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He’s just not into you

hi lovies, i just have to add a little warning, this is an extremely angsty and psychological fic. as someone who’s been in a relationship like think please if you ever find yourself feeling like this or relating to this fic please get out, there is always someone better out there and you deserve someone who makes you feel loved. tw!! asshole lando lots and lots of angst.

The Edge of Almost

High in the Alps of Berchtesgaden, the war may be ending, but the battle between Joe Liebgott and Y/N comes to a breaking point. As Joe confesses what they both already know—that they were never just friends...

Pairing: Joe Liebgott x Reader

Prompt: “We’re not just friends. Stop pretending we are.”

Word Count: ~2,300

Genre: Angst (because apparently I enjoy pain)

Warning: slight mentions of wounds and blood

Setting: The Alps of Berchtesgaden, Germany

Note || Sooo I’m enjoying my free time way to much, I’ve written 4 BoB one shots already and it’s so tempting not to post them all at once but enjoy my first angsty Liebgott one shot but it’s definitely not my last so…

gotxpenny’s masterlist

band of brothers masterlist

Berchtesgaden looked too pretty for what it was.

The Alps stood tall and indifferent in the distance, white caps gleaming in the afternoon light. The Eagle’s Nest sat behind us, emptied of its ghosts and stolen luxury. It was quiet up here, save for the wind and the faint static of the radio back inside.

I lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, leaning against the stone railing overlooking the valley below. I didn’t want to be here—not in this place, not with him. But of course, Joe Liebgott was behind me, leaning on the opposite post, arms folded tight across his chest like they were the only thing keeping him from blowing apart.

“Didn’t think you were the type to enjoy the view,” I muttered, taking a drag. The bitterness went down easier than it should have.

“I’m not,” he said flatly, “But you are. Figured I’d ruin it for you.”

Typical.

It had always been like this. Since Toccoa. Since the first day I met him and decided, on some impulsive instinct, that pissing him off would be easier than admitting he made my heart stutter like a damn typewriter jam.

Back then, it started with eye rolls and sarcastic one-liners—nothing serious. Just harmless banter between two people who were too stubborn to admit they liked the sound of each other’s voices. He was brash, quick with a joke or a jab, always the first to mouth off when the officers weren’t looking. I was quieter, sharper in my own way, with a chip on my shoulder and a tendency to overthink every word he said.

We clashed from the beginning. Over routines, over rations, over who got the last cigarette in the pack. He called me a hard-ass. I called him a pain in the ass. And yet, somehow, he always ended up next to me—on the truck, in the foxhole, across the table in whatever crumbling mess hall we’d taken over for the night.

By the time we crossed into Normandy, the fighting had changed us. We weren’t kids throwing punches over bunk assignments anymore—we were soldiers, watching friends die and learning how to live with the weight of it. But that tension between us never went away. If anything, it got heavier. Thicker. Like the silence after a gunshot.

We fought about everything—how I organised Nixon’s intel, how he sharpened his damn knives, what kind of music counted as decent. Every day was a new argument, and every argument ended in silence. Or worse—long, loaded stares we never talked about afterward.

Stares that said more than either of us was ready to admit. In between the shouting matches and snide remarks, there were moments—fleeting, quiet ones—when his hand would brush mine while passing a file, or I’d catch him watching me across the barracks, like he was trying to memorise the way I held a pencil or tied my boots.

There were nights in the Ardennes when we shared the same frozen foxhole, backs pressed together, breathing shallow in the dark. We never said anything about how our hands would find each other beneath the layers of wool and fear. Never talked about how, when the shells stopped falling, we didn’t let go right away.

And there were days—long, brutal days—when he’d get quiet after a bad mission. When he wouldn’t talk to anyone but me. He’d sit next to me, eyes hollow, blood on his boots, and say nothing while I cleaned my rifle or sorted reports. But his silence wasn’t cold. It was something else. Like being trusted with the worst of him.

I think that’s when I knew. Not during the jokes or the yelling or the almosts—but in the stillness. When he let me see the part of him he kept hidden from the rest of the world.

But we never crossed the line. Not really. Not when every day might’ve been our last. We danced around it, slow and reckless, like we had all the time in the world—when we knew we didn’t.

So we stayed in that middle ground. Somewhere between wanting and pretending not to. Somewhere between friends and not. Where every look felt like a confession, and every word was a defence against saying the one thing that would make it real.

Until now.

Until today.

“You didn’t ruin it,” I said coolly, exhaling smoke, “I’ve seen worse. Your haircut, for one. You cut it yourself?” I ask rhetorically.

He scoffed, “You’re hilarious.”

“I try.”

I could feel him watching me, his gaze a slow burn against my skin. But I kept my eyes on the mountains—anywhere but him. The valley below looked endless, a sprawl of green and shadow that felt safer to study than the man standing a few feet away. If I looked at him, I might slip. Might let something show that I couldn’t pull back. So I kept my focus steady, the cigarette between my fingers trembling just slightly in the breeze.

But I could feel him watching me. His gaze wasn’t casual—it never was. It burned low and steady, the way a fuse smolders before the blast.

Joe’s jaw tightened as he stared at her profile, every line of her face etched into his memory like a map he’d traced a hundred times. She wasn’t looking at him—she never did when things got close. She always found something else to focus on, paperwork, a rifle, a mountain range. Anything but him.

He knew her tells better than his own now. The way her voice dipped just before she said something sarcastic. The way her hands twitched when she was holding something in. The way she smiled—tight and fleeting—whenever she was scared of the truth.

The silence danced between us. It was familiar—this strange, unspoken rhythm we had. Comfortable, in a way that made my chest ache. Like knowing a song by heart but never daring to sing the chorus.

“You know,” I said after a long pause, voice light but brittle at the edges, “We make pretty good friends for two people who can’t stand each other," it was meant to be a joke. Another one of those casual remarks I could hide behind, like all the others. But as soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them.

Joe stilled.

The air shifted, like something sharp had slid between us.

He looked at me then—really looked. Not with amusement. Not with irritation. But with something quiet and wrecked, like he was trying to figure out whether I was kidding or just cruel.

It drove him crazy. Not because she was avoiding him. But because he understood why.

Because he was just as scared.

But not today. Today he’d come to say it, and he wasn’t going to let her slip past it again.

So he said it. Soft. Sharp, “We’re not just friends. Stop pretending we are.”

My cigarette stilled halfway to my lips.

I looked at him, but he wasn’t smirking. No sarcasm. No anger. Just… raw honesty in a way I’d never seen from Joe Liebgott.

“You pick fights with me every damn day,” he went on, jaw clenched like the words were cutting their way out, “You act like it’s all a joke—like we don’t mean anything. But I see it. I feel it every time you look at me like I’m a puzzle you already solved.”

I didn’t know what to say.

Because I had spent months convincing myself it was easier this way. Safer. Flirting with danger through barbed words, never crossing the line. We were surrounded by death and blood and things we’d never forget. Love felt impossible. Worse—it felt like a death sentence.

We were surrounded by death and blood and things we’d never forget. Faces gone. Names scratched into silence. Love didn’t just feel impossible—it felt like a curse. A weight too heavy to carry when we were already drowning. And if I let myself want him, really want him, what then?

What if I lost him too?

What if I couldn’t survive it?

“I thought…” I started, and my voice came out wrong—thin and breaking at the edges. I swallowed, tried again, but the words stuck like shrapnel in my throat. “I thought if I kept it light…if I made it a joke, it wouldn’t break me.”

But the truth was it already had. Every laugh, every argument, every second I spent pretending it didn’t mean something—it chipped away at me until all that was left was this hollow version of me, standing on a mountain with a cigarette and a lie I couldn’t keep holding.

Joe stepped closer, close enough that I could see the bruises still healing along his throat—faint shadows of violence etched into his skin like the war was still trying to cling to him. I remembered the day he got them. Remembered the fear that had hollowed out my chest when I saw him stumble back into camp, bloodied and silent. I had pretended not to care then, just like I always did. But I had stayed up the whole damn night listening for the sound of his breathing across the barracks.

Now, standing this close, it was impossible to pretend. Not when the damage was written so plainly on his body. Not when the anger in his eyes had cracked wide open to reveal something else—something raw, something real.

“You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to shove me away and pretend like I’m the one making this up," Joe said, his voice rough around the edges, like it hurt to speak.

He wasn’t angry—not really. Not in the way he usually was, all sharp sarcasm and barked frustration. This was different. This was desperation barely held together by pride, by all the times he’d bit his tongue instead of saying what he really felt. He looked at her like he was standing at the edge of something—something dangerous and irreversible—and for once, he was ready to jump.

But god, it hurt. It hurt to see her retreat again, to watch her build walls with her silence and pretend like the look in her eyes meant nothing. Like the nights they’d shared meant nothing. He had taken bullets easier than this—cleaner wounds than the way she kept him at arm’s length with a smile that never reached her eyes.

Joe didn’t want to beg. He didn’t know how to. But he was already unraveling, piece by piece, and she didn’t even see it.

Or worse—maybe she did.

And still, she chose to pretend.

I swallowed, “You think I don’t feel it too?”

“I think you’re scared,” his voice cracked, just barely, “And I get it. I do. But don’t lie to my face and call it friendship.”

Something in me cracked, too.

We weren’t just friends. We never had been. Not in the way he watched my hands when I worked. Not in the way I memorised the rhythm of his footsteps before I ever let myself memorise his smile.

Our eyes met then—really met—and the air between us turned razor-sharp.

His gaze didn’t waver. It held mine like a lifeline, like if he looked away, we’d both fall off the edge we’d been dancing around for months. And I couldn’t look away, even if I wanted to. Because there was too much in it—too many things we hadn’t said, too many things we had buried under insults and half-measures and silence.

There was grief in his eyes. Longing. Anger, too—not at me, but at the way the world had cornered us like this. And underneath it all, love. Bare and bruised and bleeding, but unmistakable.

I felt it hit me like a damn punch to the chest.

And I knew—right then, with the wind pulling at our jackets and the ghosts of the war still clinging to our skin—I could lie to myself a thousand times, but I’d never be able to lie to him.

Not with him looking at me like that.

Like I was the only thing left worth holding on to.

But I did the one thing I shouldn't have, I looked away first.

“Say something. Anything,” he said—he pleaded.

But I couldn’t.

Because saying it—admitting it—meant opening the door to a future I couldn’t promise. Not when every name we knew came with a cross or a ghost.

“I don’t want to lose you, Joe,” I whispered, “Not like the rest.”

Joe didn’t answer right away.

He stood there, shoulders tense, jaw locked, like he was trying to hold something in—something too big, too painful to name. His eyes dropped for a second, lashes casting shadows over the bruises that still hadn’t faded. And in that silence, something inside him withered.

Because he felt it. That slow, suffocating ache of loving someone who wouldn’t let you love them. Who wouldn’t let you in.

It wasn’t anger burning in his chest—it was heartbreak. A kind of grief he didn’t know how to carry, because she wasn’t dead, but he was still losing her. Every time she pulled back, every time she joked her way around what they were, it chipped away at what they could’ve been.

And God, he loved her. He didn’t know how not to. He loved her in the way soldiers love warmth in winter—in the way you hold onto something because it’s the only light left in the dark.

But he couldn’t stay. Not like this. Not when loving her meant bleeding himself dry and pretending it didn’t hurt.

So he lifted his eyes to hers, and for once, didn’t try to hide the pain.

Joe shook his head, voice low, final, “You already are.”

And then he turned, each step away from her like ripping a stitch open, walking not because he wanted to—but because it was the only way to stop himself from falling apart completely.

Because to keep loving her from a distance hurt less than being close and invisible.

The wind picked up, blowing ash from my cigarette across the railing. And for the first time since the war began, I didn’t feel like the view was worth it.

Not without him beside me.

And the worst part was, I didn’t just miss him—I mourned the version of myself I wished he had loved. Not the scared, closed-off mess I’d become, but the girl who might’ve let him in before the war hollowed her out.

Regret

Summary: After Groff almost kills JJ in Morocco, and the pogues are back in Kildare with no crown, JJ feels like his life is a mess. Kiara finds him on the roof and faces JJ’s worst thoughts head on.

Warnings: su!c!dal ideations, su!c!de attempt, hospital, super angsty

“JJ?” Kiara shouts.

She’s looking up at him from the grass, the only thought going through her head had been to find him.

She was sleeping when she’d turned around to their shared bed being cold, where JJ’s body should’ve been. She rolled her eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but when he hadn’t come back after a while, she got worried.

So she found herself walking throughout the house and eventually outside.

“JJ, what are you doing up there?”

“Just go back inside, Kie.” His voice hiccups as he talks.

“Jayj, talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“Of course I’m going to worry. I’m coming up there.

“No, don’t!” he shouts down at her.

“You saying that is exactly why I’m coming up.”

She walks around the house and halts herself up the ladder that John B had placed there when they first purchased Poguelandia. She climbs up and shuffles over to JJ. He’s sitting on the side of the roof now. His legs dangling over. She sits down next to him.

“Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why are you standing on the roof at two in the morning?” she asks.

JJ doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns his head away from her and looks out at the water.

“Jayj, it’s me.”

“I know,” he answers. “That’s why.”

“Why you won’t talk to me?”

“I don’t deserve you. You deserve someone better. I can’t give you the life you should have.”

“What? Where is this coming from?” she asks, bewildered. “This is the life I want, Jayj. A life with you. With the pogues. P4L, remember?”

JJ sits there in silence for a moment. “Not only do I have two dads, but they’re both pieces of shit. One tried to kill me and the other hit me ‘til I bled then abandoned me. You deserve someone who’s not fucked up.”

“Okay, maybe you’re a little fucked up,” Kiara giggles, trying to lighten the mood. “But your dads don’t define you. You aren’t like them. Yeah, they were horrible to you and you don’t have to forget about that, but we can work through it. Together.”

Silence.

“Tell me the truth. Why are you up here?” she questions him again.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

She’s pretty sure she knows the answer to her next question, but she asks anyway. “Can’t do what anymore, Jayj?”

“Life,” he answers.

“Were you planning on…” she looks down at the ground.

“Something like that,” he says.

Her stomach turns. She looks over and sees a bottle of Tito’s next to where he was standing earlier.

“You’ve been drinking up here, too?”

“You know me,” he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

A pit forms in her stomach. If she hadn’t woken up, would she have found his body in the morning? Or John B? Pope?

“We need to get you help,” she says. Tears sting her eyes. She wants to be strong, so she doesn’t let them fall. Yet.

“I don’t need help, Kie. I need it to be over.”

“So you want to leave me here? Alone?” She wants to guilt trip him. Wants to make him rethink his choices. She knows he has to fight for himself, for his own life, but right now her priority is to get him off this roof with her— alive.

“You wouldn’t be alone. You have the pogues. I’m just getting in your way.”

“Why do you think that? Because it’s not true. And maybe it’s my fault for making you feel like that,” she ponders.

“No, Kie. None of this is your fault.”

“And it’s not yours either.” She takes his hand in hers. “Come on, let’s get down. It’s getting chilly.”

“You go on, I’ll come down in a little bit.”

“You really think I’m going to let you stay up here by yourself? Come on.” She smiles at him, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Okay,” he says, in defeat.

She lets go of his hand and guides him to the ladder. When they reach the ground, Kie envelops JJ in a hug. She squeezes him tight and lets her head drop into the space between his neck and shoulder.

“Please, Jayj. You need help,” she whispers into his ear.

He lets go of her, but his hands are still sitting on her hips. “I don’t need that shrink junk, Kie. I’m fine.”

Kie steps back. “Fine? You were about to kill youself. You’re telling me it’s fine?” she says, anger creeping up in her voice.

“Kie…”

“No. We’re getting you help. I don’t care if I have to drag you there myself.”

“Okay,” JJ resigns.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

She smiles and wraps her arms around him again. “Thank you.”

They walk inside and go back to their room. Laying down, Kie wraps her arm around him as they fall back asleep.

—

When Kie wakes up, she finds JJ’s side of the bed empty again. Her heart races a little, worried after last night’s events.

She gets up and walks into the hallway. She passes by the other pogues’ rooms and sees them all asleep. John B’s arm is thrown over Sarah’s torso. She walks by Pope’s room to see Cleo’s body entangled with his. She smiles and keeps on walking.

The bathroom door is closed, so she checks to see if JJ’s in there.

She knocks on the door once. No answer.

Her heart skips a beat. She knocks again. “JJ?”

She assumes he isn’t there, but something pulls her to try twisting the doorknob. Locked.

“JJ!” she yells, pounding on the door. “Open the door!” She keeps frantically knocking and pulling the doorknob.

When no noise comes from the other side, she pushes herself into the door, trying to break it down.

She hears footsteps running up behind her.

John B.

“Kie? What’s going on?”

“It’s JJ,” she manages to say as she continues pushing the door. “Help me!”

John B, in a haze of sleepiness, comes up next to Kiara and pushes the door with her. He pushes her aside and slams his body, with full force, against the door. Wood chips fall from the side and the door gives out. John B pushes it open the rest of the way.

“JJ!” he shouts.

Kiara pushes into the bathroom and gasps. On the floor is JJ, passed out cold. An orange bottle of pills sits on the counter, empty.

“No!” she yells. “No!”

Awakened from all the noise, Pope appears at the door. “What’s happening?” he asks. He sees JJ on the floor, the panic in his voice creeping out, “JJ, what happened?”

Kiara doesn’t answer. Instead, she yells at them. “Call 9-1-1. Call them now!”

Her heart is beating out of her chest. She feels like she’s going to pass out from her heart racing, but she takes a few deep breaths in to stay focused for him. For JJ. Her JJ.

She bends down to his chest and listens for breathing. “He’s breathing, but barely!” she yells at John B, who’s on the phone with 9-1-1.

He puts the phone on speaker. “You have to breathe for him,” the man on the line says. “I can walk you through it.”

Kiara doesn’t wait for him to finish his sentence. She takes her fingers and pinches JJ’s nose. Her mouth sits on his and she blows as much air as she can into his lungs. She does that a few times, oblivious to what the operator is saying. Her focus is on JJ and JJ only.

She feels for his pulse. It’s faint, but it’s there, too.

Within a few minutes, the paramedics crowd the bathroom and Kiara is pushed outside. She sees the world through tunnel vision and starts yelling at them. “You have to save him! What are you doing?” she shouts.

John B holds her back. She thrashes against his hold, but he doesn’t let her out of his grip. He stays strong for both of them. “Kie, you have to let them do their job.”

“He needs me!”

“I know, but right now he needs professionals who can make sure he doesn’t die on us, okay?” he assures her.

She starts to hyperventilate, but stops fighting against John B. “It’s my fault,” she whispers to herself. “It’s my fault.”

“Hey, stop that. This is not your fault.”

Pope comes up to them. “They’re taking him to the hospital. I told them we’d drive right behind,” he informs them. “You guys go. I’ll get some of his stuff and meet you there with Cleo and Sarah. Go!”

Kiara didn’t need to be told twice. She ran to the kitchen and grabbed the Twinkie’s keys.

“Kie! Let me drive.”

“No!” She slams the front door open, watching the ambulance lights as it drives away. She gets in the driver’s seat as John B opens the passenger door.

She turns on the Twinkie and races right behind the ambulance.

—

The world feels dark as JJ opens his eyes. And if he’s opening his eyes, that means it didn’t work. A pang of shame hits his chest.

He feels something in his hand, he grumbles as he lifts his head up to see an IV stuck in his vein. He looks around and squints at the bright hospital lights.

He’s in the hospital.

He looks around, his head feeling like a dead weight, and sees Kiara curled up in a chair next to him. Her curls are falling on her face, and she’s got her legs pulled up.

He didn’t want this. He wanted to free her of him. Of his burden on her.

A tear falls down his face.

He wants out.

He yanks the IV out of his hand and slowly starts to get up. As he pushes the hospital blanket off of him, a nurse walks in.

“Hey, sweet-pea. Let’s get back to bed, okay?” she says warmly.

“I can’t be here,” he says.

Kiara stirs awake.

“You have to be,” she informs him. She walks over to put a new IV in his hand. When she does that, all hell breaks loose. JJ thrashes against her hold.

The nurse calls for assistance. A man and a woman run into the room, and help keep JJ down. Hands are all over him and he wants to do nothing but escape.

“Let me go,” he cries out. “Just let me go!”

“I’m sorry, but we can’t do that,” one of the nurses says.

Their hold on him is getting stronger the more he thrashes against them.

Kiara has been ushered against the wall by another nurse, trying to get her away from JJ’s outburst.

“JJ, let them help!” she shouts. Her hands are in her hair, tears running down her face as she watches the nurses try to hold him down. “Please, Jayj!”

He seems to register her voice, and his fighting starts to die down, but by the time he’s ready to stop, it’s too late. A new nurse has already stabbed him in the leg with a needle, and he’s out cold.

—

“Is that really necessary?” Kiara asks, watching a nurse tie down JJ with restraints.

“I’m sorry, but it is. He got violent with the nurses and is on suicide watch too. It’s just a precaution. It’s to keep him safe,” she explains.

Kiara doesn’t argue. She’s too mentally drained.

John B came back from the bathroom right after the whole fight with the nurses ordeal and tried to comfort her, but nothing worked. Now he’s out getting her food because even though she won’t admit she’s hungry, she is.

Pope came by with Cleo and Sarah, but they’re letting Kiara have the room to herself. Pope comes by every ten minutes, though, because he’s worried sick. Always asking the doctor questions in the hallway, and putting a hand on Kie’s shoulder.

Kiara watches JJ’s chest rise and fall, then looks down at the restraints on his wrist and ankles. As long as he’s alive and gets help, she doesn’t care how it’s done.

She wants him to know he’s loved. She wants him to remember what being happy feels like.

Her stomach drops thinking about JJ’s reaction to being tied down in the hospital. It’s going to be a nightmare.

—

JJ feels groggy when he wakes up. His eyes flutter open to the same hospital room. He turns to see an IV is back in his hand, but his wrist is tied down.

“JJ, it’s okay,” a voice says to him on his right. Kie.

He looks over at his other wrist and it’s restrained too. He pulls his arm towards him, but he can’t get free. He tries to sit up and finds his ankles are stuck too. He yanks against the restraints, but to no avail.

“JJ, I’m sorry. They said it was for your safety.”

“My safety?” he chokes out, his face scrunching in embarrassment.

“You were fighting the nurses. And you’re on suicide watch.” She whispers that last part.

“Suicide watch. Huh. Well, I’m fine, Kie.”

“No you’re not!” she yells. “Stop pretending you are! The doctors won’t see through your bullshit, okay? Stop fighting against them. And me.” Her voice goes soft. “You can tell me anything, Jayj. I’m the last person who would ever judge you. I love you. Please don’t shut me out.”

JJ stares at her. Not in a bad way. He stares at her soft skin, her sweet eyes, and wonders what he did to deserve her.

“How long am I going to be here for?” he asks, turning his head away from her.

“I’m not sure yet. But they were going to admit you into involuntary psych care.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, so just go by yourself, your own accord, you know? I know how you hate when people make decisions for you. So let this be yours.” She sits in the silence for a moment. “It’s going to happen either way,” she tells him.

JJ nods and stares ahead at the wall. “I’m gonna be okay?”

Kiara scoots closer, holding his hand that has the IV. “Yes, Jayj. You will. And I’m going to be with you every step of the way.”

A tear slips down his face. Kiara senses that he’s trying to be strong for her. And a part of her is upset. Upset that he’s always holding up a facade and never wants to admit when something’s wrong.

But another part of her is sad. He pulls at her heart strings in a way that makes her want to hold him and never let go.

He’s always the one with a plan. Now, he has to let others do that for him. Make a plan for him. He feels his autonomy slipping, but he knows the best thing to do is voluntarily admit himself into the psych hospital.

It won’t be forever, he reminds himself.

“Every step?” he asks, more tears falling down, like the dam has collapsed.

“Every single one. Even when you’ll say you won’t want me, deep down I know you will,” she chuckles, her own tears slipping out too.

“Yeah, you might be right.” He smiles at her.

“I’m always right.” She places a kiss on his temple and squeezes his hand tighter. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Kie.”

“This isn’t going to be easy,” she reminds him. “I need you to know that.”

“When have I ever run away from hard things?”

“Literally all the time,” she laughs.

“Not anymore,” he says.

The doorknob turns and Pope walks into the room. “You awake?” he asks, cautiously.

“Yeah, man,” JJ answers.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” JJ smiles.

“I thought so,” Pope chuckles. “Kiara tell you what happened?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re going? To the psych hospital, that is.”

“Yes, Pope, I’m going.”

“Thank God.” Pope walks over to him and hugs him. His arms wrap awkwardly around JJ’s body since JJ can’t move. “I’m surprised you haven’t asked Kie to cut you loose,” he says, gesturing to the restraints.

“I’m about to, I swear.” JJ tugs at them, but they don’t budge. “This is embarrassing,” he hangs his head in shame.

“You seriously think we’re going to judge you?” Kie chimes in.

JJ doesn’t answer.

“You have a lot of therapy to get through then,” Pope acknowledges, “Because we love you no matter what.”

“I love you guys too,” JJ says.

Kiara gives his hand a squeeze.

“I’ll go get a nurse,” Pope says. “And I’ll let the others know you’re awake and less violent.”

JJ chuckles at that. Pope leaves the room.

“Sorry about that. The whole fighting against the nurses thing.”

“It’s okay.”

“I don’t want to be like Luke,” JJ admits. “I don’t want to scare you.”

“I’ll never be afraid of you, Jayj. I’ve never been.”

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yes.” She kisses him. Her mouth moving in synchrony with his.

And for the first time in a long time, JJ feels like it’s going to be okay. Like it’s all going to work out. He feels regret for letting it get this far, but he feels eternally grateful for the pogues.

Especially his favorite pogue. Kiara. The love of his life, he thinks.

oh this one has a kick to it idk if yall are ready or not

#super angsty #considering on adding smut but idkk yet #faye spills her guts!#luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan smut #soulmate au

It’s ON SIGHT for Jazz’s creators, poor little guy looked so sad

He is was sad lil guy. But now he’s a happy adult, little sad and his parents still but otherwise ok.

They are both stupid and not very good parents which is obvious from the last comic. Jazz’s carrier had trouble bonding with him and then was even more distant and neglectful when Jazz’s optics got damaged. Jazz’s sire is the idiot would caused the damage in the first place, he still loves Jazz but worked a lot which causes him to still be neglectful.

They were good at times and did things to protect Jazz but it was below bare minimum and had no business making a sparkling.

Some of their bad behavior rubbed off on Jazz but slowly he’s working through it.

Jazz still loves them when he was a kid and still does now. But that doesn’t mean he’s willing to let them back into his life now. Especially how good things with Prowl are going. Jazz would prefer not knowing where they are or what they are doing just because it’s easier on his mental health.

#asks #forte-verse #Jazz #super angsty

curse of ownership

Yuuji: I hate you. Sukuna: I know. Yuuji: I despise you. Sukuna: I'm not too fond of you either, brat. Yuuji: Then why? Why let me live? Sukuna: Does it matter? You're mine. Yuuji: I think that's the worst curse of them all.

#sukuita #sukuna #itadori yuuji #sukuita at its finest #so #super angsty #this 'i hate you but you're mine' way #jjk #jjk incorrect quotes #or is it?#maybe i turn it into fic one day

Little Paw

Chapter Eight Armand Gamache x Werewolf!Female Reader Warnings: super angsty, anxiety, gunshots, attacking A/N: please don't hate me for the end of this chapter, I just wanted to be super angsty in this one. Credit to @firefly-graphics for the dividers Taglist: @sgt-petter

#x reader #fluff #fanfiction #angst #fanfic #comfort #alfred molina #smut #armand gamache x female reader #armand and reader being cute #armand gamache x reader #chief inspector armand gamache #three pines #isabelle lacoste #jean-guy beauvoir #werewolf reader #cursed reader #super angsty

My hands hold the dirt of where your bones lay (and my heart rests)

Summary- Zelda goes into the forest after years of waiting for Link’s return, only to find his remains and buries him.

I apologize for all the pain yall will read. You can read it under the cut or go to Ao3 with the link in the title!

#zelink #oot zelink #super angsty #happy reunion tho #my writing #oot #ocarina of time zelink #ocarina of time #oot link #oot zelda