hyperspecific post but i saw a couple tags about it on the heat exhaustion post so. hey kiddos headed off to band camp in a couple weeks. drink water or gatorade on every single break. get a lanyard with a little folder for your music and map if it's not provided. if you haven't had a break in the usual amount of time, loudly complain about it. Wear A Hat. for the love of god practice your music while you're on the field. don't lock your knees when you're at attention. sit down on breaks/when your section is waiting as another section is going over sets. keep an eye out for yr friends. plan a coordinated attack amongst the lower grades in preparation for senior pranks. rise up comrades

Miss all American </3

Note: this is part two of my hot garbage fic

even if it hurts <3 and this one is just as bad and I also didn’t read over it as well.. 😐

Summary: Visiting her favorite cafe in japan reader runs into her ex bf

Warnings: jokes of being engaged, talks of marriage/having a baby, my horrible grammar, and somewhat fluff?

Pairing: ProHero! katsuki bakugou x ProHero! Fem Reader

"Hello, H/N, what can I get for you?" The cashier asks with an admiring expression, yet he is trying to play it cool that a top-ranking hero from the US is standing right in front of him. "Can I get a (your coffee or tea order) and one of those pumpkin muffins, please?" You point at the little dessert window and give the cashier a bright smile. "Yes, of course, Miss H/N," he says, moving quickly to make your order.

It’s been awhile since you were in Japan; in fact, you haven’t been here since graduation. You moved to the US quickly after finishing school when you heard there were more villains and not a lot of heroes out there, and you wanted to help in the most possible way, so you went abroad. You're out here visiting; it’s the first time you’ve been back to Japan in 5 years. You’ve been considering moving back, seeing as much as you missed it. Especially the cafe you’re in right now,

Taking a look around, it hasn’t changed one bit and still looks like it did when you were a teenager. Memories quickly flood your mind.

and you can’t help the bittersweet pain of nostalgia that burns through your chest.

"Here ya go!" The cashier hands you your order with a huge grin that pulls you out of your short thoughts. "Oh, thank you. How much will this be?" tilting your head to the side when he gives you a funny look. "Didn’t you hear me earlier? I said it was on the house." He laughs a bit at your confused expression. "Erm.. why?"

He leans over the counter a bit. "My family is from America; my mom told me a story about how you saved her life, so take it as my way of saying thank you." You smile softly at his words when he finishes. 'That explains why he recognizes me; I didn’t think anyone in Japan knew of me.

 

"Well, t-

 

"Heeey dynamight! Would you like your usual?" The cashier completely ignores you, focusing his attention fully on the male behind you. 'Dyna, wait, katsuki?' Quickly turning on your heels to face the man, it is in fact him and even more handsome than you remembered from your high school days. He’s wearing his hero uniform without the gauntlets, but it definitely has a lot of new upgrades. He's got a few scars on his arms and neck, some look old and some look more fresh; his hair is no longer the uneven choppy locks you used to love running your hands through; it's now an undercut, but the spikes still remain at the top; he always had a large, broad, and strong body, but now he looks more toned; his muscles are more defined, making him look in better shape than ever; he's a lot taller; and his eyes don’t hold as much hostility as before. He looks mature now. And a lot hotter if that were even possible.

"what’s the matter? never saw the No. 2 up close?" He taunts at you, but he gets no response except your dumbfounded expression. He steps a bit closer taking you in, his own eyes widen before turning to a more softer gaze, "l/n? Ain’t you some american hero now?" his voice is smooth as honey and It takes a second for you to gather your stunned self to try forming words "I am, I’m just visiting." he hums in response. "If you have time, I’d love to chat and catch up with you, Mr. No. 2," you joked before grabbing your stuff and making your way to a nearby table to sit so that you don’t hold up a line by the front.

Sipping from your drink and scrolling through social media on your phone, not really paying attention as you keep glancing up watching katsuki pay for his order until he finally makes his way over to you, now sitting across from you.

"So, what’s it like in America?" He asked, taking a sip of his own coffee and leaning over the table a bit. "It’s nice; I like it a lot, but I was actually thinking about- 

"Do you have a boyfriend?" He catches you off guard almost making you slice your finger as you were about to cut your pumpkin muffin. "Oh, straight to the point huh?" you laugh to play it cool, but your heart has been hammering in your chest since you laid eyes on him. "Just answ-

"no, I don’t.. I haven’t dated anyone cause I’ve been focusing on my hero work and it’s quite hard to find the time for it, you know? How bout you?" Sliding half of a muffin over to him. and taking a bite out of your half. something you always did as teenagers when the two of you came to this cafe in the middle of fall was split a pumpkin muffin. they were always out of them and you could never get your hands on them. and since you got the last one you decided to offer him half. it wasn’t anything special but you hoped it sparked the same nostalgia you’ve been feeling all day onto him. and you know it did when you catch the corners of his mouth quirk up into a small smile.

"I’m engaged."

His sentence throws you into a coughing fit as you look up to see him untuck a chain under his hero uniform from around his neck that holds a sliver ring, but he’s quick to tuck it back before you can even examine it.

he leans back crossing his arms over his chest with a smirk as he watches your coughing die down.  

"Oh, I-wow, congratulations, bakugou." Your smile is forced as you blink back tears from coughing and from pain before leaning down to take another sip of your drink, and he can tell your smile was fake as he begins to laugh. "No need to get jealous now; I’m messing with you." He untucks it again to show it to you.

It’s the promise ring you gave to him when you were 16.

You feel relieved, but your eyes still widen. "You kept it all this time? Why do you still wear it?" You quirk an eyebrow while watching as he takes a bite of his muffin and wait for him to answer.

"I guess to mess around with idiots like you." He finishes his coffee before he continues. "Well, to be honest, I never really could’ve found the heart to throw it, and it’s the only thing I've had from you since you left. Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving? You didn’t tell anyone, and you never called either. I had to find out from damn endeavor out of all people." He toys with the ring around his neck as you frown. "I couldn’t find the heart to say goodbye to you or our classmates. I felt like a jerk, but I knew it was for the better, at least at the time. I don’t know, Kats-Bakugou."

"You don’t have to correct yourself; you can call me by my first name, Miss American." He jokes, trying to make the conversation lighthearted while tucking the ring back once again. "What is your rank there anyway?"

"I’m the No. 2 hero, like you." You stick your tongue out at him before finishing the remains of your muffin. "Wow, with a brain like yours, I figured you’d be at least in the 50s," he smirked, making you lean over the table and hit him lightly. "You’re so mean, Katsuki," you pout playfully. "It’s called honesty, y/n." He laughs when you roll your eyes and slouch back in your chair. "You know you’re lucky you’re handsome, or I’d really be offended right now." You sip your drink. "Oh really? You think I’m handsome?" He rests his arms on the table, leaning forward. you smirk, coping his actions. "Yeah, but it’s too bad you’re engaged." You throw his joke back at him.

"Haha, so funny."

"You’re the one that said it, not me."

"Forget about that. Wanna come back to my place?"

"You shouldn’t cheat on your fiancé."

You smile playfully as he shakes his head, leaning in a bit more.

"The only woman I’d ever be engaged to is sitting right in front of me, but it’s too bad she decided to leave the day after graduation. not even caring to give me a phone call." he playfully clicks his tongue. "Yeah, but the phone works both ways," you shrug.

"doesn’t change the fact that you ruined my plan to take you back after school." He leans back in his chair, now crossing his arms once again. you scoffed. "That’s bullshit, and we both know that."

"Me asking you to be my wife was bullshit? I had the whole thing planned for how I was going to propose, and if you didn’t go Miss all American on me, I bet we’d be married with a baby on the way. That is what you wanted when we were together, right? to have a family young?" He makes a "tch" noise, tilting his head up at the ceiling, causing you to frown. "You shouldn’t joke about that, Katsuki."

He quickly turns his attention back to you.

"I never said I was." His words are followed by silence besides the other people around chatting, but still enough to leave thick tension in the air.

"Katsuki, I-

He suddenly reaches for your drink, taking a sip from it and taking you by surprise. "Hey! I never said you could-

"And it’s still not too late for that." his voice holding a deeper rasp as he clears his throat. "Listen, y/n, I’m going to be straight forward with you because there’s no reason for me to lie. I always loved you, and I never stopped loving you. I don’t care if you live in fuckin’ Guam, Canada, or wherever; I know I can make long-distance work for however long you want it to work. Remember back then when I said I’d take you back in a heartbeat? I still stand by that. So if you still want that future you planned with me, try giving me a call; it’s the same damn number I’ve always had." He places your drink down and gets up to leave, but you catch him by his wrist. "Didn’t you ask if I wanted to go back to your place?" giving him doe eyes while your fingers danced their way up his muscles. He leans down so he’s face-to-face with you. "Gotta finish patrol; don’t worry, babe; promise, as soon as I’m off the clock, I’ll take you there." He gives you a smug smile, turning back around to leave. You call out to him once more before he makes it through the door.

"Katsuki!" He stills but doesn’t turn. "I’m here for two weeks."

"Better be ready; I’ll make it worth your while."

With that, he went.

Tags: @sofilsword @the-dumpster-fire-of-life

The Spark - Chapter 9: Not Who I Used To Be - Poe Dameron/OC

Pairing: Poe Dameron x OC

Summary: When her childhood best friend recruits her during an undercover mission for the Resistance, Captain Kara Embers embraces her family legacy and joins the fight against the First Order. As the secrets of her past come to light, Kara never expects to be training with her mom’s best friend, flying her father’s ship, and falling in love with the Yavin-4 boy who always said he’d be the galaxy’s best pilot.

A/N: Nice juicy long chapter for y'all with a TON of Kara background which will help us out as we continue.. we are going to revisit a few of the points in some later segments. But, we've got some self discovery, some deeper flashbacks, some quality implied smut... (one day, I'll write a chapter of that.. but not today!) and then we'll get back to the action.

Warnings: violence, language, sarcasm, moodiness, whump, fluff, kissing, ya know.. all that stuff. Implied smut (lots of teasing..) and well, ghosts.

Links: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4| Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Masterlist on my blog!

Word Count - 7.8K

Finn, Poe, and Chewy were on their third game of dejarik when she dismissed herself to the peace and quiet of the empty cockpit. 

The lived-in pilots chairs felt like home when she eased down into one, bringing back memories of Han and all the pretend missions she’d flown alongside Poe when they were kids. The ship had played such a huge part in her life…and despite every loss she’d ever experienced, it was the one thing that always felt like a constant. 

Kara closed her eyes as the stars blurred past the windows, feeling her muscles relax and mind slow down. It was rare that she had a moment alone,  not that she didn’t love her little Resistance family, but sometimes the time to just be in the silence was all she really wanted.

“Commander Embers…hope that doesn’t get back to your father.” The voice didn’t register to Kara at first, considering she hadn’t heard it since she was seven. “He’ll go to Leia himself to appeal.” 

Kara opened her eyes and saw the woman in the copilot’s seat, glowing like Han had been earlier. She was the same age she was in her memories, looking at her just like she did when she’d finally  come home after a long day at work. 

“Mom?” 

“Stargirl.” Athena replied, wishing that she could wipe the tears that were streaming down her daughter’s cheeks. 

“How?”

“My soul lives in the Force, Kara. Just as your connection to it awards you with extraordinary gifts, I was able to draw upon your link to become visible to you.” Her mother stated, “It’s taken years for it to be strong enough.”

Kara sat up in her seat, stumbling over where exactly to start. “I have so much to tell you.” 

“Leia has done a good job of keeping me in the loop.” Athena chuckled, giving Kara a smile she only ever dreamed of getting to see again. “You are quite the swordswoman apparently.” 

“It might have been all the years I spent pretending to be a Jedi.” Kara rolled her eyes. 

“Or sparring your father… who may have been taking lessons from me after you went to bed.” Athena smirked, seeing her daughter balk at the idea that her very technical father had done anything but fire a blaster or fly a star fighter. 

“No way-“ 

“How else do you think he was able to beat both you and Poe so many times?” She giggled, “the two of you would have eaten nothing but bantha cookies if he didn’t step up his game!” 

“Newsflash…we got them from Han instead.” 

“That scoundrel!“ Both women were laughing so hard Kara was sure that someone would eventually come to make sure she hadn’t lost her mind. Lucky for her, the boys must have been still entirely too enthralled with their game. “And I thought your father was the weak one.” 

“Poe can be incredibly convincing.” 

“Oh I remember,” her mother remarked, her gaze falling briefly to the chain around her neck. “That boy was trouble the day he was born.” 

Kara tried to hide her blush, “well, dad wasn’t exactly an angel either.” 

“Who told you that?” The older woman questioned, “Leia told you that, didn't she?” 

Athena looked at her daughter, holding her gaze like she used to when she was a child. All she wanted was to spend hours telling her daughter everything she vowed that she would when she was old enough, but there was one thing that was the most important. Well, two things. 

“Kara, much like the Skywalkers… you also have a legacy in the Force and it isn’t just me.” She started, “My family has been training and assisting Jedi for generations. My father, your grandfather, trained Leia’s brother and their father, Anakin Skywalker. His name was Obi-Wan Kenobi.” 

Kara’s eyebrows raised, recognizing the name from stories Leia had told her. Obi-Wan “Ben” Kenobi was also where Leia’s son had gotten his name. 

“Luke only agreed to mentor me after I agreed to never take on a padawan. He blames my father’s strict adherence to the Jedi Order but lenient enforcement of the code as the reason that Anakin turned to the dark side. He feels our legacy is cursed with a lean to temptation… and you may find that many people agree with him as they discover your gift.” 

The girl nodded, understanding her mother’s warning. “Mom, I’m not going to turn.” 

“Leia and I know that, but Luke is stubborn and senile.” She retorted. “And he’ll not only sense your bond with Dameron, he’ll assume it will be the ultimate downfall of the Resistance.” 

“Mom.” 

“Stargirl, look at me.” She snapped, her tone sounding more like a medical general than a mother. “He could turn everyone against you.” 

“It’s a risk we have to take, Mom. Luke will just have to find a way to believe in us, just like Leia has.” 

Athena saw something change in her daughter’s eyes as her fingers grazed the ring she wore around her neck. “You love him don’t you?” 

“What?” Kara looked at her mother, trying to hide any signs that she had allowed her mind to drift away from their previous conversation. 

“Don’t play games with me, Kara.” She said, knowing the girl had heard her original question. “It was the night he brought you home, wasn’t it?” 

“No one told me that Han Solo had a daughter…” 

Kara was used to the cheesy pick-up lines and the winks of many handsome outlaws or military officers looking for a decent distraction while stuck in the desert of Tatooine. Usually the lines started with something like a Hutt had a bounty on her head or she was hotter than both suns the planet shared an orbit with, and not a reference to a family member. 

She casually glanced in the direction of the words, catching his worn leather jacket, gray scarf, and open collared shirt as a welcome change of pace. She’d just ended a brief engagement with a New Republic Admiral… and the idea of getting into it with another high ranking officer just didn’t have the same appeal it did before. 

“Solo doesn’t have a daughter. Just a Wookiee, and a ship we’d all like another shot at.” She replied, watching the man smile as if he knew her words were a bit scripted. He was overwhelmingly familiar, with his bronzed skin, stocky stature, and dark curls, but then again she’d been undercover a half dozen times… he could have been anyone. 

“Only ship to make the Kessel run—“ he started,

“In 12 parsecs.” She finished, keeping him firmly in her peripheral vision. He certainly had good intel on her, even if it was a well known rumor among Resistance allies that she’d frequently hide out as a former apprentice of Solo. Kara sipped her drink, hoping that just maybe, he’d find her lack of interest in the subject to be enough to send him on his way. She could see her partner starting to notice him in the booth nearby, at least if this did go south, she had back up. 

She felt the man sit down next to her, his sandalwood cologne tickling her nose as it clashed with the faint smell of starfighter fuel and grease that stuck to his jacket. “So what’s a guy have to do to get you another Corellian whiskey…?” 

“I was about to switch to something lighter actually.” She retorted,

“So one shot on the rocks instead of the double..?” He countered, smirking as he slid the shorter rocks glass in front of her. Kara finally turned to look at him as he took a swig of his own drink. He was very clearly a former Republic pilot, as his jacket was standard issue, but the patches reflected a much different cause. 

It wasn’t until his eyes met hers, their warm welcoming gaze awakening thousands of memories that she���d repressed for the last several years. The dopey grin and curls matched perfectly to the boy she’d spent her childhood running around with, but it couldn’t have been him… could it? 

“Doesn’t have the same kick when it isn’t smuggled out of a stash Han kept under the floorboards of the Falcon does it?” He whispered in her ear, pulling back just in time to see her polite grin transform into one trying to hide her bewilderment. She onced him over one more time, carefully maintaining her cover before swiftly getting up, grabbing his upper arm and leading him out the back door of the cantina before anyone really could tell what was going on. 

Kara was not the same girl she was when he’d enlisted nor was she the little girl he’d protect from the bigger kids on base when they were growing up. Someone had taken a lot of time turning her into a confident and capable fighter over the last several years. There wasn’t a single shred of the shyness that she’d struggled with when they were younger. And she was stronger than he remembered. Poe staggered a few feet when she pushed him out in front of her but never hit the ground, watching her pace a minute before she stopped, ran a hand through her hair and looked at him again. 

“I need to know it’s actually you.” She said, tears brimming in her eyes as she tried her damnedest to sound authoritative. Poe pulled the scarf from his neck, revealing the necklace he’d worn every day since his mother died, and flipped her the tags he had tucked in his jacket. 

Her fingers ran across the embossed Aurebesh symbols of his name, ID numbers, and home planet. It was him. Poe Dameron. Yavin 4. 

She took the tags in her hand and closed the space between them, breaking into a sob as soon as she felt him pull her into one of the tightest hugs she’d had in a decade. Kara hadn’t gotten more than a Christmas holo from Poe since they went their separate ways when they were barely 17 years old. It had even been a few years since Han had told her about them going to get him on Kijimi, and she had to admit, he looked better now than he’d ever had.

Poe finally looked as tough as he always believed that he was, his biceps toned from wrestling aircraft and his five o’clock shadow making him appear a bit older than his late twenties. He carried himself like a leader, even if he wasn’t quite sure that he was yet, a confidence he honed in while running spice. 

“Maker, I’ve missed you.” He said, his senses overwhelmed by her warmth and the way she fit just right in his arms. Despite her rugged look, she still smelled like passionfruit and vanilla, just like she did the day she left. 

“You feel like home.” She replied, her happy tears subsiding a bit as she allowed herself to relax. “And I haven’t been home in a very long time.” 

“Well, it’s not the same place it was when you left.” Poe said, smiling as he stepped back to get a better look at her. Kara’s steely gaze from before was now as soft as he remembered it, her irises still as green as the treetops on Yavin. “Dad is still there. The rest of us have gone to fight with the Resistance.” 

“So, that’s where you ended up.” Kara smirked, having heard of the fighters through many of her intel reports with the New Republic military. In her brief interactions with Han, she knew that Leia was involved with them, as were many of their old friends. “You always were a rebel though.” 

“Takes one to know one.” Poe teased. “You should join us.” 

Kara’s eyes widened as she stepped back from her friend. “Poe, I’m a special operations officer with the New Republic. I can’t just leave.” 

“Says who? We could use your skills. Plus, we desperately need lightfighter pilots. You can’t tell me that they are still letting you fly?” She could see Poe trying to understand why she was so quick to say no. Especially after just telling him that he felt like home. There was something holding her back. He could feel her vulnerability, even after being apart all these years. It didn’t matter, he was sure that He still knew her better than anyone else.“You aren’t happy. I can tell.” 

“I’ve changed Poe.” 

“Not as much as you think.” He said, his hand running down her arm. “You are definitely a little tougher than I remember you being. Probably could beat me in a fight now if you didn’t pull your punches.” 

She snorted and rolled her eyes. 

“I saved my ex-fiance and several senators from a band of pirates a couple weeks ago. Me and the two security forces guys they brought in. It’s the only time that they’ve gotten everyone home from a compromised mission like that.” Kara replied, seeing the sting in his eyes when she said ex-fiance. 

“Wait, you were engaged?” Poe felt his heart burn in his chest. It may have been ten years since he saw her last but the feelings he had for her clearly hadn’t let go like he thought they did. 

“To an admiral.” She stated, her gaze falling to the ground. “He had a problem with my most recent promotion, so we called it off.” 

The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Sounds like a kriffing idiot.” 

Kara tried to keep herself from beaming, her heart swelling in her chest. She always had a feeling that Poe had deeper feelings for her, especially when they were teens. He always did a really good job of hiding it though, always insisting it was just the nature of their friendship and that she’d always be like a sister to him.

There was something different about the way he had just insulted her ex that told her that it wasn’t him trying to be the big brother figure he always was for her. Least she thought so. It very well could have been the whiskey or the heat of this godforsaken planet screwing with her, but she swore it was different. 

“Come back with me.” He insisted, not an ounce of doubt in his voice. “Tonight.” 

“What part of I can’t just leave the New Republic did you miss?” She snapped, “I’m on an undercover mission anyway.” 

“You’ve been gone for 20 minutes and your partner hasn’t once come looking for you.” Poe said, matter of factly. Kara looked at the back door of the cantina and back at the man, he was right. Her lieutenant should have at least radioed her by now. “And there’s something that tells me there’s a reason for that.” 

“They’ll prosecute you for kidnapping.” She countered, though half-heartedly. 

“Let ‘em.” Poe retorted, sounding a bit more cocky than he originally intended. “Leia will bail me out.” 

“Leia?” Kara questioned, as she hadn’t seen Han’s wife since before she’d left for the academy. “Leia Organa?” 

“General Leia Organa.” Poe corrected. 

Kara glanced at her datapad, seeing an unread message from her ex on the screen as Poe watched her toy with the idea of abandoning her mission. She slipped the pad back in her pocket as her radio finally chirped, her partner’s ears had clearly started ringing. 

She ignored him, eyes flicking back to her best friend. “I can’t –” 

“You can.” Poe urged, stepping even closer to her. He took her hands in his, his fingers grazing over the Aurebesh tattoo on her wrist and hovering for a second over where he knew her engagement ring once was. Poe wasn’t ready to say goodbye again, hell, it had been hard enough to do when he was a kid. She was uncharacteristically worried about this admiral and her mission. Almost as if she was trying to convince herself that this meeting had been part of some elaborate plan he’d schemed up. 

Lucky for him, his own mission had fallen apart before it really started as The Resistance mark on this planet likely blew him off anyway. it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d trekked all the way out here and came home with nothing to show for it. But coming home with Kara… he never dreamed he’d get the chance again and that would be worth whatever the consequences turned out to be.

He watched her take the commlink in her hand, “I’m ok Liutentient, I’ll meet you back at our ship in 30 minutes.” 

Poe’s eyes locked on hers. She was still stubborn. A bit of stickler for the rules too. No wonder she’d done so well for herself with the New Republic. He could see the conflict tugging at her heart, but disobeying orders was starting to feel like too high of a cost for her. He was going to have to try harder. 

“He’s your commanding officer isn’t he?” Poe asked, knowing he was likely going to strike a nerve. “Your ex-fiance?”

“Yes.” Her answer was curt. Almost like it burned on her tongue. 

“He denied your promotion, you broke up with him, and yet you are still out on his orders?”

“Yes.” Poe could see her annoyance starting to bubble up behind her stare. 

“And your lieutenant, that’s his best friend isn’t it?” 

Kara froze, tension returning to her frame. Poe knew if he turned back now, he’d be going home with just a black eye instead of his best friend. And she’d be headed back to two guys that were determined to make sure that she never saw another real special operations mission for as long as she served. They were part of the reason he’d left the New Republic himself all those years ago. The entire corps was too focused on politics to recognize the people that could ultimately help them win the war and save millions of innocent lives from the First Order. Kara was one of those people, just like so many others before her, who were slowly becoming victims of the establishment. 

“Any second now, that lieutenant is going to come around that corner and find you.” He said, walking her slowly back toward the wall of the cantina. “Neither of them trust you to even be on a simple reconnaissance mission on your own after you saved their lives? — Kara, that’s bullshit and you know it.” 

“It’s protocol.” She deflected. 

“No it’s not. And I am not going to stand around and let a bunch of pompous assholes try and manipulate you into thinking otherwise.” He had caged her against the wall with his arms, his face only inches from her own as they heard her partner’s boots crunching in the dirt as he approached. Poe was trying to make it look like she’d been ambushed rather than the two of them getting reacquainted, just to keep her cover maintained. “Our parents won medals for missions just like yours but you are accepting a decrease in trust and more supervision when you should be commanding a fleet.” 

He tsked, knowing that it would set her off. “Maybe you really have changed.” 

Poe didn’t even have a chance to blink before she hit him, her fist knocking him hard in the face and a follow-up knee forced him to double over as it connected with his gut. His head spun as he hit his knees. It didn’t matter how ready he thought he was for her strike, it wasn’t enough. Kara was strong before he’d pissed her off. Turns out she was borderline lethal if someone really riled her up. 

She scowled at him as he tried to get his bearings. Poe heard her saying something to her partner who had come running when he heard his pained grunt echo between buildings. The man eyed him up once before turning on his heel, chirping a command into his commlink, and left the young woman once more to deal with him. 

Kara dropped down, taking Poe’s head in her hands as he struggled to get it to stop throbbing, “You ever accuse me of settling again… I swear to Maker, Dameron.” 

“So, you’re coming with me?” He was persistent, she’d give him that. Insufferably persistent. 

Kara sighed, all her pent-up frustration leaving her body as her thumb brushed the bruise starting to form on his cheek. They were rebels. Always had been and always will be. It was in their blood. It didn’t matter how hard she’d tried to redefine her life, it was the part of her that had made her who she was. It was what saved her comrades’ lives that day… and would likely be what saved her own life down the road. 

“I’d be stupid not to, apparently.” She laughed drily.  

Poe smiled and captured her in another tight hug; resisting the decades-old desire within him to kiss her.  It wasn’t too difficult for him to see her struggling with her own pent up feelings. Plus, she’d just broken off from a pretty serious relationship, especially if she really was going to marry that admiral. He wanted to believe that this was her fresh start. The one she never thought she’d get. He also knew she’d try like hell to fight her own feelings for him when they got back. She’d spend weeks insisting it would ruin their friendship and avoid anything that felt too intimate. It wouldn’t hold her back for too long though, and he had faith that maybe, just maybe, after a few weeks back at home, she’d let herself love again. 

He was willing to wait. Just having her back in his orbit was enough for now. 

Poe pulled back, beaming at her as hope surged through his chest. “Good, cuz I can’t let you go again.” 

Kara had let herself fall for him right after the words left his lips. Regardless of how hard she tried to convince herself otherwise, it was in that moment, in that dusty Tatooine alleyway, that she knew the galaxy had brought her back to Poe for a reason. 

He was her beacon. He was home. 

She looked at her mother, vulnerability softening her features. “He’s my best friend.” 

Athena smiled as her daughter tried her hardest to hide the flash of pink that spotted her cheeks, still rolling Shara’s ring in between her fingers. The young woman knew that Poe had been saving the token for the right person, she just didn’t seem to completely believe that he had actually chosen her. 

“He’s a lot more than that, sweetheart.” The older woman cooed, seeing the truth start to work its way out of Kara’s defense system. “A force bond takes a lot more than bantha love, and you are the most sensitive of the two of you.” 

She knew her mother had a point. It also didn’t seem to matter how many times Kara had tried to give Poe the ring back, it ended up around her neck again. She’d even snuck out to the hanger one night and wrapped it around the control stick of his X-Wing while he was asleep. It took him a few extra days to get it back to her after that attempt, but as soon as he returned from his mission, he waited for her to pass out in front of her mission reports to softly slip it back over her head, returning it to its rightful place against her chest. 

“I’m just afraid that he’ll wake up one day and wish I was someone he could rescue.” The girl sighed, feeling the pain of her past burning in her chest. “I’ll never be that girl for him.” 

“Oh Stargirl,” Athena soothed, “If he really wanted a damsel, he would have never left the Republic military and would already be separated from a galactic senator. Besides, you aren’t invincible. He may not get to save you all the time, but a few times that he does I’m sure are more than enough for him.” 

The doctor brushed an iridescent hair behind her ear, tucking her arms loosely across her chest. Her daughter sighed, staring that the stars like they held a more convincing answer to her insecurities. 

“Shara always knew it would be you.” She confessed, feeling Kara’s heart skip a beat when she had mentioned the woman’s name. “Kes will tell you, she was certain from the day she cradled you in her arms that the galaxy had given us you to balance Poe’s incredible energy. She even swore that Poe would look at you in a special way, even when you were kids.” 

Kara let a giggle slip past her smile as she recalled the exact look that Poe’s mother was talking about. She saw it every time he locked eyes with her now but didn't see it for the first time until she had agreed to join the Resistance. It was a glimmer that resembled a distant star to most people, but to her, it was Poe unmasking for a second to allow her to see exactly who he was. Even in the most intense strategy briefings, she knew the second that his intense gaze connected with hers, that she’d see the fear he worked tirelessly to hide or the excitement he had to get back into the sky. 

“I think it was your father who said it best.” She continued, “Poe was raised by warrior women. From his early years with his mother and I to his teenage years with Leia, that boy was destined to bring home a rebel of his own. Obviously, your dad didn’t exactly know that it was going to be you at the time, but you get the point.” 

Kara’s eyes had welled up as her mother spoke, silently wishing that she could wrap her arms around her and feel the comforting glow that used to envelop her as a child. She was trying to not get greedy, as talking to her was more than she ever could have asked for, but it didn’t change that she still missed her, her father, Shara Bey, and Han Solo more than words could ever express. More now than ever.

The young woman settled for a question she asked herself everyday at least once, knowing that her mother would have an answer much better than any of the one’s she’d fabricated in her own head.  “If Dad was here right now, what do you think he’d say?” 

“He’d probably tell you that it’s about time.” Athena quipped, causing both women to snort. Jamie Embers never missed the opportunity for a solid one-liner. “After that, he’d tell you that he never liked Poe. Just to be a pain.” 

The room erupted in warm laughter as they both could hear the sound of the man’s voice in their heads. 

“Ultimately though, your father would pull you into his arms just like he used to and tell you that of all the men in the galaxy, he’s glad you managed to fall for one that will protect and support you as fiercely as he does.” 

“Maker.. I wish you could all be here.” Kara murmured as the cockpit fell silent again. Her mother’s ghost flickering a bit as the girl’s emotions ricocheted between happiness, grief, and love. 

They both felt him before hearing him, his warm rugged aura pulling them both back to the temperate warmth of Yavin 4 in a time before the war. A time where they really were all together. “Stargirl?” 

“Duty calls, sweetheart.” Kara’s mother stood, smiling as Poe’s footsteps in the durasteel hallway got closer. 

“But..” 

“It’s ok, Kara. We’ll see each other again, I promise.” She said, tears falling as she reached out to cup her daughter’s cheek. “Till then, can you do something for me?” 

Kara nodded, “Anything.” 

“Poe needs you. All of you.” She said, her voice flirting between an order and a plea. “Let him in again. For real this time.” 

As the cockpit door opened, Athena Embers disappeared from sight. 

“Hey.. you ok?” Poe stopped in the doorframe, seeing the longing look on Kara’s face as she surveyed the empty seat next to her. He sensed her struggling, wishing she had more time, fighting with a loneliness that so often closed her off and made her cold. He slowly stepped inside, closing the door behind him as he knelt in front of her. His calloused fingers grazed over her knee as those dreamy amber eyes waited for her to soften. 

Let him in again… for real this time. 

Kara brushed a loose curl from his forehead, seeing the concern and exhaustion rippling across his features. “Yea, I’m just tired.” 

“I figured as much.” He rose to briefly survey the navigation system, noting that they still had several hours before they’d get anywhere near the base. “I kinda thought you’d be in a bunk by now.” 

“It’s a little hard to take a nap when you two are harassing Chewy.” Her eyes were fully on him now, showing her fake annoyance and genuine amusement. “This is the quietest place on the ship.” 

“Still can’t beat him, that fuzzy bastard.” Poe laughed, running a warm, apologetic hand down her arm. “He definitely cheats.” 

“Of course he cheats, Poe.” Kara retorted, “He’s had 150 years of practice and spent most of his time with a smuggler.” 

Poe cocked a dark eyebrow, smirking as he sat down in the vacant pilot’s seat across from her. “So what? Doesn’t mean he can’t let a guy win every once in a while.” 

“You are impossible, Dameron.” She rolled her eyes, turning her gaze back to the stars whirring past them.“Who would have thought that the best pilot in the Resistance would be such a sore loser?” 

Poe swiftly shoved his leg out to stop her chair from spinning away from him, catching the mischievous grin tugging at her lips as he leaned into her space. “What did you just call me?” 

His tone would have had anyone else weak in the knees, either preparing to ask for forgiveness or praying he was planning to take them back to his bunk, but not Kara. She ran her splinted hand through her hair and allowed herself to dip a little closer to his face, hearing his breath catch in his throat as she stopped just out of his reach. “You heard me.” 

Poe wasn’t prepared for the effect her words would have on him. The pilot resisted the urge to bite his lip, knowing that it was a tell for his own arousal, though he could already feel his body beginning to betray him. Instead, he pressed his palm into the backrest of her chair, creeping millimeters closer to her as he searched her eyes for signs that she didn’t want to keep going. He couldn’t find any. 

In fact, she’d already let her guard down completely. Poe hadn’t seen that playful glimmer in her eyes since they were kids and it was just as deceptively innocent as it was back then. She appeared like she was unaffected by his advances when in reality, he knew she was wound tighter than cooling coils in his X-Wing. Her uninjured hand crept under the hem of his shirt as he held her stare, causing him to bite down on his tongue to quell the purr that threatened to escape him. This was turning into a battle of wills, one he wasn’t quite sure he could win. 

“Answer the question, Commander.” He pressed, doing his best to keep his tone as firm as it had been before as her fingertips seemingly lit his skin on fire. “That’s an order.”

“I said…” Kara hummed, her breath warm on his face as her emerald stare enchanted him again. “You’re a sore loser, Commander.” 

Poe felt her broken hand brush lightly against his waistline as he closed his eyes. The last thing he’d expected was for her to steal control of this situation. He had originally planned to pop open one of the stashed bottles of Correllian whiskey and tell stories until they fell asleep under the stars. Just like they did before they’d both left to join the war. 

Meanwhile, Kara had lost count of how many times she’d hoped her best friend would kiss her in that cockpit. It had been their safe place since they were babies. From napping in Han’s arms to telling secrets over whiskey shots when they were definitely not old enough to drink, she actually thought it would be where Poe admitted his feelings for her or begged her to enlist with him rather than go to the academy. When neither of those things happened, it became the only place she’d let herself be broken-hearted. 

It made it the perfect place for her mother to finally appear to her, given that it held so many emotional memories under lock and key. It also now made it the ideal place for her to finally rewrite a few of those stories. 

Kara felt Poe’s brow furrow as she leaned her forehead against his, sensing him at war with his self-control. He didn’t want to take advantage of the fact that she was letting him see a side of her he hadn’t seen in years, but at the same time he wanted it more than air to breathe. Kara fought her urge to reassure him with the soft tone she often used to tell him that she wanted him. Instead, she finally allowed herself to lean into her newfound power, catching a glimpse of Poe’s jaw clenched in an gritty attempt to resist her unusually flirty advances. 

“What’s wrong, Commander Dameron?” His eyes snapped back open when she emphasized his title. Her whispered words were hot against his lips. “Afraid to admit that I’m right?” 

The man couldn’t take it anymore. His kiss crashed into hers, drinking her up like he’d just spent weeks trudging across a desert planet in search of water. When her hands found their way to his shoulders, he wasted no time scooping her up out of her seat and into his lap without breaking apart. Her weight effortlessly settled across his hips as he felt her lips travel to his jawline, nipping and licking at his known sweet spots. Poe didn’t bother to stifle a breathy “kriffing hell”  that broke through the silence as she ground against him, his eyes rolling back in pleasure. To hell with what he had planned. 

Kara smiled against his skin when she’d heard him curse. Usually, he was the one breaking through her defenses and Maker, it was liberating to have it be the other way around. She nested the fingers of her good hand in his hair, tugging his head back to allow her better access to his neck, as she sensually kissed down toward the collar of his dark shirt. His hips involuntarily bucked against hers as he groaned, running his hands up her thighs to wrestle with the edge of her tunic. Kara briefly let her eyes flick to the door, seeing the shadow of what she thought was a person standing on the other side. She blinked, kissing just under Poe’s ear before noticing it again. He only got out half a moan before she muffled it with her hand. 

“You are going to have to be quiet or we are going to get caught.” Kara half-shushed, half-giggled, finding his wide-eyed glare amusing amidst the stunned, overstimulated silence. It took her a few seconds, as she watched the shadow disappear from the light under the door, to pull her hand from his mouth, tucking it back in his curls as she felt his own hands wander back to her waist. “Unless you think you can hide your…excitement… in a walk back to the bunks.” 

Poe paused, his lips swollen and eyes dark with lust as he caught her glancing down toward the simmering pool of heat that settled between them. His mind raced with the possible outcomes, as getting caught by Chewy or Finn in their current situation would be embarrassing if not borderline humiliating considering they all had to share the cockpit. At least if they moved to a bunk, there was another suite on the other side of the ship the others could crash in. The catch was walking to the bunks meant passing through the main hold, where Finn and Chewy were likely still locked in another game of dejarik, which meant he’d have to find a way to hide his already painfully hard erection. 

He glanced back up at Kara, who was still as close as she could be to him without having her lips on his skin. Lucky for her, she could at least lie about their situation and someone would believe her. She had an alibi down to her half pulled out braid, which frustrated Poe in more ways than one. 

“I’m going to have to try. We can’t stay here.” He panted, trying like hell to calm himself down enough to be inconspicuous. It didn’t help that Poe could feel every shift of Kara’s weight against his pelvis as she watched him deal with the abrupt stop in the action. “Not with you doing whatever the kriff it is you are doing…” 

His last few words came out as a gruff growl, leading the girl against him to smirk. Poe had watched countless others fall under the spell of that look he’d seen earlier, but always figured he’d be immune. It had become abundantly clear in a matter of minutes that he wasn’t. To his credit, the tactic had evolved quite a bit since the last time she’d tried it on him. 

“So, what’s your plan, Commander?” Kara drew out his title again on purpose, knowing he’d do the same to her if the roles were reversed. 

“You first.” Poe groaned, shifting her slightly up his thighs in another attempt to pull himself together. He needed her to back off or they’d never get across the hold without any questions from their friends. Especially his nosy little droid.  “Not that I’m complaining, but what’s gotten into you?” 

“I realized I was still keeping you at arms length and you don’t deserve that.” She said, leaning up off his chest to get a better look at his face. “I have been doing it since I first got back. Even after you said you loved me. All because I was worried you’d think I was too independent or something.”

“Your independence is one of the sexiest things about you, you realize that right?” He replied, pulling the edge of her tunic back down over her belt as he felt the pressure below his own starting to subside. 

“I may need you to share that with a few of the female cadets when we get back.” Her hands fiddled with the collar of his shirt, hiding the red marks she’d started to leave on his skin. “Most of them are counting on you getting sick of being my sidekick and going back to your old ways.” 

Kara mocked as Poe shook his head with a chuckle. “I mean you could just give them a play by play of the saber battle… and highlight the part where I shot Ren with a bad arm and saved you from a night in an interrogation pod?” 

“And let them all go to sleep fantasizing that you were saving them instead of me? Hard pass.” 

Poe smirked, “Sounds like someone is a little jealous.”

“Why would I be jealous of their fantasy when it was my reality?” Kara snorted, easing herself back down against his chest again. “I think I’ll just stick to telling them that you’re a terrible loser.” 

Poe rolled his eyes this time, mistakenly letting her steal a kiss that got dangerously close to riling him up again. His hands wrapped around her wrists in an instant, careful to not agitate her injuries but strong enough to stop her advance; “…you are gonna end up in binders if you don’t stop.” He growled, sounding more aroused and agitated.

“Is that a threat or a promise, Dameron?” He watched her carefully, knowing that she had already picked up on the tone of his voice. She tried to twist out of his grip but he held fast. “Sounds like a threat.” 

“Have you thought of how you’d explain that to Chewy and Finn?” Poe raised an eyebrow as she leaned away from him again, allowing her arms to go slack in his grip. A few tense seconds passed between them as he could see her analyzing him, anticipating his hold on her to continue to loosen as she created the illusion that she was going to back off. Two could play in that game.  “Or should we just slap a set on and find out in real time?” 

“You wouldn’t dare.” She yanked against his grip again. No dice. 

“Try me.” 

Kara could tell that deep down Poe was bluffing. She knew that he’d never embarrass or humiliate her like that for real, even if he did sound like he was dead serious. There were obvious signs that he really did want her to test him though; she could see that behind the commanding look in his eyes. He was curious. Poe wanted to have a little fun, push the boundaries a bit, maybe break a few of their old rules; as long as she was ready. 

She scooched back and stood up, swiveling her wrists to free her hands with a standard self-defense move as Poe rose to his feet. He resisted the temptation to grab her waist as she eased ever so slightly out of his space, brushing the end of her braid back behind her shoulder and straightening her belt. Her hand hovered over the door panel when her eyes found his again. 

“I’m going out there first. If you don’t hear from me, meet me in the bunks in 5 minutes.” She ordered, her voice low and firm like it was against Ren. She didn’t even wait for him to reply before she was already halfway down the hall. 

Finn and Chewy weren’t in the hold when she got there, clearly having retired to the bunks on the far side of the ship given it was late and they were already exhausted. Kara didn’t waste any time turning herself around. If they were going to do this at all, the time was now. 

Poe’s head shot up when he heard the door reopen, “That was fast?” 

She didn’t reply as the door whooshed closed, its panel chirping as it locked. Poe felt Kara’s hands turn his head to hers as she straddled him again, pulling him into a kiss that managed to rival the one she’d left him with. The one that almost pushed him over the edge again, so much so he couldn’t get out of his head. The one that had him threatening to cuff her hands behind her back if she touched him again. A satisfied groan left his chest as his hands released the Falcon’s yoke, bumping the autopilot switch as he yanked her further into his lap again. Damn girl was going to kill him. Every pilot fantasized about moments like this, and while it wasn’t his X-wing, he was pretty sure the Falcon was a worthy alternative.

“W..what happened to—“ he started, feeling her find the soft, sensitive skin under his ear again with her lips. His coherent words got stuck in his throat as his nervous system short circuited under her touch. Kriff.. 

“They’re asleep.” She purred, “in the bunks by the cargo hold.” Poe let his hands run down her back as she trailed kisses along his jaw, getting lost in the way she carefully started to take him apart. “So, the coast is clear, flyboy…” 

“You sure?” He teased affectionately, helping her out of her tunic and tossing it into the empty seat next to them. “I don’t want you to think just because you think you’ve been holding back that we have to do this.” 

“Oh I’m sure.” Her words sounded more confident than ever. “Plus, it’s time I replace the memories of you failing to take a hint however many years ago.”

Poe cocked an eyebrow at her as she pulled away from his neck, “Wait, what hint?” 

Kara smiled, feeling Poe’s entire body stiffen for a second like he’d made some terrible mistake. She massaged the back of his neck with her fingers, melting the man’s anxiety away almost as quickly as it arrived. “Lets just say I wasn’t asking you to talk me out of enlisting, Poe.” 

Her hips rolled as she kissed him again, feeling his lips curl into a soft smile as the memories flickered in his mind. One of Leia’s many senate friends had submitted an anonymous application to the Academy for Kara after spending a summer or two with them all on Yavin. The woman had been impressed by the girl’s intelligence and ingenuity as she observed her around the base, stating that skills like that were instrumental to a strong Republic. Kara’s father had passed only a few weeks before she had gotten the acceptance letter. 

He had rolled himself out from under an X-Wing he was helping Han repair for a shipper when she had messaged him to meet her in the Falcon. Poe would never forget the exasperated look on her face as she tried to tell him that she was better served as an enlisted pilot, just like her old man had been.. It was days before she was supposed to leave and she had just returned with Leia from the gala they’d thrown for the incoming class, still wearing the forest green gown that Han had brought back for her from Naboo as she knocked back several shots of Outer Rim liquor from their stash. 

Poe had always been curious if she had noticed him trying to not gawk at her as she tried to rationalize her decision with stories from the party. Almost all of the cadets in her year were children of senators or diplomats. She was one of four incoming cadets that had any ties to the former Rebellion, and one of two that didn’t come from generational wealth. He couldn’t blame her for feeling like an outsider, but he also couldn’t let her throw away the opportunity to possibly lead the New Republic. Even if he did really want to tell her that she was right and selfishly have her follow him to basic training. 

The pilot looked at the girl in his lap as his mind circled back to the present. It didn’t completely surprise him that her hint had gone over his head all those years ago. Especially since he spent so much time trying to convince himself that his love for her was more like a sister than a future wife. Her emerald green eyes locked on him. Darkened with desire, they looked just like that dress from his memories and needless to say, he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

"Well, I'm not as clueless as I used to be." He hummed, letting his nose brush hers as he tangled his fingers in her hair. His hooded eyes caught her genuine smile as he closed the space between them again. "I still talk too much... but the only thing I'm talking you out of tonight is the rest of your clothes, I can promise you that."

24 Candles

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Words: 2.6K

Summary:

A smutty, 24-hour diary of Jungkook's 24th birthday.

Also, Jungkook has feelings.

You play with JK’s butt in this one. Find butt-free fics:

Here Here Here or Here

Tags/Warnings:

SMUT, BUTT STUFF, Happy Birthday to the LOML, 50 shades of JK, dom!JK, sub!JK, oral sex, quickie sex, desperate sex, unprotected sex, creampie, spitting, spit kink, conversational sex, butt plugs, toys, JK is deep and complex, JK has feelings, y/n is very in touch with JK’s emotions, strength kink, body worship, JK loves ARMY, JK loves you, fluff, angst, painstakingly canon compliant, not beta-read, trying to tame my shame but, WOW, also I am deviant trash.

*****

03:57 AM

You awaken to moonlight blinking through the living room curtains. The sound of a bag dropping and feet shuffling wake you where you lay on the couch.

He comes around to you right away. He kneels down to the floor beside you and pushes his forehead against yours. He leans up to kiss you as you take in his familiar scent.

“I told you not to wait up,” he scolds, gently. Seeing where you’d set up camp to wait for him to come home in the living room.

“I didn’t wait. I fell asleep,” you reply, coaxing yourself into awakeness. You look at the clock, almost 4 am.

“Happy Birthday,” you whisper and kiss his forehead.

He doesn’t say anything. He just leans into your neck for a greedy inhale.

“You smell good,” he says, hovering above you and squeezing your waist at his words.

You giggle at the tickling sensation on your neck. “Aren’t you tired?”

Still kneeling by the couch, his hands glide up under your loose sweater. He grips hard, pulling at your nipples with both hands. He latches his mouth to one of them and pulls his lips away until it pops.

“I was,” he says, dark and low. On his knees and pressing you to the couch, he sinks teeth to your neck, promising a mark.

You’re taken a bit aback at his rough nature but remember it’s been a few weeks, he’s probably pent up. His pace reminds you that you are too.

Soon, your gestures escalate from clumsy and quick to activated muscle memory, moving in fast forward.

You urge him to remove his shirt and toss it across the room. You can hardly see his face but the moonlight reflects off of him. You feel him angle your hips at the edge of the couch, pull off your panties and watch his silhouette lean down between your legs. The sensation of his warm spit spills down your folds, caught only by his fingers sloppily pushing into your opening.

You shudder at the intrusion. He spits again, this time audibly and more, your body not quite caught up to where his mind is.

“Missed you, baby,” he mewls.

He sucks and licks and laps at you, reacquainting himself with your pussy after a long time away. He uses 2 fingers to rub a path over your clit before they sink inside you. He repeats this, over and over, satisfied little groans fall from his lips before he removes his fingers and leans up to kiss you, desperately. Tongues and teeth bang together while hurriedly you tug at his belt and free his cock.

You use the lowered fabric to pull him to the couch, mounting him. He slides you onto his length and you both groan.

You grimace being stretched open by him after so long. Strong arms smash your laps together, Jungkook pushing up and grinding into you.

“Did you miss me?” he pants, between thrusts.

You keep your rhythm, circling hips around his cock.

“I missed you, Jungkook,” you say, tugging back at his hair with both hands.

He chuckles, enjoying the sound of his own name. Your bodies continue to move tantrically, shaking and panting, skin slippery with sweat. Feeling your orgasm coming, you start bouncing on his lap, trying to take in more of him.

He leans back to watch you, hands on your hips. He watches as you envelop his cock with every thrust.

When he feels you pulse around him, he grunts and groans and spills inside. When you catch your breath, you stand on wobbly legs.

He’s exhausted. You can see the sleep taking over his body. You urge him to follow you to the bedroom to clean up and sleep.

1:48 PM

It’s nearly 2 and Jungkook is still fast asleep.

They always do this to him. They work him to the bone until he’s so spent, they can’t get another day out of him. By the time he gets home, he sleeps for days.

You mindlessly scroll on your phone, occupying yourself next to him. You’re just happy to be with him. His side of the bed is so often empty.

He finally stirs.

“Hey you,” you say, dropping your phone to the bed.

He lets out a groggy groan and looks at his watch. “Ugh. I’m sorry,” he says, regretful about how long he’s been asleep.

“Don’t be,” you say before kissing his lips and brushing hair behind his ear.

He’s tired but it’s more than that. He looks rough and truly worn out, his typical brightness is dulled.

“What’s on your mind?” you ask. Although, you already know.

He says nothing.

He was devastated when they cancelled the tour. He told you over the phone and you could tell he was upset when it happened but the toll it’s taken on him now, is apparent.

“I’m sorry,” you offer.

“It’s just…,” he starts and sits up, wringing his hands, emotions bubbling. “I’ve always been tired.”

You sit up and face him, setting your undivided attention. “Yeah?” you encourage.

“I’ve always slaved away on choreo. We’ve always been busy.” He looks off, wrapping his arms around his knees that are still tucked under the bed sheet. That compromise is… for them. But, now, I can’t even see them. I don’t know when I'll see them again. I miss them.”

It’s heartbreaking. All you can do is continue to listen, allow him an outlet for these feelings. He continues.

“It's like I don’t know what it's all for when it’s like this. I knew before, when we were performing, it was very clear.”

He shakes the emotions from his head. “Sorry, I'm in such a sour mood.”

“Shhh... “ you kiss his forehead. just wishing there was something you could do.

“Thank you for telling me. I wish I could help.”

“I know.” He grabs your hand and laces his fingers with yours.

You change the subject. “What do you want to do today?”

He positions himself so you’re face-to-face, sitting on the bed. He takes a deep breath. “First, I think I'll go to the gym. Clear my head. I'll make it quick”.

You shrug. “Take all the time you need.” You know it helps him.

The both of you stand up by the same side of the bed.

“And then...I’d really like to lounge around here with you if that’s ok?”

“I like that idea,” you reply.

“Maybe we can order in and…”

He kisses your neck.

“mmm...What do you have in mind?”

He presses his open mouth to yours, pressing his tongue inside.

“Some of that,” he teases.

You stand to your tiptoes and wrap arms around his neck, not wanting to let him leave again.

“And what else, birthday boy?”

This question, he opts to simply hold you tight. He hugs your body tight against his, inhaling at your neck again, planting a kiss on your lips.

“Maybe some toys?” He aims his gaze at the bedside table.

Your stomach flutters. “If you’re up for it,” you reply with a raised eyebrow.

He kisses you once more and heads out the door.

When you hear the door close, you collapse, flat on the bed and stare at the ceiling. You always look forward to when he gets home. But then you have to catch up with weeks of emotion, wishing you could’ve been there for the duration.

You can really feel the awfulness now. He was devastated when they postponed it 2 years ago. Now, after 2 years of holding on to hope just to have it cancelled and all other performances postponed indefinitely? He’s heartbroken.

When it was canceled you silently celebrated, knowing you’d have more of him to yourself. It’s not worth it if he feels this way.

On the other hand… concerts haven’t been happening for 2 years but the boys stay busy with packed schedules.

He always says it’s not the same without them. Jungkook has always been a bit more attached to fans than any other member, leaving his family at such a young age. Without ARMY, he seems very lost.

4:00 PM

Jungkook returns home in better spirits, wiping sweat with a towel from his forehead. He pecks your lips, walking through the kitchen.

“I'll take a shower and be right back,” he says, sweaty hair, clinging to his forehead.

“Can I join you?” you offer, as he walks by.

“I'll be quick.” he says, continuing to the bedroom.

You try not to think too much of it and shower in the other bathroom.

By the time you get out, his shower has stopped running.

You dress for your introverts-night- in in one of his t-shirts and perfume, nothing else.

The delivery food comes, you set it up at the kitchen counter and pour drinks.

4:30 pm

When he hasn’t come out in over 20 minutes, you lean your ear to the bathroom door and knock, concerned.

“Are you ok?” No noise is coming from the bathroom except his voice.

“Yes,” he replies, calmly.

“Do you need help?” you ask.

“No!” he exclaims, immediately. “I’ll be out soon.”

You return to where you sit at the kitchen counter wondering what he's doing? Is he hurting himself?

He follows behind a few moments later, casually kissing your lips before he sits at a nearby barstool.

“This is a ton of food,” he comments.

You say nothing and he gestures to clink your drink glasses before he starts eating.

You watch as he silently ravages. It always went this way too. He’s starved when he comes home. Most of the time when he’s working, he avoids eating altogether or can’t find the time.

He relaxes. You eat, drink and have conversation. He’s in better spirits, having taken some time for himself and away from work.

He seems comfortable, but squirms slightly in his seat.

He’s TOO comfortable.

You have a sneaking suspicion, now. One that’s not tied to his tough feelings about a cancelled tour.

“What’s up with you?” You query.

“What do you mean?” he asks genuinely. “Like, what we talked about this morning?”

“No.” You scan him. “You look like you’re up to something. Like you’re hiding something.”

Your tone is more serious but you try no to be accusatory.

“It’s nothing,” he insists.

You nod. “Ok,” settling. You continue eating though, conversation is lulled.

Out of curiosity, you open the app on your phone. It shows the plug is powered on and the vibrations are off.

You turn the vibe on, Jungkook nearly stumbling on his barstool. You approach him and he grabs the phone from you.

“I knew it!” You kiss him, standing between his seated legs, then, pulling back with sudden realization.

“That’s what you were doing in the bathroom?”

“Yeah. What did you think I was doing?”

You shake the thought from your head. “You got yourself ready without me?” you whine, disappointed.

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“That’s so hot,” you begin to kiss his neck, no longer thinking about food.

“Well, can we finish dinner?” he says, with a mouthful of food.

You’re embarrassed by your own haste. “Of course.” You sit down calmly, patiently, and allow him to finish.

“What?” He questions as you eyeball him.

“Nothing. Just letting you finish,” you reply, sincerely.

He laughs and drops his utensils. “What, you can’t wait? You’re such a horndog!”

You scoff. “And who’s wearing a butt plug at the dinner table?” you tease, approaching to get your hands on him again.

“It hasn’t even been in for_”

“_So I’ll finish getting you readyyyyyy,” you interrupt, nearly pouting.

You slide your hands up his thighs, standing between them.

He hides a smile, you know he’s already caved in. Then, he lifts you up and you wrap legs around his waist.

He carries you to the bedroom, dropping you to the mattress. He undresses.

“Let me see?” you whisper, sitting up.

He slides face down on the mattress, burying his face. Your gaze follows his body. You straddle his legs from behind, caressing his back and groping at his muscled ass cheeks.

You pull his shy legs apart to expose the toy. You let your fingers drag over it, tugging lightly.

“You did this for me?” you ask. Ideas of what he was doing to himself in the bathroom flood your horny mind.

He nods, still mostly into the mattress.

“So pretty, baby.” You tug at the plug, sitting tight inside. You use the manual switch to set the vibe on. The low setting, like he likes.

You move the toy slowly at first until it glides in with ease.

“Is this what you did?

“Yes,” he moans.

“When you had yourself bent over the bathroom counter?” you assume.

“Mm-hmm,” he verbalizes and You push faster. He bucks back against the toy and your hand, his hole finally sliding open.

You settle him to his back, pillow propped underneath his hips and continue sliding the toy in and out of him.

He’s sufficiently opened, looking perfect.

He lays with legs spread, knees bent, eyes fluttering closed with every pump of the toy.

He fumbles your hands and pushes it all the way in to hold it in place and shudders, taking exactly what he needs.

You work the toy a little harder now., twisting and turning it along his walls, pressing against his prostate. Sweat drips over his body. Cum drips down his shaft and onto his abs. You lap at the cum on his body, cock and balls bouncing with each pump of the toy.

You make attempts to stroke him with your free hand and use your mouth on him but he shudders away each time, too close.

You’re not even thinking about coming, entranced in how beautiful he is.

He rolls you to your side, bracing a hand on your hip and slides inside from behind. He sets a pace and squeezes his own cheeks together on every thrust, clenching around his toy.

He buries his face in your neck and whines, his arms wrapped around your torso, tight.

He rolls you over and fumbles on top of you to pull another toy from the side drawer, powers it on, and holds the bullet to your clit while he pumps into you.

Precious ‘ah’s’ fill the air when he comes, pushing into you deep, feeling vibrations through his prostate and lower body. You buck against him when you come, too, shoving the toy away when it’s too much, but letting the waves flow through you.

Your bodies slow and Jungkook pulls the overstimulating toy out of himself. You drape your legs over each other, bodies tangled, and doze again.

03:52 am

He’s already gazing at you when you wake up.

You yawn and stretch, taking a hand and running fingers through his hair.

“Were you happy when you found out?” he asks, plainly, about the MOTS tour.

“What?” you stutter, suddenly awake. Guilt surges through your body. You hadn’t properly considered how it would make him feel the first time you heard the news. It’s different now.

He must understand that. It’s different now.

“I don’t want you to feel this way,” you start. “ I would do anything if you didn’t feel this way.”

He nods. “I know.” He grabs your hands in his. “Were you happy?”

You hang your head. “Yes. At first.”

“Good.” he caresses your cheek, lifting your chin. “I’m glad you were happy.”

The both of you doze again.

Runaways /// Dabi x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You were like an older sister to Dabi back when the two of you were teen runaways together; now that he’s found you as an adult, it’s not going to be so easy to get rid of him.

A/N: I could write a term paper on all of Dabi’s pathologies in this fic...I forgot how much I love writing smutty angst. Good shit 👌

I was planning on making this a ficlet so it’s kinda structured like that even though it ended up a full-length piece. Also, Dabi says some bullshit about sex work that I absolutely do not agree with or condone so please keep that in mind.

➠ see also: [homeowners association]

Tags/warnings: Dabi victimizes you, noncon/dubcon, light yandere, threats, cheating, NTR kinda?, mentions of past sex work, degradation, rough sex (breath play, impact play, crying), mild violence, very brief mentions of past child abuse in the Todoroki household, sad stuff/angst idk lol, *Daddy Issues by The Neighborhood plays in the background*

Dabi would know you anywhere.

You’re different now, which makes sense. It’s been years. Your old uniform of raggedy denim and hand-me-down leather has been replaced with a prim linen dress, designer label at the collar. You used to dye your hair religiously (it was neon pink when he saw you last) but now it’s styled back to your natural shade, a color he only saw back then when your roots grew out. You smell good, expensive. It does take him a second to recognize you without smudged pencil eyeliner drawn under your eyes like in the old days, but once he catches your gaze the realization is immediate.

It’s you. You. You.

You recognize him too, but your reaction is different—shock, then panic; you tug the arm of the man at your side, urging him to walk faster so you can pass Dabi on the sidewalk. The rejection stings for a second, but he isn’t too surprised. You did abandon him, after all.

Dabi doesn’t let it bother him. You’re not going to get away that easy. He pulls you into conversation, grinning when you reluctantly introduce him to your companion (who is, apparently, your husband) as an old friend from school. You didn’t go to school—Dabi knows that, and you know that, but your husband doesn’t. Which means your husband isn’t aware of your sordid past as a runaway.

This is going to be fun.

Once he knows you’re in town, he doesn’t have much trouble finding you. Your husband is a very wealthy man, well-known in this city now that he’s moved here. So this is what you’ve been up to all these years? Shacking up with some ugly motherfucker who’s at least 20 years your senior because he can afford to dress you up in pretty things and take you on overseas vacations? Dabi has to admit, he wouldn’t have thought it of you. Back when he knew you, you were so sincere, such an idealist, even in your darkest nights.

Then again…you always were willing to get your hands dirty in exchange for a warm meal and a place to sleep. Maybe you haven’t changed as much as you think.

Dabi comes to your house in the middle of the day when your husband’s at work and you’re stuck at home because that’s what you are now, a housewife. From a cocksucking whore to a pretty housewife with a dirty little secret. He’s getting hard just thinking about it as he watches your internal debate on whether to let him in or not. Eventually guilt wins out and you usher him inside, hoping the neighbors didn’t see a known villain lurking on your doorstep.

You make Dabi coffee (and aww, you remember exactly how he likes it). He gets you to talking, and you don’t seen surprised to learn about his current line of work; when he presses you, you admit that you’ve been following him in the news. Your life, in comparison, has been wholly uninteresting: you met a man, he proposed, and you married him. Very little has happened to you since. After a long silence you timidly apologize to Dabi for leaving him behind when you two were teenagers, and he tells you he understands.

He doesn’t forgive you.

Overall, things are good, he tells you. But you know, sometimes he misses the old days. Being on the run with you, stealing food from gas stations, breaking into fancy summer homes and pretending the two of you lived there. Stitching up each other’s cuts, because one of you had always gotten in a fight in the past few days. Sometimes he still has dreams about the smell of the balm you used on his fresh burns…and your cool hands, smoothing gently across the tender skin on his face, but he doesn’t say that.

You look down into your monogrammed coffee mug and tell him you know what he means.

When you turn your head like that, Dabi can see the tiny dots running up the side of your ear where your old piercings have scarred over from lack of use. Do you remember when he gave them to you? You did his first, running a needle through the lonely flame of your lighter (he offered to use his quirk, but it was still hard for him to control then so you declined) and then threading the metal through his ear. You promised it would only hurt for a second, and you were right, so he let you do the others.

Then you offered to let him do yours. Just one on each ear—you already had an impressive collection of piercings, but you wanted to let him return the favor, so he did. You were older and more experienced and had lived on the streets for longer, so when he held the needle in his hand and heard your voice saying you trusted him, it was the first time he ever thought of you as fragile, something delicate, something that he was capable of harming.

He chose twin helix piercings for you, cresting the shell of each ear, silver band rings to match his. When they were done you pulled him to a mirror and asked him what he thought. It hadn’t been long since he got the worst burns on his face (the ones under his eyes, wrapping around his chin and down his neck) and he was still getting used to the knowledge that the ugly, wrinkled scars were never going to heal. “I look like…” he started.

A monster. A freak. A victim.

“A badass,” you said. “You look fucking cool. Any asshole who wants to pick a fight with you will take one look and know you’ve been through worse shit than whatever they can dish out, and that’s something to be proud of.”

Now that Dabi thinks about it, he probably wanted you even then.

…But the longer he reminisces, the more nostalgia’s going to distract him. He came here for a reason, and it wasn’t to have coffee with you and talk about the good old days. What he’s about to take from you—what he’s about to make you give—is long overdue.

You’ve still got a little fight in you. Dabi likes that. But you’ve gone soft, filling out and losing muscle in places where you used to be lean and hard from the constant running and fighting of your old lifestyle. Besides, even if you were as strong as you’d been back then, he’d still be stronger than you—he’s a man now, and it’s incredible how small and weak you seem now that he can look at you as a man.

Were your punches always this light? No way…and your wrists couldn’t have always been this delicate. It’s really no trouble at all for him to wrestle you down to the couch and pin you there so he can tear off your stupid little housewife dress and tug your panties down past your ankles.

Once he’s got you fully naked, though, you pretty much give up trying to fight him off. It’s sad, really—like you’re remembering the past, remembering all the times you let other men hold you and fuck you just so you could have enough money to take yourself and Dabi to McDonalds for a few days. And now look, you’re plenty well-fed, but Dabi’s the one holding you down against your will. Funny how things change like that.

He does appreciate your submission, since it gives him the chance to get a decent look at you. The years have been kind—you look so much healthier than you used to. No more visible ribcage stretching out your skin; no more unhealthy pallor from going outside only at night. Your hands are as soft and manicured as if you’ve never done a day’s work in your life, a far cry from the bitten nails and bloody knuckles of your youth. It’s good to see you like this, and he lingers for a second, drinking in the sight of you and committing you to memory.

Dabi’s pictured this moment for years. He used to think he’d savor it, be sweet with you, slow and gentle to show you what you were missing with the trashy guys you used to hang out with. But now, hey—he’s the trashy one, he’s the one who wants to hurt you and own you and ruin you. May as well act like it.

Your husband doesn’t fuck you like this, does he?

You’re unbelievably tight for a former whore. Dabi can barely hold out when he first pushes into you, licking the tears off your cheeks when apparently it hurts too much for you to keep up a brave face. It takes real effort to fuck himself all the way into you, pushing past the tense squeeze of your muscles while you…well, you’re not exactly wet, but he’ll get you there. As soon as his hips are grinding up against yours, he’s hitching your legs up on his shoulders and pounding you into your stuffy antique couch so deeply that he thinks it might splinter into pieces underneath the two of you.

God, you’re so, so, tight. Dabi feels like a virgin with his cock buried inside you, biting his lip so he doesn’t cum in thirty seconds and thrusting into you with a rhythm that comes from nothing less than pure animal instinct. And you’re getting into it too. Can you tell that your pleading and begging him to get off you is turning into moaning? Can you feel your hips bucking weakly back against his, reverting to the position of the submissive bitch your body remembers even if your mind has tried to forget?

It’s perfect, right and good and perfect, everything Dabi’s been waiting for since he first knew what it was to want someone—no, not just someone. You. It’s always been you. A person never forgets their first love, right? It’s perfect, except—except you won’t look at him, you keep looking off to the side and sniffling, and that’s not going to cut it. So he slows down and wrenches your head back to center and makes you kiss him, sliding his tongue over yours and trying to see if he can feel the place where you used to have a piercing there, too. It’s kind of thrilling, actually—wondering whenever his face dips into yours if you’re going to bite him, if he’ll come back from you with blood in his mouth.

He’s only got to thumb over your clit a couple times before you’re clamping down on him, your body begging to be used and abused. Your husband hasn’t been treating you right, though Dabi doubts the old bastard can even get it up without a blue pill. Sure, you look like a sweet little doll, so darling and delicate and breakable, but Dabi knows you better than that. You’re strong, you can take it. He knows you want it rough, so that’s how he’ll give it to you—and hey, hey, he can feel your cunt quivering around him—you’re cumming, aren’t you? So you like it. You like it.

He knew he wasn’t going to last long before, but when you cum and tighten and squeal so high he thinks you could lose your voice, the tension in his abdomen rises up and he digs his fingers into your hips and—shit, you’re saying something, what are you saying? You’re pleading, begging him not to cum inside—but, ohhhhhh fuck he can’t help it, he can’t, he can’t, he’s cumming all the way deep into your tight little snatch, cockhead jutting up at your cervix, fucking his semen all the way through you until your slit is smeared white from top to bottom.

Stop crying. Dabi’s sick of hearing you cry.

You’re still pretty nimble, even though your current exercise regimen probably doesn’t extend beyond periodic jogs around your neighborhood and weekly pilates with all the other bored trophy wives. He’s kind of surprised when as soon as he lifts himself off of you, you have the strength to roll off the couch and scramble around on the floor for your clothing.

You don’t say anything, which he wasn’t expecting. You don’t scream at him, demand that he leave, or ask him how he could do this to you after everything the two of you went through together. You probably still think of yourself as an older sister when it comes to him.

When you’d first met the scarred kid trying and failing to live off the streets, you knew he wasn’t cut out for this. He’d known pain before, plenty of pain (icy-blue fire roasting the skin off his face—spiral fracture from callused hands twisting his arm behind his back—cold, aching muscles after what he thinks is the fifth hour spent locked in a closet), but he’d never known hunger. Hunger was a different kind of beast, one that would chew the kid up and spit him out and leave him broken if you didn’t take him under your wing, so you did.

It wasn’t like you had much of anything to spare, but you made it work. For a few years. He didn’t talk at first, but he took what you gave him, so you gave him what you could: food, if you had it; a place to sleep at night; the knowledge you’d gathered in your own years as a runaway on how he was supposed to survive in a world that didn’t care whether he lived or rotted away in a gutter. You cared.

Until you didn’t.

‘Going to be traveling alone for a while. Don’t wait for me. I’m sorry,’ your note had read. You left it in his backpack along with $43 in cash—not much, but he knew it was more than you could afford. It was all you had.

And now you have all of this! Don’t you feel lucky? You have the rich husband who barely looks at you, the big house with so many empty unused rooms it makes him sick, more food than you could possibly eat in one lifetime. All of that, and you also have Dabi’s semen leaking out of your cunt. It’s a real rags-to-riches story, he thinks.

Dabi picks a cigarette out of his jacket and you stop fixing up the buttons on your dress to ask him not to light it inside. How will you explain the smell to your husband? Every move you make, every syllable that comes out of your mouth, is weighed down by despair. You look like you’ve been beaten.

He lights the cigarette anyway.

///

Before he had you the first time, Dabi thought once would be enough. Pretty naive, huh?

He makes it his mission to fuck you in every room of your husband’s gluttonously enormous mansion (what with your history Dabi has a hard time thinking of the house as yours, and considering the way you tiptoe around and seem like you’re afraid to move so much as a vase, he suspects you feel the same). There’s a lot of rooms.

When he shows up at your door again you don’t even bother to hear him out, instead just trying to shut it on him, but he forces his way in. You wouldn’t want to make him mad, would you? Not when he’s got such a filthy secret hanging over your head? Will your husband keep paying for your designer shopping trips when he knows you’re a street rat who used to steal everything she wore? Will he still kiss you goodnight when Dabi tells him you used to wrap those pretty lips around strangers’ cocks for money?

If you want Dabi to keep quiet, you’re going to have to convince him the best way you know how. A cockwhore is a cockwhore. That’s not the kind of stain you get to wipe away with time and distance and expensive clothing.

In the kitchen: standing up, your back to his front and your hands barely holding you up on the counter, so hard and rough and deep that the dishes are rattling in the pantry. One of your teacups falls out of the glass china cabinet and shatters into a million fragments in a four foot radius over the tiled floor. Neither of you notice until after. Blunt red lines press themselves into the tops of your thighs where he’s shoving your body into the edge of the counter and there are bruises on your tits from how hard he’s groping you.

In the dining room: sitting on the edge of the table, one of your legs hiked up beside you and the other on a chair while Dabi kneels on the ground in front of you, his head between your thighs and his tongue flicking over your pussy. You start off thinking that you’re going to have to sanitize the entire mahogany surface before you can eat off it again and then he licks his lips and sucks on your throbbing clit and you don’t really think about anything else after that.

In your husband’s study: doggy-style on the floor in front of the fireplace, facedown, his body folded over yours, pressing you so deep into the tacky lion-skin rug that you can taste it. He sighs in your ear—actually, you’re not sure if it’s a sigh or a growl—and his hand comes up to cover yours. You feel the metal stitches and the rough burned skin scraping on your own and it reminds you that it’s him. It’s Dabi.

(A few days after his 13th birthday, the Dabi you used to know told you that he was going to dye his hair—he wanted to be unrecognizable, and you understood, so you found some old scissors and stole hair dye from the pharmacy and you spent three long hours chopping his hair into rough spikes and painting it black. When you washed the dye out of his hair in the sink, your hands were stained inky black too. When he saw, he looked worried and weaved his fingers in with yours and asked if the dye would hurt your skin if it stayed on too long.

And you looked back at this kid—small for his age then, burned by his own quirk, trying so hard to look older and tougher than any 13-year-old should have to be, and you thought to yourself, I would die for you.)

Now you hear Dabi growling out your name and squeezing your hand as he reaches his climax and you think, I would kill you if I could.

///

Dabi saves the master bedroom for last.

Your husband is hosting a party at your house. Dabi knows because you begged him not to come today, looking up at him with those doe-like eyes, offering things you never would have offered if it weren’t important to you that he stay away on this particular evening. But he still comes to crash it. He arrives just minutes before your husband does, and you have barely enough time to tuck him away on the dark bedroom balcony and pull the curtains closed before your husband is opening the door and greeting you.

Dabi settles himself into one of the tasteful Adirondack chairs on the balcony and listens to your voice, or at least what he can hear of it through the sliding glass door. You’re sweeter with your husband than you are with Dabi, and he should’ve known you’d be, but it still makes him hate your husband more than he already did.

On the other hand, there’s something strained and high and nervous in the way you’re speaking. Probably because your husband is standing about twenty feet away from the man you’re cheating on him with.

It takes a while for the two of you to dress for the party, but finally Dabi hears you tell your husband that you’d like to take a little longer to get ready and bid him goodbye. “Love you,” you say to the old man as he leaves the room, so casually Dabi might not have heard it if he wasn’t listening.

Then you’re opening the door and ushering him inside and telling him anxiously that he has to get out before anyone sees him. But, oh, you look nice like this, dolled up in your evening gown and makeup and diamonds, trying to pull him to the door even though you must know by now that he’s not going to leave it there. Instead of following, he backs you up onto the bed and peels down the straps of your dress and slides his hands up under the skirt, and all the while he can’t stop thinking about what you said to your husband.

You used to say that to Dabi.

The first time it was an accident—you’d mentioned it off-hand during a night when it was snowing and his unnaturally high body temperature was the only thing keeping the two of you alive. “God, I love you,” you’d said, draping your arm around his shoulders and pulling him in close to share his heat.

It had stunned him and you could probably tell. Maybe the next few times were just you taking pity on a kid who had never been told so casually and so simply that he was loved. But eventually you meant it, the little love you’s before you went to sleep or when one of you went off to do something alone for a few days—a familial love borne of mutual reliance. For the years Dabi was a runaway with you, you were the only person he could trust, and he knows the feeling was mutual.

Now he wants you to tell him you love him again.

It would be hot, wouldn’t it? You telling Dabi you love him while he forces you into a mating press on the bed you share with your husband. Isn’t that hot? You’re never going to be able to sleep on these sheets again without remembering his hands on your body, his tongue in your mouth, his cock filling you in ways you haven’t been filled since you were 19.

How are you gonna lay next to your husband in this sad cold bed? ‘Cause that old fuck isn’t touching you, Dabi knows that much—if he was, he’d’ve noticed by now that you’re always covered in bite marks and hickeys that he didn’t give you. How are you gonna sleep at night knowing what a nasty slut you are, telling another man you love him?

So say it. Say you love him.

Oh, you’re going to be like that, aren’t you? What did he tell you about being a fucking brat when he’s talking to you? See if you’re still so defiant when he’s got his hand stroking the length of that pretty throat and then sealing down on it, squeezing gently on the veins running up the sides of your neck, not too hard, but enough that you’re probably getting a little dizzy while he continues to fuck into you. Does it hurt? Your face is turning pink. Uh-uh-uh, don’t try to pull his hand off, or he’ll show you just how good he is with his quirk these days.

You’re trying to choke out the words but you can’t quite make them make sense. There’s something endearing about the way your whimpers vibrate through the skin of Dabi’s palm, how he can hear you as well as feeling you. Oh—could you say his name too? He knows you’re feeling all fucked-out and wet and sloppy, every moan rising and falling in time with his cock stretching your pussy open, but can’t you give it a little more effort? He’s sure you can get his name out if you really try.

And if you’re not going to cooperate, Dabi may as well just dig the heel of his knuckle into your windpipe, because you really do tighten up so deliciously when you cough and sputter like that. Fuck, if you keep doing that, he’s going to cum, gonna cum right here in your syrupy pussy and spill it all over your marriage bed—but no, he wants to hear you say it first, so when you’re gagging and turning red and your eyes are watering he finally stops choking you, loosening his grip just enough that his hand is resting on your neck in a lover’s touch. It takes you a second and your voice is so hoarse he can barely hear it, but then you’re speaking and something jumps in his chest—

“I…I love—love y-you, Touya!” you sob. “I love you! I—love you, Touya—Touya—Touya—!”

And ah fuck it’s almost exactly right, your voice saying you love him, saying his real name, a name he hasn’t heard for years because you’re the only one who really knows it anymore—but you’re crying, real heavy sobs while you gulp in frantic lungfuls of oxygen. Your ribcage is heaving underneath him and—god, fuck—your guts are clenching, sucking down on every inch of his cock, every vein—

—oh shit fuck fuck he’s cumming, and he presses his face into your neck, into your hair, kissing you and thinking I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you—

—please stay, forever.

///

When he’s done, he goes for another round just to make sure you’re going to have cum dripping down your thighs when you go back to the party. No panties, unless you want him to walk through the grand foyer with all the other guests on his way out.

You don’t look at him as you fix your dress and your hair and wipe at your smeared makeup. With your eyeliner rubbed down to the bottom of your eyes, Dabi’s reminded a little of how you used to look—and the reminder is doubled when you slide your legs across the side of the bed and limp over to your vanity, walking hesitantly, your hips rocking from side to side. Damn, did he fuck you that hard?

Reminds him of the old days, you shuffling back to the hideout with that same awkward pain in your gait, purple marks around your neck, and a dim smile decorating your face—for his sake. Oh, and cash in your pockets. You’d tell him that the two of you were going out to eat that night and refuse to let him look at the injuries. God, it made him angry, it still makes him angry just thinking about it—angry at the men who bought you for treating you like that, angry at you for letting them. Angry at himself for not being old enough or strong enough or rich enough to stop them.

Anger, yes…and other things too. There had been a sick, insidious part of him that wanted to be in their position. He’d hated himself for it back then, until you left and the desire to punish you for abandoning him got twisted up with the desire to own you and keep you his. Maybe if he let himself think about it, he’d still hate himself for what he’s doing to you.

By now, you’re too good at covering up the bruises. A sweep of foundation and powder passes over each hickey he left on your throat and it’s like he never touched you. You have to push him off the bed so you can strip the sheets and replace them. When you’re done, you tell him to wait a few minutes after you leave to sneak out the back and he makes another half-joke about joining the party and introducing himself to your old man—

—and you shove him up against the wall with all the strength left in you, wrap your hand around his neck, and dig your fingernails under the line of piercings in his cheek. If he even looks at your husband, if he even thinks about it, you’ll rip his goddamn face open, you tell him in a low snarl.

It’s an empty threat (you and he both know who would win in a physical altercation) but there’s real hatred behind it. Dabi hasn’t seen that kind of fire in your eyes since he found out you became a trophy wife. It makes him want to have you again so he does, pulling your arms away from his face, standing and holding you up against the door to your bedroom, forcing you to wrap your arms around his neck and cling to him to keep from falling.

He’s lubed up by his own cum, and the wet squelching of your pussy just reminds him what a mess you’re going to be when you return to high society tonight. Maybe your husband will be able to smell it on you—the cum, the sex, the other man who’s been keeping his darling wife warm while he’s at work.

Well, probably not. If that stupid fucking cuckold hasn’t figured it out by now, there’s not much of a chance he’ll get it on his own. As Dabi sinks into your tight, gummy cunt again, he decides that he might just have to help the process along. A man deserves to know if his wife is being unfaithful, right?

///

Your husband’s office phone number is written on a post-it note that’s tacked to the desk of his study. It takes Dabi 40 minutes and $30 to buy a burner cell phone, leave a message on the man’s voicemail, and toss the burner in the kitchen trash at your house while you’re in the shower.

The message is short and straightforward. Dabi introduces himself as ‘the man who’s sleeping with your wife’, describes the floor plan of your husband’s house and what position he fucked you in for each room, and finally finishes it off with the evidence—the precise size and location of every hickey he’s left on your body that will still be visible by the time your husband returns from work.

Dabi almost wishes your husband had picked up the call—he’d’ve had a good time explaining in pornographic detail the way your tits look under those too-formal dresses, the way you moan when you cum in his mouth, the way you told him you loved him while he choked you out—with your husband in the house, no less. But this is fine too.

Besides, it’ll be so fucking funny if someone else at your husband’s company hears the message before he does.

///

Whore. Your husband called you a whore.

You’ve been called a whore a lot, actually. More than most people. You should be used to it by now. But it’s different when your husband says it. Your husband, the man who rescued you from a life of poverty and starvation, the man who has given you everything you own, the man who slid a ring onto your finger under a wedding arch and promised to love you in good times and in bad. The man you’ve almost convinced yourself you love back.

He called you a whore and slapped you when you tried to explain yourself and shoved you out the door and locked it. You can still hear his voice telling you the only place he wants to see your face again is in a casket.

So that’s why when Dabi comes to collect you, you’re hugging your knees to your chest on your front porch in your shiny lace-edged slip nightdress, hair in a mess around your head and your lip bleeding onto your chin. Your feet are so cold—your husband didn’t even give you time to put shoes on before he threw you out.

The night is cool and dark but the porch light buzzes on for half a minute when Dabi climbs up the steps to come crouch next to you on the doorstep. You try not to look at him, but he tilts your face toward his, electric-blue eyes skimming over the red mark and blue-black discoloration blossoming across your cheekbone; the blood drying on your split lip.

Dabi asks calmly if your husband hit you, and you nod.

Good, he tells you, and his body lights up blue in a roiling cloud of flames. He’s been waiting for an excuse to kill that old fuck.

The fire is like lightning, bright and ghostly in the darkness. The crackling of the flame eats away at the heavy silence of the night and you crawl back from the dry heat of it, sure you can feel your eyebrows singeing from being near. Dabi looks different backed by the inferno—bigger, crueler. Frightening. He reaches at the door but you shout at him to stop.

Why? Don’t you think he should suffer, after what he did to you?

But your fists clench by your sides and you set your teeth and you tell Dabi that if he’s going to kill your husband, he may as well set himself on fire too, because it’s his fault in the first place. And he’s done a lot worse to you than one slap.

Dabi waits a moment, searching your alarmed expression for something, but whatever he’s hoping for you don’t give him and the flames go out. The air smells like smoke and his hands are hot—not burning, but uncomfortably hot—when he kneels in front of you and rubs a thumb over your bruised cheek.

“(Y/N)—” Dabi starts, and then he can’t find a way to finish. So he just gathers you up in his arms and carries you bridal-style down into the lawn and to the driveway, where he’s got a car waiting to take you guys back to his place. You don’t resist, which surprises him again. He thought you’d push away at him, scream, get angry—he thought he’d have to convince you. Or force you, like he usually does. But you just let him deposit you in the seat next to the driver’s.

Before he gets in, he asks you if you need anything from your house. He can go get it for you. See if any balding motherfucker in his forties can stop him. But you just shake your head.

“There’s nothing,” you say blankly. “I have nothing. I…have nothing.”

Just like back then.

“Not nothing,” Dabi tells you, turning forward to the road so you can’t see the look on his face. “You have me.”

///

In the end, he does understand. He understood it the second he held that goodbye note in his hands and knew you were lost to him.

You were 17 when you met him and 19 when you left—hardly older than a child yourself. You barely had enough to provide for your own needs, much less a teenage boy’s. By the time you left, Dabi was more than capable of surviving on his own and already falling into ugly crowds, gangs and syndicates who saw money in his quirk, people you’d sacrificed a lot to keep him away from. He no longer needed you, and it was time for you two to go your separate ways. Dabi understands that.

But now you need him. Just like you needed him when you were fucking strangers for food money; like you needed him when you ran away; like you needed him when you got trapped in this mundane, sparkling-clean life, a life that was never going to fit you. Only this time—this time, Dabi’s old enough for you. He’s not a kid anymore, he’s a man. He’s got an apartment and a good job (well, kind of) and he’s got money. He can provide for you the way you’ve always needed him to.

Dabi’s going to take care of you, and you’re never, ever going to leave.

Touchdown

*gif not mine, credit goes to the owner*

I just want to take a moment to say thank you for the love on my last fic! It made my lil ole heart swell to see that peopled enjoyed it enough to leave a like or reblog.

This is just something special I had in my arsenal that I wrote for a friend a few months ago. I touched it up a bit and added a few things here and there. It all started when we were talking about how much we loved when Chris' accent got heavier after he'd been drinking, and well, I couldn't help myself lol. I hope you enjoy the fluff! xoxo

I apologize for any grammatical errors, I tried to proof-read but am also a little exhausted lol.

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Word Count: 2844

Warnings: I don't think there's anyway? Mentions of being drunk/drinking alcohol, cursing, and illusions to sexy times, but that's about it.

You hadn’t noticed how furiously your knee was bouncing up and down until the person sitting next to you on the subway got up to move seats once the train squealed to a stop. You sighed and ran your hands down the front of your thighs. Normally being a little late didn’t bother you as much, but tonight you were meeting him.

You flipped your wrist over to check your watch. 8:30pm. In all honesty, it had probably been only thirty seconds later than when you checked it the last time. Another deep sigh escaped from your lips as you started to become hyper aware of the train remaining still at the current stop. What could possibly be taking so long? You knew he wouldn’t care if you were running late, but the time the two of you had together already felt so minuscule. You wanted to capitalize on every second you could.

The train began moving again and you slumped back into your seat, feeling only a small amount of relief. It was becoming painfully apparent that you needed to try and relax. You could feel the sweat building up on your body, the sting on your palms from where your fingernails were pressing in with a vengeance moments ago, and you could hear your heart thumping in your ears. Your hand dug around in your purse for a few moments before finding the small case you were looking for. Opening it, you slipped your headphones into your ears and let your head rest on the window behind you as music intertwined with your thoughts.

Once upon a time, you made fun of people who decided to go to grad school. What kind of a clown would spend thousands of MORE dollars and go BACK to school?? Not to mention the stress of the assignments, the due dates - it was not for you...or so you thought.

Now here you are, a regular booboo the fool.

NYU’s graduate program for design and merchandising wasn’t necessarily part of your 5-year plan, but when the opportunity landed in front of you it was difficult to pass up. NYU was a school you had only dreamt of attending back in high school. When you were a senior in high school you were able to tour the campus and fell in love immediately. Hours upon hours were spent researching grants, scholarships, and all sorts of ways to try to make it happen. However, the dream ended as most teenage dreams do - crushed. There was no way you or your parents could afford the loans that it would surely wrack up to attend the out of state university, and there was no way you could ask your parents take on that kind of debt just so you could go to college. UMass was the way to go - close to home and familiar. Not to mention you were able to obtain several scholarships and grants that helped bring down the cost tremendously. Little did you know, boring ole UMass would bring you one of the most important things in your life.

Applying for graduate school wasn’t an easy decision and one you couldn’t really take all the credit for. A smile crept across your face as you reminisced on the night you nervously brought up the idea to your long-term boyfriend.

“I think you should do it,”

“I know, right?” you scoffed, “it’s insane, why would I do something so stup...wait, what? You do?”

“Of course I do. This is something you love and that you’re passionate about. Do you know how many hours of my life were spent listening to you ramble about NYU?” he questioned with a grin.

“It will open up so many doors for you. We can make things work,” a chuckle escaped from those beautiful lips as he saw your dumbfounded expression. He wrapped his fingers around your waist and pulled you close, “What? Did you expect me to forbid it? Cmon, baby, what kind of guy do you take me for?”

You didn’t have a lot of wins in your life, but you did have Chris.

When you got accepted, he took off a week from work to drive you 3 and a half hours south to help get you settled and moved into your temporary new home. The two of you ate a disgusting amount of pizza, moved a ridiculous amount of heavy furniture in the middle of a summer heat wave, and enjoyed each other’s company before the long-distance thing would set in. Chris spent that week encouraging you every step of the way, talking you off the ledge when you were convinced you had made the wrong decision, and made sure to help you christen every possible surface of your new place in the most deliciously sinful way.

You bit your lip slightly at the thought and a warm feeling spread across your face. Chris was one of the most incredible people you had met in this world. Kind, caring, funny, intelligent, passionate, and god was he sexy. The connection the two of you had was scary at first, but now you just couldn’t imagine spending your life with anyone else.

The robotic voice came over the loud-speaker in the subway car and you were rudely ripped back to reality as it pulled into your stop. You hurriedly scooped up your bag and jogged off the train.

It had been a promise between the two of you when you moved that there would be equal effort when it came to visiting and keeping in contact while having good, open communication. Long distance was hard but the two of you were determined to make it work. FaceTime calls, hours upon hours of texting, and even as far as writing the occasional letter back and forth (because your boyfriend was a hopeless romantic and you loved it so much). This weekend was your turn to come home to visit, and of course your last class had to go longer than anticipated. Fuckin’ Tiffany and her stupid ass questions.

The muscles of your calves burned as you kept up your hurried pace, weaving through the crowds of people gathered on sidewalks outside of various clubs and restaurants. It was a weekend night and the Patriots were playing, which meant the city was more alive than usual. New York was it's own beast, but it was a different type of hustle and bustle. Nights like these made your heart ache for home - the thick Massachusetts accents, the rowdy voices of bar patrons arguing about the game, the hugs shared between family members as they parted after dinner, and the faint smell of nicotine and alcohol that hung in the air.

As the neon sign that hung in the pub window came in to view you felt your heart dip down into your stomach. Last weekend’s visit had to be cancelled due to some stuff coming up with Chris’ work and a surprise assignment for you, so you hadn’t seen your boyfriend in 2 weeks. With a deep breath you swung open the door and scanned the crowd for him. He told you that he would be there promptly at 7:15pm for pregame shenanigans with his friends - which actually translated to how many pitchers of beer could they suck down before kick off.

“Aw, come ON! That is such a bullshit call!”

You heard him before you saw him. Of course. A grin spread across your lips as you shook your head. The thought of leaving to avoid secondhand embarrassment crossed your mind briefly before you picked up your feet and made your way through the crowd toward the sound. A room full of people from New England and you would still recognize that voice anywhere.

Everyone else seemed to fade away as you saw the outline of the tall, dark haired man standing at the bar. The slight freckles that spattered the back of his neck, the Brady jersey that he spent WAY too much money customizing, and the signature backward ball cap were ingrained in your subconscious memory. Not to mention if you didn’t recognize his outline or his voice, you would definitely recognize that ass anywhere.

You loved how passionate he got about sports and the way his Boston accent seemed to get thicker with each beer he consumed. Growing up in the area, you wouldn't think the accent would send a tingle down your spine the way it does, but it was different - it was Chris. Not to mention the sparkle in his eye when he would watch his favorite team or the way he would get in to arguments whenever someone tried to say something negative about them. You loved your big, handsome, over-sized toddler man so damn much.

A light tap on his shoulder made him whip around, his slightly opened mouth from his interrupted conversation curved upwards into a wicked grin as he made the connection of who was finally standing in front of him.

“Hey there, handsome. I don’t see a ring on your finger. You single?” You grinned, feeling your entire body fill with warmth as Chris leaned back and grabbed his chest as he erupted in laughter.

“Nah, nah, nah, unfortunately for you I am taken” he responded as he snaked his arms around your waist, sliding his hands into your back pockets as he pulled you into his figure.

“That is too bad,” you tsk'd, running a finger down his toned bicep, “she’s one lucky girl.”

“I think I’m the lucky one,” he grinned. He leaned down to meet your lips in a kiss. You sighed into it, allowing your body to mold itself so perfectly into his. The taste of beer on his lips and the smell of his cologne was intoxicating - it was home. You immediately allowed him entrance as you felt his tongue glide along your bottom lip. Your body felt small in his strong grip and you couldn’t help but laugh a bit as he gave your ass a firm squeeze. Normally, this type of bold, public display of affection would make you cringe away but at this point you were lost in Chris that you had absolutely no shame. Each time the two of you embraced had always felt like the first. Your heart still fluttered and your knees still got weak, like you were a 16 year old being kissed for the first time.

In the middle of your reunion moment, however, something happened in the game that made the entire bar erupt in boo’s and curses. Chris lifted his lips from yours to look over his shoulder and inspect what he had missed. You laughed and shook your head as you pushed him back towards his friends and took a seat in the bar stool he had been standing behind initially. His large hands found a natural place on your shoulders. While his eyes remained glued on the TV he began applying a moderate amount of pressure to your neck and shoulders. You didn’t realize how much your body craved that touch, his touch, until you immediately melted back into him.

The bartender slid a beer in front of you with a wink and you mouthed your thanks. You felt a twinge in your heart as you looked around, taking in the atmosphere of the bar. This was a typical weekend night for the two of you whenever you were living together. Football, drinks, pub food, and friends. If it wasn’t this pub it was your living room, just a couple blocks away. You didn’t even mind that it was your first night back and you weren’t alone, spending it immediately wrapped up in your satin sheets. The atmosphere, the people - it was so warm and familiar that you really wouldn’t rather be doing anything else. Plus, being wrapped up together in the sheets was sure to follow.

“I missed you,” hummed a pair of lips as they placed a kiss on the shell of your ear. A shiver shot down your spine at the sensation of his warm breath fanning over your neck. You reached up a hand and connected it to the nape of his neck.

“I missed you too,” you replied, turning your head to plant a kiss on his stubbled cheek.

His arms changed position as he wrapped them in front of your shoulders and crossed them, resting his chin on the top of your head. Your hand absentmindedly rubbed his forearms as you nursed your beer and placed your focus onto the game for the first time tonight.

The laughter seemed to escape from your chest naturally and effortlessly the entire night, as it always had a habit of doing when Chris was around. The camaraderie between him and his buddies during a game was something you’d grown to enjoy over the years. Chris’ competitive nature and the way his jaw clenched when something wasn’t going the way he wanted was always kinda...hot. All of his friends were huge assholes, but in the best way. It was always entertaining to hear them jab at each other and do what they could to rile someone up. They were the life of every party you had ever attended and they had a way of making a boring night a lot more interesting.

Thankfully (for the integrity of the bar) the Pats won the game with a surprise touchdown in the last 30 seconds of the game. Chris, being the guy he is, bought a final round for his friends and a nearby group they had been going back and forth with all night. You couldn’t help but laugh as he drunkenly leaned across the counter and slurred his order to the bartender.

“I need a round for m’friends and for these assholes over here who thought Tom Brady was anything but a winner!” the group started yelling in protest and he simply waved them off and started sliding beers down the bar.

The group eventually moved to a bigger round top so everyone could shoot the shit and banter about the outcome of the game. You were tucked into Chris’ side, hands intertwined as he was passionately discussing the importance of Brady’s legacy with a stranger who made the mistake of stopping to talk to him. Your eyes followed the motion of your thumb as it traced small circles onto the back of his. Your other hand under your chin, holding up the weight of your head as your exhaustion started to catch up with you. Chris, although slightly drunk, picked up on your body language and raised your hand to his lips for a kiss.

“Alright, fellas,” he said as he stood up from his seat, pulling you up with him, “the lady and I are gonna call it a night. See you boys next weekend”.

“Chris, we don’t have to go,” you began to protest as he tucked his jacket around your shoulders.

“Mm, ‘course we do,” he replied with a soft smile, “you’re so tired, baby. I can see it in those beautiful eyes”.

You could feel your cheeks turn a light shade of pink as you rolled your eyes at his attempt at laying it on thick. After what felt like a proper 10 minute goodbye session, the group said their final goodbyes, hugs included, and you walked out of the pub hand in hand.

The walk home was filled with the sounds of cars passing by and conversation of what each other had missed in the week prior. Small talk typically felt like such a chore, but with Chris every conversation came naturally. Even when he had absolutely no idea what you were talking about, he would listen intently and ask all the questions as if it was the most interesting conversation in the world.

The lock on the apartment door clicked as you pushed it open and entered. You smiled as you stopped into the middle of the living room, taking in the home you missed so dearly. A soft tapping of toenails against the hardwood made your heart soar as you met the eyes of your sweet pup, Dodger. A squeal left your lips as you squatted down to give love to the sweet boy. Chris always made fun of you when you came home, saying that you always seemed to miss Dodger more than you did him and I mean, he wasn’t entirely wrong about that statement.

Once again lost in your own world, you didn’t even notice Chris leaned up against the wall watching you with a smile.

“Oh my god,” you gushed, standing up, “do you like...like me or something?”

Chris grinned as he crossed the room and caught your belt loop with his finger, pulling you into him slowly.

“Yeah,” his voice had dropped down an octave, “you could say that”.

“Mm,” your tongue swiped across your lower lip and you wrapped your arms around his neck, “care to show me how much?”

The look in his eyes made your core burn. The tension building between you two became too much to handle as you crashed your lips into his. The kisses were messy and you could feel the sense of urgency between you two. His beard scratched against the column of your throat with a delicious burn as he left wet kisses across your jaw and down the side of your neck. Chris’ hands found their way back into the ass pockets of your jeans as he started walking you back towards the direction of the bedroom.

Soon, there was a trail of clothes leading to your bedroom and you felt very sorry for your neighbors. It had been a long time, but Chris always had a way of welcoming you home.

How RE Village (8) SOLVED almost every problem that I had with RE Series

Okay - a few weeks ago I made a post that was “The ones that suffer the most” where I showed and explained my main problems with Chris and Jill and the RE series in general 

RE 1 is my fav game of this series and probably one of my all time favs, I player every RE there is to be played except 4 (because I dislike Leon, sry) 

Recently, specially after 4, the franchise had a few problems, specially in writing/map design/lore 

Resident evil 5 for example (I love this game) but it has it flaws, Chris there is only driven by anger and action - Sheva is used as a tool for lore exposition and to be Chris’s new partner 

PLEASE: be aware that game at that generation didn’t have much lore - with some exceptions, like God of War 1 2 3 were a simply game with a simple lore, and the most recent GoW has evolved a little bit in the storytelling

Until we hit rock bottom in RE6 - I know a lot of people like this game, but this is only and action game, bad writing and generic stages. 

Chris there is so mistreated that makes me mad (if you want to read more about this go to my other post “the ones that suffer the most”)

Until RE7 appeared, Capcom had a new engine and they wanted to do a game that was more horror like - since RE is know for being a Survival horror game.

I liked 7 - some people complained about Ethan being without emotion and others complained about the mold, a few didn’t like the FEAR vibes from Eveline. 

I personally enjoyed the game, I thought RE series was going back on track, that game has it’s problems but it was really nice compared to what we had in 6.

After that game I had a conversation with my best friend and I said that I wanted a game that portrayed Umbrella’s fall since the only game that shows this is Umbrellas Chronicles (and that is most a resume of what happened)

And I said: “Bro, I wish that when they made that game, they could tie some mythological lore and human evolution before Umbrella - using Spencer, this would solve LOT OF STUFF and open new ways to handle this series”

and guess what - this happened in RE8 and kudos to the one writer that did that, i have my gratitude. 

RESIDENT EVIL 8 is probably one of the BEST RE games that we had IN YEARS

And I want to address all thing that I loved in this game and do some predictions to what will happen in the next games.

“WELL WELL IF IT ISN’T ETHAN WINTERS” (The Father of the year)

My father was not a great guy... really, so I want to be the best dad ever, I really want be like Ethan - a guy who is ready to sacrifice and fight every monster in the way to save my family. 

Ethan was a character that in RE7 was used to make us fell like that it was us in the Baker’s house, so that is why he didn’t had that much personality (in my opinion) but they changed that in RE8, here he has nice dialogues AND a diary 

He has one of the best story line in the whole REverse, a guy that did EVERYTHING in his power to save his daughter - and you saw that playing the game, every sentence line that he delivered, he tried to save others too and even tho Chris said to him stay put ... but he couldn’t, he had to go to the altar, he had to help Chris, he had to go forward and keep going, specially after having the tools to face Heisenberg. 

The plea from a father, that was his last wish, after he heard that Mia was alive he knew that someone had to stop that monster, he made a promise to his daughter “Daddy won’t let those weird fairy tale monsters get you” so he trusted Chris, to be the one that teaches his kid how to be brave and strong

I will not address Chris and Rose situation here because this is Ethans part and he deserves completely all the spotlight, his sacrifice was 100x times better than Steve (CV)/Piers(6)

My cheers to Ethan Winters - You have my respect !

Revelations -> RE8 

So leaks from earlier times said that RE8 sucked and Revelations 3 was amazing

Revelations FYI is know for using old tales in RE stories 

Revelations 1 - Dante’s Inferno 

Revelations 2 - Frans Kafka 

Revelations 3 - Dracula 

But since RE8 sucked, Capcom said to the REV3 team that they could make REV3 become RE8 and they accepted 

Revelations series is one of the best in the games, they handle Jill in a way that I love, Claire and even Barry - so they deserve all the spotlight for making this awesome game - you CLEARLY can see that they love this series and that they treat all the characters with the love that they deserve. 

Keeping that in mind, they are the same team that made Rev 2 and in REV 2 we have this file here 

So they had a plan for Jill and we can see that in RE8 - I will address that later but keep that in mind - this team cares for the old characters, they were the ones that brought Barry back to the games :V 

Chris Redfield 

This is a hard one, because he is my fav character and I usually have the most critics regard him, since I’ve expect a lot from Capcom 

In the latest games they made him kind dumb, only muscles type of guy and an alcoholic that let all the people in his surroundings die (RE5,RE6,Vendetta) 

RE6 treats him the WORST

But in RE8 he had an amazing part in the storyline, it was obvious that he wasn’t evil and they FIXED HIS EYE COLOR - FINALLY 

I still don’t like the model face that much but it’s way better than 7 - so I believe Capcom, I still feel that he need more jawline 

But let’s go to the most important thing - here he really feels like a squad leader and a veteran, he has his team but he is the one in the front line, he covers and ask for help when he needs, everything about his line delivery makes you feel like “Woah, this guy is a badass, he is not some stupid guy only driven by emotions”

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR FINALLY GETTING THIS RIGHT 

If you remember my post about the ones that suffer the most / Jill is also in that list and I will talk about her a little bit later but if my guess is right RE8 saved her character aswell

Another thing that I enjoyed here is the fact that he is kind of a mercenary / Neo Umbrella kind of guy, even tho he is one of the founders of the BSAA

So I will give you all my score to this game: 

9/10

I won’t give 10/10 because of some technical issues, the cursor lock didn’t work and mouse sensitivity was i dunno, not the best. 

RE8 and the future (PREDICTIONS)  - Jill Valentine, Chris Redfield, BSAA, Neo Umbrella, Ada Wong and Rosemary

First let’s look Rose

The first time I saw Rose all grown up - I thought to myself : She has the same problem as Eveline (age a lot faster than normal) 

But she also absorbed Miranda’s power since the metalicite (something like this) thought that she was a better host. - so maybe she will live longer or something because I doubt that they will do a 14 years time skip. 

This is not the same as Terra Save logo (Claire’s job) but it kind reminds me of it - her shoes appeared at least 3 times in this cut scene so maybe they are trying to show some hints with this 

She really reminds me of Jodie (Beyond two souls, a game where a girl has a lot of power and the gov uses her in missions and stuff, but she also is learning how to be her own person) 

Another thing here is that they don’t have a logo in this car, it really reminds me the car that Chris as using in RE8 

This supports the theory that Chris’s organization is dealing with her instead of the BSAA, the she is a hot headed girl and that she had a lot of powers. 

So here you can say that she is just a kid because she is a teenager, but what if she actually grows older really fast (like Eveline) maybe this is just 1 year later / 2 yrs later. (after RE8)

So this is the tricky part, this is Chris’s guard/soldier, someone that Chris trust to stand by her side, in my mind I do believe that Chris is kind of a father figure to her, so when this guys says this he is thinking about hot head Chris but she replies “Yeah” thinking about Ethan - (she has the mold memories, so she can actually remember Ethan’s memories) 

Now let’s look at this 

BSAA 

So in REV1 is hinted that BSAA is not the best organization in the world, but since our heroes work there we think that they are the good guys right ? 

In REV 2 (it’s important to remember that the team that created RE8 is the same from the REVELATIONS and they had this file here in REV2)

This email is from Jill and what does Jill have ? T-Virus 

Wesker is a different case since he was a project and she had the vaccine but this would make a lot of sense if they had this tests with Jill to get the T-Virus

If that is the case, they explained Jill’s absence in the main games, could even explain why Chris left BSAA and opened a new window to a lot of possibilities 

My Predictions: 

- Chris had trouble dealing with BSAA and Jill’s case, he wanted to get her out of there, maybe he removed her from there but that resulted in him being expelled from the force

-Jill may or may not know what they are doing with her blood, but she will have a huge part in the BOW used by BSAA 

-Chris is married to Jill (sorry- I had to place this here, in a perfect world he has two kids with her and they all love aunt Rose) 

-Chris will hopefully be a father figure to Rose and they will be in a game together since in the end they came to get her

-Rebecca is still involved in BSAA activities (leak from new REV3) if you consider Vendetta canon, she maybe the one that used Jill’s sample of blood to create the virus soldiers

-Barry maybe retired 

-I don’t think Leon will be in this game, but he will get his RE4 Rmk 

- I do believe RE9 will be release after Code veronica rmk and MAYBE they will do a game about Umbrella’s Fall (Chris and Jill in Europe against Red Queen and BOWs) 

But that is it, you can see a lot of elements from old RE games in RE8, they tried to do something really smart and the game felt amazing to play, that was something else and it’s been a while since a player a RE game that made me feel that way <3

The Nie brothers time travel but something goes wrong and they end up in each other bodies. So now they have to defeat WRH, find a way to curb JGY worst tendencies, and hide (and undo) the switch before any cultivator decides they are possesed by evil spirits

“I can’t do this,” Nie Huaisang announced heavily. “I can’t. Nope. Cannot. No way.”

“You apparently found a way to time travel into the past,” his brother pointed out. He was taking this entire thing very calmly – or, rather, like he’d heard a really great joke. It wasn’t that Nie Huaisang had forgotten that his brother had a sense of humor hidden under the rage, especially in the earlier years before Jin Guangyao got at him, but he may have downplayed his memories of how annoying it was to be the target of it. “Your abilities are clearly well beyond what you’ve been leading me to believe.”

“I’m sneaky,” Nie Huaisang explained. “I can scheme and plot and play politics, sometimes, if I have to. But I cannot be a general!”

I cannot be you, he meant. He might currently be inhabiting his long-dead brother’s body – an unfortunate side effect of messing up the time travel array, he suspected, but then again experimental things were often imperfect – while his brother’s spirit had been cast out into his own former self, but he wasn’t his brother.

He could never be.

(But Nie Mingjue was alive, alive and well with bright eyes and that stupid smirk that didn’t fit right on Nie Huaisang’s smaller face except in the ways it sort of did, and that was all Nie Huaisang had ever wanted in his life, other than Jin Guangyao to pay in blood and shame for depriving him of it.)

“Why not?” his brother asked. He leaned back and stretched lazily. Nie Mingjue never did a lazy thing in his whole life, so it was deliberate. He was enjoying this. “We have a battle strategy, already decided; most of the rest of it is on-the-ground tactics, which can be done just as well from behind the lines as at the front of them. There’s a reason that no one ever settled on the best place for a war-leader to be – it comes down to temperament.”

Nie Huaisang threw his hands into the air. “I know that! I was sect leader for nearly two decades, da-ge; I assure you, I’ve heard all the sect’s philosophical musings by now. But I don’t have your temperament – there’s no way someone won’t figure out what’s happened, that we’ve switched, and that’ll be a disaster.”

“Two decades,” Nie Mingjue said thoughtfully, focusing on the entirely wrong part of the conversation.

“A decade and a half to avenge your untimely murder,” that got a flinch out of his brother and his focus back, just as Nie Huaisang had wanted, “and another five to find a way to come back and avert it entirely.”

Nie Huaisang had always been resourceful. Resourceful, and ruthless – sometimes to a degree that scared even him.

When he was younger, it was okay. After all, the only thing he used it for was sneaking treats and spoiling himself, and it didn’t really matter if he was ruthless about stuff like that. And then his brother died – was murdered – and suddenly he knew what it was like to be his brother: a young man suddenly shoved into the role of sect leader, and having to balance everything he now had to be against the overwhelming blistering hatred he bore for and the crippling weight of the vengeance he had sworn against a man who had taken away someone he loved forever for something as pointless and ephemeral as political advantage.

(He had to take a deep breath at the mere thought of it, the family rage spiking under his skin. It was a bit of a surprise, actually, to find that his brother didn’t have more of it - he’d always assumed that his rage was lesser, weaker, the way his golden core was, but no. It turned out their rage was just the same.)

“So what you’re saying,” his brother said, and he was smirking again, oh no, “is that you’re focused, efficient, and unyielding in pursuit of your goals, given the right motivation. That sounds like general material to me.”

“Not if the goal is to make sure no one knows what’s happened,” Nie Huaisang hissed. Had own face always looked so incredibly punchable? “Da-ge, it doesn’t matter what type of general I might be. What matters is that it’s not the same type of general you are – you’re always at the front line, leading the charge. I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can,” his brother said. “By the time you’re in the middle of a charge, you’re not really thinking tactics anymore. It’s all just fighting, and I know you know all the moves, no matter how much you bitch and moan about having to practice them.”

Nie Huaisang glared, crossing his arms over his chest – his brother’s arms, his brother’s chest, and this was still just too weird. He hadn’t even had time to properly weep and cry and hug his brother the way he’d expected to in the event the time travel array worked; they’d had to jump straight into explanations and strategizing because there was a pretty big battle happening in less than twenty-four hours and they needed to fix this first.

His brother rolled his eyes at him, and for the first time Nie Huaisang realized that his brother was going to have no problem at all pretending to be him – the acting problem here went only one way. “Just let Baxia handle the aggression part, okay? The rest is muscle memory, and I, at least, have done enough to build that in.”

“Letting the saber spirit in like that is dangerous, da-ge,” Nie Huaisang reminded him, eyes narrowed. His brother was also assuming that Baxia would agree to be wielded by anyone other than her beloved master, which was a stretch – she barely even agreed to be sharpened by someone else, resisting violently whenever someone tried. 

Jin Guangyao had died still bearing the scars from his attempt. 

“Well, apparently I get murdered before it becomes an issue, so why worry?” his brother cackled, and Nie Huaisang glared harder. It had no impact whatsoever: Nie Mingjue stood up and stretched again. “You know what, Huaisang, if you’re feeling the need to sit around and pity yourself, you’ve got at least a few incense sticks’ worth of time to do it in before actually doing something becomes necessary – I, on the other hand, am going to do something productive with my time.”

“Like what?”

His brother grinned at him with teeth. “Saber training. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

Nie Huaisang picked up a teacup and hurtled it at his beloved big brother’s head. Naturally, Nie Mingjue dodged, effortlessly, and left laughing.

“At least pretend like you’re going to behave!” Nie Huaisang bellowed after him, but his brother just waved at him, and – ugh. This was vengeance for a lifetime of laziness, wasn’t it? Coming to bite him in the ass.

After a few minutes, Nie Huaisang picked up another teacup – they always had dozens of them in the Nie sect, cheaply made in bulk and specifically designed to shatter easily because of the family tendency to throw stuff around and not calm down until something was broken, and better a cheap teacup than an expensive door or table, better something designed not to hurt anyone who happened to get in the way or didn’t know how to duck faster enough – and threw it against the door again.

It shattered beautifully. NIe Huaisang had only rarely been able to get it to do that, and never so effortlessly – the advantage of his brother’s strength.

Strength, and height. Nie Huaisang was tall now.

Okay, self-pity could wait until later. Nie Huaisang was going to go patrol the camp for a little bit and enjoy looking down at all the people.

It was going to be great.

It was, too. Even talking with people wasn’t as difficult as he thought it was going to be. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised at that; he had been sect leader for years, so he was accustomed to answering questions and making on-the-fly rearrangements and responding to things with leading questions that made the other person come up with the solution on their own, not to mention saying encouraging things that made people feel better about things. 

He’d had to do a lot of that, being the Head-shaker, and even more afterwards, when he’d shed his disguise like a cicada shedding its skin.

It was easier now than it had ever been before, of course. The Nie sect was still strong, under his brother’s leadership; his disciples didn’t have that discouraged look lurking in the back of their eyes, the shame of being led by the disgraceful Head-shaker. It was easy to brighten someone’s day with a nod in their direction, disciples blooming like roses at the sight of their stern sect leader looking approving, and the questions he received were far more intellectually stimulating than the usual – less about making sure he knew what he was supposed to do and more actual puzzles, things that had really tripped people up.

Nie Huaisang tried at first to keep his answers short, tried to pretend to be more stoic and stand-offish the way the famous Chifeng-zun ought to be, except when he did everyone just smiled at him the way they always had when he’d been the Head-shaker – a little indulgent, a little pitying, a little “well he’s trying his best” – and after a while Nie Huaisang started remembering things he’d long ago forgotten.

Things like how his brother was actually kind of a mess sometimes, emotionally speaking – he was the sort of person who got weepy over dramatic literature – and how he’d never quite gotten the hang of people, how he valued his friends like gold and held grudges way too long and promoted people just because they seemed decent; how he sometimes spent his entire money pouch and more on buying Nie Huaisang stupid trinkets because it seemed to make him happy, even borrowing money from their escort, which would always be doubled over laughing at how their fearsome sect leader couldn’t bring himself to say no.

Like how Nie Huaisang’s sect was his family, aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters, whether born in or adopted or just part of the sect. The good type of family – not always the closest, not always your friends, not always even people you really liked, but still all predisposed to take your side in a fight if it came down to it.

These were the people who supported him and stood behind him – even when he was the Head-shaker.

He’d almost forgotten.

And so, despite himself, Nie Huaisang softened a bit. He stopped trying to respond to everything with a grunt or a huff, started asking about people’s families, making suggestions, telling them they’d done a good job.

“Glad you’re out of your mood,” Nie Yongbiao, who’d been quietly trailing him, finally commented, and Nie Huaisang blinked owlishly at him. “What kicked it off this time? You usually only get that closed-mouth after having to host guests.”

And that was true, wasn’t it? It had been such a long time, and after so much trauma, that Nie Huaisang had forgotten how his brother used to shut down whenever there was a discussion conference or an important meeting – how it took him longer and longer to get better on the other side as the qi deviation drew nearer, his meridians filling with Jin Guangyao’s spiritual poison. By the end, he had barely ever been open and free, barely seemed to remember how to drop his guard and relax, to act like a regular person with a sense of humor again, be the person Nie Huaisang knew his brother to be. 

But that was then, and this was now - war had been good for Nie Mingjue, in a strange way. Here in the camps there was a lessened expectation of etiquette, a great appreciation of strength, and his brother was more free to be himself, straightforward and blunt as the off side of a saber.

(Nie Mingjue had tried so hard to be a good brother to Jin Guangyao, Nie Huaisang abruptly remembered, but he’d shut down after every visit, worse than ever before. His heart had known the truth, even if he had allowed himself to be convinced by Lan Xichen and Nie Huaisang to keep giving Jin Guangyao second chance after second chance. He should never have listened to them.)

“Argument with Huaisang,” he said, a safe answer, and Nie Yongbiao nodded wisely.

“Can you say what it was about?” he asked, rather unexpectedly – Nie Yongbiao wasn’t exactly talkative, and no one ever pried about their family affairs. Catching Nie Huaisang’s surprised look, he shrugged. “He’s obviously very upset.”

“He is?”

“He’s at the training field,” Nie Yongbiao stressed, and Nie Huaisang had to choke down a hysterical laugh. Of course Nie Yongbiao would think that something must have gone horribly wrong to get “Nie Huaisang” to go willingly to train.

Nor was Nie Yongbiao the only one, for that matter: when Nie Huaisang arrived at the training field they’d set up in the middle of the camp, he saw an entire crowd of Nie sect disciples milling around at the edge of the field, bearing a suspicious resemblance to a flock of over-anxious quail.

He reached up to his face, pretending to want to pinch the bridge of his nose but actually to smother a smile, and luckily he had regained control of his features by the time he reached the edge of the small sea of disciples because they immediately all turned to him with relieved expressions, their cries of “Sect Leader! Sect Leader!” ringing in his ears like the coos of his pet birds.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, and immediately received the full story: Nie Huaisang had come to the field looking upset – one person insisted there had been tears in his eyes – and had set himself up against a practice dummy, and he hadn’t stopped whacking at it ever since.

Clearly, the world was ending.

“We had an argument earlier,” Nie Huaisang admitted, and managed, barely, not to laugh at how they all looked at him with disapproving eyes. “I’ll talk with him.”

Approving nods all around, although they didn’t disperse.

“Sect Leader,” one of the older generation said, very hesitantly. “If it’s about – the clan matter – if there’s anything we can do to help –”

Nie Huaisang shook his head, feeling touched. When it really had been him, his brother had kept the specifics of it secret – the tombs, the inevitability, the deterioration he was so avidly trying to put off – until it was too late, and he’d had to learn about it the hard way; it was nice, though, that they apparently all worried so much on his behalf about it.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it. “But it’s a different issue.”

Namely, the issue was that the person doing the training wasn’t Nie Huaisang at all, he thought, but when the crowd finally started breaking apart, people going back to their assigned tasks, and he finally managed to make his way to where his brother was, he was surprised to see that his brother really did appear to be upset.

He wasn’t practicing any of his normal training routines, but rather wielding Aituan in the same way a novice woodcutter would wield an axe: repetitive strikes, made wildly and with too much strength, as if hitting the practice dummy was the only thing that could vent his feelings.

“Uh, ‘Huaisang’?” Nie Huaisang asked, worrying his lip as he came closer. “Are you –”

His brother dropped Aituan to the ground – which, hey! Watch it, that was his saber! – and turned, and Nie Huaisang had only a moment to see his glassy eyes before his brother threw himself forward, wrapping his arms around him and holding him tight.

Nie Huaisang automatically responded, wrapping his arms back around and holding Nie Mingjue close – it was nice, he thought, to finally have the reach he’d always felt he should have, big and tall and enveloping in its warm the way his brother had been for him.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, his voice low enough not to carry. “Did something happen…?”

“No,” Nie Mingjue said, but his lips were pressed together to keep them from trembling. Nie Huaisang’s body had always been free with his emotions, much to his annoyance; he’d learned to cultivate it into a disguise, but he hadn’t really liked it. Tears had never been a relief for him the way they’d been for his brother. “No, it’s nothing.”

“It’s obviously not nothing,” Nie Huaisang said firmly, and carted him off back to his tent. Being as worried as he was, he did his best not to be too smug about finally being the one who was strong enough to pick his brother up, rather than the other way around – not that he needed to, what with his brother following docilely along with him – but there was, perhaps, a little bit of smugness. “Okay, we’re back, silencing talismans are back up because we apparently have the nosiest disciples. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s nothing, really…”

“Da-ge.”

“I left you alone,” his brother blurted out, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes. “For twenty years. Whatever I did, however I got murdered – some moment of carelessness – it doesn’t matter. I failed you.”

Oh, no. No, no, no– 

“No,” he said out loud. “No, da-ge, you were tricked – it wasn’t – it wasn’t your fault.”

“I always said I would hold up the sky for you,” Nie Mingjue said bitterly. “And instead I left you with the same inheritance that I received. I never wanted that for you, Huaisang. Never.”

“Da-ge,” Nie Huaisang said helplessly. “Da-ge, you don’t understand. You were trying. You wanted – you were doing everything you could. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t fail me. I was the one who failed you. I’ve always failed you –”

“Never!”

“I’m lazy, I’m selfish, I’m good-for-nothing, a head-shaker –”

“So what?” his brother said, glaring up at him. His eyes were red, but with tears, not qi deviation. “Even if it’s true, which it isn’t, because no head-shaker could have avenged me, could have found a way to come back, could have become the Nie sect leader and kept it for two decades, even if it’s true – so what? As long as you’re safe, I don’t care. As long as you have a way to defend yourself, and you so obviously must have, then nothing else matters. Nothing has ever mattered but your happiness.”

“And yours,” Nie Huaisang shot back. “You have the right to a life too, da-ge! You – you should have had my support. You should have been able to share your burdens, I should have helped you instead of anchored you down –”

“Huaisang –”

Nie Huaisang pulled him in tight again. “It’ll be different, this time,” he promised, his voice rough. “I’m older than you ever go the chance to be, da-ge. This time, I can help you with the things you’re not good at – I can do the politics, the people. We can bear the weight of the sect together.”

He felt a whisper in the back of his mind that was strange and yet familiar, approving. Baxia, he realized. Baxia, approving of him; Baxia, who would let him wield her,   and he sensed her confidence that no one would get past her iron guard, together protecting his brother in both body and soul.

“All right,” his brother said. “Together. You and me – and the others.”

“Others?”

“After so many years, you must know who’s trustworthy,” Nie Mingjue pointed out. Already back to being practical, even if he was wiping his eyes. “If we tell those people, they can help us keep up the impression that I’m you and you’re me for as long as we need it.”

Nie Huaisang was nodding along, because that made sense, only then his brother said the last part and it was like a sunrise had opened up in his head, the way terrible and wonderful ideas always did.

“Da-ge,” he said, tasting the words in his mouth. “Da-ge, how do you like my body?”

His brother blinked up at him. “It’s fine, I guess? You’re actually in pretty decent shape, better than I thought, and your cultivation is – well, you could do a bit more with that, honestly, but it’s not uncomfortable or anything. Why?”

Nie Huaisang smiled. He’d always been remarkably resistant to their family’s cultivation curse, and not only, as he’d pretended to Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji all those years ago, because he didn’t practice - it was his temper, or lack thereof, that softened the saber spirit’s effects on him. 

Even if his body’s cultivation increased, he was far enough behind the curve, with his mediocre talent, that it would take decades for him to reach the level that it would be dangerous to him, while his brother’s prodigious talent, coupled with his inheritance of the family temper, made him even more likely to succumb – it was that prediction which had worried him so much that he had sought out treatment even before it had become a serious problem, the same worries that had driven him into Jin Guangyao’s trap.

What do you think? he asked the brand-new whisper in his mind. Aituan would probably bitch and moan about having to actually do things, but he’d secretly enjoy getting a bit more evil-killing in; the question was Baxia. What would she think?

A purr of agreement.

“I was just thinking,” Nie Huaisang said. “Chronologically speaking, I’m older than you are. I ran the sect for years – it might be hard to let go of that habit. How about we just…stay as we are, for now?”

Nie Mingjue frowned. “Baxia –”

“I’ll use her in public, and Aituan in private,” Nie Huaisang interrupted. He’d known that would be his brother’s first concern. “And you’ll do the opposite. And when we’re settled enough, we’ll come up with some excuse to switch.”

His brother hesitated. “But…you don’t like doing things. Responsibility. That sort of thing.”

“I got over it,” Nie Huaisang assured him. “Trust me, I have a whole system – I’ll implement it once the Sunshot Campaign is done; you’ll be amazed at how much easier it makes things, and then all the things that are left over are the stuff I actually enjoy. And this way, you could…I…”

He swallowed, and put his hands on his brother’s shoulders. He didn’t want to manipulate his brother into something like this – he didn’t want to manipulate his brother at all. His brother deserved the truth and honesty he had always freely given the world, and so Nie Huaisang could only offer up the unvarnished truth.

“I want to do this for you, da-ge,” he said. “I want you to have the life you should have had. I want you to have hobbies again, to make friends, real friends that will put you first. I want you to have fun with them without thinking of how people might think about it…please, da-ge. I came back here to keep you alive, but I want more than that. I want to see you live.”

“Okay,” his brother said, and he was choking back tears again. “We’ll – we’ll discuss it later, but I’ll think about it. Okay.”

“Good,” Nie Huaisang said. “Now catch me up on the tactics we’re planning on using in tomorrow’s battle, and I’ll let you know everything I know about what happens in the future…oh, and one more thing.”

“Oh?”

Nie Huaisang’s hand dropped to the table, parallel to Baxia; he could hear her purr in his mind whistling like the rumble of thunder. He smiled.

“Can you tell me where Meng Yao is?”

I'm the same anon who asked!

Could you talk about Saeran? It doesn't need to be detailed or NSFW, I'm good with anything, I just want to know more about your headcanons!

Hello again lovely anon! ♡

Oops aaaand once again (no surprise, I know): it’s long. I just wanna preface this one with a couple things:

1. There are quite a few Certified Saeran Simps on this site who truly know him much better than I do. Take whatever I say with a grain of salt—I’m no expert!

2. I’m also not an expert on DID! Which isn’t the focus of these HCs, but is obviously relevant. I read lots of books! About brains n stuff! But please never hesitate to tell me if I describe something poorly.

3. I wrote for the AS timeline here but if you want me to talk about SE Saeran or Unknown tell me and you know I will <3

Tw: discussion of childhood abuse, neglect, and subsequent trauma symptoms

Saeran’s body headcanons

A child who grows up the way Saeran did—kept indoors, often physically restrained, and sometimes starved—is not going to develop in a healthy way. There’s a reason why, even as an adult, Saeran is a full 2 cm shorter than his identical twin: he never gets the nutrition and exercise that kids need in order to grow.

We know that his mother uses his sickliness as an excuse to keep him indoors: but was he born sickly, or is he sick and weak because he’s been malnourished and kept from running or playing or interacting with other children? He breathes stale, dry air all day; he’s living on mostly white bread, and not always at regular intervals (plus whatever sweets his brother can steal for him from the outside world). He is not well.

Child Saeran never learns any sports or games. He doesn’t learn how to play with other children, or tie his shoes, or make himself a snack. Adult Saeran doesn’t know how to skip—you’ll have to teach him.

If the twins didn’t have each other, neither one of them would have survived.

And as we know, the neglect that Saeran endures worsens tenfold after Saeyoung leaves. Any glimpses he was getting of the outside world—sneaking out when their mother was unconscious, getting whatever snacks and books Saeyoung could gather for him at church—are cut off.

I’m not gonna tell you when the alters appear, because I am by no means an expert on DID. From studies I’ve read, I can say that typically alters become manifest after a “traumatic turning point” (which is not necessarily the “worst” trauma endured, but simply a particularly salient traumatic experience). It’s definitely possible that the alters emerge in late childhood, while he is still in the house with his mother.

When Saeran is taken from his mother’s home by Rika and V, he is (needless to say) not in good shape. He is painfully skinny, extremely malnourished, and very weak. He still has his red hair and golden eyes, but already he is looking less and less like his brother: his cheeks are hollow and his eyes are dull. 

There is a brief period of time, before his “cleansing” (Oh god. We’ll get there), where he is reasonably well cared for. For the first time in his life, he is eating meals—and he is getting to bathe regularly, and he is getting his hair cut and combed. He still believes, at this time, that he’ll be reunited with his brother. And he is going outside! He is learning how the grass feels between his toes and how the sky looks through clear eyes.

As we know: this doesn’t last.

The elixir is a truly horrifying combination of hallucinogenic substances. No human could consume this cocktail of drugs repeatedly and feel well: and Saeran is already physically weak, and severely underweight. The fact that he survives as long as he does under these conditions is a miracle.

We know that he is being tortured at this time, too: physically as well as emotionally. Saeran has scars, like his brother; while Saeyoung has lots and lots of tiny scars all over his body, Saeran has larger, more distinct scars: perhaps on his wrists, and his throat, and his ankles.

It is around this time that his eyes and hair change. The means by which this happens is incredibly vague in-game, and everyone’s individual HCs are valid. My personal belief is this: he dyes his own hair—first, in a frenzied, desperate attempt to stop seeing his brother looking back at him from the mirror. He keeps dying it because Rika approves: and he never does a good job, and it’s rough and fried, and that “pink” at the bottom? Just the red showing through his patchy dye job.

As for his eyes: I personally believe they change as a result of the elixir. If they were contacts, I don’t think that GE Saeran would necessarily still wear them—and in every timeline, he has those startling blue-green eyes.

The alters take care of the body in different ways.

Ray does not feed himself. He lives on caffeine pills and sweets (and, of course, the concoction of drugs that he’s being fed in increasingly large amounts). The body becomes even skinner when Ray is fronting. And he bites his nails and fingers—brutally, so they are chapped and cut and scarred. But Ray goes outside, and he works in the garden under the sun: his body is getting some form of exercise: and this is good for his lungs, and invigorates his weak, tired muscles.

Ray also takes care of his appearance—something Saeran never did before. He brushes and styles his hair; he dresses himself carefully in the clothes Rika has picked for him; he covers himself in beautiful scents so that he is more appealing to you.

When Suit is fronting, he wants to strip his body of anything that reminds him of Ray. So he styles his hair differently (but still: he is styling it), and he tries desperately to wash the scent of Ray off his skin. He doesn’t feed himself, either—but, if any of the alters are trying to become physically strong, it is Suit (of course). I’m certain that the Believers have a workout regime they’re supposed to be following; maybe Suit even does it (on his own, of course, in secret). He knows he needs to be able to protect himself—and he needs to feel powerful.

When you meet Ray, you don’t notice right away just how poorly he is doing. Rika has intentionally dressed him in a way that hides just how bony he is—and he wears those little gloves, of course, so you don’t see his ravaged fingers. But it doesn’t take long to catch on: he is so skinny you could almost blow him away, and there are dark shadows under his eyes, and he doesn’t sound like he’s taken a deep breath in years.

By the time you meet Suit, you already know the state their body is in: malnourished and weak. Ray cooked for you, but you wish you could cook for all of them; and even when Suit is starving you (in other words: reenacting the very abuse that was dealt to him in childhood), you wish you could wrap him in a big blanket and feed him a bowl of soup.

The Saeran that escapes Magenta with you—GE Saeran: the fusion of Ray and Suit (or a new alter, depending on what you believe)—has never made a single choice for himself in his whole life, until this moment. He never got to pick his own clothes, or what he would eat (if he ate at all), or how he would speak, or what he would do. Running away with you is the first real choice he has ever made—and no wonder this is pivotal and transformative for him.

The AE doesn’t portray the timeline of healing in a realistic way. After two weeks, we see GE Saeran so much healthier, both physically and mentally. And yes: two weeks of eating real food and sleeping in a bed make a difference: we see him with fuller cheeks and brighter eyes.

But what the game doesn’t address is the withdrawal he likely endures when he stops taking the elixir, which is full of substances that are both dangerous and addictive. It doesn’t address the time it takes to build up muscle mass, and get accustomed to healthy sleeping and eating habits, and to begin to heal from years and years of repeated trauma.

GE Saeran doesn’t heal right away, because healing doesn’t work that way. It’s not linear, or straightforward, or simple, or beautiful. It’s slow, and sometimes it’s painful.

But he does heal.

A Saeran who is in love with you is soft, and patient, and willing to put in the months and years (a lifetime!) of hard work to heal his body and his heart. You’ll get to watch as the dark circles under his eyes disappear, and his cheeks become less hollow, and his body grows stronger as he cooks (with you, and for you) and eats real meals and learns to run in the grass the way he never did before. He’ll make a garden, and you’ll get to see how he looks with sun on his face, his eyes clear as the sky as he gazes up at you—smiling.

You can show him how to moisturize his dry lips and cracked hands; you can help him pick out clothes he likes to wear; and you will learn how to support him when his memories haunt him.

And you can hold him: this beautiful, small, soft man, with his thin shoulders and scarred fingers. He’ll close his eyes and you’ll taste the sun on his skin as you kiss his eyelashes. He smells of earth and sky; he loves you with all the power of the universe.

Subliminal in Scrubs | V2; report xi

pairings: dr. jeon jungkook x female reader

chapter rating: NC-17 | genre: humor, workplace relationships

warnings: mentions of explicit themes, curse words

word count: 2.6k

g/n: Send me your thoughts?

[taglist]:  @nottodayjjk @ditttiii @zeharilisharaban @btsbunny07​ @turquoiseandplaidinautumn @aamxxrii @codeinebelle​ @btsmakesmehappy​ @stargukkie​​

Subliminal in Scrubs (the records) |  navi. | m.list

As soon as you get out of the elevator, you rush to the slot where your car is parked, checking your surroundings before sending a quick text to Chohee. 

You fall silent, remembering the events that transpired last night, and having to see the cause of it all just this morning.

You barely make it out of the basement with the eight-year-old family Camry you borrowed from your parents and as you exit your apartment building, you make a mental note to have it checked one of these days. 

Thankfully, you reach Woocheon alive and in no time, considering the current state of your car. There are only thirty vacant slots left when you reach the hospital’s basement. Sighing, you keep your eyes open for any vacancies. When you spot one just beside the space reserved for motorcycles and bikes, you speed a little towards it, hoping that no one else will beat you to it. 

Just next to you, a scooter arrives, and as a familiar mop of blonde hair greets you, you knock on your window, excitedly waving at Jimin as he lifts up the scooter seat to retrieve some of his things inside. “Jimin!!” 

“Hello, _______, good morning to you too. You seem...bright-er today.” 

“I’ll tell you all the deets later with Soomin, but ackkk can you believe it? Our first day!!” Jimin laughs at your enthusiasm as he waits for you to get your stuff from the passenger seat. 

“You want me to help you with that?” Jimin eyes the duffel bag hanging by your shoulder. “I’m okay, no worries,” you reply, reassuring Jimin and waving him off with a free hand. 

“_______, it seems as heavy as it looks...” Ah, maybe the strap straining against your shirt was a little too obvious then... but you don’t have the heart to burden Jimin with your own belongings so you politely decline one more time. 

Jimin, however, isn’t convinced one bit with your statement, especially when he sees your knuckles turn white as you adjust the strap of your bag. “How ‘bout this instead? You carry my bag, and I’ll carry yours because mine is definitely lighter than that...baggage of yours, ________.” 

He doesn’t budge from his spot, raising his eyebrows as he gives you an offer you can’t deny. “Fine, but this is only for today, okay?” Pouting, you hand your bag over to Jimin who accepts it with a smug smile. He then proceeds to jokingly topple over due to the weight of your bag. 

“Jimin!” you exclaim, tugging the strap back towards you. “I’m kidding! It’s fine _______, don’t worry about me,” he smirks, doing weird poses as you both make your way out of the basement parking lot. Just a couple of minutes later, and Jimin entertaining you all the way through, you both arrive at a small restaurant just beside the hospital where the three of you agreed to meet for breakfast. 

With brows furrowed in concern, Jimin waves his fork in front of you to get your attention, “_______, you okay? You’ve been staring at that bottle for quite some time already...you think maybe you can ketchup later instead?” Jimin snickers quietly to himself, while you and Soomin have similar expressions, staring blankly at Jimin who instantly turns quiet after seeing your reactions. Jimin sinks slowly in his seat as he clears his throat. “Uhm, sorry...I’ll just shut up...for now...”

“Mustard you do that this early in the morning?” Soomin looks at you then squints her eyes at Jimin while she fights the grin playing on her lips. Jimin’s face lights up like a little kid on Christmas day. The two share a high five as they bond over their equally awful jokes as you quietly rejoice in your seat, glad that they seem to have come out of their shells after their awkward first meeting. 

You wish someone else in particular would have at least made an effort to rectify your rather unpleasant first meeting too. 

“You two would make a cute couple.” You make sure your observation is loud enough for them to hear, disguising half of your sentence as a cough to distinctly express your amusement. 

The two instantly part at your remark - Soomin going back to picking at her food while Jimin takes a sip of is drink. Your eyes widen a little bit, realizing that you might have celebrated a little too early for that. “Anyways, like Jimin here mentioned, you do seem a little distracted today...you alright?” 

You close your eyes for a bit, trying to lose the image of Jungkook greeting you in your own corridor this morning. You’re certain it’s not just your sheer pique against Jungkook that continues to bother you, but half of it is definitely the humiliation that came with realizing he was the same person that had indirectly brought you to your high last night - and your own dignity could not take the veracity of it all. 

“Okay, remember when I told you guys recently that my neighbor was leaving and that she’s looking for a new tenant, right?” 

“Mhmm.” 

“And do you also remember the time I mentioned that I am...uh...displeased with a particular human being named Jeon Jungkook?” 

It’s Soomin who makes a second murmur of affirmation. 

“Ah, yes... you meant you hate him. Am I correct?” seconds Jimin. 

“That is affirmative. Yes.” 

You take a deep breath before starting, “Well...” 

“Hang on, let me just backtrack a little bit...we’re talking about the same Jeon Jungkook from Yonsei right? The one you tied with at the boards?” 

“That is also a yes.” 

“Well... I think he might be my new neighbor.” Grimacing, your face crumples in disappointment while you imagine just all the possible things that might happen having Jungkook as your neighbor...and all the nightmares that will accompany his moving in. 

Jimin purses his lips in a poor attempt to control his snicker. “You have an insane amount of bad luck following you around, ________.” Courtesy of Chohee divulging yours and Jungkook’s history all the way to your first encounter with him, Jimin is well aware of your resentment towards Jungkook. 

“In all honesty though, he seems like a normal dude. Just leaning a bit towards the cheeky side, but nothing too atrocious really...and if I do say so myself, you really, and quite literally, just got off on the wrong foot.” 

“Jungkook...Jungkook...Jeon...” Soomin is looking somewhere else, clearly focused on trying to recall a memory as she repeatedly taps her nails against the table repeatedly. “There’s something about him that I’m forgetting but,” she says, looking at her watch, “but shit!! We’re going to be late, we gotta leave!” 

The three of you get up from your seats abruptly, the sound of your chairs scraping against the floor startling the other customers in the restaurant. “Come on! Quickly!” 

The locker room is full by the time the three of you arrive that you have to squeeze through rows of interns before a female WMC employee in uniform comes through the door with an announcement. “All interns, please proceed to the lobby for your hospital tour and orientation. Chief Park Daejung will be with you momentarily.” 

Your trio scrambles to look for free lockers while the rest of the interns start to file out of the room, so when Jimin finds a free one for the meantime, he hurriedly grabs both yours and Soomin’s stuff and stashes them inside before ushering you all out of the room to catch up with the group. 

At the lobby, the HR assistant from earlier, Narae (the same reason you’re convinced majority of the male interns are paying more attention than expected) is already making a roll call of all the interns that came in this morning and your trio just makes it in time to hear your names getting called. 

Even from the back row with all the disadvantages of having average height, you’re practically buzzing in your spot and just like a crazed woman, you’re powerless to shake off the smile that seems permanently etched on your face. 

“Excited?” Jimin nudges your side as he looks at you with an equally warm smile. “Yeah...” you murmur, marveling at the sheer size of the hospital, “I have studied my ass off my whole life for this moment...” 

Opening the information booklet handed over by Ms. Narae earlier, you slide your ballpen off your lanyard, deciding to write your name both in Korean and English on the first page and officially claiming it yours. As you get to your surname, someone bumps into you, causing you to scribble a line throughout the entire page. 

You take a deep breath, internalizing your annoyance and drilling it to the far end of your brain. Nope, you weren’t going to let this bother you, not today at the least. The name Chief Park Daejung class out however, makes you look up from the booklet. 

“Jeon Jungkook? Glad to have you join us...fifteen minutes after call time.” 

“I am sorry, Sir. Something came up. This won’t happen again.” 

The chief turns to Narae, who’s been nothing but professional the whole time, ignoring all the ogling from all the other interns, “Didn’t know we actually got him. I’d recognize this kid anywhere. He’s the spitting image of his father - plus, they both make sure to make strong first impressions,” adds the chief, handing over a clipboard back to Narae. 

Even though the voice coming from your right is unmistakable, you still close your eyes in fervent prayer, hoping that the person the chief was referring to isn’t the same number one person on your fight-on-sight list. Slowly, you pry one of your eyes open just to see Jungkook already staring you down with a smug grin on his face. “Fancy seeing you here, smally.” 

Soomin, who’s standing on your left, leans toward your ear. “Ah, that’s what I was going to say earlier this morning...Jungkook was on the intern list.” 

With the smallest smile your face muscles can muster, you look at Soomin, eye to eye. “Thanks for the warning, Soomin. I...really appreciate it.” She winks at you as she replies, “You’re very much welcome, dear.” 

Jimin, who seems to have overheard the entire conversation, looks over and waves at Jungkook. “Hey bro, didn’t know you applied for Woocheon too! This is awesome!” 

You’re starting to question if your so-called friends are really on your side or not. 

Taken aback by Jimin’s questionable enthusiasm, Jungkook scratches the back of his head before voicing out a reply, “Oh yeah...surprise! I guess...” 

Surprise indeed. 

“Well, shall we start then? We’ve got a long day ahead of us!” Chief Park clasps his hands together, “Everyone, welcome to the Woocheon Medical City.” 

Woocheon is going to be hell. 

Miss Narae continues to walk your group around the hospital’s main building - through the lobby, cafeteria, outpatient clinics, as well as the different departments. “Correct me if I’m wrong but don’t the orientations usually come before the tours?” you ask Soomin, going over to the page of the booklet showing the hospital map.

“Yeah, but there’s a lot of foot traffic in the hallways starting from ten onwards so it’s not recommended to have the tour during those times…” Soomin replies. 

“Oh… I see…” Your group finally arrives by the operating rooms and you close the booklet, focusing on Miss Narae’s guidelines. Suddenly, the automatic doors open and out come two doctors talking to each other with the taller man stretching his arms. “Interns, may I introduce to you our surgical residents, Dr. Min Yoongi and Dr. Kim Namjoon, specializing in general surgery and neurosurgery respectively.” Your group bows to the senior doctors, likewise greeting them a good morning. 

“You all sure about choosing medicine as your career path?” The smaller one of the two, who you assume to be Dr. Min, says with a straight face. 

“Hyung, don’t scare them away! But just so you know,” Dr. Kim adds, then takes a step closer to your group, “...there’s still time to back out, kids,” he whispers, earning nervous chuckles from the group. 

“Ah new babies!!” Someone from behind your group announces. With the blue scrubs he’s wearing, you assume he’s another surgeon (and an insanely handsome one too). “Apples keep the doctors away but the hospital can’t really keep its patients away can it? Else we wouldn't have such a magnificent hospital such as the Woocheon Medical City, right?” Laughter erupts from the group as he passes through, making a beeline towards Dr. Min and Dr. Kim. 

Miss Narae clears her throat, gathering everyone’s attention once more, “I’d also like to introduce to you Dr. Kim Seokjin, also a surgical resident specializing in general surgery.” 

“Oh don’t believe her! With looks like these? Sheesh! We’re actually newbie actors filming season 3 of Hospital Playlist...but you know...between us three, it’s obvious who sets the bar, right?” This earns eye rolls from both Dr. Min and the other Dr. Kim. 

Pushing Dr. Seokjin towards the operating room, Dr. Yoongi turns to your group again, “Please ignore him. We’re actual licensed doctors…Hyung just…” Dr. Min sighs, rubbing at his temples, “...he says he doesn’t like attention but he keeps on doing humiliating things like these…” 

Dr. Seokjin, who’s already inside the operating room hallway, overhears Dr. Min’s words. “Hey! Why do you keep outing me like this?! Also, this appendectomy will just take a while - wait for me! I’m craving kalguksu today!”  

“Soomin...is it just me or everyone here has got to be damn attractive?” 

Jungkook leans in from behind, raising his eyebrows at you and Soomin. “Oh you guys weren’t aware that it was one of the qualifications before getting accepted into Woocheon? Kind of an unspoken rule really…” Jungkook remarks as he crosses his arms over his chest and you swear on your life you hadn’t taken a peek at the very distracting outline of his arms. 

Jimin who seems to agree with the idea wholeheartedly, places his fingers under his chin and wriggles his eyebrows wildly. 

Boys. 

Rolling your eyes at them, you retort, “You do realize that that only means we’re hot too.” likewise raising your shoulders at them. Soomin gives you a high five before flipping her hair towards the two. Jungkook gives you both a lopsided smirk in reply, “I’m not going to deny that.” 

Soomin grabs you by the elbow, turning both your backs to the boys behind you, “You sure you hate him, or you just can’t take the way he’s flirting with you?” 

© joontier 2021

the agony of sanity: chapter one.

“the ghost of goosebumps”

spencer x reader 

summary: in every instance, there must be a choice. control or pain? stay or leave? help or let them go? 

warnings: fluff, angst, criminal mind stuff, s12 spoilers, italics represent a memory, slight emily x reader 

a/n: okay. here it is. first chapter of many to come. i hope you enjoy it. 

*

It wasn't something she needed to think about anymore. 

It wasn't a scar that she needed to open up. That wound was old, forgotten in the chaos of the years she had spent building herself up. It had disappeared as she got busier and busier. 

She didn't think of it anymore.

She could walk around feeling completely normal. Feeling like she could do anything. She could walk around and see couples and not have to wonder if that was how they used to look. She could walk around with a smile on her face, she could appreciate the finer things in life. 

She didn't use to be able to. She felt like everything was crumbling under her, crashing down until she went with it, until she was covered in a pile of rubble, until she was buried under the weight of the things she didn't need to think about anymore. 

She didn't think about it anymore. Didn't want to, didn't need to. 

She’d moved on. She was changed. 

She no longer stayed up late at night, no longer had those dreams. The ones that didn't really feel like sleep. The ones where she would sweat until her cold house felt like a sauna and no longer a place of rest. Those dreams that made her get up out of bed, get up out of her head until she couldn't see those pictures that flashed through her head anymore. 

She didn't have those types of dreams anymore. 

She went to work every day, smiled at everyone, laughed at all the right times. She didn't have to play pretend or close herself off. She was a completely different person, one that was in control of everything she did. Everything she felt. 

She didn't need to think about him. She didn't need to wonder how he was doing. In fact, she didn't wonder. She never thought of him. He was erased in her memory, a blank spot where something used to be. 

So, she never thought about it anymore. 

She went on with her day, lived her life as well as she could. She reminded herself that she only had a limited amount of days. She reminded herself that even if it seemed like a lifetime, it would be over eventually, and she should appreciate it as long as it lasted. After all, the days were counting down. 

She didn't need to waste time thinking about him, about anything related to the life she used to live, anymore. She didn't have that kind of time. 

She rarely thought of it. She never did. She was in control. 

Until that phone call. 

*

Sun rested against her skin. A song playing in her head. 

It was one she heard on the radio earlier, something that caught her ear as soon as she’d turned the volume up. She didn't know the name. Just the tune, just the part that kept replaying in her head. 

It seemed appropriate, to have a song like this one- popular and upbeat -stuck in her head while she sat fresh in the sun, absorbing all the warmth she could get. It was appropriate that she was hitting replay on the one thing she could control that day. 

Spencer was behind her, his chest a warm blanket against her back. 

She was pretty sure that he was smiling. She felt like he was. He didn't have any reason not to be, there was no reason why there would be that frown she’d seen so many times on his face there. No reason to be upset on a day like this. On a day where the sun was shining, the wind was cooling off the burns that they had already developed on their cheeks. No reason to be upset when everything was perfect. 

With a song like this stuck in your head. 

“Cold?” He wondered. 

She laughed as his breath tickled her ear, the wind blowing between the two of them. 

She shook her head, comforted by his hand running up and down her thigh. While she laid in the sun. 

“It's warm. Why would I be cold?” She whispered back, her voice taken by the wind. The two of them sighing into the relieving cool that came with the wind. 

Spencer kissed her temple, moved back so that she could lean against him. 

“You’ve got goosebumps,” he said, moving his hand so that it was running over the bumps that lathered her arms. 

She shook her head again, following his motion with her eyes, now sure of the smile on his face. 

“I’m not cold.” 

Spencer hummed out an unfamiliar sound to her ears, so unlike him on any other day. 

“Are you experiencing a strong emotion?” he asked, rubbing circles on her forearm, his fingertips only taking part in the goosebumps that continued to stay stuck to her skin. 

She laughed, smiling up at the sun, appreciating the wind that was lifting the sweat from her neck. It was windy today. 

“Shock?” Spencer continued his question, using the hand that wasn't on her arm to play with the strap of her tank top. “Fear?” 

“What?” she whispered back, her mind almost completely captured by his fingertips brushing against her skin. 

It was like he was painting a picture like she was his canvas. Like he was using her to make art. Like they were making it together.

“Strong emotions can cause the small muscles on your arm near the hair follicle to contract,” he said as if it was obvious, like she should have known already. “So if you’re not cold… is it shock? Fear?” 

Something about the way he was talking, about the way he was painting with his fingertips, something about the wind. It was all a harmony to the melody in her head. 

“Nope,” she popped, laughing when she could feel him stop his motions. 

“Anxiety?” he asked, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. 

A breathless noise came out of her mouth, her head shaking once again. 

“Inspiration?” 

She laughed as he kissed lower down her neck. “Inspiration?” she implored with disbelief. 

“Yeah,” Spencer whispered, continuing to kiss down her neck. His hand still firm on her arm, his other on her shoulder. 

“No, not inspiration,” she replied, tilting her neck so that he would continue. 

He stopped for a brief moment, and even though she couldn't see it, she knew that he was looking at her with curious eyes. 

“Sexu-” before he could finish his sentence, she was turning around, moving his hands from her body. Stopping him before he could continue. 

She laughed at his face. Her goosebumps gone. 

And then, she kissed his nose. And got up. Out of his reach. 

She cackled at the look on his face. 

Running towards the sun. 

*

“Emily?” she croaked, her voice stumbling out of sleep. 

She looked over to the clock by her bedside table, the three little numbers flashing as she looked around. It was still dark outside. It was too cold in her apartment.

“Do you know what time it is?” She asked when there was no response, lifting her phone from her ear to check and see if Emily was still on the line. To make sure that it wasn't just a mistake. 

“I know, I’m sorry.” 

Y/N used one of her hands to rub her eyes, curious at the way Emily’s voice sounded. It sounded like she was sighing. Like she was really tired. Y/N couldn't remember what time it was in Virginia. 

“Do you need something?” she asked, trying to wring out the sleep from her body as she stood out of bed. Her room was a mess, clothes from the previous night lathered across the floor. She stepped around them in hopes to get to her kitchen. So that she could get some coffee. 

Emily never called at night, but the occasional times she did, it was usually to ask a question. Or because she needed a friend. Y/N wasn't expecting to go back to bed any time soon, even if it was only four in the morning. It was late enough to get up anyway, wasn't it? 

“Y/N,” Emily spoke for the second time, her voice more desperate. Serious. 

Y/N’s eyebrows creased, she wished she could see the other girl so that she could fully gage her emotions. So that she knew what was going on. She could tell that this wasn't going to be one of their fun chats, Emily wasn't calling just to catch up. 

“What's wrong Em?” she wondered, genuine worry slipping out. 

“Spencer’s in prison.” 

The words took her by surprise. They were sudden and unexpected. Y/N took a moment for her eyes to widen. Let herself hear the unfamiliar name, one she hadn't heard from anyone in years. It felt strange to listen to someone else speak it. She felt her heart clutter, moving against her ribs more forcibly than it had before. 

She paused, the silence on the phone apparent to both of them. 

And then, she took a deep breath, told herself not to ask, not to say the words. Not to think about it. She rolled her eyes. Let her emotions roll through her body. 

“What did he do?” she said, not masking the borderline irritation in her voice. 

“Y/N!” Emily sighed, and Y/N could practically see her friend rubbing a hand over her eyes. Though she wasn't going to act like she didn't mean it. “He didn't do anything.” Emily’s voice was harsher now, forceful. Like she was scolding Y/N. 

“Emily, you hear that someones in prison and try not to ask what they did!” She defended herself, moving around her kitchen with her phone pressed against her cheek and shoulder as she got a pot of coffee started. It was far too earlier for her to be kind, and far too early for this information. “And whatever's going on with Reid, I hope it works out, I really do Emily, but why are you calling me again?” 

The name felt strange in her mouth. Like it was something she’d never tried before. She was smart enough to make her voice sound sincere, to not let her annoyance at Emily slip out. 

“I need you, Y/N,” Emily whispered, her voice small and pleading. And suddenly it all made sense to Y/N. 

And- 

No. 

Y/N wasn't doing this. Not today. 

Emily knew what she was going to say, she knew what the response would be. That's why she was using that voice. That desperate voice. Emily already knew her answer. 

“No, Emily,” Y/N said, shaking her head fast and hard, blinking rapidly as she tried to come up with a better response. She couldn't go back, and she definitely couldn't help Emily with this. She wasn't going to. 

“No listen Y/N, this is Spencer, Spencer who’s being charged with murder. And I know how you feel about him, but I’m asking you to forget about your feelings, and think about the man that is going to die in prison alone.” 

She didn't utter a word, wincing at the thought of Spencer in prison. Hating Emily for bringing this up. 

“Emily…” 

“I’m asking you for a favor Y/N. You and I both know that you’re the best person, one of the only people I know that can help with this. I can handle all of the travel fee’s, all of the vacation time. I can even get someone to cover for you at work! I can get everything else solved.” Emily paused, quieter as she continued, “I just need you to come and help.” 

It scared Y/N, to think about going back to the place she had vowed to never return. It scared her to open old wounds again. To hear the fear in Emily’s voice, Emily who was so much stronger than anyone Y/N had ever met.

She walked around her small apartment, and didn't notice the sun rising from her window. Her brain was trying to wrap around all of the things Emily had just said. Trying to make a decision that wouldn't hurt either of them.  

How could she even help with this, how would she stand helping him with this when she forbid herself from ever thinking about him? How could she even make a difference? 

“Y/N?” Emily whispered, the silence drawn out for too long. Her voice was worried, and although Emily seemed confident in her speech, Y/N knew that her friend was worried it wouldn't be enough to convince her. 

“I’m here.” She said, her voice breaking as she paused her walking. She sighed, running a hand over her face as she debated with herself. “I’m here.” she repeated. 

She could go, break little pieces of the person she had recreated off, and help Spencer. Help Emily, save all of them from the pain she knew would come if anything bad happened. Help them in some way that she didn't understand. 

Or she could stay, she could stick with going to work every day, with being the boss and in control of everything. She could stay in control of her emotions, of her thoughts, of her memories. And she could break Emily’s heart. She could be selfish. 

“Are you going to come?” 

Control or pain? 

Which was more important? 

Which to choose? 

“Y/N?” Emily asked again, clearly impatient. And Y/N understood it, she was worried. Y/N rationalized that if the cards were flipped, she would feel the same. She understood her friend's pain. 

She would feel the same. 

“Yes.” She whispered, taking a deep breath in. “Yes.” 

Pain. Pain was more important. 

“I’ll start packing now.” her brain froze, struck by the decision, by the situation she had just put herself in. “Tell me everything.” 

*

“Emily,” she breathed out as soon as the woman appeared in her eyesight. 

Seeing her was a huge relief, a breath of fresh air. Since Y/N had landed in Virginia she’d had a strange feeling in her stomach, one that resembled nostalgia, and another that was most definitely nausea. 

It was strange to be back in a place that she had once called home. Strange that she was alone from the first step she took in the state. It was a terrible feeling to bed back here. To be back in such a familiar place. 

But, even if she was frustrated with Emily for making her do this, for calling in her favor in such a harsh way, it was still good to see her friend. 

They’d known each other for years, their initial introduction starting when they were both agents at the BAU. Back then, they weren't the closest of friends. Of course, they had no issue with each other, but both of them had always found it hard to become best friends with someone you caught serial killers with. 

But, as soon as Y/N couldn't stay in Quantico any longer, as soon as she needed to get away, she’d called Emily. And she’d asked for her help. 

They’d worked together at Interpol for several years until Emily moved back to Virginia, taking over the BAU team, and Y/N became the boss of their team. 

And they’d become best friends here, each other's support. They spent days off in each other's apartments, drinking wine and laughing at romantic comedies that they both secretly loved but hated. They slept in the same bed, trying to rid the other of nightmares. It was a close relationship they’d developed, one that they swore they would lose when Emily moved. 

When they got to each other, Y/N and Emily shared a brief hug, and a laugh no matter the circumstances, and then they were walking up to Emily’s office. It was dark outside, her plane arriving in the middle of the night. Emily said that she could meet the team the next day when they were awake, trying to lighten the mood. 

It didn't work. 

Y/N wished they could’ve been meeting together for better reasons. 

“Okay,” she said as soon as she sat in front of Emily, files thrown across her desk, clear distress on every piece of paper. “I need to know what advantages we have in his case. I want to get a clear view of what I can and can't use,” she announced as she sat down, ignoring her body's pleading for rest. If she was going to help Emily, she was going to start as soon as she could. 

Starting sooner meant leaving sooner. 

Emily went flipped through some papers, nodding along with Y/N as she searched for something. 

“Here’s all the evidence we have from the crime scene, Spencer’s statement should be in there.” the stack of paper was smaller than Y/N had expected, and she felt herself worried just looking at it. 

Emily had briefed Y/N on the case over the phone while she was packing. Y/N knew all the basics. Spencer had been in Mexico, trying to find something for his mother, and was framed for murder. Emily was very sure that it was an act of an unsub they had been hunting down, Mr. Scratch, who seemed to have it out for all of them. 

The two of them read through the papers, despite Emily being already familiar with everything in them. They sat in silence for multiple minutes, neither of them having anything interesting to bring up, nothing either of them could say when all the clear answers were thrown out in front of them. 

And those answers were that there was nothing. The crime scene pointed at Spencer. Everything in the evidence seemed to match up with Spencer. Whoever had framed him had clearly thought it out. 

Y/N sighed, rubbing her eyes and looking up at Emily, who looked exhausted frankly. Y/N empathized with her. Understanding more than she wanted to.

“Did Reid have a drug screen?” 

Emily nodded, handing her another file. “He did, but by the time they took it all of the drugs had metabolized in his system.” 

“Shit,” Y/N whispered, scanning the screening, confirming what Emily had said. “And you checked the scene for any evidence of drug residue?” 

“There was nothing found. Mr. Scratch has a pattern of intoxicating his victims using the vents, but there was nothing there.” 

Y/N dropped the file she was holding in her lap, looking at Emily who shared her expression. There was no evidence helping either of them. 

Y/N blew out a breath and then looked out the window. “Em, I’m going to be honest, it doesn't look good.” 

“I know,” Emily rubbed at her eyes. “That's why I called you.” 

Y/N looked back over to Emily, who winked at her then gave her a teasing smile. It was the first time the both of them had laughed that day. 

“Okay,” Y/N kept the smile on her face, brushed some hair from her eyes. “Here's what I think..” she started, taking a deep breath. “the only advantage Reid has here is the fact that he can't remember anything. This could clue into his intoxication, and also provides an inconsistency with the evidence. If he can't remember anything then there's still a missing piece.” 

Emily nodded, her eyes hopeful. 

“When can I meet with his lawyer?” Y/N asked, changing her train of thought.  

Emily looked confused, “I thought you were going to step in for his lawyer?” 

Y/N laughed, for a brief moment thinking Emily was joking. When she looked up from her laugh back at Emily she could see that she was wrong. “Oh you’re serious…” she paused, thinking. “Well, in Virginia you have to get your license recertified every year, and we don't have time for me to do that.” 

Emily looked down, checking her watch. 

“I can help his lawyer though.” Y/N finished, looking curiously at Emily. “What’re you doing?” she asked, noticing how distracted her friend got in the middle of her sentence. 

“It's very late, you probably haven't slept since getting on your flight. We should get some rest. Continue this in the morning.” Emily announced, standing up from her desk. This was a sudden topic change. It seemed like Emily was trying to push Y/N out of the office. She nodded, confused. 

Y/N followed, grabbing her bag. She walked with Emily out the door, not missing the slouch in her friend's posture, nor the silence that followed the two of them. She wondered if Emily was done hoping in anything coming of this, if what she said had decreased any hope Emly had. She told herself that she was probably just tired. 

But still, she had to say something. 

“Emily, it's going to be fine,” Y/N reassured, stopping by the door. And Emily nodded, but the silent question of ‘how?’ didn't escape either of their minds. 

Emily looked doubtful, but she still smiled at Y/N. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow Y/N.” she said finally, walking back to her office and leaving Y/N all alone, with that feeling.

*

“Hey Spence?” she called through the house, struggling to put her boots on as she got ready. 

There was no reply from the other room, where Spencer laid in bed, his eyes closed and his face scrunched up. It was dark all around their house, all of the lights turned off even when it was so dark outside. 

Spencer had been getting these headaches, ones that he said made everything look brighter. Ones that seemed to kill him from the inside out. In an effort to support him, Y/N had started getting used to walking around her house in the dark. She wasn't sure it was working. She wasn't sure if her efforts were making any difference. 

“You okay, love?” she called again, quieter now that she was closer to their room. 

She had a case to get to, one that would probably take longer than a couple of days. Hotch had demanded that Spencer stay home as long as he was still feeling sick. He didn't want Spencer out on the field with the possibility that a headache could hit him and he could get hurt. 

In all honesty, Y/N was relieved. Spencer did not seem up to leaving, and she wasn't sure how much help he would be even if he was there. Recently, he’d been more and more irritated with everyone, his emotions being thrown at all of them. It was starting to get intense, starting to worry Y/N, and she didn't want to have to think about it at work too. She didn't want to have to worry while there was a serial killer on the loose. 

Maybe that was wrong. 

Spencer didn't respond even when she walked into the room, he stayed under the covers, his body leaning away from her, his back facing their door. “Spence?” she whispered, walking closer to check and see if he was sleeping. 

Sleep might be good. Maybe he would feel better with some sleep. 

But when she heard a grunt from under the covers she sighed. She couldn't imagine how much pain he was in, and she had no idea how she could help. He’d been to the doctors, been prescribed pain medication that he would never take. There was nothing else either of them could do. 

“I’m leaving soon, is there anything you need before I go?” she whispered, sitting on her side of the bed, waiting for him to look at her. 

When Spencer peeked out from under the covers, his eyes were red and his hair was a mess. She wasn't sure how long it had been since he’d left bed, didn't know how much longer he could stand to stay in bed all day. 

“Coffee?” she asked, hoping to get a smile out of him when he didn't respond. 

But Spencer shook his head, not in the mood for jokes. He wasn't in the mood for anything. He didn't know why he couldn't get to sleep. 

Y/N sighed, watching him crawl back under the covers. 

“Okay,” she said standing up. There wasn't anything she could do anyway. “I’ll be home soon love, be careful.” she hoped that her words had made him feel comforted, that she was saying the right thing. 

When there was no response she walked towards the door. A frown developing on her face. 

This pain in her chest hit her. She wanted to see him smile at her again, she wanted him to kiss her goodbye. She wished he was going with her. 

But, he couldn't, he was sick and there was nothing that was helping. There was nothing she could do. 

Hopefully, he’d feel better as soon as she was home. Hopefully, he would be standing in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading a book he’d read a million times before. Hopefully, he would smile at her again, cause goosebumps on her skin like he loved to do. 

Maybe he’d be better when she got home. 

She held onto that. 

*

She was going to have to think of it. 

It didn’t matter if it opened up that wound, split her scars in half, and ripped her heart from the cage of her ribs. She was going to have to think of it, that was clear. 

She hadn’t seen Spencer in four years, hadn’t mentioned his name aloud to anyone but herself. She removed him from her memory, burned all the pictures she had of the two of them, and limited any communication that could’ve been possible with him. She didn't want to see him four years ago, and she didn't want to see him now. 

She’d made her wishes perfectly clear with their shared friends, she didn't want to know how he was doing, she didn't want to know anything about him. She just wanted to move on, wanted to let herself heal so that she could go to better things. 

There were always better things to think about. 

But this thing between the two of them, this silence that they’d both kept up for years, it was clear that it was going to have to come to an end. 

She couldn't just stay away from him anymore, she wasn't thousands of miles away on a different continent. She wasn't the boss here in Virginia, she was just Y/N. The same girl that had left years ago. The same girl that could never control her emotions. 

She was going to have to think of it. 

No matter the consequences it had on her body, on her mind, on the emotions she had so carefully boarded up. She was going to have to relive this pain, she was going to have to move on from it. Move on as she should’ve years ago. 

She was terrified. Because, yes, she’d spent all these years alone. She had months to make peace, months to reinvent herself so that she wouldn't have to feel this small again. She’d had so much time to do something, anything that would change her from the person that she had been four years ago in Virginia. 

But she hadn't. She’d only closed off that part of her life. Stopped thinking about it. 

And she was going to have to face the consequences of that. 

Because she was there, at the prison, and she was getting signed in. 

It wasn't her first time at a prison. When she still worked with the bureau, she used to get sent in to interview serial killers once a month. She was always the person they sent to handle a particularly difficult subject. She was always the best at getting information out of people that didn't want to speak. It was part of the reason she had stuck with the FBI for so long, because they valued her and her skills. 

So no, she wasn't nervous to be walking into prison again. Even four years later she was familiar with all the procedures that it took to get her in. She was used to the grey walls still, the distant feeling that everyone seemed to get when walking in. 

It was visiting day, and she’d asked Emily if she could go and speak to Spencer first, before anyone else could tell him that she was there. They needed to make amends, and fast, because Y/N didn't know how long she could work on the case with these pent up feelings still stuck in her head, in her chest. 

She wasn't sure how Emily had gotten her past all of the restrictions for visitors, but she appreciated it. 

She was terrified. Not to be around murders, or other criminals, but to be around him again. After so long. 

Because now was the time, now she had to actually think about it. 

And she wasn't allowed to let it tear her apart. She wasn't allowed to run away this time. 

She’d profiled all of the guards there, the skills coming easy to her, as she waited for the inmates to be let into the visiting room. All of the men that worked in this prison seemed nonchalant, as most guards were. They didn't care much. She did notice though, the looks she got for being here. 

It was unusual for someone of her status to be in a prison. 

It was unusual for someone to be allowed in under the circumstances that Spencer was under. 

And, of course, government agents didn't usually get a warm welcome in prisons. 

It had been ten minutes since she sat down, waiting for him to show up, and she was starting to get restless. She was tired of this overwhelming anxiety building in her brain, and the longer she had to wait, the worse it would get. 

It was just Spencer. She had to remind herself of that. No matter how bad they had ended things, no matter how long it had been since they talked, it was only Spencer. Spencer, the man who could barely hurt a fly. 

He wasn't intimidating in the slightest. 

She had to remember that. 

For a brief moment, she wondered how he was doing, what prison was turning out to be like for him. If he wasn't intimidating to her, he certainly wouldn't be intimidating to the inmates. 

She winced when she thought of all the things that could happen to him. She turned off her brain, banning herself from thinking like that. 

She wasn't here to worry about him. She was here to help. To save her friends from that pain. 

She took a deep breath in, holding it for four seconds, exhaling for eight. Grounding herself like she was used to. Deep breath in, deep breath out. 

But she was interrupted by the loud beep of the door. By the men starting to walk into the room. 

One after one they walked in, most of them with a glare in their eyes, none of them had made direct eye contact with her, but even if they had, she didn't think she would have noticed. 

Because after twelve more seconds of waiting, and multiple men walking in a line, she saw him. 

And, this was the first time. It had been four years, and even though he hadn't changed much, her brain couldn't help but classify him as different in her head. Because he was, he looked different, looked changed from the last man she had known him as. 

Goosebumps, slithered their way up her arms, pouncing on her like she was their prey. She shivered as she looked at him. 

And she didn't like the look in his eyes when he saw her. 

She knew that he wasn't expecting her, that he would never have expected her to come back, especially not for him, especially not now. After four years, why would he ever expect her to be there, why would she ever come back. 

She wasn't supposed to be there, she wasn't even on his visitor's list. So how was she there, why was she there. 

He was shocked, and Y/N felt terrified when she saw him pause, when she saw his eyes glance back like he was going to run away from her, like he couldn't deal with her being there. But, he had held up the line, and she saw the inmate behind him push him. Too hard. 

She forgot for a moment that he was in prison. 

Spencer picked up his speed, continued walking toward her even with that look in his eyes. That one that let her know that this conversation wasn't going to be all that pleasant. 

And she barely recognized him. Barely recognized herself. Barely recognized the voice coming out of her mouth when he sat down in front of her with shocked eyes. 

She wondered if he had goosebumps. 

“Hey, Spence,” 

* 

chapter two

Would you write for John McGinn? anything at all for him haha

you got me

a nasty breakup brings you to the door of the aston villa player, ready to welcome you once again with open arms full of love.

Whistling to himself as he walks from his bathroom to the kitchen of his home, John towel dries off his hair when his doorbell sounds through the house. His immediate reaction is one of question. He tilts his head, furrows his brows and wracks his brain for a memory of potentially making plans that he had then completely forgotten about. Instead, he begins to wonder if there was a chance he had leaked his address and would be met with paparazzi or fans standing on his doorstep. The villa player draws blank on both of those thought processes, and is snapped from them when the a harsh knocking accompanies the sound of said doorbell.

His feet hurry him towards the door, taking the opportunity to look at the doorbell footage he could access from the little alarm box on the wall just next to it. His eyes are met with you standing on his porch dripping from the rain, shivering in soaked clothes and very possibly crying.

He reaches for the door immediately, tugging the heavy thing open with eyes wide, "Bloody hell, you have a key!" He exclaims, ushering you in as he removed his hair towel from around his neck to drape over your shoulders while you close the door behind you. Your lips are a little blue from the winter chill that had blown the cold rain through your clothes. "Forgot it." You chitter, entire body shivering with the painful force to try and conserve some form of heat.

John grabs a bigger towel, one that's much softer and warmer. "Strip off," he orders hurriedly, turning his back to go back into the kitchen and see if he left any clothes in his dryer from the load he put in earlier. "Sh-shouldn't you take me t-t-to dinner first?"

Your half hearted, shivering attempt at a joke doesn't make him laugh like it usually would. He turns around to shoot you a disapproving scowl. "I'll get you some warm clothes, get dried."

You do as told, or attempt to. It's hard when you can't feel your fingers to get a grip on anything more than the zipper of the zip up hoodie you'd had on. You try to shake the material from your shoulders, but your whole body is stiff with the tight muscles that the freezing temperatures had inflicted upon you.

"You'll end up with hypothermia," John rushes, dropping the warm clothes down on the cabinet by the door where you still stand, surrounded by a puddle of rainwater. He works quickly, but carefully to shed you of the zipper, then looks to you for permission to lift your t-shirt over your head. He hands you the warm, dry towel to cover yourself with so he can unclip your soaked bra. Shoes off next, he discards them off behind him as water literally pools from them. You keep that towel around you, patting at your skin as he tries to get your leggings off as painlessly as possible, but every touch still hurts. Your pants, you insist on doing by yourself even if it is a struggle while John holds up the towel.

He didn't bother to even make an attempt at pulling the hair bobble out of your hair, John just snaps the thin black band wordlessly, easily between his fingers before he orders you to flip your hair so he can tied it in another warm towel.

"Why were you out in that?" He asks as he sits you down in his cosy living room with a new, drier towel. You're still chittering, which is worrying but John had learned a lot from coaches behaviours towards the teams when they come off after games played on nights like these. "It's negative 6 degrees."

Warming up was the most important thing, just not too quickly.

You avert your eyes from his, chewing slightly on your lip. "(y/n)," John presses, moving to occupy the space on the couch next to you. You sit forward on the couch so you both sit shoulder to shoulder, his head turns to you while yours faces the floor. "David kicked me out, I didn't have my keys and my phone wasn't charged so I couldn't call you. Busses were off for the weather and the snow covered the train lines yesterday, plus I don't have any money with me so I was scuppered there too. I did some grovelling at the door then I walked here when he wouldn't let me back it."

John's jaw all but hits the floor as anger infiltrates the worry coursing through his veins.

"Don't..." you sigh, trailing off as you stand up with a loose shake of your head. "Don't look at me like that John. I'm gonna go get changed."

The sound of your bare feet padding off through his house holding the warmed pile of his clothes he gave to you was one that he would certainly like to get used to, but you had both done this dance so many times he knew it wasn't something he could count on. Usually you'll call him though, or he'll go and pick you up after a mutual breakup. You've never come on no notice and it's never been because of something like this. John hadn't heard from you in a few weeks either, you had his mind reeling.

Even more so when you reappeared, dry hair tied back out of your face with his grey joggers and black t-shirt drowning you in its size. They were him homebody comfy clothes, so they were bought to be even a little big on him. He had to admit they looked a lot better on you, though.

In the time you were gone, John had made hot chocolate and brought through his biscuit tin to sit on the couch between you both. Words weren't deemed necessary to find a movie he knew you would like. That and he knew you didn't want to talk, so even if he tried it would have been like trying to have a conversation with a brick wall.

He keeps looking over at you, trying to do so discreetly by flicking his eyes over in your direction. Those little giggles at Hugh Grants exasperated facial expressions while James Can disposes of a body in a trunk in the 1999 rom com you loved so much. The movie is good, but your reactions to every time you watch it just like each time is the first time. John can't understand why a man would ever do anything that would wipe that little grin off your perfect lips. How anyone could ever put anyone out on their doorstep in a  storm like that, but least of all someone who was supposed to love you. If it were up to John, you would have been wrapped in a blanket the second the rain pour started, curled in his arms falling asleep to the sound of the thunder rumble and the rain pattering against the street. That was his dream, the one he couldn't keep a girlfriend because of. All he wanted was you and nobody else ever lived up to that.

He wishes he could scream at you, tell you that those very sorry excuses for men that you end up with and what you have with them isn't love. Or maybe you do love them, but they do not love you. They like the idea of you, someone free spirited and always ready to fall in love.

It truly seemed as though you could fall in love with anyone but the one man who wanted you the most.

Watching you fall asleep on his couch, head resting on the high armrest with knees curled up and his blanket still tucked around you with a tiny little bit of chocolate on the corner of your lip sends his heart racing a mile a minute. It feels so right to have you there. He feels guilty for enjoying it. Your heart was broken even if you wouldn't say a word about it and here he was enjoying it.

He uses his foot to push open the spare bedroom door just along the hall from his room. John lays you down carefully on top of the duvet, letting your head nuzzle into his plush pillows as your eyes remain shut in soft sleep. He grabs another blanket for you and makes sure the heating is right up in the room before he leaves you there with an ache in his chest.

He goes to check on you in the middle of the night, finding you not in the room but instead standing in his kitchen still shrouded in blankets with crazy sleep hair and tired eyes.

“Can’t sleep?” He asks, startling you ever so slightly. You shrug, moving to take a seat at his kitchen island. “Woke up and got all messed up thinking about how i have literally nothing.” You mumble in response, your voice thick with the desire to burst into tears. It breaks his heart to see you so defeated, your eyes never meeting his as they stare pointedly down at the marble surface. “I’m sorry.” John says, “Really. He’s an arsehole. I can go round and grab some stuff for you tomorrow if you want.” He offers, his apology as sincere as they come. But you shake your head with only a quick glance up at him. John isn’t hot tempered at all. He’s mellow, easygoing and funny. Never quick to anger and never the type to get into a fight but by god is he protective of you. You worry about the kind of blow that would come to his career if he gets an assault charge against your ex when he inevitably doesn’t let John into the house to get any of your stuff while probably barraging you with insults.

“It’s not worth it.” You admit. “It’s less physical. Just leaves me empty, i guess. ‘Cause i gave everything to that relationship and how i have nothing left to give.” The heartbreak and the weight of your words will weigh on John’s mind probably for years to come. How someone could do that to you he will never understand. There’s nothing he wants more in this world than for you to be his to love. He wants to shower you with praise, make you realise how strong you are and remind you every single day that he loves you. That’s what you deserve. You deserve kindness and encouragement and support. He wishes more than anything to be the guy who could give that to you instead of watching you enter into relationships with the worst men he’s ever known only to see you torn down at the other side of it.

“You’ve got me.” He offers. He knows that’s probably not what you want to hear and it might not give you the kind of relief he wishes he could give. But you smile softly and stand up, shuffling over to him under blankets and his warm clothes until you reach him. You don’t really hug him, just lean against him with your cheek on his chest. John wraps his arms around you tightly and feels you sigh contently. He’s your John. The burly Scottish lad who makes you laugh when you feel like crying, who looks after you and keeps you pushing forward when life feels like it’s stacked against you. “Yeah. I love you, John.” You hum softy. John can feel the small smile on your lips against the thin material of the shirt he wore to sleep in because his house was like a sauna with the heating to keep your warm. He can tell you’re about to fall asleep there because he supports most of your weight. He holds you to him, rubbing your back soothingly as you nod ever so slightly against him.

“Even when i’ve got nothing, i’ve got you.”

Taste of Strawberries, chap. 28

Chapter 28 Shadows dancing Haymitch pulled out the padded stool in front of the piano, flexed his fingers and began with an old ballad he knew Effie loved. With the kids giving her such a hard time, she rested back in her own room but the door was ajar. She’d had no trouble hearing. “I knew you couldn’t keep away, boy,” Madam chuckled in his memory. That low, gruff sound you could hardly ever draw out of her. Yeah, life was full of surprises, that’s for sure. Right before he and Effie wound up in bed together he played just to ease her mind off things, the night after he played so she wouldn’t bring up again what had happened earlier and before he knew it, it had became a fixture to their evening routine. Save these past few days he poured them both some broth almost every night and played her a song or two. Or three. It was one of the few drink preferences they had in common. And since her first few visits to the Hob where Sae introduced her to the wide range of hot beverages Effie finally unchained him from those God-awful, postwar tea parties she insisted on throwing. Dead flowers drowning on hot, honey-water. The memory alone was enough to trigger his gag-reflex. Come to think of it he hadn’t seen Effie so much as touch the teapot ever since he moved in. It got her nauseous too now, he reckoned. What with the pregnancy and all.

A few places in the Capitol sold the stuff. Broth, that was. Though none of them nearly as tasty as Twelve’s. Sae was a wiz with her concoctions. She’d had enough practice and all – in bad times and worse – when they had little else. But even after things got better, broth was such an ingrained part of their culture it remained a steady dish on the Hob’s menu. Especially in the winter months and during the Harvest Festival. Great hangover food. Without those occasional cups brought in by Katniss or Peeta or even Sae at times he would have knelt over from malnourishment years ago. Warm milk with a pinch of spices that he stirred together when asked wasn’t so bad either but he still tended to burn the stuff. Broth was easier. “And it’s really good for the babies,” Effie said. The casting vote. She savored each and every sip; hands wrapped around her cup, much like Plutarch back in Thirteen when they finally broke out the coffee. As for the music. It unwound her. Relaxed her when nothing else could. And when she relaxed he relaxed. If that wasn’t a good enough reason he didn’t know what was. Anything to keep the babies in for as long as possible. To help them grow big and strong before taking on the bullshit of the world. Him for instance. He was rusty, without a doubt. Especially in the beginning. But as time wore on more and more melodies found their way out of his fingertips. It stunned him how accurately he remembered the ballads and lullabies and mountain airs of his childhood. A feat all the more impressive if you took into account he’d spent most of his inactive years marinating in hard liquor. Muscle memory, Effie would have called it. His heart had not forgotten the music of long ago. Simple verses with little variation from music assembly, the massively intricate melodies from Madam’s brittle, old music sheets that scattered to the wind if you weren’t careful. Even the occasional lullaby while ma rocked Amadeus in his cot or the joyful, playful tunes of father when he bounced his eldest on his knee. Effie never asked about the songs. If she had insisted on knowing the origins behind each piece he’d have a hard time keeping it up. Most of the time she just laid on her side, eyes closed and tapping her fingers to the music against her ever-expanding belly. “They love it,” she said. “I can feel it.” Such a sweet thought. Much unlikely but he hoped she was right. It was still hard. Gone were the days when he played simply for his own amusement or even escapism, the thrill of mastering a particularily difficult song. But if it brought them some joy he could better stand it. And yet, despite the painful memories interlaced with the music – of a different life, a different family – there were still moments. Not often, not long-lasting but just as strong, just as all-consuming as ever before. Times when a string of melodies, a song once loved, struck a chord in him. Reminded him of why he gravitated toward the piano in the first place. There would always be songs he couldn’t play. Not without having a complete nervous breakdown. Like “A rain of tears” or anything even remotely close to the hope song. But with or without them there were still plenty of melodies to go around. Once in a blue moon when the tremors weren’t as bad he even played freehand. One of his favorite pass-times as a boy. And being now an adult he could figure out bits and pieces of songs he once wrote but never finished. The evening sun made a star in the smooth wood. He was on the last verse of “Daydreaming” – as Effie had come to call it. The gentle note petered out. He scratched his nose and without even reflecting he played the somber introduction of “All the pretty little horses.” Brow crinkled at the sweet, sad sounds he paused. Where’d that come from? The song never even crossed his mind, not for several years now. He gave a slight shake of his head as if to clear it and then picked up where he left off. Why not? If nothing else it was a song he hadn’t already played her half a dozen times already. When ma needed to finish a big job and couldn’t afford having him running about the house papered with patterns and cutouts of fabric, she always left him in the safe ward of Greasy Sae. She was fond of singing. Some of the first lullabies he ever learned he learned in her kitchen. They weren’t songs written down on a piece of paper. They passed by mouth. From parents and grandparents, siblings, neighbors. Sae’s greatest source of music however came from Katniss’s grandmother. They were best friends growing up. The first time she sang him this particular piece he couldn’t have been older than three, three and a half. It was a sunny day, just like today. All of her kids were at school. He was tired and cranky, yet refused to stay down for his nap. Instead he sat cross-legged on the kitchen rug playing with the house cat. Now, Buster was a lot more docile than a certain flat-nosed, one-eared creature named after a yellow flower but even he had his limit. Sae was in the adjacent room making the bed but she rushed out at the sound of him. Fingers sprawled out like a sea star, he wailed at the top of his lungs. Buster glared at him from under a side table. Turned out he’d gone and pulled the cat’s tail and got a well-deserved scratch for it. Ma would have  given him a telling-to but Sae never got mad at him when he was little. She simply led his obnoxious self over to the sink where they washed the tiny cut on the back of his hand. It was so small he didn’t even need a band-aid. She merely kissed the top of it and lifted him up in her arms. He clung to her neck on the way to the bedroom. Cried for a few more moments just for good measure. Tucked in, his sobs had subsided to snivels but he didn’t kick off the blanket this time. She booped his nose, something that never failed to put a smile on his face and with her hand in his she sang him the song he was playing now – in a fair and surprisingly beautiful voice. Good old Sae. He should call her. Kind of her to think of us, he thought, remembering the P.S. on Peeta’s post card. Though he highly doubted Effie wanted to dress her kids up in someone else’s hand-me-downs. Without him here, hitting the brakes, she would have stockpiled little kiddie’s clothes sky-high. Sighing he willed himself to focus on nothing but the music. The next note, the next verse. But today was a day of distractions. More than anything else there was one thought that kept nagging at him. Like a rodent nibbling on the fingertips of a dying man in an alleyway, too powerless to evade it. If Effie wouldn’t move to Twelve or any of the other districts – and he’d be damned if Amy and Ian would spend the rest of their childhood being lugged back and forth across the country. What choices did that leave him? It took no genius to figure it out. I move here. He considered this a moment. This latter life. Take up housing with Effie and the kids. Become a roommate of sorts. Sell the geese off or hand them over to Katniss and Peeta. Visit Twelve only for Christmas and birthdays and a week here and there. Dealing with the likes of Quinlan and Plutarch Heavensbee for parent-teacher meetings and ice skating classes and whose turn it was to bring cupcakes to the playground. Being neighborly and keep the peace with people who would love nothing better than to take a wipe and erase his kids off the city’s slate. A life in the place where his nightmare first began. Bad memories lurking at every corner. Make the Capitol his home. Not a minute into this future, even an imagined one, he was wheezing for breath. His throat lazed up like when wearing those awful jumpsuits back in Thirteen. He wasn’t playing no more. Instead he tugged at the floppy collar of his undershirt, gasping for air and still not getting nearly enough oxygen. I can’t live here! Not for always! It was one thing visiting every once in a while because of Effie. Like a maddening side-effect you must learn how to cope with because the medicine was too important. But he couldn’t stay here indefinitely! He’d sooner jump off The Capitolium. But what other choices were there? No good ones, at any rate. Eyes squeezed shut, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Red darkness rolled in on him like waves. He may not know what he was doing half of the times but he knew one thing. He wanted to be in their lives. In a real way. With an almighty heave he pulled himself up. He would have played but his mind was all blank. Couldn’t remember a single song. Old or new. His legs felt like they were filled with led but by some miracle they carried him all the way to Effie’s room. He didn’t know where else to go. The bottles were dry. Not a drop left. He peeked at her through the crack in the door. She lay on her side, cooped up in the U-shaped pregnancy pillow - their latest find. He didn’t even know those were a thing. If anything it reminded him of Flavius’s boyfriend arm, only much bigger, hugging her on all sides. A ray of sunshine played in her hair, still damp from the bath. It was in moments like these that you could really appreciate how reddish her hair was. Wonder where she gets it from. She had told him once, one time or another. Her grandmother? Great grandmother? Maybe in a few weeks she’d surprise him with a couple of gingers. He pushed inside. Not even sure if he wanted the door to creak her awake or not. What was he even doing here? He should let her rest. Effie mumbled something in her sleep. Always a talker, even when she was out cold. Her eyes fluttered behind closed eyelids. He plucked the empty cup off the nightstand, like it’d been his motive for going here all along. He lingered at her side, indecisive, chest aching for more than one reason. Finally, he leaned in and brushed his lips against her tummy. The usual double kiss. “I’m sorry I yelled at your mama, little ‘uns,” he murmured. “Shouldn’t have done that, I know.” He waited for the kick in response but this time there was nothing. He sniffed, his nose suddenly congested. He kissed them again and turned away, taking the cup with him. Should’ve known it was all a nightmare, he thought back in the kitchen, washing it under a jet of hot water. No way Effie could’ve made hot cocoa without causing a colossal mess. He knew something else too. Even with the air so baking hot you melted away like an ice cream he would not stand as second more in this picture-perfect house in this picture-perfect neighborhood. Not now. Effie’s purse still sat on the hall table where he left it. He opened it and got out the shopping list. Might as well get her those boogie bulbs and what not. He found the wallet in his jacket and peeked inside, frowning. Reached for Effie’s wallet too and emptied the interest of Trinket money mishmashed with his own Games winnings. After a moment’s pause, he shouldered in to a relatively clean shirt and buttoned up. He already changed the soaked sweatpants but if he showed up wearing this flimsy undershirt, yellowed from overuse and so threadbare it was practically see-through they wouldn’t let him in. For a fleeting second his gaze fell on the bread crate but then he swept it from his mind. I’ll take care of that later. Wallet bumping against his thigh and with Mrs. Bitch’s eyes following him behind the curtain, no doubt, he left the house far behind. He was in luck too. Further down the neighborhood he had no sooner turned a corner before the bus rolled up. He waved at it, jogging toward the stop. The driver accelerated and hit the brakes, then accelerated again, as if unsure whether to pick him up or not. Finally it halted to a stop with a whooshing sound. The man eyed him suspiciously but Haymitch swung himself up through the door and the monster of a vehicle resumed its course, heading for town. Slouched in a warm seat Haymitch stared out the dust-speckled window as the rose bushes and lollipop trees rolled by, giving way for bicycle racks and dragon-shaped fire hydrants. Forgetful of the fact he never left Effie a note.

NO ONE IS HAPPY WITH THIS: Leitmotif & Sound Palette In “Sealed Vessel”

whats UP hk fandom i am back with—“more picante takes?” WOW YES HOW DID YOU KNOW!!!

CONTENT WARNING FOR TONIGHTS PROGRAM: today we are discussing the hollow knight boss fight, and all that entails for all the characters involved. relatedly this post does not have anything nice to say about the pale king, so if you’re very protective of his character, you may want to skip it.

FURTHERMORE, i would like to iterate that this essay is working from a place of compassion for ghost, hollow, radiance, AND hornet, because every single one of them is miserable at this point in the game and doesn’t want the events of this boss fight to be happening at all. this post is not an appropriate place to dunk on ANY of them. if you want to do that, please do it elsewhere.

thanks for your understanding.

ALSO, AS USUAL: if youre from a christian cultural upbringing (whether currently practicing, agnostic/secular, or atheist now), understand that some of what i’m discussing here may challenge you. if thinking thru the implications of radiance and the moth tribe’s backstory is distressing for you, PLEASE only approach this essay when youre in a safe mindset & open to listening, and ask the help of a therapist or anti-racism teacher/mentor to help you process your thoughts & feelings. just like keep in mind that youre listening to an ethnoreligiously marginalized person and please be respectful here or wherever else youre discussing this dang essay, ty

NO ONE IS HAPPY WITH THIS: Leitmotif & Sound Palette In “Sealed Vessel”

A while back @grimmradiance​ made a lovely essay about comparing and contrasting Hollow’s moveset in their Hollow Knight and Pure Vessel boss fights and using what can be gleaned from the differences to speculate about their psychology. (This essay is currently their pinned, but I’ll attach a link in a reblog.) It is extremely good, and it made me want to look at the Hollow Knight boss fight my own self through one of my own areas of expertise, meaning music!

As we are all well aware, Christopher Larkin's soundtrack to Hollow Knight rules ass. There are two specific ways in which it rules ass that are relevant to this essay: Leitmotif, and sound palette.

Quick rundown for folks who aren’t familiar with these terms: A leitmotif is a melody associated with a character or event or mood that's incorporated into songs in different ways based on what's happening in the story. Undertale is an example of a game with an incredibly strong use of leitmotif that’s really only possible because Toby Fox is both the composer and the game creator, so he can synchronize the subtleties of the writing with music and scene scripting too.

The phrase “sound palette” can have a lot of meanings, but in this case I’m using it to refer to specific instruments or groups of instruments that are associated with certain characters. If you’ve watched Steven Universe and seen interviews/production commentary by its composer team Aivi & Surasshu, you’ll hear them talking about part of their approach to scoring episodes being how each main character is represented by certain instruments: Steven with the triangle wave, Pearl with jazz piano, and so on.

Hollow Knight is a small team project rather than a one-person show, so Christopher Larkin can’t go quite AS over-the-top with leitmotif integration as Toby Fox can on simple virtue of Team Cherry having to communicate what they want to him. But Larkin is Hollow Knight's sound designer as well as its composer, so he folds leitmotif and character sound palette together with striking use of stems to create a very immersive and cinematic musical experience that enhances HK’s story and gameplay.

This brings us back to the track Sealed Vessel, which has EXTREMELY tight and cinematic sound design and uses leitmotif and sound palette to not just sock players in the feelings during a charged and dramatic boss fight, but also tell us a lot about what Hollow and Radiance are experiencing emotionally, especially with the gameplay in mind.

So, let’s play the soundtrack version of Sealed Vessel (and some other stuff) and talk about what’s going on in the game during it!

You may want to get out your copy of the OST or visit Christopher Larkin’s Bandcamp page so that you can listen along.

LEITMOTIF & SOUND PALETTE

Before we actually get into analyzing Sealed Vessel, let’s talk about the involved characters’ leitmotifs/sound palettes so we know what we’re listening for.

Both of these things are easiest to identify when characters have a distinct theme song. Ghost does not. However, the main theme of Hollow Knight (see: the title track, Hollow Knight) is used as a leitmotif for the vessels as a whole. Most pieces involved with a vessel character include this leitmotif somewhere. For instance, you can find this leitmotif and variations on it in Broken Vessel’s boss theme. The Vessel leitmotif is led by a cello solo here, so we can identify that the cello is the central part of Broken Vessel’s personal sound palette.

When the Vessel theme is associated with Ghost in specific, it tends to be performed by viola and/or piano, as it is on the title track and in other places like the opening cinematic.

Moving on to Hollow, their specific sound palette is established not in Sealed Vessel but in Pure Vessel, their pantheon boss theme. (Sealed Vessel was composed first, since the Godmaster DLC didn’t drop until over a year after HK’s initial release, meaning Pure Vessel was reverse-engineered/extrapolated from relevant parts of Sealed Vessel. But we’ll get into that later!)

The major instrumental fixtures in Pure Vessel are choir and tubular bells (i.e., those dramatic vertical fellas that sound like church bells or a carillon), with some soft background instrumentation: bass drum, woodwinds (appropriately led by flute in the main melody’s “falling motion” - flute is the centerpiece of TPK’s sound palette), strings, and high/mid brass. Hollow’s overall sound palette has a very Christian choir-esque sound (in the Pure Vessel theme this is very idealized and saintly: soft and slow and tragic) and the beginning of their leitmotif has a very distinctive climbing melody that mirrors their ascent from the Abyss. The Unbearable Vesselness Of Being leitmotif is absent from the Pure Vessel track.

Meanwhile, Radiance’s boss theme is a very fun expression of her character upon which Larkin evidently went ham. Her sound palette is expressed through full orchestra (plus choir and pipe organ) that has a special emphasis on the bass part of the brass section, which does not see much use in the HK soundtrack. Her leitmotif has also got cute and distinctive touches: It’s full of triplets to match her tiara-looking antennae, and also has a repeated “fluttery” pattern of background sixteenth notes as countermelody, often spiraling downwards.

The majority of the piece is loud and bombastic and in a minor key to play up the “resplendent and terrible” wrathful aspect of herself Radi is pushing during this section of gameplay, a very quintessentially moth intimidation tactic: Try to look as scary as possible to keep your enemies from messing with you, since you’re not built for fighting. These blasts of intensity from the brass section match Radiance’s strategy of Overwhelm You With Bullet Hell Spam To Make Up For Lack Of Battle Experience/Poor Aim. But in between said intensity spikes you can hear traces of softer instrumentation and major key, little glimpses of a gentle warmth we can otherwise only infer from her backstory and the implications of Moth Tribe lore.

0:00 - 0:41 - OPENING AMBIANCE

The Sealed Vessel track begins with the ambiance of the Black Egg Temple’s interior: The faint tones of the glowing seals we hear when we pass by them, the only light in a pitch-black world besides the floor lighting up under Ghost’s feet.

Then a slow string tremolo fades in, slowly growing louder. In the track new notes join the tremolo progressively, while in-game a violin joins the anticipatory chord every time you snap one of Hollow’s chains. Which, may I say: A+++++++ sound design!!!!!! Rules ass!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The tremolo reaches a peak in dynamics - all three characters present are extremely tense - and then cuts off to allow for Hollow’s boss battle opening, i.e. Radiance screaming. Team Cherry kindly demarcates each phase of the battle with a Radi yell.

0:43 - 1:39 - PHASE 1: HOLLOW ON AUTOPILOT

Phase 1 opens immediately with Hollow’s leitmotif in bells, but with brass, piano, and percussion backing them up; grand and tragic. In the background the bass section of the orchestra's strings flutter in a repetitive pattern of 16th notes, i.e. Panicky Radi Noises. The violins harmonize with Hollow's leitmotif as it climbs, but then join the rest of the string section in fluttering 16th notes, transmuting what in Pure Vessel is the flute leading Hollow back down (8th notes) to a slightly louder “a” from the backseat.

In actual gameplay, the only attacks Hollow uses are their basic nail skills. Building on grimmradiance’s analysis of the window their attacks provide to their psychology, and pairing that with the Pure Vessel leitmotif booming over the metaphorical loudspeakers, we can tell that this is Hollow reacting automatically to a threat the way that their father trained them to. Their conscious mind might still be making dialup noises at Ghost’s sudden reappearance jumpscaring them with murky childhood guilt and trauma, but that’s only let muscle memory take over. Slash, parry, charge and thrust. Their time spent at bee bootcamp (which we can assume because Hornet was trained at the Hive and Hollow’s form while nail fighting is identical to hers on their shared moves) has served them well.

Radiance, meanwhile, has frozen completely for this combat phase, and contributes nothing here except the anxiety of the string section.

As the strings continue to go “a” the piano (Ghost) and woodwinds harmonize on something between Hollow’s personal leitmotif and the Vessel leitmotif in the backdrop.

However at around 1:29ish, the key changes, building into an overall color change for the Sealed Vessel piece.

1:39 - 2:15 - PHASE 2: SHE’S AS SCARED OF YOU AS YOU ARE OF HER

In actual gameplay, the part of Sealed Vessel used for phases 1 and 2 of the Hollow Knight fight is the Entirety of 0:43 - 2:15, possibly because there’s no easy transition spot like there is between phase 2 and phase 3. But the changes to Hollow’s moveset are clearly tied to this specific part of the piece.

Phase 2 is where Radiance pushes herself past her freeze response and starts trying to hit Ghost. Hollow gains two attacks here, which we can tell are Radi because they’re often accompanied by her crying (a softer and more abbreviated sound than her full scream): These two attacks are the Infection blob blast and the Light/Void pillar attack that hits for a full 2 masks damage (which appear to be Radi’s take on Hollow’s Pure Vessel-exclusive moves, their grabby tentacles & silver knife pillars respectively).

In the Sealed Vessel track, this part of the piece is almost entirely Radiance’s fluttering. The strings start by following the descending motion of Hollow’s leitmotif but in 16th notes, then ratchet up to start spiraling down again while straying further from Hollow’s leitmotif. This section ends in a back and forth between hard blasts in a one-two-(rest)-one-two-three pattern and gasps of fluttering between, with piano and low brass building behind it. Eventually the nervous fluttering of the strings becomes less frequent between the blasts: Radiance is inexperienced with fighting and very very afraid, but she’s also FUCKING PISSED and prepared to defend herself.

The OST version of the piece punctuates the break between the first half of the piece and the second with Radiance’s scream.

2:16 - 4:04 - PHASE 3: “I’M HELPING! :)” SAID HOLLOW; “HOLY SHIT PLEASE DON’T,” SAID LITERALLY EVERYONE

Phase 3 opens with Hollow stabbing themself repeatedly, a movement pattern they repeat throughout the phase. It is shocking the first time you see it, and never stops being horrible and sad no matter how many times you do this part of the fight.

Here, Hollow’s mind has finally come back online after their own freeze response, and they choose to destroy themself and bequeath the duty of sealing Radiance to Ghost. Even if they can’t be the one to make their father proud, they can still make sure their directive gets carried out.

Radiance knows exactly what they’re up to and why, and she reacts to this by completely losing her head and mashing buttons in a panic. This is something we see out of her at the ends of her boss fights too, where she’s feeling too threatened and afraid to do anything but spam optic blasts. In the Hollow Knight boss fight this manifests in two horrifying-looking but easy-to-avoid new attacks: The Infection blob sprinkler and the ragdoll.

Ghost does not react visibly because we're in gameplay, but their horror and grief at their sibling’s choice is echoed in the BGM. The Sealed Vessel piece goes soft and sad, with Ghost’s associated viola leading the bass strings in the Unbearable Vesselness of Being leitmotif. At 2:51 the violin comes in with Hollow’s leitmotif, and gradually the choir appears in the backdrop. The ensemble’s overall dynamics build in a slow crescendo, and at the very end of this segment the other instruments begin to join in.

This segment of the piece is also used in phase 4, which occurs if you don't have Hornet’s help or miss your cue to Dream Nail Hollow. Phase 3 ends when Hollow reaches 0 HP; in phase 4 they are for all purposes already dead. But Radiance manifests an extra 250 HP out of terrified, unadulterated FUCK YOU FUCK THIS!!! even though all she can do is get Hollow to fall on their face trying to slash and ragdoll them around. The BGM continues to play as Ghost absorbs Radiance from Hollow and Hollow’s body loses its shape and dissolves into liquid Void.

And there’s one other place in gameplay Sealed Vessel (Unbearable Vesselness of Being) is used: The Path of Pain, the completely evil kaizo-level obstacle course which presumably featured in Hollow’s childhood training, and behind which the Pale King has hidden his last and most terrible secret—that he had realized on some level that Hollow was a kid with feelings who loved him and wanted to make him proud, and condemned them to death despite it all by using them to imprison and torture Radiance as he’d always planned.

The OST version of Sealed Vessel includes the music for both normal ending cinematics, so we’ll be looking at them too.

4:05 - 4:35: ENDINGS 1/2: NO ONE IS HAPPY WITH THIS

In the BGM for The Hollow Knight and Sealed Siblings endings, the Vessel leitmotif is played by violin, viola, and choir while the cellos and contrabasses—and then the brass bass section too—play a slower version of Radiance’s downward spiral. But once Ghost is pierced by the Black Egg’s chains and Radiance’s struggle to free herself ends in failure, the soprano and bass sections harmonize. The animation zooms out of the temple and the seal reforms. They are stuck together now until the end of Ghost’s life. Hooray.

The OST version of the track immediately segues into the BGM for Dream No More.

4:36 - 5:45: ENDING 3: THANKS, I HATE IT

Here, Hornet’s associated instrument, the violin, plays one long sustained note with a few notes of Ghost’s piano alongside as she wakes up.

TPK’s goddamn flute comes in at 5:00 with his leitmotif overpowering the backdrop Vessel leitmotif on piano while Hornet surveys the carnage: The temple has been destroyed, Radiance is dead, and what’s left of Ghost’s corpse is smeared across the floor. The Void may have taken umbrage with his horseshit and unceremoniously vored him, but the motherfucker still got what he wanted in the end; the Pale King has ended the Infection by completing his genocide of the moths, using the children he abused and abandoned as his proxies, and wasting two of their lives. Can I get a hearty THIS SUCKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! in the chat.

Given that Hornet herself is canonically unsure if bringing the fight to Radiance is really a just course of action, one can only imagine how she must feel when she sees the cost of that decision.

Our only real moment of catharsis is in this shit situation comes in at 5:13, where the flute gives way to a solo from Ghost’s associated viola, playing the Vessel leitmotif as the Siblings curl up and sink back into the mountain of their corpses. Goodnight, kiddos. You deserved better, and so did literally everyone involved in this whole stupid boss fight.

This is where the OST version of Sealed Vessel ends. Even without the gameplay and story context it slaps, but now that we’ve taken a look at how this 5:45 piece is wall to wall misery and fear on the part of literally every involved character, hopefully it will have even more impact!

BNHA: Kakashi dimension hops crossover (5)

Summary: Kakashi gets dumbed into the My Hero Academia universe through random plot devise.

Characters:  Kakashi Hatake

Fandoms: My Hero Academia and Naruto

WARNINGS: Mentions of violence/injury

START  / RREV / NEXT

Ms Iroi always tries to engage him in conversation whenever she comes in, asking questions and chatting to herself in a fruitless attempt at helping him recover his 'lost' memories. Most of the time, Kakashi is indifferent to her presence and always has a magazine handy as an excuse not to talk.

Today, Iroi is in a particularly good mood, humming to herself, greeting him with an energetic, “How are you doing today!”

Kakashi grunts a noncommittal response which doesn’t do much to discourage the woman’s good mood as she runs through a check-up routine.  

“You should try watching U.A’s sports festival tomorrow. I hear it’s going to be particularly spectacular this year,” she says as she pulls the blinds on Kakashi's window, blocking out the distant city lights. 

U.A? he recognises the name. Kakashi glances up over the pages of HERO!! MONTHLY BREAKDOWN. It is the third time he has read this issue.

“You know, since you like reading those hero magazines, I figured you would be interested in watching the ‘next generation of heroes’ debut,” she continues, noting his attention, “U.A always puts on a good show.”

Kakashi frowns. The problem with his amnesia cover story is that he is still trying to figure out what he can get away with not remembering. So far the doctor’s seem content to chalk up the disappearance of his long term memories to a ‘quirk’ accident but were always more concerned when he failed to recall basic factual information. Something to do with different parts of the brain being responsible for different types of information.

 “Watch how?” He settles on asking. U.A. was supposed to be a hero-training academy so whatever this ‘sports festival’ was was worth checking out. 

“Oh,” Iori pauses to think, “I, ah, think channel 2 with be covering it?” she hesitates, “You know what. I’ll look it up and let you know later. Sorry, I can’t carry my phone around with me while on shift.”

“Thank you.” He smiles and makes a show of returning to his magazine to dissuade further conversation.

Later the same evening, just before the end of the evening shift, Iori pokes her head into his room again. She is out of uniform, long hair untired, waving to catch his attention.

“The coverage is on channel 2 and starts at 11am,” She holds up her portable communication devise like it means something.  It probably did mean something. The frequency by which people checked them suggested it had a function beyond basic communication. He has held off attempting to steal one because, unlike pens, people would notice and care if one went missing.  

“Have fun watching! Oh… also, I forgot to ask…”

Kakashi raises a brow.

“I have a bunch of old gossip magazines. Mum used to read them all the time and there are a few hero-themed ones in the mix. I can bring them in if you want more stuff to read.” 

“If you want.” Iori must have noticed him re-reading the magazines. 

"I'll bring them on Friday!"

Iori had been unsubtly hinting that Kakashi might have had a history in heroics. It definitely wasn’t because reading information on a page just made sense when compared to the barrage of conflicting reports the television gave him. A few weeks with only the television as his information source has him writing off most of its information as useless or propaganda.  

…

...

“HEELLLOOOOO, LISTENERS!”

Kakashi stares dully as the video footage, which had been giving him a bird’s eye view of a positively massive stadium, changes to a sweeping shot of what must be thousands of people crammed into seats. It almost makes him claustrophobic just watching it.

“WELLCOME TO OUR ANNUAL U.A. SPORTS FESTIVAL! THE HIGH SCHOOL ADOLESCENT RODEO YOU ALL LOVE TO WATCH. CAN A GET A ‘OH YEAH!’”

As if of one mind, thousands of people leap to their feet screaming. The camera angle changes again to show a grinning blond-haired man, seated at a desk and pointing enthusiastically at the camera. All these shot changes are going to give him a headache. Kakashi is already having reservations watching this and its only10 minutes.

“Thank you! You’re an AMAZING audience!”

 It almost reminds him of the final Chunin Exam stages -if the Chunin exams had had three times the audience - which always involved some sort of combat display.  There hadn’t been any public Chunin Exams recently for reasons such as a large portion of Konoha being flattened by Pein.

“FIRST UP ARE OUR FIRST-YEAR EVENTS! And what an exciting round of events they are, perfect for debuting our newest students! Give us a shout so they can feel your support!”

Another loud shot as thousands of people yelled in unison.

“Come on! Louder than that! These are your future Heroes I’m talking about! SHOW THEM SOME LOVE!”

More yelling. Kakashi turns down the volume.

“But! Wait just a minute!! We're not only here for our Hero students! As I'm sure you all know, behind every great hero is a hardworking support team! GIVE IT UP FOR our Support, Management and General departments who are also competing for a chance to face off in the finals!”

Kakashi sighs. He is getting the sense that this might be more for entertainment than utility purposes, conforming to the general trend of Hero-related stuff being flashy. Different from the Chunin exam which had deadly consequences if not taken seriously.

“Hey. Hey! HERE THEY COME NOW! OUR STUDENTS PARTICIPATING IN THE FIRST YEAR STAGE!”

What follows is an overly dramatized race where the only thing of interest to him are the obstacle types, including robots, - mobile mechanical weapons of some sort that produced a lot of environmental damage but were taken down fairly easily- and explosive devices that acted a lot like explosive tags. Then there was a team elimination round and one-on-one tournament fights after which the coverage shifts to the second year and third year stages.

He uncovers the sharingun only to discover that, while its memorisation function worked fine, the part that translated the movements into muscle memory felt off. Perhaps, the replication and copying component of the eye didn’t work when viewing a technique through a screen rather than in person. Interesting. As there wasn't anything particularly impressive technique-wise during the events he counts the new information as a net gain. 

The student-heroes – he is not sure if there is an official term for a hero in training – barely match Konoha’s academy standard in their taijutsu and physical conditioning though there was marked improvement between first, second and third-year groups. These students were what...between 14-18 years old...and yet most had the skill level of an academy  students and fresh genuin with only a few notable exceptions?

Sure, there were - honestly ridiculous- versatile and powerful bloodline abilities being thrown around like nothing, but ninjutsu techniques only took a shinobi so far without a strong base to work from. He shakes his head, reminding himself that these kids - because what else did you call combatants who hadn’t graduated yet- weren’t shinobi in training and would be policing civilians and engaging ‘Villains’ of similar skill levels. It was obvious that the students favoured non-lethal takedown methods and put little to no thought into stealth and misdirection during fights. 

Different words…different priorities. 

As Kakashi has yet to see any evidence that the country, Japan, was at war with another he thinks the skill level displayed might be serviceable. There were also no major conflicts between the country’s large cities over farmland, water sources and the like. Obviously, this place had sorted out the resource and distribution issues usually encountered when supporting such large populations. Or, who knows, maybe everything on the television was a carefully constructed lie to lull people into complacency.

Now he has seen an example of hero-students, he better understands the low combat ability demonstrated by the police. It also gives incite into the blurry recordings of Hero/Villain confrontations which played on repeat across the various ‘news’ reports. They all tended to hover around Chunin or maybe Special Jounin in terms of skill. He knows generalisations are dangerous so, until he saw the combat in person, he would exercise his usual level of caution. There were bound to be outliers after all-the impressive brute strength of the number one hero comes to mind- and there was no telling what advantages a bloodline ability might provide. Absently, he makes testing the susceptibly of people without chakra to genjustu as something to figure out sooner rather than later.

He sighs. This is why he hated the television. Whenever he watched it, he came away increasingly confused, with more questions than he had answers. Not to mention anything useful being constantly interrupted with information detailing one of the many products that he could apparently buy here. It irritated him to no end. 

...

...

The chakra collecting seal is ready before the week is out. Mostly ready...it was ready enough.

Kakashi returns to the roof. Sitting cross-legged, back against the stairway entrance, he works his way through the 100 or so pens, cracking them open and tapping out ink into a large bowl, stolen -like the pens -from hospital staff.

The mix of black, blue and red ink is gluggy, forcing him to add water to thin the solution out. Once satisfied he pulls out an appropriated scalpel – one of a growing collection hidden alongside his pens because having a stash of weapons is never a bad thing- pricking his middle finger, watching the blood drip and curdle with the mixture. The blood would be absorbed into the ink, allowing it to conduct chakra. He mixes everything with pair of disposable chopsticks, taking care not to spill it on the ground or stain his hands.

The whole process reminds him of other insistences where he had improvised fuinjutsu ink in the field. The last time being during his final Anbu missions where he had created a body storage scroll from scratch after unexpectedly losing a squad mate on what should have been a simple intel retrieval mission. Not a particularly fond memory but a memory he was stuck with.

Since his demotion to Jonin-sensei there had been fewer of those sorts of missions. Not that being a Jonin-sensei had been easy – considering all his students had gone off to find other teachers he didn't even think he had been particularly good at it - bringing with it its own special brand of stress, culminating in a stint as Hokage, a fourth war and him stuck here. He is pretty sure his experiences aren't universal. Team 7 was just cursed to fail in increasingly spectacular ways.

He lets out a heavy sigh, leaving his airways open to a sudden gust of cold wind which carries the scent of cleaning chemicals from the hospital and oil from the road straight up his nose. He exhales forcefully and mentally bumps finding a face mask up his list of priorities. It would be good for hiding his features and dulling the artificial smells of a city housing over a million people.

The sound of wind whistling around the building almost blocks out the echo of feet in the stairway, approaching his location. In one smooth motion, Kakashi stands pushing the remaining broken pen back into the vent, nudging the cover back in place with his foot. Carefully he holds the bowl of ink in his injured arm and a scalpel in the other. Kakashi steps back against the entrance so the outward opening door would hide him from whoever came out.

A crying kid comes barrelling through the door.

Well, not completely crying, more like sniffing loudly, eyes all shiny. He even recognises the kid from the U.A combat demonstration, as improbable as that was. It is the first year hero student with the speed-enhancing ability which, seeing him up close, probably had something to do with the strange growths coming out of his caff muscles. High speed movement put enormous strain on the body so he could reasonably conclude that the kid was physically resilient to acceleration stress and similar forces. Not resilient to stabbing though....

Kakashi forces himself to relax, his scalpel lowering ever so slightly. Lucky he had heard the kid coming or he might have accidentally hurt him. A few weeks of reduced sleep coupled with a lot of time to ruminate on past missions and failures has put him on edge. This was exactly why he disliked taking extended breaks. 

Maybe, Kakashi should start relocking the stairway if he was planning to make regular trips up here because the young male probably hadn’t had the roof in mind as a destination. Kakashi knows from experience that, unless you were injured or a member of staff, there were few good reasons to wander around a hospital at odd hours.

With the hero-student distracted sniffling into his arm, Kakashi slips around the door and back down the stairs. He hadn’t planned on applying the seal on the roof anyway. Too exposed to the elements and the concrete was too rough for the delicate line work.

He continues mixing while he walks, having mentally mapped the hospital well enough to know which hallways to use and which to avoid. There is a surgeon with some sort of heat-sensing vision who works late most nights that he must be careful around and a nurse with a weak proximity based empathic ability working in paediatrics. Both obstacles force him to take a meandering detour on his way to the ground floor and  the larger shower blocks which housed  cubicles the size of small rooms. Enough smooth floorspace for the expanded seal design and easy to clean afterwards. He supposes he is lucky, some complicated fuinjutsu required several meters worth of floor space. The containment on Saskue’s cursed seal comes to mind and he is glad that this seal is infinity smaller.

Not one to waste time knowing that nurses and patients regularly used the space even this late in the evening, he immediately slips into a cubicle upon arrival. Flopping onto the floor he pulls out the paintbrush he had had scour the hospital for and eventually to steal from the children’s ward. Carefully, he begins the slow process of application.

…

…

The final seal design is circular, about the size of his splayed hand, positioned on his uninjured shoulder just above where his Anbu seal had previously sat. The sleepwear provided by the hospital had sleeves that extend just past his bicep. It hid the design, for the most part. The final visible seal is a bit bigger than he had predicted or planned for. If this were a proper infiltration mission, where blowing his cover came at the price of death, he would be in big trouble. If this were a proper mission, he would have waited before applying this. An unnecessary risk. He itches the back of his head, turning from where he is craning his neck to see the seal, gathering up his supplies to be thrown in one of the hospital’s many rubbish bins. Kakashi lets out a breath. Maybe, this whole ‘trapped in a different world’ thing is affecting him more than he was willing to admit and making him sloppy.

He pulls down the sleeve so it mostly hides the design. Not like the doctors here would recognise the significance of fuinjutsu, he reminds himself, even if their questions would be annoying to deflect.

He pumps chakra into the seal and a jolt akin to lightning runs down his limb. It activates without issue and Kakashi grimaces as his chakra is slowly drained and collected. The rate of the drain is pathetically slow. Three years too slow. But, between this and his sharingan - which was always active and draining chakra- he can’t risk making it quicker. Despite the relatively low-level threats around him, Kakashi is, first and foremost, a Jonin in an unknown territory who is already taking risks simply making and applying the seal. He can’t afford to impair himself with poor chakra management on top of everything else.

Kakashi pops his head out of the cubical, scanning the shower block. Nothing of note has changed and he darts out, intent on returning to his room. He is tired and it would be a long, tiresome week as his body adjusted to the strain as well.

NEXT  

ghosts

Faintly, Nancy can hear the waves crashing into the shoreline down the road. A buoy rings against the water. She takes a breath. “So…you don’t regret not leaving?”

“Do you?” He counters, as if knowing she wasn’t just talking about him anymore.

[set between 2x05-2x06] [read on ao3!]

“What’re you thinking about?”

Nancy turns to look over her shoulder, surprised to see Ace standing there, hands in the pockets of his puffer. He has a smile emerging from the corner of his mouth, which broadens slightly after a moment. “You look super serious. Am I interrupting something heavy?”

“What? No,” she says, clearing her thoughts, and echoes his grin. “I just thinking about…ghosts.”

“Ghosts,” Ace repeats, and drops into the seat beside her. She’s sitting on the table, whereas he’s planted on the bench, and yet they’re still at eye-level.

She blows out a breath and shakes her head slightly. “Yeah, ghosts. With everything happening so fast last month, I feel like…I didn’t fully process…” She pauses, and waves her hands for exaggeration, “Ghosts. They’re real.”

He furrows his brow, as if waiting for her to continue, or to finish her thought.

Nancy falls back on her palms, glancing up briefly at the darkened sky. “It’s just—I’m supposed to be this…Hero of Horseshoe Bay, or whatever they want to call me in the papers. I don’t really care about that but—solving mysteries is the only thing I’ve been good at, and…”

Ace passes her a slightly mischievous smile. “Is this about me coming for your title? I’m a ‘Hero’ too.”

She rolls her eyes and bumps his shoulder with her own. “No, it’s…I make logical leaps. That’s all it is. How can you make logical leaps with supernatural stuff?”

“Ah,” Ace says.

“If ghosts are real, what else is? And what won’t I be able to solve because I didn’t think to consider…Bigfoot, or something? I don’t know if I’ll be any good at this when the rules of physics don’t apply.”

“Nancy,” Ace says slowly, “all due respect, but that’s super dumb. You’ve already solved like, three ghosts mysteries by now.” She opens her mouth with mock offense, but he just grins at her, and she’s unable to stop herself from matching it again. “You’re good at this. Dead or undead. Besides—people always say stuff about physics as if it just relates to gravity. It’s a lot more flexible than that.”

She cocks her neck. “What do you mean?”

Ace shrugs. “Like, I went down a Wikipedia rabbit hole one night. A lot of physics is about theorizing about other dimensions and energy, and matter. Like—there’s that rule, that matter can neither be created nor destroyed. I think it’s mostly about decay or whatever, like how when we die we go back to the ground, but maybe there’s another part, like with our soul, that sticks around. Who’s to say that doesn’t encompass ghosts?”

Nancy just stares at him, dumbfounded. When she first met Ace, he’d struck her as a quiet slacker; another fellow high school burnout. It’s almost upsetting how much she’d misjudged him. “How the hell do you know that?”

As if slightly embarrassed, Ace ducks his face down, but she can still see his smile. He shrugs again. “Like I said, I love a good Wikipedia black hole. Which, coincidentally, has a great article on black holes.” They meet each other’s eyes, and Nancy feels something sputter against her chest, suddenly deeply aware of their proximity. She wonders if he feels it too, because he clears his throat. “Anyway, I don’t sleep super well. So it gives me a lot of time to collect increasingly random knowledge.” He taps his temple. “It’s a steel trap of trivia.”

She raises her eyebrows, still taking him in. He never seems to stop surprising her. “How did we not know each other in high school? You would’ve been super helpful on some of my earlier cases, you know.”

“I thought you worked alone then,” he says, somewhat teasingly, but like he’s avoiding her question. After a moment, he sighs. “I knew you, you just didn’t know me. We actually had art together, I think.”

“No way,” she says at once, before she can think on it. “I would’ve noticed you.”

It’s his turn for his eyebrows to jump on his forehead. Her neck flushes hotly, but mercifully, he looks away from her. “Nah. I was barely there. I was kind of a big stoner in high school.”

“I’m shocked,” she says dully, and he laughs. At the sound, her chest tightens again.

“I know. It really plays against type,” he counters, smirking.

She laughs, and a silence falls over them gently. She’s still surprised they had a class together and she didn’t even know him—even if they didn’t run in the same circles, he was still Ace. If she wracks her brain, she has a vague memory of a skinny kid in a backwards baseball cap and an oversized plaid shirt, but it’s hard to reckon that with the long-haired, soft-eyed, much more muscled boy who sits beside her.

When her thoughts finally return to the present, she finds him watching her. She turns slowly to face him, breath catching against her chest. Her eyes dart down to his mouth, and he does the same. Anxiously, she pushes her hair behind her ears, unwilling to let this moment last. This is Ace. Get it together.

“What?” He asks, his tone something low and velvety.

She laces her fingers together and tips her chin up, wistfully watching a faint star. “What are you still doing here?” She asks, and he meets her eye again, confused this time. “I mean, you’re smart. You never wanted to get out of Horseshoe Bay? Go to college?”

Ace leans back on his elbows. “Nah,” he says, but something in his voice betrays his attempt at casualness. “I didn’t have the grades, even if I wanted to.” Nancy purses her lips, not sure she believes him. He shifts uncomfortably, like he can tell. “Pothead,” he adds, impishly. “I took a couple of classes at the community college, but…I dunno, I got bored. I’ve had pretty much every job in town, at this point. Never really held anything down, ‘til now.”

“Yeah?” She asks, breathily.

“Worked on a lobster fishing boat for a summer. That was really hard,” he supplies, and Nancy wonders if that was the cause of his transformation from skinny kid in art class to the surprisingly toned boy beside her. “Worked at the video store, until they went out of business. Worked at the library for a bit. That didn’t work out, for obvious reasons.”

“Obviously,” she echoes, grinning at him. He rolls his eyes playfully.

“Last year I even worked at the yacht club,” he adds, glancing away from her. “That’s where I met Laura Tandy.”

At the mention of his ex, Nancy straightens. She tries not to put too much thought into the strange reaction her body has, deciding instead to dig at the larger thought that still nags. “Do you ever wish you’d gone with her? To Paris, I mean. Had adventures…left Maine?”

“Nance, I’m pretty sure adventure isn’t geography-specific at this point,” he sighs, throwing her a knowing look. There’s a slight thrill at him calling her ‘Nance’, and she tries to push it down. “But no,” he sighs. “My dad…I still think he needs me. He keeps trying to go back to work, as if he doesn’t remember why he left in the first place. Someone has to remind him.”

A soft hum escapes from the back of her throat. Privately, she thinks there’s something loaded there, something buried. A lie to himself, maybe. From her observation, Ace and his father are very much alike, but she doesn’t think he’d want to hear that.

Faintly, Nancy can hear the waves crashing into the shoreline down the road. A buoy rings against the water. She takes a breath. “So…you don’t regret not leaving?”

“Do you?” He counters, as if knowing she wasn’t just talking about him anymore. She levels him with a warning look, but he doesn’t back down, just piques an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” she says, honestly. “Right now, no.” She bumps him with her shoulder again. “Look at us. A couple of townie burnouts.”

He grins. “Somebody’s gotta do it.”

Another blanket of silence settles between them, but gentle this time. Again, the waves lap against the shore.

“I still can’t believe I didn’t know you,” she says quietly, perhaps not meaning to say it aloud. Somewhere along the way, he became such a fixture. But she supposes that goes for all of her friends—she was so different in high school. She’s not sure she’s someone she would’ve liked now. She realizes Ace is looking at her again. “I just mean, it’s such a small town. Like, I don’t even know your last name,” she adds.

He still hasn’t budged, soft smile and all. “Oh, it’s—”

“Yo! Lazy Drew! Are we gonna Boggle or what?” George’s voice floats across The Claw’s back deck, and they both turn around to see her at the back exit, her hands on her hips, lit warmly from behind. “Ace, you said you were gonna go get her and come right back.”

“My bad,” he says, getting to his feet. He offers her his hand down, even though it’s barely a jump to the ground. She takes it anyway, but it hits her with a shock of static so strong that she drops it like a hot potato. His eyes are anywhere but on her.

“Game night waits for no man,” George says drolly, holding the door open for them.

“Fine, fine,” she mutters, passing through the doorway. She spins around and points at George. “Tonight, we Boggle, but tomorrow—trivia night. Teams.”

“I’m game,” Ace pips up, as George only rolls her eyes and nods as she struts past them, towards the booth where Bess and Nick wait.

“Tomorrow, you’re on my team, Mr. Steel Trap,” Nancy whispers to him, leaning in conspiratorially. His body heat warms against her skin, even through her light sweater.

His smile is soft. “Any time.”