#//oh my gods no... no mr president no NO STOP THAT NO YOU MUST RESIST KISSING JOE BIDEN NOO

[kkodzvken]

take the dive - sugawara koushi x milf!reader

tags/warnings: smut, 18+ ONLY! slight dubcon, infidelity, post timeskip (suga teaches reader’s kids). overstimulation and slight dumbification, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, semi-public (in an empty classroom)

a/n: this is my piece for @ultimate-astridwriting’s milf fuckers collab, which you can find here!! thank you for hosting this astrid, and thank u to everyone in the server for ur love and support as i worked on this <33. title cred: take the dive by jonghyun

wc: 3.9k

Amidst a faculty full of stuffy old dinosaurs and suits, Sugawara Koushi is a breath of fresh air. He’s a welcome distraction, a pretty face to focus on at dull PTA meetings and assemblies. And you knew that you weren’t the only one making heart eyes at him. Everywhere that he went, heads turned, and moms whispered. At the bus stop, on the sidelines of sports matches, in the waiting rooms outside dance classes.

It was just that, though -- just whispers. Little knowing glances and nudged shoulders, dreamy sighs and brief sinful indulgences. Nothing more than a brief escape from the monotony of your everyday lives. You’d lose yourselves in the fantasy for a few seconds, and then pull your heads down from the clouds and plant your feet on solid ground. You enjoyed your gossip with the other moms, and then you returned home, to your husband and children. To your family.

You love them, of course. Your children are your world, and your husband is a good man. He’s a good man, and that’s what made it so hard. He treats you well, keeps his words soft and never once put his hands on you. 

He may be good, but, God, was he boring. You can’t remember the last time that he’d even kissed you, let alone fucked you. He came home later and later each night, too tired from work to do anything but silently scarf down his dinner and plant himself on the couch in front of the television. He dragged himself into bed hours after you did. He tried to be quiet, he really did, but he woke you up every single night with his stomping and shuffling. When you snuggled closer to him, he pushed you off. My back hurts too bad, he’d say, voice tinged with regret. Remind me to book another appointment with the chiropractor. 

It was always some excuse or another. 

So, really, you couldn’t blame yourself for your wandering eye. You weren’t going to act on it, of course -- you weren’t a cheater -- but the young teacher was something to occupy yourself with. A pretty face to fill your thoughts as you wrangled your horde of screaming kids from swim lessons to dance practice to art classes. A pretty, pretty body to imagine as you fucked yourself with your fingers, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to muffle your moans. You couldn’t help but imagine that it was him, lithe body leaning over yours. No complaints of aching backs and sore muscles, none of the complications that came with age. 

You’d leave your husband catatonic on the couch, put the kids to sleep, and then go dream of their hot teacher. You should’ve been more ashamed, but there was a part of you that loved the thrill of it. You flushed whenever you saw Mr. Sugawara the next morning, memories of your illicit thoughts filling your mind, but it also made your body feel electric. 

Of course there was a part of you that longed to throw caution to the wind and jump the young man, but your conscience was much stronger than your weak, lustful thoughts. You were happy with the way things were now. As dull as your husband was, and as insufferable as the children could sometimes be, you were happy. 

This was all you had ever wanted. A house in the suburbs, a husband with a well-paying job, three kids and a dog. You’re living the fucking dream. You’re happy, you tell yourself.

So why the fuck are you so unsatisfied?

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

With a deep breath, you stare down the heavy glass doors at the school’s entrance. You want nothing more than to find the idiot architect who designed this building, and strangle him for installing pull doors. Your arms are already sore from carrying the giant tray of brownies from your car to the front of the school, and you worry that if you put the treats down to open the door, you wouldn’t be able to lift them up again. A quick glance at your watch tells you that you have two minutes left to reach the gym where the bake sale is being held. The PTA president is notorious for hating latecomers, and you weren’t in the mood to get your head bit off.

You’re debating doing some gymnastics and using your foot to grab the handle, when you notice footsteps approaching from behind you. You open your mouth to ask for help, but they beat you to it. “Let me get the door,” says their syrupy, melodic voice.

Their familiar voice.

Your body practically freezes as a strong arm reaches over your shoulder. Long fingers – fingers that you’ve fantasized about too many times to count – twist the handle and push it open easily. You don’t know how you didn’t notice him approaching sooner, but now that he’s here, your senses are in overdrive. The sweet scent of his cologne, the sound of his breath, the warmth of his body – it’s all too much, and it makes your knees feel weak.

“Mr. Sugawara,” you say, voice coming out much breathier than you intended. This must be some kind of Pavlovian response from all your fantasizing, because there is no reason for your stomach to be twisting right now. “Thank you.”

He grins sheepishly and steps away, and you hate the way that your body screams at you to lean into him. “It’s no problem. Is that for the bake sale? Here, let me carry it for you.”

You try to protest, but there’s really no point. His long fingers are already pushing yours to the sides, and you swear you’ve been electrified as he pulls the tray out of your hands. It’s a shame, really, that he’s wearing a button-down. The sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, at least, but you would’ve loved to see his biceps flex as he carried that tray…

What am I doing? You dig your nails into your palm to snap yourself out of your thoughts, but it’s hard to stay lucid when he’s so beautiful. He carries the brownies with ease, using just one arm to support their weight as the other holds the door open for you. It should make you upset, that you’re so weak in comparison to him, but the thought just makes you feel even more breathless. He’s so strong, so young, and so unlike your husband.

“Thank you,” you say again as he steps into the building behind you. You reach for the tray, but he waves you off.

“Nonsense. I’ll walk you to the gym.”

“Oh, really, you don’t have to—”

“I insist. Anything for my favorite mom.”

His…favorite? His words leave you too stupefied to protest any further, and he takes your silence as compliance. Your body automatically follows in his footsteps as he paces down the hallways.

He looks over at you and smiles comfortingly. It lights up his entire face, but does little to ease your turbulent thoughts.

Your mind is still fixated on his words as you step onto the squeaky wood flooring of the gymnasium. Sugawara calmly walks over to the PTA president, who looks like she’s about to rip her hair out. She’s surrounded by a gaggle of other moms, all jabbering away with concern painted across their faces.

“Is something wrong, ladies?” he asks. His voice snaps them all out of their conversation, and their eyes widen as they take him in.

“Yes,” says the PTA president scornfully. “We were supposed to have the brownies here already! The sale starts in ten minutes, and if this keeps up, I won’t have enough time to inventory everything and make it presentable, and –”

“I have the brownies,” you cut in, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

She blanches, and looks from you to the tray in Sugawara’s arms. An oh is all she can muster before grabbing the brownies and rushing off.

“Is everything okay?” one of the other moms asks, her voice laced with fake sweetness. “Oh, and you look so tired, dear. If you couldn’t manage your part, you should’ve just said so!”

“It would’ve been no trouble,” another woman says. “I’d have had no trouble whipping up a tray for you! Everyone always does love my baking.”

You grit your teeth and resist the urge to snap at them. It’s always like this – the other moms seem so in tune with their lives of domestic bliss, playing games of politics and constantly competing to be the best. Try as you might, you just can’t satisfy yourself with a life like theirs.

The material of Sugawara’s shirt brushes against you, and you start. He doesn’t pull away as you flinch, instead gently resting his hand on the small of your back. “Sorry to interrupt, but can I steal her away? Mrs. (L/N), I have your son’s science fair project sitting in my classroom. He keeps forgetting to bring it home. Would you like to go collect it now?”

You nod, relieved at the excuse to escape these women and their sickening artificial sweetness. Sugawara gently guides you with the hand on your back. You can’t help but internally smirk at the thinly-veiled jealousy on the faces of the other mothers.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.  

“This is why you’re my favorite,” Sugawara says, once you’re safely out of earshot. “All these PTA moms are so fake. But you’re not like that, are you?”

You nod, still a bit convinced that this is all a dream. He doesn’t remove his hand from your back as you walk down the hallways, and only pulls away when you reach the door to his classroom. He fishes through his pocket and pulls out a ring of keys, before insert one into the knob and pushing the door open. He gestures for you to enter first, and so you do, blinking at the harsh sudden brightness of the automatic lights.

You awkwardly glance around the room. You’ve been here plenty of times before, but that was all during the daytime, when it was packed full of energetic children. It feels…strange, to be alone in a classroom as an adult. Or, well, alone, except for the stupidly attractive teacher that you’ve been lusting over.

“Where’s the project?” you ask, trying to diffuse some of the tension building in your stomach. “I should head home soon.”

Sugawara leans his back against the door and cocks his head. “You know, I know what you say about me.”

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb.” His eyes rove across your body, lingering on your chest for far longer than they should. “I’m not deaf, you know. I hear all the things you say about me. You’re just like all the other moms.” He pushes off the door, stalking closer to you. You instinctively take a step back. “Only difference is, you might actually have the guts to do something about it.”

Your heart thuds in your chest, so hard that you think your ribs might bruise. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Sugawara. I-”

You take another step back, and another, and suddenly your back collides with concrete. Your body jolts, and you yelp at the sudden pain.

Sugawara leans closer. One of his hands braces against the board behind your head, and the other one comes up to cradle your face. His long fingers hook under your chin and press, forcing you to tilt your head up and meet his gaze. His thumb brushes against your lip, and you can’t deny how the sensation makes your body feel like jelly.

Every rational thought in your mind is screaming at you to run, to leave, to get away from him and go back to your husband, but God, it’s been so long since you’ve felt like this. It’s been so long since someone’s made your heart race and your breaths quicken, since someone’s made you blush like a schoolgirl over a simple touch.

“What was that you said?” he asks, his voice dripping with honey. “You don’t know what I’m talking about?”

You swallow and bite the inside of your cheek. The pain does nothing to clear the fog inside your mind. “I-I don’t, I-”

“You do,” he interrupts, his thumb still toying with your lip. “You’re so fucking obvious. I bet you’re wet already, aren’t you?”

“Mr. Sugawara!” His lewd words make you gasp, but more than anything, you hate the fact that he’s right. Your body has a mind of its own, and it wants nothing more than to wrap your lips around his thumb and pull him closer. It wants to feel his arms wrapped around you, feel his body towering over you.

But you can’t. As much as you want to, you can’t, because you have a husband at home who’s waiting for you. Sure, he isn’t home right now, because he’s putting in extra hours at the office. And sure, he hasn’t touched you or made you feel desired in weeks. Hell, you haven’t had a genuine conversation in weeks. But he’s still your husband! You try and remind yourself of that. You roll the thought around in your head, hoping that it’ll push your thoughts of Sugawara away.

But the young teacher is persistent, and there’s a glimmer in his eye that makes your chest tighten. “Call me Koushi, princess.”

“Don’t call me princess –”

“What, you’re going to pretend that it didn’t make you wetter? Going to pretend that you aren’t clenching your thighs together right now?” He leans in even closer, so that his breath brushes against your ear as he whispers. “Your body doesn’t lie, baby.”

A whine slips past your lips at his words, and then you gasp, mortified with yourself. But the grin that covers his face makes your transgression worth it, because God, he’s handsome. His hand squeezes your chin even tighter, and then trails down to your neck. Your breath catches in your chest. You’re hyperaware of his every movement, of his fingers trailing across your skin, his touch feather-light. It leaves you aching for more.

You instinctively whine again, and he lets out a noise of surprised delight. “Whining like this, and you’re still denying that you want me? What’s got you so embarrassed?”

“I have a husband,” you hiss – or, at least, you try to hiss. It comes out more like a whimper than anything else.

Sugawara looks at you for a beat – and then throws his head back and laughs. It catches you off guard, and you furrow your brow. “Why the fuck are you laughing?”

He collects himself, but his eyes are still gleaming when he looks back at you. “Sure, you have a husband. But that doesn’t stop you from thinking about me, does it? Tell me, when’s the last time that your husband took care of you? When’s the last time that he touched you, or fucked you, or made you feel good?”

“Mr. Sugawara, this is inappropriate–”

“Stop lying to yourself.” His voice suddenly drops, his stare forceful and deadly serious. “Say the word, and I’ll go. We can pretend this never happened. But anyone with eyes can tell that you’re unsatisfied.”

“I…I don’t…” Your thoughts feel like a wave, building higher and higher. They bounce around your head, reverberating against your skull, so loud that you can’t even think.

“Why are you settling?”

“Mr. Sugawara, please, I–”

“Why are you settling, when you know you want more?”

The wave crests.

You don’t know who moves first, but somehow, your fingers are tangled in his hair, and his lips are slotted against yours. It’s not soft, or sweet – it’s a mess of teeth and tongues and feverish breaths. His hands are everywhere. They trail over your skin, explore the curves of your chest and your stomach, grip tightly at your waist to pull you closer.

“Mr. Sugawara,” you pant against his lips. Your lungs scream for oxygen, but you can’t bear to drag yourself away from him for even a second. He kisses so well. It may be rushed, and messy, but there’s so much hunger behind his actions that it makes your head spin. It’s like his lips are a live wire, and every second that they touch yours, they send a thousand volts of electricity arcing through your body.

“Koushi,” he breathes. “Call me Koushi, please.” You nod, and then hurriedly undo the buttons of his shirt, popping a few off in the process. Neither of you care. His hands finally dip beneath the hem of your dress, and he wastes no time in unceremoniously tugging it off your body.

Your hands instinctively go to cover yourself. Age and childbirth have changed your body, and you know that Mr. Sugawara – no, Koushi – is probably used to beautiful young women. You still don’t understand why his eye landed on you. He surely has dozens of girls his age fawning over him, with flat stomachs and perky tits. Why you?

He grips your wrists and pries your hands away from your body. “Don’t do that,” he says, so gentle in contrast to the fire from just moments ago. “Don’t cover yourself up. You’re beautiful.”

Oh.

You can’t remember the last time that someone called you beautiful. You can’t remember the last time that you felt beautiful.

But right now, with Koushi staring at you, eyes blown out with lust… you feel it.

He sinks onto his knees, lips already pressing little kisses against your hips and upper thighs. You try and protest – really, Koushi, you don’t have to – but he shushes you instantly. He hooks one of your thighs over his shoulder and dives in without hesitation. Even through the fabric of your panties, you’re in fucking heaven. His tongue laves against your clit, focusing so much attention onto the swollen bead that you can’t help but let out a moan.

You slap your hand over your mouth to silence yourself. You’re in an elementary school, for God’s sake. The bake sale is at the other side of the large building, but you’re terrified of someone walking past and catching you. Guilt swirls around your heart, but it’s quick to dissipate when Koushi tugs your panties off and throws them over his shoulder. He buries himself into your cunt again, and it’s even better without the barrier. The coil in your stomach is tightening embarrassingly fast, but you can’t seem to find it in yourself to care. His tongue laps at your folds, slurping lewdly.

The pleasure is overwhelming. Your body moves of its own accord. Your hips grind against Koushi’s face, and he moans right into your cunt. His lips move up to your clit again, alternating between licking and sucking. You’re so focused on his mouth that you barely notice his fingers, so long and pretty, collecting your wetness.

You do notice when he fucks two of those pretty fingers into you. He immediately starts scissoring his fingers to stretch you out, before hooking them against that spot inside of you that makes your head spin. Your entire body is shaking with euphoria, so much that you can’t handle it.

“Close,” you cry out, trying to keep yourself upright. “Close, close, please, don’t stop!”

He moans into you again when you tug at his hair. It’s the push that you need to finally fall over the edge. You bite into your palm to keep from screaming as you gush all over him, chest heaving and eyes tearing up.

He keeps curling his fingers, keeps lapping at your clit, until you tug on his hair and cry that the overstimulation is too much. As he lets your leg down and stands up, he makes a show of licking your cum off his fingers, slurping on them loudly. It would make you embarrassed, but you’re too focused on his other hand as it dips down to his belt. The muscles of his stomach flex as he undoes the buckle. You take the opportunity to rake your eyes over his toned torso. He seems so slender when he’s dressed, but his shoulders are surprisingly broad.

He looks up at you with a little smirk. “Caught you staring,” he teases. You blush as he pulls his pants and boxers down in one go, freeing his cock. It’s already hard, and so pretty, just like him. His tip is red and dripping with precum. You want so badly to get a taste, but Koushi has other plans. He spins you by your shoulders, and then presses at the small of your back to make you lay across his desk.

You groan when you feel him slap his cock against your ass a few times, before running it through your folds to collect your wetness. “Please,” you gasp. “No teasing, please.”

“Just came, and you’re already needy?” he chuckles. “That husband of yours must really not be satisfying you.”

You’re spared from having to think of a retort by him sinking into you. A cry leaves your lips, but it’s too good for you to even care about the sound. He feels like heaven as he sinks into you. His cock stretches you out deliciously.

You’re already feeling delirious as he starts to shallowly thrust and work his way in. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you. “So – fuck…”

You can’t do anything but moan and scratch at the table as he starts to fuck into you in earnest. His cock is perfectly curved to hit your spot every time, and soon you’re reduced to a mess underneath him. His balls slap against your ass with every thrust. It hurts, it’s all too much, but it’s so fucking good. You don’t think you’ve ever felt pleasure like this – mind numbing and all consuming, so powerful that it makes your eyes roll back.

“Fuck,” he groans again, bending down so that he can loom over you and leave little bites all over your back and shoulders. “Not gonna last if you keep squeezing me like that, shit!”

“Faster, please,” you beg, and he obliges. He sets an absolutely brutal pace, somehow managing to fuck you hard, fast, and at the perfect angle all at once. Moans and cries spill freely out of your open mouth. When he reaches forward to toy with your clit, it’s all too much, and it sends you over the edge again. Your body practically spasms as he fucks you through your second orgasm. He shows you no mercy, gives you no time to come down. You don’t know if you’re coming again, or if you just never stopped. Your mind is hazy with pleasure and overstimulation.

You’re a twitching mess by the time that he pulls out, but you still whine at the loss. You’re far too fucked out to turn around and look at him, but in the corner of your consciousness, you can hear him panting and stroking himself furiously. His moans are so beautiful. Within a few short seconds, he’s coming all over your ass, painting your pretty skin white with his seed.

You don’t know how long you’re laying there before he taps your cheek to get your attention. “C’mon now,” he says, a tired smile on his face. “Let’s get you cleaned up. We wouldn’t want your husband finding out, would we?”

[wincore]

atlas | kim dongyoung

pairing: doyoung x reader

words: 15.4k

summary: kim doyoung has a lot of titles. student body president, music club president, favourite student of every professor who’s blessed enough to have him. in other words, he’s not your type and never will be. at least he’s a good kisser.

or, you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders and you do not know how to hold things as delicate as glass.

genre: college au, fwb au, hurt/comfort, angst, some fluff 

warnings: very suggestive content, making out, language, smoking, alcohol, mentions of sex under influence, me being pretentious,,

prompt: anonymous said: slippery + doyoung + "you can rely on me, you know." from the first dialogue link! LOVE YOU ❤️

song rec(s): playlist here !

a/n: yes it’s me experimenting out of my comfort zone again. yes you are required by law to listen to keshi while reading this hahahaha anyway writing this was painful. <3 (aka today i tried writing very complex human emotions and failed again. classic.)

In the beginning, there was no beginning. Ergo, this isn’t really a thing.

You shouldn’t be thinking of summer in Introduction to Latin. You are a good (perhaps great, if your ego allows) student after all. Here you are, though, listening to the ticking of the clock and wondering if you sigh loud enough, you won’t have to construct another sentence with the word for ‘death’. You pause to tell yourself that you shouldn’t be thinking of summer out of class either. Unremarkable; that's what it was and you don’t like unremarkable things.

When two people end up alone together, there’s not much to make of. 

“You know,” he had said, locking eyes. “We should get out of here.”

“And then what?”

“Fuck.”

So here’s the thing: this isn’t and won’t be a thing.

Doyoung has never been subtle when drunk, you found out, and he’s not as gentle as he looks. You flip the page of your notebook absentmindedly. You don’t like where your thoughts are going; the clinking of ice against glass rings in your ears again. It’s been far too long (one whole month) and you’re craving a bit of fun. You may forget yourself but you’re reaching your fingertips a little too far to call him again. More excuses pop up. See, in your world of perfection, there’s a hierarchy of things; men rank rather low. 

(Fun doesn’t.)

Here’s another thing: you forget yourself quite often. You know very well that you’re the one who continued this not-thing and now you’re daydreaming of Kim Doyoung in class hours. 

And under grey bed sheets with a tired smile, Doyoung is hard to forget. 

It was a party, it always is. That time, however, was the first party of the year Doyoung and you happened to be attending at the same time. You can’t remember who hosted it—the frat probably—but it was at a bar called the ‘The Meeting Place’ which had too many people you didn’t care about. Doyoung was there, in his laid-back glory, and you were drawn in far too easily. Being single did not help your case—and the alcohol certainly didn’t. You’re not sure if it was the gentle touches against your wrist or quick words that left his mouth or the attractive all-black get-up. All you know is that it was your mouth against his by the end of the night in a small booth, hot and impatient. Once, twice, thrice and you didn’t even need parties anymore. 

It’s not like you weren’t aware of what you were doing; it’s just that you were quick to give in—like you didn’t want to resist in the first place. And now, summer smells like Doyoung’s perfume. 

The first night had given Mr. Student Body President a near-stroke. You weren’t the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men at parties either so the morning had been full of awkward explanations to each other till you’d kissed him to shut him up (much like in a disgusting romantic comedy, minus the feelings) and somehow, it worked. He didn’t refuse and if you recall, he’d eventually pulled you closer by the waist.

You huff, twirling your pen. He’d never admit it.

You didn’t kiss so sloppily after that, unless it was to make out against a wall or while fumbling with the keys to your apartment. The lack of alcohol can bring wonders. You were a little surprised that he’d agreed—he is the Doyoung you’ve known since freshman year after all; blunt, rude, cares more for his grades than he’d ever for you. How laughable. He’s almost the same as you.

Here’s one last thing: Kim Doyoung is not and cannot be your type. 

You had the same part-time job in your second semester at a local fast food joint, and to summarize, your interactions were less than friendly. You can’t possibly count the number of times he yelled at you for trivial mistakes, and the number of times you sent angry, clipped sentences his way. So, yes, neither of you have told anyone—just acting friendly got you enough eyebrow raises.  If there’s anything worse than contradicting yourself almost directly, it’s having to explain that to your friends. So, you kept it a secret and so did he, for his own reasons.

You massage your forehead. If you think any more of this during class hours, you’re going to have to classify this as a terrible, terrible problem; like you don’t have enough already. You tune in to the lecture again, hoping it drowns out the rest of your thoughts. 

You tap your pen against the desk till you’re asked to stop by the professor. There goes your last resort. It isn’t the first time, but you breathe a sigh of relief at the hands of the clock. Casual means casual—you know it better than anyone. Maybe it would be easier if you could be more open about it. But you can’t. Your own problems aside, Doyoung would kill you if his reputation went down, even a nick. Men like that are so difficult, you curse to yourself. 

You run into Ten in the hallways, brightening at his absurdly wide grin. In fact, you haven’t seen him remotely upset since freshman year, when he couldn’t join the dance club, not because he failed the audition but because he mixed up the dates and missed it entirely. (It’s okay; he got in the next year.)

“Guess what!” he yells before you’re even in conversation range.

“What?” you yell back.

“No, guess,” he says, when you’re close enough.

You roll your eyes. “You scored a date?”

Ten deadpans. “No. I don’t even want one.”

“Loser.”

“No, you.”

“How clever.”

Ten flicks your forehead with no provocation whatsoever, making you yelp in pain. After a minute of cursing on your part, he squishes your cheeks to bring you back to reality—like he wasn’t the cause. You bite your lip to keep yourself from scowling. His hair is still light brown from the bleach, and you fix his bangs out of habit; your dumb friends are all you have at the end of the day. You sigh. They all lean on you unwittingly.

“Anyway, the news? I’m not guessing anything else,” you warn, taking a sip of your coffee.

“Well,” he draws out the syllable. “I heard- know you’re into the smart type. You know, student council kinda guys? So…”

You choke, the coffee leaving your mouth just as quick as it entered.

“Who told you that?” The laugh that leaves your mouth is forced and certainly fake but it’s the best you can do.

Ten rolls her eyes, still smiling. “I was thinking if you would be interested in a certain Park Hyungmin.”

Oh. Student body vice-president. He’s most definitely your type, with a gifted body and equally strong academic prowess—not to mention perfectly maintained tan skin and the most radiant smile you’ve ever seen in your life. 

“Oh, yeah, he’s hot,” you nod in agreement. “What do you want me to do with him?”

“He likes you. Like, totally has the hots for you. And I owe him so please help me out here.”

You furrow your brows, heaving a deep sigh.

“You...want me to go on a date with him?” you ask. 

You can oblige. Park Hyungmin is the hottest dude on campus (probably). It’s a win-win situation—in fact, it’s even better. A certain bitter taste finds itself in your mouth. It must be the coffee. You swallow it. 

“Yeah.”

And the deal’s done.

It was casual commitment, like most things you do for fun. You don’t think much of it, and the thought takes its final bow when you run into Doyoung himself.

Well, sort of.

You turn heel when he appears in your line of sight, pretending to fix your hair against a damn wall. You aren’t quite ready to face him yet, considering the coffee hasn’t kicked in—it’s not healthy how much you depend on it. Dependence is different, however, from consciously drowning yourself in it. 

See, Doyoung is anything but tolerable without a few shots of vodka. Or after sex. Or when he’s mumbling in his sleep. And you can’t erase any of those scenes. This is you trying to save yourself (and Doyoung) from embarrassment and a whole lot of explanation.

His coat looks expensive and you’d rather he had it on instead of on his arm. The tucked-in sweater and pants combo accentuates the line of his waist and the colour—you wonder where he found a teal so fitting—looks serene in the crowd. He’s wearing his glasses though, looking a little less put together than usual. Still, no one seems to notice and he continues to explain something to his group of friends.

God forbid you find Doyoung attractive during daytime.

His lips are chapped but pink as ever, the hair messed up by either the wind or his friends—you should stop staring by now. You give in. You’ll text him to book a hotel room tonight.

Sometimes you wonder how he has that large a friend circle, and always, the question answers itself. Eloquence, wit and regrettably, good looks—what does he lack? Maybe if he lost the habit to nag people around fifty-six times a day, he’d be the perfect man.  

An arm slings over your shoulder, punting the soul right out of your body.

“Fuck, Johnny, don’t do that,” you hiss, placing your hand over your chest involuntarily. 

The head of the photography club apparently spends his time terrorizing everyone he remotely knows. You make a foul expression but iIt’s not like he ever minds your scowling. He says he’s had enough practice from teasing Doyoung (and you’ll admit, it’s the only time you feel sorry for him). You were certain Doyoung would have filed him for harassment sometime in sophomore year. 

“What are you even looking at?” Johnny asks, raising an eyebrow at the plain offwhite expanse of the wall in front of you.

You feel hot at the neck. “I was fixing my hair.”

“In front of a wall?”

You click your tongue. “Do you not have class?”

“Oh, don’t be so quick to send me off.” He places a hand over his chest in mock hurt, fingers stretched delicately. 

To your dismay, the rest of his friends gather around giving you happy greetings—greetings only carefree college boys are capable of delivering. To your further dismay, Kim Doyoung arches an eyebrow at you, the same way he does on nights you’re doing things less than appropriate to think of in broad daylight.

“Hey, Doyoung, don’t you have anything to say? Or were you too drunk to remember?”

You bite down on your lip a little too hard. Doyoung, on the other hand, looks like he’s just seen God, stammering out a “what?” nevertheless.

“Weren’t you supposed to buy (name) a drink for driving you home that night?”

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat.

Oh, he’s bought you a drink enough times. Summer has waned but whatever thread you tied around your wrists hasn’t. Right now, your guess is that Doyoung has been ensnared in the common ritual for college boys to walk around campus and declare their friend is single just to embarrass him (or by some miracle, score him a date).

Everything, apart from the way you look at Doyoung, feels like a charade. You shake your head with a quick laugh, smacking Johnny in the arm and pay your condolences to Doyoung—keep it light. You’re good at it, or pretending you’re good at it, at the very least.

Doyoung’s gaze on you lingers for a moment and then you breathe. You’re going to be late for class—you offer the classic excuse and you’re out of there. In a way, it’s exciting. You’ve always wanted to have a secret relationship, even if this isn’t a real one. 

Doyoung is like the summer breeze, and you’d like for him to stay that way.

The next time you grace each other’s presence is when Doyoung’s tongue is in your mouth and his hands are running up under your shirt. 

He’s quite a pretty sight—messy hair, red lips and rosy cheeks. He moans into the kiss as he has quite a few times now and there’s the lovers’ high running through either of your minds. When he presses his lips to your neck, a soft restrained sound escapes you, not quite prepared for the sting of electricity through your skin. He moves to your collarbone and shoulders and then even lower, hands gripping your waist tight. The walls do not have ears here; these hotels are cheap but they’re built for privacy and maybe you’ll let yourself believe for once that you can belong to someone.

“Why did you text me in the middle of the goddamn night?” he mutters against the base of your neck.

“You want reasons now?” you whisper, hands running through his hair.

Doyoung has pretty fingers, pressing at the right places and prettier eyes that look at you with something akin to, dare you say it, love. He kisses you like he hasn’t had enough; and it makes you feel important.

He’s even better when he’s annoyed.

You wake up at around five in the morning. Propping yourself up on one arm, you take a moment to look at your partner. It’s easy to make out the line of his nose against the pillow, and if you focus, you can see his lashes against his cheek and his dark mop of hair clinging to his forehead. However gentle the moonlight is, it is kindest on a lover. 

Funny.

Too tired to sneak out, you go back to sleep.

“All I’m saying is that you have too much coffee,” Doyoung complains, slipping on his loose black sweatshirt. “It can’t be good for your health.”

You shake your head, scrolling through your phone as you lay on your belly. You’ve seen this view enough times—his back to you and sitting at the opposite edge of the bed, his incessant complaints and opinions about something that happened recently, running his hand through his hair when he sighs. You press on the calendar app and type in a note labeled ‘x’. Keeping tabs isn’t a bad thing; especially if you like order. Spending too many nights with someone is going to land you in trouble. That said, if you could trap love in a bottle, you would.

“You taste like coffee,” Doyoung adds with reddening ears.

Sometimes, it’s easy to ignore what he says if you listen to the sound of his voice instead. You sit up, scooting closer as Doyoung shoots you an alarmed look. He’s so cute like this; something about all the painted fences he puts up around him makes you want to lean in closer.

“So,” you poke his side. “How many relationships have you been in? Proper ones.”

“Three,” he answers, to your surprise.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “That’s more than I’ve been in!”

Doyoung furrows his. “How many have you been in?”

“One.”

He seems equally surprised but doesn’t probe further. After all, the price sticker that spells ‘youth’ clings to his forehead just as it clings to yours. 

“How many people have you fucked?” you ask suddenly, enjoying the visible flush across his neck.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he notes, flicking your forehead.

“Ow!” You place your palm against your forehead. “Okay, I get it, you have nothing to brag about.”

He shakes his head, an exasperated sigh leaving him. “I just don’t think you have to know. I like privacy.”

“Wait.” You gasp. “Don’t tell me- That night- don’t tell me you were a virgin—”

Doyoung squishes your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, a laugh erupting from your mouth. 

“Who’s a virgin?”

Nothing about this, you find yourself realizing, is complicated. It’s easy, gentle, natural, like a breath of fresh air—everything but complicated. Even under dim lights and within the depths of night, Doyoung is warm and uncomplicated. His chest, his hands, his lips—they are warm, as are his words. 

But Doyoung is a fucking fairytale.  

Even after these few months, all you know about him, in the definitive format, is that he plays the keys for more hours than he sleeps. What he does for fun, what his classes are, how he became student body president—you could play guessing games all night.

“Do your friends know where you spend your nights?” you ask, leaning back against the pillows.

“They know what I’m doing, not who I’m with,” he responds, running his fingers through his hair.

You purse your lips. It’s nothing hurtful but you don’t like the hush-hush in his tone.

“Why not?”

“Because this is a secret,” he responds as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Do you want them to know?”

He’s right.

“Ah, whatever,” you mutter, a stream of curses following when your elbow collides hard with the edge of the bedside table. 

“Your mouth is filthy.” He looks away to his phone. “I don’t swear as much.”

“Well, of course it is. I had your—”

Doyoung presses his palm against your lips with a tired sigh. “Please. Don’t speak. For the sake of my sanity.”

You smile under his hand and he returns it; and the November morning warms up.

“Where were you last night?”

You were expecting the question. Areum is the worst possible candidate for a roommate if you want some privacy. You don’t think she ever sleeps; sometimes, you wonder if she even showers because all she does is stare at her laptop screen and adjust her designs. Her lips are always chapped and her hair is always in a simple low ponytail but somehow still messy. You’ve never met someone so exhausted yet so full of life at the same time.

“Who were you with last night?” Eunji yells from the bathroom, before the two of them laugh.

You knew you shouldn’t have stayed the morning. You have the nosiest roommates anyone could (not) ask for. But they’re still your friends, you tell yourself begrudgingly. You would tell them about Doyoung if it weren’t for Eunji’s big mouth and Areum’s lack of common sense. And if it weren’t for the inherent comfort of privacy.

(Some part of you wants to keep him to yourself. You don’t care about student council president Doyoung or his friend group’s everything-regulator Doyoung or always-has-his-shit-together Doyoung. The one in your bed is the most loving.)

Areum adjusts her glasses, narrowing her eyes at you. “So? Any answer?”

You break out of your daydream at her voice, feeling a flush creep up your neck.

“I don’t have to explain anything,” you retort, snatching the coffee she brewed from the tabletop. “It was a Friday night and the two of you like Netflix more than me.”

“That’s mine,” Areum mumbles out a weak complaint.

“But don’t go out alone,” Eunji whines. “It can’t be safe.”

You laugh. “You know me. I don’t do anything too dangerous. Besides, you guys have that tracker app.”

They shrug, offering you a thin smile. A part of you is happy that they trust you but another part wonders what it would be like to be worried over. Maybe getting nagged isn’t so bad. 

You take a sip of Areum’s coffee and almost spit it out right back. 

“Did you add salt?” you ask, wiping at your mouth and hoping the taste disappears.

“Uh.” A reply so intelligent, you wonder if she ever pays attention to anything she's doing. 

You take a moment (a few), sigh (several times) and make your way to the shelves. Grumbling, you make her a proper cup of coffee before you leave.

Classes don’t wait for you (even if you think they should) and the world doesn’t wait for you (again, you think it should wait for people) so you’ve made it a point to understand the whole deal about rules. If everyone followed the rules, it would be quite a pretty scene; messing up is only valid if it’s done prettily. You laugh at the thought. That’s near impossible. The bus ride to the campus consists of music and thoughts of bleak tomorrows—an average commute for college kids, you think. You sure hope you aren’t alone in this.

Doyoung smiles at you in the hallway today, and despite your best efforts, it makes your day smell a little fresher.

Your day: classes, coffee break, classes, complaining with Ten, assignments, ‘me’ time. For someone who pretends to be laid back, you use your planner as though for survival. There’s no sticky notes or colourful sketches (except on occasion); just good old fashioned to-do lists and a calendar marked with time you’ve spent on productivity. Every day is a list to be completed. If people call routine a man-made cage, instinct is the biological cage. You’d rather be in control of the cage you’re in. You’d rather be in control of yourself. It’s scary otherwise.

So you know how to get the job done—it’s ingrained into you the same way you would place your hands over your ears at loud sounds, or the way you would run to your bed in the dark after switching off the lights.

It never occurs to you that the reason your world is so perfect is a sad one.

Sometime next month, it’s going to snow. Not yet though, and it’s still too cold.

The inside of the cafe helps the slightest, the heaters situated far back from where you sit. Christmas decorations are up already and the combination of red and green meshes delightfully into the form of an aching headache. The wood paneling on the walls are worn at the corners, the garlands hardly covering them, and the barista behind the counter seems as gloomy as the decorations are bright. You wouldn’t be noticing all of this if you weren’t stuck in one position.

You lean your cheek further into your palm and sigh, only this time Ten asks you to, quote, ‘shut the fuck up’.

He pulls up his sleeve and reaches for another pencil. His cryptic process continues, as it has been for the past half an hour and you feel yourself getting impatient, trying to not bounce your leg and get another bout of quibbling from your half-mad artist friend. You don’t usually run low on patience; but Ten has a special pass to test drive it.

“How much lon—”

“Shh!” He hushes you quickly. You can’t remember why you agreed to being his portrait study subject but you sure as hell regret it.

Around fifteen minutes later, you take a (permitted) breath. You have neither the energy nor the neck strength to glare at Ten but you make sure to show your displeasure by snatching the cookies from the table with a particularly sour look. He gets up and pushes you to the side of the small worn-out couch offered by the equally small booth.

“God, that chair was uncomfortable. My butt is frozen solid,” he lets you know, and you roll your eyes.

“You know, if we weren’t friends in high school, I would never be friends with you,” you state.

Ten tilts his head to the side, a mocking pout over his lips. “I would die without you, (name). Really.”

You smack his arm and he yelps, smacking your arm right back. The sound attracts some attention and giggles, and you make a gagging gesture to let them know you are in way or form in a relationship. The low-volume music changes to something with a more distinguishable beat, the sound of doors opening and closing almost every two minutes accompanying. Arriving on time is an accomplishment, especially arriving before rush hour on Fridays at the only decent cafe on campus, but both of your classes end early and there is no way you aren’t taking advantage of that. Leaving, however, is mostly done when you’re being glared at by the waiters and waitresses.

“Doyoung asked about you,” Ten says, all of a sudden. “Kim Doyoung.”

You try to not show concern, but raise an eyebrow. “What? So? He’s not my type or anything.”

You bite your tongue. That was too quick a response, too obvious. Your cheeks grow hot. Ten doesn't say anything, however, and for a moment, you think you’re in safe waters. 

“Are you guys… into each other or not?”

You cough, trying to show your surprise at something so outrageous. “Why would you think that? Does he look like someone who dates around?”

“Actually, he’s been on quite a few dates.”

“No way.”

You know that. He’s told you about it before, in vague references, but you know about them nonetheless.

“Isn’t one student council guy enough?” you mumble. “Why are we talking about Doyoung?”

He shrugs, a familiar feline smile on his face. “Just asking. He talks about you sometimes. Actually, we forced it out of him but whatever.”

You shake your head. “You’re all terrible.”

“You seem to like him though.”

“Who said that?”

Ten sighs, ignoring your question. “If you guys are dating—”

“We’re not.”

“—or fucking—”

“Ten.”

“—you should learn a thing or two about him. The guy’s not as annoying as he looks. Or stuck-up. He’s really nice but don’t tell him I said that.”

“I know that,” you snap, feeling warm at the neck all of a sudden. “I know him.”

“Oh, you do? Tell me what his hobbies are then. Or his major. Or the clubs he’s in, apart from the student council.”

“He- He likes to sing and he’s- he’s—god, what is this? An interrogation? I’m not going to meet his mom for dinner.”

Ten gives you an ‘I knew it’ look before leaning his elbow onto the table. “You’re sleeping with a guy you don’t know anything about. Serial killers would love you.”

You massage your forehead. “Look, I know he’s a good guy, okay? And he’s sweet- and- and—wait a minute. Oh my god, you tricked me.”

Ten lets out a snort. “Hey. Okay, look, the other guys might be dumb as shit but I have, you know, a working set of eyes. I can tell. It’s not that hard.”

You grumble but the cat’s out of the bag anyway. You should’ve known Ten would figure it out—he’s a nosy little shit, and he’s been that way since high school.

“Whatever. As long as Doyoung doesn’t start panicking about his tarnished reputation or whatever.”

“Oh, I think he’s desperate to let everyone know.”

“To you, Ten, everything seems obvious. It’s annoying.” You mess up his hair.

“No, I mean, I thought you were dating.”

“Well, we’re not.”

Ten shrugs. 

“And I don’t like him,” you add. “I like the- the thing that’s going on because there’s no feelings attached.”

He looks somewhat pained, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, but doesn’t respond to your explanation. “Can I ask for a favour?”

“No.”

Ten sighs. “Come on. You didn’t even hear me out.”

“You’re going to say something stupid. Or insulting.”

“It’s neither, promise.”

You run your hand through your hair, breathing shallow. “Fine. I don’t have to agree though.”

Ten purses his lips. “It’d be better if you did.”

You hum in response, biting into the cookie and trying to ignore the glare from the nearby waitress. It’s about time you left anyway.

“Get to know him, dude. Don’t break his heart.”

“What?”

“Just kidding. There’s a party tonight. Hosted by yours truly. Finally moved out of that stinky dorm room. Bring over some friends but not more than three. And lend me some money for a juicebox.”

“That’s a lot,” you mutter. “You ask for a lot of favours.”

“Oh, speaking of which, Hyungmin—”

“He already asked me out on a date. Am I supposed to say no? You never mentioned he has such an attractive voice.”

“Oh, I’m not telling you to not go on that date. You have to, actually. I’m going to be in a lot of trouble otherwise.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Shut up. I’m not done speaking.”

You roll your eyes.

“But if you didn’t, I could draw some conclusions.”

“What am I, your chemistry experiment now?”

“Well, you and Doyoung seem to be—”

“Don’t complete that sentence.”

“I was going to say something funny.” 

Ten flashes you a blinding smile and you sigh. By now, you’re about to get kicked out of here so you stand up discreetly while he packs up his stuff. You hug your jacket close to you as soon as you leave, shivering at the evening breeze. The sky is inky, but with a faint sort of ink—deep blue and light, all at once. From the crowd, you can tell classes just got over for quite a few people, eclectic chatter filling up the street.

“Fine. I’ll bring Eunji,” you tell Ten after some contemplation. “And whoever else responds to my text first. Areum never leaves the room. You know that.”

“Thanks, (name)!” he messes up your hair. “I would give you a kiss but someone will end up punching my pretty face.”

You furrow your brows. “Well, you’re not my type anyway.”

“I’m too good for you,” he responds in a sing-song manner, waving at you before running off and disappearing into the university crowd.

There’s always a sort of buzz in the air you can’t quite describe at college parties.

Even if this is a relatively small one, you feel an oncoming headache the moment you enter Ten’s new apartment, which you’re sure had a ‘no parties’ rule in the rental contract. You spot Kun, Ten’s roommate from the dorms and he flashes you a quick smile in greeting before he’s swept up by a doting crowd. Apparently, a cute guy in animal sciences is rare and it makes him rather popular.

Eunji disappears from your side the moment she spots Johnny, and the number of eye rolls you’ve given her haven’t warned her off him yet. You suppose it takes heartbreak to change a person. Sighing, you make your way to the kitchen only to be greeted with the strange sight of Yuta trying to balance Jaehyun on his back so they can imitate some anime formation and back out immediately. Living room, it is, despite its populous space. (You don’t really want to think of bedrooms right now.)

The apartment is quite big for what Ten told you the rent was. The hallway to the two bedrooms is narrow but you suppose something has to be sacrificed for space. You furrow your eyebrows at the two bedroom doors. Ten never said he was getting a roommate. You shrug it off, sitting down on the rather stiff couch. The lack of furniture, apart from the couch and a coffee table, makes the place look even larger and people sparse. You like the beige walls; Ten’s always loved warmer colours but something makes you think he’s going to be ruining them in a few days with garish green paint before he comes crying about that to you.

“Hey.”

You look up to the familiar voice, heart rising to your throat.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Doyoung remarks before sitting down beside you and offering you a cup of god-knows-what.

“I don’t take drinks from strange men,” you say, biting down your smile and crossing your arms.

“If you didn’t take drinks from strange men, we wouldn’t be fu—”

“Doyoung!” you hiss before looking at him with careful suspicion. “Are you drunk?”

“No. A little bit. Not enough.”

You sigh. “How will you get home now?”

“I live here, idiot.”

“You’re- You’re Ten’s roommate?” you sputter.

“Yeah. New one,” he responds. “He used to live across our room in the dorms, I can’t believe I actually agreed to this.”

“I can’t believe it either. I’ve seen cats and dogs friendlier with each other than the two of you.”

Doyoung laughs. “He’s surprisingly one of the better people to room with. I’d rather eat my own blanket than room with Yuta again.”

You laugh at his irked expression, eyebrows furrowed so cutely. The line of his brow bone to nose to lips, it seems a little too perfect to belong to someone. He relaxes his shoulders a little, leaning back on the couch as he looks somewhat lost in thought. (“You think too much,” you’d told him once. “And you think too little.”) If only that were true, you smile to yourself.

“Are you sure you can hold parties here?” you as when the music suddenly rises in volume.

“Well, it said student-friendly,” Doyoung responds, looking visibly disturbed. “Not sure if I want to test the limits of that so early.”

There’s a pause, filled in with loud pop music. You don’t think Ten, your dear introvert, would have agreed to such a party but there’s a chance Johnny or Jaehyun had something to do with this. You don’t know who to suspect when it comes to their group of friends.

“I still can’t believe you’re rooming with Ten.” You look at Doyoung.

“Well, that makes, what, eleven of us, I guess?”

You laugh, feeling conscious all of sudden. Maybe you should listen to Ten’s advice.

“Doyoung,” you call, looking at the cup in your hands a little too passionately. “What’s your major?”

He looks at you with eyes widened ever so slightly, and a pause over his lips.

“Linguistics,” he answers.

“Oh. You said something about it once,” you mumble, recalling something vague about an assignment of his. “You know mine?”

“Yeah,” he answers, eyes cast on his watch.

“Well, that makes me feel a little guilty,” you mumble as softly as you can.

“You should be,” he says. “You never listen to anything I say.”

You scoff. “You just complain most of the time.”

“Really now?”

“Yes,” you snap, looking away.

You look back again when you hear the sound of Doyoung’s laugh, a distinct brightness in it. Sometimes, you wonder if you really are as awful as you’ve made yourself be.

“You’re cute,” he says. “No wonder everyone is so in love with you.”

For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.

“Everyone?” you laugh. You don’t care about everyone. It’s burdensome.

“Everyone. They hate you too, by the way.” He smiles to himself. “Heard you’re going on a date with that dimwit. Hyungmin.”

You feel a sudden discomfort in your being. Taking a sip of the drink, you try to shake it off as best as you can. 

“Yeah, I- I don’t think I’ll go,” you say, waving it off. 

Why are you lying? You left it hanging on a maybe. Part of you wants to tell Doyoung; he is your friend after all and you tell friends stuff like this. The other part tells you this is cheating; lying and pretending everything is okay—it feels like cheating. 

“Oh.” He looks lost before he focuses on you. “Why not?”

“Why do you care?” you ask, trying desperately to calm the uprising in your chest.

He stays quiet for a few seconds and then shrugs, looking away from you. It makes you feel a little guilty to dismiss the situation so quickly, another item to add to your troubles. You sigh.

“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, it’s okay. You’re right.” You can see his Adam's apple bob up and down.

“I’m not,” you say. “I’m wrong. I really didn’t mean it.”

He looks at you all at once, his gaze so gentle that it makes you think he wants to kiss you, or do something equally affectionate. Instead he sighs, downing whatever’s left of his drink before a wash of sudden looseness does away with the tension in his body.

“You have any more questions for me?” he asks, smiling. “What's it like to be student body president—or, or what instruments can I play? My favourite animal? Colour?”

You smile back. “What is your favourite animal?”

“I don’t have one. Don’t like them. Unless it’s a soft toy.”

“No way. You’re lying.”

“Now, I answer your questions and you call me a liar? Makes me a little hesitant to answer the next.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, next then. Why didn’t you join the frat? All your friends are in it.”

“Hurts my ego.”

You laugh. He’s still probably an honorary member. There is no way he’s apart from friends for too long with all those feelings of fraternity he has, no matter what he says. It’s the same as you. Affection leads nowhere though; just to short-lived moments of comfort.

You realize, through the course of the night, that you never asked. How he got into the student council, what his classes are, what he does for fun—you never asked. It’s almost like you didn’t want to know. 

How sad, you muse to yourself, to be this way. To be so wrapped up in your own problems that you fail to see people around you. Pity, however, isn’t something to feel at a party. You talk with Doyoung for the rest of the night till the sound of his voice makes you feel certain ghosts of butterflies, and till you have to take Eunji home before she does something she regrets. This is what it really means to have the price tag of ‘youth’ strung across you perhaps—when you feel old and immature all at once, and in between, when you feel nothing at all.

Doyoung is too old to mistake love. Or too young. 

Labels don’t define anything, especially when it comes to relationships—so even if he calls it love, whispers it to himself at midnight when he’s sitting alone on his bed while his friends are passed out drunk on the floor, it is empty. And then there’s you. The heat of your skin, the curse of your smile and that cheeky laugh you do to get on his nerves. He wants all of it and he’s not ashamed—but he’d be a liar to say he can shout it to the whole world. He’s not that kind of man, and what is his can remain his without the rest of the world prying its damn fingers in. The first night, no, the second—third? He can’t remember which night it was but something pent up in him exploded and he didn’t try to control it for once.

“Ow,” he mutters.

His throat burns from the whiskey. He hates drinking alone but you’re either asleep or with friends and he can’t think of anyone else but you. He tugs at the turtleneck collar, getting uncomfortable by the minute, and then proceeds to take off his coat.

For a moment, he considers getting back to the living room. There were more than enough people with lingering touches against his shoulder and longing gazes—they’re not you. He leans back onto his bed. Another hour and everyone will be gone; why did he even let them hold a party in the first place? Parties just remind him of you—he takes a whiff and smells summer and lemon vodka all of a sudden. A deep sigh leaves his lips.

You might not seem to find yourself especially sad, but Doyoung finds something oddly touching about you. Maybe it’s the way you say his name, he muses, like you’re desperately trying to fill the gaps. But it can’t be him in particular, of course—it’s a lover, any lover.

He hates long nights, just as he hates winter but lately, they haven’t been feeling too cold. Isn’t it ridiculous the way he’s running after you? Doyoung was never meant for this. It’s fucking pathetic and it makes him want to tear all his hair out but there he is, still and quiet in the same place. A certain agony makes its way through him. His hands are freezing and yet his insides are burning—nothing makes sense and right now, he doesn’t want it to. He presses his cold hands to the warmth of his cheeks and a laugh erupts from his mouth.

He must be going crazy to laugh like this in an empty room. The car lights from the window travel slowly from wall to ceiling, the only thing moving in the stagnant of his room.

Inevitably, he thinks of the end. It should come quick; in fact, he’s never been one to do this. He’s always been someone to get attached to people. He doesn’t know how the end will come because this shouldn’t have begun in the first place.

Doyoung’s out of breath.

“Crazy bastard,” he mumbles to himself, followed by a groan when he lifts his head up. As if on cue, the door opens and shuts with a bang. Ten walks in looking drowsy, running his hand through his hair with a disgruntled face.

“I hate to say this,” he slurs. “But you’re right. We can’t have extra furniture and parties. Gotta choose one.”

Ten lays down flat on the bed. “I vote out that ugly ass clock you bought. Why do we need it? We have phones and laptops.”

“It was a gift,” Doyoung mutters.

“Oh. Uh. Actually, someone already, uh—”

“Leave it. We’ll talk about that in the morning.” 

Doyoung massages his forehead, groaning at the pain when Ten suddenly decides he’s all up for cuddling. 

“Ew,” he says, scooting away from Ten. “Get away from me.”

“You don’t mean that,” Ten whines, trying very hard to pull Doyoung into a hug. Of course, his attempts are blocked by Doyoung’s palm against his forehead.

After a few more seconds of trying, Ten huffs and turns away, crossing his arms. “I don’t like you anyway.”

“I know,” Doyoung mutters.

Ten erupts into laughter, sounding more like a psychopath than a close friend of his.

“You do that every time you like someone?” he asks in between fits.

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “I just said—okay, yeah. Whatever.”

There’s a much needed silence and Doyoung wonders if he can just fall asleep without kicking Ten out.

“You should tell (name),” Ten says all of a sudden, Doyoung’s heart stopping at your name.

“What?” he whispers.

Ten looks at him as though he’s talking to a particularly stupid child. It makes Doyoung scowl but there’s too much alcohol in his system to know if he really means it.

“You don’t- you’re- everyone in this goddamn building knows,” Ten explains, exasperated. “Jaehyun knows, and he’s the densest kid I’ve ever met. God, if you like (name), go for it.”

Doyoung blushes so deep, he considers pressing his palms to his cheeks again. He thinks for the next few moments. Ah well, if they had to find out, he’s glad he didn’t have to declare it himself.

“Whatever, just ask (name) out. It can’t be that complicated.”

Except it is. You don’t have to spell it out for him—he knows the way you feel. The two of you only ever wanted one thing out of this. But if there’s something Doyoung isn’t good at, it’s keeping his mouth shut. He wonders how many times he let it slip, wonders if you even care enough to notice. God, it’s starting to sound pitiful for him.

“Ten. How much did you drink?” Doyoung asks, raising his head.

“Nothing. None. I’m not drunk.” Ten shrugs. “Just sleepy.”

A ‘wow’ is all Doyoung can respond with. He still isn’t quite finished figuring out what sort of horrific planet Ten stumbled from. A notification ding distracts him from kicking Ten off his bed and he has half a mind to toss it onto the bedside table but it’s still half. He softens almost immediately.

It’s a text from you: a ‘u’ followed by a smiley face and then a meme he can’t quite read through hazy eyes. He finds himself smiling anyway and sends a barrage of emojis, whatever he finds because he likes the way you get annoyed at them. Sighing, he decides that’s enough. He’s not in the right state of mind for conversation.

Doyoung shuts his phone off, attempts to push Ten off the bed one last time before closing his eyes and dozing off.

Not every day is meant to be fun—you know that in your twenties—but it’s still somewhat disappointing to have bad days. Like youth is meant to give you some sort of happiness daily. That’s what they make it sound like.

You groan, rubbing at your back. Sitting at your study desk for so long does not have good long term effects. At least, your temporary, meaningless assignments are done. You scowl at the text on your laptop screen; the more you look at it, the more you hate it and so, you shut it off. It’s not like your pissy professor is going to be impressed by anything you do. However, you like the orderly certainty of schoolwork.

Break time consists of guilt and sugary snacks. You’re done with most everything and you suppose leaving the final review of things to a later date can’t hurt. In fact, it sounds rather appeasing. A few more moments pass in making a decision.

You get dressed. The apartment feels eerie all alone, and you’re sure as hell not going to spend the rest of your evening here. You shiver, quickly striding out the front door and locking it before taking out your phone.

People misunderstand winter. Winter is only the end of things; and sometimes, the beginning. It isn’t cruel or crushing, it’s just taking its course. However, you have a tendency to blame seasons for all that happen in it. For instance, you shouldn’t be missing summer when you really miss the first night with Doyoung. 

He picks up after calling thrice. You wonder what he’s even up to, if Saturday evenings are also booked full for such a guy.

“Why do you take so long to pick up?” you complain. “Do you not get days off?”

“I’m busy,” he hisses. 

Something’s wrong.

You pause, unsure what to do. It’s not his voice but the one in the background that catches your attention. 

Inviting him somewhere. 

Rather sensually.

Your ears feel hot and you drop the call. Of course. Of fucking course. You’re the idiot thinking it was a thing. This whole thing is casual—feeling sorry wasn’t in the contract. Fucking around was.

It’s not like you’ll be heartbroken by something like this. Of course not. Of course. Doyoung and you never had a beginning so there isn’t an end, really. It’s fine. It’s fine. You take a deep breath and browse through your phone. With the onset of Christmas holidays, you have around three options left. Ten (yikes), Jaehyun (no way) or the latest addition, Hyungmin.

Well, you’re dressed. You have to go somewhere. And your statement about Hyungmin being the hottest guy on campus still stands.

You send two texts to the boy before deciding that’s apparently enough time waiting. He picks up after a few rings, voice groggy from what you assume to be a late afternoon nap.

“You up for a drink?” You cut to the point.

“Uh? Oh, uh, now? I am, of course- I just need—”

“Twenty minutes. I’ll text you the address.”

Nothing cheers you up like your favourite bar. Or friends. Or people who respond to calls.

Hongdae is as busy as ever. You knew the bar would be packed but not this packed. Still, you managed to grab a seat at the bar table. With the oncoming night, the smell is just going to get worse—so there’s nothing wrong with treating yourself to some lemon vodka (and its refreshing scent).

Hyungmin arrives exactly four minutes early, and the mussed up hair makes you think he must have been in a hurry. For what, you can’t be sure. 

You can still see the inklings of Hongdae nightlights on his hair right before he enters, and in the fallacy of that moment, you think it’s going to be Doyoung. You sigh. This isn’t the time for that.

“Sorry,” you say, gesturing to the bar table. “All the tables were booked.”

“No, no,” he responds quickly. “I actually prefer it here.”

He’s tall, not that it’s the first time you’re noticing, but even when he’s sitting, he’s at least two heads taller than you are. His shoulders are accentuated by the mocha coat, no doubt part of the latest trend this winter. As a fashion student, he hits the mark and more. 

For a moment, you feel bad for knowing his major. Ten let it slip about him and yet still, you feel guilty for remembering it. You’re not supposed to go into unnecessary detail about people that don’t matter. Does he matter? 

“Surprised you could make it,” you joke half-heartedly. “Aren’t you lot always busy with something?”

He laughs. “The student council? Oh, we’re busy alright.”

Busy. Right.

“What about you? Aren’t you part of like three different clubs?”

“So what kind of busy?” you ask, ignoring his question. You’re part of two, now that you left the music club last semester. It’s not like small talk matters though.

“Uh,” he hesitates. “You know- attend meetings and events, coordinate committee work, supervise stuff, etcetera etcetera. So busy, yeah.”

“Busy on Saturdays too?” you ask, before thanking the bartender for the drinks.

“Yeah, I guess. Doyoung has it worse than me honestly. Even now, he has to take care of stuff because of me. Hah…”

You gulp down your drink making Hyungmin raise an eyebrow in concern. “Stuff? Because of you?”

“Yeah.” Hyungmin scratches the back of his head. “He’s with the girls.”

“Girls?” you ask, playing with the glass. You’re starting to feel annoyed, red lining your vision.

“Yeah.” He makes no notion of clarifying his statement.  

“Must be quite the president,” you say, resting your cheek against your palm.

“Oh, he’s a nightmare.” Hyungmin laughs. “He has to control everything.”

You try to mask your scoff. You know what he can be like when you’re working beside him. 

“Oh, and the guy has no sense of humour,” Hyungmin laughs, the sound easy on the ears.

You blink.

“I think he’s funny,” you say quickly. You swear you have no idea why you sound so defensive.

He hums in response and you consider biting your tongue, telling him you’re only here for one thing and forgetting the uncomfortable churning of feelings inside your chest.

“Forget I- I’m a little confused today.” 

Is that an acceptable explanation? You can’t think straight enough to decide. The silence on Hyungmin’s part, however, worries you. The crowd around you fills in for the next few moments as your companion seems to debate something with himself.

“Look, I know you and Doyoung are… I don’t know, something.”

You huff in irked amusement. “God, does everyone seem to know?”

“Not until late actually.” Hyungmin takes a gulp. “He’s been acting weird. Doyoung.” 

You look away, breathing shallow. You don’t like it, the way things seem to be getting out of hand. All this time, the world seemed to be in the palm of your hand and now, it’s spilling everywhere; the sand in the hourglass is already up to your knees and you don’t know what happens when it fills.

“Do you actually like him?” he asks, leaning back just a little. You know where this is going. “Are you guys dating?”

“No,” you respond, checking your watch.

“Oh.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation in him but you’ve seen that look before. You know that look.

“Then we can- uh- we can—”

“Fuck?” you ask.

He gulps. “I mean, you can say no any time—”

You pull him by the collar and kiss him, hard enough to melt away your hovering thoughts. He kisses like you expect him to, not how you want him to. You know this sort, and somehow, that makes you feel comfortable. Knowing what you’re getting into is easing but it doesn’t lessen the weight of it.

It’s sickening. The way you’re pretending it’s Doyoung.

Hyungmin pulls apart, panting heavily. “Oh, okay.”

“Tell me you drove here.” 

He holds up his car keys in response.

You’re not the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men, but it’s better than falling in love with them.

So you follow a lover to a hotel room and try to feel something. Some time, when he’s kissing you against the hotel room walls, he pulls apart and asks, “You’re thinking of someone else, aren’t you?”

You know the answer; it just won’t leave your lips.

“It’s okay,” he says with a weak smile, “Let’s just have fun.”

And every time his mouth was on yours, every time you saw stars, you felt the ghost of Doyoung and his haunting touches. It was strange and unfair and unlike you—or at least, unlike the you that you built over the past few years. You feel as though you’ve misplaced something—like something was supposed to be there when you reached out but instead, it was empty space.

The night ends as it should and you leave right before dawn with an apology text you couldn’t put half your heart into.

Most winter nights, you wake up with pain so profound, it’s seeping into your bones.

It never made sense. You never tried to make sense of it. So you let the aches push you down by the shoulders, lodge itself into your neck and back; and you tell yourself, it must be what you deserve. It’s cold and you’re walking barefoot on frozen ground.

You gasp. The weight of who you are and who you have to be—it has its knee on the back of your neck, shoving you into the damp earth. There’s no particular reason to it; it makes it seem as though it’s insignificant. Unimportant. Irrelevant. But that’s the problem—the weight of the world on your shoulders makes no sense. Whose world are you even carrying? Whose approval are you trying to win? You scramble to get up, messing up your bedsheets in the process, and pull your blanket around you. Your own warmth surrounds you and it makes no difference. You frown.

You remember your phone call with your mom, and your lips tremble. You shouldn’t have told her about how crappy your finals went but it slipped. You tried to explain that you did work for them, that you gave it your best but sometimes things don’t work out. She didn’t have to say it out loud for you to hear her thoughts. 

You’re disappointing. 

You wipe at your eyes, feeling annoyed at the emotion. If you could let the ground swallow you whole, you would. In a heartbeat. You don’t even know what you’re doing most of the days despite that pretty planner of yours.

You get out of bed, pull on your cardigan beside the bed and grab your lighter and pack. The tiny balcony makes for a great smoking spot and while you would scold any of your friends for committing to this, you do it yourself. Hypocrite.

For all you try to shove into yourself—hobbies, student clubs, actual clubbing, friends—the more you feel less than enough, as if everything just vanishes into thin air inside you. As if you aren’t enough and never will be. You play by the rules and you lose, you break the rules and you lose. 

Maybe it’s because you let yourself be filled by the intricacies of other people that they like you. And thus, you cannot stop for fear of loneliness.

Just as you’re feeling crushed again, you picture Doyoung against your back, placing his nose in the crook of your neck—something he has never done—and you wonder why it helps. 

Sucking in air too fast, you cough. You shouldn’t have let it go on for so long.

It was fun—harmless fun. You shouldn’t even be thinking of taking a step in some other direction. You’re friends, barely, but you like where you are. If Doyoung was that important, you wouldn’t be going about this all backwards. You sigh, though it comes out jagged. The room is quiet and that’s the way it should be at four a.m, of course, but you crave music all of a sudden. Doyoung and you are just a temporary fix; and you let that thought relax you.

When you think of his chin on your shoulder, however, it feels feather light.

“Why are we doing this?” you ask. 

The atmosphere is warm and toasty, just like you expect it to be in a bakery with light pink doors and a collection of plastic potted plants on display. The decorations aren’t an eyesore here and somehow, it makes you feel better. It’s a little far but you decide it’s worth it.

Doyoung shrugs, sipping his hot chocolate. “It’s Christmas, and we’re both here.”

Your eyes follow the hanging lights over the counter, wrapped in pine tree stickers and eventually to the neat display of a ‘Season’s Greetings’ menu, the contents of which are currently at your table. A Christmas song by some singer who’s been popular lately plays, tunes light and dancing. You hate the end of the year solely because of the extra pressure January brings. Nothing you can’t handle, of course. Nothing you can’t handle.

You sigh. It’s been a little difficult lately.

“Doyoung, really, why are we doing this?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“Are you- uh- are you not enjoying this? I could—”

“No! No, it’s not that. I feel better, actually.” You bite your tongue almost immediately after. It’s not like he’s supposed to know the sort of hell week you’re having. A poorly received term paper, finals that weren’t up to your expectations, crippling loneliness without friends and, oh, the self-doubt—you are at the lowest you can be in college. The only sweetener right now is in the hot chocolate and the way Doyoung’s looking at you. 

You feel something close to guilt.

“Good.” He smiles. “You seemed… You seemed a little down.”

The sliver of warmth between your ribs makes you think this is unreal. It feels uneasy to be so affected by someone but you let it slide, turning back to your hot chocolate.

“Why didn’t you go home this time?” you ask, sipping your drink.

“Oh, I didn't really want to face my parents,” he says before leaning. “Didn’t do too well this semester. And my brother’s going to be there with all his achievements.”

You chuckle in disbelief. “You don’t like your brother?”

“I love him to bits. Just can’t stand my mom’s nagging when he’s around.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” You cross your arms, smiling triumphantly. You feel like children squabbling but it’s so lighthearted, you want to laugh.

Doyoung raises a pointed finger, about to retort but nothing comes out. He puts his hand down.

“I guess you’re right.”

You shake your head. “I’m sure she’s proud of you too.”

“I know that,” he says, laughing. “Of course she is. I don’t keep myself busy for nothing.”

You gulp, a sudden sourness rising at the base of your tongue. 

“Busy, huh? Didn’t know spending saturday evenings with girls also counted as busy,” you mutter against the cup, half-hoping he doesn’t hear you.

“What?” There’s a perplexed look across his face.

You wave your hand in dismissal. “Oh don’t mind me.”

“Are you talking about me giving a tour to the fresher girls?” Doyoung leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Hyungmin does that usually but Mr Man was sore from soccer practice and Friday fucking.” 

You blink. “Fresher… girls?”

“What, did you think I was at a brothel?” Doyoung laughs in amusement.

You feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “No! No, of course not.”

You wave your hands about for a few more seconds, trying to come up with an explanation. This makes things rather embarrassing.

“Sorry,” you say finally. “I jumped to conclusions.”

Doyoung laughs, rather deep and heartily, and you wonder if your apology really did sound as stupid to him as it did to you. 

“You do that a lot,” he notes.

“Thanks,” you quip, cutting the pastry with your fork a little too forcefully. His laugh follows. (You hate it so much. It sounds like pure adoration.)

The next few moments consist of scrolling through your phones (because Doyoung says his ‘mouth hurts from talking to you’) and you would’ve been in a better state of mind if everyone wasn’t posting pre-Christmas photos with their families. 

“You know they’re opening that park. What’s it called- Winter Wonderland or something. You said you wanted to visit.”

You look up at Doyoung amused.

“Let’s be honest. You want to be in bed, Doyoung,” you say. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I care,” he answers, looking at you with his doe eyes. “About you. You sulk when you’re upset.”

“I don’t sulk,” you reply but your smile is obvious when you exit the cafe. 

It’s like a date. The more you think of it that way, the more it makes you smile.

The evening is perfect—orange and pink and loving and happy. Doyoung trails behind you as you tread over the sidewalk with cheeky remarks about his speed.

“I’m in the track club, you know?” he huffs, finally tired of your jabs.

“As what, the start point?”

A fake, sarcastic laugh leaves him. “I wouldn’t get to see you if I walked ahead.”

You feel warmth creep up your face. You mumble, “that’s cheesy.” It’s too weak though, and it goes unheard. 

For the first time, you notice his eyes are a little like yours in what they reflect. You love them. 

So this is where the crowd went. The amusement park, or whatever you call it, is buzzing with a faint sort of excitement, mostly in the children that didn’t get to go on a vacation elsewhere. It’s quite the wonderland though so you can’t see them complaining.

“Do you think they’ll kick us out if we make out on the Ferris wheel?” you ask, smiling at Doyoung.

“I’m not making out with you on the Ferris wheel,” he replies, making a face.

You do end up making out on the Ferris wheel, and you get butterflies from it. It’s like a teenage dream but Doyoung looks even better. You pass on the cotton candy because frankly, you’ve had enough of sweet things. You sit at the frozen wooden seat, hoping it warms up while Doyoung brings the two of you some fries.

Your phone buzzes with a notification. Your eyes light up at the mail from your professor. You had turned in the term paper three days ago, weeks ahead of schedule and were particularly proud of the way it turned out. 

You look at the email and zero in on the word ‘redo’.

Your shoulders sag immediately. You spent four weeks on that—and it’s not good enough? You search frantically for how it could have gone wrong and come up with none. That’s not supposed to happen. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong. The week’s exhaustion swallows you up again.

When Doyoung returns, he looks at you concerned before quickly setting the fries on the table.

“(name). Is something wrong?”

“Huh?” Your voice sounds so weak and squeaky, you feel embarrassed. It’s embarrassing that after all these years, you still don’t know how to handle failure. 

Because it’s not supposed to happen. You tell yourself that over and over and it makes things worse.

You feel dirty, underneath all that dust and crumbled rock dangling in your hair. Whatever rests on your shoulders is cracking and collapsing, and you’re pushing in the wrong direction to make sure it all stays up. 

He reaches out his hand but you avoid it.

“No,” you mutter, weakly shaking your head.

You rub at your nose and eyes, hoping you can hide behind your forearms. Doyoung shouldn’t be seeing you like this, he doesn’t deserve to see you like this. You turn away from him, your palm gently pushing against the soft material of his shirt. 

Doyoung doesn’t move. Instead, he gently tugs on your wrist so you have no choice but to face him with your red-rimmed eyes. You’re not sure if it’s embarrassment or pity, but the concern in his eyes makes you cry harder. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he whispers. “You don’t have to find a place to cry.”

For the first time in adulthood, you learn what it’s like to lean your forehead against someone’s chest this way. Doyoung wraps his arms around you and the sound of his breathing soothes your near-erratic heart. 

“I worked really hard on it, you know?” you mumble against his chest. “My term paper.”

“I know,” he whispers.

Doyoung strokes your head delicately, fingers running through your hair with airy touches. Eventually, you let go of a final sigh and look up to his lips.

He seems surprised at the kiss but it’s all you can think of now. It’s gentler than usual and Doyoung moves cautiously though he seems to like it all the same. His arms feel comfortable around you. When he pulls apart, he looks at you yet still with careful concern.

“We can- we should stop if you want,” he says, and he means it. 

You shake your head. Night is creeping in overhead, deep and quiet and slow.

“I like you, Doyoung,” you say finally. “I really, really like you.”

Doyoung’s eyes widen, as though a rabbit wary of the traps it might set foot on but he eases into your touch almost immediately.

“I like… I like you too.” His lips waver but he looks away and takes a deep breath. “I like you so much.”

You smile and think that maybe everything is set right now, with his chin against your shoulder and your arms around him. 

Doyoung discards the jacket once you’re in your apartment, kissing you fuller now. Every other thought leaves you; you beg him to make you forget the rest of the world. The walls are comforting now that he’s here, and it’s warmer, hotter.

“Can we- Can we go a little slower?” you mumble, his arms still gentle when they wrap around your waist. He parts his lips from your neck to look at you momentarily before nodding.

You suddenly understand why he always makes you feel so good. There’s a certain fondness to his touch and warmth to his kisses. There’s no one quite like him, really.

“I love digging graves, especially if it’s my own,” you mutter against the pillow.

Doyoung laughs. “What did you do this time?”

“This time? Excuse me? Do you think I’m some sort of trouble child?”

“Hm. Let’s see. Yes.”

You pause. Why do you hesitate to tell him you slept with Hyungmin? It’s not like you were cheating—you weren’t dating Doyoung. Besides, that night with Hyungmin didn’t mean anything. A horrid feeling snakes around your throat, heavy and piercing. You resort to changing the topic.

“I’m… I took another course beyond my understanding.”

“That’s it?” he asks.

You nod.

No, no, no; it’s all backwards now and you don’t know how to reverse it.

Doyoung takes your hand in his, delicately and yet firm. His chest is against your back, bare and warm. When he presses his lips against your knuckles, the warmth that flushes through you makes you want to believe in something else entirely. You feel weak. 

A part of you argues that you feel honest—in a moment of clarity you don’t think you deserve. Neither vodka nor whiskey can make you this clear in the head; you struggle to breathe straight. How awful it is to feel warmth and not believe in it at the same time.  

“You can rely on me, you know?” he whispers.

The knot in your chest makes you want to cry.

You feel lonely and the opposite of it all at once. Doyoung is too much for you—too kind, too pretty and too true. He makes you realize too many things at once.

There are a few things in the world that can stifle loneliness. Like the notes Doyoung plays on the piano, like the songs he hums in the morning till you place open-mouthed kisses against his neck.

You realize, all of a sudden, that Doyoung really is your dearest friend.

And yet, you don’t think you deserve it. You’ve never loved, you believe, but you have. You don’t remember it well enough. The lovers’ touches you kept searching for led to this. Hypocrite. You wanted a lover’s touch and you rejected the love that came with it. What a complicated bundle of emotions. You weren’t always this way.

You loved your first cat when you were six, all the way till it died a warm death in your bed. You loved your mother even when she yelled at you for skipping your chores. You loved your middle school friends when you talked about comics and movies you saw for the first time. 

It’s hard to love the same way now.

You suppose sympathy needs a little backstory. Nothing is unconditional. 

It had all started when your heart had broken into two clean pieces. You put a bandaid on it and called it a day. No one taught you to ask for help.

Your friends know someone broke your heart; you tell them everything. Friends, friends—you wanted them so bad and yet, you keep them as far from you as you can. You pretend to be paper-thin and so shallow, sometimes you wonder if that’s all there is to you. But for all they know, they know next to nothing. It wasn’t just the aftermath of reckless puppy love. 

The first time your heart broke, it was watching your mother cry in the living room for a reason you didn’t understand. You wondered who committed the crime, who should be charged—and you found no one. A loveless marriage is cruel, yes, but you cannot point fingers. It isn’t just cruel; it’s infuriating.

The second time, the two pieces of your heart broke into a few more. It was a boy with an inviting smile and flags whose colour you couldn’t quite discern. They must have been red, but everything else was too—hearts, cheeks, lips, and the threads around your wrists. And eventually, he guided you to the conclusion that you are undeserving, unworthy, unloved. 

You were strong, however. It was easy to collapse on the bed and feel the weight of the world settling in, but you stood up again on shaking knees and you told yourself to have fun; you can have fun without feelings. You know better than to attach meaning to fun—you might hate insignificant things but it’s only fun if it’s pointless. You’re not letting go of this place you’ve worked so hard to arrive at, with all the shattered pieces in your hands.

It’s better to offer nothing at all than offer broken pieces.

“Can we stay like this?” Doyoung’s arms tighten around your waist, his breath shallow against your shoulder. “Just for a little bit.”

His voice is beautiful as always, but for a moment, it strikes you as sad.

Everything’s twisting up into knots and you are frantically running your fingers over them to straighten it all out. You know what it’s like to let things rot; and you are tired of it. Why can’t everything disappear for one moment? Why can’t you just let it be the two of you?

You sigh in response, nodding. 

“I might not know what’s happening in there,” he starts, drawing circles on your chest with his finger, touch comfortably light. “But…”

I’m here and I get it.

Is that what he wants to say? You don’t think you’ll get to know. You’re not exactly voicing yourself either. 

Stay the night. You want to say it but your lips are frozen.

Instead, you rub your thumb over the back of his hand, fitting into each other as perfect as a lie. You would tell him, you try to convince yourself, if you could say it with enough conviction. There’s no point to saying things that are half-meant, that are true but only just enough. You’re a coward.

And now, this has gotten complicated.

An end.

Tapping his pen against the desk, Doyoung grows increasingly annoyed. The council's next  meeting agenda isn’t going to finish writing itself but he can’t bring himself to either. Besides, Ten’s pacing outside his room is starting to get on his nerves.

“Ten!” he yells. “Can you quit it? You’re making too much noise.”

His disapproval is met with silence. For a moment, he spaces out and reflexively thinks of you, only to feel a confusing sort of emotion. It’s normal, he tells himself, and that it’ll sort itself out.

Doyoung feels like a glass box more often than not. If he breaks, who picks up the pieces? Who gets cuts all over their fingers?

‘Whoever breaks him’ should be the answer. But that’s wishful thinking. It’s not that simple. 

He’s so see-through that it’s painful. He used to tell Taeyong he’s wrong but he’s never been able to prove it. He is easy. It’s embarrassing.

But then again, part of him likes it when it comes to you. He likes it when you kiss him after a particularly heated disagreement, he likes when you get on his nerves just so he’d fuck you and most of all, he loves the push and pull. Fun is just that. He doesn’t know what he’d do if that heart of his he placed so gingerly into your palms falls and shatters.

The line between hate and love is thin; and he’s enjoying walking it too much.

He has nothing to offer but himself. He laughs at the thought and shakes his head. It’s somewhat dirty, and not just in the sexual sense.

“Ten!” he yells again. “Stop pacing!”

Getting up from his seat, he strides over to his door, swings it open and finds Ten scratching his head and glancing at his phone in repeated action. 

“Ten?”

He’s so in a trance that he hasn’t noticed Doyoung. He is the lovable sort of idiot if he ever chooses to be so. Most of the time though, he’s just a smartass.

“Oh, oh no, I’m a bad friend,” Ten mutters to himself, his pacing growing more restless. He scratches the back of his head, eyebrows furrowed and too inside his head to notice Doyoung. He wants to ask but something tells him he shouldn’t. 

Turns out, his apprehension isn’t strong enough these days. 

“Whose date did you crash?” Doyoung asks, more than annoyed already.

When Ten looks at him, Doyoung feels rather shriveled and freezes on the spot. Call it instinct but Doyoung respects fear and pain. Ten has a mixture of the two, amplified when he looks at Doyoung.

“Doyoung. Hey,” he says, trying to tone down the distress in his voice.

Doyoung still hasn’t recovered from the initial surprise of Ten looking that way.

“Did you fuck up? Did someone fuck up? Why do you look like that?”

Ten sits down on the small couch. “Long story… I guess. Too many details, you- you know? Just—”

“What the fuck happened?”

Ten still can’t look him in the eye. “The group chat’s a little…”

“Ten,” Doyoung snaps. “Cut the crap.”

“No, that’s- that’s what I’m- You’re going to be upset.”

Doyoung straightens, furrowing his brows. “I think I can fucking handle it.”

“You know that date I set up for (name) and Hyungmin?”

“You set that up?”

“(name) slept with Hyungmin.” 

Doyoung quietens. The silence seems to make Ten uncomfortable as he shifts in his seat, getting up when Doyoung speaks.

“So?”

Ten blinks. “You’re not upset?”

“Just what kind of loser do you think I am?” Doyoung mutters.

Glass shatters just that easily. Maybe he wanted you to shatter him. Maybe he was already cracking at the edges.

“Doyoung, you don’t have to—”

“Stop,” he exclaims a little louder than he intended. “Stop looking at me like that. I’m a grown man, I can handle shit like this.”

It still hurts though. You lied to him and he let you in. You lied to him. Doyoung sighs, returning to his room with a realization he should have had long ago. His night ends with more deleted drafts than he’s supposed to have and eventually, with increased discomfort, he delegates the job to Park Hyungmin himself with the excuse of sickness.

Doyoung does feel sick. He felt this way once, in highschool, but it had turned to red, hot anger ready to lash at anyone and everyone, spilling from his lips as easy as it was to breathe. And Doyoung can never feel that way towards you. He was different back then too, of course, but you—you’re unlike anyone he’s ever met. He loves the comfort of you, and something like that is hard to come by. 

He feels like laughing again but instead he finds tears on his cheeks. Silly boy, he can hear his mother tell him. You don’t give your heart to heartbreakers. 

So Doyoung falls asleep to the sound of upbeat music in his earphones, music he hates even just to pass the night. Morning will come and he will have to become stronger. Comfort is fleeting, after all.

With everything said and done, you know very well that if you were to tell someone you love them—genuinely, truly, from the heart—it would be Doyoung. It’s not a sudden realization, like the sky falling apart or a tidal wave crashing against the shore and sweeping away the city. It is like the gentle lapping of water, though, or the way the clouds change shape—natural and anything but alarming. You want to stare at it forever, and you want to believe that’s how it will be forever. 

“You told everyone we had sex?” Your voice is boiled to a shout. 

Hyungmin looks torn, lips moving but no explanation making its way out. “I- I told my friends, not everyone.”

“And you forgot that your friends talk? Everybody talks, Hyungmin, what were you thinking?”

He sighs before taking a step towards you. “Why are you so angry about it? As far as I remember, you had no trouble talking about whose pants you got into.”

You scoff. “With friends, not the whole campus.”

“That’s exactly what I did!” 

You cross your arms, feeling so upset you might cry and unsure as to why. You’re usually good at dealing with stuff like this, keeping things in the right place.

“It’s because of Doyoung, isn’t it?” 

You snap your head to Hyungmin. There’s a serene sort of look to him despite his unkempt appearance, and a look of understanding.

“I’m sorry. Really. But if you were so into him, you shouldn’t have called me that evening. It might not matter to me but…”

You broke his heart. All that devotion he had towards you led to this. 

“You’re right.” You choke on your words, leaning against the wall. “Fuck… Fucking…”

You turn around, making your way out of the hallway and hope the tears on your cheeks dry faster if you run.

You can’t remember the last time you ran. Your world didn’t need running from, it was right in the palm of your hands. Now that you look back, the world was always on your shoulders and heavy as it can be. Maybe you liked it—the weight. You could’ve shrugged it off any time; you didn’t need all those caging schedules or careful, elegant steps.

No. Atlas couldn’t shrug because his punishment was his existence. To have weight is to have meaning; and that is how you intended to live out your life.

Doyoung makes you see it differently. To love so fully even if it seems cautious—you, who has never loved at all, couldn’t comprehend it. And because he makes you see it differently, the box is now open and all hell is loose. 

For once, you don’t want to live in the world you crafted. You want more love, more hurt and you want to open the doors. You don’t mind hell if it’s for him.

You ring the bell to Doyoung and Ten’s apartment and pray the news hasn’t reached him yet. He said he was busy this weekend; maybe he was detached enough from his phone for once. You just want to be the person to tell him. It’s not a perfect apology otherwise.

Doyoung opens the door with pursed lips and cold eyes. There’s a sense of ease over his shoulders and arms but he won’t look at you and panic rises to your throat.

“We’re not fucking tonight, (name),” he says.

“That’s not- That’s not why I’m here.” Your voice is so meek, you wonder what happened.

Doyoung steps back, crossing his arms. He’s still looking at his feet and you feel the urge to reach for his face.

“I wanted to tell you- I… I just—”

“That you’re fucking other people?”

“God, Doyoung, stop with the fucking. I don’t care about that right now.”

“Really?” His voice is so sharp, it digs into your skin. “You were just in it for that. That’s the fun part in your stupid life, isn’t it?”

You feel a sharp pain in your nose and forehead. “You’re- Now that’s- Doyoung. I’m sorry. That’s what I wanted to say.”

“After—” His voice chokes up. “After everything is done? Stop with the excuses and face it for fuck’s sake. You aren’t made to fall in love. That’s why you dance around it all the time.”

Although he says that, he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds defeated.

“It’s not like you aren’t cautious,” you retort, throat feeling heavy. “You said it yourself- you don’t want to care too much.”

“I was wrong,” he says, voice hoarse. “I care about everything more than I’d like to admit. I care about you more than I’d like to admit.”

“The Hyungmin thing didn’t mean anything, okay? You were busy and—”

“So why did you lie?” He strains to not raise his voice. “Of course I knew our little thing didn’t mean shit to you. Why did you pretend it did? Last week, you said- you said—”

“Doyoung, last week- last week I- I wasn’t pretending, I swear.”

“You could’ve just saved yourself the trouble and the dignity.” A short, humorless laugh leaves him.

You feel your lips tremble, the explanation not quite made its way out yet. He looks so innocent like this, rabbit-like eyes watery and full of pain, pure the way they have always been. This is your mistake, isn’t it?

“Doyoung, please,” you manage to say. “That was wrong. I couldn’t clear up my head. Please don’t—”

“No. I was an idiot. Or you see me as one.” He frowns deeper, lips trembling. “I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t have. We shouldn’t have been at the same fucking party and I shouldn’t have drank so much. You’re- I’m not that kind of person.”

You bite down your lip. “What kind?”

Doyoung laughs, the sound raspy and empty. “The kind to not fall in love with you.”

It damn near breaks your heart to look at him. You have to say something, it shouldn’t end like this. You’re desperate and all you think is that you don’t want it to end at all.

“Please, I thought of you as a friend, that’s why—”

“And this is what you call being a friend?” he cuts you off.

You feel the sting in your eyes and nose, making you turn sharply to the side. You wish he’d just make you cry. It makes you feel the rancid guilt all the more.

“Make Hyungmin your friend for all I care. Let’s stop this.”

You stare at your feet, unable to respond. 

“You can have every boy in the world, (name). Don’t come to me.”

“Can you just stop talking about everyone else?” you yell, desperate. “Do I talk about your exes? Seungjae or- or what’s-her-name—” 

“That’s different!” He looks distraught, breathing heavily and with a painful red flush over his nose and cheeks. He runs his hand through his hair, tousling it further. “You lied to me, (name). You lied.”

Your cheeks are wet and the look that flashes over Doyoung makes you think he wants to step right out to you. He stays frozen in place, however, looking away to the side.

“Did you notice?” he asks softly. “Even once? How much I cared?”

You can’t answer, letting the tears drip down your face. It’s getting colder and colder. 

Doyoung bites down his lip before parting them. “All we did was have sex anyway. So please just- just leave.”

You take a long few moments but nod, hugging your coat closer and stepping out of his apartment. You think you hear Ten’s footsteps but it’s followed by the bang of a door—this is how it ends then.

The line between hate and love is thin; and you are deserving of neither.

You perfect your next semester’s academics, and the next. It still feels empty. You go out to drink with friends and return to a messy bed you sleep in alone. You smile as always and you laugh as always. No one asks you how you are as always. You never needed anyone to ask you how you are.

Ten tries but you push him away. You don’t need to drag in other people into a mess you made. He feels sorry for the whole thing but you tell him it was you that spilled the paint, Ten just handed a dash of it to you.

You were right. You don’t deserve Doyoung. At least, you made it so that you don’t deserve him. 

‘It’s better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all’—it still hurts.

Every day is part of a list again. You doodled in some of the pages, when you thought you were starting to fall in love. There’s only a skeleton of it left now. Soon, you’ll let it crumble to dust too. 

You tear apart the planner sometime after graduation and cry and curse at yourself for doing that. No one’s good at parting with things they care about. You’re no exception.

It’s December again. 

This place is a little strange to visit right after graduating, especially with the memories flashing you by. Johnny said he booked one of the private booths (“A senior’s treat!”) but you feel your steps growing hesitant when you reach the neon signs by the stairs. It spells ‘The Meeting Place’ and smells of cigarettes just like it did the first time.

You stop midway up the stairs. For a moment, you think of Doyoung sitting there and wonder if you’ll ever be able to talk to him again. If you had the chance now, would you take it?

Of course, you wouldn’t. There’s too much to be set right and you can’t do it.

There’s supposed to be the six of you. Johnny mentioned Ten and you know Eunji’s invited too. You saw Jaehyun on the way here, still a student. You sigh. It must be him, the one they failed to mention to you. Kim Doyoung. There’s no one quite like him.

You spot him first. Looking a little forlorn as he gazes absentmindedly to the side, he faces away from you and you get the inevitable urge to run away. It’s a funny feeling. 

Your stomach is churning. You don’t want him to see you. Ten babbles on about something to Johnny, smiling like he found candy while clearing his drawers. Eunji looks tired, leaning against Johnny’s shoulder and you wonder if she already drank more than enough shots.

“(name).”

You jump at Jaehyun’s voice from behind you. 

“Hey,” you respond, giving him a wide smile.

He hesitates. “Are you okay? Not that you don’t look okay- you look really good actually. I mean, are you and… you know okay?”

“I don’t think so, Jaehyun,” you say and make your way to the booth.

It’s a little cramped for the six of you and Doyoung gets up before you can even greet him. It’s not like you deserve it anyway but it tugs at the wound.

“I’m going to go take a drag,” he mutters.

“You don’t smoke,” you say, looking up.

He stares at you momentarily and you look away. You think Ten and Johnny glance at you with pity but you don’t really care. 

 “Can I come with you?” you ask, barely a whisper.

“Sure,” he says, to your surprise.

The smoking area is so small, you’re surprised it’s even there. A glass structure overlooking the neighbourhood, there’s barely any light within. The only thing nice is how warm it’s in there. 

Doyoung lights his cigarette and then offers to light yours. It’s quiet, the music from inside numbed to the cold doors. You really can’t take it. You stub the barely consumed cigarette and throw it into the bin.

You’d rather just stay quietly in his presence.

“You’re not smoking,” he notes.

“It’s a bad habit.” You look out through the glass.

Doyoung chuckles. “You were a collection of bad habits.”

“And good ones too,” you quip. “I was a perfect student. I was perfect in most everything actually.”

Doyoung’s smile widens. “You were. You certainly were.”

A few more moments pass in silence, your eyes traveling over the outside scenery which seems to be growing duller by the second. City lights have never felt fainter.

“It was an accident, right?” You say suddenly. “The whole thing? Us?”

Doyoung hums. “Yeah. I fell in love by accident.”

You smile weakly. “Right. I never got to apologize.”

“I loved you on purpose.”

You look up at him. There’s not a lot of people who say what they mean. He looks the same as he used to under your grey blankets, with a warm blush over his cheeks and kind, wide eyes. 

“You’re so damn pretty,” he murmurs, “even now.”

You scan his face for signs of lying.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” you ask finally. 

Doyoung blinks before easing into laughter. “You- You’re- You’re the same as ever.”

You let yourself crack a smile.

“Doyoung I- I really am sorry,” you say quietly. “And I did- do care for you.”

Doyoung stubs out his cigarette and discards it before looking you in the eye. You notice he’s wearing his favourite black turtleneck in the proximity, the grey plaid coat covering most of it. You really liked that look on him.

“I’m sorry,” you say once again. “I want you to know that. I didn’t want to hurt you and I promise I won’t ever do it again.”

You mean it. You’re never going to hold glass again. He doesn’t deserve it.

“That’s a problem,” he responds, breath mingling with yours. “I want you… I want you to hurt me. If you really do love me, I’ll take it.”

“Doyoung,” you whisper, turning away despite your whole body screaming at you to give in. “I meant it. I can’t hurt you.”

Doyoung cups your cheek with one hand, glancing at your lips for a moment.

“You’re warm,” he says.

He’s warmer.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

You want to kiss him too.

“We went about this all wrong, didn’t we?” he asks.

“We did,” you answer, voice barely above a whisper. “I did.”

Doyoung pulls back. “Then let’s start again. I’m Kim Doyoung, I majored in linguistics. I was student council president and I made a mistake.”

You smile. “We don’t have to do that.”

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “After all the trouble I went through to make a good introduction?”

The two of you laugh, and it gets warmer. 

“I’m (name),” you say. “I was a top student and I made a bigger mistake, Kim Doyoung.”

“Oh? I wonder what it was.”

“Kind of a long story.”

“I’ve got all the time for you.”

You smile and start. He responds with gentle kisses. You’re piecing your world back together again; but this time it’s feather-light and fits right in the palm of your hand. 

[kareofbears]

plainly in truth, chapter 2/5

“Without you around, it’s sorta like stuff is just kinda…bleh.“

—

Or: hiding, confiding, and misguiding.

read on ao3 or below the cut :)

Yusuke wasn’t too sure if what he was doing was of the right mind, but his heart is definitely in the right place.

There’s a lapse in time between Jails and hitting the road. Everyone is out soaking in the last of Sendai; Ryuji and Akira (and by extension, Sophia) are on a quest to buy any last minute supplies that they might need while the girls and Morgana are taking in the sights that they didn’t quite manage to explore as much as they’d like.

Well, the girls who like crowds and sightseeing are on a quest, at least.

Futaba and Yusuke are in the trailer by their own volition—he didn’t need to see anything else that wasn’t a timeless statue, and he learned early in his life that if you pace your spendings, you can then use that money to spend in the future. Quite the contrary, Futaba has had a little too much excitement these past few days and is more than happy to hide away in her top bunk with only her laptop charger peeking out from the bottom of her fleece blanket.

(A cartoon rendition of the Sendai temple is printed onto the fleece. Apparently Haru had yet to see Futaba purchase anything ‘tourist-y’ and action figures of various anime characters don’t seem to count.)

He tugs on her laptop cord. “Hello.”

“...What?” she grunts, voice slightly muffled. Through the thin fabric, he can see the illumination from her screen.

“I need help reacting to something.”

“And you decided to ask me?” she deadpans. “The literal shut-in?”

“The previous shut-in,” he corrects. “You haven’t been a shut-in in nearly a year. A marvelous feat, if I do say so myself.”

“Yeah, and this is my way of celebrating.” The lump on the bed seems to curl further in on itself. “Begone. Do a painting or something. This is my me time. The equivalent of guzzling down a boat load of Arginade. There’s barely any time to be by myself considering the whole group is treating this RV like a pimped out party bus, so shoo.”

J-pop starts playing from inside the blanket fort, and even Yusuke knows a dismissal when he hears one. That won’t stop him, though.

He tugs again, harder. “That is the reason I’m asking you now. I can’t have this be heard by prying ears.”

Had there been a cat on the bunk bed, its ears would have twitched. “Is this…?”

“Yes,” he nods sagely. “It’s a secret.”

Futaba’s head pops out, eyes wide and nearly glowing in excitement. If there was one thing that she liked more than recovering her energy, it's uncovering every nook and cranny of people’s lives, whether they want it or not.

“Inari, you should’ve said something!” She throws the blanket off herself, snatches her laptop in her arms and jumps down. Slamming it down on the booth, she throws herself on top of the smooth faux leather. “Tell me everything. The deets, the specs, all down to the last dirty drop of tea.”

He slides in to join her, albeit much slower. “Before you tell me that I misled you, I want to make it clear: I don’t know what the secret is.”

“What!” she slaps her forehead, groaning. “Yusuke, why would you do me like that? That’s false advertising to the max, and I do not appreciate you tricking me.”

“There wasn’t a trace of trickery. What I’m about to say really does have to do with a secret, but I need your help with how to deal with it.”

“I’m gonna level with you here pal,” she puts a hand on his wrist. “I’m not the right person for this, but I’d be darned if I let you walk away without telling me anything. So let’s hear it! I’m ready for some juicy goss. Oh! Can I guess? Is it about Haru?”

He frowns. “No. Is there something about Haru?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I was asking you!” she says, patting her hands rapidly on the table. “Come on, just spill the beans already.”

“There are no ‘beans’ to spill yet, and besides, that sounds like a waste of perfectly good food.” He leans back against the plush cushion. Only a pinch of guilt arises in him as he says it. “It’s about Ryuji.”

“Ooo, Skull himself. Gotta admit, I wasn’t expecting him.”

“It relieves me that you said that. I share the same sentiment—it wasn’t until I had run into him the night before when I had started to truly suspect something. And what I found was…” he trails off.

Her lips pull downwards. “That bad?”

“It was worrying, to say the least.”

She sighs. Most of the energy in her seemed to have filed out in the presence of a more serious topic. “Dang. I knew it was fishy when he left, but he’s always been able to just hash things out on his own.” Her expression changes as an idea pops into her head, and it morphs into one he recognizes. “Does—?”

“No. Akira doesn’t know, apparently.”

Futaba splutters, and he has to resist the urge to nod his head at her reaction. “He—Akira—wait, what? He doesn’t know? Oh, it must be bad bad.”

“My thoughts exactly. Initially, I had thought that whatever this was, it was manageable. Like that time he had spent his month’s allowance on a claw machine to win Makoto that light-up buchimaru.” Idly, he touches her keyboard lightly, appreciating the kaleidoscope of colors that emanate from it. “You know how I feel. We’re the Phantom Thieves; we can’t allow anyone to suffer alone, even if the one we’re helping is a Phantom Thief himself.”

Futaba raises an eyebrow. “And how do you want to help him?” she asks. “By talking to him? Let’s be real, you and I have the lowest social stat in this group. Combined, we can maybe reach the nerd student council president, and the guy who can and should handle this doesn’t even know about it!” Biting down on her lip, “Should we tell Akira?”

“Absolutely not. That was the one thing he had requested, and we cannot go against it. By extension, I don’t think we should tell anyone else.” A thought comes to him. “Wait, he mentioned that Ann knows of his situation.”

“Great! Someone who knows how to deal with people’s problems and isn’t us. What are we waiting for?” She reaches for her phone, and Yusuke proceeds to smack her hand out of the way. “Ow?”

“Don’t call her!” he hisses. “Ryuji said that she’s, and I quote, ‘part of the problem’. We can’t have her knowing that we know something.”

“Ann is?” Futaba exclaims, shoving her glasses up her nose. “This is getting too deep. We don’t even know anything yet, and it’s really starting to feel like we’re part of some conspiracy.”

“That’s right, we don’t know anything, and it is our largest road block.” Yusuke crosses his arms. “We don’t know what happened between Ryuji and Ann, or if something even occurred between Ryuji and Ann. What if they had an argument? What if they’re fighting, and it becomes irreparable between them? What if it begins affecting our Jail runs?”

“You really gave this some thought, huh?”

“But of course. I must nurture the few friends that I have managed to treasure.” He glances outside and sees the crowds clambering to see their tourist spot. “We may be different from most teenagers, but I don’t believe we’re immune to the nature of cliques or dramas or even insecurities.”

“God, what a good friend you are, it’s bugging me,” Futaba accuses. “So what the heck, Mr. Philanthropist? We’re stuck between a rock and our friend group here. This mission was doomed before you even dragged me out from my hideout,” she says, eyes drifting away to stare longingly back at her bunk bed.

“Stop making that expression. There’s a reason why I talked to you about this.” He leans forward. “What I’m asking is, to be frank, unfavorable, but I really do believe that it’s worth it to do this.”

She looks at him, and it only takes her a few seconds for realization to set in. Her jaw drops. “Oh Inari, that’s vile.”

“If you’re uncomfortable with it—”

“I didn’t say I was uncomfortable with it,” she cuts in. The grin on her face is wide; a woman in her element. “I just thought you’re the one who’d be all against this kind of thing.”

Futaba pulls her laptop towards her. “Sit back and observe the master at work.”

He watches as her fingers breeze through the keyboard, eyes inscrutable as light reflects off of her glasses. “So you can do it?”

“I’ve hacked into the Diet Building’s security cameras on a dare back when I was twelve,” she snorts. “This is Mario Kart Baby Park with the railings up.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It means—” With a flourish, she hits a key before glancing up at him, smug. “That this will be very easy. I’m thinking we can start with their text messages and work our way up to the big stuff.”

“Oh, right. You can go through our phones,” he grimaces. “You’ve stopped doing that, yes?”

“Of course I have! By the way, did you figure out what courses you wanted next term? I saw your advisor was bugging you about it, you should really email her back.”

“Yes, I’ve finally decided on sculpting as opposed to visual photography since it lets me focus on the anatomy of...” he pauses. “Wait—”

“Okay, looks like I got his text messages with Ann, so let’s all focus on this now!” she says loudly. “Scooch over, let’s go through ‘em.”

He does, and she moves to sit next to him. Yusuke peers at her screen. “Nothing out of the ordinary. There is a significant drop in the frequency of his replies, but that’s been the case for me as well.”

“Same here.” She continues scrolling up rapidly, so fast he wonders how she can keep up with herself. “Memes, memes, lots of ‘where you at’ texts, more memes…”

Something catches his eye. “Hold. Go down slightly, I think that link might be interesting.”

“‘How to treat knee pain: 11 steps with pictures’?” she reads aloud. “His knee is acting up again?”

“What’s peculiar is that I haven’t seen any sign of it.” He squints at Ryuji’s response to it—generic gratitude. “Even in Jails, he runs around without a care in the world.”

“What’s even weirder is that Ann is actually sending Ryuji wikihow links on how to treat his knee,” she snorts. “Let’s put a pin in this one and move on, Ann’s chat is chalking up to be a dead end.”

Rubbing her hands together, she straightens up like a professor in front of a lecture hall on the first day of classes. “Now Yusuke, when you’re looking to crack someone open like a tasty, moist omelette, there are two things that you must look into: their email and their bank account.”

After some clicking, Ryuji’s email pops up. “Email is obvious, since this pretty much tracks anything big. Delivery shipments, subscriptions to websites, acceptance letters. It’s all here in a neat little bow, ready for us to read.”

“‘Manga’s are 20% off for this weekend only,” he reads. “‘Anime convention next weekend’, ‘Pizza coupons’.”

“Ugh, he’s so boring! Next!” Clicking sounds through the RV, emphasizing how much they were snooping through their friend’s private life. “Bank account, show us your wisdom.”

“My word,” Yusuke gasps when the tab opens up. “That’s quite a lot of funds.”

“Inari, four thousand yen is definitely not a lot of money. How much do you have in yours?”

“I don’t have an account,” he admits. “I was on my way to the bank to open one, but I ran out of train fare. By the time I had gotten there, it was already closed. Quite rude, considering that it was only two o’clock.”

She levels him with a look. “Was it a Sunday when you did all this?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Never mind,” she shakes her head. “Okay, so nothing conclusive or even embarrassing. That means that whatever this is, he really doesn’t want anyone knowing about it.”

Futaba hops out of the booth and starts rummaging through everyone’s luggage. “That means we unlock the secret, classic, never goes out of style method of snooping—” with an expression of triumph, she showcases Ryuji’s backpack to him. “Going through their stuff IRL.”

Yusuke winces. “Don’t you think we might be going too far?”

“Hey, what’s with the cold feet? Where was your ‘justice’ from before?”

“I’m all for justice,” he watches her unzip the backpack, recoiling. “But even this seems a little excessive.”

“Look, we already went through his email, his bank account, his text messages. At this point, it’s kind of weird if we don’t find anything. Like—” she throws a pair of shorts behind her as she rummages. “What kind of teenage boy doesn’t have anything to hide? And also, it’d be kinda messed up to go through his stuff and come up empty-handed. If we didn’t find anything—” she pulls out several t-shirts and a crowbar and places them on the ground next to her. “Then we’d just be a bunch of snoops.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he reluctantly agrees. “Above all else, we need to find out what’s happened in his life to make him so upset.”

“Exactly. Oh man, wouldn’t it be crazy if we just found some porn mags or something? Retro to the max, but I can totally see him as the kind of guy to lug something like that along. Unless it’s of Akira.” She makes a face. “Ew. Funny thought is no longer funny.”

“Karma, if you will.”

“Shut it. Oh ho ho, what do we have here?”

“You found something?”

“It’s some fancy looking letter.” Futaba flops herself on the ground. She clears her throat. “'Sakamoto Ryuji. This letter is to inform you that…'” she stops all of a sudden.

“Futaba?” he probes.

“Um,” she blinks, and laughs nervously. “Um?”

He reaches over, and she doesn’t resist when it slips out of her hands. Skimming through the letter, only his eyes dare to move. When he finishes, he lets out a breath. “Oh no.”

“We shouldn't've read that,” she whispers, a perfect summation of what he was feeling. “We really should not have read that.”

—

There’s something to be said about the quayside in Sendai, in the way that it’s almost exactly like Tokyo.

Sure, the buildings here are definitely shorter—gone are the towering structures back home, and instead they’re replaced with shorter structures with cute local designs and colorful patio restaurants. The people here are different, too. Maybe it’s something to do with the water here, in how it’s cleaner and how you can actually see some fish down in the canals if you know where to look. Don’t even get him started in the air; jeez, do they infuse the oxygen here with something? He hasn’t stopped taking deep breaths ever since they got here.

But despite all of those discrepancies, the feeling of Akira’s hand in his is just like being home.

“And it’s actually really interesting,” he hears vaguely. “Because back in Leblanc, there used to be a couple issues about the temperature and stuff, but in my hometown there’s…Ryuji? Are you even listening to me?“

Akira’s telling him something. A story about Morgana? And Ryuji’s sure it’s very interesting, but he’s too focused on the way that sunlight hits his cheekbones.

“I’m listening,” he lies. “Keep going. This is just my listening face, I promise.”

“Sure, sure,” Akira agrees easily. “That’s just your listening face, rather than me and my wicked good looks, right? I totally believe you.” He wiggles his fingers. “Give.”

Ryuji offers him the caramel ice cream cone in his other hand, letting him bite into it like some kind of psychopath. “Done?” he asks, shifting the tote bag tucked into the crook of his elbow, careful not to rattle the eggs inside. Akira bravely offered to carry the groceries, but he had obviously refused.

“Mmm. That’s good stuff.”

“Right? I read about the ice cream here when I was younger, and they were really hyping it up on the ad.” He takes a lick, grinning when the taste hits his tongue. “And on a summer day like this? Unbeatable. It’s really reminding me of last summer when we hung out everyday in your room eating crap, taking naps, and playing games.” It also helped that hanging out with his crush was a daily thing, he thought.

“And I got to hangout with my crush a lot too, so that’s always a plus,” Akira adds.

Ryuji stops, and Akira turns around to give him a weird look. “What?”

“You get me,” he says in awe.

“I sure hope so,” he tugs him forward, and they continue their walk, their shoes rhythmically landing on the wood in unison. A comfortable silence takes over, but that’s no good. Ryuji wants to hear him talk.

“So imagine you get ten million yen,” he starts. “What do you do with it?”

It’s not the first time he’s asked this. They discuss it often, eagerly like the dreaming boys they both are. Akira considers it and Ryuji loves that about him. It doesn’t matter how stupid his questions are—he will always answer them with as if it were a serious question.

“For starters, Yusuke’s getting a place as soon as possible.”

“Duh,” he snorts. “Apparently, his roommate brought someone back to hook up with them. Poor guy got so traumatized he slept over at Haru’s.”

“We should be glad that he didn’t ask them for poses,” Akira laughs. “Next, I’m making sure that Sojiro has enough for retirement.”

“Obviously. Rest in peace Leblanc—you make fire coffee, but no one’s there to drink it.”

“And then I’m making sure your mom has the funds for retirement for sure.”

“I love you,” he sighs.

“I know.” Akira starts swinging their hands back and forth. “Then with the rest, I’ll buy us some new shoes for when we start training again together, and whatever’s left we can split it up with the rest of the Thieves and they can do what they want with it.”

“I bet Ann would go on a shopping spree in France,” he says.

“Haru would probably donate hers.”

“Makoto’s is going straight into university. I can see her going in to get a Masters with that kind of money.”

Ryuji refuses to let his expression fall. “That’s her. Big bookworm with a capital B.” Stop talking about this, stop talking about this. “How about you, Sophia? Any clue what you’ll do with a boatful of moolah?”

A harmonic beep rings through the air and Akira passes her over to him. “I would invest in cryptocurrency and turn ten million into one hundred million,” she says cheerfully. “Then I would take that hundred million and turn it into one billion yen.”

Ryuji coughs, sliding her into his back pocket. “You know what? That’s my bad. I should’ve expected that, honestly.”

Akira plucks the remainder of their ice cream cone from his hand and throws it in his mouth, munching. Wordlessly, he takes out a pack of wet-wipes from his pockets and hands it to Ryuji.

“Thanks.” Reluctantly dropping his hand, he thoroughly cleans through his sticky fingers. “You didn’t ask me what I was gonna do with my money.”

He nods in a go ahead way.

“After I give most of it to my mom, I was just gonna give the rest to you.” Ryuji kicks a stray pebble. It skirts off the edge of the boardwalk. There’s a tug on his arm. “Yeah?”

Akira covers his mouth with a hand, before making an incomprehensible garble of noise.

“Huh? My bad, I didn’t catch that.”

A few seconds of vigorous chewing, he swallows. “I said,” Akira says, eyes glimmering the way it does when he gets really excited. “I was going to do the exact same thing.”

“Dude!” Ryuji throws his arm around his shoulders, tugging him in close. “You understand me like no one else does. What the eff!”

“I’m glad,” he says softly. Wrapping his arm around him, Ryuji blinks at the unexpected hug. “It’s nice that we're on the same wavelength.”

Suspicion tingles across Ryuji’s skin. “Hold up.” Pulling away, he squints his eyes at him. “No.”

Akira immediately looks to the side. “What?” he says, defensive. “It’s nothing.”

“No freaking way.”

“I think I saw a cool arcade back there, it has cool prizes that I think you’d like, and—“

“Kurusu Akira,” he says sternly, grabbing his face between his hands. “Don’t tell me that you’re jealous.”

“I’m not!” he insists, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. “I’m not, you know I’m not that type of guy.”

“But?” Ryuji prompts.

“But…” he hesitates. “I’d be happy for you, if you find that it’s easier to talk to other people that aren’t me.” Akira straightens up, pulling out of Ryuji’s grasp but inspects his hand like it were something to be studied. How strange it was to see his long, elegant fingers grasp his brutish, blistered ones. “I’m relieved that I didn’t leave you alone. I just...miss being your go-to, I think.”

“Akira.” He says slowly. “My man. The love of my fucking life. You are never not gonna be my go-to. You’re my go-one.” Rapping his knuckles against Akira’s temple carefully, “Your hometown is messing with you up here, making you say weird shit like that.”

“I know, I know.” Running his index finger down his wrist, Ryuji can feel how cold he is. “You knew what you were getting into when you started dating an overthinker.”

“As a chronic underthinker, no, I did not.” He kisses Akira’s palm. “But it works out, so it’s all good.”

Turning them both around, Ryuji starts walking. “I know this is super duper impossible for a guy like you, but I’m gonna have to ask you for a favor.”

“Anything.”

“You have got, to the best of your ability,” he bumps into Akira’s shoulder. “Stop stressing out.”

He frowns. “It’s my job to stress out.”

“It’s our job to stress out,” he corrects. “You and me. Founding Thieves. We share the burden, bro. We got into this together, we’re getting out of it together. That includes you worrying about our relationship outside the ‘Verse, and extend it all the way to what dingy hometown you took the bullet train from.”

“I’ll try,” he says doubtfully. “You’re kind of enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean? No way I can enjoy the most perfect person on the planet be a little jealous over his boyfriend getting attention, what kind of asshole would I be?” And before Akira can say anything, “I know, not jealous, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“I love you.”

“I know,” he flashes a peace sign.

“I know you know.” A group of middle schoolers pass them, chattering about nothing and pointing out random things on the quay, all enjoying their summer vacation. “You know that you can tell me anything, right?” he asks suddenly.

Unable to help himself, he ruffles Akira’s hair, pitch black and hot to the touch. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

“I don’t?”

Gray eyes look into his brown ones, earnest and trusting. Just like that, the light feeling in Ryuji’s chest vanishes. “No,” he responds slowly. “You don’t.”

“Good,” Akira nods, and sees where they were heading towards. “Oh, you took that seriously?”

“You bet your crisp ass I did,” he says, pushing the glass door open. The arcade is bright, neon, and littered with claw machines. Add that to the list of similarities from Tokyo. “I don’t fuck around with arcades. I’m in the top hundred players in the Gun Gale in Shinjuku.”

“Was that with Shinya or without?”

“Not important.” He surveys the area. “There it is. Can you grab us some change? I’ll pay you back.”

Akira waves his hand, walking towards the coin machine. “Don’t. What kind of a boyfriend would I be if I let you pay for our dates?”

“A hot one!” he yells. When he turns the corner, Ryuji collapses into a bright red racing chair. “Fuck,” he hisses, heart beating too damn fast for it to be normal. “Chill out, Sakamoto, jesus.”

It only gets worse when a familiar beep rings out. “Ryuji, your heart rate is at 160. Is everything alright?”

“Sophia!” he wheezes out, relieved. “Can you—will—” he stops, scrunching his eyes closed. “I’m having a panic attack, I think.”

“Searching for how to treat panic attacks,” she says immediately, and he sags into the cool plastic gratefully. “Deep breaths will help, slowly to the count of ten.”

His heart is beating so hard that he can barely hear the jingles and the whirrs of the machines around him. “Count out loud. Hurry, before he gets back.”

She does, and he grips the side of the chair as he focuses on breathing. The attack passes by faster than he hoped it would. “Thank god,” he breathes. “Thank you.”

“No prob,” she says, before hesitating. “Akira—”

“Will not know about this,” he cuts her off, rubbing his hand over his face. “I’ll tell him eventually, don’t worry, et cetera. I know all this. Ann’s been hounding me non-freakin’-stop. Just don’t tell him, Soph. Please.”

Before she can say anything, Akira comes back, pockets full of change and that signature small smile resting on his lips.

—

The bright side about missing out on Sapporo’s snow festival is having its tourism as its lowest point when you visit it in the summer.

Even the shopping district just outside Susikino isn’t very crowded; there’s the usual street vendors and shops with bright pastries and cute clothes. But even having it right beside the Sapporo Tower, it’s still nothing uncomfortable. At least, it’s not uncomfortable when you get to observe the environment through a phone lens.

“This is nice, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve had much of an opportunity to talk to you yet, which is quite rude of me.”

“No prob,” Sophia replies easily. She was swaying from Haru’s neck, hanging by a silicone phone holder that she had bought from a convenience store. Futaba had guffawed when she saw it, but Sophia’s happy about the purchase. It’s fun, and it lets her people watch from the perspective of one of her friends. “I have been meaning to talk to everyone one by one as to better understand each of you.”

“Oh, good! What better use of a nice chat while doing some shopping along the way?” Haru chirps, thumbing through a rack of out-of-season clearance sweaters as they pass. “I have to admit, I’m not the best when it comes to fashion and whatnot. Most of the time, I ask Ann-chan to accompany me.”

“I can try my best! Online websites are constantly updating in order to provide their readers with the newest trends.” Idly, she takes a peek. “Wide-legged pants are back in style.”

“That’s a relief,” she sighs. “I never pulled off skinny jeans too well. Long, flowy skirts have always been my thing. It just gives off such a nice aesthetic, doesn’t it?”

Sophia smiles. “I think you’d look good in anything. Have you considered going punk? You’d look very dope and intimidating with a black streak in your hair and a leather jacket.”

“Now that I can agree with, but that’s more Mako-chan’s style, I’m afraid.” She pauses. “Actually, I bet Mako-chan would actually like that. Sometimes I feel as though she isn’t willing to branch out of her circle of clothes past a pair of Oxfords and a deep-coloured sweater. A push might be what she needs.”

She considers this. “Is it possible to buy clothes for her? That can be a possible ‘push’, quote unquote.”

“Hmm, I don’t think so. She would never let us do such a thing.”

“One moment.” Pulling out a few files from inside her memory storage, she clears her throat. “According to my data analysis, Niijima Makoto has high difficulty straying away from well-mannered behaviours. Do you think that includes saying no to gifts given to her? That can be advantageous.”

Haru stops walking and pulls the phone up so that they’re at eye-level. “Sophia-chan,” she beams. “I have a feeling we’re going to be very good friends.”

They continue walking down the street when Haru gasps suddenly. “You literally can’t shop, can you?”

“Of course I can. I can get anything in the world for you,” she says proudly. “Anything.”

“Alright, we’ll have to test that later, but I mean you can’t use what you buy,” she frowns, eyes troubled. “Your sweater is adorable, but you’re forced to wear it everyday, right? Can you even do your hair differently? Is it possible for you to pin it, or even let it down?”

Sophia finds it endearing that she would let such a thing bother her. She doesn’t even have a social insurance number, but Haru’s worried about hair clips. “No, but I quite like it the way it is. It doesn’t get in the way when I do my work, and in the Metaverse, it gets completely hidden as to let me do my fighting,” she explains, karate chopping in her screen. “But I can understand the human desire for change.”

“Would you like that?” Haru asks gently. “To change? Um, change out of your clothes, and change mentally. Either one.”

“Change mentally, of course! I’d love to understand my friends better and understand how to help them. It’s a vast mountain of knowledge, but I’d want nothing more than to decode the mystery of the human heart,” she says eagerly. “But for clothes...I’m not sure. I haven’t tried it. I’m pretty sure I can’t try it.”

“That settles it,” Haru looks both ways before crossing the street, jogging slightly.

Sophia perks up. “If you’re heading somewhere specific, I can give you directions.”

“No need.” She has an intense, hungry look on her face, not unlike the one she had when the new axe Akira bought had finally arrived at their RV. “We’re just about here.”

They stop in front of a store, and she can barely read the sign from the phone’s angle. “‘Case in Point’?”

Haru pushes the glass door open, greeting the cashier. “It’s a phone modifier shop.”

There’s no effort to explain anything else, but Sophia can confidently add ‘anticipation’ onto her growing list of experienced feelings.

—

“Out of curiosity—” Haru begins as they exit the modifier store, the cashier still bug-eyed from the tip she had left at his counter. “Can you see everything inside Akira-kun’s phone?”

“Yes,” she replies. The environment that she lives in, and more specifically, Akira’s phone, is now a bright, perfectly polished shade of rose gold with a mint outline. A far cry from the matte black that it was before. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” Her voice is sweet as sugar. “Out of curiosity once again, is there anything interesting? Anything worth noting?”

She jumps as Sophia’s voice suddenly morphs into Akira’s without warning. “Nice try,” the phone plays. “But no.”

And just as quick, Sophia comes back to the phone. “Sorry about leaving,” she says. “Akira had asked me to play that clip if someone ever, and I quote, ‘tried me.’”

Haru giggles. “Just like Akira-kun to be so thorough. Impressive as always, leader.” She peers down at her watch. “I suppose it’s about time to head back, isn’t it?”

“We still have eight minutes to spare.”

“We do. Perhaps we should take a stroll around the park?”

“Cool,” she says. “Wanna ask Futaba and Yusuke if they want to come with?”

“Sure?” Haru blinks. “That’s very specific.”

“On your two o’clock,” she points out. “In front of the book store.”

They watch as Futaba and Yusuke stand across the street from them. Futaba is aggressively pointing her finger at the books on display, then slapping her fist against her palm like she was devising a war strategy. Yusuke shakes his head wildly, comically putting his hands in his pockets and revealing that there was nothing inside. She sighs and walks away, tugging along a dejected boy behind her.

“Aren’t you going to ask them?”

“In a moment.” Haru takes them to the front of the store. “This isn’t a bookstore, I don’t think. What’s it called Sophia?”

After a quick search: “‘Sapporo’s School Supply Store’,” she says. “The alliteration makes it fun to say.”

“Indeed it does.” Peering into the store, Haru makes an introspective noise. “Now isn’t this interesting?” she hums. “Do you mind if I make one more purchase?”

“Not at all,” Sophia says, thrilled to add another point she had learned: If Haru wants something, there’s nothing that will get in her way.

—

“So,” Makoto starts, and Ryuji has to hold back a groan. He knows that tone. He’s memorized that tone. All the second years can feel her tone from a mile away. Hell, Ann probably took an instinctive step back just now. “Have you started to think about university?”

“Nope,” he says, wiping the sweat off his brow as they jog around the corner of Odori park. Back before he had left for his hometown, Akira and Ryuji would be up at dawn to train. Lately though, he’s been using any free time he has that isn’t planning for, prepping for, or actively doing a Jail run to sleep in the RV. And hey, he has no beef with Makoto, and it’s not like she can’t keep up with his training (she can most definitely kick his ass in hand-to hand), but she has a tendency to push when it comes to this sort of stuff. “Not a single thought towards it. It’s been pretty good, actually.”

“I can tell,” she agrees. “It’s almost like you blocked my number.”

“I did not!”

“So you actively choose not to answer any of my texts?”

“Ugh, don’t set me up like that,” he winces. “You know I’m stupid enough to fall for shit like that everytime.”

“Hold on.”

Ryuji grunts as he feels a hold on his shirt, forcing him to stop. “Ew, don’t touch my back, it’s Nigeria there.”

“First of all, it’s Niagara.” She spins him around. He’s only a little taller than her, but something about her always seems to tower over him. “Second, do you know why I keep pushing all of you to go to university?”

“Because you hate us?” he mumbles.

Makoto glares at him. “Try again.”

“...Because you don’t hate us?”

“Because I don’t hate you,” she repeats. “You’re all rowdy and wild and sometimes I don’t understand the jokes you make—”

“You’re just mad ‘cause you fell for a deez nuts joke.”

“But I do, inexplicably, love all of you,” she pushes on, and that shuts him up. “I know what you’re all capable of. Amazing things! I understand you all believe that I’m the be-all end-all, and I appreciate your compliments, but there are some things that only Ann can do, or Akira, or Yusuke.”

Makoto continues running, and he reluctantly follows suit. “And you. You can achieve things that I can’t even dream of, Ryuji.”

He resists the urge to yawn. “Thanks for the pep talk, Niijima.” Looking left, the gelato is looking real good. “Wanna get something to eat? I’m starving.”

“You aren’t very good at hiding secrets, Ryuji.”

Now that grabbed his attention. “Whoa, whoa, whoa there, prez!” Speeding past her, he holds out a hand to make her stop. “What do you mean by that?”

She raises a brow. “Nothing in particular, but your reaction is showing me that I should have meant something by it.”

He gnaws on the inside of his cheek roughly. “Okay, but why did that come into your brain? Why do you think I have some kinda secret?”

“I live with a prosecutor everyday of my life, of course I know when something’s afoot.” Pushing her hair back, she squints up at him. “You’ve been more...jumpy lately, yet somehow more laid-back than usual. I wanted to talk to Akira about this—”

Blood pours into his mouth when he accidentally bites too hard. “You talked to Akira?!” he half yells, red dribbling from the corner of his lips.

“Oh my god!”

“Fuck,” he clamps a hand over his mouth. “Sorry. Bit too hard.”

“N-no! Don’t apologize!” she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a napkin, pulling him to a stone ledge. “Sit and take this so you don’t bleed all over yourself. I’ll be back.”

He doesn’t bother speaking, only nods as she turns around. When she comes back, she’s holding a water bottle. “Here.”

Taking it gratefully, he takes deep gulps before spitting it out. “Why the hell does this taste like the beach?” he splutters.

“I didn’t say to drink it! It’s salt water to get rid of infections!”

“Why would you do that to me?!”

“Because I thought you knew to do that from the second-year health class!” she shoots back. “Gargle it and spit. Near the gutter, mind you, it’s rude to spit in front of kids. They might get the wrong idea.”

As if kids are gonna see him and think that there’s something worth remembering. He sips, sloshing it around his mouth before gently letting it dribble into the grated sewer. “Blegh.”

“You’re welcome. Keep at it. And while you’re doing that,” she sits next to him, shoulder to shoulder. “Do you want to tell me what’s been making you anxious?”

He pauses. “Anxious?”

Makoto gives him a stern look. “‘Experiencing worry, unease, or nervousness, typically about an imminent event or something with an uncertain outcome.’ It was covered in your midterm.”

“Ah, right,” he mutters. Gripping the fabric of his shirt, his heart is beating too quick for it to be normal. Then again, when was the last time it wasn't? “You think I’m anxious?”

“I’m not sure. Keep gurgling,” Makoto chides.

He does, the salt water still red whenever he spat, and she continues. “All I know is when my anxiety gets really bad, I chew on my lip. Sae used to chide me when we were younger, but you know, she got busy,” she shrugs, as if he didn’t know how much it pained her to lose her only family member to a career of protecting the wrong people. “When I mentioned it to Akira, he took it upon himself to check up on me regularly during exam weeks.”

To prove her point, she takes her lower lip and flips it out for him to see—white teeth marks, but old scars instead of anything fresh. Letting go, her expression is smug. “He hasn’t felt the need to check in for a while now.”

Spitting, water finally running clear, he grins. “Good for you. I’m glad to hear that, dude.”

“Thank you, but that wasn’t the point. My point was that I was only able to get better because I told someone about it. Someone I trusted.” Makoto turns to him, her gaze serious. “I know that’s what Akira is to you. Habits like these are harmless at first, but they can turn into something else more dangerous. I won’t stand for that. My own justice won’t stand for that.”

Ryuji opens his mouth, before closing it. I’ll tell Akira, he wants to say. How many times does he have to repeat that line before he starts believing it himself? “Okay,” he says, because it’s the only thing he can say without hating himself even more.

“Okay.” She pats his knee before standing. “I can get us some gelato.” She stretches, wincing as her joints crack into place. “If you’re feeling up to it, start your cool down. Unless you wanna keep training?”

“I’m good. Felt enough blood rush for the day.”

She goes to the ice cream stand, and he stares up at the blue sky.

Makoto’s right, because of fucking course she is. She’s right, he knows she’s right. But she doesn’t get it. To her, Akira’s a friend. A guy who helped her out and changed her life, yeah. If he hadn’t met her when she did, maybe she would’ve become a scummy adult who didn’t look up from market pricing and hedge funds.

But Ryuji? Ryuji would be dead without Akira. That’s a fact and a half.

To Makoto, Akira’s a friend. To Ryuji, he’s Akira, and you can’t be on a higher pedestal in his mind than that.

—

It was Yusuke who took the first step.

“Ann,” he greets cordially. “How do you do?”

She gives him a weird look. “Kinda trying to focus here,” she says, gesturing at the scene in front of them. They, Morgana, and Sophia were in the B team as they watched the rest of them try and get rid of the remaining Shadows in Mariko’s Jail, tersely attentive and waiting on Joker’s word in case they needed a last minute switch. The Jail was environmentally brutal; the ice underneath the soles of their shoes makes them skid more often than they’d like. It almost makes the fights seem quicker, one notch faster than usual.

Yusuke pays her dismissal no mind. “I, myself, am learning many new things lately. Can the same be said about you?”

In the corner of his eye, Futaba pauses typing on her laptop to face palm.

“Are you...” Ann says after a brief pause. “Is this a threat? Are you threatening me?”

“No—”

“Panther!” Akira’s clear voice rings out.

Ann dashes forward without question, high-fiving Morgana as they trade spots.

Futaba marches forward, glaring at Yusuke like he was crazy. “You dolt!” she hisses. “What was that supposed to be? I said be slick and cool, not act like a fool!”

“While I admire the rhyme scheme, I don’t understand what you want from me. That was as ‘slick and cool’ as I’m capable of,” he furrows his brow. “I even opened with a question that seemed as though the conversation would be a normal one, but then used that to transition into what I actually wanted to discuss.”

“Stop looking so proud of yourself and—”

“Fox!”

“Back in a moment,” he says before he’s gone, Makoto taking his place, leather uniform still smoldering from when she took a fire move head-on.

“What was that about?” Haru asks, swinging her axe like a picnic basket.

“Nothing, Noir,” Futaba sighs, plopping back into place where Ann had stood. Carmen had kindly left a warm patch of concrete in her wake. “Just Inari became a big ole’ dumb-dumb.”

“I see,” she hums. “So this has nothing to do with what you two have been conspiring about lately?”

Her eyes shot wide open. “Con...conspiring?” she stutters out. “What do you mean by—”

A particularly loud scream rips into the air, and everyone turns their heads to see Captain Kidd slam his hook into the ground, purple arms erupting from the snow and wiping out a huge chunk of Shadows all in one go.

“Hot damn,” Futaba says, directing her focus back to her laptop and making sure Ryuji has enough health to keep going.

“He’s strong,” Haru observes, all playfulness gone.

“Too strong.” After Futaba gives everyone on the main team a good amount of health, something on her screen makes her pause. “Huh…?”

“Noir.”

Haru turns around to see Makoto waiting for her. “I need to discuss something with you.”

“Of course,” she steps closer to her and drops her voice. “Is everything alright?”

“I’d bring this up with Joker, but I don’t want to bother him if I’m not sure if there’s anything wrong yet,” Makoto pushes her mask up. “But have you noticed Skull's been acting strange lately?”

“Mona!”

He swaps with Ann, her pigtails covered in snow. “Ugh,” she grimaces as she shakes it out. “I could try and melt it, but it’ll just drip down my back and freeze later on, and I do not want that.”

“Panther, I’d like your input as well, if you don’t mind,” Makoto says.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I was just talking to Noir about this, but did you notice anything strange about the way Skull’s acting lately?”

Ann takes a step back. “Well, what—No—I mean, that’s your opinion, I think!” she exclaims. “To me, Skull's acting is completely normal. He’s normal—actually, scratch that, he’s better than usual. Nothing about him is wrong, I think, and that’s pretty outstanding and impressive once you consider that he’s the one with the life-long injury. Not that that has to do with anything!” Ann yells. “I just wanted to point out how far he’s come, and how much he’s kicking ass right now. Actually,” her voice shifts to a stage whisper. “Don’t mention this because I don’t wanna cause drama, but Fox has been a little weird.”

“Weird how?” Makoto whispers back, looking extremely lost.

“Just earlier, he asked me how I was.”

“...I’m not following.”

“No, Panther-chan has a point,” Haru breaks in. “I can’t say for certain, but I have a strong feeling that Fox and—” she points at Futaba conspicuously. “Are up to something.”

“Sophie and Fox?” Ann breathes.

“Panther!”

“Damn, again? That’s what we get for going into an ice Jail,” she grumbles, swapping with Yusuke.

Haru sighs. “Panther-chan isn’t the best with context clues, is she?”

“Hello ladies,” Yusuke greets. “What were we discussing?”

Makoto gives him a suspicious look. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

His jaw drops, bewildered, but before he can say anything, Futaba waves him over. “Get your fox butt over here!”

“I...Alright,” he says, resigned.

“Look at them,” Makoto nods at the pair. “I think you’re onto something.”

“I think so too, but I don’t want to be too hasty. After all, the two of them are such good friends now; it would be unfair to assume negative outcomes without evidence, or at least confront them first,” Haru says nonchalantly.

She understands immediately. “You have evidence?”

“Something of the sort.”

“Noir!”

“Duty calls,” she gives her a thumbs up, before Ann comes back once again.

“I can’t wait for us to go to a really hot place again,” she kicks the snow with her heels. “Then I’ll be comfortably in the B team because all the Shadows have fire resistance to the max.”

“Oh good, she’s back,” Yusuke’s expression is one of relief.

“Fox—” Futaba warns without looking up from her laptop.

“Come here. There is something we would like to discuss with you.” Whether or not it was intentional, he rests his hand on the handle of his katana.

“Okay but before we start, I just wanna ask—what are you doing with Sophie?” Ann accuses. “It’s fine to be friends with her, but you have to be careful. She’s really susceptible to what we say right now, and if you try anything funny—”

“What are you even saying?” he says, offended. “I barely even talk to her!”

They all glance at Sophia, who had been standing perfectly still and silent. She gives them a wave. They all awkwardly wave back.

Makoto places a hand on Ann’s shoulder. “Panther, Noir meant Fox and Oracle.” Ann flushes red as she continues. “And while we’re all here, I wanted to bring this up with you as well. Have you all noticed something strange with Skull?” Futaba stops typing. “I’m not sure how to explain it, but I think he’s extremely anxious about something. You all know that I’m an overthinker, so I might have the wrong idea but…” she trails off.

Futaba glances at Yusuke. Yusuke glances at Ann. Ann helplessly glances at Ryuji, still fighting alongside Akira and the others.

“I know nobody asked me,” they all jump a foot in the air when Sophia speaks beside them. “But I can at least confirm for suresies that there is something strange with Skull.”

“Which is…?” Makoto prods.

“I don’t know the specifics.” Ann, Yusuke, and Futaba let out a breath. “But he did have a panic attack recently.”

“I knew it!” Makoto snaps her fingers. “He’s had signs of being anxious, but I wasn’t too sure about it.”

“Queen!”

She runs out, and Ryuji comes in, looking exhausted but pleased. “Hey y’all, what were we talking about?”

It was dead silent before Sophia steps forward. “Look what I can do!” she exclaims, changing the expression on her screen to be an emoji with a flower.

“Whoa!” His eyes bug out, and they all sigh in relief. “That’s awesome! Can you do more?”

“That’s super cool Sophie, but,” Futaba looks at Ryuji, skeptical. “Don’t you feel weak right now? Your health is way down.”

“Oh, I didn’t even notice,” he rubs the back of his neck. “Sophie, you mind?”

“Not at all.” She calls for Pithos and green sparkles fall on him. “Better?”

“Thanks, I owe you one.”

“Skull!”

“When the king calls, his knight answers,” he salutes, sprinting out as Makoto comes back in.

“So,” she glares at the rest of them. “What do the rest of you know?”

Ann groans. “Even if I did know something, I probably wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

“Wait,” Futaba points an accusing finger at her. “What do you know?”

“What do I know? What do you know? And for that matter, what does he,” Ann points at Yusuke. “Know? Noir said you guys are doing secret stuff together!”

“That’s preposterous,” he scoffs. “If it was secret, she wouldn’t have known.”

“That’s the dumbest argument I’ve ever heard.”

“How is it dumb?” he asks. “You can’t possibly think that just because Futaba and I are doing ‘secret stuff’ that it has anything to do with Skull’s situation!”

There was a pause. “Are those two connected?” Sophia asks. Futaba buries her face in her hands.

“That was...not the question I expected,” Yusuke answers weakly.

“Sophie!”

“God, I wish Joker would call for Inari instead,” Futaba groans.

Rushing out, Sophia high-fives Ryuji on the way. “Guess who’s back, motherfuckers?”

In an effort to bury their conversation, they all begin cheering overenthusiastically, Yusuke clapping politely. Bewildered, Ryuji instinctively gives them a thumbs up. “Thanks guys. Usually, my jokes don’t really land, but that made me real happy.”

“Uh, Skull,” Futaba raises an eyebrow. “How do you keep losing health? I didn’t even notice you taking a hit.”

“I’m low again? Damn, I didn’t even notice,” he groans loudly. “Queen, can you—”

“I’m on it.”

Just as Johanna heals him, Akira calls out once again: “Skull!”

“Joker really does rely on you, doesn’t he?” Yusuke observes.

Ryuji laughs. If they didn’t know any better, they would think it sounded a little nervous. “Well, gotta jet!”

High-fiving Makoto, he runs out. She stares at the remaining members of the B team. “You all know something,” she accuses. “And I understand if you’re all being loyal to him by keeping what you know close to your hearts. But remember this:” she takes a step forward, and they all take an unconscious step back, Futaba scooting from where she sat on the ground. “There comes a point where it’s actually more important to keep a person safe and healthy than to uphold a potentially dangerous secret.”

They all digest her words for a second, and flinch when a flash of blue flame appears, taking Akira’s Persona away.

“Finally.” He stretches his shoulders, satisfied. “That took awhile. Good work everyone, let’s keep going.”

Making their trek deeper into the Jail, Futaba half-jogs, half-speed walks to Ryuji. “Your health again,” she chides. “Seriously. I know I like to play around, but I always have my eye on you guys when you’re fighting. I literally have not seen you take a hit, but you’re getting drained like milk in a sink.”

He shrugs, unperturbed. “Whatever. You see my hits today, though? They were tough.”

“Yeah,” she agrees reluctantly. “But your health is still low. I’ll call Joker about that.”

Before she can turn, he grabs her wrist. “Nope,” he says. “I’ll ask Panther. Thanks though!”

Ryuji goes to Ann, and he can feel everyone’s eyes on him, watching him, surveying his every move.

All eyes except for the one that really matters.

[gtseven7]

My Seven Idols

this is the picture mentioned in the story

Summary:

Got7 as highschoolers as they deal with graduation and college at the same time starting up their own Youtube channel as idols. 

A/N:

So this is chapter 1. Really, I wasnt supposed to write this thing but it has been bugging me for months and I just cant shake it off okay? I tried resisting thinking, dude you're on your way to the juicy parts of Seven Princes. But whelp I lost a battle within myself and wrote this anyway. I hope you guys like it!

masterlist

//prev

1

The click-clacking of the keyboard echoed in the room as Y/N furiously typed the remaining subtitle of the video she had been editing the last few nights. Hitting the export button, the brunette could finally exhale and relax. The beach aesthetic video she had been working on was now in the process of being complete. She just has to wait till it loads to a hundred and her hard work will pay off. Smiling to herself, she minimized the editing software and opened up her InstaBook. She scrolled leisurely, seeing the pictures of her peers and some from her photographer idols. Y/N was examining an aesthetic cityscape picture from one of her favorite photo blogs, Def, when her notification alerted her of a great news. Ding! And the words that popped up from the right corner of her screen made her screech. As it was almost midnight, she had to restrain herself and not wake her parents. But she can’t help the giggle that escaped her mouth. She quickly clicked the pop up. It said: pjy_01 updated his profile picture. When the picture loaded, Y/N's jaw almost unhinged. Park Jinyoung a.k.a. Mr. Student Council President rarely posts a picture of himself. His feed was usually just books, food and random sceneries. He did have few self-taken pictures and Y/N was happy with it (some of them are really just bad quality but she’ll take it) but this one? This one’s just beautiful, amazing, gift from the heavens. He was sitting on a comfy white couch, staring directly at the camera with puppy eyes. His white button up was slightly unbuttoned(!!) as he wore an innocent face and a cute peace sign as a cherry on top. Y/N was just about to scream and jump around. But before that, she made sure to save the picture in her Jinyoung Stash folder. “Woah. What is this Jinyoung? You should always post things like this. I’ll be a happy woman.” She sighed dreamily, staring at her screen but missed the notification of her software that finished exporting her video. 

Y/N was rudely interrupted when her phone suddenly rang. Not even looking at the caller id, she answered the call with an annoyed tone. “What?” No one would be phoning her at this time other than her best friend. “Yo chill out Y/N.” Youngjae laughed at the other end, knowing he most likely disturbed her from her hobby. Which isn’t entirely false, he just didn’t know that the hobby at the moment was staring at their president and not videography. ”It’s midnight Youngjae, what do you need?” She elicited another hearty laugh from the guy. Any other circumstance, she’ll laugh along since his laugh is contagious but this time was not it. “Well?”

“Geez, aren’t you such a joy tonight. I’m just gonna ask if you already finished the essay homework due tomorrow.” 

Blank silence. It was then that Y/N laughed at the ridiculing situation. Homework? Was there ever one? And she voiced it out, still half cheerful and half threatening. Youngjae might be pranking her once again. “The essay homework Mr. Kwon asked us to do. The one about Romeo and Juliet. Don’t tell me you don’t remember?” Youngjae chuckled a little too, thinking that his friend was making fun of him. When the only sound he heard was the bark of his cute dog Coco beside him, Youngjae started to sweat. “You haven’t done a single thing didn’t you?!”

“I think I’m gonna puke. Youngjae-ahh~ What do I do?!” 

Y/N's eyes bugged out, realizing that yes, there is indeed an essay due tomorrow. And it is for Mr. Kwon’s subject, her most feared teacher. Oh how that teacher terrifies her whole being. How could she be so stupid?! “Youngjae!!! What do I do? What do I do?!” Panic was starting to rise from her gut, her heart beating too fast that even midnight coffee can’t do. Add the obvious panic in her bestfriend’s voice on the other end, it made things worse for her. “I don’t know! Uh… I can lend you mine? Just modify some parts. Paraphrase things…”  

“Oh my God Youngjae I love you. You’re the best!!” 

“You owe me one Y/N.” 

“I do, I do. Thanks so much.” 

They bid goodnight to each other, Youngjae promising to pick her up from her house so she won’t be late; she once again praised his goodness before hanging up. And as promised, he sent her his homework, Jinyoung’s picture on her screen forgotten. Y/N once again typed relentlessly through the night. 

“I bet Jinyoung never had a problem like this. Y/N you must do better!”

That motivation fueled her to write the essay about Romeo and Juliet even if she didn’t understand what it was about aside from it being a romance story. Little did the sophomore videographer know, her high pedestaled president sat on his chair under the dim light of his study desk at the same time as her. He was hunched in concentration on the essay he stalled on doing days before it was to be submitted. 

No words flowed, his pen stuck mid-air. “Argh. What the heck is this shit about anyway?” Jinyoung huffed as he crumpled his nth paper and tossed it in the bin beside him. His brain was not cooperating with him that night and it’s just frustrating. Why does he have to explain why the economy of their country is not thriving as it used to? It’s just plain bullshit to be honest. He had mountains of council work the past few days and he wasn’t able to attend few classes including the class he was supposed to write this essay for. This is why he hates skipping, when things like this essay arrive, he doesn’t know what to do. He didn’t have time to read up everything that’s why he just went straight to bluffing his way out of the conclusion of the paper. The distracting noise of the instrument app on Jaebeom’s phone didn’t help him much either. “You have your own room, your own bed. Why are you always here?” His housemate just shrugged and continued his melody making. It was sounding good to be honest, not that his friend ever made a bad song but the other’s process was just making the writing too difficult for him. “How can I even finish when you distract me like this?”

“One, Jinyoung, it was your fault for not doing it earlier. Two, you are not distracted by my music. You just don’t want to do that stupid paper.” 

And it hit him too well. He’s right. Most times, Jaebeom’s music calms him but this time his brain just straight up refuses to do a thing. His long haired companion exited the app after saving his work. Jaebeom laid down on Jinyoung’s bed. He patted the space beside him, encouraging the other to lie down with him and sleep. “Don’t push yourself too hard. Get some sleep first, you’ve had a harsh week.” 

“Get out of my bed.”

“Hmm…”

And with that, Jaebeom closed his eyes to sleep. He’s not a fast sleeper per se, he’s just waiting for Jinyoung to join him but he didn’t. He opened his eyes just a slit saw the student body president scribbling again with a determined face. 

Few hours after, it was almost three in the morning. Jinyoung has to get up at six to prepare for their eight o’clock class. He doesn’t like not sleeping properly but for the sake of that damned paper, he had to sacrifice. He sighed once again and turned off the lamp. Looking to his right, he saw his friend sleeping peacefully, facing him from the farther half of the bed. Jinyoung shook his head in exasperation. He sat on the unoccupied side and stared at his friend of ten years. His face lax and serene. The nose ring glints under the soft glow of the stars from the window. Jinyoung’s hand inched towards the other’s face, stopping midway. He clenched his fist and brought it back to himself. ‘Ah, I really wanna remove that nose ring so badly.’

Morning came and the sunlight was harsh on Y/N’s face. She finished her essay in time, luckily. She trudged along the hallways of their small house, the only thing that woke her up completely was the smell of fresh bacon being cooked. She quickly ate her breakfast, showered and said goodbye to her parents with a tired smile. The sound of the bell announced the arrival of Youngjae by their door. She opened it and her friend almost screamed bloody murder. “I thought a zombie came out to eat me.” 

“Shut up.”

Youngjae laughed and slung an arm on her shoulders. He ruffled her already messy hair further. “Did you finish the write up?” She gave a gloomy thumb’s up while yawning, earning a giggle from the boy. “Ah seriously, you should take care of your studies more Y/N.” 

“Says you. You were up all night long playing. I can see it on the bags under your eyes.”

“At least I finished my work before doing so, unlike someone I know…”

Y/N clicked her tongue in disapproval but she knows he’s right though. “I got carried away with the good shots I had when me and Yeji went to the beach last week. Aah, I made such a good video last night.” Youngjae smiled at her friend as he watched her walk half asleep. 

Y/N and Youngjae were friends since they were toddlers. With their mothers practically sisters because of their closeness, and their houses are just one backyard away from each other, the two developed a close friendship. Oftentimes they’d be hanging out in their places, playing video games or reading comics. Although when they started to grow up more, they drifted away slightly, having different circles of friends. That didn’t bother the two of them though. They thought that it’s better to have their friendship outside school so that they won’t get sick seeing each other’s faces all the time. With this, they rarely go to school together anymore. Their classmates are in the dark about their closeness as well.  

Youngjae pulled out his phone and scrolled his pictures. He suddenly got excited about showing his bestfriend about his dog’s new outfit he bought recently. “Y/N, Y/N, look at Coco. I bought a new shirt. It’s so cute.” He practically shoved the phone on her eyes but it didn’t matter much to her as she was as excited as him. They practically raised that cute dog together. “Omo! Coco’s so adorable!” They were both bouncing on their steps as they look at the dog’s pictures posing differently with each new clothing. The two of them were cooing. “Ah, Coco is such a joy.” 

"Y/N!” 

They both stopped on their tracks when they heard a familiar voice. It was Yeji, Y/Ns other bestfriend outside Youngjae (he’s still the bestest but Yeji doesn’t know that). She happily waved at her two classmates, a teasing smile forming on her face already. ‘Youngjae and Y/N walking together eh? How interesting!’

Yeji’s appearance was their cue to head apart so Y/N smiled at Youngjae and said goodbye. “See ya later in class!” He just hummed in agreement, seeing as his peers are also in sight. He waved at Yeji and parted with Y/N He walked towards his other friends and greeted them. 

"So Youngjae huh?”

“What about him?”

“Nothing…” Which wasn’t true because now she is sporting a silly smile on her face. Probably imagining things outside of this world and conjuring up different ways how her friend and Youngjae fall in love. Yeji is a fangirl at heart and she just ships everybody. She never imposes it to everyone though, she’s just happy to think about it and keep it to herself. Amazingly enough though, the people she secretly shipped usually ends up together at some point. But Y/N knows her too well and she knows the outlandish things going in her mind right now. “We just happened to meet along the way Yeji.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

The school entrance as it always is, was full of commotion. More so today than usual. Y/N saw a hoard of students lining up the gate with annoyed expressions. ‘Ah, it’s probably President Jinyoung.’ She giggled to herself, happy to see him early in the morning. She’s still a little bit over the moon with his latest picture. “Do I look okay?”, that question snapped Y/N out of her daydream (the picture still lingering at the back of her mind). Yeji took out a small mirror and checked herself out. She combed her hair with her fingers, checked her uniform, straightened everything that doesn’t look ironed out. “You know he just nags at those who violate badly. We’ll never get reprimanded.” Yeji breathed deeply as she puts her mirror back to her bag. “I’m just making sure you know. I don’t want those cold eyes stare at me. It’s scary.” Y/N wanted to protest, ‘Jinyoung’s not scary! It’s a part of his charm!’ but a whine stopped her from doing so. While they were talking, they have pushed inside the crowd to get in and not be late for class. They reached the front where Jinyoung was standing sternly, his mouth thinned in disapproval. “Bhuwakul. How many times do I have to confiscate that earrings of yours?!”

“Why are you so keen on getting these anyway? Would I do better in my tests if I don’t wear them?” The boy, with his id lace yellow (which means he’s a *freshie), was so close to stomping his feet. But Jinyoung was not fazed and just stared at the boy with a piercing stare. “If you wear them, would you do better? No right? So hand them to me. You violated the school dress code. Come get it at my office after school.” 

The people around them were murmuring, Y/N even caught what the others are saying. They think that Jinyoung was being unreasonable and harsh for no reason. ‘Which isn’t true! He just cares about what the students of this school looks like.'  The sophomore turned to glare at the onlookers that defamed their president. ‘Ungrateful fools.’ But she was startled when the tall boy (oh my he’s tall) beside the one named Bhuwakul spoke innocently. “Let him be, he probably just wants to wear your earrings.” Even Yuna, the student council secretary, was shocked at the carefree manner of his dialogue. The president just raised his right eyebrow, “Kim Yugyeom, button up your uniform and tie your necktie properly.” and reprimanded the other freshie without hesitation. Yugyeom grimaced a bit but did what he was told. ‘You should be the one buttoning your clothes last night President huhu’

Despite the commotion at the front gate (which happens almost everyday as Jinyoung loves to greet the student body with “Rule # 5 under the clause of the dress code law….), Y/N and the students of their campus managed to get to their class safely. When they entered their homeroom, Y/N and Yeji was greeted by Ga Young, another friend of theirs. It seemed that she had only arrived a few minutes before them. “Yo! Entrance was pretty hectic today.” 

Yeji made a face and flipped her brow wavy hair away from her face as if she was hassled on their way over. “Ugh, don’t tell us. We had to push our way out earlier.” They both giggled and chattered mindlessly about the events that morning. 

“Don’t you think the foreigner freshie earlier was kind of cute?” Ga Young said dreamily, looking at the ceiling as if he could see his face there. “Oh, that one with the earrings?”

“Yep. We’re blessed with another foreigner beauty.” That’s true, the videographer thought. He’d look good on camera. 

“Yeon Seo isn’t a foreigner.” Y/N countered, debating that her friend’s crush wasn’t exactly from another country. He grew up in their city just like everyone else is. 

“He’s a half-half though.” 

“The tall freshie had a face too.” 

Yeji and Ga Young started to talk about the new eye candy they found. Those two are fans of idols, especially the amateur ones they have in their school. Y/N absentmindedly listened to the two’s gossip. Sometimes she thinks she’s in a webtoon or something. These kinds of things exist on books and comics even dramas that she consumes. Y/N still can’t believe such things are in her reality. Aren’t groups of popular boys with a cheesy group name only in fiction? She wondered if it’s possible that this is not a real world. 

“But you know, I heard rumors that Bhuwakul's gay.” 

That piqued Y/N's interest. Not that there’s any problem with being gay, the rumor just caught her interest. Not many people are brave enough to admit their sexuality in their community so it was pretty interesting. 

“Eh? Who told you?”

“My freshie cousin told me. He said that he’s close with girls and gives fashion advice. He’s on the softer side as well.”

Huh… Y/N thought it was a baseless rumor after all. “That doesn’t mean he’s gay though.”

“That’s true.”

When the talk about the foreign freshie Bhuwakul ended, the other two started to talk about their favorite topic once again. The Five Roses. Y/N was just done with that subject and had heard enough to last her a lifetime. She couldn’t even understand why the girls in their school seemed to be under their spell. In Y/N’s opinion, they aren’t that good looking. Heck, even Mr. Cold Eyes Jinyoung was much more handsome. ‘Especially if they saw last night’s picture. How come they don’t talk about it?!’ 

“Ji Woo looked handsome today too!” 

‘Oh come on, even Youngjae looks better than that guy.’ At the thought of her bestfriend, she turned to glance at him. He seemed to have caught her and gave him those warm sunny smiles that made her heart beat a bit faster. Even if she doesn’t consider her childhood friend as a man, she’s sure that he’s a good looking guy. 

//next

[anika-ann]

Think Again (When You Stop Freaking Out) - Pt.7

In My Own Skin (final part)

Pairing: None                   Word count: 3179

Warnings: language, attempt at humour, sensory overload... irony and sass? ;)

Summary: Things should get back to normal now... right? Friends will be friends and dynamic duo Nelson-Murdock will always keep its promises.

Story Masterlist

━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━

Steve Rogers’ eyes snapped open, greeted by grey. A grey of the ceiling, softened by warm yellow light of a nearby lamp.

Steve Rogers woke up and he saw.

He blinked several times, his eyelids slightly heavier than usual, probably the effect of the tranquilizers, his lips feeling like made of lead. Yet, they managed to form three words.

“Oh, thank god,” he whispered, running his hand down his face and pushing himself up to a sitting position.

“Nope, just foggy,” a voice on his right informed his swiftly. A horrified inhale followed. “Shit, sorry, knee-jerk reaction.”

Steve quickly looked at the man. He was a bit chubby, beige suit, blond rather long hair, inviting smile. Steve thought he was familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

Yeah, things did feel a bit foggy, but that could not have been what the stranger was imply- right. “Right. Foggy… Hi.”

“Am I talking to-“

“Steve,” he assured him, making the lawyer grin victoriously.

“Right. Welcome back, Cap,” Foggy saluted with two fingers, making the soldier smile.

“That’s what the president said,” Tony joined them in the couch area and Steve’s smile widened despite the fact he should probably be annoyed. Who would think that seeing Stark’s face would be an actual pleasure. “At least the Smithsonian claims it. And if you bring up the fact I was there ever again, I’ll deny it. I was only there to draw you a moustache.”

“Hey, Tony.”

“Hey, Cap. How many fingers?” the billionaire asked cheekily, holding three fingers in front of Steve’s face, switching to four just as Steve opened his mouth to humour him. So he closed it again. “What, cat got your tongue? Are you mute this time around?”

Steve sighed and made a disapproving face at Tony, feeling Foggy’s sharp glare even without looking at the lawyer. “Tune it down, Tony. You’re being insensitive.”

Tony raised both of his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry. You know I don’t mean it. My heart’s in the right place.”

“You deal with this all the time?” Foggy asked while Steve just shook his head at Tony, who knocked on the device in his chest gently.

“Yes.”

“Respect, Sir,” Foggy mumbled and returned his gaze to the figure lying on the other couch.

Steve smiled unwittingly at the care Foggy was expressing by guarding his friend and protecting his honour in the process; and from Steve’s experience, also by telling him with no restraint when he was being an idiot when needed. Steve knew that kind of friendships – he had had a friend like that to, always by his side, no matter how much trouble he had got himself into.  

To silence the pang of guilt and longing, he looked back at Tony; despite him being an arrogant human being at times, he was a friend too.

“I’m fine. But since you mentioned it… I can’t believe I’m saying this, but now when I can’t hear your heartbeats, I feel almost deaf.”

“You were able to hear a heartbeat?!” Bruce’s shocked voice sounded from behind him, almost making Steve jump out of his skin, while Tony raised a curious eyebrow, commenting on his own: “You can bond with Barton over that.”

Steve couldn’t help himself; he just rolled his eyes.

“Anyway. How about some calories? You must be-“ the grumble of Steve’s stomach cut Bruce off and  as if on command, one of the specially designed post-mission drinks landed in the table in front of him.

“Thank you, Bruce.”

“One of us has to be a good host.”

“Aaand that’s my cue to leave,” Tony uttered, making a U-turn and disappearing from the room.

“He’s something.”

Steve snorted, relaxing onto the backrest and sipped the green semi-solid drink, grateful he couldn’t taste every ingredient and god knew what, which he would have been able to if still being a resident in Matt’s body.

“He’s a friend… no one is easy to handle. I’m sorry about his manners.”

It was Foggy’s turn to snort in amusement. “Matt would probably encourage him. He makes way too much blind jokes. Dork.”

No one could possibly miss the fond smile Foggy sent Matt’s direction. Steve’s heart ached a little at that, missing his own friend again. This time, he didn’t resist.

“You’re a good friend, Foggy.”

“That’s gonna mean something, coming from Captain America himself,” the lawyer hummed, hiding a hint of red on his ears by letting his hair fall into his face.

“I’m sure he appreciates it. Take it from a guy who needed someone to pull his stupid arse from trouble more times that I can count.”

Foggy looked up shyly, clearly as pleased as uncomfortable. “Well, someone has to.”

“I absolutely agree. Steve, how do you really feel?” Bruce entered the conversation, picking up on Foggy’s uneasiness as well.

“I feel… like me.”  

---

Matt Murdock woke up to a terrible noise of three heartbeats, breaths, low voices and buzzing of the city deep below, smell of something that could not be food and yet he could taste it on his tongue, the scent mixed with a bit of sweat, deodorants and shampoos, leather and coffee. The said leather felt hot under his back, slick and yet harsh against his skin, the cotton shirt and slacks feeling like an assault on his mechanoreceptors.

All those sensations melted together, already helping to build a headache. Lovely.

He didn’t even have to open his eyes to know he was back to his own body. Yet, he commanded the heavy eyelids to check.

Nothing. Darkness. A wildly dancing image that had nothing to do with vision. The world was on fire as it should be.

He could tell the number of people in the room, he could identify one of them as Foggy even, yet, the picture in his head was so messy, scrambled by the fucking pain-meds, that he couldn’t locate his friend. Which was why it startled him so much when he spoke up.

“Hey, buddy. How bad is it?”

Matt winced, probably giving an answer on its own. He couldn’t supress a groan as the world was getting even louder and less bearable with each second he was involuntarily walking towards full consciousness – without being able to control the input.

“That good, huh?”

“Yeah, I’d be better if you knocked me out again,” Matt rasped.

A bottle of water was immediately pressed into his hand in response. He pushed up so he could take a sip. The whole world swam, loud tide waves washing over him, slowly drowning him. Oh jeez. What had he done do to deserve that? He was so gonna punch Stark for the tranquilizers…

He forced himself to open the bottle, trying his best to ignore the plastic he could taste from it. But god, it flooded his taste buds with so many chemicals he could cry – or spit out the water. He didn’t, he was stronger than that.

“Thanks. I’ll be… fine, just… gimme a minute.”

“You want me to stay?” Foggy asked, lowering his voice. The remaining two people walked away, the vibration of the floor rattling Matt’s bones.

He was glad they left, even with the little earthquake it brought on. To be honest, Matt needed Foggy out as well. Focusing on him usually helped, but now, all he needed was as much silence he could get.

“No. Please. I… meditation might help a little.”

If Foggy picked up on the hesitation and shame in Matt’s voice, he didn’t mention it. He reached out to Matt to pat his shoulder, but stopped two inches away; Matt could still feel the heat radiating from his friend’s palm, but was grateful he didn’t go for it. Perhaps he should give Foggy more credit when it came to understanding his senses than he did.

“Sure thing, buddy. I’ll be right-- with the others. Do you want a room for yourself?”

Despite feeling like his head was in a hive, squeezed in a vice and being placed on a ship in the middle of the raging sea, Matt charmed a smile – or he tried to do so. He was whispering, when he spoke.

“That would be really nice.”

“You got it. I’ll be guarding the door with my life,” Foggy promised, the thunder of his heartbeat not faltering. The buzz in Matt’s brain tuned down for a split second, filled with affection instead of the sensory overload.

“Please don’t. They are aliens, supersoldiers and other whatever. Can’t lose you to that squad.”

Matt felt blood rush into his cheeks right after the sentence left his mouth, but he couldn’t find himself to regret it. He was in the whole room at once, his consciousness all over the place, incredibly messy, but one thing was clear as day. He appreciated Foggy’s care. Maybe, he should let him know more often.

---

Steve was biting the inside of his cheek as he watched Foggy’s expression of perfectly faked understanding. Tony had taken him for a tour through the Tower, specifically labs, and then moved onto Avengers’ gear, explaining all the ‘cool stuff’. Judging by Foggy’s excitement, he was fascinated by all the toys, even though he understood even less than Steve; but hell, he was too proud to admit it until the tour ended.

When Friday announced through the speakers that Mr. Murdock requested she informed them he was quite settled and ready to welcome people back in the room, they didn’t hesitate. Foggy was the first to come in, followed by Steve and only then the two geniuses.

They found Matt standing by the couch, turned their direction – just the fact he was standing must have meant a lot if the state he had been in when Steve and Bruce had emerged from the room was anything to go by. This looked like a big improvement – key word: looked.

“Feel better?” Steve asked lowly, examining the blind man, who had somehow managed to find his glasses and slip them on.

“Good enough for not wanting to be knocked out, bad enough for not trying to punch Stark just yet,” Matt said wittily, making exactly three people in the room smirk.

“Should I just leave or— oh wait, this is my building, so if you mind me being here…” Tony hummed, earning a stereo groan from Steve and Bruce.

“Stark, Steve, Doctor Banner… where is Thor then?”

“Oh, Thor flew away. It was supercool. The other part of the artefact appeared – probably when you switched back – and he just took it in this super-secret-government container and… yeah, flew away. Sorry you missed that,” Foggy spilled out in hurry, his enthusiasm not unlike Steve was used to see on children’s faces when meeting him. Matt must have picked up on it, because his smile widened.

“I think I’ll live. I guess you’ll just have to remind me of that often enough.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Bruce noted with a kind smile and handed Matt a cup of the ‘green special’ Steve had received after waking up. “Try this unless it offends your taste too much. High protein, high carb, lots of ions and generally the good stuff. It might even help with burning out the drugs you’ve been dosed with.”

“Hey, we didn’t agree on getting him one. What if he’s feeling good enough to punch me after? Way to be a friend, Bruce!”

Matt scrunched his nose when smelling the drink up-close, but obediently took a sip, accepting the wordless dare. Despite the slightly disgusted face he made, he continued. Steve came to understanding of where he got his street name.

Foggy cleared his throat, looking around. “So… what happens now?”

Steve wavered. Honestly, he had a million questions for Matt – starting with the ones about his senses, which might be more than inappropriate and none of his business, ending with moral ones, which included asking about what had led to his decision to start the part-time job as a vigilante, which belonged to the category of things Matt probably wasn’t up to answering right now.

So Steve said the only thing he could think off. He took a leap of faith, deciding to believe that Matt would stay in touch somehow (read: via them visiting his apartment or office if it came to that) and to let him leave with no feeling of owing anything to them. But there was something he needed to do first.

“I believe someone asked for an autograph…?”

Steve didn’t need to hear heartbeats to know Foggy’s just skipped a beat in joy – his expression spoke volumes, no matter how much he tried to stay contained.

“That would be awesome, Captain.”

It didn’t end with an autograph. They took a photo too. They took one with reluctant Matt as well – the vigilante ruined all Foggy’s fun when he forbade framing it and hanging it in the office.

“But, Matt! Clients!”

“But, Foggy! Too many questions!” Matt mimicked, but had enough decency to look guilty about making his friend’s face fall.

“Alright. But the selfie is my new lockscreen. You can’t take that away!”

Steve wasn’t sure what lockscreen was, only knew it had something to do with phones; he hoped it wasn’t anything that would embarrass him too much. Matt’s lips twitched, which actually worried Steve a little.

“Not sure Marci will like that.”

“She’ll understand,” Foggy muttered and took selfie with Tony as well as with Bruce, who seemed quite uncomfortable, but didn’t have the heart to disappoint the excited lawyer – how typical of him. He excused himself right after.

Foggy and Matt looked genuinely surprised and grateful when Steve announced his intention to let them leave whenever they wanted, no questions asked. Tony, on the other hand, appeared to be ready to punch the supersoldier to his face, but didn’t protest, clearly already planning a surprise visit to the office; Steve immediately felt sorry, especially for Karen.

“We’ll be in touch – I’ll make sure of it,” Foggy assured them, shaking Steve’s hand for probably longer than was socially acceptable. Steve didn’t mind, if only because it irritated Tony. To be fair, he received the same treatment afterwards.

“See you around, Steve. Soon, Mr. Stark,” Matt threw over his shoulder when he was entering the elevator on Foggy’s arm, grinning as the door was closing.

“You’re terrible,” Steve heard Foggy huff and that was the end of it.

Steve felt strange lightness in his soul, blaming the enthusiastic blonde for it. The world needed more people like him. Matt needed him for sure. Despite the warmth, Steve couldn’t help but worry about the vigilante though.

“We should keep an eye on him. I have a feeling he has no self-preservation.”

“Consider it done, Cap. And you know that behaviour sounds familiar, right?”

Steve smiled for himself, ignoring Tony’s nudge. “Well, at least he has good friends to take care of him.”

“Cheesy, Steven,” Tony hummed when he realized the analogy, but Steve had a feeling it pleased him anyway.

He didn’t call him out on it though. After all, some things were better left unsaid; yet, it didn’t mean they weren’t true.

Feeling’s usually mutual. Yeah, Tony. I care about you too.

“Whatever you say, Stark. I’ll be in the gym. I feel like I need to burn some of the tranquilizers you shot me with before…”

“You’re welcome!” Tony shouted after him as Steve just waved at him blindly, making his way to his room to change.

Yeah. I know.

---

Exiting the Tower with relieved sigh, Matt leaned onto Foggy a bit more.

“Thanks for putting up with this,” Matt whispered into the cold of the night and heard Foggy’s heartbeat falter. It made him frown. “Foggy? What’s wrong? I’ll be fine, I mostly already am. We’ll be fine. Hell, Tony Stark even promised to get us better heating to the office. How many people can say that?”

Foggy gulped, his cheeks burning up. Oh god, what?

“You wanna know what’s wrong, Matt?”

“Yes, of course. Talk to me, Fog.”

Foggy took a deep breath, more blood rushing to his cheeks. “Please don’t laugh, but… I really made an idiot of myself.”

“When? You were great the whole time. You were a good friend to me. You apparently even helped me get dressed! Kinda me…” Matt corrected himself, not bothering to clarify, knowing Foggy understood what he meant. But he was only rewarded with silence; he was getting worried, to be honest. “Foggy?”

“Matt… I called Captain America a duffus.”

Matt was silent for a split second and then he burst out laughing, stopping in his tracks in order to throw his head back.

“I asked you not to laugh!” Foggy hissed, squirming in embarrassment and it only made Matt laugh harder. Foggy slapped his arm. “You jerk!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry-“

“No you’re not…”

“No, I’m not. He didn’t seem to hate you for it. And to be fair, my hand punched his face, so I think that from the two of us…”

That seemed to calm Foggy down and he let Matt take his elbow for guidance again. “Okay. Thanks. I think you actually were worse. We’re menaces, Murdock.”

“Yeah, Fog. We sure are. Earth’s mightiest menances.”

Matt could hear a grin in Foggy’s voice when he spoke again. “Best damn avocados.”

“Best damn avocados-- oh, that reminds me. So, I heard you agreed it was a fruit-“

“Shut up, Murdock…”

“Captain America told me that-“

“Blah, blah, blah-“

“You’re such a child-…”

Their laughter echoed in the streets of Manhattan and despite the insanity of that day… Matt thought that life was good.

---

A week later, Tony Stark received an envelope he would never expect to receive.

It wasn’t particularly unusual for the billionaire to get sued – hell, he often was on the receiving end of everyone’s fury when it came to the damage the Avengers had made (please note, the golden boy Captain America was never blamed, how outraging) -, but being sued for drugging someone wasn’t exactly daily occurrence. Neither was the complaint about the ADA incompliance of the Avengers Tower.

The first set of documents was signed Nelson. Naturally, the latter held the name Murdock, or Tony guessed so, because it was hard to decode the scribbled letters.

He couldn’t believe they had actually done it. He had honestly thought that all of their threats had been only a joke. Clearly, they had been deadly serious.

So if he took off – quite literally – the moment Friday announced that Matt Murdock entered the building, supposedly to have a training session with the American Golden Boy, no one could blame him.

Yet, it didn’t mean Matt didn’t laugh his ass off when the AI informed him of Sir’s departure. It seemed that the genius would have to wait and the only person punched by Matt Murdock’s fist today would be Steve Rogers.

But that was okay. Matt would love to wait for his moment and it would get only sweeter.

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Just FYI, some of you noticed/know EN is not my first language. Matt had a brilliant line to Foggy: “Yeah, I’d be better if you knocked me up again.” I re-read it at least three times before it hit me just how much the course of the entire fic would change if I missed the typo and left it that way.

Aaaanyway, thank you for reading! If you’re interested in more fics, indulge yourself AND me by checking out the masterlists :))

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Main Masterlist

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Tags: @mermaidxatxheart​

@igobypoet​

[hollywwav]

Climbing the Corporate Ladder (DiaDop fanfic)

I'm working on the next chapter right now! I hope you like it and don't forget to comment!

READ ON AO3

Summary: The new president and his young assitant come to change things for good on Passione Inc., a company dedicated to make up and female beauty.

The young boy is secretely in love with his boss, but thanks to an embarassing accident he will have the chance to get more closer to him! Or not...?

An AU where Doppio, the Bucci gang and other characters work for Diavolo, with the special participation of La Squadra!

Warnings: none.

Chapter 1:

ＰＡＳＳＩＯＮＥ™ Empress Liquid Matte Lipstick

After some months of back and forths, this was the change that Passione Inc. Needed since a long battle with sale drops, unproductivity and a really uncomfortable laboral ambient. The employees of Passione weren’t really amused to welcome a new president, mostly because of the fear of another group of severe managers and supervisors, the complete re-structuration of the company or, worse of all, the posible chance of massive layoffs. The business destiny was uncertain, and this was possibly the last opportunity to avoid going bankrupt. But maybe, just maybe, changes don’t have to be necessarily bad, right? Why not being optimistic just for once? Maybe it couldn’t be that bad to have a new male president for a makeup company...

 Diavolo was the perfect man for the position. A clever, determined, and experienced man with a short but sucessful career in the world of female beauty. Too impressive, but also too “misterious” and portable of a “dark menacing aura” that most of the employees could not stand and tried to avoid as much as possible. A total opposite of him was his assistant, Vinegar Doppio, a cheerful young man that sometimes was too clumsy and distracted, and sometimes too shy at interacting with other people. But everyone in the company liked him anyways, he was really pleasant and interesting to talk too, everytime he had a break after serving his boss the lunch or a cup of coffee.

 “He is too harsh with everyone around him!” told Mista to the young boy while helping him with some fallen documents.

 “I think I heard him yelling at you this morning, did he?”

 “What? Of course not! He must have been talking to his daughter on the phone!” said Doppio with a little blush in his cheeks and looking down a bit nervous.

 “Also... he always treats me respectfully...”

 Oh yes, Doppio was working for Diavolo since some months ago and now he was deeply in love with him. He couldn’t resist his imponent presence, elegance, his deep voice, his misterious green eyes and, god, that lovely long pink hair... Everything about Diavolo was enciting. It was really difficult to concentrate on the daily work when he had such a desirable man around him most of the time, then things got worse when the boss started to smile and talk to him more confidently, and even he started to call him “my Doppio” after being used to his joyful presence and great efficiency in the organization and personal tasks.

 “Ah... why do you have to torture me saying that!! it's not fair...” said Doppio to himself while daydreaming with those dark lips caressing his.

 “My Doppio ... you do such an excellent job ... I need to reward you in some way ...” said the boss in the boy's imagination, letting him sit on his lap and lifting his chin up reaching for his little soft lips. Doppio just closed his eyes and corresponded the kiss.

 "Oh, boss ... you're so nice with me ... I love working for you ..."

 Unfortunately, those daydreams were just that. Daydreams. Doppio heard the boss was married to a beatiful ex model called Donatella Una, and they had a teenage girl called Trish. The same girl that sometimes called the boss begging for money for new shoes or to negotiate her remain days of grounding. Doppio didn’t know about Donatella because he wasn’t really interested in the fashion world, and Diavolo didn’t like to talk about his family or private life. But of course, it was totally logical to have a model or celebrity as wife when you're a rich and sucessful bussiness man.  Anyways, if Diavolo wasn’t married or if even he liked men, there would be no chances at all to conquer his heart. Why would him fall for a childish and simple boy like him? He wasn’t tall, strong or intelligent like his boss. And after some recent rejections, why would Diavolo -of all the people- would accept him so easily?

 With a deep sigh and a slight sense of pain in his chest, he accepted the reality.

 “It’s ok... at least I can work with him and enjoy his company...” said Doppio to himself with a sad smile.

But Doppio was wrong. So wrong. Diavolo desired him secretly as much or even more than he thought since the day he saw him in the HR department for the job interview. There were few candidates, but after personally checking his CV he decided Doppio would be the ideal person for the position, so after talking with Bucciarati from human resources, the boy got the call of approval.

 The first days were a bit uncomfortable and the boy felt weird for being with such an important person, but he gradually got used to Diavolo’s personality and did his best to meet his needs. Most of the time the boss was busy and participating from meeting to meeting, but when he had a spare time he liked to talk to Doppio about his day and other trivial things. Diavolo was pleased with the boy’s job performance and mostly with his lack of bad intentions, something he was used to expect about most of the people of the bussiness world.

 “God... he’s so cute and works ten times better than the last assistant I had...” said the boss to himself daydreaming with that cute butt and adorable freckles. Diavolo loved the sight of those round buttocks and nice thighs every time his assistant bent down looking for a fallen pen or searching for an specific document in the lower drawer. He loved those amber eyes, tiny nose and pink lips but most of all, his cheerful and caring personality. Diavolo desired him with so much yearning. He wanted to declare himself but didn’t exactly know how to. On the other hand, a cute and lovely boy like him must have a couple.

 “I just want to grab him right here... I want to touch him... mark him... oh, I want to fuck him so badly... But I can’t do something like that, at least not that way...I’m sure that he would be terrified and he wouldn’t know how to react. But... such a nice boy like him sure has a girlfriend. Can he possibly like men? If so, he would like men like me?... Maybe he just sees me as his boss and nothing else?...”

 Diavolo was getting nervous asking himself those questions but he had a company to lead, and tons of problems to solve, so he tried to forget those thoughts at least for some days.

 That was a terrible week and it was just Wednesday. An issue with the internet network delayed the work, Diavolo had an argument with the marketing director, the sample pigments for the new palettes came with a color mistake, and several employees were sick because of the winter weather. Doppio was healthy but lately more stressed due problems with his department, and now he was running late to Diavolo’s office with mineral water, a pair of folders and receipts. The boy entered the office to discover his boss on the phone, scribbling on a piece of tissue since he couldn’t find anywhere to write between the mountains of paper above his desk.

 “I’m sorry, boss. The elevator is on maintenance and mr. Bruno told me to give you this” -said the boy placing the folders in the chair- “Let me help you with those... papers” Doppio had to take a pause while talking to admire his boss’ outfit. He was wearing a dark burgundy suit, black shirt with a red tie matching his dark lips, a pair of dark gloves and reading glasses.

 “Oh my god... he looks so hot!!” thought the boy with a flushing face, trying to look elsewhere.

 “Doppio! I need to talk to you about the next week schedule, do you have a minute right now?”

 “Of course, boss” the boy tried to just look at Diavolo’s hands, instead of his hot figure.

 “I know I already asked for various re-schedules but please, could you book me an hotel for next monday? I need to reunite with these people in Venezia,  unfortunately there is the chance of closing some subsidiaries and...”

 Diavolo just kept talking while moving his hands but Doppio couldn’t resist to his boss presence, he was totally ignoring what he was saying at this point.

 “His voice is so enchanting... oh... I wish he could say he loves me with that deep voice... I want those arms holding me tightly... I need him... I need him so much...”

 “What's wrong with him? He looks feverish ... ”thought Diavolo watching his assistant's face growing hotter and sighing heavily, with half lidded eyes and semi-opened red lips.

 “Umm... my Doppio... are you ok?” Diavolo just tilted his head down a bit and he found the cause of the boy’s condition. He stopped talking, changed his serious expression to a smirk and got his hand closer to his lips, teasingly.

 “My Doppio... am I distracting you, right? I don’t blame you, it’s inevitable...”

 “Uhh... what! Oh-of course not, boss!! I’m listening!” said the boy snapping from the daydream, and obviously lying to avoid getting scolded.

 “Excuse me, but then... why are you so hard right now?”

 “...”

 “whaaaaaaaa...?” the boy looked down, and efectively, his dick was completely hard and asking for some release. Doppio looked at his boss, then at his erection and then covered it with both hands. His cheeks were completely flushed, and now tried to hide his face, incapable of pronouncing any word.

 “How cute... I should not make him think I’m laughing at him...”

 Diavolo chuckled a bit and smiled, he really was enjoying looking at the boy in this peculiar situation, but then...

 “I-I am... I am sorry...!! I’m so sorry, boss!” said the young boy trembling and crying huge amounts of tears. He started weeping uncontrolably.

 -“I can’t believe this is happening!! I’m getting fired! I ruined everything!! Now he thinks I’m gross... he won’t forgive me... I’m so fucking stupid!!”-

 Doppio just covered his face, trying to not look at his boss, and kept crying. He looked like a filthly brat in front of his boss. Why this had to happen now? Why exactly in this moment? Why can’t he stop being so horny all the time? He never was so ashamed like in this moment. Diavolo changed his smile to a serious look again and got up from the chair instantly when he heard Doppio sobbing.

 “It’s ok, Doppio. Don’t worry.” “Shhhh... don’t cry. It just happens, sometimes for no reason...” Diavolo hold him tighly and cleaned his tears away. He didn’t really wanted to make him cry.

 “I-I... I’m so embarassed... I didn’t want to offend you, boss! Please!... forgive me...”

 “I said it’s fine, my Doppio. I won’t punish you for this, don’t worry...”

 “B-but... I...” The boy was really confused. Why his boss was comforting him so nicely? why didn’t he yell or slapped him? why he looked like this situation was ok?

 “A-aren’t you mad at me?”

 “Of course not, my sweet Doppio”

 “...sweet???...” thought Doppio, most confused than ever.

 “But why?”

 “Well... basically, it’s not your fault... that’s something we can’t control over, right? And that gets worse when you... are in front of somebody... that you really like... right?” Doppio looked at Diavolo directly at his eyes, completely speechless.

 “Am I correct, my Doppio? This reaction was because of me?”

 Doppio’s eyes were big like plates, he was trembling and unable to articulate any words.

 “My Doppio. I am your boss, and you should obey all my orders, ok? Now I’m ordering you to tell me the truth... Do you like me, Doppio?”

 The boy hesitated for a moment and then gave up. He just looked down, waiting for the real punishment.

 “Yes, boss... I do like you... I want you...” he pronounced the last words like a whisper, almost bursting into tears again.

 “Good”

 Diavolo quickly tilted his chin up and smashed his dark and plump lips to the boy’s trembling ones. Doppio instantly opened his eyes and the boss hugged him more tighly. The boy was unable to react. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even breathe, and then, after some seconds that seemed like eternity, the boss broke the kiss with a fine thread of saliva connecting their mouths.

 “Ah...” said Doppio with the face red as a tomato, too shocked to say anything else.

 “I am so glad to hear that” said his boss looking at him with lustful eyes, licking his lips for a second round of making out.

[paintingraves]

still got it

reposting this here because i completely revised it ! some fluff for the soul. 

[AO3 LINK]

------------

“...And that's how Dougal became part of my family,” Newt concludes with a wide smile. “Now. It’s your turn to tell me a story, Mr. Graves.” The man punctuates his sentence with a cheeky wink, and the corner of Graves’ lips curves up.

“I have no stories to tell.”

“Bull-shit,” Newt intones. He is flushed, the effect of two glasses of white wine. “Tina told me there’s a rumor going around that... touching the President’s headdress," he gestures towards his own hair, "will result in ten years of good luck. She also told me she believes you are the one who started that rumor. Is that so?”

Graves does smile properly this time, a wide grin that makes his eyes sparkle and his cheeks glow. It takes ten years off his age. It has the unfortunate side-effect of making Newt’s heart do a summersault in his chest. He wills it to calm down. “I won't dignify that with an answer.”

“Oh, bugger off,” Newt says lightly. “What time is it - shouldn't you get back to work?”

“Yes, I should.” Graves raises his hand, catching the waitress’ eyes. “Check, please,” he tells her, and she comes over with a nod, taking their plates away with practiced efficiency. Graves rolls himself a cigarette after she’s gone, something Newt eyes with distaste but doesn’t comment on. They all have their bad habits.

“There you go, sir,” the waitress says, placing the tab on the table. “I trust you enjoyed your meal?”

“We did, thank you,” Graves says. “We’ll be back. It's a lovely place. Loved the steak.”

“I’m very happy to hear that, sir.” The girl sounds sincere, and her smile is charming. She winks at him, and Graves realizes with a start that she must like him. It's very flattering. “Have a good day.”

“You too, darling,” he teases, and smiles when the waitress’ face turns a lovely shade of pink. She coughs, gives him one last look before turning on her heels, and Graves turns back to his companion with satisfaction. “Well. I assume I still got it.” Newt doesn’t reply. His grip is knuckle white around his glass, and Graves worries he might shatter it and hurt himself. “Newt ? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Newt whispers, sounding vaguely strangled. “Fine. Was she your type? She must be at least ten years younger than you." He sounds accusing.

Graves blinks. “What?”

“The waitress!”

“Oh! Oh no - not at all! I'm just - having fun, nothing serious - god, no. It just feels good to know I can still catch the eye even after…” He gestures vaguely to his outward appearance. "Well. You know what I mean."

Graves’ suit is bespoke, as expensive looking as one can get. He fills it out nicely now, after a few adjustments and months of recovery, but it does not hide his missing eye. The empty socket would be visible if not for an eyepatch, giving the man a vaguely rogue air. He cannot either conceal the cane he keeps at his side to help him walk, or the streaks of white in his longer hair. Graves is forty-five, but he looks well over fifty.

And yet age seems to treat him right: he’s not lost that liquid, dangerous tilt to his body when he moves, a positively predatory gate that makes people scatter when he walks into a room. Confidence is still etched in the set of his shoulders, in the sharpness of his smile, and the overall effect - if Newt’s being quite honest - is extremely attractive. In short, he understands why the waitress would feel flustered in his presence, and he understands why Graves would respond. As he said, it's flattering. But it bothers him.

“So if I were to flirt with you like she did…” Newt starts, and Graves looks at him curiously. Curse the bloody wine. “...Would you feel flattered too?”

“Yes,” Graves says. “Very much so. But you never tried.”

“No,” Newt says tightly. “I have not. I didn't think you'd be interested.” Graves looks at him.

The waitress comes back, so he fishes his wallet out of his inner vest pocket, the conversation briefly interrupted. He takes out a couple bills and places them on top of the check.

“You touched my hand,” Graves gasps when the lady retrieves the bills and accidentally brushes her fingers over Graves’ knuckles.

“Oh - I’m sorry, I didn’t...”

“Not at all, not at all. It's alright.” Daringly, Graves takes her hand in his. The waitress startles. “On the contrary," he says, voice low. "Now I will tell all my friends I’ve had the pleasure to touch an angel.”

“Graves, for heaven's sake,” Newt hisses at him. "This is inappropriate. She's working." Graves chuckles and releases her. He takes his cane in hand and gets up swiftly.

“Sorry love, work calls. Have a good day. Take care of yourself.”

“Hm - thank you?” she says faintly, still looking a bit bewildered. "You too, sirs."

Newt drags Percival out of the restaurant before the man does something insane like actually get her number. He doesn't think Percival would - it's just harmless flirting, he can understand that. But the whole thing made him positively uncomfortable.

“What the fuck was that?” He asks once they’re outside, buttoning up his coat with shaking hands. He tucks them inside his pockets and scowls - and Graves still looks amused .

“That was me flirting, Newt. I could give you some lessons, it might help you out with Tina.”

“I don’t - Tina?…” Hang on. Newt stills. He doesn’t need lessons, of course he doesn’t, him and Tina are over - but suddenly he finds himself imagining what exactly these lessons could entail and…Graves holding his hand, whispering sweet nothings into his ear... That terrible pick up line, Jesus. That was embarassing. “Maybe you’re right. I think I need a couple of lessons to... hone my seduction skills. Would you help me?”

Graves laughs, delighted. “Alright. Your place or mine?”

Newt frowns. “Isn’t it a bit too early for that?”

“Is it?" Graves says. "Newt. Do you think I haven’t noticed you looking at me all these past weeks?”

“What?” Newt squawks, stopping short.

“I won't say I understand your interest,” Graves says, a little softer, “But I most certainly like you too. I wasn't sure, but the look on your face when I flirted with her confirmed it. You looked like you'd swallowed a sour lemon. It would be my honor to teach you more about seduction if you promise to use your newfound knowledge on me.”

Newt's heart is hammering in his chest. When did he stumble into this other reality, the one in which Percival Graves reciprocates his feelings and desires?

“This is not happening,” he says in disbelief, and Graves raises an eyebrow - his assured smile faltering.

“Oh," he says, deflating. "Shit. No. I'm - shit, did I read this wrong? Newt? I won't... I didn't... Let's get back to work.” He heaves a deep, trembling breath and turns around to leave.

Newt stares at his back. “Percival, wait.”

"We’re going to be late,” Graves replies, and keeps walking away.

“No, stop!” Newt trots after him to catch up. He bars the man’s path, standing in front of him with his arms outstretched, uncaring if he is making a scene to the eyes of outsiders. “Let me get this clear. Do you want me?”

“Newt,” Graves says softly. "I... Ever since you saved - ever since you found me, I..." He shakes his head, struggling with words. "I like being with you," he settles on. He waves his hand, and there's a shimmer in the air - he's used a spell so this conversation could have the privacy it deserves. They're still standing in the middle of the street, and it's midday. Even if no one pays attention to him, such confessions are not meant to be heard. "Everyone let me go. They didn't know how to behave around me. But you stayed. Even now that I'm better, you're staying. I'm glad MACUSA gave you a job in the meantime, but I know you have research to pursue and could quit anytime you wanted."

"Yes, well," Newt says. He itches to reach out and touch Percival's face. He takes one step. Another. He wants to hug him, to kiss him, to wipe that vulnerabilty from his face. He liked the Percival from a few moments ago, the one who was laughing with him in the restaurant, devilishly handsome. "I don't quite fancy leaving just yet. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd really like to kiss you right now."

Graves licks his lips, eyes wide, and Newt moves. In three strides he is up to Graves’ level. He is taller than him, a fact he enjoys enormously. He cups Percival's face in his hand, tilts his head up. He kisses him, and feels Percival smile against his mouth.

When he steps back, after a minute or possibly an hour, Graves looks dazed. Unable to resist, Newt drags him into another kiss, then another.  Graves’ cane clatters to the ground. He starts clutching at Newt’s coat, hugging him tightly. It's started snowing around them, but Newt feels warm all over.

With a shaky laugh, Graves tucks his head against Newt’s chest, who wraps his arms around him. “Well.”

“Hmm?” Graves asks, muffled.

“I suppose this means we're dating now.”

Graves snorts. Newt is smiling like an absolute loon, and he suspects Percival must be the same. “I think we already were, you idiot. We were just a bit slow to notice.”

Newt thinks of all the times they’ve gone out to either lunch or dinner together; all the times they touched affectionately at the office, when Graves let no one else approach him. He thinks of his own recent birthday, when Graves went out of his mind and offered him a baby phoenix. He thinks of the day Graves held him as he broke down after the mother Graphorn died of illness. He thinks of all these sacred, shared moments between them, interspaced over the last year, ever since Graves' eyes first opened in the hospital  following his rescue. He thinks of Percival Graves, and then he doesn’t have to think, because the object of his affections is kissing him again, quite expertly.

“Indeed,” he says between two kisses. “We must have been.”

“Hmm.”

“You actually like me,” Newt says, amazed.

“Yes, I do,” Graves murmurs. "Please keep kissing me."

[imaginesmai]

Ubbe-The sweet baker and the bad biker (SOA AU) (2)

The original idea was from @recklesslonelyblond! I will make a third angsty part, because you already know I live for angst. I hope you like it, here is the first part if you haven’t read it yet!

I’m not quiet happy with the first part, so I made a huge gap of time with this one. It’s placed a year later, but everything is explained.

Plot: Ubbe has finally found what he needs, his safe place, his home. His sweet baker.

Warnings: FLUFF.

Ubbe was sitting in the bar, reading the new “demand” that Hale had given to the sons; since the deputy discovered that Ubbe was your friend, he had been giving SAMCRO a hard time. The biker was trying to find something wrong, something that could get them out of the mess. The paper said that the sons had been present on the shooting that happened a few weeks ago outside Charming, where two black guys were found dead. They were involved, of course, yet there was nothing that could place them there. But he couldn’t find something that proved Hale wrong.

-          So, you and the baker. -he heard his mother talking, and he looked up. -What was her name again?

-          Y/N, mum. -Ubbe answered. -And there is no me and Y/N, we’re just friends.

-          Friends who have sleepovers and talk through the phone until late night. -Hvitserk added, who was sitting beside him with the computer. -Just like teenage girls.

-          Does she braid your hair, Ubbe? -teased Tig as he let out a loud laugh. -And does your make up?

-          Why don’t you shut the fuck up, hm? Don’t you have anything better to do?

-          Take care pres, your nails might get scrapped.

Soon, all of the guys were teasing Ubbe about you. It was true that, lately, Ubbe spent a lot of time with you; and that when he came back, he was happier. It had been nearly a year since you came to Charming, and it had not been a day where he didn’t see you. Sure, there were some times where he had to travel away with the club and that shit. But when he came back, he made sure to spend all day with you and with Sully. Ubbe threw one of the pens on his desk to Hvitserk, who was mocking him with Tig; and it hit him in the front, making him fall down. All of them laughed until Aslaug talked again.

-          I want to speak with Ubbe, boys. Alone. -she said with a voice that left no place to argument. They all left, including Hvitserk; she might had been his mother, but even he was scared of her. -As I was saying, you and the baker.

-          Her name is Y/N, mum. -he frowned. -She’s not the baker or another part of your game, she’s Y/N and she’s a person. Who is not related with the club.

-          But she’s related with you. -she raised a brow.

-          Well yes but-

-          Then she’s my business. -Aslaug interrupted. -I couldn’t help but search a little about her.

-          Of course you did. -Ubbe rolled his eyes.

-          She was Jax’s friend. And now, she’s here running the most famous bakery in Charming.

-          There’s nothing wrong with that.

Aslaug was his mother, yet he did not trust her with you. He knew that she would kill for the club; before him, his father, Ragnar, was an important member of the club. The president before Jax. When he was killed, Aslaug stopped trusting people; maybe that was the reason why things were alright in the club then, but Ubbe knew that she could be a danger to you.

-          Oh, no. -she smiled. -What is wrong is that we have received nearly ten demands from Hale in less than a year. The deputy has been a pain the ass lately, since your baker arrived.

-          She has nothing to do with that. -Ubbe scoffed. -Hale has always been a pain in the ass.

-          Yeah, but lately-

-          Y/N is a good person, mum. Hale is her neighbour and is just jealous that I spend so much time with her.

-          If Hale searches deep enough, Ubbe, he will find things against us. -Aslaug got up from her seat and walked towards Ubbe. -And if he does, all of us will be going to jail, just because you got a silly crush on a stupid girl. Is she worthy risking our safety?

-          Stop being so paranoid. -he glared at her, getting angry. -You don’t know her, but Hvitserk does. And he will tell you there is nothing wrong with her. Besides, Hale got nothing on us.

-          Maybe we can change that. -she smirked. -Bring her to Friday’s dinner.

Friday’s dinner at the club were not like an usual dinner. There was alcohol, drugs, croweaters, and a lot of people who were in the bad side of the law. The sons invited other clubs who they had business with, and they created an environment dangerous and dark. Ubbe thought about your kind smile and your innocent eyes, and got angry at her mother for ever suggesting it.

-          This conversation is over. -he said, getting up and walking to grab his vest. -Y/N is not coming over neither you will meet her. She will stay out of the club. And that’s an order from the president.

-          So there is a “you and the baker”. -she let out a soft laugh. -I didn’t know if what the boys said was true, but seeing you all riled up about her is enough. Try not to show that you’re crazy for her, Ubbe.

-          Wh-I’m not! -Ubbe turned around with his vest half-put to see his mother already leaving.

-          Tell her I say hi.

-          How did-

But she already gone. It was not hard to guess where Ubbe was going; everytime he wasn’t at the club, he was at your house or at the bakery. In a way, you were his anchor. He understood why Jax left the club; it was all too much. Too many guns, too much death, and too little peace. Ubbe would have left if it wasn’t for you, the sweet baker who held his heart.

Ubbe jumped on his motorbike after looking at the sky. It would be night shortly, and you probably were at your apartment by then. He had wanted to help you to clean the bakery and then take you home. Sure, you had a van, a new one thanks to Ubbe and Hvitserk. But he enjoyed taking you to work each morning and bringing you back, and he did so whenever he could. On his way to your apartment, as he heard the rumble of the motorbike, he thought about his mother’s words.

It had been a year since you two met, and still, you hadn’t kissed once. He was infatuated with you, that for sure. And sometimes, he swore that you wanted to kiss him too. Like that time when he surprised you on your apartment.

Ubbe had been away for the whole week, fixing some things outside the country. Usually, when he travelled with his brothers, he spent the week getting wasted in a pub and enjoying some croweater’s company. But that Monday’s night or any other day he didn’t touch any girl; he stayed in the motel they rented while their brothers enjoyed the night, thinking about his sweet baker. It was almost mid-night when he decided he couldn’t do it no more. The sons still had to attend to some things there, but if he was fast, he could be back in the morning. Sure, he could have called you, yet your voice wouldn’t be enough that time. With care of not waking up Chibs, who was sleeping besides him, he walked out the door and started his bike.

He drove above the speed limit that night, and when he arrived to your apartment door, he called you.

-          U-Ubbe? -your sleepy voice greeted him, and he almost felt bad.

-          Hey darling. -he smiled. -Did I wake you up?

-          Kind of. -you laughed. -I drifted off on the couch. The movie was too boring without your snarky remarks.

-          Oh, that’s flattering Y/N. That means you miss me?

-          Of- Sully, no, bad girl!

Ubbe heard barking and your muffled voice as he was propping in his bike, watching with a smile how your light was still on. He kept hearing to you trying to fight off Sully as he walked up the stairs. Luckily for him, the main door was open.

-          Sorry, Ubbe. She has heard your voice and gone crazy. -you sighed. -Guess she misses you too.

-          I miss my girls too. How has been the bakery today?

-          Good! Mrs Lowman has told me that her son is getting married, and she was so excited. She wants me to do the wedding cake.

-          That’s amazing darling. -he was then on the first floor, trying to make no noise.

-          And your day? When are you coming back?

-          You know, club things. -Ubbe hated to tell you thing about the sons; not because he didn’t trust you, but because he thought you were better than that.

-          Are you all alright? I’ve made some cookies for Hvitserk for when you come back.

-          Oh, and I don’t get anything?

-          I might or might not made the cake you like so much. -you said. -You know, that one with cream and sprinkles.

-          Y/N, you didn’t have to. -he chuckled. -I know it’s expensive and takes you a lot of time.

By then, he was on the second floor. Ubbe was walking without turning on the light; he knew it made a strange noise and he didn’t want to ruin the surprise. So guiding himself by the wall, he continued walking.

-          Well, I did it. -you laughed. -But I might have to give it to Sully, because it will rot if you don’t come home soon. Come on, when are you coming? I miss you.

-          I miss you too, darling. -he smiled. -The trip is planned until Wednesday, but I will have to go sooner if I want to taste the cake, won’t I?

-          I can do it again, Ubbe, don’t worry. As long as you’re safe, I don’t care how long it takes. -you were going to say something else but Sully’s loud barks interrupted you. -Sully, stop! Come one, the neigh- ow!

He was in front of your door, and he could hear Sully running around the apartment; also, he could hear your voice, from the phone and from inside the door. The dog must have smelt him, because she ran to the door and Ubbe heard her paws on it.

-          God, Ubbe, I will have to hang up. -you said, and that time Ubbe knew you were on the other side of the door, trying to get Sully back. -I don’t know what has gotten into her, she’s crazy.

-          Maybe there is someone outside the door?

-          Who would be -you stopped, and Sully used that hesitation to bark and scratch at the door again. -How do you know she was by the door?

-          What can I say, I can’t just resist a good cake, darling.

As soon as the door opened, Sully greeted him with excited licks and happy barks. He tried to make her lower down a bit, but she was wo excited that she even fell back. One or two neighbours shouted not so kind words, so he had to walk inside and close the door. While the dog circled around him and searched for his hand, Ubbe looked at you. You were in your pyjamas, some sweatpants and a big blue t-shirt. And you were looking at him as if you saw a ghost; you eyes wide and your mouth trying to say something. Just when he thought it hadn’t been a good idea, you jumped into his arms.

Ubbe stumbled a little, but caught you and pulled you close. He had missed how your body fit perfectly with his, how you smelt and, most important, how you would look at him like he was something in that world. You pulled away from his shoulder, yet your legs stood around his waist.

-          Wh-what are- I mean, how did -you interrupted yourself with a laugh. -Why are you here?

-          Most of the guys were out in the pub. -he smiled, noticing how your faces were inches away. -I had a little free time since I didn’t go, so I thought that what I wanted most was to see you.

-          You’ve driven here? -you rose your brows. -Ubbe, it’s the middle of the night! You could have had an accident.

-          Then I would have crawled here, Y/N. -he bumped your nose with his. -Because I missed you a lot.

A little giggle left your lips, and your breath hit Ubbe’s mouth. His eyes went down to your mouth, that was curved into a beautiful smile. And God help him, he wanted to kiss you. He wanted to stay with you a whole life, hiding in your apartment where nothing could get you. Without really noticing, both of you got closer until your lips nearly touched. Just when you were ready to close your eyes, the annoying noise of your door made your pull away. Ubbe let you on the ground and pet Sully as you opened the door, revealing a concerned Hale. That night, neither of you slept, and you talked until he had to go in the morning. As he rode away, your face accompanied him in the whole trip

He shook the memory away when he almost crashed with a car, and focused on the road again. By the time he got to your apartment, it was already night time. He jumped two stairs at a time, holding his helmet against his side. When he reached the third floor, he heard Sully barking and your soft voice begging her to lower her barks. He knocked loudly twice, and waited until your bright smile greeted him.

-          Ubbe. -you smiled, moving so he could enter. -I thought you weren’t coming today.

-          Sorry, got held up with some club business. -he threw himself on the couch, petting Sully with one hand while the other was behind his head.

-          Would you like anything else, sir? -you faked a bow. -Are you comfortable enough?

-          I would be more comfortable if you would sit here with me.

-          Let me finish dinner first. Are you staying? Because I was making food for two.

Ubbe smiled, feeling relaxed and free for the first time in his day. It was like he had finally found his home; you were doing dinner for the both of you, a comfortable silence in the apartment with the TV on the background, and Sully on the floor used to Ubbe’s presence. Yeah, the sweet innocent baker was his home.

[ancientbooshartifacts]

Morbid & Decadent

Author: Crowson75

Year: 2009

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Moss/Richmond

It was Monday morning and Moss' birthday. He'd bought cake. Chocolate cake; something guaranteed that everyone would like. He quite liked a coconut sponge with raspberry jam in the middle, but they were a lot harder to find in Tesco. The only problem was that Roy hadn't turned up for work, having called in sick. He had Venezuelan Bat Flu. Roy never normally took days off, no matter how sick he was. Moss wanted to kick something good and proper. Whilst he was waiting for Jen, he had cut the cake, folded napkins, reconsidered and raided from plates from the canteen, then put napkins on plates and cake on each, then wondered why you did that? It made a perfectly good napkin filthy and you needed to use another to save your tie from icing. It was a waste. By the time Moss had sketched out a solution for a non-stick plate napkin, which could then be reversed to reveal a handy, absorbent side, he realised that Jen was late. Very late. That was when HR rang. It was Sophie, the girl with a curvy bum that made Moss blush and Roy talk about keeping your rubbish in the boot of your car. Or drug-snorting elephants. Moss wasn't sure which. The one time he'd asked, he'd passed out as soon as Roy started talking about Lady Parts. Sophie said that Jen was ill too. It was allegedly a bad curry, but Sophie suggested that Roy had been showing off his Venezuelan Bats. Moss did try to explain that whilst Roy had an illness that suggested he came into contact with Venezuelan Bats, it was a complete misnomer. It was just where the illness originated and did not, in fact, require actual physical contact with mammals of the Chiroptera order. Sophie didn't sound convinced. So, as extra reassurance, Moss pointed out that whilst it might seem that contracting an illness on the same day suggested weekend contact between Jen and Roy, the flu virus typically had a 2-5 day incubation period. As a result, it was likely they had both contracted the illness from a Venezuelan business man who had visited the IT department the week before. He'd got lost on the way to the Mr Renham's office. He did appear to have flu-like systems, from what Moss had observed when he passed him in reception on the morning of his visit. That was why Moss had taken the precaution of wearing a face mask all day. "Moss," Sophie said slowly after he'd stopped talking. "What about if Roy and Jen just went out last night and, well, they have... Monday morning sickness?" "How do you get that?" Moss asked, already Googling that particular illness. "There's no entry on Wikipedia. Hang on..." he paused as he read Suite 101. "Neither of them are horses." "You're a very strange man," Sophie declared just before she hung up on him. Moss sat back in his chair. He was in a funk. ** Monday morning was a rather gloomy time. In fact, it was rather more gloomy than other days, even behind the Red Door. Richmond watched the lights on the machines flash on and off and on again. He hummed a Cradle of Filth in time and then had a bit of a strop when one of them blinked out of time and ruined his soulful version of 'The Foetus of a New Day Kicking'. In actual fact, he completely trashed his chair. Which left him feeling even gloomier with nowhere to sit. It was no good, he'd have to venture out into the office. He popped his head around the door and found... Moss on his own looking at three plates of cake. "Morning," Richmond said as cheerily as possible. "Alright?" "Hello Richmond," Moss said sulkily. "Do you want some cake?" "What flavour is it?" Richmond asked, resisting the urge to pounce on it. "I only eat Black Forest Gateau." "Chocolate." "That'll do nicely, can I have a seat?" Richmond motioned to Roy's chair. "Yeah, why not. No one else going to use it," Moss sighed. He handed Richmond a piece of cake. "Cheers," Richmond said taking the plate and picking at the cake. "It's not like Roy to be off work." "He's ill." "Oh." "So's Jen." "Really?" "S'not Monday Morning Sickness!" Moss's frown grew. "I thought only horses got that?" Richmond got up and wandered into the kitchen. It was time to break out the tea, clearly. "They've probably got that flu think that South American blokey had anyway," he called back into the office. "Thank you Richmond," Moss said, walking to the kitchen door. He leaned against the door jam and began to shovel chocolate cake into his mouth. Richmond gave him a little smile and made tea. When he looked up again, he noticed Moss had blob of chocolate butter cream on his tie. "You've got stuff..." Richmond pointed at the tie. "Sorry, I'm allergic to... them, now." Moss looked down and, lifting his tie to his mouth, licked the chocolate off. Richmond watched the action intently. "Your tongue's very pink," Richmond said before he stopped himself. He blushed, thanked the Gods of Goth for white make-up and passed Moss a cup of tea. "What's the occasion anyway?" "S'my birthday," Moss said. "Have more cake." Richmond paused. "Got to watch my figure. You know... don't want to be a blob of darkness." "What's it all about anyway?" Moss asked, shaking his head and waving his hand at Richmond's outfit. "Life and... stuff. Do you live in a coffin?" "Not really," Richmond replied. "I've got a flat." "Has it got dead people in it?" Moss looked concerned. "S'a bit morbid isn't it?" "But you're a goth." "I've got a black fish called Agatha," Richmond replied. "She's meant to be a goldfish really, but she's all inky instead." "Is Agatha dead?" "No, she lives in a tank with a bit of plastic wood." "Right." Moss looked a little disappointed. "Do I amaze you?" Richmond asked. "No Richmond, I wouldn't say it was amazement. Let me think," Moss said seriously. He thought. "No, definitely not amazement. You confuse me. Every time I think I've got you licked, you come at me with something new." "I'm a complicated man," Richmond said. He turned and swirled his hands, beckoning a handy flashback. He swallowed. Moss was so... innocent. What he was saying shouldn't be filthy. And yet, it was. Little Richmond had tuned in straight away. The flashback was a good time to recover... Ever since the night with Denholm, Richmond was having to accept a whole new element of his sexuality which had been previously hidden. He'd recently attended the Gay, Bi and Lesbian Goth Support Group and discovered that he was hidden in more than one closet. To celebrate, he'd been sucked off by Tarquin, the group president. It was quite nice. He might have considered dating him, had it not been for the fact that Tarquin didn't like Cradle of Filth. Since then, he'd realised that what he wanted most, was love... Moss coughed as the flashback ended. "My my," he murmured. He shuffled behind his desk and sat down. "Being a gay goth must be quite difficult really. I mean, you can't really go all Graham Norton and still stick with a dark gothic aesthetic, can you?" "Depends how much leather you wear," Richmond said nodding his head. He unzipped his trousers to reveal leather y-fronts. "It chafes a bit though." When Richmond looked back at Moss, he could tell he was blushing. "That was a bit too much information," Moss said. He seemed to be very nearly swooning. "I need to rearrange my paper clips for a while." Richmond nodded, as if he understood. He sort of did. He walked to the sofa, sat down and read Heat for a bit and drank his tea. After not so very long, Moss joined him. "It's a strange thing," Moss said, looking at his knees. "But I feel a bit reckless today. It's just one of those things that happens when you reach my age. Roy has his women, Jen her men, and I, I am an island, Richmond. But no more. It's time for me to open my eyes and look at the world outside of this office. You're a man of the world, and, well, I think you can help me." Richmond realised that he was adopting an expression somewhat similar to Agatha's. He open his mouth to speak, and neither his voice box or brain engaged in the operation. Moss slapped him on the back. He squeezed Richmond's shoulder. It was the first time Richmond had been touched since Tarquin. "Don't get stiff on me now Richmond!" Moss said. "Oh!" Richmond exclaimed. That was a bit below the belt. "You're getting all shifty," Moss said, pouting a little. "Would you like some hot Ribena?" Moss's hand had lifted to Richmond's shoulder and was squeezing it. It felt quite nice, actually. "Um..." "More cake?" "Well, um..." "I've got a rhubarb fool in the fridge?" "...Thing... well, can I ask you something?" Richmond stammered. He gave Moss a piercing glare. The bespectacled man met it, blushed a little but returned it, just as strong. "Shall I take you out for a drink at lunchtime? To celebrate. Would that cheer you up? I'd like to." Moss grinned. The smile had faltered at cheer, but rallied at like to. Richmond smiled back in what he hoped was an encouraging manner. Life was simpler when he was alone in his cupboard. Not to mention not quite so bright. Lonelier though. "Flip it!" Moss said with forcefulness that Richmond was shocked he possessed. "Let's go now. Neither Jen or Roy can be bothered to come to work today. Why should we?" "Because we're already here?" Richmond suggested, a little tentatively. Then Moss was closer beside him, his beautiful brown eyes making demands that Richmond was fairly sure Moss' body could not only not keep, but also probably not know the names of. "We can't throw a sicky when we're already here." Richmond's voice sounded thin, even to him. "We mother-flipping can!" Moss said with a smile. He stood and crossed his arms. He was a man with a plan. *** To say things hadn't gone well, was a bit of an understatement. It was true that Moss and Richmond had been sent home "sick", they had also made the cleaner faint, a girl from the fourth floor vomit and used up all the chocolate cake. Moss had apparently had the idea from a date Roy had. That thought made Richmond feel a bit queasy. And he was the weird one. "Which pub shall we go to?" Moss said. He wiped the remnants of the 'plan' off his glasses. "Can we go to the Moon Under Water?" Richmond asked, expecting Moss to decline. "Why not?" Moss said, before dragging Richmond down the street. He paused after a few steps. "Will I have to pretend I know about football?" "Who to?" "Er..." "I don't want to talk about football." Richmond was starting to panic. "Me either." "Let's not then." "Okay." The pub was quiet and a bit murky. The girl at the bar had greeted Richmond like an old friend and served up his pint of Lager and Black. When Moss found out it had Ribena in it, he decided to have one too. They shuffled off to a corner and, because they were virtually the only customers, the barmaid kept an eye on their drinks and wandered over with refills at regular intervals. The conversation began in a stilted manner. Once the men were out of the office, they realised they didn't have a lot in common. However, as the drinks flowed, so too did the conversation. "Are you still with that girl?" Moss asked. He'd caught the barmaid giving Richmond a bit of a wink and was clearly suspicious. "The one from Jen's party?" "Er, no, not any more," Richmond said with a bit of a blush. In truth, Richmond's sex life, such as it was, had been a magical mystery tour since.  She'd been a welcome distraction from his bi-curiosity, until she joined in. "She's settled down with a girl from the Bi, Gay and Lesbian Goth group I go to. Did I say that out loud?" "Yes," Moss replied. "And y'know what, I'm pleased you've finally decided to come out of the closet." "But Jen came in.." "Not that closet, Richmond." "Oh, okay." "You're a fine piece of gothic ass, Richmond, if you don't mind me saying," Moss was grinning wildly as he said it. His glasses fell into his drink. He looked at it for a bit, then drained the glass, and, finally, fished them out of the bottom. He lay them on the table to dry. "What brand of Ribena do you think this is?" Moss asked, looking through his empty pint glass, one eye closed. "I don't know," Richmond admitted. "Did you just say you liked my arse?" Moss belched. " I need a wee," he announced loudly and stood up. Richmond watched his retreating form. Becky, the barmaid walked over. "I reckon he might have had a few too many love," she said softly. She picked up Moss' glasses, abandoned on the table, and wiped them with a towelling bar mat. Then she put two more full pint glasses onto the table and put her hand out for the money. "You've only been in 'ere an hour.  An' you know what? If you think he's going to be any good in the sack after all that he's had to drink you'll..." . "Who are you talking about?" Moss said. He had walked up behind Becky without anyone noticing. "You're not going to pull and leave me here are you?" He looked at Richmond with blind, big eyes and felt around in front of him for Richmond's face. Richmond picked up Moss' glasses and hooked them gently back over his ears. "Hello gorgeous," Moss said with a smile. "There was someone in the loo talking about people being rubbish in the sack and then I asked if you were going to... Was I in the loo? Are we in the toilet Richmond?" "No, we're still in the bar," Richmond was feeling slightly light-headed himself. "I won't leave you here on your own." "Why, do you need to go to the toilet as well?" Moss asked, thoroughly confused. Richmond blinked. "Come to mention it, I do need to go actually." "I'll take you," Moss said, standing and holding his hand out. Richmond grasped it and they walked to the toilets hand in hand. There were a lot of cubicles. Richmond had never noticed that before. He walked toward one, and, when he turned and locked the door, realised Moss had walked in with him. "What are you doing here?" Richmond asked, trying to shut the door and undo his trousers and not really knowing quite where he was. "I think I work here..." Moss said, helping Richmond to close the cubicle door behind them. "No, we work with computers." Richmond was having a rare moment of clarity. "We've come out for an executive lunch, I bet." "A legendary lunch!" Moss cackled with laughter. Outside the stall, the toilet entrance door slammed. "Someone's got a bloke in 'ere," a woman's voice said. Moss looked at Richmond. Richmond stopped what he had been doing and tucked himself back into his trousers. Moss watched... a little bit too closely. "Is there a bloke in here?" Moss asked. Richmond shook his head. "It's that one, look, you can see his shoes," another, female voice said. The owner of the voice kicked Moss' ankles. He stumbled forward and ended up pirouetting drunkenly, before slamming Richmond against the cubicle wall. "Fuck," the first female voice said. "They're well at it. Is he a good snog, love?" Moss' face got closer to Richmond's. Dimly, Richmond wondered if that made him the girl. Moss' lips were against his, tasting sweet and warm. Richmond opened his mouth a little, just to see what might happen. He wasn't expecting Moss' tongue to slip inside, but he didn't mind once it did. It was rather nice. He grasped the back of his workmates head and deepened the kiss. He murmured with pleasure. "Sounds like it," the second female voice said. Richmond had to agree. Moss was sucking his tongue like his life depended on it. His hands were inside Richmond's clothes, against his skin and, wanting to do the same, he tugged Moss' anorak from his shoulders and let it fall to the cubicle floor. "I reckon they might be up to something a bit more than that," the first female voice said. "Bloody 'ell." It was about the time that Moss' fingers, his cold fingers, wormed their way into Richmond's tight trousers that it all started to go a bit wibbly. And this time, it wasn't a flashback. "Oh," Moss said, breaking the kiss. His fingers had just met little Richmond. He looked up, his eyes growing wider as his fingers considered the girth. "That's quite a fella you've got in there." The women outside the cubicle door squealed. Footsteps were heard. "I think we might be in a bit of trouble," Richmond said. If Moss didn't stop saying hello to little Richmond soon, there was likely to be a sticky end. "Don't you like having your thingy touched?" Moss was puzzled, though he didn't stop researching Richmond's nether dimensions. "I think we might be in the ladies loo," Richmond replied. Finally he grasped Moss' wrist to stop him from doing what he had just started to do. "That's a problem," Moss agreed. "We'll just have to continue this somewhere else." "We will?" Richmond asked. Moss withdrew his hand and flung open the cubicle door. It set one of the hand driers off and he stood there for a moment, his tight Afro blowing... well, just a little bit. "You will," Becky the barmaid said, walking into the lavvy. "Richmond." "It's alright," Moss said. He straightened his glasses, retrieved his anorak and threw it over his shoulder, showering the floor with lose change. "Richmond, have you ever been debauched by an IT engineer?" Richmond shook his head. None of this was quite going the way he'd planned. "It's time you were." Moss took Richmond's hand. "Cheerio Betty," he said to the barmaid as he began walking out. "Have fun lads," Becky said with a grin. She reconsidered. "Oh, and next time, use the bloody gents."

[z3i3ra]

Abu: she is. She is going to Iraq. Who does that?

Me: someone who really cares about you

Abu: oh someone that is going to save me from myself?!

Idk that i was ever askedto go as an adult before. I said it was time when Obama brought van loads to my actual fucking house. I still don't know,what the fuck he thought. I haven't fully processed the memories. But I was all, i think this is enough people for an army to fight back now let's go.

And he was all uhhh we aren't going back to Iraq we just got here

And me and Abu were all uh hello, yes because now it's time to start the war. Every One got energized to go home so now,we give them,weapons and,say kill or stay. And,let's go back home to our families!

Like literally that went back through my head twice.

But really I said I had to go get my daughter (who was home) and I was freaked the fuck out cause i had amnesia and so I was gonna go around to the back door and try to get back inside through the back door by getting my daughter to open it, as i had locked the front door on purpose.

I never told anyone, i think, that but it was quite a sight all those vans and all these military and some President Obama look alike.

My first instinct was to lock my door and close it. Having only a phone it was easy to text or call her.

But instead the President Obama was all uh no what you mean you locked your keys,in the door?

And he told me to,text her and i was all ok so i text "help me please, unlock the front door it's been all a mistake"

But i didn't send it. In my mind i was all text is like write. He said text but not send

I was on challenge to this dude "Hello i am the American President, is Sabrina home"

Uhh. No the President shoukd know 2 people live here and what we look like before he just shows up knocking. Nope noooope nope. I am not home. "Yes, how" door lock activated and first step outside the door "may i help you?" Door slams shut.

I mean he knew i hadn't sent it. Some dude with a laptop was right there and all. It was a literal on my porch war with the fucking President, in my mind, who was getting to,my daughter first.

"This is the stand off. Mr President, sir!!"

"Would you look at her, ready to attack me"

"Look here, her twin brother predicted it. She doesn't know you and You just arrived on her porch like a God send but she is looking at you like a wolf who has stolen her babies and instead to steal more"

If a war can be spoken with facial expressions, I won.

"Okay what else do i need to know"

"The name of the game is who can get in the house first. Ready set go!"

"Dont send the text message. What ever you do. I got everything under control here" dude had no clue, he was the enemy.

I already hit send as soon as,he said Go like,those Chinese crazy,games you gotta go through obstacle courses... Yeah I was already winning. I'm all getting cheers just at the very end, could i make it???

My breath is a fucking war. Obama is belting out commands but all i can hear is my own breathing but all i needed was the tiny rattle of the lock of the door knob.

I heard the dead bolt lock me out "SHIT!" Then it unlocked "OH MY GOD, YES!!" "Now one more please baby come on"

Obama turned to the laptop guy to see whst the Hell i was on about because Matt had said that was our only tool and brain and i was staring at my screen praying. "Idk sir, all I heard--"

"CHEATA!!" I flew past Obama and stood in front of the door that my daughter not only unlocked but also turned the knob to crack it open so i just had to push it all the way.

I covered the doorway by spreading my arms out "MINE"

"Its locked anyway" obama turned away, the boys heifted out the air conditioner at the same time. I spun all ballerina and shut the door and locked it, bent over at the window and said "hiiii" the military dude peeking in, fell into my house onto the floor cause i had him straight fucked up.

"Could you put the air conditioner back in please?"

The bewildered Military dude, secret service was all "if you tell me how you did that"

"Mothers instinct, maybe"

"Well, I'll put it back in anyway"

"But could you do it from the outside? I want to see if you could. Thank you"

He obliged and i locked myself in the house. Until they called Matt and asked how to get me out to talk. He said "call her cell phone"

So they did and i saw Obama out the window. "Stand on one leg" i said while unlocking the door as silent as possible (I randomly practice) "like a flamingo"

"Is this how a flamingo stands? His head turned away from my house, so i slipped out and held the door knob behind me,not all the way closed but it looked like it.. But I could push it back in and escape.

Secret service turned around in shock "how did she...."

I won. When you surprise secret service at least 2x in less than 10 minutes... You win. Especially when everyone on the porch's jaw drops open.

"5 out of 5. I guess i won this place. Yall can close your mouths now"

Obama does not like to lose. I think especially to a girl.

"Oh you'll get used to it. Watxh the video"

So they watched the video and all and the most shocked secret service had figured out how i knew when to go in but said it wss all shocking the same. The other one doing the heavy lifting hadn't noticed anything.

And Obama was so mad

"And yes Obama that was the flamingo"

"Alright, I'm done here, let's go. We will talk to the coty and see if they can stay here and we will get something sanctioned. Come on Abu, lets get you to a hotel"

"Uhm, really?!!? But no i want to know why first or i let them out the van and the first one that dies is you" replied an ecstatic Abu.

"I know I'm not about to die I tell you what" I muttered under my breath "and there's just two of us here and one is a kid"

"No, i want to know we will be free and you will not send us back to Iraq. Then, i will go with you"

"Oh Abu that paperwork is already being processed"

I still didn't know whst was going on but this dude all up on the President with a heavy accent all 'bitch i aint doing shit, yo' i was all dam that was way sexier than I ever expected to see on the porch of my house.

My face was on a new war, winning this young stud. I don't know who could tell but i think he could.

The observant secret service said for me not to continue to drool but I was all okay I'll stare dreamily. Total sexual harassment out my face. And Abu was not going to resist apprehension. And his pants were becoming to small at the waist.

So all these secret services and the President all just sat there and watched the young stud gain a boner and i heard the front door open.

I threw the white flag, my kid didn't need to see that. Oh but Abu was not done with the war, being at the far end of the porch, furthest away from me, he threw jealousy down.

Now Today 10 and half years later he doesnt bother to open any door to his house for me.

Anyways. So Jeremiah had agreed the year before that if i could outwit the secret service somehow in under 25 minutes then every one could be set free. But it had ti be the secret service and it had to be 21-24 minutes for everyone in Iraq and for everyone in the vans. At 25 minutes, no one. And under 21 minutes anyone already set free including the vans.

1400 had already been released on escaping terms and 5000 remained in the cells.

I had to beat amnesia to get the rest out. At least 3 pregnancies and finding my mom at her location.

So I did it.

All those greedy selfish people i had to yell at at the NHRA. I had to. I worked every single day. Every single day to repair my brain 99% on my own. It had to be 85% not including legal drugs.

Even the Queen agreed but stated she must be dead before any press releases could be stated about her involvement. And i had to pick her successor.

So yay!!! I did it under 12 years.

But also I wish I could done it sooner.

I fought every single day.

Every single day. My mind wss on my mind.

No matter what it took. I always felt that. It was the most important thing in the world. An urgency that took over my entire being.

God gave me great pain so i was unable,to leave my bed so i could focus and break all barriers and do it even without his help.

I even became suicidal, homicidal, crazy feeling, all sorts of horrible things

Yet I cannot compare it to the intensity of being kidnapped and broken. Tortured nearly constantly. And having to work for a slave labor.

In words it seems the same. But in my still somewhat broken mind i dont see it that way.

Because what I did was break free. And i see these people in shackles. Giving up as i did multiple times. But bot just giving up for a day or week while still looking and,grasping. But i see people who lost hope.

How coils they not? I know i would, just keep my head down and work, stay out of trouble and try the best i can to keep shelter over my head and food in my belly and have,the faith that that would work to,keep,me,alive another day.

Again, in words, it sounds almost the same. But i had a job I picked,a house I picked, my own child, a car.

I had freedom. I had freedom to stop, i had freedom to quit. I could do anything in the world I wanted. And no one could stop me, beat me, or anything.

I had full control over my life and it's contents. Over what i ate or didn't n wheere i got it from.

So,while on paper it sounds as though our struggles are the same, the struggles of the human trafficking victims and their families do not compare; theirs are much greater.

Doing what i did on my own the way i have. It has brought extreme advancement to the medical community.

But when I look at the sea of faces, my heart and mind connect and tell me, it is not over. My eyes tell me, what you have suffered, they will, too.

And I know i can't take that pain they will have in the future away. It hurts my heart to know what I've gone through, mentally, in my life and know they Likley will as well.

But I just hope and pray that we are different enough, the human trafficking victims and I that they will have the happiness I have sought for myself and my own daughter.

And when i do, i see people hugging, i see people holding each other through some of the toughest best times of their lives. I see people together.

And i know, im likely an over protective mother, seeing all these people as her babies with all the last instructions about not forgetting to turn off the stove, or turning the pot handles in so you don't accidentally hit it and waste your food if you dont have a dog or a small child dumping boiling water on their heads.

Its not like sending them to college... Its like sending them home.

Homes that .... I've lived in nearly 40 houses. And None were the same. Except the constant battles and abuse from relatives that weren't mine.

That is why i am so thankful to London for sparing DNA kits that have been administered to all victims and will be administered to families all over the world. ASAP

Abu for hiding away Money and buying things for celebrations.

The governments for really listening, finally and helping all these families.

I know this is the first stage and so much more needs to be done. But as I put my head down to work, I know it will. Get done.

Because I've worked too hard,for too long for it to stop now.

Abu reminds me how i had a fear od public speaking. How i refused to fight. Others tell me how I was mute for years.

I came from nothing. And we're not throwing these victims out a plane without a parachute.

I've always known everyday my work wasn't just for me. It went beyond me. Beyond any thing i could see.

Know i know why

So twin matt splice this up into this,mornings email and then snoopy add this song.

VA contact my dad. He still,needs to pack. I probably have to repack my kid for warm weather clothes.

We got shit to do. What yall sitting looking at me for?

Add nickleback far,away and photograph. Doug has,these practiced so snoop sings along and alter some slight phases like the demand to stop breathing.

Wanted you to say to "stay" Steph also knows the words.

Photograph add in "when I get home" between the lines like how we do Rudolph the red nose reindeer. Batman wheels and all that. ... Will the school throw me out? No.

So,Snoop pick you want the songs or the add ins., I wanna push you to meet the tone of the songs original way to sing it So that it's US understanding the victims pain.

Then the victims reassure us woth the add ins that every thing will be okay.

So ALL the victims ...

"Criminal records broke 2x" a haha from the band then a repeated haha from the crowd so a repeated chord from Doug or jist a pause. His choice.

Should I try to go back and graduate "we ARE Free to CHOOSE"

"Wouldn't let me back in" go online!

......

Abu, Matthew. Hondo. Gherie, you already know. But some of you all need to understand "Far Away" from nickleback.

It was written for you.

Many songs were thanks to my great influence in the 90s on the music industry.

Thank you

[maddieautobot273]

AC Syndicate - Juno’s Curse (Part 1) Jacob Frye X OC

Here it is! Part one of my oneshot mini series I’ve been planning for a few days now! It’s also available to read on AO3. My username is: Hope_Ivery_OW273. I hope you all enjoy it, and I’d just like to quickly give a shoutout to @oreanagalena / @blindgeishateahouse and @babelast for inspiring me to create content for this fandom, and both of your works (writing and drawing) are absolutely wonderful! 

Without further ado, let’s jump in!

********

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, but I’m afraid now is about time for the show to come to its end,”

Madeline Shrike and her fellow magicians had put on a spectacular show, for tonight was the Midsummer’s Night Festival in the city of London. Various events and activities were being held in many parts of London, such as bottle shooting competitions, bobbing for apples, and so much more it’s almost too hard to keep track, but Miss Shrike and friends had decided to put on a magic show in The Strand for the good people of the city.

The moon and stars shined brightly in London’s dark skies, just as the eyes of the audience sparkled as they applauded the girl and her companions as they each took their bows. She titled her head up, scanning the crowd to see if she could spot any familiar faces. Perhaps Jacob decided to attend the festival? Evie and Henry as well? Madeline knew the Assassin’s had planned to survey the festival to make sure everything went smoothly.

Though the Blighters are near extinct tonight and Templar sightings have been lack luster for the last while, you can never be too cautious.

“If you enjoyed tonight’s show, you are more than welcome to visit us at the Magic Club as we perform shows weekly,” she advertised with a wide smile on her face as she reached into her skirt pocket. “Until then, for now we must disappear!”

Pulling out a smoke bomb, Madeline chuckled in onto the wooden stage floor as the fog quickly filled the stage, startling the audience. When the smoke cleared, all the magicians had vanished, taking cover back stage behind the bright red curtains. They waited in silence before their ears were met with a round of applause.

“And that is how you know the show went well,” Jim, Madeline’s stage assistant, teased with a grin.

The group laughed as they applauded each other, exchanging pats on the back, friendly hugs, and the sort as the President of the Magic Club, Mr. Harris walked towards them.

“Splendid job, everyone! The show went off without a hitch!” He beamed, failing to hide his excitement.

“I think Madeline’s card tricks really brought it home, sir,” one Magician, William, spoke up. “I’ve seen you practice those for hours, they were flawless,”

Madeline snickered as she crossed her arms playfully at the man. “That may be true, Will, but they weren’t as flawless as your table top tricks,”

William performed a few tricks where he had three glasses and three red sponge like balls. Using the glasses, he would hide the balls, shuffle them in lightning speeds, then get someone in the audience to try and pick the right one. Sometimes all three balls would magically end up in one glass, leaving a trio of children completely bewildered! One of them even somehow wound up in the pocket of one gentlemen without him even realizing it!

“Or Patrick sawing Jim in half,” William bellowed. “Never seen the lad so terrified in his life!”

The trio laughed as Jim tried to defend himself, stating that he wasn’t supposed to be part of Patrick’s act in the first place. The blonde-haired man shrugged his shoulders at the young man, smiling playful with a small taste of evil lingering in his voice. “That’s what made it much grander!”

He and William erupted with laughter as Madeline tried her best to hold back her giggles, patting her assistant reassuringly on the back. “Don’t worry, Jim, they’re just teasing.”

“Just give me a little warning next time, alright?” Jim sighed for clarification, glaring at Patrick.

Mr. Harris clapped his hands, gaining the groups attention. “That’s enough meddling for now. We need to get this stuff packed and ready to deliver back to the club. After that, I feel you’ve all deserved the weekend off,”

The boys cheered in celebration as Mr. Harris shooed them away to get to work. “We’ll be back to it to plan next Friday’s show early Monday morning!” he quickly added.

Madeline couldn’t stop smiling as she watched her fellow magicians walk away. She hadn’t seen them so happy and lively in a while, it was good to see them enjoying themselves.

“Oh, Miss Shrike, before you join them,” Mr. Harris spoke up as he regained the woman’s attention. “You have a visitor who requested to see you after the show, out in the back,”

“Thank you,” She smiled, trying her best to hide her blush as she eagerly made her way towards the back exit of the stage. It didn’t even take her a millisecond to realize who Mr. Harris was referring to.

Stepping outside, she looked around the courtyard but did not see the man she was looking for. Perhaps she took the wrong exit by mistake? But before she could even react, a pair of strong arms wrapped themselves around her waist as someone’s chest gently pressed itself against her back as she squealed with surprise. Recognizing the warmth radiating from his body, and the black leather she saw along his arms, she had already known who it was long before he opened his mouth.

“Wonderful job as always, love,” the Assassin spoke in her ear with a grin.

Madeline turned her body around to meet the gaze of her dear beloved, Jacob Frye. With his slick combed back dark brown hair, signature top hat, and his hazel green eyes, shadow of a beard, and handsome jawline, she was unable to resist as she wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly against the leather of his Master Assassin attire. “Jacob, you came!”

“Of course, I did,” he boasted, returning the gesture. “I wouldn’t miss it!”

“Aren’t you forgetting us, brother dearest?” A voice called.

The pair pulled away from their embrace as Evie Frye and Henry Green walked towards them. Madeline smiled as she greeted the couple when they neared. “What a pleasant surprise! It’s been a long time since the last I saw you two,”

“Too long, Miss Shrike,” Henry agreed. “Fantastic performance you and your friends performed.”

“Jacob wouldn’t stop raving about your shows, we thought it was about time to see what all of the fuss was about,” Evie smirked, eyeing her brother with a tease.

“Raving is a strong word, dear sister,” Jacob talked back with a chuckle before glancing back at the magician. “But I may have mentioned it once or twice,”

“We’re strolling by to scope out the remaining events, would you like to join us?” Henry offered.

Naturally, Madeline would be delighted to go, but she had already promised her boss and friends that she’d stay behind to help them back up for the night. So, when she turned to look at Jacob and into his pleading, hopeful eyes, the idea of saying no crushed her.

“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Green, but I promised to stay behind and deliver our props back to the club,” she sighed with regret.

“Ah, I understand,” Henry nodded, shrugging. “Another time, perhaps?”

“Most definitely,” Madeline agreed.

Evie and Henry took their leave, waving goodbye as they left the area to return to the festival. Jacob remained as the magician turned to face him, her eyes pulsing apologetically.

“I’m sorry, Jacob,” She sighed.

“It’s alright,” He reassured her, brushing a lock of her hair away from her face. “I was hoping, since we hadn’t really gotten the chance to be together this week, we could go a pub? Maybe retire back at your place?”

“I know. . . I’d love to do either of those things, but a promise is a promise,” she nodded.

“Right then,” Jacob sighed with dismay, reluctantly retracting his hand from her face. “Next time then,”

Just as the Master Assassin was turning away, Madeline’s face lit up with a realization as she quickly reached out and snatched his hand. “However, . . .”  

“Yes?” Jacob raised a brow at the girl, her sudden action peaking his interest.

“After tonight, I do have the weekend off,” she recalled.

Jacob’s lips quickly formed into a smile as he eagerly turned his heels and stepped closer towards her. “All weekend?”

Madeline couldn’t help but giggle at Jacob’s behavior, nodding her head with conformation.

Jacob’s smile turned into a wicked smirk, his mind racing of all the things they could do together. “Alright, uh, how about we meet at your lodgings then?”

“Of course, what time?” She asked, her eyes twinkling.

“I have patrol in the morning with the Rooks, so I’ll try to be there by noon at the earliest,” Jacob pondered. “How does that sound?”

“That sounds perfect,” Madeline beamed.

Jacob reached his hand out once more, cupping Madeline’s chin as he kissed her lips passionately as he wrapped his other arm around her waist to keep her close. Madeline could feel her heart race double its normal speed as her cheeks flushed, hands placed steadily on his chest. It had been a while since the last time they were intimate with each other, and god did she miss it.

“Believe me when I tell you,” he breathed before pecking her lips once more and stared into her eyes. “There’s more where that came from.”

The Assassin managed to steal one more kiss as Madeline chuckled, gently pushing him away as she tried to hide the fact that her cheeks blushed darker than before. “Jacob, my dear Ace of Hearts, go rejoin the others. I’ll see you tomorrow,”

“Tomorrow, my dear,” He smiled as he took off his top hat bowing down at the woman in farewell before quickly slipping back into festive crowd to search for his sister and her lover.

*********

When Jacob regrouped with the pair, they were waiting for him down the street near the Food Market.

“So, what happened?” Henry questioned. “What did she say?”

Jacob raised a finger, signaling that he was catching his breathe. Once he composed himself, he straightened his back, shrugging. “Never got the chance to ask her,”

“Don’t tell me you chickened out, Jacob,” Evie speculated with surprise.

“She had plans for later tonight, it wasn’t the right time,” Jacob explained. “I suppose I’m feeling a little bit anxious because the ring isn’t ready,”

“You don’t even have the ring?” Evie squeaked with shock, hands on her hips.

“It was delayed, so I had planned to surprise Maddie with it tomorrow when she’d said yes,” Jacob went on.

“But she didn’t say yes, because you couldn’t ask her,” Henry realized.

“Thank you for summing that up, Greenie,” Jacob sighed, rolling his eyes in slight frustration.

“What about tomorrow? She’s free then, yes?” Mr. Green speculated. “Pick up the ring in the morning, and when you feel the time is right, propose to her then,”

“You just need patience, Jacob,” Evie reassured her brother, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “The time will come,”

After giving it some thought, Jacob nodded his head in agreement to his sister. “In time, Evie. . . thank you,”

**********

Madeline lost count of how many trips to the club and back to the festival they made to deliver the props. Since they only had the one carriage, it was quite exhausting to say the least. Madeline felt like that they had been doing this all night. In a matter of speaking, they did. Once all the props had arrived at the club, the carriage came back to pick up Madeline and her friends as they hitched a ride to the building to put the props away back in the storage room of the basement.

The storage room could only be accessed by a cellar door hidden behind the building in the back lot. No one normally traveled back there unless they needed extra props for a certain performance, but it was rare considering most of the time, everything Madeline needed could be found back stage.

It was about 3am when Madeline was helping move the last batch of props inside. As she walked down the wooden steps into the room, Madeline couldn’t help but surpass a yawn. She was extremely tired, and as she was carrying a box, her mind slipped into unconsciousness suddenly for only but a moment, but it was long enough for her to lose her footing and topple over to the floor, dropping the box.

“Madeline!” Jim had been the only one outside at the time to notice her fall whilst everyone else had retired inside the Club.

Her head was throbbing. She could have sworn she heard something in her blackened daze. It wasn’t the sound of Jim’s voice, but the whisper of a… woman?

Here… I am here…

There was a flash of white light. Finally, Madeline groaned as she regained consciousness, slowly sitting up as her assistant knelt beside her.

“Are you alright? You just collapsed!”

She sat there for a moment, taking in what had just happened. Something like that had never happened to her before. And what was that voice?

Placing a hand to her forehead, she sighed. “I think so… I must have blacked out. How long was I out for?”

“Only a few moments,” he confirmed, offering her his hand as he assisted the magician to her feet. “It’s clearly been a long night for you. I could escort you home, if you’d like?”

Madeline yawned, covering her mouth as she did so before shaking her head. “It’s alright, Jim, it’s not that far from here. I can walk there myself,”

“Only if you’re sure,” he persisted, helping Madeline back up the steps and out into the London air.

“I’m very sure,” she assured the boy, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Give my regards to Mr. Harris and the others,”

“Have a good night then, Miss Shrike,” Jim smiled as he watched Madeline take her leave.

“And you as well, my friend,” she waved.

As the pair went their separate ways, Madeline crossing the street and Jim heading back inside the Magic Club, what they had not realized was that Madeline’s fall earlier had triggered something on the back wall of the storage room. Some sort of switch? Pressure plates? It was unknown at the time, but it had caused a secret doorway to be unlocked. The locks snapped open, a quiet hiss filled the room as a cool breeze creaked through tiny cracks of the broken wall, as it waited patiently for someone to find it and unlock its secret.

******** 

“Here… I am here…”

Madeline opened her eyes to find herself standing inside the storage room in the basement of the Magic Club. The room was dark, and the cellar door to the outside world had been locked. Every so often, that sentence would repeat itself.

But what did it mean? Who was here?

“Hello?” Madeline cried out, “Anyone here?”

A quiet hiss of a cool breeze blew across the side of her face as she looked about the room. She turned towards he back wall of the room, finding strange precisely cut cracks in the wall. Madeline cautiously made her way towards it. Pressing her hand against the crack, she felt the cool wind push against her fingers.

Was this a door of sorts? Was there another room behind this wall?

“Here… I am here…”

Her eyes widened, gasping as she took a step away from the door. Whoever was trying to speak to her, they were on the other side of that wall.

Curiosity got the better of Madeline as she stepped back towards the wall, pressing both hands on the door and with all her might, she pushed against it. It was heavy, none-the-less, but it wasn’t impossible to move it. With one final heave, the door flew open, and Madeline was met with a bright blinding light.

An image flashed into her eyes as she tried to protect them with her arms from the harsh light. First there was a… necklace? Then it zapped into the face of a pale woman wearing a strange looking crown and had a crocked smile on her face.

It was too much for the girl as she fell over, but as she had expected to just collapse to the floor, she didn’t. She fell right through and it felt like she was falling in a never end abyss. Darkness overcame her as she screamed for her life, arms flailing to try and reach out to grab on to something to stop her from falling, but she couldn’t see anything.

“Maddie? … Maddie!”  

There was another voice. Male. This one was all too familiar, and it made Madeline’s heart race faster than it already was.

“Jacob!”

Madeline yelped as her eyes widened, sitting up as she found herself back safely in the sheets of her bed. She breathed heavily, hand over her heart as she tried to compose herself.

“Christ, Maddie, you scared me for a second there,” a voice spoke as Madeline looked over to see Jacob Frye sitting beside her, a hand on her back as he looked at her with worry.

She sighed in relief as she embraced him, burying her head in the crock of his neck. “Jacob, thank GOD!”

Jacob shushed the girl reassuringly, his hand gently rubbing her back to soothe her pain. “It’s alright, Maddie, it was only a nightmare,”

When she was calm enough, the magician pulled away from his embrace, considering his hazel eyes. “I’m not sure one could even call it a nightmare…”

“Do you remember what happened?” He asked.

The girl shook her head. “It’s all hazy to me. I remember opening a door… and then falling through the floor…”

Jacob hummed in distraught as he pondered what occurred in her dream. “Almost sounds like something from a story book,”

“Heh,” Madeline managed to crack a small smile. “Like falling down the rabbit hole, right?”

“Exactly my point,” Jacob replied before gently intertwining his fingers into her hair by the back of her head, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead. “You’re alright in the end. It was nothing more than a dream,”

But then why did it feel so real?

“Now then, shall we make up for lost time?” Jacob suggested.

“Lost time?” Madeline repeated in confusion. She glanced over at the clock, noticing that it was now a quarter to 3 in the afternoon. They were supposed to meet nearly 3 hours ago. “Oh, Jacob. . .”

“It’s fine, love, really,” he reassured her with a comforting smile. “I ran into Mr. Harris on the way over here. He mentioned how long you and your friends were out for last night, so I didn’t want to wake you. You needed the rest, that was sure,”

“I’ll try not to make this a regular habit,” She smirked. “So, I’m all yours for the weekend. What shall we do first?”

“Well, first and foremost, we should probably fetch you some food,” Jacob suggested. “You’re most likely starved by now since you missed breakfast… and lunch,”

“Jacob, I just woke up, I’m not—“Madeline began to protest as she maneuvered out of her bed sheets to stand up, but froze was her stomach growled. It was like listening to a dog growl at a cat who was getting a little too close for comfort.

“Precisely,” Jacob spoke with a grin, seeming proud. “Get dressed, and let’s get you something to eat.”

“Alright, just give me a minute to change,” Madeline made her way to her dresser where she pulled out one of the drawers, grabbing the pieces of clothing she needed before tossing them onto the bed. She was about to strip herself of her nightgown when she paused, noticing that Jacob was still in the room, idling. “Jacob?”

“Yes, love?” He acknowledged, his eyes twinkling.

Madeline’s smile grew as she quietly snorted, stepping towards the assassin. “Would you be so kind as to wait for me downstairs?”

“Do I have to?” He asked, his shifting to look at her as if he was a sad puppy.

“Jacob Frye, just because you finally saw what I fully had to offer, doesn’t mean I’d still not like to have my privacy- -” she lectured with a slight pause of a tease. “Occasionally, every now and then,”

“I just miss seeing you, Maddie,” Jacob replied sincerely before shifting to a playful smirk, wrapping his right arm around her waist. “Sometimes it can mean miss seeing all of you,”  

Madeline giggled at his comment, caressing his cheek as her thumb gently rubbed itself against his prickled jawline. “I’m still slightly recovering from our last session together, my Ace of Hearts. But I will admit, I’ve developed those same feelings toward you, as of recently,”

Jacob reached his hand, grasping her hand in his as he relaxed into her warmth. “Then shall we? I can be gentle if need be,”

Madeline stepped closer towards him, the space between them was hardly noticeable. She reached forward, pecking Jacob on the lips with a small smile. “First, lets go out for something to eat, then we’ll talk,”

[inadequatematerials-blog]

Kissing Cassandra Pentaghast  ||| Chapter 7: Surprises

\\ Archive Of Our Own \\

Summary: She was searching for the perfect man, but instead, found the perfect woman.

Cassandra is a single, straight, successful newspaper editor who finds herself questioning just how straight she is when she meets the grounded but scintillating Amala Lavellan.

“You don’t believe in the Maker?”

Cassandra had received two differing opinions on bringing up religion on first dates. Her friends told her it was inappropriate. While her parents adamantly felt that no date should even be set without a full detailing on one’s interactions with the church.

She could almost hear her parent’s anxious questioning. Where were they baptized? What denomination? Does he follow the white divine or the black divine? How often do they attend service?

Lavellan, the one who started the conversation in the first place, innocently shrugged. “I don’t NOT believe in the Maker.”

Cassandra grabbed an olive to pop it in her mouth while narrowing her eyes.

Lavellan put a hand up in defeat. “I’ll stop toying with you. If I must give myself a label then I identify as spiritual with values heavily informed by Dalish heritage and culture.”

“What does that mean exactly? I am not trying to be superfluous.”

Lavellan smirked. “You like things to be clear...I can get that. I grew up on a Dalish reservation, and had a Keeper, observed Dalish holidays, and was surrounded by our Gods, stories, and everything everywhere.  But, not everyone in a clan is a hundred percent ‘I believe in all the old ways.’ It’s not too different from how folks here can grow up in an Andrastian society, and may not be devout or even following, but they still have all those messages and holidays that shape their life.”

Cassandra’s face reflected understanding. “What was your family like?”

“My Grandmother was our Keeper most of my life,” she said, sounding wistful. “My family was more serious about upholding tradition, but it made sense, we’ve lost so much and my family has always been a strong pillar of the community. They let me decide for myself though, freedom of thought is big for my clan.”

“I can appreciate that,” Cassandra began, snickering lightly. “Freedom of thought is not a phrase my parents entertained about most things.”

Lavellan laughed softly but her eyes turned serious. “I love and cherish traditional elhven religion, but I just don’t believe in one religion over the other. I believe there is a life force, something bigger than us all, where we all come from and go back to. It’s complicated. I might need more time and less wine to explain.”

“I understand, it makes sense to me,” Cassandra replied quickly to assure Lavellan.

Lavellan snorted. “You don’t have to lie! That was rambling.”

She put her hands up in defense. “It does! The confusion on my face comes from how different my household was.”

“You did mention that. How did that play out? You don’t come off as someone who would be subservient to their parents.” Lavellan asked, eyebrows raised mischievously.

Cassandra smiled knowingly. “Yes, that must be obvious. I had many a disagreement with my parents. They wanted to raise me as a traditional Nevarran woman of a higher station. That kind of woman is demure, dependent, and a symbol of tradition. My parents have little left of their homeland but memories and tradition...I try to tread lightly where I can.”

Lavellan’s voice softened, “Did you parents come after the war?”

Cassandra did not typically talk with anyone abot her family’s escape from Nevarran, but Lavellan made it easier to speak about. “They actually fled during the war. They thought the President would peacefully concede power. It was a shock to them when he didn’t; they realized quickly anyone who had supported the opposing candidate would be in danger.”

Lavellan’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry, I know that phrase is empty sometimes, but I do mean it.”

Cassandra shook her head, she was not ready to go deep into her family history. “Thank you. I understand, but we had more than most. We had a Nevarran community to embrace us here. My father was back practicing law in two years’ time. We had privileges of class that many others did not.”

Lavellan nodded. “That is amazing perspective; good looks and wisdom, why do you have trouble finding a good date again?”

Cassandra shook her dismissively. “Because I bring up religion and civil war in polite dinner conversations”

“No, that was all me. Thank you for not playing by the rules of social etiquette,” Lavellan said. She grabbed the bill on the table and put down cash.

She passed the bill to Cassandra who put down her half of the bill.  “I have never been one for them. It drives my mother mad.”

Lavellan rubbed her hands together excitedly. “You’ve got the momma drama! I usually have the rows with my father. And by rows, I mean heated discussions with no hurtful language but plenty of hurt feelings.”

“But,” Lavellan continued, finishing the wine in her glass with a flourish of her hand. “that is enough talk of family.”

Cassandra got up from her seat. “Thank you for taking me here. I have heard such good things but always forget to come. Would you like to go to the park down the street? Get some ice-cream?” She wasn’t ready for the night to end.

Lavellan looked surprised but pleased at the invitation. “I can never say no to ice cream on a nice night like this. But, the ultimate question, Toscanini’s or Mr. Freezies?”

Lavellan handed Cassandra a strawberry cone. She was surprised that Cassandra even ate ice-cream, her body was so toned and the woman had somehow resisted the second helping of bread on their table at dinner. She had assumed no unnecessary carbs or sugar entered that body.

They had playfully argued during the ten-minute walk over where to go. There was Toscanini’s, the fancy micro-creamery, or the neighborhood relic known as Mr. Freezy’s ice-cream truck. Toscanini’s was good, there was no denying it, but soft serve out of an old timey truck was a magic all its own.  

Cassandra argued that her newspaper had covered several health violations at Mr. Freezy’s. She had countered that these food inspectors likely had their pockets lined with urban developer cash bribes. Cassandra had easily conceded after seeing the line out the door for Toscanini’s. Lavellan deduced Cassandra was more opposed to gentrification and long lines than food poisoning.

“I would not have initially taken you for a strawberry fan,” Lavellan said, slowly licking where the ice cream dripped on her hand. She noted that Cassandra somehow kept her ice-cream from dripping on herself. She felt a complete mess beside her.

“I tend to surprise people with my tastes.”

“Oh, really,” Lavellan sang, eyeing Cassandra impishly. “This sounds interesting, please tell me more.”

Lavellan could feel Cassandra’s hand brushing next to her own as they walked. This would be the perfect moment to hold her hand. They were in the third part of their outing and walking around a park with ice-cream. Could it get more picturesque?

She let her hand stop in Cassandra’s palm to give her the opportunity.  Cassandra’s fingers flitted on her palm, but they pulled back after a second.

Lavellan noted the redness on Cassandra’s neck, sighing inwardly.

Cassandra pressed forward with their conversation. “Where do I begin, alright, I have a deep love for romance novels. The good, the bad, and the very very terrible.”

Lavellan dog whistled and motioned to a bench they could sit on. “Oh, trashy romance novels? How did that start?” She could swear a twinkle appeared in Cassandra’s eye as she sat next to her.

“I found my mother’s collection when I was ten and it was right around when I was starting to have my own romantic yearnings. My family was very conservative, so these novels, they were my escape. It was the beginning of me being a romantic through and through.”

“A romantic? I figured.” Lavellan replied, taking a quick bit of her cone as she spoke. “I don’t think you’re like a gumdrops and glitter romantic. You’re like...boldness, passion, emotional rawness...that kind, right?”

“You’ve figured that out after a couple hours,” Cassandra asked softly, not looking directly at her.

Lavellan leaned forward to catch her eye. “It’s been more than couple hours. I would say we’ve spent three hours together. And to think you tried to ditch me.”

Cassandra finally looked her in the eye. “I don’t know why you came after me, but thank you. I haven’t had this much fun with someone in a long time.”

A stillness came between them, the first since they had started their evening. Lavellan leaned a bit closer. Cassandra’s eyes closed and Lavellan could feel her heart about to burst from her throat. She closed her own eyes and waited.

She heard Cassandra clear her throat, puzzled, she opened her eyes. Cassandra was sitting back against the bench staring at the park’s marble fountain. The heat of embarrassment flooded Lavellan’s face and she sat back up.

“I’m sorry,” Cassandra said. She groaned and put her head in her hand.

Lavellan stopped herself from putting a hand on her shoulder. “It’s fine. You said you weren’t sure. I understand. Do you feel more sure about, well, whether you might like women? Or a woman ever?”

Cassandra took her face from her hands. “I just don’t know and it’s not fair to you. If you were a man I would have...gone for it. That must mean something, right?”

“I think only you can know that,” Lavellan said, barely above a whisper. She felt her tear ducts activating. She was such an idiot getting emotional over a woman she just met. Why did this hurt so much?

Lavellan got up from the bench and extended her hand to Cassandra. Cassandra put her in hers and she gave it a firm shake.

“It was fantastic to meet you, really. I wish you the best.” She turned on her heel and started speed walking to the next subway entrance. She could hear Cassandra following her.

“Wait,” Cassandra called to her, catching up as they exited the park. “That’s it? We can’t be friends?”

Lavellan stopped suddenly and held the straps of her purse in a nervous death grip. “We could, but it would be terrible, because I could really fall for you. I know I am already starting to. It would only lead to me pining for you like an idiot.”

Cassandra opened her mouth to speak but Lavellan put her hand up. “I’ve been here before, waiting around for someone to feel about me the way I feel about them. I can’t do that again to myself. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to punish you.”

Cassandra ran a hand through her hair, clearly embarrassed by Lavellan’s honesty. “No, I know you’re not. I just wish we could be friends. Please call me if you change your mind.”

Lavellan walked backwards a couple steps and nodded her head. “Likewise.”

She continued briskly away from Cassandra without a second glance. The rock she carried in her stomach grew to her throat. Was she a complete fool? She could have stayed friends with Cassandra and maybe she would have changed her mind! But Lavellan only had to spend a couple moments ruminating to realize how tragic that would be. She couldn’t be someone’s second fiddle again. She couldn’t.

As she descended the subway stairs she felt the buzz of her phone. She grabbed it from her purse to see a txt from Dorian.

 D: How did it go? Is the voice as alluring in person?

She let her head rest against the subway sweat and began texting him back.

 L: Better. She was amazing. Best date I ever had. And now I will likely never see her again.

It took only a second for Dorian to respond, and in her romance gloom, she felt grateful for friendship.

  D: This calls for brunch tomorrow. You bring the OJ. I have the champagne.

Friendship and champagne.

[bountyofbeads]

https://www.nytimes.com/2019/01/17/us/politics/shutdown-sandbox-squabble.html#click=https%3A%2F%2Ft.co%2FfAnIfoYVZM&commentsContainer

Adam Schiff called Trump's letter to Pelosi "fifth-grade conduct."

Mazie Hirono said, "He's very childlike in his view of the world. It's all about him."

Patty Murray said she recognized the current behavior in D.C. from her time as a preschool teacher.

Some comments from citizens watching the chaos happening in Washington :

Jane Clarks Summit1h ago

" The temptation to compare Trump to an unruly child or a schoolyard bully, and the White House to a day-care center is great. I’ve done it myself. But here’s the rub: he is NOT a child. He is a grown man who, by hook or by crookedness, was elected president. He has vast, though not total, power, which he can wield for good or bad. So far, he has chosen the latter, and seems hell-bent on continuing to do so. We can expect a child to throw a tantrum or two, and to make rash decisions. But most children learn self-control as they mature. And most are eager to learn and grow. Trump, although he has neither self-control nor a desire to learn, is, nevertheless, an adult. We cannot allow the dangers he poses to our country and the world to be minimized by clever metaphors. He must be held accountable, as all adults are. "

joyce commented 1 hour ago

""It makes for interesting news, this constant chaos, uncertainty and disfunction in the government, but it is a very dangerous situation for the government to be in. The shutting down of government means that order, functionality, work, oversight, protection, viability, and general ability to function are ceasing all throughout the entire US. Nearly a million people are not getting paid, and others that depend on this are also not getting income. Trump is addicted to power. All his life people have let him have his way because he will react dangerously if they don't. He is not a normal peson and his dysfunction will be reflected throughout the US. There is NO fix for this. except for finding new president who functions normally, within the Constitution. Otherwise this crippling behavior will keep escalating, affecting more and more the functioning of the entire US and spreading dysfunction outward to the world. "

Nereid commented 1 hour ago

"Yep, there's a lot of pre-school behaviour going on in the hallowed halls of Washington. But what's important? Reasonable people seem agreed that a wall extending the length of the Mexican-US border is ridiculous, impractical, overly expensive, and ineffective. Reasonable people also seem agreed that border security is important, that it requires multi-faceted solutions, and that such solutions are possible. But we have a president who doesn't discuss and whose premises about a border wall are built on lies, misinformation, and malevolent narcissism. And it's obvious that a State of the Union address at this point--an address not mandated by law--gives him yet another bully pulpit to wrangle and bluster. Pelosi is right to deny that pulpit to this person at this time. But rather than emphasizing a so-called squabble between leaders, let's focus more deeply and more broadly on solutions to border issues, on needed updates to create immigration laws suited to the present-day. And most of all, let's get our government workers back on their jobs with paychecks."

"Unruly sandbox" - an accurate analogy. Behaving like spiteful brats if they don't get their way is obstructive and self-serving - no way to run the government and certainly not in the peoples' best interests. Are there no grown-ups on The Hill capable, credible or ethical enough to stand up to bring an end to this adolescent and hostile behavior? The situation will not resolve itself, and as long as it continues, the widespread collateral damage it causes may be irreversible. "

"Yes and no. I do not love bickering over 1 to 5b dollars. It is stupid. Unfortunately, this is about checking power as much as it is anger and politics. The question is how much Congress and citizens will allow themselves to be blackmailed by Trump. After welshing on compromise and negotiated offers three times in favor of raw power, Trump and frankly all parties must learn that they do not have the right to upset the common good in order to get what they want. And I don’t think this is just pettiness. This is Pelosi calling Trump Little Rocket Man, until everyone gets settled and returns to the table in regular order. One thing is obvious to all - this is no way to run a government. We need to root out not only the blaming and avoidance of responsibility in our politics, but in our own lives that causes us to choose such people."

Washington as Unruly Sandbox: Squabbles, Antics and Tantrums

As the shutdown drags on, political tantrums and bickering have become the norn in Washington.

By Mark Landler| Published Jan. 17, 2019 | New York Times | Posted January 18, 2019 |

WASHINGTON — In a week of White House tantrums and fast-food dinners, of canceled speeches and aborted congressional trips, it seemed fitting that Karen Pence, the wife of Vice President Mike Pence, announced that she was going back to her job as an elementary schoolteacher.

Washington these days resembles nothing so much as an unruly sandbox. As the shutdown drags on, septuagenarian politicians are squabbling like 7-year-olds, House freshmen staged a boisterous protest march to the empty office of the Senate majority leader and the president’s lawyer went spectacularly off the rails in a television interview. There did not seem to be an adult in sight.

“I am excited to be back in the classroom and doing what I love to do, which is to teach art,” Ms. Pence said in a statement about her new job, conjuring up a world of finger-painting and construction paper that seemed more civilized than the “Lord of the Flies” playground inhabited by her husband and his colleagues.

In that world, President Trump sent Speaker Nancy Pelosi a letter telling her that he was postponing her trip with a congressional delegation to visit American troops in Afghanistan. The president’s salvo came 24 hours after Ms. Pelosi informed Mr. Trump that because of the shutdown, she was rescinding her invitation to him to deliver a State of the Union address in the House chamber.

Democrats celebrated Ms. Pelosi’s letter as a power move by a seasoned Washington heavyweight. But the speaker could not resist one last taunt: Mr. Trump, she said almost under her breath to a scrum of reporters, could always deliver the speech from the Oval Office if he wanted.

Mr. Trump struck back in characteristic style, denying Ms. Pelosi access to a military plane to take her to Afghanistan. There was to have been a stop in Brussels, where she would have met with NATO officials.

“In light of the 800,000 great American workers not receiving pay, I am sure you would agree that postponing this public relations event is totally appropriate,” Mr. Trump wrote, mimicking the faux-solicitous tone of her letter to him. “Obviously,” he added, “if you would like to make your journey by flying commercial, that would certainly be your prerogative.”

Representative Adam B. Schiff, a California Democrat who was scheduled to accompany Ms. Pelosi to Afghanistan and Belgium, swiftly accused Mr. Trump of “fifth-grade conduct.” Senator Mazie Hirono, Democrat of Hawaii, said, “He’s very childlike in his view of the world. It’s all about him.”

Senator Patty Murray, a Democrat from the other, more grown-up Washington, said she recognized much of the current behavior in the nation’s capital from her time as a preschool teacher. Every classroom, she said, had the full range of personalities, including bullies and victims, and the trick, she said, was not to cede to the bully or allow tantrums to disrupt the entire classroom.

“My experience is, you let them calm down and come back to you peacefully before you give them anything,” Ms. Murray said. “You don’t hand them that cookie or piece of candy when they’re yelling and screaming because then you will be doing that until they’re 18 years old.”

Ms. Murray, unsurprisingly, was generous toward her fellow Democrat, Ms. Pelosi. She likened her to a sure-footed teacher in her handling of Mr. Trump. Certainly the new speaker, who has fact-checked Mr. Trump during meetings and publicly warned him not to disparage the power of her Democratic majority, seems to have gotten under the president’s skin in a way that few others have during his two years in Washington.

Yet the tit-for-tat between the speaker and the president suggested something else: that despite his inability to change the politics or institutions of Washington, Mr. Trump has managed to change its culture. The capital now plays by his freewheeling rules.

“He does generally force people to play down to his level,” said Michael D’Antonio, a biographer of Mr. Trump. “It’s impossible to deal with him in any other way. It takes almost a Zen master to resist being provoked by him.”

There is no doubt that Trump-like behavior is proliferating. When the House freshmen, all Democrats, arrived at the office of the Senate majority leader, Mitch McConnell, Republican of Kentucky, on Wednesday to deliver a letter demanding that he reopen the government, they quickly discovered he was not there.

One of Mr. McConnell’s deputies, Don Stewart, accepted the letter and promised to give it to his boss. The lawmakers then milled outside Mr. McConnell’s office to plot their next move, as tourists gawked and cameras clicked, particularly at Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Democrat of New York and a media darling.

“Oh, my God, this is your life!” Representative Veronica Escobar, Democrat of Texas, said to Ms. Ocasio-Cortez, 29, as she watched the hubbub swirling around her colleague.

It was the kind of spectacle that Mr. Trump would appreciate.

Mr. Trump seemed less likely to appreciate the spectacle that unfolded a few hours later on CNN. One of his personal lawyers, Rudolph W. Giuliani, told the host Chris Cuomo, “I never said there was no collusion between the campaign or between people in the campaign” — a statement that made him the first Trump adviser to concede that it was possible that members of the Trump campaign had worked with Russia to sabotage the 2016 presidential election.

The next morning, Mr. Giuliani walked back his remarks, saying, “I have no knowledge of any collusion by any of the thousands of people who worked on the campaign.” For good measure, he added that Hillary Clinton’s campaign was the one guilty of collusion with Russia.

Nor could Mr. Trump have appreciated fake copies of The Washington Post that hoaxers handed out to passers-by outside the White House and elsewhere in the capital.

“Unpresidented,” a banner headline said. “Trump Hastily Departs White House, Ending Crisis.”

Like much in Mr. Trump’s Washington, even Ms. Pence’s decision to return to teaching is not without an undertone. The private Christian school where she will teach does not allow gay students and requires employees to affirm that marriage should only be between a man and a woman.

For the president, the most comforting moment of this turbulent week may have come on Monday, when he welcomed the Clemson University football team, winners of the college football championship, to the White House for a meal of burgers and fish sandwiches from McDonald’s, Wendy’s and Burger King.

The image of fast food under the twinkling candelabra of the State Dining Room — which Mr. Trump said was a necessity, given the lack of White House staff because of the shutdown — gave rise to a thousand snarky tweets and jokes on late-night television.

“I thought it was a joke,” said one Clemson athlete, overheard in a video shared on Twitter.

[newestbalance]

‘Are We Still Friends?’ You Speak Out on Trump and Trudeau: The Canada Letter

Most Canadians remember the violence and the trampling of civil rights by the police when Canada hosted the Group of 8 and Group of 20 summit meetings eight years ago.

But even though I covered those meetings for The Times, I had to search online this week to remember what the world’s leaders actually produced. (It was a statement calling for reforms in bank regulation, and denouncing trade protectionism.)

I doubt that Canadians will soon forget the performance of President Trump before, during and — above all — after last weekend’s Group of 7 meeting in Quebec’s Charlevoix region. The smoldering mess and escalating trade battle that the American president left behind from his first visit to Canada was a particularly low moment in the history of the two countries’ relationship (though it may have helped Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s domestic standing).

The Times has been all over this story. I’ve collected some of our best reads lower down.

Many Canadians were among the thousands of readers who commented on those articles. Here are some highlights, condensed for clarity:

President Trump, the farmers of Quebec thank you this morning.

You have accomplished, in a flurry of tweets, what no other politician in Canada has been able to do over the past 30 years: garner near unanimous political support for our supply-side management system, and galvanize Canadians against U.S. pressure to change that system.

— Norman, Kingston, Quebec

The U.S. has not had a better ally or friend in its history. Have we benefited? Yes. But I doubt many people remain for long in relationships where there is not some measure of reciprocity.

— Rob Mills, Canada

My only question this morning is: Are we still friends?

— Robert, Quebec

The U.S. is NOT the only market we can sell our products to. Canadians are warm and friendly people. But we will not be bullied by any of your representatives.

— Lagarde, Montreal

As far as Canadian domestic politics is concerned, Donald Trump is the great unifier. All of Trudeau’s past and present political opponents are united in support of Trudeau’s stand against Trump.

— Roger D. Moore, Toronto

Every longstanding ally has come to the grim realization that this administration cannot be reasoned with, cannot be convinced by rational argument and isn’t our friend. Thanks for the last 151 years, it’s been nice. I hope you all enjoy your new friend Kim Jong-un.

— Henry’s Boy, Ottawa

In the news conference that had Trump and his advisers throwing a collective hissy fit, Trudeau repeated statements that he had been making for weeks, after Trump decided to arbitrarily levy tariffs on Canadian-made aluminum and steel. Unlike Trump, Trudeau is being honest and consistent.

— C. Evans, Toronto

I really enjoy California wine, Florida orange juice, California avocados and camping in upstate New York. But they also make pretty good wine in France; maybe I’ll buy that instead. I’m pretty sure they grow avocados in Mexico; I think I’ll pick those instead. My doctor says orange juice has too much sugar so maybe I’ll just cut that out entirely. There’s good camping here in Quebec as well, so I think I’ll just stick close to home this summer.

— Zac, Montreal

This won’t play well with America’s other allies who know Mr. Trudeau to be an honorable and decent person. Already European support is being expressed for Canada. Who wants to be friends with Trump? Nobody who ever got to know him.

— Charles, St. John, New Brunswick

Trade is the sum of many two-way individual transactions. It’s a complex interlocking system that has massively benefited the U.S. as much as any other party and breaking it is beyond foolish.

Even the spectacularly uninformed President Trump must understand this.

— Susan Watson, Vancouver, British Columbia

As a nation we are generally polite, hardworking, and we say sorry at the drop of a hat. But never underestimate our ability to feel indignant or slighted. I will be curbing my spending on made-in-America goods and services. Sorry if I offend anyone in the process. Oh, and sorry for burning down the White House. It wasn’t really us, though — it was some Brits. And by the way, I know the words to “God Bless America.”

— Baz, Calgary

And, as promised, here’s a selection of our Trudeau-Trump trade articles and columns. (You can always find everything we have about Canada here.) If you haven’t read it already, I’d start with this insightful in-depth piece on Canada’s approach to relations with the United States by Guy Larson: The Magazine: First Canada Tried to Charm Trump. Now It’s Fighting Back.

I looked into the dilmenna now facing Mr. Trudeau. Resisting Mr. Trump is popular among Canadian at the moment, but the unequal trading relationship between our countries might make the strategy economically ruinous in the long term: Trudeau’s Challenge: Managing Trump and Domestic Politics

Jess Bidgood took the pulse of Derby Line, Vt., the town where the local library and opera house is as much in Canada as it is in the United States: Where U.S.-Canadian Border Is Marked by Petunias, Not a Wall.

In an awkward bit of timing, FIFA announced this week that Canada, the United States and Mexico will jointly host the 2026 World Cup. Dan Bilefsky looked into the possibility of soccer undoing the rift between the three countries that President Trump has opened: Can the World Cup Restore Harmony Between Canada and the U. S.?

And over in Opinion, Thomas L. Friedman asked: “What happens if there is another 9/11 and we need Canada’s help for something more than buying our milk? What country wouldn’t want Canada as its neighbor? Our president is compromised on Russia and is rapidly alienating every ally with whom we confronted Nazism, Communism and radical Islamism in the last 70 years”: Opinion: Trump, Trying to Remake America in His Own Image

Finally we’re holding a special event for Times subscribers on June 18 that will look at what President Trump’s actions at the summit and in Singapore will mean for trade, national security, the economy and the midterm elections in the United States. Participants be able to join a conference call and question our crack team of Washington experts: White House correspondent Michael D. Shear, who’s just back from Quebec; trade reporter Ana Swanson; economic policy reporter Alan Rappeport; and political correspondent Jonathan Martin. Find all the details and sign up here.

Out in the Open

It’s pride month and my colleagues at The Times’s Reader Center have are asking L.G.B.T.Q. people to share their memories about the first time they held hands with a significant other in public. You can learn all about their project and submit your stories here.

Trans Canada

—Jada Yuan, who is visiting 52 Places To Go in 2018, was captivated by the beauty of the prairies and the richness of Indigenous culture during her time in and around Saskatoon. She met another woman leading a similarly nomadic writing life while there.

—Also in Travel, Francine Prose, author of “Anne Frank: The Book, The Life, The Afterlife” as well as 20 works of fiction, spent a long weekend in Montreal on a family trip that included three small grandchildren. Her finding: “We experienced nothing but kindness. Everyone we met — at our hotel, in restaurants, in museums and on the street — seemed so eager to make our lives easier that at moments I was shocked.”

—Stephen Reid, who became famous first as a member of the Stop Watch Gang of bank robbers and then as a literary figure, has died at the age of 68.

A native of Windsor, Ontario, Ian Austen was educated in Toronto, lives in Ottawa and has reported about Canada for The New York Times for the past 15 years. Follow him on Twitter at @ianrausten.

We’d love your feedback on this newsletter. Please email your thoughts and suggestions to nytcanada@nytimes.com. And if you haven’t do so, please subscribe to the email newsletter version.

The post ‘Are We Still Friends?’ You Speak Out on Trump and Trudeau: The Canada Letter appeared first on World The News.

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[cleopatrarps]

‘Are We Still Friends?’ You Speak Out on Trump and Trudeau: The Canada Letter

Most Canadians remember the violence and the trampling of civil rights by the police when Canada hosted the Group of 8 and Group of 20 summit meetings eight years ago.

But even though I covered those meetings for The Times, I had to search online this week to remember what the world’s leaders actually produced. (It was a statement calling for reforms in bank regulation, and denouncing trade protectionism.)

I doubt that Canadians will soon forget the performance of President Trump before, during and — above all — after last weekend’s Group of 7 meeting in Quebec’s Charlevoix region. The smoldering mess and escalating trade battle that the American president left behind from his first visit to Canada was a particularly low moment in the history of the two countries’ relationship (though it may have helped Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s domestic standing).

The Times has been all over this story. I’ve collected some of our best reads lower down.

Many Canadians were among the thousands of readers who commented on those articles. Here are some highlights, condensed for clarity:

President Trump, the farmers of Quebec thank you this morning.

You have accomplished, in a flurry of tweets, what no other politician in Canada has been able to do over the past 30 years: garner near unanimous political support for our supply-side management system, and galvanize Canadians against U.S. pressure to change that system.

��� Norman, Kingston, Quebec

The U.S. has not had a better ally or friend in its history. Have we benefited? Yes. But I doubt many people remain for long in relationships where there is not some measure of reciprocity.

— Rob Mills, Canada

My only question this morning is: Are we still friends?

— Robert, Quebec

The U.S. is NOT the only market we can sell our products to. Canadians are warm and friendly people. But we will not be bullied by any of your representatives.

— Lagarde, Montreal

As far as Canadian domestic politics is concerned, Donald Trump is the great unifier. All of Trudeau’s past and present political opponents are united in support of Trudeau’s stand against Trump.

— Roger D. Moore, Toronto

Every longstanding ally has come to the grim realization that this administration cannot be reasoned with, cannot be convinced by rational argument and isn’t our friend. Thanks for the last 151 years, it’s been nice. I hope you all enjoy your new friend Kim Jong-un.

— Henry’s Boy, Ottawa

In the news conference that had Trump and his advisers throwing a collective hissy fit, Trudeau repeated statements that he had been making for weeks, after Trump decided to arbitrarily levy tariffs on Canadian-made aluminum and steel. Unlike Trump, Trudeau is being honest and consistent.

— C. Evans, Toronto

I really enjoy California wine, Florida orange juice, California avocados and camping in upstate New York. But they also make pretty good wine in France; maybe I’ll buy that instead. I’m pretty sure they grow avocados in Mexico; I think I’ll pick those instead. My doctor says orange juice has too much sugar so maybe I’ll just cut that out entirely. There’s good camping here in Quebec as well, so I think I’ll just stick close to home this summer.

— Zac, Montreal

This won’t play well with America’s other allies who know Mr. Trudeau to be an honorable and decent person. Already European support is being expressed for Canada. Who wants to be friends with Trump? Nobody who ever got to know him.

— Charles, St. John, New Brunswick

Trade is the sum of many two-way individual transactions. It’s a complex interlocking system that has massively benefited the U.S. as much as any other party and breaking it is beyond foolish.

Even the spectacularly uninformed President Trump must understand this.

— Susan Watson, Vancouver, British Columbia

As a nation we are generally polite, hardworking, and we say sorry at the drop of a hat. But never underestimate our ability to feel indignant or slighted. I will be curbing my spending on made-in-America goods and services. Sorry if I offend anyone in the process. Oh, and sorry for burning down the White House. It wasn’t really us, though — it was some Brits. And by the way, I know the words to “God Bless America.”

— Baz, Calgary

And, as promised, here’s a selection of our Trudeau-Trump trade articles and columns. (You can always find everything we have about Canada here.) If you haven’t read it already, I’d start with this insightful in-depth piece on Canada’s approach to relations with the United States by Guy Larson: The Magazine: First Canada Tried to Charm Trump. Now It’s Fighting Back.

I looked into the dilmenna now facing Mr. Trudeau. Resisting Mr. Trump is popular among Canadian at the moment, but the unequal trading relationship between our countries might make the strategy economically ruinous in the long term: Trudeau’s Challenge: Managing Trump and Domestic Politics

Jess Bidgood took the pulse of Derby Line, Vt., the town where the local library and opera house is as much in Canada as it is in the United States: Where U.S.-Canadian Border Is Marked by Petunias, Not a Wall.

In an awkward bit of timing, FIFA announced this week that Canada, the United States and Mexico will jointly host the 2026 World Cup. Dan Bilefsky looked into the possibility of soccer undoing the rift between the three countries that President Trump has opened: Can the World Cup Restore Harmony Between Canada and the U. S.?

And over in Opinion, Thomas L. Friedman asked: “What happens if there is another 9/11 and we need Canada’s help for something more than buying our milk? What country wouldn’t want Canada as its neighbor? Our president is compromised on Russia and is rapidly alienating every ally with whom we confronted Nazism, Communism and radical Islamism in the last 70 years”: Opinion: Trump, Trying to Remake America in His Own Image

Finally we’re holding a special event for Times subscribers on June 18 that will look at what President Trump’s actions at the summit and in Singapore will mean for trade, national security, the economy and the midterm elections in the United States. Participants be able to join a conference call and question our crack team of Washington experts: White House correspondent Michael D. Shear, who’s just back from Quebec; trade reporter Ana Swanson; economic policy reporter Alan Rappeport; and political correspondent Jonathan Martin. Find all the details and sign up here.

Out in the Open

It’s pride month and my colleagues at The Times’s Reader Center have are asking L.G.B.T.Q. people to share their memories about the first time they held hands with a significant other in public. You can learn all about their project and submit your stories here.

Trans Canada

—Jada Yuan, who is visiting 52 Places To Go in 2018, was captivated by the beauty of the prairies and the richness of Indigenous culture during her time in and around Saskatoon. She met another woman leading a similarly nomadic writing life while there.

—Also in Travel, Francine Prose, author of “Anne Frank: The Book, The Life, The Afterlife” as well as 20 works of fiction, spent a long weekend in Montreal on a family trip that included three small grandchildren. Her finding: “We experienced nothing but kindness. Everyone we met — at our hotel, in restaurants, in museums and on the street — seemed so eager to make our lives easier that at moments I was shocked.”

—Stephen Reid, who became famous first as a member of the Stop Watch Gang of bank robbers and then as a literary figure, has died at the age of 68.

A native of Windsor, Ontario, Ian Austen was educated in Toronto, lives in Ottawa and has reported about Canada for The New York Times for the past 15 years. Follow him on Twitter at @ianrausten.

We’d love your feedback on this newsletter. Please email your thoughts and suggestions to nytcanada@nytimes.com. And if you haven’t do so, please subscribe to the email newsletter version.

The post ‘Are We Still Friends?’ You Speak Out on Trump and Trudeau: The Canada Letter appeared first on World The News.

from World The News https://ift.tt/2yhY68r via News of World

[dragnews]

‘Are We Still Friends?’ You Speak Out on Trump and Trudeau: The Canada Letter

Most Canadians remember the violence and the trampling of civil rights by the police when Canada hosted the Group of 8 and Group of 20 summit meetings eight years ago.

But even though I covered those meetings for The Times, I had to search online this week to remember what the world’s leaders actually produced. (It was a statement calling for reforms in bank regulation, and denouncing trade protectionism.)

I doubt that Canadians will soon forget the performance of President Trump before, during and — above all — after last weekend’s Group of 7 meeting in Quebec’s Charlevoix region. The smoldering mess and escalating trade battle that the American president left behind from his first visit to Canada was a particularly low moment in the history of the two countries’ relationship (though it may have helped Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s domestic standing).

The Times has been all over this story. I’ve collected some of our best reads lower down.

Many Canadians were among the thousands of readers who commented on those articles. Here are some highlights, condensed for clarity:

President Trump, the farmers of Quebec thank you this morning.

You have accomplished, in a flurry of tweets, what no other politician in Canada has been able to do over the past 30 years: garner near unanimous political support for our supply-side management system, and galvanize Canadians against U.S. pressure to change that system.

— Norman, Kingston, Quebec

The U.S. has not had a better ally or friend in its history. Have we benefited? Yes. But I doubt many people remain for long in relationships where there is not some measure of reciprocity.

— Rob Mills, Canada

My only question this morning is: Are we still friends?

— Robert, Quebec

The U.S. is NOT the only market we can sell our products to. Canadians are warm and friendly people. But we will not be bullied by any of your representatives.

— Lagarde, Montreal

As far as Canadian domestic politics is concerned, Donald Trump is the great unifier. All of Trudeau’s past and present political opponents are united in support of Trudeau’s stand against Trump.

— Roger D. Moore, Toronto

Every longstanding ally has come to the grim realization that this administration cannot be reasoned with, cannot be convinced by rational argument and isn’t our friend. Thanks for the last 151 years, it’s been nice. I hope you all enjoy your new friend Kim Jong-un.

— Henry’s Boy, Ottawa

In the news conference that had Trump and his advisers throwing a collective hissy fit, Trudeau repeated statements that he had been making for weeks, after Trump decided to arbitrarily levy tariffs on Canadian-made aluminum and steel. Unlike Trump, Trudeau is being honest and consistent.

— C. Evans, Toronto

I really enjoy California wine, Florida orange juice, California avocados and camping in upstate New York. But they also make pretty good wine in France; maybe I’ll buy that instead. I’m pretty sure they grow avocados in Mexico; I think I’ll pick those instead. My doctor says orange juice has too much sugar so maybe I’ll just cut that out entirely. There’s good camping here in Quebec as well, so I think I’ll just stick close to home this summer.

— Zac, Montreal

This won’t play well with America’s other allies who know Mr. Trudeau to be an honorable and decent person. Already European support is being expressed for Canada. Who wants to be friends with Trump? Nobody who ever got to know him.

— Charles, St. John, New Brunswick

Trade is the sum of many two-way individual transactions. It’s a complex interlocking system that has massively benefited the U.S. as much as any other party and breaking it is beyond foolish.

Even the spectacularly uninformed President Trump must understand this.

— Susan Watson, Vancouver, British Columbia

As a nation we are generally polite, hardworking, and we say sorry at the drop of a hat. But never underestimate our ability to feel indignant or slighted. I will be curbing my spending on made-in-America goods and services. Sorry if I offend anyone in the process. Oh, and sorry for burning down the White House. It wasn’t really us, though — it was some Brits. And by the way, I know the words to “God Bless America.”

— Baz, Calgary

And, as promised, here’s a selection of our Trudeau-Trump trade articles and columns. (You can always find everything we have about Canada here.) If you haven’t read it already, I’d start with this insightful in-depth piece on Canada’s approach to relations with the United States by Guy Larson: The Magazine: First Canada Tried to Charm Trump. Now It’s Fighting Back.

I looked into the dilmenna now facing Mr. Trudeau. Resisting Mr. Trump is popular among Canadian at the moment, but the unequal trading relationship between our countries might make the strategy economically ruinous in the long term: Trudeau’s Challenge: Managing Trump and Domestic Politics

Jess Bidgood took the pulse of Derby Line, Vt., the town where the local library and opera house is as much in Canada as it is in the United States: Where U.S.-Canadian Border Is Marked by Petunias, Not a Wall.

In an awkward bit of timing, FIFA announced this week that Canada, the United States and Mexico will jointly host the 2026 World Cup. Dan Bilefsky looked into the possibility of soccer undoing the rift between the three countries that President Trump has opened: Can the World Cup Restore Harmony Between Canada and the U. S.?

And over in Opinion, Thomas L. Friedman asked: “What happens if there is another 9/11 and we need Canada’s help for something more than buying our milk? What country wouldn’t want Canada as its neighbor? Our president is compromised on Russia and is rapidly alienating every ally with whom we confronted Nazism, Communism and radical Islamism in the last 70 years”: Opinion: Trump, Trying to Remake America in His Own Image

Finally we’re holding a special event for Times subscribers on June 18 that will look at what President Trump’s actions at the summit and in Singapore will mean for trade, national security, the economy and the midterm elections in the United States. Participants be able to join a conference call and question our crack team of Washington experts: White House correspondent Michael D. Shear, who’s just back from Quebec; trade reporter Ana Swanson; economic policy reporter Alan Rappeport; and political correspondent Jonathan Martin. Find all the details and sign up here.

Out in the Open

It’s pride month and my colleagues at The Times’s Reader Center have are asking L.G.B.T.Q. people to share their memories about the first time they held hands with a significant other in public. You can learn all about their project and submit your stories here.

Trans Canada

—Jada Yuan, who is visiting 52 Places To Go in 2018, was captivated by the beauty of the prairies and the richness of Indigenous culture during her time in and around Saskatoon. She met another woman leading a similarly nomadic writing life while there.

—Also in Travel, Francine Prose, author of “Anne Frank: The Book, The Life, The Afterlife” as well as 20 works of fiction, spent a long weekend in Montreal on a family trip that included three small grandchildren. Her finding: “We experienced nothing but kindness. Everyone we met — at our hotel, in restaurants, in museums and on the street — seemed so eager to make our lives easier that at moments I was shocked.”

—Stephen Reid, who became famous first as a member of the Stop Watch Gang of bank robbers and then as a literary figure, has died at the age of 68.

A native of Windsor, Ontario, Ian Austen was educated in Toronto, lives in Ottawa and has reported about Canada for The New York Times for the past 15 years. Follow him on Twitter at @ianrausten.

We’d love your feedback on this newsletter. Please email your thoughts and suggestions to nytcanada@nytimes.com. And if you haven’t do so, please subscribe to the email newsletter version.

The post ‘Are We Still Friends?’ You Speak Out on Trump and Trudeau: The Canada Letter appeared first on World The News.

from World The News https://ift.tt/2yhY68r via Today News