sergioaguirrejr

[cherryheairt]

Hidden Truths pt.2

Cregan x wife!reader

named reader no description, from house Glover

masterlist

part 1

thank y'all so much for the kind words and eagerness to see this part. Please forgive me for not replying to all asks being sent to inbox, you'll understand with the chap lol. The pressure was so real I had planned to write other things between pt 1 and 2 but I dropped everything to do this between work and sleep lol

changed the og ending because so many people thought it would be more fitting and I agreed lol

anon pointed out my mistake on glover and bolton im so sorry for that confusion yall it is meant to be glover originally. i made too many mistakes im a mess rn

Ernest makes it to Cregan's solar first, Ron not far on his heels. Panting, the younger speaks up first when Cregan Stark shoots them a bewildered look whilst hunched over his oak desk.

"Was Lady Stark due for some business today, My Lord?" He asked, catching his breath as Cregan sat up in his seat, attention fully on the guards.

"Not any that I'm aware of. Where is my wife?" He asked, glancing outside of his small window to the blistering storm outside. There was no way she would be anywhere except her chambers—not after he caught her soothing Brandon to sleep. The sight had melted his heart immediately, glad to see his wife finally finding it in her to go see him, to give him a chance.

Though, he could not blame her, of course. He could still remember the day he brought the Stark babe home, and how he dreaded the meet throughout his months of journeying home to Winterfell.

Aelys had been on the forefront of his mind, even through the slimy politicking of King's Landing. The wait was only made ever longer by the fact that the party Cregan traveled North with had to wait until Brandon was old enough to travel, too. Moons went by painstakingly slow, and Cregan moved to load the carriage for the boy as soon as the Maester gave his word that Bran would not be suseptible to the outdoors during long durations on the road.

Cregan dismounted his grey mare, patting her on the neck in thanks before the stable boy guided her back to her designated place. With a tense sigh, he rolled his shoulders and opened the carriage door that held Brandon and his new wet nurse. Sara, his older sister, would join the family in a few short weeks while she continued her stay at the Blackwood's. He wished she was here to console his wife in the coming days. Gods know that he cannot, not when the news of his betrayal had to come from his own mouth. As he promised himself it should be. The sinner should say his own penance, no one else. A Stark is a slave to his oaths.

Thanking Greya kindly, Cregan picked up Bran in his arms. His onyx black curls shifted against the crook of his arm as he shifted the babe to be held better. The four moon-old babe fussed as he was removed from the woman's comforting hold. As if was, Cregan was more of a stranger to the young babe than his wet nurse was. Unfortunately, the Lord had not spent the amount of time with him as he knew he should have. The thoughts and guilt racked up in his mind and burned at the back of his throat every day, leaving Cregan to promise himself that in Winterfell he would spend more time with him.

Another promise for the list.

Cregan stepped through the courtyard's archway, holding his breath as he watched his beautiful wife standing by the Keep's doors, shivering but still insisting that she come out to meet her husband. Her smile was as lovely and bright as he remembered, a much more contented and relieved smile than she had sent him off to battle with. That day, she could hardly stifle her tears back as she hugged him 'goodbye'. He felt quite the same. Cregan would never leave for Southern business again, not in his lifetime. Once had been enough to last generations, though he was sure the Stark family would not go too long before being summoned again.

Her face shifted from joy to confusion in a matter of seconds. As Cregan continued straight towards her, Bran bundled up in so many wools and pelts that it entirely engulfed the babe. She lifted her skirts to step down to meet him. Originally, Cregan had wished to scoop her up in his arms and place a sweet kiss on her cold lips, but the bundle between them prevented such things. He could not greet her so sweetly and then present the bastard to her. Ripping the bandage off a fresh wound, Cregan would not be deceitful for longer than he had been during his moons of silence in the South.

"Husband," She smiled, reaching out to touch his chilled face, pink in the cheeks and ears from exposure. "You should come inside. A feast has been prepared for you—and your men, of course." She was antsy on her feet, eager to get inside to proper reunite with her husband, no bystanders gawking.

Speaking of bystanders—Cregan's entire party had separated and dispersed around the courtyard. They met their own wives, parents, or children as they laughed and conversed. Though, the loud and joyous clamor soon died down when whispers had been spread around by those who already knew of Cregan's boy. Wives that knew Aelys well stared in pity, clutching their shawls to their chests and shaking their heads quietly at their Lord.

He fought the urge to hang his head.

She had not yet seen the babe, only the cloth surrounding him.

"Cregan?" She whispered, tilting her head with concerned eyes. "What is wrong?" His sweet, sweet wife. Her first priority had been him over anything since the days of their honeymoon—the days she had confessed to be extremely anxious about during their courtship. She was a Northern woman herself, hardened and shaped like an ice sculpture but retaining her warm heart and spirit. Cregan had intimidated her greatly, according to her giggling confession, and she had feared he may be a cruel and selfish man since he could easily do as he wished to his Lady wife. He proved her wrong, apparently, getting to know his wife throughout their private honeymoon. They had a bond like no other, always at each other's side and filling in for the weaknesses of the other during their duties as leaders.

Cregan's brow furrowed deep, blinking away as he felt his nose start to sting.

Only then, when his glossy eyes met hers silently, did she glance down to the cloths. Slowly reaching up a shaky, gloved hand adjusted the pelts so she could peer past them. Gasping at the pale babe, Aelys' eyes sharply met his. A million thoughts raced through her head, clearly showing in her facial expressions. Not assuming the worst, as she probably should have done, Aelys asked, "has one of your men died? Is this babe an orphan?" Always so trusting of her Lord husband, something Cregan had admired and was eternally grateful for throughout their marriage.

"Aelys..." He cleared his throat when his voice came out much too quiet and hoarse. "This is my son." He declared to her, and to the onlooking crowd who did not bother hiding scandalized gasps.

Her eyes blinked in rapid succession, shaking her head lightly and smiling. "Don't jest, Cregan. We have no son."

His silence met her words. When he did not cave and admit to messing with his wife, Aelys shook her head more firmly. "No." She said, whispering. Her eyes clamped shut as she breathed in and out deeply, only opening to glance down at the babe, scrutinizing its appearing and comparing every freckle to Cregan's. "Don't do this to me, please. You would never do this to me." Her words were nearly lost to the air.

"It was one time, I swear it on my honor and Stark name." Cregan told her.

"On your name?" She harshly bit, stepping away from Cregan as if he had burned her. "Your honor? You swore on your honor the day we said our vows under the Weirwood tree. Under OUR Gods. Did that mean nothing to you? Did I—" She gasped out, covering her mouth with the back of her hand and clutching her stomach. A choking sob rippled through her, and Greya stepped forward to gingerly take Brandon from Cregan's grasp. His arms fell to his side, clenching as he stopped himself from holding his wife in comfort. She could find no solace in the man who hurt her so.

"I thought you wished to wait. You told me you wanted it, too. Was it just not me you wanted a family with?" She asked, cranking her neck up to look at her shameful husband.

"Aelys, I did—I do!" He started, stepping forward to wipe a hot tear from her cheek.

Flinching away from his touch, she looked up at him with the same mistrust and solemn acceptance that he found in a dying prey's eyes. Suddenly, Aelys looked to become aware of the crowd. Glancing around self-consciously, she straightened herself upright like the people expected of a Lady Stark. "The feast is growing cold. Enjoy it while it's warm." She loudly adressed the weary party and their families, who awkwardly moved to shuffle inside the dining hall. With a final glance past Cregan's shoulder to the wet nurse, Aelys was gone.

Seeing the shared glances of horror between the two, Cregan cleared his throat. "Where is my wife, boys?"

Ernest swallowed harshly, not daring to look him in the eye. "She—she said that she 'ad business in Winter Town. That you approved of it, I swear!"

Ron nodded so quickly that his head of curls messed about and framed his face further. The snow still on their heads and shoulders had now melted in the warmth of the Great Keep, reminding Cregan of the harsh weather the guards had to bear all day. They were trained and honed for such conditions, Aelys was not.

"Yes, Lord Stark! We couldn't disobey our Lady's words." He insisted.

"You think I'd make my wife go settle business in Winter Town during a blizzard?" He growled out, standing from his seat and storming between them to his doorway, where he turned on them and saw them both flinch in shock. "Which way did she go?"

"Uhm..." they shared another glance. "She said Winter Town, Lord Stark. What other way would she have gone?"

Cursing, Cregan grabbed Ice and lifted the great sword to his shoulder. He left without another word to anybody, knowing every second counted when it came to finding her. "Bloody fools." He scoffed to himself, mind turning and thinking of places she might head to.

Clearly, not Winter Town. She had no business there, not that he knew of, and although they had not been speaking these past moons he still oversaw all of her duties as Lady. Though, her reports of dealings and responsibilities was done through the Maester rather than her own mouth. A middleman, the poor elder had become. Cregan endured the silence without complaint, knowing his own actions brought it upon him.

His actions brought her further away from him than he perhaps estimated. He knew the babe would tear a rift in their relationship, and knew it would take a long time before they could even begin to mend it—but he never wanted it to go this far.

Back to her childhood home, to the Glovers in the Motte? Or, perhaps she found a secret lover that would meet her in the storm like a destined and tragic fairytale. He would not blame her for seeking love in another, though his never faded.

His quickened pace was only interrupted by Sara. "What is the rush for, brother?" The elder woman asked, dark brows furrowed with concern. Other the past four moons she had gained her strength back, looking the picture of health now that she was back home and recovering. Cregan could barely meet her gaze, looking between her and the doors ahead.

"My wife is gone." He told her honestly, shifting impaitiently in place. "I don't know where to, but I'm going to search for her."

Sara's dark eyes saddened, face scrunching up in grief. "This is my fault. I should have—"

Cregan stopped her immediately, taking her firmly by the shoulders and dipping his neck down to level himself. "No. It is mine alone. I made the choice to do this, I shall face the consequences of my actions."

"Cregan..." she sniffed, but did not allow tears to fall so easily.

"I'll be back." He promised. "With my wife."

Was she running away?

Cregan swung open the Great Keep's door, blinking staggardly at the wind gust that slammed into him. Not bothing to close it behind him, Cregan stormed to the stables and tacked his horse up. In a matter of minutes he was off and out of Winterfell's expansive walls.

His only option was to head towards Glover territory. It was a two days ride normally, but the storm would make it double or perhaps longer. She would not be far ahead, not even two hours ahead of Cregan and unknowing of how close he might be on her trail.

There were not even hoofprints left in her wake. The snow immediately covered all tracks and left only pristine fields of white powdery frost.

He would not know where she was until he spotted her amongst the white. Cobalt, her black stallion, was sure to stand out within close enough distance.

Until he did see her, he could only wait.

And it was exactly that; a waiting game. Cregan took only three days to reach the Deepwood Motte, faster than he anticipated. He was weary and exhausted, but still pumping with adrenaline and awake off sheer will. Here, in the safe walls of Harriston Glover's keep, his mare could finally have more than a few measly hours of rest, as well as food and water.

His fingers and toes burned with the edges of frostbite. Even in his thick protective gear, he was not entirely safe. The few, small fires that he built for himself in the cold nights gave him only a semblance of warmth. Each step felt like five as his vision blurred and weaned in and out. He steadied himself on a pole, waiting for his father-in-law to come downstairs to greet him. And, if luck be on his side, his Lady wife.

He owed more than an apology.

Harriston was a stern man, though not unreasonable. He loved his children and ensured they had only the best; education, caretakers, spouses. His eldest two children married long before Aelys was even of age to be wed, both men marrying Northern girls that they'd grown up with. When it came to his youngest and only girl, the man knew Lord Stark would be a most auspicious match. The Houses had long been friends and allies, and keeping the tradition of partnership thriving through marriage was no strange thing. He'd been even happier when Aelys wrote to him weekly, describing how enchanted she had been with her new husband and thanking him profusely for giving her a blessed match.

Now, the greyed man stood in front of Cregan with a deepset frown and a fierce look in his eyes. "Lord Stark. I thought you'd be busy in Winterfell."

Cregan cleared his throat, focusing on him intently. It made sense that the man was cross with him, especially after he assumed that Aelys had sent him a few lengthy letters telling of Cregan's infidelity. "I came to see my wife, and to bring her back home."

Harriston huffed a sarcastic laugh. "You send her back home, only to come yourself first?" He gestured around with his arms up.

Cregan tensed, "first? Is Aelys not already here?"

Lord Glover matched in his seriousness. "Aelys wrote to me three days ago, informing me that you had sent her here to be away from danger."

"I did not send her anywhere."

"You mean you do not know where my daughter is?" He asked, voice low and firm as he stepped closer. Though Harriston was a fine swordsman and a battle-worn fighter, Cregan did not fear the Lord's wrath, for he could easily best him in combat.

He did, however, have the brains to fear a furious father's vengeance.

His heart nearly beat out of his chest. "And she stated that she was on her way here?"

"I think I know what she said, boy." Lord Glover hissed. "Where is Aelys?"

"She must still be out there," Cregan murmured breathlessly, turning on his heel and running out of the fort's doors and back out to the stables. Cobalt was in none of them, confirmed to him that Lord Glover was not simply lying and hiding his wife away from him.

Cregan decided to take another horse—one well rested and ready to travel in the packed snow, unlike his own weary mare. Guiding it to the doors where Lord Glover had exited and looked at Cregan with a fear unlike the learned man usually expressed, he asked: Where are the kennels?"

When Aelys left to brave the storm alone, she had not anticipated the sheer unforgivable nature of it. Living in the North her whole life, she'd long grown used to cold weather and hunting for herself. Hunts often lasted days or weeks, being times of comraderie and companionship when out in the wilderness with your people. She had not been hunting in years, much less alone.

The snow had slowed her travel significantly and clouded her navigational judgment. North became South, and East became West after so long of walking. With the skies so darkened, it was even harder to tell the time of day. With every stop she made and every fire that burnt out too quickly for her to be fully warm, Aelys had grown desperate.

She found shelter in a half-conscious act to preserve her on life. Now, curled up with only her fur-lined dress and the pelt she had brought from Winterfell, she could not help but begin to accept that she would die in this cave.

Aelys thought of her life in a few curt thoughts.

She had only lived twenty and two years. She grew up with loving parents and two elder brothers who doted on her greatly. She married Lord Stark of Winterfell, someone who took her heart quicker than she'd ever thought possible. She would die here, alone and cold because of him.

She thought of all the things she had wanted from life. Not much, for a Lord's daughter. Aelys had always wanted love and gave love in return. Trusted perhaps too much and did not gain from it. She wished for children, eventually, and could never have them now. She wished to see the warm deserts of Dorne and the lush gardens of Old Town in her retirement.

Aelys Bolton would not see anything but the North, nothing but the cold snow and frost-tippes trees around. They had grown familiar and warm.

Warm.

She was so warm, now.

Aelys closed her eyes and fell asleep, dreaming of better days.

"You do not wish to return home to a babe in the nursery?" Aelys asked, voice low and humming as Cregan lay beneath her on their shared bed. Most men did, misliking the process of pregnacy but loving the outcome, for it could only serve to benefit them.

"We will have plenty of time for babes when I come back to you." He replied, brushing his lips over her the crown of her head. "What kind of husband would I be if I left you to deal with the struggles of pregnancy and birth all alone?"

"I won't be alone. Sara is staying, too. I will have a sister to keep me company and complain all my grievances about my missing husband to her." She said amusedly.

Cregan paused in his rhythmic stoking of her spine. "Sara has asked to come, my heart."

She paused, too, lifting her head from his chest and squinting at him. "Sara can come down to King's Landing with you, but I cannot?"

He sighed, shaking his head. "She will be staying at the Blackwood's residence at Raventree Hall, not King's Landing. I would never endanger either of you by bringing you to the capitol. She has been offered guest housing by her friend, Alysanne Blackwood, during my time down there."

She huffed, conceding to his words and dropping her head back down, listening again to his ever-steady heartbeat. "Must be nice to see the Riverlands." She said lightly. "I hear they have fields of flowers growing year-round."

"And the permanent smell of fish and mildew." Cregan added with a snort. "You're not missing anything, I swear it to you. Sara and I will be gone for a short period of time. I intend to leave as soon as things are settled and put to rest."

Aelys hummed her quiet acknowledgment. There was no argument to be had, not when Cregan was set to leave in the morning. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell." She said cheekily, though there was plenty truth to the statement. Alone, she would serve as political head to Winterfell and the temporary 'Warden' while Cregan was missing in action. She had her advisors, consisting of Cregan's trusted councilmen, but the hole that she knew would sink itself into her heart already wore her into her.

Cregan laughed at her words, nodding. "Aye, my love, you will do perfectly. I'm sorry to leave you alone for so long, but I have no doubt you'll do great." He said proudly, kissing her nose. She scrunched it up at the ticklish feeling, allowing a girlish giggle to leave her throat.

"Don't be gone too long, husband. Your wife needs you here." She said, tilting her head up to meet his lips.

"I would never dream of it."

The moons passed by with no reprieve for Aelys. As Winterfell's sole head, her days were busy from dawn til dusk. Letters were exchanged sporadically with her husband while he helped Aegon iii ascend to his place on the iron throne.

Until, one day, his letters ceased. It had already been a full year without Cregan Stark, and Aelys was beginning to grow used to the lack of her husband and sister by her side. Routine had grown to be instinct for her, breezing through her duties like she'd done them all her life. The only thing missing was her lover.

Concerned, Aelys checked in with the resident Maester to ensure Cregan's wellbeing.

When he paused, lips pursed and hands clutching at his cane with a stress unlike the calm elder, he rasped out his own fears. "I, too, have received no word from Lord Stark. Though, no news has come of us death in the capitol, so he must simply be occupied."

Occupied at the end of the war? When Aegon had already been named King and all the men put to trial were either declared guilty or innocent? The brunt of the work was over and done with—told by Cregan himself.

So why was he silent for an entire moon?

It was another fortnite before the Stark wrote back to her. The letter was curt and brief.

My dearest Aelys,

Forgive my abrupt silence these past weeks. Please know that you have been on my mind throughout this entire time.

Sara has grown sick in Raventree Hall, and has not been able to travel with the host of men I have sent back home to the North. We will stay behind for another few moons while she is in recovery. I will return to you soon.

With love,

Cregan Stark.

It was shorter than his other letters by many paragraphs, pages even. Cregan left out no details when describing his miserable times in the capitol. Aelys found herself much enjoying his theatrical melodramatic retelling and was rendered bemused by this letter. Still, she continued to lead with no pause for breaks.

Three more moons later, and Cregan wrote that he was mere days away from Winterfell. Without Sara Snow, unfortunately, as she was still not entirely recovered, but his party could be postponed no longer.

Aelys rushed around Winterfell's Keep in a flurry of excitement. She ordered every room to be cleaned spotless, for rations to be saved for days until a feast could be made for their arrival, for hearths to be extra tended to, and for the courtyard to be prepared to clear the way for the host.

Finally, the days of busy bodies floating around the Great Keep came to a stop. The feast was warm and ready at all available tables. The hearths were warm and ready for sleepy heads to rest within the rooms. The tubs were filled with scalding hot water that would warm by the time they were used. Lady Stark stood for hours at the Great Keep's entry stairs in the courtyard.

She wanted to be there exactly when he walked through the archway. Despite the cold biting at her nose, the Lady stood resiliant and tall.

It was nearly in the afternoon when Cregan's party arrived. He came through first, leading as head of the host as any Lord should. A wheelhouse followed, surrounded by a small league of soliders all around it. She bounced on her heels slightly, seeing Cregan dismount from his ride. Though she found herself bemused and slightly hurt when he glanced at her and made his way towards the wheelhouse instead. Had Sara recovered enough to join and perhaps wanted to surprise her good sister? She hoped so, for she had missed her greatly. After growing up with only brothers, Aelys found a best friend and sister in Sara Snow. The whispers about Lady Stark befriending the bastard of Winterfell followed her around like a dark shadow, but she never paid them any mind.

Bastardry had never bothered Aelys before. Not even when she was a woman of noble birth and was taught that bastards were born inherently lustful, evil, and made of sin.

She waited patiently at the top of the steps for Cregan to fetch Sara.

To her surprise, he only pulled out of the carriage with a bundle of clothes in his arms. Pelts and blankets, it seemed. A plainly-dressed woman from the South stepped out after him but stayed trailing behind. A maid of some sort, though she had no clue as to why a Southern maid would need to follow Cregan back to Winterfell.

As he strided towards her, a strange and unhappy look on his face, she forced her anxiety back down her throat and raced to meet him. "Husband," she greeted with a smile. "You should come inside. A feast has been prepared for you—and your men, of course." Reaching out to caress his face and simultaneously brush flecks of snow from his loose hair, she couldn't help but stop to admire her husband's handsome features. It had felt like an eternity that they were separated, and she had begun to forget the full details of his frame. Forgot his scent in the room and his side of the bed. Nearly forgot the warmth that he provided simply from standing nearby.

The very warmth he is giving to her now, in the chilly courtyard.

His eyes appeared to gloss, his nose and cheeks pinking even more so than they had already grown in the biting air. Glancing over Cregan, she assessed quickly for signs of fatigue or illness.

"Cregan?" she asked gently. "What is wrong?" She prayed he did not catch whatever Sara had caught, or hid a wound under his mass of leathers and pelts.

When he shiftly lifted the bundle in his arms to gesture for her to look at it, she finally spared a look to the mysterious ball of cloth. She had completely forgotten about it until now, noticing the maid still behind Cregan a few yards back, head tilted down and looking at her slippers. Peeking over a fur pelt, Aelys gasped at the sight. A babe, only a few moons old by the looks of it. Her mind raced with possibilities. Why would Cregan bring a babe back instead of leaving it in more temperate climates like the Riverlands that he stayed in on the way up North?

"Has one of your men died?" She asked in a hushed tone, assuming first that one of his soldiers perhaps fathered a bastard babe before perishing in a battle or falling to sickness. "Is the babe an orphan?" Cregan did always have a soft spot for younglings, showcased clearly by his time spent personally training young squires of Winterfell. He had lost his own younger brother in their youth, and the hole had never filled from that loss of kin.

"Aelys..." he started, meeting her eyes with a soft and sympathetic look. "This is my son." Was said loud and clear for any listeners to hear.

A jest. Cregan had seldom liked to be humorous in front of crowds, or anyone but herself and Sara, but he must have been in good spirits today. Briefly glancing at the surrounding people, she found only pitiful looks from the women and severe looks from the men. Shaking her head, Aelys forced a smile onto her face and a shaky laugh. "Don't jest, Cregan. We have no son." She emphasized.

He only stared at her back. No words of comfort, no sudden burst of laughter among his men to tell her that the biggest prank in the world had been pulled on her. Just shameless silence.

He had declared her second best in front of all of Winterfell. Her people and his.

"No." She said firmly, shaking her head 'no'. She breathed in and out deeply, trying to clear her blurry eyes and woozy head. Glaring down at the false babe in his arms, she found many similarities that she wished she had not. The same straight brows that Cregan had, the same scattered freckles, the same pale skin. The only difference was the hair color—black as a midnight sky or dragonglass. The mother must be beautiful.

Moving her eyes to the maid behind Cregan, she found that the girl had a mousy blonde color to her tresses. She could not have possibly bore a black-haired babe. She felt sick, like she'd throw up and choke at the same time. "Don't do this to me. You'd never do this to me." She pleaded out, voice small and hoarse.

"It was one time. I swear it on my honor and Stark name." Cregan promised. But every word was like poison, filling her heart with a heavy black liquid and drowning her from the inside out.

"On your name?" She hissed out, uncaring of the onlookers for this one moment. She was allowed to be angry, callous, and spiteful, even. Any self-respecting woman would be. And she'd be damned if she wasn't. Any Stark woman ought to be when ruling over the entire North. Any Glover woman is.

"Your honor? You swore on your honor the day we said our vows under the Weirwood tree. Under OUR Gods! Did that mean nothing to you? Did I—?" Words spilled from her mouth before she can think properly. But she did not regret any of them, knowing she was in the right. Bile rose in her throat, pushing itself past the forced down emotions. She swiftly covered her mouth, stilling herself to prevent any more embarrassing. Subconsciously, she clutched at her empty stomach with her free hand, both mourning the fact that she'd have no children and thanking the Gods for not giving her any previously. A cry finally escaped her lips, watching the plain maid take the babe into her arms again as Cregan looked on helplessly to his wife.

Aelys found her voice again, though it was ragged and tired. "I thought you wished to wait. You told me you wanted it, too." He was a liar, the worst kind of man. "Was it just not me you wanted a family with?"

She'd rather be struck with his hand than his deceitful mouth. It would hurt much less.

"I did, Aelys—I do!" He pleaded, stepping forward to console her. His arms looked like steel traps in her louded mind.

She took a lengthy step back. She would not share his warmth, nor his love. Or his bed, his room, his damned dining room. His children. Not when he had shared it with another woman. Given her his love, his attention, his son.

She could not bear to keep herself calm any longer. Adressing the entire courtyard, who had made themselves the Stark's own personal peanut gallery, she spoke firmly. "The feast is growing cold. Enjoy it while it's warm." Without a second glance back at the Stark, Aelys excused herself to her chambers, where she emptied the contents of her stomach into the chamberpot until she could only dry-heave nothingness. These chambers had not been used since she arrived in Winterfell, instead choosing to sleep and stay in their marital ones. She would not step foot into those again unless she was dragged kicking and screaming.

Aelys awoke to strong arms lifting her from the stone floor. Groggily, she was stirred from her deep and preserving sleep. How long had she been traveling? How long had she been buried under those pelts? Time was a blur when she was in a near comatose state, dead to the world. Limbs were numbed and her body felt warm after so long in the cold weather.

"I've got you, sweet girl. We're going home." A familiar voice rung in the back of her head. Even the jolting movements of a horse trotting could not fully move her to consciousness as she fell back asleep.

When she fully gained her sense of mind, she could clearly hear the sound of two men arguing. The warmth of a hearth was next to her as she lifted heavy blankets and furs off of her body. Glancing around, Aelys found herself back right where it all started. In Cregan's room, formerly their marital chambers that she had long since moved out of. A large oil painting sat over the heart, depicting a newlywed image of her and Cregan. They both smiled brightly in the photo, much to Cregan's complaint that the painting did not make him look 'serious enough'. She only laughed and tipped the painter extra gold dragons for the accuracy.

She loved that painting more than any others they kept in the Great Keep. Now, the two faces looking down at her only served to remind her of the falsehood she lived every day while Cregan was absent. Taking care of Winterfell and the North all by herself, just to come back and be thanked by his uncouth mistakes.

Shakily standing up, she winced at the feeling coming back to her limbs. Wriggling all twenty of her toes and fingers, she ensured they still all had feeling. Miraculously, she did. The numbess still felt vaguely there, and her throat was extremely dry and achy. But at least she was alive. Even if it was back in Winterfell, she could attempt her return to the Motte as soon as the storm died down.

It had been a dreadful blizzard. Not a rare sight in the North, but usually none lasted so long. Aelys could not help but feel it was the Gods punish Cregan and Aelys for their marital spat. Something like this must be so futile and useless in their eyes and the eyes of the people of the realm, but to Aelys it was her world and her life. No one could help Aelys but herself. She'd leave these spoiled halls even if the Old Gods and the New wished otherwise. If Cregan didn't have to keep oaths, why should she?

Opening the large wooden door, Aelys found the source of the faint yelling. Her eyes widened at the sight of her father in front of Cregan, in all his gruff charm with his silver hair and beard. She hadn't seen him in nearly two years. She stayed at the archway under the door, simply listening in as the men shouted further down the hall. If either turned their heads, they would spot her eavesdropping.

"—cannot even keep her safe during Winter! Am I to expect her to stay safe during a wildling attack, or worse? Or will you be prioritizing the safety of your mistress?" Harriston shouted, veins nearly popping out from his forehead and neck in his fury. Snow still gathered on his pelt coat, meaning he had just arrived recently.

"It is my mistake that she was endangered out there—but I would never let such a thing happen again under my protection. This is her home, I cannot allow her to go back to the Dreadfort. She is a Stark." Cregan emphasized, though had a defensive raised tone.

"Was she a Stark when you bed a whore in King's Landing?"

"The situation is more complicated than that." He responded, clenching his jaw.

"Nothing could ever be more complicated than losing your wit at a brothel, Stark. There is no argument to be had. She is staying with her family, where she was intending." Harriston growled out, a tone of finality to his tone. As he swung on his feet to head down the hall, face set in a worried and seething anger, he finally spotted his daughter.

"Aelys!" He yelled in relief, rushing toward her and scooping her up into his thick arms. "We're going home immediately. We will wash our hands of the Starks once and for all."

"I will not allow that." Cregan spoke from behind. As Aelys hugged her father back just as tightly, it was a battle to keep her tears from flowing in his safe arms. She missed her father more than she knew.

Before Harristone could speak, Aelys nodded. "We will settle this." She said flatly. Her father hesitantly let her go, nodding once firmly after seeing the resolve in his daughter's eyes.

"Very well. I will wait in the dining hall for you." He sighed, walking away.

Aelys shivered in the loss of warmth again. In her bare feet and night gown, she felt the cold of the cobblestone walls and floors start to seep under her skin again. "Here," Cregan murmured, gently shifting his mass of brown wolf pelt over her shoulders and clicking the direwolf emblem into place.

She allowed it, though she did not thank him with words. She took a deep breath, looking him in the eyes. "I want to separate. Divorce, I mean." She said tiredly.

Cregan flinched, jaw ticking and heavily considering her words. "That is entirely my fault. It is in your right to ask that of me." He said, voice dimmed and not nearly half of his assuredness. "But please, hear me out."

"What could I possibly hear you out with?" She asked, exhaustion clear in her tone. She'd dealt with this situation long enough.

Cregan nudged the door back open, nodding for her to enter. Reluctantly, she led the way in and watched as he gently shut it behind them. "I swore an oath, nearly nine moons ago." Cregan started.

Her brows furrowed, bemused. "To whom?"

Guiltily, he looked down at her, looking much alike to a kicked pup. "My sister."

"To Sara? What ever for?" She grew frustrated, knowing he was beating around the bush.

Taking a deep breath, he told her everything. "Sara stayed with her friend Alysanne Blackwood in Raventree hall for the entire time I was aiding King Aegon. In that time—she fell pregnant."

Aelys' heart dropped to her stomach. The same sick feeling overtaking her. She did not say a word.

"Davos Blackwood and Sara had built a bond, much like we did." He said. "When she told Davos of the news, they both went to Lord Blackwood to plea to marry each other. He refused, not allowing his heir to marry a bastard."

"And you legitimized Brandon as your own in turn?" She hissed.

"Sara begged me to. She lived her life as a bastard—she did not wish the same for her own son. I swore to her that my nephew would never be allowed the same treatment. I knew Aegon would do it." He trailed.

"So you bring him home, and humiliate me instead? You didn't even tell me, your own wife! You chose Sara over me. She is your sister, I know, but she chose to be with Davos Blackwood." She could have taken a tea, or moved to Essos or Dorne where bastards were more accepted. There were other options, but neither Sara nor Cregan used them. "That is cruel, Cregan. It is heartless." She cried.

"I never wished to hurt you, I only wanted to protect her. It was my oath." Cregan pleaded, grabbing her hands in his.

She shivered again, though unknowing if it was in chill or her own anger. Part of her was happy that he never truly took another woman to bed—never picked another other her. Though he still hid the biggest secret in the world from her for moons. Allowed her to suffer in their shared home and withstand the pitious looks of the people and court.

"I can't trust you. Not ever again. You could not trust me with your own kin's truth, and punished me for it." She stated. She could not allow herself to cave in so easily, to fall back into his arms.

"I understand, sweet girl." He muttered, softly stroking the apple of her cheek almost mindlessly. "I will sign whatever the Maester's conjure up. You will be free to marry whoever you wish—someone who will not lie to you."

The Starks were known for their loyalty and devotedness to their oaths. If Cregan Stark had lied to his wife so easily, no lesser man could ever make her happy with faithfulness and loyalty. Aelys had accepted her life to be one of loneliness from the day Brandon was allowed into the home.

"I will stay in Deepwood Motte for the time being. From there, I will see where my path leads." She said vaguely, unknowing now of what her heart desired. "Wish Sara well for me." Aelys asked of him, leaving him behind as she wiped any straying tears from her face.

"I love you, Aelys." He said, calling softly after her.

"I know." She whispered to herself.

In the dining hall, Harriston awaited her arrival. Perking up when she entered, he knowingly took her into his arms. "I'm tired, father."

"Let's go home. Your mother has missed you dearly." He said, planting a fatherly kiss to her temple.

Aelys would not yet send word for a formal separation to the Citadel or to the King. For now, time apart was what she declared best for herself.

divider by - @issysh3ll

tags - @palomavz @emithefrog @karinalight @johnshelbywife @tojisrealwifey @baddielizzy @pearldaisy @brookiecookie @jessicar401 @hardkiddonut @littlelilly27-blog @nayaniasworld @just-mj-or-not @flaneurpastel @unsweetenedpeatea @blucesita09 @maxmegara @deeeeexx @masschotch @janniepark1997 @spongelistener @margaaaa30 @paracii @lovebabe18 @rey26 @damneddamsy @yunnifer @kenzcarson @glqmmywhqmmy @arizonadesert @blumin8 @its-your-girl-savy @dreamygirli3 @aemondloverr @zaranobiyuyu @nsr-15 @oxymakestheworldgoround @isansstuff @high-speed-r

so many tags dont work 🥲 will try to tell in comment sec

ending is ambiguous. Will she decide to divorce or eventually mend their relationship? Up to you!

might make an alt ending where he really is just a shitty guy but this had been my idea from the start (many guessed it and i could not reply to them because of it lmao)

sorry if those two scenes got repetitive, but I wanted to show the 'cregan bringing brandon home' from both of their more detailed perspectives. Cregan's shame and guilt and her humiliation and heartbreak.

so many people guessed so close (to the sara part at least) only saw Jace thoughts tho, but he's already dead long before Cregan's walk down to the South. Would have been much more dramatic, but I think Jace would never allow a child of his to be apart from him. Many people swayed me to lead them to separate instead of stick together, and it does make more sense to have her leave him in the end. Although he did not cheat he still lied and publicly humiliated her, even unintentionally, but he's a grown man who is smart enough to know consequences.

[automaticroadpeachdragon]

fly little bird, fly

Warnings: Reader gets injured, (that’s all I can think of lol)

Rio Vidal x Female reader

Words written: 2.2k

Darting through the woods away from Witch Hunters was the last thing you thought you’d be doing on a day like this, but alas you had to settle for it. You didn’t mean for this to happen, but someone from the village had caught you shapeshifting and reported it.

You had managed to escape your home through the window in your bedroom— but that didn’t last long, being as one of the townspeople had been walking around the outback. It was right there that you bolted, your navy dress rippling in the wind behind you.

You mutated yourself into a deer, your hooves thudding against the earth as you drove deeper and faster. It was an integral choice, better to help you drive further away than to draw back. Gunshots wrung the air around you, your heart pounding in your ears.

Of course, they knew it was you, the only deer out this time and day. There was no going back now, you couldn’t relive the moment, so you drove onward. Hoping that god or satin save your soul. Another gunshot wrung out, this time accompanied by arrows that flung past and overhead— and then, just as you focused your attention back on the path you were taking, a cobblestone wall, could be made out. You took your chance at the last second and before you could do so much as run into it, you shape-shifted into a bird— more specifically, the only bird you could think of at the moment. A swan. And flew upwards, into the sky, your wings working hard and overtime.

You could already feel the drastic change the shifting was taking on your body, the strain in your muscles. The way your wings began to quiver, but you pushed on. Flying higher and higher into the sky, over trees and land.

But still, the hunters pursued you— because you were a witch and they wanted you dead. You had known of the hunters close by, but you had never feared them, not until now. You could hear them from below, shooting up into the sky, calling out ‘Come back here, you devil.’ But you ignored them.

You knew you were a mistake— a mismatch in the very existence. You were never meant to be on earth or anywhere really, but here you were. It had taken you years to understand that, but no less did it ache your heart. Nobody wanted you, because you were everything that wasn’t human and everything that wasn’t human, didn’t want you.

You were not supposed to be here, walking the earth like it owed you when all you did was disguise yourself into something you weren’t. But that’s all you knew, you weren’t made, you were forged. You were a child of the devil, and someone had raised you from the fiery pit of hell.

You swiveled around arrows, dodging bullets and trying everything in your power to survive. One strike and that’s all it took to send you right back to your home away from home, one piercing bullet that would kill you in an instant. You may have been a shapeshifter, but that did not make you immortal. You would die one day just like everyone else, it just may take a little longer than most average human life. Being a shapeshifter meant you outlived your offspring, like you did. You had a sister once, but she had gotten herself killed. She was a witch, not you, but different. The hunters burned her at the stake. You weren’t close to her, so seeing her die didn’t have much of an effect on you.

Though you later mourned her, that was because you realized how utterly alone in the world you were. You got used to the feeling, but still every once in a while you felt an ache. A yearning to be seen, to be wanted. To feel an embrace so warm and welcoming— to understand that being different was okay and not wrong.

A sudden movement from below shooting up at you and piercing your skin grasps your attention. Being all caught up in your head had caused exactly what you feared, and now you were paying the price. Your wings twinged and then you were falling, panic gripped you suddenly and you desperately tried to get a grip and stop yourself from hitting the ground, but your wings wouldn’t budge, the pain shooting a hot shard of white pain down your back.

You heard the sound of cheering a distance away from the hunters and you were met with the sight of trees. The air shifting around you, suddenly to cool and dank. When your body collided with the ground, the pain only seemed to grow and suddenly you heard a tree branch snap and the sound of footprints. You tried to move, but your body hurt all over. You tried again, getting ahold of yourself, still in bird form, and managed to flip up onto your palmates, gripping the ground from falling over and looking around you for a hiding place. A sigh of relief washed over you when your eyes made contact with an underbrush— you bolted for it and tangled yourself with the plants surrounding it— taking advantage of your size to better hide yourself.

The hunters walked down the path and stopped, looking around for you. When they didn’t see any sight of you, they continued walking along. You stayed where you were for a few minutes longer, scared that if you made any noise, they would come back.

You slowly came out but stayed close enough to the underbrush in case the hunters came back. You don’t know how long you stayed there for when you heard a door opening in the distance, you looked up, and a green hooded figure came into view. You scrambled back into the underbrush, but not before her voice boomed out.

“Who’s there?”

Before you could so much as move to hide, the woman rounds a tree and locks eyes with your swan. Your breath catches in your throat as you take in the mysterious green-clothed woman. She asses you, then cocks her head to one side, squinting, and looks to your injured wing.

“I know you’re not a sawn,” she says. “So you can turn back.”

You hesitate— how did she know? She rolls her eyes at you. Then adds, “There not going to see you, there’s a rune around this house that makes you invisible to the human eye.”

You ever so slowly allow yourself to come back to your human form and when you do, you realize that you are naked. You go to cover yourself with your arms, only to remember one of your arms is injured. You look down at your injured arm, you have an arrow between your ulna and radius. You feel sick looking at the sight and swallow, looking away and back to the woman.

She’s looking at you with peculiar interest as if she’s trying to figure you out. You look away again, shivering, your dark messy hair coming out of its bun and spilling over your shoulders.

She breaks the silence with an aggravated huff, “Are you mute?”

You shake your head and whisper, “I….” but nothing comes out.

“You’re an interesting, little thing, aren’t you?” she says quietly, then comes closer.

You tense as she nears. She must sense your uneasiness because she’s whispering next, “I won’t hurt you, I just want to see.”

She looks you in the eyes as she squats down in front of you and asks softly again, “Can I?”

She motions her head to your injured arm, you nod and release a shaky breath when her hands gently come to yours, lifting it to inspect the damage, you whimper in pain.

“You took quite the fall back there baby, I’m honestly surprised you’re still alive,” she says, looking back up to your face.

A hand comes up to brush away the tendrils of hair that had fallen out of your bun, her eyes tracing every curve she can find on your face.

“How did this happen?” she asks.

You swallow and stutter, “S— Someone from my village caught me changing form.”

The woman scowls gently, “You’ve got to be careful, sweetheart. These people could kill you.”

“You think?” You snap, then look away, ashamed of your outburst.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

Her lips twitch up into a sly grin, “No need. You’ve been through a lot today, how about I take care of your little…” she ponders on her words. “misfortunate run in.”

Your lips quirk up at that— you nod and she pulls back just enough to remove her cape from her body and pull around your shivering form. When her skin makes contact with yours though, a jolt of energy runs down your back, gripping at the very essence of your life. You lock eyes with her and for a second you see her eyes flicker with something that you don’t understand until she moves to help you stand.

You get up onto your feet and wince as the blood rushes down into your toes, every fiber of your being aching from driving yourself too hard. She grips your shoulder tightly, steadying you as you move to take the first step— you feel yourself falling before your brain manages to catch up, but luckily for you, the woman catches you before you can hit the ground.

“Careful,”

You take in a shaking breath, nodding your head, and move to walk again. This time though one of her hands is holding your waist.

She leads you slowly to her little cobblestone house and opens the door— and you are grateful for the heat that clashes with your shivering cold form. You take in your surroundings as she moves to shut the door after getting you inside.

The space is small, the ceiling overhead, whirling with moss, that seems to grow with the exterior of the cobblestone. You bring your head down to look around your surroundings, between the space of her kitchen is a rocking chair by the fire and a bed settling up against the wall in the corner closest to a fireplace.

She leads you to the bed, settling you down before heading for the kitchen. She grabs a basin filled with water and a rag, turns back to you, and walks the distance to you. She settles down and moves to dig the rag into the water.

She looks back up to you and reaches for your arm. You flinch when the cool water touches your skin, but her grip seems to tighten.

“You’re a rare kind of witch, you know?” she says. “I’ve never seen or met a shapeshifter before.”

You swallow, “There aren’t any others out there.”

She locks eyes with yours, “What’s your story?”

“I don’t have one.”

She snorts. “Everyone’s got a story.”

You hesitate and look away. “There’s nothing much about me.”

Sympathy flashes in the woman’s eyes before she diverts her attention to the wound. “Can I at least get a name?”

“It’s Y\N,”

“Hmmmmm…. makes sense for such a pretty girl.” she winks at you.

You blush and look down at your lap, “What’s yours?”

“I’m Rio,” she says.

“Thank you, Rio,” you say softly. “For helping me. Rarely, I’m ever given such attention.”

For a moment, she pauses her work on your arm and looks back up at you. Her eyes squinted, studying you, but there was also a familiarity within them— an understanding. You feel suddenly drawn to her. You think that it’s because you’ve been alone for so long that now, potentially, you could just be desperate. But you then realize it’s something deeper, something so warm and fuzzy, you wish to know what the feeling is, you try to pinpoint it on every map in your head, only to come back empty.

It’s gone just as fast as it appeared, she looks back down to your arm and shifts it to get a better angle, propping it up with some pillows.

“I have an idea, do you trust me?” she asked.

You squinted, but replied wearily, “Yes.”

She smiled softly and lifted her hands. In a circular motion over the arrow, you see it begin to glow a dark green. Though it was still in your skin, you could almost feel as if it was shifting, but oddly enough, it wasn’t hurting.

“It’s a healing spell,” Rio says before you can ask. “Most witches use them with injuries. It mends skin and fights infection. In your case, it’s dissolving the metal.”

Your eyes widen and you look back up at her, “How is that even possible?”

She smirks at you and replies wittily, “Magic, baby.”

When you look back down, the arrow is gone. You turned your arm over and back in pure shock. You glance back up to Rio and she watches you with curiosity.

“You haven’t practiced much magic, haven’t you?”

You sigh. “I’ve had nobody to teach me, I’ve only ever had myself.”

“I can teach you.”

Your eyes widen, “Ooh no, you don’t have to—“

“I want to.”

You clamp your mouth shut.

“—But,” Rio started up, “it’ll cost you.”

You furrow your brows and ask, “What?”

“I’ll need something from you, something only you can give me.”

You swallow, your breath catching in your throat. “What do I give?”

“Yourself.”

“What?”

“Be mine.”

You contemplated her offer— you had been alone for years, and now here came Rio asking you to be hers. But at what cost? And why? You suppose it didn’t matter, after all, you were desperate.

She wanted you.

She wanted you.

“I give myself to you, Rio.”

She smiles slightly, “Please, call me, Lady Death.”

[giannaln4]

GIANNA'S KINKTOBER '24 SEASON

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Kinktober day seventeen.

Sub Lando (2.9k words)

summary: People would never take Lando as someone who surrenders control during sex, but they definitely don't know how good he can be for you when he does.

warnings: NSFW, +18, smut, MDNI, established relationship, sub!lando, oral (male receiving), thigh riding, unprotected sex, overstimulation, language. (pls let me know if there is anything else I should add!).

Lando liked being the one having some type of ‘control’ during sex. Not that he took over your entire body, but he was definitely in charge. This is why it took him by surprise when he realised how much he loved surrendering to you.

It happened gradually, but the first time you called him a ‘good boy’ something lit up inside of him.

"Do you like it when I call you a good boy?" You asked, still in a low and sexy voice but genuinely curious as your hips slowed down a bit.

He just nodded, not being able to get his words out, but you shot him a look that he knew what it meant. "Yes," he stammered. So from that moment on, you always tried new things with him, of course making sure he was totally okay with it. 

The stress of this season is really what encouraged him to let go a little, letting you take the moment and make of it whatever you wanted. That was the situation he found himself in at the moment.

In the middle of a heated kiss, your hands started travelling all the way down to his pants. His breath itched, so you pulled away for a second. “Is this okay?”

"Yes," he replied right away, making him seem a little desperate.

You left a trail of wet kisses leading to his neck, sucking his sweet spot and making him moan. "What do you say?" You asked. He didn’t say anything at first, but you repeated the question in a more demanding tone.

"Please," he finally replied in a shaky breath. Your hand continued to go down, your teeth now softly biting his thick neck. He closed his eyes for just a second, but the shuffling of the bed as you went under the covers to play with the hem of his sweatpants made him open them again, looking down as you disappeared. 

You started massaging him over the layers before sliding your hand under his briefs, and at that point he didn’t care about the noises he was making or how desperate and needy they sounded. "You're so pretty when you make those little noises, baby," you whispered.

He swallowed hard as he started to sweat everywhere, hands falling to his sides to fist the sheets. He needed you to do something, and the fact that you were taking your sweet time was killing him, but not so deep down, he loved it.

Finally, you instructed him to lift his hips for you, getting rid of his bottom clothes and making his needy cock stand before you. You smiled at how quick you got him to that as you kicked the covers so he could see what you were doing to him.

You decided to tease him a bit longer, so you admired his cock that was just a few centimetres away from your face, rubbing your thumb over his tip as you watched his eyes widen. He breathed a sigh at the contact, the pressure in his stomach releasing just the smallest bit at the relief. You didn’t break eye contact once; god, you loved to see the effect you had on him.

After just a moment, your hand gripped at his base; your cold hands against his hot skin caused a hiss to leave his mouth as you curled your small fingers around his thickness. You laid your cheek on his thigh, watching each pass of your own hand over his cock.

“Do you want me to take you?” You asked him, expecting an obvious answer from him, but you had to repeat the question when you didn’t hear a single word fall from his mouth. “Mhm, do you?”

“Yes, please,” he replied in a desperate tone, his hips almost betraying him, but he knew better than to get ahead of himself.

A smirk appeared on your face. You positioned yourself better between his legs, finding a more comfortable position as your mouth slowly approached his cock, the anticipation making him take in a breath and his grip on the sheets tighten. 

“Such a pretty cock, aching just for me,” you mused. He let out a shaky whimper. “Why don’t you take my hair instead? We don’t want it to get in the way, do we?”

He pathetically nodded, his hand immediately flying to your hair and making a ponytail with his fist. “Like this?” He asked, as if it were the very first time you were giving him head.

“Yes, baby, just like that.”

You took his base and your fingers barely connected around his cock, a sight that made him moan on its own. He was looking down at you with his eyes begging for more, his breath staining when he felt the spit you had collected in your mouth go down his thickness. You pressed your soft lips against his head, opening your mouth a little wider when you started to slide down his prick. 

A choked moan left his throat, every part of his body feeling heavy as his grip on your hair loosened a little. You took him out of your mouth to look up at him. “You have to keep my hair in place, remember?” He nodded his head, his mouth slightly open. “Good boy.”

You went back and took him again, hollowing your cheeks around him as your head bobbed painfully slowly. You repeated the motions a few more times but never fully pulled back, and he could feel your warm tongue at different spots and his precum glossing over your lips.

The entire time he was trying his best to stay in place; he knew he had to, but it seemed nearly impossible with how good you were making him feel. He let out a soft moan as your head continued to pump his base to meet with your lips, and as your pace began to quicken, the more desperate he was getting for a release.

It was taking everything in him not to beg you for more, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to try and calm his urges. Any other time, and if the roles were reversed, a tighter grip on your hair or a subtle push would have done it. He let out a long breath; he needed more, but he knew he had to be patient, but a particularly good suck made him involuntarily buck his hips up a bit. His eyes shot open as your hand lightly smacked the side of his thigh, warning him.

“Sorry, sorry, I- I’m sorry.”

You decided to let it pass and continued to take him, and he was repeating in his mind he had to be more careful, but it was hard with the sight of his cock disappearing between your lips and your spit coating in his cock.

He was thankful when you started to go faster and deeper; you were sucking and licking repeatedly, your tongue tracing the vein along his cock as the weight laid heavy in your mouth. The pressure in his stomach was tightening with each pass, letting both of you know he was close. 

He almost begged you to keep going, but the words ‘don’t stop’ got stuck in his throat, and a loud whimper replaced them. You had done that before, taking away the pleasure just moments before his release, but you weren’t planning on doing that today, not when he was being so good for you.

One of his hands fell over his thigh, his nails digging his skin every time he felt his tip brush the back of your throat. The feeling of your spit drooling down onto his balls was what pushed him over the edge, and there was nothing he could do about it but cum.

“Oh fuck, I’m cumming," he moaned, and your thumb circling his thigh gave him the permission he was waiting for. It only took a couple more passes of your soft lips before he was shooting his release down your throat, his eyes screwing shut as his mouth repeated your name like a prayer.

You worked him through his orgasm, licking and swallowing everything he was giving you. Once you took all of it, you pulled back, the smallest lick of your pink tongue rolling over his head to collect the last drop of cum that was still there, making him squirm. Another chocked moan escaped his mouth when he saw a thin line of spit and cum that was connecting his cock and your lips before breaking and falling over your chin.

Your gaze was glassy, lips swollen, and hair a bit of a mess when you silently asked him to release it, but he swore that it was the most beautiful sight he had ever laid eyes on.

“Do you feel better, baby?” Your voice was as soft and innocent as ever, only adding to the filthy scene.

He swallowed hard before answering “yes.” 

You went on your knees as your hands rested on his thighs, softly squeezing them as you tried to read him. He already looked spent, but now it was your turn.

“Do you think you can take me?” You asked him as you quickly got rid of your clothes.

He didn’t even have to consider it, and even though he was still recovering from his orgasm, he nodded. He watched you climb on his lap, your dripping centre placed on his right thigh as you caught his lips in a deep kiss. He moaned at the taste on himself on your tongue, hands instinctively falling on your waist. 

You knew he was still sensitive, so why not give him a little more time to recover while you used other parts of him to get off? You started rolling your hips softly, your pussy getting in contact with his thigh.

His entire body tensed when he realised what you were doing, his jaw dropping as he threw his head back against the headboard, whiny pants coming out of his mouth while your lips were still hovering over his, unable to keep kissing him. Anyone would think he was getting some kind of pleasure at your actions, and if he was being completely honest, he was.

Your juices were starting to coat his thigh as he looked down at how your pussy was dragging along the surface. “Don’t want me to kiss you, pretty boy?” You teased him, making him look back at you and you could see him trying to speak, but no words came out of his mouth.

He got it together and continued kissing you, enjoying the way the bed was creaking at your movements as they got quicker. You weren’t actually planning on finishing on his thigh; you needed him inside you, and by the looks of his cock, that’s also what he needed, but you couldn't deny how much it turned you on to see him lose his mind at you using him to pleasure yourself.

You decided to keep it going for a little longer, pressing yourself down harder as he tensed it every once in a while. A moan escaped your lips, making him stammer a soft ‘fuck’ into your mouth. 

“Want me to ride you now? Do you wanna be inside of me?” You asked, pulling back as your fingers found the hem of his shirt to take it off, lifting your hips to hover over his cock once you threw it somewhere in the room.

“Yes, please,” he whimpered, and the loud moan that ringed in your ears when you grabbed his base to guide it to your entrance let you know he wouldn’t last long.

You lowered yourself, nails digging on his shoulders when you took him completely. “Be a good boy and play with my clit.” You whispered, eyes locked with his.

Not even a second later, one of his hands left your waist and made its way to your clit, his fingers rubbing hard circles as you started to bounce on him.

It was impresive, really. He never in a million years thought anyone would have him in the palm of their hands the way that you do, and yet there he was, following every instruction that left your lips, but he enjoyed every second of it. Your moans joined his when you found the perfect angle, his cock moving inside you just the way you needed it to.

You were wrapped around him just right, keeping him warm and wet as you picked up the pace. He could feel his tip kissing your cervix every time you came back down and he couldn’t stop his hips from thrusting up, not once, but twice.

“I need you to be still for me. Can you do that, baby?” He swallowed hard, nodding as you kept going. His head fell back again, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling. “You are being such a good boy. Look at how your pretty cock disappears inside me.”

He opened his eyes and looked down; his hand was covering part of the view, but he could still see it. You loved the look on his face more than anything else, eyebrows coming together any time you squeezed him.

It was hypnotic seeing you bounce on his cock as it disappeared and reappeared in your cunt. His eyes travelled up your body, his lower lip getting trapped between his fingers when he got to your boobs.

“Do you like what you see?” 

It took him a few seconds to answer, but he then looked at you and released his lip to reply. “Yes.”

“Take one.” And he did, as soon as you asked him. His hand fell on his favourite one, squeezing it slightly before playing with your nipple. 

He was proud when you moaned loudly and your grip on his shoulders tightened, your head falling back for just a moment, but you liked to keep your composure in these situations. You looked back at him, catching his lips in a kiss. 

He was a mess under you, sweat covering his body as his throat vibrated every time he was deep inside you, and as your movements began to quicken, he felt that familiar feeling starting to form.

Lando pulled back from your kiss, a loud moan leaving his lips. “Ah, fuck. I´m gonna cum,” the hand that was on your clit stummbled for a moment, his voice shaky and his whimpers getting more consistent.

“Hold it a bit longer, yeah?” You purred, ignoring his whines.

“Mhm, I can’t,” he cried, his legs trembling and his lower abdomen spasming.

“Yes, you can. I promise you can,” you reassured him, your hips moving more freverishly as you chased your own high. He was fighting back his orgasm for dear life, praying he could hold it long enough for you, but you just felt so good.

You knew he wouldn’t be able to do it; you could practically feel his cock twitching inside you, and the way your pussy would naturally clench around him, you knew would just bring him closer.

But he still tried — for at least a minute, that was. You felt his cock throb as he moaned, tossing his head back and a whimper escaping the back of his throat as he got to his second release.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he pleaded with teary eyes as his hips pushed up a little, but you didn’t mind anymore, you just let him get through his orgasm. 

“Shh, it’s okay, baby,” you said, rubbing one of his cheeks softly, but your movements didn’t slow down. Instead, you picked up your pace even more, the sticky liquid inside you only encouraging you to get your own orgasm.

You were well aware it was too much for him; he was at his second orgasm already, but you were proud of him for taking it like a champ. As you gripped his shoulders tighter for stability, your hips moved back and forth at an angle, and you were insanely grateful that he continued rubbing your clit through it all. 

You could feel it coming, so you started pressing down harder near your release to help his cock hit your g-spot every time as louder moans escaped your lips. “I’m almost there, baby,” you groaned, your clenching walls making him whine at how sensitive he was.

Then, when you couldn’t take it anymore, you came on Lando’s veiny cock. Walls fluttered and your back arched, making your head fall on the crook of his neck, which triggered a third orgasm out of him, even more cum painting your velvet insides as he cried, eyes shut the louder his moans got.

Once your orgasm was finished, you fell forward completely on his body as you lifted your hips to slip his cock out of your pussy, he was so sensitive and overwhelmed, and your contractions that were happening post-orgasm brought him slight pain. 

Your heavy breathing was matching his, your hand caressing his hair as you whispered sweet nothings to his ear.

“It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you. You did so good for me, so so good,” you whispered as you pulled back to look at him, your lips kissing the tears that managed to escape from his eyes. 

He opened his eyes slowly, offering you a sweet smile to let you know he was okay. 

Once you both recovered, you got up and ran you both a warm bath to share before getting into some clean sheets and going to sleep after a long day.

↺ back to navigation — send me a request!

[divinevault]

Hi love you blog. I don’t see much of Greek mythology x reader content. So glad that i found you blog.

If you can you do a reader that gives gifts in goods. Whether it be food, desserts, hand made clothes or other crafts. Just a genuine gift giver type of person. This can be with anyone you pick I don’t really mind.

If so then thank you in advance.

Why of course, darling! I'm glad you found me to- and sincerely hope you proceed to enjoy the rest of your time here!

If you ever have a specific kind of word count (not exceeding 2000) that you would like me to get around, I can absolutely do that as well!

Feel free to ask for others, or for anything else

Adoration

Featured: Apollo x Reader

Summary: Apollo appreciates your gifts

Reader is: Utterly gender neutral

Words: 299! (Do feel free to ask for a bit longer versions)

Type: Scenario, fluff

Requested? As you can see, absolutely! And I would like to thank you for asking

You had always been a gift giver for just about as long as you could remember. It was natural to you– spending hours sewing together outfits, crafting intricate and fun designs, baking all variations of foods. It’s something people adored you for– one person in particular.

Apollo was utterly smitten with you. To you, he may have just casually been a guy that you’d ran into when he’d come to return something you’d dropped, but to him?

Gods, you were adorable.

And you thought he was rather adorable, too– Constantly humming a tune, perhaps writing something down, or writing you poems of some kind (his favourite being haiku’s). 

What had brought you together had actually, funnily enough, been the gifts. As a thank you, you’d made him a scarf. “For the colder months,” You’d insisted, holding it out to him.

He’d taken it– and from then on out, it was almost like you couldn’t get rid of him. He’d hang around your house and positively fawn over anything you gifted him at all, despite being a god who could likely get far better quality than what you may have been making.

“It means more, coming from you,” He would smile that brilliant, warm smile of his that lit up the golden markings on his cheeks– and he meant it.

It did mean more.

It was from you, after all.

[arcanarix]

Make That Double, Ch7 - Yan!SatoSugu X Fem!Reader [AO3]

Word Count: around 7K

Warnings: non-con, somnophilia, handjobs, fingering, lactation kink, mommy kink (geto calls reader mamma)

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59666119/chapters/153693205

It’s hard to look him in the eyes, but you know you don’t have a choice anymore. Bed time with Geto consists of him keeping you huddled close to you while he does some of his nightly reading. He looks so deceiving in these moments with you, ditching his traditional robe for casual clothes—an over-sized block cotton shirt and pants. He looks so normal. He looks like an everyday citizen who won the genetics lottery.

But you know that to be so far from the truth. You know the ugly that lies beneath the angelic features, and all those pretty lies he spews from those kissable lips of his. Beneath that mask lies a serpent prepared to strike its prey at any given time.

In another world, he may be anyone’s dream man but this is not that world for you.

Tonight he opts for rereading one of his epic fantasies that he adores to info dump to you. You don’t care to entertain him, wishing for it all to go in one ear and out the other, but it doesn’t matter. You’re here to fill some kind of void in his black heart—that is assuming he even has one anymore—and you’re not even sure if you’re fulfilling that role he’s forced you to play. He’s the one tugging at your strings, and while you can put up a bit of a fight, he’s quite the masterful puppeteer.

The punishment he’s inflicted upon you isn’t all that cruel, in retrospect, but you can’t feel much between your legs at all. You’re practically numb from the waist down. It’s the kindest he’s been since your captivity. After that ordeal, he’s still provided some semblance of aftercare—a little bit of a massage with some proper ointment, he’s even offered some chocolates if you had an appetite for them following something like that. After seeing him so disappointed with you when he’s just confessed to you that he’s found some kind of affection towards you.

You don’t find it flattering in the slightest, but if it means he’s going to show you a bit more mercy, you’re going to take advantage of it any way you can. 

“God, the protagonist in this book can certainly make questionable decisions,” Geto muses, wetting his thumb before flicking to the next page. “I can’t seem to make sense of it each time I get to this part of the series.”

You wish you could groan. You almost do, but that’s asking for immediate death.

Who fucking cares?

Instead of saying what you really think, though, you just hum, nuzzling your head into his shoulder, trying to appeal to him. Trying to make him happy because that’s what you’re here to do. That’s all you’re meant for now.

But you’re still going to find a way out or so help you….

“Getting sleepy?” Geto teases with a light laugh, but it doesn’t have that mocking tone to it. It’s….endearment. It’s sickening. You want to vomit. How can a man act like this when he’s just made you lose feeling in your lower body because he let his paranoia get the best of him (even if he’s kind of right)? “Rest, Mamma. I’m going to be up for a bit longer. Although…don’t be surprised if I help myself a little to you while you’re resting.”

Fucking psychopath. Of course you expect nothing less of him. This is all he does. He hasn’t stopped himself before!

But, you don’t protest, you know better than to do something like that now. You do something worse. You squeeze your eyes shut. You lift your head off of his shoulder. You pucker your lips, expecting a kiss good night, and he accepts your invitation, smiling against your lips as he hums in delight. You’re about to pull away but he catches your lips again, moving his languidly against yours, soft, fervent, desperate. Faint rustling of him setting aside his large red leather book as his hands cup your face, thumbs brushing against your soft, buttery, supple skin. Geto almost seems to marvel at you, the way a follower may a God. He breaks the kiss barely moments later, lips barely centimeters apart as his forehead rests against yours, his violet eyes boring into yours as they soften the longer they stare. They shine so brilliantly that it might as well serve as the only source of light in the bedroom then, apart from the soft amber light emitting from the side table lamps on either side of the master bed.

“I adore you,” he whispers in a reverent tone, making your breath catch in your throat. In the worst way possible. “I don’t expect you to feel the same.”

Because you never are going to feel the same. He knows that well, all too well.

You don’t respond, turning away. His fingers slip away from your face and he doesn’t react as you rest on your side facing away from him. But you do feel him staring as you will yourself to sleep, clamping your eyes shut, desperate for the comfort of darkness to consume you. It doesn’t matter what he helps himself to while you’re in a blissful state of sleep.

Your body tenses as the pads of his fingers ghost up your arm, as he bites back a longing sigh. A part of you almost wants to pity him, but how can you pity a man as pathetic and lowly as him? Your mind can’t even register him as a man the way he can’t register the majority of humanity as worthy.

For someone as prideful as him, that must penetrate like a wasp’s stinger.

It does make your heart swell with a bit of pride, but it’s not enough. You need to deal a stronger blow; you need something that will really, really eat at him. What might that be?

He draws his body closer to you; you feel his lips ghosting the nape of your neck before he slides all the way down until he’s caught between your legs. You try to sleep, but a moan escapes your lips when his mouth closes over your folds, suckling on them with need.

“Suguru….”

“Rest,” he grunts, between desperate sucks and kittenish licks. You can already feel the slick beginning to build. “Mamma, I got it from here.”

You cling the covers to your chest, your fingers digging into the plush velvety smooth fabric as he suckles on your clit particularly hard. You try not to focus on the sensations. You try to sleep. You try to listen. He’s going to take what he wants regardless whether you’re awake for it or not.

Eventually, you’re lulled to sleep by the light squelching noises of his tongue sweeping along your folds.

Yet another visit from Tweedledum, never mind the numerous protests from Tweedledee.

It’s not like anyone can control what a grown adult does. These two beg to differ when it comes to you, but to them, you’re not an adult with agency. You’re just something for them to bend and to shape to their will and nothing more. Perhaps in Geto’s mind, you’re something beyond that. Perhaps something beyond a pretty pet, a gorgeous trophy, but you refuse to entertain the idea. Men like them, who believe they’re above humanity, above morality, even…is there any use trying to understand the world in which they hail from?

“Princess?” Gojo calls, patting the seat next to him on that plush velvet sofa. You can’t even hide the wince as you amble over to join him there, but keep a slight distance. Giving a displeased sound—it’s a terrible sound—he hooks his arm around your waist, digging his nails into your skin and scoots you in closer until your bodies are flush against each other.

“We don’t have to do anything all that scandalous today,” he says with a cheeky grin, his tone cheery as if he hopes that might lift your spirits a bit. He can tell something’s amiss with you, something other than the usual. He knows you don’t want to be here in the first place, that you’re already unhappy, but there’s something else he’s caught onto because Tweedledum’s smarter than you ever dare to give him credit for.

A shadow crosses his face when he doesn’t find your reciprocating like you normally do—especially since Geto isn’t in the dungeon presently. Still attending to some matters with his family so he’s going to be late. “It’s just going to be a nice, relaxing movie night, yeah? Lots of sweets to chow on, though you’re the sweetest of them all as always!”

“That’s nice of you to say, Satoru,” you manage to reply through clenched teeth. But you don’t do anything more. You don’t try to snuggle into him; you don’t try to kiss him or feel him up which he usually enjoys. Those blinding sky blue eyes of his glimmer with concern as the tip of his finger glides down the side of your cheek.

“Why the long face, gorgeous?” he whispers, tone solemn for once. It’s out of character…he seems almost…shaken.

That’s a new one. In another world, you might have been elated that you can get that kind of reaction, but after the other night… you don’t know whether you should wade through these murky waters.

“It’s nothing, Satoru,” you speak, your lips twitching into a forced smile.

“It’s Suguru, isn’t it?” Satoru growls, shaking his head. “What’d he do?”

“He was upset at something I did. That’s all,” you explain, “H-he thought I went against his orders.”

“Oh.” His lips purse. “He’s not supposed to hurt you. He can hurt any other non-sorcerers for all that I care, I can’t control what he does since he’s a grown man, but you’re supposed to be out of that equation. We agreed on that. I can talk to him, you know.”

“He didn’t hurt me. Not…not physically,” you say, a half-lie of sorts, averting your gaze to the television screen. Looks like it’s a Lord of the Rings night again and he’s just about to reach the middle of the third film, where Pippin climbs that tower in Minas Tirith and lights that fire. One of your exes has made you watch these movies as well as The Hobbit trilogy numerous times, so you know the scenes by heart. You can practically recite them line by line. You can do that with Star Trek and Star Wars too.

Satoru leans in, his weight dipping next to you.

“What did he do?” he growls into your ear again. When your eyes land on his, they’ seem to emit a glow. “We agreed—no harm is going to come to you. You’re supposed to help him.”

“I…” You gulp. “Satoru, it’s not important.”

“Yes it is,” he grumbles, gripping your knee, squeezing reassuringly. “You’re important to us.”

Oh, how you wish you can believe that. Gojo leans in to kiss you on your cheek, and then on your temple. They’re soft, fleeting, gentle, like he actually loves you as much as he claims to love you, much like Geto claims to love you.

But how can people who claim to love someone do things like this and expect things to just blow over?

Why do you think you have a right to be upset? You don’t have rights here. Not anymore.

“H-he just, um,” you stammer, hugging your chest. “He…he…um…”

“It’s okay,” he sighs in clear defeat. “I think I get what you’re trying to tell me. I’ll talk with him when he gets back down here. Okay?”

He kisses the crown of your head and you utter a low whimper. He glances at you with another concerned look on his face. You hate it.

As if this is going to solve anything…

“Satoru, I, um…” you begin, tentatively resting your hand on his lap, fingers brushing over his pelvis which makes his breath hitch. His sharp eyes darken in anticipation.

Should you do something to thank him? In case Geto does something?

“Can, I, um…” you gulp, sporting on your best determined look. You have to be a good pet, right? You can do that. You can definitely do that. No matter how much it permanently stains your pride. “Can I…touch you…?”

Gojo inhales sharply as he pulls out his cock, guiding your hand to it.

“Of course you can, Princess,” he coos while flashing you a toothy grin, stroking himself to hardness. You’re not surprised he was already half-mast when he pulled himself out. He’s just getting himself nice and ready for you. “You know I won’t say no, but you don’t have to, okay?”

“I-it’s fine,” you breathe, grasping his cock at its base. “I…I want to.”

“Fuck,” he hisses, raking his fingers through your hair. “You really are the perfect girl.”

“U-um,” you can’t believe it, you’re being shy, but he probably can’t blame you because you haven’t been forced into sucking dick since the first time with him. You don’t really know what to do, so instead of diving right into it, you lick a line up his shaft, which earns an eager whimper out of him. That encourages you to continue, to just pepper soft little kisses around along the skin, ignoring the salty tang hitting your tongue each time. You’ve come to find you’re not a fan of it, but maybe it’s because you’re not attracted to him in the slightest. Being attracted to him might help in this regard but this feels more like a duty as their pretty pet.

But you know the more you can please them, the more they’re willing to do for you. At least, that’s more true for Gojo than for Geto, regardless of what he says about his ‘affections’ toward you.

“I-is this okay? I don’t really, um, know what I’m doing,” you admit, laving your tongue around the leaking head of his cock. He bites back a little whine, jumping in his place.

“It—it’s fine. You’re doing great. Better than great, Princess,” he praises, lips parted slightly as he reclines a little bit into the couch. He’s not even focused on the movie anymore and all of his attention is on you. You kind of like that you can take control every now and then here. Even if Geto is off taking care of his own business, if he’s here, you have no real agency because he’s the one monitoring everything you’re doing with Satoru.

“I guess Suguru hasn’t done this with you much. He’s always been more of a giver in this regard,” he chuckles, eyes twinkling in fondness at the thought. “I should know.”

You don’t comment on that, suckling experimentally on his tip as more precum leaks out. He jolts in his spot again.

“Fuck, baby. That feels so good. You could just use your hands too, you know,” he suggests, much like a teacher.

Well, he does mentor students at wherever he works, so that makes sense, you suppose. But in this context, that feels rather odd.

“Oh…..um. How?” Gosh, you really are playing up the naiveté there, huh? As long as he believes it…

Gojo laughs, his shoulders shaking with mirth as he motions his own hand in a ‘jerking’ motion.

“Like you would a pump. Just pump me with your hand,” he tells you, grinning wide. “You don’t have to use your mouth, though it would be nice.”

You respond with another little suckle over his tip while using a hand to ‘pump’ him like he instructed. He throws his head back, groaning low, his hand reaching over to smack your ass in approval.

“Fuck yeah. Good girl,” he purrs, fondling your ass a bit too roughly which makes you squeak. He laughs.

Faint footsteps descend down the stairs, and you don’t have to look up. You feel Geto gawking a bit at the sight, a little disappointed that you’ve started without him but he probably expected nothing less, either. You don’t stop pumping your hand up and down his length, amazed at how silky and smooth it feels even this hard and swollen looking it is. Your fingers lightly squeeze his shaft, eyebrows furrowing at the texture. You feel like you’re doing a science experiment, but the results are more pleased groans erupting from deep in Gojo’s throat that are soon cut off when Geto twists his head and kisses him.

“It seems she’s becoming more comfortable with you, Satoru,” he murmurs into his lips. “Don’t take that lightly.”

“You know I’m not,” he breathes, his face flushed. “She’s a quick learner, you know. Her hands feel so soft.”

Gojo’s hand that swatted your ass earlier pulls the fabric of your panties aside, his finger teasing the tight ring of muscle of your ass.

“You must need a little attention too, Princess,” he grunts out, biting his lip as he glances down at you with a dangerous look in those sharp blue eyes.

“Suguru,” he drawls his lover’s name lazily, jerking his head to a direction. He gives your ass another playful squeeze and you let out another yelp. “No reason to hold back, right? I mean, she’s primarily yours. I’m just part of the package deal here.”

“I wonder if she’s ready for us both,” Suguru muses out loud with a raised eyebrow.

You feel your muscles tense, but you don’t stop attending to Gojo.

“Actually,” Suguru—thank God—retracts that idea immediately, likely upon seeing your reaction as if he gives a damn about your feelings, as if you matter to him, as he joins the two of you on the edge of the sofa, prying your ass cheeks apart to get a good view of either of your holes. You whimper as he spits into your asshole, his lips twitching into a devious grin as he dips two thumbs into the tight ring to stretch it. “It might be too soon for that. She needs a little more preparation. She still struggles to take my size when it’s just me and her. You might be a little easier to take, though.”

“You are definitely right there. Your dick is way too thick for her,” Gojo concedes with a hum, moaning as you glide your tongue around his length again. His dick twitches; he’s so close already. “We could just use more dildos or something. Get her used to it a little more.”

“True,” Geto replies, but something’s amiss in that tone of his. It’s softer. Affectionate, even. You don’t want to admit it, but it is. It’s missing that hidden layer of greed, of ulterior motives because a part of you still believes he can’t have any real feelings—not even toward Gojo.

You don’t like it for some reason. However subtle the change in Geto is. Sometimes you much rather he be cruel than considerate, because his kindness feels far too comical. Unnerving.

But maybe, once upon a time, he really may have been a considerate, kind, compassionate man. You don’t know anything about these two or what they do or what they’re capable of doing or why they have ended up the way they are.

You don’t really care to dig into that rabbit hole. It’s not of your concern. They say so themselves.

You suppress the confusing thoughts swirling in your mind like a vortex. It’s not something you should be focusing on, anyway, instead focusing on bringing Gojo to a climax, which, it already seems like he’s nearly there. You give a few more pumps, wincing at the wet noises the skin makes before shyly closing your mouth over his tip.

“Fuuuuck. That’s it, baby. You know just what to do. Don’t doubt yourself like that, alright?” he praises as seeds of his orgasm shoots onto your tongue. You wince again. You find it all far from arousing, but that doesn’t matter.

You keep suckling on his tip as he shoots more of his seed into your mouth, panting as he comes down from that electrifying hot high. His gaze flits to Geto who’s watching him with amusement twinkling in his darkened violet eyes but he’s still hovering between your legs, far from finished with you. Your body once again tenses; you do not like that he’s actually refrained from touching or playing with you the entire time you focused on pleasing Gojo.

Like he’s…being considerate, giving you breathing room.

It’s so unlike him.

You jolt in place as a sharp hand comes down to smack your pussy. You immediately pull away from Gojo’s cock, ignoring the light pop and the line of spit still connecting your lips to the tip of his cock which you break off with a swipe of your tongue as you meet his eyes.

He smiles down at you, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment. Your eyebrows flash in confusion. That’s a smile that doesn’t reek of deception or otherwise.

“We can stop here for today,” he suggests, “Besides, Satoru has other duties he should be attending to right now.” That gentle smile immediately melds into something a bit firmer, stricter, as he gazes at Gojo. “You do have to get back to Jujutsu Tech grounds before Yaga realizes you’ve been gone longer than you should have been, right?”

Whoever the heck Yaga is. His boss or something? That’s all you can infer from that.

“It’s not like it’s surprising to them if I show up late,” Gojo quips, “Besides, I want to stay longer with you, Suguru. We have to talk.”

Geto’s eyebrows furrow at that and you gulp.

You glance up at Gojo, eyes shimmering in concern. He doesn’t acknowledge you, keeping his eyes locked on Geto’s.

Uh oh.

Trouble in paradise, indeed.

Geto sends you off under Miguel’s watch, catering to the twins while he remains behind with Gojo elsewhere in the underground area beneath the temple. There’s another section you haven’t entered yet. This is not how he’s hoped to spend his quality time with the love of his life; he’s hoped for something more intimate and far less serious than this, but Gojo often did choose the worst times to be serious about something and apparently that something involves your well-being.

Which, of course, Geto has come to care about as well.

“Well talk,” Geto ushers, folding his arms over his chest as he stares Gojo down, his nostrils flaring. “We could be doing something else, but I’m forgoing our original plan to hear you out.”

“Something we should have done years ago,” Gojo mumbles, shaking his head. “Which is talk it out. You wont let me in. I just want to get why. But before that, we have to talk about her. She shouldn’t be afraid of you. I mean, she shouldn’t disobey you, but she should feel like, she’s, you know…”

“Part of the family,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know.”

“So what the fuck, Suguru? I don’t care what else you do, but she’s supposed to help you sort your own shit when I’m not around. And I know once Yaga gets a hold of me I’m not going to be able to come back around as much anymore. I want to keep being your rock, Suguru, but to do that, you have to let me in.”

“So then,” Suguru scoffs, twisting around with his back facing Gojo for a moment. “If that’s true, then why did you vent to her about me first?”

Gojo’s eyes flashes. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Geto’s gaze flits back to him, assessing his features. He can’t stay mad at a face like his—even when he’s angry, he looks like a lost puppy who’s been mishandled. Geto ignores the way his chest burns at the sight. He hates hurting Satoru. Whether or not it’s unintentional is irrelevant.

“Why didn’t you trust me enough?” Geto demands, softening his tone as the muscles on his face relaxes. “If you had been so upset with me, why didn’t you just bring this up sooner?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Gojo claps back, glowering at him. Geto winces; that’s likely deserved, all things considered. Well…it’s obviously deserved. He has massacred hundreds to make a political statement and half for the sheer fun of it. “I wanted you to open up to me but when I tried you just told me it was ‘the summer heat.’ Summer heat my fucking balls.”

“So you did sense something, even that long ago,” Geto sighs, more and more guilt pooling into his stomach. How foolish he is to not give credit for Satoru where credit is due. It’s his fault for shutting everyone out, even Shoko; he has to admit to that fault of his.

“Of course I did! Obviously I just didn’t expect something like that,” Gojo replies, his shoulders sagging a bit. Geto takes a step closer, a hand reaching out to him. Gojo shuts his Infinity completely off during these moments but he doesn’t appear receptive to touch right then. Geto bites back a sigh. He doesn’t like to hurt those he loves, truly loves, and Satoru stands above everyone in his life. Now you are in the same plane as Satoru’s existence and he’s doing something wrong in trying to get you to lean on him, to trust him.

“What are you trying to say?” Geto replies, eyes downcast as his arm falls to his side.

“I’m trying to say why didn’t you just come to me in the first place?” Gojo answers, but his tone isn’t accusatory. He never has been with Geto. He’s always tried to understand. Even back then, he’s tried, but it’s Geto who pushed him away. “We could have worked it out then.”

“Now we’re going in circles,” Geto scoffs, gritting his teeth. His expression melds back into a softer one as he approaches Satoru, cupping his face. Satoru doesn’t pull away; he can’t, even if he wishes to, and Suguru should have seen that sooner.“It’s because of her, isn’t it? Perhaps we need to set the record with her. I already punished her once, but now she’s making you think you’ve done something wrong.”

“That wasn’t her doing,” Gojo counters hastily, “All she did was actually listen. Which, you know, I could do that too! If you let me listen. And like I already told you, she’s not supposed to be afraid of you, remember? This doesn’t warrant punishment. In fact, she should be rewarded because now we’re actually talking.”

“Satoru,” Geto starts, brushing his cheeks. “It’s not that simple.”

“It isn’t,” Gojo concedes, “But we can figure it out. Like we always do. Remember? And please, for fuck’s sake, go easy on her. She…really isn’t happy.”

“She isn’t?” Geto snarks, a little sharper than intended. He deflates when he notices how Gojo winces. “No, of course she isn’t. It’s foolish to think otherwise, but it’s not like I wish to bite. I don’t know why I do. I’m not an angry dog, you know.”

“You’re not,” Gojo agrees, resting a hand over one of Suguru’s. “You’re a cowardly dog. You bite because you’re scared. Just try wooing her a little, you know? You should have just taken the normie route and asked her out on a real date instead of dragging her into this.”

“That’s not my style,” Geto huffs. Gojo laughs, but it’s hollow.

“Proper communication? Yeah, I am well aware,” Gojo quips, grinning a little.

Geto glares at him.

“Satoru…” he warns.

“You know,” we don’t have to be arguing,” Gojo remarks, “I want to fix what happened. The charges may not be able to be lifted, but we can still…work around it. You know?”

“I know,” Geto relents, pulling Gojo in closer, so close he can inhale his expensive Prada cologne that he doesn’t find as nauseating and overpowering as his other scents. “But it’s too late to make amends for that.”

“No, it isn’t,” Gojo insists, practically on his way to getting on his knees for Geto, at this point. He may as well if it makes a statement. ““I can find a way around it. The only person who can execute you is me, but I can postpone that, obviously.”

“Postpone as in never allow it?” Geto interjects in a sullen, yet knowing, even teasing, tone.

“Exactly,” he exclaims, “Just think about it! You could just become a Sensei, with me. And you don’t have to worry about getting executed. Not with me on your side.”

Geto considers the options for a moment.

“No.”

Gojo’s confidence over his solution completely falters.

“The hell do you mean no?” he jabs, “No one else can actually kill you but me you know! And I obviously don’t want to, so there!”

“It won’t be on my terms,” he answers simply.

Gojo goes silent. His mouth hangs open for a moment, as if to counter with something, but then he shuts his mouth again as he ponders over what else he can say to convince Geto. There’s not much more to this, isn’t there? Geto doesn’t want to be a puppet; he’s made that abundantly clear. Gojo might find his resolve admirable if not for the lengths he went to just to prove his point.

“So is that what this is about?” Gojo mutters, sulking. “I guess I kind of get it. You don’t want them to pull the strings and you want to forge your own path. I gotta say, this was not the wisest decision, babe, but…I understand why. Kind of?”

“Precisely,” he affirms, “Let them think whatever they like about me, Satoru. I want no business with them anymore.”

“But…” he starts, but Suguru cuts him off with a chaste kiss. Satoru melts into it before Geto pulls away.

“Satoru, you shouldn’t play into their shit either. But you know exactly why I didn’t want you to follow me.”

“I know,” he replies with a frown. “But…”

“You shouldn’t have to be a puppet either, Satoru. You shouldn’t be a weapon to them.”

“No,” he agrees, “But for some reason, I find comfort in it.”

“Everyone—sorcerer or human—clings to what they find familiar,” Geto murmurs with a little grin.

“You know, regardless of being a sorcerer, you still are human, baby,” Satoru teases while matching his grin.

Suguru responds with a dark laugh, kissing him again.

“Don’t make me kill you,” he murmurs seductively into his lips.

You’re back in the bedroom when evening falls and Geto finds you splayed over the bed, flipping through one of his books sittig on the nightstand on your side of the bed. He beams at the sight, perhaps misconstruing it as a sign that you’re making yourself more at home here if you’re making more use of his belongings. He treasures his books like he does his adopted girls.

“Have you read that book before?” he asks as he shuts the door behind him, disrobing and setting the material aside. You don’t look up from the page you’re skimming, mostly because you’re not interested in seeing his pasty face but also because you’re actually quite invested in the mystery.

“Only heard about it,” you admit, “I understand why people are frustrated with the main character. She’s so obviously getting played by that guy.”

He chuckles, “It’s a frustrating thing to watch unfold, indeed. She doesn’t seem to pick up on that even when others have warned her.”

You shrug, stopping at the chapter you’re on to glance up at him as he settles onto his side of the bed.

“Love makes you blind, I guess,” you comment, gazing up at his face. “What did you and Satoru talk about, darling?”

“I should apologize,” he starts, frowning. “I’ve been harsh on you when I shouldn’t have been. I was wrong for that. I don’t expect you to forgive me so easily, but—”

“—it’s fine,” you reply a little too quickly, but you’re trying to stay in his good graces for a reason. You have only gotten a hint of what his ‘bad side’ looks like. You don’t want a repeat of it. “I’ve already forgiven you. I-I was out of line. I’m sorry.”

“No, you weren’t,” he replies, “You did a good thing. You did what I should have done. You did nothing wrong, Mamma. I did.”

“O-okay,” you whisper, a little pathetic because a part of you is still frightened he can switch gears at the drop of a hat. And he definitely can and has. “I understand.”

A silence falls over the two of you for a few moments. Those few moments feel agonizingly long, drawn out like a scroll rolling across a table. But some rustling beside you breaks the silence as he loops an arm over your frame and snuggles you close until you’re nestled into him.

His finger fiddles with the gold chain around your neck, a fond smile playing at his lips. Yeah. Of course. You’re his pretty little thing, after all. Just his pet. A little appendage to his messy bond with Satoru.

His eyes dip lower, and that smile only widens. You’re bare all over; you’ve forgone clothes the moment you enter the room now as opposed to just stripping to your undergarments. Of course he’s pleased with the change; it just means it’s another way he’s going to misconstrue as you becoming more comfortable with being here, under his ‘care.’

He trails kisses along your milky collarbone, suckling on your softer, tender spots, and you clench your fists, grunting a bit. You have only just begun to gain some feeling back in your bottom  half from his punishment last night, and now he’s intent on making you lose feeling in your legs again if this goes any further tonight. And you know it will. That’s how it always is.

Just an appendage. Just a pet.

He doesn’t love you, no matter what he says, and it doesn’t matter that he tries to find other ways to accommodate you. He still takes what he wants in the end. One way or another.

He pulls away briefly, his tongue darting between his lips as his eyes trail down between your breasts.

He kisses the area just above them, and you freeze, feeling your blood run cold. You feel like you could crash right then and there; you can’t take another minute of this but you know you don’t have much of a say. It depends entirely on Suguru, whether he’s truly in good spirits or not and you can’t even tell half the time.

“Suguru, I…” you sharply inhale as he kisses lower, lower… humming to himself as if he can’t help it, marveling at you. You try not to sound too audacious when you decline this. “I-I can’t. I…”

“You’re afraid of me,” he remarks, lifting his head to stare at you, his forehead creasing as he frowns.

Your eyes widen.

“No!” you exclaim, but he only raises an eyebrow and you try not to deflate. “No, Suguru, no… nothing like… that…”

“I don’t want you to be,” he mutters, resting his face into your lap like a child, like a beggar, even, is more appropriate. Your eyes triple in size at this. Geto has never behaved this way before. He takes your hands into his own, running his thumb along your knuckles.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” he goes on, resting his forehead against your hands. “Mamma, you are in my world now. I want you to feel like you belong here. The twins adore you like a mother. I adore you already. I wouldn't take that lightly. Satoru has come to find some kind of affection for you too, but the man is too damn prideful to really say anything to your face about that.”

You don’t have anything to say to that. (Not that you really give a damn, but as long as you stay in their good graces, can you really complain? It makes things less Hellish for you, ultimately.)

“Moreover,” You try not to groan, so he isn’t finished babbling then; he clears his throat. “He told me you were unhappy. Which is expected, given the circumstances. Unfortunately I don’t think anything will have gone differently if I had done things normally. While I can’t change the past, I can only hope you’re willing to let me make things a little easier for you here.”

This feels too easy.

You can’t anger him.

“Suguru,” you start, bringing your hand to his cheek and tilting his head. His eyebrows flash as he tries to understand what you’re doing, but he can piece together a situation very quickly as you present one of your stiff nipples near his face. His face flushes a little, eyes half-mast as he glances at you with pure adoration before slurping hard onto your nipple, making a gasp leave your lips.

He hasn’t used this in a while, so he must have really needed it today. As long as it means he doesn’t try to hurt you, because you don’t have to make this as bad as it is.

A hand finds your waist, steadying himself as he suckles hard on your nipple with more need, and your lips part, breathy, broken whines filling the room and seeming to encourage him. Because he chuckles against your skin, grinning.

“Does Mamma enjoy taking care of me?” he growls before closing his mouth over your nipple again with a long, lewd suck.

It’s like the typical routine now. Once he finishes with that bud, he pops off and latches onto your other one, milking you for all that you’re worth until he feels like he can carry the world on his shoulders again. Whatever these supposed burdens of his are, you don’t care, it doesn’t concern you.

“Suguru…” you utter softly, a bit embarrassed by your lack of real reaction, and his pupils roll upward to observe your face. You don’t realize how flushed and debauched you are, and he might’ve made a comment if not for how occupied he is sucking on your tit like his life depended on it like he usually did. But again, this has been the first time in a few weeks since he’s taken advantage of this. He’s been keeping distance, respecting your space, up until the moment where you crossed an ‘unknown’ boundary between he and Gojo.

The hand resting on the dip of your waist snakes lower to the fleshy, meaty part of your thigh, his rough callouses brushing against your soft skin. He hums against your little bud, nibbling slightly on it as he adjusts you, sliding you into his lap and groaning as your cunt brushes against the growing tent in his pants. He bucks upward, growling from the delicious friction and making you gasp, and he grins before pulling on your nipple with his teeth as he moves away. A little playful twinkle in his eyes as he does before he finally releases the oversensitive bud, licking off the leftover droplets of milk coating the corners of his lips, a bit dribbling on his chin.

He buries his face between your tits again, kissing the skin between them, biting and licking the marks he leaves behind as his other hand moves to play with your folds, already lightly soaked. He hums, obviously tickled pink at the discovery and you can’t find yourself to be more embarrassed by your physiological reactions. Two dexterous fingers slide easily into your slicked entrance and you breathe sharply through your nose, hiding your face into his neck which makes him chuckle.

“Don’t be so shy with me, Mamma,” he teases as he adjusts his position, kissing into your neck as his fingers twist and curl inside of you, making you jolt in your place. “You haven’t been whenever Satoru’s been around.”

The dark tone in his quip catches you off-guard. It shouldn’t, and yet fearful eyes meet his. Is he…?

There’s a deep scowl now in place of his malicious grin. You don’t know which is worse. Stone cold violet eyes bore into yours, and you feel yourself shrinking more from fear.

Hasn’t he just told you he doesn’t want you to be afraid? That he wants you to feel like you’re home?

Perhaps that’s still true, but…

“Regardless of you doing the right thing for us or not,” he grunts, plunging those two slender fingers of his deep into your spongy walls, making you wriggle in place but he secures his hold on you. Your walls are clenching around them. He doesn’t relent that agonizing pace, seeking your release. “Satoru isn’t supposed to be benefitting from this arrangement more than I, Mamma. Understand this- you belong to me. First and foremost. Satoru is part of the deal with me, yes, but that doesn’t mean he gets to toy with you whenever he wants to. Most of all you shouldn’t initiate anything with him—I’ve seen you. You mustn’t question my authority when it comes to this relationship.”

But it isn’t a relationship for you. It’s an obligation.

Between Satoru and Suguru? Sure, that’s a relationship. A weird one. The weirdest one you have probably ever seen in your life, but that’s still a relationship between them.

“I-I’m not questioning your authority over m-me, Suguru—!” You come in a hot flash, clenching tight around his fingers and at least that frightening scowl of his twitches into a satisfied, toothy grin as he fucks his fingers into your cunt for a few moments longer before sliding them out. Bringing his fingers to his lips, he groans as he sucks on your intimate juices; You can’t look. So you don’t. But then you hear the little whisper of clothes as he yanks his pants down, pulling out his fully stiff cock and patting the head against your slick cunt.

“Good,” he hisses as the head breaches your hole. “Then we’re on the same page. You’re mine, Mamma. Just mine. Satoru is out of the question.”

You answer with a pathetic whine as he plunges deep inside you. He laughs darkly, huddling you close, whispering disgusting little words to you as he continues to take everything from you.

[100blueberries]

(Words in all caps are for emphasis, not shouting, I’m just not sure how to italicize a single word and not the entire paragraph on mobile. None of this is meant to be negative towards the people who have been involved with making Epic)

Im going to be honest, I don’t like the fact that Odysseus has an anime move (Six Hundred Strike) or that with the wind-bag-jetpack he was on the same physical level/plane in the frame as Poseidon

If he used the wind bag just to get back to his raft, I guess fine (still not really a fan but I’ll accept it) but fighting Poseidon while in the air? No. At the end of the day, he is mortal. He is not SUPPOSED to be on the same level as the gods, and having him beat Poseidon would be SO MUCH MORE SATISFYING (in my opinion) if he wasn’t on the same level as him power-wise. I understand the artistic show of them being on the same power level by having them be at the same height in the air, but I don’t think Odysseus SHOULD be on the same level.

He is JUST A MAN. Even Poseidon’s anime-move is called a God Move on screen in the livestream, and even though Odysseus’s didn’t have it written on screen, he still had a God Move, which is Six Hundred Strike.

But he’s NOT a god and I feel like giving him the ability to do whatever Six Hundred Strike was (which came out of nowhere and which he will probably never do again) lessened the power of a GOD being defeated by a MORTAL

And then to have him go back to Penelope and Telemachus and Ithaca and, while he is a monster to the suitors, we know that Just A Man makes a come back in at least part of Would You Fall in Love With Me Again but if he is on the level of a god, not just a very impressive mortal, but ON THE SAME PLANE as a god like he was with the bag-jetpack and Six Hundred Strike, then he is no longer Just a Man. But he isn’t a god and he isn’t meant to be, he is meant to still be just a man

Is it powerful sound wise? Sure! There’s a lot of power behind the voices! Story wise? It feels like undeserved deux ex machina which should be hard for this play where there are literal gods showing up and helping him out or otherwise interacting with him and that’s been an established thing from the first song. There’s a reason Odysseus didn’t fight Poseidon head on in the original, and from a story-telling standpoint, it’s likely because it’s wicked hard to do without making Odysseus more than human, more than just a man

[ylangelegy]

cables and crackle ꩜ jihoon x reader.

♬⋆.˚ It's goosebumps when you hear the drums / The running start before the big jump / It's that feeling, so stellar / Bro, if you like her just go and fucking tell her!

🎸╰› includes: f!producer!reader, feelings realization and denial, jihoon has a crush <3, pining/yearning, fluff, [light] angst, first date, confessions, references to producing (that may or may not be accurate).

💽╰› this is part of my ongoing series, buzz (seventeen's version) + this piece is inspired by track 01, buzz. word count: 13,800+

When you first started working with SEVENTEEN three years ago, Jihoon wasn't all that excited to have you around.

Perhaps it was his pride. BUMZU and PRISMFILTER had been the company's go-to's until they decided they wanted to bring in someone fresh, new, up-and-coming. You had been the result: Someone two years younger than Jihoon. Scrappy and hungry. Experimental, ambitious.

His hesitance at your music production has morphed from begrudging respect, to genuine appreciation, to something akin to admiration. Jihoon would never say it out loud, but you've grown to be one of his favorite producers to work with. (He doesn't have to say it, really. Everyone is already privy to Jihoon's biases.)

Now, three years in, Jihoon finds himself trying to reckon with a foreign feeling—

The flutter of his chest as you walk in to the studio. The stutter in his pulse as your fingers lightly brush over the digital audio workstation. The hitch of his breath as your head, ever so lightly, falls on to his shoulder the longer the evening drags on.

Jihoon is a 27-year-old man. As he tries to stay absolutely still, there's only one thing on his mind: Wasn't he too old to have crushes?

You could usually keep up with Jihoon when it came to these long-night sessions. One had to, considering how he was practically nocturnal at this point. But it had been a long day of minor misfortunes, the type that wear you down bit by bit.

You don't even seem to notice that your head is lolling to one side. When your cheek lands on something solid, you might think it's the back of the chair next to you— except it's Jihoon's shoulder, and he absolutely freezes underneath you.

He would be the first to admit that this isn't the first time you've ever been this close. There's been many times your bodies have gravitated to the same spot on the couch, or times when your heads are practically glued to one another while your hands are both at the keyboard, or during the times your feet accidentally meet with each other under the desk.

It's just never been this close, where Jihoon can feel the brush of each of your lashes against his neck every time your eyes fall shut.

He think he might pass out if he dwells too much on it.

He watches from his peripheral vision as your eyes flutter shut, and he thinks, for a moment, that you're out of commission. But then, you mumble, "The reverb on the snare, just now."

If you hadn't been right next to Jihoon's ear, your words might have been drowned out by the speakers. But, as it is, he hears you loud and clear. "Too heavy," you go on to say, without even opening your eyes. "We need to dial it back for a cleaner sound."

There it is, he thinks with both awe and bitterness. Even half-lucid, even half-asleep, you're still as brilliant as you've ever been.

"Mhm," he hums lowly. "I'll adjust it."

He does as you've asked. When he runs the track back, you let out a soft sound of contentment and shift slightly in your seat, blissfully unaware of how you're leaning more weight in to Jihoon's side. It's absolute torture, he thinks.

"Better," you mutter. A beat. Your drowsy inquiry comes in next. "How do you feel about the tempo in the bridge?"

He forces himself to pay attention. He runs the song back once more, this time paying particular attention to the bridge. It doesn't take him long to identify the issue— one of the main ones, anyway.

"A little too dragging," he replies. "It slows the track down a bit too much. I think it disrupts the flow. Makes the chorus—" He suddenly stops mid-sentence.

Because, for some reason, he's become acutely aware of the way your head fits perfectly into the crook of his shoulder.

He's now fully conscious of how close you are. Of the way your breath fans against his neck. Of the way your knee seems to bump against his whenever you unconsciously readjust your position.

Jihoon feels his pulse pound at his chest as he tries to keep his tone steady.

"It disrupts the flow," he repeats, his voice slightly gruff. "Makes the chorus less of a… high, for lack of word."

When your initial response is a thoughtful hum, he bites back the urge to smirk. It should come to no surprise that you're about to disagree with him. More often than not, you butted heads over minor things like this.

"Thought it was too fast," you grumble, somehow sounding a little sulky because of your drowsy state. You're usually a lot more adamant and fiery when it comes to asserting your opinions. But in the late— or early, since it's already past midnight— hour, you've tamped down my temper.

It does absolutely nothing for Jihoon's poor heart.

Your cheek nuzzles against Jihoon's sweater as you shake your head in a very that won't do manner. "The lyrics might suffer. Try slowing it down by 8 BPM so we have more space for vocal delivery."

8 BPM? Jihoon nearly chokes on an incredulous laugh. The number is so arbitrary, so out of pocket. "The tempo's already sitting at 139 right now," he bites out. "It's not like slowing it down by another 8 BPM is going to—"

Jihoon makes the mistake of glancing down at you, and damn it. You're not just leaning against his shoulder at this point.

You've practically cuddled into him.

Jihoon's breath catches in his throat as you shift once more, leaning your chin against his shoulder.

He finds himself wanting to wrap an arm around you and pull you closer. Press you into his chest until your cheek is up against his. Until your head is tucked right under his chin.

But then you're grumbling out your next words. "139?" you repeat. "Notch it down by 9, then."

The slur in your tone is just enough to remind him that you're not entirely coherent. He swallows hard, his fingers a little too gentle as he inputs the changes. 9 BPM it is.

It's a bad call, one that's made abundantly clear when Jihoon plays the track back. He doesn't even have to tell you; you're already groaning, pressing your face in to his shoulder. Your words are muffled against the soft material of his sweater.

"You were right. Should have amped it up instead of slowing it down," you mutter, though there's a distracted edge to your tone. He gives it a cursory couple of seconds, letting you gather your thoughts.

"There's an issue with the kick and the bass, isn't there?" you note.

He listens closely— and, as always, you're right. There's a dissonance between the kick and the bass.

Jihoon frowns, a little more focused now. "Yeah, I hear it too," he manages to say succinctly.

His brain is still trying to conjure up a solution when you let out a slight huff and finally peel away from Jihoon's side. He doesn't know if he's grateful or disappointed because of it.

You're bleary-eyed and your fingers fumble but your work is efficient as you click away at his mouse, at his digital audio workstation. He watches with a straight face as you add sidechain compression to the bass, as you drag the bridge's BPM up.

It's not just the music that's synced, but the way the two of you work as well. A little push, a little pull, and you manage to find balance. You know exactly what to do, even when you're tired.

Jihoon listens closely as soon as the bridge plays back and he's pleasantly surprised.

"That fixed it," he says, his eyes darting rapidly as he takes in the revised audio levels. "Yeah, I think it's good. We should move on to verse three now."

"Jihoon."

He blinks and glances over at you. You've slumped back heavily in to your chair; it spins slightly on its wheels when you do.

"I'm not going to make it through another verse," you warn. "I think I need, like, a power nap."

"Power nap?"

Despite Jihoon's best efforts, a corner of his mouth twitches. A glance at the clock tells Jihoon that it's past one in the morning. They'd been working on the track for a solid eight hours now.

He lets out a low, considering hum, before looking back at you with a slight frown.

"How long is this power nap supposed to last?" he asks dubiously.

"I only need fifteen minutes," you respond.

There's a decisiveness to you tone, one that brokers no argument even if you're rolling your shoulders from sheer exhaustion.

"You're too stubborn for your own good," he replies, though not unkindly.

He rolls the chair back, moving so that he's facing you fully. One leg is crossed over the other, his eyes studying you carefully. He's going to attempt to convince you, obviously.

"You need a good night's rest. You won't be any use at all when you're this tired," Jihoon insists, but he immediately regrets his choice of words when he sees you wince slightly.

You're no stranger to his bluntness; you know just as well that he can be both brutally honest and painfully inconsiderate. That he shows his care and concern in much more roundabout ways compared to others.

And so when you insist that you'll be good as new in fifteen minutes, he can only sigh, leaning forward to rest his forearms against his knees.

"And if you're still tired after fifteen minutes?" he counters. His tone is gentler, softer, this time.

"I'll go home," you grumble, like the thought physically pains you. "If I'm still out of it after my nap, I'll go home."

Jihoon feels some of the tension in his shoulders abate as you finally agree to a compromise. "Fifteen minutes," he reiterates firmly, holding up a single finger for emphasis. "And if you're not ready to work again by the end of it, I'm driving you home."

You open your mouth, almost like you're about to argue at the thought of Jihoon driving you home, but then you opt to purse your lips. You know how the two of you can go in absolute circles some days and so you merely shoot him a heatless glare before stalking over to his studio's couch.

It's not really the type that should be slept on. With its stiff, black leather, the couch is an awful makeshift bed for anyone. But you and Jihoon have figure out little workarounds after spending so much time working together— like the fluffy, folded comforter at the foot of the sofa and the throw pillow that's shaped like an onigiri.

Jihoon watches with a small smile as you curl up on the sofa, underneath the blanket and with the pillow. "G'night," you call out mid-yawn. "See you in fifteen."

He watches you for a beat longer, his eyes tracing the way your expression relaxes, just a little, as your head hits the pillow. After a moment, he manages to tear his gaze away. He really had to work on his habit of staring.

"Yeah," he huffs as he tries to go get a head start on the third verse. "Night."

It's difficult because he can't help but steal glances, and every single time he does, he's struck by a wave of affection. You're so small, so fragile-looking, burrowed in to the sofa. He notes the way the pillow's slightly squished underneath your head, your face half-buried in the plush material…

He almost feels the urge to take a picture just to capture the scene.

And then he realizes: Why not? You're friends, aren't you? And friends take embarrassing photos of each other.

He picks his phone up from his pocket with one hand and angles the camera with the other. He knows just what he wants to take a picture of. The way your cheek is squished against the rice ball pillow, just barely visible underneath the edge of your tangled mess of blankets. The way your expression is relaxed, softened in sleep, with the slightest pucker to your lips.

He presses down on the snap button, and the shot is just perfect. The way the glow of the monitor catches in your hair, bringing out the natural color. The way your eyelashes fan out over your cheek, and the way the shadows highlight the sharpness of your features.

Jihoon's eyes linger on the image, something akin to longing twisting in his gut.

This time, he doesn't bother to push the feeling away. He does go back to work, though.

Fifteen minutes pass. And then twenty, thirty. The longer you sleep, the more Jihoon's guilt gnaws at him.

He knows he's about to wake you up, to ruin the temporary blissfulness that sleep has brought you. He knows he's about to drag you back to the studio to work again, despite the bags that are under your eyes and the exhaustion that is evident in every line of your body.

He knows he's going to be the cause of your fatigue. And he hates that— hates himself, just a little, for his need, his drive.

Still. At the thirty-minute mark, he makes his way over to your side. He reaches out, fingers hesitating for a second, before he gently shakes your shoulder.

"Hey," he calls, his tone soft and neutral. "Wake up. We need more work done."

It's very likely that the unceremonious way you've been dragged out of your sleep has gotten to you, because how else can Jihoon explain the way you drowsily move to hold him?

Your fingers reach up and curl gently around his wrist. Your eyes are still closed as you exhale, "Jihoon-ah."

It's more of a whine than anything, really, but it's one that he can't deny, not when you clutch his wrist like that. "What," he asks, his tone flat out of panic. "What is it?"

It's surreal, in a way. The way your tiredness has loosened your inhibitions, has stripped you down to the simplest, most vulnerable version of yourself, one that's practically begging for closeness.

You give his hand a gentle tug. "Come nap with me. Y'need to rest, too."

Jihoon's mind goes blank the moment the words leave your mouth, his whole body freezing. Because no, he didn't just hear that, you didn't just ask that—

And then you tug on his wrist again, and he swears his heart stutters.

On one hand, the rational, reasonable part of his mind is screaming at him to push you away, to reject the idea entirely. He needs to focus. He needs to finish the track. He needs to work, not rest.

But then he looks down at your sleepy form, the way you're clinging on to him, and all those thoughts are thrown out the window.

Slowly, Jihoon lowers himself onto the couch, his body sinking against the plush material. It's a tight squeeze. Months ago, the two of you might have called each other ridiculous for even trying to fit in a piece of furniture that was clearly not for two people to lay on.

The thick of comeback season absolutely shatters any attempts of appropriateness or discretion. As Jihoon complies with your absurd request, you somehow manage to throw the blanket over the two of you.

Jihoon isn't a stranger to casual touches— he's had to survive through years of constant skinship between the members— but there was something different about this.

The feeling of your body, curled against his own. The way you hold his fingers in your grip, like a comfort, like an anchor. The scent of your hair, so close he could just nuzzle his face into the messy strands.

He tries very hard to focus on the negatives. On how cramped and uncomfortable the couch is, how he's going to end up with a backache—

— but his mind doesn't want to cooperate. Because all he can see is you, all he can feel is you; the way your soft, warm body is pressed against his own, the gentle rise-and-fall of your chest against his, you, you, you.

His mind goes blissfully vacant, and before he can even think to stop himself, Jihoon is wrapping his free arm around your waist, drawing you in.

Jihoon doesn't mind the sudden increase in body heat that comes with having you pressed so close to him, not when your back is solid and warm against his chest, not when the curve of your hips slots so smoothly against the shape of him.

He lets out a shuddering breath as you press his palm against your stomach, the fabric of your shirt slightly rucked up by the motion. You're so soft.

For once, Jihoon finds himself hating everything else— the studio, the album, the uncomfortable sofa, this damn comeback for robbing him of an opportunity to simply hold you.

Jihoon swallows, his throat suddenly dry as the words slip past his mouth before he can even stop himself.

"You're too close," he mutters in your ear, his lips so close to the shell that he's half-convinced you were going to feel his words against your skin. He's being a hypocrite, really, since he's the one holding you, but he needs to maintain some sense of propriety.

"Mmm," you hum, still more asleep than awake. You exhale an apology as you try to sleepily shift away, mumbling something like "didn't notice" in your languid effort to disentangle.

Your movement has to be the most half-hearted attempt at putting space between the two of you. So Jihoon tightens his grip, his fingers curling over your hip to keep you from shifting away.

He doesn't want you to move, not even an inch— and it's greedy of him, really— but the thought of losing the heat from your body is more than he can bear, not when you're here and you're so close.

His hold is firm, almost demanding. As you settle back down, Jihoon buries his face against the back of your hair, his mind going blissfully quiet.

"Dunno why y're so cozy," Jihoon murmurs, his words slightly slurred with the exhaustion that's catching up on him now, too.

He tries not to think too hard about it, the intimacy of it all. He tries not to focus on how he's practically molding his body against yours.

Just a nap, he thinks. It's just a nap.

Your voice is so soft, so quiet, nearly lost against the sound of Jihoon's thrumming pulse in his ears. He catches it anyway. Your quiet murmur of "G'night, Jihoon-ah."

He feels strangely light-headed. It's hard to focus, hard to think, his thoughts fuzzy around the edges as he slowly starts to succumb to drowsiness.

Jihoon lets his lids flutter shut, his mind sinking into darkness. "Sweet dreams," he mumbles back.

In the end, Jihoon is the one who has sweet dreams.

They're fractures of a bigger picture, pieces to a puzzle he could never piece together.

He sees your tired smile, hears your soft laugh, feels the brush of your hair against his chin. He sees you in flashes, in glimpses, always out of reach. Never close enough.

They're so vivid, these dreams— so real— that Jihoon swears he can almost feel you, can almost hold you. When he reaches out for you, for the dream version of you, it feels like he's grasping at air.

There are hints of other things— flashes of studio lights, melodies and songs that drift in snippets. But they all fade to the background in the face of you, the way you shine in his dreamscape like a sunbeam.

Seungcheol is the one who finds Jihoon and you the next morning— or, rather, the next early afternoon.

He's not surprised to hear that Jihoon didn't come home to the dorm. He's not surprised to find Jihoon asleep in his studio. He is surprised to find Jihoon spooning you— his co-producer, the one they all thought he was a little too soft towards.

Seungcheol's eyebrows raise to his hairline. Jihoon was never the affectionate type. And yet here he was, curled around you like a parentheses. Seungcheol takes a quick picture on his phone before gently nudging Jihoon with his foot.

"Yah," the leader says, his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants; his tone, a little too-amused. "Jihoon."

It takes a few nudges for the words to register, for Jihoon's sleeping mind to slowly come back to the world of the living.

He feels… groggy. Exhausted. And strangely warm.

After several long moments, reality catches up with him. As his sleep-addled mind slowly pieces everything together, Jihoon's eyes flutter open and it takes all of two seconds for him to process the fact that he's spooning you.

Jihoon's eyes widen, and his head snaps up to a grinning Seungcheol.

"This isn't what it looks like," Jihoon says immediately, his words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush.

He almost screams when he tries to move away, when he tries to untangle himself from you, and your soft, sleepy whine sounds more like a protest than anything.

He should've let you go. He should've, but when you make that noise, when you curl in closer to him, the part of Jihoon's brain that's awake shuts down entirely.

Jihoon freezes and tries desperately to ignore the way Seungcheol snickers.

Seungcheol keeps his hands in his pockets as he watches Jihoon with growing amusement. Put-together, frumpy Jihoon, stunned in to silence because his co-producer is latched on to him.

It is, as Jihoon had said, very much not what it looked like. Seungcheol can see that the two of you are still fully clothed. Hell, he wouldn't have even imagined Jihoon going that far when the boy barely thought of romance that way.

Still, it's just a little funny. "Long night?" the leader drawls, not even trying to conceal his sheer mirth at the situation.

Long night is a huge understatement, and Jihoon shoots Seungcheol an acerbic look that's not nearly as effective as it normally might be. Not when he's still trying to detangle himself from you without waking you up.

"You have no idea," he grumbles under his breath, his eyes flickering down to your exhausted expression as you cling to him.

He can feel the way his heart stutters at your closeness, the way his chest tightens. Not the time, he scolds himself.

"We were working on the album," Jihoon says, as if that explains everything.

He's given up on trying to move, because he knows that if he keeps trying, you're going to stir— and the last thing Jihoon needs is an awake you, all warm and soft and adorably disheveled.

"Can you... leave?" he croaks to Seungcheol. Jihoon's cheeks are tinged with a furious red color; he prays to any deity that Seungcheol will simply chalk it up to shame. "I'll give you details later, just..."

Jihoon shifts minutely, and a muted noise of protest escapes from you. He shuts his eyes and sends a silent plea at the ceiling of Please, God, not now.

Seungcheol, for his part, lets out an amused huff, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Alright, alright," the leader says, holding his hands up to show he's conceding. "I'll leave. I'll talk to you later."

He grins. "And try not to have too much fun, yeah?"

The smirk only widens when he sees the flush on Jihoon's face. The leader saunters out of the studio, the door clicking shut behind him.

And Jihoon is... well... left with you.

Silence descends, and it's deafening.

Jihoon can feel each and every beat of his own heart, can hear your slow, soft breath coming out in steady, even exhales. You're asleep— still clinging on to him, your body pressed firmly against his own— and Jihoon tries not to focus on the feeling, tries not to think about how you're so soft, so warm.

He should move, he thinks. He should untangle from you, put at least two feet of space between you, and yet.

Jihoon can't, not when you look so peaceful against him. Not when you're making little noises every now and then, the soft, low sounds coming from somewhere in your throat.

It's a special kind of torture, having you so close when he knows he can't do a single thing about it. Just a taste, an inkling of closeness— and now he's hooked, wanting for more.

He knows it's selfish, what he's doing. To have his arm wrapped around you, holding you tighter than he should. To relish in your warmth as you sleep— but Jihoon can't help it, not when he knows this might be the only way he could ever get to hold you.

He knows you're not his. You can't be his, for several reasons.

But for this brief, quiet moment in time, you feel like you could be.

There's no way of telling how much longer you stay there. To Jihoon, it feels like an eternity and then some; in reality, it's probably only a couple more minutes. You shift in your sleep, letting out a big yawn. Jihoon tries to not flinch when you stir.

For one ridiculous moment, he considers closing his eyes and pretending to sleep, so he can have a few more seconds, a few minutes longer with you in his arms. But then you're moving again, and Jihoon can feel his heart in his throat as you blink, shifting to look up at him.

"Huh," is the first thing you say as you squint up at him. "Hi."

"Hey," is his lame response, his tone oddly, uncharacteristically soft. He swallows when he catches the way your eyes flicker all over his face, as if drinking him in.

There's a lot to take in, he's sure. His arm is still around your waist and your leg is slotted between his. The blankets are a mess; the noonday sun, peeking through the studio's heavy curtains.

As your mind finally seems to catch up, you let out a groan. "S'rry," you slur, voice still thick with sleep. "We overslept. I'm a bit clingy when 'm tired."

Yeah, right. Clingy is not a strong enough word for what you had become in your sleep.

Jihoon tries to ignore the feeling of your legs tangled together, the way you're practically molding against him. He tries to tamp down the way his breath hitches, to ignore the way his heart skips a beat when you let out a sleep-filled groan.

"You were hanging on to me for your life," he remarks in a tone that is far more amused than exasperated.

"Yeah, I figured," you say wryly, glancing over at the clock to see the damage. Jihoon's eyes follow your gaze. Two in the afternoon. Your shared 'nap' had lasted a full twelve hours.

"Wow," you huff. "We were out for a while."

"That we were," Jihoon agrees, and he's more than a little reluctant when he lets you go, unravelling his own limbs from yours. The space between your bodies feels like a physical blow, but Jihoon tries not to seem too put off by it.

He sits up, running a hand through his hair. "I haven't slept that long since I was a trainee."

"That's unhealthy."

"Pot calling the kettle black."

There's a calculated casualness in your next words. "Did you at least sleep well?"

The slight concern undercutting your tone makes Jihoon rather light-headed. "I slept like the dead," Jihoon answers easily, and he doesn't even have to lie about that.

His rest had been more peaceful than it had been in years, and if he's truthful, he'd blame it all on the fact that you were wrapped so firmly around him, all soft skin and sleepy warmth. You'd fit so perfectly with him and Jihoon is fairly sure he's never going to get the sensation of you pressed against him out of his mind.

A corner of your lip twitches upward. "Don't say that," you tease as you stretch your arms over your head. "Because we may actually be dead soon enough."

There's still an album to finish. A couple more tracks due in mere days. But Jihoon's suddenly feeling much better in a way that he hasn't in a while.

Even the ever-present stress and exhaustion feels almost like an afterthought, like it's barely even there. In the midst of it all, there's only you, still mussed from sleep.

It helps that you're taking the little cuddle session with surprising grace. "Wanna order in breakfast? Lunch?" you inquire, like you can't quite decide what to call your first meal of the day when it was well in the afternoon.

"Breakfast-slash-lunch sounds good to me," he answers, a hint of a smile visible in the curve of his mouth.

You order Chinese food. Something proper and real, a break from the convenience store rice balls and energy drinks. In the time it takes for the takeout to come, you and Jihoon speed through the song that had been plaguing you both last night. It seemed that being well-rested did you both well.

When the food comes, you go to collect it. In your absence, Jihoon finally checks his phone.

Suddenly, the studio feels ice cold, because he has seventy-something unread messages from his group chat with the boys.

He clicks the little arrow that takes him back to the first unread message, and surprise, surprise— it's from Seungcheol. The stolen snap of Jihoon and you cuddled together glares up at the producer, paired with the world's most annoying message.

🍒: Our Woozi-yah's a big boy now. ㅋㅋㅋ

The messages don't stop there, because Seungcheol had essentially given the others the green light to blow his phone up.

Jihoon scrolls through them, his expression growing more and more irritated as he reads through the suggestive and ridiculous messages the boys have chosen to send.

⚔️: Jihoon-ah~ Who knew you had it in you~ 🐈‍⬛: finally! 🦦: LET'S FUCKING GOOOO

Jeonghan, as per usual, is the worst offender of them all. Jihoon is just about to try and get a word in when a new, rapidfire sequence of texts pop up, the second eldest member clearly having entirely too much fun with this.

👼: So cozy, our Jihoon-ie! So cozy ♡ ♡ ♡ 👼: Finally, our Jihoon found himself a pretty girl 👼: We didn't know you were such a cuddler~~~

Jihoon's fingers are itching to reply something back, but it's hard to even make sense of the messages; they're coming in so fast. Every time he tries to type something back, another notification pops up with more texts, so he's forced to sit and watch as the members tease him relentlessly.

But then—

🐱: Cough up @Joshua @Vernon 🐢: dammit. couldn't have waited four months, woozi hyung? -_- 🦌: I didn't lose as much, so it's okay~ 🐯: WINNER WINNER CHICKEN DINNER

The other boys all chime in with their own odds, and Jihoon realizes with horror that his bandmates had bet on him.

The horror quickly morphs into disbelief mingled with irritation.

So they'd bet on him? And on what exactly? That he wouldn't fall for a girl over the course of three years working together?

He doesn't even look at the odds before he types an aggravated reply.

🍚: You guys bet on me???

No one even tries to deny it. Soonyoung, the menace that he is, is the first to respond.

🐯: Not all of us ఇ ◝‿◜ ఇ 🐈‍⬛: and it's just if you'd get with your fav producer. lol

It occurs to Jihoon, then and there, that the boys presume him and you are dating. It's a misconception he has to amend before any of the twelve can make some wisecrack about it in front of you.

🍚: We're not dating.

Jihoon doesn't bother to hide his irritability.

🍚: We were just napping together.

It's not the last of it, as it turns out.

More texts flood in after his message, and while there aren't as many jokes as before, it's easy to tell that the members are just dying to tease him about this whole thing.

When you return to the studio bearing your takeout, you're greeted with Jihoon typing furiously away at his phone, a disgruntled sort of look on his face. "You alright over there?" you call out amusedly as you pad over to the studio couch.

"Yes, and no," Jihoon answers shortly, a hint of petulance to his tone. If he looks up at you, it's only for a moment.

For someone who tends to be stoic and brooding, he's not exactly having the best morning right now. Jihoon is more than a little annoyed from the relentless teasing, and while he tries to fight it, there's a lingering feeling of humiliation, too.

A part of him wonders if this is what he deserves— for having had that moment with you this morning.

"Well, whatever it is—" you give a dismissive wave of your hand before plopping down on the couch.

He almost smiles at that; you've known each other for an odd number of years. It was enough time to be fairly acquainted with each other's habits and mannerisms, to know when something was worth pressing in to or not.

"Come on," you urge him. "The faster we eat, the sooner we can finish."

"Okay, yes, I'm coming," Jihoon answers hurriedly, and he makes a hasty beeline for the coffee table, where your takeout boxes are set out neatly.

He gives the group chat a final glance, just to make sure they're not texting anything too embarrassing. The more he scrolls the more he's bombarded with messages about you, and you would have thought the group chat was dedicated entirely to you, considering the number of texts.

He groans and locks his phone, turning it face down on the table as he takes his seat.

"Here," you say as you gently place Jihoon's order in front of him. Chao fan with a side of sweet and sour pork; a can of cola.

The way you seem to automatically know all the things he orders, the way you know what the right order to pick for him is, it almost gives Jihoon the sense that you've been working with him for even longer than three years.

He's not sure what to make of it, but it feels strangely nice, somehow, knowing that there's always something or the other that you would already know. He takes a bite out of his meal, wondering when it was that this relationship of his with you had become so comfortable.

It's an odd sensation, really.

Jihoon had always been more than content to keep to himself. But there's no denying that he feels a certain kind of peaceful contentedness when he's with you.

Perhaps it's how the two of you work so seamlessly together. Perhaps it's how you somehow managed to get under his skin. There's a certain comfort that Jihoon isn't used to having that's settled around the two of you.

And it's the kind of comfort that might make him vulnerable.

He can't have that, so he privately decides to keep you at a distance.

It's a distance you reciprocate. Both Jihoon and you know better than to tread the careful line of your friendship, especially in your line of work.

The two of you work like a well-oiled machine, like a lit match being tossed in a haystack. Jihoon and you are relentless, as always, and you finish off the rest of the mini-album in the next three hours.

There's still fine-tuning to hurdle through, but as Jihoon and you replay the last track for the first time, he has to concede. The worst is over.

You slump forward in your chair, your forehead resting against the work desk of his studio. "Done," you breathe. After a moment, you add, "For now."

"For now," Jihoon echoes.

There's a long pause between the two of you as you both relish the peace and quiet of a fully completed mini-album.

"Let's go for coffee?" he finally asks, glancing to where you're slumped in your chair.

You tilt your head ever so slightly until your cheek is pressed against the desk and you're looking up at Jihoon. You smile ruefully as you speak, your tone almost apologetic. "No to coffee. I think I want to go home and knock out for twelve hours."

You go on, "You should do the same. We've been in this studio for…" You pause like you're doing the mental math, and then a disbelieving laugh slides past your lips. "About thirty-three hours, Jihoon-ah."

Thirty-three hours is almost incomprehensible. Jihoon isn't even surprised, because of course, that's the kind of work ethic you've come to expect from an idol— but, thirty-three hours?

Jihoon's head is spinning. There's a strange, odd kind of haze settling around him, almost like he's caught between a dream and consciousness. He's tired, yes, he's more than tired, but Jihoon knows that he doesn't really need to go home to sleep.

Except he can't say no, not when your words are coming with all the weight of a command, not when you're looking at him like he's some helpless, pitiful wreck, needing some sort of care. He hates it.

He hates that you see him.

"Okay, okay," Jihoon says in a rush, standing from his chair. "I'll go home."

He's always known that any work done with you ends with him doing exactly as you say. You might have never said the words to his face before, but Jihoon isn't an idiot.

He's wrapped around your goddamn finger some days.

The thought that he's now more than willing to do whatever you want from him has never occurred to him before now, and it leaves him feeling slightly shaken, slightly unsure of everything.

It takes you both about ten minutes or so to get everything in order, then another seven minutes to head out of the company building. The relief Jihoon feels as you finally find yourselves outside is immense, even if it is a chilly, early winter evening.

You glance at your wristwatch before distractedly asking him, "You'll be okay behind the wheel?"

"'Course," he says as he fishes for his keys. For a moment, he contemplates asking if you want a ride home. It'd be out of his way, but it's something he's almost willing to bear.

Almost.

Instead, he forces himself to say, "See you. Take care."

You give the same pleasantries back before beginning your trek to the train station. Jihoon, for his part, finds his car in his designated parking space.

The drive home is the most boring and uneventful thing ever— except when Jihoon looks in his rearview mirror. The sight of you disappearing into the distance makes him feel strangely hollow and a bit wistful.

His stomach gives a weird, twisting lurch, and he's tempted to make a U turn right there and then and find a reason to be back in his company.

Maybe he'll tell you just how alone he can sometimes feel after an album is completed. How there's always this sort of lull in the days, hours after his work; how he fights it off by doing more work, even if it's not all that necessary.

He wants to ask if you ever feel the same way, too.

But you had never really been a part of that loneliness, and now you were leaving. And— just for the night— Jihoon can't help but feel more lonely than ever.

He doesn't want to be lonely.

He wants to be left alone, in a company of his own thoughts, with nothing and no one to distract him. But, for some odd reason, he wants you around.

It's almost too much to bear, so Jihoon turns the radio on louder and lets the sounds of music drown out the patter of his ragged heartbeat.

Jihoon and you are forced to reconvene a couple of days later, albeit on circumstances that neither of you are particularly fond of.

Sungsoo, the company's CEO and executive producer, is already seated at the head of the table when you walk in. Jihoon sees the way your eyes scan the meeting room; he tries not think too much of the way the tension in your shoulders seem to ease when you spot him.

The sight of you makes Jihoon's heart do a little dance, which makes him want to both pull you close and run far, far away from you.

For now, he just gives you a nod of acknowledgement and shifts his eyes back to the older man sitting across the meeting table from the both of them.

You sit across from Jihoon. Sungsoo doesn't even bother to sit; he merely launches straight in to his agenda.

"Good work on SEVENTEENTH HEAVEN," Sungsoo says right off the bat. Jihoon knows it's more of a cursory greeting than anything; there was always going to be more than just a pleasant compliment.

The other shoe drops soon enough. "I think there's more work to be done, though, specifically on three tracks," the CEO presses on.

Three tracks.

Jihoon feels his jaw clamp tightly. He's been through these kinds of corrections before, of course, both from himself and the company. Sungsoo says things about the lyrics of Back 2 Back, and the organization of Yawn, and the chorus of Diamond Days.

And while Jihoon has been through this, has needed to take things apart or put stuff together to appease the higher-ups, it's never any easier. His hands are clasped tight, and he's trying his best to hold himself together, but on the inside, he wants to scream.

This is a part of him. These are all parts of him, big and small, and it's always just a bit of a jab— to have his heart put in someone else's hand, and then to watch that heart be poked and prodded for the sake of... what? Commercial gain?

At one point, Sungsoo pauses to look between Jihoon and you. "Are you not going to take notes?" the older man asks.

You respond before Jihoon can. "Rewrite the second half of Back 2 Back, tweak the instrumentation balance and structure of Yawn, adjust the rhythm for Diamond Days' chorus," you rattle off. "I— we got it, sir."

"Right. Good," he says, and Jihoon doesn't like the condescending tone that Sungsoo uses with you, but at least it's not aimed at him.

The older man sits back in his chair, and Jihoon lets his eyes drift away from the company boss just for a moment to look at you. A strange feeling fills him. He wants to name it appreciation, wants to claim it's nothing more than a little admiration.

But then he'd be lying to himself. Because that warm kind of feeling shifts into— just a little— something a bit more than what he's supposed to be feeling for a co-producer.

Before he could dwell on this thought any longer, Sungsoo clears his throat and Jihoon quickly tunes back in. He's not thinking about that right now, and that's final.

The meeting wraps up not too long after with some parting reminders on deadlines and the upcoming comeback. Jihoon can tell by the look on your face that you're a bit dazed, and Sungsoo's parting words only add gasoline to the fire.

The CEO says both your names as he readies to dismiss you. "The two of you are a good pair," he notes, and Jihoon almost short-circuits.

Pair.

Right. A good pair of co-producers. Not anything else, not anything more.

Both of you mumble your appreciation for the CEO's remark. And Jihoon, like the fool that he is, feels that warm, fuzzy glow bloom again. He doesn't care what it signifies; at the moment, he's just too happy to work with you again.

By the time you head back to his studio, there's not much that either of you can really say. Marathon edits were not new to either of you; you both slide in to work mode without much preamble.

The music starts playing and the edits start pouring in, and the five or six hours spent on the three tracks fly by without Jihoon even noticing it. It gets to the point where he's working on autopilot— one hand on the mouse, fingers flying across the keyboard.

The thing about working on autopilot was that it made the process quicker but left little room to feel or think, which was both a blessing and a curse.

At the six-hour mark, he finally deigns to glance at you. Your gaze is focused on the digital audio workstation as you cut some low frequencies from the guitar on Diamond Days, but there's a slight quiver in your hands as you do it.

While Jihoon doesn't see what you're having trouble with, he can sense that you're off. He knows the signs of stress and exhaustion better than most, what with the hours he puts in.

"Aigo," he calls out to you, and his voice is a little raspy— hoarse— because he's been humming and singing for the better half of the evening. "Are you okay?"

"Still in the green," you say wryly. You had a bit of a traffic light system to refer to when talking about how far gone either of you were.

He watches intently as you implement the changes to Diamond Days, as you give a disapproving shake of your head at the revision. Still not to your standard.

Of course you wouldn't be at the red light stage— not even close, he muses. But in Jihoon's head, there was already one foot on the red light spectrum— and it wasn't just because of the revisions.

"Let's take a break," he suggests.

The idea comes out of absolutely nowhere, even for him. A break—? When was the last time he had voluntarily done that?

Jihoon's been having more questions than answers lately, but he just chalks it all up to being stressed. And maybe a little tired.

Anything except what it really is.

This time, you actually do glance up from the workstation. There's mild surprise on your expression as you tease, "Yah, who are you and what have you done to the indomitable WOOZI?"

"Huh?" he deflects. For a brief moment, he almost feels a little shy around you.

"I'm just bored," he explains, and he's surprised that he can lie so well and sound so casual. "You don't need to come if you don't want to. I just wanted to get some air."

But of course you're coming, already pushing back against the table at the rare invite from Jihoon. "The usual?" you prompt.

To others, a 'usual' might have indicated a trip to the cafeteria, a smoke break on the sidewalk. But Jihoon and you both hated the company's food and neither of you smoked, and so your breaks were spent somewhere a little more unorthodox.

"The usual," he agrees.

He leads you across the company building, the walk to your destination full of comfortable silence. Eventually, you make it to your designated break place: The company's rooftop.

Jihoon takes his usual seat at the far end while you sit closer to the ledge. The atmosphere is thick and humid from the weather, but there's a breeze to keep the heat bearable.

When Jihoon said he wanted to get some air, he meant it quite literally.

He doesn't want to give away his real intentions on calling for the break. Still, he can't help the question that slides out of him as he watches the glittering lights of Seoul beneath the two of you.

"Are you feeling better now?" he asks, glancing at you.

"I am," you answer quietly, your gaze still fixed on the city. "Thanks, Jihoon-ah. I needed this."

He almost smiles. "Of course."

This was the first time since he's met you that he'd asked you to do something just because he thought you needed it. And it isn't long until that fact has Jihoon wondering why the heck he's been putting things off so much lately.

He doesn't get to mull over his thoughts for long though— not when there's a sudden urge to do another thing that he realizes he hasn't ever done.

He takes out his phone and opens up the camera app. "Yah," he calls. "Look here for a second."

You do as he asks, glancing over your shoulder, and the soft click of his phone breaks through the white noise of the city below. When you let out a surprised laugh, he thinks it's the second best thing he's ever heard. Only after music.

"What are you doing?" you chide, a bit of a giggle in your tone as you raise your hand— palm facing Jihoon— to your face, as if trying to shy away from the camera.

"I don't know," he admits. A laugh tumbles out of him, and he knows he's blushing— but he's not ashamed of it this time, not really.

"It doesn't have to mean anything," he assures you. He holds in a chuckle at the way you're blocking your face and snaps another picture.

Maybe he's delirious from all his work. That has to be it, he thinks, as he clicks away despite your sputtered protests.

"Alright, fine," you huff, feigning annoyance. And then— oh.

You brace your hands against the ledge and tilt your head to one side so you can flash Jihoon an easy, practiced grin. "Cheese," you sing-song.

It takes quite a lot of willpower for Jihoon not to just sit and stare, that strange feeling welling inside of him coming to fore. He's not proud of it, but it's there, and the fact that there's something about you that makes him feel this way makes everything a little bit more complicated.

"Cheese," he agrees, taking just one more picture of you.

He knows he's smiling too hard, his eyes turning in to crescents with just how damn fond he feels to be snapping photos at your side.

You can never tell from the expression on his face, but he's wrecked with the knowledge that he had just done three things he had never done before:

He's asked you to do something solely because he thought you needed it.

He's taken a picture of you (with your knowledge, this time).

And he's let this thing he has for you be so in control of him.

It's a damning thing, he muses as he tucks his phone away. What would happen next was up to the universe.

Admittedly, it almost all felt like a test, and Jihoon is terrified he had failed.

But then you reach out, your hand casually resting atop of Jihoon's. You don't clasp your hands together or intertwine your fingers. You merely keep it there as you cast your gaze back down at the city, like you're giving Jihoon a chance to pull away.

It's almost instinctual, how he turns his hand over and links his fingers together with yours. His fingers are longer, so your fingertips curl over his and you’re left holding his hand for the first time.

You don't say a thing about it. Jihoon tries to rationalize the action on your behalf. Maybe you're just delirious and tired, too. Maybe it's cold and you need something to hold on to. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

All the while, his heart thumps in his chest.

Did he even deserve this? Was this okay?

Would it be okay if he just sat there, looking down onto the city, holding your hand and nothing more?

His brain refrains the earlier remark he'd given you. It doesn't have to mean anything. It's just a hand in his, a quiet evening, a moment that will eventually pass.

It doesn't have to mean anything, but why does Jihoon want it to?

Back in the studio, neither of you say a word. Not about the photos of you that Jihoon now has in his phone; not about the way you initiated holding his hand. Not about how the two of you held on for just a bit too long before heading back from your break.

The two of you do what you do best: You throw ourselves in to the last of your work.

It takes you two a record of fifteen minutes to fix what had been wrong with Diamond Days, and then some twenty more minutes to make sure the three other tracks are alright. Jihoon does the honors of sending them over to Sungsoo for some final checks.

Once the email goes through, you lean back in to the couch of Jihoon's studio. "And now we wait," you exhale, sounding equally exhausted and elated.

With your work for the day done, it feels like whatever veil of formality had held the mini-album together is broken— and you're now just two people in Jihoon's workplace, tired, and done working for the day.

Jihoon stretches his arms out and sags against his chair, letting out a groan.

"And now we wait," he repeats. A beat, as he keeps his eyes trained to the ceiling. Then, softly, he adds, "You did good, you know."

He sees you glancing at him from the corner of his eyes. "You, too," you offer quietly, sincerely. "You did well, Jihoon-ah."

His eyes remain on the ceiling, his mind taking him back to how it felt when your hand rested atop of his. It had felt strange and it had felt good— and the fact that you'd so boldly initiated it in the first place made it even better.

The thought that there was a possibility of it being a one-time thing made him almost want to cry, for whatever reason.

It's just so weird, and Jihoon has never felt like this before. He's never caught in a complicated sort of feeling like this. But the way you'd held his hand was different— and the more thoughts he thought about it, he realized that your touch was different from the touch of anyone else's.

"Can we talk for a second?" is all he finds himself able to ask, and it's a surprise to him— considering how much the two of you have never talked about things that were just about you and him.

Still, he wonders that perhaps now, with everything that's happened here, there was something he needed to tell you. Something he wanted you to know.

He hears you shifting on the couch, spots a corner of your lip quirking upward in a show of interest. When he fully turns to look at you, he notices the way you've braced yourself against the back of the couch to meet his gaze.

"Sure," you say. "What's on your mind?"

Jihoon rubs his hand over his mouth as he thinks of a way to articulate his thoughts.

There are so many words here that don't need to be said. There are some words that he wants to say but that you simply don't need to hear.

There were a lot of things he wanted to say, but he needed to filter them very well because he wasn't sure if they'd cause a misunderstanding.

"I'd like to keep doing this," is what eventually comes out.

His fingers find his earlobe out of nervousness. His heartrate only seems to spike when you stare back at him for a moment, your eyebrows raised like you're waiting to see if he'll elaborate.

And so elaborate he does. "All of this," he goes on. "Producing for the group, collaborating with you, just… seeing you and talking to you and… having you around."

It feels a bit weird to express after three years of working alongside each other, but it's also the first explicit admittance Jihoon has made abut wanting to keep up your collaboration.

He's not surprised when you try to pass it off with some humor. "I'll stick around for as long as you'll have me," you say almost jokingly, but there's almost a desperate weight of truth in your words.

Jihoon sighs, his expression tightening. There was a whole lot he wanted to say to you— he wanted to make a lot of things very clear— but he also wanted to keep whatever was blooming between the two of you going.

He tries not to dwell on it. Not now, with his feelings as fresh as they were.

"I've been thinking," he starts, his voice quieter now. "Maybe we could… get to know each other or something. Spend the day together— away from the company. Away from this life. Just as… two normal adults."

Another pause.

"Are you asking me out on a date, Jihoon-ah?" you kid after a torturous minute.

Jihoon goes quiet for a moment, the gears turning in his head.

He really was asking you out on a date, wasn't he? How would he even spin this as something simple and innocent?

What had he been expecting in return when he asked you? Why did he ask in the first place if it wasn't to actually find out who you were and why you were the only person he could really say he wanted to spend time with?

Questions, no answers. He's going to go insane.

"You know what," he blurts out before he can lose his nerve. "Yeah. Yes, I am asking you out on a date."

You're both stunned in to silence, and you look like you're just about to say what you should. A 'no'. Something about this not being proper.

But then there's a faint ding from Jihoon's laptop, and he glances over just in time to see that Sungsoo had responded in the affirmative to your revisions for the group's eleventh mini-album.

A stuttering, relieved breath escapes you. Jihoon, for his part, lets out a huff, his shoulders falling. He hadn't even meant to ask you out on a date; he was only going to ask you to spend the day with him.

Now, though, it was out in the open. And he'll be damned to take it back.

"Looks like we're free now," he muses, far too prideful to let Sungsoo derail this conversation. Jihoon's voice is edged with hope as he goes on, "So, what do you say?"

Jihoon has no way of knowing this, but you admire his persistence. When you laugh, it's what changes your mind, what privately convinces you to take him up on his offer.

Because Jihoon had still somehow managed to make you laugh despite it all.

"You know what? Okay," you say readily, one shoulder raising in half a shrug. "Let's go on a date next week, Jihoon-ah."

It would definitely beat sitting in Jihoon's studio, alone and bored, until Sungsoo had sent over their next project.

"Okay," he repeats, his lips curling in a tentative smile. "I'll let you know what plans I come up with, then."

"Alright." You're already rising from the studio couch, preparing to take your leave for the evening.

As you gather your things, Jihoon tries to look back at his workstation instead. Like the sight of it might somehow give him the answers to where to take you, what to do, how to go about all this.

You pause at the door of his studio. "Text me," you say.

It's nothing short of a miracle, how Jihoon is able to respond "I will."

And then you're gone, but the loss doesn't feel as prominent as it usually does. Because now, Jihoon has something to look forward to.

He doesn't remember the last time he allowed himself to be so selfish.

His thoughts over the next few days are consumed with the upcoming date.

Everything he does seems to center around how the date will go, where he'll bring you, and how he would survive a day in your presence without completely humiliating himself.

He takes his time planning. By the time next week rolls around, he's a mess.

His ears are burning as he dials your number and presses the call button.

Your tone is casual on the other line. "Hey, Jihoon-ah," you greet. "What's up?"

Jihoon takes a moment to just hear your voice. He internally groans at how a simple what's up already has his heart rate picking up like nobody's business.

"Hey," he finally says after he gathers himself, his free hand shoving into his pocket. He's pacing his apartment bedroom, fighting for his life to keep calm. "I… just wanted to call about tomorrow."

When you respond, your voice is cautious. "Sure. What about tomorrow?"

There's a slight pause again, and Jihoon can already feel the sweat forming on the inside of his palm.

Surely, you wouldn't think he was calling to cancel? Why would he have waited until the day before?

"Just needed to ask you about something," he admits, his free hand coming up to fiddle with the hair on one side of his ear. "I just wanted to… ask a question. Uh…"

"What… are you going to be wearing?" he finally spits out, his face already going red as the words leave his mouth.

Why the fuck can't he be cool about this? Why can't he be casual and chill about the date and about seeing you? It's so goddamn frustrating— he needed to get a handle on himself and soon, he thinks with despair.

"Oh. Uh…" From the other end of the phone, you seem to be shuffling around. "I was actually going to ask what our plans were," you admit rather meekly. "So I can dress accordingly."

Jihoon's eyes widen, and for a moment, he feels even more like an idiot than he usually does.

You had no idea where you were going, he realizes, and as a result— you had no idea what to wear.

"Oh… right," he says, mentally facepalming himself. He was supposed to be the one giving you information, not the other way around. "Yeah, okay. That makes sense."

He takes a second or two to collect himself, because— God, he did not want to mess this up. If you found out about the amount of work and effort he'd put in this thing, you'd definitely laugh at him.

"Nothing too formal, but don't be super casual," he says slowly. "You'll want a jacket, maybe. And wear comfortable shoes."

He takes another deep breath, steadying himself before he adds, "And I'm going to pick you up at ten. Is that alright?"

Jihoon's instructions are a touch on the vague side, but you don't seem to mind as you let out a huff of amused laughter. "Dress warm, comfortable jacket and shoes, ten in the morning," you repeat. "Okay. Got it."

You go on, "I'll text you my address. I— we've known each other so long, but I don't think you've ever come over, have you?"

Another good point. Jihoon and you spent most of your time at the company. There were rare occasions where you'd join the group's post-comeback celebrations with the rest of the staff, but those were always at some rented-out restobar.

"Yeah. Well. Just text me, then," he says lamely, already mentally berating himself for how much of a fool he's acting. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow, Jihoon-ah," you bid, and he can hear the smile in your voice.

Just like that, Jihoon's heart rate picks up again— except this time, it's not just nervousness he feels.

There's that strange sense of anticipation, the slight thrill of excitement he gets with the mere thought of seeing you the next day, and he nearly lets out an exhale to quell all those feelings.

"See you," he says finally, his voice barely above a murmur.

And then suddenly— he's hanging up, the realization of everything finally settling on him. This was actually happening.

He sits on his bed for a moment, just mulling over the conversation, before he lets himself fall back onto the mattress in horror. He had just hung up, hadn't he? Did he even say goodbye? Did he even say something nice? He was a mess.

He lets out a long, pitiful whine in to a pillow as he wonders for a second or two if he should call back just to say good night to you properly.

In the end, he decides against it. He didn't want to come off as desperate and it was pretty likely that he'd just dig a deeper hole for himself.

Still, he can't help but let out an annoyed, strangled sound as he turns to look at the ceiling.

He was going to have to put a lot of effort if he didn't want to embarrass the hell out of himself.

Come the next day, Jihoon is standing outside your apartment at exactly ten in the morning.

He knocks almost tentatively, and he's only a little surprised that you swing the door open without missing a beat.

You flash him a smile in greeting. "Come in," you say, ushering him in to what he can only describe as uncharted territory. "Can I get you something to drink? Water, juice?"

He's so tripped up over how you look— the smart-casual outfit, focused on warmth, as he'd advised— that he almost misses the offer.

"Ah," he stutters. Barely a minute in and I'm already done for, he thinks ruefully. "Do you have— cola?"

You give a small sound of assent as you move further in to your apartment, towards what he assumes is the kitchen. "Make yourself at home," you call, and Jihoon is left to bear witness to your space.

It looks very much like that of an artist's. There's floor-to-ceiling corkboards on almost every wall and a blackboard full of chalk markings— bearing everything from concepts to half-finished lyrics.

You have bookshelves groaning under the weight of music albums— Jihoon sees a number of SEVENTEEN's— and instruments crammed in to nooks and crannies.

He suddenly remembers how, for some reason, you had never really let him come over to your apartment before. And now, he understands why, because your apartment almost felt like a reflection of your own brain— chaotic, but brilliant. It was a creative genius's studio, and it was more than just a little bit captivating.

You return with a can of Coke. "It's a lot, isn't it?" you muse.

Jihoon shakes his head. It is a lot. But also— he knows how gifted you are, knows how driven you can be. Seeing it here, so openly on display, has something stammering in his chest.

"Is this all your work?" he asks a moment later, still glancing around. "Is this… everything you've been working on? You've been keeping it here?"

"Not all of us have separate studios," you shoot back. There's an easy smile on your face, indicating that you're just teasing.

When you seem to realize that your initial jab hasn't answered Jihoon's question, you amend, "It's not all of my work. You should see my childhood bedroom back in Jeju."

"Jesus," he says with a slight chuckle, his fingers pressing around the metal of his soda can.

He doesn't know why the thought of your childhood room in Jeju having more of this surprises him. But, then again, that was just the kind of person you were. An ambitious, freethinking, creative genius, the same qualities he'd grown to appreciate over time.

And now he was about to go on a date with you. How the hell had he gotten this lucky?

He isn't quite sure what compels him. All he knows is that the question, almost rhetorical in nature, is out of his mouth before he can reel it back in.

"You really love music, don't you?"

The question seems to throw you off-kilter, but you recover surprisingly fast. You're thoughtfully smoothing out the patches on your denim jacket as you retort, "I love it about as much as you do."

If it had been any other person, Jihoon might have scoffed, might have privately thought they were cocky or just outright lying. But it's you, and his heart twists in to a knot at the thought of how willing he is to accept that cardinal truth.

That you and him loved music in equal measure.

In a hopeless attempt to collect himself, he shoots back his soda in several big gulps. The carbonated drink burns as it goes down his throat; he forces it to stay down.

"We should probably get going," he prompts once he's done with his drink.

"Right, of course."

You go to throw away his empty soda can for him, and the way you move makes it abundantly clear that you're unaware of the effect you have on him.

As the two of you step out of your apartment and find your way to Jihoon's car, he can only hope that it won't be that long of an afternoon.

Despite the way he keeps both hands on the steering wheel, Jihoon can still feel the nerves racing up and down his spine. He's nervous, excited, his emotions a mess as he tries to get himself together.

He can't believe that after years of talking about music and just working together, after all this goddamn time, you were finally going on a date together.

The car radio is just a touch too loud, which is to be expected, considering that it was Jihoon's vehicle. You have to pitch your voice above it to be audible.

"Where are we going?" you ask as he peels in to traffic.

"You'll see when we get there," he responds.

The disapproving pinch of your expression draws a laugh out of him. He doesn't give you the opportunity to press any longer as he fiddles with the radio dial, upping the volume just a touch more.

He'd planned this date carefully after spending far too much time agonizing over all the details. He was damned if he wasn't going to keep some things in the dark.

It's a quiet drive for the most part, with only the radio keeping the silence from being too deafening. But, frankly, Jihoon isn't too bothered by the silence because it gives him ample time to collect his thoughts, to try not to focus on the way your hand is right there, a few inches away from his on the gear shift.

He keeps his eyes on the road, keeps his expression neutral, and keeps his cards as close to his chest as possible.

Once Jihoon is finally pulling in to a parking lot, he manages to find his voice. "We're here," he notes, like it's not the most obvious thing in the world.

He waits a moment for you to also unbuckle your seatbelts, and only then does he climb out of the car. He quickly walks around to your side, pulling open the door for you and gesturing for you to follow him as he crosses the parking lot.

"What is 'here', exactly?" you ask Jihoon as you walk up to the building in front of you. It looks rather unassuming; nothing on the outside giving out what it might be. Just white walls and a sign outside that's still too far to read.

Jihoon catches the way you try to make out the sign, and he can't help but find himself feeling a touch flustered because goddammit, was he allowed to find everything you did endearing?

He clears his throat before finally answering. "A planetarium."

Now, Jihoon definitely doesn't miss the way your eyes widen, nor the small tone of excitement that betrays the otherwise casualness of your voice.

"That's cool," you say with your hands shoved in to the pockets of your jacket. "Never been to one before."

He can clearly see how excited you'd gotten just at hearing where he'd brought you. And, frankly, it just makes his pulse race all that much more.

"Well, let's go in and have a look then, shall we?" he offers, his voice a little on the quieter side as he tries valiantly to not mimic your excitement.

As you approach the building façade, the signage comes in to better view. It boasts of an immersive planetarium experience, but what stops you dead in your tracks is a note tacked on the front door.

Closed for a private event.

"Oh?" you're saying, a slight edge of disappointment in your tone. "It's looks like it's—"

But before you can finish your sentence, the door is pulling open, and an important-looking man— the manager— is already stepping up to address Jihoon.

"Mr. Lee, right on time," the employee greets with a bow. "We've set everything up for you."

The oh that escapes you, this time, is a lot softer.

Jihoon can't help the small grin that immediately works its way across his lips at your reaction. He'd been hoping to catch you by surprise, and he can tell that it worked.

He gives a polite, somewhat formal half-bow in return to the manager before glancing over his shoulder to you. There's a hint of smugness in his voice as his gaze lands on you again. "C'mon," he says as he starts making his way in to the planetarium.

The inside is mostly dark; Jihoon gives his eyes a moment to adjust to the change. There's no one else here but the two of you, and Jihoon isn't really complaining about the emptiness. It just means he can have you all to himself, without having to worry about having anyone else around.

He can hear your footsteps, following behind him, and he has to mentally remind himself to keep himself together before he finally glances over his shoulder at you.

"Surprised?" he teases, the ghost of a smirk making its way on to his face.

He revels in the look of awe on your face, the way you all but ignore him to pull a couple of steps ahead. You're surveying the lobby like it's already the main exhibit, and Jihoon has the sudden urge to rent out every gallery in Seoul for you to see.

Your next words are one-two punch on Jihoon's poor, poor heart. "I think you've got some nerve, Jihoon-ah, pulling out all the stops on our first date," you muse, your face still upturned to the entryway.

Jihoon almost trips right over his own two feet as the casualness of your words registers in his mind.

Multiple dates. You were implying that there might be multiple dates to follow. That you wanted there to be multiple dates.

He takes a quick breath, trying to maintain any semblance of a nonchalant attitude as he responds. "What?" he says, the smirk just a touch more shaky on his lips. "You think this is 'going all out'?"

He continues to walk, catching up to you a few moments later. "I'm offended. How dare you think that I'd settle for anything less than perfection."

"If this isn't 'all out' yet for you," you quip. "I'm a bit nervous as to what is."

He only responds with a small chuckle. "You'll see."

He leads you to the next room over, and this particular one is far more darker. The only source of light is from the projector against the back wall, projecting a constellation map on the opposite wall.

Jihoon glances over his shoulder once more, watching the small look of wonder on your face. He leads you to a small couch in the center of the room before sitting comfortably beside you on it.

His face is partially illuminated by the lights of the projector, and he can clearly see the way you're taking in everything around him.

"You like it, hm?" he gently prods, watching you again.

It's a lot to take in, honestly. The high ceiling, the projected constellations, the lights dancing across both your faces. Even the way the room has been rearranged— the single plush couch, the type that allows you to recline and gaze up at the faux sky of constellations— is all so damn good.

"I like it," you concede, your voice barely above a murmur. You speak like you're scared that talking any louder will break an illusion. "It's— yah, Jihoon-ah. It's so pretty."

In that moment, Jihoon almost forgets how to breathe.

There's something so soft and gentle and fond to your voice as you speak, and the way your words came out almost reverently does something to Jihoon that he couldn't quite explain.

"Pretty," he repeats, eyes still trained on you. "It is, isn't it?"

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a long time; Jihoon still watching you instead of the exhibit. You didn't just say it was pretty. You'd said it with words and tone and expression that told him just how much you loved it.

Christ, he was a goner. He was far gone for you.

After what feels like both an eternity and a second at the same time, Jihoon finally shifts his gaze away from you, glancing up at the ceiling above him. He's quiet for a few more moments before he finally speaks again.

"Y'know…" He starts, the sound of his voice just a touch quieter than usual. "When I was a kid, I always thought the stars were my favorite thing."

Jihoon glances over at you again, noticing the way you were still practically enchanted by the projected stars above you. It makes him bite back a small, amused smile, before he continues.

"I used to sit out in the field by my house and count them, name them, make up my own stories for each of them. I thought they were the most magical, most incredible things in the whole universe."

He thinks of his home back in Busan, the way the moon reflected over the sea water. He thinks of a version of him from lifetimes ago— a boy he'll never be again.

He almost misses him.

Jihoon lets out a soft huff. "And then I got older, and life got really shitty and busy, and..." His voice falters a bit. "The stars were no longer as important to me as they were before."

He exhales, the sound filling the quiet room. He can feel you listening, can feel you taking in every sincere word of his. And that's enough. That means something.

"But..." He goes on quietly. "Sometimes, there are moments that come, and the only things that matter are the stars again."

It's just like Jihoon to spew something poetic without pretense or shame. In his peripheral, he sees you glancing at him, and it takes everything for him to not let this feeling overwhelm him.

"I hope you have more moments like that, then," you say, your voice equally soft.

There was something so endearing about the sentiment you'd said, and he knew that you meant every word of it. And that made it all so much worse for his heart.

He's so whipped, it almost makes him want to laugh.

This is one of those moments, he almost says. Even if it's not real stars.

He can't help it anymore. Despite all the times he's had to keep up his usually cool, calm demeanor with you, despite his usual attitude, despite his usual shyness, the urge is just too much and—

He slides his arm around your shoulders, pulling you a little closer.

That was one thing the stars could do: Give him a bit of courage.

When you don't resist his gentle tugging, he figures he can do just one more thing.

His free hand moves to your chin, gently coaxing your head up so that you’re looking at a specific point up at the ceiling.

You're so focused on the stars, you barely even register the sound of Jihoon’s voice again.

"The most special stars," he murmurs. "They all have names."

He’s still speaking into your ear, and you can feel his warm breath against your skin. "That one," he says, his voice like gravel. He slowly, carefully tilts your chin up just a little more. Coaxing you to look up even further. "Is my favorite."

His calmness is belied by the fact that his heart is a jackhammer in his chest. All he can do, really, is try to get you to look at one of the larger stars that's almost dead center in the middle.

"Why is it your favorite?" you inquire, the genuine curiosity in your tone almost mistakable for breathlessness.

"It's the brightest star in the entire sky." His gaze darts between the star and your face, the shadows of the room hiding the way his chest tightens at the sight of you listening intently. "It's called Sirius."

His voice is still soft, but there's a new note to it that you've never heard before. It's quiet, reverent, almost like he's about to tell you a secret.

"The Romans called it the 'dog star'," he continues. "Because it's the brightest star in Canis Major, the big dog constellation."

He lowers his head a little so that his chin is almost resting on your shoulder, and his arm around your shoulders tightens just a fraction.

"But to the Chinese, it was known as the 'heavenly river commander'," he goes on. "And the Arabs called it the 'chief star in heaven'."

Jihoon is getting nervous, now, but he has to do this. He has to.

It feels like the first flicker of a neon sign as he goes on, "To all those different people, it was all of those things. To me—"

He pauses, feeling the words stick in his Adam's apple.

The brightest star in the night sky.

For the longest time, Jihoon had wondered whether he would find something to call it, too. The closest he's come has been the boys, his music.

But that felt like an understatement. They weren't just a group, after all; they were his whole life. And so it was more apt to describe them as the universe, as the entire planetarium.

Which left him with the brightest star—

"To you?" you repeat, tilting your head back to meet Jihoon's gaze head on.

"What's it called to you?" you prompt.

In the relative darkness, he can't read you as well as he might have wanted.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't change what's he's going to say, anyway.

He gives you his answer—

He says your name.

And then he leans in— his heart at your feet, all yours for the taking.

[dragonanon]

can you do a chapter based on your Death!Reader and God!Brother hcs where Death wakes up from her sleep and goes to Heaven to check up on her brother's children and everyone is obviously terrified of her?

Hmmm…I’m not typically one to do requests because the urge to write is so sporadic and random for me. BUT I have been thinking about the initial confrontation in Heaven for a while now, so here are some head cannons for that. >w>

——

- It’s a typical perfect day in Heaven…Until it isn’t. Having seen what had become of your realm and learning Heaven was to blame for it, you’re on your way to rip someone a new asshole.

- Screams erupt from the Angels as the ground begins to shake and the bright sky darkens. Sera and Emily rush out just in time to join the Angels in watching in abject terror as a massive pool of darkness forms on the ground, and from it slowly rises a menacing figure.

- The figure is massive, and it only continues to rise until even the tallest building barely reaches its hips. Its six long horns twist and arch toward the sky, only making the figure appear even taller. Upon reaching its full height, the figure spreads its six mighty wings, each one sporting a menacingly sharp claw and all as shrouded in darkness as the rest of the figure.

- As its wings blot out the sun further, the figure opens its many blazing white eyes; two where you’d normally expect to see eyes, a third in the center of its forehead, and dozens more scattered across its wings and body.

- Sera lost all color as soon as she saw the figure rising, and somehow lost even MORE color when the figure opened all of its eyes. She looks like she shit herself, and Emily is panicking, trying desperately to get Sera to tell her what’s going on; she’s never seen the older Seraph look so terrified.

- With this unimaginably imposing figure now looming over Heaven, Adam decides this is the PERFECT time to attack, having been dumb enough to think this was a Demon attacking Heaven.

- The exorcists fly up towards the figure, ready to attack. This only angers the figure further however, and with a rumble that shakes the ground itself, the figure merely flaps its wings; creating a gust of wind so powerful it knocks all the exorcists back onto the ground.

- It’s at this point Sera FINALLY snaps out of it, rushing to Adam in mad panic and damn nearly strangling him while telling him to call off the exorcists. Which he does, albeit with some reluctance.

- This doesn’t stop him from asking Sera what gives, and her response is “Adam you absolute fucking fool, that is DEATH!”

- Now it’s Adam’s turn to look like he shit himself. “Death? As in, “the big man himself’s younger sister” Death?? As in, “the baddest bitch you’ve EVER seen, but can kill ANYTHING by just touching it” Death??? THAT fucking Death????” Ignoring that last statement, Sera’s frantic nodding in confirmation confirms to Adam that he has indeed fucked up. Big time. Adam then proceeds to lose all color in his face and practically cowers behind Sera as she cautiously approaches you, mentally preparing herself to be reaped on the spot.

- Back to your perspective however, you’re fucking PISSED. So pissed that you don’t even notice or stop to think that most of Heaven’s inhabitants likely have NO CLUE who you are, and are likely legitimately fearing for their lives. Meanwhile for all the older Angels and Angelic beings who’ve been alive long enough to have known you before you went to sleep, like Sera, they’re all still very much afraid, but it’s more in line with the “oh shit mom’s home early and she saw the mess we made in the kitchen, she’s gonna kill us!” kind of fear.

- The fact that they sent exorcists at you makes you even angrier. Like for starters, how fucking weak do they think you are that you could be stopped by just some low level Angelic beings with pointy sticks?? And then the audacity to even attack you to begin with, like THEY weren’t the ones who fucked up and you’re just some kind of strange intruder needing to be slain?? The INDIGNITY of it all!

- Your voice booms throughout Heaven, making even the ground tremble at the sheer intensity of it. “WHO DID IT?” You’re met with only silence, so you ask again with more force. “MY REALM IS A COMPLETE MESS WITH MILLIONS OF DISPLACED SOULS RIGHT NOW. SO AGAIN I ASK, WHICH ONE OF YOU FLAT FOOT CHILDREN DID THIS?!”

- Sera replies, voice trembling slightly. “Are…Are you talking about the exterminations? “IF THAT IS WHAT YOU’RE CALLING THIS MOCKERY OF MY WORK, THEN YES.” Sera looks visibly confused and concerned. “But…That SHOULDN’T be possible!…The exterminations KILL the Sinners; their souls should be gone, not stuck in Limbo! There has to be some kind of mistake here!”

- Hearing this, you can’t help but let out a brief but harsh cackle, making the ground jolt from the abruptness. “DEAR YOU HONESTLY THINK A SOUL COULD BE SO EASY TO DESTROY? A SOUL IS A POWERFUL THING FOR A REASON CHILD, IF THEY WERE SO EASILY DESTROYED THEN NONE OF YOU WOULD BE STANDING HERE BEFORE ME NOW!…SO ONCE AGAIN, WHO. DID. THIS?! AND SO HELP ME, IF I HAVE TO ASK AGAIN THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES.”

- Whilst Sera is dumbfounded by this revelation, Adam sees a golden opportunity to save his ass and points at Sera. “I-It was her! Yeah it was all fucking HER idea! I-I tried to tell her it was stupid, b-but she just REALLY wanted to go down and kill those bast- Demons! Yeah she REALLY wanted to kill all those poor Demons, can ya fucking believe this shit?!”

- Before Sera can defend herself, the darkness seems to intensify, and she can just FEEL every one of your eyes glaring daggers into her. “SERA…YOU SIGNED OFF ON THIS?? YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF, I EXPECTED SO MUCH BETTER FROM YOU! I LEFT EXPLICIT INSTRUCTIONS FOR HEAVEN AND HELL TO WORK TOGETHER TO SORT SOULS FOR THIS VERY REASON! AND NOW BECAUSE OF THESE BARBARIC “EXTERMINATIONS”, YOU’VE COMPLETELY DESTROYED THE BALANCE I WORKED SO HARD TO CREATE AND MAINTAIN. I HOPE YOU’RE PROUD OF YOURSELF, BECAUSE I’M CERTAINLY NOT!”

- It’s a strange and mildly amusing sight to see the head seraph get scolded like a misbehaving child by this massive dark entity. But here we are anyway!

- At one point during the tongue lashing you’re giving to your niece, Emily buts in and asks for an explanation for what’s going on; having not heard Sera’s previous explanation to Adam apparently.

- Your temper flares for a brief moment, and you just about launched into another lecture at the little shit who DARED interrupt you. But upon seeing Emily, you softened considerably, seeing that she was young and TRULY didn’t understand what was happening.

- “AH…I APOLOGIZE DEAR, BUT I DON’T THINK I RECOGNIZE YOU…COME CLOSER LITTLE ONE SO I CAN SEE YOU.” You slowly crouch down and lower your hand, offering Emily to climb onto it. Emily is hesitant, obviously a bit scared of you. But Sera encourages her to go to you, she knows that you won’t hurt Emily and it’s high time she meets her aunt anyway.

- With the small seraph in hand, you stand back up to your full height and bring her closer to your face. Now FINALLY able to see her properly, you speak. “YOU’RE FAIRLY YOUNG FOR A SERAPH…YOU MUST’VE BEEN BORN DURING MY SLUMBER, AND IN THAT CASE I APOLOGIZE THIS HAD TO BE OUR FIRST MEETING. TELL ME, WHAT IS YOUR NAME CHILD?”

- Her voice trembling slightly, Emily tells you her name and then asks who you are and asks if you’re a seraph like her and Sera. The innocent question gets a genuine laugh out of you, and despite it shaking the ground it’s a lovely sound. “OH CHILD, I AM FAR FROM BEING A SERAPH. THOUGH I CAN SEE WHY YOU WOULD THINK THAT. YOU WERE ALL MADE IN MY IMAGE AFTER ALL.”

- Seeing the visible confusion on Emily’s face, you elaborated. “LONG AGO, YOUR FATHER WANTED TO SHOW HIS APPRECIATION OF ME. SO FOR HIS FIRST SENTIENT CREATIONS, THE SERAPHIM, HE BASED THEM ALL ON ME.” Emily looks surprised, and follows up by asking how you know God.

- You give another genuine laugh at her question. “SWEETY I’M HIS YOUNGER SISTER, I AM “DEATH”, THE GODDESS OF WELL…DEATH. BUT YOU CAN CALL ME “D” OR “AUNT D”, MOST OF YOUR SIBLINGS DO.” Emily’s mind is blown “Wait! YOU’RE aunt D?! Sera told me all kinds of stories about you before you went to sleep, like the time you got into an argument with Father over his invention of the “Snuggie”. I never thought I’d get to meet you!”

- “IT WAS LITERALLY JUST A BATHROBE YOU WORE BACKWARDS, AND I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE HE THOUGHT THAT WAS AT ALL CLEVER.” You huff, feeling amusement and mild irritation at that memory.

- “SPEAKING OF YOUR FATHER, WHERE IS HE?” Sera speaks up, having managed to recollect herself, and explains that no one has seen or heard a word from God since before you went to sleep.

- The irritated snarl that leaves your throat sounds like thunder and shakes the ground, making everyone tremble with fear. “THAT LAZY BASTARD HAD ONE FUCKING JOB, WATCH HIS DAMN KIDS, AND HE COULDN’T EVEN DO THAT?! NO WONDER THIS ALL HAPPENED THEN, HE LEFT YOU ALL UNSUPERVISED!”

- Bending over, you carefully set Emily down before standing back up. “I HATE TO CUT MY INTRODUCTION SHORT, BUT APPARENTLY I NEED TO GO AND HAVE A LITTLE CHAT WITH YOUR FATHER.” You stare pointedly at Sera and continue. “DON’T THINK THIS MEANS YOU’RE ENTIRELY OFF THE HOOK EITHER. WHILE YES, YOUR FATHER’S ABSENCE IS MOSTLY TO BLAME FOR THIS DEBACLE, YOU ALSO KNOW BETTER THAN TO DO SUCH TERRIBLE THINGS. WE WILL BE DISCUSSING THIS MORE ONCE I FINISH WITH YOUR FATHER, AND IF I COME BACK AND FIND OUT YOU HELD ANY MORE OF THESE “EXTERMINATIONS” I WILL TURN YOU INTO A HOLLOW! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?” Looking at the ground, Sera nods and says “Yes Auntie D…”

- Satisfied with that response, you bid everyone farewell and slowly melt back into the ground, completely disappearing. Once you’re gone, the sunlight is back and it’s as if you were never there.

- Now the seraphim have to soothe the murmuring crowd while Sera starts attempting to get in contact with Lucifer to let him know that “Hey Aunt D found out about the exterminations and is NOT happy about it. She just got done yelling at me, and now she’s on her way to go read Father the riot act. Just warning you now because once she’s done with him, you’re probably gonna be next.”

- Lucifer receives the message and is now frantically trying to create peace offerings in hopes they’ll make you more amicable, while also preemptively planning his own funeral in case the peace offerings don’t work.

- Meanwhile in God’s palace, God is currently relaxing in an elaborate hot tub and watching American football on an absurdly large TV whilst drinking wine like it’s water. He’s pretty drunk and having a grand time yelling at the TV.

- His fun is interrupted through by you literally kicking in the door and storming in, you’ve shrunken down to your smaller size so all your features are actually visible now and not covered in darkness as you glare at your older brother with an intensity that could peel paint.

- God startled momentarily before seeing it’s you and giving you a dopey smile. He’s also in his smaller form, so that makes things slightly easier for you. “Ohhh heeeyyy Death!…You startled me thereee…It’zzzz beeen awhillle, huh?” You scoff at his slurred speech, in disbelief that he could be so drunk right now.

- “Yes, it HAS been awhile. Good to see that you still choose to spend your days getting completely wasted instead of tending to your children.” You answer tersely, and God rolls his eyes. “Zzstill the saaame old ssstuck up bitch…Tha kidzz are fahine Deee! Yyyoou should cohme haave ah drink wib meee.”

- You ignore God’s offer for a drink and cut right to the chase. “No, your kids are NOT fine! When was the last time you checked in on them?! Do you even know what they’re up to right now??!” God dismissively waves his hand and chugs more wine. “I juzzt checked on thhhem ah couple decades aghooo..They’rrre prohably makinnn neeewh liffe.”

- “God that is a load of shit, and you know it! I was JUST down in Heaven, and the seraphim told me that you haven’t seen or spoken to ANY of them since I left to take my nap eons ago! And furthermore, while you’ve been in here drinking the day away, your children have COMPLETELY destroyed the balance we created! They’ve been mass slaughtering Demons annually for millennia now, and Limbo is a complete disaster right now because of this!” Hearing this, God looks down at his bottle of whine, embarrassed, and mumbles an awkward “oh”.

- Silence hangs heavy in the air for a moment before God clears his throat and says. “Zzsooo…You’rrree NNOT gooing to drink wiff me?” At this you snap and snatch the wine bottle from God and chuck it at the TV, smashing the bottle and the TV. God shouts in anger but before he can ask you wtf that was for, you just lay into him. Calling him a deadbeat and pathetic excuse of a deity.

- “How can you just sit in here day after day, while your CHILDREN are out there causing such mayhem! Do you not love your children all??!” God is shouting back at you, his anger having sobered him up some so he’s not slurring as much. “How DARE you accuse me of not loving my children! I would giive ANYTHING for them and you know that!”

- “Then fucking ACT like it!! Don’t just sit in here and rot your mind with booze and TV!” God growls. “I don’t need you to tell meee how to handle my children! Why do you even care?! It’zzz not like they’re yours anyway!”

- “I care because they are part of MY family, and I want my family to be safe and happy, something that you couldn’t give less of a shit about apparently!” God throws his hands up at this point “Well what do you want from me Death, go hhhold their handz?! My children are ALL capable of thinking and being on their own, they don’t NEED me to do shit for them!”

- “That doesn’t mean that they don’t still need you there emotionally! But with the way you act maybe it’s best you ARE never there! After all, what use could any of them get from your pathetic drunk ass!!” This clearly struck a nerve as God points back at the door you came in through and roars at you to get the fuck out of his house. Growling, you give a harsh “Fine!” and tell him he can sit and be a drunk deadbeat all he wants because you’re done with him and his shit, and he’s NEVER to contact you again unless it’s in regards to his children or business.

- You stomp out of God’s palace and return to Limbo, wanting to start working on getting things cleaned up and cool off some before you go check on things in Hell.

- Once you’re gone though, God slumps his shoulders and hangs his head. With your venomous words echoing his head, he summons another bottle of wine and begins chugging it while he trudges into his bedchambers.

- He flops down onto the bed and picks up a framed photo and slowly brings it closer to his face. It’s an old photo, one taken shortly after God created the first few seraphim. You and God are both standing next to each other, arms around each other’s shoulders and leaning in close while the first seraphim all stand in between the two of you. Everyone is absolutely beaming, and God looks especially happy; so proud of his creations.

- Tears drop onto the photo as God remembers how things used to be back then, back when he was actually NEEDED by those around him and wasn’t just some brand figure who’s only job is to smile and wave. Even as he slowly sets the photo down, tears continue to fall and he holds his head in his hands. “…I’m sorry I’m so damn useless…Hopefully you’ll forgive me someday…Not that I deserve it though…I’m…so fucking sorry…” No one is there to hear God’s sobs, and eventually he passes out. He’d rather be dreaming of happier times anyway.

[erstwhilesparrow]

to the surprise of approximately no one, i am thinking about video game mechanics and mcrp and c!owen and violence again. i am thinking about interesting accidental resonances and i am thinking about what someone's medium of choice makes it easy to tell stories about. the thing is, owen's pov of outsiders is a story that, despite being told almost exclusively in minecraft, really does not want to be a story set in minecraft.

what i mean by this is that cc!owen repeatedly and deliberately tries to prevent minecraft logic from existing in the story he is telling. according to him, things operate in the messy space of real-world physics, and the fundamental structure of the world aligns much more with our reality than with, i dunno, a series of 1s and 0s. of course they can't climb the vines to get to the top of the walls, they'd get tired well before the reach the top, never mind that minecraft doesn't have any mechanic in place to keep you from clinging to a vine for as long as you want. of course acho drowning during the underwater maze game could have been from something being wrong with the potions, never mind that minecraft potions come out the exact same way every time. of course it matters that owen punched mohwee for going into the maze, but only once, because he couldn't bring himself to do it again. never mind that a punch in minecraft rarely means much.

a single punch in minecraft doesn't mean anything. or it means almost everything, which is why it doesn't mean anything. but the outsiders, at least for a little while, make a world where a punch matters, where it's the kind of thing you go running to tell other people about because it means a real fight's brewing. mohwee punches graecie, and someone comes running to let owen know. we're meant to react to it the way we would if it happened irl. we're treating this seriously now!

except that's really hard to do in minecraft, because minecraft isn't a game that gives you many avenues for... body language. for the kind of nonverbal communication you do by touching someone gently. try as they might to pretend otherwise, it is built into the bones of any minecraft world that the only way you can touch another person for sure, in a way that the game has an obvious mechanical system in place to respond with, is by punching them. so two things here.

one is that yeah, the outsiders creators stop acting like a punch is a punch not super long into the series, because there is no vanilla mechanic for [grabbing you by the arm and dragging you away from the gates]; you have to use what you have at your disposal (such as the left-click button on your mouse) to gesture at the thing you actually mean. owen emulates the act of dragging someone around by punching magic at one point. nobody, in-universe or out, reacts like he was actually hitting her, and i'm not saying we should. but there is that disconnect between what the story is supposed to be (maybe owen pushes her away from the gates, maybe he's trying to pull her back), and what the game will allow them to do.

two: despite the ways that the game runs counter to the kind of story owen et al. are trying to tell, this limitation wrt punching still produces some really interesting resonances that require us to accept and pay attention to the fact that no matter what owen says, this is a story told through minecraft, inflected by its mechanics.

(side bar: i'm focusing on owen for this, but i think you can expand this idea to other characters, maybe the whole cast, by thinking about how both the story world and the game world are, on some fundamental level, set up to not allow for kind or gentle connections between people. you can't actually put your arm around someone else. you can't actually wipe away their tears or lean on their shoulder. the entire world the outsiders live inside of, both from a game perspective and a roleplay perspective, is designed to funnel them toward big dramatic gestures and cyclical violence. the easiest way to touch someone is violently. and still, there are the gestures of care, carved out of what the game will allow. sharing food. speaking softly to each other. opening the trapdoor to your bunker and letting the people behind you hurry down the ladder to hide. so you've never learned how to touch someone without violence. you can still know how to put your whole body between the person you care for and the danger. you can still die for them. isn't outsiders such a story of caring, despite, despite, despite?)

anyway. about c!owen. i think it's fair to say he's a character shaped by violence from the jump. he comes up the elevator and is almost instantly making and hoarding weapons. he tells himself he has to protect everyone, and the first two ways he decides to do this are by making a sparring ring where he intends to teach them to fight, and by threatening to break their legs. for the latter half of the series, he is literally sleeping on the edge of a sparring ring, all his personal effects literally pushed off to the side to leave room for this sand pit in the middle. even before he gets the memories of his time as a soldier back, we can see that this is how he interfaces with and understands the world. violence is in his bones.

as a result, i am kind of crazy about the fact that the literal game mechanics he engages with reinforce this image of him. there's this brief period of time really early on where i guess they haven't really got the prox chat range to yell to each other from a distance, and owen decides to take his weapon of choice and fire an arrow in the path of the person he's trying to talk to. (i know for sure he does this with rasbi and with at least one other person. forgive me, i don't recall who the other person was.) when you're getting shot at, yeah, you sure do generally want to look in the direction that arrow came from to see who's trying to shoot you! that'll get someone's attention! that is generally how people play the game!

at another point much later in his series, a group of outsiders find an enormous crane towering over a section of the maze, and owen pulls out a bow and aims it upward. it took me a second while watching to realize that it's because when you draw a bow in the game, you also zoom in on the thing you're aiming at. owen was trying to get a closer look at the crane, so he grabbed his weapon and used it to get a better understanding of the world.

more broadly, owen uses spears and arrows to point at things, to check distances and investigate stuff he doesn't want to or can't get close to. when he and magic first notice ash up on the walls, he fires arrows up at her, not really to hit but to see how she reacts. then he keeps firing them, having noticed the barrier blocks (in-fiction, the screen that makes up the false sky). later, while talking to chat in a high-up part of the maze, he demonstrates again that the sky is fake by hurling a spear into it.

out of character, these are just creative workarounds for the medium's limitations. in character, however, these instances make it clear that every single thing about the way owen interacts with his world is coloured by the fact that he has used weapons and will continue to use them, that his reaching for a bow right after waking up wasn't some fluke, that even with his memories wiped out he is a character who has been trained to reach for violence before anything else.

just by playing the game, cc!owen adds another dimension to this character, because he is playing a game where There Exist game mechanics meant to facilitate violence, and this is about the cycles of violence c!owen finds himself trapped in and perpetuating and it is also about how violence is so deeply ingrained in him that it is an inextricable part of his world.

[ghosttotheparty]

leave your crown behind

part 3 of lonely town part 1 // part 2 cw: parental abuse; emotional breakdown; unintentional self-harm; nsfw

Wayne is getting ready for work when the phone rings.

Eddie listens from where he’s laying on the sofa, book in his hands, and he lowers the book curiously when he hears, “Oh, hi, Steve.”

Wayne hasn’t met Steve yet. He’s heard all about him (Eddie can’t shut up, apparently), but he’s never been home when Steve’s come over, and Eddie hasn’t been able to introduce them. Figures they’d meet each other themselves over the phone.

Eddie watches, half-smiling as Wayne’s expression softens. He always looks so serious, a crease perpetually between his eyebrows, but as he listens to whatever Steve is saying, the crease fades and he looks at the ground. But then it comes back, and he frowns.

“Yeah, he’s here,” he says. “What’s goin’ on, are you alright?”

Eddie sits up, closing his book as worry bundles in his chest. Wayne’s always been good at picking up on stuff like this, at knowing Eddie’s had a bad day just by glancing at him. He doesn’t know how he does it.

“Of course you can come over, boy,” Wayne says, his voice softer than it usually is. “You don’t gotta ask, alright? You come on over.”

Eddie frowns as he watches Wayne nod as though Steve can see him.

“You need me to come pick you up?”

Eddie’s eyes widen, and he stands, the book falling to the ground.

“What’s going on?” he asks anxiously when he’s closer to Wayne, but Wayne doesn’t answer him. Instead he just sets a hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently, the way he does when he reassures Eddie that he’s okay, that he’s going to pass a test he’s worried about. Eddie holds his forearm, still watching as Wayne listens to Steve. “That’s alright, then, you come over. …Alright. See you soon, darlin’.”

“What’s going on?” Eddie asks anxiously as Wayne hangs the phone back up.

“Steve had a disagreement with his father,” Wayne says gently. “He’s real upset.”

Eddie furrows his brows, frowning, and Wayne rubs his arm.

“He’s on his way over,” he says. “He didn’t wanna be home, so he’s comin’ over here. He’ll be alright.”

Eddie exhales a soft okay, and Wayne nods to the sofa because he knows Eddie would stand there by the door until Steve shows up.

Wayne beats him to the door when they hear Steve’s car pull up, and Eddie stands, twisting a ring anxiously as Wayne opens the door and smiles softly as Steve comes up the steps.

And then Eddie is watching Wayne reach an arm out and pull Steve into a hug, and Steve is hugging him back, arms wrapping around his waist, hiding his face in his shoulder. His hands are shaking.

“You alright?” Wayne asks gently. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No,” Steve says, his voice trembling and muffled by Wayne’s shoulder. “He didn’t— He didn’t hit me or anything, just… Said stuff.”

“Alright,” Wayne says softly, running a hand over the top of his hand fondly, and Eddie’s chest aches, and he’s falling in love.

He comes close and touches one of Steve’s hands, and Steve opens his eyes, looking at him over Wayne’s shoulder, twisting his hand to lace their fingers and squeeze. His eyes are glistening, and Eddie wants to scream. He wants to know what the fuck Steve’s dad said, but he doesn’t ask. He just moves closer, around Wayne, to kiss Steve’s shoulder and whisper, “‘S okay.”

“God, sorry,” Steve chokes after a moment.

“You don’t gotta be sorry,” Wayne and Eddie say simultaneously, and Steve lets out a laugh, sniffling and squeezing Eddie’s hand again.

“I see where you get it,” Steve says lightly to Eddie, pulling away and releasing Eddie’s hand to wipe his face. Eddie watches fondly. He’s smiling a little bit.

“You wanna tell us what happened?” Wayne asks gently, holding Steve’s shoulder and squeezing it. Steve sniffles and looks at him, blinking his glassy eyes as he hesitates before he speaks.

“He’s just… not very nice to me.”

Wayne nods understandingly, and he squeezes Steve’s arm.

“You don’t have to worry about him here, alright?”

Steve looks at him, and he looks like he’s going to cry again before he nods.

“Thank you, Mr Munson.”

Wayne snorts, shaking his head and laughing lightly.

“Just Wayne, Steve,” he says, touching Steve’s face. “No need for formalities.”

He goes to make Steve tea, and Eddie pulls Steve to the sofa. Steve falls against him heavily, burying his face in Eddie’s neck as he exhales, and Eddie reaches to cradle the back of his head, closing his eyes and pulling him closer. Steve goes easily, sighing as he rests against Eddie, wrapping his arms around his waist.

“Got so worried,” Eddie murmurs softly.

“‘M sorry,” Steve mumbles.

“Not your fault, sweetheart.” He runs his fingers through Steve’s hair and kisses his head, smiling when he tightens his arms around him. “Long as you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Steve whispers, and then, “...I missed you.”

“We saw each other at school yesterday,” Eddie says quietly, playing with his hair, scratching his neck lightly. He’s still smiling. He loves how clingy Steve is sometimes, how desperate he seems just to touch Eddie, to hug him and stay in his arms.

“Seeing you isn’t enough,” he complains weakly. Eddie kisses his head again.

“I’m right here, Stevie, you got me.”

Steve lifts his legs up onto the sofa, curling into Eddie’s chest and groaning softly, tucking himself into a ball, small as he can be. Eddie pets his hair softly, resting his cheek on top of his head, and within seconds, Steve’s breathing is slow and heavy, and Eddie smiles.

“He fell asleep,” he tells Wayne quietly when Wayne comes back with the mug of steaming tea. He sees Wayne’s eyes soften, and he sets the mug on the table next to the sofa, within Eddie’s reach, before he crosses the room and gets a blanket from the basket on the other side of the sofa. Eddie’s chest feels warm as Wayne comes back and drapes it over Steve gently, tenderly. They both watch as Steve sighs, pressing his face into Eddie’s chest and relaxing, melting against him. Eddie is smiling.

“You love him,” Wayne says softly.

Eddie looks up at him, blinking, and his smile falters.

He wants to argue. It’s only been a few weeks since that day, since they skipped detention and made their plans in the back of Eddie’s van. Since Steve pulled him into a desperate kiss and climbed onto his lap and wrote his phone number on the back of Eddie’s hand. A few weeks isn’t nearly long enough for that word, for love.

It’s only been a few weeks that they’ve met each other’s eyes in the hallway and lingered just to ask how class was, how a test went. One a few weeks that they’ve slipped notes into each other’s lockers: things like come to mine at 6? and wanna make you dinner tonight. A few weeks that they’ve kissed each other good night, leaning through doorways and smiling and whispering I’ll see you tomorrow. A few weeks that they’ve ignored the lingering stares and raised eyebrows and hushed whispers of gossip and rumors because it’s worth it to look at each other in the daylight. Because it’ll be worth it in a little over a year, when Steve graduates and they can finally leave.

It’s only been a few weeks. It’s too soon for… That.

So Eddie scoffs lightly, even as he caresses the back of Steve’s head.

“C’mon, Wayne,” he says, and Wayne sees right through him, raising his eyebrows and smiling.

“Eds,” he says calmly, reaching down to push his hair back. Eddie looks up at him, blinking, and he feels so small suddenly, like Wayne could squish him like a beetle. But Wayne’s eyes are kind like they always are, soft and gentle as he looks down at Eddie like he did when he was nine, when he moved into the trailer and was scared to sleep alone and scared to call Wayne by his name. “...It’s okay to love him.”

Eddie blinks again. His breaths are short, and his hands still on Steve, freezing, the words rushing over him like rain.

“There’s nothin’ wrong with that,” Wayne says softly. “Alright?”

Eddie stares up at him, taking a slow breath as Wayne blurs in his vision, and he nods.

Wayne stoops down and kisses his forehead softly.

“I’m goin’ to work. You know who to call if there’s an emergency.”

“Drive safe,” Eddie finally says, watching him go, putting on his work boots and grabbing his keys from the hook by the door.

“Always,” Wayne responds like he always does.

It’s quiet when he’s gone. It’s always quiet when he’s gone. If Eddie is honest, it’s what got him into music. Something to fill the air, something to distract his young mind from the absence, from the ache of the loneliness. He started with Wayne’s music, some Status Quo, some Rolling Stones, some Humble Pie and Lynyrd Skynyrd and Grateful Dead, until it wasn’t a comfort thing anymore. It was just the way it was. When it was quiet, there was music. And Eddie found himself biking to the music store in town and spending his time there, looking through records and listening to whatever was playing. And then one day he was admiring the art on one album, and he froze, staring at it as he listened to the song that was playing. It was intense, and a little fast, and as it was ending, Eddie was headed to the owner of the store to ask who it was. Black Sabbath, the man had told him. Children of the Grave. And Eddie bought Masters of Reality with the first payment he got from dealing that year. Embryo was the first song he taught himself to play.

He remembers playing it in his room, practicing and practicing and practicing while Wayne was off at work, trying over and over again until he had to hold his hand in the freezer, his forehead resting between the magnets on the door of it as he hummed the song to himself. Wayne came home one day to find him still practicing, and Eddie thought he would be in trouble for staying up into the early hours of the morning, but Wayne had just lingered in the doorway, watching and listening with his arms crossed. And he’d told Eddie he was good. Really good. And then he told him to go to bed.

Eddie got a weekend job at the music store. The owner, Morgan, was nice. He didn’t look at Eddie like everyone else did, even when he found out about the dealing. He knew how it was, how it needed to be just to make some extra money. When Eddie mentioned he was saving up for a car, Morgan offered his own van. Lord knows I don’t need it anymore. ‘S just collecting dust. Eddie had cried. The only requirement was that Eddie pass his driver’s test. Which he did. Eventually.

Morgan moved away from Hawkins a year and a half ago. The building that used to be his music store is a video store now. Eddie doesn’t go there.

Anyway.

It’s quiet when Wayne is gone.

Usually Eddie would be going to put on some music, or plug in his guitar to play his own, but he’s content here, listening to Steve breathe.

Which maybe could say something about what Wayne said. Eddie ignores it.

He sips the tea that Wayne made so it doesn’t go to waste, combing through Steve’s hair gently, and when it’s dark, he turns on the lamp next to them. Steve doesn’t like the dark.

He’d mentioned it once during a long phone call. Eddie had been sitting on the washing machine, leaning against the wall so the cord could reach him, holding the phone with both hands as he listened to Steve tell him about the most recent basketball game they’d had. He hadn’t noticed how dark it had gotten, how late it had become, until Steve’s speech trailed off into stutters and Uhms. Eddie asked if he was okay. Steve asked if he could go for just a second. Eddie said yes. When Steve came back, he told Eddie he just had to turn the light on in his room. The dark, like… I don’t know. Fucks with my head.

Eddie leaves his curtain open now. His window is small, but it lets in enough moonlight that he’s always covered it up, and Steve’s never even spent the night at the trailer, but he does it anyway. Because Steve doesn’t like the dark.

Steve stirs after a while. He sighs and shifts against Eddie’s chest, nuzzling into him before he lets out a soft groan.

“Hey, Stevie.”

“Mm.”

“You don’t have to wake up if you don’t want to,” Eddie murmurs, smiling. “I got you.”

“Mm. ‘S okay.”

Steve sighs again, his body tightening for a moment before he relaxes, and then he moves to rest his back against the armrest of the sofa, stretching his legs across Eddie’s lap. Eddie keeps an arm around him, set across his shoulder to play with his hair, and Steve reaches for his other hand to play with his fingers. He likes doing that. Eddie can see him eye them when they’re in the hallways at school, and he wishes he could let him there, in front of everyone. The same way he would if one of them was a girl.

“How do you feel?” Eddie asks softly. The light is behind Steve’s head, and if Eddie were to lean forward a little and turn to look at him, it would light up the back of his head like a halo. Steve shrugs, watching their hands as he traces the indents around Eddie’s fingers that his rings usually go in.

“Fine,” he whispers quietly. Lying.

“Stevie,” Eddie whispers. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

Steve is quiet for a moment, tracing lines down Eddie’s fingers so lightly it tickles a little. Eddie doesn’t mind. He swallows before he speaks, his voice so soft Eddie almost has to strain to hear him.

“...He called me a fag.”

Eddie’s stomach falls. He twists their fingers together and pulls gently, prompting Steve to look up at him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. But Steve shakes his head.

“He didn’t… He doesn’t know. About— About me. He was just… talking.” His voice shakes. “But if he… If he found out, I…”

“He’s not going to,” Eddie assures him gently, leaning forward. “Okay? He won’t know, and then we’re gonna get out of here.”

Steve smiles weakly, but he still looks so tired. He lifts his chin.

“Can I have a kiss?” he whispers.

“Always,” Eddie whispers back.

He kisses him. Steve lets go of his hand to hold his face, his palms to Eddie’s cheeks, and Eddie thinks the lines of Steve’s palms are maps that he could follow forever. The kiss is soft, and Eddie tilts his head, pushing his fingers into Steve’s hair and tugging gently, the way Steve likes, as he sets his other arm across Steve’s lap. He slips his fingertips under the hem of his shirt.

Steve is smiling when they part, his thumbs stroking Eddie’s cheeks softly.

“I feel better,” he murmurs.

Eddie smiles back.

“Stay with me tonight,” he whispers. “We have spare toothbrushes. You can wear some of my clothes.”

“Okay.”

The next time they kiss, it tastes like mint toothpaste and Steve is wearing a faded and worn AC/DC shirt. He holds Eddie’s hand as they nestle under the blankets.

“Do you want me to turn a lamp on?” Eddie whispers.

Steve just smiles, half hidden by the too-soft pillow he’s laying on.

“No, ‘s okay. You’re bright enough.”

Eddie snorts even though his cheeks flush with warmth.

“That was awful.”

“Shhh…” Steve shushes him, pulling at his hand so Eddie sets his arm across his waist, smiling. He closes his eyes. “Sleepy time.”

Eddie smiles, slipping his hand under the hem of the shirt and stroking his soft skin. Steve’s hands curl between them, and their legs tangle.

“Goodnight, baby,” Eddie murmurs. Steve just hums in response, already drifting off.

Eddie gazes at him in the dark, in the thin moonlight that’s just bright enough to see when his eyes adjust. His hair is pushed out of his face, off his neck, and his resting face is soft, almost vulnerable looking. He looks so young like this, sleeping peacefully, his cheek and lips squishing against the pillow. Eddie traces lines between his moles with his gaze. He thinks they could solve the mysteries of the universe.

Wayne was right.

Eddie ignores it, the fact that Wayne read him like a goddamn book, the fact that Wayne noticed it before Eddie did himself. He doesn’t say anything.

Steve sleeps over more often when his parents are in town. Wayne doesn’t mind. Of course he doesn’t mind. He adores Steve now, and Eddie thinks he did before he even met him. But they bond over stupid sports that Eddie never understood or found interesting in the slightest, and sometimes Eddie sits on the floor in the living room while they watch a game, pretending to read a book just so he can listen to them. They can’t see him smile when he sits down here.

Nobody knows about it. Eddie keeps a secret, not quite locked away inside his chest (because it’s not something that can be contained like that. It would seep through the cracks, shine through the keyhole.) but kept inside him. He knows it probably shines through when he looks at Steve. Wayne knows it. Sometimes Eddie thinks the fucking lockers at school can tell.

But Steve still talks with him in the hallways, despite the judging eyes of the other students and the lockers, despite the way Eddie looks at him like he’s the rising sun. He still holds Eddie’s hand while they watch movies, plays with his fingers because he can’t keep still, still kisses him like he needs the air from his lungs to breathe.

— — — — —

Eddie gets worried after three days without hearing from Steve. It’s a Friday. Steve always comes over on Fridays now that they don’t see each other every day at school. He comes over and does his homework in the living room and smiles when Wayne goes off to work, and he and Eddie make dinner with enough for leftovers for Wayne.

But he isn’t at Eddie’s tonight. And he didn’t call yesterday, or the day before to say hi. And Eddie is driving to Steve’s before he can think himself out of it, before it can occur to him that maybe Tommy Hagan is at his house, or somebody might see him there. Or something.

Steve’s Beemer is in the driveway. There’s a dry patch under it despite the rain this week.

Eddie knocks on the door. He waits. He knocks again. He waits. He knocks again. He calls Steve’s name. He knocks again. And again.

It finally opens after another minute, and Steve is there in the doorway, wearing sweatpants and one of Eddie’s shirts, and there’s a bruise on his cheek. It’s purple and green and blue, and somewhere in the colors there’s a sharp red mark, like it’s painted on his skin. Eddie exhales, looking at him.

There’s a storm inside his chest.

“What the fuck,” he breathes.

Steve blinks at him.

He looks so… blank. Like he hasn’t even processed Eddie standing here. He’s still holding the door.

“Steve?” Eddie says softly.

Steve blinks again. His eyes focus on Eddie, and he inhales.

“Hi.”

Eddie looks at him, at the bruise, at the blank shine of his eyes, the too-light expression on his face.

“Steve, did your dad hit you?” he asks bluntly. It takes a moment for Steve to respond, and then he nods.

“Mhmm.”

Eddie nods, looking at the bruise. His heart is beating too fast, pounding in his chest, and his hands start to shake.

“Is he here?”

Another pause.

“No.”

“Where is he?”

Eddie will kill him. He’ll search all of Hawkins. He’ll hunt him down.

“...New York,” Steve says softly, like he’s just realized it. Eddie swallows, exhaling slowly. He needs to calm down. Steve is somewhere in his head, floating above the ground, and he needs Eddie. His eyes drift to the ground, unfocusing.

“Steve,” Eddie says gently. Steve blinks, looking at him again. “You wanna go inside? I can get you some ice.”

Steve exhales, his eyes flickering across Eddie’s face.

“I hate him,” he says softly.

Eddie nods. His eyes burn.

“Me too,” he breathes.

Steve is quiet for a moment.

“I hate him,” he says again.

Eddie just looks at him. His eyes look like they’re clearing, but he’s shaking now, his hands trembling by his sides.

“I hate him. I hate him.”

“Steve,” Eddie says softly. “Let’s go inside.”

“I hate him,” Steve says, his voice stronger, adamant, like Eddie is arguing with him. “I hate him.”

“I know, baby,” Eddie breathes.

“I hate him,” Steve says, louder. “I hate him, I hate him.”

Eddie’s vision blurs as tears fill his eyes, because Steve is barely even talking to him anymore. He’s not telling Eddie he hates his father. He’s telling the trees. The front porch. The gravel driveway.

“I hate him,” Steve yells, looking at the ground, and as he says it again, his hands raise to his head, fingers threading into his hair tightly.

“Steve—”

“I hate him,” Steve cries, turning away. “I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I— hate him—” And he’s pulling his hair now, his fists tight in it, and he’s sobbing, choking on his words, yelling it all at the very house he grew up in, kicking at the front door with his bare feet, and Eddie goes up the front steps. He’s crying too. He doesn’t know what to do. He wishes Wayne was here.

“I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him I hate him I hate him IhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehim—”

“Steve,” Eddie says desperately, reaching for his hand and holding his wrists, but Steve is pulling away. “Baby, please, just—”

“I hate him,” Steve wails. “I hate him. I hate him.”

“Stevie,” Eddie says weakly, pulling at his wrists until he’s facing him, and then he holds his face. There are tears streaming down his cheeks, making the colorful bruise shine, and he’s sobbing, but he finally stops as their eyes meet. “Breathe,” Eddie pleads. “Please, just… Breathe.”

Steve gasps, his fingers still tight in his hair, and Eddie nods, inhaling deeply, shakily, and he can’t even see him clearly. So he comes closer, stepping until their faces are almost touching, brushing his thumbs over his cheeks softly.

“Breathe,” he whispers. “It’s okay.”

He slowly reaches for Steve’s wrists, gently touching them and sliding his hands to Steve’s. Steve exhales shakily. Eddie touches his fingers, brushing over his knuckles lightly, and then he presses, carefully, tentatively uncurling Steve’s hands to make him let go of his hair.

“There you go,” Eddie breathes when he lets go. Steve takes a stuttering, hiccuping breath. He’s still crying. “Let it out, baby, I’m right here.”

Steve lets out a deep sob, squeezing his eyes shut, and Eddie lets their foreheads press together as Steve clutches at his hands.

“Is it okay if I hug you?” he whispers.

“Please,” Steve chokes.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” Eddie says, opening his arms. “I got you, Stevie.”

Steve falls against him, and he’s shaking, his hands trembling as they clutch at Eddie’s jacket, and he sobs into Eddie’s neck. The sobs seem to rip their way out of him, deep and rough and heartwrenching. Eddie closes his eyes, holding him tightly.

“I got you, baby boy, you’re okay,” he says desperately, holding the back of his head as Steve lets out a wail, almost screaming as if in agony. And Eddie sobs, lowering Steve down as Steve’s knees buckle until they’re on the ground, wrapped around each other on the front porch of Steve’s house. Steve’s arms are tight around his waist, gripping the fabric of his jacket.

He’s limp when he finally stops crying, and then it’s just Eddie. He tries to stop, but his shoulders shake with every weak sob, and he’s gasping for breath, and Steve just stays in his arms, too exhausted to do anything.

Until Eddie stops crying too.

They’re both messes. Red-cheeked and runny-nosed and trembling. They just wipe at their faces, holding each other, until Steve sits up and turns, and crashes his mouth into Eddie’s.

Eddie lets out a noise he’s never made before, something small and desperate and weak, and he holds Steve’s face in his hands, cradling his jaw. They gasp when they part, their foreheads pressing.

“Let’s go inside,” Eddie whispers. Steve just nods.

They sit on the floor in the kitchen.

Eddie gets him a large glass of water, and he sits behind him as he sips it slowly, running his fingers through Steve’s hair as Steve leans against his back. Eddie presses soft kisses to his neck quietly.

They go home.

Steve goes to bed when they get to the trailer, and Eddie stays with him until he falls asleep before he gets out of bed again, pausing as he watches Steve shift, wrapping an arm around one of the pillows on the beg and pulling it to his chest.

Eddie goes to the living room.

Steve’s voice is echoing in his head.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

Eddie’s never hated anyone more in his life. He’s never wanted to kill someone more than he does now, as he sits on his sofa and waits for Wayne to come home, as he wipes his tears away as quickly as they fall, as his knee bounces up and down anxiously.

Steve is still asleep when the sun comes up, and he’s still asleep when Wayne comes home. Wayne’s eyes catch on Eddie sitting on the sofa as he’s taking off his shoes, and Eddie looks up at him. His skin feels dry from the salt of his tears, and he knows he looks a wreck.

“What the hell happened?” Wayne asks, kicking his shoes aside carelessly and dropping his keys and his bag as he comes toward Eddie.

“Steve’s in bed,” Eddie says quietly.

“What happened?” Wayne asks again. “Did you have a fight?”

“No,” Eddie breathes. “He…” He swallows, and Wayne sits next to him on the sofa, touching his back. “His dad hit him.”

Wayne’s hand freezes.

“There’s a bruise on his face. And his dad’s in fucking New York, and Steve, he… He had some kind of breakdown when I got there, he was… He was screaming and crying and he was— he was pulling his hair, and he was hurting himself, Wayne, I—”

He breaks off when a sob escapes him, and Wayne pulls him into his arms, cradling his head. He reaches to hold Wayne’s arm.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he says, gasping. “He wouldn’t— He wouldn’t stop, and I was so scared, Wayne—”

Wayne hushes him softly, rocking back and forth with him.

“He’s in bed?” Wayne asks when Eddie’s tears slow. Eddie nods. “He’s alright? Safe? He’s not hurt?”

Eddie nods again.

“I— I got him to let go of his hair,” he says weakly. “‘N he just cried. And cried.”

Wayne kisses the side of his head, running his fingers through his hair.

“Sounds like you did okay,” Wayne says softly.

Eddie shakes his head.

He exhales roughly.

“I’m so fucking angry, Wayne,” he says quietly. “He has no fucking right to put his hands on him, Steve doesn’t— He doesn’t deserve it, he’s just— He’s so fucking good, I—”

“Eddie,” Wayne says softly, his voice low and careful. “I know you’re angry, I am too—”

“I’ll kill him,” Eddie interrupts, looking at Wayne earnestly. “If I see him, I’ll fucking kill him, I swear to God—”

“And I will help you hide the body,” Wayne says, holding Eddie’s face now. He wipes away a tear. “But Steve does not need your anger right now,” he says softly, slowly, carefully. “He needs you.”

Eddie closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, shuddering with it.

“You go hold your boy in your arms,” Wayne says softly. “And you make sure he knows he’s safe here. And when you both wake up, we will do whatever we need to for him. Alright?”

Eddie sniffs, blinking his eyes open, and the sunlight is too bright in his tears, but he can still see the shape of Wayne looking at him, holding him, leaning in to kiss his forehead.

Eddie goes to his room. Steve is still holding the pillow to his chest, his face hidden from the sunlight, and Eddie pauses to close the curtain before he goes to bed. The room dims, still warm and bright.

Eddie carefully pulls the pillow away from Steve’s arm, and Steve sighs, letting it go. He stirs, blinking his eyes open and squinting as Eddie climbs into bed in the pillow’s place. Eddie lays down and Steve shifts closer, laying his head on Eddie’s chest, wrapping an arm around his waist and sighing. Eddie runs a hand over his hair, kissing the top of his head, and rubs his arm gently as Steve falls asleep again.

Eddie closes his eyes, listening to Steve’s slow breaths, and he falls asleep too.

They wake up around the same time, stirring to the sound of birds singing outside and shifting against each other. They’re laying face to face, Eddie’s arm under Steve’s neck, his other hand on his waist, and Steve’s hands are curled into loose fists between them. Eddie looks at them for a moment, at how gentle they look despite how hard they pulled his hair yesterday, how tight they wound the strands around his fingers. Eddie moves his hand to touch them, pulling them a little closer to kiss his knuckles.

Steve’s eyes blink open slowly. Eddie looks at the bruise. It’s healing a little bit, a few days old, and the edges around it somehow match the color of Steve’s eyes.

“How do you feel?” Eddie asks softly, running his thumb over Steve’s knuckles.

“…Tired,” Steve whispers. Eddie nods.

Steve is quiet for a moment, watching Eddie’s fingers before he wraps his own fingers around two of them, holding them loosely.

“He doesn’t usually… do that,” Steve says after another pause. “He just talks a lot, he says a lot of things, but he— he doesn’t hit me very often at all, I barely remember the last time he did it.”

Eddie’s chest hurts.

“But he was stressed,” Steve continues, looking at their hands. “About— About the flight, and I forgot to clean the kitchen like he asked, and I kind of talked back, and he just—”

“Steve,” Eddie interrupts. Steve looks into his eyes nervously, and Eddie hesitates. “…This is not your fault,” he says slowly, running his thumb over Steve’s knuckles. “You understand that, right?”

“…I talked back,” Steve says in a small voice.

“I don’t care that you talked back,” Eddie says firmly, ignoring the way his eyes are stinging again. “Nothing you did, and— and nothing you could have done, would warrant him treating you like this. Okay?”

Steve blinks. His eyes are glistening. Eddie squeezes his hand.

“You understand?” Eddie whispers softly. Steve nods. “You come over here if you want to, ever, okay? If he’s being mean, or if he’s scaring you, or anything at all, Stevie, you come here and we’ll keep you safe.”

Steve looks at their hands, and he reaches his other hand to hold Eddie’s between his, squeezing his fingers gently.

“Why do you care so much?” he asks softly, and Eddie wants to set the world alight for ever making Steve feel like this. Like Eddie shouldn’t care, like Steve isn’t worth it.

Eddie gazes at him.

He could say it right now. But the words refuse to leave his throat, to form in his mouth, when he parts his lips.

“You’re my baby,” he says instead, his voice soft and whispering. Steve blinks, his expression softening, his eyes shining vulnerably. “You’re my boy. And I– I’ll be damned if I let anybody treat my baby like that.” His voice breaks, and he takes a shuddering breath, tightening his hand on Steve’s.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut. Eddie lifts his hand to his lips and kisses it softly.

“I’m yours,” Steve whispers after a deep breath.

“‘S right, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs.

Steve opens his eyes and sits up a little, leaning forward to press a hard, lingering kiss to Eddie’s lips. Eddie closes his eyes, humming and wrapping his arm around Steve’s neck as Steve hovers above him, pushing his fingers into his hair and combing through it gently. They separate with a slick sound, and Eddie murmurs softly to him.

“I got you, baby, come here.”

Steve buries his face in Eddie’s neck, crying quietly, and Eddie holds him gently, the way he deserves. He slips one of his hands under the hem of Steve’s shirt (which is Eddie’s shirt, really; Eddie hadn’t noticed it disappear, and he wonders how long Steve’s had it), running his fingers over his soft skin. He’s so warm.

When he stops crying, Eddie kisses his head, smiling when Steve groans weakly.

“I hate crying,” he grumbles into Eddie’s neck. Eddie rubs his back.

“C’mon, I’ll get you some water,” he says softly. “And Wayne wants to see you.”

Steve follows him heavily, pausing by the doorway and squeezing his eyes shut, wincing as the dehydration and bright morning light makes his head ache. Eddie kisses his forehead.

Wayne is at the table by the front door with a newspaper and a mug of coffee when they come down the hall. He looks up when they come in, his expression softening as he looks at them, at their linked hands, and he stands up, reaching for Steve.

He touches his face, analyzing the bruise, before he clicks his tongue and mutters, “Bastard,” under his breath and pulls Steve into a gentle hug. Eddie goes to the kitchen and fills a large glass with water.

“Here, baby,” he says softly when he goes back to them, holding it out to Steve, and Steve takes it, lifting his chin up to kiss Eddie chastely.

“Thank you.”

Wayne makes them lunch, and Eddie sits with Steve on the sofa while Steve sips the water slowly. There’s a baseball game on the television, and the volume is down so low Eddie can barely hear it so it doesn’t hurt Steve’s head.

Steve falls asleep with his head on Wayne’s shoulder after they eat, hugging Eddie’s arm to himself. And Eddie falls in love all over again.

— — — — —

Steve’s graduation is coming up.

Eddie is taking extra shifts at the mechanic, saving up as much as he can, and he attends every party he can with his tin lunchbox in hand. He leaves with cash and a smile. He’s been working on the van, too. Making sure everything is tuned up, making sure they have everything they need. Non-perishables, water, blankets, clothes. Eddie’s acoustic guitar. Some books. It’s all sorted in the back of the van, neater than anything else in Eddie’s life.

Wayne helps. He checks that Eddie has certain things, climbs into the back of the van to inspect it. He even has a friend of his come over to make sure the engine’s okay, even though Eddie insists it’s fine.

On the day of the ceremony, Wayne has Steve’s button-down and slacks ironed and laid out on the ironing board in the living room. Wayne can’t go to the ceremony, and they say goodbye in the living room before Steve leaves for the rehearsal.

It’s a long goodbye, drawn out and quiet as they hug each other tightly and Eddie watches. It’s like neither of them wants to let go. Wayne cradles the back of Steve’s head, his eyes closed, and Steve looks little again, young and small, eyes closed as his cheek squishes against Wayne’s shoulder.

“You call me when you can,” Wayne says when they separate, holding Steve’s face and looking at him seriously. Steve nods. “You have Morgan’s and Davis’s numbers for emergencies. Write to me.” He pauses, looking at Steve like he’s trying to memorize his face. “Anything happens, you come straight home.”

Steve nods, his eyes glistening. He hugs Wayne again, his arms somehow tighter around him.

“I love you, Steve,” Wayne says softly, and Steve’s eyes squeeze shut. He’s wrinkling his shirt. But he doesn’t seem to care as he chokes a quiet, “I love you too.”

Steve wipes his tears as Eddie drives him to the school in the van, taking deep breaths.

“You nervous?” Eddie asks, reaching over and squeezing his leg.

“A little bit,” Steve says, touching his hand and turning it over to play with his fingers. “But I’m excited.”

Eddie smiles.

He leans against the van in the parking lot, watching Steve put on the graduation gown. It’s dark green.

Steve zips it and fluffs it out, grimacing and wrinkling his nose at it as he holds his arms out to examine the sleeves before he looks up at Eddie, raising his eyebrows.

“Thoughts?” he asks.

And Eddie represses the urge to push him against the van and kiss him silly. There are too many people here for him to do that right now.

“You’re beautiful,” he says instead, his voice soft. Steve’s cheeks flush.

“You think?” he asks, reaching for the cap that Eddie is holding for him.

“Mhmm.”

“You got a thing for graduation gowns?” Steve teases, pushing his hair back and casting a glance at the cap, but he doesn’t put it on yet, and Eddie knows he doesn’t want to mess his hair up.

“Got a thing for you.”

Steve looks away, suppressing a smile as his cheeks darken, and Eddie grins, tilting his head. Steve looks around the parking lot. There are a few people glancing at them. At SteveandEddie.

Steve huffs, biting his lip and pushing his hair back.

“What?” Eddie says.

“Just… Wish there wasn’t anyone here.” He looks at Eddie, his eyes shining intently, and Eddie’s chest aches a little.

“Me too,” he says softly.

Steve spins the cap in his hands, the corners of it pressing into his index fingers as he flicks it back and forth, and his eyes look Eddie up and down slowly. Eddie’s dressed the way he usually is, jeans and an old t-shirt, but Steve stares like it’s something he’s never seen before.

“What?” Eddie says again.

Steve shrugs, still looking at him. His eyes linger on his waistline, where his shirt’s tucked into his jeans to show his belt, and Steve wets his lips, looking into Eddie’s eyes intently.

“Got a thing for you too.”

Eddie groans quietly, letting his head fall back to the van, and Steve giggles when it thuds loudly.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Eddie says after sighing heavily. “After the ceremony. I’ll pick you up outside the theater.”

“Okay,” Steve says softly.

Eddie watches him go inside, watches him wave the cap at Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers, who are lingering by the entrance of the building, smiling as he approaches to say hi. Eddie sighs again. He sits in the van for a few minutes after everyone goes inside, smoking a cigarette and just sitting for a while.

It feels kind of surreal, looking out across the parking lot of the high school. Dropping his boyfriend off for his graduation rehearsal.

Eddie remembers the first day he biked to the high school by himself, fourteen and angry like a nervous dog. He remembers skirting around the older kids’ cars, trying to avoid scraping them, keeping his eyes ahead as they threw insults and garbage at him because they thought it was funny. He remembers chaining his bike up by the front doors and finding his bike disassembled after school one day, one wheel missing, the handlebar crooked, and he remembers bursting into tears because he knew Wayne didn’t have enough money to get a new bike for him.

When he finally got a new bike, he got special permission from the gym teacher to leave it in the sports equipment shed. The gym teacher was always nice to Eddie, even though Eddie never knew why. He showed Eddie how to use the lock on the shed, and he made sure anybody that might have seen Eddie would know he was supposed to be there, that he wasn’t stealing or anything.

The sports shed was where Eddie was when he first saw some upperclassmen doing drills on the field, training for football season. Some of them were shirtless, others wearing wife-beaters or thin t-shirts, and they were all sweaty, panting, laughing and making fun of each other. Eddie had to start over with the lock five times before he finally got it open, his hands shaking, his eyes wandering. When he got home that day he just laid in bed and stared at the ceiling for a while.

He remembers the first time he drove the van into the parking lot. Someone had called out to him, asked where he got the money for it, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell him it was a gift from his boss. You whoring yourself out? the boy had said, and his friends had laughed. Eddie just tilted his head. You interested? Get my info from your mom. They didn’t like that. Eddie thought it was funny.

Eddie remembers seeing Steve Harrington drive his nice car into the parking lot, remembers seeing his friends fawn over it, remembers seeing Steve get out of the driver’s seat and push his hair back. He remembers hating how Steve pushes his hair back, thinking it was so pretentious and fake casual. But he loves it now. Steve even does it when his hair isn’t styled, when he just wants it out of his face, but since falling in love with him, Eddie’s learned (or rather noticed) that it’s just an anxious habit of his. He does it when he’s shy and when he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. And Eddie realized that Steve’s always been like this, shy and nervous and bashful.

And Eddie remembers the night he drove Steve back to his car after Steve kissed him senseless in the back of the van at the quarry. He remembers Steve leaning back into the car to write his phone number on Eddie’s hand (which Eddie still has memorized; he kind of wanted it tattooed just because), and he remembers the way Steve leaned back in to kiss him goodbye.

Eddie sigh, taking one last drag off the cigarette before he stubs it out.

He drives around town. Stops outside the video store Steve worked at for the past year, the store that used to be the music store Eddie worked at. Eddie stopped going after the music store owner moved, and he started going again to visit Steve during his lunch breaks and to pick him up and drop him off after he sold his car. He eyes the sign of the store, thinking about the cute vest Steve had to wear during his shifts. He wonders if he’ll miss it.

He goes home to Wayne. Makes lunch with him. And then he makes Wayne get out of the house, snatches his sandwich to wrap it in foil as he tells Wayne to go to the van. He drives them up to the quarry, and they sit looking over the water.

“This is where we were,” Eddie says after a few moments as they eat. “Steve and me. When we decided to go.”

“It’s a nice spot,” Wayne says, looking out across the quarry, and they listen to the water splash.

“I was kinda scared you’d be mad,” Eddie says after a moment. “That I decided to leave so… abruptly.”

Wayne is smiling, and he shakes his head.

“Couldn’t be mad at you for that,” he says, his voice rumbly. Eddie listens closely. He’s going to miss his voice. “This town’s been nothin’ but cruel to you. You’re allowed to leave.”

Eddie nods, biting his sandwich. His leg is bouncing.

“I’m gonna miss you,” he says.

“I’m gonna miss you too, Eds,” Wayne says, and he moves closer, wrapping an arm around Eddie’s shoulders. Eddie falls against him, and he suddenly gets why Steve looked so small today. It’s like he shrinks into Wayne’s side, like he’s gone back ten years, and he’s the little boy he was when Wayne took him in. “It’s gonna be so quiet when you’re gone.”

Eddie laughs lightly.

“Listen to some Anthrax in my honor.”

“You’re not dying, Eddie,” Wayne says, and Eddie feels him shake when he laughs. “You gonna come back for Christmas?”

“We can,” Eddie says, and then, “We can do anything.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Wayne kisses the top of Eddie’s head.

He smiles when he sees the photos Eddie has taped to the wall of the van: one of Wayne sipping from his favorite mug at the table, one of him and Steve on the sofa watching some sports game, one of Eddie and Wayne in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner. There’s also a piece of paper taped up with Wayne’s and Morgan’s and Wayne’s friend Davis’s phone numbers even though Eddie and Steve both have them memorized. Just in case.

Eddie gets dressed for the graduation ceremony. He wears one of Wayne’s old shirts that he gave Eddie a long while ago and a pair of unripped jeans, and Wayne helps him tie the tie around his neck. Eddie watches his face as he does it, watches the way his brows furrow in concentration, watches him frown. He sticks his tongue out a little when he focuses. Eddie must have gotten it from him.

And Eddie feels like a kid again, smiling as Wayne fixes his collar and smooths it down.

Wayne’s already dressed for work, wearing an old, stained flannel and stained pants.

“Never thought I’d look more presentable than you,” Eddie says. Wayne smiles, his eyes squinting.

“What a time, huh?”

He holds Eddie’s shoulders. Looks at him.

“I’m gonna be okay,” Eddie says softly.

“I know,” Wayne says. “I trust you.” He sighs, nodding. “You’re gonna be fine.”

They hug for a long time. Wayne tells him the same things he told Steve this morning. Call as often as possible. Call Morgan or Davis if there’s an emergency. Write letters. If anything happens, if anything goes wrong, come home.

Eddie leaves for the ceremony. He wipes his tears on his shoulder as he drives away from the trailer.

He gets stares when he gets to the theater. People recognize him, know his face. His hair. There are some students from his class there, visiting town to see their friends, to see their friends and siblings graduate, and he ignores his own name uttered in hushed voices around as people question his presence.

He spots Steve from where he’s sitting in the audience. He’s looking up at the ceiling, head tilted like he’s bored, and Eddie smiles fondly.

There are so many people here. Eddie looks around at them while they get settled, while they find their seats with their families and friends, while they excitedly look up at the stage. Eddie relaxes into his seat. The man on his left and the woman on his right are sitting as far away from him as they can, leaning toward their relatives.

Eddie watches while every name is called, his ears ringing from the loud applause after each of them. There are a lot, but he can’t tell if this class is bigger than his was.

When Steve’s name is called, Eddie whistles as loud as he can, and he sees Steve turn toward the audience, suppressing his beautiful smile. The applause is loud for him, and the other students on stage clap for him, watching him cross the stage, and Eddie remembers that he’s their king. And then he remembers that he’s leaving that all behind.

The ceremony is long. But Eddie stays awake throughout it all (which he didn’t do even during his own graduation), his knee bouncing in anticipation. The graduates leave before everyone else, out a back door, and Eddie winds his way through the crowd of people that’s leaving, bumping into as few as possible and saying ’Scuse me and Sorry, coming through, ignoring their glances and glares.

He sees the graduates all outside the theater, laughing and celebrating, and his eyes catch on Steve, leaning against the wall, by himself, looking around, and Eddie smiles, his heart pounding as he drives the van around the parking lot. He pulls up next to the lawn and gets out, looking at Steve when Steve sees him.

And then Steve is running to him, holding the cap in his hand, and he’s jumping into Eddie’s arms, hugging him around the neck tightly. Eddie catches him, closing his eyes and smiling so widely his face is sore as he spins him in a circle. Steve is laughing.

Eddie sets him down and looks at him. His eyes are gleaming, excited, and his cheeks are pink. Eddie touches one.

“You ready to go?” he asks softly.

Steve nods.

Eddie takes the cap from his hands and bops him on his head, his heart aching when Steve smiles, his eyes shining. Steve takes off the graduation gown as he goes to get into the van, and he tosses it in the back. As he buckles his seatbelt, Eddie smacks his face with the cap just to fuck with him, and Steve snatches it from him, giggling and hitting him with it before he tosses it to join the gown.

They drive.

There’s a Lynyrd Skynyrd tape playing, and the volume is low, and the sun is setting. The sky is orange and red and pink, and Eddie thinks about how lucky they are that there aren’t any clouds. When he glances at Steve, he can see the sky reflecting in his eyes, like there’s a fire behind them. Steve is smiling.

Eddie reaches over and squeezes his leg, just above his knee. Steve takes his hand and turns it over again, and Eddie thinks he’s going to play with his fingers, but Steve just slides his palm across Eddie’s, locking their fingers together and squeezing.

There’s a sign on the side of the road, dirty red and white, rusted around the corners.

LEAVING HAWKINS COME AGAIN SOON

And as they pass by it, leaving it behind, Eddie hears Steve exhale in relief.

They drive. Steve looks out the window, holding Eddie’s hand and lifting a leg up onto his seat. Hawkins fades from the rearview mirrors.

The sun sets, and the stars appear overhead. The moon is almost full. Eddie sees Steve lean forward to look at it, and he smiles.

They keep driving.

They only stop when the sun begins to rise again. The road they’re on is empty, secluded, because Hawkins is in the middle of nowhere. Nobody comes here.

Eddie pulls over, parking the van so the back is facing the sunrise, and Steve gets out of the van to stretch, groaning softly. Eddie can’t stop smiling, and he opens the back, watching Steve climb in to grab one of their bags, pulling out two t-shirts and throwing one so it hits Eddie’s face. Eddie catches it before it can fall to the ground, laughing and watching Steve unbutton his shirt as he kneels next to their mattress.

The sun is shining on him. Eddie melts a little bit on the inside.

His hair is falling in his face as he looks down at the buttons, and the fabric is falling open, exposing his chest and stomach, the soft hair that Eddie wants to run his fingers through, the moles spotting his golden skin that Eddie wants to kiss. Steve doesn’t notice Eddie watching, pulling the shirt off and setting it aside as he pulls on the t-shirt, and then he rolls the button-down up and sticks it in the bag. He looks up at Eddie, a hand lifting to take his shirt, but Eddie hasn’t moved, still gazing, holding the t-shirt to his chest. Steve raises an eyebrow, smiling.

Eddie sets the shirt down and reaches for his tie, his cheeks flushing with heat, but he can’t untie it, so Steve takes over, crawling so he’s kneeling at the edge of the van and swatting Eddie’s hands out of the way so he can take care of it. The tie slides out of the collar of his shirt smoothly, and Steve sets it aside before he starts unbuttoning the shirt, slowly, carefully, tenderly. Eddie gazes at him. His eyes look like they’re glowing in the sunlight.

Steve’s fingers brush his bare skin as he undoes the buttons, and Eddie bites his lip, watching him. Steve’s eyes linger on the tattoos on Eddie’s chest. He’s seen them before, he’s touched them and pressed soft kisses to them, but he still stares like they’re brand-new.

As Steve undoes the last button, he lifts his head, and Eddie leans down to kiss him before he even thinks about it. Steve sighs, pushing his shirt open and sliding one of his hands across Eddie’s stomach. His hand is warm.

The kiss lingers, and they separate after a moment, smiling. Steve pushes the shirt off Eddie’s shoulders and picks up the t-shirt, waiting patiently as Eddie pulls the shirt off his arms and tosses it into the van. And then Steve helps Eddie put the shirt on, and Eddie is smiling again.

Steve puts the button-down in the bag and zips it back up, putting it away as Eddie gets out the sandwiches Wayne made for them. They’re wrapped in foil.

They sit on the edge of the van, looking at the sun rise over the trees, and they eat in silence. Eddie holds Steve’s leg. Steve lays his head on Eddie’s shoulder.

When they finish eating, Eddie moves the rest of the food out of the plastic bag Wayne put them in, and he puts the balled-up foil in the bag. Then he moves back next to Steve, and he sighs. The sky is orange again. Eddie is starting to love the color orange.

Steve rests his head on Eddie’s shoulder again. Eddie sets his arm behind his back.

“You don’t regret it, do you?” he asks softly after a few minutes. He’s been thinking about it. If Steve were to decide he didn’t want to leave, even after planning on leaving for over a year. If Steve decides he wants to go back after they leave. Eddie will take him home if he wants to. Eddie will take him anywhere.

Steve lifts his head and looks at him. He looks so warm in the sunlight, almost glowing. He kisses Eddie, touching his face as Eddie exhales slowly. He stares at Eddie when they part, his eyes half-shut.

“I’ve never been happier than I am right now,” he murmurs.

Eddie smiles.

He lifts his chin to ask for another kiss, and Steve obliges, pressing their lips together softly and brushing his thumb over Eddie’s cheek softly. Eddie lifts the hand that’s set behind Steve and presses it to his back, tilting his head. Steve's lips part, and his tongue slips across Eddie’s, and Eddie hums when Steve nips at his lip before he sucks it between his own.

Eddie turns to face his body toward him, pulling him closer, and Steve moves too, pulling a leg up between them and leaning over it to kiss him harder, pressing his hands to Eddie’s face and holding him in place. Eddie furrows his brows, lifting his other hand and setting it on Steve’s hip, sliding it to his thigh and squeezing. Steve hums.

When they part, they’re both breathing hard, and Eddie smiles, blinking his eyes open to look at Steve, whose lips are parted and shining as he pants. Eddie leans close and licks across his lips just because, and Steve lets out a soft sound, lifting his chin to catch Eddie’s mouth in another kiss.

Eddie pulls him closer, twisting so their legs tangle, and Steve’s arms wrap around his neck, his fingers pushing into his hair and tugging as they lick into each other’s mouths. Eddie slides a hand under Steve’s shirt, slipping his fingertips over the line of his spine lightly, and Steve shivers.

Eddie’s desperate now, humming weakly as Steve tugs on his hair and sucks on his tongue, and he pulls at Steve’s t-shirt, pulling away enough to gasp, “Off.”

“Bed?” Steve asks breathlessly, eyes bright, and Eddie nods, grinning.

They haven’t done this before. The farthest they’ve gone is pulling their shirts off while they make out in Eddie’s room, sliding their hands across each other’s chests and stomachs and waists, kissing each other’s collarbones and bare shoulders. There’s a mole under Steve’s left collarbone that Eddie’s had the privilege of kissing.

They’re smiling as they crawl into the van, kicking their shoes off and setting them by the doors, and then Steve is pulling the t-shirt off over his head, tossing it aside as he sits on the mattress and reaches for Eddie, who crawls over to him and kisses him hard. Steve’s hands clutch at his sides, and he pulls away to pull Eddie’s shirt up. Eddie lets him tug it over his head, and then he’s pushing Steve to lay on his back. Steve lets out a soft whine, pulling Eddie down on top of himself.

Eddie lifts a leg to straddle Steve’s hips, leaning down over him and pressing a hand to his chest, running his fingers through his chest hair and humming when Steve’s hands find his legs, squeezing his thighs.

“Fuck, Eddie,” Steve breathes when Eddie pulls away and kisses his cheek, then his jaw, then down his neck.

“Mm.”

He licks a line up his neck, then sucks a kiss just under his jaw, listening to the way Steve is breathing.

“You’re so beautiful,” Eddie murmurs. “Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Eddie, shit.”

His hips jerk up into Eddie, and Eddie gasps, burying his face in Steve’s neck. Steve is hard.

“Fuck, sorry,” Steve breathes, running his hands over Eddie’s thighs, and Eddie kisses his neck, biting his skin gently.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, breathless. “I…”

He lifts his head, looking at him, and all they’ve done is kiss, but Steve looks a mess. His hair is messy on the pillow beneath his head, and his lips are reddened and shining and parted as he breathes hard, and his eyes are glazed and half-shut like he’s high. His cheeks are pink. The sunlight shines around Eddie’s shadow over him.

Eddie must look the same.

“I want you to fuck me,” he says finally, and Steve blinks.

“Oh.”

“If you— If you want, we don’t have to—”

“Shut up,” Steve says, sitting up and kissing Eddie so hard their teeth clash. Eddie whimpers, wrapping his arms around Steve’s neck as Steve slides a hand to his ass, squeezing. “Are you sure?” he pants when they part, their foreheads pressing together.

“Yes,” Eddie gasps, rolling his hips, and Steve chokes out a quiet moan, his hand tightening on Eddie. “I— I want you in me.”

“Fuck,” Steve says gruffly, kissing him again.

“Do you want to?” Eddie breathes.

“Yeah, fuck yes.”

Eddie grins, and he kisses him again, grinding against him. Steve lets out an open-mouthed groan, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s waist tightly, pulling him against himself harder.

“Do we—” Steve pauses with a gasp as Eddie leans back down and buries his face in his neck, licking and biting and sucking on his skin. “Do we have stuff?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says into his neck. “I got some before we left, it’s…”

He sits up straight, huffing as he looks at the bags next to them. He kisses Steve one more time before getting off of him, moving to unzip of the bags, rummaging through it for the plastic bag from the drugstore. He looks over at Steve while he’s reaching in the bag, watching him unbutton his pants and slide them down his legs. His skin is warm in the sunlight, his legs covered in soft hair, and Eddie looks through the bag more intently.

He tosses the bag next to the mattress when he finds it, and Steve holds a hand out to him, reaching for him.

“Lay down,” Steve says, moving to kneel, and Eddie moves to lay down in his place, smiling as Steve moves between his legs and reaches to the button of his jeans. Eddie lifts his hips to help him tug them down his legs, and Steve leans down as he tosses them aside, pressing a kiss to his thigh before he opens his mouth and bites down gently.

Eddie giggles, reaching to touch Steve’s hair.

Steve looks up at him, his eyes shining, the sun behind him making his hair light up like flames, and he hooks a finger on the waistband of Eddie’s underwear.

“Okay?” he asks softly.

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes.

Steve tugs them down, smiling as Eddie sighs and throws his head back. When Eddie looks up again, Steve is shifting farther down the mattress, moving onto his stomach. He touches Eddie’s dick, jacking it slowly and carefully, and Eddie hisses, bititng his lip, propping himself up on his elbows to watch. Steve smiles, leaning his head down and spitting on it slowly, using it to slick his way.

“Fuck, Stevie,” Eddie breathes. “I…”

“Can you pass me the lube?” Steve asks, grinning. Eddie nods, reaching for the plastic bag and pulling the bottle of lube out of it. He pauses, resting on an elbow, to open it, peeling away the plastic and tossing it away before passing the bottle down to Steve, who murmurs a soft, “Thank you, baby.”

Eddie takes a deep breath, looking down at him, the sunrise behind him, shining on his bare legs and ass and back, and Eddie’s stomach flips over. He has butterflies.

Steve notices, pausing as he opens the lube, looking up at him.

“Have you done this before?” he asks, one of his hands caressing his thigh gently, comfortingly.

“Only to myself,” Eddie says softly. Steve smiles.

“Are you sure you want to?”

“Yes,” Eddie says. “I’m fucking desperate for it, baby, please.”

Steve’s smile widens, and he turns his head to press a slow kiss to the inside of his thigh, and then he’s leaning forward to suck the tip of his dick into his mouth, and Eddie whines, his back arching. His mouth is warm and wet and fucking perfect, and Eddie reaches down to touch his hair again, but Steve pulls away after a moment, pushing at the back of Eddie’s thigh.

“Hold your leg up for me,” he says, and Eddie does, lifting his leg and holding it up to expose himself, his face flushing with heat.

“I feel fucking ridiculous,” he mutters, but he’s still smiling. Steve’s hand runs down the back of his thigh to his ass before he clicks the bottle open.

“Well, you look fucking good,” Steve says lightly.

Eddie giggles softly, closing his eyes, and he gasps when Steve takes him into his mouth again, sliding farther down this time, his tongue fluttering against him, and then Steve’s finger is pressing to his hole, sliding inside just enough that Eddie can still stop him. Eddie’s chest feels warm.

“Come on, baby,” he says breathlessly. “I want it.”

He groans when Steve pushes his finger in farther. Steve’s other arm wraps around his thigh, his hand holding onto his hip as his head bobs up and down slowly. Eddie moans weakly, collapsing onto his back and reaching down to hold Steve’s hair, pulling it gently.

He’s gasping for breath, almost lightheaded as Steve fingers him open, pulling away to get more lube. When Eddie looks at him, his eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, his lip between his teeth, and he presses kisses to Eddie’s thigh, to his hip. It takes a moment to notice that Steve is grinding his hips into the mattress, and Eddie giggles.

Eddie bites his lip to keep himself quiet, and Steve bites his thigh before murmuring, “Let me hear you.”

Eddie lets out a loud Fuck! when Steve finally adds a third finger, pushing in slowly, almost meticulous in how he’s taking Eddie apart. Eddie throws his head back, groaning loudly, his back arched.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Steve is still humping the mattress, his fingers pushing in and spreading slightly, stretching Eddie out, and Eddie reaches down to tug his hair desperately.

“Please,” he chokes. “Stevie, baby, I— I need you, please, come on—”

“Get a condom,” Steve says, and his voice is rough, low and gravelly, and Eddie moans, squeezing his eyes shut before he reaches for the box next to the bed. He struggles to open the box, his hands shaking, but he finally gets one out and looks down the mattress to toss it at Steve’s head, grinning when Steve glares at him.

Steve shifts to pull his underwear off and toss it away, and Eddie stares, watching as he opens the foil and rolls the condom on.

“God.”

Steve grins, moving closer and pushing Eddie to lay on his back. Eddie falls promptly, eliciting a soft laugh, and he wraps his around around Steve’s shoulders as Steve pushes his legs farther apart.

“You okay?” Steve whispers, leaning down until their noses brush.

“I’m so okay,” Eddie breathes. “You?”

“Yeah, same.”

Eddie smiles, and they look at each other for a moment. They’re both shaking. Eddie lifts his chin, and Steve kisses him tenderly, smiling against his lips. Eddie opens his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut as Steve’s tongue slides against his, and he hums.

“Can I tell you something?” he whispers breathlessly.

“Yeah, ‘course.”

Eddie kisses him again, pushing his hair back, letting it slip between his fingers. When they part, he stays close, nudging their noses together and breathing hard, eyes still closed. Butterflies swarming.

“I love you so fucking much.”

Steve exhales, kissing Eddie again, biting his lip harder than he usually does, their noses smashing together, and it’s messy and wet and desperate as he licks into Eddie’s mouth. There’s spit on their chins and cheeks, and a string of spit connects their mouths when Steve pulls away, panting.

“I love you so fucking much too.”

“Oh,” Eddie breathes, lightheaded from the kiss, his head falling back to the mattress. “‘S nice.”

Steve giggles, lowering his head to kiss his neck, sucking on his skin and nipping at it and (hopefully) leaving marks in his path.

“You ready?”

“Yeah, gimme that dick.”

Steve snorts and snickers into his neck, and Eddie grins at the ceiling, wrapping his legs around Steve’s hips as Steve reaches down, shifting. And then he’s pushing into Eddie, and Eddie isn’t breathing, his lips parting and his back arching. Steve pauses, touching his face.

“Don’t pass out,” he says, and Eddie exhales sharply with a laugh.

“Would that be the— fuck— the highest compliment?” he asks breathlessly, groaning weakly. “If I pass out on your dick?”

Steve laughs lightly, his breath on Eddie’s face.

“I guess,” he says. “But if you pass out, I’ll totally panic, so I need you to breath.”

Eddie takes a long, slow deep breath, exaggerating the rise and fall of his chest, and Steve presses a kiss to his throat.

“There you go,” he mumurs. Eddie flushes with heat. “You ready for more?”

“There’s more?”

Steve giggles into his neck again, nodding, and Eddie laughs.

“Fuck,” Steve gasps, one of his hands tightening on Eddie’s waist. “You feel so good, Eddie, I…”

“Gimme more,” Eddie says, threading a hand into Steve’s hair. “I want it all, baby, I want all of you.”

Steve gives him all of him.

Eddie is crying, his hand tight in Steve’s hair, and Steve stops when he bottoms out, breathing hard into Eddie’s neck.

“Fuck, Eddie,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Eddie gasps. “That, please.”

“You’re so annoying.”

They’re both breathless as they talk, their hip shifting just the slightest bit, smiling and smiling.

“You’re the one with your massive fucking dick in my ass.”

“Your idea.”

Steve pulls out, and Eddie’s lips part, but he doesn’t respond, groaning as Steve pushes back in.

“Does that feel okay?” Steve whispers.

“Feels so fucking good, Steve,” Eddie says shakily. “Oh my god.”

“Okay,” Steve says, and Eddie’s eyes are closed but he can hear his smile. “I’ll be gentle, okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie says weakly, his voice thin because his eyes are burning because Steve is so good to him. So kind.

Steve is gentle. He keeps his hands on him the whole time, like he’s keeping him grounded, and he’s so soft, his skin warm against Eddie’s. And he’s so goddamn sweet, murmuring softly to Eddie.

“Does that feel good?”

“Yes, Steve, fuck—”

“I got you, baby.”

He’s slow with it, carefully moving back and forth, kissing Eddie’s neck and chest breathlessly, until Eddie whines a weak, “Stevie, faster, please,” followed by a sharp, “Shit, yes—” when Steve snaps his hips forward.

“Good?”

“Yeah, Stevie, ‘s so good,” Eddie slurs, almost delirious. “You’re so fuckin’ good to me, I love you so much, baby boy, fuck, fuck—”

And obviously it’s a good thing Eddie already told him, because he isn’t thinking right now, his mind blissfully blank except for SteveSteveSteveSteveSteveSteveSteveSteve—

Steve groans into his neck, moving faster, and Eddie throws his head back, his legs tightening around Steve’s hips, the air filling with the sound of their skin slapping, the sound of their heavy breathing and Eddie’s desperate whining, and the van is probabaly shaking as they move.

“Eddie, fuck,” Steve gasps, leaning down so their faces are close, and he licks Eddie’s cheek, panting. “Feel so fucking good, you’re so perfect.”

“Stevie,” Eddie whines, his back arching. “Fuck me,” he moans, pulling Steve’s hair with one hand as the other slides to his arm, holding him tightly.

“You want it harder?” Steve asks breathlessly, and Eddie nods frantically, moaning a loud yes. His stomach flips over when Steve sits up and manoeuvres his legs so they’re over his arms, leaning over him, and the stretch in Eddie’s legs aches. He sobs, clutching at Steve’s arm and nodding, begging, pleading.

Steve fucks him. It’s not like Eddie used to think it would be. He always imagined getting fucked face down, hiding, anonymous. Whoever it was would see his hair. Maybe pretend he was a pretty girl instead of whatever he is.

But Steve…

Steve caresses his face, murmurs to him that he’s perfect. Licks the drool off his face and kisses his neck. Reaches down between them to touch Eddie’s dick when Eddie’s whines go up in pitch.

“Steve,” Eddie chokes, hugging his neck and exhaling roughly. “My baby—”

Steve whimpers, burying his face in Eddie’s neck.

“I’m so close,” Steve says weakly.

“Use me,” Eddie gasps. “Come for me, baby, please—”

Steve moans brokenly, his hips moving faster, harder, his hand moving in time with it all, and Eddie can’t fucking see, it feels so good, and Steve sounds so good, his voice rough and broken and right by Eddie’s ear, and then Steve is freezing, his hips pushing in again, so hard Eddie wonders if his ass will bruise (which might be a though he likes), and he’s groaning loudly, hips stuttering.

Eddie gasps when he pulls out, and then he looks down, watching as Steve shifts down to lay on his front, pausing to slide two fingers into his own mouth, sucking for a moment before he removes them, taking Eddie into his mouth and pushing Eddie’s leg back up the way he did before so he can slide the fingers into his ass. Eddie groans, dropping his head as Steve bobs his head.

“Holy shit,” he says loudly, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice. “Fuck, baby, please, I’m—”

Steve doesn’t stop, humming around Eddie’s dick, fingers pressing and prodding and pushing until Eddie’s nerves light up, and his back arches again.

“Steve!”

Steve moans in response, pressing into the spot, sucking harder before he lifts his head and looks up at Eddie with lidded eyes.

“Come for me, baby.”

Eddie whines, and Steve slides his tongue up Eddie’s dick, and then he’s coming, eyes squeezed shut so hard he might get a headache, his fingers in Steve’s hair again, his other hands gripping one of the blankets that’s bunched up on the mattress, and he’s gasping for breath, hips jerking. Steve pulls his fingers out, and Eddie groans, panting and blinking his open to watch as Steve leans over him, sliding his tongue over Eddie’s pelvis, licking up the come.

Eddie opens his mouth, sticking his tongue out before he can even think, and Steve hovers over him, sliding a hand over his chest as he leans down, opening his mouth and letting the come drip into Eddie’s mouth. Eddie moans, reaching up to Steve’s head and pulling him into a kiss, licking into his mouth.

He swallows when they part, and Steve kneels between his legs, breathing hard, his mouth shining.

“Fuck,” he says breathlessly, touching Eddie’s thighs, squeezing.

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, closing his eyes for a moment before he pushes himself to sit up.

He reaches out to Steve, who falls against him, burying his face in his neck as Eddie wraps his arms around him, petting his hair as he looks outside. The sun is up now, shining down at them, and the sky is blue, scattered with a few clouds.

“You okay?” he whispers to Steve, who groans, nodding.

“Are you?”

“Steve, I’ve never come that hard in my life.”

Steve giggles, sitting up to kiss him softly.

“I need to take this off,” he says after a moment, moving away and reaching down to take off the condom, hissing and wincing. Eddie watches him tie it off and put it in the plastic bag with the sandwich foil before he moves and falls onto his back, sighing heavily. Eddie smiles, moving closer, pulling his hair so he lifts his head. Eddie moves so his leg is under his head, and Steve relaxes, his expression light as Eddie combs his fingers through his hair.

They’re quiet.

Steve’s hand is resting on his own stomach, rising and falling with every breath, the other touching Eddie’s legs absently. Eddie plays with his hair, gazing at him basking in the sunlight, and after a few moments he reaches to touch his face, tracing lines between his moles. He continues it down his neck, watching Steve smile as he recognizes the pattern, and then his chest before he runs his fingers through his chest hair.

Steve hums softly, smiling.

“We should probably get dressed,” Steve says after a while, his voice slurring sleepily. “In case someone drives by.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says regretfully, looking Steve up and down. He really is so gorgeous.

They dress quietly, slowly, finding sweatpants and boxers and the t-shirts they threw aside earlier. Eddie realizes everything Steve is wearing is from Eddie’s room. He pulls him into a kiss.

They get stuck there for a while, kneeling on the mattress and kissing each other slowly, arms around each other, fingers in each other’s hair.

They tidy up when they finally part, sorting out the clothes and setting the trash bag between a bag and the wall of the van so it doesn’t get lost, and then they get into the front seats. Steve gets a map out, following it with furrowed eyebrows as Eddie gazes at him, at his messy hair and wrinkled t-shirt.

“There’s a gas station a few miles away,” Steve says after a minute, leaning to show Eddie the map. Eddie raises his eyebrows, struggling to find where they are until Steve points, and Eddie is impressed with how quickly Steve figured it out. “And there’s a town a little past it, they might have a gym where we can use their showers.”

“Alright,” Eddie says, leaning over and giving him an abrupt kiss that makes his eyes widen and his lips curve into a smile before he reaches to buckle himself in. “You ready?”

Steve looks at him, and his cheeks are pink despite everything they’ve done this morning.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m ready.”

Eddie turns the van on, and the music turns back on, low and quiet, and Steve buckles up after setting the map across his legs. Eddie waits, then reaches over and squeezes his leg, lifting his chin. Steve meets him walkway across the center console with a soft kiss. Steve is smiling when they part, and he looks out the window shyly.

Eddie pulls back into the road after checking both ways even though the road’s been empty for hours. (Wayne would be proud.)

And then he drives, glancing to look at Steve, and even though his smile is soft and small and content, it outshines the sun.

❧ buy me a coffee // check out my commissions ☙

[factorialsotherfandoms]

TW: panic attack, non-graphic self harm, reckless behaviour, fear of drowning

This is like... a bit 5K of Pac and Philza actually bonding for once...

Fear claws into Pac's heart just as easily as his fingernails dig into his palms. There's nothing wrong, objectively there's nothing wrong, but he's been alone all day. It's not at all like working with Mike; he's been trying to decorate the Favela, but his breath keeps catching and his thoughts keep stopping.

He can hear the fountain beneath the warpstone, and he wants it to /stop/.

He knows anxiety now, he knows it, he knows this is what it is, and when Fit found the blood in Chume Labs and the empty graves he made him promise to call him if it happened again. It's happening now, Pac can feel it building, but there's nobody awake. He checks it again, and still it's only him.

So he does the thing he does next best. He holds his breath and he thinks of nothing and he builds. More trees, more ponds, more fountains - anything and everything he can think of. Give the Redeemer a sombrero, then think better of it half way through and take it down. Start returfing the football field, only to decide to put it back because making the goals muddy is just ugly. Hang up more banners, pull them down, add a bit to the fences, swap them for iron, then concrete.

Breathe in, breathe out, there's nothing wrong it's just anxiety.

(But it is wrong, everything is wrong, the back of his brain where Mike sits is empty, not just asleep but empty, torn away and - )

Mike's in the Order hospital, Pac reminds himself, and begins to walk that way.

( - and there are eyes at his back, ready to take him again and - )

Pac forgets to breathe. He drops to his knees in the middle of the street, and scrabbled his hands in the dirt.

Pac checks the communicator again. There's a few more people awake, but... No Fit, no Tubbo, no Mike, no Bagi or Forever... Of the handful of people, the one he knows best if Philza - and while he's happily looked after the man's children, and he's been quite happy to chat or fight together in the past... Philza Minecraft is a legend, and he's never really spoken much without Fit there as a buffer.

But the other option is staying here alone, and he promised Fit that if he started feeling like this again he'd ask someone for company.

He takes a deep breath, and sends a message.

You whisper to Ph1LzA: Can I visit?

As soon as he hits send, Pac slams it shut. He pushes it against his head, shuddering while curled up in a ball. He clings to the communicator, his link to the outside, so hard it leaves indents in his skin.

"It's okay," he whispers to himself. "It's okay, you're okay, there's nobody here to watch you."

It doesn't help; he tries it anyway.

The seconds drag on into minutes, and Pac's fears overwhelm even his attempts to comfort himself.

"You're okay, you're okay, you're safe," he promises himself, even as he claws at his knees, at his face, at his hair and at the floor - anything he can reach to force himself to remember his place.

He hums songs he loves, shuts his eyes and tries to dance along.

He slams hands over his mouth and freezes when he tries.

Too loud, too loud, they'll find you - quiet, quiet, quiet as a mouse and quieter still. Hide amongst the rats, and hope nobody spots you curled up there...

The communicator pings.

In a scramble Pac pulls the lid open, shaking fingers quickly clicking him through to the correct screen.

Ph1LzA whispers to you: sorry m8, missed the message

Ph1LzA whispers to you: still need something or you get it sorted?

What does Pac say? The loneliness is getting to him and the walls are caving in and he can feel something watching from inside his spine? That Mike is gone and he's remembering a /before/ he wants to forget, He can't say that, he really can't.

But what sounds like a normal response which might get him a conversation...

With shaking hands he types whatever comes to mind.

You whisper to Ph1LzA: I am just missing Fit

... Not that. That absolutely does not sound like a request for company.

This time Philza's reply does not take nearly as long, though still longer than anyone else Pac ever messages.

Ph1LzA whispers to you: yeah?

Ph1LzA whispers to you: you want some company? I can put down a sharestone

Pac's heart settles back into place - maybe slightly too high still, but far closer. He didn't mess it up too badly - maybe English is just like that - he didn't even have to ask again.

You whisper to Ph1LzA: please.

It's another minute or two for Pac's anxiety to build and him to cling to the communicator before he recieves a reply.

Ph1LzA whispers to you: red sharestone, name should be obvious

You whisper to Ph1LzA: obrigado

Ph1LzA whispers to you: you're good

There's definitely some emotion to reading those words; Pac pushes it aside, and grabs his warpstone. Moving to the main warpstone for the warehouse seems like too much, so he simply sends himself to spawn.

Only there does he pick himself up, activating the red sharestone. It takes a few scrolls to find the new option, but once he does it earns a small laugh. He selects it, and lets his body be pulled through space.

Where he arrives is cold, deep snow all around, and an icy ocean before him. Pac tugs his sleeves down over his hands, and looks around.

Whereever Philza is, he isn't immediately obvious.

"Philza?" he calls. "Felipe?"

There's a splash as Philza trident-jumps out of the ocean, his paraglider flipping open at the zenith and allowing him to drift safely down to the ice. Pac watches him drift down, the water dripping off him freezing as it falls.

"Hey," Philza calls, once back in voice range, arm moving as though to wave before suddenly remembering he needs to hold the paraglider. "Sorry about that; spotted another jelly and had to get it before it ran off."

Pac waves him off, "it's okay, it's okay, do you need any help?"

Philza squints at Pac a moment, and Pac squirms beneath it. After a moment, though, he just shrugs, "just hunting for rainbow jelly."

"Rainbow jelly?"

"Like the French use to make themselves all rainbow," Philza grins a bit. "You can use it to make glass like that, too. Chayanne wanted some, so..."

Pac thinks of the children, hurting and asleep and under the Federation's "care", the only guarantees of their safety the ability to visit, and the knowledge the Federation knows what is coming if harm comes for their children.

"For Chayanne?" He asks. "I'll help."

"Feel free to hang onto it - if you don't use it, he'll appreciate the gift when he wakes up."

When, not if, even if Pac can see Philza hesitates too.

With that confidence and the thought of their children, Pac doesn't even consider before throwing himself into the water. Behind him he hears the somewhat distorted sound of Philza laughing, and the man throwing himself in after.

Pac spots a couple of the comb jellies, and kicks off towards them. Philza seems to see another group, as he takes another route.

Hunting animals for their innards is one of the few times that sweeping edge is worth it on this island, and so Pac takes out his sword. It only takes a hit to take out the jellies, small as they are, and then Pac just has to scoop up their remains. From there he spots another - deeper - and swims after it. And another, and another - Pac loses himself to the chore, simply collecting jelly for the happiness of a child.

He thinks he's finally calmed down, when he spots another in a cave. Pac doesn't even think about it as he dives in after - but very quickly, it gets very dark.

Too dark.

He tries to ignore it, to push through and find the jelly even as memories start to loom and the dark closes in.

Breathe in, breathe out, remind yourself your helmet is in place and with that much Aqua Affinity you're fine.

It's not the underwater prison again, it's not, it's not.

Just find the jelly and get out...

On instinct he reaches out for Mike, and finds nothing.

Nothing.

Mike? What happened to Mike?

The most frustrating thing is always that he knows, he remembers, but in the dark and the wet and the unnatural silence it doesn't matter. His breathing picks up, and he twists and he turns, looking - screaming - for Mike.

Rationally, he knows he's lightheaded because hes hyperventilating. But in his heart, in his fear, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, it doesn't change anything because he's alone in the wet and the dark and he /can't do this anyone/.

He wants Mike, he wants Mike, he wants Fit and he wants Mike.

Where is Mike, why can't he reach him, where is he where is he why can't he feel him in his mind?!

He's screaming for them, he thinks, even as tears stream down his face and he twists in the water. By now he's helplessly lost, not even able to find the exit he cane in by. Whatever light there was is gone, and he doesn't even quite remember why he's here.

He twists and he fights, trying to fend off hands that aren't there - only to get his leg twisted up in the seaweed and somehow everything is even worse and worse and worse. He tugs and tugs, but the seaweed grasps tighter - he sees dark prison walls overlaying dark, broken caves, and he sobs as he realises he is going to die here.

He screams again and wonders how he still has air; something responds this time, and he begs it for bitter, screaming help.

A small light he cannot focus on, and hands find their way to his leg. In a panic he twists, kicks, fights - nothing, nothing, nothing can touch him - it's worse than the seaweed, to be grabbed by a hand.

"Shit, Pac," a familiar voice calls, an odd quality to it. "Fuck, I'm just cutting you out, Jesus mate no need to break my nose."

The words don't make sense, not entirely, but seconds later Pac finds his leg free - still entangled, but the seaweed cut from the floor, and he does his best to swim away.

Right from the seaweed and slamming into the cave wall.

Hands grab him again, and say something, and he fights them all the same. Seconds later he's being dragged and pulled and - oh, god, this is how he's going to die.

He goes to fight before remembering, actually, dieing might not be so bad actually... At worst he'll respawns, at best he'll be with Mike again.

It's just as that thought crosses his mind that his head breaks the surface of the ocean. Pac gasps for air and, by the time he's processed that, he's being hoisted and yanked up onto the ice.

He's frozen, he's freezing, but he shakes off the worst of the water and shudders as sunlight presses into his skin.

He's crying - sobbing even - on his hands and his knees, blind terror all about him as he struggles to breathe.

"Aw, mate, you could have said no if it was gonna fuck you up."

There's someone else here; Pac's eyes glance around, only to find Philza there. He can't tell if the man is a friend or a foe or just an acquaintance to be embarrassed around, but the man shrugs off his bag and opens his arms in a familiar gesture.

Pac falls into them, and hides. A hand finds his hair, and another his back, and something very dark curls around to protect him from icy wind. He does not cling back, just cries to the sound of slightly awkward comfort, sucking it in.

"You're okay," the words sound so much more believable coming from someone else. "You got out, I've got you, you're safe, you're okay."

The words are whispered into his skin, and they're not quite a balm but they are a promise and a kindness none the less; he is promised safety, and he knows the man around him can provide.

He just... Did not expect that provision to include himself, only friends of friends as they are.

Pac breathes, and it comes easier now - the air is cold, but between the darkness and Philza's chest he is safe. Slowly, slowly, as he remembers what limbs are Pac reaches out a shaking hand to the void.

It finds feathers; the darkness tenses, and then relaxes to his touch.

Pac, in turn, relaxes with it.

"You good?" Philza eventually asks from above.

"Sim," Pac replies, gathering himself a little more, hiding himself in a laugh. "Sorry, sorry, that was embarrassing."

"We've all been there mate," Fit's friend says.

The wings peel away, and Pac can see them properly - tattered edges and all. Sees how they droop, and the strain in Philza's shoulders as he uses his hands to fold them, and his backpack to keep them in pace.

"Shall we get somewhere warmer?" he asks, before Pac can comment. "I've got a treasure map to somewhere near that mesa you and Fit showed me, if you've still got the warp?"

"Are you sure?" Pac's hands shake as he checks his things.

"Eh, I'm pretty sure it's an iron dungeon," Philza replies, pulling out a map and squinting at it. "I was saving it to troll Etoiles with, but I could actually do with more iron. And someone to deal with mobs while I mine it. You, me, and some skellies - sound good?"

Pac isn't sure; he doesn't want to think, though, he does know that. Dungeons are supposed to be his and Fit's /thing/, one half the time someone intrudes on. The offer almost feels insulting, but...

But when Philza felt bad, they offered him a dungeon - he so clearly means to offer the same. Like for like, not pity but a trade.

"I want the tracks and redstone," Pac tries to sound steady, and knows he fails. "I'll save it for Mike when he returns."

"Sure, I don't even know where to start with that shit," Philza takes Pac's hand, and leads him along a safe route over the ice. "If we go back to that haunted rock area, then glide back towards the mesa? I should be able to find us on the map from there."

Pac nods, placing his hand on the warpstone in advance. Philza's joins it, and together they warp away.

---

Thankfully it is dawn, and any monsters are gone this time - there's just the beautiful sunrise over the haunted sea. The sun is rising, not setting, but Pac waves to it anyway and hopes that, somewhere, Bobby can see.

Philza makes half a laugh as he finds his glider. Pac searches for his own, and tries not to remember the night on the cliff - him and Fit, him and Fit, but also Philza, laughing about cannons and resting in one another's arms, only for Philza to pull away first and let him and Fit be.

Pac instead thinks about friendship, and how Fit would abandon everything for Philza just as Pac would give it up for Mike, and how it seems that isn't limited to just them. Because Philza didn't send him home, just as Fit also kept close to an oddly behaving Mike. How it doesn't really matter, because in the end they both agree with where the other stands.

Pac instead thinks of nothing, and throws himself off a cliff after Philza.

For one glorious second he lets himself fall, before pulling out his own paraglider and following Philza down.

He lands on Philza's boat, and they drive it back to the mesa. It's filled with the sort of talk that means nothing, and with Philza humming tunes to the air. For a man who claims to be musically dead, he manages it well.

It's also noise, white noise to blur the absence in his mind.

"Here we are," Philza gets out first, and offers Pac a hand out. "We should be pretty close. These things are a bit of a nightmare to find, being underground, but I'm sure we'll manage."

To his surprise, Pac is passed the map while Philza puts away the boat. He has to turn it around to orientate himself, but once he has Philza gestures for him to lead the way. Philza puts himself on Pac's left - the side he holds the map, whilst his other has his scythe, shield turned out against the wild.

Pac tries to think of something to say, and what comes out is, "so did you go looking for a big cannon, or did you just stumble into it?"

The comment draws startled laughter from his companion as they walk, having to stop a moment to let him gather himself. "We knew we were going to see one, but we're exactly looking. You find them all over the coast in the UK, and I think some along the Thames too? A lot have been removed, but we like our old crap, so a couple of the old forts are still open."

"So you're saying you come from a land of many large cannons."

"Yes, Pac," Philza laughs again. "Yes, I do; don't you?"

"We have other large things instead," Pac tries to smile, but he knows it looks off. "Like diamonds."

"Diamonds?"

Pac can see Philza looking for the sex joke, and suddenly realises he doesn't actually want to explain what he meant. So instead he says, "quality over size. Even a big diamond is small."

That draws more laughter, "yeah okay mate; Fit's a lucky boy then."

That almost has Pac dropping the map he's holding as he chokes. Philza grabs him, holds him steady, gives him something to cling to with Mike and Fit and Richarlyson and Walter Bob all gone. Something there, some support, something to stop him choking on himself.

"Too much?" Philza's voice is gentler this time.

Pac nods, hiding his blush in his hands even as he leans on Philza.

"Alright," Philza says, handing him a bottle. "Drink some water, king, and we'll get this dungeon cleared. And no more dick jokes until Fit's also here to suffer. Maybe we could even come up with some new ones, just to tease him next time we all meet up."

Pac takes the bottle, hiding in his hood as he does as he's told. Philza takes the map and they continue to walk as he sips at it, hiding himself and his face in the bottle. Philza makes sure to stay in sight, keeping idle commentry going.

At this point, Pac is reasonably sure Philza knows something continues to be wrong - but then so did Fit and Pac when Philza had that strange... Maybe hallucination? Fit says it probably wasn't, and Pac trusts Fit, but whatever it was it was unsettling and strange.

Philza seems fine now, though; maybe one day Pac will be fine too.

It is about ten or fifteen minutes walk to the dungeon. There's nothing on the surface to mark it, just Philza squinting at the map, and passing it to Pac to check.

Once they agree, they dig; Philza calls 'race you!' and begins a staircase.

Pac lives for adrenaline; he starts digging straight down.

Somehow he doesn't hit lava.

He does end up falling from the top of the dungeon into a crevasse, fails to find either a water bucket or his paraglider, and breaks his leg. It's terrifying, and he's alone as he sees his death message flash up in chat but - maybe - it's okay. There's Aypierre laughing and Baghera offering help, and Philza on his black paraglider swooping in from the ceiling to assist.

"You good?" Philza asks as he pours a potion out over the wounds, his eyes almost glowing in the low light as Pac's bones knit together.

Pac leans forwards to check his prosthetic while his body heals, twitching only a little with the pain. The fall knocked a few screws loose and bent some of the metal out of shape, but it's an easy enough fix with a hammer and screwdriver. He'll check it over properly later, or maybe swap it for his spare until he has energy for it, but it'll hold for the day.

"All good," Pac confirms, as he pulls his jeans back down.

He can see Philza side-eyeing the prosthetic, and shifts; the man says nothing, however, just helps Pac up and types out an 'all good we're just dungeoning' to calm the global chat.

And then he looks at his map.

"You've got us near a corner," Philza turns his communicator to show Pac. "If we just start here and work around to the left, we shouldn't miss anything."

Pac nods, and pulls out his grapple. Together they pull themselves up and onto the ledge, and the dungeon begins.

It starts simple - Philza takes out a spawner, while Pac works on the skeletons, then they swap so Pac can loot the minetracks. Trading the mobs on and off, Pac cannot help but notice how Philza even when on mob duty prioritises looting, catching the attention of a swamp of skeletons and sending them on a chase over barrels as he smashes them open and grabs the contents. Only when he can carry no more does he start fighting, laughing as he does.

It's a nice laugh, that one.

He laughs too when Pac fights, hacking away at the iron blocks he claims to want. With every other hit there is a call of "good hit!" "nice one!" "you're doing good, Pac!", and Pac can feel himself starting to grin as well.

Together they dance in a dungeon much easier than the one Phil joined Pac and Fit for, able to let loose without worrying for the giant magma cube around the corner. They keep an eye on each other, and watch their backs, and Fit's deep voice is so clearly missing between them without feeling like a void.

By the time it is finished, they are both laughing, bone-dust covering their clothes and their tools and the world in their hands. Philza gives Pac some of the iron, and they take his staircase - not Pac's hole - out.

They don't talk about what comes next, but neither of them reach for their warpstones. Instead Pac picks a direction and walks. Philza follows.

They find a hill a little way out, surrounded by flower fields but empty of them itself. Philza lights it up with his slingshot, despite it still being around midday, and Pac makes hot chocolate for them both. Pulls out chairs, too - blue and green - and places a coffee table between them.

He sits on the blue and Philza looks at the green and says, "are you sure I'm okay to sit there? I don't wanna intrude."

Pac looks at the chair - it was just habit, just what he carries - and curls up his toes. "It's fine," he can hear the sadness in his own voice. "Mike isn't here, he wouldn't mind."

"Do you mind?"

"I got it out for you."

"Alright, king," Philza finally takes the seat and the hot chocolate, leaning back into the cushions. After a bit he adds, "these are good chairs. Maybe I should invest in something better than mine."

"They're not expensive," Pac replies. "And they're comfy! I have one instead of a bed."

He wonders if he should have admitted that - he knows people worry - but in the crash of the panic attack and the fighting it's hard to keep his mouth shut.

Philza just laughs though, "yeah? I've been using one of those wooden ones. You know? Basic ones, just in a fancy wood."

"How do you not have splinters?!"

"I'm good with my hands - what else can I say?"

They both laugh at that one, a joke which actually lands. There's something comfortable and comforting about it. The laughter drifts into giggles, drifts into sips of hot chocolate - quiet and together. Pac makes a point of not watching as Philza gets himself comfortable, untangling his wings and stretching them... Not to full width, but wide.

It's only when one brushes his arm that Pac dares to ask "what happened?"

"Hm?" Philza looks up.

"To your wings?"

"Feds fucked them up when I arrived," Philza says it like its nothing, but there's bitter pain in his words. "By purgatory they'd healed up just enough to fly, but then carrying Tubbo through meteor strikes and radiation... I can't regret it, I /won't/ regret it, but they're fucked again. I can hold them up so it seems better, but they hurt worse than before."

Pac wants to say he's sorry, but he doesn't think it would be appreciated. Instead he says "thank you for saving Tubbo."

"I couldn't just leave him," Philza says. "He's my friend too, you know?"

"I know," Pac fiddles with his cup. "You're a good man, Felipe Minecraft. I'm not sure I'd do it."

"I think you would," Philza says, with more faith in Pac than he's ever had in himself. "If it came to it. You're also a good man, Pac - if you weren't, I wouldn't let you have Fit."

It's an admission neither of them acknowledge. Instead Pac flops, exhausted, against his chair. "I'd do it for Mike. I miss him."

"I can't imagine," Philza's wings stretch a little further, stroking against Pac's cheek. "But, I'm sure he'll heal. And once he does hold him close, okay? Because you never know when you'll loose him."

It's obvious, of course Pac will try to, but there's pain in Philza's voice, and Pac thinks of a memorial on a wall and a child living in the footsteps of a ghost, and maybe Philza can imagine better than he thinks he can.

Or maybe Philza means he can't imagine, because he knows.

"Did you love him?" Pac asks instead.

"He was my best friend."

Philza's voice breaks on the word, and Pac knows both that he has to stop, and that Philza knows just what it is Pac fears. Even if he calls it different, even if they didn't share one mind... Pac should not have asked.

"I'm sorry."

"You did nothing wrong; it hurts, but in hurting I remember him, you know?"

There's a long silence, in which Pac tries to know what to say, and Philza stares absently at soft clouds on the horizon. Even in Portuguese he would struggle, and Philza is certainly not looking to his translator.

Maybe Philza and Fit are not as Pac and Mike; Philza has already lost his Mike. Or, perhaps, both are true, and even if Pac looses his best friend, someone will be there to keep him whole.

It's a nice fantasy; he knows Philza's wound bleeds open even now.

"I have never been without Mike before this island," Pac eventually admits. "At least... I was seven when we met, he was five. I've heard his thoughts since I was ten, and the first time he ever fell silent was when I was put in that water prison."

"Shit," Philza closes his eyes as he swears, leaning back. "Earlier, with the water... You should have said something, Pac, I wouldn't have judged you. Fuck knows there's shit I can't do anymore."

"I didn't know it'd be that bad," Pac hesitates after those words. "It hasn't been before. Today is just... bad? I already felt bad."

"And you came to me for company, and I made it worse," Philza says. "I am so, so sorry mate - I didn't mean to, I just- It was for Chayanne."

"It was still better than being alone," Pac replies. "The second time our connection broke was when he was taken - I haven't heard him since. Even asleep, even unconscious, even when I was in a coma... We could still feel each other. Not now. It's lonely no, and it's been so long..."

"Pac..." Philza's voice catches. "You shouldn't have to make those choices... You shouldn't have to put up with my whims just not to be alone, mate, you should have just said; we could have gone to the dungeon, or the favela, worked on the train tracks... You didn't have to swim."

"Fit is gone, Mike is gone, Richas is gone," Pac twists his hands. "You were helping me. I wanted to help you - I wanted to do something for Chayanne too! He is a good egg."

"He is," Philza smiles softly, taking the distraction for what it is. "The best. But, king, are you going to be okay?"

"When am I not?" Pac asks, as he thinks of happy pills and his own blood trailing the floors of Chume Labs.

Philza gives him a distinctly unimpressed expression and, yeah, fair, "I'm serious, Pac; I don't have plans today if you just wanna chill somewhere. Here, my place, your place, the Favela... if the karaoke's working, we could steal a room? Hell, we can just keep heading outwards and find some more dungeons if you fancy violence instead."

"... Are you sure?"

"We're friends, aren't we?" Philza asks. "We don't get to hang out as often as we should - if you'd rather get some rest, I won't stop you. Just thought I'd offer."

"Karaoke then?" Pac suggests, if only for some structure to keep the anxiety from seeping back in.

"Sure. No promises I won't fall asleep on the couch, though."

Pac laughs. It is weaker, but it is more real. "No promises, no promises here either."

In time they do, of course, fall asleep on the couch - and that is where Fit will find them in the morning.

[enderwoah]

does the jimmy solidarity side of trafficblr understand how desperately jimmy either needs to win OR come ridiculously close to winning for me (me specifically) to be happy

like if he wins. which he could. that would be amazing. winning after dying first every single series would be incredible and i think i would go absolutely insane. he deserves it and he definitely could if he decided to stop playing up the pathetic wet cat/'bully me itll be funny' bit. which i feel as if i always have to clarify IT'S NOT A BAD BIT!! ITS FUNNY im just saying if he Did. he could do some serious damage to the server. like if jimmy solidarity decided that he was tired of being nice and literally nerfing himself and just sort of went off with a group in the next life series i personally think he could go crazy go stupid

but here's the thing. i will be happy with him winning. but i will be equally as happy (and i'd be a dirty liar if i didn't say possibly even more happy) if he got to like. third place. hell, even fifth place. and then someone stabbed him in the back at the last second. like, someone he had been running with for the entire series just. to win. stabs him in the back.

i feel as if. and correct me if im wrong. jimmy solidarity has never been straight up betrayed before, i dont think. he even did the betraying himself in last life, but i dont think someone has ever actively turned their back on him or stabbed him in the back out of wanting to win before. hes never been seen as enough of a threat to backstab. hes one of those players that gets a group or a partner and sticks with them for the entire series. he had scott in 3rd life, the southlands in last life, and tango in double life, and i fully believe that he only doesnt betray them because he doesnt want to.

imagine it in your head. jimmy solidarity is running with someone and decides that he needs to kill them. its not that weird of a thought. jimmy, in my opinion, has enough bastard energy where you CANT say that it would be out of character for him to betray someone. he could. he just doesnt. like, dude, if you want proof he literally DID betray his group in last life. no regret, broke one of the most sacred southlands rituals and tried to run away with a life. he has enough desperate bastard energy to do it if he really wanted to. he just doesnt enjoy doing it.

so imagine the absolute shock and horror that jimmy would experience when someone does directly betray him. he picks his group, or even his partner for the next life series and that person stabs him in the back suddenly? he would be flabbergasted. jimmy has little to no self-control, but jimmy i dont think would have the gall to betray one single person. he just. i dont think he'd get it. it would be horrible. and deliciously dramatic.

imagine the animatics out of that. jimmy solidarity girlbosses his way through the entire next life series. someone dies first before him, and you see how morbid it is for him to be excited, overjoyed at someone else's death. his circumstances have made it so he is happy when another person dies. he burns things down, forms strong enough alliances that he basically is untouchable, sets traps, embraces his innate bastard energy, and when he can finally see the light of a win, when he can finally see the possibility of him actually coming first...he is ripped away from that high by a sword in the back or a trapped base.

like jesus christ that would be horrible. and amazing. i would eat it up. im a jimmy solidarity enjoyer through and through, and of COURSE i want him to win, but im not gonna lie to myself and say that him getting close and then getting it torn away from him by a friend (and lets not make that sound less than it is; jimmy's enitre life basically circles around other people. getting betrayed by a friend would be horrible for him and him specifically) wouldnt be...wonderful. surely the jimmy solidairty side of trafficblr can agree im not crazy right. right.

[ccbatman]

I once said that I thought Steph would make a great Black Canary, and I still think that's one of the realest takes I've ever had.

Like, this moment seared itself into my head and never faded:

{ Robin 80-Page Giant }

[dying-suffering-french-stalkers]

god help me i'm going insane about dickson xenoblade again

[divinevault]

Hello! I hope you're doing well! May I please request a scenario with a protective Poseidon x reader? Take your time and thank you so much! 💙

I am, thank you! And thank you even more for this ask!

Please do forgive me if it wasn't what you'd imagined- I really wasn't sure what kind of protective you meant (because believe me, there are different levels, so I went for more of a "how dare you almost knock over my partner" vibe)

An Ocean's Irritation

Featuring: Poseidon x Reader

Summary: You almost get knocked over by a rowdy guy running through town. Now Poseidon kind of wants to punch him

CW’s: Poseidon wants to punch a bitch

Reader is: Gender Neutral!

Words: 366! (Please, do tell me if you would prefer these longer!)

Type: Scenario

Requested? Yes! And thank you, Anon, I hope this works well for you!

Poseidon, god of the ocean, bringer of earthquakes, brother to Zeus– intimidating, powerful and–

Well.

An absolute lil’ guy when it came to affection. He could handle himself well in public– though always looking less of a god and more of an aesthetic fisherman that had just gotten off shift (Always a flower-patterned t-shirt and some sort of thing slung over his shoulder).

When you’d initially met him, he hadn’t been very intimidating to you. Just a guy looking roughly your age with a hat on, shielding his face, and carrying the salty scent of the ocean’s breeze. Intelligent blue-green eyes that locked with yours and a conversation that ran smoothly.

Even now, he wasn’t intimidating– long after you’d found out about his godhood. Despite his divine nature, he was still the slightly cocky, mildly teasing, utterly devout and caring goof he always was.

You think that’s why it caught you off guard when he took a step in front of you, eyes narrowed, brows furrowed. The smile etched into his face had vanished, leaving behind the hint of a scowl. A sense of danger lurked beneath the depths of his turquoise irises as he stared down the man that had very nearly shoved you over.

Honestly, you think he wanted to fight him— judging by the divine power he kept under lock and key seeping out with all the lethality of a tide rapidly going out.

“‘Seidon,” You murmured, leaning over, barely audible over the cars rushing by on the crowded streets, “c’mon— it’s not worth it.”

And something about the way he looked at you made your heart thump. It took a couple seconds of eye-contact before he broke away with a quiet huff— the waters gently brushing back into shore as he looked back at the man.

“If you dare touch them again—”

“Calm the fuck down! It was an accident,” The male grumbled, raising his hands before walking away, muttering something unsavoury beneath his breath.

“Can we go home? Please?” You found your boyfriend asking, tone tired and perhaps a little aggravated— not with you, of course. Never at you (not seriously, at least).

You smiled, “I’d be more than happy to.”

[orcelito]

I've been following that AITA blog for a bit now and it has me thinking about my own life situations with conflict and drama. A passive "do I have anything I could submit to that blog?" But upon thinking about it, it's like... I really find no value in asking strangers whether I'm "the asshole" in situations. There are situations where I'm clearly not at fault, situations where I was a little shit but it was justified, and at least one situation where I have a definite "Oh yeah, I was definitely the asshole there". All in the past, so it's not like I'd even need advice or anything. I already know, so what's the point?

Maybe it stems from me being a generally self-aware and self-confident kind of person. I know what's going on with myself, know when I've wronged people, & I have a mentality of "well, I'll try to not do that in the future." Even if I feel a little guilty thinking back, what's the point of asking after something when I know I'm at fault? Or situations where things were complicated and both people had fault in things, but I know I wasn't being shitty on purpose & that's what matters to me. Ultimately, it results in a bunch of strangers drawing conclusions about things I really don't care about outside input on.

Still love reading the blog tho. There's something about reading up on random people's life drama that satisfies that gossipmonger soul in me So well.