in my life. truly not ONCE before that moment had that happened to me. this was in my freshman year of college this fic has existed in various forms for going on FIVE YEARS. will it ever be done. GOD i fucking hope so. i actually do hold out hope for that one.

the one i am actually hopeless on ever finishing is orogenesis, the sprawling expanded stemverse pianjeong backstory au fic. the whole structure of it is quite clear in my head actually. i just didn't have the life experience to create the plot structure to go with the emotional beats when it generated itself in my mind in 2020-21 and now that i DO have it the problem is that the inciting event is incredibly clear to me and yet bears too close of a resemblance to. personal events and horrors. for me to ever finish it! i'll think about it forever though. creating and writing that au changed my life for real it was the longest thing i'd ever written and the best when i wrote it and it's still very close to my heart.

16. What are your writing strengths? characterization and character development baby. evocative use of metaphor in descriptions of both character and setting. lavish description.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? PLOT. cant create that from my brain and i rarely attempt it. i have plenty of stuff to write about that does not require it. relatedly not great at worldbuilding.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? generally don't do it much except for a stray word or two. i don't mind reading it though! tolkien fic writers who translate full sentences you are god's strongest soldiers.

19. First fandom you wrote for? ough this one will be embarrassing. entering the archive pseud. wait is it also tolkien that's funny. life is a circle in some ways. this is first fandom on my ao3 account btw. the VERY first one i wrote for...i will take that knowledge to the grave.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

ah i feel like my answer for this one changes every time but i can't help it, i love many of my darlings equally. this time im giving the spotlight to life holds onto you, my chris pike & jim kirk post-star trek 2009 fic that is a few thousand words of 'what if your sort of son feared that you thought he was taking everything you ever wanted from you and he is right that you have thought that but you are learning how wrong you are.' i cried in the university library writing it and reread it recently and remembered it was good. recency bias baby

tagging the usual suspects @potatoesandsunshine @aaronstveit

[starkcanvas]

OMORI: Full Moon AU

Full Moon is an Omori AU that’s in place of that “Wolfwalker AU” I had an idea for but couldn’t go anywhere with. This is gonna get long so be prepared for a LONG info and AU lore dump lmao

For AU context, this AU takes place in basically the same canon, it’s just that Werewolves exist and live along side humans. Them being referred to as “Werefolk” when in their humans forms. There’s Pure Bloods- natural born Werefolk- and Turned Bloods, humans who were bitten and turned into one.

But as for the story of Full Moon in terms of OMORI, it’s the same as canon. Sunny throws his violin down the stairs, breaks it, and Mari starts yelling at him. But as she yells, it slowly reached the point to where instead of Sunny snapping and pushing her, he breaks down on the spot and just sobs which takes Mari off guard. And as he’s crying, he admits everything he’s been feeling in the past few months leading up to the recital.

Mari is taken back by this and starts almost crying too as she’s just utterly disgusted and disappointed with herself for even treat her precious baby brother the way she did. Her mumbling dozens of apologies before running off herself into the woods behind the treehouse and staying out till dark. It being a Full Moon that night…

As she finishes her self-reflection and attempts to go back home, she catches eyes with a very large werewolf in the woods. Now in this AU, Mr. Jin Suzuki, is an ass here too. He’s very “Werephobic” and for most of Mari and Sunny’s lives, he’s been feeding them a lot of bad and untrue information about Werefolk. This includes wrong things to do when encountering a Werewolf during their full moon.

SO Mari ends up running away from the wolf which you should never do with any canine animal. In this context, it prompts the Werewolf's instincts to slightly spike and makes it chase after her, pin her to the ground and bite her. (Mari also being pinned in a strange way that causes her to sprain her ankle upon landing)

Her adrenaline during the situation as well as the pain of her bite and ankle causing her to faint/black out. The bite effecting her blood stream due to it breaking her skin. But a moment later, the Werewolf realizes what he's done and in order to try and fix his mistake, he carries her onto his back at takes her back to his cabin deep in the woods that's just on the outskirts of Faraway in hopes that his loved one could possible treat the wound before she turns.

And in this AU, the couple is question is obviously Klaus and Del lol Klaus being the Werewolf here and being a Pure Blood while Del is human. But Klaus takes Mari back home, hoping Del would be able to help in some way but sadly Klaus wasn't fast enough and her bloodstream had already been effected due to how big the bite on her shoulder/neck is. But he still treats it and bandages her to prevent any kind of infection.

But the next morning when Mari wakes up, the two fill her in on just what happened. Klaus immediately apologizing for biting her as he never meant to hurt her. He didn't even think anyone would've been in the woods that late into the night lmao

While giving his apolgies, he tells her that after some talking, him and Del agreed that they'd hone up for the incident by letting Mari stay with them for however long she likes while Klaus teaches her how to be a Werewolf and how to control and live with her new powers/abilities.

At first, Mari was unsure but then when remembering how her dad was AND then her fight with Sunny last night, she then thinks it's for the best that she... stays away from her friends and family. Especially since she's now seen first hand that Werefolk aren't "cold-hearted" or "merciless" like her Father had told her all her life.

So Mari stays with them for the next 4 years instead. This AU having the mask of Mari having gone "missing" rather than dying. Now have some drawings I've done over the past couple weeks or so.

[funkymbtifiction]

Can intuitives that are E6 be more optimistic and naive than other sixes? Being an N means that you have this sort of idealism in you, this hope for a better world or a better future, this optimism that things are going to be fine in the end. So, can an N who is also a 6 oscillate between this optimistic, idealized, naive way of thinking and a more down to Earth, overthinking, pessimistic view upon society and future in general?

Optimistic and idealistic, yes... but not necessarily naive. Naive means a lack of wisdom and that's more of an individual trait than a collective one for a particular type. Wisdom grows with experience for the person willing to learn from their mistakes. Intuitives can do this as 6s if they learn to think productively (what has this taught me, and what will it change for my behavior in the future); they are not doomed to forever be "had" because they are idealistic.

For me, being an intuitive 6w7 is like having a split personality. One of them is grumpy and fearful and suspicious and keeps people at an arm's length as specimens to view with skepticism and distrust; the other is a happy, cheerful "it will all turn out okay" person. But for me, I would say the balance is on realism more than fantastical thinking, because I do have Te in the mix. As an ENFP, I often hope for the best but reserve any kind of judgment out of a desire to "wait and see," unlike the judging 6s I have interacted with online and in person. I am comfortable with a certain amount of uncertainty and okay with allowing things to play out when I can't predict the end -- and unfortunately in some cases, being an intuitive, I am rather good at guessing where something is going (negatively). The struggle is between deciding if this is actual Intuition (an unemotional reading of the situation and predicting what will happen as a result of it) or fearful projection (6 coming up with worst-case scenarios). Which one it is often comes down to whether the facts fit my assumption or not.

For example, a friend's husband is in the hospital right now with a serious infection. Another 6 immediately leapt to the conclusion that he's going to die; I pointed out that he has survived against all odds before, there's no reason to think that THIS TIME his body is going to quit on him in his battle with cancer over the last six years. The facts support this conclusion and indeed, he has started to improve. But in the process of scanning him, they found a growth in his brain similar to the one that killed someone I know two months ago. And this is a case where I know he won't be here long. In the short term, he will be fine; but it's more than likely that he will fade in the next few months. Do I want to be optimistic about it? I do. I chose to be optimistic about his brief hospital stay because I felt supported in it by his survival against odds that would have killed someone else, thus far. But as a 6, I'm also rational and practical when I know what's coming.

As a 6w7, it's like I live my life as a fearful person who is staring into the darkness, but a large part of me wants to avoid those fears through ignoring them and choosing to see the bright side. I am never so 7ny that I am no longer a 6. I feel like a rubber ball bouncing between extremes. But I would say that all 6w7s are like this; you don't have to be an Intuitive to want a better future/life. It's just that intuition + 6 can cause you to worry about different things, and the temptation is always there to abstract away from a fearful situation and start speaking in generalized terms rather than specific ones.

I caught myself doing that this morning -- someone brought up a specific incident to me to talk about and my brain kept floating out and generalizing it as a way to tiptoe around it, cuz I don't exactly know what to say about it. What do I mean? Something like this: "My dog is dying." "Oh, it is so hard to lose a pet, they are so much a part of us, and yet we keep choosing the pain of loss for the temporary pleasure they bring us." It should be, "Oh, I am so sorry. I know how much Max means to you."

[lovemesomesurveys]

Is there a person you talk to everyday with?: Yeah. My mom the most, but my dad as well. I talk to my brother most days, except for the few days a week he stays over at his boyfriend’s house. 

Does one of your parents ever complain to you about the other parent?: Yes. 

If you have a webcam, do you take more pictures or make more videos with it?: I never use the webcam. I can’t even recall the last time I used a webcam. 

When was the last time you felt lonely?: I’ve been feeling that way a lot lately. 

Who was the last person you wished a “Happy Birthday” to?: My dad. 

What was the last food/drink that dyed your tongue a different color?: I don’t recall. 

Is there any upcoming festivals happening in the place you live?: Yeah, there’s a Cambodian new year’s festival this month and another annual festival we have for a certain food. 

When was the last time you threw a party?: Several years ago. 

Last person you kissed, are they into any type of sports? Which ones?: I don’t think he was a big sports person. 

Does your best friend have a job?: Yes.

Do you ever visit people at work?: I have before. 

Is there any electronic device you need to charge right now?: Nope. 

Have you ever sat in your room in the dark?: I have when we’ve had power outages. Otherwise, no I don’t just sit in my room or anywhere in the dark. 

What is one thing you want to do before the school year ends?: I’m not in school. 

When you move out your house(or if you already have moved out) do you plan on still visiting your parents house?: I have no plans for the foreseeable future to move out. My brother is moving out soon though with his boyfriend and I’m like really sad about it. It’s of course natural and normal for him to do, I mean he’s in his early 20s, has a really good job, and is in a long-term committed relationship, but still. It’s going to be weird not having him here. 

Do you usually take home leftovers if you eat out in a restaurant?: Sometimes, though I usually don’t eat it. It really depends on what it is.

Have you ever ghost ride the whip (put your car on auto and dance next to it as it’s moving)? Do you want to?: No, but that’s a thing people do here a lot and it’s incredibly stupid and dangerous. 

What is one thing you hope never changes about you?: I feel like so much has changed about me over the past several years and not in a good way. I wish a lot would change about me to be honest. But I guess I’d say my sense of humor, though even that isn’t the same anymore. 

Do most of the songs you listen to have curse words in it?: Yeah.

Is there someone you wanna date? No.

Why did you stop liking the last person you liked? I just.... did. I moved on. 

Are you usually the heart breaker or the heart broken? Oh, heart broken for sure. 

What are you listening to? An ASMR video. 

Name a quote from the thing you are listening to? Nah.

What does your last text say? I don’t feel like checking.

Are you keeping a secret from someone who needs to know the truth? Ummm. Kind of.

Last missed call? Some spam number. 

Last person you talked on the phone with? My mom.

What was the first thing you did when you woke up today? I took my medicine. 

Do you have a best friend? My mom is also my best friend. 

Do you like vitamin water? Yeah, but it’s been quite a long time since I’ve had one. I used to drink it all the time back in the day. There was a time when those were really popular for some reason and everyone was drinking them. 

Have you ever hated someone, but ended up being friends with them? No. I’ve never even hated anyone. Well, besides myself. 

What do you think of people who have sex before marriage? I don’t care what others decide to do regarding their sex life. 

Do you get along with your parents? Yes. 

Are you more independent or dependent? I’m very much dependent right now due to health reasons. 

Do you believe that what comes around goes around? I mean, it happens sometimes but there’s a lot of people who seem to get away with things or go unpunished. However, I believe the real judgment comes with God when we die. 

Who was the last person you were mad at? Meh. 

What are your plans for tonight? Scroll through Tumblr, maybe do another survey, watch YouTube, perhaps read a little, have dinner, go to bed. 

Does anyone love you? Yes, I know my family does.  

Do you love anybody? Yes, I love my family. 

Ever felt like you hit rock bottom? Oh, most definitely. I hit it awhile ago and have been stuck there. 

What’s the one thing that’s getting you through the week? I just keep going. 

Do you miss anyone? Yes. 

Do you give out second chances too easily? Yeah, you could say that. I feel like I’ve given too many chances in some cases. 

What did you do yesterday? What I always do, scroll through Tumblr, watch TikToks, watch YouTube, read, watched some TV, ate, rested. 

Where is one place you want to visit? There’s so many places I want to visit. 

What’s your favorite thing to have for breakfast? I have Cream of Wheat just about every morning except for the rare times I have eggs with cilantro and onions, beans, guac, and sour cream. 

Ever felt that no one relates to you? Definitely. I feel that way a lot.

Why did you break your last promise? I don’t recall what my last promise was. 

What do you think of long-term relationships? I think they’re... good? As long as that’s what you want and you’re both happy and committed. 

Do you believe God always saves you from bad situations? Bad situations will and do happen, but I believe He is always with me and will help get me through the bad times. 

What’s the worst curse word or saying that you know of? I find the C word revolting and do not say it. 

Do you wish on 11:11? Nope.

Are you pissed off about anything? Not pissed off, but upset. 

[061801]

joel dying has changed my life and so far it hasn’t been in good ways. It’s made me a little more gentle and has started to make me think twice about saying things like I hope someone dies because I see the impact it makes on friends and family and I wouldn’t wish that on anybody, not even my biggest enemy. As if everything didn’t already remind me of you, it sure does now. Everything. Literally everything. Don’t get me started on being in the east end. The amount of times we went downtown. Hell the dinner my boyfriend and I when to last night reminded me of you because we sat in the exact booth I sat with you at last. Every time I see a Cadillac, a song about drinking whiskey, certain rap songs that you showed me, even just the colour red will always make me think of you. The brand Tommy Hilfiger because at one point you literally refused to wear anything if it wasn’t Tommy. When I’m in the east end I see little Caesar’s where we started talking right next to our high school, the park where we would chill, the villages where your dad lives and where Michael lived and we would go hangout. We also walked your dog diamond together. We smoked a bucket with Lucas and Michael too right before your mom picked us up. A&W when your mom owned it and you got your first job. Whenever I was hungry we would go there and get food. Going down central road I remember you working at central stamping and my apartment was down the road so you were able to sleep in longer staying at my house. In the west end I think of being at your moms and you teaching me how to skateboard (I didn’t ever actually learn lol), we got ice cream at buskers, I had dinner at your moms house and we walked over to fireworks, kirils house, for some reason we hung out on the train tracks before I got to see my mom for the first time in 2 or 3 years and we smoked the absolute worst rolled joints ever lol.

I’m really sad you’re gone :( I’m really sad that we weren’t on good terms when you passed. Sometimes I think it may be for the best though because I could’ve been the one to find you like that, I could’ve been included, and if we were talking at the time and this happened I don’t think I would’ve been able to live with myself. So I am at least grateful there was a bit of a disconnect between us because the pain I feel already is unbearable. It’s also really hard sometimes because I’ll get bad dreams of us fighting, or unfortunately I’ll remember some things he’s done or said during fights and I feel really upset. I wish we had had a conversation after our last fight. Even though I’m totally in the right for how I felt that night.

The condition my mental health was in when you came into my life was destroyed and I feel like I loved you even more than a healthy person should because I was basically trying to replace my parents and siblings with you. I had nothing, and you and your mom showed me fun things like going out to your trailer which reminds me, leamington and camp grounds in general now remind me of you too because I have never went camping with anybody else. I’ve had a very black and white life with nothing much to it and him and his family gave me some of the first feelings of true happiness I’ve ever felt in my life. I’ve never been able to let go of it. So as toxic as it was to be with him, I get extremely defensive when people ask me why I care so much? It’s insulting. It feels like it at least. Normally I’m able to convince myself in a few months or even a year from now I’ll be out of this situation. But this I will simply never get over. We dated for like 8 months and i never got over it, that was 8 years ago. I’m willing to admit I have some mental issues so that plays into why I was so determined to try and make it work but towards the end I had disconnected from him the most I ever had before because I was just over putting in 1000% for someone who would just go betray me shortly after. To say I was over him tho? lol as if. A week or 2 prior there was a Joel on our reservations at work and I had to find out if it was you because I got nervous. It wasn’t and even tho I didn’t wanna see you on a date with someone else I did kind of want to look at you while you sat there. Point being as much of a roller coaster it was being with him, I could never get enough of it.

[devilsgatewayhq]

Name: Freya Hudson Age: 35 Time living in Tonopah: Native Occupation: Owner of Fae's Florist Gang Affiliation: N/A Neighborhood: Springate Crossing Face Claim: Lily James

Biography (TW: child death, murder):

Freya Sabine was born to Jack and Ruth Hudson on Halloween night, six years and one month after her brother, Adam, was born. Their upbringing was as loving and as stable as expected for your "typical" suburban family. Her mother worked as Head Nurse in the ER and her father, was a retired army veteran and a member of the SoS. It wasn't until Freya hit nine that her family's life took a tumble for the worst. Her brother's life tragically got cut short due to a hit and run, and her father saw red and in turn, went to prison for double homicide (Jack later died in prison when she was eighteen). It was at this point her mom removed herself and Freya away from the ties they had to the MC, resulting in Freya growing up hearing nothing but hatred towards the outlaw gang. The Hudson's were next door neighbours to Bruce and Sarah Harrison, so Freya instantly became friends with their daughter, Gabrielle. They moved through each term of education together and never once drifted apart. Freya found more of a sibling connection with Gaby, finding that she filled the absence of her brother in that void of loneliness. As Freya went through High School she had an eye for design, so her time at home was spent creating accessories and handmade cosmetics. This hobby was one that turned into aspiration, prompting her to move away to New York for further education (wanting to study a degree in design) and when she hit twenty, she started selling her creations on Etsy (bath bombs, soaps, candles, wax melts) under the name of Fae. The hustle and bustle of New York City was one Freya seemed to soak in, finding that sheer contrast from Tonopah one she enjoyed. Despite her love, she never lost contact with her best friend, and made sure to call her mom everyday. Though when she was twenty-four she found herself moving back and forth from her tiny apartment to her hometown, with an aim to help her friend that was struggling. With that fear of her brother in the back of her mind (in that relation of him dying), she finally moved back home to support the one person she could only ever call a true friend. She moved back in with her mom - who was delighted to feel a sense of life again at home, and started to study a business degree part-time. Figuring that it didn't matter where she was situated, she could still pursue her ambitions. She travelled to and from Vegas over the years for work and eventually gained an interest in floristry. It was in her late twenties/early thirties, that she (unbeknown at the time) got involved with a married man. This relationship for her was pivotal with the way she now has severe trust issues. Freya is very skeptical and while it's a flaw; she doesn't seem to think so if somebody is lying to her. She'd just retort with "ha, knew it!" Trusting that people have a genuine cause for concern, or just simply in general, is something that breeds paranoia in her mind. Over the last couple of years in Tonopah, Freya's (or rather her mom's) opinion has only resonated within her, especially with the chaos and destruction that seems to just circle her hometown. While she doesn't know her father's roots to a true extent, due to never being told, she does believe that his death was caused by the MC and this is down to her mom's ideals as well as story-telling that has just escalated over the course of time. So because of this, she tends to keep herself fairly separate from anything gang related. As the new year hit she began to toy with the idea of opening up her own business in downtown Tonopah, and with First and Vine closing she took that leap in the market to open up her own Florist called Fae's. With her business taking off from the get go, she also sells her own products within the building, and is content with the success she appears to be having so far.

Headcanons:

Sells pictures of her feet on the internet for extra cash.

Rarely consumes alcohol, if she does she's a lightweight.

Attends the market on a Sunday's with her own products.

Sports fan - loves tennis.

Halloween is her favourite season.

[animegirl1363]

Title: Say my Name

Fandom: K Project

External: AO3

Summary: Hidaka accidentally says Fushimi's name.

Based on this ask by Ridas

It was another day at work. No strains to catch so everyone was doing office work today. Which means that Hidaka was busy fantasizing instead. By now in their relationship Hidaka was calling Fushimi by his name in his fantasies.

"Hidaka!" Fushimi calls, snapping Hidaka back to reality. "Pay attention!"

"Oh, sorry, Saruhi-... Sa- Saru-..." Hidaka takes the notebook on his desk and hits his forehead. "Sorry Fushimi-san."

Fushimi is giving Hidaka a look that is asking him to drop dead. At least that is how Hidaka interprets Fushimi's irritated look at him.

"Tsk. Get to work." Was all Fushimi said before he walks away. Once He was gone the members present all huddled around Hidaka for a much need comfort huddle.

Doumyouji has giving his congratulations for surviving saying Fushimi's name without dying. All while giving him a pat on the back. "That was so brave of you to say his name. And you lived!"

"You both have been dating for months now I'm surprised that you aren't on a first name bases." Enomoto says. "Maybe it was awkward because it was at work."

"This is Fushimi-san we are talking about. Makes since why they are not calling each other by their names." Goto says.

"Hidaka have you talked to Fushimi-san about this?" Kamo asks.

"N-no." Hidaka replies.

"Of course." Benzai shakes his head.

"Another example of Hidaka jumping the gun with Fushimi-san again." Akiyama couldn't help but smile as if this was just a normal occurrence.

"You've done way more embarrassing things at work before." Fuse adds.

Hidaka groans. His friends really were not helping him feel better.

-

Meanwhile in his office Fushimi was busy typing away at the computer, but he was having a hard time focusing. He kept thinking back to earlier with Hidaka. Yes they have been together for six months now, but Fushimi was always telling himself that it was not going to last. Now he is in this weird position of having to come to terms with the fact that Hidaka isn't going anywhere and this relationship is really happening. He would rather pretend this slip up didn't happen but Hidaka is going to confront him sooner or later.

He let out a sigh, pushing the keyboard back.

The infuriating part is that Fushimi can't for the life of him hate that Hidaka did that. Maybe it's not so bad to hear his name from Hidaka's mouth.

There was a light knock at the door. Slowly, enters the last person Fushimi wants to see right now.

"Fushimi-san...?"

"What?"

Hidaka closed the door behind him and slowly walked up to Fushimi's desk.

"Um... well... about earlier." Hidaka's eyes were shifting from wall to wall, trying not to land on Fushimi.

"Forget it. It doesn't matter." Fushimi says.

"Ah! Thank you for not being upset Fushimi-san." Hidaka was relived.

"I just said it doesn't matter. You can keep saying it if you want." Fushimi looks away from Hidaka with a tint of red on his face.

Instantly Hidaka brightens up, like he is absolutely beaming. Fushimi was unprepared for when Hidaka ran around the desk to hug him and rub their cheeks together.

"Saruhiko-san you are the best!" Hidaka pulls away looking at Fushimi as if he was waiting for something. Fushimi looks away slightly embarrassed.

"A-Akira...." This earned Fushimi a tighter hug from the taller man.

"Oh Saruhiko!"

-

The next day in the office Hidaka was in a state of bliss. The others were concerned for him but they knew what was going on. They figured he patched things up with Fushimi and is happy about it. They let him be.

"Akira!" Fushimi grumbles. At that everyone in the room froze up. It was shocking to hear Fushimi call anyone by their first name outside of Yata. "We are going on patrol later. Get ready."

"Yes, Saruhiko."

The rest of the Special Forces operatives were happy that Hidaka didn't mess everything up somehow.

-

"It is great to see everyone get closer to each other." Munakata says. "Seri-kun-"

"No Captain...."

[lgchyoseop]

why do endings happen?

“we got along so well, till we didn’t, and now i miss all our times, even the unhappy ones”

...

         did life really need to be this difficult? hyoseop wanted a calm ‘normal’ life, but no matter how much he tried to convince himself that he had that, the truth was that his life was far more difficult than he’d like to admit. he’d been able to keep it a secret for long, but slowly the closest among him were noticing. his dad saw him faint, forced him into therapy, he hadn’t done a very good job at hiding how down he was following the end of future dream season five, even when he visited his mom she could sense something was wrong, and he had to lie and tell her everything was fine. the only person he hadn’t hid how miserable he was was from nabom, she knew it all, as the only one. but the past year and a half had been difficult, she’d confessed her love to him and it became awkward, they took a break before beginning to meet again, but her feelings never faded. their last meeting was even worse than when she confessed to him, she acted almost as bad as his former ex, trying to force him into that he should like her since she was the only one who had been there for him. the following weeks he’d ignored her calls and texts, he was busy with spring boys and project origin, he didn’t have the time to be worried about her.

at last though, she’d sent him a message and let him know that it was really important, after this meeting she’d stop bothering him. truth was he didn’t want her to stop bothering him, he just didn’t want a relationship with her, that was why he was coming out now, the sun having gone down, to let her know he wanted to continue their friendship, but nothing more than that. she stands under a street lamp, her dyed hair shining bright. when she sees him she lets out a big breath of air, “new clothes?”. “yes… i felt like i needed to upgrade by wardrobe” he sends a little smile, but she obviously looks disappointed, perhaps because she’d for many years offered to go shopping with him. “how are things going in legacy?” “is that why you asked me to come?” “no…” oh shoot, perhaps he was a bit too rude… “it’s going okay, you know the following months of the fiasco of future dreams i was bummed out, but i’ve joined a new variety show and i’ll be trying acting for the first time” he sends a smile and she smiles slightly back. “and what about the person you like? how’s that going?” hyoseop looks down, kicking a rock close to his feet, following it with his eyes as it rolls. “i’m not ready yet…” “yeah…” “i keep thinking i’m over her, but i’m scared” he shrugs “she treated you amazing in the beginning, you’re fearing whoever you’ll like next will end up like her, that’s why it didn’t go well when you dated that one time after her” she’s not making guesses, she knows this is the truth, because hyoseop’s said it, and because she’s always been there. he looks up, feeling a bit awkward, he wishes he didn’t, since she’s his best friend. “how is the last year of university going?” and now she looks down, and hyoseop is the curious one. she looks up with a fake smile, after all these years, he’s able to tell her real and fake smile apart “it’s going fine” is it a lie? or why is her smile not real? “why’d you want to meet today?” he fiddles with his long sleeves, unwillingly remembering when she forced him to look at his scar last time they were together. “i’m moving” “how far away?” maybe it’s good she’s moving, if she needs to let him know it’s probably a bit far away, that way they’ll not meet as often, needing to take the train to see-- “america” “america!” his eyes furrow, shocked. “what do you mean america?” “i’ve got a job offer in the us… i’ll be moving in the end of june” she looks down, obviously sad. “i didn’t want us to end on bad terms--” “end? there is no ending, you’ll come back, or i’ll become a successful enough idol to hold concerts in the state you’ll be living in” she looks up, giving a half smile “i’ll be living in california”. “i’m sorry… about last time, and everything i said and” “it’s fine” he shrugs “i don’t want last time to be what we remember when we part ways”. “you’ll have to become a better texter” she says and he gives a chuckle, “and you’re going to have to facetime me” “agh but i look terrible on cameras” he groans. “like i care, you look good no matter what” she shrugs “and when i can’t see your face in real life, i might be able to get over you and like someone else” he chuckles before replying “but if you like someone in the us you’ll need to drag them over here, don’t let them make you stay!” now she chuckles.

“are you really leaving?” it hits him again, and she nods, both of them looking down. “i’m sure you’ll make new friends, and you’ll get better, your dad knows a little bit now, yeah?” but still, the tears press on. “i can’t stay for too long, legacy and--” “i know” and this time she’s the one to kick a rock. “nabom?” “yeah?” “do you want a goodbye kiss? but nothing more than that”. she chuckles “one last kiss and i’ll promise to get over this one sided love”. she’s quite short compared to him, but he leans down, and she puts a hand on his chest as they share their first sober kiss. in the middle of if though, he can’t help but let a tear shed, and as she notices it, she pulls away. “would’ve never though i’d one day get the chance to kiss the one and only hyoseop” he chuckles. “go and make some handsome dude fall for you, and take him back to korea!”. 

“and you get better hyoseop, you get better…”.

[griefpersevering]

the ripples they cause

Read on AO3 🕷 Playlist 🕷 Buy me a cup of tea ☕

Chapter Thirty-One: It's On Again

Notes:

It's time for the big climax!! This chapter is over 10k, so I apologise for the length in advance... but it's one of my favourite things I've ever written!

Sneak Peek:

On the last morning of his life as he knew it, Peter drank a chocolate milkshake. Three months later and with much bigger problems than college applications, he hovers outside Peter Pan's Donut and Pastry Shop with his pink and teal uniform shirt in his hands.

Craig demanded he give it back on his last disastrous visit here, but he'd hoped MJ wouldn't be here when he did. The premature Easter decal on the window blocks his view, but he glimpses her rushing through her morning jobs so she can leave for the rally this afternoon.

Peter swallows around the lump in his throat. Since the moment he'd suggested the spell, he'd known she might never remember him. That telling her would be useless. So he'll do her the honour of talking to her one last time before he gives up and leaves his old life behind completely.

The bell dings as he steps into the warmth, and he catches her eye as she looks up from the coffee machine she's cleaning. Neither of them say a word until Peter eases the awkwardness by stepping up to the till.

He clears his throat, holding up the shirt. "Craig told me to bring this back."

MJ takes it and shoves it on the shelf underneath the counter. "Right."

His eyes drift to her necklace for a moment before he snaps his attention back to her face. There's no hope there anymore. He hadn't even had the heart to tell her where it came from.

"Anything else?" she asks.

This must be what dying feels like. But Peter refuses to end their relationship on a bad note, so he nods. "Um, can I have a milkshake?"

She stares at him.

"A chocolate one. Please."

"How do you do this?" she blurts out. She looks around, as surprised by her own outburst as he is. "How do you act like this is normal after everything you told me?"

He sighs, and the weight he's been carrying on his shoulders deflates with him. "My whole life is fucked up. The only time it is normal is when I pretend."

"Even I know that's no way to live."

"I don't have much of a choice." He shrugs. "And I always expected this to happen. You'd figure it out, or I'd finally tell you, and you wouldn't want anything to do with me anymore."

She looks away, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"But I wouldn't change my choices," he continues. "You and Ned get to go to MIT, and you're gonna have fantastic lives. I guess my only regret is that I won't be in them."

"It's... strange," she says. "That I barely know you, but you've known me for years."

"I'm not blaming you for anything," he insists. The last thing he wants is for her to feel bad about something she can't remember. "And I'm not asking for anything, either. If I were you, I would think I'm insane."

She smirks at that. "It is a crazy story."

"Welcome to my life," he says, spreading his arms wide. And for a minute, he could be home. It's not his MJ, not by a long shot, but she's not shutting him out completely. There might be a long road ahead of them, but at least they won't be parting on bad terms. At least the universe is giving him this one good thing.

Then the bathroom door opens and Ned wanders in. "Oh, hi, MJ's coworker."

"Peter," MJ corrects.

"I was fired, actually," he adds.

There's an awkward pause, and then MJ turns back to him with a sad smile on his face. "A chocolate milkshake, right?"

"Yes, please."

Ned's typing away on his phone, which gives Peter a chance to etch his best friend's features into his memory. He'll miss Ned. The boy who always had his back, both in school and as Spider-Man. His guy in the chair, who didn't question anything Peter did, even at the end.

They're a trio of losers destined for more. Maybe there's a universe where all three of them go to MIT and stay best friends for a long time. But in this world, Peter couldn't be prouder of the amazing lives MJ and Ned will lead.

MJ catches him looking at Ned. Something in his expression must give his train of thought away, because she offers him an encouraging smile that doesn't reach her eyes. It's too late to tell Ned, now; it would be unfair to leave him with that explanation and no answers. But maybe one day MJ will tell him, and they'll wonder about the life they used to live with her weird old coworker who disappeared one day.

The loud noise of the blender snaps him back to reality, and he reaches for his wallet to pay for the milkshake. But the small toy he'd shoved in his back pocket slides out alongside it and clatters to the floor, loud enough for Ned to notice.

He grabs it before Peter can swoop down and scoop it up. "Woah! Is that a LEGO Palpatine mini figure?"

"Uh, yeah," Peter squeaks out through the growing lump in his throat. The mini figure looks so at home in Ned's hands that he'd offer to give it back if he didn't need it this afternoon.

"That's so cool!" Ned says. "I used to have the LEGO Death Star, but I lost it."

Peter doesn't ask how he lost 3803 pieces of LEGO, because he knows the answer. The unfinished set was in Happy's apartment when everything went to shit. But he still manages to say, "That's awesome," perhaps a little less enthusiastically than he would under different circumstances.

"I really want to buy one of those new modular buildings, but I'm not sure there'll be room in my new dorm, which sucks," Ned says, handing Palpatine back.

Peter shoves the figure back into his pocket and throws a five dollar bill next to the till. "You're going to MIT with MJ, right?"

Ned beams. "Yep! It's gonna be awesome."

Peter smiles back, even though his heart is breaking. "I bet it will be. And you should buy a modular building anyway. I think they have one of the Sanctum Sanctorum."

"Really?" Ned picks his phone up off the counter so fast he nearly drops it.

MJ holds the milkshake out for him to take. "Will you be coming to the rally later?"

"It's at two, right?"

"Yeah, but we'll be there all afternoon."

Peter shakes his head, but commits the time to memory. Kate isn't the most reliable source of information when making plans. Or, at the very least, she's not good at following them. "I'm busy this afternoon, sorry. But I hope it goes well."

MJ looks at him like she can see straight through his lie. Maybe she can. But unlike the MJ he used to know, she doesn't question it.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you — Flash said Ant-Man is flying in from San Francisco for it!" Ned says.

MJ scoffs, but her eyes light up. "Flash would say that God herself high-fived him if he thought it would make him cooler. Don't believe everything he says."

"Good, because he also said that a load of Mysterio supporters are going to show up too."

MJ hands Peter his dollar change and he he whispers just loud enough for her to hear, "Scott's a pretty cool guy. He might come. Mysterio, on the other hand, is dead."

She glares at him. "Of course you know him. And Beck's followers I'm worried about."

He loudly slurps his milkshake and pockets the dollar. "Thanks for the drink."

"Will you come back?"

He stops on his way to the door. The unspoken question is obvious — will I ever see you again? — but that's not something he can answer. He's kept his side of the bargain. Now it's time to let MJ make the next move.

"I don't think Craig will want me back here," he says. "But I'd love to come to your next rally."

Not a yes, not a no. But a little hope that they might still have a future together, if she wants.

She nods. "I'll see you around, Peter Parker."

He smiles for real this time. "Goodbye, Michelle Jones."

Continue reading on AO3.

[imspardagus]

Dead for all eternity?

I have just finished reading “The God Desire” by David Baddiel, a pleasantly short book in which he attempts to explain why he, a long-term atheist, hankers after a belief in God.

On one level, I sympathise with him. I “lost my faith” some time ago but it doesn’t stop me wishing God was real, particularly in the depths of the night when I need someone to bounce my thoughts and regrets off (https://blog.spardagus.com/post/162352628280/my-god-my-god-why-have-i-forsaken-you ). But I find myself at odds with Mr Baddiel’s reason for wanting to believe.

At the risk of over-simplification (and I am ready to be corrected), Mr Baddiel is afraid of being dead for all eternity. He is afraid that when his life here ends, that will be it.

But isn’t that the whole point? So far as we are aware, for us mortals there are only two states: alive and dead. If you are not alive, you are dead. If you are not dead, in even the smallest respect, you are alive. Indeed the concept of “dead for all eternity” is a false construct. When you are dead, you have ceased. Time ceases to run for you. So “all eternity” has no meaning.

My take is different (and may of course change as I near my last breath). I would rather face the total, but singular, extinction of death than the prospect of eternal life. In fact, “eternal life”, so far as I can conceive it, terrifies me. Living creatures such as us find it impossible to handle concepts like “eternity” and “infinity”. We have to box them up within limits, which, of course, negates their essential quality of limitlessness. So when we think of “eternity” we imagine it as a period of time rather than time without end, which is what it is and what it can only be. I am not attempting to be flippant, but I can find no prospect more hideous than an experience that you cannot ever put an end to. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a pleasant experience – an extremely good book, say – or an unpleasant one – for example, the worst office Christmas party you can imagine. The thought that either will never end makes the two ultimately indistinguishable in my mind. The thing that would terrify me about Heaven is the same thing that would terrify me about Hell. It has no end. Even the company of my very best friends could not withstand that.

No, if the choice is between eternal life (or a death that, without dominion, transmutes into eternal life) and extinction, I will take extinction. I hope I will “live on” for a while in the memories of those I have left behind but that is really their concern. It is not merely that it will be no business of mine once I am dead. It is that I will not be there, in any sense. And that is a consummation devoutly to be desired, in my book.

Not that it will make a ha’-porth of difference. I will still, so far as the scientific evidence indicates, be dead. Dead as a door nail, as Charles Dickens discusses interminably in A Christmas Carol.

Dying scares me. I hate pain. And having  watched my mother take five years to succumb to cancer, her last months on ever- increasing doses of morphine to keep the pain at bay, I think I have good cause for that.

But being dead, truly dead, while it may be difficult for me, as a living creature, to get my head around, does not scare me anywhere near as much as being undead for all eternity. My “God Desire” is that if there is a God out there somewhere he, she or it will at least spare us that.