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darklydeliciousdesires · 4 months ago

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Light on the Darkside - Chapter Twenty Three.

Huge thanks as ever to all my lovely besties for your commitment to the story!

Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty One Twenty Two

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed.

Words - 3,984

Warnings - 18+ throughout. Topics cover depression, suicide and eating disorders. Minors DNI!

“There, told her to make it extra strong,” Alice spoke, putting a large, well-brewed tea down on the table at the coffee shop she and her eldest had stopped at that morning, taking a seat. “What time did she finally settle?”

“Five,” James yawned, rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm. “Never seen so much fucking puke come out of something so small. Just waiting for it to rip through the house and blat everyone else now.”

She didn’t envy that at all. “See, now this is another reason why I’m glad I found my children later in life,” she spoke, touching a loving hand to his arm. “No stomach bugs, no incessant colds and no headlice. Just two readymade amazing kids all grown up.”

“I’m a top grade delight. Sam’s questionable.”

Alice couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re both the apple of my eye. Still, though. There’s nothing I would have liked more than to have found you all sooner.”

At least she’d found them all at all. “You came along exactly when you were meant to, mum. If I’d have had a supportive mother all my life, I probably wouldn’t have ended up being sectioned, then I wouldn’t have met Ella. I ain’t saying it was all Carole’s fault, how I ended up for a while, but you get what I mean, innit?”

“I do, love,” she smiled fondly, sipping her latte. “So, apart from Freya decorating everything in vomit, how are my other two angels, hmm?”

Ahhh, the typical, adoring eyes of a grandparent. To Alice, they were faultless. “Lyra is entering her moody teenage years a few months early, and Zara is still massively routine-driven. Getting a bit better, though. We can throw the odd change in here and there without her having a meltdown.”

“See?” she smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I bet this is her growing out of it.”

“I hope so,” he spoke, eyes widening a little. “Just got big girl throwing us stacks of attitude now the teenager years are looming, like I say.”

Indeed, Ella had mentioned that to her the last time she’d met with her daughter-in-law for lunch. “Yes, Ella told me that she’d been getting a little sassy now her periods have started.”

“And they’ve fucking synced up in their moon time, innit, so I’ve got two hormonal women being arsey with me at the same time every bloody month!” He paused, smirking. “Excuse the pun. Gonna be a shitting nightmare when the other two start as well!”

Alice couldn’t keep her laughter in at that. “And we were all so convinced Freya was going to be a boy, weren’t we?”

“Yeah,” he snorted, “but apparently my balls only make badass little girls!” Again, his mum was in soft fits, entertained as ever. It was the thing she’d loved most upon meeting him for the first time fifteen years before. He was hilarious. Her husband and son shared a very similar sense of humour.

James had made her nerves over her pre-op appointment with the surgeon dissipate that morning by just being himself, making his usual uncouth observances. Alice was, if she was honest, dreading such a big operation as having her hip taken out and replaced. It felt to her like a procedure she was too young for still at only just turned sixty.

After dropping her back home, he returned to his own, walking the dogs before making a slightly later start to his working day. With Otis and Hugo lying at his feet, he spent most of it welded to the phone, only stopping to eat something before he was back to work and intermittently checking up on a poorly Freya. As predicted, the stomach bug she had did spread through the house, Ella and Zara coming down with it too but luckily not plaguing him or Lyra.

They were back to normal after three days of puking, James sick of the smell of Dettol being sprayed everywhere to help combat the spread of the bug. By the time the following Monday rolled around, Zara had returned to school and the destroyer of worlds to nursery, James picking them up as usual, Lyra walking back with a couple of friends who were staying for dinner.

When those friends arrived, he was out in the back garden, working up a sweat while kicking the shit out of his freestanding punchbag. It was a sight to behold for one of her two best friends, as least, Cassidy virtually dribbling.

“God, your dad is bae,” she sighed wistfully. “So hot.”

Lyra curled her lip immediately. “Dude, you need to stop crushing on my dad!”

“Can’t help it! He’s... wow.”

The disgruntled spawn of Cass’s affections looked across the kitchen to their third cohort, Kitt shaking his head. “I can’t even with her.” When James arrived in the kitchen, neither could he.

“Kitt, how’s it going, man?” he spoke firstly, offering a fist bump, side eyeing the young girl who did not stop staring at his sweat slicked chest. “Cass, pack it in.”

“I can’t,” she sighed, “you’re... yeah.”

He shook his head, opening a fresh bottle of water. “I’m forty, is what I am, and you’re thirteen. Enough.” He knew his own attractiveness, but it still made him feel uncomfortable when girls of such a young age noticed it. It was the same with fans of the band, his discomfort only amplified further after he’d become a father himself. There were a staggering number of musicians out there who hadn’t the same set of morals where underage girls were concerned, but he’d never be one of them.

Turning his attention away as Cassidy reined herself in, he pointed at Kitt. “Got your boy uniform, at last!” he spoke, nodding with a smile.

Kitt up until six months ago had been Katie, when he’d finally come out to his parents as trans. His friends had known for much longer, as well as James and Ella. They’d been nothing but accepting over it, immediately changing the pronouns used to speak of him, as well as his new chosen name. Sadly, Kitt’s own father hadn’t taken it quite as well. It was why the young lad liked being at Lyra’s so much. Her dad accepted him without question.

“Yeah, feels good. Mum took me shopping for boy clothes, too. Felt proper, finally getting to wear stuff I feel comfortable in,” he confirmed, James nodding.

“That’s sound, mate. Oh, don’t leave tonight without taking all my old band t shirts with you. None of ‘em fit me anymore since I got jacked, so you might as well have the ones Lyra don’t want.”

His eyes lit up. “Really? Ahh, cheers, James!”

“No problem, kid.” he smiled, leaving the kitchen and heading upstairs for a shower. Dressed in black sweats and a dark grey t-shirt five minutes later, his hair hanging damp, he placed down the large pile atop the island, Kitt beginning to look through.

“No fucking way!” he gasped, suddenly clasping a hand over his mouth. “Sorry.”

James snorted. “Ella ain’t around, you can drop F bombs, bro. I don’t give a shit.” Such a stance definitely cemented his status as a cool dad. “You fucking can’t, though.” he then spoke, pointing at Lyra with a wink, her friends laughing as she pouted and raised her middle finger at her dad, who returned the gesture.

Continuing his excitement, Kitt held the t shirt in his hands aloft. “Is this from the nineties?”

“Turn it around and look at the back.” He duly did, James pointing to one of the tour dates printed on the reverse. “I was at that gig. Steve, Snedders and I went up to Glasgow for a week on the piss right after we’d finished our A levels.”

“Dude!” Kitt exclaimed, “That’s so sick!”

“Innit? Banging night, that was,” he spoke of the Pantera gig they’d been to back in nineteen ninety-two. “Broke my nose in the pit, Snedders ended up with a dread ripped out, and Steve... well I can’t tell you about what he got up to.”

“Oh, go on, man!” Kitt exclaimed.

“Nah, mate. Ask me when you’re sixteen and I’ll tell you then, innit.” He had to be a proper adult sometimes, he supposed. Thirteen-year-old ears didn’t need to know that his best mate had somehow managed to discreetly shag two girls one after the other against the barriers that night.

They continued to talk more about music, all the while with Lyra looking on proudly. That was her dad, and he was utterly awesome. She loved him even more for how completely unphased he was about Kitt’s status as a trans boy, too. He simply treated him just as that: a boy. It was more than Marc, his own father did, refusing to acknowledge him as Kitt, still referring to him as she/her and using his deadname.

“Hello, everybody!” Ella chimed brightly, coming into the kitchen after her last therapy session had ended for the day, smiling widely as she was greeted by the three kids sitting at the island with her husband. “What are you all chatting about?” she continued, quickly checking through the windowed door that led to the lounge, seeing her younger girl's content in their cartoon watching and homework endeavours.

“When dad punched Fred Durst in the face at the Kerrang awards,” Lyra laughed, her friends exploding all over again. Ella rolled her eyes, remembering it well. She’d been there. In fact, it was because of her that the Limp Bizkit frontman had ended up with a face full of fist.

“I suppose he had it coming to him. He did grab my arse, and your dad takes exception to that kind of thing,” she spoke, kissing James between his shoulder blades and squeezing his arms. “You were lucky he didn’t bleedin’ press charges, though!”

“Wouldn’t have cared if he had. Wanker got what he deserved for putting his hands on my wife.” Ella immediately raised an eyebrow. “Not that I advocate violence or nothing like that,” he swiftly added, turning to wink rapidly, the kids further descending. It was always a good time in the Kingston household.

After dinner, James drove Cassidy and Kitt to their respective homes, Lyra accompanying.

“Thanks, dad,” she spoke, examining the split ends in her hair.

“What for, kid?”

“You’re always really great with Kitt. He’s having a hard time since coming out, few of the kids at school teasing him. It isn’t good at home either with his dad refusing to accept it all.”

It must have been hard for all involved, but especially Kitt himself. “The lad has enough to contend with, innit, growing up in a body that don’t reflect who he is on the inside. I ain’t gonna give him shit for it. Hopefully his dad’ll come around to it sooner rather than later. Gotta be tough for him, too, to suddenly see that who he thought was his daughter now wants to be referred to as his son. Big thing, that.”

Lyra hummed, picking at her hair. “Yeah, but you’d be alright with it though, wouldn’t you? If it was me who came out as trans.”

“Yeah, course I would, monster. All I want is for you to be happy, but it don’t mean I wouldn’t find it a bit tough as well. I’d keep that to myself, though, ‘cos I’d realise that in the end, what you’d go through would be a thousand times tougher than anything I’d feel.”

“Mum would just fucking analyse me,” she snorted, a tiny slither of contempt there.

“Oi, less of that,” he warned lightly, turning left to put them back on the dual carriageway. “Your mum would help you while you found your identity, and all the stuff you’d have going on up in your head. That’s her job as a mum first and foremost, innit. Just because she does it professionally is by the by.”

“Always feel like she’s watching me from a professional standpoint, though,” she remarked, raising her hands up to drop them into her lap.

“Nah, Lyra. She don’t do that. Not with you kids. What you need to remember about your mum is that yeah, because of her job she does understand certain behaviours and responses better than others do, and she will tailor that understanding to how she deals with things. That ain’t a bad thing, you know. Like when you’re being arsey for little to no reason, she knows it’s cos’ your brain is changing as you’re growing up, and she’s gentle with you because of that. Trust me, you have a top grade mum. You’re lucky.”

His daughter was silent for a few moments. “Do you mean because she’s not like Carole?” The older children were aware that their nanny wasn’t James and their auntie Sam’s biological mum, but only Lyra had a slightly more informed grasp over why.

“Exactly that, kid,” replied, slowing as they reached a roundabout.

“What was she like?”

Taking the third exit, he felt his jaw stiffen a tiny bit. Since her death he’d attempted to try and remember the more favourable traits, but with how she’d behaved with him from his mid-teens to early twenties, it was difficult to reconcile. “She had her good points, I suppose. Always raised us knowing right from wrong and all that, but she was proper hard on us if we weren’t living up to what she expected. She’d pick at us, looking for arguments to make her feel justified and then blame us when we bit back. They call it gaslighting in this day and age.”

“She didn’t like mum either, did she?”

He snorted loudly. “Hated your mum, yeah. Didn’t like that she not only stood up to her, but stood up for me while she was doing it. Never took the chance to get to know her either.”

Lyra softened then, humming a gentle laugh. “Yeah, mum is very protective of us.”

Those words made her dad smile. He’d noticed of late that she’d been harbouring a little extra in the way of resentment when it came to Ella having to be tough with her because of her attitude, although truly, his eldest didn’t know from tough where mothering was concerned. Ella was firm when she had to be, but always gentle.

“Your mother is a bloody lioness,” he beamed, turning to look at her fleetingly. “You girls are her world.”

“Do you ever miss her,” she then asked, quick to clarify. “Carole, that is?”

“Nah, I don’t. I let go of the idea that she could be anything more than a controlling woman with a predisposition for aggro a long, long time ago. Before you were born, innit. In the end, whatever Carole had wrong with her, she didn’t wanna fix it. Now, your nanny Alice, different matter entirely.”

She wasn’t just the mum he’d wanted for so long, she’d become the mum he’d needed, so kind and nurturing, very similar to Ella in that respect. A lot of the damage left in the wake of him walking away from Carole had been much soothed by her coming into their lives.

Once home, Lyra kissed her parent's goodnight, James flopping down on the sofa next to his wife, ready to resume their catchup of Game of Thrones season 3 before season 4 began airing two months’ from then.

“I still can’t shitting believe we’re in this!” he exclaimed, excitement for his and the guy’s upcoming appearance in season 4 buzzing through him. Someone on the production team of the show had reached out to the band’s management, the crew member a die-hard Nocturnal Descent fan who had put it to the casting and show runners that the band make a cameo appearance somehow as background cast.

The guys had headed to Iceland for three weeks the previous year to film as members of Mance Rayder’s Wildling army, having an amazing time on set, doing something so different to their main profession.

“I always knew I’d married a wildling, but now it’s official,” Ella chuckled, grabbing her cup of tea and curling into her husband.

“Yeah, you fucking did!” he chimed, reaching to playfully squeeze her boob. She laughed, turning her head to kiss his shoulder.

“Oh, snacks!” she then announced, reaching to pause the opening credits with the Sky+ remote.

“I’ll go.” Heaving himself up, he entered the kitchen, the sound of rummaging becoming audible. “We got any popcorn left?”

“No, Zara finished it.”

“Total bullshit!” More rustling followed. “Babe? Are the giant pretzels still in here?”

She resisted the urge to tell him that he should know, being that he was the one peering into the snack's cupboard at that particular moment. “Yes! Bring those and the little cheese biscuit things as well, the ones in the blue box.”

“Okay, cheese things found,” he called back, “but can’t see the shitting pretzels.”

“They’re in there!”

More rustling. “Where, though?”

And to think he’d spawned children who could hear pretzels being opened from four rooms away. “Probably behind the jar of almonds.”

“Ahh! Got ‘em.” Finally. She heard the sound of various baked snack goods being decanted into a bowl, James appearing again, two very interested parties getting up from their beds to amble over and sit expectantly at his feet. “Oh no, you two ain’t getting fuck all. Especially not after you, shitting expensive brown potato decided to get a piece of carrot stuck in his pissing throat.”

Feed a healthy snack of carrots to your dog, they said. They make an excellent, high fibre alternative to dog treats, they said. And they had, until Hugo had spent the entire evening hacking and retching to no avail, James having to drive him to the emergency vet at nine thirty on a Sunday evening, the dog knocked out before having the offending piece of carrot pulled from his throat with a long set of tweezers for that very purpose.

“Costing me the best part of a grand because you can’t chew,” he continued, Hugo head tilting with a grunt. “Yeah, make your confused sounds at me all you pissing like, mate. Ain’t happening, soft foods only for you two now. Fucking pom frites.”

Potatoes, pom frites, chauves-souris (the French word for bats, chosen because of their ears) French fuckery number one and number two, James had a whole host of amusing names for their canine companions.

Ella reached for Hugo, stroking his tan-brown head. “I don’t think he’s forgiven you yet.” Again, the dog grunted, him and his brother waiting expectantly. It was to no avail, though, Ella gently reminding them they’d had ham as a treat earlier before sending them back to their beds. They got through two episodes of the show before calling it quits for the night, sitting there talking instead.

“Have you noticed Lyra being a little off lately?” she asked suddenly, fiddling with the tie on her pyjama bottoms.

“Only when she’s got her moon time.” Since finding out the centuries old term for women having their periods, James had referred to them as little else. “She was chatty enough in the car on the way back earlier.”

“Ahh, maybe it’s just me, then. She just seems a bit quiet sometimes. I’m trying not to be bothered by it, rationality decreeing it’s of course all hormonal,” she replied, pursing her lips in a twist. “What was she talking to you about?”

“Thanked me for being good with Kitt since he came out,” he revealed, biting into the last pretzel and offering the other half to her lips, which she took.

“That poor boy. I know it’s so much more common these days, but he’s going to have such an uphill struggle. His dad especially is making it difficult, calling it a phase when truly, the kid has felt that way secretly his whole life. I forgot to tell you, he collared me at the school gates yesterday when I was dropping Lyra off, asked me if I’d consider taking him on as a patient to, and I quote, “straighten her out again” as he worded it.”

James raised an eyebrow. “And what did you tell him?”

“I said that I’d happily refer his son to a specialist in the field of gender dysphoria to assist him living as the person he clearly wanted to be, but that I wasn’t prepared to try and change Kitt’s mind,” she revealed, scratching her head with a sigh. “He didn’t take it particularly well, so I was surprised Kitt was allowed round here tonight, if I’m honest. Then again, Louise is doing all she can to try and make his life bearable since his dad isn’t being supportive. I suppose that extends to being allowed into the houses of his friends whose parents support his transitioning.”

“It’ll come back to bite him in the arse if he don’t, though. I could tell the fella that first hand, innit.”

Ella widened her eyes. If anyone knew all about having a parent who was unsupportive, it was him. “Big time, you could.”

“We spoke about that a little bit, actually. Well, Carole,” he revealed, leaning to place the empty bowl down upon the coffee table, admiring the craftmanship as ever. Away from the band, Snedders ran a very successful sideline of carpentry, James putting a lot of work his way after they’d first purchased their forever home. The coffee table was just one of the beautiful, unique pieces within the house crafted by him.

She was surprised by that. “You did? What prompted that?”

“Ahh, she made an offhand remark about you analysing her, and I set her straight on it, told her that ain’t the kind of thing you do. I think she tries to use it as a bone of contention a bit too much, innit. Mum’s therapizing me, all that nonsense just because you can figure her out. I told her how lucky she was, having someone like you as a mum.”

It had been hard for Ella, Lyra having a natural gravitation toward her father, very much daddy’s girl. It wasn’t that they weren’t close, hell, when she’d had her first period late the previous year, it had been her mum she’d immediately gone to. Over the last few months though, she’d noticed her eldest pushing back against her especially. Even more so when James was away with the band.

“She’s isn’t wrong, though. It is a fault of mine sometimes, to talk to her more from a therapist standpoint than that of a mother,” she confessed, sighing. "But you're right. I will never be in the same bleedin' ballpark as Carole. Good freakin’ god. Never.”

Such a statement of canid honesty truly reflected that notion. If Ella had her faults, she recognised and acknowledged them. Carole, in her own mind, hadn’t had any. “It’s all teenage shit, innit? She’ll get through it. We were once where she is now, too. Just a lot more fucking troubled. Well, I was, at least.”

“Yeah, baby. You’re right. I know it probably better than most. It’s tough though, to be challenged so much by that sweet little girl who used to think I hung the moon and stars. I know she’s always been closer to you, but still.” Resting her cheek to his shoulder, she smiled as he wrapped an arm around her, kissing her head.

“Ain't easy, all this parenting stuff, is it?"

It wasn’t. Constant worry broken sleep; the latter evidenced later that night when Ella was awoken by tiny hands rousing her with a gentle shake. “Had a bad dream, mummy. Need cuddles.”

Ella smiled, wrapping Freya in her arms as she pulled her into bed. At least the littlest of the Kingston girls still thought the moon and stars were hung by her mummy.

#original fiction #original story #original stories #smutty fiction #smutty stories #smutty story #romance fiction #romance story #romance stories

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nasubeenwithcat · 1 year ago

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What if conductor and dj groove switch bodh??

A Golden Holiday in the Hell

DJ Grooves certainly likes the color golden. But not so much that he wants to be a bird with golden feathers. Nonetheless, he became the Conductor one morning. Where is that noisy bird? ＿＿＿＿How cruel is the golden sun without sunglasses?

words:19,000 over (It consists of a total of 8 sections.) Attention:Some grotesque descriptions/vomiting(if you don't like dark descriptions, I recommend skipping section 4)/Machine translation(checked as much as possible, but not perfect.)

What an interesting idea!!! So this is my answer. Sorry, trying to write about them always makes it heavy and dark. But I promise you a happy ending.

1. It was the most violent morning he had ever seen.

DJ Grooves woke up among many blankets. All of the colorful blankets were heavy, thick, fluffy, and had a good to bad feel. He felt suffocated and unconsciously kicked them all off and dropped them all on the floor. He was also sweating. His winter loungewear, which was as thick as the blankets, was deathly hot and annoying.

Winter loungewear? He put his words in his beak again. Winter loungewear. He asked himself if he would have had such a thing, even though there are no seasons on a sunless moon. He thought as he fingered the fluffy fabric. If he thought about it, this mass of blankets, the crazy heat, and the intermittent shaking sensation he'd been experiencing since a few minutes ago were all strange. It's as if he's riding in a car. But the wind doesn't seem to be blowing much. ＿＿＿＿Grooves looked away from the loungewear, and it was only there that he noticed something unusual about the situation.

His perspective was larger than usual.

There were many things that should have been more strange, but that was the first thing he noticed. The blanket seemed bigger and his senses were narrower than usual. Anyway, everything was so big that for a moment he thought he might be wearing glasses or contacts that were too strong for him.

The room, as seen from his position just a little higher than the floor, was filled with all sorts of strange things. There were movie posters in bad taste, stacks of illustrated books, model trains, a small closet, an old TV, a tired one-person sofa, and a few pieces of plain furniture. The strong light streaming in through the window turned them a golden color. The room was supposed to be full of wooden furniture, but everywhere he looked, there was glittering gold. Perhaps it was because the large stand-up wall mirror near the closet reflected the light coming in from the window toward the center of the room, keeping the intensity of the light as it was. And it kept swinging in and out in time with the loud, random rhythm coming from the bottom.

Grooves had no idea where he was, though. All he knew was that it was not the moon, that it was not winter, and that he was in a vehicle of some kind. He lay on the narrow bed, unbuttoning each button that was fastened tightly to his throat, trying to organize his thoughts. But a sound too loud and uninterrupted interrupted his reasoning. Frustrated, he unbuttoned all the buttons as if tearing them off halfway and took off his jacket. ＿＿＿＿As he did so, his eyes were suddenly struck by a golden color that was too strong and unsuitable for this faded room.

What is this?

For a while he just looked at that golden color with an empty head. It was not sunlight or any other transparent thing. It had substance and definite detail. Of course, he could see it whenever he wanted to. The gold that shone in the sunlight was the very feathers of a bird, and they were all over his flippers, neck, belly, and body. They were ticklish to the touch, beautiful but somewhat lack luster. The texture was firm and longer than average. The feathers were golden, not starry white or blue like the summer ocean.

He recovered from his shock and tried desperately to make sense of it. Gold. He loves gold, but he doesn't love it enough to dye all the feathers on his body. He was proud of those cool, fantastically colored feathers that moon penguins had, and he had never thought of ruining them by dying them. Had someone dyed his feathers while he was sleeping, or, as much as he hated to believe it, had he done it himself? For example, what if he never woke up from his drunken stupor last night, and in that foggy state of consciousness, he dyed his own feathers with paint?

He closed his eyes and pressed his ear to the pillow, trying to remember what he did yesterday. Indeed, yesterday he had drunk more than he normally would have. He had a problem at business, and on top of that he didn't handle it well. He made an amazing series of small mistakes that he normally wouldn't make, and even made mistakes in the troublesome interactions that occurred as a result. Not even Grooves himself knew why he made such mistakes. All he knew was that he had been unfocused and distracted at the time, that it had been going on for about a month, that it had finally reached its limit, and that as a result he had made a series of trivial mistakes.

It was not my day, nope. Although those around him ended the day with a bitter smile, at least Grooves was disappointed in himself. It was the first time he realized how inadequate he was as a stardom, that he couldn't even host a TV show, let alone cover. There was no way he could make a movie in such a state, so he came home earlier than usual and ran to the wine cellar as if he were jumping out of his skin. He drank spirits, whiskey, and even a bottle of amaretto, which he did not usually drink, at random. ＿＿＿＿From that point on, he had no memory of what happened after that.

But he clearly remembered drinking a lot of not-so-good liquor with that thought in his head, if only he hadn't been a moon penguin. Grooves opened his eyes. The vibrations that broke through the sheets and shook the pillow were so intense that his chest itched. Had he deliberately, in the heat of his drinking last night, dyed those star-colored feathers, the trademark of moon penguins, a golden color?

It was not out of the realm of possibility. He has plenty of home colorant, although he doesn't use it often because it hurts his feathers and it's cleaner to have it done by a professional. Besides, he had been screwed up and looked crazy last night, so it would not be surprising if he had done such a thing.

"I wouldn't be surprised what I did."

He muttered as if scolding himself. It was only recently that he realized that he was more ambitious than he thought he was. Grooves had made a conscious effort to avoid competitions since he had come to realize that he was a selfish jerk, even willing to kill a child for a trophy. He hadn't made many movies in the past few weeks.

But that does not explain the beauty of these feathers.

The feathers were golden in color, and there was not the slightest indication that they had originally been white or blue. No matter how hard he tried to find a trace of the original color, he could not find any unevenness in the color or any paint residue. From the tip to the root, from the surface to the depths of the fibers, everything was the same golden color. Even if he had made a bath out of paint and soaked it for three hours, he would not have been able to stain it this beautifully.

He got out of bed and walked over to the wall mirror to tried finding a green or ivory color in this strange gold. As expected, he should not have changed to the color of his face, and if he had, it would never be as beautiful a golden as the color of his body. The area near the eyes and beak is sensitive and difficult to dye, even for professionals. If Grooves really did dye all of his feathers himself in a drunken stupor, it can only be described as a miracle or a coincidence. If that is the case, he should not be a DJ or a movie director. He should start studying for his beautician's license.

Grooves got close enough to get a good look at the mirror.

And yet, he was nowhere to be seen.

He reconsidered the possibility that this might not actually be a mirror, but for all intents and purposes, it was a mirror. It was an old design, and the mirror surface was not very well polished, but it was a mirror.

Despite this, DJ Grooves was nowhere to be found. Instead, there is the Conductor. He looked a bit younger looking than in the studio, perhaps because he wasn't wearing a uniform.

Only the space cut into that vertical rectangle seemed to be a virtual reality or something. Grooves raised his right flipper, and the Conductor in the mirror also raised his right hand. When Grooves laughed, the Conductor laughed too. When Grooves jumped, the Conductor jumped too. When Grooves sang, the Conductor opened his beak but did not sing.

He turned his eyes once more to his own body with trepidation. It was still covered in gold. The color of the Conductor's feathers was also like this. A coarse yellow, like a child's raincoat. Now they were glistening golden in the sunlight. When he stroked it, the color of its feathers became even more complicated. ＿＿＿＿Then Grooves spotted it.

It was a hand stroking the feather. It was not a flipper, but a small hand with fingers.

Grooves looked again at the mirror. A startled and frightened-looking the Conductor was looking at him in the exact same pose as Grooves. Is this a mirror? Really? Of course, beyond the shadow of a doubt it is a mirror itself. This is not virtual reality, this is the real thing itself. He ran his hand over his face, intending to touch his little beak, but the protuberance he sought was too big as he expected.

"AAAAAAHH!!"

Grooves screamed and backed away to get away from the little hand. The shaking of the room did not relent, and a large tilt to the right sent him tumbling. His body swung backward and hit a dirty wall near the window. The impact caused some of the pictures on the wall to fall to the floor. From there, the view outside was easy to see. Gold. It was gold. Gold as fine and rich as this feather, and it went on as far as the eye could see. Desert. His room was running in the desert, that's why it was so hot.

He was so confused he couldn't think about anything, didn't want to think about anything. He abandoned himself and stood there for a good ten minutes with the desert in front of him. Every now and then he saw a green cactus or a large brown rock, but the color didn't really matter. The sun was shining on them, overriding their colors and making them look golden. He tried to put his hand on the window with his small, sticking fingers, but it was too hot to touch for even a second. The pain proved that this was no dream.

"No way," Grooves mumbled, trying to calm down. "It's not true." But the voice was unmistakably not his.

The room shook again, and his body was once again pressed against the window area. From there he could see the too-strong light, the dead desert full of life, and steel. Grooves was almost fully aware of what had happened to him enough to realize that it was the railroad tracks, but he refused to admit it.

Train. The Owl Express. He laughed bitterly. The posters all over the room were of movies featuring the train. The annoying noise must be the wheels rubbing against the tracks. That's why the vibration is so intense. He had never been on a train, did not know what it sounded like, or how it shook. He had seen them, but they always seemed to stop uncomfortably on the tracks. He had never known it to move so violently, so he stared blankly outside, feeling betrayed and hopeless. Abruptly, the Owl Express entered a tunnel. The windows, which had been full of light earlier, darkened instantly.

His face reflected in the car window, staring sadly at Grooves. He wanted to say sarcastically, "Darling, you can make a face like that," but he couldn't speak. His nose was pinched, his chest was blocked, and his throat was sour. He wanted to blame it all on someone else, but who was to blame? He sat curled up in the corner of the room and stared listlessly at the wall mirror. The Conductor was there. And he too was looking at Grooves with a look of despair on his face.

2. "Why is this happening to me?"

He muttered again over the noise. "…Why is this happening to me?" It was obvious it wasn't his own voice, and it sounded familiar. It was that vile, ugly voice that always criticized and laughed at Grooves. His voice sounded somewhat peculiar, perhaps due to his profession, and it was easy to hear it through the noise. Grooves frowned and thought about pretending he had not noticed the possibility. But of course, he couldn't do that. He had to face reality. In the end, he went lazily to the sink to get ready for the morning.

A vanity was dull and not very clean. It smelled of mint, but that was all, and other than that, it was horribly empty. Grooves hesitantly looked in the mirror.

There he stood, as expected. He was neither moon penguin nor musician, but the Conductor of the Owl Express. His stand ears, tiny fingers, golden feathers, and large beak were all Grooves' now. The Conductor also looked at him with a somewhat awkward expression, which annoyed him.

He had lived his whole life thinking that he would never want to be a bird like the Conductor, and yet there he was, literally there, being the Conductor. Grooves tapped the edge of the vanity with his usual habit. He was even more depressed when he heard the sound of his nails, sharper than usual, i.e., hard instead of soft flippers, hitting the china. He could never scratch a disc with his hands like this. It would require a much different technique than playing with his flippers.

DJ Grooves fearfully touched his face. He looked in the mirror and gently stroked his beak to see if it moved properly. Every time he moved, the golden feathers rubbed against each other, making a soft sound. But as he felt earlier, it was not as smooth as it looked, and it was dry in places. His feathers were in such poor condition that one could tell just by touching them that his cuticles were ruffled. That also irritated him.

Grooves opened every drawer and door on the vanity, looking for a hairbrush, lotion, or treatment. It would take his mind off his bad mood, he thought, and it would be a waste of all those shiny, beautiful colors. He must have neglected his feathers for a month or so.

Appearance is a mirror. It's not about checking one's appearance in a mirror; it's a mirror in itself. Grooves took care and believed in not acting contrary to that statement. He woke up early in the morning and carefully brushed his hair, always making sure that the strands were facing the same direction. He would also use lotion and, depending on the day, he would sometimes put a highlight powder on his face to make it look brighter. At night, he washes his hair thoroughly and dries it carefully in the correct order, and he also massages his facial muscles every day without fail. So he naturally assumed that this deserted vanity should at least have sunscreen, if not an out-bath treatment.

But there was none of that. All there was was a stock of toothbrushes, an old hairbrush, and feather cream. He checked the bathroom to see if there might be more, but only shampoo and body soap were lined up there.

Grooves gently closed the door under his breath. And the fact was so shocking that he was able to forget for a moment the frustration and sadness that he had become the Conductor. How could he work in the desert and not have sunscreen? Surely he doesn't know that ultraviolet rays are bad for himself? Grooves puts sunscreen on his entire body every day, wears sunglasses, and takes great care not to be in the sun for more than an hour, so why wouldn't he do that? And why didn't he even try to get a full line of feather care products in the first place? No face packs, no oils, and the only cream that was available was too soft and obviously not matched the nature of his feathers. He had to choose something firmer than that, or it would mix with the oil and sweat and cause his feathers to become tattered.

He stared at the Conductor in the mirror. (Naturally, the Conductor stared at Grooves, too.)

Grooves sighed to let his anger escape into the air and opened a nearby drawer almost unconsciously, hoping to find some face wash or lotion in there, even though he had just checked to make sure there was nothing in there. Then, seeing the blank again, he snapped his beak nervously and picked up an old, large hairbrush instead of yelling at it. The hairbrush was well used and looked like it needed to be replaced soon. It was tangled with yellow feathers and dust, and he exhaled several times while he used it to orient the feathers.

But the problems did not end there. He opened the heavy wooden closet to change his mind about the grooming, which had finished much earlier than usual. Even there he had to be surprised.

There were no clothes in it except work clothes and a ceremonial suit. There were just thirty shirts of the same color and shape, ten pairs of black, unplayful pants, three plain purple ties, two large uniform coats, and one fine but old-fashioned jacket hanging there. Grooves struggled in and out of the closet for about ten minutes, rummaging through the clothes, trying to find another outfit. If anything, he searched every inch of the room, thinking that this was a work closet and that his personal closet might be separate. But there was no other storage furniture that looked like this one.

Once again, Grooves stepped back and looked at it. Nothing but black, white, and purple. There is always the shadow of the conductor there. Not his own, but the professional atmosphere was too much dwelling there. Did he not think it strange? It is crazy to have only uniforms. The Conductor can only be the conductor, and besides, he is not allowed any other choice in this closet. He can't even get off the train as a single owl. It is too grotesque. He couldn't hold back and looked away.

"He must be… sick."

To DJ Grooves, all he could think of was the Conductor was sick.

Grooves spent a good 30 minutes or more just putting on the uniform. He had to tie and untie his tie several times because he couldn't bear to see himself in the mirror looking more and more like the bird he hated. When it was finally over, his face was not at all radiant. Finally, he decided to wear only a plain white shirt and suspenders pants, coat unbuttoned, and no tie, so that he would not look like the Conductor. He did not want to trample on the classics, but he was even more reluctant to be the Conductor himself. He opened two buttons at the neck of his shirt and looked in the mirror again. It was definitely the Conductor, but he was glad he was not dressed like him. The weight of his heavy coat felt awfully lifelike.

Still, how could he have to wear such a thick coat on such a hot day? Grooves fanned himself with a stack of papers lying nearby. (The coat was filled with all sorts of things, and he wasn't sure what he needed for his tasks. Perhaps this was something he had to wear, and Grooves ended up putting his arm through the sleeves of it after some hesitation.) There is something strange about the Conductor. He wears this coat in summer and winter alike. Grooves had thought that he had both a thin coat for summer and a thick coat for winter, and that he wore them differently depending on the weather, but this was not the case. Both coats are for winter. It is not a hassle to wear such a thing in the desert in the middle of summer. He wondered over his breakfast coffee if there was some reason why he had to wear them, but he had no idea.

The Conductor didn't spend any money on grooming, but he kept only the finest coffee beans in his kitchen. From instant latte's to real coffee beans, there was plenty of coffee lined up in the dimly lit pantry. If anything, there was even a moon-brand one. The beans are famous for their savory, rich, and slightly bitter taste.

It felt kind of weird to drink the same coffee he had as DJ Grooves at his home on the moon as the Conductor on the Owl Express in the middle of the desert. Still, the hateful thing was that this coffee was as excellent as drinking anywhere else. The coffee's unique aroma wafted up from the mug and tickled his nose and tongue. It was hard to get a drink out of his big beak.

So slowly, still somewhat unable to believe that this was real, he took his second drink, then heard a discreet knock at the small door at the rear of the train.

"Conductor? Are you all right?"

The voice was probably an owl, but who could it be? Did the Conductor have an appointment with him? Grooves tried to look at the clock, but there was no clock anywhere in the room. He was not familiar with the Conductor's job, but he knew that he was supposed to keep time. It would be impossible for him not to have a clock anywhere in his room, but no matter where he looked, he could not find a single wall clock, table clock, or anything of the sort. He gave up and went to unlock the door.

"Come in." "Oh good, you're awake. Good morning." "Morning, darling."

The owl's face hardened. "…… Excuse me?" Grooves realized his mistake a little too late and hastily corrected himself. "＿＿＿＿Not you! I was talking to the vase over there." The flowers in the vase were completely withered from overwatering. "Oh, I see……Of course, uhh, I'm- sorry."

The express owl that came to visit the Conductor left a bitter smile on his face and strode off without saying what the requirements were. Having made a mistake from the start, Grooves dejectedly gulped down the remaining coffee in his mug in one gulp.

3. A few minutes later, Grooves rushed to the coach having a pair of scissors instead of coffee. It was because as soon as he finished his conversation with that owl, he noticed an old pocket watch in his coat's right pocket.

The watch was pointing to eight o'clock, and it was almost certain from that owl's reaction that the time probably represented a delay for the Conductor. He had not been told what kind of work the Conductor was doing or what his time schedule was, but he at least understood that it was not to have coffee in his room. He hurriedly searched the room for anything that might give him a clue to deduce his work, but there was nothing, really nothing. The only thing he could learn from that room was how lazy and eccentric the bird called the Conductor was. Nevertheless, the long hand that was pointing to eight o'clock had moved ten centimeters from zero, so Grooves had no choice but to give up and leave the golden room.

His pockets were filled with so many other things besides his pocket watch. A smartphone which is quite small compared to Grooves', a few caramels, a staple-like machine (it is called a scissor), a crumpled movie ticket, a stiff handkerchief, a thin notepad, a bunch of keys, a whistle, a card case, and, he did not know why, a ball that fits his hand size well. He tapped and turned his pockets on the way to the coach, thoroughly examining them for anything that would reveal his schedule. And still there was nothing. Grooves wondered how the Conductor kept track of his schedule. He would have no secretary or manager. If there was a possibility, the answer was in his smartphone. But he couldn't use it because he didn't know the password. He thought about putting in his birthday, but he had never been given by him such a thing.

Opening the sliding doors, he saw that the quiet coach was not full of passengers. There were at most five owls in the thirteen pairs of seats lined up in a row, eating toast, reading the newspaper, and doing what they wanted to do. He was relieved to find that no one seemed to be paying much attention to the Conductor's, (in the other word Grooves'), mistake.

He used a pair of scissors to punch a hole in a piece of paper he had torn out of the notepad, and checked it again to see how it was used. There were some scribbles on the notepad, but most of them were too smeared to be decipherable. There were glimpses of something about submitting an alternative to the McGuffin by the end of the day, something 'sparkling and easy to understand(peck neck!)', and so on. His sponsors, it seems, are a bunch of showy, tiresome birds. This suggests that the Conductor reluctantly decided to change the McGuffin alone because they didn't like the storyline of his movie. Grooves suddenly remembered the two movies that Conductor had entered in the 43rd Annual Bird Movie Award. That beautiful time pieces that were the centerpiece of the movies. When he first saw that one, and when he realized that the Conductor would be using it, he felt a strong sense of discomfort. He didn't expect that a bird who loves antiques would choose such a thing as a prop. Grooves thought the Conductor must have copied his idea.

But maybe this was the reason. ＿＿＿＿It's too late to know now. Even though no one knows if this is true or not.

The yellow owl closed his notepad and, in a somewhat nervous voice, addressed them, "Please have your tickets ready."

Hearing this, the majority of the owls put out their own tickets on the desk without even looking at the Conductor. There was a distinction on the tickets between those with berths and those without, but Grooves was too busy punching them in silently to let them know he was upset to worry about such things. Totally inefficient, he complained in his mind. On the Metro, the machines would do everything for him, but on this train, he had to do it all by hand. He wondered if he was really doing his job well.

"Where's your ticket? Put it out quickly."

Finally it was the turn of the owl seated at the far end of the table, but he had nothing on the table. Grooves got impatient and asked one more time, with a stronger tone, "Where's your ticket?" "I don't have it," the owl looked up at Grooves with tears in his eyes. "I think I might have dropped it."

Grooves, still holding the scissors, blanked out, not knowing what to say to this owl, what action he should take, or how the Conductor would handle a situation like this in the first place. Grooves had never ridden the Owl Express before. It was his first ride, and he was suddenly substituting for the Conductor. He only knew about ticket collection because the Conductor had done it in the movie. What will happen to a passenger when the ticket is lost? Can he get a ticket, or is the rule that this owl is to be dropped off at the next station? The latter seemed different. It mean that he could ride for one station without paying. Then maybe he should be allowed to hand over the ticket. If only he could find that ticket. He was at a loss for a reply and could only say, "I see." His attitude was rather brusque and unreliable, and the fact that the Conductor of the Owl Express said so and took no action made the poor owl even more frightened.

"Let me, uh, …let me buy a ticket." "Oh, yeah. Of course."

Grooves, as if to cover his nervous, re-counted the money he had received from the owl and shoved it into his pocket. He wasn't sure if there was any change he needed to return to the owl, but he decided to trust that the owl would naturally point it out if he needed to do so.

And the ticket. He had to give the owl a ticket, but he had no idea where to find one. The yellow owl searched madly in his pockets for a ticket. The coarse handkerchief was all tangled up in his feathers, and the important rectangular piece of paper did not catch on his fingers at all.

"Where do you plan to go from here today?" "Uh, Dead Bird Station." "…Okay."

The small talk was not tongue-tied enough, and Grooves blinked a few times, finding it hard to breathe. It was not that he had never seen Dead Bird Station before. The only thing he could remember about it was that it was very small and white, and he did not know how to develop a conversation about it. The entire building was pure white, so it reflected the sunlight well, and although it was supposed to be a simple structure, it was extremely painful to the eyes. He didn't even bother to go near the place.

His fingers, slightly moist from sweat, stroked the smooth surface. Finally he remembered the card case. Grooves had not thoroughly checked the inside of that plain white case, come to think of it. He took it out as if praying to God that there might be a ticket in there. The contents were almost empty, but there were three tickets with berths and, miraculously, only one ticket with a regular price left.

"Oh my God," Grooves muttered. Hearing this, the owl became anxious again.

"No?" "No, no, it was the last one. Lucky."

He punched in the ticket and handed it to the passenger.

"I'm sorry. I'll be careful next time." "By all means, darling. No, sorry＿＿＿＿"

He couldn't resist punching himself.

Grooves was walking on the train with a mixture of relief and regret, a feeling of lightness and heaviness that he was not sure what to do with. He was like a tourist who had wandered into a foreign sightseeing spot without a brochure.

He went to the cockpit to find out how much time he had before the next station, but again, he did not get any information about his job. Surprisingly, no password was needed, either because the Conductor had forgotten to lock the cockpit or because he did not usually do so in the first place. The only thing he learned was that the cockpit of the train running in the middle of the desert was surprisingly cold, even for a moon penguin. The train is mechanically controlled, so it must have had to be cooled to increase the efficiency of the energy conversion. He wondered if that was why he always wore such a thick coat, but quickly dismissed the idea. No way he would be here all day long.

Eventually he lost sight of his purpose and was left to explore the train like a child.

The train had many facilities, but they were all nothing special. If someone tried to play billiards on the bumpy train, the cue would move on its own and it would be impossible to play the game, and a sauna could not be entered in such a desert environment, at least for him. There must have been other facilities that should have been installed. An ice cream parlor, a theater room, and so on. He left the locker room. The Conductor had to stay in this place for a long time.＿＿＿＿And he has to make a movie in this boring space.

What a hell, he secretly pitied the Conductor. No matter how much free time he has, he is not even free to go out. He spends his days just walking around on the train and writing movie plots to pass the time. That is why he cannot write any story other than a train western. How could a masterpiece come out of such a life? the Conductor himself may take this hell for granted, or maybe he has given up on escaping, but whatever the case, Grooves thought this environment should be improved.

He should have some time to himself. Then he might be able to make movies other than train westerns, and he might be able to correct some of the terrible prejudice against ＿＿＿＿musicals.

The yellow owl opened every single door, and with each one he grew more convinced that the Owl Express is a terribly dry place, and more pitying about the Conductor who manages it. No mirror ball, not enough space, and far from quiet, all day on such a train. He thought he wouldn't have been able to stand it. On the other hand, a vague feeling grew stronger that he could make this train into something more wonderful and attractive.

If Grooves were the Conductor, and if he had the right to change everything, he would start with his immediate surroundings. He would fill his vanity storage with meaningful stuff and repair this golden feather. He would fill his closet with more fashionable clothes, and the style of those clothes would be trendy. The Conductor should know better the convenience of cool summer jackets. The room would have more subdued white lighting and light-blocking curtains, and the furniture would be replaced with more practical pieces. Only the coffee pantry could stay that way, but the kitchen still has room for improvement. Don't forget to bring some greenery into that deserted, dead room by decorating it with flowers and houseplants.

When it is all over, he will first take plenty of long vacations and go travel to different places. He should get to know and learn more about the world outside of the tracks, not just on them. It is definitely better to have a period of time, at least once a month, to nurture inspiration. Then he will understand that a sci-fi musical is much more artistic than a train western.

With that thought, he suddenly found a bit of enjoyment in the change. He wasn't sure how feasible the idea was, but he thought he should at least change the contents of his closet now. If only he had the time, he would go to a boutique and buy two hands full of summer clothes and a brand new hairbrush. Never had he wished so strongly that he could shop online as he did at this moment. He should have asked the Conductor when his birthday was. Then he could have accessed his digital device.

Grooves walked from door to door, and then, to his surprise, found not a bar, nor a sauna, but a soundproof room. He clapped his hands in delight when he finally realized that he could escape this noisy wheel. He returned his attention from his pleasant fantasy to reality and entered the room with great enthusiasm.

The room was larger than he had expected, with a magnificent grand piano, a conductor's stand, and many chairs surrounding it. He was even gladder when he realized that this was where the express band practiced. When there is an ensemble, a clarinet or a trombone or something would sit on one of these chairs and carefully compose a piece of music. It was a lovely space. It made him happy as a musician to see a cool instrument, no matter how much it was managed by the Conductor of the Owl Express, a rival he hated.

He approached the piano, looked around, and then, curiosity getting the better of him, decided to gently open the lid. Taking off the red felt dust cover, he revealed from underneath the pearly whites of the white keys and the black keys, which were as black as obsidian to all intents and purposes. He unconsciously pressed the key of B. The note that set the standard for everything echoed softly through the room. Interestingly, this piano had lighter keys and softer sound than the one he usually played. The keys had higher steps, perhaps because it was designed to be played with the fingers. He wasn't sure if this was the case with all instruments made by the Owl brand, or if this piano was particularly so, but this fact was too much for him to take in.

DJ Grooves played scales. Playing the piano with his hands instead of his flippers was new and exciting to him. He went with the flow and played a cadenza. The chords sounded pleasant and washed away his anxiety. The chords produced by the soft keys were as clear as a spring river, yet somehow contained a sense of incompleteness. Sunlight, morning, and other such words were appropriate for the sound. It was completely different from the Moon brand pianos, but that was beside the point; this piano was beautiful as an instrument. At the same time, he thought it was unbelievable that this cool piano was on such a boring train.

Grooves settled back in the piano chair, made sure his feet could reach the pedals, and now played a short etude. The piece was designed to practice expressions of dynamics, and he was confident that the etude would be perfect for this soft sound. As he had expected, the piece sounded much prettier played on the Owl's piano than on the Moon brand's, which has a harder sound, for jazz. He got carried away and decided to repeat the etude and play it again with an arrangement. He deconstructed and reassembled the chord progression, adding thickness to the notes with tension chords and arranging the rhythm with staccato and slurs in the main melody. Furthermore, he incorporated syncopation to create a passage that evokes a summer night from a springtime noonday atmosphere.

He could not contain his ideas. Before modulating to the same main key, he remade the chords that made up the main melody into triplets, giving them speed as if they were balls running up a hill. His performance became progressively more grandiose as he added even greater differences in the notes connected by crescendos. He told himself that this piano was made for classical music, where the emphasis is on tone, not jazz, where the emphasis is on arrangement, but he didn't stop. It was fun. Leaving himself to the flow of the sound, he temporarily felt as if he were back in the DJ Grooves, and he forgot that he was on the Owl Express. After a few minutes, his music was finally coming to an end. He did not want to end yet and even considered repeating it again and forcing an extension, but playing with unfamiliar fingers was more strenuous than he had imagined. Gasping for breath, he ended his performance by playing a seventh-degree chord as if punching a key. His fingers and arms ached, and his breathing was a little erratic. He crossed his legs in satisfaction, basking in the afterglow of his performance.

"Bravo!"

but soon it had to be interrupted once by a small clap. Grooves fidgeted and looked for the source of the noise. A lone express owl was standing just behind him, smiling and applauding. His wings were of average length, but his fingers looked a bit long enough to suggest that he might be the owner of this piano. He was so engrossed in his playing that he didn't notice him enter the room. Grooves was surprised, but said "thank you" and answered the applause. His playing has been loved by many audiences before, mostly moon penguins, and as far as he could remember, this was the first time an audience of owls had shouted "bravo!" at him. Music is the best language. Even owls can understand this awesomeness.

He was so happy, in other words, that it was inevitable that he would forget that he was not Grooves right then.

"That was a really great performance, Conductor!"

"＿＿＿＿Oh, thanks……"

The smile dropped from Grooves' face. Conductor. That was it. He was the Conductor, not DJ Grooves, the owl, not the moon penguin. He is not a musician, he is a train conductor. Grooves, a musician, would play as the Conductor who was not a musician by profession. It was only natural an owl who knew nothing about it would react in this way. His mood suddenly plummeted, and the heat that had filled his body quickly dissipated.

"This was the most emotionally rich Op.9 I've ever heard. It's kind of like a very new and beautiful image of a night sparkling with fireflies and starlight, not the soft atmosphere that many pianists play. The interpretation of the tones is careful, and the arrangement is very cool! Besides, your technique is also at a high level. You always seem so busy, when did you learn it?" "Uh, …… when I was a little?" "Woww, why did you keep it a secret? If you are as good as you are, you can be a world-class pianist. In fact, even DJ Grooves would recognize you!" "That's …… umm ……" "Maybe you are better than him. Right? I don't think moon penguin, who makes only loud disco music, can play such delicate music!"

Grooves was speechless with surprise. The good feeling he had had for this owl earlier was completely gone, and instead an unbridled disappointment washed over him. 'only loud disco music'? He wanted to tell the owl that he had just beaten him as a musician by that moon penguin.

But when it came time to say something, he realized he didn't have the right words for it. He had plenty to say as DJ Grooves, but he couldn't find anything to say as the Conductor. It was strange for the Conductor to be defending Grooves. But it was still offensive to have his music mocked by an owl who had nothing to do with it, so in the end he muttered, "I guess not," with some bitterness.

The owl seemed to take that as a sign of modesty or something, and said in a rather gentle voice, "Don't worry about it." No, that's not what he meant, and that's not the reaction he wanted him. It all became too much trouble, and after answering vaguely, he left the room as if to escape.

"Hey, can I listen it again?"

An innocent fan's voice shook Grooves' brain. The yellow owl, completely exhausted, returned to the Conductor's own room and locked the door.

4. Smelling the sand, he collapsed onto the empty bed and tried to empty his head.

He picked up a handful of blankets that had been smashed on the floor and piled them on the bed. Looking at the clock, frighteningly, it was only a little past noon. The Conductor would probably still be working or shooting a movie. Despite this, Grooves didn't want to move. He just wanted to pick up the blankets and not think about anything else. This place is boring and irritating. It was natural for Grooves to feel this way, since the owner of this place thoroughly disliked him, but the difference in environment was too much for the penguin, who was still in shock from being the Conductor.

He closed the lid of his pocket watch. The golden sun, still turning the room and Grooves golden, lit up the dirty watch. The dull metallic sheen reflected an even brighter gold. He sighed. The color was exactly the same as the color reflected on the replicas of the trophies that adorned so many of his rooms. It was exactly the same color as when his accessories or other trophies were reflected on those alloy trophies. That color was Grooves' favorite. It made him feel like he was seeing stars within the stars. It should have been, but he wasn't at all happy to see it anymore.

Maybe it was because he was a yellow owl.

"If…" Grooves muttered. "What if the mistake is never corrected?"

As soon as he realized the possibility, he could clearly feel his heart beating twice as fast. The blood rushed to his head, and he could no longer remain calm. He was thirsty and his eyes should have been able to see clearly, but his brain was not handling it well. A soft blanket slipped from his stiffened fingers and fell to the floor. He bent down to pick it up, but suddenly he felt sick and couldn't reach for the floor. What if he had remained the Conductor? What if he had to live with these golden feathers? What if he had to spend the rest of his life listening to nothing but criticism of himself?

What if he had to fight against himself?

Because it would be. The Conductor has been fighting DJ Grooves for a decade, and it's too late for them to mend their relationship. The reason why DJ Grooves and moon penguins don't like the Conductor and the owls is not because racism, but because they don't try to understand the beauty of his ideas.

The yellow owl involuntarily chewed on the blanket. In doing so, he tried to kill the pressure bubbling deep in his chest. He ate the blanket, struggling to swallow the discomfort that was trying to climb up his esophagus and flood his beak. It was hard and bad. Ridiculous. It's a waste of energy to even think about it. He yelled at himself. "I can definitely get myself back into DJ Grooves, and I will, no matter what."＿＿＿＿

Back to DJ Grooves. Wait, fighting Grooves in the first place is unusual. Unless he has a doppelganger, there is only one DJ Grooves. Rather, in a case like this, he should consider the possibility of him being dead to begin with.

The yellow owl's back bubbled and splashed a little. No, no, no. He stuffed the blanket down his throat and tried to fight the physiological reaction. His beak recognized the strange object and his throat moved fast, and with it, his tonsils began to move wildly. His eyes grew unbearably hot and moist, and then the sun shone on them again, refracted light turning them violently golden, even inside his brain. What would he do then? What if Grooves was dead?

Where was Grooves really last night and what was he doing? All he could remember was that he had been drinking, thinking it would be his last drink, but he ended up drinking until morning. And he had no way to prove it. In fact, if this was a dream that was as close to reality as possible, that would be more convincing than thinking that he had switched places with the Conductor. Or, if it is an afterlife or something, and he is answering the many problems and turning points in his life as DJ Grooves through the perspective of the Conductor.

… It’s just alcohol. But, alcohol.

"No way-" Grooves exclaimed. "I can have stopped it before it happened! I knew I might die!"

He shouted it over and over to reassure himself. But his brain was thinking about something else entirely, and it would not listen to what Grooves said. Wasn't it too rarely to take energy drinks and alcohol at the same time and yet still be alive? Did his body really know, even if his brain did, that the caffeine and alcohol would cancel each other out and he would not be able to get drunk, which would result in him drinking himself to death? Wouldn't he have been drinking anyway, even unconsciously? Couldn't the blood vessels in his brain have swollen, causing him to faint, and then burst, or his brain would have been deprived of oxygen and he would have died? Once he experienced the horror of this firsthand. When he had a niacin flush, his body experienced exactly the same symptoms. His blood warmed up, his brain didn't work properly, and his body turned red and splotchy. It was so hot and scary that he thought he would die if this went on for hours. Their odds of that must be much higher than being the Conductor.

DJ Grooves could have died. Maybe he was still at home, intact, his blood vessels ruptured from too much caffeine and alcohol.

The yellow owl's body trembled. No, I am not. I am DJ Grooves. I am the moon penguin. I am still alive. DJ Grooves is a star. When he dies, it will be in the newspaper…

Maybe no one had noticed. Grooves was drinking at home, not in a fancy bar or anything. And even if a star is found dead, the office will decide when it will be reported by the media. This is because there are too many procedures to be completed, too many business contacts to be contacted, and too many other things to be done, so there is no time to deal with the media or onlookers. Therefore, some procedures must be completed before the public announcement, and then Grooves' death will be reported.

Well, then. Ask him. He hurriedly ran, chewing on the blanket, to the phone. Moving his trembling, heated body, he turned the dial with his fingers, which were not working properly, to DJ Grooves' private number. He held the receiver firmly to his ear and waited to hear Grooves' voice with a clatter.

The bird-anxious melody of "ring, ring, ring" shook Grooves' shoulders. He was about to cry. The receiver trembled and was hard to hold. His jaw ached from the strain of chewing the blanket. He blinked nervously.

Soon nothing was heard.

The strength dropped from the yellow owl's entire body. His stomach instantly heated up and ran down his esophagus. The Conductor vomited. His heart was beating loudly and his body was constantly twitching slightly. All his internal organs were being pulled upward, and strong pressure was taking over. The receiver fell with a loud thud to the floor. Grooves just watched the stark white blanket become stained gold.

The sun quickly lit it up again. Everything inside this train is made of gold. The birds that ride this train, the birds that manage it, the anxiety, anything with color. It is so shimmering that there is no need for a mirror ball.

With the gold he loves.

He shoved the stained blanket into the washing machine, and for a while he continued to wail. The yellow owl shed golden tears unceasingly, sniffing and trying to stifle his voice, but he wasn't quite able to.

Could DJ Grooves dead? A single night's mistake must have killed him? And for some reason, might he have to live again as the Conductor? What a punishment. He punched the golden wall as hard as he could, wanting to take his frustration out on something. But his small fist did not even crack the wall, and the pain only made it heavier. He closed his eyes and howled at the sheer volume of his emotions. Why, why him of all? He was jealous of Grooves, and if no one loved him, he couldn't even take care of himself, a pompous, selfish yellow bird. Every time he thought about it, his head was scratched into a mess. The golden light reflected in his tears turned his brain golden.

He couldn't tell the color of the tomatoes that stained the screen. In fact, it may have been the color of 18-karat gold. It is the gold that seems the most golden. It was the color of that gold that filled his room and ate away and invaded. What color was the wallpaper in his room? He would have made it any color he liked. Then what color did Grooves like? Was it gold, after all? What color was his jacket? What color are his sunglasses? The color of his latest movie posters? The color of his favorite cutlery? The color of his album? What is the color of his piano? What is the color of his phone cover? What is the color of the tomato that stained the screen?

What color are the feathers of moon penguins? What color? ＿＿＿＿What color would they really be?

"Blue……."

Grooves mumbled in a trembling voice. "And white……."

He took several deep breaths and concentrated on regaining his composure. It didn't matter what color he liked. Grooves loves gold, and red, and blue, and white. He just doesn't like silver or bronze, so he wants a gold trophy. He stroked his chest and sang his song in a small, encouraging tone of voice.

He is DJ Grooves. Whether Grooves lived or died, and if he didn't know, he just believed he lives. It is not too late for him to decide what to do with his life after the media reported his death. If he lives, he will return to Grooves someday, and he will prove it. He will play the piano as DJ Grooves, much to the chagrin of that owl.

By the end of the song, Grooves felt a little better and decided to leave this horrid room right away. Something was going to go wrong in there. But he didn't feel like working anymore, and he didn't want to play the piano anymore. What should he do then, he thought as he looked out at the train. Does the Conductor always spend his time feeling this way? He couldn't imagine that a bird living in that creepy room, sleeping and waking up every day, is his rival. If this was the reason he had become so aggressive, he honestly felt sorry for him. The influence of environment on birds is something that cannot be ignored to a large extent. Just like a morning glory that grows easily in the sun cannot even sprout in the shade.

As usual, the outside of the window is full of gold. So much gold, in fact, that it was almost too much. Just as Grooves couldn't eat a hundred tuna sandwiches even if he liked them, he didn't like the color as much at that moment as he did before. Frankly, he wanted to block it out of sight.

"Curtains," he muttered.

Just then a sharp whistle sounded. The windows were now white, the gold gone from the windows. The Owl Express had arrived at Dead Bird Station.

5. He was running through the streets at full speed, fleeing the golden sun.

The heat and glare of the sun were nothing compared to what he felt from the car window. Grooves ran into the mall, out of breath, and took a deep breath in the thick shade. He was shocked to learn that there were places where just walking around would make him suffer, but he couldn't believe that the Conductor had taken no precautions against it. He had no sunscreen, no summer clothes, no handy fan, and no parasol. Grooves had no idea because he had never tried to understand the Conductor or get to know him until now. If worse came to worst, he would die.

If his knowledge is not mistaken, owls also have an inherent preference for cold things like water and ice. They are nocturnal and sensitive to the sun. The desert owls are the only exception, but even they don't imitate walking in the hot sun without a parasol or hat.

Anyway, he had to somehow bring his condition up to the average level. Grooves entered the well air-conditioned mall and quickly searched for a floor map.

There was much to do. First of all he wanted something to replace this heavy, thick, tacky coat. And he have to get good quality, colorful ties. Next things he had to go to the pharmacy and buy lotion, cream, sunscreen, and a parasol. Then he would have to go to the furniture store and buy a comfortable sofa, houseplants, and light-blocking curtains, as well as other things. He wondered how much the total cost would be, but decided not to think about it. The Conductor made Grooves do this. Grooves was doing it for him because the Conductor had neglected the whole thing. If this makeover would allow him to make a decent movie, he would be able to recoup his losses in no time. He walked on with great enthusiasm.

He first visited a boutique that occupied about a quarter of the mall's ground floor. There were about four mannequins in a large glass display, dressed in the style he had expected. As soon as entering the store, he looked through the men's clothing, checked the sizes, elasticity, and thinness of the fabrics, and then put the items in the basket one by one, starting with the ones he liked best. There were no bright colors among the selections, but only monochrome clothes. However, they were not plain, but rather painted or cut in a unique way, with some sort of eye-catching feature. They are easy for beginners to coordinate because they go with basically any color. He tossed the new clothes into the basket again.

Customers and clerks were all owls, as a matter of course, and the clothes on the line were all made by owls for owls. The buttons were much richer in design and variety than those at moon penguins, perhaps because they were designed to be used with fingers, and after 30 minutes in the boutique, Grooves had abandoned his original purpose and was looking at nothing but buttons. There were fabric buttons with tiny sequins sewn all over them that looked like mirror balls, retro wooden buttons that resembled film prints, and simple star-shaped gold buttons. He picked up those samples almost unconsciously. He was pleased to find that there was good stuff in the owl brand. At the same time, it became clear that the owl brand was not the reason the Conductor had such poor taste.

He should definitely buy one of these. Grooves thought as he stared at the modest gold buttons sewn into his coat.

It is understandable that he has to wear this coat because it is his uniform. However, he could not overlook the tatteredness and inconvenience of this coat. A uniform requires a certain degree of non-individuality, but since he is the only one who wears this coat, he should be allowed to wear cufflinks at least. No one would blame him for that, and of course DJ Grooves wouldn't go out of his way to make fun of him or mock him. No matter how much he dislikes him. He wondered if there was a reason why he couldn't, alternating between the buttons and the coat, but quickly reconsidered that there couldn't be. The Conductor is that kind of bird, as far as Grooves knows. He likes to argue and compete with Grooves even when he doesn't have to. There is no deep reason for it, he thought.

He thought for a moment about buying buttons with fancy designs, but after a little consideration, he put them back on the shelf and decided to go with simple, matte black buttons instead. Grooves thought that this would avoid the reflection of the sun on the buttons.

He was about to go to the checkout with his summer casual clothes and a few buttons in his basket, but on his way there he spotted a section with colorful ties. Behind it, he saw a section of shoes. A pair of sneakers with graphic apple dots caught his eye and it pulled his basket. He wandered over and picked up another basket, wondering how many hours it would take at this rate, but still unable to resist his impulse.

Three hours later, Grooves was finally able to leave the boutique and take the escalator. His plan had been to spend about 30 minutes, but there were more choices than he had imagined, and he had completely forgotten about the time. He was supposed to be able to fit his shopping into one small bag, but he already had two of the biggest bags in his hand.

But DJ Grooves was satisfied. He couldn't have been more satisfied. He was happy to finally get out of that heavy uniform and was simply thrilled to be able to wear his new clothes. His new shoes were a little tight, but it was much better than walking through the desert in that horrible outfit. He bumped his heel against the smooth marble floor, enjoying the hard sound it made.

His next stop was the pharmacy on the second floor. He took a shopping cart and hooked his shopping bags onto its handles. Grooves would probably buy a lot of things there, and he knew that if he did, he would not be able to hold the basket with two large bags under his arms.

That was right. He had no idea what brand of owl they were, so he picked them out one by one based on a rough ingredient list and the feel of the testers, but there were so many that the Conductor needed but did not have that he quickly filled up his basket. He took one of the small parasols and carefully placed it on top of the basket, hoping that buying these items would make the sad washbasin smile a little. The parasol with a white sun-exposed side and a black inner side is the most efficient and hardest to tan under. White reflects light and black absorbs light. It would also be more consistent with his casual clothes. While waiting in line at the checkout counter, he placed vitamins and zinc supplements from a nearby shelf into his basket.

"Um, ……are you sure this is all of them?"

The clerk, who just a moment ago had only had to check out a single perfume, looked at the Conductor with a frightened look on his face. The yellow owl asked back, "Do you have something to complain about? The owls lined up behind him let out a collective sigh.

Seeing three large bags hanging from his cart, and seeing that the cart belonged to the Conductor, the passerby owls were naturally curious. Even on the escalator, they often turned and looked up, trying their best to peek at what the Conductor had bought. Grooves secretly muttered to himself, "See? I knew I am doing the right thing." It was nothing short of the end of the life to be so careless about grooming and he could draw attention to himself just by buying a shirt or a parasol.

"What's happened to him, is he brokenhearted?" "It's the opposite, isn't it? He must have met someone..."

Rather, he is not even at that starting point.

But it looked like he no longer had to worry about more shopping bags. Now all he had to do was buy some furniture, and then he would use the delivery service. Grooves didn't know the Conductor's address or even if he lived in a proper house in the first place, but he knew that writing " The Owl Express" or "Dead Bird Studio" would do the trick.

He thought again as he pushed his cart, "what should I buy?" Curtains were absolutely necessary. Any bird would go crazy if it had to look at that glaring sun for hours every day. If he sat on the tattered couch in that hellhole and tried to write a script, everything he wrote would have a bad ending. He sighed as he thought once more of the light that filled that room.

Grooves basically writes his scripts at home, not in the studio. This is because it is the only place where he can relax and not be disturbed. That is why he seriously designs the feel of the furniture, the color of the lighting, and even the paintings on the walls, always keeping the best possible environment for him to show his full potential as a movie director. He has dozens of different types of ink and playlists so that both his writing materials and the music he plays while working can be changed to match the mood of the story. He types up all of his scripts on his computer, but when he wants to check the overall balance or structure of a story, there is no better than analog way to do it. On his desk is a large monitor, a small keyboard, and next to it a big pad of notepaper, a beautiful pen, and a set of colorful inks. ＿＿＿＿How was the Conductor?

He found the store he wanted and he went straight in. Come to think of it, the only thing on the big maple desk was an illustrated book on guns.

He entered the store and headed straight to the curtain section to check out the light-blocking fabric curtains. Grooves did not spend much time on this step. Because the moment he spotted a dark olive curtain, he decided to go for it. It was a simple solid color and less decorative, but he had a sharp intuition that this was the one and that it would be the best, and within seconds he had finished writing the number, length, and number of pieces on the order form.

He ordered a single sofa in the same color and a small low table to match. Unfortunately, he could not buy anything for the kitchen because he did not know what to do with it due to the difference in food culture, but he was able to buy three pieces of beautiful tableware and one set of cutlery. He handed the order form to the counter with a refreshed look on his face: two palm-sized cactus pots, one modern lampshade, and two bookshelves sized to fit nicely in his room space. Hopefully this would clean up the desk. Now the question was whether the Conductor would make good use of them, but he decided to trust that he would take good care of them since they were indeed furniture that had been paid for with his own money.

He wandered around the entire mall, sliding across the floor with his cart, which was now completely heavy. He had generally bought what he wanted to buy, but he felt like he was missing something. Perhaps it wasn't that, he thought, and he was just excited about this situation where he could spend as much of other people's money as he wanted to shop, but that realization did not make this nagging feeling go away.

He casually took out his watch and checked the time. It was already past 6:00 pm. He had been away from the train for about five hours. He was surprised at how quickly the time had flown by. He rested his arm on the cart and tried to remember what he had eaten, other than the coffee he had had in the morning. But he soon remembered that there was no such thing. He hadn't even nibbled on a cookie, let alone eaten a proper lunch of any kind. From the moment he realized this, his tongue gradually became numb and heavy, and he felt as if he were losing strength. He was hungry, he thought grimly, and started pushing the cart again, looking for something to eat.

Although there were many restaurants in the mall, from his cursory glance, they did not look very tasty. Grooves is not a fan of sweet food, nor is he a fan of greasy food. He doesn't like spicy food either, and he can't eat a lot of dry, waterless food. If he has to eat, he will eat, but he has never wanted to eat on his own. Despite this, all the restaurants he could see had that kind of flavor, and most of them were either meat dishes or raspberry parfaits. He tried to read the menu, but he didn't understand anything, so much so that he was surprised that these words even existed as a single word in the first place. He doesn't like oatmeal or lamb. Realizing that he would probably have a hard time finishing eating them, he slouched away from it.

And after unknowingly circling the entire mall in search of food, he finally gave up and left the mall. With both hands full of shopping bags at once, he no longer had any desire to shop for anything. For a brief moment he thought about stopping at a supermarket, but decided to give that up as well. The bags were heavy, he was hungry, and most of all, he was tired. He thought it would probably be faster to eat at the train's cafeteria, so he took out his sunglasses and parasol and turned back the way he came.

It was midsummer but the sun had not yet set, turning the city a golden tint.

6. By the time the Owl Express began its service, he was exhausted. With his cheek pressed against the extremely cold cockpit, he cooled his completely heated body. His body was sticky and limp, and he could have stayed there all night if the vibration hadn't been so bad. The light was coming in through the large window, more copper than gold, and much redder than in the daytime. Knowing that it was already evening, he felt a sense of sadness, whether happy or saddened.

……Come to think of it, where is the Conductor?

He suddenly wondered how his rival was doing. No way was he able to exist as him at this very moment. Conductor is the only bird in the world, and he wished it were so. One bird is enough for such a terrible bird. Leaving aside the question of why such a phenomenon had occurred, he wondered what would happen to birds without their bodies, that is, if they were only conscious, (and he was a little puzzled that the science fiction movie director would think of something so unscientific and occult,) but now his hypothesis was gradually becoming more realistic. If that were to happen, would the bird be unable to wake up? Even if they were awake, they might not be able to feel it. Because the consciousness would not have the sensory organs to receive the five senses. The instinct may go in search of an empty body.

That way they can get up anyway.

Where is the Conductor now? That is, his conscious part. Was he sleeping in this body now? Or was he also spending his time as someone else? Maybe he was on vacation somewhere, or maybe he was on the moon. If there was a bird whose body was taken over by him, he must be a very unlucky bird. If he were them, Grooves would definitely not want to be a part of it, he said, smiling fluently as he sat in the cold, iron cockpit. If he even so much as drops a cigarette butt on the sidewalk, the phones at home and in the office go dead literary. He is being evaluated in real time. No matter how much money he was offered, he could not allow himself to entrust his body to the Conductor under such circumstances.

If he could choose the body of the bird that would take over, who would it be? He thought long and hard as he rested his rounded back against the backrest. What about another moon penguin? It would be interesting to be a moon penguin that wasn't interested in music or show business, he thought. Maybe that type of bird would have something Grooves had cut off, something he couldn't see.

Or, if that bird isn't the Conductor, he can be an owl. With their big feathers, he would like to fly in the cool sky and touch the stars if he could. In reality, it would be difficult because the stars are deathly hot, but there is romance in their feathers. Although he can't like what they like, he is interested in looking at the moon from their point of view.

If he could be anything that wasn't a bird, how about being a mafia? Grooves had never seen or visited their island, but he knew it was famous for its fish. Besides, he had heard that there were many chefs on the island, so he was sure he would be able to eat a lot of delicious dishes there.

And then Grooves suddenly realized a possibility: some birds might want to become DJ Grooves. If there is such a bird, now is the perfect time. His body should be in stasis now, if only he were not dead.……

……Come to think of it, where is the Conductor?

Grooves only hoped that his worst prediction would not come true. He almost fainted at the mere thought of the Conductor living as Grooves in the unlikely event that he did. That bird would definitely do something. Because even in Dead Bird Studio, he couldn't stay still and docile. There is nothing restricting Grooves, in other words, the Conductor, in that wide street right now.

If he causes any problems as Grooves, and then goes back to Grooves himself, it is Grooves, not Conductor, who takes the blame. There is nothing more germane than the entertainment industry on the moon. Worst case scenario, he might not be able to stay a star. The yellow owl felt a chill run down his spine. He wondered if the bird really understood the frustration of having everything he had spent his life accumulating destroyed, not by him, but by someone else. He doubt it. The only thing he had accumulated throughout his life was trophies from movies. He can always get them back.

"When I can't be a star anymore," Grooves muttered out quietly.

In fact, is it really that bad?

Until yesterday, Grooves wanted to quit being a star, which is exactly why he was drinking until he blacked out. Actually, Grooves might want to quit being a star to become a movie director. Even now he continued his contract with Dead Bird Studio as a movie director, but as the Conductor yelled at him one day, he was still DJ Grooves.

In his words, Grooves seems to have mistaken a movie for a music video or something. He blames this on his crew, who treat Grooves as a musician or a star rather than a movie director, and on Grooves himself, who doesn't even try to be anything more than DJ Grooves. At the time, he didn't take this seriously, saying that he didn't want to be told that he was making a movie while operating a train, but it was only recently that he thought that this might be true. Because while the Conductor is a conductor, at least his crew at Dead Bird Studio treats him as a movie director, not as a conductor on the Owl Express. That much, he could tell. Their round, big eyes are just too honest.

Is this an opportunity? Grooves dropped his gaze. His copper-colored feathers were sweating and stiff.

He had thought that when he quit the star, it would be when the moon exploded. But maybe that's not true. Grooves might have already had to retire from show business ten years ago. If he had done so, would he have been able to make better movies? Had he been mistaken about what he was doing for ten years? Was it not simply a matter of skill that he could not beat the Conductor all those years, but because Grooves was the star? If so, it was really a waste of time. As a result, Grooves almost killed a child.＿＿＿＿

At that moment, the phone unexpectedly rang. The yellow owl freaked out and promptly picked up the receiver.

"Hi, Dad."

An exasperated voice over the receiver pricked the Conductor's ears. Grooves replied vaguely, wondering if she is his daughter. She looked so bad from him.

"Why aren't you coming? The kids have been waiting for you all day!" "What about-......?" "What about-......? What's with that reaction? ......Did you forget us?" "No, I mean, that ......."

Grooves tried his best to keep talking, but he felt sick, as if all the water in his body was evaporating as soon as he opened his beak, and in the end he couldn't say anything. The receiver was still angry.

"So you forgot when is their birthday party."

A voice cooler than the one in the cockpit said calmly, with anger inside. "Enough. Have a good day."

With a clang, the phone went dead immediately. Grooves stared at the receiver's speaker, completely lost in thought.

Children, birthday party. 'Why aren't you coming?'

Perhaps it was the birthday of the Conductor's grandchildren, and the Conductor had accepted the invitation. Poor thing, and he felt sorry for the little owl he didn't see. He tried to calm his upset by muttering that he might have been able to attend if the Conductor's calendar had been analog, but of course such a shift in responsibility would not have worked. Had he prepared a gift, or was he going to have one this morning? It was all irrelevant now.

He would have to apologize, he thought as he put the receiver back in its holder. Grooves had caused trouble as the Conductor before the Conductor had caused trouble as Grooves. The same with the birthday party and the performance. That owl still thinks the Conductor is a musician.

He tried again to dial his private phone number, but remembering that didn't work last time, he now dialed his manager's number. This way he would know in one shot whether Grooves was alive or dead. If he was lucky, he might even be able to talk to Grooves.

He put the receiver to his ear again, desperately hoping he would get an answer. If he couldn't get through to this number either, the only number he would have left would be his work number, but as he recalled, he had turned off his phone yesterday while he had been drinking. He hated himself for what he had done last night. Just as he was about to vow never to drink again, the phone finally connected.

"Hello......" "Good, the phone's working, darling＿＿＿＿"

Just as Grooves was about to continue with his second sentence, suddenly a tremendous crash, as if something exploded, hit him in the ear on the radio waves. The yellow owl rushed to pull the receiver away from his ear and shouted, "What's going on?"

"If I knew what was going on, I wouldn't be riding here!" a dirty voice shouted back. From what he could hear, he was crying as he spoke, and occasionally a sniffling sound could be heard. "I don't understand! Who are you anyway?"

"Let me see..." The Yellow Owl was puzzled, wondering whether he should call himself the Conductor or DJ Grooves. The subtle blank spaces were filled with intense sounds and squeals. "What does it matter? What's Grooves doing!"

"He's watching a movie next to me! While he's driving!" "On the road? I heard you got a meeting today!" "How the hell does a stranger know about that, peck neck!"

The manager's shouts became even louder. The painful sound, like a large truck braking sharply, reached Grooves almost as a noise. He has known him for a long time. He had supported Grooves in many ways from the very beginning of Grooves' performing career. But he had never sounded so terrible, and for a moment he wondered if he had dialed the wrong number, but the voice was his.

"I don't know! I really want to go to work!" "Then go!" "He won't let me go!"

He did not say who, but the answer was almost obvious. Maybe Grooves, meaning the Conductor, was driving somewhere with the manager. Grooves still didn't know if the man next to the manager was the Conductor, but Grooves felt almost certain that he was. He tried his best to deduce why the Conductor was driving, but after a minute's thought, he had no idea. In the meantime, he could hear explosions, brakes, wind, squeals, and laughter, one after the other.

"If ye care so much about yer work, go."

Suddenly, a completely new and different voice said as if singing. The distance was far and the voice was low and muffled, making it difficult to hear, but it was clear that it was not the manager's voice.

"I've been telling ye that for a while now. Yer really not groovy." "Then let me go home! Where are we? How long are you going to keep running!?" "Yer a lad of many orders. Why should I, a star, have to pick up and drop off other birds I dinna care about? I'm not a kindergarten bus driver, laddie. Take a walk. Maybe you'll make it in time for work tomorrow." "Quit joking, please! Really, please, go back! Grooves, you're going to get caught if you keep going like this! Do you know what you're doing?" "What is that, a threat? A moon style joke? We're just watching a movie." "Driving under the influence, driving the wrong way, over-speeding, going through all red lights! You just committed four crimes!" "Hmmm...... oh my-, the ashtray is falling!" "Geez! No!!"

Grooves stood there and just listened to the conversation. Crimes? If it was as simple as dropping a cigarette butt, but had the Conductor violated the traffic laws? His mind went blank.

Perhaps the other voice, the one watching the movie, was unmistakably that of DJ Grooves, albeit with a liquor burn. Hearing his own voice from a third-party perspective through TV or radio is a daily occurrence, so it didn't seem too strange to hear his own voice from the phone, but it was still more than a little shocking to hear his own voice saying, "Yer really not groovy."

"If you go home now, I'll forgive you! I'll let bygones be bygones for being AWOL from the radio, for kidnapping me, and for drinking alcohol! Please go home! If you won't do it, All our work will be lost!"

"All our work will be lost!" Grooves' voice amusingly mimicked the manager's shout. It was not at all like him, but it was clear to Grooves over the phone that it contained a distinctly derisive nuance.

"Ye actually think that DJ Grooves became a star because of ye, right? Not only about TV, but ye even meddled in 'my' movie business. On top of that, ye even tried to get me to take you to and from the office right now." "What? Isn't it true? I always work overtime to get the work done, for you!" "Yer a hard worker! If ye want to work hard, work hard on yer own. Don't bother using me, peck neck."

There was a small sound of something opening. "But if ye insist so much, I'll have ye go get a work. Go on!"

The manager's cries became even higher pitched. Apparently, the door had been opened. And since the wind was still howling, the car was probably still running. "I'm gonna fall! I'm falling!"

"What?" Ye started it." "Please! Please! I just want you back!" "But if I go back, ye'll make me work, won't ye? Then I dinna want to." "Well, ......" "I won't let ye go home until ye do at least two less radio shows and one less regular TV show." "............"

All he could hear was the sound of a strong wind. What in the world is going on on the other side of the phone?　No reason at all occurred to him why he needed to go AWOL from the radio, kidnap the manager, and break the traffic laws. Maybe the alcohol from yesterday is still in his blood and that's why the Conductor is so bold in his mind. As an owl, the most he would do is block the doorway to the studio or make a loud noise in the lobby, but as a moon penguin, he is really doing things on a level that is not funny.

There was a jumble of noise, and someone's muttered "but" or "no" came in. Grooves just listened to it silently, worriedly, and didn't know what to say to him.

It's true that lately he hadn't been able to go out and shoot movies properly because of the work he's been doing as a star. Grooves must have talked to his manager about it the other day, but he said irresponsibly, "But I believe you can do it," and instead of reducing his workload, he increased it. No way was he going to reduce his workload without asking for permission, so he took on all of it.

He was vaguely indebted. He knew that he did not feel very well about his making the movie. ＿＿＿＿ From the day the deal with Dead Bird Studio was completed, communication with him started to go a little awry. Every time he received a silver trophy, he said, "Are you still going to do it? If you have time to mind your rival, you should mind your fans." That's true. But he just couldn't forgive his rival. Even when his purpose for making movies changed from dreams to revenge, he still had the clapperboard.

"Darling," Grooves couldn't resist saying. "Give me his time." "Y-you're still here? What the＿＿＿＿"

"Are ye on the phone?" The Conductor entered the conversation, taking a sip of something. "At least it's more interesting than talking to ye. Give me that."

After a brief struggle, the phone connected to the Conductor. "Hello?" A rather languid tone reached his ears over the slow radio waves.

"Darling, I don't know where you are, but you have to come back right now! You'll get caught!" "What? Do you know who you're complaining to? ......No, wait ......."

The Conductor was silent for a moment and later said only, "Are you Grooves?"

"Heh! I'm glad to hear that. I was actually wondering if ye had died somewhere. Ye almost choked to death with a wine bottle in yer beak. That's not good. If yer gonna die, yer have to pay the studio's management fee for the rest of the year before ye do." "Um, sorry about that ...... No, we're off topic! Go back, darling. Now!" "I wish I could. I cannae wait to go home and sleep too. My back and arms hurt from being in the car from morning till night. My throat is kind of sore too, and I feel nauseous ......" "Then do it! Don't ruin my life over a speeding ticket!" "Yer life? It's fine. There was no police car and no one saw us because we weren't on the road in the first place. When he says 'I am sorry', we'll go home quietly, okay?" "Not on the road? Where are you right now?"

The Conductor laughed, as if he had been waiting for that. "We're in the woods. Do ye know? Forests are good. The smell of them is relaxing, it's environmentally friendly, it's free, and it's quiet and comfortable because there's no one around."

That being said, some of the sounds heard earlier sounded like branches and leaves breaking. The tires on his car must be in shreds. "I just had my car serviced," he grumbled.

"Why are you running in such a place? And while watching a movie. It's dangerous!" "What? It's yer fault who installed this feature, isn't it? I was going to drive on a clean, well-paved road without a movie on. But then this lad starts screaming about how terrible it would be if someone saw us, and talking about nonsense, so we're driving through the woods and watching a movie." "Oh, no. ......" "Speaking of movies, ye only downloaded yer own movies? I'm gonna sleep because they're so boring. How am I supposed to download my movies?" "Don't ever touch the screen because it costs money to buy movies! So, will you know how to get home?" "Maybe. Well, if he's not sorry, we'll just run forever. Hey, ......what yer name was, uh, ...manager? What do ye mean ye haven't even opened yer pocketbook? Are ye sure ye wanna go home!?"

There was a sound like something colliding with something. The Conductor must have punced the door. "Please don't do anything to him, darling!"

"He didn't do anything wrong. He was just doing his job!" "Just doing his job? Is it the manager's job to decide everything from breakfast to dinner, to control the type and number of shows you appear on, what ye talk about on the radio, when ye make movies, when ye talk to yer friends, and so on? Is it his job to yell at ye and try to force ye to follow his orders when ye dinna?" "No, I wanna-..." "Oh yeah, whatever. When I told him I was taking off work to go to my grandchildren's birthday party, he hid yer car key. I'm not sure how much he's taking advantage of ye. I had no choice but to give up the birthday party." "Oh, about that..." "Ye couldn't go, could ye? That's fine. If ye ruin their party, I have no face to match them. Don't worry, I'll send them a present later. In fact, I've won tickets to a luxury cruise, and if my daughter will allow it, I'm going to take them on it. Many of them prefer boats to trains, so it will be a great present for them."

The Conductor's, i.e. Grooves', voice softened for that moment. It was such a polite, gentle voice that one could tell at once that he loved his grandchildren. It sounded strange for his own voice to say those things, but it was then that Grooves finally realized that trophies were not the only thing the Conductor cherished. At the same time, he realized that the destination he was looking forward to traveling to would be with the Conductor. He sighed at the thought of being with him again.

"That's why I want to get home early, laddie. I need time to get presents for my lovely grandchildren, and I'd hate to let a moon penguin writes a message card on my behalf. The ticket is not valid forever.......Have ye decided what to cut back on?" "Please＿＿＿＿y-you are drunk now. Let's talk again tomorrow...?"

"What?" "Um, well...I- I just... ＿＿＿＿I'm just saying, ...it's not right! You are a musician by profession, aren't you? But lately you don't write songs, and you don't play! If I didn't bring you musical work, you'd merely be a moon penguin! You talk about movies, ＿＿＿＿movies! You haven't made any achievements at all! Just when I think you've finally started writing your own music, it's the theme song for your movie! No one expects you to get a movie trophy! What they want is your new song and your performance! If I didn't get the work, you wouldn't be doing any of it!"

"So?" "Your popularity means reputation to your firm. You knew that, of course. You became a movie director, and do you know how much that affected my results and my producing operation? I gave you ten years of freedom, Grooves. Because I believed you might have other talents besides music! Your fans still remember the mistake you made in the theater on the moon. Only two trophies are not enough to make up for it. You should make it up for it!"

Suddenly, all sound disappeared as he choked. The breathing, the sound of the wind, nothing could be heard.

Grooves almost dropped the receiver. 'No one expects you to get a movie trophy.' Grooves himself knew that. He wasn't taking the trophy for his manager; he wanted it for himself. But somehow, it was still shocking to hear him say it once. The words of denial from the bird that had been so dedicated and supportive of his activities up to this point was heavy and bitter beyond belief. No one, really no one, saw Grooves as a movie director. They supported Grooves not because they believed he had movie talent, but because they believed in him as a star-

"Is that all? Surprisingly few."

The Conductor said, still with the movie on.

"The reason Grooves can only make crappy movies is because he doesn't have the time to do it. There are more things lacking than that, but at least yer one of the reasons. Do ye know how many months it takes to make one movie? It usually takes six months to make a movie that is less than two hours long. Do ye know what happens to a bird when they cannae spend time on their hobbies and private life? They die of alcoholism.＿＿＿＿Ye almost killed me!" "Uh-uh......ya..." "Ye have something to say to me, right? Don't kill me with yer scummy little squabbles, peck neck. Or rather, don't complain about every single thing I do! Don't forbid me to at least eat chips!"

After that, all that followed was sobbing. When the Conductor made a sound that could be either a sigh or a puff of smoke, the sound of the wind became even higher. Grooves listened with his beak open. As usual, he was still amazed by the Conductor's words and actions. Perhaps he was just trying to scold the manager for not listening to his words, but even so, his words were very kind to his rivals, even considering that they came from the Conductor.

"So, what have ye been doing all day? Ye haven't done anything wrong, have ye?" "What do you mean?" "Did ye make the berth beds? Ye have to change all the bed sheets at eight o'clock. The other birds takes care of the food and baggage, but it's yer job to take care of all the passengers' requests." "Hey, I didn't hear that!" "Peck Neck! Did ye think I just drink coffee on the train? I hoped yer not ignoring all the announcements at every station and not disregarding bringing water and meals to the premier ticketed owls!" "Tell me those things in the morning, darling! You could have called me. You didn't leave your work manual anywhere!" "Of course. why do ye think I do? Seriously, what were ye doing?" "I was shopping! I was buying your clothes, curtains and stuff! There's no way a creepy closet like yours! You were planning to go to the birthday party in that tattered uniform or that jacket, weren't you? Think about how your grandchildren feel for a minute!" "What? Nobody cares..." "No, I care! Appearance is a mirror. If I had a birthday party, I'd want my guests to be beautiful. You know why? It's etiquette, it's a sign of respect. You dress your characters in your movies in new clothes. It's the same thing! If you love your grandchildren so much, why don't you dress them appropriately!" "......W-what? Outsiders should not be involved in this!"

His words lost momentum and took on a tinge of awkwardness. Perhaps he is aware of it. Grooves was relieved that it would not take him long to improve.

"It's a mutual thing. You had three TV shows today, and you skipped all of them!" "That's his fault, isn't it? Hey, have ye decided what yer going to cut back on? Have ye decided!?"

There was a loud rattling noise. The manager choked up and answered in a voice so small they could hardly hear him, "I've decided."

"......All right, let's go home." "And give him some water, please. He'll die of dehydration." "Oh! Water? Hey laddie, all we have is whiskey, but ye drink it, dinna ye? ＿＿＿＿Good, good, ye should drink plenty of it. The only good things to taste on the moon are coffee and liquor. Snacks, steaks, everything tastes so bland." "You just have a bad taste buds, darling."

7. He rubbed his stretched muscles and collapsed lethargically onto the soft bed.

Preparing the berths was more difficult than he had expected. It was hard to see in front of him when he was carrying so many sheets, and they were soiled with drool and sweat, and were so large that putting them in a special net was also a challenge. After that, he had to get new sheets from the linen room and set them on the numerous berths, and the repetitive and simple task of moving around with his unaccustomed body caused him to scream easily. Without help, would he have been able to finish making the beds by the time it was time to go? Absolutely not. Grooves got up slowly and headed for the closet.

Not sure if it's always him, but maybe it's not. ＿＿＿＿The pianist helped him.

"Let me help you!" he suddenly appeared at the bedroom door. Remembering what he had said, Grooves thought for a moment about refusing his help, but he didn't have the strength or energy to do so. In the end, the owl did more than half the work and was able to open the door exactly on time.

His voice was filled with a hint of expectation, "You can't relax if you work all the time, can you?" He knew he was saying this because he wanted him to play the piano again, or because he had found a new friend, but it still sounded very heavy to him. Music, performing, and even shooting movies were all work for Grooves.

He wondered what hobbies he had that were not directly related to his, or his work. For a moment, he thought about whether he had such a thing. He believed himself that there must be a lot of things he just couldn't remember, but even at 8:30, the only answer he could come up with was driving. Even watching movies is almost always a work interview for him, and watching TV is also for his own production strategy. He has never really enjoyed variety shows. He is always thinking about how he should respond when someone makes a bad joke and he is asked to answer it, or how he should react when someone says something that is inconvenient for him. Playing a musical instrument, composing music, and so on, are all work if there is remuneration. The yellow owl took several new ties from one of the shopping bags and carefully hung them on hangers. It is true that Grooves had no freedom or time, but perhaps the manager was not the only cause. Maybe it was his own fault for spending all of his free time not for himself, but for others.

For example, if Grooves had a week off, what would he do? He would compose music on Monday, shoot a movie on Tuesday and Wednesday, watch TV on Thursday, memorize a script on Friday, shoot another movie on Saturday, and prepare for his work on Sunday. That's how he would spend his time. Even today, he should have danced at the club on the moon, never mind the Conductor or the train. Then he wouldn't have vomited. He should have done what he really wanted to do, just as the Conductor cancelled all of Grooves' business and spent the day driving and watching movies while breaking four traffic laws.

As a result, the Conductor succeeded in reducing Grooves' workload. All in all, it was a use of his time that Grooves could never have come up with.

Is that the difference between him and himself? ＿＿＿＿Is that the difference between first and second place, gold and silver?

Once all the ties had been putted away, Grooves went back and looked at the balance of the colors. The strong colors of purple, white, yellow-green, red, and turquoise looked great against the dark wood closet. The pattern was also impeccably gorgeous. In Grooves's opinion, everything the Conductor chooses is too safe. Since his coat and shirt are plain, he should at least wear a tie with a pattern. Not the usual checks and polka dots, but something with a print or embroidery, for example.

He repeated the simple task of arranging and hanging the clothes there again and again. Although he did not want to collect the bed sheets, wash them, and re-set them, strangely enough, it was not hard at all for him to arrange the clothes. Either he liked this kind of thing or it simply suited his nature. He couldn't give him a good answer, even though it was his own thing.

He loves shopping. Especially when he buys a lot of beautiful but inexpensive things, he feels the happiest. When he was a kid, he spent all his money on marbles and sequins and things like that. This is because he didn't have to worry about what would happen to them after they broke. Buying musical instruments and furniture is a little tiring, but clothes and supplies are just pure fun. As the yellow owl brushed his coat, he wondered for a moment if he could call this one of his likes.

If this is correct, Grooves has used about half his time today for himself. If he thought about it, shopping for the Conductor was just one of the good reasons he did. At the time, the possibility that he might not be able to come back as the Conductor was a big one, and he didn't know if Grooves would be alive, meaning he didn't know how long he would spend as the Conductor, so he came up with the idea to go shopping and change his environment. But he would have done so even if he had not. The reason didn't matter as long as he could go shopping.

The yellow owl grinned a little. See, he had forgotten that he had some likes. It is only that he had forgotten about it because he had not done it until now.

The closet was a sight to behold when he finished putting everything together. In the morning there was only uniforms and a jacket, but now there was a traffic jam of clothes, a huge flood.

The same is true of the vanity, which was filled only with old air. It was hard to imagine its owner's tattered feathers from the multicolored containers that now lined them.

After taking care of everything, he looked once more into the well-polished mirror.

The golden feathers glistened softly in the gentle apricot-colored lighting. They were as smooth and fluffy to the touch as they looked. It would take a few more months to see the true beauty of his feathers, as they would not all be in good condition in a day. They were never as strong in color as the reflected light of trophies, but somehow looking at them filled his heart. After all, appearance is a mirror. His feathers looked much better now, when he was happy, than when he looked in the mirror in a terrible feeling.

He wanted him to have continued to take care of him. Grooves doesn't feel good looking at shaggy feathers, and it makes him feel emptier than he should when he thinks about how many times he's been beaten by the owner of those feathers. What to do, he thought, as he settled down on his old coffee-scented couch. Is that bird the kind of bird that will figure out how to do it on its own and make the most of it? No way. If he had such a positive attitude, he would have made more movies in differences. He leaned his back hard against the backrest and turned his head to look at the room. It was then that he noticed for the first time that his neck turned a great deal. He stroked his neck, trying to see where the bones were, only learned that the feathers were smooth to the touch from the treatment. He kept turning his neck from side to side, this way and that, looking for something useful.

But within two minutes, the yellow owl sat up and took a letter set out of his shopping bag. He hadn't expected to use it so quickly, but it was unavoidable. There were no notebooks, pens, or, worse, pencils in the Conductor's room. He must have done all his work digitally. He opened the pen, inwardly mocking his rivals, saying that this is why his inspiration is dead and he can only make boring movies.

After writing out the template, he wrote about the day's events as he thought of them. For starters, Grooves had to apologize to the Conductor to some extent. Of course, it was about the pianist and the birthday party. He did not dare apologize for the shopping. They were absolutely, positively necessary purchases for the Conductor. Honestly speaking, he did not remember how much the total cost was, but it should not have been that much since he only purchased a few pieces of clothing, grooming, and a few pieces of furniture. ＿＿＿＿While writing the sentence, the back of the couch came off and broke. Exclaiming that it was no way, he left the couch and decided to continue writing in the empty coach.

The rearmost coach, the one closest to the caboose, was quiet and cold. He thought it was air-conditioned, but it was not, apparently because the sun was not rising. He buttoned up his coat, sat down in one of the many seats, and spread a letter set on the table. He closed the curtains, turned on the table lamp, and quickly pressed the tip of his pen to the paper.

He tried to be as clear and concise as possible in explaining how to use the many beauty products crammed into the vanity. There were a sizable number of things he wanted him to say or do, but he compromised them to some extent, writing only that he usually applied treatments and that brushing alone was fine.

Grooves knew. The best entrance into anything is not given by others, but by one's own interest. If the Conductor's grandchildren noticed the slightest change in their grandfather, he would take himself somewhat more seriously about his appearance. Anything is fine. For example, a soft feather or a nice scent. If the Conductor strokes them or picks them up, they should notice the change immediately. Whatever it is, if they notice a change in their grandfather and say it out loud, he will start to pay a little more attention to his appearance. The Conductor will never listen to what Grooves says, but he will listen and act on what his grandchildren say.

Speaking of changes, a description of the closet also needed to be written. Grooves bought a lot of ties and non-uniform clothes and stuffed them in there. The ties are all colorful, but as far as shirts and pants go, they are all black and white, so unless you put them together really badly, you should be decently dressed. After he had written all he wanted to write, he stopped holding the pen. There was still space left on the paper even though there was nothing left to write. Grooves was too old to come up with a doodle.

He decided to have something to drink, as he usually did when he was stuck working on a script. He went back to the Conductor's room and looked in the pantry, which was full of coffee beans. It was already night. Not in the mood for caffeine-laden coffee, he looked for packages of tea, juice, and other drinks. Then, among a pile of colorful them, he found an old paper bag. Surprised and dismayed that he was still hiding such a thing, he took it and examined what it contained.

Along with a small bouquet of dried flowers, the paper bag had a message card attached to it. "May everything you want to do go well."＿＿＿＿Whose words were they, and who wrote them in the first place? He felt impatient, as if he had seen something he was not supposed to see. The handwriting was gentle and calm, clearly not that of the Conductor. He opened the bag with trepidation and looked at its contents. It contained several sets of tea bags. They smelled of chamomile. There was only a tiny bit in the large bag, disproportionately small. He returned it quietly to the pantry, shocked.

Eventually, he grabbed his pen again as he sipped the non-cafeined apple flavored tea. As expected, he couldn't bring himself to use that tea bags. It was filled with so much love that even Grooves, an outsider, could tell that he couldn't use it. It must have been made for the Conductor by someone who loved him and gave it to him as a gift.＿＿＿＿And maybe the Conductor knows this, so he is consuming a little bit at a time. That's why the contents were less.

It is not easy to know someone's private parts unless you have the courage to do so. Grooves was a little upset because he had just learned yet another one of his rival's secrets. He downed it with a flavored tea and slowly exhaled air.

A bluish-white light was peeking through a gap in the curtains. It was moonlight. Grooves opened the curtains slightly and looked out the car window at the view beyond.

The desert was white and the sky was black, and many stars were twinkling on it as if they were sprinkled with paint. It was beautiful, he thought honestly. Normally the stars are not visible on the moon, and you cannot see such a magnificent starry sky from Dead Bird Studio, either. It is precisely because it is a lonely desert with nothing bright around that the stars look so beautiful. He looked at it for a while, forgetting about the paper bag and the letter. The cacti and rocks illuminated by the moonlight were all dyed white and looked fantastic. Grooves suddenly looked at his hands. The golden feathers looked white in the bright white night light and blue in the shadows.

The template is usually to end these letters with a phrase of thanks, and he didn't know of any other way to end it neatly.＿＿＿＿He still wasn't sure if he should be thanking that thing or not, but for the time being, he decided to say thank the yellow owl after all, since he had more time to make the movie because of his actions. The way he did it was definitely rough, but it was worth it just to know that he wouldn't get less work if he didn't do that much. ……If Grooves had been able to talk to the manager properly, Conductor would not have had to do that. Thinking about that made him feel just a little bit sorry. Then, just as he was about to finish writing the last part, he remembered that he had finally saved his life. If the Conductor had not woken up, Grooves might have choked to death with a bottle of liquor down his throat. He signed his name with mention of that as well.

He folded it neatly and placed it in an envelope. He cleaned his room and organized the scattered illustrated books and novels just to put it on his desk, though he did not seal it, as he was sure it would be opened soon. (Of course, he had no proof of this. He just wished it were. Just the thought of having to ride the train for a week was horrifying.)

So he hoped that one day soon the conductor would read this letter. And he wanted to see again the golden morning when he wakes up not as a train conductor, but the dark morning when he wakes up as a musician of the moon.

He turned off the lights in his room and snuggled into a pile of blankets. The desert at night was cold, and from the moon penguin's point of view, it was no less so than the moon's.

8. A familiar alarm sounded.

Grooves opened his eyes almost reflexively. He was still swimming in a blur of consciousness, listening to the sound of horns and air coming from outside. No smell, no light. But the alarm went off, so it was morning. Grooves staggered up and stretched. There was a bright white carpet, red bedding, an acoustic guitar, an amplifier, and an upright piano on display. He looked around in order and finally caught sight of a cabinet that housed small replica trophies. There was only two Bird Movie Award trophies, and all the others were filled with trophies he had received when he won music-related competitions, that beloved cabinet.

He stared at it and thought, "The cabinet is there." Then, a few beats later, he realized he was a moon penguin.＿＿＿＿Not the yellow owl, nor the Conductor of the Owl Express.

He did not shout, dance, or try to do anything spectacular. This was probably because he knew that somewhere along the way, this would happen. A feeling of relief rather than joy filled him.

He hummed and went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Then, as he was accustomed to doing, he poured hot water into the instant powder, mixed it quickly, and drank it. It tasted the same as usual. As usual …… But somehow, it seemed extra wonderful to him today. It was good that he is a moon penguin. It was good to be a star. It is good to be a musician, good to love science fiction, good to live on the moon. He thought about it over and over, thankful for everything that made up who he was anyway, from the little things to the big things. It was good that he did not have to lose this.

He returned to his room with his still hot coffee in hand. He soon discovered an unfamiliar sheets of paper on his desk, where he organized.

When he took it up and read it, it was immediately apparent that it was printed. The font, designed to be easy to read with dots, was aligned with the same spacing. It must have been the Conductor who wrote it. He decided to read it, but he was a little surprised to know that he had done the same thing. It started out with an apology. He wrote he was sorry about missing work and about that drive. It also said that he had canceled all of his work for the week because he didn't think this condition would be fixed anytime soon. Then, without a pause, he added a few quips about how to drink. If want to get drunk, he wrote, don't drink expensive liquor at home, buy cheap liquor at a gas station and drink it. Grooves put his fin to his beak, about to say, "I knew it."

Surprisingly, he ended on a thankful note. "I still don't know what kind of things you bought, but I hope they weren't anything fancy." "My grandchildren and daughter might be happier with something you picked out for them than I would be with something I did myself." Satisfied, he read the back of the note.

P.S. I bought 30 movies, or maybe 40, that's about it. Don't try to fight me with your scummy movies. You should watch these and learn how to direct.

He had a bad prediction. Grooves hurriedly turned on his laptop and checked his movie purchase history. The list was indeed filled with movies he had never seen before. The pages that used to be jam-packed with red, blue, and yellow were no longer there, and sepia colors such as brown and black dominated the list. The director of it may or may not have been the Conductor. Perhaps he bought movies he liked. With Grooves' money, of all things. Puzzled, he calculated the amount he had spent from his balance. Old movies were basically expensive, partly because they commanded a premium price. It was hardly much different from the amount Grooves had spent on shopping with the Conductor's money.

^^^^^

Thanks for reading to the end! I was going to make this a more light-hearted and fun story, but... If they switched they would probably act for themselves. However, while Grooves tries to protect the Conductor's life to some extent, the Conductor has no respect for Grooves' life at all. He threatened the manager only because he was a distraction to him, not because he cared about Grooves. However, their actions for their own sake ultimately benefit the rival. Why? Because they are very much alike. Have a good day!!

#a hat in time #ahit conductor #the conductor #ahit dj grooves #dj grooves #ahit fanfic #my fic #my answers

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dr-abitat-blog · 2 months ago

Text

Day 23: "Hey?! Stay with me, okay?!"

@ailesswhumptober

T/W: Captivity, experimentation, implied referenced character death, illness, vomiting

The characters of Hatter, White Rabbit and King of Hearts belong to @whumpsmith

“Dee!”

Alex immediately runs forward to support my shivering form. The two guards all but throw me onto the cold floor of our bunker, like I’m nothing more than a rag doll. They almost remind me of Hatter’s goons — but much meaner.

“What the heck did you do to him?!”

Somewhere I hear Nick growling, followed by other bad words I won’t repeat. I must look pretty awful. I really feel awful.

“H-hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

A pair of warm arms wrap around my body, holding me in a supportive hug. I peer up with teary glazed eyes, sniffling ever so slightly. Just lifting my head feels like an extreme effort. Everything hurts.

“A…lex…?”

“Y-yeah. It’s me. Oh God, Dee…” His blurred white and grey form goes all fuzzy in front of my eyes. His own brown ones are wide with concern. It looks a little like he’s crying too, his black hair all tangled and messy as he helps me sit up. I gratefully let him guide me, too exhausted to do much else. My body aches and burns from the usual testing. I used to scream and plead with them to stop, but now — I know that they won’t, so pleading is useless. You just have to grit your teeth, close your eyes and be brave.

Be brave like a hero.

Sometimes I try to pretend that I’m King of Hearts, strapped down in the Hatter’s lair, being tortured into giving up where White Rabbit is hiding — except a rescue doesn’t come. It never comes — and it doesn’t stop. Not until they’ve finished all of their horrible tests. Then it’s back here, to our ‘home’. It took time to adjust — especially after they moved us a few times — but now we have a routine going. I at least know what to expect — and I know when the pain ends.

First, we wake up together at 7 AM sharp. Then we have breakfast and they take us to have a wash down. That’s usually being hosed down until we’re clean. After that they take us intermittently one by one for testing. It hurts. It hurts so much. They stab us with needles, or shock us, or inject things through our veins. After that we’re allowed to rest. We have dinner. We tell each other stories before lights out and then we go to sleep. A lot of the time I get nightmares. Alex comforts me if I get them. He’s like the brother I never had.

I have no idea how long we’ve been here, but I do remember what happened before this. There were sixteen of us on this residential hospital programme. It was meant to help us feel better about our mental health — but they were just experimenting on us, like mice in a lab. We escaped — well, not all of us. Joe didn’t make it. I still miss him. Then we got taken to a place like this for ‘safety’ and they split us all up. I haven’t seen Ash and Levi for so long — and then Sam got moved a long time ago too. I don’t know where any of them are. Maybe I never will.

At least I have Alex — and the other boys who are still alive. Nick used to frighten me because he got very mad very easily, but he can’t help it, like I can’t help my stimming, or finding bright lights and loud noises too overwhelming. Now he’s quite nice, usually protecting us. Theo is nice too, although his pink hair dye has worn off now, revealing his natural dark brown hair. Josh was with us for a while too, but…I think he failed his last test.

What if I fail my test?

That thought scares me. I don’t want to fail. I don’t want to be all alone. I-I want to see Mom again…

“Come on, let’s get you into bed. Theo, give me a hand.”

“Coming, Al — hang on, buddy, we got you.”

Together, they half carry my limp form over to my bunk bed. I got to pick which one I wanted. The other boys already here — Ray, Leon and Gus — have also started warming up to us. They’re nice but quiet. I notice them watching me as Alex and Theo help me into bed.

“N-no more hurting,” I murmur weakly.

“No more today, Dee. Here, drink some water. Slow sips, that’s it.”

Whilst Alex starts letting me drink the water, the guards stride into our small bunker, walking straight up to Nick.

“Your turn.”

“Fudge you,” he growls (well, he didn’t really say that, but I don’t want to repeat bad words), but still lets them drag him off with a few defiant struggles. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine—!”

His reassuring yell gets cut off by the door locking behind them. That leaves the rest of us in silence, my head throbbing and pulsing. The water does help a bit. Alex and Theo remain quiet, just watching me and keeping me company until the exhaustion takes over and I slip into quiet sleep.

I don’t know how long I sleep for. Probably a few hours, since Alex wakes me up for dinner. The stew is way too lumpy in texture for me to eat. I end up gagging on it and having to go without. Nick also chooses to miss out on dinner. He got back an hour ago and he hasn’t really said much. When the others have finished eating, we all go back to our beds to rest. I don’t get much rest though. Something feels…off. That ‘something’ soon becomes obvious when I start violently throwing up all over my bed-sheets.

“C-Cody!”

The others immediately surround me. My entire body feels weak and shivery. The smell of my vomit only makes me throw up again. Alex rubs my back gently, supporting me as I start to fall back onto my back.

“What’s wrong with him?” “No doubt a side effect of whatever fudging thing they were testing.”

Gus lets out a gasp.

“I-is that…blood?”

The others quickly take a look. I don’t want to, but the expressions on their faces suggest that it is.

Oh no…

“D-Dee…you’re burning up.”

Alex’s hand presses against my clammy forehead. I shiver again, my breathing suddenly becoming harder.

“Wh-what’s…happen…gnnk..”

“I-I don’t know—someone call a nurse or something!” “Like they’ll do anything, Four Eyes.”

“Shut up, Nick—Leon! Call them! Call them now!”

I hear the panic rising in Alex’s voice. Leon soon disappears, banging on the door.

“Hey! HEY! We need help in here!” The minutes pass — no one comes. I throw up again — twice. Tears roll down my cheeks as I pant for breath. My mouth tastes horrible. Everything feels all spinny. My eyelids are really…heavy.

“L-Lex…nngh…so…tired…”

His grip on me tighten. He even gives me a little shake.

“F-fight it. You have to fight it, Dee,” Alex tells me shakily. “I-I know you’re tired, but if you close your eyes whilst you’re like this, how are we to know that you’ll ever open them again?”

“Nngh…”

The world pulses around me. The spinning continues. My eyes droop—

“Hey?! Stay with me, okay?!”

He shakes my shoulders. Through the blur, I notice the tears behind his glasses, crawling down his face. “P-please, Dee — stay awake. Stay with us.”

“Y-yeah, we’re right here. Just don’t close your eyes, okay?”

All of them are…so concerned about me. It’s nice to be surrounded by friends, by people that care.

“I…want…Pad…dy…”

“You’ll see him again, Dee. I-I promise, you’ll see that big fluff-ball again soon, so you have to stay awake, no matter what? Got it?”

I don’t answer immediately, drawing in a strained breath.

Keep eyes open…keep…eyes…op…en….

“Nngh…read…to me…”

“H-huh?”

My request takes them aback for a few seconds — until Nick finally understands.

“Your comic? Y-you want your comic, Dee?”

“M-mhmm…”

“Okay — hey, someone grab it!” There’s an odd scuffle as the others move a little closer. Ray is the one to grab my precious comic, flicking to the last dog-eared page.

“It was…page sixty two that we reached last night, right?” I nod weakly, leaning back against Alex. His hands tremble a little as he runs them through my curled brunette hair. “Okay…King of Hearts and the Cards of Calamity—”

“I got it.”

To my surprise, it’s Nick who takes the comic. It’s Nick who starts to read aloud to me. When he once laughed at me for my childish interests in superheroes, now he reads with me. “King of Hearts had had quite the day. Since he and White last overcame the Mad Hatter he…h-he was ready for a break. Except…heroes don’t get breaks.”

I blink groggily at him, tearing up a bit as he continues to read. “One day, he was out…at Central Park when he came across…a tarot reader who could…share his fortune. She used a…deck…of her own…cards…to read his…”

The words start to fade in my ears. I feel the darkness creeping in from the corners of my eyes. Alex squeezes me gently, even as I struggle to stay awake.

“But…the cards…cursed…him…to be…trapped…with no…other…hero…to…save…”

The last part of the sentence is lost through…a loud boom. The sound of our door being thrown open fades in my ears. I see the hazy figure in the doorway — and then nothing but black.

#whumptober 2024 #whumptober #ailesswhumptober2024 #whump prompt #whump event #oc whump #fic #banner by cafekitsune #whump writing #captivity #experimentation #neurodivergent oc #illness #side effects #I love this baby #Cody is my baby boy

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illumins · 1 year ago

Text

CHAPTER FIVE

Red Bindings

It had been a week since Sora had met Mark, the stranger who had saved her from the oncoming car. His features had etched themselves sharply into her memory. Whenever she closed her eyes and delved into her thoughts, she swore she could feel his warmth, his name lingering longer than it should, drifting in and out like an echo.

Deep inside, she wished she had been clever enough to find a way to see him again. Damn, I should have suggested buying him a meal as a thank you, she mused to herself. However, Sora quickly shook her head, disagreeing with her own notion, and began roughly washing bits of fruit from a plate. Doesn't matter either way. I wouldn't even know what to say to him. I just would have been awkward. Turning around after drying her hands on a small rag, Sora headed to the front door of her home.

As she slipped into her shoes, Sora called out for Areum, who was still preparing herself in Sora's room. “Areum, let's go, or the flea market will close before we get there.”

Heavy footsteps echoed from above as Areum descended the stairs. “Don't worry, the place doesn't close for another hour.”

Sora scoffed, muttering to herself, “An hour isn't that long.”

Her attention now on Areum, Sora glanced over her friend's outfit. Areum always went everywhere dressed impeccably, a woman of style to say the least. Her calm, brunette curls framed her shoulders beautifully, her green emerald eyes exuding a finer beauty than andradite. Soft, pale skin accentuated her features even more. On this chilly, sunny day, Areum wore a white thigh-length dress with small rose designs scattered here and there.

Sora, on the other hand, wore a dark green mini skirt borrowed from Areum and a white shirt. Her brunette hair cascaded in layers to her upper back, and her eyes were a russet color. It wasn't that she disliked dressing nicely, it was more the time it took to do so. Nonetheless, she always tried to look presentable wherever she went, even to a flea market, where both she and Areum planned to visit on a Saturday evening.

Nana had hurriedly sent Sora out of the house with rushed words, not wanting to keep her any longer. She hesitated about leaving Nana behind on her own, even though she knew she could manage for three hours alone. Yet, in the back of her mind, worry gnawed at her. What if Nana had one of those intense coughing attacks she sometimes had? Or what if she started vomiting blood again, like before?

From behind, Areum silently watched as Sora engaged in a self-debate, her mouth forming a pout and her eyebrows furrowing. Sighing and rolling her eyes, Areum approached her and lightly slapped her shoulder. “Get out of there,” Areum pointed to Sora's head, “and let's head out.”

Sora took a deep breath and offered a reassuring smile when she felt her mind settle. “Let's go enjoy ourselves, then.”

The flea market bustled with life as people strolled around, visiting each vendor. Whether they intended to buy something or were just browsing, every vendor greeted them with a cheerful smile. Oak trees surrounded the outdoor market, their leaves rustling against each other as a gentle gust of wind swept through the area. Sheer tarps in shades of red, beige, and green covered the market, shielding shoppers from the sun's harsh rays. Acoustic bands and solo musicians played tunes intermittently. It all breathed a brighter version of life that Sora needed.

As they passed a juice vendor, Sora abruptly halted when she spotted the menu, ‘Passion Fruit.’ A radiant smile lit up her face, and she immediately grabbed Areum, who had been inspecting a display of sunglasses behind her.

“That!” Sora pointed excitedly at the drink.

“That?” Areum raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, get me that.”

Areum retrieved her wallet. “Are you sure you want to use up your one gift from me today on that?”

Sora shot her friend a jokingly stern look. “Now.”

“Okay, suit yourself,” Areum said, ordering a cup of passion fruit juice from the vendor and paying in cash. A few moments later, Sora had her sugary drink, and she took huge sips, feeling her spirits lift with each one.

Observing her, Areum laughed and continued to wander deeper into the market, her eyes scanning everything in their path. And just as before, something else caught Sora's attention.

Wandering away from Areum, Sora wove her way through the crowd until she was inches away from a bright red item. Hanging in front of her were woven bracelets adorned with small charms. The bright red one had a silver, open-winged dove and two small opal stones on each side. “Opal, like my birthstone,” Sora thought.

Stretching her arm out, she reached for it, but another hand intercepted and grabbed it before her.

Startled, Sora looked at the person who had swiped the bracelet from her grasp. Instead of getting upset, she reasoned with herself, Perhaps they saw me struggling and were just helping bring it down for me. So, she extended her hand, waiting for the beautiful jewelry to land in her palm. However, there was only emptiness and silence. She looked up at the man, who had completely ignored her, engrossed in examining the bracelet as it played between his fingers.

The man had semi-long honey-brown hair that brushed over his eyes, and he wore a loose white blouse and fitted jeans. A scent of cedarwood enveloped him, capturing Sora's attention like a lingering fragrance, something warm and familiar. Shaking herself out of her thoughts, she felt a growing annoyance. I'm right here, you ass.

Clearing her throat, she continued to hold out her hand, this time more insistently, waiting for the beautiful piece of jewelry to be returned. Yet, there was only silence.

“Yes?” the man finally asked, looking down at her.

“I was getting that bracelet first,” Sora pointed to it.

“Oh, were you?” he replied, straightening himself, his hand still playing with the bracelet.

“Yes, and you clearly saw me reaching for it.”

He took a moment to assess her, then scoffed, “Not really, you're pretty easy to overlook.”

Frustration bubbled inside her. “Give me the bracelet, please.”

He stared at her for a few moments, analyzing her irritated expression, which he had caused. “...how annoying,” he muttered to himself.

Hearing his comment, Sora crossed her arms over her chest, holding back the irritation threatening to spill over. “Do you actually want the bracelet or not?”

“Well, obviously. That's why I grabbed it,” he replied, gesturing towards Sora's passion fruit drink sitting on the vendor's wooden stand. “Your drink is going to leave a stain on the wood. Pick a better drink, too.”

Just as Sora was about to snap back at him, a familiar voice called out to her. “Sora?”

Turning back, she saw the man who had occupied her thoughts: Mark. Her irritation and anger vanished, replaced by a sense of curiosity and surprise. It's him, the one from that night.

With a newfound warmth in her demeanor and a welcoming smile, Sora greeted him, “Hey, Mark.”

“I guess you made it home safely, huh?” Mark said, making himself comfortable in the small space Sora had left.

For a moment, Sora had forgotten about the man who had taken her bracelet. However, as her gaze lingered on Mark's gentle features, the looming presence of the other man brought her back to reality. Focusing on him, she noticed that his smirk had disappeared, and his eyes remained fixed on Mark's presence. Unable to resist, she glanced up at Mark, who also maintained eye contact before turning his gaze back to her. His eyes shifted from joy to a smile.

The man scoffed one last time and dropped the bracelet onto the wooden table. “Suit yourself, nobody.”

With that, he disappeared into the crowd, weaving through the people. Sora's gaze remained fixed on the spot where she had last seen him, but a bright red bracelet interrupted her reverie as Mark dangled it in front of her.

“I'm guessing you want this?”

Taking it from him slowly, she nodded. “Yeah, but that jerk took it from me.”

Mark chuckled lightly and then hummed to himself, “Then let's make it yours.” He took out cash from his back pocket and handed the money to the vendor before pointing at the bracelet Sora held.

Realizing that Mark had just bought her the piece of jewelry, she insisted on paying him back. “Oh god, Mark, no. Here,” she reached into her bag and pulled out the same amount he had paid, “take this.”

Grabbing her clenched hand with money, he held it between both of his hands. “Pay me back with a dessert?”

Sora wanted to say yes, but her eyes kept lingering on his sweet smile and their current contact. Yes, of course! As she was about to agree to his demand, the happy tone of her friend's voice emerged from afar.

“Ooh, Sora,” Areum sing-sang.

Immediately, Sora withdrew her hand from Mark's and turned to Areum. “Yes?”

“You won't believe the guy I just met. Handsome as hell,” she halted abruptly upon spotting Mark next to Sora.

“And he is?” Areum inquired.

Sora offered a sheepish smile. “This is Mark.”

“Oh, well, hi, Mark,” Areum greeted.

Mark extended his hand for a handshake. “Nice to meet you, Sora's friend.”

“Areum,” Sora whispered to him.

“Ah, nice to meet you, Areum,” he corrected himself.

Mark scanned the market as if he were searching for something or someone, which caught Sora's attention. Just before excusing himself, he turned to Sora one last time.

“Every Cafe at 6:00 pm on Tuesday?”

This time, Sora beamed brightly and nodded. “Yes.”

“Alright, nice seeing you again.”

As he walked away, Sora waved him off, dismissing the intrigued looks Areum was giving her.

“Well, this is interesting,” Areum smirked.

#kpop fanfic #kpop ff #kpop au #kpop vampire au #haechan au #haechan vampire #vampire haechan #haechan fanfic #haechan #mark lee #mark fanfic #nightdoveseries #illumins

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gender-i-hardly-know-er · 3 years ago

Note

"Just five more minutes." with Logan +anyone

sorry this took forever lmao but here :] i made it loceit bc i love them

could be platonic or pre-romantic, whatever you want

warnings- swearing, vomiting, stress, a lil arguing

~~~

Logan was the first to wake up, most days. He made breakfast, started on chores, and planned for the rest of the day, all before anyone else was out of bed.

Unfortunately, today was not most days.

When Janus came downstairs, Logan was nowhere to be seen. No coffee, no breakfast, no sign of his normal routine. Logan never slept in… something had to be wrong.

No one else was awake; Janus decided that the responsibility of checking on Logan must fall to him. He walked upstairs to Logan’s door, taking care not to wake anyone else. He knocked softly, and spoke as quietly as he could.

“Logan? Are you alive?”

No response. He tried again.

“Logan. You’re always up by now. What’s the problem?”

Nothing.

“Okay, be that way. I’m coming in-”

“Just five more minutes…” Janus took a step back at the sound of Logan’s voice. It was hoarse; he sounded sick.

“Are you feeling o-” he was cut off by what sounded like… retching.

Janus threw the door open to find Logan in bed, leaning over the side. He looked wrecked. Virgil-level circles under his eyes, hair wild, and glasses missing from his face, his grimace was a fitting accessory to his overall state. There was a- ugh- puke bucket on the floor where Logan was leaning.

“...You’re sick”

“Great observation, Janus. A regular Hercule Poirott.” Janus had never heard Logan use that level of sarcasm before, his words dripping in irritation punctuated by a pointed eye-roll.

“Oh, I’m so sorry for seeking the clarity you so adamantly preach, I’ll just stick to every assumption I have in the future-” Janus crossed his arms, not to be outdone. Lying and sarcasm were his thing.

“Shut up. Just shut up. Why do none of you ever know how to shut the fuck up?!” Logan’s head was in his hands. “I have a pounding headache, I’ve vomited twice this morning, and my whole body is intermittently experiencing stabbing pains and muscle spasms, I don't have the patience for your bullshit right now!”

Janus was stunned. Logan had never snapped at him like this. He must feel worse than Janus thought.

“... Okay. I’m-” Janus chose his words carefully, trying not to set Logan off again. “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Logan looked at him like he was crazy. “You… you mean that? You want to help?”

Janus was almost offended that Logan thought he’d just leave him here in his misery, but he just nodded. He could’ve sworn he saw Logan’s eyes start watering; he’d keep that to himself, though.

“Could you,” Logan looked at the ground. He was hesitating. He really didn't trust Janus, did he? Janus didn't know why that hurt him; but Logan continued, “Could you make breakfast? I’d do it, but I’m having trouble standing.”

Having trouble standing? God, Logan, what the hell’s happening to you? Despite his worried thoughts (since when did he worry about Logan?), Janus did as he was told. He made the toast he knew Logan ate every morning, grabbed a jar of Crofter’s and a butter knife, and started a pot of coffee. Logan probably wouldn’t want coffee, with how bad he was feeling, but Janus did. He carried Logan’s breakfast to his room, along with a glass of water, and gave them to him, nodding in acknowledgement of Logan’s small “thank you”. They sat in silence as Logan ate and Janus sipped on his coffee. Janus didn't miss the way Logan stared at him when he thought he wasn’t looking.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Janus asked. “This doesn't seem like regular sickness.”

Logan didn't answer for a moment. Janus saw his eyes shifting back and forth, lost in thought. He finally said, “It’s nothing major. No concern of yours,” Janus highly doubted that, but he let Logan continue. “I’d like to go back to bed, just for a bit.”

Janus looked Logan in the eyes. He looked miserable. Janus couldn’t just leave him like this. Not because he cared or anything; that’d be absurd. Because Logan is the only other side around with some goddamn common sense, and if something happened to him, Janus would be fucked. And maybe he did care… a tiny bit… barely at all, really, why would anyone think he cared? He didn't! Mostly-

“I’m sorry, but I can't let you do that yet. Not till you tell me the problem. I’ve never seen you like this- or any of the others, and it’s strange,” Janus explained. “We shouldn’t be able to get sick without Thomas also being sick, or unless he’s going through something that would cause that, like when his ego is bruised.”

“... what does it matter to you?” Logan crossed his arms over his chest. Janus just looked back at him with a raised eyebrow, gesturing vaguely. He really didn't know why he kept asking, but he wasn’t stopping now.

Logan rolled his eyes. “If you must know, I’m suffering from stress-induced nausea and muscle aches. I will be fine. Let me sleep.”

Janus just stared at him as he thought. Stress-induced? Was he really that tense? He glanced at the plate of food and decided Logan had eaten an acceptable amount. He’d had over half his glass of water. Sleeping could do him some good. But Janus knew Logan wouldn’t learn from this. He’d keep taking care of Thomas and everyone else over himself, he’d still let everyone else walk all over him and make him do more work, he’d still let himself get to his breaking point. Janus had to do more.

“What do you need to get done today? I can do some of it for you.”

“No, you don't have to-”

“I know I don't have to. I’m offering. You need your rest. And once you’re up, we need to have a talk about your habits; you need to be more selfish. I’ll take care of some things for you, and you’ll be able to do better in the future. You like efficiency, don't you? You can't be efficient and productive if you’re wearing yourself down like this. You need a break,” Janus saw Logan refusing to meet his eye- he had him. He even used the reasoning Logan loves so much to come to that conclusion.

“... I need to proofread the script for the next video. And prepare for a meeting with the team. Don't fuck it up, please.” Logan turned over in his bed and covered himself with his blanket, effectively ending the conversation.

Janus lingered for a moment before getting up and flicking the light switch off. He left with a quiet, “sleep well” and didn't wait for an answer.

#wow look duck wrote something #sanders sides #logan sanders #janus sanders #loceit #tw vomit #tw vomiting

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xjoonchildx · 4 years ago

Text

greedy | myg x reader | chapter five: do we look like recruiters to you?

summary: being a loner has never bothered yoongi until now. until you.

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: mafia AU, pining, eventual smut

rating: 18+

word count: 6.7K

notes: thank you all so much for rolling with the changes to my posting schedule. it’s been a while since i posted an update and i really wanted to give you guys a chapter. plus it makes more sense, in my mind to break it out like this. in this chapter, you’ll notice that ko starts calling OC “jagiya.” thank you to the korean reader who brought to my attention that my previous nickname for her didn’t fit as well as this one!

anyway, you guys make me endlessly happy with your feedback on this story. i’d love to hear what you think of this chapter. beta read by @hobi-gif because i would wither away without her analysis. also beta’d by the awesome @btsarmy9593 who has been so awesome to give me her feedback. thank you to @augustbutwinter for the words of encouragement. and of course, the boos @ladyartemesia and @untaemedqueen pitched in to help me in this journey as well.

Chapter 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | EPILOGUE

*************************

Min Yoongi wakes up with a problem. Well a few problems, actually.

The first is that he has to pee.

The second is the head-to-toe pain that starts to register the moment his sluggish brain kicks into gear. He starts from the bottom -- gingerly wiggling his toes, carefully stretching his legs -- and slowly works his way up, taking mental inventory of what hurts and what doesn’t.

A lot of shit is landing on the hurts list right now.

The third problem -- and perhaps the most pressing -- is the problem pressing into his side right now.

Your hair is still damp.

Yoongi noses into it and lies in the quiet for a while, breathing you in while you sleep. You smell like his shampoo and his soap. You’re wearing his t-shirt and basketball shorts. You are covered in him; fitted to him. Solid and warm and real.

Which brings him to his next problem.

This is the kind of feeling that’s way too easy to become addicted to. The kind of feeling that makes you do stupid shit. Take away the mangled body and the looming safety concerns and this is easily the best morning of his life.

That’s why when you stir and burrow a bit deeper into his side, Yoongi ignores the pain radiating from his sore ribs. He ignores the way his arm has fallen asleep under you, ignores the intermittent buzzing of his phone from the nightstand warning of missed texts.

He ignores the tiny voice in his head that says don’t get attached to this feeling.

Yoongi ignores everything but you and this because right now, it’s the only thing he wants to think about.

And then he’s drifting off again.

***************************

This time, Yoongi wakes up alone.

The deep steadying breath he takes while he’s trying to work up the nerve to get out of bed hurts like hell.

Everything hurts like hell, actually -- the back of his head where he can feel scrapes left behind by the brick wall, his jaw from where he took that driller to the face. His knee from where he jammed it into that fucking goon’s stomach.

But his shoulder is what’s really fucking everything up right now.

He can’t remember telling you where to find the sling or how you got it on. Can’t remember you positioning his pillows around his injured arm or slipping into bed beside him. He’d been so fucked up by the pain and the adrenaline withdrawal that he’s pretty sure he blacked out at some point.

So Yoongi lies there for a minute, trying to piece together what he can remember of last night.

The memories come back to him blurred and disjointed, out of order.

He remembers feeling like he might vomit when you shoved his shoulder back into place. Awkwardly accepting your help taking off his jeans so he could shower. Nearly falling to his knees under the hot water. Pulling himself together long enough to stash his gun in a drawer when you’d stepped away.

And it’s that last memory that makes his chest go tight.

Last night, hiding his gun seemed like the right thing to do. A way to keep you separate from the ugliness he normalized a long time ago. But this morning the half-assed lie of omission makes him feel guilty as hell. A pathetic attempt to delay the inevitable. Chewing gum jammed into the crack of a dam.

He has to tell you about that gun.

So he gets to work on dragging his ass out of bed. It takes him way too damned long to sit upright, way too damned long to slide himself off the edge of the mattress. Longer than that to slowly limp his way into the bathroom where he pees for what feels like a solid ten minutes.

He’s still rubbing the sleep from his eyes when he spots the bright red toothbrush sitting in the cup on his sink.

It’s just some cheap throwaway he brought home after his last visit to the dentist -- a long-forgotten backup that’s been stashed in the cabinet under the bathroom counter for months. But now it’s sitting out in the open, in that cup. Right next to his own blue one.

Yoongi stares at it and scrubs a hand over his face.

And that tiny voice in his head gets a bit louder.

************************

He finds you seated at his piano, bare-faced and hair tousled. Fingers tracing light patterns across the keys of his custom instrument, gaze taking in all of the tiny details he paid a small fortune for.

He could have stayed there for a while, just appreciating the view had you not caught him staring.

Your dark eyes flick up to find his and Yoongi’s pulse quickens at the warmth in them. At the soft, shy smile that comes over you just before you clear your throat and lower your eyes back to the keys.

“Beautiful,” you sigh.

No kidding, Yoongi thinks.

He crosses the room slowly. Tries his hardest not to limp but the throb in his knee makes that nearly impossible. Sadness flashes across your face as you watch him sink heavily onto the bench beside you.

“I can help you, you know,” you admonish softly.

Yoongi shrugs, motioning to the sling. “You already have.”

He stills when you reach one hand out to brush your fingertips across the redness on his jaw. You stroke your thumb across his aching cheek and Yoongi leans into the touch, savoring the feeling of your skin against his.

“Yoongi,” you whisper, “I’m so sorry you’re hurt, and -- ” you pause to shake your head sadly, “-- and I’m so sorry it’s because I put you in this position.”

Yoongi sucks in a deep breath.

He can’t bring himself to tell you that he can’t think straight when he imagines what could have happened if that fucking goon had gotten you alone. Can’t bring himself to admit out loud that he could have pulled his gun and ended that piece of shit without losing a second of sleep.

Would have, had you not been there.

“Better me than you, Doc,” he says thickly. “You made the right call.”

You press a gentle kiss to his throbbing jaw.

“You still mad at me?”

You whisper the words into the shell of Yoongi’s ear and a slow heat builds in his gut.

“Yeah,” he lies, dropping a kiss on the delicate skin below your jaw. He ghosts the tip of his nose against the curve of your neck and you shudder under his touch. He’s forced to check himself, leaning back for a few inches of badly-needed space.

On the bright side, at least his dick isn’t broken, too.

He clears his throat. “If that guy had brought backup -- ”

“ -- If that guy had brought backup, he’d have been out of the car long before you left his buddy in a pile on the floor,” you interrupt gently.

Yoongi chuckles. “Just admit you’re terrible at following directions.”

“You happen to have your MRI results around here anywhere? I’d be interested to see what they say about that shoulder.”

You raise one brow when Yoongi narrows his eyes at you in response. “No? Well, then I guess I’m not the only one who’s bad at following directions.”

“Guess not,” Yoongi admits with a smile.

Your turn your attention back to his piano, touch reverent as you slide one hand across the rich black lacquer.

“When you first walked in, I was going to say something really dumb like do you play?” you admit with a laugh. “But no one owns something this magnificent unless they have a passion for it.”

“Yeah, I play,” Yoongi murmurs. “When I have two functioning arms.”

He’d intended to earn a laugh with that tease, but the joke falls flat. Sadness creeps back into your features.

“Yoongi,” you say quietly, gaze dropping into your lap. “I honestly don’t know what would have happened to me last night without you. And all I can think about this morning is why? Why did you do this for me?”

Fuck, that’s a loaded question.

If Yoongi had the balls, he’d tell you straight up that he fell for you the moment he laid eyes on you at Songdo . That you feel like his chance at something more. But Yoongi doesn’t say any of that.

Instead, he coughs up a weak white lie.

“We’re both out here flying solo Doc. We have to look out for each other. Besides -- ” he tips your chin up with a gentle press of his fingers and finds your dark eyes glassy with unshed tears. “ -- I have a thing for that smart mouth of yours.”

He earns a tiny smile from you then, just the slightest curve of your lips. And he’s this close to kissing the soft, sad expression right off your face when that voice in his mind fucks everything up again.

Tell her about the gun.

The thought is like a bucket of cold water over his head, jarring him from the intimacy of this moment. Yoongi swallows thickly before opening his mouth to tell you the truth. But before he can speak, you do.

“I have something of yours,” you say, reaching into the pocket of your borrowed basketball shorts. Yoongi watches you produce a worn handmade bracelet and holds his palm open to accept it. “It fell out of your jacket last night,” you explain.

He rubs his thumb over the smooth metal corners of the cross that dangles from aged leather. It brings back the memory of his baptism -- of the day Mrs. Bak proudly gifted it to him while he was still damp from the ceremony. It also brings back the memory of last night -- when he’d clutched it between his fingers and sent a silent plea for protection skyward.

It’s been a long time since he’s prayed. It’s been a long time since he had anything to pray for.

“Are you religious?” you ask softly.

Yoongi shakes his head. “Honestly? I don’t know.” A self-conscious heat creeps up his neck. “Just makes me feel better, I guess. Is that dumb?”

“No,” you reassure quietly, bringing one warm hand up to cup his cheek. Yoongi covers your hand with his, laces his fingers in between yours. “Not dumb at all.”

Tell her about the gun.

“Doc,” Yoongi whispers thickly, “We need to talk about something.”

Your hand falls away from his face and your spine goes stiff with tension and Yoongi almost loses his nerve.

Almost.

“Okay, so I was, uh -- carrying a gun last night,” he starts, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck, “I carry a gun all the time, actually. I hid it because I didn’t want to freak you out.”

You say nothing, expression unreadable. And Yoongi keeps talking.

“But I don’t want to keep things from you,” he says quietly. “I want you to know exactly who I am. No half-truths.”

Your eyes drop back down to the piano. You pluck at one of the keys and a somber note rings out, lingers in the air between you before you speak.

“You have a gunshot wound in your back, Yoongi,” you murmur. “It’s not exactly a leap of logic. Besides, I already saw your gun. It was in your drawer last night when I got you a change of clothes.”

Yoongi nods slowly, processing the fact that you’d discovered the gleaming silver piece and hadn’t written him off right away. You’d still slept in the crook of his arm last night. You’re still here right now.

“And yeah, maybe it does freak me out a bit,” you admit. “But after what I saw last night, maybe I can understand a bit, too.”

Yoongi lets go of the breath he’s been holding and takes your hand in his. Maybe is as good as he could have hoped for at this point. Maybe is not a dead end.

“I have something to tell you, too,” you admit after a moment. “I’m due at the hospital in a few hours.”

“Doc,” Yoongi groans, hand tightening reflexively around yours. “You can’t go back there.”

“I don’t have a choice,” you insist, pulling away. “This isn’t just some job I fell into, Yoongi. This is years of my life.”

Yoongi is quiet for a few seconds, willing his rising agitation to subside. He’s careful to check his tone before he speaks.

“You’re not safe there.”

“I have to go back. I don’t have a choice,” you repeat. “I can’t afford to get blacklisted and Lee is still my boss. And if he’s already got wind of what happened last night, he’s going to be gunning for me even harder than he already has been. I have to tread carefully.”

Yoongi shoves a hand through his hair.

“You have to meet me in the middle here, Doc,” he exhales. “There’s got to be something halfway between you walking right back into that hellhole and you losing your job. Take a couple of sick days. Give me some time to figure out who your boss is working with and what I can do about it. Can you do that?”

You’re quiet for a moment as you consider his proposal.

“Yeah,” you concede softly. “I can do that.”

You lift a hand to brush a lock of hair out of his face and press your mouth to his.

Every cell in Yoongi’s body stands at attention. He cards his fingers into the soft mass of your hair and kisses you slowly -- carefully -- all too aware of the way he’d manhandled you last night.

Not even the pain in his jaw could take away from how good it feels to touch you like this. Not even the ache in his ribs could stop him from leaning into you. He slips his tongue past your lips and you whimper, fingers curling into his sore knee.

He could not give a shit.

Yoongi leaves your mouth to trail kisses down your jaw, and you tip your head back, offering him the soft expanse of your neck. He accepts it gladly, mouth hot and open on your skin, savoring your scent and taste -- enjoying the way he can feel your pulse fluttering wildly under his lips.

He’s enjoying it all so much that he gets careless. The elbow of his injured arm connects with the sharp edge of the piano and he recoils instantly.

“Dammit,” he groans. “Fuck.”

“Oh, shit,” you gasp, clapping a hand over your mouth.

The pain is so potent it seems to radiate all the way from his arm to his temples. Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut as he waits for the ringing in his ears to subside.

“Yoongi, your shoulder, it's -- it’s really bad,” you admonish quietly. “If you keep going like this, the damage is going to be permanent.”

“Trust me, I know,” he sighs. “I’m going to get this looked at, I just haven’t.”

“I want you to see a friend of mine at Asan today,” you urge. “He’s a good doctor. He can get you some pain relief. Get you back to working condition.”

Yoongi nods weakly, pain still ebbing from his arm.

“But it’s not a substitute for an MRI and it’s not a substitute for surgery,” you warn. “This is just a temporary fix. You have to be careful. Whatever you’re planning, just please be careful.”

Yoongi skates the pad of his thumb over your lips before kissing you just one more time.

“Don’t worry about me, Doc,” he murmurs. “I’m going to have some help.”

**************************

It’s amazing what a pair of high-powered steroid shots and a bottle of industrial-strength painkillers can do for a guy.

Yoongi pulls into the parking lot at Maekju feeling almost human again.

If the text messages that have been blowing up his phone all afternoon are any indication, everyone is here tonight. Everyone with the exception of Namjoon, of course. He doesn’t drink anymore and even when he did, he always preferred to drink alone.

Jungkook is the first person Yoongi spots, leaned up against a pool table, beer in hand. He’s watching Jimin and Taehyung face off at billiards while Seokjin and Hoseok sit side-by-side at the bar, deep in conversation.

The maknae’s eyes go a bit wide when he takes in Yoongi’s unusual gait and immobilized arm.

“Holy shit, hyung,” he breathes as Yoongi approaches. “What the hell happened to you?”

Seokjin whips around in his barstool at the sound of Jungkook’s greeting, but Hoseok doesn’t take the bait. He stiffens in his seat but refuses to turn around. Stubborn bastard.

“Yoga accident,” Yoongi mutters, stepping up to the bar next to Seokjin. The older man smirks as he takes a long pull of his beer.

“How’d you drive with that thing on?” Seokjin asks, motioning to Yoongi’s sling.

“Carefully,” Yoongi says dryly. “Listen, can you give me a minute with Jung here?”

Seokjin’s critical gaze bounces back and forth between Yoongi and Hoseok, who is still resolutely pretending not to notice the conversation taking place just inches from his face. He stares into a television mounted high above the bar and sips his whiskey with feigned indifference.

“You two need couple’s counseling, I swear,” Seokjin groans, rolling his eyes. He stands to his feet to relinquish his barstool and claps a hand over Yoongi’s good shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Hoseok, the fucking infant, grabs a newspaper abandoned on the bartop and proceeds to pretend to read it. Yoongi slides into the stool next to him anyway.

“Miss me?”

Hoseok doesn’t answer.

“You’re not gonna say hello? Not gonna ask me why it looks like I spent all night falling off a cliff?”

“Nope.”

Yoongi waves off the bartender who starts walking in his direction. The last thing he needs is a drink. He’s got so many painkillers in his system right now that one sip of booze would probably have him under the bar in seconds.

“Come on Hoseok,” Yoongi sighs. “Don’t be a dick. I’ve literally never seen you read a newspaper.”

“I like to stay informed,” Hoseok shrugs.

“Well, I’m trying to talk to you.”

“Oh, so you talk to me now?” Hoseok snickers. “That’s new.”

Hoseok’s probably earned the right to his petulance, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying. Yoongi starts to reconsider that drink.

“Jung,” he groans. “I’m trying to apologize here.”

“So apologize then.”

“Fine,” Yoongi mutters. “I’m sorry I’ve been an asshole lately. I’ve been twisted up over some shit that has nothing to do with you or family business.”

Hoseok grabs his whiskey off the bar and finally -- finally -- pivots to face him.

“A giant asshole,” he corrects dryly.

“Yes. A giant asshole,” Yoongi repeats. “We good now?”

Hoseok sips his whiskey slowly, eyes narrowed at Yoongi over the lip of his glass.

“Buy me a drink.”

“Fine,” Yoongi hisses, flagging the bartender.

Hoseok leans back in his barstool, looking a bit smug.

“Now this shit you’ve been twisted up about,” he starts, brow cocked. “Would this have anything to do with your secret doctor friend?”

“Maybe,” Yoongi admits, scratching at the back of his neck. His injured shoulder is tired from carrying the extra weight of the sling. He rolls it gingerly as Hoseok looks on.

“Would this have anything to do with why you look like you got jumped on your way in here tonight?”

Yoongi’s cheeks warm at his partner’s blunt observation. “Maybe.”

Hoseok drains his whiskey just as the bartender arrives with a fresh one. He takes a long drink before setting his glass back down on the bar. His lips purse thoughtfully as he levels Yoongi with a long, assessing look.

“Okay,” he says calmly. “So who do we have to go fuck up?”

**************************

Dr. Lee Geon just looks like a fucking weasel.

Yoongi glares at the man as he strolls into the coffee shop a few blocks from Songdo with just minutes to spare to his shift.

Lee bears little resemblance to his photos on the hospital website.

He’s thin -- just this side of gaunt -- hollow cheeks prominent below dark under eyes beneath a sparse dusting of greasy hair. Were he not dressed in a rumpled lab coat and equally creased scrubs, Yoongi might have missed him entirely.

Across the room, Hoseok peers at Yoongi over the top of yet another borrowed newspaper -- is this the guy? -- and Yoongi answers with a furtive nod.

He goes over the plan they’d worked out in the car in his head. They’d find the guy -- make sure he was the guy -- and then follow him out of the shop. Catch him just before he got into his car. Shake him up a bit before shaking him down for information.

There’s one thing Yoongi still hasn’t worked out, though.

Just how much he’s going to allow himself to hurt this asshole before sending him on his way. Lee slowly shuffles his way to the front of the line as Yoongi imagines jamming his fist into the man’s stupid fucking face. Imagines doing it over and over again until the piece of shit is unrecognizable.

Yoongi watches Lee order his drink as he kneads at the tender muscles of his shoulder.

Ditching the sling was probably a bad idea -- definitely against doctor’s orders -- but it was a risk he was more than willing to take. He’d downed a couple of painkillers and shoved his shoulder into a brace and decided he could deal with the dull throb just for the night.

No way in hell he was going to confront this scumbag looking like some kid who just fell off his skateboard.

It doesn’t take long for the barista to put together Lee’s drink. He grabs his coffee and Yoongi tenses in anticipation of his next move. But instead of heading for the exit, Lee heads for the bathroom instead.

Yoongi locks eyes with Hoseok across the room and Hoseok raises one brow.

Change of plans?

Yoongi nods.

*****************************

Lee’s coffee sits abandoned atop the sink ledge.

Yoongi and Hoseok slip silently into the bathroom and get right to work. Hoseok blocks the door as Yoongi quietly creeps past the stalls, ducking his head to peer beneath each one. Lee’s scuffed sneakers are the only pair of shoes he spots.

His ears pick up on a faint sound coming from inside the locked stall.

It’s a kind of soft, intermittent rasping. Yoongi concentrates on the noise, isolates it until he comes to the realization that it’s sniffling he’s hearing. He turns to Hoseok and taps his finger against the side of his nose and Hoseok nods his agreement.

Yoongi shakes his head in disgust. Is there a single substance this idiot isn’t addicted to?

It takes a moment for the sniffling to subside. It’s followed by a few seconds of quiet rustling in which Yoongi can picture Lee carefully pocketing whatever’s left of his coke. The noises from behind the brushed steel barrier finally stop and the next thing Yoongi hears is the distinct clink of the latch coming apart.

Lee swings the door wide -- gets one look at what’s waiting for him on the other side -- and nearly jumps out of his skin.

He startles so hard that he almost falls backward into the toilet. But he catches himself, regaining his balance and staring back at Yoongi with wide, worried eyes.

Yoongi stands there and says nothing.

“Excuse me,” Lee mumbles, eyeing him wearily as he tries to slide past. He takes two steps forward then stops in his tracks when he spots Hoseok. Lee swallows thickly, eyes darting back and forth between both men.

“Is there a problem gentlemen?” he croaks.

Yoongi takes a step towards Lee. He shrinks back when Yoongi reaches for his badge, yanking the retractable cord as he pulls it close to examine it. Yoongi runs his thumb over the raised lettering on the laminated card, letting the taut silence linger for dramatic effect.

Then he lets go of the badge without warning, fighting a smile when Lee flinches as it snaps back into place.

“Yes, we have a problem,” Yoongi confirms pleasantly. “And yes, it’s you.”

The little color left in Lee’s face immediately drains out.

“Look, I don’t know who you guys are, but you don’t w-want to mess with me,” he stammers, voice cracking comically halfway through his flimsy threat. “I know people.”

“Oh shit,” Yoongi’s eyes go wide with feigned concern, “You hear that, Jung? This guy knows people.”

“Sounds scary,” Hoseok chuckles.

Lee starts to breathe harder, chest rising and falling faster. Pupils blown with fear and coke.

“Now, here’s the difference between you and us, Dr. Lee,” Yoongi explains calmly. “You know people. But we -- ” he motions to himself and then to Hoseok, “ -- are people . Do you understand what I’m trying to say here?”

Yoongi punctuates his point by brushing the edge of his open leather jacket aside, allowing his pistol to peek out from underneath. Lee’s eyes lock on it as he nods slowly, pulling deep, noisy breaths through his nose.

“Great. Now we don’t have to play the game where you pretend not to know about the bullshit you’ve been pulling over at the hospital, right?”

Lee shakes his head slowly.

“So that means we also don’t have to play the game where you pretend you didn’t send some fucking street goon to rough up a little old lady, either. Right?”

The man’s mouth drops open like his first instinct is to deny that accusation. But he steals another look at Hoseok and shuts it instead.

“And then -- ” Yoongi jabs Lee in the chest with one finger and the man jumps back, “-- you tried to send that same goon after your own resident. But here’s the thing, Doctor Lee. She knows people, too.”

Lee’s body goes rigid. Yoongi watches him process the information with his drug-addled brain, a flare of recognition finally sparking in his dull eyes.

“I saw you at the hospital,” Lee whispers. “You know her.”

“Don’t worry about who I know,” Yoongi shrugs. “Worry about what you’re going to say in your resignation letter.”

He advances on the man again, closing the space between them. Lee tries to back away, but he runs out of room. He tilts against the stall door.

“Resignation letter?” he echoes weakly.

“The one you’re turning in tonight,” Yoongi explains coolly. “Before you get the fuck out of Songdo and then get the fuck out of Seoul.”

Lee sputters for a moment, grasping for his next words.

“Well, where am I supposed to go?” he bleats.

“Do we look like recruiters to you, man?” Hoseok cuts in sharply. “We don’t give a shit where you go -- you just have to go. You sure this guy is a doctor, Min? He seems way too dumb to be a doctor.”

“Nah. This guy’s a junkie pretending to be a doctor,” Yoongi accuses, dropping any pretense of good humor. “Pretending to be a tough guy, too. But all of that ends tonight.”

Yoongi grabs Lee by the chin, jerking his head into place and forcing the trembling man to look him in the eye.

“In ten minutes, you’re going to walk your ass into that hospital. You’re going to tell them you are leaving. You are going to take that piece of shit pharmacist and anyone else who’s involved with you. And then you are never going to step foot in this city again.”

He pauses to enjoy the way Lee’s pupils dilate even wider with fear.

“You’re not too high to understand what I’m saying to you right now, right?”

Lee shakes his head weakly, jaw still pinned in Yoongi’s vice grip.

“Great. Now just one more thing before you go on your merry way,” Yoongi says, voice low with menace. “Give us the name of your street guys.”

Lee panics. “I can’t,” he whines from between compressed cheeks. “They’ll kill me.”

Yoongi grips his face tighter, crushing the man’s jaw and using it to push his body flush against the stall. His fingers and knuckles turn white with the force of his grasp and Lee groans weakly at the pain.

“I will kill you,” Yoongi seethes. “Me. Right fucking now with my bare fucking hands if you don’t give me that name.”

Lee is sweating so profusely that Yoongi wonders briefly if he’s having a heart attack. He’s probably got enough coke in his system for that to be an actual concern. But the pathetic little shit manages to pull himself together long enough to follow directions.

“Kkangpae,” he wheezes.

Yoongi’s iron grip stays in place, even as he turns to Hoseok, even as both men exchange a look. That is something he did not see coming. Perhaps his recent personal issues are family business, after all.

He finally releases Lee’s jaw and the man rears back, breathing hard.

“You have exactly one day to get the fuck out of this city,” Yoongi instructs quietly. “And that is not an offer I’m prepared to make twice.”

Lee licks his dry lips, nodding his head slowly like he’s just come out of a trance. “Okay.”

“Great chat,” Yoongi smiles, patting Lee’s cheek.

Hoseok leaves his post at the door to cross the cramped bathroom and reach for the coffee Lee abandoned minutes ago. Both men watch in silence as he turns it up over the sink, pours it out, and then tosses it in the trash.

He heads back to the door and holds it open.

“Damn Hoseok,” Yoongi murmurs as he brushes past. “That was cold.”

*********************************

YOU

There’s buzzing. Of that, you’re sure.

But in those first few moments that you’re rousing, you can’t be sure if you’re hearing it or dreaming it. You’re disoriented. It’s the second time in as many days you’ve woken up in an unfamiliar bed.

Shafts of sunlight pour through the blinds and you squint at them, trying to get a sense of the time of day. If the amber tinge is any indication, it’s late into the afternoon.

The buzzing sounds again.

You roll to your side to grab your cell phone off the nightstand and blink at a long list of waiting texts.

ko: wake up sleeping beauty [ 11:36 AM ]

ko: i have news [ 11:45 AM ]

ko: big news [ 12:22 PM ]

ko: and gaeran tost-u [ 1:02 PM ]

ko: ready for you to wake up now [ 1:43 PM ]

ko: don’t mind me just gonna bang a few pots and pans [ 2:11 PM ]

Any curiosity over Ko’s big news is overshadowed by the way your heart drops when none of those messages is from Yoongi.

Before you’d left his apartment, he’d asked you to stay. He’d cleared his throat and looked down at his hands and explained that he’d feel better if you weren’t alone until this entire mess was settled. But the way he looked at you in those last few minutes together made you feel like his proposition was about much more than just your protection.

It made you want to say yes.

Never mind that it’s insane to feel so at home in his personal space -- or that coming to that realization might have sent you into a mild panic. In the end, you’d had to say no because you couldn’t bring yourself to leave Ko on her own while this madness played out.

You rub the sleep out of your eyes and fire off two quick texts.

you: i hope you’re okay. please be careful [ 2:33 PM ]

you: up now. be down in five [ 2:34 PM ]

**************************

Ko makes good on her promise of gaeran tost-u.

You’re greeted by the pleasant smell of the sugared egg dish as you walk down the stairs. Ko sits at her kitchen table, eyes shining with excitement, and pushes a plate at you when you slide into the chair across from hers.

“Eat,” she orders sweetly. Your stomach rumbles on cue and you waste no time digging in.

“This is really good,” you declare around a mouthful of bread and eggs. “I might have to live with you forever.”

Ko smiles wide and the expression makes you feel warm from the inside out. The bruising on her face is barely visible now, easily hidden with a little makeup. Her eyes crinkle with happiness as she watches you eat without saying a word.

“Alright,” you sigh, loathe to stop eating even for as long as it takes to speak. “Spill it. You look fit to burst.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” she complains cheerfully. “Dr. Lee is gone. Walked into Songdo last night and walked out forever.”

You gasp halfway through your next bite, sputtering as you try to catch your breath around a mouthful of toasted bread. Ko stands to grab you a glass of water which you gratefully accept.

“Well, don’t die on me now,” she teases, “Because there’s more. Nang left, too. And Tuan and Beom from pathology. All four of them quit without even so much as a notice, Jagi. Isn’t that wild?”

You sip your water slowly and Ko’s eyes flash as she watches you.

“Yoo called me early this morning and said the entire hospital is talking about it. There’s a bunch of crazy theories going around. And here I am, drinking my tea. Thinking about how you took a few sick days and showed up here. Thinking about how healthy and rested you look right now. Isn’t that interesting?”

You nod, jamming the sandwich back in your mouth for an obnoxiously large bite.

“And I can’t help but wonder if there’s some connection between this very convenient development and my very sweet, secretive friend.”

Ko’s mouth twists into a teasing smile as you chew your food absurdly slow.

“That sandwich isn’t going to last forever, Jagi,” she says dryly. She lifts her teacup to her mouth and takes a dainty sip. “And trust me, I have nothing but time.”

She leans back, cup in hand.

“Okay, so I might know something about it,” you admit after a while. “But there’s still a lot I don’t know. And I’m not sure how much of this you want to hear.”

Ko tuts under her breath.

“I want to hear it all. I’ve got quite a few years on you and trust me, very little shocks me anymore. So now you spill it.”

You take another sip of water and clear your throat.

“Okay,” you exhale. “So there’s this guy -- ”

“ -- Oh, I love it when stories start like this,” Ko interrupts. She props her chin up with her hands like you’re telling a bedtime story and you shake your head with a wry smile.

“He’s been kind of… helping me, I guess.”

“Helping you,” Ko echoes. “As in helping you out of your clothes?”

“No,” you deny hotly, cheeks warming. “He’s a friend.”

Ko doesn’t bother to call you out on the weak lie. But her face says what her mouth doesn’t when one skeptical brow raises high.

“Go on.”

“I told him about what was going on at the hospital and he said he could help me,” you explain slowly. “So I’m pretty sure he figured out a way to run off Lee and Nang.”

Ko taps her finger against the side of her teacup.

“So let me see if I have this right,” she muses. “You tell this friend -- who you’ve never once mentioned, by the way -- that you’ve been having this very dangerous trouble at work. And then your friend somehow manages to convince two grown men who’ve worked at Songdo for years to give up their high-paying jobs and up-front access to IV drugs overnight.”

You shift uncomfortably in your chair.

“And just like that -- ” Ko snaps her fingers for emphasis, “ -- they’re gone without so much as a fuss.”

You nod weakly.

“Jagi,” Ko’s voice drops low. “I take it your friend’s not a mailman, is he?”

“No,” you mumble. “Definitely not.”

Ko hums under her breath. She carefully lifts her teacup to drink, eyes trained on you over the rim. Her quiet scrutiny makes you anxious.

“Can I ask you a question?” she asks after a long pause.

“If I said no would that stop you?”

“Not a chance,” Ko laughs. “Would this friend happen to be the mysterious, handsome man who asked for you in the ER a few weeks back?”

Mind like a steel trap, this woman. You should have known Ko would make that connection and fast. There’s no point in denying it, so you don’t.

“Yes,” you whisper thickly. “He is.”

It’s hard to get a read on Ko’s reaction. Over the years, you’ve come to rely on her sweetness and wisdom and warmth. But now, as you stare into her dark eyes and try to interpret her careful expression, you realize there’s something else you need from her.

Her approval.

“Ko, I think I -- ” you pause to choose your words carefully, “ -- I think I might be in really deep with this guy.”

Ko snorts.

“Oh, I think you might be right about that, Jagiya . And if he’s helping you with something like this? Chances are, you’re not alone.”

“Yeah,” you exhale, wringing your hands together beneath the table. “Thing is -- I need you to tell me I’m not making a mistake here.”

The corners of Ko’s mouth lift into a soft expression of surprise.

“Oh, Jagi,” she chides sweetly. “You know I can’t tell you that. I don’t know anything about this man.” She reaches across the table to cover your hand with her own. “But you do. You’re the only one who knows how you feel about him. And you’re the only one who knows if he’s a good man underneath it all.”

Ko squeezes your hand and you turn your head before she can see the tears that threaten in your eyes. The amber sunlight outside her kitchen window is shifting orange now, flares of light reflecting off the glass.

You stare at them and think about Yoongi.

Until now, it’s like you’ve been splitting him into two different men -- the bruised, bloody con artist from the exam room and the quiet, teasing flirt from the coffee shop. Until now, it’s been the only way to reconcile your complicated feelings.

But it's well past time you accepted the truth.

The same Yoongi whose cheeks had pinked when he’d asked you to stay is the same Yoongi you watched beat the shit out of a hired thug. The Yoongi who carries a cross is the Yoongi who carries a gun. They’re two halves of one whole.

And you can’t pine for one and reject the other.

Your cell phone buzzes from the pocket of your pajama pants. You reach for it, relief coursing through you when you spot Yoongi’s name on the screen.

yoongi: one more thing to do before we can talk [ 3:01 PM ]

yoongi: it’s cold outside, be sure to bundle up [ 3:01 PM ]

Yoongi’s random mention of the weather confuses you. You stare at the texts and Ko stares at you, concerned by the baffled expression on your face.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” you insist, shaking your head. “Just, um -- ”

Bundle up. A tingle runs up the length of your spine as realization slowly creeps over you.

“Excuse me for a moment,” you murmur, slipping out of your seat.

Ko watches you dash up the stairs, slack-jawed.

You make a beeline for your borrowed room, throwing open the closet doors to find the coat you’d left hanging there on arrival. The coat you’d worn to and from Yoongi’s. You hurriedly dig into the pockets, fingers immediately making contact with something hard and jagged.

You pull it out.

The shiny silver key in your palm looks like it’s never been used, sharp edges gleaming in the waning sunlight streaming into this room.

You don’t have to guess what it’s for.

You just close your fingers around it and hold it tight.

*****************

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masterwords · 2 years ago

Text

as the crow flies (part three)

Summary: After a journalist does the BAU dirty, Derek is forced to take the job at the New York Field Office. Hotch is forced to deal. (AU where Hotch and Haley have a daughter instead of a son. Based on this story.)

Warnings: explosion injury aftermath, intermittent hearing loss, vomit, gunshot (no character injury), lots of pain, cigarettes, swearing

Words: 6.5k

Notes: Oh, well, you know. Here we are. Some "Angel Maker" canon being thrown in, but make it worse of course. Hotch is a mess. We'll make him feel better soon.

** CHAPTER LIST **

The office was cold. Hotch refused to complain about it, though. He didn't usually, he was well aware of that, but right now knowing that he had so little time left with Derek he wasn't going to chance it. Rubbing his hands together, he squeezed them between his knees to stave off the chill of the waiting room.

“Nervous?” Derek asked, giving Hotch the side eye. He shrugged.

“No. Why would I be?”

“Are they doing a scan today?”

Hotch went silent and shifted uncomfortably. His back was killing him after spending the night on the couch. “Maybe.” He hoped not.

It was the sort of visit where they put him in a gown and made him lay face down and poked and prodded all the tender spaces. The kind where they suggested scheduling a CT or taking him down for an x-ray that wouldn't say anything new. It wasn't like he expected anything from them anymore. He was more or less a lost cause from the get go. You were in an explosion, they all told him. An explosion that killed the person you were with. It's a miracle you're alive. It's going to take time to heal from that. Well, now more than ever, he didn't have the luxury of time. All of this ran through his mind while they followed the nurse back to the exam room, Derek with his hand hovering just over the small of Hotch's back. Not quite contact, not quite separate.

“Hospital gowns really work for you. Something about that little pink and turquoise zigzag pattern brings out the gold in your eyes.”

Hotch frowned as he leaned forward to let Derek tie the gown at his neck. The rest had to stay open, revealing his boxers beneath, but Derek's fingers brushed the back of his neck and it gave him goosebumps. He was glad he'd said yes to Derek coming even if he was a pain in the ass.

“A little advice, Aaron,” Derek said, helping him up onto the table. His back was still stiff and certain movements gave him hell. Maybe if he'd slept in the bed the night before, he'd be in better shape. “Don't lie to him, okay? Tell the truth and they might be able to help you.”

“I don't lie,” he started, but there was a knock at the door and the doctor entered a moment later with a polite greeting.

“How are we today, gentlemen?”

“Doing well, how about yourself?” was Hotch's reply and Derek couldn't help smirking. Hotch felt the flush in his neck and couldn't look in Derek's direction. This was going to be a long visit.

(x)

“Chief Strauss, with all due respect,” Hotch began, putting up as much of a fight as he was able over the phone. He was sitting on his couch with an ice pack on his lower back, shoved tight between him and the cushion. After the visit with the doctor, Derek wasn't willing to play games. He had to stay home and he had to rest. No more after hours visits to the office, no more up all night on the couch. The ice was melting and leaking on the fabric behind him and still he sat knowing it would drench his pants soon too.

His back had always been a problem, though, and one he knew plenty how to handle. Yeah it was a little worse right now but it would pass, the pain would fade into the background again and with enough self-medicating and exercise he could make it quiet. He could always ignore it when it mattered and he had no reason to believe this time would be any different. That wasn't what he feared. It was his ear still giving him pain, still flickering in and out like a radio losing its signal. One minute normal volume, then gone, and then startlingly loud. Like an ice pick symphony. That was new and it was scary. Right now, he could barely hear Strauss' replies. “Agent Morgan is a vital member of this team, especially in my absence.”

“Agent Hotchner, what's done is done. And...” her phone clicked and her voice was lower, harder to hear when she continued. He thought maybe she shut her office door. “If I may be candid, I would consider it a win. Fraternization rules no longer apply to the two of you. Consider it...a gift.”

He had nothing to say to that. Yeah, she was right, and no, she didn't have the wrong impression but it wasn't....he wasn't willing to change either of their jobs for it. Certainly not see Derek move hundreds of miles away, leaving the BAU. It wasn't that serious, at least...he didn't think it was...not yet. He had no argument.

And in the end, Derek decided it wasn't worth the fight no matter how hard Hotch tried to cling to it. No matter who Hotch called, what favors he tried to cash in, it was a done deal.

They stayed at Derek's that night so he could pack what he needed. He still had a few days but he liked to be prepared, and he wanted to spend as much time with Clooney as he could...so Hotch slept over. They usually stayed at Hotch's, it was closer to the BAU, an easier commute and less disruptive when it was his turn to have Lucy stay with them. That was it, the rest of their week. Hotch still not back at work, wandering around Derek's house packing up his things while Derek pretended not to have one foot out the door. Clearing out his desk, finishing reports, saying goodbye.

Each night over dinner, Hotch presented another argument against Derek taking the position. None of them held much water. He was settled already, had made up his mind. The fight was over. The battle was lost.

“Let me go,” Derek said, rubbing Hotch's temple with the smooth pad of his thumb after a particularly bad day. They lay on the couch in the silent house, Clooney at their feet, and Hotch could feel the tears barely kept at bay. “Maybe it'll be better this way. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all of that, right?”

“If you say so, but I have several doubts,” Hotch replied with his eyes closed, lost in the brief spell of relief Derek was casting.

(x)

The nightmares always woke him. They smelled like sulfur, like hell. It wasn't a street in New York, it was somewhere deep and hot, flames licking up the sides of his pant legs. He would call out for Kate and hear her voice but in his nightmares, he could never find her. She was always out of reach. By the time he got close to the sound of her voice, the flames were eating him alive and he woke up in a pool of sweat and blood and Derek trying to soothe him out of it.

Over and over since the explosion. Some nights it was ice, like her cold fingers, brittle and fragile. Other nights it was hungry flames. He didn't want to sleep most nights, knowing that the dreams would come back, maybe be worse. Sometimes he couldn't hear Derek's voice, he could see his mouth moving, telling him everything was alright, he was just dreaming, but he couldn't hear anything except the horrific ringing. His head was a bell tower and it was always midnight.

This was their last night together and Derek was pulling him toward the shower, the place that made it all better. For the first time since Strauss made the decision final, Hotch was acutely aware that this was the last.

Their last night in this bed, in this house. Derek was going to rent it out, no longer their little hideaway with the pleasant green backyard and Clooney's breath on the back slider. The last night Derek would be there when he woke terrified and burning alive, the last night he would pull him into the warm embrace of the shower and hold him there beneath the water until the burning feeling in his skin went away. Derek's arms would wrap around him and he would bury his face there in the warmth of Derek's neck and relax back into reality. No flames, no screaming, no sulfur.

He would have to drag himself to the shower from now on. Somehow it seemed like Derek knew he was thinking about it.

“You can call me,” he said, wet lips against wet ear. “When you wake up at night. You can call me.”

“I'm not going to wake you up.”

“You've never had a problem before...” A drenched smile, a little nip at his ear to lighten the mood. Hotch didn't budge though, he was still coming out of the dream. Adjusting to the pain of reality, the low throb in the base of his spine, the ringing in his ears, the parts he was familiar with. Soft pink blood swirled down the drain at their feet and he tilted his head to let it come for a moment, he wasn't going to bleed to death and he wasn't going to stop the shower to take care of another stupid fucking nose bleed.

“It's not the same.”

“It could be. You're acting like this is all over the minute I fly out in the morning. It's not over for me, and I hope it isn't for you. Come on man, we've been...it's been...Hotch, I'm not just gonna forget about all this. It's a new job, not a new life.”

The sound of the shower hissing, echoing around them, erased everything else. His nosebleed continued until he finally decided he needed to get out, the hot water wasn't helping. Derek got a bag of ice while he pressed a hand towel to his face, wondering how many of his items he was going to ruin before this stopped. They weren't as frequent but they were still a nuisance.

Neither of them went back to sleep, they just lay in bed after that. Derek with Hotch smashed up against him, holding tight, lying there watching the clock tick their last hours together away like it didn't matter. Like nothing was changing.

Dropping Derek off at the airport with his bags packed had seemed like a good idea until it was time to actually say goodbye. He really thought he could do it and be totally fine going back to work, but the drive back to Quantico was a blur of tears and an ache in his chest that felt like it might rip him apart. Call me when you land? That was always what he said, but this time he didn't. He didn't demand it, because that conversation was always predicated by I can't wait for you to get home and that wasn't happening this time. When Derek landed, he was home. He and Emily had taken a road trip up the weekend prior and checked out the penthouse suite the Bureau had secured for him, temporary lodging until he found a place. He wasn't going to sell his house in Virginia, he'd count it as rental income once his things were out or maybe just rent it fully furnished. Whatever the case, he wasn't going to need to come back.

This was it. So Hotch drove, and barely managed to remember to take the turn to his own apartment instead of Derek's house.

He had to get ready for work. JJ had already texted him...they had a case.

In Ohio.

And it sounded like a bad one. He wasn't exactly cleared to fly, but he didn't see where he had any choice. He'd figure it out on the way.

(x)

The gunshot shouldn't have come as a surprise. Dave had told him to move, had nudged him away from the Sheriff, but Hotch wasn't thinking clearly. They'd been there so long and he felt absolutely rotten, each day worse than the last. He chalked it up to Derek being gone, the team being down one and him not being at full speed but it was more than that. His joints ached like he was getting sick but he didn't feel ill. Just..wrong. And besides, his head already hurt, what difference would it make? He handed Emily the bullhorn and stood back, hoping for an outcome he knew wasn't even on the table. They could save the victim but this wasn't going to end well.

Chloe wasn't coming out of there without a fight.

He just didn't see the gunshot coming. Admittedly his mind was elsewhere but it just shouldn't have been such a damn surprise. Suicide by cop was always on the table, and he was surrounded by guns aimed at one door...if it hadn't been the Sheriff, it would have been Dave or Emily or another cop. Anyone on that scene with a firearm would have done it. Hell, his own gun was aimed and ready.

The gunshot leveled him as fast as any explosion. He crumbled, doubled over in agony, clutching his head to keep it from flying apart. Emily and the Sheriff moved toward Chloe without hesitation and Dave circled him, cradled him against the onslaught of pain, listened to the sound of his miserable moans that he really had no control over. Varying pitches each time the pain changed course, stabbing and then throbbing, an ice pick in his ear and then flame behind his eyes.

He cried against Dave's vest, big gasping sobs. It hurt so bad he would never have been able to put words to it, let alone pretend he was fine. That ship had sailed. The scene swirled around him, chaos ebbing and flowing in a disorienting silence and he could feel the vibrations of Dave talking to him but he couldn't hear anything. Not a single word, just vibrations and pain. He thought about the building Adrian Bale leveled, the Agents whose insides painted the walls and how lucky he'd been...that pain had been horrific, he thought at the time. He thought he was going to die. Gideon must have thought so too, the way he screamed Hotch's name and cried over him. Wailed for the medics to come while he held pressure on a wound that Hotch was only vaguely aware of. He just felt pain and cold.

It was nothing compared to this. This was a molten poker searing everything inside of his head. His chest was tight with panic.

Dave tried to peel his hand away from his ear and he cried out, curled further around himself and somewhere deep inside he knew he was making a scene, he was becoming a show and he had to pull himself together. He didn't have this kind of luxury, this sort of get out of jail free card. He had to stand up...

He just couldn't. Each time he tried to straighten his back, stand upright, the pressure change in his ears leveled him again. Dave ushered him away still hunched over, pushed him around the hedge and out of the line of sight before easing him to the ground. It was the best they could do.

This was no longer his crime scene. Dave said something, patted him on the shoulder, and walked away. He was alone with the pressure, the storm in his head, the unsettling quiet of the chaos. An ambulance with siren blaring came in a flood of flashing red and white and he stared at it with dead eyes like he was watching a silent movie from the audience. He wasn't even there anymore.

He walked to his hotel room alone once he pulled himself shaking to his feet. Just stumbled away after a quick text to Dave. There was nothing he could do, he was utterly useless and only in the way. He went from being in charge to being a distraction and there was no pulling himself together in time to be helpful. Spencer called out to him from where he stood with the intended victim, the woman they saved, and he waved him off like he heard anything the other man said. Just dismissed him and stalked away as quickly as his unsteady legs would carry him.

The hotel wasn't far, but on trembling jelly legs it took him longer than it should have. He held one hand over his right ear, tilting his head slightly to that side, muffling the sharp sounds that occasionally pierced through the blanket of silence. But his room was quiet, there wasn't anything to break through, nothing to upset the carefully guarded quiet.

Without even taking off the vest or his shoes, he lay on his bed. Really he just fell, face first, his legs more or less hanging over the edge. It was the only thing he could do. Pressing his cheek to the cool fabric of the pillow, his right ear smashed into the fabric, he closed his eyes and passed out. He might say he fell asleep to save face, but that wasn't even it. He didn't try, he didn't intend to sleep, he just put his face into the pillow and out went the lights.

He didn't wake up feeling any better. The pain had dulled some, but that was replaced with a rolling vertigo induced sickness. Sitting up, the nausea crawled slowly up into his throat and try as he might to gulp it back down, a sense of urgency shuddered through him. With trembling fingers he worked at his vest, freed himself hoping it might relieve some of the pressure and the sick swimming feeling but it only made it worse. That might have been the only thing holding it at bay.

He cried again. It was 3:14am according to the neon green numbers that blurred on the clock beside the television and he was crawling on his hands and knees praying he made it to the toilet before the creeping nausea made good on its threat.

As his throat opened and his body heaved, his head erupted in bright sparking shots of pure agony and his broken ribs creaked like old floor boards under duress. His jaw clicked, ears popping, and he bit into his tongue to try and stifle the sounds he knew would come next. The taste of blood made him retch with more violence, hands slick with sweat and gripping the seat of the toilet he really didn't want his face anywhere near. This close he could smell the sickening porcelain and rusty water, he could see the faint ring where the housekeepers scrubbing just didn't reach, and he gagged miserably until his entire body was racked with tremors.

He passed out on the floor in a pool of tears.

Waking for the second time, he was disoriented. No idea where he was or how he got there, his head felt stuffed with cotton and the taste in his mouth was just shy of bitter decay. He gagged on it, and the way the muscles in his throat shuddered lit him up, forced the memories through the blocked up sieve. Peeling his clothes off slowly, he crawled to the shower...it was all he could do. Shower it off. Get clean and pull himself together because he had to leave this dive of a town and he'd rather not do it in a body bag. If a bomb couldn't take him out, he wasn't about to let this either.

The shower helped.

Jet leaves in an hour. A text from JJ and he groaned, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. No way he was getting on that plane. He shouldn't have even come in the first place but now...he wouldn't survive it a second time. His head might actually explode. At this point, he simply wouldn't be shocked.

Would you arrange a car for me please? I'll be driving home. He trusted JJ with that information, he could tell everyone else when they met at the station to gather their things. She would do as he asked without any interference, without asking him why or trying to talk him out of it. He adored her discretion and her faith.

Only Emily seemed bothered by his decision in the end, but even that was short-lived. Dave offered to make the drive with him. He didn't even consider it, a fact he would come to regret after only a few miles. Too little too late.

“You might want to consider stretching it out a few days...” Dave offered after Hotch declined his company. “You could do with some time to sit with everything that's happened over the last couple of weeks. Any word on that Post story?”

“Nothing new. JJ is keeping her eye out.”

“Good, good. There's a beautiful little Bed and Breakfast on the highway, not far over the border of Pennsylvania. Best beds in the area. Might do you some good.” Hotch nodded.

“Send me the address.” He had no intention of staying there, but he'd been the center of too much attention lately so he thought being open to suggestion might be the only card left to play. “I'll be back in a couple of days.”

It was only sixty extra miles to New York instead of Quantico. Just one turn and sixty miles. There was nothing waiting for him at home, only an empty apartment. This was Haley's week to have Lucy. That extra sixty miles looked like the difference between wallowing in misery and some kind of peace.

JJ had put a small bag of snacks onto the passenger seat for him and a styrofoam cooler full of bottled water in crushed ice on the floor. There was a small box of ibuprofen in the cup holder with a post-it note that just said “take care” and a smiley face beneath it. Sometimes he didn't know what he would do without her.

Thank you JJ. He couldn't leave without sending her a text, and he glanced up in time to see her wave at him through the darkened window of the SUV's backseat. And then he was alone.

The idea that he would make it to New York in one piece became more and more hilarious to him as the miles ticked by. He sucked down a handful of ibuprofen and an entire bottle of water before he even got out of the parking lot, but the pills did nothing to touch the pain and the water sloshed around in his belly until he was sick enough to pull over and throw it all back up.

He'd only made it about ten miles by then.

He still had more than four hundred to go. The road stretched on pale and gray before his eyes, yellow lines dancing at the edges of his vision. No music, just the hum of the engine playing tricks on his sensitive ears. Nothing but crops and the heat dancing on the asphalt in all directions.

No city skylines to break the monotony, no shoulder to pull over safely on to take a break. The last blue sign for a rest stop said he had thirty miles left to go and his stomach wasn't going to make it that far. He dumped the bag of snacks out on the seat and held the plastic to his lips, careful to maintain as much focus on the road as he could while his body rejected every single thing he'd attempted to put into it. The road became waves rocking in front of him, crashing against his car and he was grateful that with the stretch of nothing also came no other motorists.

Twenty miles to the next rest stop and he was dry heaving again, nothing left to come up. Ten miles and it finally gave way, so while he used his knees to steer the vehicle through the lane he tied the top of the bag and set it neatly onto the floor behind his seat.

He was the only car at the rest stop. The key was barely out of the ignition before he was fumbling with the door handle and dumping himself out onto the solid ground. The parking lot was hot and gravel dug into his knees but it wasn't moving, he wasn't swimming.

“Sean?” he gasped, his phone held to his left ear in the hopes that he could hear someone's voice. He rested his back against the hot hubcap while his engine clicked and popped to sleep, his head tilted back so he could see the bright blue sky overhead. “Sean?”

“Yeah, yeah, you're cutting in and out...where the fuck are you?”

“Don't know,” he rasped in his acid burn voice. He was speaking around what felt like shards of glass. “Somehwere...rest stop...still Ohio?” He coughed and let out a soft miserable moan, a whimper and Sean felt his heart stop beating for a moment. The entire world went white around him.

“Who are you with? On a case? Aaron?”

Hotch cried. Too many questions, too fast. “Slow down...” he begged, beside himself. He was a real fucking mess. The idea that he could drive to New York on his own was absurd. He hadn't even crossed into Pennsylvania yet. Sean sucked in a deep breath and paced the kitchen, throwing his hand in the air when another cook tried to speak to him. He shot them an icy glare, mouthed that he was taking his smoke break and stepped out the service door onto the sidewalk, propping the thing open with a crumbling brick.

“Smoking again?” Hotch asked and Sean let out a barking laugh, the kind that said he wasn't actually amused. He was angry, and his anger sometimes included laughter. It was either that or fists.

He couldn't put his fists on his brother right now.

“Don't change the subject asshole. Are you with someone?”

“No,” he said, gulping down another wave of vertigo induced nausea. “Case is done, but I can't fly. Driving.” He was quickly realizing that he didn't have the capacity for conversation, full sentences, coherent thoughts.

“So you thought hey, I'm too wrecked to fly but I can sure as shit drive hundreds of miles? I thought you were supposed to be the smart one. The genius.”

Hotch groaned. Yeah, when it was put that way...well fuck. He was already 40 miles in to the trip, pulled over at a rest stop in the middle of nowhere. Not much choice left.

“Why'd you call me, Aaron?”

“Don't know.” It was honest. Sean's number was the first one he thought of, the only one really. Maybe he should have called Derek, or let Dave come with him, maybe he should have done anything but this...didn't matter. He was here now.

Sean's voice softened. He eased up. “Aaron, you don't sound like you should be driving. You're at a rest stop. Sleep for a while.”

“Not tired,” he lied, just to have something to say. Some kind of argument. It was better than crying, which was what he felt like doing. Again. “Are you busy?”

“I, uh,” Sean groaned, pulling a milk crate over to him and knocking the debris out from beneath it. A rat scurried away toward the dumpster and he scrunched his nose in disgust before sitting down on the grimy little crate. He lit up his cigarette and inhaled deep, breathing out through his nose like a dragon. “No. I'm on my smoke break. I got a few.”

“You're at work?” What he meant was you have a job? The last he'd heard, Sean had lost his job after sleeping with a waitress. That hadn't been the problem, but the nasty break-up and her slashing the tires on his motorcycle hadn't been a good look, and when he shouted at her and handed her the bill for the new tires, that was the last straw. Both of them were canned. They went back to his place, got drunk, and had some make-up sex that night. Sean didn't tell his brother that part...

“Yeah. Got a job at this little dive bar. Mostly fryin' up mozz sticks and shit for drunks. It's easy work.” He paused, waiting for Hotch to say something about wasted potential but there was only silence on the other end. “You know what broasted chicken is? The fuck is that, amiright? Bar food is weird.”

“I've never,” Hotch started, attempting to pull himself to his feet. His back was seizing up now, sitting on the ground too long. It had been quiet since the gunshot, biding its time, but now the pain was intensifying. He was a damn mess. “Never heard of it. What is it?”

“I dunno man. It's fuckin' chicken you know? I'll make some for ya next time you're up this way.”

Hotch smiled, sliding into the seat and pushing it all the way back, reclining until he was nearly flat. Instant relief for his back. He might just try sleeping a while. “Have you heard from Derek?”

“We've been meetin' up every night looking at apartments. Hard to find a place in the city that allows dogs like his. Got a good lead on a few places we'll check out tonight.”

Hotch closed his eyes and the pounding in his forehead stopped. Clooney. He could keep Clooney. His apartment allowed dogs.

“You still there?”

“Yeah, sorry, thinking...” His voice was whisper thin and Sean could hear the sleep creeping in. If he kept talking, he might just bore his brother right into passing out. “Does he like his job?”

“I dunno man, we don't talk about that...he looks good, happy you know. Wearin' suits every day, dude's dressin' like you now. But better. He looks better in a suit.”

Hotch scowled, but he knew it was true. Derek looked incredible in a suit. Something about the way the silk hugged his shoulders, the collar against his jaw, buttons drawing Hotch's eyes down toward his waist...

“Is he still in the hotel?”

“Some penthouse thing the Bureau is paying for. It's weird but fuckin' classy. They just gave him two more weeks on it.”

Sean's voice lulled him to sleep. By the time he stubbed his cigarette out under the toe of his ragged old boot, Hotch was snoring into the phone. He would have been offended, too, except he wanted his brother to sleep. He only knew the bare minimum about what was going on, about the explosion. It had been on the jumbotrons in Manhattan, larger than life like a movie, and he'd seen The Post. They had eight copies in the bar because everyone he worked with brought him one asking if that Hotchner was related to him. He said no. Not because he didn't want to admit Hotch was his brother, but he thought his brother would prefer it that way. Certain Hotch was ashamed of him. Anyway, he didn't know much more, Derek didn't want to talk about it, but that was enough to know his brother shouldn't be behind the wheel of a car. He hung up the phone and kicked the milk crate out of the way, figuring he'd call back on his next smoke break to check on him. Give him a few hours to sleep.

Derek was pacing his suite when Sean told him that Hotch was driving. “He's sleeping at a rest stop now, somewhere in Ohio he said. I don't know what's going on but he sounds like shit. When the fuck did I become the responsible brother anyway?”

“You didn't. He's got a head injury, Sean. That's the only reason you clicked up a notch. He'll bounce back.”

“Yeah? Well he's a goddamn mess and he's by himself on the side of some highway in the middle of nowhere. Children of the Corn nowhere, man.”

Derek wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with that information. He couldn't drive or fly there, Hotch was capable of making those decisions on his own. He was injured and stubborn but he wasn't going to put himself in danger, that much was clear by the fact that he was currently pulled over and sleeping.

Call me when you see this. Right away. He sent Hotch a quick text while Sean rattled off some more words he didn't listen to, and then said he'd see him later. He had a good feeling about the apartment they were looking at. Sean had some decent hookups and yeah, probably more than one of them came from drug deals or one night stands, but he didn't care how Sean knew these people he only cared that he got a good place to live and fast. He was tired of living in a hotel, even if it was high end. He missed his dog, he missed his life, he missed Hotch...and hotel living wasn't helping any of that.

Hotch saw the text with blurry eyes, double vision replicating each word and making it dance on the screen. He thought about calling Derek, he did...but what would he say? Sean had called twice in the time he slept and he had no intention of calling him back either. For the first time that day he woke without blinding pain in his head, and his stomach felt...not great, but better. Less violent. He was going to drive, try to at least make it a solid chunk.

So he rolled down his window, sucked down a few desperate gulps of water, and hit the road.

He made it nearly two hundred miles without needing to take a break, and even then it was only to pee and try to eat something. The vertigo was leaving him alone, his ears weren't ringing terribly, the wind felt good and he knew he'd make it another couple hundred miles or so without needing to stop if he could just keep feeling this good.

The next stop was for a milkshake, a nice hit of sugar for his sluggish veins. His headache was returning, creeping slowly up his neck and around his temples. It stayed quiet long enough to get him through a whole state and soon he was at the fork in the road. One turn would take him home, he'd be there faster and could fall into bed...but the other way would stretch the road out farther, longer, and take him to Derek.

He made his choice.

Into the city, across that blasted bridge after dark. The lights played tricks on his eyes, seeming to stretch for eternity out into space while he and hundreds of other people were at a complete stand still. One eeking mile at a time, street lamp to street lamp, until he made it to the hotel and thanked every deity he could name that the Bureau had put Derek in a place with a valet. All he had to do was get himself and his go bag out of the car and the nice young man who suddenly found a large bill slipped into his hand would take care of the rest. Hotch, honestly, would have paid any amount of money if someone had driven his car all the way from Ohio.

703. Derek was up seven floors, he'd seen photos of the way his room overlooked the city. The elevator ride made him dizzy enough that he pressed the button shortly after it jerked into motion, opened the doors and limped his way up the stairs with whatever strength his aching back still possessed. Slow and steady, one step and then the other he pulled himself up using the railing. Five flights of stairs. Each landing brought brief relief, but he was exhausted and sweaty like he'd run a marathon. When he reached the fifth floor landing he stopped for a breather. He was nearly in tears and wondering if the elevator sickness would have been worth it.

By the time he decided that yes, it would have been worth it, he was there at the door and all he could think about was falling into Derek's bed.

Except Derek wasn't there. He rapped at the door and found only silence on the other side. Should have called first. Really should have called. Sean had told him they were going out, dammit...he knew. He just forgot. He was so hot, so sweaty, so foggy.

So he sat. Just hauled up in the corner and leaned against the wall wearily to wait. He could call but then Derek would just feel obligated to stop what he was doing and he didn't want that. He knew that Derek was out with Sean looking at apartments, maybe signing a lease. Maybe he'd get to see the new place.

It was an hour before Derek stepped out of the elevator with his shoulder bag and a grin. Hotch had let his head fall back against the wall and he closed his eyes against the throb, the heat beneath his collar, the lightheaded feeling of climbing seven floors. He'd passed out again, woken by the chime of the elevator and he did his best to pull himself together the moment his exhausted eyes focused enough to know it was Derek walking toward him.

“Surprise,” Hotch mumbled, sliding his back up the wall until he was standing. He offered a sheepish smile and a shrug, and Derek rolled his eyes.

“Had a feeling I'd eventually find you here. How long were you waiting?”

“Not long.” He really didn't know. He slept through it all. Dreamless sleep, foggy and sick but heavy.

“You could have called...”

“I know. Find a place?”

Derek grinned and flipped through some photos on his phone until he found one of the stoop. Just a stoop, an old brownstone with white washed steps and emerald green shrubbery. “I can move in next week. They're gonna fix a few things first.”

“And Clooney?” Hotch swayed where he stood and Derek reached out, placed one hand on his shoulder and regarded him a little suspiciously.

“Yeah...” he said, dragging it out while he took in Hotch's flushed cheeks and glistening forehead. “You okay?”

“I took the stairs up...” Like that explained it. That was an hour before. Derek nodded but kept an eye on him anyway. Something was wrong.

“Wanna see it? The realtor gave me the keys...it's not far.”

Hotch wanted to, he did, and he almost said yes. Derek looked so hopeful. But he knew he couldn't ride in that elevator right now, and he definitely wouldn't make it down all those stairs again. He really wasn't feeling well, and unless Derek was planning to carry him or had some other way down he wasn't aware of he was passing big time.

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, tomorrow sounds great. You hungry?”

God, no, he thought. But he couldn't say no twice so he nodded and said yeah, he could eat a little. He'd just figure it out.

#aaron hotchner #derek morgan #jennifer jareau #david rossi #sean hotchner #hotchgan #mortch #criminal minds fanfiction

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mirrorforevers · 4 years ago

Text

here, there, and everywhere • graham coxon/reader

this fic is based on two prompts y'all sent me:

and

this fic really tested all of my blur knowledge holy Fuck. blur as talking heads au i guess. how cool would it be if they

1. had a girl bassist instead of the cheese tory dude

2. werent as unhappy as they were in the mid 90s (just a bit)

3. were just a little 🤏🏻 bit more female friendly lets just pretend this is a universe where the blurjob passes didnt exist heh

it took me everything i had to make this sound as realistic as it could be. u know these girls who think they could fix patrick bateman or don draper? perhaps y’all could fix blur

consider this a gift n not only me writing for your prompt, @nottuned! thank u so much for all your support n encouragement n for always bein so sweet 🥺 i hope u enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it!

let’s see how many references to unfortunate britpop moments y’all can find in this

also i hope i captured the silliness of the gossip and drama in that era well. if you enjoyed it, please leave an ask telling me more! ur feedback is rly important to me 😔✊🏻

tw (?) reader has shitty parents

word count: 7.938 (this one's quite long!)

smut. set in the 90s. au.

You were unlocking your door when you heard your house phone ring. The shrill sound echoed through the empty corridors as you hurriedly unwrapped your scarf, tossing your keys and backpack on nearby furniture as you ran to answer the call.

“Hello?” You answer, panting.

“Y/N?”

“Dave?” You smile, that call was a very welcome surprise. Your friend owed you an answer.

A few weeks ago, Dave Rowntree, your music classmate who became a close friend, told you that he had teamed up with two other proficient musicians to form a band. Dave was ecstatic, and every day he had new stories about his new friends to tell you between breakfasts and lunches that you shared between the countless hours of rehearsals. Even though you weren't part of the group, you already felt that you knew Damon and Graham like the back of your hand. Yin and Yang. One was expansive, ambitious, vain, impulsive. The other, shy, introspective, anxious and careful.

Damon Albarn wanted to be an actor, Graham Coxon had a firm foot in the visual arts. One was a fan of grand classical compositions, the other was a Beatles fan. They had been friends since they were children, in a seemingly unbreakable bond. Damon dropped out of his theater class not only because out of a sudden he had found a bigger calling in music instead of acting, but also because he couldn't stand being away from his best friend for so long. You found yourself often imagining their faces and voices while trying to make all of the wild and endearingly funny stories Dave told you more tangible in your head.

It was not long before Dave started dropping little hints that they needed someone else for their project. “It’s not that Graham isn’t good at bass,” he’d say, “but we could do better.” It wasn't at the top of your plans to be part of a band right now, especially as you were preparing intensely to join the Royal Academy of Music, and he knew it. When you mentioned the conversations you had with Dave about the boys on your family dinner, in quiet wonder and timid want of being part of something really exciting, your parents wrinkled their noses. Focus on the greater things, they’d say. Don’t let these boys distract you from your goal.

Our goal, they meant to say. Since you were born, you never knew if the things you wanted were really your will or theirs.

But anyway.

That dynamic went on for a while, until the day Dave invited you to audition for them while you shared a Diet Coke in the tube home.

“Will it take too much of my time?” You asked, coyly.

“Bold of you to assume we’ll let you in that quickly.” He chuckles, amused by your confidence. You playfully elbow him in return. He knew how good you were at what you did, though, and there’s lightness in his tone when he continues, “But no, unless you let it. You’ll probably have to stand up to Damon every once in a while.” He sips the drink, handing it over to you.

“What about Graham? How much is he determined to make it big?”

“Damon’s the one who wants it the most. Graham’s studying Fine Arts at Goldsmiths, so. There’s still cautiousness in him.”

“Huh. Okay then.” You reply, thoughts running wild. “Do we have a time and date?”

“Is tomorrow ok to you?”

“Sure. After our class?”

“Perfect.” The train reaches his station. He ruffles your hair: “See you tomorrow then.”

“See you.”

You don’t tell anything about it to your parents, you just warn them that you’ll arrive a bit later than usual. Dave’s intel was crucial to your choice of songs: knowing Graham was the beatlemaniac and also the rational brake to Damon’s tireless ambition, you knew who to please and have as an ally, so you build an innovative and fresh mashup of Paul McCartney’s greatest basslines to play for them. Of course it could backfire, but you didn’t care. You had a hell of a good ear anyway and if Damon wanted you to play anything out of the blue, you would improvise beautifully over it.

The day comes. You didn’t know why you were that nervous for an amateur audition. You weren’t even sure if it was the right path to follow, given that, depending on how focused Damon really was and how contagious his aspiration was, being part of a band could really take you out of your predestinated course. The reason why you were so nervous, now thinking a little more about it, may be because deep inside, you want your path to be a little less predictable. You didn’t want to fill your heart with hopes that you might make it big and travel all over the world because you didn’t even know them. But… what if it clicks? You knew some people in the scene whose work was getting seriously recognized out there.

Meeting them for the first time was an enigmatic experience. Damon was incredibly brash and cocky - not the first theater kid you’ve met in your life. Graham was way more approachable, though also a bit conceited when pushed just right. You wondered if you’d fit in that boys’ club, and decided you wouldn’t be an easy target for discredit or any kind of shit they might give you. “Took me a while to fully get their trust. You’ll do just fine”, Dave said, out of their earshot.

That gave you more fuel to play amazingly well. Damon definitely wasn’t one to be impressed quickly, but he was, when you finished your set. So was Graham - Graham was starry eyed with your performance, actually. Albarn showed you a song and asked you if you could improvise to it, just as you imagined. Of course you could, on the first play. You even suggested some adjustments to its structure. Your feedback was welcomed and noted.

Even though everything went surprisingly well, you still weren't sure if you would be a member of “Seymour”, as they called themselves. (You knew it wasn’t the best name, but you didn’t have a better suggestion at the time so you’ve kept your opinion to yourself.) Graham became eerily quiet out of a sudden and wouldn’t cross eyes with you the entire time you were there. Damon, well, was Damon. Perhaps he thought you were too ordinary and mainstream for deciding to play Beatles when he’s trying to be the new avant-garde Jesus.

But Dave's news was different than you expected. “They really, really enjoyed your audition. As I thought they would.” You can hear the smile in his voice. "When can you rehearse with us?"

Months after, on your first gig as a fully formed and integrated band, Damon was hit in the face by a guy twice his size, Graham vomited onstage and you and Dave had to take care of both. A beautiful way to close the already exquisite day you had, after you fought with your parents, got kicked out of your childhood home and gave up on entering the Royal Academy of Music two days after you received your acceptance letter featuring rave reviews of your entrance exam.

Dealing with these boys - no, grown-ass men - was hard, but not completely unpleasant. If it were totally unpleasant, you wouldn’t give up on your entire life to embark on such an adventure.

You - plural you - were so gifted and Damon’s compositions were so good. You could see that artsy pretentious mess of an act going somewhere. Of course, you were a bit lost in your life, but so were they, as you ran from city to city meeting new people and trying new things in your journey to fame.

Loneliness, once a close friend, became a distant acquaintance. One you didn’t know anymore.

You confess you were getting worried, though, with how much money you had left on your savings and how much you were spending lately now that your parents weren’t an active part of your life. Wanting to eat something you cannot dream of buying without that money being really useful in a much more critical situation, not having nearly enough money to replace something important that broke or got torn off was frustrating. Some basic things became luxuries out of a sudden.

One day in particular, you very briefly mentioned that you were dying to eat a slice of chocolate cake, but your voice was so small and everyone was so immersed in their duties you thought no one gave two shits to what you said. Two days later, Graham arrived late at rehearsal with a small chocolate cake in his hands, handing it over to you like it was a completely ordinary act. Nothing in the way he acted told you he expected a reward, it was so natural and… gentle. You knew no one in your band could buy a chocolate cake without it being apocalyptic to their personal finances during that time.

That day, you were assured by fate that feeling lost together was better than feeling guided alone.

The band finally got on track - strictly musically speaking. Personally speaking, many contemporaries who followed you at parties and other events described you as an ever-growing odd, annoying and intermittently disarming bunch - and Blur and its members became household names, at least in the UK. It became harder and harder everyday to impose yourself as an entire industry and its target public aimed to tear you down. Men couldn’t understand.

(Graham Coxon was the one who tried the hardest to.)

It was four in the morning. You’ve got used to following your bandmates to hospitals, running away from trouble or knowing when to relish in it. But it was the first time you offered yourself to clean up dried blood from one’s face, given how much you hated seeing the fluid and even fainted when younger whenever exposed to it.

You, so delicately, wipe the saline solution-soaked cotton across Graham’s face, who flinches at the cold sensation on his still sensitive skin. He stares at you with the eyes of a child, and you couldn’t help but give him a slight, warm smile in return, which he retributes. Your face conveyed gratitude and affection towards the one you were taking care of. Your hands still struggled to stay completely still after the surge of adrenaline your body received a few hours ago.

Being the only girl in a massive band, and one the music magazines and mainstream media loved sexualizing, meant having paparazzis in your window in odd hours (not that that’s acceptable in any hour, but you had to lower your standards even more these days), meant having different photographers trying to pressure you to get into all kinds of uncomfortable angles with skimpy-ass dresses and just count on the intervention of your fellow bandmates so they would stop, also having invasive male fans who would try to harass you in any way they could.

Of course the day where one of your bandmates would get into a fist fight with one of these men inserted into these categories would come. And even though they were all protective of you, each in their own peculiar, increasingly contradictory way, Graham’s dedication to it was sometimes commendable.

You were making your way through a small corridor of people on your way to the stage when a random guy cupped one of your breasts. It’s not like the venue was incredibly tight, it could not have been on accident and it made your blood boil. You turned around to scream at him, and Graham, who was just behind you, threw a punch directly towards the man’s face, without thinking twice.

And oh boy, took a lot of people and a sweet amount of time to separate the two after that.

After all was said and done, Graham had a few scratches, a black eye and a cut brow. He kept dodging your many “sorrys”, “you didn’t have to do this” and other expressions of guilt. “You have nothing to be sorry about, he deserved it”, he kept assuring you, like a mantra, just giving in to your pleas when you supplicated to take care of his wounds during intermission and after the show.

“I get why you did what you did, Gra. I hate that you took such a risk because of me, but I understand.” you say, voice cracking from not using it for a while after spending some good minutes in complete silence taking care of him. “However,” you soak another cotton ball in the saline solution a roadie got you, punctuating the word with a squeeze to the cotton to remove excess liquid. “I was worried sick about you. What if he… had a knife or something? You could’ve got seriously injured. Or killed.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m perfectly able to have a good fight,” after wincing from the contact of the cold wet cotton with his dried blood, he purses his lips in a forced, shy smile, trying to light up the mood. He notices your hands are still shaking from the adrenaline, and takes one of them in his bigger ones, trying to calm you down. The fact that he did this for you, coupled with the fear and how tired you felt of having to go through that kind of situation once again, made you cry-laugh from how overwhelmed you felt.

His expression changes to one of pure compassion in an instant. “Hey, don’t--oh my,” he gets up from his chair to embrace you as you pour your frustrations through fat tears running down his shoulder.

“It’s so exhausting,” you mumble, through sobs. “Now I’m putting you in danger too. I feel like I did and I’m still doing everything wrong. I should be the one giving you a shoulder to cry on.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong! Anything at all, I promise you,” he says, tenderly, running his hands through your hair, still holding you tight. “It was his fault! I decided it was the right thing to do. You’re worth the risk. What people have been putting you through is unacceptable.”

“I’m not worth the risk!” You break apart from his arms, trying to get your point across. “What would I do without you if someone killed you? You need to be more careful!”

The silence hangs heavy between you two thanks to the weight of your words.

“You should’ve asked me before you lunged at him, at least. I don’t know.” You wipe your many tears as you move towards the nearest bottle of water to try to calm yourself down. “It’ll never end. I’m so afraid that these situations will get even worse. That,” you motion at his wounds and dirty clothes, “is a bloody tragedy. It’s a tragedy things escalated to this point. You can’t do that forever.”

“This is just a consequence. And something I would do for you in a heartbeat whenever necessary.”

“Graham, I don’t want you to get hurt because--”

“They hurt you. I won’t let you go through that alone. Besides,” he comes closer to you again. “As I already told you, I can take care of myself, most of the time.” He takes your face in his hands, his fingers so delicately running across your cheeks to dry your tears. You knew that gesture wasn’t his way of asking you for anything you weren’t ready to give him yet. He just wanted you to feel safe. “And I want to take care of you.”

“I’m the one cleaning your wounds.”

“A great partnership, I think.” Coxon chuckles softly, and finally gets a smile out of you. As he always does. “And they make me look cool, don’t you think?”

“Shut up.” You giggle, still feeling too emotional to return to the stage. You sigh: “Thank you for being there for me. You know I’m still not very used to it. Just please be safe.”

The roadie returns, a little flustered by interrupting your little moment together. “5 minutes and you’re back, guys.”

“Okay!” You both turn to answer her.

“I’ll be. No need to thank me for anything, Y/N.” He answers, giving your forehead a little kiss. “Let’s go.”

“Give me two minutes. I’ll be right behind you.”

“What’s it like, being the only woman in the band?”

Four eyerolls at once don’t seem to faze the interviewer. She waits for your response.

Apparently the thousand invasive questions regarding Damon’s love life and the same bullshit treatment of women as either rare specimen or sex dolls is what pleases the audience of music TV shows these days.

“What do you think?” is what you say.

“Must be a thrill to have these beautiful boys around you all the time. And we’ve heard you never even took advantage of it!”

You don’t like where this is heading. “Is that… a bad thing? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Perhaps some of our lady viewers might think it is. No judgement though!” She raises her hands. “You do you, it’s just that it’s quite unexpected to see prudes in non-Christian bands. I mean… from what we’ve heard.”

“I’m sorry? What are you trying to say? What did you hear?”

Her tongue clicks while she stares at you with defiance and mischief on her eyes, as she goes a little further and raises her voice so it can overlay yours. “Oh love. You do know what I’m talking about. There’s no need to be ashamed of being a virgin.”

Your cheek burns intensely and the only thing you wished for was for the ground to swallow you whole. Dave and Graham are especially uncomfortable. Damon’s a bit amused. The three knew almost everything there was to know about you. The one topic that surprisingly they didn’t know about is that you’re still a virgin.

They know you’ve been single for a long time. They know that’s part of what draws so much attention and twisted lore regarding you and your past, but that’s not something they felt they needed to know about you at all, and you truly never felt the need to comment about that with any of them, and they haven’t asked. Not even Mr. “the way to be successful in this game is to make all the boys wanna be you and all the girls wanna sleep with you. In your case that’d work in reverse” Damon Albarn.

“Is that even something that should be discussed in an interview about our music? Is that what your boss told you to ask her about?” Dave answers, his tone venomous.

“Musicians are way more than just music. You’re entertainment in every sense of the word.”

“Who told you that about me?” You asked, not sure if you want to know the answer.

“A lovely elderly lady who lives in Elgin Crescent. She knows you so well.”

That’s your mum. That’s how far low your relationship has degraded. You’re not surprised. That doesn’t feel less like a punch on your gut, but you don’t feel like tumbling again. Not today.

“I know who you’re talking about. Tell her I asked her to go fuck herself and burn in hell. In that order.”

“But that’s your--”

“Yes, she is my mum!” If people are going to expose you anyway, then why don’t you do it on your terms? “We’re truly entertainment in every sense of the word, aren’t we. Not everyone’s mum’s a cunt. Some of us aren’t that lucky.”

“You want to be the next Gallagher sister with the spicy remarks?”

“Not sure. But I do want to be the last person you ever get to interview.”

The management of the band wasn’t at all surprised your interview became UK’s topic of the week. People were heavily divided between family is family and we shouldn’t hate our relatives and blood isn’t everything, family can be shitty too. Your bandmates were proud of you. The management was angry but tried to understand, and didn’t press you for further explanations. They suggested a two-week break from everything so Blur could rest their image and start a fresh cycle after that, and you gracefully accepted it.

The whole thing seemed so ridiculous the more you thought about it. Did your mum tell the reporter about that gratuitously? What was their conversation like? How did that even happen?

You became the butt of jokes in some places. You saw other famous people doing challenges between them, countdowns, all sorts of crude remarks. What a pathetic, sad chapter of your career.

You dial Graham, and you feel like your heart was about to burst out of your chest.

“Hey, Gra. It’s me.”

“Hey, Y/N.” He sounds pleasantly surprised. “How's it going?”

“Better, I guess. I have to take my mind off all that chaos though. Are you available right now?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been owing me a movie night for quite a while now and I miss spending time with you. Wanna come over?”

“Aww. Sure, I--um. Do you want me to bring anything?”

“I’m pretty sure I got everything we need here--ah… I think I don’t have any more beers.”

“I’ll buy some then. See ya in a few minutes.”

Actually, you couldn’t take all that chaos off your mind because that was the only thing in it. You’re feeling so nervous.

The main reasons sex wasn’t a priority for you until now were:

You didn’t have any real opportunities of losing your virginity in your teens. You were impossibly introspective until, like, 3, 4 years ago, and the way your family worked hasn’t really allowed you to get really close to people. Be it boyfriends, girlfriends or just friends. Anything that threatened to take time off the various tasks and classes your parents assigned to you just couldn’t be part of your life. To be honest, you still struggled a bit to form meaningful connections with people thanks to how you grew up.

The moment you stopped being shy, you noticed it was a real man’s world out there, especially in music, classical or not. You didn’t want anyone to think you fucked your way up to the top, you didn’t want any messy affairs. Also, you had yourself, and you didn’t get all of the hype regarding the concept of screwing someone. But apparently there’s a lot you’ve been missing, given the importance people seem to give to it. After that incident, even though you swore to yourself you wouldn’t give in to any kind of misogynistic pressure, that was one that really got under your skin.

You never really found someone who you felt 100% safe with in that sense until the one who’s about to arrive at your house appeared in your life. Bloody hell, and you don’t even have anything romantic going on. By the time you were a Blur member, you’ve fooled around a bit, but not all the way. You knew how to kiss, knew how to touch yourself and even brought manual satisfaction to some random fool you thought you were into one time. But perhaps this is the time to go all the way. Why not? Everyone knew how close you two were. He made you feel special. He was so kind. And gorgeous. And--

You hear a knock on your door. It’s him. Beers in hand, hair somewhat in place, twitchy as ever.

He comes inside and you feel like your legs will give up anytime. It was not the first time he visited you. It was one of many, actually, and he noticed you were acting… different.

“Y/N, are you okay?” He asks after a brief dialogue between you two, after plating some snacks for both of you.

“Graham...” You sigh, being really careful with your words. “What is your perception of me?”

“My perception of you?” He smiles. “I… think you’re great. You’re fun to be around. You’re one of the best musicians I know, if not the best. Why are you asking me that?”

“N-nothing. It’s nothing. Also, I asked the wrong question. What was your first perception of me?”

“Uh… the day of your audition?”

“Exactly. You barely talked to me that day.”

His eyes lower to his own feet. “I was really timid, actually. I wasn’t used to being near any girl, especially one who… w-would spend so much time around me if everything went well.”

You giggle. “I thought you hated me.”

“Never!” his smile turns into a full blown laughter. You melt at his confession. “Also because it seemed like you were trying to read my mind or something.”

“Of course! Because I thought you hated me!” Now that was a laughter you two shared. You do a voice: “‘Why is that pesky girl trying to get in my band?’”

“My goodness, no! I don’t even sound like that - you know what, I changed my mind. You suck. Because, besides the fact you don’t even know what I sound like, you still haven’t told me why you are asking me that in the first place.”

You couldn’t help but notice how he slightly cornered you physically in one of the kitchen corridors. Graham could be really persuasive when he wanted to.

“Okay. Right. Um. I’ve been thinking about some stuff.”

“What, exactly?”

“Everything that happened this month. The great virginity debacle,” you roll your eyes, and he scoffs.

“You don’t own anyone any information about what you do or don't do with your life. Everyone’s being so invasive. That was incredibly childish of the reporter to do, and we talked about that hundreds of times.”

“Yeah, but… you know what, forget it.”

“Tell me, Y/N. I just said that because I want you to know you were not in the wrong.”

“I know. It’s just… I’ve been thinking that maybe it’s silly for me to… keep closing myself for affection. Any kind of affection.”

“What are you talking about?” His brows furrowed in curiosity.

“I’m not sure if it’s the pressure that finally got under my skin, but… I’m willing to learn what all the fuss is about. Maybe it’s silly that I’m still a virgin.”

He bites his lips, still processing what you just said, expression unreadable. Perhaps you’ve treaded a ground you shouldn’t. You step back both literally and figuratively. “I’m sorry I even brought that up--”

“No, no, don’t be.” He assures you. “I’m just… surprised, that’s all. I swear.”

“And...” You know what. You already went too far, so why not go all the way. You’ve already gone way past the point of no return. “I was wondering if… you would… popmycherry?”

His eyes widen, yours still closed. When you finally open them, he’s closer to you again.

If his head was a machine, you’re sure it would be releasing lots of steam and shaking due to overprocessing. You felt like you just ruined everything.

“Y/N, you don’t need to do it if you don’t really want to.”

“But I want it! At first I thought I didn’t, but then I thought...”

“I don’t want to be part of that if you’re just doing it to fulfill weird expectations.”

“But it’s not that. Not just... that. I asked about your perception of me because I really like you, Gra. I think we should be more than friends and I wanted to know what you think about me. And I want to know what the fuss is about, yes, but I’m not telling you that just so I can lose my virginity to prove some point. I’m telling you that because I like you, I want to kiss you, and I think it would be a great idea if you showed me what it’s like. Y-you know, sex.”

“I-I can’t believe it. Did you even have any movie in mind?” His smile’s back, but you’re still not confident about what his answer will be.

“I didn’t. I’m sorry. You don’t have to--”

He sighs. “I was in love with you the moment I first saw you, actually.” He says it like he’s releasing a huge load out of his back, his arms crossed. Now your eyes widen, and you hold your breath without even noticing. “I didn’t want you to feel pressured. I know how you feel, or, felt about relationships, so… there wasn’t any reason for me to tell you that. And what I said about being timid was just half of the truth.”

“Huh?”

“I also was really intimidated by how pretty you looked. You can’t imagine how.”

“No way.”

“It’s true. I felt like I wasn’t even worthy of looking at you, really.”

“You’re joking. That’s mean, Gra.”

“I’m not. I’m really not.” He doesn’t look like he is joking. He looks relieved. “I’m really not. That’s why I’m so surprised by your request.”

“I’m nothing special.”

“You are everything to me. But I can’t accept your offer, not now.”

“Are you… seeing someone? Am I too late?”

“No. Definitely not. I just want you to be sure you’re not doing it because people are saying you should.”

“Graham, I’m a grown woman.”

“I know.”

Graham carefully presses his slightly chapped lips to yours, kissing you for a few precious, heart stopping seconds before pulling away; his voice is impossibly silky when he suggests, “Let’s watch a movie. How about The Godfather? I heard it’s airing tonight. Then, if in two weeks you don’t change your mind, tell me and I’ll be glad to help you with what you want. Do we have a deal?”

“That’s so unfair. I want you so bad.” You whisper.

“Tell me if you still do in two weeks.”

You sigh, defeated. “...Deal.”

You definitely notice the subtle shift in Graham’s personality and actions after that fateful night. If you were already close, both figuratively and literally, it now seemed like he would use any excuse to always touch you, be near you, sometimes tease you. The shift was subtle, though, don’t forget it’s still Graham Coxon we’re talking about - the constant “is it okay if”s or “is it alright if I”s were still there, as careful as ever. You don’t even talk about your deal that entire time, or even kiss again - sometimes you wondered if it was even real or just a fabrication of your mind.

The way he now caressed your hand discreetly when you listened to Damon’s ramblings, the way his hands now went directly to your waist when your games became too handsy, the way he seemed to be madly in love with everything you were and still are from the start - made you realize you were ready for this man to be a consistent part of your life.

The dust of the controversy was settled, and your own intentions were 100% clear to you now. The societal pressure has waned. The need for Graham to be your first persisted. After exactly 2 weeks have passed, you call him again, yearning to share the answer with him.

One beep.

Two beeps.

Three beeps.

Four beeps. “Hello?”

You release a sigh hidden deep inside of your lungs. “Graham, it’s Y/N.”

“Oh. It’s been two weeks.” You could hear the contemplative tone of his voice.

“...Yeah. That’s precisely the reason I’m calling you.”

“Do you still want to…?”

“...Desperately.”

“Ok.” He chuckles, flustered as hell on the other side of the phone, probably one of the prettiest sounds you’ve ever heard. “Right. Ok. Your place or mine?”

“I think there’ll be an element of mystery if I go to your place this time.” You lose some of the constraints this silly shyness has been tying you on. “Do you have everything we might need there?”

“We don’t need a dungeon, you know.”

“The basics.” You make your smile heard.

“I do have… I do have the basics.”

“See you in a few minutes then.”

“Will you want to… ease into it? Or just go straight to it?”

“God, don’t make it awkward!” Your cheeks burn, your smile turning into contagious laughter. “Maybe… I don’t know. Ease into it, I guess? A movie night… but with s-something else?”

“Okay. Sounds good.”

“Alright then. See you.”

“See you.”

You don’t choose any particularly fancy or sexy clothes, instead settling for a slightly oversized yellow striped shirt he gave you as a birthday present some months ago and some skirt that fit you well. He wasn’t one to lavish his loved ones with gifts all the time, but few things were as precious as the look on his face whenever he saw you wearing something he gave you or, hell, even eating something he paid for you. You’re thrilled to see it again when he opens the door for you, it easing some of your deepest doubts.

2001: A Space Odyssey is already playing on the TV when you arrive. Despite it being one of your favorite movies of all time, and his, you’re not mad it was already halfway through when you arrived. It wasn’t your main priority to rewatch it for the 17th time tonight.

He offers you some wine, which you accept to ease the nerves. You sit on his couch, and he shares the cozy space with you, now mindlessly throwing one of his arms around your shoulders. You cuddle up to him, and everything seems peaceful in the world for a while.

The tip of his fingers softly caress your lifted knee, absentmindedly. You couldn’t help but notice how well his body fits with yours, how your skin was apparently made for him to touch, and the anxiety rumbles in your stomach like a storm in a wild wavy sea. After some minutes, you raise your head, his big brown eyes meeting yours as if asking you a silent question. You leaned up a bit more to press your lips to his, in a silent answer. The sweetness in him makes this moment as precious as every other moment you ever shared with him. His hands enter your hair, making you shiver a bit from the unfamiliarity and the electricity of it all - but it doesn’t sway you from deepening the kiss, wanting more of his taste, more of this, more of him.

“Do you wanna take this to the bed?” He whispers, after noticing your moans were becoming more frequent and needy. You nod, and you are taken by surprise when he carries you bridal style to it, hiding your excited giggles in his broad shoulders.

Graham wasn’t exactly the most organized man in the world - so the fact that his bedroom was now impossibly tidy was something that positively caught your attention. He put some planning into this. He lays you down and you part your legs, beckoning him to meet you between them. He does, and you go back to the breathtaking makeout session. You notice he’s holding himself back a bit, taking his time, his warm tongue moving smoothly, not hurriedly, against yours. His self control falters a bit though, given how he can’t stop grinding against you. You follow the rhythm of his hips a bit timidly and not nearly as in sync as you’d really like, though the pressure his covered cock is creating against your core can already be felt and some particular thrusts are able to fill at least partially the aching, wet need growing within you.

“How do you feel about oral?” He asks, breath warm near your ear, his voice raspy and spent by his desire for you.

“Um… It would be my first time receiving or doing it.”

“Would you like me to go down on you?”

“Wow. I never thought I would hear you saying something like that.” You smile, still assimilating the situation you’re in, trying not to show how badly his voice is affecting you. “Sure.”

“I never thought I would get to propose this to you. Aren’t we full of surprises lately.” He smiles back, warmly. He notices your hands trembling a bit from how anxious you are while you’re taking off your underwear with his help, and as he lowers himself to where you need him most, he takes your hands in his as an act of reassurance. “Tell me what you like. Tell me if what I’m doing works for you. I want this to be a great experience.”

“You want me to get addicted to you, that’s what you want,” He chuckles, lovingly kissing your thigh as a reply. “Okay, Gra. Guess I’ll find out along the way.”

You quickly take a peak below you to see the lower half of his face disappear in the middle of your thighs. The sight alone sets your fire ablaze, as he hooks his arms around your thighs and lifts you closer to his mouth, his lips ghosting over the curls between your legs tantalizingly and his breath catching when your hips jerk forward.

As he begins his ministrations, you immediately notice it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt. That feeling was completely alien to you. It was even wetter than you expected, and weird, but powerfully pleasant. Before this exact moment, you had a firm belief that hardly anyone else would make you feel the same way, or better, than you do yourself, but apparently you were very wrong. Thankfully you were wrong. “My god,” you gasp as the flat of his tongue drags over your folds, too much and not enough, and you jerk at the contact. “This is great. So weird, but-- great.”

He moans at your response, his movements carefully enthusiastic. He works his tongue between your folds and traces up to curl the tip of it around your clit, and it’s quite endearing and madly arousing to see how he eats out you like you’re the sweetest and tastier dessert he has ever tasted. You involuntarily buck against him with a desperate sound the moment he moves his tongue and lips in a particularly wicked way, something that definitely doesn’t go unnoticed by him, but you still feel the need to highlight in case it didn’t - “That. Keep doing that, please,”

And he does. The building of this climax is also different than the ones you already had by your own hands, and is more coy. As he sees the drops of sweat sliding along your soft skin and the expressions on your face as you get lost in this new but enchanting sensations, his hesitation and self-control fades away; there’s nothing uncertain in the way he buries his face in your cunt now, nothing restrained in the groan he lets out as he devours you and drinks you down as if you’re the first stream of water he has seen in days.

His tongue glides deeper in your folds again and again, swirling up through the wetness you’re coated with to tease at your clit while he grunts and strains closer, squeezing your thighs with both hands tight. The wave of heat inside of you is cresting so fast, you don't even know how to tell him, how to signal that you’re nearly done for and, in the end, it happens too fast to even try. He sucks at your clit, circling it with his tongue, once, twice, and then you’re crying out, shaking underneath him, trying to keep your thighs from clenching too hard around his head as he laps you through it with with urgent whimpers and moans, as if he cannot have enough of you.

You’re still trembling when he rises, the look on his face revealing to you how proud he feels by making you feel this way. It looks so good on him.

You fail miserably at the simple task of connecting words together after that, choosing instead to collect your remaining strength, prop yourself up and beckon him again to keep kissing him and learn, through his talented tongue, how you taste. He kisses the thin fabric of the shirt at your chest that covers you from view, your throat, your jaw, and before he reaches your impatient lips, he notes, sinfully, “Seems like you enjoyed yourself, love.”

“That was… unbelievable. Stars, I want to make you feel good too. Please show me how.”

“Keep kissing me,” he begs, voice still strained from how aroused he is. “I want to be inside you so bad. Let’s get you prepared.” You’re still so sensitive, you tread on overstimulation when his fingers lightly touch your clit, making you break the kiss in a hiss. He traces a line on your folds, inspecting the impact his mouth had on you. “So wet for me.”

“Bit slower, Gra,” He complies to your breathy plea, his fingers now more tame as he slowly spreads your wetness throughout your pussy. He stretches towards the nightstand to grab a bottle of lube, interrupting his contact to spread some on his fingers before unhurriedly slipping his middle finger inside of you. The coldness of the gel makes you shiver in surprise, the easiness brought by it very welcomed. Again - the sensation is odd. Completely unfamiliar. The feeling of having something inside of you for the first time, going further than you ever dared to try, probing, exploring; the coldness of the lube clashing against your burning hot cunt. But it also felt nice. The focused look on his face was adorable, he looked like he was a scientist in the middle of very complex research.

Despite the panting, the messy hair and the fire in his eyes.

Your body already has a lot of new sensations to process simultaneously, so when he asks you to take off your bra and shirt so his tongue can work on your nipples - which you gladly accept, you feel like you’re on sensual overload. His tongue, again, so talented, takes your mind off the slight burning you feel when he introduces his ring finger to your soaked, throbbing core, his focused, carefully overpowering and constant stimulation driving you insane.

“Does it feel good?” He asks, voice muffled by your breast. You nod, carried by the wave of pleasure sweeping you.

“Yes. God, yes.” You pant, tangling your fingers tightly on his thick hair as an encouragement, a desperate sound escaping from your lips the moment he reaches a certain point within you you didn’t even know existed, hot mouth continuing to lick and suck your nipple. Even though you were spent by your last orgasm, he was indeed getting you addicted to those new feelings, and even though this was heavenly, truly heavenly, you needed more. “Gra, I’m ready, I think.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Please.”

Releasing your nipple from his lips with a sounding pop, he eagerly frees himself from his trousers - hard as a brick - and puts protection and lubrication on, swiftly positioning himself between your thighs while stroking himself to the sight in front of him. You motion to take off your skirt, and he holds your hand, not letting you. “Don’t. It’ll be really hot to fuck you in this.” He confesses, giving your forehead a kiss in a very different context than before. He aligns his forehead with yours, each of your lips just barely touching while you breathe each other’s air. He looks deep into your eyes, slowly running the tip of his cock between the slick folds of your pussy, coating himself in the remnants of your pleasure. “Do you trust me?”

You trust me to know your limits? Not to go any further if you don’t really want me to?

“Absolutely.”

The only response you get from him is a shuddering, helpless moan into your mouth and you hold him tighter to you, grinding your still sensitive cunt up against his cock while he pulls hard at the soft fur next to your head. You feel your soaking pussy lips part around the solid curve of his length and gradually coat the underside of him in slick with every gentle circle and roll your hips make, as he finally pulls away from your mouth to drop his forehead to your neck. He then, very slowly, penetrates you, stopping when he hears the noises you make indicating you’re struggling to adjust to his presence. Out of everything you’ve felt in the last minutes, this was by far the most painful sensation. “This-- is new,” you note, your face completely incapable of hiding the discomfort. He also notices that.

“Are you okay? Do you want me to stop?”

“It’s okay. I’ll get used to it.”

“It’s not supposed to be about endurance, you know.” He says, a bit breathless and worried, caressing your hair. “Tell me when it’s okay to move. Or if you feel too much pain.”

After some long seconds and some deep breaths, you say: “Okay. Go on.”

“As you wish.”

He moves inside you at a very slow pace, the lubrication clearly making it easier for you to handle it. It still hurts, significantly, but the sensation of being filled is also surprisingly arousing.

His hand moves to your sensitive clit again in small, measured circles, your little moans being a mixture of the pain of penetration and the sheer ecstasy of seeing him falling apart because of you. The way his chest heaves while the drops of sweat start pearling his fair skin, the furrowed brows and broken groans, the thickness of him as he rests heavy up against your entrance, the way his voice presses deliciously tight in his throat as he gasps out into the quiet room - everything’s making your chest burst in love and satisfaction. You tighten your grip around him and roll your hips up into his cock, letting it break you open nice and slow; it stretches you wide with a deliciously sharp fullness and pleasure rips through you, and Graham becomes even more vocal as he picks up a steady and gradually faster pace. He turned all of your keys, it’s about time you turn some of his.

“Graham, deeper,” you whimper, continuing to tighten your legs and hoist yourself up, lifting your hips to take his cock deeper inside you. His name rips itself from your throat while Coxon clenches his jaw and starts to lose himself in the pleasure, holding you down into the bed while he allows your desperation to guide him to the perfect angle and speed to sate you. He found denying you to be impossible.

He snarls and curses as he holds you down and rails you, determined to make you sing again before he finishes, and to his delight, your heightened sensitivity gives him what he wants. And this time, he couldn't hold on.

Graham kisses you one last time as he groans and gives in, head dropping to your neck again. You didn’t reach a second climax, but stars, what an experience you just had.

When he comes back to himself enough to realise he still had you practically folded in half, he carefully pulls his softening cock free, taking the condom off and taking the strands of hair out of your face as you struggle to catch your breath. You suggest a shared bath, a suggestion he gladly accepts.

Too tired and too sore for pillow talk, comfortable silence falls as your hand finds his, and you lay, listening to each other’s breathing slowly settle.

I could get used to his little snore on my chest, is the last thought that twinkles on your mind before you fall asleep snuggled with him.

#graham coxon #alex james #damon albarn #dave rowntree #blur #britpop #smut #imagine #reader insert #graham coxon x reader #graham x reader #y/n #fluff #au #fanfiction #blur band

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