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jungkoode · 11 days ago

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WE GREW UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY | 02

˗ˏˋcorporate hellscape & theoretical arrangements ˎˊ˗

"Despite every rational thought screaming at you to shut this down, you hear yourself agreeing to the most ridiculous professional arrangement in the history of professional arrangements."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 7.5k

content: corporate hellscape survival, Dave Davidson (yes that's his real name), theoretical modeling arrangements that feel less theoretical by the minute, meeting Momo the sugar glider, apartment tours, domestic intimacy disguised as friendship, emotional whiplash, and Y/N making questionable life decisions while simultaneously insisting they're purely professional.

Kiki Nation's discussion thread for this chapter.

✧ author's note ✧

Okay so first of all *turns microphone on, taps twice, clears throat aggressively* 🚨 WE HAVE AN OUTLINE FOR WGU, PEOPLE. I REPEAT. WE HAVE AN OUTLINE. 🚨

Which means this fic is now officially going to be 30 chapters long and highly likely somewhere between 200-250k+ words, so buckle your seatbelt, tighten your shoelaces, and kiss your emotionally stability goodbye. We're going full send.

This is wild because… I never outline. I’m not built like that. I am a write-by-the-vibes, stream-of-consciousness, playlist-induced fugue state kind of girl. I daydream entire scenes while brushing my teeth and then rearrange them mentally like a madman pinning red thread to a corkboard. The closest I’ve come to a “structure” before this is just knowing what general direction I want things to go—like I might know, “at some point they’ll kiss in the rain,” but no clue if that’s Chapter 5 or Chapter 17 or a hallucination I made up in REM sleep.

But now? Now I know what happens in every chapter. Not just plot beats, but character turns, internal shifts, thematic echoes. And y’all… it’s life-changing. It lets me plant narrative seeds that will grow into devastatingly beautiful emotional collapses later. Like, suddenly I feel like an actual architect instead of a raccoon with a pen. Still feral. But, you know. Feral with a floorplan.

And because I'm me, this story is now also structured into four volumes, because it needed to be arch-y like that. Big arc energy. Arcs that make you cry in the club. I genuinely think this might become my most emotionally textured fic—because I'm working with intent instead of just instinct. Both are good. But together? They go feral. Together they write this fic.

I love it so much. I love them so much.

NOW. About this chapter.

I absolutely love their interactions in here. The way Y/N is simultaneously trying to maintain professional distance while also being completely unable to resist Hoseok's chaos is so her. She's all "this is purely professional" while literally agreeing to the most unprofessional arrangement imaginable. And Hoseok! God, Hoseok in this chapter made my heart ache. The way he talks about his work—trying so hard to convince himself and everyone else that it has artistic merit while clearly struggling with what he's had to compromise to survive. There's this beautiful tension between his genuine artistic passion and the reality of what pays his bills. When he talks about wanting to draw "realistic" expressions and movements, you can see how much he actually cares about his craft, even when it's wrapped up in work he's ambivalent about.

The corporate office scenes were painful to write because they're so real. Dave Davidson (and yes, his parents really were that creative) represents everything soul-crushing about modern work culture. Y/N's first day is this perfect encapsulation of how foreign everything feels when you're trying to build a new life—not just the language barriers but the social dynamics, the unspoken rules, the way exhaustion seeps into everything when you're constantly translating your existence for other people.

But then we get to the izakaya scene and everything shifts. The alcohol loosens Y/N's defenses just enough for her to make this completely insane offer that sounds professional on the surface but is loaded with so much subtext. She tells herself it's just helping a friend with a work problem, but we all know there's so much more brewing underneath. The way she rationalizes it—"it's just work, it's professional, it's no different from life drawing class"—while simultaneously knowing she's crossing a line she can't uncross.

And Momo! Sweet little Momo who immediately sees through Y/N's bullshit and gives her the cold shoulder. There's something so perfect about Hoseok having this tiny, discerning creature who's protective of him. It adds this domestic layer to his character that makes him feel so much more real and vulnerable. Plus the way Y/N gets personally offended by being rejected by a sugar glider is peak Y/N behavior.

Next chapter we get to see this "professional arrangement" in action, and let me tell you, the tension is about to become unbearable. Y/N thinks she can maintain clinical distance while posing for intimate scenes. Hoseok thinks he can separate his artistic process from his growing feelings. They're both about to learn how wrong they are.

Thanks for reading, and prepare your emotions because we're just getting started.

⋆｡°✩ read on ✩°｡⋆

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ao3

Your alarm goes off at 6:30 AM sharp, dragging you from dreams about okonomiyaki and stupid orange beanies.

The corporate world of Osaka doesn't give a shit about your jet lag, your existential crisis, or the fact that you spent half the night staring at the ceiling wondering why Jung Hoseok draws porn for a living.

You stumble through your morning routine in the cramped bathroom, squinting at yourself in the mirror that's too small and positioned at the wrong height. Your reflection looks like it's been through a blender—hair doing its own thing, eyes puffy from restless sleep, and that general air of 'please don't perceive me' that seems to be your default setting these days.

The shower barely produces lukewarm water, and you're starting to understand why rent was so cheap. Everything in this apartment operates on the principle of 'technically functional but aggressively mediocre.'

You throw on your most professional-looking outfit—a navy blazer and matching pants that felt impressive in Sydney but now seem inadequate for whatever corporate hell awaits you. The fabric wrinkles the moment you sit down, because apparently even your clothes are nervous.

The commute to Umeda is a forty-minute journey that involves two train transfers and a ten-minute walk through streets that all look identical in the early morning light.

Everyone around you moves like they're on a mission or part of a James Bond movie (hard to tell, honestly)—briefcases and designer handbags clutched like weapons, faces set in expressions of determined politeness.

You study the other foreigners on the train—scattered among the sea of black-haired commuters like misplaced chess pieces. A few Western faces here and there, all wearing the same slightly overwhelmed expression you suspect is plastered across your own face.

The building housing Synergy International Marketing is a gleaming tower of glass and steel that probably looked cutting-edge in 1995 but now seems like it's trying too hard.

The lobby has that corporate smell—air freshener mixed with coffee and the faint anxiety sweat of people pretending they know what they're doing.

You present yourself to reception, where an immaculately dressed Japanese woman greets you with the kind of professional smile that reaches exactly nowhere near her eyes.

"Y/N-san? Welcome. Please wait here. Tanaka-san will escort you to orientation."

Tanaka-san turns out to be a harried-looking man in his forties who speaks English like he's translating every word in his head before letting it out.

He leads you through a maze of cubicles and conference rooms, explaining company policies in a tone that suggests he's given this speech approximately ten thousand times.

"International Communications Department is on seventh floor. Your desk will be in shared workspace with other English-speaking staff. Please maintain professional appearance and punctuality at all times."

The elevator ride up is silent except for generic jazz music that makes you want to throw yourself out a window.

The seventh floor is an open-plan nightmare of beige cubicles, warm lighting, and the aggressive clicking of keyboards.

It's honestly like someone took every stereotype about corporate offices and decided to make them reality.

Your desk is a small corner space next to a window that looks out onto another building approximately six feet away

The previous occupant has left behind a stress ball shaped like a hamburger and a coffee mug with 'I want to drown in coffee' printed on it in faded letters.

Inspiring.

"Your immediate supervisor is Davidson-san," Tanaka explains, gesturing toward a tall man with prematurely gray hair who's currently engaged in what appears to be a heated phone conversation in English. "He will explain your duties. Please make good impression."

Davidson finishes his call and approaches with the kind of smile that suggests he's simultaneously relieved to see you and already exhausted by your presence.

"You must be our new copywriter! Dave Davidson, department head. I know, I know, my parents were very creative." His handshake is firm but sweaty. "Ready to dive into the wonderful world of international marketing?"

Aaaand… That's how you spend the next three hours in meetings that could have been emails, learning about 'synergistic brand integration' and 'cross-cultural consumer engagement strategies.'

Your role, as it turns out, involves translating Japanese marketing concepts into English copy that doesn't sound like it was written by robots having a nervous breakdown.

Your colleagues are honestly a mixed bag—two other foreigners who look like they've been here long enough to develop thousand-yard stares, and several Japanese staff members who speak perfect English but seem perpetually confused by your presence.

Lunch is a sad bento box eaten at your desk while reviewing client briefs for companies you've never heard of selling products you don't understand.

The work itself isn't terrible, just mind-numbingly ordinary.

Write copy for a new line of beauty products. Edit brochures for a tech company. Make everything sound 'dynamic' and 'innovative' without actually saying anything meaningful.

Marketing, as it is.

By 3 PM, you're wondering if this is what death feels like—slow, bureaucratic, and accompanied by the sound of printers jamming.

Your phone buzzes with a message that makes several of your new colleagues glance over disapprovingly.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙷𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢? 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝? 𝙸 𝚋𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝! (◕‿◕)

You glance around to make sure no one's watching before typing back:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙸'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚖. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙰𝚠𝚠𝚠 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢! 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝! (╥﹏╥)

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙. 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜! 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢! 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑? 𝙸 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛, 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛!

You look around the office—at Davidson explaining synergy to a potted plant, at your coworkers staring at their screens with the enthusiasm of people watching their own funerals.

It feels like watching dead insects.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝟻:𝟹𝟶 𝚒𝚏 𝙸'𝚖 𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢. 𝟼 𝚒𝚏 𝙳𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 '𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚞 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗' 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝! 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝟼! 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚝, 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞!

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙷𝚊 𝚑𝚊, 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝙸 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍, 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚆𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝? (𝙸 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝 ��'𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘!!)

You put your phone away and try to focus on the task at hand—writing compelling copy for a line of anti-aging moisturizers targeted at 'modern Japanese women who demand excellence.'

The irony isn't lost on you.

At exactly 6:07 PM, you escape the corporate hellscape and find Hoseok lounging in the lobby like he actually belongs there.

He's wearing ripped jeans, a faded band t-shirt, and that same orange beanie, looking like he wandered in from a completely different universe.

Several security guards eye him suspiciously.

"Capy!" He jumps up (and you want to slap him) from the leather chair he's been sprawled across. "You survived! I wasn't sure you would make it out alive."

"Barely," you mutter, adjusting your blazer. "This place is where souls go to die."

"Harsh. But accurate, probably." He looks you up and down with an expression you can't quite read. "You look very... professional. Like you could fire someone and feel nothing."

"Don't tempt me. I already have a list."

He laughs, falling into step beside you as you head toward the exit.

"That bad, huh?"

"I spent six hours learning about 'consumer-focused brand narratives' and I still don't know what that means. Also, my desk faces a wall."

"Sounds like you need alcohol and carbohydrates. Lucky for you, I know just the place."

You follow him out into the early evening chaos of Umeda, where salary men in identical dark suits stream past like schools of depressed fish.

The contrast between Hoseok's chaotic energy and the rigid corporate atmosphere is so stark it's almost funny.

Almost.

"So," he says as you navigate through the crowd, "tell me about your coworkers. Anyone interesting? Any office romances brewing? Workplace drama?"

"It's been one day, Ott. I barely learned where the bathroom is."

"Details, Capy! I need details! Is your boss hot? Is there office gossip? Do people eat lunch at their desks like sad robots?"

"Yes to the sad robot lunches. No to everything else." You side-step a group of tourists taking photos of street signs. "Although Davidson—that's my boss—seems like the type who has strong opinions about proper email formatting."

"Davidson? What kind of name is Davidson for a boss? He sounds like a middle management villain."

"Davidson Davidson, actually."

Hoseok stops walking entirely.

"You're joking."

"I am not joking. His parents named him Dave Davidson. He acknowledged the lack of creativity himself."

"That's the most tragic thing I've ever heard. No wonder you looked dead inside when I picked you up."

"I didn't look dead inside."

"Capy, you looked like someone had surgically removed your will to live. Which, honestly, is understandable after spending eight hours with a man named Dave Davidson."

You can't argue with that assessment.

He leads you to a small izakaya tucked between a convenience store and a shop selling nothing but different types of socks.

The interior is all dark wood and paper lanterns, with the kind of cramped seating that forces strangers to become uncomfortably intimate with each other's elbows.

"This place doesn't look like much," Hoseok says, sliding into a booth that's clearly designed for people smaller than either of you, "but they have the best karaage in the city, and the beer is cheap enough that you can afford to forget about Dave Davidson's existence."

"I can't get drunk. I have to work tomorrow."

"Who said anything about getting drunk? I said forgetting Dave Davidson exists. That only requires like, two beers, max."

The waitress appears—a woman who looks like she's been working here since the restaurant opened sometime in the Meiji era.

Hoseok jumps in, ordering in fluent Japanese that flows so naturally you almost forget he's half-Australian.

His mom made sure he was bilingual from the start, but hearing it now, surrounded by the actual language and culture, makes you realize how much more connected to this place he is than you.

"What did you order?" you ask when she leaves.

"Food. Beer. Trust me."

"That's not an answer."

"It is now, Capy. Live a little."

You lean back against the booth, feeling some of the day's tension leave your shoulders.

The izakaya is warm and dim, filled with the comfortable buzz of people unwinding after work.

It's the first time all day you've felt like you could breathe properly.

"So," you say, "how's the porn business?"

Hoseok nearly chokes on the water he's sipping.

"Jesus, warn a guy before you just blurt that out."

"What? You brought it up yesterday. I'm just making conversation."

"It's... fine. Good, actually. I just finished a commission that's probably going to pay my rent for the next two months."

"What was it? Wait, do I want to know?"

He grins.

"Probably not. But I'll tell you anyway. It was a twelve-page story about a librarian who discovers that late-night study sessions can be... educational."

"Oh god."

"Hey, don't knock it! The characterization was surprisingly deep. She had a whole backstory about her graduate thesis on medieval literature. Very sophisticated stuff."

"You're defending the artistic merit of librarian porn to me."

"I'm defending the artistic merit of all my work. Just because it's explicit doesn't mean it lacks substance."

The food arrives—platters of fried chicken, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and enough beer to drown a horse.

Hoseok immediately starts dissecting the chicken with the precision of a surgeon.

"The thing is," he continues, apparently not done with his professional defense, "most hentai is garbage. No character development, ridiculous scenarios, anatomy that defies physics. But I try to make mine actually... realistic, you know? Like, what would these people actually be thinking? How would they really react?"

You take a long drink of beer.

"Realistic hentai. That's your niche."

"Mock all you want, but it's harder than you think. Especially drawing women. Like, actually making them look like real people instead of inflatable dolls with anatomically impossible proportions."

"I imagine that is challenging."

"It is! I spend hours looking at reference photos trying to get facial expressions right during…" He clears his throat. "…intimate moments. And body language! How do people actually hold themselves when they're vulnerable? What do real emotions look like on someone's face when they're—"

He stops mid-sentence, looking suddenly self-conscious.

"When they're what?" you prompt, more curious than you want to admit.

"When they're... you know. Experiencing pleasure. Real pleasure."

There's something in his voice—a genuine frustration that catches you off guard. Like this actually matters to him beyond just paying rent.

"That does sound complicated," you say, surprising yourself with the sincerity.

"It is. I mean, I can draw bodies fine. Anatomy, positioning, all that technical stuff. But making it feel real? Making the characters seem like actual people instead of just... vessels for fantasy? That's the hard part."

The beer is making you bolder than usual.

"So what's the problem exactly?"

Hoseok fidgets with his chopsticks.

"I think... I think I draw women the way I assume they should look and feel, instead of how they actually do. Does that make sense?"

"Sort of. Like you're working from secondhand information instead of... primary sources?"

"Exactly!" He leans forward, animated again. "I'm always guessing. What would her face actually look like in this moment? How would she really move? What would be going through her head?"

You take another drink, processing this unexpected insight into his work.

"And you can't just... I don't know, watch porn for reference?"

"Porn is the worst reference possible. It's all performance. Fake expressions, exaggerated reactions, completely unrealistic scenarios. If I based my work on porn, it would be just as terrible as everyone else's."

"Huh."

"Yeah, huh." He picks at his food, suddenly looking younger than his twenty-six years. "Sometimes I wonder if I should just give up on trying to make it realistic and just draw ridiculous tentacle monsters like everyone expects."

"Don't do that."

The words come out more forcefully than you intended, and he looks up with surprise.

"I mean," you backtrack, "if you think realistic is better, then... keep trying to make it realistic. Right?"

"But how? I can't exactly ask random women to model for explicit manga. That would be weird and probably illegal."

You're quiet for a moment, an idea forming that you immediately try to dismiss.

But the beer and the warmth of the izakaya and the genuine frustration in his voice make you consider it.

"What if..." you start, then stop.

"What if what?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

"Capy, what were you going to say?"

You drain half your beer in one go.

"I was going to say, what if you had someone to model for you? Like, someone you trust who could give you actual realistic reference?"

Hoseok stares at you. Frowns, like genuinely, actually frowns (and isn't that the first time in his adult face you've seen it?)

"Are you... are you offering?"

"I'm not offering anything. I'm just saying hypothetically, if you had access to realistic references, your work would probably improve."

"Hypothetically."

"And this hypothetical reference model would be...?"

You feel heat rising in your cheeks and blame it on the alcohol.

"I don't know. Someone who understands that it's just work. Professional."

"Professional reference modeling for hentai manga."

"It's not any weirder than your current career path."

He's quiet for a long moment, studying your face like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

"You're serious," he says finally.

"I'm drunk," you correct. "There's a difference."

"But you're serious about being drunk."

"Shut up, Ott."

But he's grinning now, that stupid, wide grin that takes over his entire face.

"Capy wants to model for my sexy manga!"

"Keep your voice down!" You glance around the izakaya, but everyone seems too absorbed in their own conversations to care about yours. "And I didn't say I wanted to do anything. I said hypothetically—"

"You offered to pose for me."

"I offered a theoretical solution to your creative problem."

"By posing for me."

"By... providing realistic reference materials in a professional capacity."

"For my hentai manga."

"For your... adult-oriented sequential art."

He's laughing now, delighted by your obvious discomfort. "This is the best day of my life. Capy is going to be my muse!"

"I am not going to be your muse. And stop calling it that."

"What should I call it? My artistic collaborator? My reference consultant? My—"

"Your friend who's had too much beer and suggested something stupid."

"My friend who's going to help me create the most realistic romantic manga Osaka has never seen."

That stops you.

Because he…

He's just said the word 'friend'.

And you hate how that made something twist in your chest.

"I haven't agreed to anything," you insist. "We were just talking theoretically."

"Theoretically, when would you be available for our first session?"

"Theoretically, you're an idiot."

"Theoretically, you're avoiding the question."

You finish your beer and immediately signal for another.

"If—and I mean if—I were to consider this theoretical arrangement, it would be purely professional. No weirdness."

"Define weirdness."

"You know what I mean."

"I really don't. Are we talking about no inappropriate comments? No lingering stares? No—"

"All of the above. It would be like... like life drawing class. Clinical. Professional."

"Have you ever taken a life drawing class?"

"That's not the point."

"Because life drawing classes can get pretty—"

"Hoseok."

"Right. Clinical. Professional. Got it." He's still grinning. "So when do we start?"

"We don't start anything because this is a hypothetical conversation about a theoretical arrangement that will never actually happen."

"But if it were to happen theoretically?"

You look at him across the table—flushed from beer and excitement, eyes bright with possibility, that stupid beanie slightly askew.

He looks exactly like the kid who used to convince you to climb fences and steal apples from the neighbor's tree, all mischief and misplaced confidence.

And despite every rational thought in your head screaming at you to shut this down, you hear yourself saying:

"Tomorrow night. After work. Your place."

His grin could power the entire city.

"Theoretically?" he asks.

"Theoretically."

"This is going to be amazing, Capy."

You signal for another beer.

You're going to need it.

The thing is, he looks genuinely excited. Not the performative, over-the-top excitement he uses to annoy you—but the real kind.

The kind that makes his eyes go bright and his whole body lean forward like he can't contain whatever stupid idea is bouncing around in his head.

It's the same look he used to get when he'd convince you to sneak out and explore the construction site behind your neighborhood, or when he'd drag you to that weird arcade with the broken claw machines that somehow always gave him exactly what he wanted.

Which means this theoretical modeling arrangement is either going to be completely innocent or a complete disaster.

Probably both.

"You know what?" he says, peeling the label off his new beer bottle in strips, "you should see my place tonight. Get the full Osaka experience."

You nearly choke on your karaage. Because what did this nuthead just say?

"What? No. Absolutely not."

"Why not? It's still early!"

"It's past nine, Ott. That's not early. That's nighttime. When normal people go home to their sad apartments and contemplate their life choices."

"Since when are we normal people?" He grins, that stupid, infectious grin that probably got him out of trouble his entire childhood. "Come on, Capy. When's the last time you had a proper house tour?"

When's the last time you crashed at a guy's place just because he asked? When's the last time you did anything without calculating the exact social implications and potential for regret?

"When's the last time you cleaned your house?" you counter instead.

"That's… irrelevant."

"Everything about you is irrelevant."

"Harsh but fair."

The waitress brings your beer, and you immediately take a long drink because this conversation is heading somewhere you're not sure you want to follow.

The alcohol has made everything slightly fuzzy around the edges, but not fuzzy enough to make this seem like a good idea.

Actually, that's a lie.

The alcohol is making it seem like exactly the kind of stupid, impulsive thing you would have done when you were seventeen and thought the worst thing that could happen was your parents finding out.

Now you know better.

Now you know that the worst things are usually the ones that feel like coming home.

"I'm not going to your apartment at nine-thirty at night after we just agreed to some theoretical professional arrangement that I'm already regretting," you say, but your voice lacks conviction.

"But you haven't seen where the magic happens! Where your theoretical modeling will theoretically take place!"

"The magic happens in your bedroom, doesn't it."

"Well, yeah. Better lighting by the window, and I can spread all my references out on the bed—" He stops mid-sentence, apparently realizing how that sounds. "Wait, that came out wrong."

"Everything you say comes out wrong."

"Fair point." He demolishes another piece of chicken. "But seriously, you should see the place. I've got it set up pretty nice now. Real drawing desk, proper lamp, even organized my reference materials into folders like a functioning adult."

"Your porn collection, you mean."

"My professional research library," he corrects with mock dignity. "Very different thing. Alphabetized and everything."

The image of Hoseok carefully organizing hentai manga by genre and artistic merit is so ridiculous you almost smile.

"Plus," he continues, voice quiet and not meeting your eyes while he picks at the label on his bottle, "you could crash there tonight. Save yourself the train ride back to your shoebox apartment."

And there it is. The real reason behind this sudden house tour enthusiasm.

"My apartment isn't a shoebox."

"Capy, you described it yesterday as 'slightly larger than a coffin but with worse lighting.'"

"That was… accurate but not the point."

"The point is you're probably dreading going back there alone. New city, new job, everything unfamiliar." His voice gets softer, less performative. "Wouldn't hurt to have somewhere comfortable to crash."

There it is again—that stupid, genuine concern that always catches you off guard. The way he can shift from ridiculous to sincere in half a sentence, like he's got some kind of emotional whiplash disorder.

It's the same tone he used when you were thirteen and crying because your parents were fighting again, when he climbed through your window and sat on your floor for three hours without saying a word. Just… present.

Just there.

And that's the problem, isn't it?

Because it's been five years since anyone was just there for you. Five years of being the competent one, the reliable one, the one who has her shit together and doesn't need anyone to sit on her floor and not say anything.

Five years of being completely, utterly alone.

"I'm not crashing at your place, Hoseok."

"Why not? We're friends, right?"

There's that word again—friends.

Like it's simple. Like five years of radio silence and separate lives can be erased with one dinner and too much beer.

Like you can just slip back into being the people you were before you grew up and moved away and learned how to be strangers.

"Are we?" you ask before you can stop yourself.

He looks up from his bottle, label half-peeled and hanging like a sad flag of surrender.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…" You gesture vaguely between you, encompassing the izakaya, the theoretical modeling arrangement, the way he's looking at you like you're still seventeen and nothing has changed. "This. Whatever this is. Are we friends? Or are we just two people who used to know each other pretending nothing's changed?"

He blinks at you. You blink at him. And suddenly the two seconds of silence that pass by feel like an eternity.

"Do you want to be friends?" he finally asks quietly.

"I don't know." The honesty surprises you. "I mean, yes. I think. But I don't know if we can just… pick up where we left off."

"We don't have to pick up anywhere. We can start over."

"Start over as what?"

"As…" He shrugs, that careful casualness that means he's thinking harder than he's letting on. "As whatever we want to be."

But that's the problem—because you don't know what you want to be.

You don't know if you want to be the girl who crashes at her old friend's apartment because she's too lonely to go home, or the woman who keeps appropriate boundaries and doesn't complicate things.

You don't know if you want to be someone who can trust that easily again.

"You still bite your lip when you're thinking too hard," he observes.

"I do not."

"You're doing it right now."

You immediately stop biting your lip, which only makes him grin wider.

"Some things don't change, Capy. Even when everything else does."

"Don't get philosophical on me, Ott. It doesn't suit you."

"What does suit me?"

The question catches you off guard.

You look at him—really look at him—taking in the way five years have sharpened some edges and softened others.

The boy you knew is still there, buried under layers of adult experience and professional disappointment and whatever other things happen to people when they stop being kids and start pretending they know what they're doing.

He's still too thin, still too energetic, still wearing clothes that look like he grabbed them off his bedroom floor.

But there's something different in his eyes now.

As if he's been waiting for something for a long time and isn't sure it's coming.

"Chaos," you say finally. "Chaos suits you."

He laughs, loud enough that several other customers glance over.

"I'll take it."

"Good, because that's all you're getting."

"For now."

There's something in the way he says it that makes your stomach do a small, traitorous flip.

You blame the beer and the warm lighting and the fact that you've barely slept in three days.

"I should go home," you say, but you don't move to leave.

"You should come see my apartment."

"Those are opposite things, Ott."

"Not if you crash at mine."

"I'm not crashing at your place."

"Why not?"

"Because…" You fumble for a reason that doesn't sound ridiculous. "Because it's weird. We just reconnected yesterday. Normal people don't sleep over at their childhood friend's house after one dinner."

Because it feels too much like before.

Because you're scared of how easy it would be to fall back into old patterns, old dependencies, old ways of needing someone.

Because you've spent five years learning how to be alone, and one night on his couch might undo all of that.

"Normal people don't agree to model for hentai manga either, but here we are."

"That's different. That's professional."

"Right. Professional." He draws out the word like it's a foreign concept. "Professional modeling, professional friendship, professional distance. Everything professional."

"There's nothing wrong with professional."

"Course not. Very sensible. Very mature."

He's grinning again, but there's something underneath it that you can't quite identify.

You feel, surprisingly, it's shaped like disappointment.

"Very unlike the Capy I remember."

That makes you swallow.

It's unfair, how he can say shit like that and have your chest cave in.

"People change, Ott. We're not kids anymore."

"No," he agrees, and his voice goes quiet. "We're not."

The way he says it makes you look at him again, and what you see in his eyes looks like he's grieving for those kids too. Like he misses them as much as you do.

Like maybe he's been just as lost without them as you have.

"I have a surprise," he says suddenly, changing direction so fast you get conversational whiplash.

"I hate surprises."

"I know. That's what makes this one perfect."

"That logic makes no sense."

"Trust me."

"I don't trust you. You tried to convince me that eating chocolate for breakfast was a balanced meal because it contained milk."

"It does contain milk! And calcium! Very nutritious!"

"You were seventeen, Hoseok. You should have known better."

"I was a growing boy! I needed nutrients!"

You laugh despite yourself, and the sound echoes off the low ceiling of the izakaya.

It's embarrassing how easy it is to fall back into this rhythm with him, like your brain has been storing all these conversation patterns for five years just waiting for him to come back.

"What kind of surprise?"

"The kind you'll only find out if you come see my apartment."

"That's manipulation."

"That's incentive."

"That's emotional blackmail."

"That's friendship."

Fucker.

You drain the rest of your beer in one long pull, partly for courage and partly to delay having to respond. The alcohol seems to have erased your usually reliable sense of self-preservation.

And maybe that's what you need right now. Maybe you need to stop protecting yourself from every possible disappointment and just… see what happens.

Maybe you need to remember what it feels like to trust someone who used to know all your secrets.

"If I come see your place," you say carefully, "and if I hate your surprise, I'm leaving immediately."

"Deal. But you won't hate it."

"I probably will."

"You definitely won't."

"I have a very high hate-to-like ratio when it comes to surprises. Remember my sixteenth birthday?"

His face changes. "Oh. Shit. Yeah, I remember."

Of course he remembers.

He's the one who spent three hours sitting outside the bathroom door, talking to you through the wood while you had a complete meltdown because your mom had thrown you a surprise party and invited half your class and you couldn't handle being the center of attention like that.

"Your mom meant well," he says quietly.

"I know she meant well. But I told her I didn't want a party, and she threw one anyway because she thought I was just being shy. And then I locked myself in the bathroom like a lunatic while twenty people ate cake and wondered where the birthday girl went."

"You weren't a lunatic. You were overwhelmed."

"I was pathetic."

"You were sixteen and dealing with more shit than anyone knew." His voice has gone serious in a way that makes you uncomfortable. "And I should have known better than to help her plan it."

"You were just being a good friend."

"I'm still trying to be a good friend," he says, and there's something in his tone that makes you look up from your beer.

This man who used to be a boy who used to climb through your bedroom window just to sit on your floor and read comics. Who used to walk you home from school even though his house was in the opposite direction. Who used to know exactly what to say to make you laugh when you were crying about some stupid teenage drama.

Who disappeared from your life for five years and somehow found his way back in the span of twenty-four hours.

"Fine," you say, and immediately regret it. "But I'm taking the couch."

His smile is so bright it should be illegal.

"Deal. But you're gonna love the surprise, Capy. I promise."

"I doubt that."

"You love being wrong about things."

"I love being right about you being an idiot."

"Same thing, really."

He signals for the check, already bouncing slightly in his seat with excitement.

You watch him count out bills with the kind of gesture that suggests his porn money isn't quite as abundant as he likes to pretend.

His apartment is probably just as small and depressing as yours.

He's probably just as lost and lonely as you are.

He's probably just as scared of growing up and becoming a real person with real responsibilities and real consequences.

But at least you can be lost and scared together.

At least for tonight.

"Ott?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you still like strawberry milk?"

The question comes out of nowhere, surprising both of you.

But something about the beer and the warm light and the familiar rhythm of your bickering has loosened something in your chest, some speck of control you've been maintaining since you walked into that izakaya.

His smile goes soft around the edges.

"Yeah. I do. Do you still put way too much sugar in your coffee?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

It's such a small thing—strawberry milk and oversweetened coffee—but somehow it feels enormous.

Like proof that some essential part of each of you has remained unchanged despite everything else that's shifted and grown and broken apart.

Like maybe those kids are still in there somewhere, waiting to be found again.

"Ready to go?" he asks, standing and pulling on his jacket.

"No. But let's go anyway."

"That's the spirit, Capy."

You follow him out into the cool Osaka night, where the neon signs reflect off wet pavement and streets are full of people pretending they know where they're going.

And for the first time since you moved here, you think maybe you don't need to know where you're going.

Maybe you just need to trust that wherever Hoseok is leading you, it'll be worth the trip.

Even if it scares the hell out of you.

Four flights of stairs later, you're questioning every life choice that led to this moment.

"Exercise," you mutter, gripping the railing as Hoseok bounds ahead like some kind of demented mountain goat. "Right. Because what this night needed was cardio."

"Almost there!" he calls back, not even slightly winded. "Just think of it as pre-modeling conditioning!"

"I'm thinking of it as cruel and unusual punishment."

His apartment door is covered in stickers—anime characters you don't recognize, band logos from groups that probably broke up in 2001, and what appears to be a holographic Pikachu giving a thumbs up.

It's aggressively juvenile and somehow perfectly him.

"Don't judge the door art," he says, fumbling with his keys. "It came with the apartment."

"It absolutely did not."

"Okay, fine, I may have added some personality over the years. Sue me."

The door swings open and you step into what can only be described as organized chaos.

The apartment is small but noticeably bigger than your shoebox—which isn't saying much, but still manages to feel spacious by comparison.

Manga volumes are stacked in towering columns against every wall, art supplies scattered across a desk positioned near the window, and clothes draped over furniture like fabric ghosts.

"Welcome to Casa de Ott!" he announces, spreading his arms wide and nearly knocking over a lamp in the process. "Home sweet chaotic home."

You scan the space, taking in the details.

The couch looks like it was salvaged from a 1980s office waiting room. There's a small TV balanced precariously on a stack of manga, and the kitchen is basically a corner with a mini-fridge and what might generously be called a stove.

"It's…" you start.

"Terrible? Depressing? A fire hazard?"

"I was going to say small."

"Small is a nice way of putting it. I prefer 'cozy' or 'efficiently designed.'"

Your eyes land on a red sketchbook lying open on the low table, pages covered in detailed drawings that make you stop mid-step. You can't make out the specifics from this distance, but before you can guess the contents, Hoseok is screeching.

"Oh shit," Hoseok says, following your gaze. He lunges forward and slams the sketchbook closed, clutching it to his chest like a shield. "Those are, uh, not for virgin eyes."

"Virgin eyes?" You raise an eyebrow. "I'm twenty-six, Ott. I've seen naked people before."

"Yeah, but not my naked people. These are my professionally naked people. Very different."

"I'm literally going to model for this stuff, remember?"

He freezes, sketchbook still pressed against his chest.

"So we're not doing hypothetical anymore?"

Shit, he's right—somewhere between the beer and the banter and the way he looked at you when you called him your friend, the theoretical became decidedly less theoretical.

"I…" You falter, suddenly aware of how close you're standing. "Beer. You mentioned beer."

"Right. Beer. Very important. Life-sustaining beverage." He's still holding the sketchbook like a security blanket. "Kitchen's over there. Help yourself. I'm just going to put this away where it can't traumatize anyone."

He disappears down a narrow hallway, and you make your way to the kitchen area.

The refrigerator is covered in delivery menus and what appears to be a drawing of a cat wearing a top hat.

Inside, there are exactly three items: beer, leftover ramen, and a container of something that might once have been vegetables.

"Your food situation is concerning," you call out.

"I survive on convenience store cuisine and pure artistic passion!" comes his muffled reply from what you assume is his bedroom.

You grab two beers and settle onto the couch, which is actually more comfortable than it looks.

The apartment feels lived-in despite its chaos—or maybe because of it.

There's something appealingly unpretentious about the space, like Hoseok just exists here without trying to impress anyone.

"Okay," he says, emerging from the hallway with his hands behind his back and a grin that should probably be illegal. "Ready for your surprise?"

Every muscle in your body tenses. "I told you I hate surprises."

"And I told you this one's different. This one's going to change your entire worldview on surprises."

"My worldview on surprises is based on sound psychological principles and extensive personal trauma. One cute whatever-it-is isn't going to—"

He brings his hands forward, revealing a small, furry creature with enormous dark eyes and a long, fluffy tail.

You stop breathing.

"Capy," he says, his voice soft with obvious pride, "meet Momo."

The sugar glider—because that's clearly what she is—sits perfectly still in his cupped palms, studying you with the kind of intense curiosity usually reserved for wildlife documentaries.

She's tiny, maybe the size of a hamster, with gray fur and cream markings that make her look like she's wearing a tiny vest.

"Holy shit," you whisper.

"Language," Hoseok scolds, but he's grinning. "She's a lady."

"You have a sugar glider."

"I have Momo. She's not just any sugar glider. She's the most perfect sugar glider in the history of sugar gliders."

As if hearing her cue, Momo shifts slightly in his palms, studying you with what can only be described as deep suspicion.

"Can I…" you start, then stop. "Is she friendly?"

"She's cautious with new people, but she's never actually bitten anyone. Well, except that one time with my neighbor, but he deserved it."

"What did your neighbor do?"

"Tried to pet her without permission. Momo has very strong opinions about consent."

You extend one finger slowly, and Momo sniffs it delicately, her tiny nose twitching as she processes your scent.

After a moment of consideration, she pulls back and immediately scurries up Hoseok's arm to perch on his shoulder, as far from you as possible.

"Well," you say, trying to keep your voice casual, "that's… fine. I don't care if a rodent likes me or not."

"She's a marsupial, actually. And she just needs time to warm up to new people."

"I said I don't care."

But there's something distinctly annoying about being rejected by something the size of a hamster.

You're a perfectly likeable person. You've never done anything to offend small mammals.

"She's very discerning," Hoseok says, clearly trying not to laugh at your obvious wounded pride. "High standards."

"So you rescued a sugar glider."

"I rescued the most perfect sugar glider."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true. Look at her little hands! And her tail! And the way she tilts her head when she's thinking!"

You look at him instead—at the way his entire face lights up when he talks about Momo, the gentle way he cradles her, the obvious pride in his voice.

This is a side of Hoseok you've never seen before, tender and protective and completely unguarded.

It's dangerous how much you like it.

"She's nocturnal," he continues, settling onto the couch beside you with Momo still in his hands. "So she's most active when I'm working late. She keeps me company during those long drawing sessions."

"Does she approve of your career choices?"

"She's very supportive of the arts. Aren't you, princess?"

Momo makes a soft chittering sound that might be agreement or might be a request for food.

Either way, you can't deny it's adorable.

"How long have you had her?"

"About eighteen months. She was really skittish at first—wouldn't let me touch her for weeks. But now…" He strokes her tiny back with one finger. "Now she's spoiled rotten."

You watch as Momo climbs onto his shoulder, then leaps gracefully to the back of the couch. The movement is so fluid it barely registers as motion—one second she's with Hoseok, the next she's exploring the cushions near your head.

"She's showing off," he says fondly. "She likes to glide around the apartment when she's skittish."

"Glide?"

"Sugar gliders have these membranes between their legs—see? She can glide from the bookshelf to the couch, couch to the desk, basically anywhere she wants to go. It's like having a tiny flying squirrel roommate."

As if to demonstrate, Momo launches herself from the couch back to Hoseok's shoulder, the movement so quick and graceful you barely catch it.

"That's incredible."

"I know. She's basically a superhero. A tiny, adorable superhero who costs me a fortune in specialized food and vet bills."

The beer is wearing off, leaving you feeling suddenly, acutely sober.

Clear-headed enough to realize what you've gotten yourself into tonight—agreeing to pose for Hoseok's hentai manga, coming to his apartment, letting yourself get charmed by his ridiculous pet.

"Ott," you say carefully.

"Yeah?"

"I was drunk earlier. When I said I'd… help with your reference situation."

His face doesn't change, but something shifts in his posture.

"How drunk?"

"Drunk enough to suggest something stupid."

"And now?"

"Now I'm sober enough to know it was stupid."

He's quiet for a moment, watching Momo explore the couch cushions.

When he speaks, his voice is casual in a way that doesn't fool either of you. "Too late, Capy. I'm already planning our first session."

"Hoseok—"

"Think about it. Professional artistic collaboration between old friends. Very sophisticated. Very mature."

"Nothing about this situation is mature."

"I'm hurt. Deeply wounded by your lack of faith in my professionalism."

Despite yourself, you feel a smile tugging at your lips. "Your professionalism in drawing pornographic manga."

"Adult-oriented sequential art with emotional depth and realistic character development."

"You keep saying that like it makes it sound more legitimate."

"Because it is more legitimate. You'll see when we start working together."

The assumption in his voice—that you will, in fact, go through with this insane arrangement—should annoy you.

Instead, it makes something flutter in your chest that you absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

"I didn't actually agree to anything," you say, but the protest sounds weak even to you.

"You suggested it. I accepted. Contract sealed."

"That's not how contracts work."

"It's how friendship contracts work."

Friendship contracts.

As if you're still twelve and sealing deals with pinky promises and shared secrets.

Except you're not twelve anymore, and this isn't about friendship.

Or maybe it is, and that's what makes it dangerous.

"I should get going," you say, making no move to actually leave.

"It's late. Train's probably stopped running."

"It's not even eleven."

"But you're comfortable now. Look, Momo likes you."

You glance down to find the sugar glider eyeing you from the floor.

"She's still giving me the cold shoulder."

"She usually hides when strangers are here, so this is actually progress."

"Great. I've been upgraded from 'immediate threat' to 'tolerable presence.'"

"It's a very exclusive club. You should feel honored. You've basically been officially approved for apartment privileges."

"What kind of privileges?"

"Sleeping on the couch when you're too tired to go home. Raiding my refrigerator. Critiquing my life choices in person instead of via text."

The casual way he lists these domestic intimacies makes your chest tight.

Like he's already decided you belong here, in his chaos, part of his routine.

"I'm not sleeping on your couch, Ott."

"Why not? It's surprisingly comfortable. And I'll be in my room working when you get lonely and need someone to bother."

"I don't get lonely."

He gives you a look that suggests he sees right through that particular lie.

"Fine," you say, because arguing seems more exhausting than just giving in. "Now shut up and give me another beer."

"Can't. You said you're sober now. Can't have you making any more questionable decisions."

"I make excellent decisions."

"Says the woman who just agreed to sleep on a stranger's couch."

"You're not a stranger. You're Ott. Annoying but familiar."

He grins at that, wide and pleased, like being called annoying is the highest compliment you could give him.

And maybe, in your particular language, it is.

goal: 100 notes.

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multifandomfangirl93 · 5 months ago

Text

Your awake- Buddie x reader

Summary: Storms, nightmares, and bubble baths.

Warnings: PTSD mentioned, nightmares, EXTREMELY CUTE Christopher Diaz (cause you may just melt man), 🤏🏼911 spoiler

Authors note: The prompt senerio winner: nightmare comfort

🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨

It’s been a little over a year. You’d think that you’d be over it by now. Buck was back. He was back at work, fully present and over the side effects of the lightening strike, and everyone has gone through therapy for it. You should be fine.

Tonight, you went to bed as normal. You were between the boys, wrapped tightly in their embrace. Buck had you tucked into his chest as the thunderstorms continued on outside. This had been the worst storm that LA has had since that night, so it was almost expected for the three of you to be shaken up by the bright bolts of lightening and the deep rumbling of thunder.

It took you a while to get to sleep. Eddie had drifted off first. He normally liked thunderstorms. The pitter patter of rain on the windows and the low rumbles of thunder soothed him. As long as he had you and Buck indoors, he had no worries. You and Buck drifted off together as the storm died down. You were both tired, but extremely jumpy when lightning would strike. The thunder didn’t really bother either of you, but the lightening still had a hold on you.

A few hours later, the boys woke to you screaming for Buck. You had rolled onto your back as some point, out of Buck’s grip, and Eddie had rolled to face the door as he normally did when he fell asleep. You jerked, screaming Buck’s name at the top of your lungs just like you did that night as you watched Eddie climb the latter as fast as he could to get Buck while Bobby and Hen held you back on the ground.

“Y/n!” Buck said urgently, sitting up as Eddie turned on the light. “Baby. Hey. It’s alright. I’m here.” Buck said, smoothing your hair back and off of your sweat soaked face. He placed his other hand on your shoulder, but you jerked away, bucking into Eddie as he gently held your hips down.

“Esta bien mi amor. Esta bien cariño. [Its okay my love. It’s okay sweetie] ” Eddie whispered, getting low on the bed to get close to your ear. He didn’t want to force you awake and disorient you further, but your thrashing was becoming harsh and so was your breathing.

“Baby please. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m right here.” Buck begged, holding your shoulders lightly as he drew circles on your clavicle with his thumbs. “Open your eyes sweetheart. Come on baby.” Buck muttered, pressing his thumbs a bit harder to try to rouse you.

You gasped, scrambling up toward the headboard with one last scream of Buck’s name. You jerked your head around, searching the room with wild eyes as you tried to get your bearings. You muttered softly to yourself, curling into a ball and rocking yourself back and forth.

“Hey baby. You with us?” Eddie asked, coming a little closer to hear what you were muttering.

“197 seconds. 197 seconds. 197 seconds.” You kept repeating, rocking back and forth with tears steadily streaming down your face.

Eddie’s heart broke as he heard your muttered words. 197 seconds. 3 minutes and 17 seconds. That’s how long Buck was declared dead for. An awful 197 seconds.

“Sweetheart. I’m here. I’m right here.” Buck said, trying to catch your eyes.

“Dad? Pops? Is mom okay?” Chris asked, sleepily leaning against the doorframe. He didn’t have his crutches, having done his best to hurry toward his parent’s room when he heard the scream. He squinted as he tried to look past his dads, without his glasses, wearily eyeing the glimpse he had of your shaking form.

“Hey mijo. Go back to bed.” Eddie said, looking over his shoulder as he leaned into Chris’ view to hide your distressed body. “Mom had a bad dream. It’s alright now.” Eddie reassured.

“M-maybe she needs a bubble bath.” Chris suggested, shrugging his shoulders as he turned around to head back to his room. The only way Chris would calm down after a nightmare was having a bubble bath. Even after the tsunami, as long as there were plenty of bubbles in the bath, he would instantly calm down.

Eddie sighed, smiling gently as he watched his son’s retreating form. The three of you have raised a good kid. Buck quietly talked to you, finally getting you to stop rocking, as you allow him to hold your hand. You were still muttering and shaking as you panted out the words. Sweat soaked your neck and back when Eddie placed a gently hand between your shoulder blades.

“Babe. I think I’m gonna run her a bubble bath. You got this?” Eddie asked, leaning over you to kiss Buck on the forehead. Buck as a wreck. He kept it out of his voice and face, but his eyes told Eddie all he needed to know.

Buck nodded and watched Eddie slide off the bed. Once he disappeared into the en-suite, Buck turned back to you. “Hey baby. Look at me Angel. Let me see those eyes.” Buck whispered, taking the hand that had been holding you steady at the shoulder to gently tilt your head his way. Once you made eye contact, you crumpled, finally registering who was holding onto you. You sobbed loudly, throwing yourself into Buck’s chest. “I know. I know. I’m here. Shhhh it’s all okay now.” Buck whispered, gently kissing the top of your head.

“Buck.” You gasped over and over, wiggling and practically squeezing yourself as close to him as you could. In the back of your mind, you were terrified Buck would suddenly disappear. You hoped and prayed that you were awake and this was your reality. Buck holding you and speaking gently to you in your shared room on your shared bed.

“Sh sh sh. I’m here. I’m here. You're awake. It’s over.” Buck soothed, kissing the side of your head as Eddie stepped back into the room. He stopped short and leaned his shoulder into the doorframe as he observed the way you and Buck were wrapped around each other. Buck and Eddie locked eyes. In that moment, Eddie knew Buck needed to handle this, so he stepped out into the dark hallway to check and make sure Christopher was back in bed.

You couldn’t stop the tears as they poured down your face, soaking Buck’s pajama shirt. You had fistfuls of the fabric, clinging to him like he would disappear. You could almost feel the rain on your face. You could still smell the rain, the fumes emitting from the fire trucks, the smell of your team as they held you back, the antiseptic smell of the hospital, and the lingering smell of Buck’s charred skin and hairs. You choked, causing Buck to pat your back like he was saving a choking child. Eventually he pulled you back to force your eyes to meet his.

“Hey. Look at me.” Buck pled, holding your face in his hands. “Look at me baby. Open your eyes.” Buck instructed, waiting for you to comply. When you did, he sweetly smiled at you. “There you are. I’m here. Breathe. Just breathe for me, yeah?” He encouraged, taking slow, deep breaths for you to follow.

You nodded, trying your best to follow. You tried pulling yourself back into Buck’s chest, chasing after his scent, but he held you in place. “I-I can s-smell it.” You shuddered, a jolt going through your body. You repressed a gag, your body responding to the rush of adrenaline and the phantom smells.

Buck nodded. He thinks he understood what you meant. The same thing happened when he had nightmares of Eddie’s shooting, the tsunami, and the bombing. “Okay baby. It’s okay.” Buck said, pulling you to the side of the bed and carrying you into the bathroom. The room was filled with the scent of his body wash and he smirked at the realization. Eddie knew exactly what you needed.

Eddie walked in as Buck sat with you on the floor next to the toilet, just incase. “Whoa. We good?” Eddie asked, leaning over to shut the faucet off before kneeling next to his partners.

“Feeling a bit iffy I think.” Buck said, rubbing your back as you leaned into him. “Think PTSD” Buck mouthed over your head to Eddie. Buck only had his suspicions and the vague words you spoke to him, but he was sure he knew what was happening. If it was anything like what he had experienced, he knows you are possibly fighting a losing battle.

“Hey cariño. Esta bein.[Hey sweetie. It’s okay.]” Eddie whispered, kissing the back of your head. He could feel you break out into a cold sweat and squeezed his eyes shut, praying that you could keep control of your body for your own sake.

You shuddered, gulping and taking measured breaths. A wave of nausea rolled through your body, but never reached the surface as you focused on the hands that were on you, Eddie muttering in Spanish, Buck hushing you with gentle words and the softest of caresses. You were awake. You were awake in Buck’s arms. Eventually, you relaxed, repeating to yourself that you were awake. This was real.

When Buck noticed that you were becoming limp in his arms, he shifted and dipped a hand in the bath water. “Hey baby. Let’s get you in the bath, hmm? It’s nice and warm.” Buck whispered, kissing your head. Your head was colder than normal, the drying sweat cooling your body more than it should. Buck was worried you were in shock.

You nodded and let Eddie pull you into a sitting position in Buck’s lap. Eddie pulled his army shirt off of you and tossed it into the laundry basket by the closet door. He helped you stand and held you close as Buck pulled your underwear off your shaking legs. Eddie gently lifted you and placed you into the tub, kissing your forehead with a gently smile on his lips. Turning, Eddie kissed Buck’s check after whispering something to him and left.

Buck stood, sitting on the edge of the tub, leaning against the wall. You put your head against the side of his thigh, smiling as he put his hand in your hair and gently scratched your scalp once he removed your hair tie. “Eddie is getting us some water and a popsicle for you to help calm you down. Wanna sit here for a few minutes before I wash your hair and get you back in bed?” Buck asked, lightly pulling your hair back to force your eyes to meet his. He was gentle, only pulling enough to tilt your head in his direction, which you willingly did.

You smiled and nodded, sinking into the water with a sigh. It was a little cooler than you normally liked it, but you had wasted a few minutes on the floor. When Eddie stepped in with a pedialyte popsicle, you were starting to fully relax. Eddie kneeled, resting his head and arm over Buck’s lap as he gently fed you the hydrating ice pop. He didn’t want you to have to move, but he knows popsicles help calm you, plus you needed to rehydrate after all the sweat and tears. Once the popsicle was gone, Eddie left again, telling Buck to get you situated while he changed the sweat soaked sheets.

Buck hummed, eyes half lidded as he watched Eddie walk away, admiring his physique. Buck turned to you once Eddie was gone and smiled as you soaked, head still firmly planted into the side of his thigh. He hated to break the tranquil air, but he knew the water had to be turning cold. “Alright sweetheart. Let’s give your hair a wash and get you back in bed.” Buck whispered, barely bursting the bubble of peace as he shifted to have better access. He was gentle, but quick and efficient as he washed your hair. He made sure not to pull and opted to use your leave in conditioner instead of rinsing your hair again. When it was time to rinse, he unplugged the drain and used the shower head to avoid more soap getting into your hair from the still sudsy water.

When Eddie heard the water turn off, he walked in and grabbed your towel, taking you into his arms as Buck grabbed your leave in conditioner and detangling brush. Eddie gently dried you off and held you in his lap as Buck massaged the conditioner in and grabbed your microfiber towel. Buck gently pulled your hair brush through your hair as you laid in Eddie’s chest, legs wrapped around his waist and face pressed into his neck. You hummed when Buck gently brushed over your scalp, enjoying the feeling it gave you. By the time he was done brushing your hair, you were mostly asleep. Eddie let Buck carry you back to your freshly made bed before helping put Buck’s favorite Henley and some underwear on your sleepy form. Once you were settled on Buck’s chest in bed, Eddie made quick work of wringing your hair dry and braiding it before he turned off the light and laid down. Eddie prays once more, asking God to keep you, Buck, and Christopher nightmare free for the remainder of the night and finally falls back to sleep when he hears your soft snores mixed with Buck’s.

🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨

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workersolidarity · 1 year ago

Text

[ 📹 Scenes from renewed airstrikes by the Israeli occupation army targeting the town of Beit Hanoun, in the northern Gaza Strip, where a huge tower of smoke and dust rises over the city. ]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🏘️💥🚑 🚨

209 DAYS OF GENOCIDE IN GAZA AS ISRAELI OCCUPATION CONSIDER ALTERNATIVES TO RAFAH INVASION

On 209th day of "Israel's" ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed a total of 3 new massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of no less than 28 Palestinian civilians, mostly women and children, while another 51 others were wounded over the previous 24-hours.

It should be noted that as a result of the constant Israeli bombardment of Gaza's healthcare system, infrastructure, residential and commercial buildings, local paramedic and civil defense crews are unable to reach countless hundreds, even thousands of victims who remain trapped under the rubble, or who's bodies remain strewn across the streets of Gaza.

This leaves the official death toll vastly undercounted as Gaza's healthcare officials are unable to accurately tally those killed and maimed in this genocide, which must be kept in mind while considering the scale of the mass murder.

As a result of the genocide of Palestinians by the Israel occupation army, Colombia's President, Gustavo Petro, has announced his administration will sever diplomatic ties with the Israeli entity.

The Colombian President made the announcement as part of the country's annual Labor Day celebrations, during which President Petro said that the Republic of Colombia would sever all diplomatic ties with the Israeli occupation on Thursday, due to the Netanyahu administration's tendency for genocide. President Petro further called the Israeli Prime Minister himself a "perpetrator of genocide".

In other news, the Israeli occupation's Security Service may be considering alternatives to the Rafah operation, an Israeli plan to invade Gaza's southern city of Rafah, where over a million Palestinian civilians have taken shelter in tent cities under the direction of the Israeli occupation army, in order to complete the supposed defeat of Hamas.

According to a report in the Palestinian news outlet, SAMA News Agency, the Israeli occupation's Security Services are deliberating on alternatives to a full-scale invasion of Rafah due to intense international pressure and outcry over a potential operation in the last city standing in the Palestinian enclave.

More than 1.4 million Palestinians have gathered in Rafah's tent cities, most having left their homes in northern Gaza following the start of the genocide, under the direction of the Israeli occupation army who told civilians the city was to be a "safe zone".

Since then, the Israeli occupation forces have repeatedly bombed and shelled the city, including, at times, the tents of civilians.

The report states that the Israeli Security Services considers that, "“in all cases, a focused military operation must be carried out on the Philadelphia axis” on the border between the Gaza Strip and Egypt, under the supposed claim of “preventing smuggling routes for Hamas.”

The report added that the Security Services were also monitoring a "completely unusual" deployment of the Egyptian army near the border with Gaza, attributing the deployment to Egyptian fears that large numbers of Palestinians could stream across the border in the case of an Israeli assault on Rafah.

The Israeli Security Services said Egyptian army had deployed to areas where they previously had only Egyptian Police forces, which added army forces widely deployed with armored vehicles near the border.

The Security Services went on to say that Israeli army officers were preparing for a scenario similar to the 2012 operation, in which Palestinian mujahideen left Gaza for the Egyptian Sinai, seizing an armored vehicle before storming the Israeli border.

The report added that Israeli Security Services were considering a complete withdrawal from the Netzarim axis, seperating the northern and southern halves of Gaza, which constitutes a "heavy price" that the Israeli occupation was willing to pay as part of a hostage exchange deal with the Hamas Resistance movement. This despite continued Israeli calls for the "complete destruction" of the Hamas movement.

In further news, a number of American congressional Democrats signed a letter to US President Joe Biden, calling on the President to influence the Israeli occupation into not conducting an operation to invade the city of Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip.

57 out of 212 Congressional Democrats signed the letter, asking the Biden administration to take all necessary measures to dissuade the Israeli entity's Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, from launching a full-scale invasion of Rafah.

"We urge you to invoke existing law and policy to immediately withhold certain offensive military aid to the Israeli government, including aid sourced from legislation already signed into law, in order to preempt a full-scale assault on Rafah," Democrats said in the letter.

The letter continued by saying, "an Israeli offensive in Rafah risks the start of yet another escalatory spiral, immediately putting the region back on the brink of a broader war that neither Israel nor the United States can afford."

"If the Israeli government will not uphold international law and protect civilians, then the United States must act to protect innocent life. We urge you to continue your work toward achieving a lasting ceasefire that will bring hostages home and build a path toward safety and security for all."

Meanwhile, the occupation's slaughter in Gaza slowed during negotiations for a hostage exchange deal, but did not stop, as several bombings targeted various sectors of the Gaza Strip, including the north, south and central axis.

In one example, Israeli occupation warplanes bombed a residential home in the Nuseirat Refugee Camp, in the central Gaza Strip on Wednesday evening, martyring a civilian and wounding at least 5 others.

Video published by the Palestinian Red Crescent Society (PRCS) showed the recovery of the dead and wounded, including women and children, while massive destruction was evident resulting from the strike.

In the video, PRCS crew members can be seen filling black plastic body bags, including at least one with a very small body, likely a young child.

At the same time, Zionist artillery shelling targeted a residential house in the Al-Fukhari area, killing a woman, while occupation fighter jets bombed a residential building in the "Six-Martyrs" neighborhood of the central Jabalia Refugee Camp, in Gaza's north.

Occupation jets also bombarded the town of Al-Mughraqa, while also shelling the headquarters for an electricity distribution company in Al-Zawaida, both in the central Gaza Strip.

The Barracks at the entrance of Al-Zawaida were also targeted in a bombing, resulting in a number of casualties.

By dawn, the bombing and shelling was renewed when occupation warplanes bombed the city of Al-Zahra'a, north of the Nuseirat Camp, in central Gaza, killing at least 6 civilians, while yet another bombing targeted the northwest of the Nuseirat Camp, after which, paramedic and civil defense crews removed the bodies of three civilians killed in the strike.

IOF warplanes further bombed agricultural lands near the Ard al-Mufti police station in the Nuseirat Camp, wounding 9 civilians and damaging several homes.

Elsewhere, Zionist air forces bombarded the Qaa al-Qurain area, southeast of Khan Yunis, in Gaza's south, murdering yet another civilian and wounding several others.

Occupation aircraft also bombarded the Bani Suhaila, Abasan, and al-Kuzha'a neighborhoods, east of Khan Yunis.

Local civil defense crews in the Khan Yunis Governate announced that they had recovered the bodies of 6 civilians of various ages, killed in bombings targeting the Camp area of Khan Yunis .

In yet another atrocity, occupation warplanes bombed a residential building belonging to the Ishteiwi family, in the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, southeast of Gaza City, resulting in the deaths of two Palestinians and wounding a number of others, while several other Palestinians remain missing under the rubble.

IOF fighter jets also targeted a residential home in the Al-Shujaiya neighborhood, east of Gaza City, while another bombing of the Wadi Al-Arayes area, east of the Shuja'iyya neighborhood, resulted in the deaths of two civilians who were taken to the Baptist Hospital.

A group of civilians were also targeted in an airstrike in the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, southeast of Gaza City.

Occupation forces also continued to bomb the Sheikh Ajlin, Tal al-Hawa, and Al-Zaytoun neighborhoods of Gaza City.

The Israeli occupation additionally targeted the tents of displaced civilian families in the city of Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip, while also bombing the town of Al-Shoka and the Al-Tanour neighborhood, east of Rafah City, resulting in the death of one civilian and the wounding of many others.

As a result of "Israel's" ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the death toll among the local population has risen further still, now exceeding 34'596 Palestinians killed, including over 14'690 children and 9'680 women, while another 77'816 others were wounded since the start of the current round of Zionist aggression, beginning with the events of October 7th, 2023.

May 2nd, 2024.

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