#(Note: '{not} Bitter' does not mean '{not} having any trauma at all' and even THEN like)

[koushirouizumi]

Digimon Adventure 02: The Beginning {New very first seen "The Beginning' stills were being added to the official DM_Partners account + site!} (Sept. 21 2023, around 6:21 P.M. J.S.T) ~ Daisuke Motomiya

#Digimon Spoilers #Digimon 02: The Beginning Spoilers #Digimon Adventure 02: The Beginning Spoilers #The Beginning Spoilers #TheBeginningSpoilers

(Mini-analysis under the 'read more'!)

This was the very first time we had seen this particular shot of Daisuke.

In this shot, Daisuke clearly and proudly holds one of the new styled "Digivice"-equipped phones made & produced by Izumi Corporation, the company canonically owned and managed and run by Koushirou Izumi, who acts as President, sometime post 2005 within the Adventures timeline. As of the Kizuna tie-in novels, Koushiro had seemingly "just" gotten the company up and running, and within Kizuna, the Chosen Children group, including Taichi's team and Koushirou's own self, began actively using the phone models. "Digivice" appears to work on these phones, which the Chosen use to open Digital Gates and portals within the Real World, even without the aid of a computer or Koushirou's laptop nearby. (The actual Digivice, meanwhile, seemed unuseable. Taichi hid "Digivice" deep within Taichi's desk drawer, until the plot forced Taichi to acknowledge and pull it out again; Daisuke seemed to do similar with own blue "D3", which can be seen during the opening scenes and later moment.

When the phone device shuts off, "Izumi Corporation"'s logo can be seen in Kizuna on Taichi's phone. Though we do not see it within "The Beginning", it can be assumed Daisuke's phone shuts off in the same style.

At the end of the film, though it is implied "something" is happening to "Digivice" and "D3", the actual phone models they also have now, which were produced by Koushirou, and; which are separate devices, do not appear to change or vanish.

In promotional material released after the film's release, the Chosen still appear to hold the phone models.

[aihoshiino]

Wow ONK sure had an ending and I think my main Issue with it is honestly the fact that it feels like every character is back at square one last chapter, until this chapter when Akane narrates to us how „actually everyone is ok and moved on“ and we‘re just supposed to? Accept this? Ok (shrugs)

And also the fact I feel like much of its themes didn’t reach a satisfying conclusion like what it means to live a life of lies/lying in general and (the focus of this last chapter) what to do with your life and how to live it.

We see all the characters magically moving on and being fine which is like, yea, good (ignoring the terrible execution) but? Why was? Aqua? The male lead/protagonist of much of the story? Not allowed to do that? Why can’t he move on from any of his trauma, sadness, suicidal tendencies and the idea his life has less value than those of others? Why can’t he get better? I hope it’s kinda understandable what I mean, this isn’t a „Why can’t my fave character be happy“ thing I‘m trying to get at but more so a „I think the themes could‘ve been explored way better in terms of his character and I‘m disappointed it wasn’t.“ I feel like I‘m missing something but it really just feels like the story is telling us that Aqua was right in believing this self imposed lie that the only value in his life is to die (so his sister gets to be in the spotlight for the final chapters)

Idk just leaves a really bitter taste in my mouth the way they handled Aqua‘s mental health/state and suicide

Honestly yeah, it feels like everyone is just kind of circling a Character Development Cul-de-sac. Sometimes recovery does mean taking a few steps back before you can go forwards but this feels less like a depiction of the natural and inevitable unevenness of healing after trauma and more like Akasaka just, like. Didn't have an end point in mind for anyone's arcs apart from Aqua lol. AND EVEN THEN, IT'S... YEAH.

I said this in a previous ask but I think if the story was more willing to frame Aqua's death as him relapsing in his recovery and ultimately succumbing to his suicidal ideation & survivor's guilt, I think that could be not just cathartically tragic but quite an important message to send - that, unfortunately, yeah. Long term suicidal ideation really can just catastrophically consume someone even if they're actively looking forward to and taking steps towards building their future. Aqua has textually been suicidal since he was four years old and that's not something that would've just turned itself off.

But even when the story does acknowledge Aqua's death as being a suicide, it still also has this weird horrible framing of like. It's SAD, sure, but it's this beautiful and necessary sacrifice that he was DESTINED to make to protect Ruby('s career lol). So we end in this horrible place where Aqua's life, dreams and happiness are implicitly, cosmically Not Important in comparison to Ruby's and that Aqua himself is not just acceptable bit of collateral damage but a necessary one.

Which would be an insane note to end things on ANYWAY if the career that Aqua was protecting was anything OTHER than being an idol, when we've spent the whole manga talking about what a fleeting, exploitative and ephemeral stage of someone's life it is. Like, what are the chances that Ruby's going to still be an idol in ten years? Five, even? What's she going to do when she's not an idol anymore? Was Aqua's life really worth this?

[thatanimewriter]

CHILLAX.

➳ request: MERRY CHRISTMAS YALL! Cinder with a Male reader who's the epitome of UNIT, like he's bigger than Hazel by 2 feet and Hazel's 8'0, he's incredibly strong being able to throw around a deathstalker by the tail with one hand, he can shake off attacks from incredible opponents like burning Yang, multi dust Hazel, powered up Nora and even Adam, even for his large size he moves QUICK, when I mean quick I mean faster than Ruby's semblance quick, speaking of semblance, it allows him to steal the vitality A.K.A life energy of every living beings around him by touching them making him bigger and stronger, now with all that I've told you you'd think he'd be a monster, but in reality he's an incredibly lazy guy who don't care 'bout nothin', he just wants to sleep and cuddle all day.

➳ character/s: cinder fall

➳ warnings: mention of death, mention of injury

➳ notes: I'M SO SORRY IT'S BEEN LIKE, 8 MONTHS SINCE YOU PUT THIS IN- here you go, it's extra long because i feel like i have to atone for my sins ;v;

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 / 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭  / 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 / 𝐰𝐢𝐩 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

── 𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋.

was sooooooo into the power and probably initially thought to exploit you ngl

but also figured that since you've bodied a bunch of objectively strong hunters, huntresses and grimm, it's probably a bad idea to test you

so she bides her time mostly, and initially doesn't want you to be making any physical contact with her

it's both the superiority complex and she doesn't want you to like, kill her by takin her life force away

she needs that to do nefarious deeds

finds you an extremely worthy opponent from how god damn huge you are and how fast you are

was super surprised when you agreed to join her for evil doing, she was a lil apprehensive you were a good guy

but you just shrugged n said "aight, i guess so" and followed her to salem

salem loves you btw, cinder is a lil bitter-

at first, found your laidback nature a little bit annoying ._.

have some passion in your life please, she wants to share the excitement of murdering people

probably has faked an injury so you carried her back to base instead of her having to walk

also probably lies to you about when plans are taking place so you get your ass up on time

she worries you'll just sleep through it all-

HOWEVER

she's learning to enjoy a little bit of wind down time with you when you start dating

which she's not happy that she had to make the first move, she wanted to force you all in but it didn't work-

there's something healing in cuddling with someone WAY bigger than her and having such high capability of killing her

it's probably the childhood trauma, but she gets to be the girl she used to want to be for a little bit

she's a bit happy you just go along with whatever without arguing (mercury-) because she feels a bit less alone

she probably does still exploit you a little bit, n that guilt lives with her every night you cuddle and she's awake while you sleep

old habits die hard, n she's very uncertain in this oddly loving relationship she's never had

[gelatomesomeironqrow]

So, I've been watching Hazbin Hotel and Helluva boss. My favorite character from Helluva boss rapidly becoming Fizzarolli. So when I started seeing people saying that Fizz changed so much from season 1. Like you do know you are comparing Fizzarolli to a robot lookalike right?

Like the Fizzbot clown in season 1 is just a lookalike that had some, if not most, of Fizz' thoughts/opinions and personality. So when Fizzbot saw Blitz, the anger and betrayal that Fizz felt when the accident happened, came up and Fizzbot, being a robot. Wasnt designed to control his emotions so he acted on them. Which led to the unhinged robot clown coming out of the fire after Blitz and the amusement park being burned to the ground.

Anyways.

The real Fizzarolli is a performer.

He knows how to control his emotions and only ever let's his guard down around Oz. The only times he can't control his emotions is when he is having a literal panic attack and even then, he still controls it enough until he can be alone. So trust me, those feelings of anger and betrayal he felt towards Blitz are still there. But as a performer and a famous performer at that. He knows better than to get violent. Besides, he uses his words as a weapon rather than resorting to violence.

That's not to say he doesn't resort to violence, it's just not his first choice.

Like when he gets kidnapped along with Blitz, while they were wrestling in the streets because that's how (some, not all) friends fight and make up, he let's Blitz do the majority of the fighting. He resorts to entertaining and distracting them while Blitz works on getting them out. While they were trapped, he did use his words to try to hurt Blitz, like back in the house of Asmodeous. It's his best weapon and he knows Blitz better than most, so he knows what would hurt the most. But he also knows Blitz and he knows that Blitz just kind of laughs it off for the most part and just internalizes the words.

Anyways, getting off track. Like Fizz is deeply traumatized and most of it comes from the accident. Of course he is allowed to be upset, angry, even bitter over what happened and with what followed. But whereas the robot Fizz never grew from the pain and trauma. The real Fizz grew with it and adapted. He uses his prosthetic limbs to better his acts. He found love.

Side note: they are too cute

But that doesn't mean he isn't still traumatized. He has his setbacks, as everyone does with PTSD and/or trauma. He just grew from solely being bitter and angry.

I have no idea if this made any sense. I just got sick of people saying "Fizz changed so much and is that even him?" Like yes. They are both him, it's just the real Fizz isn't going to resort to violence that's fueled by uncontrolled anger. Because the real Fizz can control his anger.

He is still the unhinged clown we all know and love. The real Fizz is allowed to have trauma. A robot Fizz was built for performing and knows nothing of trauma, just the emotions behind it.

You're trying to tell me that this.

These. Are not unhinged?

Ending on these two gifs.

Just to highlight the growth from his trauma. He learned sign language at some point during his recovery because he had to and not because of him overcoming his disabilities, he has people that look up to him, despite his robot lookalikes mostly being used for sex. And that is what makes him the happiest. Not his deranged fans. The ones that genuinely like him for him and look up to him.

And the cutest thing ever. Oz calming Fizz down from his panic attack. Fizz using things Oz gave him to calm down. He's just the best and I love him.

[nothing0fnothing]

when i post things about narc abuse on my blog i occasionally get ppl being like "don't classify all ppl with npd as abusers!!!" when i didn't say that? tbh on the whole "is narc abuse ableist" thing i defer to my best friend's wisdom, he recently graduated with a BA in psychology (im so proud!!!) and he said smth to the effect of "if you're trying to diagnose them with npd to demonize them then yeah not good but also narcissistic is a word independent of that diagnosis so context is important" its like how ppl without depression can still say theyre depressed or someone without anxiety can say theyre anxious yknow? context matters! i call my parents narc abusers bc it "fits the bill" as in from the medical studies ive read from professionals, all this criteria fits their behavior, not bc i actually believe they have npd. their actions are narcissistic but actually having npd is a question i can't answer.

the point being: im sure you get a lot more comments like that on your blog than my own. the few i get make me upset for a while bc it feels so invalidating (or maybe im just chronically online lmao.) how do you deal with it all? i'm sure the answer is just "block" but does it go deeper? it must feel awful to be called ableist when all you've done is try to spread awareness about a very real thing that happened to you. i could use some of your strength bc your blog is still going strong even amidst the hate 🙏

This ask was actually so lovely to read. You're eloquent and educated and if you'd like to dm me please do any time I'd love to chat with you and check out your blog.

You're absolutely right about narcissism and NPD. Narcissism is a personality trait. One that most healthy people posses. You can't diagnose someone a narcissist, because "narcissist" isn't a disorder.

There's a misconception that NPD is the clinical diagnosis for excessive narcissism. Actually, the diagnostic criteria for NPD is very clear that one does not even have to have narcissistic traits to be diagnosed with it. And it has nothing to say about abusing others, so how recognising abuse is considered a drive by diagnosis of NPD is beyond me.

Saying your abuser is narcissistic doesn't mean you think your abuser has this specific disorder. We know this so to us it's common sense. Unfortunately common sense isn't so common, especially in the narcissistic positivity side of this app.

It's so easy to feel provoked when you know all this, and you're educated and you just want to make content that will connect you to a community of other survivors. Only for some asshole who barely knows what NPD is, decides they're going to make your trauma all about it. It's not chronically online to be made upset by behaviour like that. People like to tell us the Internet isn't real, but when it's our connection to communities of people who share our niche experiences, it is real. Don't undermine yourself when you feel upset like that. Words can hurt anyone, even when they come from an ignorant low life who thinks they can clean up the internet, one trauma support blog at a time.

Me personally? I like to wait to hit the block button till after I've goaded them into an absolute breakdown. It entertains me to no end to watch them rage like toddlers as they start to realise they know next to nothing on a topic I've absolutely schooled them in. It sounds cruel but I have no sympathy for arseholes, especially when they're intentionally spamming random accusations and slurs on my vent posts in hopes they can get a rise out of a vulnerable person. I might make a "narcissists rage at facts and logic" compilation for my own amusement... But that's not really helpful advice to anyone who isn't a bitter hag, like me.

When I first started on this platform I kept my most common response paragraphs in my notes and clipboard to paste and post when I got the same asks day in and day out. It really helped me to reply in a measured way I knew was proof read and edited without having to exert the mental energy it takes to type out a whole reply every time you get one. This of course is if you're so inclined to engage with them.

I also have a limit for how long I'll engage. Usually my rule is I stop responding when they stop asking questions, because my blog is here to be supportive, not to receive criticism from the pro narcissist community. When they stop being coherent and and start being belligerent, that's when will always I block them and that's usually the end of it.

I did have one guy who I'd blocked on 3 or 4 seperate accounts for being belligerent. He was making new accounts every time to spam my asks and reblogs with increasingly ridiculous, heinous and obviously ragebaity shit. I just reposted his replies onto reddit where the crowd is, let's say, more critical of behavior like that. He had an epic meltdown and I've never seen his username ever again. If you're not comfortable doing that, let me know and I'll do it for you. You'd be doing me a favour because I'm a little shit and I love to watch the fireworks.

My last bit of advice to you is to make mutuals and make them friends. I struggle with being sociable in any consistent way, but a few messages back and forth to foster a good relationship with the community is so helpful. It makes your blog feel like an actual supportive environment. It puts your content across the dashboards of more sympathetic people and less losers thanks to the algorithm. Most importantly, when you have friends on this app they're more likely to back you up when an absolute cretin who snuck onto earth decides to pick on you for no reason. Having that back up is invaluable to blogs like ours and it's so important to have it when you're just starting out, especially if you're already getting the narc apologists in your notifs.

That being said, I genuinely do hope you reach out to me. I'd love to be able to send you some more of my strength when you need it. 💛🤎💛

[chaoticstupiddm]

Who is Tyler Galpin?

How much of Tyler did we actually see? I think there are a couple of options, based on how mind controlled he was. So let's put it in a numbered list.

Completely controlled in every scene.

Self explanatory. If he was mind controlled all the time, we have no idea, who he is. I think this is pretty unlikely, as the people around him don't mention him behaving much differently. This could still come with some free action, but nothing plot-relevant.

I think this is pretty unlikely, based on the episode 8 confrontation and Laurel's monologue, trying to hype up Tyler for the kill. She wouldn't need it if she had full control.

2. Controlled in some scenes, not in others.

For this to work we have to assume either that he cannot say anything and has to keep to the plan (as per order), or he is just fine to go along even when he is in control.

I think it's safe to say that we see Tyler in every scene he shares with his father. Every time he basically begs him to talk about his mother, go with him to therapy, the bathtub scene. His reaction to the coroner's and mayor's death might also be genuine.

In this situation I would assume that the transformations are controlled, and he has to follow orders in general due to a magical master-slave relationship.

3. Groomed, but not controlled.

This would mean, that he has been groomed by an older woman, who talked to him about his mother, told him what she was, what he is, how the outcasts are responsible for the mom's death. She also drugged him possibly for multiple days. BUT there is no direct mind control. He is fine with the plans because he has been conditioned and drugged into submission. He is probably coming up with all the ways he manipulates Wednesday, including Legally Blond, he just informs Gates about the date.

Yes, this means that the police station scene was all him; the last confrontations with Wednesday were genuine. Well, as genuine as a person in this mental state can be.

4. Not groomed, genuine psycho.

This also seems unlikely, just because it would remove a layer of complexity, which is not as fun from a writing standpoint. But to give it a fair criticism: during the Gates confrontation Weems acts uncomfortable and Laurel does not notice a difference. I will admit, this does not mean, he cannot be a psychopath himself, just that there might be aspects of their cooperation, that he is not completely okay with.

An other point against this are the handcuffs and the cave.

I think it's important to note, that the information about Hydes is really limited. We really don't know what Faulkner meant by "master" in his notes. And for one, I'm really interested about the trauma that can be explored with Tyler in any of these control options. I think the redeemability of the character still stands in every case - it would just have to be handled very differently. Leaving him as a villain would also work just as well (maybe not in case of the first situation, but not impossible; that Tyler was still a bitter townie); having someone, who knows her on such an intimate level antagonize Wednesday would be fun.

Whatever happens, Tyler as a character and the Wednesday / Tyler dynamic has so much potential for next season.

[whattraintracks]

5. Video Games - Multi

What's this? More Raphael angst? Why are we surprised.

So I was listening to Stay Down by boygenius while some prompts simmered in my brain, and when this one started boiling somewhere around verse two, I knew what I had to do.  

Would Raph even like this song? Who knows, but I sure do, so I am going to close-read the heck out of it and draw so many connections.

Video Games >> I'm just steering my life in a video game >> It's a half-life, it's a fallout 

before any of you wonder what this has got to do with the prompt, here it is! it's in the song. prompt satisfied

apparently, those are also references to video games

. . .

moving on

Fighting and Learned Behavior >> lean into the punch >> push me down >> hold me under >> stay down 

a.k.a. physical altercations as an allegory for Raphael’s life 

obsessed with the metaphor of him leaning into a punch

if he can’t avoid life's blows, he'll do what he can to make them hurt less

suffer the hit just to get it over with, or take it for someone else

on a less angsty note, I simply associate Raph with boxing 

he's a skilled ninja, but sometimes he wants to sucker-punch someone

cuz this boy really loves fighting, and that ain’t a bad thing 

>> wasn't a fighter 'til somebody told me I had better learn >> would you teach me I'm the villain

I think a lot about Raph and learned behavior 

when I tell you Rise and '03 Splinter altered my brain chemistry 

hiding their connection to the Foot/Hamato Clan

trying to spare their sons from anger, grief, trauma, vengeance, and wars that don't belong to them is fascinating to me 

but in every version, he teaches Raph how to fight 

and I've talked about how '87 Raphael still inherited those things from Splinter's

even the ones who don’t are still altered by growing up with him, looking at you M&M Raph 

it's not a coincidence '12 Splinter sees so much of himself in his son

Defense Mechanism and Love for Enemies >> lean into the punch so it don't hurt as bad when they leave 

Raph's anger often screams defense mechanism to me

if humans are going to hate him anyway, again he'll lean into it

be snarky and rude and scary and mean and give them something to really hate

sometimes, his anger is preemptive, but it's not always unfounded

I don't think even ten fingers are enough to count how many times a recurring character turned on the '87 turtles

Raphael should have been allowed to beat up Vernon as consolation

>> there you were, turning your cheek 

but wait! there's more! the Christian references in this song are not subtle

Luke 6:27,29 "Love your enemies; do good to those who hate you . . . if anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also"

I'm thinking about '87 Raphael's "Yeah, I'm with ya, but I'm bitter" and helping the guys protect a city that doesn't appreciate all they do

I'm thinking about '03 Raph, who is resolute it's not their problem that the city's at war but gets involved because Leo does 

I'm thinking about '07 Raph taking up the Nightwatcher mantle after Leo leaves New York 

Disconnection in Personal Relationships >> I look at you and you look at a screen 

this second verse, I think, is pretty open to interpretation, which works well given how many variations there are of Raph

linking "screen" to "video game" in the next line, I picture Raph reaching out and being ignored

like '03 Raph figuring his anger out on his own v. Leo getting sent away for serious/professional help

like '07 Raph missing Leo and hearing no word from him for years 

or I read "screen" with the connotation of concealment

like Rise Raph keeping it together for his little brothers until he can't

like their shock when he finally breaks down

the loneliness of Raph looking at his brothers and knowing them so well but feeling like they never really see him  

>> similar acts and a different name 

I am always struck by how similar Raph and his brothers are 

the little things they do the same because they were raised together

the ways they deliberately emulate each other  

it has to sting seeing so much of them in himself and himself in them and still be reduced to "the angry one"

especially when it's them thinking this way

(side note, Google has this lyric miswritten as "similar accent," which is hilarious in this context) 

Loss and Lack of Control >> I'm in the back seat of my body 

canon takes great pleasure in depriving Raph of control over his body 

how intensely all Raphaels experience their emotions 

off-screen and childhood trauma like “Savage Raph” in Rise 

on-screen trauma that must lead to dissociation, flashbacks, nightmares, etc. 

the two, at least that I know of, mind control events with ‘12 and Rise Raph

even ‘87 Raphael getting de-aged

you could also interpret this as gender dysphoria and I've seen a lot of good trans Raph headcanons

>> I'm just steering my life in a video game 

beyond losing control of his body, Raph never really has control of his life 

“turtle luck” and all that 

this often shows up when their stories shift

like ‘87 Raphael, who goes from a wise guy to a sarcastic grouch as his story drags on and takes a darker turn

as opposed to Rise Raph, who throughout the series, gets talked down from heroism and over-vigilance

but guess which behaviors get rewarded and reinforced during the Shredder arcs and Krang invasion

so as not to ignore the prompt any more than I already have, I do enjoy those episodes where “life in a video game” for Raphael is a little more on the nose

Combat Land (1987), Across the Universe (2003), Mazes and Mutants (2012) 

Literally Neurodivergent and a Minor 

(Shoutout to this art from @/20s-turtle-posting that inspired the name of this section) ((and, no, I did not realise this is an ironic meme and will be taking it seriously))

>> aren't I the one constantly repenting for a difficult mind? >> push me down into the water like a sinner, hold me under >> villain >> sinner >> half-life >> fallout 

I warned you about the religious imagery, but it's a little off in this verse

because repentance is about change as growth

but Raph feels like he has to change his "difficult mind" this ingrained part of himself

so he's stuck in a cycle of remorse and regret, unable to gain control

I think about running fast and far and anguished cries of “what is wrong with me?” (2003)

pushed into and held under, the waters of baptism are no longer cleansing and renewing but suppressing

it's the people closest to him saying “you are seriously twisted” (2012) and “you’ve got a rage problem” (M&M)

and having to decide between hiding those parts of himself or hoping they'll love him anyway

it's Raph feeling bad and broken, feeling like he's a danger and a poison to everyone around him

>> lean into the punch so it don't hurt as bad when they leave >> it takes so long for me to settle down and when I finally do, there's no one else around 

and I wonder if Raph's temper is ever tied to feeling unlovable, and one feeling sparks another in a vicious feedback loop 

a teenager testing the boundaries of care and affection, more defense mechanisms

how does he get himself to believe in their steadfast love even when he feels unworthy of it

to trust he's safe enough to feel all of his ugliest emotions when his life is so out of control

he forgets, his story doesn’t let him remember, that he’s still a kid 

he's got a lot of growing to do, and even if it takes a long time, he’ll settle down one day, find his balance 

his family’s gonna stick it out, and they’ll still be around when he finally gets there

tl;dr I will never be able to listen to this song without crying about Raphael now, so thanks, brain. 

[dangermousie]

The Princess' Man - ep 13 stuff

Seung Yoo breaks my heart so much in this arc. He looks and acts like he is already dead - just look at his eyes. He's devoid of hope or feeling or plan or really anything. He's been hollowed out utterly.

This did crack me up because you know he's thinking "doesn't hurt to try."

But yes, it's a man with nothing to live for - not even vengeance at this point because he can't think of how to get close to Sejo (side note - unlike the one eyed idiot in Sejak, he gets that approaching a royal is HARD. /turns off bitterness.) The most he thinks about is trying to find his sister in law and niece, only surviving members of his family.

This is so very bleak.

Also, he goes from royal tutor and top of the aristocratic heap to hired muscle at the brothel and the thing that gets me is he genuinely has no emotion about any of it - he's just one giant void full of anger and trauma and grief and yet still a void because a void cannot be filled.

Like the scene where a drunk customer gets annoyed a pretty gisaeng is eyeing SY so he tries to humiliate him and the horrifying thing is that the reason he doesn't flinch about wine being thrown at him or even a dagger isn't bravado, it's just he genuinely doesn't care.

The most emotion he shows is when he takes down the guy when he literally attacks and even that is not much.

Man sleeps cuddling his sword.

And then of course he learns (wrongly, as this was the cover story given to allow SR to save his sister in law and niece) that his last remaining family died. And at this point he really loses the last thread connecting him to the living.

I loved the scene with the rings, where he sees her leaving their rings and smashes them. The thing is, he's so traumatized and so mired in self-loathing and betrayal and not being able to believe his judgment that it makes sense he's ignoring all the signs that she loved him for real and mourns him for real because he simply is incapable of processing that. He believes his judgment is flawed but it's more than that - he is so shellshocked, he can only process things in black and white and everyone associated with Sejo as evil. But also, trust has been beaten out of him (literally, in a lot of ways) and so no words or pretty gestures can get through (ultimately what eventually does is her almost dying for him; nothing less insane could get through.)

(Pretty symbolic he didn't have time to smash both of them. He may have destroyed his feelings - he thinks - but hers are steady.)

I mean, his grand plan is kidnap her at wedding day, lure Sejo in and then he kills Sejo and dies. It's a bleak plan but also insane. It would work perhaps if Sejo cared more about his daughter but SY does not know that Sejo would never put his daughter first, favorite or not.

The reason I love this btw is because women in the drama keep being taught to be their man's shadow. And what SR wanted, what she mourns is equality - she wanted them to be each other's shadows. AAAA

The end of ep 13 is still one of my faves! Her about to be married to bastard that is Myun and SY sneaking in ready to kidnap her, and it's not a pretty, sweet kidnapping. Man is lost in his haze of rage and pain and self-loathing and needing people to blame.

That's gonna be a hell of a reunion with the lover you thought dead and I cannot wait! Ep 14 is my FAVE!!!!

[astridlikesmythology]

'https://64.media.tumblr.com/576c7b6f2899350f0b12cf28f723eb8d/66a2bf1b5b7f6451-2d/s640x960/862edbd24a7ac298acaf739128e729ae31a6728d.pnj

I watched some Snoopy clips on Twitter, it's a cheaply veiled PSA for gov't propaganda: Hey kids you want to be a Scientist, they're cool… Snoopy pretends to fly. Point is even if you never watched Snoopy indoctrinate you:

We're all ingrained with the idea this life is the only one we must live for. But if we pay attention we rarely make it to our 100th attempt at any one thing because our soul gets bored with creation [created things], we need our CREATOR to fill us that is fulfillment.

Tim Keller said the problem with modern people is we feel we deserve a good life, meaning we don't deserve bad things. As a result, rather than accept what is, & try to learn what each event is teaching us about ourselves. We instead try to find a way to force reality to fit our desires or perspective.

[Tim Keller: Power for Facing Trouble]

In 1973 Karl Menninger wrote book noting how society replaced morals with medical model: For most of our problems, we use a medical model.

For example: People who are terribly bitter, they will not forgive. But what do they say: They’re hurting, never admit they’re bitter. Hurting—that’s a medical term for a moral problem. You do NOT have a medical problem; you’ve got a moral problem!

Research findings show 90% of Americans believe they show the kind of love in life, that if everybody showed, would make Society all right. Yet Psychologists say no one is ever healed because we are constantly being damaged by others.

Even Brain Surgeons have noted the brain surprisingly does not feel pain & Dr. Wilder Penfield said no matter what he did, he could never cut-out enough of a person's brain to remove their personality. [Michael Egnor: Evidence Against Materialism]

Saying this shows there is something untouchable beyond the physical realm, the thing David Attenborough says is why he remains agnostic because he's seen blind termites incapable of detecting his presence & so he wonders if we have the same lack of sense perception to detect GOD. The Bible says we know GOD exists, & every time we fail in life is one step closer to meeting our MAKER voluntarily or literally.

[YouTube: Off the Kirb Ministries | Sir David Attenborough - Did You Catch It Too?]

Have you ever invited JESUS into your mess?

it is too early in the morning for me to fully process this but the general vibe I'm getting is you think I said christens in general on my DNI list. I specified aggressive due to religious trauma. I'm also not an atheist, I fall somewhere under the pagen area. if you or I misunderstood something that's completely fine, but if I am correct please do not bully people for having different opinions. if I read something wrong feel free to explain.

[lovingoverwatchguys]

Random tangent: ‘Soldier 76′ is just as much of an image as ‘Strike Commander Morrison’ was

I think people often do Jack a huge disservice when they ‘analyze’ him by taking his image at face value. Often, to understand his thoughts, you can’t take his word for it, and have to look at what he’s feeling beneath.

Let me explain a bit. (Under a read more because I don’t want to clog up any tags with super long posts)

Why would you be able to take his word? Jack has never been able to express himself fully in his entire adult life. He had to put on the image of ‘Strike Commander Morrison’, the beacon of positivity and strict commander, for decades. Because Jack has a massive martyr complex, and he sacrificed being an authentic person because he thought that was what the world needed. The world wanted ‘Strike Commander’; he thought it couldn’t care less about ‘Jack’.

Most people seem to be aware of that, yet they still take ‘Soldier: 76′ at face value as how he actually feels, and it baffles me. No, it’s a (literal and theoretical) mask, just a different one.

Look at how he acts in the Bastet story; he’s willing to crack jokes and have fun with Ana, smiling and saying silly things, to the point that even Ana says he’s “like a child sometimes.”

But that makes sense when you think of his relationship with Ana - as his closest friend, she got to see beneath the mask of ‘Strike Commander Morrison’, and she still can see under this one, too. (Honestly, I think Ana would see right through Jack anyway; he’s not as good at hiding his emotions as he thinks he is)

In fact, image seems to be a theme in Bastet in general - note the way that Ana puts on a new mask to become a protector. It’s the same thing Jack did. He wants to help people, and he thinks this is the best way to do it. Just like before - the world needs ‘Soldier: 76′, and he thinks it couldn’t care less about ‘Jack’.

‘Soldier: 76′ is not a person. He’s a name. An image. (Also, they are so cute. I love them. A cool girl and her gay best friend.)

And to be honest, I think some of the other characters can see through him, to an extent. This interaction has always caught my eye:

What Jack says might sound condescending at first glance, but when you think about the fact that Jack's whole deal is "fighting so other people don't have to"...it makes me think he's concerned for her and doesn't like that she has to fight here. 

I think Mei picks up on that, and that’s why her response is a bit teasing. Tracer does the same with the ‘Okay, dad!’ interaction. The two of them can tell he’s more of a pushover than he lets on, no matter how desperately he tries to hide it.

But I also argue that Soldier: 76 isn’t just an image done out of necessity. I don’t think even Jack himself is aware of this, but it seems very convenient that by donning an aggressive face that shuts other people out, he doesn’t have to let others close to him. 

Some people don’t seem to consider the immense amount of trauma both the fall of Overwatch and the Swiss Base explosion would cause for him. He was surrounded by constant public degradation for months to years. He saw everything he worked for get undone largely because of negative public opinion and betrayal, and was then in a serious disaster that likely had many casualties.

After something like that happens, I doubt he feels safe letting almost anyone close at all. This mask doubly functions to protect him from getting hurt in such a horrible way again. And devoting all of his thoughts and emotion to this moral crusade means he doesn’t have to face all of the real emotional issues he has. It is, as the kids say, a cope.

None of this is to say Jack isn’t bitter or angry. And I’m sure as hell not saying he’s emotionally healthy. He needs more therapy than almost anyone else in the cast.

But so many people only give Jack a surface-level analysis, and I think that’s lame. Ironically, taking the image at face value would in-universe just prove his bad worldview. Life imitates art.

[goddevouringserpent]

okay okay i’m intrigued — give me your best pitch for why i should make nuestra parte de noche / our share of night my next fucked up read 👁️👂

(hope you don't mind if I answer this publicly, I have a strong emotional attachment to this book and want everyone to read it--if you'd rather it was private let me know & I'll delete it!)

SO. this book is thee most fucked up thing I have read in a while, which is saying a lot because Mariana Enríquez made a whole ass career out of writing fucked up shit (her short story compilations are also very much worth a look). it is pure undiluted Latin American anguish. that part is... difficult to explain, since it's such a cultural thing, but essentially: Our Share of Night takes place primarily in Argentina, and the plot is heavily heavily informed by both colonial history and the history of military dictatorships and the crimes against humanity committed during, how that shaped our society & culture. many of us carry a great deal of generational trauma still and it's in books like hers where that trauma... shines, so to speak, and if you'll forgive the clumsy wording. it's raw and bloody and painful and unapologetic about all of those, but it's handled very, very well.

now, as a word of warning before I get into what the book is about and potentially make it interesting: this book contains some VERY HEAVY SHIT. Enríquez does not pull her punches. I am hesitant to spoil it because it's a book that does not deserve to be spoiled, but. there's a lot of body horror, a lot of violence, a lot of harm done to children, a lot of abuse--again, all handled tastefully and within the context of allegories or even direct references to colonialism / military violence. but it is a lot. so be warned.

the story itself is also difficult to summarize because, again, I want to spoil as little as possible, but: it revolves around Juan, a man who possesses extraordinary abilities to communicate with things such as the dead, demonic beings, and an entity known as "The Darkness" (keep in mind I read this book in the original Spanish & I don't know how that was translated--in my version it was "La Oscuridad"), and his son Gaspar who deserves the world, baby boy, baby. Juan is a very profoundly fucked up man. he is the poster child for Does Everything Wrong Always All The Time. he is bitter and full of both rage and sick, twisted love and is one of the best protagonists I've seen in ages, by which I mean that he sucks so fucking bad. I don't want to predispose anyone against him by saying this BTW, I think his suckiness is a feature and embrace it lmao

Juan is part (well, not really, but for the sake of simplicity we'll say that he's part of it) of a TREMENDOUSLY FUCKED UP organization called the Order, and throughout the whole book his goal is to protect Gaspar from being exploited and abused by that Order, like Juan himself was. remember how I mentioned above that many people in Argentina are still affected by generational trauma? yeah. this is Generational Trauma, The Book.

it's about not wanting to repeat behaviors, about breaking cycles, about not wanting to fall prey to the people that hurt you but hurting everyone around you in the process because all you know how to do is hurt, lash out, be cruel and vicious. it's a book about how far you'd go for the people you love and how far is too far and can you come back from too far? it's about there's always someone worse and about how sometimes you're that 'someone worse'. it's a book about blood in a country that's been bled dry, multiple times over.

if I've piqued your interest (or anyone's!) then please please feel free to DM me with more questions--or with any reactions if you do choose to read it--because I love this book so fucking much I would talk about it forever if I could, but I would never forgive myself if I spoiled it for someone else because it's... an experience, lmao

(note: considering the subject matter, I would recommend that people who don't know anything about the 1973-1983 Argentinian dictatorship read up on it, even just a little bit, because it is relevant to truly understand what the author's trying to express. it is somewhat of a plot point even. I don't think you'd be lost, per se, if you went in not knowing anything, but you'd definitely miss out on some stuff that makes it deeper and more harrowing, I feel. knowledge of what we mean when we say 'los desaparecidos' / the disappeared is, I'd say, pretty important.)

[lostfracturess]

first of all, THANK YOU SO MUCH for your sweet sweet notes on the chapter, it's so fun to see your reactions as you read! I appreciate it so much for taking your time to do that, to let me get an insight on your thoughts while reading! ♡

You broke his jaw in seven bloody places, knocked out half his teeth.

yes! in real life often such things get fixed with money instead of the right punishment such people deserve and it tasted bitter to write that but i wanted to show satoru doing everything to keep her out of trouble even if it means swallowing down the pitter pill, what brings us to the next note...

I choked down the dry pills, the bitterness clinging to my tongue like a curse

yes yes yes! it should mirror suguru's struggle from the anime, feel so bad for both of them :(

because i too am reading Kafka right now, aaah i love him so much

ahhh I've been rereading fafka lately and "letters to his father" this is by far my favorite of him!! i read it in german as he was german-czech writer and i wanted to read it his words without maybe some things getting lost in translation. but yes, kafka is everything!! phrasing that kind of trauma like no other could ever.

For a split second I stared, baffled. This woman is utterly insane. And I love her for it.

I ACTUALLY CHANGED THAT AGAIN. often i reread the chapter and then my brain can't stop correcting again and i changed that line to "For a split second I stared, stunned. This woman is completely insane. And I can't wait to marry her."

idk if satoru would say "utterly" (but i like that word omg, so british), so i changed it a bit later on haha.

trust me when i say i’ve literal butterflies in me, if a man doesn’t treat me like this, i want no man. (why would you raise my standards sweetheart?) this man right here is a dream.

he is a dream!!!! a green flag with a lot of issues but still!!!! everyone deserves a satoru gojo written by a woman in their lives.

why are you breaking my heart??? because if satoru’s liver gives up here, mine does too (it is).

ahhh i'm sorry!! i'm still considering the story to have a happy ending, so don't worry!! but it might hurt on the way there.

i thought i was crazy to feel this because no character ever appreciates pity, but now that gojo satoru says this in love.

yes yes yes! satoru is so desperate for any kind of attention of her, that he doesn't even mind if she looks in pity or hate at him. he just wants her TO LOOK AT HIM, like however that might be, he just want her to have feelings for her, in any kind. good or bad. and i think that's beautiful.

i should not be finding him doing drugs attractive, i shouldn’t be hot all over! what are you doing to me???

omg i had this idea in my mind for a long time and thought it is to risky, like i don't want to make taking drugs sexy with this story, it's bad and no one should do it, but i just hope the audience is mature enough to difference between fiction and real world.

but yes omg, satoru gojo can take drugs of my skin whenever and wherever he wants haha.

WHAT WAS THAT LAST PART???

yes, satoru gojo is insane indeed. ngl.

thank you so much for writing these notes, i appreciate it so much!! hope you like the next chapter as well 😭❤️

【 ꜱʏᴍᴘᴛᴏᴍꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇꜱ 】 ch. 9

x PAIRING professor!gojo satoru x f!reader (medical!au)

x SUMMARY he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart. (this sounds more fluffy than it actually is, it's more angsty/dark and emotional damaging lol).

x WORD COUNT 11.5 k (i'm insane)

x WARNINGS this story contains substance abuse/addiction, smut, mature themes, self-destructive behavior, angst, mentions of death/illness, graphic medical procedures. you can also read it on ao3 or wattpad. pls like or repost if you enjoyed ♡

x AUTHORS'S NOTE this chapter is in satoru's pov! "she/her" -> "you", also there is a minor character from the manga in this chapter but no spoilers :) also, this chapter gets kinda dark? pls remember this is fiction, don't do drugs and also don't sleep with addicts, thank you!! enjoy reading!! ♡

x NAVIGATION ch 1; ch 2; ch 3; ch 4; ch 5; ch 6; ch 7; ch 8

♫₊ ♪ playlist

Sweat trickled beneath the collar of my shirt.

My fingers dug into my arm, nails biting through the fabric.

If I didn't scratch, maybe I wouldn't lose my damn mind. Maybe the office walls would stop spinning long enough for me to think.

But the itch burning beneath my skin was too strong today, almost unbearable.

I barely registered Higurama's entrance as he pleasured me with yet another visit. He slumped into the chair across from me, looking less like a lawyer and more like a corpse given a temporary reprieve.

His sunflower pin, that obligatory symbol of his profession, seemed ironic given the permanent scowl etched onto his face.

"Well?" I snapped, desperate to break the silence that made the itch even more cruel. "Spit it out."

He sighed, then reached into his worn leather briefcase and retrieved a slim folder. He placed it on the desk. "The good news is, the brat's family is willing to settle. Saves us the headache of a trial."

"And the bad news?"

"It'll cost you. A lot." He slid the folder across the desk. "The kid wants a ridiculous sum, claiming emotional damages and whatnot."

I huffed, a harsh sound that echoed in the silent office. Images of the student's bloody face after I'd put him in his place flashed across my mind, the satisfaction fleeting. My fingers twitched at my sides, the urge to scratch growing stronger. I rolled down my sleeves. 

Damn my luck.

I slid the folder back to him, not needing to see the sum. "Tell them whatever he wants, he gets. Just make this go away."

Higuruma frowned. "I understand wanting this over with, but we could negotiate, bring that amount down—"

"No." I cut him off. "Money doesn't matter. If this mess disappears, it's worth every damn yen."

Higuruma's eyebrows shot up. "We're not talking about an insignificant amount, Gojo. You broke his jaw in seven bloody places, knocked out half his teeth."

A smirk twisted my lips. "Sadly not all of his teeth."

"Gojo," Higurama's voice held a warning edge I'd rarely heard from him. "You could be staring down the barrel of a prison sentence."

"That's why I have you, isn't it?" I leaned back in my chair. "Old friend's favor and all that."

Higurama's stare hardened. "This isn't like those scrapes I used to bail you out of. The consequences here are far more serious. I'd never agree to settle this if you weren't a friend. You should countersue that kid for drugging your student."

The mention of her made my stomach clench. "I said no," my voice low. "I won't drag her in front of some courtroom circus. End it, Higurama. Whatever it takes."

Higuruma let out a sigh that spoke volumes. He stood, straightening his jacket, that sunflower pin glinting with a false cheerfulness in the afternoon sunlight.

"Very well," he said. "I'll prepare the documents. Be advised, this could set a dangerous precedent—"

I cut him off with a raised hand, the very thought of potential consequences a fresh irritant beneath my skin. "Just get this over with," I said, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a hospital to run."

He nodded and turned. 

As he reached the office door, I spoke, my voice low. "Higuruma."

He paused, one hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"

"You keep your mouth shut." It wasn't a request, but an order. "This doesn't touch her, understand?"

"I have my professional obligations, Gojo."

"And I have mine," I countered. "Her finding out is not an option."

"Perhaps it's a decision you shouldn't be making for her."

"Perhaps," I replied, the word a blade in the silence that followed. "But it's a decision I will make. That is all."

He nodded, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. He knew, the bastard. The truth wasn't just about the lawsuit, and it hung unspoken between us.

He opened the door and stepped out without another word.

I slumped back in my chair, the leather creaking in protest, and released a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. It trembled as it left my lungs.

My hand. That goddamned traitorous hand was shaking again.

I fumbled in my desk drawer, fingertips brushing against the familiar shape of the pill bottle.  Clonidine. Not the ideal solution, but it was all I had right now.

I choked down the dry pills, the bitterness clinging to my tongue like a curse.

Why the sudden weakness? Why now?

I'd survived far worse without crumbling like this.

The room tilted slightly, the fluorescent lights blurring into white splotches. I squeezed my eyes shut and steadied myself, hands gripping the edge of the desk, knuckles turning white as the wood threatened to splinter under my grip. 

My breath hitched in my throat, each ragged gasp burning like acid.

No. I wouldn't let it take me. I wouldn't let her see me like this.

I could do this. I had to.

For her.

It was a lie, and I knew it. The pills would numb the physical symptoms for a while, but the real battle was the one in my head. And that, I was far from winning.

You can't run from what's inside your head, can you?

I needed fresh air.

─── ·✧· ───

I stumbled down the hallway, vision blurring slightly at the edges, willing myself to simply keep moving. My skin prickled and burned, every nerve on fire.

I burst through the double doors leading to the main lobby, momentarily disorientated by the sudden change from sterile hallways to the bustling public space.

My lungs sucked in a shaky breath, and with it came a scent — a subtle mix of something floral and the clean, faintly metallic tang of blood.

Her scent? 

What the hell—

My gaze swept the area, and there she was. She sat across the room, partially obscured by a crowd of people waiting to donate blood. The curve of her neck, the way her hair fell across her shoulders, were unmistakable. 

Why was she here, in the hospital?

If something was wrong, damn it, she should have told me.

But then I saw it. A needle was taped to the crook of her arm, a thin tube snaking down to a partially filled blood bag. She held a book in her hand and there was a line of concentration between her brows as she read, her thumb tracing idly across the page.

My hands fumbled to smooth down my shirt, a useless gesture since it was hopelessly wrinkled. Taking a steadying breath, I weaved through the crowd.

The trembling wouldn't quit, but with each step towards her, it seemed to lessen, replaced by a different kind of nervous energy. Still, I tried to project a calmness I didn't feel.

I couldn't let her see me like this, not now.

She still hadn't noticed me as I stood in front of her, her attention focused on the book in her hands. I leaned in, the scent of her perfume mingled with the sterile hospital smell, a combination both familiar and disturbingly intimate in this setting.

She was so engrossed in her book that she didn't notice me until I gently pushed it down, an easy smile pulling at my lips.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

She blinked up at me. "What does it look like I'm doing?" Her eyes darted down to the needle in her arm, blood trickling steadily into the bag.

"Why didn't you tell me you were here?" I took the chair beside her, unable to contain my sudden annoyance. Why not tell me? It was illogical, this possessiveness, but damn it, I wanted to know.

"Thought I'd enjoy a few moments without your charming company." The sarcasm dripped sweetly from her lips, and under other circumstances, I might have countered with a playful remark of my own.

But today, my mind was something else. Looking away, I tried to ignore the subtle itch beneath my skin and focus on anything else.

"Quite the weather today, huh?" I finally blurted out, staring past her at the gray sky outside. Lame. Even for me.

"You came to me to talk about the weather?" She brought her book back up.

"It's going to storm soon."

"Is it?" She didn't even look up.

I watched her for a moment. Not just her face, but the way the sunlight painted delicate gold along her cheekbones, the way a single strand of hair had escaped, brushing against her lashes like a gentle whisper and creating a softness her serious expression couldn't hide.

It was a painfully beautiful sight, and so cruelly unlike my fucked up world. Some twisted part of me longed to disrupt it, to be the storm she couldn't ignore, even as another, saner part of me wanted to protect that peace, to protect her at all costs.

"What are you reading?" I asked.

"Kafka."

"Didn't know you were into literature." Damn, even to myself, I sounded like a condescending ass.

She lowered the book, meeting my gaze with equal parts amusement and defiance. "Believe it or not, I do read things that's not all about brains."

Something in the intensity of her expression, the way she held the book, made me want to understand this side of her. "What do you like about it?"

"There's just something about Kafka that speaks to me. It's—unsettling but in a compelling way." She closed the book for a second, her gaze lingering on the cover. "It's actually my second time reading it."

"Is this your favorite of Kafka's books?"

"It is."

"Read me your favorite part," I said, leaning back in the chair, folding my hands behind my head. My eyes slid closed, less to feign disinterest and more to focus on the sound of her voice.

She sighed, and the quiet rustle of pages told me she was flipping through the book. "Okay, but it might sound a bit strange out of context," she warned.

"I'm sure I'll love it."

I love everything that comes out of your mouth, silly.

"He wrote it to his father," she said, giving me a bit of context before she started to read.

"I'm not going to say that I have become what I am only as a result of your influence..."

Her voice was a soft caress. I drank it in, savoring her words, yet a shiver ran down my spine as she continued.

"...It is indeed quite possible that even if I had grown up entirely free from your influence I should probably have still become a weakly, timid, hesitant, restless person."

The words carried a cruel, familiar sting, each one leaving a fresh, burning scar on my skin.

"I should have been happy to have you as a friend, as a boss, an uncle, a grandfather, even as a father-in-law, only as a father you have been too strong for me..."

Too strong.

What a fucked up way to describe it. A child, small and defenseless, pitted against an unyielding force. Where was the justice in that?

My father's voice thundered through my mind. Like a knife, his disapproval carved into my very being. Not strong enough. Never enough. Not what a Gojo should be. Never living up to the legacy, never matching him.

Weakness. That's all he ever saw.

My fists tightened until my nails dug into my palms.

The old anger flared hot.

"...and for that I was much too weak." She closed the book.

My eyes snapped open, blinking in the harsh light. My head throbbed. The familiar itch clawed beneath my skin, a demanding, relentless torment. I dug my nails harder into my palms.

No. I wouldn't let him have that power, wouldn't lose control.

Her gaze flickered to mine, and I swore something shifted in the air between us.

"He describes how it was growing up with such a strong father, how it shaped him his whole life," she paused, her voice laced with hesitation. "He writes about the desire for approval, the weight of expectations. It's about seeking validation from someone who's supposed to guide you, but instead becomes this unattainable figure."

Her words echoed uncomfortably in my mind.

My gaze fixed on her hands, the way they nervously gripped the book, fingernails biting into the worn cover. Why was she so tense? Did she know? No, I never told her.

"Satoru?" Her voice sliced through my thoughts. 

Before I could respond, the shrill sound of my pager tore through the room. I fumbled for it, eyes scanning the stark message.

Brain bleed. Trial patient. ICU. STAT.

"Fuck." Adrenaline surged through me. I shot to my feet, "I've got to go. There was another brain bleeding with one of our trial patients."

"Wait!" She stood abruptly, her gaze locked on the IV line snaking into her arm.

What is she—

Wait—

What??

Before I could interfere, she yanked the needle out of her arm. A bead of blood gushed out, and she quickly pressed a cotton ball against it. "I'm coming with you."

For a split second I stared, stunned. This woman is completely insane. And I can't wait to marry her.

We sprinted through the hospital corridors, a blur of white walls and concerned faces. Bursting into the ICU, my heart pounded against my ribs, my focus narrowing to the patient on the bed. A doctor stood beside him, a grave expression etched on his face.

"Time of death, 16:22."

The words echoed in the sudden, oppressive silence. My chest tightened as the world narrowed to the still form on the bed, the empty hum of machines. It was over. We're too late.

Wait. She will surely—

I turned around, and a surge of fear shot through me. 

She stood there, her face ashen, the crimson-stained cotton ball clutched in her trembling hand. Eyes that were usually so vibrant now held a shattering vulnerability, her breaths coming in shallow, desperate gasps.

In an instant, I was at her side. "Hey, hey," I said. "It's okay. Just breath, can you do that for me?"

My hand found her shoulder, squeezing gently. The warmth of her skin was in stark contrast to the ice in my veins. My mind churned, guilt twisting like a knife in my gut. Of course, she would react like this. I'd been a fool to bring her here.

"Wait in my office," I said, my voice as gentle as I could manage despite my fear. "I'll be with you as soon as possible."

Her eyes locked with mine, searching. A flicker of resistance crossed her face, then resignation. She nodded, a mere jerk of her head, and stumbled away, each step seeming to take an impossible effort.

Watching her go, my heart clenched. 

For all her strength, her boldness, there was this fragile core to her, one that the world, and I, seemed intent on bruising. And that, more than anything, sent a spike of anger through me—an anger directed squarely at myself.

Fuck, focus, you have a job to do here.

"Dr. –" I began, and then cursed inwardly. What the hell was his name again? Familiar face, stupid haircut, uglier glasses—

"Dr. Ijichi," the young doctor said, his voice a touch shaky. A bead of sweat glistened on his forehead.

"Right, of course." Annoyance pricked at me. He's a newbie. I should know this, I should care. 

I softened my tone, just a fraction. 

"Let's go over this from the start. What triggered the bleed? Did the patient present any new symptoms?"

Ijichi flipped through the chart, his fingers fumbling slightly. "The bleed appears spontaneous. Scans from yesterday showed no signs of an aneurysm or underlying issues. Blood panels within normal limits, no recent head trauma reported."

"But something must have caused it," I snapped. "The implant—could there be a malfunction? A short-circuit? Anything?"

Ijichi took a step back, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "It's possible. But I'd—I'd need to examine the implant itself for any sign of damage."

"Well, then do that." The words came out harsher than I intended. My gaze swept over him, noting the faint tremor in his hands. Damn it, I was scaring the kid. I forced myself to take a breath. "Look, I know this is a lot. But we need to act fast."

"Patient's medical records are clean. Blood pressure was normal at last check." Ijichi was regaining some of his composure, his voice a touch firmer. A good sign.

"Can I see his scans? Lab work? Everything."

The next minutes was a blur of reports, X-rays, MRI sequences. I scrutinized every detail, my mind racing ahead, chasing ghosts of potential errors. Ijichi hovered nearby. He fielded my questions, fetching additional reports and cross-referencing data. 

I couldn't fault his dedication, but a nagging thought itched at the back of my mind. Experience mattered in situations like this, a cool head under pressure. Maybe if I was here sooner—

The annoyance flared again. If this was a flaw in the method, heads would roll. Mine, Suguru's, and—the trial would be scrutinized, the funding in jeopardy—and her—

Dammit. I'd promised her this wouldn't happen again. That with me, she wouldn't have to watch another patient die. Images of her flashed before my eyes—the haunted look she'd worn earlier, her vulnerability.

My fingers twitched against my arm, nails biting into skin.

"Dr. Gojo?" Ijichi's voice broke through my spiraling thoughts. "I've isolated something in the pre-op scans."

I snapped back to the present. I leaned over his shoulder, peering at the image. A slight irregularity, a minuscule shadow on the edge of the implant interface.

"Could this be it?" Ijichi's voice held a hint of excitement, of finally being useful.

"Maybe," I said. "Any sign of inflammation? Tissue reaction?"

He zoomed in further. "Inconclusive, sir. We'll need higher resolution images, maybe a tissue sample from the insertion site."

"The autopsy." The word was heavy on my tongue. "Get on it. I want the implant and surrounding tissue on my table as soon as possible."

Ijichi nodded. "I'll contact pathology right away."

Left alone in the small room, I slumped into a chair, exhaustion washing over me. The relentless adrenaline rush was fading, leaving behind a hollow ache and the lingering, uncomfortable question.

How many more patients were out there, ticking time bombs with our technology inside their heads? And what the hell were we going to do about it?

The sterile confines of the ICU were suffocating. 

I looked over to the clock and my breath hitched. Fuck, I left her alone for over 30 minutes now. I sprung up from the chair and raced to my office.

Bursting through the door, I saw her—knees drawn to her chest, head buried in her arms. A sharp pain shot through me, guilt twisting with a strange sense of relief that she'd obeyed my command at least.

In a few swift strides, I knelt before her. "Hey, love" I cupped her face, forcing her to meet my gaze. "You okay?"

She blinked, eyes wide and shadowed. A forced smile touched her lips. "Yeah, just—it was all a bit much. I'll be fine."

The words were hollow, the act unconvincing. Her skin was pale, her jaw tight, and her eyes betrayed the unmistakable sheen of unshed tears.

"Don't do that," I said, more softly than I intended. "Don't pretend with me."

"I'm fine, really," she said, pulling her gaze away.

I watched her, a familiar ache settling in my chest. I'd told her to wait here, thinking it would shield her from the worst of it. Instead, I'd left her alone with her thoughts.

I'm so stupid.

I hesitated, searching for the right words, "Do you often get these panic attacks?"

Confusion clouded her features. "What?"

She doesn't even know herself?

I brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Panic attacks. Like back there, in the ICU—"

Her eyes widened, then immediately narrowed in defensiveness. "I wasn't panicked. Just startled."

But I wasn't buying it, not this time. 

"The way you were breathing, the way you couldn't stand still," I ticked the signs off on my fingers, mirroring her symptoms back at her. "Remember the first time you did surgery with Suguru? When that patient died?"

"That was different."

"Or the massive bleeding in our last patient while surgery? When the suture tore," I continued relentlessly.

The defiance was fading from her eyes. I knew I was pushing her, but it felt necessary, a brutal ripping off of a bandage.

"I didn't think of it as of panic attacks," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Oh, my brave, brilliant girl. How could I love her more?

I reached out, tracing the faint tracks of tears beneath her eyes. 

"What happened with the patient?" she asked.

"The bleed was massive," I said. "Likely a flaw in the implant itself, a malfunction we didn't anticipate. The autopsy will confirm."

She closed her eyes briefly. "Are we going to have to shut down the trial?"

"It's too early to say," I said, threading my fingers through my hair. "Maybe, I don't know."

We were both silent for a moment.

She wandered over to my desk. Perching atop it, she crossed her legs, staring blankly into the dimness of the office. I wonder what she's thinking right now.

Her gaze drifted over the desk's surface. Her eyes landed on a single, crisp document—the lawsuit, left there carelessly, intentionally, by Higurama after our earlier meeting. 

That bastard.

"What's the status on the assault charge?"

My stomach turned. Of course, she would ask. "It's being handled. Just paperwork and legal wrangling."

"By handled you mean?" she prompted, her eyes flicking back to the document. As her eyes scanned the document, her frown deepened, her fingers tracing the neatly typed figures.

I shifted uncomfortably, suddenly wishing those papers were buried at the bottom of a hazardous waste bin. "Higurama is negotiating with the kid's lawyers."

She looked up, her full attention now fixed on me. "Are you Insane?"

"It's not that bad—" I began, but the words died as I saw the anger on her face.

"They want how much? Is there a typo? A few too many zeroes?"

"It's fine. Money isn't the issue. I can handle it."

Her eyes narrowed. "Satoru, even for you, that sum is—" She paused. "You can't pay that. I won't let you."

"Let me? You make it sound like you have a say in the matter." I stepped closer, the distance between us shrinking.

Her expression softened with a flicker of annoyance, an emotion I found strangely comforting after the raw worry of a moment ago. "Satoru, this isn't a joke. I'm serious."

"Come on, a few zeroes here or there—it's pocket change for a devastatingly brilliant neurosurgeon as myself."

"This isn't something to joke about!" She swatted at my chest, a futile gesture that made me want to grin even wider.

"You love it." I rested my hands on either side of her on the desk, capturing her. "Admit it, the arrogance is part of my charm."

"Part of your insufferableness, more like."

"Everything's going to be fine." I lean in closer, the faint scent of jasmine that always clung to her, was intoxicating. "I promise. You need to trust me."

"Satoru—" she began, ready to launch into another argument.

Before another word could escape, I closed the distance between us and silenced her with a kiss. It began softly, a tentative press of lips, as if seeking permission. But when she sighed, her body melting against mine, it deepened into something more urgent, more insistent.

My hand slid into her hair, tilting her head just so I could claim her more. The taste of her was a much-needed distraction from the weight of the day. How goddamned much I loved her taste. Needed it more than I could ever admit.

When I finally broke the kiss, a flicker of anger still sparked within her, and oh, I loved it. Loved it when she was all angry with me. Every flicker of those expressive eyes, every sharp word—it all belonged to me. I craved all of her.

"Now," I said. "How about some coffee?"

─── ·✧· ───

The air in Yaga's office was suffocating. 

Every word from that old bastard was a knife, twisting deeper with each infuriatingly accurate accusation.

"You lost a trial patient," he rumbled, and I had to suppress a wince. 

"Setbacks happen," I shot back. "We fix it, we make it better. That's how progress works."

His fist slammed against the desk, making me jump. Damn it, Yaga always knew how to get under my skin. "And the cost? The reputation? Your recklessness will bury us all, Gojo."

"Risks I'm willing to take," I spat. "My patients are willing to take them. Because we believe in something more than your damn paperwork and red tape."

Yaga stood, his face a mask of cold fury. "Boundaries exist for a reason. And until you remember that, your precious project is over. The trial ends now."

The words echoed in the silence, a death sentence. 

I can't risk it getting shot down, not for her. The thought burned, fueled by the terror of seeing those tears again.

"I won't accept this," I said, my voice rough, "I'll fight it. The Ministry, the funding agencies—I'll make them see the potential!"

Yaga's lip curled in a humorless smile. "And while you chase those grand delusions, perhaps you should focus on the mess already on your doorstep. Your, shall we say, 'unprofessional' entanglement with that student of yours hardly instills confidence."

The blow landed with devastating force. 

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't give me that, Gojo."

"That's—" My voice cracked, the words catching in my throat like a shard of glass. "Irrelevant. It's a personal matter."

"Is it?" Yaga countered. "When your personal choices compromise your judgment, jeopardize not only this project but the lives of countless patients—it becomes very much my business. I've tolerated this long enough."

What?

"You can't touch my surgeries. Those patients need me."

"Do they?" His question was a poisoned dart. "Or do they need a surgeon with a clear head and untarnished reputation? While this mess remains unresolved, consider your surgical privileges suspended. You have enough on your plate."

I slammed my hand against the desk, heedless of the pain it sent tearing through me. My surgeries, my purpose, the very core of my identity—he can't take that away from me.

"This isn't fair," I said through gritted teeth. "You're overreacting. One setback—"

"One setback too many," Yaga cut me off, his voice hard as steel. "You've exhibited a reckless disregard for protocol, for ethics, and now it's spiraling out of control. The board has lost faith in your ability to lead this project, and frankly," he paused, his gaze piercing, "so have I."

The room felt suffocating, the air too thin to breathe. It was as if the walls were pressing in, crushing the fight out of me.

Yaga sighed. "Clear your head, Gojo. Sort out your priorities. Until then, take a step back. And for your sake, and the sake of those around you, stay out of trouble."

Then, a knock sounded at the door. I turned around.

The door creaked open, and there she stood, her eyes wide. 

My heart sank. 

In that moment, seeing her framed in the doorway of Yaga's office, a cruel reminder of the mess I'd made, the last thin threat snapped. 

This was on me, not her.

"Don't you dare drag her into this," I hissed before anyone in the room could speak. "This is on me and not—"

"Silence," Yaga's voice cut through my outburst. "Both of you. Sit."

She met my gaze, a flicker of something I couldn't name passing through her eyes. Then, she crossed the room and sat, her posture straight. The sight of her, defiant yet composed, filled me with a strange sense of pride.

"There will be repercussions, as you both are well aware," Yaga began. "The ethics committee has been alerted. A formal hearing will be scheduled, likely within the week, to address this debacle." 

He paused, his gaze raking over both of us. "I suggest you prepare yourselves well. The fallout will be severe."

The ethics committee?

Fuck.

My stomach churned, a cold sweat breaking out across my skin.

My fingers twitched. The itch beneath my skin now flared into a maddening burn. It took every ounce of control to fight the urge to rip the skin off my arm, to tear away the invisible parasites gnawing at my sanity.

"What kind of fallout?" I asked. "Suspension? Expulsion?"

Yaga's expression was unreadable. "The committee will decide that. Your actions—both individually and collectively—will be scrutinized."

"But she—" I began, but Yaga held up a hand, silencing me. 

"Enough," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I suggest you both to prepare very well what you'll tell them, especially regarding your relationship." 

He let the implication linger in the air, a silent accusation.

"You can leave now," Yaga announced, already adverting his gaze from us to some papers in from of him.

I shot to my feet, my chair scraping back with a screech. I grabbed her hand, a silent command to follow. I knew she had a million questions, but I needed the world to stop spinning out of control for one damn minute.

I needed air first.

I needed to breathe first.

"Let's get out of here first, okay?" I said before she could even open her mouth to speak.

The elevator carried us down. I gripped the handrail so hard it felt like my fingers might break. Her gaze burned into me, her worry a palpable weight in the too-small space. I averted my eyes, focusing on the grimy elevator floor. 

If I looked at her now, I knew I'd crumble.

"Satoru, we should tell them," her voice was soft.

Please, love. Be silent. Don't make this harder for me.

"No," I said, harsher than intended. "We won't. This could ruin you, and I won't let that happen." The words sounded strong, protective—but the truth was, I was terrified.

My hand twitched with the need for a relief I hadn't known this strong for weeks. Just one pill, one measly little pill was all I needed right now. It gnawed at me, a craving that wouldn't be ignored.

"But it's my choice too. You don't get to decide this alone."

"You don't understand. If they find out about us now, under these circumstances they'll use it against us, make it look like we were reckless, unprofessional. Our judgment, everything we've worked for, will be called into question."

"I don't care about their judgment! I care about what happens to you!"

Couldn't she see? This wasn't about bravery, or honor. This was about survival. It was about saving her, even if it meant destroying myself in the process.

"I can't risk your future, not for this. End of discussion." I turned away, unable to stand the hurt, the frustration burning in her eyes.

I was meant to be her strength, and I was failing her. Failing us.

Then, as if the universe itself decided to pile on my misery, the elevator lights began to flicker. The low hum warped into a high-pitched whine, the sound like nails scraping along my exposed nerves.

The elevator jolted, then shuddered to an abrupt halt. Darkness crashed down, pierced only by the sickly yellow glow of the emergency lights.

Stuck.

Trapped. 

Confined.

I felt the blood drain from my face.

Then, a voice, tinny and overly cheerful, chirped through the elevator's speaker. "Uhm, sorry about this folks. Seems we have a minor—uh, technical issue. Be with you shortly."

Fuck.

I could feel her gaze burn into my neck, a heavy pressure like she held a gun to my head.

"Well, you can't fuck your way out of this one, can you?" Her voice held a cruel amusement.

I considered it for a moment, then remembered the security camera scrutinizing our every move, the worker no doubt listening. Too risky.

Not that I'd mind a video.

I sighed. Leaning heavily against the cold metal, I let my head thunk against the elevator door.

God, please have mercy.

Defeated, I turned and slid down the elevator door, sinking to the floor, the metal cold against my back. She crossed her arms and I knew she wouldn't back down.

For a while, silence reigned.

"They'll want to know everything—about the research project, the surgeries, the brain bleeding, the student lawsuit," I hesitated for a second. "And about us."

"I know." Her reply was matter-of-fact, almost dismissive.

"This should concern you."

"I don't care."

My god, this woman makes me lose my mind.

Her stubbornness was so infuriating, yet it made me want to rip her clothes off right here, right now. It was as if she saw the storm raging within me and refused to back down, daring it to break us both.

I shifted, the cold floor chilling me to the bone. "If we tell them now about us, they'll use it against us. They'll tear us apart."

"And what's the alternative?"

"We say nothing. Professor and student. Nothing more."

"They'll question others."

"No one knows, except Suguru, and he won't tell anyone."

"We already look guilty. Professor and student spending so much time together? Doing surgeries together? Let alone the scene you caused at the summer gathering. People already talk, Satoru. You know they do."

She was right. Damn her for always being right.

"The committee will know," she continued. "They'll ask questions. And we can't afford to be caught off guard."

"Damn it," I cursed, raking a hand through my hair.

"Satoru," she began, the sound of my name on her lips a caress against my raw nerves.

Please never stop saying my name.

"We both made choices. The only option now is to be truthful. You can't shield me from this, nor do I want you to. I've chosen to be here. So, we tell them. Tell them you and I," she faltered slightly over the next word, "that we're in a relationship."

I blinked, my mind stuck on the word. Relationship. 

She'd never used that word before.

But the way she said it now, laced with that familiar defiance. Always the challenge, testing my limits, turning everything into a battlefield. God, I craved it—the clash, the surrender, the maddening, intoxicating burn of her. All of it. All the time.

A smile, genuine and almost idiotic, spread across my face. 

She narrowed her eyes. "What?"

"We're in a relationship?"

Say it again, love.

"You're such an idiot."

Giving me nothing as always.

"How are you holding up?" Her question stopped me cold. "Just two more weeks, right?"

Two weeks. 

Two more weeks until I was supposed to be completely free from the insidious grip of the opioids. My fingers twitched at my sides at the mere thought of it.

I forced a smile. "Everything's fine."

The lie burned my throat, but it was preferable to the alternative. I couldn't let her see my weakness, not now, not with everything else hanging by a thread.

"Not quite convincing," she said. "But then again, you never were a good liar, were you?"

She saw through me. Of course, she did.

In that moment, something shifted—a silent war waged between us. Her gaze relentless as she fixed me with her gorgeous eyes.

"Guess my luck's run out, huh?"

"Don't," she warned. "Don't do that. Don't shut me out, Satoru."

We held each other's gaze, a silent standoff in the flickering emergency lights. It was always like that, always a battle of wills to see who would give in first, yet this time fear flickered in her eyes, a fear that matched my own.

A crackle from the elevator's speaker broke the spell. 

"Hey there, folks," the tinny voice chirped. "Just wanted to let you know we're working on it. Shouldn't be too much longer. Sorry for any inconvenience!"

Wordlessly, she shifted closer. Sinking down beside me, her shoulder pressed against mine.

We sat in silence, side by side.

Each breath I took felt less violent, the chaos in my mind muted by the simple warmth radiating from her. I reached for her hand, our fingers intertwining.

In those shared breaths, the world melted away.

"You know," I began, the words barely a whisper. "I'd do anything for you."

Her hand tightened in mine. "And I'd anything for you."

A bittersweet smile touched my lips. "And that will probably be our undoing. Either way, looks like we're in for one hell of a fight."

My grip on her hand tightened. I couldn't lose her. Not to the fallout of my mistakes and certainly not to the vultures who would circle us, seeking to exploit any sign of weakness.

I was trapped in a cruel paradox. My need to protect her was the very thing that might destroy her. And the realization cut deep.

"Then let's fight like hell," she said. "If it's a battle they want, it's a battle they'll get."

God, I love this woman. 

And as we sat there, trapped in that metal box, I knew one thing for sure:

Trouble would come—it always does. But anyone who dared to hurt her would have to get through me first.

─── ·✧· ───

A light summer rain spattered the city streets, blurring the neon signs into shimmering streaks of color. I dodged between hurried strangers, the air heavy with the scent of wet asphalt. Each step brought me closer to my destination.

As I reached the weathered wooden door, my phone buzzed. Suguru's name flashed on the screen.

"Hey," Suguru's voice crackled through the line. "I got those test results you asked about."

"And?"

The silence that stretched felt like an eternity. 

"Elevated AST, ALT, ALP, bilirubin, and GGT, low on albumin," Suguru finally said.

I clenched my fist around my hair. "Can't you at least sugarcoat that a bit?"

"Satoru this is serious. You need treatment, and we need to plan this out, like, yesterday."

What a pain.

"Look, I'm in the city right now," I said. "There's something I need to pick up. Can we discuss this later?"

"Something more important than your liver giving up?"

"Well," I began, a wry smile playing on my lips, "If you must know, I'm about to make a seriously bad financial decision."

A beat of silence, then a groan. "Satoru, you know I can't read your damn mind. Just spit it out."

"It's for her."

I didn't need to elaborate. He understood.

"Figured," Suguru said, resignation evident in his voice. "But seriously, Satoru, your liver—"

"I know, I know," I cut him off. "We'll talk later. Promise."

I hung up before he could protest further.

The shop's weathered sign creaked above the doorway as I stepped inside. A bell tinkled, cutting through the stillness. The musty scent of old paper and polished wood enveloped me.

The shop was empty. I wandered further in, into the maze of shelves. Sunlight pierced the stained glass windows, fracturing into shards of crimson and sapphire that danced across the worn wooden floor. Dust motes danced in the beams.

My eyes drifted over the towering shelves filled with books. I reached out, my fingers trailing along faded covers, the embossed lettering cool beneath my touch.

Them, a soft shuffle of footsteps echoed from the back room.

A tiny, elderly woman emerged. "Can I help you find something?"

"Actually," I said. "I believe I have an order to pick up."

Her wrinkled face lit up. "Oh, wonderful!" she exclaimed, a burst of energy belying her age. "That special piece. It took some doing to get ahold of it, you know. Just a moment, dear."

She disappeared back into the dim recesses of the shop. My fingers tapped restlessly against the wooden cashier's desk as I waited.

The old woman returned, carefully cradling a worn wooden box in her gnarled hands. My pulse quickened. With trembling fingers, she unlatched the box, revealing a slim volume nestled in aged tissue paper. Lifting it out, she held it towards me.

"Signed by Kafka himself."

The weight of the volume in my hands was unexpectedly heavy as I took in the sight of the worn leather and faded ink.

"She must be very special," the old woman said.

"Huh?"

"The woman you gift this to."

"She is," I said, a smile tucking on my lips. "She's everything. Deserves everything."

"She must be very lucky to have you."

Her words echoed in my head. Lucky? More like a burden.

"I'm not so sure about that," I began, the words hesitantly tumbling out, "maybe she deserves someone who doesn't have to try so hard."

The old woman tilted her head. "Sometimes, dear," she said softly, "it's those who try the hardest that are the ones worth holding onto."

"But what if trying isn't enough? What if the very act of trying—it just breaks things more?"

The old woman's smile didn't fade a bit. "Love is often a messy business. Broken things can be mended, you know. Sometimes the cracks make them all the more beautiful."

"But some things are beyond saving," I whispered, the bitter taste of the words lingering in my mouth. 

Damn it, why couldn't I be better for her? She deserved someone strong, someone who wasn't one bad day away from crumbling.

"Perhaps. And perhaps," she countered quietly, "it just that brokenness that makes it perfect."

I huffed. "That sounds like something she would say."

I glanced down at the book, the worn leather seemed to burn against my skin. My fingers twitched. It had been hours—too many hours—since my last pill.

The old woman cleared her throat "Well, dear," she said, her voice taking on a brisk tone, "shall we settle up then? I believe that comes to—"

She fished out a worn leather purse and snapped it open, revealing a wad of crumpled bills. My eyes widened as she extracted them, my brain fumbling to calculate the absurd amount she fanned out before me. My jaw must have hit the floor.

"Life advice never comes cheap, dear boy."

─── ·✧· ───

The basketball arced through the air, a perfect curve that ended with the satisfying swish of the net. Another shot, another temporary reprieve. The rhythm was soothing, a mindless distraction that usually brought a sense of ease.

But tonight, it felt hollow.

Another shot. Another basket. 

Each thud of the ball against the cracked asphalt mirrored the pounding in my temples. Sweat stung my eyes, my lungs burned. The deserted court, bathed in the fading warmth of the afternoon sun, offered no solace.

Another shot soared towards the backboard, this time clattering wildly off the rim. The ball ricocheted away. Frustration surged through me.

Elevated liver enzymes. Decreased platelets. Albumin's dropping. This isn't about a few late nights, Satoru. Your body is giving up on you.

Suguru's warnings echoed like a death knell.

It was bad. Worse than I'd allowed myself to admit. The years of pushing limits, of drowning my demons in a haze of toxic oblivion, had caught up with me with brutal efficiency.

A wave of dizziness washed over me, and for a sickening moment the cracked asphalt seemed to tilt and sway. I forced myself to focus, to regain control. The irony of it all nearly choked out a bitter laugh. 

Control. 

What a futile concept.

Suddenly, my arm burned, a sharp insistent sting. I clutched it, fingernails scraping against the already inflamed skin. It was a subconscious act, a frantic search for relief from the maddening itch that throbbed beneath the surface.

My fingers came away sticky and red.

Fuck.

Then, my phone buzzed against my thigh. I fished it out of my shorts, the screen blurring in the fading light.

It was her.

[6:15 PM] You: Seen your car in the university parking. Still here?

[6:15 PM] Satoru: Basketball court.

[6:15 PM] You: Should have known.

[6:15 PM] You: On my way.

A shiver ran through me, a rush of something akin to adrenaline.

She was coming.

The bleeding scratches on my arm seared. I fumbled for the sleeve of my crewneck sweatshirt, pulling it down hastily in an attempt to hide the evidence.

I forced myself to focus on the net.

And then I saw her, a silhouette etched against the dying light, her presence shattering the fragile focus I'd clung to. My heart hammered in my chest.

For a moment, time seemed to stutter.

She came towards me, her steps soft against the rough asphalt. Every detail of her etched itself onto my mind with painful clarity. The way the twilight painted streaks of gold across her skin, the gentle curve of her lips, the slight furrow of concern between her impossibly beautiful eyes.

My god, those eyes.

Even if she looks at me in pity, I wish she would never stop looking at me.

I forced myself to toss another shot, a pathetic attempt to feign normalcy. The ball arced through the air and swished through the net—a lucky streak.

Her footsteps stopped just short of the three-point line. She didn't speak, just watched me with those perceptive eyes that always seemed to see too much. My pulse quickened, a mix of fear and longing washing over me.

Tonight, in that flowery dress, she was insanely beautiful. 

She reached down and scooped up the ball that had just rolled to a stop at her feet. A spark of amusement ignited in her eyes, a challenge I knew I would accept even before it left her lips.

With a playful smile, she began to dribble. Her movements were hesitant, fumbling—adorable. So different from the confident woman she was in the operating room. 

Still, she moved with focused determination, mirroring the way she approached everything in life. For a moment, I just watched, savoring the unexpected tenderness of her trying.

I closed the distance between us, amusement tugging at my lips. I reached for the ball, intent on displaying my effortless skill.

But she surprised me. Though I easily pushed her away, a hint of resistance in her stance, she didn't stumble back as I'd expected. She held her ground, our bodies a breath apart.

She tilted her chin up, defiance still burning in those impossibly pretty eyes. For a breathless moment, I was lost in their depths, in the faint scent of her skin, the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

God, how I needed her.

"You're quite distracting," I said, my gaze drawn to the sheen of sweat glistening along the curve of her neck. Our bodies were impossibly close, my breath ghosting across her lips, the faintest hint of her smile teasing me.

"Don't blame me for your bad play." She snatched the ball, biting her lower lip as I moved to block her shot. I closed in, body to body. With a twist and a feint, she evaded me, keeping the ball just out of reach. 

"Or is the great Dr. Gojo," her eyes flickered down to my lips, then back up, "—afraid of a little challenge?"

The words hung in the air, a taunt, and a dare.

My hands moved instinctively, framing her face, tilting it upwards. The distance between us vanished in a heartbeat.

Her lips were soft, yielding against mine, the faint taste of something sweet clinging to them. My pulse thundered, fingers tracing the delicate line of her jaw. I pulled her closer, our bodies molding against each other. Her exhale a soft sigh against my lips.

The basketball, forgotten and rolling away across the cracked asphalt.

I deepened the kiss, not able to resist her. I lost myself in the sensations—the warmth of her skin, the intoxicating taste of her, the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the summer heat. Raw need flared within me, a desperate hunger that threatened to consume all semblance of control in me.

When I finally drew back, it took every ounce of my willpower. She was breathless, her eyes filled with a yearning. Just how I like it.

I snatched the forgotten basketball from the asphalt, twirling it on a finger. "So much for your challenge." My voice coming out slightly breathless. 

I spun on my heel, took a few steps, and arced the ball towards the net. It swished through with a satisfying thud. "Looks like someone gets distracted easily."

"That's hardly fair," she retorted with a determination in her gaze that both amused and intrigued me. "You're basically a pro."

"So you admit defeat then?" I taunted, dribbling the ball between my legs.

I could see the way she was analyzing my movements, trying to mimic the way I held the ball and the fluidity of my shots. She was always like that analyzing my every move. Watching me with an intensity that only she could.

"Not at all. You just need a handicap. Perhaps you can only use one hand behind your back?"

"Alright, first-year," I smirked, tossing her the ball. "You're on. Just don't blame me when I crush you even with a handicap."

The ball bounced awkwardly in her grasp as she took a hesitant shot. It bounced off the backboard, miles away from the net. A flicker of frustration crossed her face. Fucking adorable.

"Next one's going in," I said as I retrieved the ball and began dribbling. "But you have to get it from me first."

I kept my promise, playing with one hand behind my back. Yet, I wasn't playing to win. I was playing to keep her close, to savor the spark in her eyes, the way she moved with a newfound confidence.

She darted in close, her eyes locked on the ball, and with a swift movement, she feigned a step to the left before stealing the ball from my less-guarded side. She took her shot.

Her second attempt was slightly better, the ball at least hitting the rim with a hollow clang.

She should really just stick to surgeries, not sports.

She retrieved the ball again. After a particularly clumsy dribbling attempt of her, I swooped in, intercepting the ball with ease. However, she surprised me. Lunging forward, she snatched the ball from my grasp again and, in a fluid motion, took a wild, off-balance shot.

The ball soared through the air, tracing a perfect arc. It hit the backboard and, against all odds, bounced through the net.

"Maybe you're not as good as you think you are?" she teased, flashing me that smile. 

Oh, sweet thing. I let you win just to see that smile. But it's still cute how you try.

"Lucky shot." Without conscious thought, I moved closer, drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

"Careful, Professor, or your student might surpass you." She teased again as if she didn't know exactly what those words did to me.

But sure, tease me again. Bring it on. Tease me, taunt me, push me until I snap.

You'll reap what you sow.

She began dribbling, but I was relentless, closing in. With a quick feint, I disarmed her, snatching the ball and watching it roll away.

She tried to sidestep, a flicker of surprise in those beautiful eyes. Too slow. With a final stride, I cut off her escape, her back hitting the cool metal of the basketball pole. She was trapped.

I grabbed her neck, fingers intertwining in her hair. Before she could object, before I could second-guess myself, I closed the remaining distance, my lips crashing against hers. Her soft gasp swallowed by my own hungry sigh.

The kiss was heated, desperate, a clash of urgency and hesitant surrender. My arms circled her hips. I bent my knees slightly and, in one swift motion, lifted her off the ground. Her legs wrapped around my waist, a gasp escaping her lips.

I pressed her closer, my body straining with an almost painful need. I lost myself in the softness of her lips, the faint taste of cherry chapstick, the intoxicating sensation of her skin against mine.

I deepened the kiss, my tongue tracing the seam of her lips. I tightened my hold, pressing her closer until I could feel the frantic beat of her heart against mine. A moan escaped my throat as I felt the sudden desire to possess, to consume, to brand her as mine.

Not out of aggression, but a desperate need for more—more touch, more taste, more of the overwhelming rush that only she could give me. 

She was the fix I couldn't resist, the poison I desperately craved. Because with her, oblivion felt so damn close.

Her hands tightened in my hair, the short strands of my undercut providing purchase as she tugged me closer. Her scent enveloped me. It clung to my tongue, my lungs, fueled the heat blazing in my blood. 

My teeth grazed her lower lip, drawing a soft moan that stretched my shorts even more painfully. It was my undoing. Every thought, every restraint burned away in the heat of the moment. I needed to have her. Not just a taste, not just this stolen moment.

I craved all of her, with a desperation that bordered on madness.

Then, like a splash of ice water, her nails raked across the raw skin on my arm, searing pain cutting through the haze. I winced, her touch like burning coals on my skin.

"What's wrong?" she gasped, breaking the kiss.

"Everything's fine," I said, not wanting to let go of her. I leaned in again but she flinched back. 

"Don't lie to me." Then, her gaze fell to the faint stain of blood seeping through my sleeve. Her eyes widened. "Satoru, your arm—"

In an instant she rolled up my sleeve, revealing the scratches. 

Fuck.

I lowered her back to the ground. Her eyes narrowed, a frown creasing her brow.

"It's nothing."

"It's always 'nothing', with you," she said sharply.

Reluctantly, I allowed her to roll up my sleeve even more, revealing the red marks. Here was the ugly truth, laid bare beneath her concerned gaze.

"Do you have something to clean this?" Her voice trailed off as her eyes flickered towards my sports bag, lying forgotten on the sideline bench. With a determined look I knew all too well, she walked towards it.

I tried to stop her, but she was already unzipping the bag, rummaging through its contents. A knot tightened in my stomach. There was no first aid kit, no antiseptic wipes—only the worn book that I hadn't had time to wrap yet.

"What's that?" she said.

She pulled the book out, a flicker of confusion crossing her perfect face.

"Sorry, it's not wrapped." Not that I know how to wrap a present, as I hardly ever made gifts before. But I would have tried for her. It was the least I could do.

Her eyes flicked from the book to me, her brain clearly working overtime. She turned it over, studying the faded cover. Slowly, realization dawned in her eyes. "You—you bought this for me?"

I shrugged, a nonchalant mask to hide the frantic pounding of my heart. "Thought you might like it."

"Like it?" She flipped open the book, revealing the faded signature on the first page and a key tucked loosely among the pages. For a moment she just stared, then looked up at me, her eyes wide. "Satoru, is this—"

"Ink on paper," I finished for her. "And a spare key to my apartment."

Silence descended, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves. It felt like she was staring a hole through me. Then, she walked over, book still clutched in her hand. Instead of the thanks I expected, she swatted me on the arm with the cover.

"Ouch, you know how expensive that was?"

"I can't accept this." She held the book away from her as if it might burn her. "It's too much, Satoru."

"Don't like it?"

"Like? Like?" Her voice rose, and then she looked back down at the book, a smile spreading across her face. "Satoru, this is—," she trailed off. "How did you get this?"

"Had to bargain with an old hag. Some minor soul-selling, nothing major."

"No, seriously, this must have cost a fortune."

"Money doesn't matter," I said softly. "It's you. You're all that matters."

The book in her hand twitched. There was a flicker in her eyes, like the urge to swat me with it again, but she contained the impulse. It was replaced a moment later with a frown as she focused now on the bloodstain on my sleeve.

She moved closer, a dangerous stillness about her. 

Her touch on my sleeve was hesitant, fingers tracing the inflamed scratches. "You gonna tell me what this is? Or are you gonna sidestep the issue again until we fight, because you know my patience is wearing quite thin these days."

"Nervous habit."

"It's new." There was no judgement, just a matter-of-fact tone in her voice.

"Yeah." 

The lie felt like ash on my tongue. 

It wasn't new, of course. I'd just gotten worse at hiding it.

"Thank you."

"For what?" I asked.

"The book, idiot," she said with a gentle smile. "And for telling me."

Ah, that smile. I melt every time.

"Come on," she said, letting go of my arm and turning towards the university. "Let's patch you up."

Without hesitation, I followed.

─── ·✧· ───

"So," I started, a slight wince escaping me as she cleaned the scratches. "You didn't tell me. What brought you here in the first place?"

"You didn't ask."

"I'm asking now."

A flicker of hesitation crossed her face. "I had some research to do in the library."

I knew her too well—the slight catch in her voice, the way she avoided my gaze.

"What research?" I prodded gently.

She sighed, then met my eyes. "The patient with the brain bleed. I had to double-check something."

Of course, she would still be agonizing over it. It was in her nature—the relentless, stubborn dedication was what would make her the best damn doctor I knew she'd become.

"Don't," I said. "Don't think too much about it. I can't stand to see the worry in your eyes."

She held my gaze. "I just want to be as prepared as I can be."

"I know, love," my voice softened. "But not tonight, okay?"

Suguru's office reeked of stale smoke and lingering whiskey—a sharp contrast to his neat workspace. Ironic how I was the one out of first-aid supplies. The addict, while he was still well stocked. But that's why I had his key.

She carefully placed a bandage over the last scratch. "You know the first ethics committee hearing is soon."

"Are you nervous?"

"Are you not?"

"No. Our research is flawless. Bulletproof."

"There's always a flaw. And they'll find it. Something we missed, overlooked. Don't blame me for wanting to prepare."

"You are prepared," I said. "Nobody knows this research like you. Not even Suguru. It's your blood, sweat, and sleepless nights poured into every page. This is yours in a way it could never be mine. You gave it life, meaning."

She seemed lost in thought, her focus narrowing in on my arm. She moved closer, like she'd just spotted something.

"Satoru—" she began, then hesitated. Even in the dim light, I could tell what she saw. "Where did you get those scars?" Her frown deepened. She leaned in closer, as though seeking further proof.

My fingers twitched. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. It was a distraction, a pain to combat the other. She had that look in her eyes that seemed to say, you know I won't stop until I hear the truth. So I gave in.

"My father was a demanding man," I said, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. "My mother turned a blind eye." 

I couldn't bring myself to say more. The image was enough to paint the picture.

For a second it seemed she froze. Her gaze remained fixed on my arm, her grip tightening ever so slightly.

Wordlessly, she rose and moved away. Moments later, she returned, a small syringe gleaming dully in the dim light.

"What's that?"

"Antibiotic," she said. "Those scratches were raw, you could get an infection."

"I'm fine."

"Let me be the judge of that." A hint of steel laced her words. Then, with startling gentleness, she added, "I don't want to see those old wounds opened any wider."

She tilted my arm, and with a swift, practiced move, the needle pierced my skin. I barely flinched. How different from the times I'd taught her, her hands trembling, her hesitation a reflection of her gentle heart.

Now, she moved with the certainty of a seasoned surgeon.

She'd grown so much.

For a moment, I simply watched her.

Finally, she turned, disposing of the gloves and syringe. She crossed the room and retrieved something from her purse, my gaze following her movements.

Then she was in front of me, her hand outstretched. My eyes focused on the small, white pill resting in her palm.

I knew the shape better than my own reflection.

A wave of nausea crashed over me.

Why would she do that?

I stared at the pill, then met her gaze. There was fear in her eyes. 

"That's not clonidine," I said.

I knew exactly what it was. Yet, I wanted to hear it from her, needed her to say it.

"It's hydromorphone," she said, her voice firm. "Take it, Satoru."

"Why?"

"Because you've been scratching your arm bloody, that's why."

A dangerous thrill surged through me, a sharp contrast to the icy dread in my veins.

She had no idea what she'd start here.

"Take it," she snapped, "before I force it down your throat."

Something shifted in the air between us.

I stood, my movements slow and purposeful. With one swift move, I closed the distance between us until I loomed over her. My breath ghosted over her lips, the scent of her fear mingled with the ever-present, gnawing need.

Without breaking eye contact, I took the pill and reached for the half-filled liquor glass on Suguru's desk.

She watched, confused, but she didn't stop me as I crushed the pill against the weathered wood of the desk. It shattered easily beneath the glass, the sound like a gunshot in the tense silence.

I took hold of her nape. My fingers threaded through her hair, my grip firm. Her lips parted, a silent plea, but I flinched back, denying her.

Not yet, love.

Where's the fun with that?

I slowly turned her around until she faced the desk. She shuddered as I gently pressed her forward, bending her over the surface.

The thin straps of her summer dress dipped, revealing the gentle curve of her shoulders, a vulnerability that made me lose all good reason.

Her breath quickened, a soft sound against the silence of the room. I reached forward, fingertips ghosting over her skin. Then, with a deliberate slowness, I swept the hair away from her nape, exposing the tender skin beneath.

For a long, breathless moment, I simply absorbed the sight before me. 

Her perfect body was bent in graceful submission, the delicate straps of her dress barely clinging to her shoulders. The exposed curve of her nape, the soft warmth radiating from her skin. 

Raw need surged through me, a reckless defiance of the consequences, of the fragile threads of self-control I still clung to.

Why did she offer me the pill?

And why couldn't I stop?

My hands were unfamiliar steady as I reached into my pocket, fumbling for my wallet. Withdrawing a credit card, I placed the white powder on its smooth surface.

Her breath hitched as I moved closer, the card hovering just above the silken expanse of her exposed skin. Then, with deliberate slowness, I lowered it, creating a thin white line on her back. It felt like a brand, a pact forged in shared recklessness.

She shivered, a slight tremor that ran through her entire form. Whether it was revulsion or anticipation, I couldn't tell. And in that moment, I realized I didn't want to know.

I leaned closer, my heated breath ghosting over her back. Without conscious thought, I opened my mouth, my tongue licking the powder off the delicate skin of her back.

The taste was bitter, acidic, sweet—familiar.

The rush hit me like a bolt of lightning.

My skin crawled, alive with a tingling rush. My senses honed to a razor's edge, amplifying every sight, smell, and sound. Exhilaration surged through me, a wild, intoxicating rush, tinged with a fear that tightened my chest like a vice.

Fuck, how I missed that. 

How I craved it.

I pulled back, gasping, struggling to regain control. 

Yet, my hands refused to retreat, frozen against the heat of her skin. They trembled, a desperate battle between insatiable need and the last shreds of restraint. The warmth of her burned me, a tantalizing agony beneath the thin fabric of her dress.

A war raged within me. 

One voice screamed for surrender, for the oblivion of her touch, the sweet release of surrender. The other, weaker now, whispered warnings, a faint plea for control. It was a familiar battle, and with each second, my control weakened.

The sweet tang of the powder lingered on my tongue. 

Yet, it did nothing to quell the rising fire within me.

A fire only she could extinguish.

Unable to stop myself, my hands moved on their own. My fingers traced the curve of her hip, the warmth of her skin a siren's call through the delicate fabric. With a gentle push, the hemline of her dress inched upwards, revealing the smooth expanse of her thigh.

A soft gasp escaped her lips. "Satoru?"

"Don't speak," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Don't speak, love.

Every word of you would only fuel the fire even more.

And my sanity was already hanging by a fragile thread.

I pushed the flimsy strap of her dress further down her shoulder. Delicate skin, warmed by the summer heat now laid bare. I ran a hand over the expanse of her back, reveling in the silky softness, the shudder that rippled through her at my touch.

I slid my hand beneath the hem of her dress, my fingers mapping the soft curve of her thigh. She moaned, a ragged sound that mirrored my own desperate need. I tugged the dress upwards still, baring more skin to my touch.

My chest heaved, my breath coming in uneven gasps. With a rough pull, I slammed her against me, her body against my already hard length a sensation that threatened to shatter the last vestiges of control.

The battle within me was all but lost. There was only this moment, this desperate, all-consuming need to claim, to consume, to lose myself in the oblivion she offered.

My hands roamed. The flimsy fabric of her dress was a mere inconvenience, torn aside to reveal the soft swell of her hips, the smooth expanse of her inner thighs. She shivered beneath my touch, fingers digging into her heated skin.

"Wait," her breath hitched. "Not here."

Yeah, it was Suguru's office. His desk. 

But in this moment, I couldn't care less.

"Yes, here."

My hand wound into her hair, forcing her head back. She gasped, her body arching against mine in surrender. The room tilted, the world outside blurring into nothingness. The only reality was her in front of me. I wanted to mark her, claim her as mine. 

Consequences, reason, all were distant echoes drowned out by the roaring in my blood. The rational part of my brain, a pathetically small voice, screamed at me to stop. 

But this part was loosing.

I pushed her dress all the way up to her waist, revealing the lacy underwear she wore. I drew her closer still, seeking a connection deeper than skin on skin. A moan escaped her lips, and she arched against me, the tremble of her body a heady mix of surrender and desperation.

"Satoru...please," she whispered.

"Tell me to stop," I said. Each word was a test, a twisted game we both knew she'd lose. My hand slid between her legs, a slow, agonizing caress that made her breath hitch. "Tell me, and I will."

A single word, and this could end. I waited, barely breathing.

She shook her head slightly. Then, with a boldness that ignited me all over again, she arched into my touch. "Don't stop," she breathed, her voice ragged. "Please, don't stop."

My god, that woman.

I could feel the despite simmering beneath her surrender, a bitter tang that only made this twisted game more addicting.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" I said, pushing the fabric of her underwear aside and sliding a finger inside her, feeling how wet and ready she was.

She was soaked through, drenched in a way that told me she wanted it as badly as I did.

With each stroke, I felt her body yield to me, growing even wetter as I explored her depths. It was an intoxicating sensation, knowing that I had such a powerful effect on her, that I could reduce her to this state of pure need with nothing but my touch.

She let out a ragged breath, gripping the wooden surface beneath her as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. I added another finger, stretching her open as I thrust in and out of her, searching for that sweet spot I knew would drive her mad.

When I found it, she gasped, her walls tightening around my fingers. "Right there," she moaned. "Don't stop."

I know, love. I know you like that spot.

I know how you crave it. The surrender. The sweet release of losing control to me. 

And in this moment, there was nothing I wouldn't give you.

Burn me. Break me. Doesn't matter. I'd still offer myself willingly. 

I'm yours to ruin.

But tonight, you'll break for me.

Every fiber of my being screamed for her, begging to bury itself deep inside of her. Watching her writhe underneath me, hearing her soft cries as I thrust into her, only fueled my hunger further.

I wanted to feel all of her, to brand myself onto her skin.

My cock throbbed painfully in my shorts, straining against the fabric. I could feel the precum leaking from the tip, dampening the material. The urge to rip off my clothes and plunge into her almost unbearable.

All I could see, all I wanted, was to be inside of her. Where I fit perfectly.

Then—the door. 

My hand stopped. Her gasp snagged in her throat.

Suguru stood in the doorway, a flicker of resignation in his eyes. Some people just don't understand the concept of knocking first, do they?

I withdrew my fingers. With a swift tug, I pulled her dress down, covering the parts of her only I deserved to bare. His eyes didn't have the right.

"Really?" Suguru sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "My desk?"

"Problem? Or feeling left out, Suguru?" My slick fingers found my mouth. I licked them slowly, savoring the lingering taste of her. My eyes never left him. "I thought you liked sharing."

─── ·✧· ───

➸ part ten is coming when i'm out of the the hospital for writing like a maniac.

x a/n: SCREAMING, CRYING, THROWING UP. i don't know if satoru went insane in this chapter or if i went insane while writing it. maybe both. but i had SO MUCH fun writing in his pov. i had a few heart attacks while writing this. and yes, imagine the "yes, here" in anakin skywalker's voice haha. 

also i know that kafka's books all got released after his death so a copy of his book with his signature is slightly unrealistic, but we just ignore that fact.

and last, don't sleep with addicts, that's not cool in real life, but in fiction it's okay, he can't hurt you there. anyway thank you so so much for reading, i hope you don't come at me for writing this omg, i'm so nervous posting this. i'm gonna go throw up now.

➸ taglist: @sad-darksoul @aerithsthingss @mylovelessnightmare @bbyxxm @musababy @neuviloved @ykehqqy @hexrts-anatomy @fvsm4x @tw0fvced @heijihattorisgf @sadmonke @thatsopanu @sirencholia @sugurusdiscordmoderator @erwinslut @shervinss @certainlysyko @mechalily @purplehallow11 @kendall0111 @bloopsstuff @therealestpussyeater @louoi7 @whereflowerswenttodie

[buggachat]

How do you feel about Felix having something that could possibly erase Adrien from existence…? At least I knew Gabe would never do that (I think). As crappy of a father as he his, I don’t think he want Adrien dead or out of existence. What do you think?

I don't think Felix would ever hurt Adrien with it, either. Considering Felix's motives generally seem to be about senti-rights, and the fact that he maybe has been in possession of a piece of Adrien's amok this whole season and never used it against Adrien once, I don't think he would ever do anything to Adrien with the peacock.

Honestly, I have a lot of feelings about how I think Felix views Adrien. I feel like he probably sees Adrien as everything he hates about himself. Adrien is Felix but blissfully ignorant to their shared trauma. He's Felix but still obedient to his amok. He's Felix but a celebrity. He's Felix but with friends. He's Felix but nice and kind and people like him. This explains why the first thing Felix did when he saw Adrien was essentially bully him (shove cheese in his pillow, try to ruin his relationship with his friends (that he seemed very bitter about Adrien even having), try to kiss his superhero gf, etc). Adrien is the person that everyone probably wants Felix to be, but that Felix doesn't want to be.

... But also, all that being said, I think Felix still loves Adrien. Adrien is his family, they supposedly used to be really close growing up, and technically speaking Adrien is the only person in the world who is going through the same thing that Felix is... Adrien just isn't aware of it yet. Felix may have done a lot of petty bullying to Adrien, but that doesn't mean he would kill him. Again, assuming the ring Felix had was also a part of Adrien's amok, Felix has been capable of essentially mind-controlling Adrien this whole season and he notably didn't. And considering Felix's senti-rights views, it wouldn't make sense for him to ever use Adrien's sentihood against him.

Side note, but... I wonder if Felix is partially okay with Paris going to shit under Hawkmoth's new powers because, in Felix's eyes, Adrien is one of the only Parisians who seems truly safe from the terror. After all, there's no way Gabriel would hurt his own son, right? And I mean, if Gabriel's goal is to revive his wife (which Felix may have surmised), then Adrien benefits from Hawkmoth's victory anyway, right? (The irony, of course, is that Adrien doesn't want that, Gabriel absolutely does hurt Adrien, and Adrien is actually one of the MOST at-danger citizens, because he's Chat Noir. But Felix doesn't know any of that, and I wonder if the choices he made would have been different if he did?)

[multimilfs]

Zelda Spellman x Fem!Reader: On The Basis of Understanding

Summary: ghostsunderstoodmysoul requested "Hi, darling! I didn't want to bother you so quickly, especially since you just wrote something at my request. But sorry, I couldn't resist seeing that Zelda is also on your masterlist. I was thinking about something where the reader was bitten by a werewolf and every now and then turns into one herself. She can't deal with the fact that something independent of her is taking control of her body, and she can't do much about it. And here comes Zelda, who also suffered a similar trauma when the Caligari spell was placed on her, and she herself had no power over her body. Maybe something in the context of their developing relationship? They both support each other, Zelda teaches the sensitive reader to overcome her fears and helps her control her "powers", and in return she shows Zelda what tenderness, affection and care mean. Thank you in advance and have a lovely day!"

AO3

A/N: Now I hope you all don't think I forgot about the requests in my asks.... I didn't! They're just taking a while to get to, you know, with the burnout and all. This was the first one I ever tried to write again so it was written over the course of a few months, forgive any errors or lack of fluidity on that end.

Happy halloween!!! 🎃

Tag List: @ghostsunderstoodmysoul @multifandomfix @escapetodreamworld @angel7376

Warning(s): Brief descriptions of violence

It’s that time again. The time when your skin itches unpleasantly, breaking out into a permanent set of goosebumps and your nail beds ache, the skin splitting like a bad hangnail. You wrap bandages around your fingers in hopes of quelling some of the pain until your transformation. 

The physical changes are only a temporary side effect, one that you welcome. They mean peace for a few days after; no voices, no urges, just blissful quiet and energy eventually floods your body like you’d slept for days. 

Then it ends. You open your eyes to a heavy feeling in your chest. Voices, whispers in the back of your mind prod you without end—eat this, do that, kill them. The little control you have goes to staving off those urges. 

No one notices, praise Lilith, but it's miserable. 

A hand settles on your arm and you turn to meet inquiring eyes. Zelda examines your face like she can understand exactly how you feel. Most of the time, she wasn’t too far off. 

“Have you prepared for this evening?” Zelda’s eyes dart briefly to your wrapped fingers. 

“As much as I normally do.” You answer. 

This prompts an eyeroll. Her hand leaves your arm, coming to rest on her hip as the other holds a lit cigarette. She inhales slowly, breathing it out in a quick puff. Then once more just for flair. 

“Which is to say you’ve done nothing.” She states—no question in her tone, just a knowing glare. 

“It’s a little counterproductive to prepare for something you can’t predict.” 

“Perhaps it would be more predictable if you were.” 

You laugh. A bitter note creeps into your chest, tinging the amusement with something angry. If only it could be that easy. You thrive on routine, but this… beast inside of you does everything to fight against it. Being predictable would go against its very nature. 

“If you say so, Zelda.” 

“You know this could be avoided if you allowed me to be there,” She says, inclining her head and flourishing with a hand as she speaks, “but you choose to doubt my skills.” “There is nothing about doubting your skill involved. I’m choosing not to put you in danger.” You say. The conversation alone is giving you a headache, though it’s one you have often. 

“I’m quite capable of protecting myself.” 

Humming, you let the conversation lapse into silence. It isn’t comfortable now, but soon enough it will be. You greatly admire Zelda’s willingness to help, the problem is that by helping she puts herself in danger. Too many people have been willing to put her at risk and you refuse to do the same. 

This is something you’ll figure out alone. If you hurt someone, especially Zelda, you will never forgive yourself. 

Your shoulders tense, flashes of images running behind your eyes; cruel nightmares brought on by your affliction. Nightmares of the beast taking over, rendered useless as it tears the woman apart. Bile rises in your throat as your stomach turns. 

Her hand settles on your arm once more, eyes apologetic. You give her a small smile. 

“The wards will allow you in, should you need my help.” Zelda murmurs. 

“Thank you.” 

The staccato of heels grows quiet as she walks down the hall and into her office. You let out a breath, closing your eyes and trying to push away the horrid images. Why is this your fate, of all things? Is it too much to ask for control over your own mind? 

Class doors open around you, forcing your movement. Your free period is over. In a few minutes, a class will await you, full of curious young witches and warlocks who are completely oblivious to their professor’s lack of control, lack of being. 

With your mind clouded by worry, the rest of the day passes quickly. It’s like a blur where you feel in control and yet, not present. It isn’t you speaking or moving; you watch from outside yourself as it all happens. You would blame it on the other part of yourself, but it has no involvement. It’s too busy getting ready for the full moon. 

Fear creeps in slowly, leaving you frozen in your living room. That’s all you remember before everything goes black. 

—

Something… hard is pressed against the side of your body. Not hot or cold, but lacking in any sort of temperature, and uncomfortable. You shift and something tugs at your arm. A pin-prick of pressure, pulled and released in an instant. The groan that leaves your mouth is something less than human, forcing you to open your eyes and look down. 

Splayed in front of you are two long legs covered in fur. You shift from laying on your side to laying on your stomach, feeling that familiar prickling as the wooden boards pull at your fur. The only thing allowing you to see in the surrounding darkness is an overhead light and your enhanced vision. You’re on a porch, one you don’t recognize until glancing at the door. 

Zelda Spellman stands in the doorway, leaning against the wood, smoke framing her face. She watches you with only a curious glance. You can’t believe you hadn’t caught the cigarette before, it’s stench overwhelming; unpleasant if not for the way it mingled with Zelda’s perfume. 

“Took you long enough.” She sighs, further framing herself with the smoke, “Come inside.” 

Your body moves before your mind can catch up. As if you’re on autopilot, you stand on aching haunches, moving towards her. It isn’t until your mind becomes present that you stop. That familiar voice, though faint, was ordering you not to obey—not to follow the orders of a witch. 

Before, this voice’s desires would be law, forcing you onto an alternate path. Now it was a suggestion. You continue in spite of its angry cries, following Zelda up the steps and into a room you’ve seen before. You hesitate. 

“I’ve had the sheets changed for you, go on.” Zelda urges.

Unfamiliar warmth fills your chest as you leap onto the bed. She had no idea you’d come, but made the effort anyway. The covers, no matter how old and worn, were reserved for you. You have some small place in the Spellman house. Even if it is temporary, it’s more than you had before. 

You turn, working out lumps that aren’t there. Curling in on your body, your ears twitch. A soft sigh catches them before the door closes and you’re alone. Left with the faint scent of cigarette smoke and Zelda, you settle in for the remaining hours of the night. 

—

“Hilda, don’t disturb her. She’s had a long night.” A voice hisses through your exhaustion. 

“I’m giving her some clothes.” Hilda hisses back. 

The lack of twitching in your ears is reassurance of being human once more. You try not to move too much or breathe too fast, so Hilda won’t worry that she’d woken you. If Zelda got on her case, you’d feel horrible. 

“You’ve done more than enough, now shoo.” Zelda whispers, her voice losing some of its bite. 

“I’m going, I’m going!” 

Hilda’s steps fade, but you can still feel a presence. Zelda. Her warmth seeps into your body despite her place across the room. Eyes pierce your flesh and continue to do so until you open your own. 

“Good morning.” You murmur, meeting her eyes. 

“It’s closer to the afternoon, but yes, good morning.” Zelda says. 

“Why didn’t you wake me?” 

You shoot up, just managing to remember your state of dress before the blanket falls. Some time during the night you burrowed below the covers. Now, they’re the only layer between you and Zelda’s stare. 

The near-slip makaes Zelda’s lips twitch, a smirk beginning to form. You would glare if the energy was available to you. But when you shoot up, your vision begins to spin, and your head feels heavy. 

“I’m not in the habit of giving my guests a schedule. You needed the rest.” 

“Still, I feel… rude for intruding on your home and then missing breakfast.” 

“As if Hilda could think of you as anything other than a delight. She’s saved you more than a fair portion of her food and excitement.” Zelda scoffs, but can’t hide the note of fondness when talking about her sister. 

“Thank her for me, will you? For that and the clothes.” You smile, motioning to the neatly folded shirt and pants at your feet. 

“You can thank her yourself after you get dressed.” 

Zelda makes no effort to move and you glare. Rolling her eyes, she covers them. She sees no point in your efforts to conceal your form, being around for ages makes the stigma around the human anatomy trivial to her, especially since she’s of the same sex. But she respects your desire for privacy. 

“Something was different last night, wasn’t it?” She asks, eyes still covered as you dress. 

Now that you think of it… something had been different. Though you can’t quite place your finger on it. All you know is that you felt better this morning, less tired than after previous transformations. 

“It was, I believe. Though I’m not sure what changed.” You answer honestly, finally coming to button the pants you were offered, “You can look now.” 

Zelda lowers her hand, taking in your appearance and nodding. Then she sits back in her chair. You notice a short glass on the table next to her, no doubt filled with a sophisticated mix of alcohol, despite the early hour. 

“You seemed more like yourself when you arrived. Less… aggressive.” 

“Aggressive?” You ask, a note of panic seeping in. Have you hurt her before? 

“You’ve never done anything physical, though a fair bit of snarling anytime I came near you. You were far more annoying than dangerous.” 

Swirling the liquid in her glass, she takes a slow sip. Her eyes watch over the rim as you relax. Many times the two of you have discussed your fears, especially those related to hurting others. Causing any pain to people around you would blemish your caring spirit. 

“I had more awareness when I arrived. You told me to come inside and I could, I didn’t have to fight with… it to do what I wanted.” You admit. 

“You have to stop referring to your other half as an ‘it.’” Zelda sighs, exhausted with the effort of repeating herself, “Every time you’ve ventured closer to acceptance, you’ve gained more control. You can’t fight for the rest of your life.” “Says who?” You snap. 

It’s pure, unfiltered anger that you direct her way. She hesitates, filling you with guilt, before moving forward without acknowledgement. 

“It isn’t healthy. You know this, you’re just too stubborn to admit it.” 

“Because this thing, this curse? It isn’t me. It will never be me. How can it be, when I can’t even control it?” 

The look in Zelda’s eyes leaves you uneasy. Worse than pity or sadness, it’s an understanding. She knows what it's like to lose control and it terrifies you. You’re keenly reminded of her own experience, your stomach turning unpleasantly. 

“Whether you like it or not, lycanthropy is a permanent affliction. You lose nothing from trying to accept it.” 

“I lose myself!” Tears pull at the corners of your eyes, threatening to fall with each breath. How many times will you have this conversation before she understands? 

Zelda looks into your eyes. Her mouth is open, lips poised to speak, when she pauses. A nerve has clearly been struck. It's only natural, but there will never be a conversation on this topic that didn’t strike a nerve. The open wound in your heart will know no peace. 

“In order to become what it is, it needs you, Y/N. Mind and body. It is fueled by magic, but lives only with your essence. Losing yourself is impossible.” Zelda stands, crossing the room. She stops before you, forcing your eyes to meet her own, “The being you believe is in your head? It has to bend to your will. All you need to do is accept its presence and it will fall in line.” 

You let some of the tears fall, emotion tightening in your chest. A hand wipes away the tears, delicate eyes following the trails of them. Can it really be so simple? 

Months; you’ve fought this feeling for months. So many words have left Zelda’s lips in that time. Reassurances, urges—all to accept the situation as it was. The things she said bounced off of your mind, never taking purchase, until now.

Relief should flood through your veins. The tears in your eyes should be happy, joyous. Instead, grief drags your heart from the joy it craves. You’ve prolonged this pain for months, when it could’ve changed in days, all because of your fear. 

You have no idea if Zelda will understand, but you don’t need to know. Not when she pulls you against her. Tears soak her blouse, she says nothing. Your hands clutch onto any part of her available. 

“I’m… scared.” Wincing against the grit in your voice, you try to pull away. Zelda doesn’t let you. 

“I know,” Zelda says, rubbing a hand over your back, “but one day you won’t be.” 

You hated to admit she’s right, and over time, she is. Instead of shutting the animalistic thoughts and urges out, you redirect them; picking up something to do or eating to keep your jaws busy. The fear is still ever present. As small as it is, it holds you back. 

Zelda takes on exercises to attune you to your own senses and now you stand in a large field, eyes closed as she instructs you. 

“What do you smell?” She calls from across the space. 

“I don’t know. Flowers?” 

The sigh she releases makes you grin. Then comes a click, metal on metal; Zelda’s lighter. You hear the sound dozens of times per day, enough for its absence to worry you. 

“Attune your senses to my cigarette. Expand your breadth, take it in.” 

Hands clench at your sides, you make the effort to open yourself to the surroundings. It's like unplugging your nose after swimming in a pool. For a moment, scents meld together. The mixture is like a stain on your sense of smell. Then they begin to separate, splitting like a cell. 

Petrichor clings to every blade of grass and leaf, enhancing the pungence of the sweet florals. Some are fresh, strong, their blooms new to the world. Others brown at the edges and give off musky nodes. Standing out among the natural scents is the familiar burning of Zelda’s cigarette. The tobacco is new, though the paper is damp. 

All of it is so defined now, clear and original. It was overwhelming before you latched onto Zelda. Now, in your mind’s eye, you can confirm her position based on the tobacco. It struggles to blot out the fresh blossoms on your left. If you hadn’t heard her voice come from that way before, you would locate her now. 

The more you think, the more you know it isn’t her cigarette that gives her away. Plenty of witches at the academy smoke. None of them wear the same scent, bear that same unintentional fragrance of soil like she does. It is her. As if it was written into her very DNA, you know this to be true. 

“Tell me what you know.” Zelda says. 

“They’re new, but you went out to smoke this morning. The paper was already damp before coming out here.” 

“What brand?” 

“Heavens Zelda, seriously? That’s impossible!” 

“Focus. Don’t make excuses.” She hardens her tone, sending a chill down your spine. 

You try to focus, but you can’t get a hint from the tobacco itself. Sometimes the box can give a hint of where it’s been. Nothing. You have little knowledge about cigarettes and can’t pinpoint anything. 

“I don’t know.” Your shoulders sag and you open your eyes. 

The red and white box catches your eye, you grit your teeth. It’d been so simple. Marlboro reds are popular, but that was the reason you didn’t name them. Zelda isn’t someone who ordinarily goes with the popular choice. 

“Do you normally smoke those?” 

“If I want an easy option, yes.” 

“What the hell does that mean?” A laugh escapes you, walking closer to her.

“I roll my own cigarettes, darling, that is what it means.” Zelda says. 

You raise an eyebrow at that. Everyday you learn something new about her, something obscure. She is a woman of refined taste and knowledge. The idea that she rolls her own cigarettes shouldn’t surprise you. 

Though that begs the question; if she rolls them, does she grow her own tobacco? The mortuary does reek of it, but you’d put that down to Zelda’s constant consumption. That would explain the ever present scents of less… legal plants coming from the attic as well. You guess that was just Ambrose’s doing. 

“Alright, Coach, what next?” Crossing the field to stand at her side, you offer her a grin. A small smile pulls fondly at her mouth. 

“I’m afraid I’m cutting it short today. I have far too many papers to grade this evening.” She sighs. 

Zelda pinches the bridge of her nose with two fingers, cigarette nearly burnt through in her other hand. You take it and stub it out on the bottom of your shoe. The entire moment, your eyes never leave her. The tense set of her shoulders, barely shaking hand, and creases on her forehead create a worrying picture. 

“Zelda, when was the last time you slept?” You ask. 

“Last night.” 

Her answer is quick, too quick. When your eyes meet, you can see the exhaustion reflected back in them. You reach out to rub a worry line from her forehead. It’s an unusual desire, but she allows it, despite her surprise. She even leans into it slightly. 

“And how long did you sleep last night?” You prod. 

There is no hiding the sheepish, caught expression on her face. It mingles perfectly with her typical indignation at being managed, “...Three hours.” 

“I thought as much. Come on.” 

You give her no time to adjust before taking her by the hand, pulling her across the green space in the direction of the academy. She stumbles for a brief moment. She attempts to pull her hand from your own, but your gentle grip is firm. An over dramatic sigh comes from behind you. 

“Must you manhandle me? I’m perfectly capable of walking.” Zelda says. 

“Are you?” You throw back without thinking, “Because you’re not capable of basic self care. It makes me wonder.” 

That is another piece of your affliction you are adjusting to; your natural shyness is nowhere to be found, replaced with a quick-wit that often surprises others. Zelda inhales sharply, but says nothing. She’s becoming used to your easy quips. There is nothing for her to argue against, though, as you’re right. 

It isn’t until you’re surrounded by the walls of Zelda’s office that you release her. Then you begin rifling through her desk, making her raise an eyebrow. She crosses her arms as she watches the scene, “What in Lilith’s name are you looking for?” 

“Your answer key.” You throw back distractedly. 

She’s at your side in an instant, unlocking the top left drawer and handing over a stack of papers. You scowl while she smirks. 

“What are you doing with them?” 

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m going to grade your papers.” You smile. 

Zelda freezes in place. She looks as if she’s never seen you before. You wait, in awe of a truly speechless Zelda Spellman. Finally she speaks again. 

“Why?” She asks breathlessly. 

“You need papers graded and you need a nap. You can’t do both, so I can take care of one for you.” 

Her flinty, suspicious eyes soften into warm pools. Indecision keeps her from speaking. You say nothing, not wanting to interrupt the thoughts running through her mind. Is your offer really so shocking? It feels like a trifle compared to all she’s done for you. 

“I can’t let you do that, Y/N.” Zelda tries, but her voice lacks conviction. 

“You can. Now, lay on the couch, I’ll go grab a blanket from my classroom!” 

You rush from the room before she can mount an argument. Left behind in the office, Zelda sits down heavily on the leather couch. She stares at the doorway in disbelief. A tumultuous swirl of emotions pulses through her chest, a mixture of pain and longing. Somewhere relief worms in. 

When is the last time someone went out of their way for her? Someone who isn’t her family, that was. She can’t recall. The number of friends she has can be counted on a single hand—a single finger, even, as she counts only you. Her heart aches. 

You rush back into the room, a large green blanket piled in your arms. Behind the mountain of fabric, she catches the smile you aim at her. Her heart ceases in its ache, instead overwhelmed with warmth. 

“I had to dig through my chest, but I remembered you liked this one last time,” You comment, missing the shaky smile on her lips, “Now lay down and don’t worry about a thing. I’ve got it all under control.” 

For once, Zelda has nothing to say. She lays her head on the arm of the couch, letting you drape the blanket over her. Her eyes follow you to her desk where you sit. Then they slip closed briefly. 

When they open again, she tries not to move. She’s content to watch you; the way you fiddle with the pen in your hand, eyes darting back and forth over the papers on the desk. You bite your lip in concentration and a fond smile breaks out on her features. 

Over the weeks of work, you’ve become sure of yourself. More than ever before. And in that, you begin to take extra steps for her. Though she’s coming to realize they’ve always been there. Your care isn’t new, just more obvious under her constant attention. Like your affections, she’s also failed to acknowledge her own. 

“Damn.” She hears you mutter, tapping the pen to the wood rapidly. Then you meet her eyes. 

A brief expression of surprise flits over your face, before you smile. Zelda lets her own smile remain. What was it she said to you—that accepting your situation would make you happier, offer more control? Perhaps accepting this feeling in her chest will do the same for her. 

“Has something stumped you?” 

“Maybe,” You say, smile never wavering, “Did you enjoy your rest?” 

“I did. It seems you need some now.” 

“I’m okay, Zelda-” 

“You can’t enforce self care on me and then refuse it yourself. It’s remarkably hypocritical.” Zelda says, raising a challenging eyebrow, “Come here.” 

Knowing you’ve been caught, you stand and cross the room. You plop unceremoniously down next to her. The action draws a chuckle from her lips, husky with sleep. 

Zelda offers a portion of the blanket to you. Rather than trade spots with you, she remains seated, waiting for your decision. It takes no time for you to take the offered warmth. In the silence of the room, you snuggle into her side. She leans back into you. 

It takes only moments before you drift into sleep. She traces a finger over your cheek, sleep pulling at her once more. Before joining you in unconsciousness, Zelda presses a sweet kiss to the crown of your head. You are safe—loved. And so is she. 

[whirlybirbs]

          (   this chapter’s gif by @august-walker​ from this beautiful set !   )

✪   —   VACANT MIRRORS  ;  B.B.  |  4/?

summary: you formulate a plan, meet steve rogers, and bucky goes on a date.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 6.8k, mother of pearl

a/n: this ended up being mostly a filler with a lot of romantic growth - i had to break this chapter up from the unce unce unce clubbing that coming up, so please enjoy! 

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MOSCOW, 1975.

In all the years that James Buchanan Barnes has had a heartbeat, he’d come to know the sounds of grief well.

War taught him a lot of things — that they were all just little boys playing with guns, and that no matter how many times you thought you’d be ready for the vomit-inducing pungency of violence, you never were. In the end, you’d do anything to save yourself; you’d crawl through the thick of death and debris a million times over if only to cling to the shredded tatters of your own humanity.

You would kill someone else’s son for the sake of your own mother.

War was disease that devoured every part of you — it was gunpowder snuff and carved flesh. That sickness — inky and desperate — had sunk deep into this heart during the war, and it crescendoed to the sounds of mothers clutching dead sons. The sounds that followed death were like a hollow opera. Waning and wailing.

In the raucous wake left by warborn grief, Bucky drowned everytime.

To the Winter Soldier, the operatic quality to the sounds of grief were as insignificant as a child’s rhyme.

He did not drown. No, he waded through the waves, comfortable in the cold and unphased by the stinging cut of loss. That was not something he could comprehend. After all, there were orders and there were targets, and everything in between was absolute.

He was the disease that devoured all.

He’s holding a gun to Andrei Kuznetzov’s head in a dining room with ornate trim — with silverware as delicate as scalpels that tinker against fine china. The carpets are red, the curtains are red, there’s blood on the table cloth. The guests continue to eat. Kuznetzov’s wife is screaming, red nails dug so deep into the dining chair’s arms it’s carving out the fabric. War dogs, like him, keep her rooted in her seat, and her tears find polished boots. She’s begging and bartering but the man with Kuznetzov’s life in his hands is not listening. He is eating his veal, bloodied meat dancing between his lips. He takes a sip of wine as his medal emblazoned chest glimmers in the light of crystalline chandaliers.

The spoils of war.

His smile is stained red.

There is no deal to be made.

The Winter Soldier pulls the trigger.

NOW.

His eyes are open.

Panic is the first emotion he feels, and it seizes him up quickly in its grasp. He doesn’t know this view, he doesn’t know where he is, not again, not again, not again —

Then:

“Good morning, sleeping beauty. Did you know you snore?”

The relief that the sound of your voice brings is immediate, and just like that he remembers. He’s laying on the bed. You’re sat up across from him at that small desk in the corner. He reaches as he rubs his face to thumb the edge of the pillowcase. He exhales tightly.

He’s fine. His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He is not longer the Winter Soldier. He’s in his Brooklyn apartment. He is fine.

When’s the last fucking time he’s slept in a bed?

He sits up, scratching his neck as he does. You lean back, half rotated in the desk. Before you is a mess of papers and his laptop — and on top of the keyboard sits his notebook. It’s open to the page where all he’d been able to figure out about Innessa was scrawled in his chicken scratch.

Bucky swings his legs over the edge of the bed and immediately his back complains.

“How long was I out?” he asks, voice hoarse with sleep. He moves to part the curtains. The room blooms with warm morning light.

You offer an apologetic smile into the vanilla sunshine. “Three hours. I wanted you to get some shut eye. You were starting to look a little overwhelmed last night—”

“You click too fast,” he waves, standing and immediately rolling his neck to the side. You watch as the man, before as peaceful as a sleeping pup, now regains his usual thinning veiled level of threat. Bucky is dangerous — it shows in the way he holds himself. He cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders, and groans. He exhales again, posture sagging a bit, “I couldn’t keep up.”

You’re standing now, socks padding against the hardwood as you eye his cowlick with a budding bloom of affection. With his notebook between your index and middle finger, you offer it out. You cling to your empty coffee cup in the other.

“I didn’t peek,” you say warmly, “Pinky promise.”

His laugh is more like a hot puff of air. Bucky manages a look that feels like an emotional dethaw.

“Thank you.”

You lead the way to the kitchen, stretching your own back as you go. You’d been up all night — this is your third trip out here for yet another cup of coffee. The pot has been on for too long, though, and you know the coffee sitting there is beyond bitter. You’re moving to dump it down the sink when Bucky grumbles.

“Don’t.”

“You want it?”

“No,” he mutters, reaching for a mug, “But I don’t want to waste it.”

“Wow,” you chirp, “The Great Depression just jumped out.”

“Yeah,” he snorts, yanking open the fridge to search for something to eat, “It does that.”

“Well, grandpa,” you hand him the steaming cup and set out to make another pot, “You’re also living on Depression Era rations — might I suggest some Dolly’s? Because I’m starving and I’ve been up all night and I think that means I get to decide where we get breakfast.”

Bucky’s look is soft — but you don’t see it. You’re too busy scooping sugar into your cup, too busy nudging him aside to grab the milk. He’s rooted there in the kitchen, watching you move about. You’re comfortable. There isn’t a trace of anxiousness in you, not in this moment, and he tries to remember what it looks like.

Your eyes find his and he clears his throat.

“Earth to Sergeant Barnes?”

“Don’t start,” he groans, albeit playfully, “It’s too early.”

“Oh, what? Too early for me to grill you on why you didn’t tell me that little laptop in there was on loan from the FBI? To one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th?”

His face falls.

“Don’t worry,” you raise a hand quickly, leaning against the counter as you sip your coffee, “I figured that out before I did anything massively illegal.”

Bucky rubs his face as he takes a sip of his coffee — the bitterness is enough to slap him awake. He winces, swallows it back, and remembers the taste of instant coffee made in helmets on the line in Bastogne. He can smell snow, and the acrid sting of mortar smoke. Suddenly, he’s craving a cigarette.

That hasn’t happened in a while.

Bucky clears his throat. “Did you find anything?”

You frown slightly, lips pulled as you hide your inward disappointment — you push off from the counter and shake your head as you brush past him. Like a loyal dog, Bucky follows. Into the bedroom you go, and Bucky’s again surprised he managed to get any sleep at all in that bed. Maybe it was the comfort of having someone else there, or the genuine exhaustion that had finally choked him out after hours of trying to understand what the hell you were even doing on there.

You plop into the desk chair and snatch up a piece of paper littered with notes.

“I couldn’t do much of my usual snooping,” you explain gently as you gesture to the chromebook, “This thing might have been given to you in good faith, but they’re watching you pretty closely. So, I worked a little magic and ended up running a virtual machine. Gave me enough wiggle room to avoid the malware and keystroke trackers. Even still, I wanted to be careful, so I just did a little looking.”

“Looking?”

“I can’t dig deeper on Innessa, I know where to dig, but I can’t,” you frown, “Not on this laptop, and definitely not on my personal machines. I’ve got the GRC breathing down my neck, and the files I need to poke are very much off-limits.”

“So, what? We’re shit out of luck?”

“No, not entirely,” you stand up and motion to the paper in your hands; your tone is tight, “I know a few people who can help, but getting to them is going to be the hardest part.”

Bucky takes the paper, squinting at the writing as you settle on the edge of the bed next to him. You take a sip of your coffee and watch as his blue eyes dart across the notes; you point to the name scrawled across the top.

“There’s a club in lower Manhattan, but you’ve gotta know the right people to get in,” you mumble, scratching your cheek as a creeping sense of embarrassment bubbles up behind your words, “It’s in the basement of an old computer repair shop. It’s like a blackhat networking event, but with strippers.”

Bucky squints at the paper and reads the name. “The Glass Cannon?”

“Yeah,” you huff, crossing your arms tightly as you stand, “That’s the one.”

Bucky looks up from the paper, attention now rooted on the pacing you’ve begun to do across the room. Back and forth. You’re holding your coffee like a lifeline, gaze far away. That anxiousless way you’d been holding yourself before is gone. Now, he can see the tensing in your shoulders, in your fingers. You’re suddenly nervous.

Bucky stands. His voice is gentle.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you snap almost immediately, “Just, y’know. Worried. I spent a lot of time there when I was younger. Did stupid shit. And now I’m about to waltz in after six years like I haven’t put that part of my life behind me.”

“We don’t have to do this,” he says immediately, moving to stand closer and halt your pacing. The invasion of your space forces you to look at him. His fingers glimmering in the morning light. You follow the line of his figure up to his eyes. The emotion there makes your heart clench. You can’t pin it down, and it’s gone in an instant.

“It’s the only way we’re going to find Innessa.”

“You don’t need to put yourself in situations like this for me,” he says, stressing the for me part in both expression and tone. The depreciation makes you wince and you’re fast to shake your head.

“That’s what friends do, Bucky,” you stand your ground, but you know there’s more to your reasoning than that, “Plus, she’s a bad guy. And I know you said I technically wasn’t the sidekick, but—”

“You’re not the sidekick—”

“I know,” you huff, nudging him gently with your arm, “But, I wanna help. Do some good.”

“You do enough good,” he mutters, “You’re a good person.”

Your words fail you at that — and your mouth parts but nothing comes out. Bucky watches with an expression as solid as rock as you blink and look away. His hand, the one of flesh and bone, finds your wrist as you tighten your grip on your mug.

The touch, though far too tender for you to handle, feels like fire.

Like a slap in the face, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky is.

You slap that thought back, trading volleys, and remain quiet.

His tone is stern. “I mean it.”

“Well,” you finally muster, tone dipping sardonically into a cruel peel of humor, “Just wait until you see me in my natural habitat. Maybe the tequila shots will make you second guess that.”

“I didn’t know we were going out drinking,” he chirps as he raises an eyebrow, “Am I going to need to get you a leash?”

“We’re gonna have to try and blend in as best we can. People are going to know me — if they try to pin me with the GRC or the feds, we aren’t going to get anything on Innessa. They probably won’t even let me in the building if they suspect something’s up, after all not everything that goes down in Glass Cannon is kosher.”

“This is already sounding like a bad idea,” Bucky mumbles as he crosses his arms, “I’m stating that for the record, by the way.”

“Well, I think standing around and working ourselves up about this is even worse of an idea,” you chirp back, moving towards the door to muscle on your shoes, “So I say we feed ourselves and don’t worry about this until Thursday night.”

“Thursday.”

You nod.

All of a sudden, Bucky’s eyes go wide.

“Today is Sunday.”

You freeze, hand on the doorframe. You shoot him a wide-eyed look at the sudden flare of panic that’s shot up through him. “Yea, Bucky, today is Sunday.”

“Shit.”

“What?” you nearly cry as he disappears into the bedroom once more. You hear his closet open, then a clatter as he grabs something like keys — you nearly run directly into his chest when he strides back into the kitchen. He’s shouldered on his usual leather jacket, and in his hands is another.

He’s got keys in his hand.

“C’mon.”

He shoves the jacket into your arms and you frown.

“What the hell?” you cry, doubling back to snag your phone and bag as Bucky moves to the door, “What is this?”

“Put it on,” he says, holding open the door for you as you follow him into the apartment hallway.

You raise a brow and stand there as he locks the door.

“Why?”

“Because,” Bucky mumbles, rubbing his face as he widens his strides to the stairwell across the hall; before you know it, you’re desperately trying to keep up as he bounces down the steps — light on his feet like the boxer he is — towards the lower level of the apartment complex, “We’re late.”

You groan, trying to shrug on the jacket that smells like Bucky as you follow — a smell you’d come to know as clean laundry and sandalwood. Must be something for his hair. He never wore cologne, that much was apparent. The jacket is big on you, especially on the shoulders. You were swimming in it, trying not to trip as he held the door open to the garage.

Suddenly, the air is cooler. Immediately you wonder how much his rent is if he had access to a ground level garage. Call it NYC instinct.

“Bucky,” you nearly whine, throwing your head back, “Where are we going?”

Before you get a reply, you run straight into his back. Bucky grunts, moving to grab both of your hands and push you to the front of him.

Sitting in the spot is a motorcycle.

It’s a jet black Harley.

Bucky is handing you the helmet on the back seat as your mouth moves in disbelief. “No way— no, I’m not getting on that thing. I’d rather sell my kidneys. Stop, stop — ow, Bucky — you haven’t even said where we’re going!”

He’s muscling the helmet onto your head and through the flash of the visor you can see a real smile, the sort born out of his never-ending amusement towards your fickle sense of humor. His fingers are nimble against your chin. He takes the time to strap it on, adjust it, and give it a gentle tug. Bucky taps the matte black helmet twice, then flicks the visor down.

“We’re going upstate.”

                                        ◦   ◦   ◦   ◦   

It takes two hours to get to Elmwood Senior Living.

You spent the first forty-five minutes clinging to Bucky’s waist with your eyes closed — no fault of Bucky’s, really. It was different from riding in a car by miles, and you had your own qualms with driving. You couldn’t be in the passenger’s seat anymore. Not after the accident with Jaimie, when Mom disappeared. Being out of control made you itch; and it’s not until the fifty-minute mark that you ease up on the panic and remember who the man is that’s driving the bike.

You trust Bucky. You trust him with your life.

Once it’s open road, winding up towards the Northern part of the state, it gets easier.

Bucky can feel your grip around his waist loosen just a bit — and it’s enough reassurance that he stops looking back in the mirror every fifteen seconds. It’s enough permission to open up on the throttle, and the bike roars alive. Your immediate reaction is a gobsmacked yelp, the sort that’s pulled from a jolt of shock, but then comes the laugh. 

Bucky’s own quiet chuckle rumbles against your chest. You hold on tighter, but this time with open palms against the thrum of his ribs.

Halfway through the trip, he pulls into a McDonald’s.

You drop your ass onto the parking lot’s curb as he leans against the bike and houses a burger. You laugh, eyeing him candidly as you take a large bite from your own lunch. Bucky is a mess with it — cursing quietly when he ends up getting ketchup on his jacket.

“Shit.”

“Jesus, Bucky,” you mutter, “Did you even taste that thing?”

“Barely,” he clears his throat and starts picking at his fries, “These things taste different now. First time I ever had McDonald’s was right before bootcamp.”

“How much was it? Five cents?” you snort, leaning back and dropping a fry into your mouth.

Bucky watches with a half-smirk. “Fifteen, but nice try.”

He spends the next five minutes on his hand with a wet nap, trying hard to get the grease out of the delicate plates along his palm. You watch, as you knock back the rest of your soda, as his eyes crinkle tightly in frustration. His mouth is pulled tightly into a fine line. For the second time today, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky Barnes is — and how fucking stubborn he is, too.

“Want help?”

“No,” he mutters, trying to get a spot between his thumb and index finger, “I got it.”

“I have smaller fingers,” you sing-song, gathering up his trash and your trash and crossing the parking lot to the bin; upon returning, you waggle them in his face, “Good for hard to reach places.”

Bucky absolutely hates that can feel his blush hit the tips of his ears at the comment.

He’s glad you’re too preoccupied with his hand to notice. You’re watching, like you always do, with respectful awe. To you, this part of him is a bit like a treasure — you find it beautiful and intriguing and incredible. It’s clear in the way you watch the mechanisms turn and tighten that you aren’t frightened by it.

It unsettles Bucky every time.

Finally, once he’s finished under your watchful eyes, he leans to muscle that helmet back over your head. You groan, squinting tightly.

“C’mon,” he knocks your helmet with his knuckles, “We’re almost there.”

The rest of the ride is wide open space, farm land and mountainous peaks looming far ahead. It’s warm, and the sun is hot on your back. The wind is howling around you and it sends your jacket collar flapping against your neck. Your chin rests neatly on Bucky’s shoulder, trying to get a view of the road ahead.

Elmwood Senior Living is tucked into the back of a suburb.

The two of you weave through a neighborhood or two, dancing under the shade of age old maple trees. They cast long, scattered shadows across the pavement as kids play on their lawns. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Over the hill, church bells ring. Sunday service has ended.

Bucky rolls into the parking lot, past the large sign with swirling lettering. Suddenly, things make more sense. Suddenly, you’re struck with a sinking feeling of grief. Nostalgia. Mourning. But, happiness.

There are folks sitting outside, basking in the sun, tethered to walkers.

Bucky’s wrists crank back weathered knuckles, and slowly the bike rumbles into an open spot. Extending his legs, Bucky balances the bike with ease. You take that as your cue to swing yourself off the back clumsily, hopping a bit. Bucky leans, kicks the stand down, and with significantly more grace than you, swings his leg over.

You’re shrugging his jacket off when he speaks.

“He’s going to be different than how you imagine him.”

You exhale slowly, draping the jacket over the bike’s seat. You peel the helmet off.

“I’ve sort of pieced that together.”

You can see the slight discomfort hanging in his posture. You reach and touch Bucky’s arm.

“Come on,” you nod to the entrance, covered by a shady overhang where someone is helping a family member out of their car, “We don’t wanna be late, huh?”

His eyes soften. Bucky nods.

You walk side-by-side into the lobby of Elmwood Senior Living and it’s like time slows down. It halts in a warm, sunshine colored still — full of chatter, full of humanity, full of wisdom. The room is framed by big windows, by plants, by a man in a U.S. Navy ball cap. He’s stationed by the door, watching the comings and goings. The main desk, where a young woman watches, sits in the corner. You follow Bucky with a content little look. He notices.

He stands a little closer at the main desk. The girl, who looks like she’s incredibly out of place with her blue hair and piercings, is younger than you thought. Highschool, maybe. She offers Bucky an excited smile.

“Took you long enough,” she chirps, moving to sort through a bin to her side with key fobs.

Your brows raise. You spy calculus homework on the desk.

Bucky snorts. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

He notices the same problem set you so, and purposely leans over the desk. Suddenly, you’re seeing flashes of a more boyish version of Bucky — one that reminds you of a man with siblings. Bucky taps the paper, jutting a chin to the girl as she tries to swat his attention away.

“How’d you do on that test?”

“I got a 96,” she chirps pridefully, laughing, “Thanks for the help, nerd.”

You’re watching the entire exchange with a smile, backing up a bit to toss a curious glance over your shoulder. There’s a dining room through open doors — and looks like lunch is just wrapping up. Folks are moving around, back to their rooms or upstairs where you can hear the beginnings of a seated aerobics class begin.

Bucky nudges you with his hand.

“Thanks, Sarah,” he says and waves the key she’d handed over.

The girl with the blue hair scoffs. “Say hi to grandpa for me, Bucket.”

You laugh out loud as Bucky quickly flips her off. She’s quick to do the same.

You follow him around the corner, grinning ear to ear. He spares you a sheepish look, then rolls his eyes.

“What was that?”

“She’s a good kid,” he offers, eyeing the key with the grey little fob attached, “Reminds me of my sister.”

Your face softens. “Sister?”

“Her name was Sarah, too,” he says quietly, boots landing softly on the blue carpet. He’s navigating the residential wing like he’s done it a million times. There are rooms with flowers outside, with holiday garb, with little photos and keepsakes. Each room holds a lifetime of personality — the sound of Jeopardy lulls along in the background.

You hum. Bucky sighs.

He meanders down a long hallway where a different door is — this one heavy and locked by the little keypad. Bucky raises the key fob to the device and the door buzzes.

This side of Elmwood is quieter.

Down the hall, Timmy Dorsey and Sinatra play quietly over someone’s record player.

There aren’t as many folks in the hall in this wing, but doors are open and nurses flit about. Around the corner, there’s a loud conversation going on about lunch — and you watch as Bucky weaves towards the nursing station. It’s a room overlooking the common area with windows. Inside are three women.

One of them immediately jumps when she sees Bucky.

“Oh, good! I was meaning to talk to you—”

“Everything alright?”

“About the same,” she breathes as she stands, moving to grab at a Bucky’s arm with a sense of motherliness that makes you smile, “But, meals have been a bit difficult lately.”

“No kidding,” he mutters, rubbing his chin, “He just doesn’t wanna eat?”

“He thinks Peggy is coming home,” the woman whispers with a pained smile as she begins to lead you both down the hall, “He thinks your grandmother made dinner for him.”

“Right,” Bucky nods, “Doesn’t wanna ruin his appetite.”

“Exactly.”

You take note of the conversation, muddling through your own confusion. You’re quiet, though. This isn’t really your conversation to have. Bucky seems to be relaxed more — even humming slightly to a song that plays across the hall from the room the nurse is knocking on.

“Mr. Carter?” she calls gently, “Your grandson is here to see you, and his…”

She looks expectantly at you. You bawk.

“Friend.”

“Right,” she smiles and pushes open the door.

It’s like a little slice of home.

Sofas, chairs, photos on the walls. There’s a record player in the corner, a television, a coffee table stacked with books on the second world war. There’s a dresser covered in baubles and warm light coming in from the window overlooking the street. It reminds you of your grandparents’ sitting room — everything looks so lived in, so comfortable, so alive.

And then, below the light of the window, is a hospital bed.

In it is Steve Rogers.

Not the one you know — no, this one has lived a full life. This Steve Rogers has fallen in love, owned a home, settled down. This Steve Rogers has years of wisdom settled into his face, years of well-fought fights in his joints. His blonde hair has gone shock white, but his smile is all the same.

“Bucky.”

The way Steve says his name is like the man beside you holds the world.

To Bucky, he can hear a new weakness. A new exhaustion.

“Hi, punk.”

The nurse offers a little wave to you as Bucky ventures into the room, stripping his jacket off and moving to scope out the minifridge in the small kitchenette beside the bathroom. She leaves the door open, and you smile to her softly. Bucky rummages, poking his head up.

“You want a drink, Steve?” he asks, tone almost like he’s feeling out the lucidity of the man across the room, “There’s some of that lemonade I brought last week in here.”

“Sounds good,” he says slowly, “Please.”

You feel out of place — not unwelcome, but… it’s clear that Bucky has come and gone from here a thousand times now. He knows to get the glasses out, to get a straw, to turn down the record player on his way over. Doris Day’s voice lowers to a soft croon. You watch with heavy eyes.

“I brought someone, Steve,” Bucky says, “She’s a big fan.”

“Oh?” Steve asks with a slow look to the corner where you’re standing, “That musta broke your heart.”

Bucky snorts as he moves to swing the hospital bed’s tray over Steve’s lap. He places the lemonade down, then the other glass on the nightstand. He’s quick to move the armchair closer to the nightstand, and gestures for you to come over. Bucky’s hands guide you by the shoulders as he plops you into the chair.

“She’s one of the good ones,” Bucky says, “Reminds me of you.”

“No kidding,” Steve says slowly, offering a hand that shakes, “Steve Rogers. It’s a pleasure.”

You exchange your name with a shy look, shaking that hand with reverence and gentility. “It’s an honor, Mr. Rogers.”

“Please,” he mumbles, moving to slowly take a sip of his lemonade, “Steve is fine.”

Bucky moves to take up a post on the opposite side of Steve, in the sun. “You’re losin’ weight, y’know.”

That earns him a wave of the hand.

Bucky leans back and sips his lemonade. He waggles a finger and you watch the two begin to go back and forth.

“No, no,” he swallows, “No, you don’t get t’ shrug me off—”

“M’fine, Buck,” a sigh, “Really.”

“Mhm,” he narrows his eyes, “You’re startin’ to look like the Steve I knew before the serum.”

You lean back, hiding a quiet smirk behind your hand.

“I was wondering when you were gonna show up an’ pester me,” he says with a tired look, “The only peace I get around here is when Peggy comes home.”

Your eyes jump to Bucky. He’s watching you.

“Peggy?” you ask gently, “Is that your wife?”

A proud smile washes over his face. “Still knocks me for a loop, too.”

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice is gentle, “Peggy won’t be coming around for a while. Remember?”

There’s a look that flashes across Steve’s face, then. A mixture of sadness, of confusion, of panic. It’s clouded with a furrow of his brow, hidden by a tilt of the head. He looks at Bucky, mouth pulled in a fine line.

When he finally speaks, his voice is sad.

“That’s right. I forgot.”

“S’alright,” Bucky taps his head, maintaining an air of nonchalance, “That’s why you got me.”

“And why you’ve got her, no doubt,” he turns to you with a winning smile and offers his hand again, “Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you.”

You take it, you shake it, and you introduce yourself once more. Your smile is patient and understanding. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Steve.”

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. Steve smiles, tossing Bucky a look that borders on mischievous.

He sips his lemonade and clears his throat. “How is Sam?”

“You ask every time,” Bucky mutters, “And every time I have the same answer.”

“Sam?” you ask slowly.

“Wilson,” Bucky finishes, “Bird man.”

“You mean Falcon,” you correct, shooting him a stern look, “The Falcon. Are you ghosting The Falcon?”

“I don’t know what that even means, so maybe,” Bucky leans back and crosses his legs, “I’ve been busy.”

You roll your eyes. Steve saw. He smiles.

“I’m gettin’ why he keeps you around.”

Your face is smacked with a look of pure joy.

“C’mon on now,” Bucky cries, nearly indignantly, “No flirting—”

“M’ not flirting—”

“I know that look, Steve—”

Steve is laughing.

Bucky has a stern look in his eye. “You always do this—”

“I’m not doin’ a damn thing—”

“And you better keep it that way, old man,” Bucky shirks, voice splintering into a laugh in a way that you’ve never heard before, “I swear, this is how it always goes.”

“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, huh, Buck?” you ask gently, leaning your cheek into your hand.

Steve laughs loudly at that.

Bucky spares you a smile — the sort that’s drenched in good humor and sunlight. It makes your lungs flutter, and you ignore the buzz in your fingers at the sight. You hide your laugh into your cup of lemonade, resigning to be a quiet counterpart in the conversation.

The two of them go on to chat about small things, then chat about old things. From the Commandos, to HYDRA, to amends, to therapy, to Peggy, to the itch the starch of their old dress uniforms used to bring. It takes a bit, a few redirections on the way, but it’s clear by the end why Steve Rogers is in Elmwood’s memory unit.

It makes your heart ache.

And if a super soldier is bed-ridden…

The two of you say goodbye around three in the afternoon after Bucky helps Steve shave.

The walk back to the bike is quiet.

Bucky speaks first.

“He’s dying.”

You chew your lip, eyes on the pavement. You match his slow stride, bumping your elbow with his as you walk. It’s still warm, and the clouds hang high in the sky. When you look up, Bucky’s watching you. You sigh.

“I’m sorry,” you finally muster, “I am.”

“Don’t be,” he says, grabbing the jacket from the seat and holding it up, “He’s lived a long life.”

You let Bucky hold out the arm for you, and you press your hand through the sleeve. He helps the other side on, and you zip it up to your chin. When you turn around to face him, there are tears in your eyes.

They snuck up on you. You hadn’t realized it until Bucky’s face fell, until the first one fell along the weathered leather of the jacket. You blink, raising your brows as you swipe them away, and offer an apologetic look.

“I’m happy,” you say, “Y’know. He has you. But, he’s a man out of time. Even now. That makes me sad.”

Bucky’s quiet for a while. He’s leaned up against the bike as you turn and watch Elmwood from the back of the parking lot. There’s a big part of you that feels heavy with guilt — and though Steve was in good spirits when you left, you can’t help but ache to provide him with more company. It’s clear that seeing Bucky means a lot to him, and that in turn it means a lot to the man beside you.

“Come on,” Bucky says then, “Let’s go home.”

You nod, let him muscle that helmet onto your head one more time, and hold on a little tighter back to the city.

                                       ◦   ◦   ◦   ◦   

You don’t see Bucky until Tuesday.

In all honesty, it feels weird to not hear from him for two days. At the very least, you expected some sort of phone call — but you remind yourself that you’ve been okay alone for a long time. There’s no need to throw all your work on being comfortable by yourself out the window for Bucky Barnes.

It’s tempting, though. God, it’s really tempting.

You hate the ache in your chest when you finally see him lumbering towards the cafe counter before your appointments. You hate this new feeling — so you shove it down and ignore the way his fingers brush yours when he hands you your latte.

He is ignoring it, too. He’s been ignoring it.

No use in thinking about it though.

“You got plans later?” you ask him in the elevator after your appointment, tilting your head, “Apparently there’s a Lord of the Rings marathon tonight on FX.”

Bucky stiffens — and immediately he can feel the hot sting of anxious regret flood his cheeks. He clears his throat, tucks his hands in his pockets, and toes the ground. You watch with a confused look. Then he speaks tightly.

“...I’ve got a date.”

You could have caught flies the way your jaw fell open.

“Oh. Oh!”

You blink, readjust your expression, and swallow down a sharp stab of rejection.

Bucky clears his throat. “It’s… I wasn’t going to but, Dr. Raynor—”

“No, no,” you wave your hands and shake your head and try to seem genuine, “No, I’m happy for you. Is this one of those Christian Minglers?”

Bucky groans. “Shut up.”

“Okay,” you say, “Okay! Just, uh, be careful. Y’know? And call if you need anything.”

The elevator doors open, and Bucky walks side by side with you through the well-lit lobby. He holds the door open for you, and you pass through with a pained look at the ground. He lingers, though, rubbing the back of his neck as you wait for him to say what’s on his mind.

“Thursday,” he says, “I’ll stop by.”

“Yea,” you say, waving your hand, “Whenever.”

But, that doesn’t end up happening.

No, Bucky Barnes shows up at your apartment doorstep at 10pm.

He’s clutching takeout and a six pack of beer and wearing a horrified expression that screams of guilt and exhaustion. No, Bucky buzzes the door to your apartment and basically croaks that he’s here — he’s asking if the marathon is still on while you buzz him up.

“Third floor,” you say into the buzzer with a smile, “Come on in, old man.”

When you open the door, you have to laugh — because his hair is a mess and there’s still a trace of lipstick on the corner of his mouth. Whereas jealousy threatens to flare, his incredibly regretful expression tamps it down. You cock a hip, eye him up and down, and jut your chin out.

“Get laid?”

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he didn’t break something.

He pushes past you, moving to drop the beer on the counter and place the takeout gently down by the basket of fruit.

“I’m here for the cat,” he grumbles, “Not your witty commentary, sweetheart.”

You’re moving quietly to the sink and gathering a paper towel with a smirk as Bucky looks around, admiring the decor and aliveness of your apartment. When you turn around, he’s already pried a beer from the pack and popped the top off with his vibranium palm.

He winces when you reach up to swipe the coral lipstick from the corner of his mouth.

Then Bucky settles, letting you clean off the mess.

“Mhm,” you hum, “Right. Was it at least fun?”

“She had fun,” he mutters into his first sip, “It was a lotta tongue for my first night out in nearly a century, though.”

You wince. He nods with a sardonic smile that tells you everything about how the date went down — and you’re relieved. “So, I take it you're not calling her in the morning?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “Nope. No, and I’ve decided no more dates. That was enough for me.”

You wince and pluck a beer from the pack. Wordlessly, Bucky gestures for you to hand it over. In one smooth motion, he twists the cap off with his hand.

“That bad?” you ask, eyeing him critically.

“I decided halfway through,” he says as he moves to take the takeout from its bag, “I’d rather be watching Lord of the Rings with you.”

That stops you into silence. It’s like someone’s taken your own words and gagged you with them — and you’re left floundering for breath you never even realize you lost. You know he means it. You know it because he won’t look at you, because that sort of confession isn’t easy for people like you two. So you take those words and you glue them in a lonely locket and keep them close to your heart.

Poke’s entrance saves you a mouthful of broken words — he comes in, trots up to Bucky, and hollers.

Bucky laughs.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he mutters, eyeing the cat that’s eagerly rubbing himself along Bucky’s leg.

You wipe your face, sip your beer, and move to the pantry across from the kitchen island. You come back out with a bag of salmon treats — the good ones — and offer Bucky the bag. He takes it, eyes still on the calico, and crinkles it a little.

You lean against the counter and watch Bucky kneel.

“If you keep it up long enough he might even let you hold him.”

He lights up at that.

You laugh.

You move to grab plates and forks and knives and groan when you open up the first box to see Pad Thai — you make a mental note to properly thank Bucky for this. You meager dinner of reheated pasta really hadn’t hit the spot. This will, though. You can tell from the smell alone.

By your knees, Poke chirps.

“He’s cute.”

“I never took you for a cat guy.”

Bucky snorts.

You make a plate and flick his head as you walk by. “You’re missing the start of The Two Towers.”

“I’m going to be confused, aren’t I?” he asks as he stands and begins making himself a plate. He watches as you settle onto the couch and sip your beer, “I was too busy being turned into a cyborg to read the books.”

You laugh out loud. It shocks you.

“Was that a joke? Did Bucky Barnes just make a joke?”

He’s smirking. He rounds the counter with his food and settles next to you. Poke is following him, eager to curl up next to his new friend.

“I can be funny.”

“Funny lookin’.”

He elbows you on purpose. You snort into your beer.

There’s a comfortable moment of quiet between you, and you clear your throat.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “No problem.”

More quiet, and he’s still watching you. Then, he asks what’s been on his mind for the last three days.

“You got a plan for Thursday?”

“I’ve got anxiety, Buck,” you exhale, swigging your beer and turning the television up, “I always have a plan.”

[bibbykins]

Double Date

A/N: Hello my dears! I'm not done with the Jin and/or Hobi confession yet but I did write this little flashback last week and think I'm finally ready to post it! This is the situation in which Jimin discovered MC's reaction to yelling, just to clarify. As always, please hop into my ask box and give me some of that lovely feedback!

Note: This is a flashback as part of the drabble series The Household's Bunny, which I recommend reading the installments of prior to this one

Word Count: 4.2k

Pairing: Soft Yandere! Jimin x Chubby! Reader

Warnings: Lying, fatphobia, usage of the word "fat" as an insult, talks of sex, yelling, vomiting, implied previous trauma, bad friend, loser date, verbal argument, implied stalking, yandereish behavior

Summary: On a double date was not how Jimin imagined your first date with him going. Let alone, a double date in which you both are with someone else. The torture of sitting next to his ex and watching you with another man was well worth it to see you up close. He could only hope you and his "date" don't mind his blatant staring at you.

Jimin often wondered how he ended up so stupid sometimes. From prodigy orphan to absolute idiot. It was a little tragic. Here you were, back from the hospital, a smile on your face, sitting across the table from him… and he was on a date with your friend Yoora.

Sure, Yoora was fine, but she wasn’t you. That’s why they had broken up in the first place. He just… didn’t like her. Of course, he omitted the fact was that he liked someone else.

You, on the other hand, were on a date with some lowlife he hadn’t even bothered to remember the name of. Yoora had begged Jimin to go on a date, to which he vehemently denied. He had dated Yoora and things fizzled out quickly, so he saw no value in going on a date again. He only budged with her begging when she said it was for you, who was apparently too nervous to be on a date alone with this other guy. He sprung at the chance to see you outside of class, something he could only hope Yoora didn’t notice. Although, Jimin couldn’t help but wonder why you would go on a date with someone you weren’t comfortable being alone with, but maybe he was just bitter you were going on a date with someone that wasn’t him.

You flashed Jimin a brief smile in between your chat with Yoora, making his mind go blank. Fuck, you were so pretty. You wore a simple white turtleneck with a brown plaid skirt and brown loafers with white socks to match. You looked unbelievably cute, even against the aged neon fabric of the chairs at the bowling alley. Not that your date appreciated just how divine you looked, hardly paying you any mind, instead looking around constantly and only really responding to Yoora.

Not that Jimin was being much better to Yoora. His eyes were constantly fixated on you, but both you and Jimin unaware of this blatant fact. He hadn’t been this close to you outside of the classroom in… well, basically ever. He watched with hearts in his eyes as you bowled your second gutter ball. He laughed as you bowed cheekily before returning to the table right as your date went to bowl.

“I’m so full!” Yoora exclaimed as you sat back down, the pizza you both agreed to share only having two slices out of it as you reached to make it a third, “I don’t know how you can eat more than one slice, y/n! Good for you.” She giggled obnoxiously as your moves faltered in setting the pizza on your plate.

Jimin’s eyes landed on Yoora’s form for the first time in the whole night with a displeased look. Her form shrunk under his sharp glare and any future taunts she had planned died on her tongue as you searched for the words to say, “She’s just keeping herself nourished for me, aren’t you babe?” Your date spoke with a slimy voice as he slid in the booth next to you and Jimin watched confusion fill your face. Jimin’s smile noticeably dropped.

"It's a little silly to imagine everything she does is for you, no?" Jimin gave your date a pointed look, all with a smile on his face, as your date also shrunk, nodding awkwardly.

The most input your date ever gave to you directly was about how hot you were or to chide at your poor bowling skills. It was a little painful watching your smile fade throughout the date, and Yoora joining in to try and make you feel even worse wasn’t helping. Jimin couldn't imagine a scenario in which any of this would make you happy, and he just couldn't hold his tongue the entire time.

“I’m just hungry.” You shrugged, figuring Jimin was just being a gentleman in lightly scolding Jihoon, “I eat when I’m hungry, hence the pizza.” You spoke simply as you took another bite. You knew what Yoora was doing. Passive-aggressive slights to your weight in front of romantic partners were not shocking to you in the slightest.

This was why you didn’t want to go on a double date with Yoora. Sometimes she was nice and funny, but other times she was like a mean girl straight out of a teen movie. This was why you considered Yoora more acquaintance than a friend since she only talked to you when she had no other friends around. This dynamic was fine enough since you hadn’t made any friends in college, so having someone to interact with was nice enough, but you drew the line at her getting this intimately involved. However, she insisted she should bring herself and Jimin along for your safety. You had joked you’d like to see Jihoon try to carry you away to kidnap you, but she didn’t laugh.

It was ironic that your weight was only funny when she was making the joke.

Yoora shrunk a bit as she watched a smile grace Jimin’s features again while you ate, “I’m gonna use the bathroom.” She spoke hurriedly out of nowhere and you gave her a small wave.

Your date resumed his survey of the building before his eyes caught sight of something and went wide, “Shit, a friend from my bio lab is here.” He murmured quite loudly before turning to you, “I’ll be right back.” He spoke in a similarly rushed tone as he made a bee-line to the restroom.

You gave Jihoon a weak smile, waving him away when you realized he didn’t even look at you for a response before getting up. Well, there goes another liar. Last night it was, “Baby, you’re so beautiful. I could see myself marrying you. Let me take you on a date and then we can come back to my place and seal the deal.” You were no longer so naive as to think a simple handjob would make Jihoon a romantic, but you did hope it would be enough motivation for him to reciprocate with skill. You hated liars, especially liars who do it to get into your bed. On top of that a horny liar with no skill.

Jimin noticed your date dodge the line of vision of his friend and sneak to the bathrooms and frowned, “Why is he going to the bathroom if his friend is right there?” He mused to himself.

“To hide.” You sighed, making Jimin jump, shocked you heard him. You looked up and saw his confusion before sighing, “He doesn’t want to be seen with me, so he’s going to the bathroom.”

Still short-circuiting from the direct eye contact he was making with you, he sputtered, “Wha- Why would-”

“Look at me.” You poked the sliver stomach between the hem of your top and the top of your skirt. Jimin admired the plush skin before snapping himself from the trance.

He shrugged, “I am, and it makes even less sense.” He finally had the determination to hold eye contact with you without his mind going into overdrive and right as you opened your mouth to respond, your phone vibrated.

You looked down at it with a frown, “Yoora wants me to meet her outside.” You mumbled, before looking up at Jimin, “I don’t think I was supposed to say that to you.” You looked at him with a sorry look, “I’ll be back.”

You pushed the front doors open to see Yoora standing with her arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently as she looked around, as if she didn’t send you the text message a mere minute ago. She caught sight of you and her eyes went wide before settling into a smug gaze, “Ah, there you are!” She smiled and it was sickly sweet, “I wanted to tell you Jihoon and I are leaving.”

Ah, she must have been looking around for his car to come around. Well, that’s saving you the awkward conversation of rejecting him, so you shrugged, “Okay.”

Evidently not wanting the nonchalant reaction you gave her she scoffed, “Seriously? You have nothing to say?” For some reason, Yoora would sometimes make it her mission to push your buttons, usually, this was by making you flustered, so you’re not sure what happened to spur on such unadulterated malice.

However, you didn’t really have the energy to dissect it so you shrugged a little more incredulously, “What is there to say? No?” You scoffed, “You guys are consenting adults, you both made a choice-”

“God, you’re so annoying!” Her increase in volume made you jump and also caught the eyes of fellow students and unaffiliated customers just trying to have a night out.

Nevertheless, you blinked wildly, “Me?!” You guffawed, “You’re the one that brought me out here to tell me you’re ditching me and your date?” The whole thing felt so ridiculous.

“Yes, you!” Her hands gestured to you wildly, “My date is oogling you and so I decide to seduce yours and you just say ‘okay’?!” Her volume was increasing and you could feel a familiar nausea pooling in your stomach, “Let me be pissed at you for stealing my date!”

“It’s not my fault I’m hot, nor does that make you less hot.” You countered, not really believing it was you Jimin was interested in, but more so Yoora he wasn’t interested in, “He just doesn’t like you. You said you knew that.” You pointed out, making her falter because you were right. Yoora told you Jimin wasn’t interested in her but she was trying to change that despite your words of caution.

“You? Hot? You’re fat!” Ah, there it was. She was evidently running out of sound reasons to be mad at you but was still not ready to just face the fact that she felt shitty her date looked at the fat girl more than he looked at her.

You couldn’t contain your laugh, “Oh, no shit? I am?” You mockingly looked down at your form, which only seemed to fan the flames.

“Just get fucking mad at me!” She shouted, wiping the smile off of your face

You sucked your teeth, “Stop yelling. You know that yelling makes me-”

She rolled her eyes before losing her mind, “What do I know about you?! You won’t even tell me why you were in the hospital-”

Now you were getting really queasy and annoyed, wanting this to end because at this point she was just yelling at you to feel like less of an asshole, “Because you’ll just tell everyone, and it’s not their business- or yours for that matter!” You felt a little bad criticizing her gossipy nature, but you knew you were going to puke any minute now.

“I’m your friend!” She spat, ironically, in a rather unfriendly manner

You scoffed, “You’re going home with my date!”

This seemed to catch her off guard, almost, almost, making her realize she was simply being an asshole, but she stuck to her guns, “He-He doesn’t even like you!”

“And yet, if we’re such good friends, you’re still going home with him to what? Prove a point to me?!” You were exasperated as you heard his obnoxious car pull up behind you, “I know now he doesn’t like me, that’s what the date was for!” You were beyond tired as you watched her eyes dart between you and the red Mustang, “But now I know that you don’t really like me either.” You sighed and this made her sight settle on your form, her gaze significantly softer.

“Y/n…” Her voice was lower, surrendering.

“It’s fine. You’re not required to like me.” You insisted, “I just wish you wouldn’t lie about it.” This time, you felt a little hurt at your own words, but the bile in your throat wouldn’t give you much time to reflect on it, especially as Jihoon honked his horn, like the gentleman he was, “Well? Go on.” You gestured to the obnoxious car as Yoora got in with her head down.

Not even bothering to wait for them to drive away, you ran to the alley on the side of the building with a hand clasped over your mouth. The moment you made it to the dim-lit hallway of brick, you puked your guts out. The bile burned your throat, but you could still feel a careful hand pulling your hair back ever so gently as another hesitantly rubbed your back. The touch was calming and void of judgment. You figured someone assumed you were drunk and was used to being a hero. However, when you were finally done and stood up, you were faced with the most sought-after man of the Arts department.

“Are you… okay?” Was the first thing that came out of his mouth and you had no real energy to be all that embarrassed. Vomiting took all the life out of you almost every time.

You simply turned back to look at the mess you made and cringed, “Oh shit.” You spoke slowly, “I should clean that up.” You sputtered.

Jimin merely smiled and shook his head as you turned back to him, “It’s an alleyway, come on, someone will just make a worse mess in an hour.” He handed you a water bottle, “Go ahead and rinse.” You looked at him with pleading eyes, his looks were more than enough to make you feel flustered. He seemed to read your eyes as he turned around.

“Thanks.” You spoke up after you rinsed, “But-”

“Let me drive you home.” He waited to hear your footsteps behind him before pressing onward.

He ignored your protests the whole way to his car, brushing them off with a wave of his hands. You had figured it was just him being cool, but the reality was that he was mentally hyping himself up. Now with his anger at Yoora and your date dissipated, he was back to a bumbling mess when it came to you, even if the nagging worry of what could have happened to you to make you throw up at yelling was an ever-present weight he took on his shoulders. The girl of his dream would be in his car, sitting right next to him, and that was enough to make him short-circuit. His face was getting redder and redder just thinking about it. Not that your polite and melodic voice insisting you can just take the bus helped any. Surely you had to know how beautiful you were? He never doubted you knew until today, and the notion made him frown but also, thankfully, calm down.

By the time he opened the door for you, any hints of redness on his face were obscured by the cloak of night over the sky and the dim street lamps. You gave him a short smile and he had to fight a squeal in his throat. Instead, you were met with a strained look, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he even liked you or if he was just being kind. You entered your address on his phone and he feigned looking at the route as if he wasn't familiar with the area. He then texted one of his housemates a name and a license plate number for information and wordlessly began driving.

You simply looked out the window as he seemingly studied his phone, not wanting to make his possible dislike of you worse. Although, you would prefer him not to like you at this point. You were kind of over people “liking” you by now. Jihoon had done no less than confess his undying love for you mid-orgasm and you were ashamed to admit how excited that had made you feel despite the emptiness that could be felt in the air. You had convinced yourself that could just be how love felt. How would you know any otherwise? Part of you knew you were deluding yourself, even if you would never know what love felt like, you knew it wouldn’t feel like that. It wouldn’t feel like the bittersweet taste of settling for less than you deserve in exchange for an escape from the all-consuming loneliness that surrounded you no matter who you hooked up with.

“I’m, uh, sorry Yoora did that to you. Jimin blurted out, making you look to him and making him clench the wheel.

“It’s not your fault.” You reassured him, “The whole point of the date was to see if this guy actually ‘loved’ me, or even liked me for that matter.” You couldn’t stop yourself from talking, “That post nut clarity must have made him realize he’s a huge liar.” You couldn’t hide the bitterness in your words before you took a breath, “So, how much did you hear?”

“I walked out when I heard her calling you fat.” He stumbled against the words, clearly uncomfortable even repeating Yoora.

You hummed, “Yeah, well, I guess you’re all caught up.” You looked back out the window and Jimin could relax ever so slightly, “I don’t know how I can make her feel threatened. She’s so… loveable.” He frowned at this, “I know I’m pretty, but that doesn’t make me loveable.” He wanted so desperately to say you are loveable. If you weren’t, what had he spent the last year doing? He wanted to slam on the breaks and finally tell you how captivating you are in more ways than one, but the fear of misstepping caged him into his spot as you continued on, “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that no one is obligated to love me.” You seemed to be letting all the exhaustion hit you, not even bothering to stop yourself, “It’s okay. I have the next best thing, sex.” Even you seemed to be unconvinced, “Maybe if I ask everyone for sex I’ll feel as content as Jihoon.” You seemed to be getting more and more upset as you dwelled on the topic.

“Why haven’t you asked me for sex then?” Jimin wanted to slam his head on the wheel and call it a night when he heard his voice speak what should have been an offhand thought.

You giggled a bit at this, relieving Jimin a bit, before shrugging, “I don’t want to use you like I let people use me.” You blew a breath, "You called my bluff. I don't wanna use anyone."

“Why do you let-”

“I, too, get horny and lonely.” You laughed bitterly, “People just lie to me that it’s something more when it’s not. Thank goodness I’m a psych major, or else I might believe them each time.” Judging by the melancholy in your words, Jimin doubted you didn’t not believe some of them, and the notion tore his heart in half. However, he was so pinned down by his fear, he couldn’t conjure the words needed.

“I mean, there are people out there who would like you and not just your body.” He spoke and he swore he was breaking a sweat by now.

You shrugged again, unconvinced again, “I’m glad you never asked me for sex.” You murmured and he glanced at you.

“Why?” Was he not your type?

“Because I think you’re a good person,” You gave him one more smile as he pulled up to your apartment complex, “and I’d like to keep thinking that.” You placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, “Thank you, for everything tonight.” He merely nodded in acknowledgment, throat strangled with a million emotions as he watched you go into your apartment.

Jimin let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding and drove, as if on autopilot, and let his head plop lightly on the wheel, “Pathetic display, Jimin.” He scolded with a strained voice. He hated this about him. He hated that each time emotions got too real, each time he could not hide behind a charming smile and playful banter, he would choke up. He had been a dance prodigy since birth, since getting scouted by a private school, since Mona adopted him for his career to go even further. And yet, he couldn’t confess to the girl he’s liked for over a year. Instead of staring, he wished he had just asked if you were okay.

He had never imagined you would be nearly as lonely as you felt. Anyone on campus would look at your smile and assume you were doing peachy, but by now, with his observations, he could see when you were faking. Why had he never approached you more to make you smile for real? Why did he remain complicit in fuckers like Jihoon and Yoora’s plight to make you feel less than the perfect girl you are? Who had instilled such an intense reaction to yelling in you? How many times have you thrown up in an alley alone because of the people who knew how to use someone as caring as you? Maybe if he had sat down and eaten that cookie with you, he would be driving the both of you home together.

He wondered if he would ever get the chance to do so at this point.

-------

“...Jimin?” Your voice snapped him from his thoughts as he looked at you, all dolled up and a little sweating from performing your final for the class he was your TA for, “You still here?” You giggled as you waved your hand in front of his eyes. You had been the last one to perform, so you figured his brain was fried from watching dozens of dance performances.

His smile grew with yours as he caught your hand in his, interlacing your fingers, “Yeah, I’m here, just got swept away in your performance is all.” He responded cooly and you rolled your eyes mockingly, “I’m serious, it was beautiful.” He brought your hand up, placing a kiss on your palm.

“Well, I had a wonderful training buddy.” You interlocked your fingers behind his neck as he laced his fingers on the small of your back. The PDA made you feel giddy, like a girl in her first relationship showcasing her wonderful boyfriend to the world, “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He studied your face, your form, your everything for a moment. He basked in the glory of having someone as beautiful as you within his reach at long last. He thought back to each practice session and each kiss that came with it and couldn’t help the glee that spread in his chest. The glee was only further amplified by the very emotion on your face and he couldn’t fathom how he ever lived with himself seeing a fake smile on your face most days.

“You know I love you, right?” He blurted, making both of your eyes widen. Had he seriously just done that? Had he seriously confessed his love to you while the rest of your dance class waited to be dismissed? The air was still before he spoke again, “Could you do me a favor and beat the shit out of me?” He asked, making you giggle. Your joy was contagious and he found himself laughing too, in spite of the millions of emotions at confessing his love so suddenly.

You couldn’t fight the smile on your lips even if you tried. There was something so weightless about Jimin’s love, yet so meaningful. Where Yoongi had been intense and passionate, Jimin was bashful yet honest. It was this floaty feeling that made you lean up to his ears and whisper, “I love you too.” You beamed at him with a genuine smile and his heart soared.

“You do?” He asked excitedly, “You don’t have to, you know?” He reassured you and you could only chuckle.

“Oh well, if I don’t have to…” You joked as you moved to pull away from him, but he pulled you closer.

“I take it back- You have to.” He hurriedly spoke, “If… If you mean it.”

You nodded, a blissful smile on your face as you leaned up to kiss him, “I mean it, and it’s really nice being able to know you mean it too.” You whispered in his ear and in a moment of pure joy, he lifted you and spun you around, not caring about who saw or stared. You squealed at this, enjoying the moment of careless affection. He set you down with a slow kiss and you couldn’t help but melt into his form.

“You ready to go home?” He asked with a gleeful tone. You nodded excitedly and watched with hearts in your eyes as he dismissed the class with his hand in yours. He was always happy to display your relationship, even telling the professor in case he didn’t want Jimin grading your work. He announced it to the class with a blissful look and posted you all over any and all social media accounts he had. He had never been more proud to have someone by his side, and it made you emotional more than once. He held your hand in his as you walked to the car, swinging your arms just to hear your melodic laugh.

You checked your phone as Jimin closed the car door when you got in, “Oh, Hobi’s flight got delayed until tomorrow and Jin has to stay late tonight.” You mumbled, deep in thought for a moment, “And everyone else has something going on, so I guess it’s just me and you for dinner. One last night of freedom before you have to be busy too.” He placed a hand on your thigh as he drove and he'd be lying if he said he didn't have to mentally hype himself up to do it each time.

“Do you want to pick up dinner or just cook at home?” He asked cooly, masking his sheer glee at the domestic implications in his question.

You hummed, “I can cook something if you want,” You noted before a mischievous smile grew on your face, “My love.” You teased the pet name, making Jimin brake abruptly as he was getting out of the parking spot, his arm holding your body back from pushing forward. You gasped before you dissolved into laughter.

“Hey! Are you trying to make me crash?!” His face was beet red as he lectured you about car safety and how words can shake his whole world the whole ride home, and you had never been more enchanted by a flustered lecture in your life.

Eventually, he was finished lecturing you and the car was filled with laughter and light quips. He wondered how he ever lasted this long without you by his side, but he was glad he would no longer have to.

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