#Be prepared for tag vomit because there is going to be a LOT

[lady-belleslettres]

First art for 2024 😳

Would you believe me that this drawing took me more than three days to finish? 😭 I wanted to draw something ship-related, and I found a reference image that is perfect to draw my favourite ships.

I might draw part 2 with more of my favourite ships if I'm up to it.

Reference:

[gyuswhore]

Hits Different (...'cause it's you) (1)

«« I trace the evidence, make it make some sense Why the wound is still bleedin' »»

PAIRING: kim mingyu x reader

SYNOPSIS: Kim Mingyu was the first friend your brother had brought home for dinner. Fast forward a couple years, his toothy smile and pierced ears would wedge their way into a permanent place in your heart. Nail to a coffin, never to escape.

or;

in which you get rejected by the only boy you've ever loved; a rejection you can't quite shake off.

GENRES: based off of 'Hits Different' by Taylor Swift, brother's best friend!au, brother!seokmin, fluff, angst, smut (in part 2) [MINORS DNI], friends(?) to lovers, university!au.

PLAYLIST: right here!

WORD COUNT (full fic): 40k (im actually embarrassed)

Part 1: 20.2k | Part 2: 20k

masterlist

WARNINGS : slowburn, angst, fluff, mingyus a bit of an airhead and an ass, reader has a hard time managing her feelings, lots of frustrated tears, one sided pining, user toruro x minghao make an appearance, swearing, there's another woman (gasp,,,,,but shes cool so), Nayeon is a darling, Seungcheol is kinda annoying here but we love him, smut tags in part 2

(Comments from @toruro): "oh shizzle", "yeah bitch", (on jihyo) "mother", "ME X HAO FIRE EMOJI", "men (derogatory)"

[A/N]: Tumblr is annoying and won't let me post the entire 40k in one go so i have to break it up (part 2 is out tomorrow!!!) i hope you guys enjoy this, thank you for all the love on the teaser, i hope this is able to live up to the hype, thank you so much for being patient with me <33 (ty @toruro for encouraging me when i felt shit ab this gkjnrgvkjrng and beta-ing ofc)

As someone who could vomit at the mere thought of throw-up, you tried not to stare into the toilet bowl as you emptied your guts in this questionable club bathroom. 

It was proving to be easier than you’d anticipated, naturally, when your eyes were blurred with bubbling tears. Were they because of your wretching or the feelings that churned in your heart? You can’t be entirely sure, nor can you find yourself having the mental strength to figure out. There’s a banging on the door behind you, one that sends your already aching head into a hurling spin. 

“Open the door, I have water for you, it’ll help!” You hear Mika blare from the other side, concern lacing her voice. 

You try to blink the tears away but they cascade down your cheek anyway, rubbing at them furiously before preparing to haul yourself off the disgusting bathroom floor. Taking a deep breath was a horrible idea, you realize when an atrocious mixture of scents hit your nostrils, cringing visibly. 

Washing your hands at the sink took you another five minutes, scrubbing furiously at your palms and nails with the dollar store soap the club graciously placed in a fancy dispenser, pumping more than a normal amount to rid yourself of the paranoia of tainted hands. 

Unfortunately for you, your palms were tainted with entities beyond mere soap and water’s powers. 

It was evident with the way you exited the bathroom feeling perhaps worse than you went in. Mika was nowhere to be seen in the hall, moving along to the private room where the rest of the group was to find her springing up as you enter. 

“You weren’t answering, so I left. Here, water, I told you to be careful with what you drink; you haven’t had a bite to eat either.” She reprimands. 

“Sorry,” you smile sheepishly, not having a reasonable excuse to give her. 

Joshua peeks over her shoulder, “You feeling any better?” 

The water is slow to go down as you sputter before replying in a hoarse voice, “Yeah. Way.” 

To be fair, the water did help. But it was you who was the problem, blaming the alcohol for the behaviour all your friends knew perfectly well where it was stemming from. Not a word was said though, for your sake or their own. You wrap up quickly after that, Joshua insisting to drop you off home himself, quoting how Seokmin would have his head if he left you in the hands of a taxi driver in this state — age gap be damned. You can only thank him as he pulls up to your destination, hoping you’ll remember this in the morning to return the favour in the future. 

“Before you go, can we talk for a second?” he piques, halting you as you remove your seatbelt. 

“Sure, yeah. What is it?” 

“I’m not gonna ask if you’re doing alright, not when you’re gonna give me the same answer as always. But…please take care of yourself. You’ve been drinking quite a bit lately, and it can’t be helping you at all” 

You listen to him silently, not a thought in your brain. But you nod anyway. 

“Thanks for looking out, Shua. I’m…I’m probably not gonna be going out for a while, you’re right,” you reply, quietly, a small smile on your face that you can only hope is reassuring. 

“I don’t mean lock yourself up, either. You don’t give yourself a break and then try to make up for it by drinking your self faint every week, that’s never gonna help you. You know that.” He speaks in a soft, soothing voice, a hand coming up to pat your hair before landing on your clasped hands on your lap. “You know what, I’ll pick you up tomorrow night, we can go the fair just me, you and Seok-” 

“I have class tomorrow.” 

“Like showing up hungover is gonna help you retain any information. Just skip.” 

You sigh a deep exhale, deciding to simply be upfront. “I kinda just wanna stay home for a while, going out’s kinda making it worse. I think rotting in front of my laptop’s what I really need right now” 

Throwing in a tinkle of a laugh, you hope you’ve sold yourself.

“Alright,” he sounds slightly unconvinced but doesn’t push you further, “I’ll drop in to bother you tomorrow though, don’t try stoping me”

“Okay,” you say, smiling a little wider. “I’m gonna go now, goodnight.”

“Wait!” he stops you once again, right before your about to shut the door. “Have you talked to Mingyu at all?” 

“There’s nothing to talk about, Shua. Night” 

With that you’ve slammed the door of his car shut, missing the ghost of a “goodnight” that leaves Joshua’s lips as he watches you walk inside the building. 

“And stop staying out so late at night! What were you supposed to do if Joshua wasn’t there?” Seokmin rants as he walks back and forth grabbing you water and pills as you finish your forced breakfast.

“Take a taxi?” you suggest sarcastically. 

“What? And get me called to the station to identify your body parts when some dude decides he wants to play cannibalistic butcher?” he screeches, and it has you wincing and grabbing onto your head at his volume. You dramatize it a little, hoping he’d shut it with his nagging if you gained some extra sympathy. He doesn’t stop talking, but he does tone it down. 

“Whatever, I’m not going out anymore.” You push your plate and bowl away as you hop off the stool and stalk off to your room, making as much noise as possible in the process. 

Your brother calls after you, but you don’t stop. Your head was pounding, 

“Are you gonna take your meds? HELLO? Or do you enjoy the feeling of having your head split open?” he slams open the door of your room mid-sentence, going on at your blanket-clad figure on the bed. 

“I’m going back to sleep.”

“No, you’re taking your fucking meds.” A cup of water is thrust into your hands as you pick up the pills from Seokmin’s open palms, swallowing before he decides to shove it down your throat himself. 

He waits on the edge of the bed, checking to make sure you actually swallowed the pill instead of hiding it under your tongue like you’ve done since you were kids. 

“I’m not stopping you from going out if that’s what you think I mean,” he starts, a lot softer this time, and you’re taken back to your conversation with Joshua last night. “You’ve been going out and coming home wasted a lot more than normal lately. I don’t know if it’s because your college agendas are finally catching up to you or what.”

“I’m just…My friends are always out and I wanna be with them, it’s normal,” you grumble, disappearing deeper into your sheets.

“You’d tell me if something was bothering you, right?” 

‘Yeah, yeah, now shoo. Your voice is making my head hurt worse, I doubt Advils are immune to your yapping.” 

“Fine, fuck you too” he mumbles, leaving the room only to pop back in a second later. “Mom called last night, told her you were at a study group. Might wanna call her back before she catches a flight herself.” 

You wave two fingers up in a salute from your flat position on the bed, hearing him close the door. You don’t sit up until you hear the TV blare from the living room, knowing he had parked himself on the couch and has his attention diverted. 

The headache wasn’t actually that bad, you just really wanted to be left alone, and your brother had a habit to do the opposite when asked, so it had to be done. 

What on Earth were you supposed to tell him, anyway? That his best friend in the whole world rejected his sister on the spot when she confessed her decades long feelings? That she was ruining her liver and kidneys every weekend over a rejection? By his best friend in the whole world?

Yeah, that’s an easy conversation. 

Snuggling into the covers you try not to think back to the abomination that was your birthday party just a few weeks ago, but your thoughts yank you there anyway, as if to remind you of every wretched detail of the encounter like it was wasn’t already burned into your frontal lobe like a brand. 

You were on a high; too happy, too excited. It’s not like you were expecting anything for your first birthday at uni anyway, you were too old for pink blowout parties and too young for the madness of college level clubbing. You were excited for takeout with your brother, to sit in front of the TV for the rest of the night, maybe even stick a candle in one of your burgers and call it your cake. Plans were changed when you walked into your home, ready to wind down for the night and celebrate in your own way. 

It was a full house, food and drinks everywhere, complete with a loud “SURPRISE” as you walk through the door. You remember hugging both your brother and Mingyu when they tell you they did all of this for you, an overwhelming feeling overcoming you as you grip them tight, hoping it’ll transfer all the gratitude you couldn’t express. 

You’re breathless as the night progresses, trying hard to focus on the conversations at hand, trying to be a good host. Failing miserably, you can’t force your gaze from wandering every few minutes, searching for Mingyu in the crowd, watching him move his mouth as he talked, throw his hair back as he laughed, smile that beautiful, beautiful smile of his, perfect teeth on display. 

It had been bliss these past few weeks, the lingering smiles he would give you, the flirtatious attempts never gone unnoticed. The smoothest of words slipping right off his tongue as he gave you eyes that twinkled and sparkled and blew air directly into the embers in your heart. You would still yourself as they would happen, like the mirage would crack and shatter if you even dared to breathe; it felt unreal. After all these years, you realised soon, Kim Mingyu may have began to like you. 

You’d be lying if you said you were completely sober when it happened, drinks were passed around and as the birthday girl you didn’t seem to have a choice to back down, already a little hot and wide eyed barely halfway through the night. 

And when Mingyu doesn’t interact with you all night, you go to him as the numbers in the house dwindled, cornering him as he collected bottles in the kitchen.

“Hey!”, he sounds enthusiastic, “You having fun yet?”

“Yeah, thanks again for doing this.” your remember fidgeting with your fingers and nails, digging them into each other as you let yourself spew. 

“Are you gonna say thank you at every chance for the next six months? It's your first birthday away from home. Besides it was Seok’s idea, I just helped out.” He had said, beaming.

“Mingyu, can I talk to you about something…?”

You sigh loudly as you replay the memory, face pushed into the covers as you bite back a scream at the blood rushing to your head. 

Stupid. Idiot. Absolutely brainless.

“Oh.” He had breathed out when you had spilled your entire heart out to him standing in that kitchen, visibly taken aback at your abruptness. “I…I’m sorry I’m not quite sure what to say.” 

You still remember that sickening feeling, that big ball of junk and emotions that sank lower and lower in your abdomen, settling a deep hurt in your chest that made it difficult to breathe. 

Laying in your bedroom, weeks after the fact, you can still feel your breathing go slightly erratic at the memory, hot tears springing your eyes, burning before you wipe them away. You were aware how baffling it was, how you were letting it affect you to this degree, but you justified it with the years you had remained quiet, yearning on the sidelines. 

You deserved to wallow in this pit. 

At least that’s what you thought. But after last night you wonder if you had stopped indulging in the sorrow and let it ruin you instead. A sigh escapes you at the thought of ending yet another night in a dirty bathroom, makeup smeared and guts removed, misery becoming the only thing you were allowed to feel in the aftermath. 

You reach for your phone on the bedside table, flicking through your unread messages, barely registering a word as you leave them opened and unanswered. There wasn’t an ounce of willpower in you even after a full night’s sleep, turning your phone off before shoving it in your bedside drawer, forgotten. You take a moment to stare at the ceiling, having no energy to get up to turn your lights off. Until the doorbell sounds. 

Of course you knew who it was the second you heard, but the voice paired with your brother’s conversing outside was enough to have you catapulting out of bed. You slap your hand over the switchboard, turning off all your lights, moving across the room to pull your curtains shut, cascading complete darkness in the room. You fly under the covers as a last effort to convince, covering your face with the sheets just as you hear a knock. 

The door creaks open slightly as Seokmin calls out your name. 

“Are you up? Mingyu’s here, he brought coffee.” He whispers slowly. You don’t respond. 

He calls out your name one more time before you hear the door click shut. You don’t move till you hear his muffled voice on the other end, “She’s knocked out, her head was hurting, better let her rest.” 

Heat pricks the sides of your face as your body finally relaxes, borderline embarrassed at how you were hiding from him like a middle schooler who thinks she’s in love. Which you were at one point; now you're a college kid who thinks she’s in love.

You try not to focus too much on the sounds coming from outside, burying under the covers to attempt at sleep for real this time. Eyes screwed shut, you can’t help but open them at every other intonation. There was no way you could figure out what they were saying if you tried, between the door and the TV, it was all a taunting buzz in your ears. 

You do end up falling asleep. But only after you hear the droning of the TV turn off, and the distinct goodbyes as the front door clicks shut. 

Keeping to your promise, you stay away from late nights for the next couple of weeks. Joshua so far as commends you for declining invitations, offering dinner on him on one particular phone call. 

“You know, I was serious when I said I was proud of you.” Joshua voices solemnly as you attempt to cut a strip of meat onto the grill. You snort as a response. 

“I wasn’t like, an alcoholic, you’re making it sound worse than it was.” 

“It was still bad for it to affect you in that way. Takes a lot to get back up from heartbreak”

“Especially one that’s lasted for nearly a decade.” You sigh as you give up on the meat, handing the scissors and tongs over. 

“Are we still talking about that?” He raises his eyebrows. 

A smile makes its way to your face, nibbling on a radish, “No.”

“Good. Because we need to talk about if we want our noodles hot or cold.”

“Seok! SEOK! Where the fuck did you put my pimple patches?” Your screams echo across the house yet garner no response. Opting to yank open the fridge, you dig through through the box of face masks to find them possibly laying at the bottom, forgotten. Seokmin bounds into the kitchen, towel in hand as he pats at his damp hair.

“What?” 

“Nothing,” you huff, shoving the unfruitful box back into the cabinet, "you used up all the patches.”

“Patches? Pimple patches? We’ve been out for a month, just use this tube in the drawer.” Pulling open the drawer, he rummages for a moment before emerging with a sickly yellow tube of what looked like poorly marketed toothpaste.

“You want me to put this on my face?” 

“Yeah, it works, zit on my nose was gone by morning.” He stuffs the tube back in the drawer not before squeezing a small amount on his fingers to dab on your face.

“Ew, get your dirty hands away from my face.” You grip his wrists before he tries to move in further. 

He does nothing but shush you, shaking off your hands as you grumble in silence, letting him finger paint on your face. You move up to fix a roller on your head, undoing it before rolling the bit back in, resulting in another “tsk” emitting form your brothers concentrated face.

“Okay, enough! I don’t have that many zits.” You pull away as Seokmin moves to wash his hands. 

“Are you going to bed right now?” He asks as you move over to the door.

“Yeah. I’m not going to sleep, though.” 

“Gyu’s coming over, you were asleep when he was here last too.” 

It seemed as though every bone in your body rattled against your flesh. 

“When is he coming?” You ask quickly, frozen in your spot. 

The doorbell rings. 

“Right now, I guess.” He snickers to himself.

You can only watch in mild horror as he moves to open the door, words escaping you. You follow behind him, trying to stop him, yet not doing much other than reach the front door yourself, fingers frozen yet mildly trembling. 

“Wait!” You finally whisper-shout, “Don’t open it!” 

Seokmin pauses to give you a look, “Why? He’s seen you look worse, it’s fine”

The door wrenches open before you can protest any further, a cartoonish moment of the hunched figure of you, hands out in a nearly there grip. You’ve failed, and the chorus of ‘hey’’s reach your ears in almost a mocking manner. There’s a conscious effort on your end to not look up too high, keeping to chest eye level for your own sanity. What you find once your vision clears from the white blur, is that there’s not one, but two people at the door. 

Mingyu’s brought a girl. 

Standing behind the door meant there was no immediate attention on you, which should have been a perfectly good opportunity for you to book it to your room, but you don’t. You stand there instead, staring at the back of their heads like a child in wonder.

Once you are noticed by your brother, he winces at your appearance, a silent apology, like he didn’t know about this new guest either. Or he was apologising for what he was about to do next, you wouldn’t know, because you wouldn’t be hearing him out when you throttle him later. 

“This is my sister” 

All three sets of eyes are on you now, a moment of silence as they take in your appearance. The grandma nightgown, in all its blue and collared glory, does absolutely nothing to boost your confidence in front of the very pretty lady, whose hair cascades down her back, whose skin stands as clear as a summer sky. 

“Hi!” She breaks the awkward silence first, “I’m Jia, it’s nice to meet you! I’ve heard a lot about the both of you.”

What?

“Mingyu has a hard time keeping his mouth shut, I’m not surprised.” Seokmin tries to joke as he motions for the couch in the centre of the room. You catch him kicking a stray sock out of the way as he urges them to sit. 

With the way your brother is acting, you don’t doubt this is his first time meeting this girl. Mingyu is yet to clarify why he would bring a friend to the house unannounced, but something tells you you already know. You remain on the sidelines, inching away to the hallway slowly, trying your hardest to not bring attention to yourself.

“I haven’t seen you around campus ever, are you new?” Seokmin prods, his voice slightly on edge. 

“Oh, um-” Jia begins but is cut off by Mingyu as he speaks for her. 

“Jia doesn’t go to our uni, we met at Seungcheol’s, we’ve been dating for a couple months.” 

There it is. 

“Oh! Couple months? How come I didn’t know?” You don’t miss the hurt laced in your brother's words, your fists clenching slightly at the oncoming silence. 

“That’s on me, sorry. It’s just…I didn’t want anyone to know ‘cause I thought he was playing around when he said he liked me, I wanted to see if he was being real or not.” She laughs nervously, and you see the back of her head move as she talked. You can’t help but note the arm that’s swung across the back of the couch where she sat. “Please don’t be mad at him! I promise it was me that stopped him.”

You don’t hear too much of what happens afterwards as you slip away into the crevice of your bedroom, standing in the entryway in absolute silence, attempting to absorb what you had just witnessed outside. Approaching the full length mirror on the other end, it takes a lot out of your to bring yourself to look straight into it, regretting it immediately as you acknowledge your appearance. 

Of course, the woman who actually succeeded in winning over the man that rejected you had to witness you in the unappealing yellow paste that your brother graciously dotted all over your face, not leaving the giant rollers in your hair to cut you any slack either. You could cry about it, but you don’t. Instead you lay back in your bed, sniffling in the dark, just as you had the last time Mingyu was over. 

It’s significantly easier to drown out the voices this time round, especially when your mind is preoccupied with a couple months. Your birthday was a couple months ago, does that mean they started dating right after that conversation? Or were they already offical and you had waltzed in with your princess dreams about your brother’s best friend being in love with you. 

It made perfect sense at the time, and no sense at all anymore as you wonder why on Earth he was being so forwardly flirty with you if there was another girl all along. There’s a bitter taste in your mouth as you recall how he had quit perceiving you altogether after that night, and you can’t help but mentally commend Jia for testing him by keeping it quiet. Especially when he was going around flirting with his best friend’s sister. 

It didn’t take long for you to guage Mingyu’s reputation when you first dropped into university, the senior having made himself a reputation none less similar than he had in high school. He was popular, but with his outgoing personality and a face like that it was hard not to be liked. Your brother was right there beside him, living it up as carefree college kids, suddenly remembering he now had a little sister to tend to. You were grateful for the both of them for being there to help you take your first baby steps, all the rites of passage and which professors sucked the least, not leaving the leaky water fountain to never drink from. 

That was when Mingyu’s (supposed) advances had begun. 

You’re projected back to first semester, when both of them had dragged you to the same couch outside, talking about an “important thing you should know”. 

“You walk into class one day, expecting nothing out of the ordinary. Your professor drones on as usual, your classmates look bored as usual, you’re tired as usual. But then!” Seokmin breathes in sharply, and you hear Mingyu bound to the other side of your vision, emerging on the opposite end of the room with a backpack swung over his shoulder. 

“The man of your dreams walks by…” Seokmin continues and you snap your head towards him in a panic, suddenly afraid he had found you out. He’s busy though, making ethereal hands in Mingyu’s general direction, while the latter walks in comedic slow motion like he’s in a K-drama b-roll, complete with passes over his hair and a nonchalant yet controlled expression. 

“What is this about?” It comes out snappier than you had intended, but you’ve had one scare already. 

“Just!” your brothers hands turn from graceful to clenched, like it was you he was trying to squish you for interrupting him, “Listen, alright?” 

“The man of your dreams walks by,” he goes back to his narrator voice, “and you wonder where he’s been all your life. You start talking, you’re enamoured. You start thinking about introducing him to your parents, what your wedding’s gonna look like, what your kids are gonna look like!” 

Your face is becoming increasingly warped the more you listen to him speak, not being able to fathom where this was going. 

“But no!” It’s Mingyu that speaks this time, pushing a jolt out of you as he slams the backpack on the floor, pointing directly at you for added effect,  “You’re better than that!”

“What the fuck-” you start, but are shushed by a physical finger on your lips as Mingyu shushes you. Seokmin slaps his hand away. 

“Our point is, that you’re probably gonna come across someone who you think is your next boyfriend.” Your brother continues, “But lucky for you, you have two seasoned professionals here to tell you that it’s nothing but fresher’s fever.” 

“It’s a new place, new people, loads of new experiences; you’re bound to latch on one of the first couple pieces of meat. Our advice is don’t, because it will happen to you. But you also now know that your just in a deluded stage right now. Give it a semester before you start dating people, trust.” Mingyu finishes for Seokmin as he thumps down on the couch next to you. 

“So all of this was just another stay away from boys lecture?” You raise your eyebrows. 

“Yes and no. You can date whoever you want,” Seokmin answers coolly before quickly adding, “but not right now.”

It was laughable, the thought of latching onto another person when you’d been trying exactly that for years. To have anyone catch your eye, to have anyone sweep you away from this madness that came in the form of Kim Mingyu. Neither of these seasoned professionals had a thing to worry about though, because you weren’t latching on anything that came out of this institute. You had already done so, in a stage more impressionable than this, years and years before any of them knew of the dangers of young girls and new boys in their vicinity. 

“Okay, I know you’re like on a self inflicted party ban and all that…” Joshua starts the second he places himself at your table, still haggard looking from jogging across campus.

“Don’t even try.” You warn with filled cheeks.

“Girl, let him finish.” Nayeon chides next to you. 

You exhale through your nose heavily, going back to pick at your tray as Joshua continues.

“Cheol’s throwing a little party tonight to celebrate the end of midterms.” He starts, “You should come, it's only gonna be a handful of people.” 

“A handful?” You repeat, unable to bite back the amusement in your voice. 

“Come on, your brother’s going as well! You’ll be fine, I promise we’ll keep you in check.” 

“I don’t need to be kept in check, I’m fine.” You grumble.

“Perfect! Nothing stopping you then, I’ll pick you both up at 8.” The words are barely out of his mouth before he’s back to sprinting out the vicinity, garnering looks from oncoming traffic, off to his next pestering destination 

“I don’t think I’d explicitly agreed.” You voice. 

“He got what he wanted.” Nayeon snorts, “Whatever, we’ll get ready at my place after this.”

“Weren’t you guys worried about me? Now you’re actively dragging me to parties.” You drop your utensils onto the tray.

“Too much of either isn’t a good thing, you went from forgetting what home looks like to exclusively holing yourself up in there.” She stabs a piece of potato with a chopstick and tries to pry it in your mouth. “Besides, Cheol’s parties are always super intimate, they’re all gonna be people you know, don’t worry.”

‘Super intimate’, as Nayeon had put it, had amounted to at least fifty people as you take in the crowd at the floor of the house. Despite not being packed to the brim, it was still coming out to look like a full house, random items already scattered across the floors in true frat party fashion. 

“Do you want a beer?” Nayeon asks, dragging you to the kitchens by the hand as you crane your neck to spot people.

“Uh, no. Is there juice?” 

“Um, there’s a questionable looking fruit punch.” she wrinkles her nose at the blaring red bowl on the counter. 

You sigh, grabbing a cup, “I’ll risk it.”

Joshua was air the second he had walked in with you, whisked away to socialize with his own hoard of acquaintances, leaving both you and Nayeon to fend for yourselves. You’re yet to spot your brother, granted you’d only been here a mere five minutes, his rowdy demeanor making him quite easy to spot in usual circumstances. 

Taking a casual sip of the electric red liquid you’re forced to make a face as you register the flavour, alerting Nayeon, who was too busy fiddling through multiple crystal bottles. 

“What? Is it bad?” 

“What the fuck is that?” You sputter in astonishment, wondering how the bowl was already half empty. “Who’s drinking this stuff?” 

She grabs the cup from you before taking a gulp herself, emerging the same gagging mess you were, eyes watering at the taste. It seemed almost comical when Seokmin shows up behind her, waiting to greet only to find both of you doubled over. His eyes move over to the potion in Nayeon’s hand and passes a knowing look.

“He’s brought The Whole Shabang out of retirement.” He states like it was the obvious answer.

Nayeon spits first, “Are we supposed to know what that means?” 

“Cheol got drunk one time in freshman year and mixed every ounce of alcohol he owned into one big bowl of despair. We retired it last year when the bowl broke and stained his counters. But anyway, beginners are supposed to dilute it before downing it.”

“That’s great and everything but why is it so red?” You ask.

Another voice speaks from behind you, turning around to find Seungcheol himself. “There’s an entire thing of food colouring in there, gives it an edge don’t you think?”

“I’m scared of you.” You deadpan, a sour expression remaining on your face. 

Seunghceol is quick to suggest the backyard for some fresh air to distract from the flavour it’s left in your mouths, commenting on the nice weather. Neither him nor your brother stick around for too long though, dipping at the holler of their names somewhere inside. You’re comfortable though, despite being blocked off by a concrete railing, the stairs make a nice haven for the both of you to lie down and stare into the clearer than usual sky. Cheol was right, it was nice outside. 

“I can’t lay down like this, I need to get a drink.” Nayeon announces not even five minutes later. 

“Why didn’t you get one when we were there?” You groan, but she doesn’t respond as she hops back inside, throwing a promise to be quick in the air behind her. 

The wall supports you as you deflate into it, legs sprawled across the steps in disarray. Nobody could see you anyway, taking full advantage as you practically manspread. The side of the pool that’s in your vision is empty by grace; calm save for the giant flamingo floaty that bobs itself into view from the edge of the wall you lean against. A breathy laugh leaves you at the sight. 

The railing on your other side is mostly concealed, you can still make out the wicker sofa set, complete with an unlit fireplace. It’s unoccupied, for the time being, as you register a conversation floating closer and closer to your ears. Wondering if Nayeon had brought friends, you stand up quickly to look over the railing to check for her face over the sliding door that leads inside. 

There’s no Nayeon in sight. 

But there is Mingyu. 

His mere presence knocks your butt back onto the concrete the second you see him stumbling over the threshold with a hoard of his friends, nothing short of his picturesque party strut. There was little reason for you to hide from him at all, considering the very possible notion that he would look right past you if you happened across his line of sight. Space floating in, he’d ignore you for your sake or his own, perhaps even both. 

For now, he’s seated himself with a few other people on the wicker sofas, leaving you hugging your knees to your chest, head on the concrete wall with the lingering feeling akin to that of a trapped mouse. Closing your eyes, you blow out air in an attempt to relax yourself, take light of the situation you’ve found yourself in. You could get up and leave in this very moment, possibly go unnoticed if you stalked back inside before they began their rattle not meant for your ears. 

And yet, you find yourself unable to move, not even when you hear their topic shift to Mingyu’s new beau. Suddenly you wish you’d moved inside the moment you saw him. 

“Was it you that stopped Jia from coming to parties?” You hear somebody ask.

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Mingyu grumbles, he pauses and you assume he’s taking a swing of his drink. “We started going out and suddenly she didn’t wanna come, that’s fine though, it isn’t her vibe anyway.”

There’s a snigger that moves across everybody seated, you hear loud thwack before Mingyu speaks again, “What’s so fucking funny?” 

“This girl’s made you work for it, huh?” 

“Isn’t that like, his brand? Don’t look at me like that, you’re the one yapping about liking a challenge all the time.”

“Yeah, remember Minji?” 

“I still think she was only pretending to not like you, her clique was always smacking at her to straighten up when you’d come over like we couldn’t see everything.” You could almost hear the eye rolling.

“Change the subject, will you?” Mingyu proposes, sounding exhausted at the prodding already.

“I apologise for the ex talk and nothing else.” 

There’s a pause for another choke of laughter across the group, and you wonder what it was that they found so funny. 

“I don’t know if I should say this…” Somebody begins, but is cut off by Mingyu.

“Then don’t say it.” He snaps, but you don’t miss his own jest. 

“I honestly thought you were gonna date Seok’s sister at some point. I mean, common consensus is that bagging your best friend’s sister is… what you’d call a challenge.”

What the fuck. 

You feel your eyes drifting closed at the turn this conversation has taken, wishing to simply fall asleep at what it’s come to. Somebody speaks up. 

“Nah, that’s like, the grand slam prize, that one comes after he’s done hanging with the side quests.” 

The situation is making itself out to be something out of a fever dream. 

Mingyu tsks, and you note a jostle happening through the gaps of the railing. “I’m leaving.” 

You find yourself hugging yourself tighter, eyes shut like he wouldn’t be able to see if you couldn’t see him. Not that it was possible unless he peered directly through the railing in his peripheral. 

“OKAY! Okay! We’re kidding.” There’s a pause. “Okay, but really…”

Another pause, this time longer. You hate how you can picture the ghost of an exasperated smile on Mingyu’s face, a bite of his lip perhaps, dejected at the shoulder with his longing, distant look. You hate how your mind fills the gaps of him the railing won’t allow you to see. 

“Seok’s not the type to beat me up if I dated his sister. And besides…” He sighs, halting his words.

“Besides what?” Somebody chimes in.

“I’m not interested in going after someone who’s chased my tail for the past fifteen years.”

There’s a chorus of hisses and oh’s, a few bounts of laughter in their disbelief. You can feel your stomach twist, heat pooling your figure. 

It would’ve been better if his words had hit you like a gong, maybe the aftermath wouldn’t have felt as horrid. But the connotations crept up on you like a million spiders making their trek up to your brain, waiting to stick their crawlers in the bits that would allow those words to hold meaning for you. You can feel the electric red of Seungcheol’s god awful concoction begin to rise up in your throat like bile; burning, imprinting. 

Mingyu had said what he had said. And everything was in it’s place, in finality. 

Despite the nearly four year age gap, you and Seokmin had co-existed without the semblance of an older-younger duo. It was mostly owed to Seokmin's shy nature, and his difficulty making solid friends. That, however, didn’t last long as your brother progressed through middle school. 

You had met Mingyu for the first time when Seokmin brought his first ever friend from school home for dinner. 

Despite being barely nine years old and half spoon fed by your mother at the same table, the prospect of Seokmin’s new friend was equal to you having a new friend – which caused enough excitement as you brought your favourite cartoon books into your brother’s room to show this new person after dinner. 

As the following year progressed, you saw less and less of your brother, and more and more of newer faces of ‘friends’ that you weren’t allowed to play with. It was distressing enough to be told by your mother that something of your brother’s was not yours, but even more so when you were kicked out of the room by Seokmin himself for the very first time.

It wasn’t as trauamtising as it felt in the moment, because you grew to find your own group of friends, doing the same as you’d kick your brother out for being annoying – except unlike you, he was doing it on purpose. 

Mingyu was a recurring face, one that was nicer to you on the days your brother was meaner, more forgiving on the days your relatively new middle school was relentless. He fit himself in your life easier than you had realised, more comfortable than you soon found you were comfortable with.

“Did you take my guitar picks?” Your brother bursts into your room just as your about to fall into your after school nap, grip loosening on the book in hand. 

Jolting awake at the sound of loud voice, you don’t respond as you attempt to orient yourself. 

“Well? Did you?” He demands again.

“What? No, I don’t know where your stupid guitar pick is.” You grumble. “Get out.”

“It’s not in my room that has to mean you took it, where is it?” 

Mingyu emerges from behind him, hand on his arm as he tries to pull his iron grip off of your doorway. “It’s probably just in your bag, you haven’t even looked!” 

Kicking the covers off, you sit up in a disarray, progressively annoyed at your brother for ruining your perfect descent into dreamland. 

“I don’t have shit, you just suck at keeping tabs on your stuff!” You grit. 

There’s a stagnant pause as he stares at you from the doorway. You can sense it coming. And it does. 

“MOM! SHE JUST SWORE!” He yells into the hallway, bounding to where your mother was, leaving an unsure Mingyu in your doorway.

Surprisingly, you were just glad he was gone, wanting to melt back into the covers. You make eye contact with Mingyu. “I really don’t have it.” 

“It’s probably in there somewhere, he’s just not looking.” He mumbles, standing a little awkward. “Um, go back to whatever it was, I’ll close your door.”

He does so, allowing you to finally slump back into your pillows to go back to your nap.

You find out quickly that you couldn't sleep after that.

The controller is becoming increasingly uncomfortable to hold. It doesn’t help that you’re brother is chewing on his four additional pieces of gum behind you on the couch, making obnoxious comments about your gaming form. 

You’re also sitting a foot away from Kim Mingyu on the floor, with whom you’re forced to battle out on Mario Kart. 

“Why’re you clicking the buttons so hard, chill out.” You heat Seokmin say, continued by his wet chomping right by your ear. 

“How hard is it to chew with your mouth closed?” Mingyu grits.

“What? Like this?” Seokmin leans over to Mingyu, chewing even louder, mouth wrenched open and closed right into his ear. Mingyu makes a sound before falling to his side, covering his ears at the ghastly sound, pushing him back with his free hand to shut him up.

You barely crack a smile at the unfolding, watching them continue to wrestle half on the floor. It’s noisy when you set your controller down, chest heavy, unfolding your legs to walk into the hallway to your room. Unnoticed. 

You only reemerge to feed yourself, inspecting the fridge for possible leftovers. Settling on an apple, you’re closing the fridge when you see Mingyu walk in, seemingly taken aback to see you there. You freeze with your mouth still attached to the apple to take a bite. 

“Oh! Where’d you go when we were playing? Didn't notice you gone till I got him to spit that wad of gum out his mouth.”

“Uh, just tired. Took a nap.” 

He hums in response and you're just about to leave when he starts talking again. 

“Hey, did you move the popcorn somewhere else? Could’ve sworn it was in here last week,” he mumbles as he rummages through a cabinet. 

“Oh. Um. It’s in the pantry.” You move before you can think, grabbing the box and slamming it on the counter, pausing briefly before reaching for the popcorn bowl and setting it on the counter next to it. “Here.”

You don’t wait for a reply before grabbing your apple and moving out the kitchen, only to bump into your brother at the door. 

“Where’ve you been?” 

“Napping,” you say, moving around him to go your own way but are stopped yet again as he calls for you. 

“We’re gonna watch a movie! You can lie on the couch.” 

Turning around, you catch sight of your brother still in the doorway, and more intriguing, Mingyu also expecting an answer from inside the kitchen behind him. You gulp as you attempt to remain casual.

“Nah, I’m good. You guys have fun.” 

You’re nearly at your door when you hear your brother speak. “She didn’t even ask what we were watching.”

Nayeon catches up with you before you notice, pulling your headphones away from your ears to announce her presence, not slowing down as you walked to campus. 

“Are you still upset about that Mingyu thing?” She asks when noting your silent demeanor. “We talked about this, come on.”

“Yeah and we concluded that it’s not an easy thing for me to just get over.” You huffed.

“You know what he’s like…” 

“Which is why I should’ve seen this all coming.” You turn around the corner with her.

“That’s not what I meant either.”

“I don’t know what came over me that day. I was doing so well for so long and I had to go ruin it because I’m – I deluded myself into thinking I had a chance.” You’re breathing heavily when you find a table in the air conditioned common room, yanking your bag off and slumping into the sofa. “None of this would’ve happened if I just shut the fuck up.” 

“What wouldn’t have happened?” Seungcheol plops down next to Nayeon, butting into the conversation. 

“Aren’t you intrigued.” Nayeon muses. 

“Especially when it’s none of my business.” 

“Charming.” 

“Anywho,” he sighs, throwing himself back against the couch. “I’ve been tasked with rounding people up for an assignment.”

“Are you gonna experiment on us?” you ask, referring to his chemistry major. 

“Nah, this is for an elective. Faculty needs volunteers for a photography class.” 

“So they need models?” You ask.

“I mean, anyone who signs up is automatically a model, so yeah they need models.” 

“Are we getting paid?” 

“You get to say you modeled for me.” 

“How convincing.” Nayeon deadpans. 

You’re stifling a snicker as you see Joshua walking up to where you were sat, planting himself next to you. 

“What’re we talking about?” He asks, pulling his laptop out almost immediately.

“Nothing, just how Seungcheol needs a reality check,” you sigh. 

He barely acknowledges the comment, going straight to business typing away. “Hey, you're staying for the summer right?” 

“Ew,” Seungcheol voices. 

“I am,” You confirm. 

“For what?” He sputters. 

“Is this you offering to pay for a round trip?” 

He silences quickly after that, giving room for Joshua to ask his next question. 

“Are your parents coming for your brother’s grad?” 

“Mhm, only for the night, though.”

“Oh, did you hear back from the bookstore too?” he asks. 

“I’m gonna apply right before break, I’m swamped right now.” 

“Let me know when you do, the restaurant might need another hire, you could work there if you want.” 

You make a face. “Appreciate the sentiment but I don’t think I’m in the right state of mind to be working in customer service.” 

Joshua’s hands freeze over his keyboard as he breathes out a delayed laugh. Nayeon mimics him.

“Right state of mind?” Seungcheol’s eyebrows are furrowed. “Wait, what were you talking about before I sat down again-” 

He’s cut off by a voice bellowing your name from across the common room. All four of you perk up at the sound, locking in on Mika aggressively pointing her wrist at you from yards away. You sit up with a jerk, checking the time. You were nearly thirty minutes late for your lecture.

“Josh, move.” You basically climb over him to get out of your seat, waving a hasty goodbye as you sprint to an exasperated Mika. 

“I’ve been waiting outside the hall for ages, you said we’d go in together!” she chides as you both speedwalk. 

“Sorry, I lost track of time…” You huff out a breath. “I just started talking about…whatever.” 

“Why’d you have that face on in there?” she asks.

“Huh? Oh, I was-”

“Nevermind, I don’t wanna know.” She picks up the pace and reaches the door before you do, rendering it impossible for you to speak to her after that. 

You’ve forgotten about it by the time you come home to an empty house, both Mika and Nayeon in your arms. It doesn’t take long for them to make themselves comfortable on the couch, looking at you expectantly like children waiting to be fed. You do that, courtesy of the half eaten pizza that sits on the coffee table. 

“I think you need to get drunk,” Nayeon voices from her end of the couch. 

Mika is immediate with her response, “Don’t encourage her.” 

“Hey!” You pout, “I haven’t gotten drunk in a while.”

“Keep it that way,” she shudders, “don’t need another Mingyu fiasco.” 

Your chewing slows at the sound of his name, a strange feeling settling in your stomach at the thought of him. Setting down your half eaten slice, you brush off your fingers. 

“I mean…” Nayeon starts after a long pause. 

“We don’t. Need another Mingyu fiasco, I mean.” You cut in. 

“If only he’d learn to shut up.” Nayeon grumbles, a sour expression on her face. 

Mika’s been shifting looks between the both of you, seemingly confused. “Am I missing something?”  

Despite not having the intention, you find yourself telling her what you heard while enclosed in the staircase. You attempt to keep it concise, for the sake of your own sanity, but Nayeon’s grumbling is only pushing you deeper into a rant. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t let a couple frustrated tears make their way down your face. 

Mika’s response as brisk as your explanation was passionate, brushing over the topic quickly before you got too heated. You appreciated it. 

“Have you considered signing up for the photography thing?” Mika asks.

“You know, I was thinking about that too.” Nayeon pulls a finger up in signed patience to wait till she finished the remaining pizza in her mouth. “You should do it. It’ll put your mind off…him. You’ll be busier too.”

“I have a million things to do, I’m busy enough.” You retort. 

“You’re busy studying at home. Where he could drop in at any point of day.” She points. 

Your open your mouth to rebut again, only to close it as you fail to find a reason to deny her point. “Okay, still!” 

“Just – think about it, okay. It’ll put more on your plate but maybe it’ll help.”

That was the last of your Mingyu talk, not that you could carry on when your brother comes slumping into the house after his class, stealing a slice of pizza as he makes his way to his room. He’s slumped at the shoulders, and you egg him to take a nap before he collapsed on the living room floor. 

Both Nayeon and Mika are quick to leave after that, leaving you with leftover pizza and your thoughts.

You sprawl your things out on the coffee table, taking advantage of the silent house to get some work done. Nayeon was right, as you think of the prospect of Mingyu entering at any given moment to bother your brother as a constant threat. 

It’s not until your prepping dinner with Seokmin that the project is brought up again.

“There’s leftover Chow Mein Mingyu made yesterday, shove that in too.” He yawns as he pushes the box over. 

You can only stare at the box in mild agitation, contemplating if you should simply chuck it into the garbage chute. Unfortunately, by experience, you knew Mingyu made really good Chow Mein, so you begrudgingly slide the opened box into the microwave to heat up, deciding you’d push Seok to eat it before you have a chance to take a bite. 

It’s silent while you eat, Seokmin still in a daze from his earlier nap, shoving spoonfuls of noodles in between bites of pizza. It’s not until your halfway through eating before he jolts up slightly like he’d just remembered something.

“Did you hear about that volunteering thing from the photography department? They want models for some project.” 

“Oh, yeah.” You pause, thinking back to what Nayeon had proposed. “Are you gonna sign up?” 

“No, but you should.”

“I don’t know, I still have a lot of prep for finals.”

“You get extra credit if it helps,” he notes. 

That was news to you. There’s a frown on your face as you deny, “No, you don’t.” 

“They’re doing it ‘cause they weren’t getting the response they wanted. I found out just now too, they’re gonna put it up on the bulletin tomorrow. Might wanna decide before then.” 

There were no questions asked after the realization, blue light of the laptop casting your face aglow in the darkened room as you hit the big blue Confirm button on the website. Skimming through the subsequent email, you find you won’t be needed till next week, the date and time making it’s way to your calendar. 

Now, if you had known what the next week truly held for you, there was no doubt you’d be sending in a cancellation email at first chance. 

But you didn’t know. So you simply went to bed, falling asleep to the vague idea of searching for modeling tips on youtube during the coming weekend, entertaining the mild possibility that this might be the thing that puts you at peace at last. 

The photography classes are held in regular lecture rooms, as you find out as you file into the sparingly filled hall at the date your calendar has graciously alerted you for. There was an image of a larger, more spacious area for a discipline pertaining to the arts, yet to be fair, the idea of having to create this form of art within a four walled containment did seem a little counter productive. 

Nonetheless, you find yourself seated in a spare chair, waiting for the clock to hit nine on a Saturday morning for the shuffling professor at the front of the room to begin. Your eyes make passovers across the gradually filling room, searching for a semblance of Seuncheol’s bright blond hair to wave him over. There’s no sign of him five minutes before the minute hit twelve, and you’re thinking about slipping to the restroom before it can to kill the remaining time. 

There’s another person filing into the room as you rise from your chair, and you pause in attempt to recognize Cheol in the grey zip up.

Except you don’t find Seungcheol, not at all. 

Mingyu is walking into the classroom, gaze sweeping across the hall as he seats himself in the front bottom row, head thrown back as he sifts through his perfect hair with his fingers. 

You aren't sure why your brows furrowed like they did, or why you planted your butt back onto the chair with the force that you did; especially when all you wanted to do was book it out of the room in full velocity. 

He was taking this class. Of course you knew that, especially when it was all he would yap about at any point he graced your presence. 

You can feel your purpose in the room fade to nothing as you register him as a unit. You want to blame someone, but you know it’s all you fault. You knew he’d be here; if your mind had only thought fit to remind you at any point in the past week. 

In regular Mingyu fashion, if he’d seen you, he does nothing to show it as you find him unraveling a loose thread off of his jacket. You keep your eyes on him, remaining mortified at your blatant disregard to the information that Mingyu was also in this class. Come to think of it, it was probably Mingyu who told Seokmin about the added credit in the first place. You want to kick yourself for not questioning your brother’s apparent magical source of information. 

There’s nothing that can be done as you feel Seungcheol finally slip into the seat next to you just as the professor in the front of the room begins to speak. You’re not in the right headspace to make conversation, so you're grateful for the small acknowledgment as the professor begins to drone. 

“Each student has been given a theme to work with, they’re all different and given to the people whom I saw fit for the job. You’ll be receiving your packets with your theme today, so remember to pick them up from the front desk before you leave,” she begins. 

“As for your models,” she switches to the next slide over to reveal a spreadsheet full of names. “Their names will be right next to yours, the photography students.” 

The entire room lurches forward as a unit, eyes squinted and whispers exchanged as they search for their partners in the sea of names. Seungcheol is zooming in on the picture he took with his phone, eyes zooming over to find his name. 

“Hey, I found yours!” he announces, moving the phone over to you. 

He’s zoomed into your full name on the screen, and your moving the picture aside to see the name across from it. Except, you find you wish you hadn’t. 

—Kim, Mingyu. 

If you needed more confirmation that the universe was simply against you, you’d gotten the message as you prayed the letters would morph into something else before your very eyes. 

You seem to have been staring at the name for too long, because Seungcheol snatches his phone back from your grip to see for himself after you refused to answer his questions of what the name next to yours was. 

“Oh, it’s Mingyu! That’s easy, you're basically related.”

You wanted to slap him. 

Before you can stop him, he’s yelling the boy’s name across the room amidst the growing chatter, the biggest, stupidest grin on his face. “Mingyu! I found your model, she’s right here! 

You wanted to squeeze Seungcheol’s neck till his head popped off. 

Mingyu turns around at the call, registering his friend’s words despite the growing noise. He registers you and you watch as he turns his head back at the projection, like he was confirming it was true. 

Of course he’s as petrified as you are, if not more. But the embarrassment of his apparent disbelief made its hot way into your stomach and chest nonetheless, your breakfast threatening to make its way back up. 

By the time the professor’s done with her bit and the room has begun to file out, you’ve found yourself standing outside the lecture hall in uncomfortable movement, shifting your weight between both feet and fiddling with the straps of your bag. Every passing face sends a jolt though your stomach as you calculate how jarring it would be if you left right this second without seeing him. 

You're counting his steps inside your head, how he’d shuffle for his name on the packet he’s meant to receive, counting in any conversation he’d start with a friend or with the professor. A thought occurs to you, and you wonder if he was searching for you inside. You’re weighing between walking inside and leaving altogether when he makes the decision for you, walking out of the room, booklet in hand. 

There goes the toast blaring its way back up your esophagus. 

“Hey,” he says unceremoniously. 

You respond with an unreasonably meek “Hi.” 

“Seok didn’t tell me you signed up for this.” He points casually. 

Well, Seok doesn’t need to tell you everything. 

“Oh, I told him while he was like half asleep, pretty sure he thought he dreamt it.”

Mingyu snorts a little at that, a slight smile appearing on his face as he pictures a sleepy Seokmin. 

“I can imagine,” he says, before he’s brought back to the matter at hand by you. 

You clear your throat before you begin to talk, expression remaining neutral. “Do we need to get started right away?” 

“Oh.” He seems a little taken aback at your forwardness. Like he didn’t know why you didn’t want to make small talk with him. “Uh, I don’t even know what theme I have yet. I’ll read over the packet and plan a couple things out before you have to come in.”

“That’s great.” You hold on the straps of your tote. “Text me when you need me.”

With that, you had spun on your heel and stalked away, not leaving room for him to retort with anything at all. You don’t look back. 

Nayeon can do nothing but gape as she watches you hold back frustrated tears, picking apart the grass under you as you curse the heavens for your horrible fate. She’s absorbing the situation as you wallow, finding the words to say.

“Fuck, this is my fault,” she breathes out.

“No!” You gasp out, furiously wiping away the irritating tears. “It’s not. I just forgot, it’s my own fault. You were right for trying to get me to do it, it just…”

“You can’t ask to change partners?” she asks.

“I can’t!” You wail, “I’m supposed to not care, how is this me not caring?” 

It was ridiculous. Truly. You were sobbing like a child over this, screaming about wanting to not care. But you did care. Too much. Nayeon can do little but hold you as you sniffle into her lap, feeling sick to your stomach at your own childish behaviour. 

“Why am I crying about this, this is stupid.”

“You’re stressed, hon, that’s it. You’ve got a lot going on and this just multiplied it.” She’s running a soothing hand over your back. “Just let it out, you need it.”

You emerge from your hunched position to sit up straight, sniffling a little less as you calm down. “Should I withdraw from the project?” 

“I mean, if you really want to,” she says softly. 

“But?” You sense her apprehension.

“But, maybe you should give it a go.” 

You can only blink at her with wet lashes.

“Think of it this way. You need to… build resistance, keep yourself around him regardless. There’s bound to come a point where you start to feel…nothing.” 

“Are you trying to work exposure therapy on me?” 

“Maybe? If that’s what it means. If you take yourself out of the project, it shows that you care. You need to pretend to not care before you can stop feeling the real thing.” 

There’s a pause as you attempt to find reason in her words.

“Listen, I may be talking out of my ass, and if you do end up doing it, it’s gonna be hard – like a lot, but–”

“No. You’re making sense.” 

“I am?” She blinks, taken aback at the realisation that you may be listening to her. You nod quietly, “You’re right, I can’t keep running away.” 

“So, you’re gonna do it?” She confirms with wide eyes.

Once again, you find it within yourself to nod. 

Yeah. You were gonna do it.

Being in Mingyu’s presence and feeling nothing may be the goal, but you realise quickly it’s going to take you a while to restrain the trailing eyes that follow him wherever he goes. Nayeon had warned you, but you realise you may be slightly ill-prepared. 

The theme is light. Vague to you but he doesn’t seem too bothered by it. He isn’t looking at you as he talks, eyes darting between the laptop screen and the plethora of papers he’s scattered on the coffee table. “I don’t really have a colour preference for this one but a a deeper blue or a purple would fit pretty well with the sunlight on here.”

You can only nod along in mild understanding, most of your effort exerted on trying to keep your eyes on the screen where he’s pulling up a color wheel. “I probably have something.” 

“Do you still have that button up Seok bought you? The one with the stripes?”

You recall the deep blue shirt your brother had gotten you for your first in class presentation, picturing it hung still in your closet. “Uh, yeah I do. I’ll wear it.”

“Bring options, whatever fits the colours. No turtlenecks or crewnecks though…” Mingyu continues to talk, taking notes for you in the process. Your mind, however, is somewhere else.

You hate how your mind takes you to a murkier place, one where the thought of him retaining memory of your closet pieces unprovoked has your neck tingling and your cheeks lifting. Trying to snap out of it before he notices your dazed expression, you pretend to flip through the couple papers in front of you, noting nothing. 

“Other than that–” he’s cut off by his phone ringing on the table. Both your gazes dart to the caller ID, and you immediately wish you hadn’t as you register the pink heart on the end. Jia was calling. 

He barely spares you a glance as he excuses himself in a mumble, something about being back in a second. You watch him leave through the cafe altogether, emerging on the other end of the glass walls in your direct vision. For the nth time that day, you find it impossible to tear your eyes away from his positively elated face, teeth out on display as talks to his girlfriend. You wonder what they’re talking about, if her face is beaming like his own, wherever she is. 

You zone out as you wonder what it’d be like to be the receiving end of an expression like that. To have something within you to be worth his smile, his mumbled pardons and his uninterrupted space. There’s a part of you that wonders if its greed – you’ve gotten to see him nearly everyday for the past decade, perhaps you’ve run your tickets dry. 

You realise quickly that Mingyu is no longer in your line of sight as you feel a ruffle on the chair as he sits back on his seat. 

“I think we can wrap up here, let me take the first couple shots before I can see where to go with it afterwards.”

You sense his eager want to leave, and you cannot help but beat him to it for your own sake. 

“Alright. I’ll see you friday then.” SLiding out of your seat, you make a halfhearted attempt at shuffling his papers in a neater pile, throwing him a half smile before grabbing your bag.

He isn’t watching you leave, you know that. Yet you find yourself refusing to slow down or look back till you round the corner, letting your shoulders finally slump and your pace to come to a temporary halt. It takes you another beat before you begin walking again, breathing in slowly as you navigate your way through the moderately crowded sidewalk. Nearly ramming into a fire hydrant, you shake off the seize that remains in your body, picking up the pace hoping it’d promote less thoughts.

It works, as you unlock your front door, finally shaking off the autopilot. Shifting to the kitchen is easy, rummaging the cabinets for your hidden stash of moonpies with the intention to devour the family box whole. You’re contemplating texting Seokmin to bring you actual food as you make your way to your bedroom, wanting nothing more than to let your covers absorb all the feelings that make you human. 

You find it unfortunate as you catch sight of yourself in the full length mirror and the outfit you’d put together before you had left. Your mind goes back to pandemonium as you take in the details, wondering why on earth you’d put in so much effort for a conversation that lasted less than an hour. You tear your eyes away before you begin to truly hate yourself, ripping your jewelry off as you make a beeline to wash your face clean of the makeup you’d put on. 

It becomes increasingly difficult to look at yourself even in the bathroom mirror, moisturizer going on more aggressively than what’s good for you. You feel a sting in the back of your eyes and owe it to the face wash. 

It’s easier once you’re in bed, your laptop at the ready, and a text on its way as you bug your brother to bring you your favorite burger and milkshake combo. You put your immediate faith in your moonpies for now as you rip the first one open, letting the sweetness bring you a deluded happiness. 

“His name hurts.” Your voice comes out echoey, the sound reverberating in the cavern of your chest. The shot on the table is inviting, but you can’t help but feel nauseous at the thought of downing it. Your fizzled out sprite is being good to you, so you let it.

“Hearing you talk about him hurts,” Mika slurs, slumping down onto the beanbag she’s dragged onto the scene, joining you and Nayeon next to the couch. 

Letting out a loud sigh that you doubt she can hear over the bass booming across the house, you settle to rest your head back on the couch backrest, staring into the ceiling. “Imagine what it’s doing to me then.”

“I don’t need to.” You can hear the exasperation in her voice. 

“Oh, hey, Hao!” Nayeon drags next to you and you lift your head up to see Mika’s boyfriend join her on the already tiny beanbag. He huffs out a hey between a slight smile, slumping almost entirely on his girlfriend. She pats his hair in silent regard. 

“I read this research paper about how they can delete the memories out of your brain squiggles,” Nayeon pops in.

“Since when do you read academic material for interest?” Minghao mumbles, fingers busy playing with Mika’s hair.

The pair continue to bicker as your eyes trail across the moderately packed house, the party looking more lowbeat than any other Seungcheol extravaganzas. Not that you were complaining, but when you spot a certain someone, it’s hard not to. 

Mingyu files into the kitchen with your brother in tow, beaming face evident over the island as he pours himself what looks like orange juice. Your mood is instantly soured.

“What study was that again?” You poke at Nayeon, the image of the man you wished for gone burned into your forebrain. She glances over to the open kitchen and realises what you’re talking about, coming around with a face of her own.

“That one’s gonna be a hard one to scrub out. But it’s okay, even the toughest stains succumb to bleach that’s strong enough,” she sighs. You’re barely listening to her analogy, not when he’s standing right there rendering it impossible for you to look anywhere else. 

“You sound like a commercial.” You can almost hear the crinkle in Mika’s nose as she comments, and you can’t help but breathe out a laugh. 

The rest continue with their conversation as you remain quiet for most of the exchange, eyes filling your heart heavy with the way they remain glued to the figure far out into the kitchen. It was less about the fact that you just wanted to look at him and more of how it was forcing you to think about your predicament; something that was weighing you down yet something you couldn’t help. 

You can’t be entirely sure how long you managed to stare without getting caught, but when Mika calls your name out harsher than expected, you snap around to divert your attention. 

“Huh?”

“Sixth time’s the charm, huh? Get it together, he’s not gonna look at you,” she huffs as she slumps back onto the beanbag, alone this time as you note that Minghao is gone.

It takes you a moment to gather what she had said, mouth gaping open and close as you try to conspire a proper response. “I wasn’t trying–”

“No. Save it. It was my fault for thinking I could sit here without having to sit through more of your Mingyu bullshit.” She’s shuffling out of her bean bag with mediocre difficulty, exasperation on her face as she trudges away to sit with her boyfriend and his friends on the seats on the middle of the floor. 

The air seems to have knocked out of your chest as you find the capacity to process what just happened. Seemingly forgotten Nayeon was also here, you note the hand she places on your elbow as a sober attempt to get you to look at her. 

The rest of the night passes in a nauseous blur, none that you could really make sense of. You bid Nayeon goodbye as you assured her you’d go home with your brother, waving goodbye to blurred taxi lights as she leaves you alone in front of a dwindling house. 

The breath you let out is shaky as your feet remain planted on the concrete, the remnants of tonight passing over you as they came. Deciding you owed it to yourself, you let the tears well up in your eyes. As tired as you were of crying over what was essentially the same thing over and over again, you let yourself tire yourself out once more. 

The party was over, and you knew that because you were walking home alone, hoping Nayeon would forgive you for lying to her. But you couldn’t possibly explain the tear stains on your cheeks to your brother, not when he knew nothing. It was better that way; you refuse to be the person that potentially ruins a friendship that’s lasted longer than any other.  

You try to keep your sniffling to a minimum as you trudge slowly in the dark, not bothering to wipe your tears. Your stomping grows louder the more you grow frustrated with your thoughts, and it proves not too well for you. There’s a pair of headlights throwing light onto the oncoming street, illuminating you in the process. You want to kick yourself as the realisation settles in, praying the car would simply pass you. Considering the late hour and the fact that you were alone is hitting you at the worst time, wondering if you could pretend to make a call as you walked. 

It’s a black sedan that rolls up next to you, slower than what’s considered a normal speed on an empty street. It honks and you nearly halt, owing to the shake that passes through your knees. It honks again, and you can’t help but look to the side to find a window rolled down. 

Mingyu sits on the driver’s seat, leaning over to the empty passenger side to grab your attention. 

“The Uber’s free! So is the driver,” he yells out the window. “Hop in.”

“I’m alright. I kinda wanna walk.” You shift your weight between your feet, the distance adding an awkward feel. 

“Wasn’t asking. It’s the middle of the night, I’m not letting you walk alone.” As he speaks, another car passes from behind him, slowing down. You note the look the other driver is giving you through the window, and it’s enough to convince you to step into Mingyu’s car. 

“I think we’re way past the point of formalities, don’t know why you hesitated.” He chuckles as he motions for you to click on your seatbelt. You fumble with it for a moment, his own fingers coming to the rescue to latch it on. You retract your fingers before they can brush with his own any further. 

Settling into your seat, you choose to look forward as he picks up speed. “Uhm, just wanted to walk, it was nice outside.”

“Take someone with you next time, it’s nearly midnight,” he warns. 

There’s a twinge of annoyance that emerges in the back of your mind for some reason, despite knowing full well that he was right. You just didn’t want to hear it from him.

It’s silent for a bit as the radio plays an uncharacteristically upbeat tune, prompting you to wonder if it was just you who felt the atmosphere pressing in on your chest.

“Did you not bring your car today?” he asks out of the blue, eyes remaining on the road as you glance up at him. One look at his side profile and you’re turning your gaze away.

“No, it’s at the workshop. I came with Nayeon.” 

“Why didn’t you leave with her?”

“I…” You pause. “I told her I was gonna go with Seok.”

“Hm. That didn’t happen.”

“It’s like I said,” you mumble.

He hums again in response, dropping the subject.

“Listen, are you…are you okay?” he starts again and it has you looking back up at him. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You try to hide the bitterness in your tone but it proves difficult.

“I couldn’t help but overhear but I was sitting right there. Hao was talking to Mika about something she’d said to you, about…” He trails off. “I mean, you looked a little upset, I just wanted to ask if you were okay.”

You bit your tongue. Hard. 

He knew you were staring at him, he knew you weren’t over him. He knew you were still standing on the same square confinement from months ago. Never changed. 

“I’m fine,” you reply, snappier than you had intended. 

“Are you sure? I felt like I should’ve said something but Nayeon was right there so I thought…” He sounds unsure and when you see him look at you, with eyes filled with an emotion that makes you nearly gag, you almost lose it. You did not want him to pity you. Nor care for you; especially when it came from a place that nullifies your feelings. You didn’t want him to care for you for the sole reason that you were his best friend’s sister. 

“Mingyu, I think it’s best if you drop it.”

“Of course. But it might help if you wanna, you know, feel your feelings.” 

Fuck no, you weren’t crying in front of him. Not when you're sure he’s noticed the tear stains on your makeup.

“Mingyu, I said drop it. I don’t need your help, I don’t need to feel anything, I need you stop feeling like you’re obligated to care about me because you’re not.” The words come tumbling out before you can stop them, irritation laced in every snap and dent.

He says your name in an attempt to smooth you over. It only lands him in more trouble.

“No, listen, I get it. You’re uncomfortable about everything but you feel like you need to check up on me at the same time, and I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to worry about that. What happened, happened, and it’s my job to pick up the pieces because it’s my fault. You don’t need to meddle.” You’re breathing hard as you finish, finally settling back in your seat. 

He’s already pulling up to your building, heat still penetrating the silence. You unbuckle your seatbelt, mumbling a thanks for the ride. 

“Seok’s staying at Cheol’s tonight,” he calls out as you shuffle out the door. “Remember to lock the door.” 

You stand sheepishly holding the open door as you nod quietly. “I’ll see you tomorrow for the shoot.”

Middle school was harder than you thought. 

Not that you expected it to be easy, but you remained hopeful nonetheless. Fifth grade came plowing for you with an unexpected vigor, which you were feeling especially as you gripped your red marked paper with a vice grip. 

It was Mingyu who had found you on the kitchen island sniffling, waiting for your mother to come home and ask you for your dreaded test results. 

You drop your head in shame (even more so) when he asks you the inevitable question of “what’s wrong?” Your voice comes out as a mumble. “I failed my first test.” 

He blinks as he stops in front of the fridge, opening it to emerge with a carton of chocolate milk and two monsters. He slides the carton over to you as he takes a seat on the other chair. 

“Well, what did you get?” he asks as he pops his can open, ears studded black from the piercings he’d gotten done. 

You mumble out the number in incoherence that has him hunching down to hear you. 

“What?” 

“A fifteen!” you finally huff out in exasperation. 

“Hm. Better than me I think I got a two at some point. Don’t worry about it, it's not the end of the world.” He says. “D’you want me to turn that into a seventy five?” 

You look up confused. “How?”

“You’ll see. Get me your test. And a red marker.” 

On that day, Mingyu aided you in your first con, pulling lines to turn the one into a seven right before your eyes. 

“There. Now don’t let her look at it too hard or check your answers. And only give it to her if she asks for it.” 

He had left back to your brother’s room with the spare can of monster, leaving you to stash your test into your bag and move to seat yourself in a more natural position. You’d gotten away with it as your mother pats you on the back for your first attempt at a fifth grade paper, leaving you with a lesson to work harder, and a memory that stayed with you for years. 

The following day is met with a pit of guilt sitting in your stomach before you could even recall the events of last night. 

There’s little that you can do to prep as you’re supposed to change at the studio anyway, pushing the remnants of your makeup products into a pouch as a second thought. Your hair seemed fine, deciding you’d see to it if it needed changing when you got there. 

You push your departure as far as you could, finding more things to do and more chores to finish before you were due to leave. It takes you a final look at the time before you finally decide to trudge to the door with your things. You cross paths with Seokmin who’s only just coming home, looking worse for wear. He barely acknowledges you as he makes a beeline for his bedroom, disappearing. 

He’s probably fine. 

By the time you get to the studio Mingyu is already in the middle of setting up, immersed in the switches behind giant studio lights. It’s dark, save for the one studio light thats already on, casting a light on the white backdrop, a single stool sits at the front. Looking around, the place casts an eerie atmosphere, the unattended stations and dark back rooms casting a shiver down your spine despite the Afternoon light outside. Perhaps you were acclimated to the hustle and bustle in behind the scene videos of photoshoots, yet here it was just you and Mingyu. 

He doesn’t notice you come in right away, and you’re thankful for the opportunity to recast your words in your head, waiting to be uttered as soon as you say your hellos. 

“Oh, hey,” he says normally. 

“Hope I’m not too late.”

“No, you’re fine, I’m nearly done setting up,” he says, as he switches the second studio light on, doubling the glow in the room. 

“Oh, okay.” Your voice comes out as an uncharacteristic whisper. “Uh, listen, Mingyu, I just wanted to apologize about last night. You were only asking and I was being too harsh.”

He picks up his back from his bent position to look at you, hand coming to rub the back of his neck. “Oh, no, don’t say that, It’s me who should be apologising. I shouldn’t have pried when you said you didn’t wanna talk about it. I’m sorry, really.” 

You're opening your mouth to rebut, nails clashing onto each other as your fidgeting gets worse, but you decide to end it. “We’re both sorry, let’s just end this here.” 

Both of you have slightly uncomfortable smiles on your faces as Mingyu continues to fidget with his cables and equipment. It went smoother than you’d thought, silently thanking him for keeping it from getting awkward – more awkward than necessary anyway. 

“These ones are gonna be basic studies, establishing the usual studio lights in the beginning before we move to the more experimental shots.” He drags his own stool forward to sit directly across from you in front of the plain white backdrop. “Did you bring another black top?”

“I did, do you want me to change?”

“Not yet.” He positions the camera higher, looking like he’s ready. “Okay, relax your body. Shoulders back, chin down. Okay, now a smile, really small, barely there.” 

He snaps his first photo and you nearly knock yourself backwards on the stool, lights going off at the shot damn near blinding you. 

“You good?”

“I thought the flash was just gonna be your camera.” You frown, coming round. 

“Nah, you’ll get used to it. Okay, back in position.”

He takes a couple more pictures, urging you to make miniscule changes to your poses, whatever feels good. You find yourself loosening up, your posture aiding you instead of working against you. “Try putting your hands on the stool, yeah like that, lean forward. Chin up a little more.”

The directions continue from behind the camera as he continues to flash away, and you do your utmost to not let the lights disorient you too much. He lets you take a break when you make a comment about the pure thermal energy in the room, your face no doubt shiny and red from the lights. You’re done after you take a couple more pictures after an outfit change, rendering you free to leave within the hour. 

“I think you’re done,” he announces, stretching as he leaves his own stool. “I’ll send you deets for tomorrow, we’ll probably get a lot more done.”

“Oh, cool.” 

Gathering your stuff doesn’t take you as you go up to tell him you’re about to leave. You find him fiddling with cables, packing everything up before leaving himself. You make a split second decision, dropping your bag before announcing yourself. 

“Let me help.”

“Huh? Oh no, it’s fine. I just need to shove them in storage.” 

“That’s alright, I’ll help. What d’you want me to do?” 

“Uh, Maybe unplug all the ports, and um, turn the lights on too, I guess. It’s gonna get dark if you don’t.”

Cleaning up was easier when those god awful studio lights weren’t overheating the entire hall, collecting cables and putting equipment back into their places. It was over before you knew it. 

“Is your car back from the workshop?” Mingyu yells from inside one of the side rooms collecting his stuff. 

“Not yet, I’m getting it back on the 15th. Ordered a cab.” 

“You’re going home from here, right?” He emerges from the room, arms in the middle of slipping into his jacket. “I’ll drive you.”

“No, it’s fine I have to meet Nayeon at uni and–”

“Even better, I was going there too. Come on, I just need to kill the lights.” 

You’re out of saviours, evident as you slide into his car, yet again with no choice. It’s meant to be a short drive, considering the studio is barely ten minutes away from where you need to be, yet it feels like an impromptu road trip with the way the roads seem to stretch. 

It’s significantly less awkward than last night, perhaps owed to him not being as inclined to make conversation, unlike last night. 

By the time he’s pulling up, you already have your bag in hand, a thank you frozen on your tongue as you register who it is that’s standing outside the library. You groan internally as you see Nayeon waiting for you, immersed in something on her phone. Praying she stays occupied, you rush your, “thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow,” as you hope she doesn’t see you slip out of the familiar car. 

She does notice. Looking up at the sound of yout door opening, she catches clear sight of you stepping out of the car, Mingyu in the driver’s seat. You can tell she’s subdued her reaction, but the eyebrows gives her away as they shoot up at the sight. Trudging up to her is a nightmare and a half, dreading the questions she’s going to ask as you hear Mingyu rev away.

“Are my eyes deceiving me?” she breathes out, eyes wide, mouth open in jest. 

“Quit it, I have work to get done.” You choose to lead her straight into the library where you know she won’t be able to ask you any more probing questions.

That doesn’t seem to sedate her though as she continues to whisper a million questions, watching you pull your stuff out.

“I had a shoot with him today, he offered to drop me off and I couldn’t say no!”

“Oh my gosh!” she exclaims a little too loud, owing a couple nasty surrounding looks her way, including yours. She continues quieter, pulling your laptop away from you so you’d pay more attention to her. “How’d it go? Did you pose all sexy for him, did he look nervous?”

“I did not pose sexy, I posed normally, because I have a conscience,” you snap, yanking your laptop back from her grip. 

She’s smiling like an idiot, unaffected by your annoyance. “Is he gonna drop you off after every shoot? Oh my god! Don’t you dare get your car from the garage, give it to Seokmin, or, or, tell them to keep it!” 

“Nayeon, shush!” It’s your turn to whisper shout at her gradually increasing volume, pushing her to quit leaning over the desks. 

“Okay, okay.” She sobers up.

“I’m supposed to be getting over him, why are you so happy about this? Indifference, remember? It was you who brought it up.”

“Yes, but you can’t tell me it doesn’t look, I don’t know, like, you know!”

Once she’s a little less giddy, you finally tell her about last night – leaving out the bit where he droppped you home for the sake of the library and its inhabitants. 

“I mean, I know we aplogised and everything, but I felt a little less… on fire around him. Other than those stupid studio lights, those were turning the place into a sauna. But I could meet his eyes without hyperventilating,” you explain, eyes downcast as you speak. 

“I imagine his eyes were covered with that camera anyway, but progress, I guess,” Nayeon comments.

“Maybe I needed to get mad at him to feel better, I don’t know. But it feels like I’m making progress for the first time.” 

“I told you this would be good for you, give it a couple more weeks and it’ll be like Mingyu never happened.” 

It takes a conscious attempt to not scoff. Like Mingyu never happened to your heart. That’s a heart you can’t recognise. 

The first time Seokmin had brought girls over was a day you couldn’t forget, no matter how hard you tried. 

You were padding down to the kitchen, still bleary eyed and pyjama clad from your nap, making a beeline for the fridge to get a glass of water. Your trip is cut short, however, when you realised the living room was not as empty as you expected. It’s a crowd (to your eleven year old self, anyway) of people your brother’s age. You catch a couple familiar faces, friends of your brother who visited often, Mingyu is part of the lumps on the couch with them. 

What stumped you, however, were the girls that were seated in between, eyes equally trained on you as everyone else in the room. 

“Oh, who’s this Seok?” one of the girls asked. 

“My little sister. D’you wanna say hi?” he asked you, neck craned to look at you. 

“Uh. Hi,” you whisper, gulping. 

There’s a chorus of hi’s that came bounding at you. You could feel the embarrassment creep up your entire body, feeling conscious for the first time in your life. They were staring at you. They were smiling, but you hated it. 

You weren’t thinking as you turned around to sprint back upstairs, not missing the tinkle of laughs coming from the living room. 

“Oh, she’s cute,” you had heard. That had you nearly starting to cry. 

You’d be lying if you said your little crush on Mingyu hadn’t started blossoming for a while at that point. Being younger meant you were constantly fighting to be seen, even more so when you’d do anything for Mingyu to look at you. Hogging your brother’s bean bag until you were kicked out, putting sparkly clips in your hair before you went to the kitchen, laughing especially loud when you knew he could hear.

And yet, despite everything, for the very first time, you hated that Mingyu was looking at you, watching you idle and awkward while he sat next to a bunch of prettier, older girls. 

That night was of many firsts, including the first time you had ever cried over Mingyu.

Mingyu claimed this was the last shoot, that he’d be done after this final set of shots. 

You’re having a hard time though, because he’s decided his studio for the day was gonna be at the top of a mountain at the asscrack of dawn. 

“We have fifteen minutes,” he announces. 

“To live?” You heave, crouching on the gravel to give your body a break. 

“Till sunrise,” he interjects, reversing to get to your crouched figure. You feel him grab hold of the straps of your bag, swinging it over his own shoulder. “Come on, just a little more.”

“You’ve been saying that for an hour.” You groan, picking yourself up off the path to resume your trudging. Mingyu stays next to you this time. 

“Did you pack your entire house in here, the fuck is this so heavy for,” he grunts. 

“You're the one asking for a bajillion outfit changes, I’m just doing what you asked.” 

“One change of clothes and a compact doesn’t weigh this much, are you disposing a body up here?” 

“Might be yours if I don't see that damn railing in a minute.” 

“I think you're hungry,” he huffs out. 

“I think I need to never agree to do this again.” 

“Salavation!” he yelps as he sees a vending machine in the distance, quite literally glowing (with its fluorescent lights). 

“I don’t need a water bottle, Mingyu, I need to lie down.” Your voice grows more gruff by the minute, legs nearly giving away. 

“No, the vending machine means…” He bounds up the last couple leaps to the glowing box with a burst of motivation. The slope turns flat at the horizon. “We’re here.” 

Nearly falling to your knees at the sight of the long awaited arrival point, you drop to a nearby bench and lay flat on the stiff wood. 

“How long till I need to look presentable? Because if it’s anything under thirty minutes, I’m tapping out.” You declare. 

“I can give you five minutes, take it or leave it.” He barely sits down as he speaks while already unzipping his camera bag. The thought of lifting your arms is excruciating, so you rest your tongue and bite back a whine. 

By the time you do find it within yourself to swing your legs back over the bench, the sky is shifting to a smoky navy, urging you to hurry up as you dry your sweat. You’re cringing as you press powder on your unclean face, but power through the final touches as you stretch while standing up straight.  

The first rays of sunlight are just coming through as Mingyu calibrates his lenses, trying to figure out the best shots in the limited time frame you have. You listen to him as he directs you where he wants you, contorting your face into something akin to faux serene. It’s near impossible when the frown has molded itself into your face after what you’ve put your body through today. 

“Think happy thoughts.” Mingyu calls out from behind his camera. 

“Oh, I’m thinking real happy thoughts. Like the ice cold shower I’m about to take when I get home. My clean bed that’s gonna be nice to me when I lay in it. The leftover pasta in the fridge. My moonpies.”

He has to bring his face away from the camera to throw his head back in a breathy laugh, smile as wide as it could go. It does things to you, but you ignore it. 

The summit isn’t entirely empty, noting a few people leaning against the railings, rendering it mostly quiet. All the more jarring becomes Mingyu’s phone as it blares into the silence, causing the both of you to jump at the sudden sound. 

He checks the caller ID only to silence it and slip it back into his pocket. 

You don’t get to ask who it was calling him so early in the morning, but get your answer when he immediately announces he’s done with his shots. The sun is higher up at this point, casting a more even orange glow across all the eye could see. 

You suppose he’s in a hurry to get home, seeing as he has someone waiting on him. “Should we leave then?” 

He swings the camera strap around his neck, forearms on the railing as he admires the view. “Give it a couple more minutes, I need to mentally prepare myself for the next hour.” 

It’s hard for you to deny that, so you let yourself place your head into your crossed arms over the railing, staring into the glow. It’s silent for a while as the rays hit your face, warming you more than you’d like. You don’t make any effort to move though, deciding to appreciate the view while it was here, doubting you’d ever make the trek up here again. Not willingly, at least. 

There’s a camera shutter that goes off next to you and you find Mingyu fidgeting with his camera as he tries to begin packing it up. You would help, but you’ve found yourself refraining from touching anything when it comes to his actual camera setup, opting to watch as he disassembles his lenses and pushes buttons to power off. 

By the time you're trudging down the path you’d come up from, it’s bright and sunny, rendering it warmer than before. Going down, however, is proving easier as you appreciate the reduced strain in your calves, letting the recent conversation take you to a smoother route. 

“When d’you think your gonna be done editing?” You ask at some point, the thought occurring to you that you’d only seen a couple pictures that he’d taken so far, oweing to his disapproval showing you all the raws before editing. 

“Kinda have to get them edited and annotated by the due date, so probably by the end of the month.” 

“D’you think I could get the ones you edit?” 

“Why? D’you wanna kickstart a portfolio?” he muses.

“I think it’s normal to ask for my pictures you took of me,” you grunt.

He laughs it off. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll send them over.” 

Mingyu doesn’t drop you off home this time, both of you slipping into your own cars at the base of the hiking trail, bidding your goodbyes. You’d gotten an earful from Nayeon for getting your car back from the garage so quickly, and while sitting in a car with him wasn’t so bad anymore, you choose to retain that distance regardless. This was work, You’re doing this because you have to, and the stupid extra credit that roped you into this in the first place.

Alas, as you start your engine, eyes cast towards Mingyu’s number plate right up front, you can’t help but feel…sad… remembering this was your last shoot. As emotionally vexing the experience was, you had grown to look forward to his discreet location pins and outfit plans, growing more comfortable with him by the meeting. 

It almost felt like you and Mingyu were friends. 

Your brother’s graduation was an ordeal to say the least. Your parents flying in was a plus, getting to see them at least once for the summer, even if it was just for the day. 

The night is wrapped up fairly quickly, a big dinner with yours and Mingyu’s family to congratulate the freed graduates from their academic shackles. It dials back when Mingyu announces he’s gonna take a summer course for now to keep himself busy, wanting to wait a little before job hunting. Seokmin seems to express the same, wanting some time off for himself before entering the corporate world.

It’s when you get home and your brother is sending you all the pictures of today that you note one that stands out. It was of you and Mingyu, an inevitable one as your parents took turns to make sure everybody got solo shots with everyone.

You’d applaud the enthusiasm, but it was particularly unfortunate for you when the camera was thrust into your hands as Mingyu and Jia posed for nearly fifty pictures. You wouldn’t mind usually, but it just felt like a little too much in the moment.

Despite everything, you find yourself clicking on the Save button on the picture where you’re smiling a little too wide right next to him, for the sake of yourself.

Summer break rolls around with no more hiccups, if you’d count finals as anything other than strenuous. You were happy, with a new job to keep you company for the next three months as you lament not being able to go home. 

Getting the job at the bookstore was easy, your shifts were reasonable and it didn’t pay half bad. You would’ve guessed they were desperate for a hire, but you appreciate the activity regardless. It’s not really hard work, you find out quickly. Manning the desk, shelving deposits and restocking supplies. Monotonous tasks yet ones that you find yourself slipping into quite easily.

After the last shoot at the mountain, it was basically radio silence from Mingyu. Not being able to catch him the rare chance he stopped by the house, both of you swamped with the end of semester throw up. You doubt he’d noticed, and you despair at the fact that you did, even if it was just a little. 

“Oh, great, you’re here!” The owner greets you as you walk into the store, all smiles. She was a sweet lady, nicer than any other boss you’d ever had. “Was just waiting for you so I could leave, my daughter has a play she’s putting on today!” 

“Oh, sorry to keep you!” You rush to set your bag down as she picks up her own things, coming around from the table to take her leave. “Hope the recital goes well, tell her I said good luck.”

“Will do.” She smiles before adding, “Oh and, somebody called an hour ago asking about our book bundles, he said he’d come in to check but he hasn’t yet. Thought I’d let you know in case he asks about the phone call.”

“Got it,” you confirm, waving as she walks out the door, “I’ll see you tomorrow!” 

Breathing out a sigh, you find yourself relatively free this afternoon, a slow weekday as you pick your current read out of your bag to get comfortable for the long shift. You’re nearly through the halfway point when you hear the first jingle of the day, the bells attached to the door making their familiar chime

“Good afternoon!” You look up to greet the customer, dog earring your book before standing up from your seat.

The person who’d walked in wasn’t just any customer, you soon realise as you recognise the familiar shag of hair. Mingyu was here. 

“Oh.” You can’t help but let it out when you register him, his own eyebrows shooting up at the sight of you behind the counter. Your next greeting comes out a little dumbly. “Hi.”

“Hey. What’re you doing here?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed as he takes you in. 

“Um,” you glance at your obvious name tag. “I work here.” 

“Oh, right, Seok mentioned you started working at a bookstore.” He throws his head back at the memory. “Hey, was it you over the phone earlier today? Didn’t sound like it.”

“Oh no, that was my boss, my shift started like an hour ago.” You confirm. 

“Ah, I see.” 

The silence is awkward for about five seconds before you jump into action. “You asked about a bundle over the phone?” 

“Right, um,” he pauses to fish his phone out his pocket, scrolling for something. “It’s Jia’s birthday coming up, and there’s this book series she’s been wanting. Here.”

You need to remind yourself to pat yourself on the back for not shaking as you received his phone, mind remaining in the moment. “Oh yeah, we have those. Let me grab ‘em for you.” 

He follows you through the columns of shelves as you navigate to find what he was looking for, stopping in front of the shelves. “There’s three of these, I can put them in a sleeve for you. Probably put a bow on it too if you want.” 

“Okay, perfect. Do you guys have LP’s too?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah. Hold on, let me put these up front.” 

You lead him to the back of the store. “The selection’s pretty small, the first shipment only came in like a month ago. I’m not sure if you’ll find what you want here.” 

“She’s been talking about getting more LP’s after she got a new record player. Hasn’t mentioned anything she wants though,” he voices, thumbing through the selection. 

“What does she listen to normally?” You ask before quickly adding, “So I can, maybe, help pick something she’d like.”

“Uh, older stuff? I should’ve snooped before coming, fuck.” He mumbles, thinking hard. “She barely plays it when I’m around but most of her LP’s are like Frank Sinatra and��Duran Duran was it?”  

“Hm…” You hum as you flick through the dated section of the stockpile, “How’s this?’

He’s taking a look at the record you’ve handed him, scanning the tracklists on the back. “I’ll get this, I guess. I can always bring her around to get more that she likes.” 

“D’you want a bow on this?” You ask, referring to the books you’re putting into the set sleeve, “You can pick your colour.”

He’s quick to pick the lilac ribbon, watching you as you tape it prettily on the box. You’re trying to curl the ribbon at the ends when he tries to make conversation. 

“When does your shift end?” 

If the man wasn’t quite literally buying a birthday present for his girlfriend (or if you had any memory of your own birthday), you’d think he was trying to hit on you. But he’s not. You know that. 

“Ten-ish. Closing’s on me so I could technically leave an hour early and no one would know.” You snort.

“Everyday?” he asks incredulously. 

“Minus weekends, the family takes care of that. They just need someone for afternoons and evenings on the weekdays. It’s not like I’m taking summer classes or anything, and it’s easy work.” 

“Well, you’ll be pleased to find out you’ll most likely be available on the 27th of August, then.” He sing songs as he fishes his phone out to pay, a cheeky air in his expression.

You blink at him in confusion, waiting for him to explain. “Was I supposed to get that?”

He pushes his shoulders back, content expression on his face as he continues. “There’s a cultural art exhibition in two months, and I, have just found out I’ve been shortlisted for a spot.” 

“A spot? Like to display your photos?!” You drop the card machine with a thud.

“Your photos. Prof liked the project so much she submitted some of ‘em as entries. It was super short notice, but they liked them, I guess.” His grin is wide, one that you find impossible to not reciprocate. “I just need you to sign a consent form and I’ll be all set to start prepping.” 

“That’s insane, Mingyu, congratulations!” You exclaim, genuinely excited. “Are you gonna be using the same pictures?”

“Yup, I just need to fix the editing with my prof before they go up. You’re the first to find out, I just got out of the meeting.” 

There’s a mix of hesitation before you utter your next proposal, a split second of bewilderment at what you were about to suggest. “Come over tonight, we can celebrate with Seok. Bring Jia along too, we can celebrate an early birthday.” 

“I’ll see, she might be taking a bus home tonight for the weekend, might have to bother you by myself.”

The ache in your cheeks didn’t stop until well after Mingyu had left with his cargo, the elated feeling remaining for even longer after the fact. There was a point where it took you convincing to rid yourself of another intrusive, uneasy feeling, like you were taking a step back by being happy at his announcement. 

It was, however, safe to call Mingyu a friend. Safe to be happy for him. Safe to have your heart swell at his achievement, having watched him work hard for it.

It was safe to feel.

This was horrible. 

Truly. 

You were trying to ignore it, the strange thumping noises coming from under your car, like it would go away if you pretended to not hear. There was a sliver of hope for you, barely five minutes away from home that you’d make it before your tire decided it had enough of trying to grab your attention. 

But then it started screeching, and you had to stop before you caused a road fire.

“Tire? Didn’t you get them changed like last month?” Seokmin asks over the phone.

“Didn’t know new tires were immune to industrial blades, too. Are you gonna tell me I got ripped off?” 

“Mingyu has a scissor jack, I’ll tell him to come to you.”

“Wait! You have a scissor jack, too! Why can’t you come?” You sputter at the sound, glancing at the 21:42 on the dial. 

“He has my scissor jack, he’ll change it for you.” He grits back. “Besides, I’m not letting this face pack go to waste I just put it on.” 

“Seok!” 

“Stay in the car, lock the doors till he gets there.” He grounds.

“Seokmin!” 

Beep. 

The bastard hung up. 

“Ugh!” you break from a tightened jaw, slamming the car door shut with passion as you huff into your seat, waiting for Mingyu. 

Was Mingyu busy at 10:30 PM on a weekday? He was, actually.

He’d scrambled to finish up the last of his meeting with his professor, wrapped up in planning for the exhibition despite the two month time frame he’d been given. Exhibitions were a lot of paperwork, as he was finding out as he sweet talks Jia over the phone, promising to be with her within the next five minutes. Well, ten maybe, he has to grab butter from the store.

She sits on the kitchen counter as Mingyu makes her favourite. A strenuous task, but he’s willing to go through the double frying to make up for the time he’s lost. It’s not until he’s doing the post dinner dishes while Jia’s picking a movie in the living room that he’s met with another dilemma to handle. 

He’s deflating as he stands, phone to ear as he listens to Seokmin about your situation. Glancing at the near 10:30 PM hand on the clock, he finds it difficult to refuse, especially when he’s told you’re alone and stranded on a highway. He thinks to Jia in the living room as he tells Seokmin he’s leaving the house to get to you.

He’d only be gone for barely 20 minutes. He’s changed plenty of tires, this should be quick and easy. 

Slipping into the living room is easy, wrapping his arms around Jia from behind is even easier. It’s when he has to open his mouth that he begins to falter. Twenty minutes, he reminds himself.

“I have two I’ve heard are really good, you can pick which one we watch first,” she voices as she fluffs the pillows on the couch, ready to tuck in for the rest of the night. 

“Babe?” 

She spins around in his arms, coming up to fluff his flat hair too. “Hm?” 

“Seok just called…”

Her face falls as he talks despite his best attempts to assure her he won’t be long. 

“Twenty minutes?” she parrots, wanting his word. 

“Fifteen.” 

Whether Mingyu would keep his word is something he’d find out, but you had kept your word to Seokmin, staying in the car, doors locked till you saw Mingyu’s car pull up behind you in the rearview. The wretched scissor jack that’s caused all of this sits in his own boot as he yanks it out to bring it over to your car, where you stand arms crossed, face dejected. 

“Were you waiting long?” He asks as he immediately crouches to fit the jack where he wants it. 

“No, not really,” you reply. “I’m sorry you had to come all the way out here, if only Seok remembered to take the stupid scissor jack–”

“No, no, it’s okay. I wasn’t doing anything.” Lies. But you already sounded apologetic and he didn’t wanna hear you apologize any further.  

“No, it’s not okay. The idiot’s relaxing with a stupid face mask on while you have to come out here and change a fucking tire, God, you have class tomorrow too, don’t you?” 

“Not until the afternoon, I’m in the clear.” He springs up from his crouched position, pulling the jack with him. “Open the boot.” 

Placing the scissor jack in your boot, he continues, a little breathless. “There, I’ll tell Seokmin I left it in your car. Or, you could do that.” 

“Thanks, Mingyu. Really.” 

He does nothing but flash a smile, doing his best to convince you you weren’t an inconvenience before having to see your apologetic face again. “Alright, I wanna see you drive off before I leave, go on.” 

By the time Mingyu’s slamming the door of the house shut, it’s eighteen minutes on the dot. Jia doesn’t say much, excited to have him back in her arms. 

“Wait!” he suddenly yelps, once he’s tucked in with her. 

“What now?” she groans. 

Mingyu’s bounding back to his bedroom, emerging a few moments later with a dark paper bag. He goes back to sit next to her on the couch, sliding the bag and its contents towards her.

“Here. We’re not gonna be together for your birthday, might as well give you your present the night before you leave.” His eyes are glinting, hopeful.

Jia expresses her thank you’s commenting on the ribbon and his LP choice, grinning widely.

Your name comes tumbling out of Mingyu’s mouth before he can stop himself. “She helped me pick it out!” 

“You…took her with you?” She asks after a moment.

“She worked at the store! I didn’t know till I went there either.” Mingyu’s voice grows increasingly enthusiastic, seemingly unaware that his girlfriend was growing slightly irritated. “I’ll take you there when you get back, the selection’s small but she’ll probably help you pick out something you’d like. I only had to give her like two names before she figured it out.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” she comments, tight smile on her lips as she collects the book sleeve and the LP, placing them back into the bag and leaving them on the floor next to her.

Mingyu is blissfully unaware of the fuel he’s added to growing embers, munching away on his popcorn, eyes trained on the TV and its stimulating colours. 

“I was talking to Jihyo the other day, super random but it came up while we were talking about you,” Jia starts experimentally. 

“Huh?” He has her attention. And when she mentions your name, the part of him that’s always wondered when she’d bring it up comes out of dormancy. 

“She said she…I don’t know, she said she liked you at some point, Like a lot, and for a while.” Jia sounds unsure, like she didn’t know if it was a good idea to bring you up. 

Mingyu sighs as he rears himself for the inevitable conversation. “It’s—well, it was—just puppy love. I was around all the time and I guess she latched, I don’t know.”

Jia pauses, eyes remanging trained on the movie. “Does it make you uncomfy? That she liked you? Maybe she still does.” 

“It doesn’t matter, does it? I’m around Seok which means I’m sometimes around her by default. Can’t help it. I mean, the photography thing kinda just happened but, I don’t really care. And she seems over it.” 

Mingyu is rambling. He can feel it. Which is why he tries to end the conversation right there, tone nonchalant as he hopes the topic breezes past. 

It doesn’t. 

“You seemed pretty adamant in leaving, though.”

“Huh?”

“When she called just now.”

“Seok called, I had his scissor jack!”

“Why couldn’t he have grabbed it for you and helped his sister himself? He has a car too.”  Jia’s paused the movie at this point, moving away from his arm she was leaning on, shifting to look at him fully. 

“It would’ve taken him forever, she was alone in the middle of a highway at nearly eleven, you wanted me to leave her there?” Mingyu finds the conversation ridiculous, and it shows in the irritation that rises in his own voice. 

“Mingyu, you can’t be upset with me right now,” she breathes out exasperated. 

“I’m not? I get that you’re upset, I haven’t been around as much but you also know what this exhibition means to me. I need to put everything I have into this and it’s only for a couple months–”

“Mingyu, it’s not just the exhibition!” 

“Jia, I can’t know if you don’t tell me what’s really bothering you, talk to me.” Mingyu’s begging at this point, wondering how it’s come to this in the first place. 

“You can’t expect me to be okay with you going around wherever, whenever, when I know what kind of lifestyle you’ve come out of not even six months ago!” 

Mingyu had come a long way from his galvanizing tendencies, doing absolutely everything he could to convince Jia he was serious about her. Unfortunately, this was not the first time his past had been brought up; in an argument or in a light hearted setting, and he wasn’t particularly fond of it. 

“Are we in six months ago? Are you saying I’ve done nothing substantial for you to think I’m still fucking around? Either give me an instance or figure out what the real issue is!” 

There’s a plaster of suffocation in the room, neither soul speaking a word. Until Jia finally speaks. “I wanna go home.”

It didn’t matter to Mingyu if she was expecting him to grovel, to ask her to stay and talk about this further. It was clear she wasn’t about to talk about anything pertinent at all, and definitely not tonight. He was tired, and frankly wanted to be alone right now.

“Fine.” 

Silence penetrates all of his air for the entire car ride up until he’s entering his apartment for the third time that day. Not bothering to clean up the living room, he thinks he does himself a service so as to not be reminded of the past couple hours. He’s casting the place in complete darkness before moving to his room. Might as well get some work done. 

There’s a conscious effort to not start slamming things, he succeeds mostly, his graphic tablet receiving the short end of the stick. Turning on his monitor, he’s met with his ongoing project still brought up on the screen.

It’s a picture of you. One he took in a greenhouse off the outskirts of the city, something you complained about extensively as the heat ruined both your mood and your hair. You were smiling regardless; a wide, happy smile as you looked into the camera, petunia’s and dahlia’s framing an illusion around your figure.

Mingyu feels the tension in his muscles begin to relax, his breathing evening out after what felt like hours. He becomes almost excited to pick up his stylus and work on the photo, the set up allowing him to dive right in. There was barely any work left, moving on as he finishes the photo and saves it. 

It isn’t until he happens to click on the the last folder, the one where you both caught the sunrise after a strenuous hike. He can’t help but break into a hint of a smile at the memory of your broken figure at the pathway, cursing him for bringing you here so early in the morning. The pictures had come out good, especially when Mingyu opens a particular photo at the bottom of the folder, an extra from his initial round of editing for his actual project. 

It’s of you (of course) with your chin tucked into your arms as you gaze at the scene from up above, beyond the railing. The sun is up higher at that point, but the cast remains as the top half of your face that wasn’t tucked in your arms is lit in an orange glow, eyes glistening like stars during the day, wide and beautiful. 

Mingyu remembers the shot. It was an accident.

In an attempt to fiddle with the settings to turn off the camera, he ended up snapping a picture instead. The distinct click was noticed, never bothering to check what came out of it when he stuffed his camera back into his bag, nor when he sifted through his SD card. 

It was like he was seeing the picture in a new light, and the potential it had to become something worth ogling at. He wonders what had come over him when he had placed the photo as a secondary option without another thought, lamenting at what could’ve been his actual final piece. 

He stares and stares, attempting to draw maps of color rendering in his mind, yet all that comes up is his eyes zeroing in on your own. How they glisten. How they sparkle.

Part 2

[jq37]

Aelwyn is sixteen and preparing for midterms at Hudol. Uniform pressed and starched, head full of incantations and spell components. She doesn't mean to bump into Adaine and get orange juice all over her shirt but today isn't the day she's going to start showing weakness.

"You know, you really should watch we're you're going," she says archly, playing off the clumsy mistake as a purposeful jab.

Playing it off a bit too well because, the next thing she knows, Adaine is flipping her off and a bolt of queasy looking, green energy is coming towards her. Ray of Sickness. And she can't spare the spell slot for Counterspell because she needs it for her exams.

"You little bitch!" Aelwyn says once she's emptied the contents of her stomach down the front of her shirt.

"Good luck with your exams," Adaine says sweetly.

Aelwyn is eighteen and the oldest, mangiest cat she's ever seen in her life has just vomited on her shoes.

"My," she says, casting a shield spell around her ankles to stop the cat from clawing at them. "You weren't kidding. He is a little bastard, isn't he?"

The shelter volunteer looks mortified. "Oh, gods! I am so sorry. I tried to warn you--I mean, not that I'm blaming you but--"

"No, it's alright. I did ask you to show me stragglers."

The shelter worker gestures to another pen on the other side of the room. "I can show you the kittens we just got in or there are some very well behaved older cats as well if you'd--"

But Aelwyn cuts her off, scooping up the old cat--though she holds him at arm's length for now, just to be safe. "No need. I haven't changed my mind. I'll take this one." She looks at the tag on his collar. "Hector."

Aelwyn is three and, as of a month ago, no longer the youngest Abernant.

She's had baby dolls in the past but never a baby sister and this is exciting new territory. She's full of questions. When is she going to be able to walk? When is she going to be able to talk? When will she be old enough to have lembas bread instead of formula?

Her parents seem less fascinated by the new addition to the family than she is but her mother is amused when she slaps away the hand of a colleague of her father's who tried to touch Adaine before sanitizing his hands, standing between the much larger man and her sister.

"So defensive. Perhaps she'll be an abjurer."

When Aelwyn asks what that is, her mother says that it's a kind of magical protector and she likes that a lot. That sounds like a good thing to be.

At night, Adaine cries. Except, she doesn't hear it because the mobile above her crib is etched with runes that cast the Silence spell.

"But what if she gets hurt?" Aelwyn asks.

Her father brushes her off. That's what the Unseen Servants are for. But she thinks that's what an abjurer might be for too and even though she isn't one yet, that doesn't mean she can't start practicing.

So, every night, Aelwyn waits until her parents have put Adaine down for bed and then tiptoes into her room. She checks to see if Adaine is silently wailing and if she is (and even sometimes if she isn't) she presses her face between the bars of the crib and sticks her little hand over Adaine's face.

"Don't cry," she says, even though the Silence spell mutes her words as completely as the tears. "Mum said I'm an abjurer. Nothing will get you. Don't cry, baby."

Adaine grabs her hand with impressive grip strength for something so small and, within a few minutes, she's trancing peacefully.

Aelwyn is seventeen and her sister is off to save the world again. This time from a Night Yorb--whatever that is.

It feels cruel that Adaine should have to go risk her life again so soon after she just almost died--not almost died, she did die before being raised by her cleric.

She wants to come with, to help in some way. Surely she could be helpful--last quest they brought Gilear for Helio's sake!

But Adaine doesn't ask her and she can't bring herself to say the words she needs to have the conversation she wants. So, instead, she lightly whaps Adaine on the shoulder with her spellbook as she's packing for the quest.

"I know you haven't done much studying lately what with your grades being based on how many hobgoblins you kill or whatever ridiculous system Aguefort has cooked up," Adaine rolls her eyes at that, "But if you don't mind a little cram session before you leave tomorrow, I can show you how to cast Teleport like I said. Might help you stay a touch less dead on your quest."

Her tone is light but her eyes betray her: Please, please, please don't die again.

Adaine's expression softens but then she scoffs, playing her half of their game. "I don't know what a Hudol dropout who's been in jail for the past year is gonna teach me but do your best."

Aelwyn is seven and her father is cross with her.

"Really Aelwyn," he says and even though they're talking via crystal she can feel the frost of his glare. "You thought it was appropriate to call me at work for no good reason? How many times have I told you and your sister to not bother me while I'm working."

She hates the word bother. She doesn't want to be a bother. She tries very hard not to be. Maybe she just didn't explain herself well enough.

"I know, father. But Addy got really scared and panicky on the playground. She was breathing really hard and--"

Her father makes a noise of disgust. "I don't have time for this. She is in primary school now. Stop coddling her. And her name is Adaine, not Addy. Please speak properly. I'm raising you better than that."

He hangs up before she can say anything else.

Aelwyn is eighteen and most of the claw marks on her arms have healed, which is nice. On her lap asleep is Hector who has apparently decided he likes her enough to use her as a radiator but not enough to submit to medical treatment without using her arms as a scratching post.

"You little heat vampire," she says as she slides her thumb across the screen of her crystal, searching for a video that will help her out. Eventually she finds one that looks promising and she calls it up.

On the screen, a halfling is standing next to a cat who is actively shredding her sweater with its claws. "You're going to be tempted to use some kind of a shield spell when applying the ointment," says the halfling. "But cats can smell abjuration magic and they don't love it. You won't get close enough to do the job. Isn't that right my darling?"

In response, her cat hacks up a hairball.

"Darling indeed," she says under her breath.

But even laced with sarcasm, the word is sweeter against her tongue than she anticipated.

She sinks her hand into Hector's fur and scratches his back for a few moments before tentatively speaking aloud. "Sleeping well, my darling?"

Hector says nothing--he's asleep and a cat. But warmth blooms in Aelwyn's chest--more than enough to make up for what Hector is leeching from her.

Aelwyn is seventeen and her father has just given her the most horrible command she's ever received in her life--and she's counting being made to sink a ship full of people in that calculation.

She knows her father doesn't expect her to delicately extricate the knowledge he needs from Adaine's mind. He expects her to get it at all costs. To ransack and pillage the memories if necessary with no heed of the consequences on her psyche. He'd probably prefer it that way--the more broken Adaine is, the easier it will be to mold her into a version of herself that is more useful to him.

Aelwyn is usually a smooth talker and a convincing liar but now, she stumbles all over her words, babbling out a stream of deflections and pleas as her heart squeezes tighter and tighter in her chest until she can't hold back the truth that she's been suppressing for years anymore.

"Adaine's just…she's a baby."

Aelwyn is eighteen and her apartment is full of cats.

She's always thought that the phrase, "One thing led to another" was a bit of a cop out--clearly there were key steps between point A and point B being glossed over--but in this case, there is truly no better way for her to articulate how she went from zero cats to ten cats in such a short amount of time.

She's sure that if she was still living with Jawbone, he'd have something to say about it but that's exactly why she isn't currently living with Jawbone.

She portions out food for all of the cats, saving Hector for last because he likes to eat curled up next to her.

"My darling baby boy," she says, lifting him onto the couch with her because the jump up is a bit much for him and his old bones. She kisses him on the top of the head and then pulls out her crystal. She scrolls mindlessly for a bit before checking her messages despite the fact that there's conspicuously no notifications.

Not that she has many people to expect texts from but she hasn't heard from Adaine in a few weeks and it's unsettling. When they weren't getting along, they were still living under the same roof. She was able to keep tabs on her, more or less. Now, they're closer than they've been in ages but barely talking.

I'm the older sister, I suppose, Aelwyn thinks. I should take the initiative.

She pets Hector with one hand and drafts a message with another: Are you alive, bitch?

She's about to press send but then she frowns and deletes the draft. After a few moments of thought, she taps out a new message: Can't believe I'm gonna say this. Miss my little sister. Everything all right?

Aelwyn is seventeen--though she doesn't feel like it.

Her mind is telling her that she's sixteen and that she was just been broken out of a jail cell in Solace but Adaine is telling her that she's just been broken out of an entirely different prison after being tortured for months even though she doesn't remember any of that.

But her body feels frail and Adaine says she's been in her mind which means she must have used the hard reset.

She's suddenly feeling very vulnerable--not because of the disorientation or the of the levels of exhaustion she can feel weighing on her like leaden chains. No, it's because of the fact that Adaine using the reset means that she must have read the treacle-y note that she left there for her to find.

It was just an insurance policy, she tells herself. There was wisdom to buttering up your savior to make sure she'd do what you needed her to do.

She manages to mostly believe it. But the small, truthful part of herself that knows how deeply she meant the words is so uncomfortable that she antagonizes Adaine until she's annoyed enough to hit her with a spell, sending her into blissful unconsciousness.

Aelwyn is nineteen and she's going to kill her mother.

Well, not alone of course. Adaine deserves the kill at least as much as she does if not more. It'll be a group effort.

It's a strange mix--the cold fury at her mother mixed with the warmth she feels for her sister, sitting across the table from her. She summons a flame to her palm, a preview of what their mother has waiting for her. She watches Adaine's eyes harden with resolve and she sees the face of her baby sister, left to wail alone silently for hours, soothed by her presence. "Let's get her."

"Yes, my dear," she says, the endearment coming freely as if this has always been their dynamic. "We'll get her."

But there will be time for that later. Right now, it's time for ice cream and seeing Adaine so content in such a simple pleasure causes the warmth in her to surge so suddenly that it would be startling if it wasn't so pleasant. The urge to voice it is so powerful that she doesn't know that would have been able to stop it at any point in life, let alone now.

"I hope we get to eat ice cream and cast magic forever," she says, words that would have been impossible for her to say one short year ago and impossible not to say now.

And, to her delight, Adaine agrees.

[itostea]

my first & last love (gojo x reader)

satoru realizes he's in love with you after you suggest he set you up with suguru

tags: fem! reader, Gojo praises you like A LOT! slight miscommunications, childhood friends to lovers, reader gets drunk & satoru helps, he's a lovesick idiot & dramatic, both yours & his pov, gojo’s implied to be taller than reader, slightly suggestive bc it’s gojo, slight angst

word count: 11k

The first time Gojo Satoru learned true, unadulterated jealousy was on a Friday night out in his sports car–the crickets chirping to the melody of a random song. 

It was real jealousy—not just simple, petty envy. Not like the envy he felt when someone got to taste the limited edition cupcakes at the bakery before he did or the envy of studying hard and getting a lower score than someone who didn’t (which is a lie because Gojo was that very person who was effortlessly good at everything he did). 

Either way, he’s never felt the bite of jealousy, breaking the flesh as blood drips slowly, lingering as if it could never be washed away from his skin. Never felt it smother his throat with needles and leave him with a metallic taste in his mouth. That is, until today.

It was colder than usual but he still insisted on grabbing some ice-cream from the local convenience store, declaring it was his your reward for putting up with the party Sukuna hosted–the same party that ended in your dress being soaked in vomit. The atmosphere was perfect for sentiment, for talking–for confessing. 

You’re humming to the beat of the song, licking your lips clean of the ice cream you just ate. “Satoru,” you murmur his name softly, staring at him through your lashes. 

“Yeah?” His eyes drink in the sight of you: your droopy eyes from sleep, the faded lip tint on your lips, the hoodie he let you borrow that’s obviously a few sizes too big on you. There’s hardly any light coming in but he can still feel your eyes on him, the tension so thick he thinks he might suffocate from it. 

For a moment, he’s scared, fearful of what you were going to say because he knows this silence. This is the very silence that happens before someone confesses to him, the same suspense that he has to mentally prepare himself for since he knew he was going to break another heart. And he’s terrified that he might have to do it to you–his friend, his neighbor, someone who he’s known for a very long time. 

“I need to tell you something,” you start and he winces, shifting uncomfortably on the driver’s seat. 

“You do?” He mutters. You’re nervous. He can tell because he’s known you long enough to understand what you’re feeling–long enough to know that your eyes are darting from place to place, a habit of yours.

His chest squeezes when you take a deep breath just as he exhales, already making his mind to grant you a swift rejection. He hopes you can forgive him after this.

“--I like Getou and I need your help.”

“Listen, I’m sorry but I just don’t see you that way–”

He blinks, wondering if he heard you right or if he was drunk (he didn’t drink at the party because he was your ride home). “Wait what?”

It was your turn to blink now. “I like Getou and I–”

“I heard you the first time,” he cuts you off hastily, clearing his throat to play it cool. He runs a hand through his hair, grazing the side of his undercut. “Okay wow.”

Gojo mentally curses himself for not knowing what else to say other than humming pensively, busying himself by mixing the ice-cream in the tiny container. He still needs time to process, to mentally upload your words to his brain. You like Getou and not him? He pauses, repeating that thought again. 

You like Getou and not him. Part of him tells himself that this is exactly what he wanted since your friendship wouldn’t go to ruin. You managed not to catch feelings for him–managed not to fall for him like many others. Yet, he’s confused when another part of him doesn’t respond too well once he realizes that this was you he was dealing with.

“That’s not weird right?” You question, bringing your knees up to your chest and propping your chin atop of them to watch his reaction–reminding him to keep it cool. 

“Nah it’s not weird at all,” he said, not thinking straight when his next words escaped his lips. “So why Suguru?” And not me? Though, he keeps that last part to himself. 

“Well isn’t it obvious? He’s tall, handsome, and has a good personality.”

Am I not that? He asks himself, not bothered by how stuck up he may seem. “That’s not very specific from someone who likes him.”

You huff and he can tell you’re narrowing your eyes at him. “I know you don’t wanna hear me yap about the specifics, Satoru.”

“I do.” He says quickly.

You make a noise of surprise, looking interested in his sudden intrigue. “Well okay… Suguru’s very caring and attentive. Being around him makes me feel warm inside you know? I’m not sure when I started liking him but I just know that I just really want to be closer to him. And it doesn’t help that he’s just so smart and nice. And his looks are just a bonus.”

“Oh,” he utters, not even bothering to curse himself for his lack of response. He tries a weak smile. “You must really like him.”

Gojo can’t help but furrow his brows at the semi-embarrassed expression you wear—as if you were flustered at the mere thought of having a crush. “Oh, was I that obvious?” You ask, not even bothering to deny the fact that you were undoubtedly head over heels for his best friend.

Oh god, he thinks he might be sick and he doesn’t know why. 

“Are you going to help me?” Your voice cuts him out of his reverie and he’s cut back into reality–the reality being the anticipation in your eyes. Did you always look this pretty? 

Gojo nearly flinches at the thoughts that cross his mind, blaming the unprocessed shock for being the cause of these obscure ideas. He coughs. “Hold on. So you don’t like me right?”

“What? No I–” your eyes widen in understanding. “Oh so that’s what that was all about. You thought the person I liked was you! How cocky can you be to think everyone’s in love with you?”

“It’s not cocky if it’s true. I’m just really lovable y’know?”

You let out a sarcastic laugh. “That can’t be true since I’m not everyone.”

I know, he thinks to himself, staying silent as he watches you shuffle in your seat. He didn’t just dislike this idea you proposed, he hated it.  It wasn’t hard to just decline and keep it like that–let you figure your feelings on your own. 

Yet, something about the near-pleading look in your eyes made him reconsider and it filled him with an urge to smooth the wrinkles on your expression. He sighs loudly, rubbing the invisible crease in between his brows. “Well I guess you came to the right person because I’m an expert at this. 5 star ratings and all that. But what makes you think I’m going to do this for free?”

“Uh the goodness of your heart?”

“Cute,” he laughs. “But no. I want a coffee from the place everyday for a month.”

“What?! Are you insane? That means I’d have to wake up early everyday to get in line!” 

He shakes his head, waving his finger around with a disappointed expression. “A small price for love.”

“I don’t understand why you even need me for that. You can buy the whole shop yourself, ass,” you whisper the last part behind your palm, making his eyes light up in amusement.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Actually you know what? Fine,” you huff. “You’re right. It is a small price for love. But I’m not walking back and forth around campus to deliver your coffee.” 

“I got that covered,” he grins, already coming up with a plan in his head. He likes this, the banter you two typically enjoyed. It made your duo, a duo. In a normal situation, he’d relax and continue bothering you. Still, the feeling of dread gnaws at his throat and he tries to swallow it–tries to ignore it by pretending to be the same, goofy Gojo you’re used to. And he’s starting to think it’s hard to do that when you look up at him with such genuine gratitude. 

“Satoru.”

“Hm?”

“Thank you, I mean it.”

Gojo feels that emotion again, that visceral feeling where he might go sick and vomit all over the car. “Yeah.”

He thinks he would’ve preferred if you confessed to him instead. 

Gojo wonders if stress (if you can call that) is enough to make someone wake up with a hangover the next day. He didn’t drink last night but he thinks he might have–considering the headache that was interrupting his morning. 

He’s in the middle of downing a glass of water when his phone buzzes, your name popping up as a notification. 

(Name): i’m gonna get ur coffee pls come 

Him: come ??? cum

(Name): it’s too early to be doing this 

He sees the bubbles appear before they disappear for a while, only popping up again when he’s in the middle of cracking an egg over the pan 

(Name): SATORU 

(Name): OHMYGOD SATORY SOI SOS 

Him: WHAT 

Him: HELLO??? 

(Name): GETOUS HERE OMG IM GONNA 

(Name): HE SAID HI TO ME 

(Name): WHAT DO I DO?

Gojo grips his phone a bit tighter, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek. He sighs.

Him: say hi back 

Him: and then go PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

(Name): no wtf and i meant what do i after this silly 

(Name): i don’t know what to do im literally an npc rn

(Name): jk he just said bye :(

Him: should’ve done what i told u to do

Another name pops up from the top and his eyes scan the name, his brows raising in curiosity. He huffs at the message, feeling a wave of nausea cross him.

Suguru: You’re close friends with (Name) right?

Him: yeah why 

Suguru: Nothing

It’s silent for a few seconds and Gojo’s back to eating his eggs, tempted to pop a Tylenol to ease the growing headache. Contrary to popular belief, he was against the reliance of pain-relieving meds, opting to let his body figure things out on its own. Luckily for him, having food in his stomach was enough to relieve the headache.

His mind wanders back to the night in the car where you told him to help you with your crush on his best friend–not fully coming to terms with the fact that he wished you liked him instead. Since when did he start feeling this way and why did he need another man to make him realize he liked or even loved you? The thought of anyone having you for themselves was like hearing the sound of nails against a chalkboard and he was jealous. He finally admitted it. 

Gojo Satoru wasn’t an idiot when it came to his feelings and he’d be a fool if he kept denying his undeniable irritation that came with your crush for Suguru. He places the unwashed dish atop some other bowls and utensils, reminding himself to get to that later since his priority was not to keep you waiting at the coffee shop. 

Another buzz and Satoru nearly trips over his feet at the dread he gets from seeing his best friend’s message. Are you kidding me? He thinks to himself as he reads the message again. 

Suguru: She’s cute

Yeah, he thinks he might be sick again.

Music’s playing in the background to substitute the sound of chatter that’d usually fill the room if Shoko were here. It wasn’t rare for Shoko to not flake on parties and it was even rarer for you to leave your comfort zone and go to one–especially the last one hosted by Sukuna; but this one was different. Suguru was the host and you’d be an idiot to miss it. 

You flinch at the feeling of your mascara poking the inside of your eye, cursing quietly as you take a q-tip to fix the mistake. 

The buzz of your phone makes you freeze.

Gojo: omw to ur house 

Gojo: ill be there in 10 

You: wait satoru don’t get mad but what do i wear 

Gojo: …

Gojo: YOU DIDNT LIKE THINK ABOUT THAT AN HR AGO?

You: I WANNA STAND OUT TO ATTRACT THE LOML OKAY? 

You: so i need ur opinion 

Gojo: dude

Gojo: ok

Gojo: just wear whatever u want it’ll be fine 

You: yeah but what specifically?

Gojo: not smth that makes you look like a grandma 

Gojo: like that dress u wore to the last party 

Gojo: no offense

You: but i liked that dress :(((( 

You: was it that bad?? I mean i had to throw it out bc of the vomit anyways

Gojo: it made u look like a grandma but in a good way 

You: wow okay thanks

Gojo: you looked nice 

Gojo: ANYWAYS  

Gojo: a pair of jeans 

Gojo: and that light blue long sleeve that shows ur shoulders 

You: really? 

Gojo: yeah and i’m leaving my apartment now so hurry up 

You like the message, tapping your lips to even out the lip tint before you rush to put on the shirt and jeans. Doing a quick double-take in the mirror, you spin once and prop your hands on your hips, snapping a few selfies to commemorate this day. 

You’re not sure how much time passes until you hear excessive honking outside, the sound of your phone buzzing as you see Gojo’s caller id. It’s enough to make your eyes roll as you grab your bag–leaving the door locked and the lights off. 

Gojo’s grin is boyish and teasing as his eyes scan you from top to bottom. “Oh look at you,” he coos. “You’re actually wearing what I told you to wear.”

“Well I felt like listening today,” you murmur, feeling a small ripple of embarrassment pass you. 

“Atta girl.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, feeling a grin form when you hear him chuckle. He puts his car into reverse mode, propping his arm on the top of your seat. Up close, you can get a stronger whiff of his cologne–its musk and earthiness slowing your heartbeat, calming you. Your eyes scan his outfit: a black pullover layered atop white t-shirt, paired with a pair of pants that were on the edge of being joggers and trousers.

On anyone else, the outfit wouldn’t have done them good like it did with Gojo. To your displeasure and awe, he looked effortlessly classy. And if he noticed your lingering gaze, he didn’t mention it. 

“What’s your game plan?” His voice draws you back to reality and you watch as he sets the car back into drive mode. 

“Game plan?”

“That’s right,” he glances at you, his shades sliding lower on his nose bridge. “Your plan to seduce the love of your life.”

“I’m not going to seduce him!” You gape, narrowing your eyes at his widening smile. His hand reaches down to turn the volume of the song a bit louder, stopping at the upcoming red light. 

“I’m just joking with you,” he laughs, his eyebrows furrowing slightly before that smile returns to his face, not quite meeting his eyes like it usually does. He sighs before breaking into a laugh that almost sounds bitter. “I’d pay to see that though.”

At the party, you’d imagine yourself “mingling” with the crowd and letting loose–being the life of the party. Unfortunately for you, your feet are still stuck on the kitchen floor and you’re glued to Gojo’s side. You’d like to blame it on the vomit incident from Sukuna’s party and you’re fortunate enough to not be known as the “girl that someone threw up on.” 

Either way, you weren’t especially fond of the fact that you were keeping Gojo from having fun somewhere else. Like in one of the unoccupied rooms upstairs or in the living room playing some drinking games. It’s enough to make you feel somewhat guilty and suddenly regretful that you even came to this party. 

You tap his shoulder in the kitchen, offering him a reassuring smile. “Satoru. You don’t have to stay with me. I can manage myself!” 

“That’s what you said last time,” he chuckles, rummaging through Getou’s fridge to search for something sweet, frowning when he sees traditional Japanese snacks that his grandparents would eat. “What the hell?” He murmurs to himself.

“I mean it,” you say, taking a few steps back. “You have some fun. I don’t want to bother you too much.”

“You’re not–”

“Satoru. (Name),” a velvety voice greets, all too familiar. A warmth spreads over you. “You made it.”

“Getou,” you murmured to yourself, glancing at Gojo who was already staring at you. 

For a second, you see a subtle tick in his jaw, a sight you blame on the lighting since he’s back to normal the moment he turns to face Getou. He grins that teasing smile of his. “Suguru.”

“You looking through my fridge again, Satoru?” The brunette huffs, kicking the fridge’s door shut lightly–exchanging the grin with his friend. Your heart squeezes as he casts a lingering look at you, his smile polite. “Hey (Name). Good seeing you here.”

“Huh?” You perk up. “Oh you too?”

You inwardly curse at yourself for how awkward you were, giving Gojo a scathing look as he hides his laughter behind his palm. Luckily for you, Getou’s sweet and he was also good at redirecting topics. “You want something to drink?” 

“Oh sure,” you blink, offering a thankful smile. “Thank you Getou–”

“Suguru.” 

You pause, cocking your head to the side in confusion. “Sorry?” 

“Call me Suguru,” he hands you a red, plastic cup–his smile pretty enough to make your breath hitch. “We’ve known each other long enough.”

You feel your heart race as he looks at you expectantly, as if you knew what he wanted you to do next. You fidget, suddenly more bashful at the attention he was giving you. “Thank you Suguru.”

“No problem,” he smiles and you like how he looks satisfied with you. He hands another red cup to Satoru who stood beside you, the sarcastic grin of his returning. You take a tentative sip of the booze, watching curiously as Satoru and Suguru talked amongst themselves–reconnecting despite seeing each other only a day ago. 

You observe the two of them, mapping the details of Suguru’s face before your eyes land on Satoru–suddenly aware of the fact that the boy you spent most of your youth with grew up. Sure, you know that his face attracts attention from everyone but that was a token from childhood. It just didn’t hit you that he matured, grew up to be the man most would dream of dating. The realization is to make you wonder if Gojo ever registered the fact that you were growing too.

Slowly, you take another sip of your drink, blinking slowly as the alcohol settles in your system. Gojo’s the first to notice when you stumble, how your skin seems to heat up. “Hey hey,” he holds you by the shoulders, his voice soft. And if you paid closer attention, you would’ve seen the way Getou’s brows raised at how gentle his friend was acting towards you. “You okay?” 

Amidst your drunken state, you realize that Gojo didn’t bother drinking any of the liquor in his cup during his conversation with Suguru. And Suguru. Sweet Suguru who puts the pieces together and confirms that you’re a lightweight, the guilt evident in his expression. “Oh shit. I forgot how strong this liquor is.” 

“I’m okay,” you mumble and step forward, ready to excuse yourself to the restroom. Gojo looks like he’s about to say something until a group of unfamiliar faces barge into the kitchen, their faces bright as they greet Getou and Gojo with intentions to keep them occupied. Among the chatter and crowd, you find it easy to slip away–rushing to find a restroom. 

The first one you went in was already used by a couple that you remembered mumbling apologies to. The others were either locked or used. At some point, your gut told you to go upstairs and you staggered into an unoccupied bathroom where you splashed cold water on your face–sighing at how nice it felt against your skin.

The music’s only a fraction of its noise from up here and you’re surprised that there’s not much of a group upstairs. There’s a funny feeling in your stomach as you crouch slightly, mentally cursing yourself for downing the whole cup so quickly, ruining your chances to talk with Suguru–coherently at least. Part of you wants to sulk over your spoiled opportunities but another part of you just wants to crash on the tiled floor and sleep–rest your eyes for a bit. 

You’re thankful your mind was still conscious enough to rationalize the unsanitary conditions of the bathroom floor, opting to curl up in one of the hallways instead–shivering at the feeling of cold marble beneath you. Your eyes droop, a yawn escaping you. And you’re almost certain you would’ve fallen asleep if not for the gentle shaking of your shoulders. 

“Stop,” you whine softly, your vision blurry as you catch a glimpse of hair the color of snow and a pair of worried filled blue eyes. Your protests turn quickly to bemusement. “Satoru? What are you doing here?”

You think he smiles as he kneels down on one knee to be eye level with you. “How about I get you off the ground first?” 

“I don’t wanna. Let me sleep here,” you shake your head, ignoring how your body felt warm at how softly he treated you. 

“C’mon,” he chuckles. “The ground’s dirty. Let's get you to a bed at least.”

In your drunken state, your mind still decides it favors a soft comforter over cold marble and you see his eyes soften when you go limp in his arms–letting him lift you from the ground. “Good girl.”

Your mind goes fuzzy at the sound of that and you’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or something else that makes your temperature rise. In that simple moment, you let his arms wrap around you, cradling you to his chest as he makes his way downstairs. All your thoughts stop as your eyes close, drowning the sound of the party out as you permit sleep to take over. His hands give your thighs an occasional squeeze, the gesture oddly intimate yet you don’t bother questioning it or objecting to it. 

Even with the veil of sleep dropping on your form, you still recognize Suguru’s voice as he tells Satoru to take care of you, his tone apologetic–having been the one to give you the liquor. They talk for a bit and once more, you feel the bounce of each step as he carries you out the house.

You’re barely awake when Gojo puts you in the passenger seat and you feel disappointment wash over you when he stops holding you. You’re not sure when you grabbed onto the sleeve of his shirt, your eyes half-lidded as you peered up at him. “Don’t go.”

A noise of protest escapes your lips when he removes your cold hand from his shirt gently, rather taking it in between his warmer ones. “I won’t.”

“Satoru.”

“Hm?”

“I like when you compliment me.”

“Oh yeah?” He says, laughing a bit. “It’s hard not to.”

The music and cheers in Suguru’s house are still audible even in Gojo’s car, your vision getting darker and darker with each blink. Still, you can still feel Gojo’s hand gripping yours–his thumb rubbing circles on the skin as you invite sleep back in, taking deep breaths as you breathe in his cologne. 

And as sleep came to life, you allowed the dreams to live as well. 

Was there such a thing as a relationship between dreams and memories? In moments of delirium, you can’t single out what’s real and what’s not–was it a dream or did it actually happen?

But now that days have passed and you’ve given yourself more time, you’re certain that Gojo was the one who carried you out of the house and spent his night caring for you. So you ruled out the possibility that the night was a dream, rather a memory that made you feel soft inside–grateful yet unsure. And if you wanted to ponder harder, you would’ve done so if not for the hell you were experiencing this week. 

Forgetting the content during a quiz. Getting yelled at by your boss. Having stepped in bird shit. Waking up late nearly every day because you’d forget to put your alarm on. 

If that wasn’t enough, you got in an argument with your parents over the phone. It was about something stupid and you were so frustrated that you ended up walking to some 7/11–buying yourself an ice-cream to cheer yourself up. The argument was so dumb and you weren’t even sure what you guys were even arguing about. All you knew that you should probably call them later to talk it out; you also knew that this week couldn’t get any worse.

What was Satoru doing right now? You think to yourself, pulling out your phone to check your messages–frowning when you saw none from him. Your eyes land on a message from Suguru, seeing the link he sent you to some video he found funny or intriguing. After the party, you were shocked to see an unknown number texting you, claiming it was Suguru and that Satoru gave your number to him. The day that happened, you texted him using exclamation marks and thanked him–smiling at your phone as you two exchanged witty messages with one another. 

You sighed, unlocking your phone and clicking Satoru’s contact and phoning him. You almost hang up after several rings but you hear his voice after the nth ring. “Hello?”

“Satoru?” You say, your voice cracking the second your lips part to speak. You weren’t expecting to cry and neither did Satoru–though you can hear the concern laced in his voice as he questions your whereabouts. 

“Where are you sweetheart?” You hear rustling in the background amidst his voice and your sniffles. “I’ll pick you up. Your location’s shared with me right?”

“Mhm,” you wipe your eyes, fidgeting with the hem of your hoodie. 

“Okay just stay there and don’t go anywhere. I’ll be there in a few. Don’t cry (Name).”

You think you might cry harder with how sweet his voice was. 

Satoru thinks he might be the only one who notices the rift between you and him. And he’s not sure if he’s the one causing it or if it’s you. But after that night with you (in his car again), he’s been thinking about how soft you were in his arms; how he liked the way your head drooped against his chest. Or maybe he likes you but he’s not going to think about that unless he wants another headache. 

Regardless, he finds himself looking at his phone sporadically, subconsciously eager to see your name pop up unexpectedly–eager for things to go back to normal. Even though you two still speak, he’s almost sure that he’s not imagining the awkward tension in the air. 

Was he too intrusive when he carried you out to his car? Were you mad at him because he didn’t leave Suguru and you alone in the kitchen? It was a selfish thing to do, he admits. His original idea was to leave you alone with Suguru so you’d get to chat with him–get to know him like you intended to do at the party; but seeing Suguru give you that sly smile of his was enough to make Gojo ditch his plans of playing Cupid. 

If Gojo was a good man, he’d feel happy that you were getting what you wanted since he knew you weren’t the only one interested. Like with the message Suguru sent to Satoru and how he eyed you at the party; how he called Satoru over for a bit and told him that he understood why people liked you or found you attractive; how he commented on how the shirt you wore suited you. 

No shit, I picked it, he thought to himself as he recalled that night. Satoru always knew you were beautiful and he hated that everyone else knew too. You weren’t even his yet but he didn’t want to share you–to let anyone else hold you or have you. Seeing you blush and smile shyly at his best friend made him want to puke—made him want to claw his eyes out. That should be him and god he wishes it was.

He was selfish yet he never promised to be good. Yet, this was for you. He wanted you to be happy, is what he told himself whenever he saw you and Suguru talking. 

His phone buzzes and it’s almost embarrassing how quickly he snatches it, the anticipation in his eyes fading when he sees that it’s Suguru messaging him about the party today. Satoru sighs, rubbing the spot between his brows as he leans on the kitchen counter, suddenly reminded that he planned a party at his place today. It was an impulsive decision to forget about the tension between you two and Satoru’s kinda wishing he took the time to talk it out with you rather than planning something else. 

He invited a good amount of people and was going to invite you as well to give him a reason to call you. But lucky for him, you made things easier for him by calling him. Satoru thinks it’s not healthy for his blood temperature to rise just at the sight of your name on his phone and he’s already grinning when he picks up. “Hello?”

“Satoru?” 

Oh. He pauses, his brows furrowing at how your voice cracked as you tried to hide your sniffles. His first thought was to wonder who made you sad and he thinks it’s scary how hearing you cry was enough to send his emotions in a frenzy. But you needed him and he didn’t want you to be alone. “Where are you sweetheart?” He asks, the nickname flowing off his tongue before he can stop. “I’ll pick you up. Your location’s shared with me right?”

“Mhm,” You mumbled back and his heart nearly snapped in two with how dejected you sounded. He frowns, grabbing his jacket and his keys–rushing to slip on his sneakers. 

“Okay just stay there and don’t go anywhere. I’ll be there in a few. Don’t cry (Name).”

You make a sound of understanding and he hangs up, his finger tapping to click on Suguru’s contact. Satoru hears other familiar voices in the background but he doesn’t pay much attention to it. 

“What’s up Satoru–?”

“Party’s off.”

“What? Wait what are you–”

“Sorry something came up. I’ll tell you later,” he says, hanging up before his friend can say anything else. He knows he should feel bad for flaking out last minute but his list of priorities had you at the top of it. And he really didn’t care if anyone else would understand. 

You’re regretting the choice of shorts in the chilly night air and the ice-cream you ate wasn’t helping you shiver any less. 

The way Satoru sounded made that warm, fuzzy feeling settle in your stomach again. He sounded like he would drop whatever he was doing just to get to you and it made you feel special. You think back to the sound of “sweetheart” from his lips, shaking your head when you feel your blood get warm.

“(Name)?” Satoru’s voice startles you from your thoughts and you think the sound of it could erase all your troubles. “You alright?” He asks, shrugging the jacket off his shoulders and draping them over your legs, kneeling down to see your face.

You only nod. “I want to go home.”

“Yeah I can take you back–”

“No,” you shake your head. “Back to your place.”

For a moment, you’ve stunned him but that surprise left as fast as it arrived. He sighs, tapping your knee with his finger. “Usually dinner comes first–”

“Not like that you idiot,” you kick him lightly, a grin forming on your lips. “Your methods of comforting are weird.”

“Yeah?” He laughs, the sound blending with the wind. “Well maybe I’m not trying to comfort you,” he eyes you with a teasing glint in his eyes and flashes a lopsided grin. He looked almost sweet as he did sly, the blend making your heart pick up in pace. 

You squirm, mustering a tone of nonchalance. “I changed my mind. I’m going back to my place.”

This time he chuckles, his eyes narrowing in amusement. “Nuh uh. It’s my job to wipe that frown off your face,” he says, the corny phrase making you roll your eyes. “C’mon, I’ll be good to you.”

You pretend to think, ignoring the attentive expression he wore. “Fine. I guess I’ll let you take me home.”

“That’s my girl,” he grinned, standing up to his full height. You beam at him, matching his steps as you two reach his door. By the time the two of you were settled at his place, you already spoke to your parents in private–clearing up the misunderstandings like Satoru reminded you to do. You were glad you had him and even more glad that things were falling back to place. 

Your eyes scan your surroundings, noticing how he must’ve tidied things up. “Did you clean your place?”

“Hm?” He grabs two mugs from the cabinet. “Oh yeah. I was going to have a party here.”

“Today?”

“That’s right,” he drawls, glancing at you from the corner of his eyes. “I was going to call you to see if you wanted to go.”

“Really?” That was a shock to you. “Are you still gonna have one today?”

“Nah. Canceled it last minute.”

You pause, raising your brows as you try not to jump to conclusions. “Why’d you cancel it?”

“Had better things to do. I'd rather hang out with you anyways,” he says casually, smiling when he finds the packets of hot cocoa. “Found it!”

Did he cancel the party for me? You think to yourself, a bit surprised that you came to that conclusion; but if you were right and he did, you wouldn’t know what to feel other than appreciation and maybe something else. Whether that was true or not, you know that you should be feeling guilt and not giddiness from having him prioritize you. Was it normal to feel this way for Satoru? You’re about to let your thoughts fill your head but you feel your breath hitch at how he seems to lean closer to you. 

His hands move you by the hips, the touch barely lasting five seconds. “Sorry I gotta get the spoons,” he murmurs, paying no mind to how you hold your breath. Your eyes fall to his biceps, swallowing a gasp as you see how the black material of his shirt moved with every movement he makes. There was no way he was human when he looked like that.

Oh my god, you think to yourself, suddenly mortified at the fact that you were checking him out. What was wrong with you right now? You always knew Gojo was attractive but you didn’t think he was this attractive. And if he had any idea of your internal conflict he didn’t pay it any mind. 

“Can you go get the movie ready for me?”

“Uh huh,” you nod immediately, quickening your pace as you try to distract yourself. By the time he sits next to you, the blankets and snacks are already placed neatly on the living room table. You smile and mutter a thank you when he hands you the mug of hot cocoa. 

“Feel better?” He asks, propping an arm on the head of the couch once you’re halfway through the movie: a random romcom you picked to cheer you up. Even as someone who claims he’d rather watch a movie with more action, you think the drama that comes with romcoms intrigues him–much more than he’d like to admit. 

You take a sip of your drink, your eyes flitting to him. “Much better.”

“I bet,” he murmurs, his eyes glancing at the way your knees touched. The scene panels to a teary confession the female lead does, the music dramatic with strings in the background. You watch intently, observing the expressions both characters make on screen.

“Y’know, I never understood how they can always come up with a speech like that on the spot,” Satoru comments, plopping a few gummy bears in his mouth. “Isn’t that unrealistic?”

“It’s a movie,” you point out, watching as the male lead hung onto every word the female lead had to say. “It’s not supposed to be realistic.”

“I guess you’re right. But that stuff apparently happens in real life right?”

“Wouldn’t you know? You have people confessing to you all the time.”

“I don’t give them much time to continue speaking,” he shrugs. 

You don’t like how uneasy you feel after he says that. “Well, maybe it’s love that makes this kind of stuff happen.”

This earns you an amused snicker. “Of course you’d say that. You gonna do that with Suguru? Confess to him from the bottom of your heart?”

You roll your eyes. “To do that, I’d have to be in love with him.”

“Are you?”

“No,” you give him an incredulous look. “I hardly know the guy. I just really like him.”

He makes a sound of understanding but you feel as if you’re deluding yourself when you see the look of relief cross his face. You turn to him, the movie forgotten all of a sudden. “Would you do that?”

“What? Confess to Suguru with the bottom of my heart?” 

“Yeah sure. That’s what I meant.” you huff, seeing his teasing grin form. You sigh. “No like…confess to someone you love.”

He’s quiet, the faraway look in his eyes confirming that he’s deep in thought. You’re not sure why a pang of irritation hits you when you realize that there might be someone Satoru’s in love with. And you’re not sure if it’s because he’s not telling you or because you want to be that someone. You go with the former because you’re supposed to like Suguru. 

His eyes wander to meet yours and the tick in his jaw makes you nervous–makes your palms sweaty because he’s never looked at you like that. You’re not even sure words could describe what emotion he had on his face. He smiles–not the smile that’s crooked and boyish. It’s the smile that’s sharp and makes his eyes narrow. “I might.”

“You might?” You ask, hating how breathless your voice sounded to your ears–something that he notices with the way amusement practically glimmers in his eyes. You swallow a gasp when his gaze falls to your lips, quickly flying back to your eyes. 

“Maybe,” he whispers and you can’t help but wet your lips, feeling faint when the bright blue of his eyes darkens to black. You don’t flinch when his head tilts, his arm coming to the side to trap you between the couch. His cologne overwhelms you, makes you drunk on him. He’s so close that you can feel his breath hit your face. 

“Satoru–” 

The sound of your phone buzzing crushes the tension quickly and you let him lean back–looking as if he had more to say. You feel a smidge of disappointment as you grab your phone. “It’s Suguru,” you say and you’re not sure why your inner voice begs Satoru to tell you to ignore the phone call–to act like he cares more. 

“Shouldn’t you answer it?” He questions and you hate that sinking feeling in your stomach when he doesn’t even spare a glance at you–as if acting like he wasn’t about to kiss you seconds ago. You can only frown, nodding as you watch him stand up–still not offering you one single look. “I’ll clean up.”

As you glance at your phone, at the name of Suguru appearing on your screen, you hope for the slightest bit of joy–that lovesick feeling you get whenever you’d see him. Yet, it felt wrong. This felt wrong. And apparently, Suguru could tell from your voice that there was something bugging you. 

“Is everything alright? You don’t sound too good.”

Your eyes linger on Satoru’s figure moving to the kitchen. You think Suguru mentions something about a date but you don’t pay much attention, not feeling all that bad as you drown out his voice. “Yeah. I’m fine. What were you saying?”

“I was asking if you wanted to go to dinner with me tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at 7 and we can–”

“Sure,” you say, trying to ignore the way your body lurches at your response–as if it didn’t want this. “Sure. I’ll see you at 7.”

You don’t catch what he says when he hangs up, only thinking of how Satoru looked at you when he was leaning closer. The thought doesn’t horrify you as much as it should but you think that if he had kissed you, you probably would’ve kissed him back. 

If someone told you a month ago that you were going on a date with Suguru, you would’ve cried tears of joy and celebrated. But now, you’re almost undeniably feeling a wave of indifference hit you and it feels awful. Suguru’s perfect–his sharp features and his charming smile that’d send anyone into a frenzied mess. Or maybe most tend to fixate on how suave he is with his words–mixing the subtlest of flirtations with simple compliments.

He’s everything you could’ve asked for. Yet, you find yourself missing the ruthless beauty you saw in Satoru–the striking blue of his eyes and the rare color of his hair. You find yourself missing the rasp of his voice, how it’d soften that night when he comforted you; you find yourself missing his warm and strong embrace as he took care of you in your inebriated state; you find yourself missing how close he was that night on his couch and how he looked at you. 

At some point, you found yourself replaying that scene over and over again. The first few times, you were giddy with hormones as you imagined him leaning closer and kissing you. After a while, you wanted the image gone because it didn’t happen. He pulled away. He let you pick up the call from Suguru. He acted like nothing happened when in reality, a lot did happen. You two were finally breaching the line of friends and he knew that. 

So why? That question plagued your mind for days after and every time you think you forgot about it, the memory of him would remind you all over again. And when he only congratulated you when you told him about your date with Suguru you felt betrayed. Why don’t you care? You almost blurted out but technically he did care. After all, he was the one who was trying to set you guys up so why did you suddenly want to change your mind?

You think you might hate him a little for being so good at acting like everything’s normal and you think you might hate more for making your heart beat so fast. Things weren’t supposed to end up like this. You weren’t supposed to imagine your best friend kissing you breathless or taking you on a date. 

Everything’s going to fall into place, you tell yourself. You’ve already dolled up and were in the middle of spraying your perfume when Getou messaged you that he was already here. He’s relaxed in the car as you enter the car. This scene feels the same, you think to yourself, recalling the way Gojo greeted you the last time he picked you up.

“You’re wearing the shirt you wore to the party,” Getou points out and you look down at your shirt, gaping at the revelation that you’re wearing the same top Gojo told you to wear. Even with the company of another man, your subconscious still wishes he was here. 

“I didn’t even notice,” you mumble, smiling at the brown-haired male as he drives. The small talk is all natural as you two make your way to the restaurant and you’re grateful that Suguru’s such an easy person to talk with. He’s nice. Really nice and you feel almost guilty for not being as enthusiastic as you wanted to be. 

It’s only when you’re midway through the meal that he mentions it. “You’re not here.”

“What?”

“Here,” he shrugs, glancing at you with an empty smile. “You’re thinking about something else aren’t you?”

“I’m not–”

“Don’t worry I’m not mad,” he says and you know he’s telling the truth. “I’m curious. What are you thinking about?”

This makes you squirm in discomfort, a bit uneasy at how perfectly he read you. Satoru’s always made comments about Getou’s intuitive feeling for emotions and you’re starting to think he wasn’t exaggerating. “What if I don’t wanna tell you?” You joke.

“Then you’d leave me to assume,” he answers easily, the corner of his lips curling upwards. “I’m not an idiot (Name). I know when a lady’s thinking about someone else in my presence.”

When you try to protest, he only smiles. “Is it Satoru?”

Your silence is enough said. You want to deny him–want to shake your head and utter a firm “no.” But something about the question makes you lose your sense of thought and Suguru understands that too. “Are you in love with him?”

This catches your attention. “No. I like you not him.”

“Aren’t we well past the point of lying now?” He gives a good-natured chuckle. “If you liked me then you wouldn’t have looked at your phone so many times as if you were expecting a call.”

You widen your eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to–”

“Nah I’m really not mad,” he sighs. “But I’m interested in why you didn’t decline my offer for a date.”

You’re silent for a while, musing over his words. “When you called me, Satoru and I were about to kiss. Or well–at least I think we were about to kiss.

“So why’d you pick it up? I know Satoru enough to know that a call from me isn’t enough to make him stop with whatever he’s doing,” he raises a brow and you catch a roll of his eyes as he remembers something. 

“It’s because he was the one who was setting us up together.”

Suguru makes a sound of confusion, nodding at you to continue. You take a big breath. “I asked Satoru to help me get with you.”

Getou makes a “o’ with his mouth, nodding in consideration as he processes your words. His pity makes you feel small and you’re finally experiencing the impact tenfold. “Oh (Name).”

“Yeah,” you shrug. “So now I’m pretty sure I messed up the friendship because I was stupid and he’s never gonna like me back–”

“That’s not true,” he stops you, taking a sip from his wine. “Satoru’s different around you.”

“Well that’s because I’ve known him for a while now.”

“Maybe. But he doesn’t go out of his way to help people like he does with you. Even an idiot could notice that.”

“That doesn’t mean he likes me back–”

“You don’t know that yet,” he retorts, that smile of his returning again. “Just like I didn’t know you were in love with my best friend the entire time.”

You wince, swallowing as you peer up at him. You know he didn’t intend for the comment to burn but a small part of you thinks he did it on purpose. The sight of you sulking brings a wider grin to play on his face. “Relax. I’m only playing with you,” he pauses. “I’m a bit jealous that Satoru's got such a cute girl in love with him though.” 

His teasing makes you laugh. “What if he doesn’t love her back?”

“Then he’d be an idiot,” he says, giving you a look as he asks for the bill. “If he breaks your heart you know who to go to. I’d be happy to have you for myself.”

You roll your eyes, smiling softly when he coyly smiles. Suguru was kind enough to offer to drop you off at your place but you told him you wanted to see Satoru—bringing a surprised look on the brown-haired male’s face. You’re not sure how apparent it was, but you reeked of anxiety and Suguru was quick to point it out.

“I’ll wait for you,” he says nonchalantly, shooing you with his hand once you stare at him in bewilderment. “Go. Just do me a favor and message me when you guys are gonna get uh intimate.”

“We’re not—“ you click your tongue at his grin. You thank him, rushing to Satoru’s flat—the sound of your heels clicking against the floor. 

If you were in a movie, there would be dramatic music playing in the background—perhaps orchestra or a sappy love song. The scene was so cliche but you’re understanding why the protagonists always ran: it was love. You were in love with Gojo Satoru. 

You ring his doorbell, fixing your hair as you ready yourself to see him—mentally preparing the script of your confession. Please be home, please be home, please—

The door opens and a plethora of blue looks back at you, the surprise evident in them. You visibly brighten, smiling as you see him. “Satoru I—“

“Satoru?” another voice says from behind him—the voice evidently female. You freeze, feeling as if this image was in slow motion as you see a glimpse of a girl behind Satoru. Your eyes flit to both of them, the speech you prepared in your head drying up like a sore. “Who’s this?”

You hate that you can only watch. “It’s just a friend. Why don’t you go back inside for a bit, yeah?”

She’s so pretty, it hurts. There wasn’t a speck of imperfection on her and the need to curl up in a ball never felt stronger. The girl nods at Satoru, glancing at you in curiosity as she leaves you two alone. 

You think you might hate a little bit for looking at you in concern. “Is there something wrong? Are you okay? If something—“

“No. Nothing’s wrong I’m just—“ you say, wishing your voice was louder at this moment. You avoid his eyes, fearing that you’d end up crying in front of him if you continued to stare at him. “I need to go.” 

“What? But you just got here—“

“I don’t know why I came here. This was a mistake and I—“ you sigh shakily, turning on your heel to leave. 

Satoru grabs you by the wrist, his gaze soft as he shakes his head when he sees you try to pry his hand off of you. “Just tell me what I can do—“

“Suguru’s waiting for me,” you say quickly, ignoring the way his face drops. “He’s outside right now.” 

You hold your breath the moment his hand slowly slips off your wrist, taking a few steps back as you make your way outside. Not once do you turn back as you try your best to hold the tears in—ultimately failing as they fall as quickly as they appear. 

By the time you reach Suguru’s car, your make-up is already ruined. At first, he snaps his head back at you with a smile, the curve of lips quickly disappearing as he sees your lip trembling. “No?”

“No,” you confirm, sitting back into the car and wiping your tears with a tissue he hands you. There’s no words spoken between you two as he starts the car, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. Ironically, you listen to the soundtrack of “The Other Woman” playing in his car and he’s quick to change the song. He clears his throat.

“I didn’t think he was that stupid,” he says after some time, signaling right as he reaches the stop light. 

“He wasn’t,” you murmur. “I was the stupid one for thinking that we could be more than friends.”

After the ordeal a couple nights ago, you’re not even ashamed that you’re blatantly avoiding Gojo like the plague. You even turned off your read receipts for him which you would’ve found so petty if you didn’t feel so frantic at the sound of his name. Originally, you thought he’d put up more of a fight and be more persistent in getting your attention–only you were proven wrong when you didn’t see any of his attempts increasing. 

Disappointed, you were caught in a dilemma. You wanted this distance but craved his presence. At some point, your thoughts ran dry and you were in a slump. Were you always this bad at making up your mind?  

No. You weren’t. You didn’t think excessively hard when you decided you liked Getou and when you stopped liking him. Nor did you think super hard about your other crushes. Gojo made your brain hurt and if this was love, you’re not sure you really liked it; but it felt so nice to think about how it would feel to be loved by him–to have him kiss you. 

Which is why you thought it was a great idea to avoid him because surely time makes the feelings fade. And you hope they fade fast–especially after you saw him with that girl. You bite back your jealousy at the thought of what they did together. Today was supposed to be a mental health day. It was if fate allowed you to have little to nothing to do and you were going to take advantage of it. 

The coffee house was ambient with the occasional loud laughter from groups of friends. You were halfway through your book, taking a sip from your drink as you flipped the pages. This was what you were meant for: reading novels in a cafe, keeping a low profile, and protecting your peace. 

You’re about midway through the big plot twist until you hear the sound of a chair scraping and your heart freezes in your chest when you see Gojo stare back at you. Only this time, he looks serious and even annoyed. 

“I knew I’d find you here,” he begins, tapping his finger nails on the wooden table. You don’t miss the way a few people take a few double-takes when they walk past him. So much for keeping a low profile. 

“Gojo,” you acknowledge him awkwardly, fidgeting with the pages of your book.

Your stomach does a flip when his jaw twitches and his eyes cross your face. He sighs, leaning back and adjusting his seating position. “Are you mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“You literally just called me Gojo,” he said and if you were more rational, you would’ve laughed at how childish he sounded over you not using his first name. 

“A lot of people call you Gojo,” you point out, still not meeting his eyes. 

“You’re not just ‘a lot of people.’ And you always call me Satoru,” he murmurs. 

You tense up. There he goes again: treating you like you’re special. It makes you confused and makes your heartbeat skip. You clear your throat. “I’m not mad at you.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?” He says, a bit loudly at that. It was unlike Gojo to attract attention to personal matters in public and the guilt hits you. You were so caught up in your own feelings that you completely ignored how he would’ve felt. Even if he only thought of you as a friend, anyone would’ve felt mad if put in the situation you put Gojo in. 

You glance at the curious gazes in the cafe, grabbing him by the hand as you pull him outside to a secluded area. You quickly drop his hand, a bit surprised that he let you even hold it. “What are you talking about?” You ask, not sure why you’re playing dumb. 

“You’re avoiding me,” he says, staring down at you. Sometimes, you forget how tall Satoru really is and how his gaze can make anyone feel small. “Did I do something to make you mad?”

You think back to him and the girl. “No you didn’t do anything.”

“Then what the hell is it?” He says, sounding more mad than you initially thought. His eyes scan over your face–observing your pursed lips and aversion from his eyes. He clicks his tongue. “Is this about the other night?”

You really wish you didn’t snap your head so fast to meet his eyes. The other night could’ve meant many things but you knew he was referring to a specific one. “No,” you say and you already know he doesn’t believe you. 

“(Name),” he says softly. “Were you jealous?” Hearing him saying it out loud makes you cringe. You shake your head adamantly, trying to muster up the courage to not break eye-contact with him. You wonder if he could hear how loud your heartbeat was. “I’m not jealous. Why would I be jealous?”

“You tell me,” he voices in that tone that tells you that he’s already figured it out. For all the years you’ve known Gojo, you’ve become well-acquainted with his habits and his mannerisms. And you knew him well enough to realize that he wasn’t going to stop with the questions until you told him the truth. 

He always did this. Always made sure to pummel the truth out of you and it didn’t matter how dirty he played. “Then why did you go to me in the first place? Didn’t you have Suguru outside waiting for you?”

“I–”

“What was so important about what you wanted to tell me that you left Suguru waiting for you? What was it and why are you so scared that you’re avoiding me?”

“It’s because I like you!” You finally say, knowing that he bested you in this game of his. The regret hits you so hard you feel like running away again. Only this, he doesn’t let you when he pulls you by the shoulder. 

“What?” He says breathlessly, his eyes wide with wonder. It’s over, you think to yourself. He’s going to hate you after this because you ruined the friendship. 

“I avoided you because I like you,” you admit quietly. “And because I saw you with that girl the other night.”

“(Name)...” 

“Stop,” you murmur, feeling the tears form. “Stop. I already know what you’re gonna say, okay? It doesn’t matter anymore.”

You shrug him off, wiping your tears with your sleeve. The plans for “protecting your peace” almost seemed silly now because you couldn’t rewind time and undo all of this. You don’t bother saying goodbye to Gojo as you take your chances in leaving. And you desperately wonder how you were going to move on from this. 

Gojo thinks he’s in a fever dream. Your confession stunned him into oblivion and if it weren’t for your tears, he thinks he might’ve stayed in one spot for hours on end. The night you came over, Gojo already had enough on his mind. Seeing you in the flesh made him lose the logical side of his brain and his mind just replayed that night you two nearly kissed. 

He remembered being able to taste how nervous you were–how you found purchase on his shoulders as he tried his hardest not to pin you to the couch and kiss you stupid. He remembered how soft you were and how that thought would torture him for days on. 

Gojo knew what he did after was an asshole move but he thought the phone call from Suguru served as a reminder that he couldn’t have you. You two were best friends and to ruin that because he wanted you was selfish of him. He was already selfish enough to want to keep you for himself but you wanted Suguru. 

That’s why when you came to his place, he was confused. Gojo did something stupid and didn’t want the thoughts of you to keep popping up. He recalled dialing the number of some girl he stopped talking to ages ago just to not have you occupy his mind. 

When he saw your brows furrow at the sight of her, he was surprised to say the least. He ruled out the possibility of jealousy early on and just kept it as that. But now, on this chilly afternoon and in some secluded corner, you were confessing to him. 

You like him. You like him back. Sure, you didn’t love him like he loves you (or at least he thinks so) but that's besides the point. He collects himself the moment he sees the tears forming in your eyes, panic coursing through him. 

Did his silence make you misunderstand? Did you know that he was ready to scream and tell the whole world that he finally got the girl of his dreams? How he was prepared to pull you into a crushing hug and hold you like he had heaven in his arms? 

He forgot you weren’t a mind reader and it dawned on him that he caused your tears. He doesn’t want to be the guy who lets misunderstandings marinate nor does he want to be the cause of your fallout. He was going to fix this. 

If you thought he was going to let you go that easily then you severely underestimate him. Because Gojo Satoru was willing to fight for your love.

You think you’re in some sappy k-drama when he grabs you by the wrist the second time. If you weren’t crying your eyes out, you would’ve laughed at him and he would’ve laughed with you. But there’s only a wave of frustration when he doesn’t let go. “Satoru let me go–”

“No,” he says with a deadpan and you almost think he sounds desperate. You’re about to say something but he only steps closer. “You can’t run away like you did before. That’s the easy way out–”

“I’m not–”

“You are,” he interrupts. “And I’m not gonna let you because you’re gonna listen to what I have to say.”

You’re almost reluctant to stay silent but you give in when he squeezes your wrist–as if begging you to stay. You sigh. “Fine.”

“Good,” he whispers, racking his brain for what to say. He takes a deep breath. “A while back, I said I didn’t understand how the characters from romance movies always knew what to say in moments like these. You know those super long speeches? It seemed unrealistic to me but I think I understand now.”

You let him continue, clinging onto every word that falls from his lips. “It’s so easy to say stuff like this. When you’re in love with someone, you notice the little things about them. I noticed you and you were the only thing on my mind. You still are the only thing on my mind. Do you get what I mean?”

You watch in awe as he continues, stuttering over some of his words which was so rare for him. “The night you told me you liked Suguru I was so annoyed. I’ve never gotten jealous of Suguru or anyone but I wanted to be the one that you liked. I wanted to be the one that you dressed up for and the one you smiled at. It drove me insane when you went on a date with him and I hate that I didn’t just say fuck it and steal you away sooner.”

He takes a chance to catch his breath, ruffling his hair as he finally flashes you a crooked grin–a mix of embarrassed and boyish. “That girl you saw me with…I never did anything with her,” he admits and you think you might fall over from shock. “I couldn’t. I just kept thinking about you and I wanted you on my mind all the time. I didn’t want to think about anyone else and didn’t want anyone to take your place–”

“What I’m trying to say is that I’m in love with you,” he finally says. “I already said that earlier but I want to say it again. I think I’ve always loved you–even when we were kids. I think little kid me always wanted your attention. I just never knew what I felt until I realized that you weren’t mine–not mine to love. And I don’t think there’s nothing in the world that I want more than you.”

At this point, your mouth is already ready to catch flies as you listen to his ramblings about his affections. You think you might cry. Gojo’s usually not good with words but you can tell how genuine he is–how much he meant this. “Then all those times you helped me with Suguru?”

“I hated doing that,” he huffs. “I swear I was about to punch Suguru every time he called you cute.”

You laugh, feeling jittery all over. “Would you?”

“I’m a bit worried that you like that idea a bit too much.”

You grin, shrugging. “Maybe a little. I guess I should tell you that I really wanted you to kiss me when we were on the couch.”

“You did?” He practically beams, cupping your face with his hand. You feel your stomach do twists when his thumb grazes the skin of your cheek softly, as if this was always normal. 

“And I should probably tell you that I love you too,” you say firmly, gaining a rush of confidence. “And you should probably kiss me right now.”

The smile on his face might just be the prettiest thing you’ve seen in the world. He leans in, cupping your face as he presses his lips against yours. The way he holds you makes you feel safe and you think you might love him a little more when he moves his hand to your neck. 

You break the kiss. “Does this mean we’re dating now?”

He laughs. “Do I need to kiss you again for you to say yes?” 

When you nod, he pulls you in again and again. And if this was his way of asking, you’d say yes each time. 

[netherfeildren]

FABLE OF THE DOG : 1. The Two Headed Calf

Series Masterlist;

Pairing: Joel Miller x FMC

Summary: Welcome home and buck up, cowgirl.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Cowboy/Heiress AU; Slowburn(ish); Original Characters; Alcohol & Drug Use; Discussions of Grief; Daddy Issues; Graphic Descriptions of Vomiting; Description of a Dead Body; Death of a Parent; Parental Neglect; Older Man/Younger Woman; Jealousy; Past Teenage Crush; Unrequited Pinning; Yearning and Longing Galore; Boss’s Daughter; Complicated Family Relationships; A Home is a Place but ALSO a Person!; Found Family

A/N: Disclaimer, I know nothing about Wyoming and it’s geography, ranching, or being a cowboy and just made all this up. Any and all misrepresentations are fallacy of my laziness.

The FMC tag was decided because she has a last name. It was just too difficult for me to speak in depth about her father without giving him a name, and thus her one too. After that decision was made, she kind of went away from me and devolved into her own person who I have come to be quite obsessed with. It’s still written in ‘you’ format, anyhow.

I’ve been having a whole lot of fun with this, I hope you do too.

Word Count: 10K

Read on AO3

1: The Two Headed Calf

“She’s been shut up in that house goin’ on three days now, Joel,” Tommy says as the two brothers make their way across the lawn. 

The ride had been long and hard, and Joel is tired—he levels a dark look at him. “Just sayin’. Nothin’ you find in there’s gonna be pretty to look at.” He raises his hands in surrender at the brooding glare, that non-confrontational shrug that’s set Joel on edge since they were boys. 

“One of you’s should’a gone in there. Made sure she’s okay.”

“The housekeepers’ve been keepin’ an eye. And Frank tried to go in there and check on her himself, but she’s angry as a barn cat. Hissin’ ‘nd yowlin’, and just bein’ downright scary as hell, to be honest. You should be prepared is all I’m tryin’ to say.”

“Her father just died, Tommy. I’m not expectin’ pretty sights right now,” Joel gruffs, trying to swallow the panic that flutters in his throat as they crest the final hill up to the big house. 

The beautiful stone, oak, glass monstrosity that’s stood as monument to this place, this home that is not truly his, for over a decade now. The Kelly Ranch. The sky above is still a sultry, yawning blue, deep and tired, basking in the throes of dawn as the sun just now makes its way over the crest of the Tetons in the distance so that the house sits for just a moment longer in its pool of shadowed blues. 

Joel pauses on the border of that somber darkness, afraid suddenly of what awaits him inside; boots glued to the ground with the gum of cowardice. He doesn’t want to see her broken. He doesn’t want to see her hurting. But there’s no other recourse, he knows this. The death of the estranged father she’d fought with all her life, the inheritance of this world that seems suddenly too big for just one orphaned girl, all alone now. 

He’s afraid that he’ll walk into that house he’s always seen as other and home all wrapped into one—that Olympus that was so far removed and out of reach even when he walked through it’s halls to the man who’d given him sanctuary and salvation, to the man he knew mistreated her sometimes, didn’t love her enough—and not have the capacity to recognize her, this girl who’d always been familiar and stranger all in one also. 

Joel Miller suddenly feels afraid of the memory she exists as in his mind, in the face of the woman he knows she is now. 

When he lets himself in the back kitchen door, it’s still nighttime within. The cool dryness of the AC cranked up to inhuman temperatures makes him shiver once while sprouting a damp sweat along his nape. He should’ve showered before coming, should’ve washed the ride and the days of camp off his skin before walking into her presence, but all he’d managed were his hands and face. There’d been panic to make sure she was well, if not then alive, at least. But he should be more presentable for her. 

Hell, he should’ve been here for her when she came home for the first time in two years to the house where her father had died. He should’ve been here when the man died. 

But the herd had needed moving. He hadn’t thought it’d all happen so quickly, thought he had more time, that they all had more time. He’d hoped she wouldn’t return at all, if he was being honest. There was nothing here for her. Nothing except memories of a gilded and loveless, already motherless childhood. The reality of all she was set to inherit. The truth of an aloneness Joel didn’t know if she was prepared for. 

He moves through the house slowly, afraid to disturb the ghosts and the silence. The interior, immaculate and beautiful and solemn. Something out of a movie picture or the gloss of a magazine. Something covered not in dust but in sadness. The stairs are silent as his spinning mind makes up for the creak, the boots she’d sent him on his last birthday hit the richly piled rug at the top, and the hallway to the bedrooms yawns long and frightening in front of him. Two grand a pop, the boots—Lucchese, he’d looked them up on the iPhone she’d sent him the year before. A gift giver, generous to a fault, kind to a detriment. She sent something to all the ranch hands that’d worked for her father since she was a girl. Something for the entire ranch at Christmas. And all he managed each time was a perfunctory thank you card, like he did every year because he remembered, years ago, in her little voice, polite people send thank you notes, Joel, my grandmother told me so. Last year he’d written that they were too much, that she shouldn’t have, that he was grateful. There wasn’t much else to say. 

That was the extent of their communication, familiar and stranger in one, the far removed golden child of the Kelly. They’d all called him that, the Kelly, for as long as he’d known the man. As if he was some Scottish laird of old, ruling over his clan and half the world. Egotistical, was what it really was. He’d thought himself a god among men, in the face of his only child. Ridiculous was what Joel saw it all for, a put on play, a farce.

And wonder of wonders, she was entirely unlike him because of course she would be. Of course a man ruled by nothing more than ego and narcissism had been sent his polar opposite in the form of his only child. Kind hearted, was what she was—sending him a birthday gift every year. Remembering them all here always no matter how far she’d gone. He sent her a thank you note for each benevolence in return, a word of respectful gratitude for the fact that a person like her could ever remember a dog like him. 

Sometimes, Joel had wanted to go to him, the old man, Oswald Kelly, and ask him where his daughter was, why he wasn’t looking for her, keeping her closer, caring for her. He wasn’t the sort of man that could’ve ever understood such callous behavior towards one’s child.

The last time she’d been here, over two years ago: less than forty eight hours that had ended in screaming so terrible they’d all heard it down from the barn, sitting in uncomfortable, swollen silence, the spinning of tires ringing as she yelled at her father that he was never going to see her again, the man’s echoing laugh as she’d fled him. 

Joel hadn’t seen her on that visit, it’d been so quick and angry. Flying down on the jet from New Haven for her father’s seventieth birthday and not even making it long enough for the festivities. This was what her life was, as he’d observed it from a distance for all these years, the singular daughter of this great house, coming to her father, attempting joy and finding nothing but disappointment at the end of him. 

She’d been right, a knowing streak running through her. Kelly had never seen her again, and Joel didn’t know if the old man had regretted it or not, the anger and the estrangement and the lack of love. But the last time he’d spoken to him, hours before setting off on their move, the herd always came before everything else, the ranch was all that mattered is what the man had always said, with death scratching at the window, his frail and withered body licked down to almost nothing from the austere and imposing figure Joel had always known him as, he’d asked for her. His only child. Do you think she’ll come, Joel? The dying man had asked him. My daughter, do you think she’ll come see me? Joel had lied a lie he hadn’t known was one, said she would, that he’d call her as soon as he was back. 

In the end, he hadn’t even afforded her that decency, a personal call.

He comes to her open bedroom door now, pitch dark as grief within, and the stench of sorrow and liquor seeping from the living grave. He looks down the long and empty hall for a brief second, wishing it didn’t have to be him, that again, he didn't have to see her any way other than okay. And he realizes that there’s something about her, as she will exist now, that makes him cowardly. Something about this house without the man who’d granted him the absolution of a hiding place all those years ago, who’d understood and sheltered Joel in the midst of his own past grief, that makes him cowardly. The house feels wrong without Kelly within it, wrong with only her as its holder now. 

Joel steps into her dark, and it’s a battleground—

—You are silent and motionless in the blue room. 

Nothing of the gleaming splendor that dresses the rest of the home sleeps in here. There are clothes everywhere, an exploded suitcase lies open and massacred in the middle of the plush white rug, a turned over bottle of red wine bleeding into your clothes. Shredded pages with scratched on writing slashed across them, the dusted white mounds of crushed pills, as if you’d smashed each one individually beneath the thumb of your grief. The sight makes him more afraid, the scent of weed and cigarettes heavy in the air, as he takes the final step towards the wrecked bed, and a single small foot hangs limply from the edge.

He stares at it long and hard for a second, afraid, afraid again, still, of what he’ll find. He says your name once, short and gruff like a dog’s bark. It’s what he feels like. Animal, bestial, lacking any sort of cognizance amidst this minefield. His heart beats against his spine, and he thinks he should do something else, shake you, check for a pulse, his bones throb inside his skin. He needs to fucking move, but the smell of smoke is so cloying he’s choking on his own tongue. 

Your ankle twitches.

And Joel sucks in a sigh of relieved air without panic, saying your name again. His voice is level now, maybe gentle, no more barking dog. His eyes move up the length of one pretty leg, and then quickly, he averts his gaze when he gets high up enough he’s met with soft-creased asscheek covered in silk. Swallowing his tongue, his eyes roll in their sockets, looking for anything else to look at besides the sight of panty clad ass. He steps closer again, gripping the edge of the sheet to pull it over your scantily clad body, eyes flitting to the silver spun clock on the nightstand, the warm glow of the hall light shows that they have two hours to get you sober and presentable before the funeral. 

Joel should have been here. He does not feel that he is even here now. And the guilt eats at him like acid. The fear too. 

“Darlin’, you’ve gotta get up now,” he says softly, taking hold of your shoulder, scalded by the feel of fragile skin, realizing with the suddenness of a gunshot that you’ll be the Kelly now. He gives you a gentle shake, “We’ve gotta get you ready,” and his heart pumps blood like a machine. The sight of the dry liquor bottle toppled on the nightstand, the shattered glass glittering the floor in crystal, the empty pill bottles, it all taunts him. His guilt is a cacophony in his mind. He knows he’s going to have to stick his fingers down your throat, make you spit it all up, that you’ll hate him for all of this afterwards, but when his gaze meets streaked rust, dark and shocking against the white sheets, he’s kicked into terrified action. 

He turns you over, your head lolling sickeningly in unconscious stupor, hair a tangled mess strewn about your face so that he has to dig for your eyes, parting the curtains of your fringe to uncover you. He focuses on your closed eyes, the too long lashes clumped together, lips cracked and parched. 

He should’ve fucking been here. 

Smoothing his fingers along the lengths of your arms, he keeps his eyes on your face and averted from all the skin that keeps peeking out below, searching the divots and slopes of your arms for hurts. When he gets to your right hand, battleground of a long ago broken hurt, he finds the drying crust of blood, the ragged split in the soft, small palm, thankfully shallow.

 His eyes smart, looking down at the broken glass, feeling the tear in you. 

Gripping you gently below the elbows he pulls you into his arms, cradled like a child, light as loss. Your head lolls again, neck crooked at an unnatural angle as he carries you into the restroom, careful of your head, knocking the lights on and putting you down in front of the toilet bowl. He pulls your camisole to rights, making sure everything is covered, and gathers your mess of hair as carefully as he can, trying his best to not snag the fragile strands in his too rough hands, but gripping you firmly in position. And ignoring the sound of your awakening cry, he sticks two fingers into your slack jawed mouth and down your throat until he feels the hot rush of vomit. 

Crouching behind you, his thighs bracket you, keeping your form from slumping over as you empty the poison from your belly, flushing the alcohol soaked bile as you struggle. He wipes his messy hand on the leg of his jeans and rubs soothing circles on your back, his fingers woven through the soft silk of your hair to keep your head in place and your face clear. His heart thumps in rhythm with your heaves, your too quick, panicked breathing. There seems to be not enough oxygen for the two of you and your grief in the too small room of the commode, and Joel gasps like a dying fish, trying to swallow calm breaths. 

When you finally stop your heaving, you rest your arms at the edge of the gleaming porcelain, head hung low, defeated, wracked with shivers or silent sobs, he isn’t sure, a strange and horrible keening noise, so small he barely catches it, held in your throat. There’s the finest down of peach fuzz that covers the tender slope of your vulnerable nape, and it makes Joel feel suddenly, just as vulnerable, just as unprotected. At a complete loss for how to help you. 

“Finally decided to show your face,” you croak, voice ragged with your sick. 

His fingers tighten once around your shoulder, a panicked tick of reminder that he’s here now, that he’s him. “I was moving the herd. It had to be done. Your father, he—” he stutters, trying explain, tripping over his own guilt ridden words. “I didn’t think it’d happen now, so fast, that you’d get here so soon. I thought we had more time.” 

We. 

Your skin seems to cool by the second beneath his fingertips, and then you’re shrugging his touch away, huddling closer to the porcelain bowl, further away from him. 

“Get out.”

“Let me explain. I—” And he’s begging now. He can hear the note of it in his voice. Begging for forgiveness. For a chance. 

“I don’t want to see you.” You don’t say his name. “Get out.” It feels worse than anything. 

“I’m here now. I didn’t know— I didn’t think.” He reaches to grab for you again, but you turn to face him suddenly. Wiping the back of your hand against your mouth, pushing your heels at his shins to kick him away. Your eyes are red rimmed, the hollows beneath bruised with lack of sleep. But fire spits from the deep color, all anger and hurt. 

“Go deal with your fucking ranch,” you fling the words at him. “It’s all you care about anyways.” And they weren’t shivers, he sees now, they’re tears tracked as proof of all his guilt, all his lacking, along the slopes of your fine grained cheeks. 

Your, you say. As if this place and anything in it has ever been his. He’s never wanted any of it like that, only ever seen a thing that needed taking care of, and him, with the ability to care for it. 

“I needed you,” you whisper as if the thought comes along on a second wind of anger, a realization that sends your voice breaking, hitching, your chest caving in on itself as the tears come faster and faster now. “He’s dead, and I needed you.”

“I’m sorry,” he begs. “I’m so sorry.” His voice breaks now too. He thinks he’ll cry now too, for the man who he also lost, who despite it all meant something to him, as well. For you, who’s lost even more. For Joel’s own guilt. 

But he doesn’t think you see any of that, not his apology, not his regret, not his own grief. You turn away from him again, laying your temple down again on your forearm. “Get out. I’ll be ready soon.”

And so he goes.

-

Your father is made small and withered in death. 

One of the wealthiest men in the entire world. A stranger, a titan, a nightmare of a man. 

It wasn’t something you’d ever considered, that a human body could look so colorless and frigid and not alive. Like a shock or a ringing bell, it’s a realization that you’re an orphan now. That you’re all alone. 

You feel something like a memory of regret. Or something that’s like the idea that you should feel regret, that you should feel guilt for how it was between the two of you. But all that is overshadowed by the reality of what you weren’t. All you feel even more, or in actual reality, is the old loss of what you’d never been to each other. That, you realize, is the seed of your grief. That long ago wound, that child’s understanding that he wasn’t like all the other fathers, that he’d never care for you the way other children were cared for. 

Looking down at the frozen face that looks nothing like the one he’d worn the last time you’d seen him, the wispy thatch of hair that hadn’t been so jarringly white before sickness had ravaged his body, you realize that this is no new loss, it is only a continuation, a reopening of a very old one. 

The cavernous cathedral at your back is silent, vacated by the sea of people that had congregated here earlier. And with sickening curiosity, you uncoil an arm from where you’ve got it wrapped around yourself, reaching out to press a finger against the ice cold back of his hand. Shockingly not alive; he feels made of rubber. 

Everyone that’d been here to bid farewell to this behemoth turned slip of a man, to catch a glimpse of you, packed like teeth into Jackson’s grandest cathedral; business men and heads of state from around the world, the oldest family names in the country, figures of the highest echelons of wealth and society, vipers circling the barrel—half the world here to see this person who was supposed to have been your father but was really only a stranger. 

You take your hand back, and you don’t say goodbye as you turn away from his body. There’s no farewell to really tell. 

And at the back of the church, hiding in a bright ream of sunlight, Joel stands propped against the face of a saint. Dark and silent and maybe even more far removed than your dead dad. Watching sentinel. Oswald Kelly’s hovering man—come to watch over him one last time. 

The silk of your stockings slide against each other at the junction of your thighs, the hiss of your skirt around your calves as your reed thin heels click against the stone, and you pull your armor as tightly around yourself as you can. There’s a hollow echo inside of everywhere and everything, your mind like a gong, reverberating, and his gaze is so steady, hazel bright, deeply shaded by the lip of his dark hat, beckoning you towards him from beneath the brim. 

Large and strong and steadfast, your heart gives a painful, longing thump—stupid, writhing thing—and you can only bear to look him in the eye for a second, and if you were to really think about saying goodbye to that father that never really was, lying behind you, slipping further and further away, you’d say it to the man that always stood as his shadow before the world, before you ever said it to the man himself. 

-

The drive back home is cast in frigid silence and made all the more uncomfortable because you can practically hear Joel’s brain clicking and ticking away with worry. 

He’d sent your car and driver away with a harsh word while you collected your final goodbyes and words of respect from the last smattering of people congregated and waiting for the newly birthed heir to one of the greatest fortunes in the world. 

Hovering over your shoulder, he’d kept anyone from stepping too close or getting too friendly, so close you could feel the heat of his chest through the silk of your blouse, and then going suddenly full on aggressive when a reporter from the New York Times had approached, fishing for a quote on the future of the Kelly empire. Ushering you away with a hovering hand at the small of your back before the man could get half a question out, he’s opening the truck’s door for you as a haze descends over your eyes, the distant shutter and flash of cameras bursting in your peripherals, a latent hangover and sleep deprivation and not enough to eat in the last forty eight hours causing you to sag in his hold. Then it’s only his big fist wrapping around the span of your wrist as he lifts you into the truck, your eyes downcast and unable to take in sight or sound, vision all a blur. You murmur a barely there thank you with his hand fitting at the dip of your waist, big body blocking yours entirely from prying eyes trying to catch a glimpse or a stumble, and for a single second, your entire weight is suspended in his hold, allowing you to bypass the struggle of balancing your high heel on the step up, and then you’re sliding onto the leather of the seat, the whisper of your cashmere and silk rustling around you as he handles you like a child being spirited away from the scene of a crime. 

The door shuts gently behind you, face turned away from the flashing lights, the watchful eyes of the whole world, and worst of all, the assessment of his concerned gaze. All you’re afforded are thirty seconds of privacy to let out a single gasping sob. 

And now, an hour and a half of silent purgatory. 

You slip your heels off, flexing your smarting toes against the damp of your stockings and tuck your folded legs beneath you on the seat. Paying the frantic energy of his anxiety and lodged words no mind, you consider instead: your new reality. The burden of it all means very little to you now. The last of your worries is being readied for entombing as the two of you speed down the eighty nine, zinging past the bright Wyoming green. The thrum of his truck drowns out your thoughts, brand new, probably over a hundred grand, only the best for your father’s right hand man, and the Kelly Ranch insignia emblazoned proudly on the sides. A brand for the whole world to see just who exactly is being whisked away to her old home turned brand spanking new grave. 

You might be feeling a little bit dramatic. But then again— you’d just put your last remaining parent in an actual grave, surely that provides you some allowances. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his big paw gripping the leathered steering wheel in a death clutch, knuckles white with his frustration at the dilemma you pose, his own discomfort. You’re sure if he thought you wouldn’t catch him, he’d be squirming in his seat. 

You do something to him sometimes, you know this. Not in any way you’d like, not in any interesting way, that of a woman affecting a man, but something respectfully harrowing. Maybe something a little bit like fear. 

There has existed between the two of you, always, that strange intimacy of two people who’ve known each other for a very long time, and yet, have always remained at a far removed, arms length distance from one another. 

A professional intimacy of sorts. Your father’s foreman, shadow, fixer. The man who guarded that treasure trove you’d inherit one day, today; the thing your father loved most in the world. Two people who’ve known each other a long time, and yet, don’t really know each other at all. 

There has always been, however, the fact of the birthday. 

The birthday. Your birthday.

The way you’d latched onto that small, immense, detail when you’d first discovered it at fourteen, when he’d newly arrived at the ranch and the true weight of your first real crush had really hit you, it was probably not entirely healthy. But you’d thought yourself in love with your father’s man, the first figure of the male species who’d ever drawn your attention in such a way. 

He’d never paid you any mind; you were the boss's daughter, a figurehead or a responsibility, maybe a nuisance, although he’d never ever treated you as one. But the day someone had let slip it was his birthday, on the same day as yours, your teenage heart had swelled with the naive hope of fate. It was meant to be, the two of you were connected, so on and so forth, swallowed by girlish innocence and made buoyant by fantasy. 

But you’d had something to share with someone, which was what really mattered. Something tangible, even if only in your inexperienced little mind, something to wield as comfort so that the first time your father had forgotten your special day, fifteen, and what a tender age it had been, you’d had something to cling to. That's when your gifts to him had started. It was your way of making sure there was at least one person in the whole world who’d remember that was your day too. That you were alive, that you mattered. A reminder of yourself. And as the years and birthdays passed, sometimes, when he sent those coldly gracious notes of his, you’d wished you could’ve written back with honesty. Said something like, I’m so lonely, wish you were here, wherever it was in the world you’d found yourself at the time. 

And of course, he was gorgeous and older, strong and patient and capable, entirely unattainable. Impossible to forget. You’d gone so far, traveled wide, gotten yourself an overpriced education that would probably serve you for nothing, had lovers and parties and splendor, and always, you remembered your gifts for him, you remembered him. It was the single most important detail of your birthday every year. 

The leather creaks beneath his fist again, chapped knuckles set to burst before he flexes his fingers out, long and straight. Thickly built hands, strong, made for working or hurting, on a man who you’ve never seen be anything but stoically patient. 

He was strange in that way, neither wholly impulsive nor precisely intentional in his mannerisms. More so, it was that there was something extremely neutral about him, a middle buoyancy of personality. Strict with the cowboys, exacting, wielding his title as ranch foreman with an iron fist and your father’s blessing, and yet still, quiet, serious, with that patient gentleness about him. You’d seen it in the way he’d handled Ellie when she’d first come to the ranch, young and skinny with that hollow look of trauma kids who’d seen things they shouldn’t have shamed adults with. She’d been a little older than you, and with an air you’d not understood, a sort of lived past you’d been naive to the existence of, frightened when confronted by it, and yet inevitably, the two of you’d become fast friends eventually.

You’d even experienced it yourself, on two treasured occasions, that gentleness that you’d held onto for years. Nurturing the memory of him in your mind like a delusional bloom. 

He stretches his hand again, wheel caught between his thumb and forefinger, cinching it there, back and forth. His nails are meticulously clean, cut to the quick, and you imagine he must spend a great deal of time cleaning himself up when he works so hard at getting himself so dirty most days. 

You can see him sneaking glances at you, and he coughs once, a clearing of his nervous throat. Averting your gaze, you turn your face away so that you’ll be able to watch him through the reflection in the window. He monopolizes the space in the cabin of the truck, broad shoulders and hulking form, all the fine leather smell washed away in the scent of him. That bay rum aftershave he’s always worn, the one with the distinctive notes of bay leaf, cloves and citrus. An old fashioned scent, masculine and crisp. 

You’d snuck into the bunk once with Ellie, before he’d moved into the foreman’s cabin, before Switzerland, when the two of you were still girls running rampant and free through the ranch, clutching desperately at the last vestiges of any sort of happy childhood you could scrounge up for one another. You’d peeked in his things, found a whole world of Joel shaped curiosities. The glass etched bottle of aftershave, a hole spotted t-shirt with a burnt orange longhorn across the front, Flannery O’Connor’s The Complete Stories—something you found comforting, knowing he could read about the small, the freakish, real life; thinking that perhaps he was homesick for the comfort of the South, hungering for a taste of the life he’d had then, through books. And then, in a spine cracked copy of Suttree, the pages almost falling apart beneath your fingertips, dog eared and well loved, her picture tucked between the pages.

It had been the first time you’d done something you knew you shouldn’t have and actually regretted it, looking down at that green eyed photograph. 

You’d run back to your room after that, ashamed and something a little bit like jealous, desperate to know who she was, desperate for someone to keep a picture of you like that—as if they loved you. And years later, you’d found the scent for yourself. The little molasses glass bottle you still have and pull out on occasion, when you’re feeling extra bad, extra lonesome, extra far away from the whole world, just for a reminding of home. 

Beside you, he sighs again, coughs again, brings you back to himself and the present. Just spit it out already, you think exasperatedly, say something, anything else besides how sorry you are. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he starts, and you roll your eyes, scoffing quietly. 

“You already said that.” Sullen. Mullish. You wish you were a child who could still throw a tantrum and get away with it. Letting your eyes go unfocused from his reflection in the window, you brood at the sight of everything that’s yours now as he turns off the highway, passing below the iron eave of the Kelly Ranch entrance. Eight hundred thousand acres of pristine Wyoming land nestled into the deep valley surrounded by the Grand Tetons mountain range. 

“Well, I’m sayin’ it again.” He’s driving too fast, and you refuse to turn and look at his face. Your heart beats blood in your ears, and you screw your eyes shut to the dizzying blur of green legacy, not wanting to see any of it—him. 

Your belly swoops, going slightly nauseous and gurgling. 

“I didn’t think you’d get here so quick.” He swallows, “Hell, I didn’t think it’d all happen so damn fast.”

“I was already in New York,” you tell him, voice clipped with breathlessness. “I left Paris last week.”

“What? I didn’t know— I—”

“Why would you?”

“I would’ve called you. I would’ve gotten you out here quicker.”

“Ellie called. It’s better like this, Joel.” Finally letting yourself say his name out loud, it feels wrong and molten on your tongue, a heaviness being spit up from the depths of your stomach. “We don’t have to pretend anymore. He’s dead now.”

“There’s no pretending. He wanted to see you—”

“Please, stop.”

But he urges on unheeded: “He told me so before I left. Told me—”

“Stop,” you snap. Finally turning to look at him and hating him for it. For how gorgeous he is, for all the things he’s always made you feel for as long as you can remember what it was to feel something for a man, for all he did or did not have with your father when you had none of it or so much of an entirely different thing. “Stop. I don’t want to hear any of it. It doesn't matter anymore, Joel.”

“But you should know. You deserve to know that—”

“What?” Because that one hurts. “I deserve to know what?” That he actually had loved you but had just never been able to show it? That now it was too late? That the only person the great Oswald Kelly had ever been able to speak to of the supposed care he had for his only daughter was the hired help? You’d read once that one should never let their parents anywhere near their real humiliations. You’d tried your damndest to follow that as soon as you’d grown up. “It’s not your place,” you seethe with teeth bared, an animal shoved into a corner and made to fight for its life, deciding you won’t ever let Joel near them either.  

He spits a cursing, growled sound of frustration, but doesn’t continue. The two of you find yourselves at an impasse, and you turn back to your windowed mirror of him, eyes pinching hot, filling with tears. One of the things your father disliked most about you, your easy tears, and a single salt marred inadequacy tracks down the slope of your cheek, dripping off the edge of your jaw into the bandaged cup of your palm, and you breathe slow and measured through your open mouth, watching the fog cloud grow and shrink against the glass obscuring your vision of him. 

-

The last time you’d missed your mother, the one you’d never known, in any sort of real and true way, you’d been eighteen. Returning to an empty house after celebrating your high school graduation in a far off school, alone. 

In the midst of your sophomore year, you’d been sent away to a Swiss boarding school. It had been something worse than devastating, losing your life in Wyoming, the only home you’d ever know, Ellie, the other people on the ranch… But it was far removed enough that you couldn’t bother, where you couldn’t ask for things like attention or consideration. The education had been excellent, the upbringing desperately lonely ending on a whimpering sigh despite your many accomplishments. You’d wanted her very badly then indeed, your mother. To have been there, to have helped you pick your dress, kissed your cheek after watching you walk across the stage. To have wiped your tears when she told you that your father wasn’t there because he was busy managing the whole world, but that he was proud of you, that he’d have been there if he could. You’d wished she could’ve been there to lie to you so that you wouldn’t have needed to lie to yourself. 

Peering down from your balanced perch atop the deck’s bannister, you survey the deep bed of Lily of the Valley, destroyed beneath the vindictive soles of your bare feet. He’d planted them for her all around the house after she’d died, her favorite flower. 

You’d always hated them. 

And that was the thing of it all, which you’d learned when you grew old enough to recognize such things like disdain. He couldn't stand you because you reminded him of her. Clichéd and old and tired. An excuse for being a neglectful father. The daughter who was too much like her dead mother, and thus did not deserve to be loved. 

You tip your head back, nursing at the lip of fine aged Macallan, and the sky is a glass mirror of blackened silver streaks. You’re almost positive that all the stars in the Milky Way are visible from right here at this very spot in the heart of Wyoming. The sight makes your broken heart feel full and falsely mended. 

You’re certain you’re painting a pretty picture right now: tipsy on a bottle of your dead dad’s sacredly hoarded whiskey that probably cost as much as someone’s house, staring up at the stars in your newly inherited home with a whole unappreciated life full of possibilities ahead of you. Basking in the title of your newly minted— orphan-hood? Orphan-ness? A peer of the orphans. 

You snort softly, sucking on the bottle again, letting the heat of it settle in your belly, smolder in your heart. Your head feels full of bubbles and sugar and sad. 

There’s a part of you that feels a little ridiculous, despite the circumstances. You’re good at compartmentalizing, good at being objective of your realities. Obviously: sad because your father is now dead, and it’d been nine months and eleven days since you’d last spoken to him. Sad because he’d never given a shit about you. Sad because you’re alone, dumped by the stupid French jockey boyfriend who you’d not even liked very much, just a few days before this whole pathetic ordeal of acquiring your orphan-hood, yeah, that’s what you’re sticking with, had occurred. Not to mention the army of looming lawyers and financial advisors and various heads of business vying for your attention, waiting for the what next?

And Joel.

A one man army of looming Joel. 

So you’re feeling morose, blue, maybe a little spoiled, but brought low and cut short. Depressed and unsatisfied with your life thus far. 

Poor little rich girl. Poor little orphan. Poor little me.

What you want? 

Someone to care. 

Someone to love you. 

Hard to come by. Impossible to buy. 

The stars gleam purple silver, winking at you. The bracketing black so dark it swallows the eye. Another taste of the nutty bouquet of smoked apple oranges, and soon you’ll be tipsy enough you won’t be able to balance your butt on the bannister’s ledge anymore. Maybe you’ll go humpty dumpty over the edge and crack your skull against your mother’s valley of destroyed Lily’s. 

You laugh again with sound now, not crazy, only an orphan, ha, but you think that it’s only that it feels shockingly as if you’ve fallen through the surface of your life. As if you are still falling with nothing and no one to grab on to, to help stabilize you. A really terrible, shit-out-of-luck feeling. 

Your eyes continue their infernal leaking, and you blow your nose loudly on the inside of your sweater. You’ve given yourself three days to do whatever the hell you want, be as disgusting as you may. When the three days are up you’ll plan to get your act together, take responsibility and hold of your life and become the woman you should be. 

Who that is? Still being decided. 

You think that maybe you’ll buy another jet before that time’s up. Or an island. Something ridiculous. Maybe you’ll sell the goddamn ranch. 

You eye the dark rolling hills of the valley with seething suspicion. Let’s see what Joel says about that. You, marching up to the highway entrance and spearing a For Sale sign in the dirt of the largest privately owned cattle ranch in the continental United States. Way more than that God forsaken surly frown is what you’d get. 

So long, Joel, it’s been swell. I’m done with this place. It’s time to pack it up and find some new hunk of land to care about more than you care about me or anything else. 

Maybe you’ll be real funny and put up a Craigslist ad. 

And it isn’t that you don’t love this place, the only home you’ve ever known. You do. In a way that is passionate and consuming and irreconcilable. Everything about it, the serenity, the guarding mountains and the deep woods, the home you’d been born in, that both your parents had died in. You do love it in your way. 

It’s only that every man you’ve ever loved—loved—had always cared more about the place than he’d ever cared about you. 

For the longest time, most of your youth until you’d decided that you officially felt an adult, you’d thought you’d hated your father. There was just so much anger and resentment and the resound of his ever furious words and insults and endless disappointment. The echo of no mother ringing so loudly in your ears that the confounding feelings had all been mistaken for hatred. But with age and distance and life, you’d realized you didn't hate him. You never had. You thought, actually, and this was a very good and mature thought of yours, that you were the only person in the whole world that had ever seen him as only a man and not a god. 

He was only a man, full of greed and grief and missing the mother of the child he’d probably never wanted. Nothing more or less. 

Maybe it was that you felt sorry for him. Not in the way of pity, but in the way of one person feeling empathy for another in a clinical and helpless sort of manner. And a numb, detached sort of sadness. A longing for something that you’d never had and had always wanted but eventually learned to live without. 

Ultimately, his disappointment had turned on him, and now it was all you felt you had for him at the end of it all. 

But, for some reason, and an annoying one at that, you do think that, if you try very, very hard, you could bring yourself to hate Joel Miller. There’s satisfaction in that possibility, vindication—resentment that even now, as practically strangers, you know he’d be able to pull that sort of feeling out of you which could result in hatred. Something strong and overwhelming and not easily escaped. 

Your stomach rumbles, and you smile blithely at all your inherited legacy, filling the hollow with more drink. Three days to behave very badly, as badly as you can. The whiskey is so good, and swishing it around in your mouth, you tip your head back further, gurgling it loudly at the back of your throat. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

You jerk, scrambling to keep your balance, choking a little on smokey apples and your own spit. A trickle of the golden amber liquor drips out of the corner of your mouth as you find him hiding in the dark across the deck. Accustomed to drooling over him, you wipe it away with the back of your hand. 

“Having a party. Would you like to join?”

“Are you drunk again?”

Tough crowd. Ugh.  “Never mind. You’re not invited. Go away.”

“You need to go inside and go to bed.”

You tip your chin at him, putting on doe eyes. “Alright. And are you going to be my new daddy also?” You say in a baby voice.

Fucking Christ, you hear him whisper under his breath, turning away to run an exasperated palm over his mouth. Frustration seethes off of him like sulfur. He’s tired. Of you maybe. Of the whole circus this place has become in the past few days—and rightfully so. 

“What do you want? I’m extremely busy, if you can’t tell.”

“Just thought I’d check on ya.” Courteous, always the gentleman, bullshit. You roll your eyes at him. 

“I don’t need you to check on me.” And you, ever the child. One day you swear you’ll grow up. 

But it can’t be said that you’re entirely selfish either. You have considered the fact of Joel’s own grief at the loss of your father. After all, they’d been much closer than you’d ever been to him for many years. And maybe, in his own cold and removed and superior way, your father had seen this man who you’ve thought yourself in love with since you were a teenager, as something like a son. 

Probably, that’s just your own wishful thinking: that Oswald Kelly had ever been capable of such tender feelings.

Maybe the fact of Joel’s own grief is the thorn beneath your nail bed that’s making you so angry with him, so needing of his attention. Maybe it’s that he’d failed to fulfill your silly and girlish fantasy that upon receiving the news of your only remaining parents death, he’d have been here waiting for you, at this home he’d guarded for you for so long, ready to take you into his arms and console and care for you. 

When instead, he’d been off doing what he’d always done for as long as you’d known him. Protecting your father’s interests, his legacy. 

“Is this how it’s going to be?”

“How?”

“You, being difficult.” Driving me fuckin’ crazy— he adds again under his breath. 

“I’m an orphan now, Joel.” You’re becoming quickly addicted to the word. “I think I should be afforded a tiny bit of leeway to drive people fuckin’ crazy,” you mock his Southern drawl. Enough of your time had been spent in Europe over the past two years, kissing Europeans, that you’d sloughed off the last of your American twang; something of a vaguely European lilt peppering your words every now and then that Ellie likes to tease you for whenever the two of you speak on occasion. 

A muscle under his left eye twitches at the jab, and you take another deep swig of the bottle, provoking him with your gaze. Wishing you had whatever it is a woman needs to entice this man. Like the fucking vet. Fucking world renowned, brilliant, highly coveted, beautiful veterinarian. You know about her. You’re sure he thinks he’s been discreet over the years with their whatever they’ve had, Tess, but you know. 

Maybe you’ll be insane and irrational and possessive, taking advantage of your three crazy days, and fire her with your new found power. See what he has to say about that. Ha.

Ha. Ha. Ha. 

Obviously not. 

Despite your current hysteria, your goal is not to send the ranch head over heels into a tailspin.

But the imagining is soothing. 

“Want some?” You hold the heavy crystal out towards him in a peace offering, held precariously between two sweaty knuckles. “It’s probably worth as much as your truck. Would be a waste for me to finish on my own.” You eye what’s left of it, about half, and give him a sheepish grin. It really is very good. 

He looks at you for one long, solemn moment, always so silent and pensive, this strange enigma of a man. You get to watch in real time as he loses whatever fight it is he’s trying to fight against you, victorious when he shrugs and comes over slowly, resting his butt against the bannister—a carefully respectful distance away from you. 

When he takes the bottle from your swinging clutch, gripped from the base, careful not to touch you in any way, you see the real sad in his eyes. The dim lights bleeding out through the big windows of the family room without a family shine on his face in strips and bursts. A shadow here, golden warmth there. He’s got more lines around his eyes than you remember from the last time you’d been this close to him. Smile lines made bright white in the center and gold burnished at the edges from too much sun. There’s little bursts of silver threaded at his temples now too, a gleam here and there in his dark beard. Forty four years old, he’d turned on your last birthday. 

You dig your nails into the soft meat of your palms, and your belly smolders as he brings the bottle to his lips, tasting the exact place your own mouth had just been moments ago. You press your knees together as hard as you can, head a little woozy with the color of his eyes; the most gorgeous green, caramel hazel. 

You’d graduated two years ago with a degree in art history and had done absolutely nothing with it since. It was just that everything appeared boring and pointless and shallow. Your whole life had one day suddenly seemed just a little silly. Useless, overpriced degree, nothing to be done with extensive knowledge in color theory when your world is expecting such different things from you now. 

But you sure as hell can appreciate the color of his eyes in extensive and meticulous detail. There is that. 

Watching the slow slide of the amber liquor down the bottle-neck, the long pull of his lush mouth, the ripple of his strong throat, and the way his eyes go a little wider, shocked at how good it is. You laugh soft: “I know, right.”

He takes another pull, another swallow. That’s what you want to be—swallowed just like that. “Damn, that’s good.” His mouth is a little wet, bottom lip shiny with thousands of dollars worth of your father’s favorite whiskey, and his eyes are sad. 

You’d said you were going to be bad, but you don’t want to be bad to him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He swallows again, tipping his head towards you, trying to catch your too soft words—he’s got a bad ear, you know why—and turns to peer at you from beneath his low pulled brow, the tip of his tongue peeking out to swipe at the drop of liquor you wish you could suck off his tongue. 

“You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

The first time he’d shown you that gentleness of his: You’d fallen from your horse at school in your junior year. Something had frightened the beast, and she’d bucked you, sent you flying ten feet in the air, ragdoll-like, before you’d landed badly on your right arm, a comminuted fracture in your radius that you’d needed surgery to fix. At your insistence, and with only a few weeks left to spare, you’d been sent home for the remainder of the semester. Your father had been incensed but eventually allowed it. He’d been away from the ranch on business, after all, at no risk of being truly disturbed by you. But when you’d been readying to return to Switzerland at the end of the summer, arm healed, courage not, you’d not been able to get back on a horse no matter what you tried. Joel had helped you, before they’d shipped you off again. Trotted the corral with you for hours and hours before you’d finally been able to relax and sit on your own without tears and vertigo. No questions or admonishments, nothing but the quiet burr of his deep voice, guiding you and the mare along. 

It had been a kindness unlike any you’d experienced in maybe your whole life. 

“I’ve been bad.”

“Nah. You couldn’t ever be.”

The second time: “Did today make you think of Sarah?” Years after you’d found that green eyed photograph, he’d shared her with you. 

His gaze turns suddenly sharp, but you’re not worried you’ve stepped in unbreachable territory. “Yeah.” The echo of her name rings around the two of you. 

“In a bad way or a good way?” He takes another long swig, a low whistle through his teeth and a shake of his head before he’s handing the bottle back to you—again, carefully. 

“Both.”

You take your own swallow, slicking your tongue all around where his just was, and you’re drunk for real now. Drunk on a man. 

“Do you ever regret telling me about her?”

“Nah.” He tips his head back, looking up at the thick beams of the deck’s awning. He’s got the longest lashes you’ve ever seen on a man, thick and curling. The deepest voice you’ve ever heard too, sultry, a bedroom voice. A voice for fucking. Your belly swirls and dips, and you want so much you’re dizzy with it. 

Heart beating like it’s about to burst, out of breath on the verge of hyperventilating, you can taste his mouth in your mouth, the imagination flavor of it. This is what it must feel like to die. This is what your father must have felt like three days ago, this agony. 

His Adam’s apple bobs, and it’s so pronounced, the skin of his throat sun pebbled. There isn’t an inch of him that isn’t all rough-hewn man. “You needed to hear about her then, I s’pose.” 

Yes. “You told me when I needed you to.” After that lonely graduation, the last time you’d missed her really very badly, longed for a mother. Alone, alone, alone little girl. 

“You were missin’ your momma somethin’ fierce. Needed to know you weren’t the only one that felt like that sometimes.”

You laugh a not-laugh, butt scraping against the railing, slipping off your perch, socked-feet thudding beside his gifted boots. The pleasure you feel whenever you see him use one of the things you’ve given him is indescribable. 

“Silly,” you say with barely any sound, his bad ear reaches for your voice again. “At the time it felt like I was the only person in the whole world that had ever felt like that.”

“We all feel like that at one point or another, I reckon.”

“Will you miss him a lot?” You ask looking up at him, the beautiful profile, the strong jaw. You’ve always wondered how he sees you. If he’s ever thought you were beautiful. Other men do, it’s a common thing, a nothing sort of thing. There are always men, there will always be men. But this singular man—this one is not like the rest. 

“Maybe. Can’t tell yet, don’t think. But it felt wrong earlier, walking through his house without him in it.” His house, not yours. 

“Do you wish he’d been your father?” And he turns to look down at you at that, gaze snapping, and you can tell you’ve shocked him with the question. But you’d always wondered. 

“No. Never,” he says with such assuredness, an uncompromising shake of his head. 

And the answer doesn't necessarily shock you in turn. You don't think anyone could have ever wanted a father like that. But it also doesn't help you understand what it was that lived between them either. 

He sighs, perhaps reading the confusion in your gaze. “He helped me at a time when I needed it real bad. Gave me a place and a purpose and a thing to do and take care of. You get me? It was gratitude—maybe. He saved me in a way, after Sarah. Nothing more.” He thinks for a moment, and then, “Perhaps it was that we understood each other about certain things.”

You gaze across the sprawl of dark land as far as the eye reaches, that point of no return where the earth shoots up into the sky, purple blue behemoths in the shape of mountains. 

From this spot, rooted to the deck of your family home, it seems like the whole world is yours to keep. Also, like you’ll never be able to touch any of it with fingers or taste or meaning. 

Your love for this place is complicated—tied up in the people, the memories, the could’ves and should’ves, the whole dreamscape idea of the monument of childhood and all it’d really never been. The time away had felt eternal, like you’d never really been here to begin with, like the young girl who’d grown up on this land had never really existed. But you’d not forgotten them, this, despite your distance. Your home, the father that wouldn’t want you, Wyoming and all its splendor, the people you’d left behind, Joel and Ellie and shared birthdays that meant a secret world to you. Morsels of small happinesses interloped amidst a largely lonely and sad childhood. That’s what it was at its core. 

“Would you be angry with me if I gave it all away?”

He thinks for a moment, maybe you’re making him sadder, but then finally says with a swallow, “No. It’s yours to do with as you please.”

You eye the quarter of whiskey left, but your belly isn’t hungry for its warmth anymore. You want something heavier now. 

“Could you even do that—legally—sell it or somethin’?”

“Probably not. He probably tied it to my fucking life. Sell and die.” You mime your name in an imitation of your fathers deep voice, frowning at yourself the way he’d always frowned when he looked at you, but it pulls a laugh from him, and the painful memory is worth it. “But I have a billion dollars to spend now. More?” You tap your chin—you want to make him laugh again. “Gotta think of something interesting to do with it all.”

His mouth slides into an easy half grin. Like the moon—that beautiful. And he turns to face you fully. “You’re gonna be just fine. You know that, right?”

You turn to face him too, gripping the bannister for dear life. “What? Will you make sure of it?”

“That’s my plan.”

“How’re you gonna do that, d’you reckon?” The American twang bleeds back into your voice, and you’re all swollen lush on the inside, heart a beating fist in your chest. 

“Haven’t gotten that far, if I’m bein’ honest with you.” God. His eyes, the strong bridge of his nose, his mouth. He’s so tall your head has to crook back to look up at him. “I’ll figure something out.” And after another pensive second, and still with that soft, sloped eye smile, he asks, and nicely, “Will you stop drinking now—for me?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” you say with the same sort of smile in return. 

And then suddenly, like vomit again but maybe more humiliating this time: “Did you respect him?” Because you don’t know all the things about him that there are to know, but you do know that Joel Miller’s respect is a thing hard earned. 

He clicks his tongue, and you hear the pop of his jaw as he shifts it like he’s chewing on an honesty. His eyes, his eyes, they’re serious, mercurial, warm and deep also. You worry he won’t answer, that he wouldn’t want to disappoint you or something, but then: “No,” said real simple like.

“Why not?”

And the way he looks down at you, you know already, and it makes that falling through the surface of your own life feeling rise up inside you again, makes your ears pop with embarrassment. Ah. “He never did a very good job of hiding the way he treated you, sweetheart. I couldn’t ever respect a man like that.” 

This is reality right here, this is you falling through your life, this is the realization that it wasn’t only you imposing yourself, your existence, on someone with gifts they didn’t want or ask for. Joel had seen. Joel had understood. 

Someone else had noticed that you exist, and it had been him. 

What else had you ever wanted?

And in the blink of a desperate, yearning eye, drunk on a man still, you’re throwing yourself at him, pressing your mouth hot and heavy to his, kissing him full on the way you’d dreamt of since you knew to dream of such things.

Chapter 2; Sugar, Not so Sweet

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog

[teamatsumu]

was i meant to love you? (last part)

pairing: miya osamu x reader

summary: the kanji on your arm says miya atsumu’s name. but every fiber of your being is in love with his twin brother.

word count: 1501

warnings: swearing, some angst, happy ending

tags: @hadukada @utopiamiroh @angstylittleb1tch @sassycheesecake @i-have-no-life-charlie @tsukiran-blog @mommyourcall420 @ak-aaa-li @ti-mame @ellesalazar @seijaelee @hiraethwa

a/n: this is so late im so sorry writers block is a little bitch but omg this is the last part! I hope you all like it xx

previous part // series masterlist

The living room was hardly silent, between the sitcom playing on TV and Atsumu’s incredibly loud chewing, but it still felt like the air was thick and still around you. You were sure it was just you, and not Atsumu who felt this way. It likely had to do with your apprehension, trying to prepare yourself for the topic at hand. You remembered Osamu’s words, drawing confidence from his encouragement. You tried to revise in your head how to approach this, but your bravery was failing you.

How the hell were you supposed to tell your soulmate that you weren’t in love with him?

Osamu’s platonic soulmates theory didn’t sound all too convincing to you, but hearing that it came from Kita did give you some confidence. You were sure Kita would never put forth an idea that he didn’t consider to have merit. So maybe there was some weight to his words. You were still on the fence though. It all depended on what Atsumu had to say about it.

Speaking of, you watched Atsumu slurp down his ramen like it was his last meal on earth, and you could empathize with him. His routine was grueling. A lot went into being a pro athlete, much more than you could have anticipated. You almost felt bad for springing this on him after a tiring day when he was trying to wind down. But you didn’t exactly have any other opportunity for it.

You cleared your throat and shifted in place, turning so you were facing Atsumu instead of the TV. He turned to look at you, slurping up a noodle dangling from his mouth before licking his lips and giving you a look.

“I need to talk to you about something.” You fidgeted with your fingers, unable to look him in the eye. Atsumu seemed to freeze, leaning forward to place his bowl on the coffee table before facing you and giving you his full attention. Somehow that made it harder for you to get the words out. Your mouth opened and closed like a dumb goldfish. Several moments passed.

Atsumu’s hand landed on top of your own, halting the nervous movements of your fingers. You closed your eyes, feeling a sudden wave of shame wash over you.

“Just say it.” He spoke gently, as if understanding the turmoil going on in your head. You looked up at him, at the calming brown of his eyes and the soft curl of his mouth, and you felt yourself tear up.

“You don’t deserve this.” You breathed, shaking your head. “I can’t do this to you. I’m a horrible person.”

His lip ticked up in a little smile. “Ya gotta give me more than that, babe. I have no idea what yer talkin’ about.”

“I don’t-” You felt the words pour out of you like vomit. “I don’t think I love you. Not like I should. And it’s tearing me apart because I care for you so much and Osamu told me about this thing called platonic soulmates which sounds like bullshit, I know, but it explains the way I’m feeling! But sometimes I just feel like I’m a bad person and this is my way of justifying it-”

“Wait-”

“And I do love you. So much Tsumu, you’re my closest friend and you understand me so well but I don’t feel it romantically at all, which is so fucked up-”

“Hey!” You stopped short, staring at the man before you with teary eyes. You expected him to look horrified. Maybe confused. Definitely hurt. But all you saw was amusement.

“Ya gotta cool it.” He grinned, running a hand through your hair while the other squeezed yours comfortingly.

“S-sorry.” You choked out, sniffling a bit.

Atsumu sighed, staring down at your joined hands. The moment was silent except your wet sniffles, and the very low volume of the TV playing in the background. You watched as Atsumu smiled a bit.

“I’m relieved.” He spoke up, and you blinked at his words. “I always thought I was a fuckin’ asshole, ya know? ‘Cause yer so beautiful and a great person. But kissing ya was kinda painful.”

You gasped. “Hey!”

“Yer telling me the thought of layin’ a smooch on me didn’t make ya wanna barf?” Atsumu retaliated, and you fell silent, still sneering. He chuckled a bit, shaking his head.

“What did ya say it was called?”

“Platonic soulmates.”

Atsumu hummed. “Makes sense. Yer my best friend.”

You smiled at that, squeezing his hand. “And you’re mine.”

When he opened his arms, you fell into them, reveling in his embrace. Somehow, it felt ten times better than any time you had hugged him. You figured it had to do with the fact that your chronic guilt was not bothering you anymore. You buried your face in Atsumu’s neck.

“I love ya.”

“I love you, too.”

A bout of silence.

“But not like that.”

You let out a laugh. “I get it, Tsumu.”

“Just wanted ta make it clear.”

“Shut up.”

And he did. You smiled and settled into him, feeling lighter than you had in years.

……………………

When Osamu saw the look on Atsumu’s face, he immediately froze. He knew, in that instant, that you had talked to his brother. He just knew Atsumu too well to not know any change in his demeanor. And his demeanor had definitely changed. Except it wasn’t the change he was expecting.

Atsumu looked more relaxed. Happier, even? Maybe that was going too far. But then his twin was grinning up at him and settling into a stool in front of the counter, and Osamu could no longer ignore the spring in his step.

“What’s got ya so preppy?” He tested, trying not to build up his hope. Atsumu grinned.

“I just got answers ta some really old questions.” He replied, and Osamu raised an eyebrow.

“Wanna tell me what yer talkin’ about?”

And Atsumu did, sounding jovial, and with a light tone. Osamu stayed rock still as he spoke, unable to believe that Atsumu too had felt this way his whole life. He was almost shocked that he had missed such a huge part of his brother’s feelings, but it was overshadowed by the kindling of hope in his chest at the prospect that he could actually be with the girl he loved.

So when Atsumu had stopped talking, and Osamu had served him a plate of fresh Onigiri, he worked up the courage to drop another bomb on his twin. One that was arguably worse than the Platonic Soulmates one.

“Tsumu,” he began. “What do ya think about her datin’…. someone else?”

“Hm?” Atsumu looked up at his brother. “Why? She like someone?”

Osamu nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. He finally let the words leave his mouth.

“M-me.”

Atsumu stopped eating then, eyes meeting Osamu’s. Osamu felt like he was holding his breath, heart racing.

“I like her too. Uh, it’s- I’ve liked her for a while. Didn’t do anythin’ for obvious reasons, ya know.”

Atsumu sighed, turning back to his plate. He bit into another rice ball.

“What is this? Kimchi mayo? It’s real good.”

Osamu blinked, trying to fight off his incredulity in favor of staring down his brother.

“Are ya for real?”

Atsumu rolled his eyes. “Samu, ‘m not really shocked. It’s pretty obvious ya got a thing for her. And I don’t have anything with her at all, so if ya wanna date, go ahead.”

Then he gave Osamu a lopsided grin, and Osamu felt like everything in the universe had just fallen into place.

“Ya better not break her heart though. She’s still my soulmate.”

Osamu’s smile was genuine. His relief was immense. He felt almost stupid with joy at that point. And he realized he gave Atsumu far less credit than his due. His brother had just stumped him completely, and he couldn’t be more grateful.

“I won’t.”

………………….

Your and Osamu’s first kiss wasn’t anything to write home about. It was at a train station, rushed and messy, so quick that you almost didn’t feel it. It was immediately followed by a feeling of regret, panic and guilt. Something you both wanted so bad, but couldn’t have. So forbidden that it broke your heart into pieces.

Your second kiss was the exact opposite in every single way. Everything that had broken your heart seemed to mend now. Heart and stomachs both full after the wonderful date you had just been on, when Osamu finally leaned down to press his lips on yours. It felt like every fiber of your body had been pulled taut and then released, and your hands felt shaky as you finally allowed them to run over his body. His own grip was worryingly tight, arms enveloping you completely, not that you minded. You reveled in the feeling of his mouth, hoping you never stopped kissing him. Hoping he never let you go.

The kiss did end. But he never let you go.

[xoxo-ren-xoxo]

A Popstar Grian AU - Ari AU (Part One)

Or, @angeart and I put Grian through a lot of pain for no good reason.

Hello! Like two people showed interest in my post about Ari AU, thus here we are. This is not really a 'fic', but it isn't a short summary either. Let your mind go wild. Let your imagination be free. Read my words, boy.

This is Part One. Part Two is here. Part Three is here. Part Four is here. Part Five is here. The tag for this is #ari au.

But before we start, some introductory things you should know.

This is scarian. Don't read if you do not like scarian.

Grian uses he/she pronouns and is transfem genderqueer, I tend to default to she as it helps differentiate her from other characters a lot, but I mix it up.

I somewhat based this AU on attitudes towards celebrities / stars from the 2000s - present day, so this can be read as a period piece in some ways... This concept started with the song 'The Fear' by Lily Allen. I recommend giving it a listen.

This is the "real world", so no hybrids, no respawn, no "code", etc.

CONTENT WARNINGS for this Part: stalking, physical assault, attempted sexual assault, drugging, mentions of vomit, hospitals, me autismposting about music genres.

You can always stop reading! The AU starts out pretty tame and gradually gets, well, worse. But I promise it has a hopeful ending! Eventually!

(also please ask me questions, send ideas, reblog, comment, etc. because I love this AU a lot) (and thank you to Ange for enabling me and adding amazing scenes to this au)

Album One: ‘Sunshine Sedative’

Grian, better known by her stage name ‘Ari’, is a popular singer-songwriter embarking on a world tour to promote her latest album, Sunshine Sedative. The album is indie pop-y and bright, exploring themes of romance, self-empowerment, and subtle references to gender and sexuality. Grian’s style on-stage is hyper-feminine, flashy, and fashionable. He’s known to be a bit prickly, demanding, and stubborn off-stage, slow to warm up to the people around him.

The tour bus carries both Grian and her key crew. Pearl (marketing, PR and organisational work), Impulse (costumes and tech), and Mumbo (tech assistant and main contact for Grian’s manager). Though Grian likes to self-manage, preferring to do her own make-up and plan the set-lists for her own shows. 

Recently, Grian has been running into some issues with stalker fans and online haters, receiving some threatening messages on social media. Mumbo tries not to let him doomscroll on his phone too much, even going so far as to confiscate the phone while on tour. This is Grian’s biggest tour- no one was prepared for her to become a star or “indie darling” type- and the fans are… a bit crazy.

After the anonymous threats, Grian agrees to get a bodyguard. This is where Scar comes in. At first, Scar is a little terrified. The company he works for advised him not to annoy or upset Grian, and to always call her Miss Ari. Never disagree with her or do anything he isn’t contracted to do. 

Scar throws all of this out of the window pretty fast. Yes, Grian is especially difficult when they first meet, but Scar can tell it’s because Grian is stressed. About the tour, about the fame, about the threats. 

A show results in Grian getting a sore throat, and Scar offers her some tea with honey, rambling on about how his mother used to make it for him when he was sick. Grian begrudgingly takes the tea, and tells Scar to just call her Grian from then on. She’s not a fan of the blurring of her private and public life.

Eventually, Grian gets bored enough to rant to Scar about how Mumbo won’t let him use his phone anymore, and Scar offers to sneak it back to him. They have a laugh scrolling through celebrity news and playing silly games together. Then they get found out and both get a stern talking to from Mumbo and Impulse. (Pearl laughs at them in the background).

As Grian’s tour starts selling out, more tour dates are added, extending their time on the road. Scar continues to sneak Grian’s phone to her, pushing her to have fun rather than scroll through hate messages. It seems like a peak moment for Grian, delighted by the idea that she has so many fans, and beginning to develop a bit of a crush on Scar. Grian even starts acting a little nicer.

Tabloids and Stalkers

The fame comes with more caveats than Grian anticipated. One day, while Scar and Grian are reading some dumb article on Grian’s phone, she receives a random message from a burner account. It’s a picture of Grian, through a hotel window, half dressed. Grian recognises the hotel, one they stayed in a few nights ago just to get away from the tour bus.

Someone knew she would be there. Knew what room she would be staying in. There is a vaguely ominous / threatening message attached. It makes Grian never want to step foot outside again. It makes her feel sick. Suddenly she can’t focus on anything around her.

He has a panic attack. 

Later, as Grian is pacing the floor of the bus, he’s told not to make an announcement about the stalker. She decides herself not to go to the police, and, after some hesitation, not to cancel the tour. They can’t disappoint all those people. 

Over the next few shows, Grian gets closer to Scar. Both because they get along so well, and because Scar is there to protect her. He's clumsy and funny and once he starts talking about something he likes, it’s hard to get him to stop. Grian finds him incredibly endearing and, more importantly, incredibly safe. 

But things are bad. Grian can’t even go to a public bathroom without Scar checking to make sure no one is waiting for her. He feels constantly watched, constantly on-edge, constantly afraid. The paparazzi don’t exactly make it easier.

Tabloids love Ari. She’s a superstar, a real diamond in the rough who came from nothing. They’re obsessed. Anything she does in public can make a tabloid front page. As the tour goes on and her songs rocket up the charts, it only gets worse. The flashes of the cameras have started to scare him.

Scar is an angel, dealing with the paparazzi professionally and confidently. He stands in front of Grian and chases the cameras off. But it feels like they can’t go anywhere. They can’t do anything. Even when they stop at another hotel, Grian can’t tell if the people outside are stalkers or journalists.

The pictures on the tabloid front pages are no longer stunning shots from the shows, but rather blurry snaps of Grian trying to escape the cameras. Images of Grian, wide-eyed and scared by the surprise of a camera flash, before she could put on a fake smile. Grian, through a window in the parked tour bus, with teary eyes. Even private moments are no longer private.

Media outlets start to pay for more intimate photos- anything the journalists might get fired for trying to snap themselves. It gives the stalkers (there are certainly multiple, now) more incentive. Grian keeps the curtains closed in every building he visits, and draws the tiny blinds on the bus. 

Relationship Goals?

In the meantime, Grian’s crush on Scar is getting more obvious, but she’s afraid to say anything. Dragging Scar into this, with all the harassment he would face if they revealed they were together, isn’t what Grian wants. She flinches away when Scar offers a comforting touch, not wanting to risk a photograph. 

Scar is the one, then, who takes the initiative. He sits with Grian on her little fold-out bed at the back of the tour bus, all curtains drawn and the door closed. He holds her close and tells her firmly that no one is going to see them here. They're traveling at 50mph on a motorway and no one can even see through the windows anyway. And that's maybe just enough for Grian to let himself lean into Scars touch. Admit his feelings. 

There’s a sense of shame he's carrying with them. He shouldn't have fallen for his bodyguard- someone who has to stay with him, contractually. She tries to say as much, going on and on about all the terrible risks Scar is bringing to himself by dating her, but Scar cuts Grian off by kissing her, anyway.

As soon as the media gets a hint of the relationship, things seem to go downhill. Diehard fans don’t react kindly to Grian’s choice of man, especially the ones who want to have her for themselves. Someone throws something at Scar when Grian is leaving a show, hitting him on the head. It isn’t a bad injury, but it bleeds a lot, and Grian only feels worse about it when Scar insists he’s okay.

Actual Bodily Harm

The fans seem to get more… intense. Stalking and threats of harm increase, while the fans' behaviour at shows seems to get worse. As the tour is nearing its final few weeks, people start to throw things onto the stage. The first time it happens, Grian cuts the set short without anyone really noticing. The next time, someone throws a glass bottle, and she walks off. 

He tries not to make a big fuss about it, simply leaving without playing a single song. She feels awful, of course, for leaving the normal fans without a show. Perhaps they should refund the tickets, or something. She doesn’t even notice the glass shards in her foot until Scar points them out, horrified. 

Pearl convinces Grian to take a picture of the injury and make a PSA post on social media. Even when the adrenaline wears off, Grian’s resulting breakdown seems subdued. 

No one throws anything at the next few shows, except for a trans pride flag. Grian wears it as a cape, and feels amazing, for once, hearing the cheers and screams of joy at the gesture. She loves that she can be a symbol of hope and love for so many people. It’s even enough of a boost to get him acting more like himself again in private: mischievous, bright, and creative. 

It is near the end of the tour when things go completely, utterly wrong again. Grian and the crew all go to a bar after a show, to celebrate the last week of the tour. Three more shows, and then it’s over. Grian is in somewhat normal clothes, compared to his usual getup, but still puts on his persona just in case they've been followed by the paparazzi (again).

Everyone's having a nice time, drinking a little and hanging out. As always, it is nice to be getting away from the bus. Pearl and Impulse buy far too many shots, much to Mumbo’s dismay. Grian laughs and jokes and raises her voice, not caring if she’s croaky the next day. 

He doesn't notice someone watching him from across the room. Doesn't notice them slip something into her drink when she goes up to the bar. She pays for another pint, and they strike up conversation. Giddily, she chats with them, rambling about how good life has suddenly become. As he sips his drink, he doesn’t register how focused on him they are. How their dark eyes don’t leave him once.

It’s fine, until she stumbles, on the way back to the booth everyone's sitting at, and the stranger catches her before she can fall with strong arms. They're talking, but Grian isn't really listening. She’s nodding along and mumbling about needing to get back to the booth. Back to her friends.

It feels wrong. They keep hold of her shoulders. They're saying something about getting her home safe. Something about how they've been waiting for this…

He realises what’s happening far too late. Panic clutches her chest for a split second. Long enough for him to call out for Scar. She's already being manhandled out of the door before Scar comes to her rescue. Thankfully, by a miracle, close enough to hear the cry for help.

Grian knows something happens to the stranger, because they're on the floor and bleeding. Voices buzz, muffled, around Grian. There are more hands on her. She doesn’t like it. Her head hurts. Scar’s hand is bloody as he hugs her. Grian passes out.

Hospital Visit One

The crew, quite obviously, take Grian to the hospital. He was drugged, and it’s clear what the perpetrator wanted to do. It shakes them all, left wondering whether the creep knew who Grian was, or just randomly targeted a drunk stranger on a night out. Either way, none of them want to go near a bar any time soon.

On the way to the hospital, the press capture pictures of Grian unconscious, or half-awake with no awareness, and by the time the morning rolls in, the papers are already speculating about addiction and ‘gone wild’ narratives. When Grian wakes up, still slightly delirious, he's told, hesitantly, by Pearl, that they have to release a statement soon in order to clear his name and control the narrative. Grian can’t find it in herself to cry about what happened.

Before any statements are made, the police come to talk to Grian. They arrested the perpetrator and searched their house, not that it’ll result in much. They show Grian pictures of rope, duct tape, knives, and a poster from her tour. 

Feeling numb, Grian takes a moment to go throw up in a bin, then tells her team she wants to make a statement now. She wants it recorded, as she is, now. Pearl and Mumbo try to argue that it really isn't a good idea, without a script and looking… bad, but Scar and Impulse back Grian’s choice. Reluctantly, Mumbo grabs one of the nice cameras from his car- the bus was far too conspicuous to park at a hospital- and they record.

They don't know what Grian’s going to say, but, put basically, the video explains everything that has happened- from the stalkers to the glass to the drugging- and apologises to the fans who did nothing wrong. And even the fans who just wanted to know some gossip, because they weren't really to blame. Then she announces that she's cancelling the rest of the tour. 

Mumbo shuts off the camera. Everyone apart from Scar is a bit shocked. Incredulous. Shouldn’t they talk about this? Is it worth it to cancel at the last hurdle? Scar cuts off the protests, pointing out how insensitive it is to try and make Grian perform after everything. Grian stays quiet as Scar somewhat lectures the others. It’s a rambling mess of an argument, but it works. They apologise. 

The statement video is posted online, and Grian is left to rest. Scar remains at his side.

Once Grian is checked over and discharged, they get back to the bus fast. She retreats to her closed-off space at the back of the bus, telling everyone to get on with their jobs. Once she's alone, she replays the images the police showed her in her mind. He thinks about what could have happened. He thinks about the stranger's hands on his shoulders and at his hips. She remembers that she started out just wanting to make music, and she cries.

[tremendum]

twin suns ; your shadow at morning

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part three of the Twin Suns series  ;  prologue  ;  part i ; part ii

pairing: au (canon-divergent), western-inspired Din Djarin x fem!bounty!reader (afab, w use of woman, girl, etc) rating: eventually explicit in future chapters. slow slow burn. (18+. mdni.)  

warnings: canon-typical violence, themes of hunting/being hunted, fear, a brief mention of vomit twice, pretty bad injuries and descriptions of reader's blood/injury,, temporary blindness still, mean!Mando, lots of sand description like anakin would h8 this, slightly possessive themes

synopsis:  “the messenger nods, his expression revealing nothing. 'good. prepare yourselves. the journey is long, and the desert does not forgive hesitation.'” 

word count: 4.7k. 

notes: hii :) silly how i haven't posted in months??? sorry ive been away, just having a hard time rn. but here's part 3, it's still going a bit slow because i love a good slow burn but we're getting to some yummy parts in the next few chapters ;) lmk if ive missed ur tag, i lost my taglist.

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for what may be the first time in years, you don't wake up with a start.

this visit to consciousness is pulled rather slowly from a lone yearning sensation. you're not sure what it is - or if it's even real - a feeling deep in the corner of your brain that urges something along the lines of wake up! wake up! 

and when your brain finally starts to stir, it's with a heaving breath of pain from deep within you, as if someone had taken the spongy material and hurled it against the dartboard of a cantina.

your face twitches against something gritty. oh- there's kriffing sand in your teeth. on your tongue.

it feels heavy, dusty. wake up! 

your eyes open slowly as you let out an exhale into the rusty ground. 

they slide open like dry, grating sandpaper against your tired irises, but to your shock, you're met with nothing - nothing changes, besides a shift from black to mauve. 

in a moment of sheer panic, your head reels upwards from the sand and, despite the screams of protest within your throat, you twist your head around.

wait- wait! you can make out a bit of light. there's... two faint dots in your vision, faint and searing at the same time. 

twin suns. 

you resist the urge to scream or gasp in fear - yet the burning sensation from holding back both still evokes your body to twist slightly from your stomach to your side. it is mere seconds before you are expelling all the remnants of fear and confusion and rage from your stomach to splay across the small mountain ranges of eroded sand carved by wind. 

the ringing in your ears ebb when you can finally make out a squeal, a cry - something between the two - less out of pain or horror, but of concern.

green comes into your mind, for whatever reason - then shortly and likely consequently, the faint realization that you cannot fucking see a thing. 

oh. oh. 

the suns. the miserably lonely nights. stale wind whistling through empty valley corridors. a lonely girl in an abandoned apartment ripped open by the forces of galactic war years ago; blaster at your hip, blades on your thigh. 

unfriendly company. a vision of your own face plastered on a holo just to the side of a Neerok table. 

that strange metal hunter and his little green accomplice. a tickle of excitement in the shadow that followed you for weeks. a cat and mouse game. 

happy hunting, Mando. 

a lasso. the headscarf wrapped around a small baby. the carbonite chamber. 

maker's mother - Maracavanya. 

they'd shot you back down into Tattoine's dunes. 

oh Gods, you're wrecked, with the hunter, back on Tattoine. 

perhaps your eyes roll back into your head as you slump back - no way to know for sure - a gasp of pain from the left side of your skull. you weakly pull a hand to your brow and it's vaguely warm, wet, sticky when it pulls back. oh. 

you wince, your nostrils flaring as you pick up the thick smell of smoke and sharp jetfuel burning. 

kriff, those suns are searing behind your unseeing eyes, your legs are still pins and needles, you're- oh, your face is throbbing dully with the numbing agent. maybe carbonite wasn't the worst thing to happen to you in the last thirty minutes. 

your hands grasp at the ground, handfuls of sand which slip right through your dry fingers as you keel over again, expelling nothing but bile and then after a few moments nothing but choked, burning air that you fight to suck in and out of your lungs. your head doesn't feel right; be it the blindness or the crash? 

the bounty hunter calls your name from far away, as your ears buzz - but the grip you have with your right hand sends a shooting agony through your entire being and a yell of pain ripples through the air. 

crying, after that - the baby. you startled him with your roar of pain. fear strikes you - is he okay? he wasn't strapped in when you crashed, was he? you can't remember.

leathered hands wrap around your chest and for a split, childish moment, your arms twitch; almost as if you were about to grab him back. but it's not an embrace, you chastise your foolish, betraying mind.

the Mandalorian wraps something around you, a rope. around your waist again. 

it clicks in your head, fuzzy from the crash. how'd you even get out of the ship? 

"wh-" you croak, unable to form words as you grapple with your mind for something to ground yourself. "are we back on Tattoine?" you ask, voice much too meek; the blistering heat sure feels like Tattooine. silence, besides a grunt of his own pain from the man who tugs you up onto staggering legs, leading you up through what you imagine is the hull and past the thick burn of smoke that cause you to cough so deep your body starts to sway.  

his hands are sturdy and unforgiving on your upper arm until you're guided to what feels like a cot, a severe absence of light causing your mind to panic, heart beating wildly at the sudden loss of sensory cues. it's all black, now.  

"is..." you sound so unlike yourself it almost knocks you off your feet. "is the child okay?" you ask, throat burning. it's silent for a moment too long and fear strikes down on your heart, assuming the worst.

"yes." the Mandalorian finally confirms. you let out a shaky sight of relief, nodding as your body is then pushed until you sit on weak legs. "if you're going to pass out, try to stay upright." the voice says, unforgiving. 

his footsteps are heavy as he stalks away, your lips screaming silently for water.

a hesitation in the footsteps has your heart thundering in fear, your arms swallowing yourself until you're curled in on your chest. you're too weak to try and protect yourself from him.

the gaze you've come to know is burning though your unseeing eyes; you can almost see that glint of the helmet in your mind. he says nothing, just stares.

you wish he would just leave.

the quiet is so absorbent, it hurts your numb mind. the baritone breaks the silence, again. 

"-and if you're going to throw up again, do it on the durasteel." 

you're not sure how long you sleep for. 

when you wake, you're on your side, slumped against the side of the cot; your neck creaks as you slowly stir upwards, eyes cracking open slowly. 

a peek of light creaks in through the hull as you groan, eyebrows furrowing as far as they can. you're puffy, you can feel it. your brow and temple are swelled and likely bruised. looking down out of habit, you can tell that the aching, searing pain in your hand has only worsened - the numbness of the carbonite chamber wearing down too soon.

you're fucked when it's completely gone, realizing now that not only do you likely have a broken hand and several broken ribs, but that your brow bone is surely chipped, your brain bruised from knocking too much against your skull, and you're right and proper screwed. 

there's a gash on your thigh that has since stopped bleeding, but you're sure if it's not dressed and attended within forty eight hours, you'll succumb to the sand mites that infest the plains outside. you're too busy assessing your injuries to realize it; when you do, you let out a sharp screech, shaking your head as your hands fly up towards your cheeks. 

you can see again - sort of.

light sources peek out at you through a blanket of thick fog. 

it's as if you'd taken semi-translucent paint and slathered it over your retinas - especially in the low light, it's hard to catch anything besides a faint glint and the outline of metallic shapes in the hull. still, it fills you with some sort of giddy elation; perhaps spurred on by your head trauma and the sheer shock of the events, you huff a short laugh to yourself. your fingers on your good hand wiggle slightly, you can see the motion as you wave up at yourself. 

maybe this isn't a permanent blindness, then. 

but a twitch from your bad hand has you gasping in sheer pain, biting down on your lip to keep quiet in fear of stirring the Mandalorian from whatever corner of the ship he lurks in. your stomach flips at the fleeting thought that he could have been there, watching you this whole time in the darker shadows of your sight - and you'd have had no clue. 

your moment of joy is over when reality washes over your entire body: you're stuck with the Mandalorian with a severe disadvantage: sure, his ship is wrecked, but you have impairing injuries and little to no sight. 

he's likely injured, too, but not enough so that he's unable to use a hand - or his brain- like you.

you deftly get to work, your movements like a well oiled machine after months of repairing yourself on your own. you can't shake the creeping fear that the Mandalorian is watching you; you swear a movement from the corner of your limited sight moves and you nearly jump out of your skin. 

if he's there, he doesn't move a muscle as you slowly start to tear at the material of your tunic, ripping the bottom hem until there's one long strip. biting down on your lip, you apply pressure to the points in your hand that you're sure are broken, knowing the better wrapped it is, the better it will be for you.

the hardest thing you can find on the floor near you to bite down on is shoved between your teeth as you swiftly start to push your fingers back, aligning knuckles that'd been sprouting from your hand like gnarled tree branches. 

you groan out anyways - muffled, yes, but only by the long, cool, durable object between your teeth as your head falls against the wall in pain. 

fuck. 

as you assess your wounds in the dark, trying futilely to wipe the blind fog from your eyes, the thoughts swirl around your mind. 

doubt creeps into your head from the cracks in your resolve; because you're not a fool. there's no true way that you could warble your bottom lip a bit, blindly insisting that you were innocent, and the Mandalorian would just fold when faced with an entire ship of pirates who were willing to pay him his entire weight in credits for you. there's no way you were that good. 

so what was it that'd snapped in that emotionless helmet of his that prompted the escape attempt?

the money? the Maracavanya clan is not nearly as trustworthy as whoever casted a puck to the bounty guild for you; he has to feed himself and the child, maybe he really is strapped for cash. sure, the beskar goes for a very pretty pence or two nearly anywhere in the galaxy, but you're also fairly sure there's something very sacrilegious about a Mandalorian selling his own armor. 

so you're the means to an end - not the first time, and probably not the last, given that you somehow escape the Mandalorian's grasp alive.

there's no way, as a rational person, that you can realistically imagine beating the Mandalorian in combat in your current state. he'd throw you down to the sand within seconds; you can try to outsmart him, considering you've been evading him for weeks up until this point, but it will be much more difficult to do so in the middle of the desert plains with such injuries. 

you're fucked. 

and you realize, as you dap away at the wound on your head with a strip of cloth, that if it's the child's mouth you're indirectly feeding by being turned in, then that's an externality you aren't terribly furious about... but the Hunter, on the other hand...

you're feeling less dizzy as you finish doctoring yourself in the dark of your blindness, but the numbing agent is surely wearing off; aches and stings and gasps tear from you as the minutes wear on. you're too weak to stand. water and food would go miles for you right now- maker, if you could just- 

you shift accidentally and a searing pain rips a tearing yelp from your raw throat. the object you'd shoved between your teeth falls with a cland onto the durasteel floors.

your hand flies to stabilize yourself on the object you'd let fall - a vibroblade, the hilt wrapped in a sharply oiled leather and blade serrated; oh. 

at least you'd had the wherewithal to stick the hilt side of the blade between your teeth. thanking your lucky stars, you quickly move to sheath the blade in the waistband of your pants. you'd felt less than whole ever since the Mandalorian had taken your blades; you'd only ever carried a small blaster.

you wonder where he'd discarded them absently - clearly, he was not one to waste a weapon, had he taken yours and added them to his arsenal? a trophy, for one more notch on his ammo-belt? bitterness floods your mouth as your lips shape into a scowl - in a world full of blaster pistols and rifles, you'd preferred a more agile melee skillset when training. it wasn't well equipped for the rolling and harsh isolation of the sandy wilderness; arid and desolate just as the people you've met here. it was much more suited for where you grew up, and maybe you were too.  

nonetheless, this vibroblade feels like coming home and your heart cools as you feel the cold of the blade against your spine. 

"don't." 

you jump out of your skin in shock, hand instinctively flipping the blade until it's concealed up your forearm, the hilt upside down against your palm. 

you resist a growl of irritation at his slinkiness; when did the Mandalorian show up? you crane your neck upwards towards where you'd heard the word, your jaw tightening. "do you have any other words in your vocabulary?" you snap. you feel as though you've said this before.

"give me the blade."

he's not asking- he seems like the kind of man who's never had to ask for anything in his life. you roll your eyes out of habit, shaking your head. 

what are you going to do, anyways? swipe blindly towards a man covered head to toe in impenetrable metal? you have a decent grasp on up and down purely based on gravitational pull. in a moment, you consider spitting, like you were taught to do in the rumbling avalanches of the cold season back home to orient yourself, just to spite him - you bite your tongue in fear of losing a hand lest your spit graces the Mandalorian's sacred armor. 

a moment of panic sends you into a desperate lurch to plead with the Mandalorian. "I don't have a weapon," you insist, "if I could just-"

roughly, his gloved hand pries the blade from your grasp with a harsh tug. "what makes you assume you deserve a weapon? you're my prisoner. just because I didn't freeze you doesn't mean any different."  

his words are final; besides, you're reeling through pain on most surfaces of your body and many spots internally; there was no chance for you to put up a fight, so you drop it.

for a moment you expect him to whirl around and disappear from your faint field of vision - but there's a faint motion; a shine above your eyeline and then too soon, a click. 

kriff. 

you don't have to see to know the click of a safety when you hear one. 

"I'll only ask one more time." the Mandalorian's slow, cold voice crackles through the static of his modulator. "who else is after you?"

you can tell this is not turning out to be the bounty capture he'd anticipated - you feel half triumphant but half regretful. 

upon first instinct, your mouth creaks open to spew some half-planned lie, but knowing better, you just grit out, "why were you after me?" 

he's a statue of a shadow in your faint sight - body large enough to cover most of the cot's lights as he towers over you, staring down the barrel. "what else aren't you telling me?" he asks, voice crackling with danger and frustration. 

defiantly - as if you aren't incapacitated in his broken ship, barely able to breathe without yelping in pain - you sneer back at him. "why do you care?" 

"I'm trying to make sure I don't get shot out of orbit again." he snaps, hips moving as he shifts, blaster still pointed at your forehead. "there are far worse people in the galaxy that could have gotten to you."

who is he to tell you that? he tried to freeze you in carbonite. you can't help as your brows furrow in skepticism, "well, forgive me if I don't take your word for it." your voice drips in sarcasm. 

he shifts, starting to rustle with some blaster pistol on the side table, finally moving his weapon away from you. "you should've told me about the others. I could've prepared better."

a bitter, ironic laugh tumbles from your raw throat, "oh, and what? you would've graciously shared your bounty with me?" you mock, rolling your eyes. his grandiose attitude is grating deep into your nerves. 

the Mandalorian's voice is firm. "I protect my assets. it ensures you're alive to give me what I need." 

your veins light as you hiss, furious: "I'm not some object you can just take!" you snap. you're aching, furious.

you're sick of people in this galaxy stepping their boots over your spine and trading you around. 

"if you're so sure you're not, why do I have this?" he retorts, sarcasm slipping through his mask. 

he tosses a small object just to your side onto the cot and the mere shape of it makes your mouth sour. you don't need to see it to know what it is.

your puck. 

you exhale harshly, feeling angry, cold, in pain, and miserably alone in the universe. once again proved wrong in your short string of optimism of the good in people, you deflate.

"I'm not someone you can deceive. I took this job because it's my Creed, not for personal gain." he adds after your silence.

the tension in the room is palpable - you feel as though you could pass out in any moment, and Maracavanya, the Mandalorian, your old partner... a cell, guards with vibro-clubs,  galactic court - all of it beats down on you, striking freezing fear into your heart.

it is perhaps through this fleeting weakness that you allow yourself a small whisper to him, "you don't understand what's at stake for me." 

"you're right." he says.

he walks away silently, but you can tell he's gone. the words he doesn't say linger still, cold and lonely and harsh in his wake. you close your eyes, knowing only rest could help you heal now - but the unspoken words of the cold man haunt you waking and asleep. 

you're right, I don't understand - and I don't care.

he arrives just as quietly as he did the first time. 

your sight is coming in slowly - it's been hours, likely, of you lying still in the rock-hard cot, staring at the nothingness, willing the sparse bacta spray and ointments you'd kept saved on your person to kick in and relieve you. 

he says your name. 

it startles you. 

you don't dare respond, not nearly bothering to rise and welcome your captor into your (his, your mind reminds you) quarters. he comes in anyways, walking with a stiff, uncomfortable swoop. 

"we have a follower." he states, leaving you to pull up your brows, sitting slowly. your shock must be evident on your face. a sleeve falls over your shoulder as you sniff, "we?" you mock.

he doesn't take the bait, as always; turning on his heels, the man stalks out of the cot, down towards where rusty, hot wind blows sand over the dilapidated entrance to his ship. he must've just returned.

the entrance to the ship had taken just as bad a beating as you; more than once in your miserable moments of recovery you'd wished quite bitterly that the Mandalorian had considered upgrading his ship with the same precious metal shell he wrapped his nearly-unscathed self in.

you have to scramble to follow him, squinting as if it will help your impaired vision. a dark wall of metal moves just out of your field of vision, and you chase it. "where have you been?" you ask then, not nearly as concerned by his first sentence as you are with his sudden arrival. 

when you'd woken, you'd crept out of the small cot, feeling with your hands on the walls to keep you upright and trying to avoid your hips from encountering a spare corner. it was then, with feelings of both relief and anxiety, that you determined he wasn't anywhere on the ship, and neither was the Child. 

"in town." he sounds impatient, urgent. "w-" 

you're shocked. "-you left me alone?" you ask, incredulous as your brows raise. the shine of his beskar can just barely be made out through your blindness. you nearly laugh - at his stupidity, or of the irony that you had your chance to escape and slept through it. 

"the Crest locks from the inside." he retorts. your brows furrow, "what?" 

"when I tell it to, it locks it from the inside." it's clipped, his voiced laced with irritation and a hint of condescension. your blood boils, but he has no time for your mocking tone. 

"listen." he utters, voice closer than you expect - instinctively, you jerk back, widening the space between Mando's helmet and your face. "I was in town buying parts. a man followed me back here - about a click away. saw him in the cantina a while ago, and again at the market the other day. he's been following me, so I led him here. you are to stay on the ship." 

it's the most words you've ever heard from him - if you didn't know any better, you'd think he was doing this to protect you. bitter fear curls into you as your brows furrow under your scarf, twinging in a bit of pain from your healing injuries. he's not protecting you - he's protecting his assets. making sure he's the one to win the prize of your capture. 

and he doesn't seem like the kind of person who keeps as many friends as he does enemies.

it's like clockwork - a slamming noise shuts off whatever retort was building on your lips.

Mando whirls around, whipping his blaster out as he stalks towards the entrance to the broken ship. as quiet as possible, you slide down the rungs behind him, blatantly ignoring his orders; just then, a voice calls out. 

"Mandalorian?" a moment of hesitation in the hunter's shoulders. then, chillingly, you gasp as the voice calls out a second name. 

yours. 

from what your weak eyes can make out, the man standing outside the wreckage of the Razor Crest is a Rodian - his emerald skin contrasting sharply with the desert. you stare in shock from behind the Mandalorian's frame, hoping you're far enough away that the large, multifaceted eyes of the man can't detect you. 

he wears earth-toned robes that blend with the desert surroundings, a testament to his familiarity with the unforgiving terrain; peculiarly, his attire is practical, with layers of fabric offering protection from the twin suns' scorching rays and the harsh winds that sweep across the dunes, but upon his waist, a belt secures a small satchel - and, more bizarrely - and an emblem for the city of Mos Espa.

his movements are deliberate and measured - posture unwavering despite the blaster pointed towards him. a few feet down the ramp from you, the Mandalorian stands vigilant, his beskar armor glistening under the twin suns and reflecting into the sensitive layers of your eyes.

"who are you?" he asks, voice low and chilling. 

the desert winds howl, carrying whispers of the unforgiving sands across the barren dunes of Tatooine and your weak skin tingles against the particles. finally, the man speaks.

"I come on behalf of my master. he requires your presence at his palace."

palace? your bones chill; what palace in this miserable rock would have business with the Mandalorian? his helmeted gaze bores into the messenger, giving you a split moment to take a deep exhale.

"who is your master that he can't come find me himself?" Mando's voice is gravelly, edged with caution, though he lowers his gun with a hesitant recognition in his voice. 

the messenger's eyes flicker, betraying a trace of unease. "not just you. he requests both of you."

your stomach flips. oh, Maker. 

before you can stop yourself, you take a staggering few steps until you're next to the Mandalorian, who gives you a cold stare. 

with your eyes narrowed against the faint sights in front of you, the gears of your mind whir. "and if we refuse to go?" you ask, voice scratchy. fear pounds in your chest like a wild beast needing escape. 

the man folds his hands diplomatically. "the Daimyo has requested your presence at his palace, both of you. he does not extend such invitations lightly - he has his reasons, and you would do well to hear them from his own lips."

oh. oh, kriff. recognition floods through you - a combination of relief and utter fear. 

your brows lift, "the Diamyo?" 

an old friend, your mind whispers, sardonic and teasing. 

a tense silence hangs in the air, broken only by the distant cries of native creatures and a cooing at the Mandalorian's side. a breath of hope is breathed into your chest at the realization that the Diamyo's palace could be just what you need to escape this metal shadow; a shift in the breeze sends your hair around your face and you're soon filled to the brim with anticipation - you need to do this. no matter the danger it entails, what tricks may lie within the halls of the palace... 

it's your only hope. 

out of pure accident, your eyes land on Mando in what is a fleeting glance, a silent conversation that neither of you intended. it's as if both of you know that this meeting could change the course of both of your journeys, somehow - a threatening veil soon placates your mind, knowing the Mandalorian has surely already considered your plans for escape.

with a sigh heavier than the beskar he shrouds himself with, Mando nods. irritation is laced through his voice. "fine. we will go to the palace."

the messenger nods, his expression revealing nothing but a slight air of relief that notches a bit of anxiety into you. "good. prepare yourselves. the journey is long, and the desert does not forgive hesitation."

and with that, the messenger turns and retreats into the unforgiving expanse along with the dying suns, leaving you to face the remnants of Mando's ship and the uncertain path that lay ahead.

the man is long lost to the fading horizon of the desert when slowly, the hunter pulls a pair of cuffs from his belt; your stomach drops as you hang your head in frustration. 

"may I at least use the 'fresher, first?" you snark, sending the cold statue a false smile. you haven't bathed in days - your hair needs a cleanse desperately and you're sure there's more than enough blood, dirt, and grease caked into your skin. 

his grunt is angry as he slams shut the ramp, sealing you into complete blindness in the lack of bright lights. despite his anger, the Mandalorian pulls your incapacitated self into the fresher and slams the door shut. 

as you shower and relish the last moments of what little, bizarre freedom you had since being captured, you wonder if he's still right outside, waiting for you to step out. 

he is.

it's with a pit of misery at the bottom of your stomach that you sit in the corner of the cargo bay with your hands bound together and watch him clean and prepare every single weapon he can fit on his person.

whatever reason the Mandalorian has to listen to the request of the Diamyo, he doesn't tell you. he doesn't do much except run his gloved fingers slowly over the vibroblade you'd tried to steal - the glint of your harsh teeth marks barely detectable to your impaired vision. he sheathes the blade on his hip, to your surprise. a daunting reminder of his power over you.

and as much as you try, you can't ignore the feeling that the fate of your soul is about to rest in the hands of Boba Fett and the mysteries that await you within the walls of his palace. 

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taglist (message to join). @silkiers @leithatnight @totallynotastanacc @afandomidiot @bbyanarchist @clear-your-mind-and-dream @notsosecretspy @djarins-cyare @satireclub @famefoxx @sunnywithachanceofjavi ​

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[bonny-kookoo]

Prey: Cold Waters

In which Jungkook dreams- of warmth, love, and the soft comfort of safety. The only issue? Louri never dream without reason.

Tags/Warnings: Alien!Jungkook, vomiting (briefly mentioned), blood (teeny tiny injury), protective!koo, dead dove do not eat, major angst, fluff

Story length: mid

All content can be found under the Tag #Prey

..........................................................................................

He's surrounded by white.

There's a certain smell around him, soft and gentle, covering him in a comfort he doesn't remember ever feeling. He's a Louri after all- raised to be bold and brave, not soft and vulnerable. His kind survived and thrived because they've embraced their instincts while moving forward with the course of time. But for all of the change and growth, there's been sacrifices;

Nurturing traditions like family and children have long become uninteresting and undesirable for Louri people. Seen as a hassle and burden, it's become a problem, a hindrance in career and sucess- resulting in biology changing to the point of conceiving a child being impossible without medical assistance, and less Louri passing the compatibility tests nowadays.

Even worse: more and more have been diagnosed as infertile.

Therefore, a lot of traditions have been lost to time- unseen for years and generations. Other things have become so rare they've just been completely forgotten- so when Jungkook walks around in the lands of dreams, he's unsure what exactly is going on.

All he knows is that he doesn't ever want to leave where he is.

Or does he? Isn't something missing?

There's a trace of your scent around him, but he doesn't know where you are. He can't see you, or anything really- all he knows is there's a weight in his arms, too small to be you.

"...kook? Hey, Jungkookie?"

He hears you call out to him, distant, but it's there. Looking around, he can't see past the fog surrounding him, thick clouds making it impossible to spot anything further away than an arms length. He wants to call your name- but he stays silent, lips sealed shut.

"hey, Jungkook?"

You're a little louder, but still not quite there. He feels like his body starts to weigh more again, as if he's growing aware of his limbs again, when the scene darkens and his consciousness returns.

His eyes flutter open, suddenly looking into your face, smiling softly at him, faint sound of traffic being heard from outside the opened window. The fog is gone, everything saturated in the colors of reality, familiar surroundings back again. "wow, you slept for ages." you giggle, before pecking his lips and leaving the bedroom. "I made you your favourite- I hope your stomachache has gotten better!" you call out, while he sits up in bed.

Did he.. Dream?

He's heard about dreams before, from a friend of Yoongi's, and he knows from you that humans dream fairly frequently, but he himself has never experienced it. It must've been what it was, but why did he dream? He should call Jin about it.

Because this has been the second time now.

"Huh? Where are you going?" You wonder, as Jungkook simply kisses the side of your neck, before he puts on his shoes to walk towards the door.

"Nothing, I just forgot about something. I'll be back as quick as I can though!" He calls out before hurrying out the door-

Leaving you confused.

◇━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━◇

Blood is taken. Tested. Results are read.

Seokjin checks them twice. Then once more. But there's nothing wrong with any of it. The results are clear, they're honestly textbook-worthy. They're exactly what one would expect them to look like in a situation like this.

Jin doesn't need to test you. There's no reason for it. Jungkook is a faithful mate, never even glancing into someone else's direction. And his blood, everything about him, shows the first signs of fatherhood.

He's changing, dreaming, because he's created a new life. His body is waiting, expecting, preparing.

And as soon as Jungkook is told the news, he's running out the room, barging into the bathroom close by, clinging onto the toilet as he heaves whatever leftovers he's still got in his stomach, before he somehow collects himself enough to splash some cold water in his face, trying to get himself together.

He's still in shock.

Jungkook hasn't ever seen himself like this.

The mirror shows a reflection of someone that looks like him- but strangely doesn't feel like it's him. Pupils blown wide, roots of his hair longer and unfamiliar in their deep black color, his face just as disbelieving as he himself. The splash of cold water did nothing to wake him up it seems.

A knock on the door makes him turn around- fearfully and more or less making him jump at the sudden sound, but Jin seems understanding as he sighs. "I know it's hard." he tells the younger Louri.

"Why is this happening to me?" Jungkook asks, voice trembling. "Why.. Us?" he almost whispers.

"I don't know." Seokjin sighs empathetically, a hand on the younger one's neck as a sign of comfort. "But I'll be with you until the end." he says, while Jungkook himself averts his gaze.

Unsure what's going to happen to the both of you now.

"She's going to die." Jungkook stampers quietly, sounding somewhat controlled, but he's not. "I'm going to loose her."

"We don't know that yet." Seokjin tries to comfort his friend. "There's not enough cases to make a generalization yet. Sure, there's never been a successful pregnancy with both chikd and mother surviving, but that doesn't mean it's impossible." He tries, and Jungkook just laughs, without any humor.

"You know her." He says lowly. "You know her body. She won't be able to handle it." He tells his friend. "I know that. You know it. She probably knows it, too." He scoffs, closing his eyes as he runs his hands over his face. "What do I do now?" He asks no one in particular.

There's not much.

He can either go through with it, or terminate it right now. There's no third option, no safer way, no better idea that could let him keep both you and his unborn child.

"You'll need to inform her." Jin says. "Or I can do it, if you'd like." He mumbles, but Jungkook shakes his head.

"I'll do it." He almost whispers. "Its my fault. I don't.. I didn't know it would happen, how did it even happen?!" He's now becoming more and more frantic. "I'm not on any hormones, no medication, how in the name of the gods did this even happen in the first place?!" He barks out. "Are you absolutely sure?" He presses, and Seokjin nods.

"It has to be." He says. "I can give you a testing kit for her to do at home, but I'm certain that she's pregnant." He says, and it seems like Jungkook falters a little at the word.

It's like it's suddenly real.

"What are we going to do?"

♥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

"I.. can you.. seokjin gave me this." Jungkook says, pale as a ghost. "There's.. pictures under the instructions. I'd.. like you to do this." He says, and you take the small box from his shaking hand, a bit nervous now.

"Is everything alright?" You wonder. "You're worrying me a little."

He wants to say that you shouldn't. That you don't have to. But he can't lie.

You wordlessly walk into the bathroom, following the instructions before you pinch the tip of your finger for a drop of blood to be picked up by what looks like a piece of paper at the end of a plastic tester, before you do the more intimate part of it.

You've realized what this is already.

You're not sure what to think of it. In a way, you're not scared, just worried for Jungkook. He seemed terrified, and you're not really sure what to make of it. You know his fears- but maybe he just doesn't want a child with you? Even though you've talked about it, there's still doubts in the back of your head.

Your phone vibrates, the timer has stopped.

You pick up the small plastic tester.

A circle is shown. You're actually creating a tiny little life inside you right now.

Walking out of the small room, you wordlessly place the object on the kitchen counter where Jungkook has placed his head down, waiting. It snaps up at the noise, at the sight, and his eyes stare for a good minute or so, before he dares to pick it up.

"What.. do we do now?" You wonder quietly, scared to cut through the silence. At the sound of your voice, he looks over at you, deep in thought, before his gaze drops down to your stomach.

"I can't loose you." He says, the first words he's said since you've returned from the thest. "I can't."

"But you won't?" You say, unsure. "Jin said he'll help us." You say, but he doesn't seem convinced at all, still staring. "Do you.. not want it?" You ask quietly, and for a moment, there's no reaction from him, no movement at all, before he gently picks up up and sits you on the kitchen counter. He's now face to face with you, before he wraps his arms around your middle, face resting against your abdomen.

"Of course I want it." He quietly says. "But I want you too."

"You have me." You say, carefully running your hand over his shoulder.

"Who knows for how long." He mumbles.

"Well just have to see, I guess." You shrug.

"How can you be this calm about this?" He whines almost into your clothes, arms tightening a bit.

"I don't know." You say. "Seokjin told me that I knownmy body best. And right now, I feel perfectly fine. A bit hungry maybe, but that's besides the point." You giggle, trying to lift the mood a little. "I've got you by my side, and him for whenever I've got questions or I need help. I'll be fine." You say.

"And if you're not?" He quietly worries. "If you're dying?"

"I won't." You say. "I can't."

"You will." He fights back.

"No, Jungkook, you don't understand." You say, pushing him a bit so he looks at you with his already red rimmed, glossy eyes. "Even if I don't make it, there's always gonna be a part of me with you." You explain. "Whenever you'll look at them-" you look down at your stomach, "-I'll be there too."

And at that he cries.

Because he doesn't just want to keep a piece of you. But everything.

♥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

"Absolutely amazing." Seokjin says, putting his devices away before looking at you with a smile. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Slightly elevated levels here and there, but that's simply to aid the growing fetus. It's remarkable." He says.

"Well.. I mean, nothing is really going on yet." You giggle. "Its still tiny, I mean. It'll probably take a while until, you know, you'll notice anything." You shrug, but Seokjin shakes his head.

"Not quite." He says, typing some things in. "Your body is already adapting to everything. It's working hard at providing optimal conditions for the child, but you're physically absolutely not showing any signs of lower energy or fatigue. That's really out of the ordinary." He explains. "Humans really are quite different from us."

"So she's doing good?" Jungkook anxiously asks from the back. "Nothings wrong yet?"

"Nothing at all. Or have you noticed anything odd?" Jin asks you, but you shake your head.

"I'm a bit hot and cold sometimes, and a little grumpy in the mornings, but I don't feel sick at all or anything." You offer.

"Slightly elevated temperature is normal." The doctor immediately tells the fidgeting Lourie behind him, waving him off. "And like I said, you know yourself best. Rest when you need it, exercise if you'd like. Just nothing too exhausting."

"She's absolutely not exercising." Jungkook answers strongly, walking towards you to help you down from the elevated examination bed. "I'll bring her back next week for another checkup."

"Do I really need to be monitored this much?" You complain a little.

"To be quite honest, yes." Jin somberly explains. "I'll come over though. There's no need to come here every time. Only for specifics."

You help Jin file some information, before you're ready to walk out the room. "Oh, eh, Jin?" You ask, and he hums a reply to let you know his attention is on you. "When do.. you know, when can we find out the gender?" You wonder, and Jungkook looks down at you.

"I'll tell you." He says. "As soon as I know, I'll tell you."

"Louri can sense a child's gender at a certain point in its development inside the womb." Jin explains walking closer. "As a father, he's going through changes as well. Depending on how these will present themselves, we will know." He explains a bit more in depth, making you nod, before you walk out.

"You're still so calm about this." Jungkook wonders as he walks home with you. "You don't seem worried at all."

"I already told you, I'm not." You say. "Theres no reason to be. It wouldn't change anything for the better."

He has to agree with you on that. Worrying might only bring more trouble for you. So maybe, he should stop that as well- or at least tone it down a bit, and embrace the changes to come for the time being. He will deal with any problems once they're there.

He straightens his posture a bit suddenly, steps more sure now as his hand holds yours a bit tighter.

He will be the best mate. The best partner. The best friend.

And the best father.

♥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

[sickficideas]

no promises || kunizai sickfic

ao3! 7.4k, mild nsfw/emeto themes - please refer to this link for warnings/tags! request for @potatopersonal on ao3!!

"Is Atsushi -"

"We've got it under control, Dazai. I need you to take this, you're the only one in any real danger here and you know that," Yosano tells him in that scolding mother voice of hers that often reminds him that she's the older one.

She's holding a cup of activated charcoal, something that he's dreadfully familiar with. He's taken it against his will and of his own accord on many occasions through his time with the Port Mafia, and he thinks even once or twice at the Armed Detective Agency, but this time he's not the culprit of his own demise.

He realizes that Yosano isn't going to give in and that she's really asking him to take it right here, right now - so he does like she's asked of him and somehow manages to down the entire cup without a pause.

It always makes him vomit. Every single time, without fail. The texture is so awful, and on top of that, he thinks his body has developed some sort of gag reflex specifically for this substance because he's taken it so many times against his will.

He and Atsushi were both poisoned downstairs at the cafe just about a half hour ago, he thinks. They only noticed because Atsushi started to feel incredibly unwell. Dazai doesn't know if he didn't get hit as hard because he's been poisoned before, or if Atsushi had much more of the poison than he did - either way, he's much more concerned about him.

This has happened before, this exact scenario, back when Dazai was a Port Mafia Executive. He and Akutagawa were both poisoned in the same way, their drinks being spiked. Dazai's health back then was much worse and it took him a lot longer to recover, but Akutagawa was unconscious for two weeks. Dazai thought he would never wake up. He remembers Gin asking him if he was going to die. He can still remember tears in her eyes that he'd never seen before or since then.

He can't believe he's let this happen twice. Why was he so careless?

"Yosano, he's - is he unconscious?" Dazai hardly manages to choke out before he feels the charcoal push its way back up his esophagus. Yosano's well prepared, of course, with a bedpan under his chin just seconds before a gag forces everything to splatter into the pan. He sucks in a breath and groans.

"He's conscious, and I need you to stay with me, too," Yosano says. Dazai can feel himself getting seriously lightheaded, and obviously it's bad enough for Yosano to notice, too. "I need you to take more of it, I'm sorry."

Dazai doesn't know if he can stay conscious. He can see the black creeping into his peripheral and he knows that's a sign that he's losing the battle. He lets Yosano do what she needs to do and he helps her as much as he can in his half-conscious state. He's really trying to fight it. Yosano forces more of the active charcoal down his throat and it bubbles back up in no time at all. Dazai's not even sure where the vomit ended up this time.

“Put me out of my misery,” he chokes out.

“I can’t do that, Dazai, I’m a licensed physician,” she reminds him for the hundredth time. Mori sure didn’t have a problem trying to help him die, but he didn’t care much about the law. He starts wondering if Mori even had a license at all, but his brain starts to fog up, and his eyes unfocus.

He can hear her saying his name. She sounds desperate, but his body is starting to go numb, and he can't respond. He can't fight it anymore.

At least, if he dies, it won't be painful.

But Atsushi -

…

Kunikida hasn't been this stressed in a long time. He's very aware that his presence stresses Yosano out so he's kept himself out of the infirmary and he's been sitting on a stray chair across from the couch. He's trying to stay calm, but he's deeply concerned for Dazai. Yosano reported that he started seizing, which is a bad sign.

Atsushi is sitting on the couch across from Kunikida, his expression looking just as solemn. He's still hooked up to an IV at Yosano's request with how dehydrated he is. He's only just now started to improve after hours of dealing with a raging fever and vomiting - Yosano thinks that his ability is slowly starting to mend his body and allowing the symptoms to subside, with the help of her own ability. She told him to stay out of the infirmary because she had a feeling the smell of the antiseptic was making him feel worse, with his heightened senses.

Dazai doesn't have anything to help him out. No ability to heal himself, and no possibility of Yosano interfering, so they're not even sure if he should be improving at this point.

"Kunikida?" Atsushi starts. His voice sounds hoarse. He coughs a few times to clear his throat.

"He'll be fine. Don't worry. He's always fine," Kunikida tells him, already knowing what he's going to say. He straightens up. "I want you to go home as soon as Kyoka gets here. You need to rest and I know you won't be doing that here."

"But I don't want to go," Atsushi murmurs. His voice sounds wobbly. He's been crying on and off for hours, Kunikida wouldn't be surprised if he started again now, but he's trying to keep him in good spirits.

"I get it, Atsushi. Trust me," he sighs. He pushes his glasses up to the top of his head and rubs at his eyes. "But you need to look after yourself too."

"Will you tell me if something happens?" Atsushi asks quietly.

"Of course I will."

Thankfully, it's not long until Kyoka is back from the medical supply errand she was asked to run for Yosano. She's incredibly worried about Atsushi, it's obvious even for someone who rarely shows strong emotion. He cries into her shoulder for a while, and she lets him. He's so drained, mentally and physically, that no one tries to cheer him up. Kunikida almost hopes that the tears will tire him out and help him sleep.

They all wish Atsushi well before the two of them leave, and not long after, Yosano makes an appearance back in the office, gathering concerned looks from everyone inside. Fukuzawa has appeared, too.

"He's not improving the way I'd like him to," Yosano says quietly, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm keeping a close eye on him, but if he needs supplemental care I'll have to send him to a hospital."

Kunikida wastes no time in slipping inside the infirmary to see him as Yosano addresses the rest of the staff. He's at the one closest to the door. Kunikida's heart drops when he sees him.

Dazai's frame looks incredibly small and fragile in the cot like this. It's so rare to see him in such a state. Kunikida would have thought this is the kind of thing Dazai would never ever fall victim to, but he supposes every human lets their guard down. Even superhumans like Dazai.

Kunikida isn't sure if he's unconscious or not, but either way, he's in pain. Kunikida can see it in the way his face is all twisted up, the sweat collecting at his hairline. He wants to do something.

He sits down on the cot right beside his and sighs.

"What the hell have you gotten yourself into?" Kunikida sighs.

An hour or so passes, and Kunikida spends his time completely still at Dazai's bedside, trying to stay out of Yosano's way. Ranpo comes back from a job with the Yokohama police and quickly assures them that the attack on Dazai and Atsushi was an angry client of theirs. Ranpo knows who it is, and he's already on the case - and before long, he leaves to catch him, with Kenji in tow to apprehend him by physical means.

Kunikida was starting to worry it had something to do with Dazai's past at the Port Mafia. That would open a whole new can of worms. This is easy, something they can handle with no issue.

"One of my friends up in Tokyo is a poison specialist. I'll take the sample there and he'll help me create an antidote for him without using any abilities, that way it’ll work on him…" Yosano murmurs. Kunikida heard her mention she already tried ability-based antidotes she’s acquired, just in case there were somehow enough degrees of separation for it to work, but with no luck.

Yosano tells him this with a briefcase in hand and her lab coat, something she doesn't wear as often nowadays, letting him know that she's leaving now.

Yosano gives him a list of ranges for his vital signs to look out for, and any symptoms that could appear that would require a hospital visit.

"Shouldn't you stay with him instead?" Kunikida asks nervously, looking up at her. He's not sure about this. Dazai doesn't seem to be doing well at all, for the only doctor on their staff to leave him. God, his stomach is starting to hurt from the stress. “What if he has another seizure?”

"I trust you. If you think he needs to go to the hospital at any point, do that. Don't ask me first," Yosano says. "I know you'll do what's best for him. He hasn’t seized in at least an hour, so I think that’s over with for now.”

Kunikida bites his lip. He hopes she's right.

…

It’s almost eight o’clock in the evening now, and Dazai has been unconscious since the first time he had a seizure.

He’s stable. His vital signs haven’t changed, he hasn’t had any seizures, and Kunikida has checked in with Yosano a few times. She expects him to wake up soon. Kunikida started working himself up, horrified that Dazai has slipped into some sort of coma, but Yosano doesn’t seem to think that’s a possibility.

“Kenji caught the culprit. He’s been placed in a holding cell until they can prove his guilt,” Ranpo says as he hands Kunikida the report. He’s stopped by to hand it off to Kunikida. Kenji has already gone home.

“They didn’t take your word for it?” Kunikida asks, half joking as he thumbs through the pages. Ranpo doesn’t do a very good job at filling these out, so Kunikida usually has to fix most of it for him.

“The guy’s a cop, of course. So they’re protecting him,” Ranpo grumbles, mildly annoyed. “Sounds like he was after Dazai specifically. Couldn’t give me a solid reason, but I know he’s been a client before. He knows something about Dazai’s…previous job. I’m sure.”

Kunikida bites his lip. As long as the guy is behind bars.

“How is he?” Ranpo asks. “Stable?”

“Yeah. Yosano isn’t too worried about him getting worse too quickly,” Kunikida mumbles, “but he’s not getting better.”

“Be careful with him. You know how he gets around Yosano when he’s not in his right mind,” Ranpo warns, and that’s the last thing he says to him before he waves him off and leaves the Agency.

Kunikida finds himself standing at that front door, staring at the report cover, thinking about what Ranpo said. It’s only happened once - Yosano was trying to treat Dazai after he collapsed from a high fever, but he wouldn’t let Yosano touch him. It was the most hysteric that Kunikida has ever seen him. They weren’t sure what was going on, but obviously, Yosano specifically reminded him of someone from his past.

He's pulled out of his thoughts for a moment when he hears something fall.

He tosses the report on his desk and almost sprints over to where the sound came from, certain Dazai is the source of it. He turns into the infirmary and Dazai is crumpled on the floor, turned into himself, arms shaking and breath hitching. The fluid stand is on the floor beside him.

"Dazai, what the hell?" Kunikida starts, carefully kneeling down beside him. He reaches out to touch his cheek. His skin hot to the touch. Kunikida knew he was running a fever, but this seems much worse than before. He curses under his breath.

"Where is…where…" Dazai murmurs. His eyes are dark and unfocused as he tries to force himself off the floor. His arms are hardly support his weight. He’s shivering, Kunikida thinks, but he’s not sure if it’s from the fever, or from fear. His eyes meet Kunikida’s once he’s at level with him, but his expression doesn’t change.

"You shouldn't have gotten up, what are you doing?" Kunikida chides nervously. Dazai can't answer, and he pulls himself out of Kunikida’s way fast enough to vomit on the tile floor instead of his vest.

Kunikida curses to himself. It's just a splatter of bile and activated charcoal, it looks like, but he doesn't know if it's good that he's still throwing up like this. Dazai’s breath hitches and he gags again, this time, only spitting up saliva.

Kunikida reaches forward to touch him, to offer him a comforting hand or something, but the second he does, Dazai whips his head around with eyes wider than he's ever seen them.

He looks scared. Why on earth would he be scared? He didn’t look like this a minute ago, but Kunikida quickly recognizes this as the look from the time Ranpo referenced earlier.

Dazai scrambles to get away from him, he rips the IV that was somehow still attached out of his arm and somehow manages to stand himself up, but one wrong move has him crumpled on the floor again, right after his head made contact with the metal framing of the cot he was using for support. Kunikida is trying to keep his cool. He's only seen Dazai like this once before, he doesn't know what to do. Does he need to call an ambulance? Should he call Yosano?

"Dazai," Kunikida says, biting his lip to keep his cool. He stands up to get on the other side of him. He needs to get him back in bed, but the moment he touches his arm, Dazai flinches so hard that Kunikida is almost worried he'll hurt himself. He's sure he hears him whimper. God, his heart aches. 

"Don't," Dazai mumbles. He's shaking, and his voice shakes with him as he turns his head away. Kunikida doesn't know what's gotten into him. He wonders if his fever has gotten so high that he's hallucinating.

"Dazai, it's Kunikida," he tells him quietly, tightening his grip on his arm. He needs him back to reality.

Miraculously, Dazai stops trying to get away.

Kunikida doesn't waste any time. He scoops him up into his arms and carries him back to the cot he was in earlier. He tries to lay him down, but Dazai's gripping onto his shirt, refusing to let go.

Kunikida takes his head and tucks it under his chin. He lets out a shaky breath. If Dazai wasn’t so out of it, he’d give him a talking-to about how much he scared him.

"Where…" he murmurs into Kunikida’s chest, still holding on.

"You're in the infirmary," Kunikida tells him. He almost wonders how Ranpo could have guessed this would happen, but of course it did. "At the Armed Detective Agency."

He feels him relax in his hold, just enough to let Kunikida worry a little less.

“I shouldn’t have left you alone. I’m sorry,” Kunikida says quietly, holding him a little closer. He can’t imagine waking up in a hospital cot by himself like that, in the dark infirmary. No wonder he was so freaked out, especially with that fever - Kunikida has concerns that Dazai’s fear just now was more deeply rooted in something else entirely, something that Kunikida will likely never be able to get him to admit.

Kunikida holds him like that for a while and Dazai starts to breathe normally. He’s not shaking as much, but he feels him shiver every now and then, and after long enough, Dazai barely manages to pull out of Kunikida’s hold to gag, and bring up more activated charcoal onto the bed sheets. He coughs a few times, but nothing else comes up.

Kunikida sighs. Of course, he can’t help it. Thankfully there’s plenty of other cots in here, so Kunikida decides he’ll move him to the next one. “Can I pick you up again?” Kunikida asks.

Dazai’s frame melts back into Kunikida’s hold to tell him yes with a whimper, and Kunikida scoops him up to lay him down on the other cot. This is probably better anyway, fresh cool sheets ought to do him some good.

Kunikida takes a comforter from a different cot to lay over Dazai, and he’s realized too late that his arm is still bleeding from where he pulled out the IV - not much, but enough to leave marks. He rummages through the supply drawers beside the cot to grab some gauze and wrap to wrap it up, at least, and as he carefully pulls it around Dazai’s arm, he sees his head tilt in his direction.

"Is Atsushi okay?" he asks, almost sounding out of breath at the effort it took him to say it. Kunikida is beyond relieved to hear him speaking coherently.

"He's fine, Dazai. He's home with Kyoka and she'll let us know if anything goes wrong," Kunikida assures as he closes the wrap. "Worry about yourself, for once."

Dazai doesn't seem like he's going to take that into consideration even remotely. Atsushi at least listened to reason.

Kunikida needs to place another IV for fluids. He’s been vomiting so much that there’s simply not another option - he highly doubts he can get him to drink any water. The problem is that Dazai hates needles, at least when anyone else is using them on him in this kind of setting. Kunikida has seen him refuse fluids at hospitals before because of it. Kunikida isn’t sure if it’s just a general dislike or if it stems from trauma, since Dazai is whiney about most things, but he’s afraid of making things worse right now.

“I have to put another IV in,” Kunikida tells him, a hand wrapped around his wrist where he just wrapped up his arm.

“No,” Dazai whines, childishly turning his head away.

“I have to, Dazai. You’re still throwing up, you’re dehydrated,” Kunikida tells him. “And I know you won’t be able to keep water down.”

Dazai doesn’t turn his head back, but he makes no effort in trying to pull his arm away, either. He thinks he realizes he can’t avoid it.

“Is it okay if I take some of your bandages off?” Kunikida asks.

“Use the top of my hand,” Dazai murmurs, his head still turned away from Kunikida.

Kunikida stands up to gather what he needs - he’s done this enough times to know how to on his own, thankfully. While he’s up he decides to wet a cloth for Dazai’s forehead, hoping that will help distract him.

He brushes Dazai’s hair out of his face, and his dark eyes peer up at him with emotions that Kunikida can’t quite read. His hairline is damp from sweat. He lays his hand over his forehead again and frowns before he lays the washcloth over his burning forehead, and he shivers, but relaxes just a bit once he gets used to the feeling.

He pulls up a chair on the other side of the cot and turns on the lamp to get started. “Can you make a fist for me?”

Dazai obliges. His head turns up and his eyes are glued to the ceiling, looking for something else to focus on. Kunikida takes note of how his breaths quicken, just a bit. Kunikida needs to distract him.

"You seem familiar with this situation. Am I correct?" Kunikida asks. Kunikida was at the cafe with them when it happened. Dazai shouted for someone to get Yosano as soon as Atsushi said he felt nauseous because it was far too soon after he complained of the taste of the tea. Dazai had his fingers down the poor kid’s throat to get him to vomit before Kunikida could even piece together what was happening. He’s been wondering if this happened to him before.

"Mhm," Dazai mumbles after taking in a sharp breath.

"So this has happened to you before," Kunikida says.

"Mhm," Dazai nods. At first, Kunikida thinks he's just going to drop it, because even though Kunikida knows about Dazai's past now, he's still not any more open to sharing the details. "Almost…this exact scenario. With me, and…my subordinate."

"Yeah? Someone spiked your drinks?" Kunikida asks, making sure he has good placement before he uses the needle.

"Mhm," Dazai mumbles. "My subordinate was…he was unconscious for two…three? Two weeks, I think."

Kunikida wasn't aware he had any direct subordinates, but he supposes it makes sense, given Dazai's rank as an executive. It's so strange how he's never mentioned anything even remotely alluding to their existence. He uses that brief moment to stick Dazai, and he flinches, but manages to keep his arm still enough to not pull anything out. “Good. Good job, that part’s over.”

“I hate those things,” Dazai murmurs feverishly. His breaths have gotten a bit faster now, and Kunikida makes a mental note to remind himself he still has to get him hooked up to the monitoring machines again.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Kunikida says gently as he starts to dress Dazai’s hand. He wants to comfort him, somehow, but he thinks the best thing to do for someone like Dazai is a distraction. "How long ago did it happen? Long time ago?”

Somehow, turning the conversation back around to the previous topic has worked a bit. Dazai focuses back on that. "Yeah, must've been…sixteen, I think."

"You had subordinates at sixteen?" Kunikida huffs, looking up at him for a brief moment. "How old were they?"

"He was…fourteen, I think," he breathes out. Kunikida bites his lip. He knew that the mafia recruited a lot of their members very young, after all, Kyoka stands to show that.

"You recruited him?" Kunikida says. It’s hard to imagine. Kunikida almost wonders if he’s joking, but he doesn’t have the energy for that right now. "A fourteen-year-old."

"I did," Dazai admits.

"Still alive?" Kunikida asks.

"Mhm. You've met him," Dazai says turning his head back towards him. Kunikida reaches forward with his free hand to readjust the washcloth on his head, as it’s started to slip.

Well, now Kunikida's intrigued. He keeps eye contact. "Who? That redhead?"

Dazai scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Hell no."

"Then who?"

"C'mon, guess,” Dazai says, Apparently, he’s gathered enough energy to mess him with. Kunikida will take it, it’s a good sign.

"I have no clue, Dazai. Tell me," Kunikida huffs, exasperated. He turns his attention back to dressing the IV catheter on Dazai’s hand, which he’s almost finished with. "I don't even know that many Port Mafia dogs by name. Akutagawa is the only one I can think of."

Dazai tilts his head to the side with a cheeky grin. The washcloth starts to slide down his face.

"You're kidding,” Kunikida blinks, reaching back up to fix it. “Stop moving so much.”

"Not kidding."

"You've known him the whole time?" Kunikida exclaims. He feels like he should be angry, but somehow it makes sense. Dazai always seemed a little too eager to brush off any mention of the so-called Hellhound of the Port Mafia. Kunikida thinks he even recalls Dazai slipping up and mentioning a detail about him that none of the rest of them knew, but that memory was lost to him until now.

"I couldn't tell you I knew him. That'd give me away," Dazai shrugs, this time, seemingly making an effort to keep his head still.

"Your information would've been helpful, though," Kunikida grumbles, attaching the line to Dazai’s hand to get the fluids going.

"You knew everything you needed to know. He's a Port Mafia attack dog and he'll kill anything he sees," Dazai says incredibly casually.

"And you've known him since he was fourteen, huh?" Kunikida asks, sitting back in the chair as he crosses his arms over his chest.

Dazai's expression changes, but it's an emotion that Kunikida doesn't quite recognize. "Mhm."

Kunikida can't really fathom any of this. A sixteen-year-old Dazai with a fourteen-year-old Akutagawa is just something his brain can't even picture - both of them younger than even Atsushi is now. Dazai having any connection to someone as cold-blooded as Akutagawa doesn't make any sense to him.

When he looks over at Dazai again, his eyes are lost. He's somewhere else. Kunikida doesn't know what life was like for him in the Port Mafia, but it can't have been good. He was already a major alcoholic by the time he joined the Detective Agency, and Kunikida still remembers the shiver that ran up his spine when he saw how thin he was under his clothes. He still doesn't eat meals regularly out of habit, it's something that Kunikida almost has to force on him, but he’s gotten much better about it.

Whatever happened to him damaged him much more than anything Kunikida could ever hope to fix on his own.

"Are you okay?" Kunikida asks him.

Dazai lifts his head with wide eyes like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. "Huh? Oh, yeah."

“Let me get your temperature,” Kunikida says, taking the thermometer from the drawer out of the case. He sticks it under Dazai’s tongue for a few seconds and it ends up reading 102.3. That’s not horrible, but it isn’t good, either.

He looks back in Dazai’s direction to find that look in his eyes again, but this time, some of the color has started to drain from his face, and he notices him swallow thickly.

"You look nauseous," Kunikida comments.

"Uh-huh," Dazai mumbles. He burps into a closed fist and groans. "Need the pan."

Kunikida feels awful for him. Yosano couldn't give him a thing for his nausea because vomiting would actually help his specific situation according to what Yosano gathered, so he's probably been feeling horribly nauseous this entire time. Kunikida doesn’t see a bedpan in the drawer so he takes the trash bin and holds it under Dazai’s chin as he tries to sit himself up with a whine.

He spits into it, saliva getting caught on the sides as he huffs out breaths. He lays a hand over his stomach and groans. “Ugh…”

"Empty?" Kunikida asks. He can’t imagine he has much left in his stomach.

"No," Dazai breathes out, to Kunikida’s surprise, "won't come up."

Kunikida sighs. Of course. "Want me to help you?"

"Please," Dazai whines. He burps, and it sounds wet, but all that drips from his lips is saliva. "I suck at doing it myself, I… hrruk -"

A gag that brings up nothing, and Kunikida realizes he really will need help.

He's done this before. He's probably a pro at preventing overdoses because of Dazai, but this here isn't a life-or-death situation, at least.

He doesn't bother with gloves because he knows he'll wash his hands regardless, and he slips a hand past Dazai's saliva-coated lips, his other hand on the back of Dazai's neck to make sure he doesn't jolt back when his hand gets back far enough.

His mouth is warm, the insides of his cheeks are so soft. He’s trying to ignore the thought, but Dazai looks hot like this. His eyes red and tired, lips wet and almost swollen, cheeks flushed. Kunikida feels something he shouldn't in that moment, and he gets far enough back without realizing, and hot vomit spills over his hand without much warning.

It's not much. It's water and charcoal and bits of whatever is left in his stomach from lunch dripping down Kunikida’s hand and into the bin. Dazai whines and spits the bits left in his mouth into the bin. He breathes heavily over it and Kunikida haphazardly covers his hand in a layer of paper towels to avoid dripping Dazai’s stomach contents onto the floor on his way over to the sink, but he stays for a moment to make sure Dazai’s okay.

“Hurts,” Dazai groans. He burps over the bin, but of course, nothing comes up. He lays back but he holds onto the bin.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Kunikida sighs. He wishes he could do more to help him. “Will you be okay by yourself for a second?”

“Uh-huh,” Dazai murmurs, leaning back and pressing his hand against his stomach.

Kunikida remembers there’s a splatter of puke on the floor and on the cot Dazai was previously resting on that he needs to clean, but right now, he’s not keen on leaving Dazai out of his sight for too long. He washes his hands a bit longer than he needs to, and looks over his shoulder to check on Dazai one too many times - he hears him burp and gag a few times, but once Kunikida is on the way back to him, he’s laid back all the way, eyes screwed shut and breaths heavy.

Kunikida places the bin back on the floor as he sits in the chair again. He looks over the fluid stand and Dazai’s hand to make sure everything is still properly attached before he leans forward to flip over the washcloth on his warm forehead. “I’ll check with Yosano to see if there’s anything I can give you for that fever.”

“I just want my stomach to stop hurting,” Dazai whines, but he really sounds like he’s in pain.

“I know, Dazai,” Kunikida sighs, Yosano already told him that will have to wait until he gets an antidote. “Maybe we -”

“Can you…can you check on Atsushi for me?” Dazai asks, forcing his eyes open to look over at Kunikida. Kunikida finds it a bit out of nowhere. “Please.”

“I can do that,” Kunikida says. He hasn’t heard from Kyoka. Junichiro texted Kunikida a while ago to let him know he and Naomi would check in with the two of them occasionally to make sure they were doing okay, but that was all. He pulls out his phone and dials Kyoka’s number.

“Hello?” she answers nervously.

“Don’t worry. I’m just calling to make sure everything’s okay,” Kunikida says. He lowers his phone and puts it on speaker for Dazai to hear. “How’s Atsushi doing?”

“Kunikida? Is that you?” It’s Junichiro’s voice. He hears some shuffling, and suddenly Junichiro’s voice is much clearer. “Kyoka had to knock him out a little bit ago. He couldn’t sleep ‘cause he was so anxious. He was making himself sick.”

Kunikida’s shoulders sink. “Anxious about what?”

“He’s worried about Dazai,” Junichiro says a little more quietly, and Kunikida watches Dazai tense up in his peripheral. “We kept telling him he’d be okay. And you said you’d call if something went wrong, but…we had to use the last resort.”

Kunikida bites his lip as Dazai turns his head away.

“But I think it was good for him. He’s been sleeping well since then, maybe we should’ve knocked him out sooner,” Junichiro half-jokes. “Is Dazai doing okay? We’re worried too.”

“He’s doing fine,” Kunikida tells them. He doesn’t want to lie and say he’s better, but telling them how he’s really feeling will only worry them more. “Nobody needs to worry. We have everything under control and they’ll both be good as new once Yosano gets ahold of that antidote.”

They exchange a few more words before Junichiro tells him they should get to sleep too, and Kunikida realizes he’s probably in the same boat as Atsushi - he won’t be able to sleep in favor of worrying about Dazai, but he can’t sleep even if he wanted to. He has to make sure he stays stable until Yosano gets back.

Once he hangs up, Kunikida reaches to lay a hand over Dazai’s arm, but the way he’s breathing - so calmly - tells Kunikida that he’s fallen asleep. Kunikida almost has to wonder if he was getting himself that worked up over Atsushi in his fevered brain.

Kunikida gets him hooked back up to all of the necessary monitors while Dazai drifts off into a deeper sleep, and he changes the washcloth on his forehead, too. He looks so much more relaxed. His eyes aren’t screwed shut so tightly. He looks like he might actually get some good rest.

Kunikida presses a kiss up to his forehead before he changes the washcloth, and he sits back in the chair beside Dazai’s cot as he cracks open the report and gets back to work.

…

The rest of the night went by more smoothly than Kunikida could have asked for. He’s usually not a fan of pulling all-nighters like that, but he got caught up on the work he missed through yesterday’s situation. And even better, Dazai slept through the night.

“I have to pee,” Dazai mumbles as soon as he wakes up. The staff have started to file back into the building, Kunikida can hear it from across the hall, and the light has started to spill through the windows back into the infirmary.

Kunikida sits beside him on the cot to help him up, making sure Dazai doesn’t have any room to do another sprint across the infirmary like last night. He’s looking better, but he’s downright exhausted, shown in the dark circles under his eyes. It’s still obvious he doesn’t feel good.

“You won’t carry me?” Dazai pouts.

“Do you need me to? Or do you want me to carry you?” Kunikida huffs as he snakes an arm around his waist to help him up on his feet. His legs are still a bit wobbly, but he gets his footing, and uses the fluid stand pole for support.

“Want, need? What’s the difference?” Dazai complains with a dramatic sigh. He can tell he’s feeling better with how absurd he’s acting, but his fever is still there, Kunikida can feel it on his skin. “I want you. It’s that kinda sexier than saying I need you?”

Kunikida keeps a hand on his back as he leads him over to the restroom. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Hehe. Love you too,” Dazai jokes.

Kunikida makes sure he doesn’t need help going to the bathroom before he closes the door, and he busies himself with changing the sweat-dampened sheets on Dazai’s cot while he waits.

He’s surprised to see Atsushi standing in the doorway, looking horrified to see the cot empty.

“Relax, he’s just in the bathroom,” Kunikida says, dropping what he’s doing to meet Atsushi at the entrance, but the deep concern doesn’t leave his eyes. “What are you doing here, Atsushi?”

"Is he still not doing well?" Atsushi murmurs nervously.

"He's improved," Kunikida assures him with a hand on his shoulder, "You look much better. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," Atsushi tells him. Kunikida won't take his word for it, he's not usually very honest about this kind of thing. He looks better than he did yesterday, but he can tell just by looking at him that he's nauseous with anxiety, just like Junichiro described last night. He takes note of the way he's breathing through his mouth instead of his nose to avoid the antiseptic smell.

"Don't worry about him so much. He's survived worse, hasn't he?" Kunikida reminds him with a chiding sigh, regardless of the fact that he's just as concerned. He can't pass those feelings on to Atsushi, especially knowing they had to knock him out last night to get him to sleep.

"I guess so," Atsushi murmurs.

"Who told you to come in today? You should still be resting," Kunikida tells him. He knows Atsushi came of his own accord. He’s here much earlier than detectives usually need to be - he probably snuck out.

"Um…well, no one, I just…I just wanted to make sure he wasn't…" Atsushi mumbles.

"I'll call you if something's the matter. Go back home, no one needs you sitting around here with how you’re feeling," he sighs, landing a hand on Atsushi’s back and walking outside of the infirmary with him.

Atsushi doesn't seem to be paying attention entirely, and Kunikida almost starts to scold him for not listening before he realizes that he's lost a lot of color in his face, enough to make him think he's about to throw up. Atsushi is much more aware of it than Kunikida, obviously and he bolts for the trash bin right inside of the infirmary to retch and gag once or twice before vomit spills past his lips. He’s shaking, breathing hard and clearly anxious, but thankfully, he seems to have only needed to vomit once. Even so, he coughs and forces a burp or two just to make sure.

He crouches down in front of the bin and leans his head against it, still visibly shaking. He's not in nearly as rough shape as he was yesterday regarding this. Atsushi doesn't seem to mind other people throwing up at all, but if it's himself, he almost makes himself even more sick with anxiety. Yesterday he was too out of it to really take in what was happening, but now he's fully lucid.

"I guess - this whole thing is a, uh…a good way to get - get over this," Atsushi stammers between shaky breaths, of course, still trying to keep a positive attitude. Kunikida can hear his breathing patterns start to get erratic with panic, and he hears him attempt to swallow back a gag.

"I'll be right back. Stay here,” he tells him after patting his back and heading back for the Agency Office, where Junichiro has since appeared with his sister.

"Tanizaki, can you take Atsushi home?" Kunikida asks. Normally he wouldn't bother a detective with a task like this, but he'd rather Atsushi be with someone familiar while he's feeling so anxious.

"Did he show up? With how he’s feeling?" Tanizaki asks, concern already washing over his face as he gets up from his desk. Kunikida assumes he and Naomi went home after Atsushi fell asleep. "He's still sick?"

"I think part of it might be nerves now. I don't need him hanging around and worrying about Dazai," Kunikida says, and Junichiro follows him back out into the hallway.

Atsushi is sitting against the doorframe with his knees pulled up tight against his chest and his head on his knees, mumbling something to himself.

"Hey, Atsushi, let's get you downstairs, yeah? You should go home and take days off when you can get them," Junichiro tells him gently as he crouches beside him. Atsushi seems to have given up on his image entirely as he leans into Junichiro. The latter's brow twists with concern and he brings him into a hug, and Kunikida quickly realizes that Atsushi’s crying. "I know. You'll both be okay soon. I'll see if Yosano can get you something to settle your stomach when she gets back, okay?"

"Kay," he mumbles into Junichiro's shoulder.

"Good. I know you hate it, but you're doing a good job," Junichiro tells him in a gentle voice that Kunikida doesn't think he'd be able to pull off. He ruffles his hair fondly. "You know how seasick I get, right? You're handling this way better than I do."

"I am…?" Atsushi murmurs, lifting his head just a bit.

"For sure."

Junichiro is much better at this than Kunikida is in general.

Kunikida waves both of them off as Junichiro leads him back to the elevator, continuing to talk to him gently, and Kunikida shakes off his concern for Atsushi as he notices his shoulders relax before they disappear behind the elevator doors.

Kunikida walks back into the infirmary and stops in the doorway to find Dazai peeking out of the bathroom like he’s checking if the coast is clear.

"What'd you do to that kid to make him worry so much, huh?" Kunikida sighs.

"Beats me," Dazai half-chuckles, clutching onto the IV pole as he walks out of the bathroom, looking less wobbly than before, but Kunikida still meets him to walk him back to his cot. Kunikida can see the hint of concern in his eyes, but Dazai doesn’t show it for long. "He went home?"

"He did," says.

"Hope he won’t be that upset when I finally end it all,” Dazai says, singing the words at the end.

“Well, he will, and so will everyone else, so go ahead and cancel your plans now,” Kunikida grumbles when they make it to the cot. He’s bewildered by Dazai’s audacity to say things like that sometimes, but he thinks he’s so disconnected from the reality of it that he just doesn’t understand. “You’re still dizzy.”

He observes that when he lowers him back down to the cot and Dazai’s head bobs a bit, just before he lays him back down. He’s not so pale anymore, thankfully.

“‘S not a big deal,” Dazai says. His head sinks back into the pillow, and he’s relaxed, Kunikida thinks. He’s not as tense as usual.

"Yosano should be back soon," Kunikida tells him. “She texted me earlier.”

"Mm," Dazai hums as his eyes start to fall shut again.

Kunikida lays a hand over Dazai's cheek. He's still warm, but he thinks his fever has gone down a bit. He’s hoping he’ll get the clear to get Dazai to eat something once Yosano is back. Kunikida probably needs to grab breakfast for himself, too.

"What'd I do to you?" Dazai suddenly asks with a dry, one-note laugh, just as soon as Kunikida takes his hand back.

Kunikida feels his ears get hot. "What do you mean?"

"You're more worried than Atsushi is," Dazai tells him with a little chuckle, thoroughly amused. "And you know how hard it is to kill me."

"I'm not worried," Kunikida scoffs. “Just making sure you don’t die. Do you know how annoying that paperwork would be? I have to pick up enough of your slack as it is.”

“Sure, Kunikida, whatever you say,” Dazai giggles to himself, “You love me. You took such good care of me and you’re so worried about me you can barely stand it.”

“Fine,” Kunikida grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. His face is red beyond belief, he’s sure.

“Say it back!” Dazai whines.

“You didn’t say you love me!” Kunikida shouts back at him with a groan. “How do you think this works, you idiot?!”

“But I do,” Dazai claims. His eyes soften, but there’s still a hint of that cheeky grin left on his lips. “I love you, Kunikida.”

He almost sounds sincere. “Fine. Fine, I love you too.”

Dazai looks incredibly accomplished, meanwhile, Kunikida wishes he could duck his head underwater. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

“Go back to sleep. You’re so annoying,” Kunikida grumbles, “you’re sure not acting like you were poisoned yesterday.”

“Aw, that’s mean, Kunikida. I still don’t feel good,” Dazai whines, and even though he’s just using it as leverage, Kunikida feels guilty, because it’s obvious he doesn’t feel good. “Will you lay with me?”

“Not a chance, Dazai. I’m not risking falling asleep and Yosano walking in,” Kunikida grumbles, rubbing his eyes as he slides his glass up on top of his head. His lack of sleep is starting to catch up with him.

“Aww, please? You’re tired. And I need comfort. It’s a win-win,” Dazai explains, but Kunikida shakes his head at him.

“I can comfort you from here,” Kunikida tells him. He takes his hand and squeezes it a little tighter than normal. He’s so thankful Dazai’s doing better. He’s not sure what he would have done if he took a turn for the worse. “I’ll lay with you tonight when we go home.”

“Your place?” Dazai asks.

“Pretty sure yours is a mess,” Kunikida confirms. He reaches forward to brush his fingers through Dazai’s soft curls, still damp with sweat at the roots. Dazai lets his eyes fall shut. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

“Mmm…no promises,” Dazai says quietly, and Kunikida squeezes his hand one more time as a reminder. Dazai may not be able to make that promise, but Kunikida will be there with him every time. He leans forward to press a kiss on his warm, flushed cheek.

And of course, despite his efforts to avoid getting caught, he hears Yosano’s voice, already giggling.

“Kunikida?”

[sickiesope]

Can I request a sope one? Where Hobi is sick, like he has his tummy so upset after having dinner with the guys, so goes home early, but Yoongi was worrying so he tags along.

Probably Hobi isn't happy about it, because he actually have the rumbles, gurgles and funny noises going around in his belly, and also his tummy had bloated a lot, and he is having stomach pains, but Yoongi takes good care of him.

I'm catching up on my requests and this one is so cute I loved writing it! @writer-of-the-soul I hope you're still around and that it's to your liking! 💜💜💜

Early night

Sickie: Hoseok

Caretaker: Yoongi

TW: emeto, sickness

Hoseok regrets going out tonight. He wasn't feeling great all day and really wanted to stay home but didn't want to let down his members. So he forced himself out.

After finishing dinner and having a few drinks, Hoseok feels completely done. He had a couple of shots and the alcohol isn't agreeing with his dinner, that also isn't agreeing with his stomach. His stomach is churning unhappily and sloshing around and cramping.

Hoseok just sits there and keeps a straight face, despite the painful discomfort that's slowly getting worse. He is contemplating going home early by himself. He places a hand over his belly and realizes it's bloated. It hurts more to the touch and his stomach grumbles in complaint. Luckily the place is loud and drowns out the noises his stomach is making. Hoseok doesn't even need to hear it, he can literally feel it churning and grumbling from inside. It hurts and he feels nauseas. He's seen Yoongi looking at him multiple times. The older is just observant, he's seen Hobi making weird faces and casually rubbing his stomach all night. He can't help being a little worried.

As the night goes on, Hoseok gets worse. He can feel his organs moving inside his tummy when his stomach rumbles, it's uncomfortable. He groans and sits back, rubbing it again. This time it feels like his stomach is pushing something up as it's churning. Hoseok coughs and holds a hand to his mouth, panicking inside. He quickly gets up from his chair "I'm sorry guys, I'll be right back." Now Yoongi is really worrying.

Hoseok runs into the bathroom and luckily no one else is there. He goes to the first stall and kneels and gags in front of the toilet. His stomach burbles as it prepares to throw out his dinner. It's way quieter in the bathroom and Hoseok can hear how bad his stomach is. Another gag and he's actively retching into the toilet, bringing up the burning alcohol hurting his throat and stomach. He winces as his stomach does another painful churn, gurgling up another wet mouthful. Hoseok wants to keep quiet but he's retching and vomiting too hard he can't help it.

He hears the door open and what sounds like Yoongi: "Hoseok, you in here??"

"Hyung" the younger whines, his eyes watering and blurry.

Yoongi kneels beside the ill dancer, gently rubbing his shoulder. "It's okay Hoba. You'll feel better after getting it out."

Hoseok coughs and pukes up more of his contents and backs away, panting. His stomach makes more sick sounding gurgles that grab Yoongi's attention.

Yoongi lifts up Hobi's shirt and he's surprised at how round and bloated his tummy is. He feels it and the surface is rock hard. "Oh no Hoba, is the dinner upsetting your tummy?"

"Come on, I'm getting you home. You need to rest Hoba."

"Ughh, it hurts hyung" Hoseok whined. His stomach brews up another awful rumble, it feels like an earthquake going on in his stomach. It cramps up inside and Hoseok can't stand it.

Yoongi gets a ride for Hoseok and he goes with him.

"You don't have to go hyung, you can stay out with the guys" Hoseok tries saying but at the same time he wants company and care.

"Nonsense. I won't have you all by yourself in this condition" the older insists.

-----------------

Hoseok flops into bed, he's exhausted and just wants to sleep. But his stomach won't let him, it hurts and keeps making noises and he's still nauseous. Hoseok lays back against the headboard and sighs. "Can you please sleep in my bed hyung?" looking at Yoongi with puppy dog eyes. He's more clingy when he's sick.

"Of course Hoba" Yoongi smiles. The two of them make themselves comfortable. Yoongi gets Hoseok to drink a cup of water. His stomach burbles as it churns with the liquid. It's still bloated and reacts angrily when Yoongi feels it again. Yoongi starts rubbing his tummy gently, moving his hand along the rounded surface and he feels it vibrating with grumbles.

Hoseok gets up and runs to the bathroom, the water rising and splashing his throat. He gags and his stomach gurgles menacingly and shoots out the water. He's coughing and mostly bringing up clear liquid, and then he's just bringing up bile. Yoongi calmly holds him up and rubs his back until he finishes. The older helps him get cleaned up and offers to make him tea but Hoseok turns it down, he can't stomach it.

"Your tummy sounds awful, what's going on in there?" Yoongi's eyes widen. The older puts his head over Hobi's tummy, his ear grazing it. He doesn't put weight on it as he doesn't want to irritate the angry tum further. It grumbles even harder, it's as if his stomach is purposely being worse now. The rumbling sounds like a car, getting louder and then turning into weird sounding gurgles. Then came what sounded like a bubble pop.

"Are you sick again?" Yoongi asks concerned. He's trying to figure out what all these noises mean, whether it's sickness, hunger, indigestion etc. That little pop his tummy did sounded especially weird.

Hoseok looks down at his stomach, trying to grasp the noises it just made. "Ughh I really don't feel good hyung." His stomach burbles with the water, making more tiny bubbles go off inside. It makes Hoseok feels sick again.

Hoseok is exhausted and just wants to sleep. He flops back into bed and Yoongi inspects his tummy that's still bloated. He gently places his hand on it again, rubbing in circles. Hoseok hums in relief, it feels more soothing now. It finally feels like his stomach rid itself of what was bothering it. Yoongi rubs his gurgling stomach until it's calmed down and he's lulled to sleep. He looks at Hobi breathing and his round tummy rising and falling. Even when asleep his tummy still burbles softly once in awhile. It's a lot quieter compared to earlier. Yoongi lays next to him, his head in front of his stomach listening to the little sounds that lull him to sleep.

[starlightwoofwoof]

💜💙✨ Some ‘The Horror at Camp Jellyjam’ Headcanons ✨💙💜

hey welcome back to My Jellyjam Madness part, uh, like 25

anyway, here’s more headcanons about one of my favorite books, I’ve already done one for Buddy specifically, but he’ll be included here again just because I love him that much 😀

although, this time, it’ll be about a bunch of the other characters as well (I don’t really have any drawings for this cause I didn’t really feel like it unfortunately, but hey, I bet this will still be fun-) sooooooo enough rambling, HERE WE GO-

(well- two more things, one, I have to thank the Character Headcanon Generator for providing some of these, I’ll specify which ones were from that, and two, cws/tws are in the tags, as always)

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of course we should start with the main protagonist, miss Wendy herself-

Wendy kind of finds it weird that she doesn’t have a mouth, but she would probably love Hello Kitty anyways

Speaking of cats, Wendy doesn’t exactly dislike them, but she does get a little nervous around cats

Wendy also dislikes any sort of animals that were/are kinda considered ‘gross’

Whenever Wendy has a hair scrunchy, she likes to put it around her wrist until she has to use it, and sometimes just wears them as accessories

Despite Elliot annoying her, Wendy really does care about him and his well being, a lot

Wendy is very observant to things she finds interesting

Wendy tries to not think about the whole incident, but she’s just glad most of the people involved were okay after

I like to think Wendy kept in touch with Diedre, Ivy and Jan after it all ended

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Next up, of course, is Wendy’s goofy a$$ brother, Elliot

Elliot doesn’t exactly have a favorite sport or game, he just takes whatever sport/game you throw at him, and he’ll probably like it (if he wins, of course-)

Elliot kept the King Coin Buddy gave him (and even the other five) as, uh, ‘souvenirs’

Elliot doesn’t own a single pair of matching socks (CHG)

Elliot doesn’t swear, obviously, but the one time he accidentally did, he made a ‘pact’ with Wendy for her not to tell anyone- (he had to give her some of his Halloween candy)

The incident didn’t scare Elliot too much, but he still doesn’t like to talk about when he had to see (and smell-) King Jellyjam

Elliot did, in fact, not complain about his dad’s garden fertilizer again-

~~~~~~~~~~~~

BUDDY TIME ‼️‼️‼️

Buddy kinda has a ‘preppy’, bouncy walk (CHG)

Buddy has a slightly older brother named Robert (the only reason the camp wasn’t given to him instead is because he was busy preparing for college)

yes, Buddy is his real name

I know the whole ‘Buddy is between the ages of 17-18’ thing probably isn’t true but I still like to think it is anyway- so he’s 18

Buddy’s birthday is somewhere in February (haven’t decided exactly when lol)

Buddy is more of a dog person, he especially loves golden retrievers because they remind him of his hair-

Buddy kinda had some weird side effects after being freed from King JJ’s hypnosis, like only saying ‘Only the Best’ for a few days, aggressive shaking, uncontrollable crying sometimes, vomiting some weird purple stuff, etc.

not sure about this one cause it’s kinda disturbing, but I kinda like to think that Buddy’s brain was literally melting while being hypnotized, which is why he was acting all weird after he was freed (luckily, he has since recovered)

Buddy gained a giant bruise on his chest after the whole softball bat incident, but didn’t realize until after he was freed and went home, of course

Due to all the guilt he felt, Buddy had considered … y’know, ending it all before, although, luckily, he had never acted upon these thoughts

Buddy is secretly closeted, cause y’know, mid-90s (nah I’m just kidding …… maybe) (CHG)

𝓑𝓾𝓭𝓭𝔂 𝓲𝓼 𝓲𝓷 𝓶𝔂 𝔀𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓼. (CHG)

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alright, to end this off, here’s a section for some of the other characters (mostly King JJ)

Jeff was one of the ones who cried the most when all the children were freed, although, he’ll never admit that to anyone who didn’t see

The only way King Jellyjam can properly communicate with people is through his hypnosis victims’ minds, his voice is deep, kind of ‘royal’ sounding and it’s also gargled

King JJ’s favorite candle scent is a specific grape soda candle

King JJ wasn’t as huge as he was by y’know, his end when he first met Buddy, he was only about half the size of a house

Holly helped Buddy the most when he was going through all the side effects, and even helped tie the tie he wore at the end of the book

~~~~~~~~~~~~

alright, I think that’s all the cringe I could think of for now

bye for noooooooooowwwwwww 😀

[blackhairedjjun]

flowers of every color | writer's behind the scenes!

some stuff about my writing process for the fic! be warned that if you haven't caught up yet, there are spoilers

tagging people who liked and/or replied my interest check post: @agustdiv1ne @mazeinthemoon @txtistheloml @kyaneosprincess @teletubbiesssss @banggyu0308

these are pretty long so i'm putting them behind a read-more hehe

story planning:

while we've gotten plenty of yeonjun in prince outfits over the years, the main inspiration for this fic is yeonjun's opening outfit in act: sweet mirage! i saw that and was like "oh man he would be SO DASHING as a prince 😍" and just went from there

if you've been here from the start, you might know that i didn't originally plan make a series! i just word-vomited the first chapter (well, what became the first chapter) directly into tumblr's post editor because the thought of prince!yeonjun wouldn't leave me alone, especially after seeing a few other prince/commoner and prince/servant fics floating around lol. chapter 1 is also the only chapter made using tumblr's legacy editor rather than their new one (which is also why the cover pics are one big edited photo and not 3 separate photos, i couldn't figure out how to get 3 photos to line up in the legacy editor).

i honestly did not expect people to read chapter 1 but they did!! and they liked the idea!! plus even after writing chapter 1 i STILL couldn't get the idea out of my head so i decided to write it as a full story. i've written plenty of oneshots before under my (non-kpop) ao3 account, but this is my first multichapter series! so i opened google docs and made a quick outline of the story's main events.

the original outline for foec had 6 chapters + 2 endings, but as i wrote the story, i realized that more detail and scenes were needed than what i initially outlined! chapters 3 and 4 (ball preparations + the ball / gazebo dance scene) were supposed to be one chapter. chapters 5 and 6 (y/n hanging out with the chois + getting caught + punishment + intro of arranged marriage) were also supposed to be one chapter. chapters 7-9 (end of friendship, reconciling with soogyu, y/n & beomgyu talk) were also supposed to be one chapter!

i actually started writing the bad ending first before the good ending -- my reasoning was that if i were the reader, i would want to save the good ending for last so that i could end the series on a positive note. i was very surprised when people voted for the good ending first in the poll LMAO also as far as i'm concerned, both endings are canon in a "branching timeline" kind of way. they are both the real ending! i do have a soft spot for the good ending but also i love angst too much to not write a bad ending haha.

honestly most of the story beats from my original outline made it into the final fic! the biggest change has to do with queen hwayoung's and princess ajin's roles in the story (more on that below).

character notes:

when i was first brainstorming i really wanted to include both taehyun and hueningkai in the story as well, but i struggle with writing ensemble casts and choi line + y/n (+ the supporting characters in the castle) were already enough for me to handle. soobin and beomgyu were the easiest for me to incorporate into the story since they have the same last name and i could go "oh in this universe they're part of the same royal house hence the same last name" HAHA. i do imagine that the house of choi princes are also friends with tyunning (kai does get alluded to in chapter 9), but they're off doing their own adventures.

some of little moments in the fic were inspired by actual things txt have done in variety shows! yeonjun, y/n, soobin, and beomgyu playing cards in chapter 5 is based off to do ep. 53 where they also play cards. soogyu playing badminton in chapter 8 is inspired by gbgb era idol human theater where they played a little badminton by the pool. and there are a lot more small character quirks that are inspired by gifs or fancams i've seen of them haha.

queen hwayoung and princess ajin were originally not supposed to be part of the story! my original idea was the have the arranged marriage subplot be heard secondhand by through advisers so that it feels like an invisible force pulling yeonjun away from y/n. but i needed to make the threat of the arranged marriage stronger and ended up writing the scene with queen hwayoung in it for chapter 6.

princess ajin especially was a late addition -- originally she was never supposed to appear at all, never visiting the castle and only speaking through her mom / royal advisors, so there was that threat of yeonjun being married off to someone he's never even met. but after looking through the feedback of chapter 6 i realized that i kinda-sorta accidentally made setup for her oops. people were wondering what she'd be like, and it would feel too anticlimactic to never have her appear in the story, so i wrote her in. which i don't regret because i did enjoy writing her big scene in chapter 10!

speaking of which: a friend of mine asked what happens to princess ajin, and honestly i wanted to give her proper closure too! but i couldn't find a way to fit it into the story in a way that felt natural. if you ask me though, she gains some level of political independence from her mom (represented by her visiting the castle in the good ending). she still marries for political reasons, to a prince or nobleman who is also in it for the politics, and at first they treat their marriage as a business partnership. eventually they grow close and form a devoted "i'd do anything for you" bond -- not necessarily romantic in nature, but caring in its own way. (i'm describing a queerplatonic relationship basically)

tbh i don't have the energy to write another multichapter right now, but i would love to see spinoff fics for soobin and beomgyu or even taehyun and kai as princes in their own kingdoms! so if you're reading this and you want to do it, you have my blessing <3

flower notes:

while some chapter titles were planned around a specific flower representing the events & progression of the story, others were not (because of the chapter splits i talked about earlier) and i just chose whatever flower was in it lol. the planned chapter title flowers are: yellow roses (ch2), pink roses (ch4), sunflowers (ch5), striped carnations (ch7) , purple hyacinths (ch9), red roses (ch10), daffodils (GE), and white lilies (BE). the unplanned title flowers are: irises (ch1), lilies of the valley (ch3), red and purple zinnias (ch6), sweet peas (ch8).

i mostly used this website as a reference for the language of flowers, BUT i also double check with one or two other websites to make sure i'm getting an established flower meaning and not something made up! when i started fic planning i made a list of flowers with meanings that fit the main story beats and character progressions, then picked the ones with the most established meanings (i.e. supported by multiple "language of flowers" websites) and/or the ones that were appropriate for the growing season.

even though i wrote a disclaimer not to pay attention to botanical accuracy re: seasonal flowering times, i originally envisioned the fic to take place over the spring. then when it got longer, i imagined it taking place over spring and summer, so i tried (keyword: tried) to choose seasonally appropriate flowers or flowers that bloom year-round. this is hard for me because i live in a tropical country. i have never seen a lot of these flowers in person because they don't grow in the climate here, and i have no idea what a four-season year feels like. so i decided not to put time-of-year markers in the fic and leave the season ambiguous, and added that disclaimer about the flowers' accuracy.

an example of this: chapter 9 is named after purple hyacinths. i first decided on this back when the story was only supposed to take place during the spring, since hyacinths are a spring flower. i considered naming it after hydrangeas because they mean something like "thank you for understanding" (i.e. y/n going "thank you for understanding what a hard position i'm in" to yeonjun), and also because they're one of my favorite flowers. but i wasn't sure about their seasonal appropriateness since some sources said that they bloom during early summer so i changed it to hyacinths. BUT THEN the fic got long and i started imagining that the later chapters take place in the summer SO the hyacinths ended up being seasonally inappropriate after all! and hydrangeas would have been more appropriate! especially since txt literally has a song called hydrangea love out aarghhh noooo but anyway it is what it is

other flowers that didn't make the cut + their meanings: sweet william (gallantry), alstroemeria (friendship or devotion), freesia (friendship, thoughtfulness), white tulips (forgiveness, consideration, respect), thyme (courage, strength)

other notes:

the key lime pie in chapter 6 is based on a real pie that i ate at my friend's house when i visited her there and i thought it was the most delicious thing i have ever eaten. in the original draft it was a lemon tart!

i wanted to keep this series strictly sfw, but i did consider making both the good and bad endings have suggestive, fade-to-black scenes. for the good ending, the suggestive part would have involved y/n in yeonjun's room the night after their speech / before waking up together. for the bad ending, it would have happened when yeonjun visits y/n's quarters. i didn't write them bc i... am not good with anything suggestive or nsfw klsadjfklasjd

I COMPLETELY FORGOT BUT Y/N'S FATHER WAS ALSO IN THE AUDIENCE FOR THEIR SPEECH IN THE GOOD ENDING... i have no excuse for not writing him in other than I Forgot. i am so sorry but please imagine he was there

--

that's all i can think of for now! if you have other questions about foec or my writing process please please feel free to reply to this post or send an ask <3

[gomacave]

Lol, it is sooo nice to come across someone who still cares about kkm in 2024 😭 just gonna send as an ask so we aren't tag paragraphing back and forth. (Tried just messaging, but you know the tumblr app's reliabilty...)

I have so many thoughts on wolfram and yuuri as people and how they would work as a couple

Re: your original tags i 100% agree that yuuri would be the one to initiate their actual relationship with a kiss he didn't even put any thought into, body just acted. 

I've had this vague fanfic idea in my head for the past like... 10 years (i can't believe i first watched it so long ago) that after getting used to wolfram being his best friend and enjoying being around him in that way for a couple years yuuri would start to catch feelings without even realizing it. Then he'd kiss wolfram in some dramatic dangerous context (like your comic) and immediately fall through a puddle back to earth once the danger is over, without getting the chance to talk to wolfram about it. 

And then yuuri is just like, stuck on earth for a whole month or 2. Ruminating on the kiss, using 2007 style discussion boards to try to figure out his sexuality (😂 poor kid). Maybe watching some random movie (i genuinely don't have a specific one in mind) and realizing that the 2 male main characters have crazy chemisty, remembering something about shipping from that discussion board, searching male character A x male character B and reading some fanfic/seeing some fanart that makes him go "shit maybe i am into guys." Then he like... reads a real romance novel or something that his mom buys him (a teen book! I should clarify. His mom is quirky but not totally oblivous to what would be appropriate), because she's supportive and knows he'd never buy one on his own. And he talks to her a few times about this realization throughout this 2 months. 

Basically, i like the idea of yuuri being forced away from wolfram and all the normalized queerness of shin makoku and still coming to the conclusion that he likes wolfram and wants to be with him. And "hey, im not even gonna be living on earth much past the age of 18 anyway, so why should i care about any of these cultural norms anymore? And my family gets it, so honestly, fuck it."

And then he finally gets back to shin makoku and word vomits/lays this 2 months worth of soul searching at wolfram's feet.

And wolfram is just like, "well it's actually been 8 months or something for me. Glad you figured all that shit out, even though i still don't get what the big deal was, but i definitely panic spiralled into thinking you weren't coming back ever again because of that kiss. So honestly, i'm pretty happy right now. But ngl, you reciprocating my feelings is a little... off putting? No, maybe more like... completely unexpected. I'm in no way prepared for this."

And then their dynamic switches to wolfram being the one who's kind of uncomfortable with public displays of affection (he still likes it, but is noticeably shy/tense). And yuuri just trying his best to not spook wolfram and understand why he's like this now.

And it all just culminates in them having a talk in bed before the fall asleep a couple months after yuuri comes back where wolfram trys to explain how high up on a pedestel yuuri is in his mind and how, to him, it feels like them actually being together is just dragging yuuri down. And how yes, he loves yuuri romantically, but it's also so much more than that. He loves him as his  untouchable best friend who he was JUST getting used to always being out of romatic reach when yuuri got spirited away to earth for 8 months. He loves yuuri as his king. He loves him as an IDEAL. So being with him as his actual fiancé is going to be a slow process. It's a lot to recontextualize in wolfram's head.

But yuuri is fine with that because he's like 18ish/still a teenager at this point and wasn't ready to get married immediately anyway. 

Thanks for the invite to head canon dump on you. It feels good to share these vague ideas for a story i'll never write with another person who GETS the ship in the same way i do 💞

I'm also eager to hear any head canons/ideas you have about these 2. We're def on the same wavelength in terms of wanting to give the characters in kkm more context and agency outside of it being a silly little fantasy adventure thing (with a weirdly well fleshed out world, to be fair) 😂

REAL....... ur so real for everything here..... i think this is 100% how it would go. love the 2007 forums 😭 hes troubleshooting his homosexuality like its a game bug or smth thats so in-character i also agree w the wolf being startled by the reciprocation thing like he would 100% not be able to handle yuuri becoming "real" to him. like an actual option to date and stuff cuz my hc (bc i love suffering) is that he kind of likes or its convenient? that yuuri doesn't reciprocate cuz its so easy to be devoted when u dont have an actual relationship to talk abt and its one sided. it also gets more fanatical that way (aka yearning is stronger when it is left unfulfilled LOL) i also feel like he doesnt deserve it 2 some degree, not that hes not confident but that it's not his place. i feel like this is common in fanart/fic but where yuuri is like ok so can we kiss now and wolf is like ? kiss? we are a symbolic union between blah blah blah

BUT YEAH...... ALSO I LOVE THEM HAVING TALKS TOGETHER IN BED its just so.... like nice 2me...... the vibe of like having to sleep together.. the heart to hearts in bed is so funny but nice. the 16 year olds having a heart to heart while playing house (as a married couple) like the dissonance between their emotional immaturity and the tension and the closeness between them is so juicyyyy like SLEEPOVER TIME except ur discussing ur divorce arc w a 16 year old boysoldier who wants to die for you So Bad

my personal hcs/pure self indulgent bs under cut

ok first i feel like i have to clarify that i dont think that my hcs are canon i just like to have fun w kkm chars like dolls lmfaoooo..... but here are my self indulgent how-they-get-together-hcs ALSO its been like a solid two or three months since i last thought in depth abt kkm so i might be messing some details up

i kinda like the idea of wolf drifting apart from yuuri (from his constant rejection as well as duty and circumstance) and yuuri never reciprocates during this time (also never realizes) and eventually wolf goes off to bielefelt to do his duties and become the patriarch after everything settles. (i also like greta a lot so this is where she goes off to her own nation and wanders as a knight and alsooooo has a lesbianism with beatrice at around 20? years old..?) ANYWAYS they're in kind of awkward limbo and 2 yuuri wolf is someone he wishes he was closer to like when they were kids but isn't and he also avoids him from the guilt/shame of rejecting his feelings

at this pt yuuri has noticed in hindsight that he was in love w wolf but anyways something happens (like an attack) and wolf and yuuri are stuck living together again, wolf is once again risking his life for yuuri and his actions sort of betray that he's still just as in love w him as he was before they separated, he just decided that it would be better not to burden him with his feelings (at this pt he's self-aware that 16 year old wolf had a lot of baggage and codependency lumped in with love like the deifying stuff) and eventually yuuri reveals that he thinks he was in love with him too and wolf has to confront the fact that he wasn't looking for romance in the first place and also that yuuri is still too bright for him to touch (in his mind) so he's kinda like i do my job and u do urs for the good of this nation. BUT OFC they eventually get together after a lot of awkward divorcedness YAAAYYYYYYYY

OH ALSO unrelated to prev scenario but one thing i love ab ur hc and teen yuuram is the contrast between the world-ending desperation of wolf's love and the teenage first crush sweetness of yuuri's. I LOVE THE IDEA OF WOLF BEING LIKE. "i would die on the cross for you" (wiping the blood from his brow) and yuuri's just like "ok lets take this one step at a time" the part of the ship that's just yuuri getting to be an awkward gay teen and wolf eventually discovering awkward teen crushisms is sooo cute to me. like discovering that holding hands in a romantic context does not at all feel like what they did in the closet!! soo sweet and cute

ok ty for listening THIS IS SO LONG IM SORRRRYYYYYYYYY 😭😭😭😭 feel free 2 throw ur hcs at me anytime...!!! ^^

[lilbreck]

Sister, Maiden, Monster: Chapter 0-2

author: Lucy A. Snyder

Warning ahead for some body horror, capitalism horror (y'all know that's a real thing), medical malpractice, and light cannibalism. There will be so many spoilers. Yes, I'm putting in a read more tag for that.

Chapter 0

This book so far gets points for not taking long to jump into the first character coming down with PVG. And it's brutal from the get go. It didn't turn my stomach (probably because I read a lot of body horror and was prepared), but it did make me squirm in sympathy.

Chapter 1

When Erin thought about her then-boyfriend or whatever giving her genital warts the first time they slept together... I would have thought you should see that as a bad omen. I don't know that this guy is going to be an ass, but she didn't mention him when we were in her apartment before the flashback to the asylum, so I'm assuming he ditched the woman he had planned to marry. Yes, I'm judgy.

Speaking of the flashbacks, we're getting out first taste of the not normal body horror. Normal would be the violent vomiting from Chapter 0. This chapter we get teeth growing in strange pores on the tongue. We don't only get hit with body horror, there's also the real life horror of capitalism:

"And even though I'm chronically ill, and chronically a danger to my community and myself, the world still expects people like me to make it to work on time."

I see someone took notes during the heights of the pandemic.

I'm pretty sure the dream at the end of chapter 1 laid out what was going to be happening in the book and I am here for it.

Chapter 2

I'd bet good money that all the forms they had Erin sign as soon as she came to game them permission to feed her human blood and brains. I'd also bet good money that they knew damn good and well that she wasn't coherent enough to read, let alone understand what she was signing. Are we even worthy of survival as a species when we willingly give up our humanity like that? I know that kind of thing has happened, and continues to happen today, and my question still stands.

I'm gonna close the book for the night (restraint! I have it!), but I'll leave you with this dark little quote:

And in the back of my diseased mind, a perversion of a children's song echoed:

Brains, brains, the magical meat. The worse you feel, the more you eat. The more you eat, the more vicious you get. Brain eaters are the wors't kind of threat!

[fangirleaconmigo]

It is not lost on me that I've consistently posted Witcher content for several years, slowly and lovingly and painstakingly building a Witcher community, that I've written over a half million words for the witcher fandom AND YET my biggest post of all is an Our Flag Means Death text post that took me about thirty seconds to write. lmaoooo. This is life.

Ok, here goes:

I posted 2,005 times in 2022

That's 1,009 more posts than 2021!

625 posts created (31%)

1,380 posts reblogged (69%)

Blogs I reblogged the most: (apparently my self rb's are being called out, here, but look, I gotta let people know I wrote a fic. Also, hiii blogs I rb a lot)

@fangirleaconmigo

@roughentumble

@witcherladiesamirite

@on-a-lucky-tide

@samstree

I tagged 1,939 of my posts in 2022

Only 3% of my posts had no tags

#the witcher - 1,343 posts

#jaskier - 580 posts

#geralt of rivia - 551 posts

#geraskier - 351 posts

#asks - 279 posts

#yennefer of vengerberg - 236 posts

#the witcher books - 186 posts

#cirilla fiona elen riannon - 147 posts

#dandelion - 123 posts

#eskel - 118 posts

Longest Tag: 120 characters

#half the maidens in the front row throw their underthings at him while he’s still covered in viscera and crocodile tears

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

There are a lot of fics in the fandom where Jaskier is a concubine or bed warmer and is gifted to Geralt (usually warlord Geralt) and that becomes his path to freedom and love. Some of them are among the best fics in the fandom. One of them is one of my favorite fics ever.

But I do get to thinking...

Men who are physically strong and skilled in combat (like Geralt) can also be exploited. In fact, physical power is one of the most limited forms of power, and witchers are exploited and oppressed in canon. And by the same token, men who can't wield a weapon (like Jaskier), can be very powerful if they are born into the correct family.

So. What if we flip their roles in the narrative? (I'm sure there are flipped fics out there, but I'm going to spin my own idea for a minute.) Alright. Here we go. My idea for Prince Jaskier/Gladiator Geralt.

CW for references to past sexual abuse. Do not read further if you don't want to read any references to sexual abuse. As I said, it is a reversal of the trope mentioned above, so none of the abuse is between Geralt and Jaskier, but the premise does involve servitude and abuse.

---------

Jaskier is a prince sent out on his very first diplomatic visit. He has been chosen for this task (negotiating a treaty) because he has come of age, and his father wants him to make a match with the princess. His father has managed to keep his country's economic crisis a secret, but it won't stay that way for long. If Jaskier can impress his hosts perhaps he can marry the princess, and his people will be pulled back from the brink of financial ruin.

But before Jaskier goes, his father counsels him that he will see some barbaric practices in this other country. Though this other country is wealthy and advanced technologically, it still engages in things like gladiator fights and indentured servitude. Jaskier says that he understands. He can keep his mouth shut no matter what he sees. He knows that they are counting on him.

The first day of the visit goes well. During a long session of intense negotiations, Jaskier makes a brilliant first impression, so much so that the king invites him to be the guest of honor at a gladiator fight. Jaskier does not have a stomach for violence or gore. So he downs a few goblets of wine to take the edge off and to keep himself relaxed enough to not vomit at the first sight of entrails.

Their prize gladiator is a striking, white haired warrior with mystical powers. He has an enviable streak of wins, and the people love him. Part of why they love him is because he seems to hate killing people. He will do it efficiently and well, in order to defend his life. But when they push someone out into the ring that is ill prepared or a poor match for him, he does everything he can to stall or stop the fight.

Once, the king tells Jaskier, he refused to fight and managed to convince his opponent to refuse to fight. They publicly executed several prisoners in retaliation, so now he fights. But he curses them elaborately after every win.

Instead of it weighing on their conscience, however, the audience moons over him as a noble assassin, a killer with a heart of gold. It's the irony, it's the angst. They love him. Not enough to free him of course, but they love him.

Jaskier worries he is not drunk enough for this, but he manages. As expected, the warrior wins the fight. It is a tough match against a skilled and weathered opponent. But he fights with the mesmerizing grace of a brutal dancer and he wins in a spectacular fashion. The crowd goes berserk.

Though Jaskier finds the warrior incredibly compelling, his eyes drawn to him over and over like a beacon, he is relieved as fuck that the whole thing is over. He can't wait to go back to his room and cleanse away the memory of that horrible pulsing severed carotid with maybe a song or another drink. He can't wait to have more power and ban some of these horrific practices.

But before he can get back to his room, the king makes him an offer that he is entirely unprepared for. He has taken such a liking to Jaskier that he offers to send the champion up to his room.

That is when Jaskier learns that the royal ladies (and some of the men) take great pride in partaking of the warrior after a match. It is the highest honor.

It's partly his beautiful physique. They have special clothing made up for him that resembles his armor, but offers more access. It's partly the danger and the thrill of conquering such a violent beast. They bind him and they station guards close by so he can't retaliate. But the thought that he could kill them with the twist of a wrist is part of the appeal. It is also partly the exclusivity. The entire kingdom loses their mind for this warrior, but it is only they who have access to him. It gives these wealthy, bored, royals a rare thrill.

When his host explains all of this, Jaskier's stomach drops almost to the soles of his shoes. His first instinct is to be outraged. To say no. His kingdom has done away with bed warmers and...well...sex slaves, really. He has been brought up to believe that ravaging someone, anyone, is a base, cruel, horrible thing to do.

So he almost says no. He almost shouts it. Frankly, he would like to slap the king across his smug beastly face. Obviously he can't do that. But he wants to. But then a thought flickers across his mind. If he says no, then this warrior will be sent to someone else. And who knows who that person will be and what they will do to him.

Jaskier feels sick to his stomach when he accepts the king's offer. He hopes his disgust isn't apparent. He tries to make it sound lusty. To his own ears, he fails at it. Besides his disgust for the idea, he is also incredibly inexperienced. If he has to feign an intimate understanding of the specifics of sex, he'll reveal himself to be the young amateur that he is.

But the king is so drunken and self absorbed that he doesn't even notice. He claps Jaskier on the back, calls him my boy, and motions to his guards. The guards jump to attention. The king points down to the arena at the warrior. The warrior is slick with sweat and blood and grime. He is quietly cleaning his sword with a far away look on his face. The cheers of the crowd weigh on him.

Just then, the warrior looks up at Jaskier. His golden eyes feel like a punch to the solar plexus. He sees what is happening. He knows who is being conferred the honor of his body tonight.

Jaskier wants to mouth an apology. To explain himself. Of course he can't. They are too far apart and there is too much noise between them. Besides. Jaskier is currently pretending to be into this. But his eyes slide away guiltily. He feels queasy and he is regretting the wine right about now.

The king asks Jaskier if he wants the warrior grimy or clean. They can bathe him before they send him up, or they can just walk him up as he is, for a more authentic experience. Jaskier feels a cold fury bubbling inside. He shoves it down. He says to send him as he is. Jaskier will draw a bath in his own room and give the gladiator privacy.

The king makes a crude joke about Jaskier liking it dirty, and he almost bites through his tongue in order to hold it. He tastes copper.

Soon, Jaskier is alone in his room, pacing the marble floors, clenching and unclenching his fists. He is deep in concentration, trying to figure out how to play this. When the guards bring the warrior, will they leave? Or will they insist on staying close by? How will Jaskier hide his true intentions from them? Whatever they see, they will undoubtedly report to the king.

Jaskier chews his bottom lip and whispers to himself, practicing what he will say to the warrior if he can get them alone.

You'll be safe tonight.

You don't have to do anything.

Would you like to bathe yourself? I won't look.

See the full post

1,850 notes - Posted May 20, 2022

#4

Geralt, who has lost his swords: I need those specific swords back.

Dandelion: Oh, just buy new ones.

Geralt: Oh rly and what if someone took your lute?

Dandelion: OH GOD WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT IS SOMEONE LOOKING AT MY LUTE OH SHIT WHAT HAVE YOU HEARD NO ONE LOOK AT MY LUTE YOU FUCKERS*covers lute with body like a human shield*

😂😂 they are hilarious. Also, Geralt saying he feels like a snail without a shell is adorable.

1,924 notes - Posted August 27, 2022

#3

Ok let's play a game called:

I Can't Believe It's Not Fanon.

Otherwise known as...

Witcher facts that sound like Geraskier fic writers made them up, but that are, in fact, book canon.

PART ONE:

We've all read the fics where bad guys kidnap Jaskier in order to get to get to Geralt. These bad guys always regret it when Geralt slaughters every single one of them.

Well, good news! In Season of Storms, starting on page 310, this very thing happens.

(TW: Violence and gore)

Geralt is attending a royal wedding and once again, powerful people are trying to get him to do something he doesn't want to do. He enters a room to find:

Dandelion was as white as a sheet and clearly terrified...He was sitting on a chair with a high backrest. Behind the chair stood a skinny character with hair combed and plaited into a queue. The character was holding a misericorde with a long, narrow, four-sided blade. The blade was pressed against the poet's neck, below his jaw, slanting upwards.

"No funny business," warned Ropp. No funny business witcher. One false move, even one twitch, and Mr Samsa will stick the minstrel like a hog. He won't hesitate."

So, these particular assholes have accurately surmised that Geralt's weakness is Dandelion. There were any number of people they could have kidnapped, but they chose the poet. Of course, they underestimate Geralt, like so many people do.

Geralt tries to warn them that this is a very very bad move.

"You're making a mistake, Ropp."

They don't listen to him. They keep going, making increasingly florid violent threats to Dandelion's safety.

"Now," said the captain..."Now you will confirm that you've understood the task and will execute it. Should you not, before I count to ten under my breath, Mr Samsa will rupture the minstrel's right eardrum...if the desired result does not ensure, Mr Samsa stabs the other ear. And will then gouge out the poet's eye. And so on, to the bitter end, which is a jab to the brain. I'm starting to count, witcher."

What does Dandelion do? Well, he's terrified but he tries to be brave.

"Don't listen to him Geralt!" Dandelion somehow managed to make a sound from his constricted throat. "They won't dare to touch me! I'm famous!"

This is hilarious and very, very Dandelion. But also, it's not entirely unreasonable. Dandelion's fame often protects him, and sometimes it protects Geralt too. However, it doesn’t seem to be doing either at the moment.

Geralt says to Mister Samsa:

"First, move that dagger away from the poet's ear."

Mister Samsa seems to think that they have succeeded and Geralt is negotiating with him, so he complies. (this guy makes one bad decision after another)

"Ha," snorted Mister Samsa, lifting the misericorde high over his head. "Is that better?"

Geralt simply answers:

"Better."

Then without another word, Geralt kills them all, violent and bloody. It is a descriptive, vividly gory passage. He slices carotid arteries and groins. One man's neck spews blood onto the chandelier and ceiling. But I find what Geralt does to Mister Samsa to be particularly significant and satisfying.

The Witcher jerked the sword from the scabbard before Ropp fell, and with one fluid movement coming out of a short spin, hacked off Samsa's raised hand. Samsa yelled and dropped to his knees.

So Geralt’s actions say...you use your hand to hold a blade to *my* poet's neck, and I will chop that motherfucker off. Let's see you do that again without a hand, you piece of shit.

It's a gory passage. I'll skip to the end. The royal instigator comes into the room to investigate and asks Geralt about the one man he has left (sort of, temporarily) alive.

The instigator examined the captain, who was lying, stretched out in a pool of urine, salivating copiously, and trembling incessantly.

See the full post

2,203 notes - Posted May 3, 2022

#2

It’s doing bizarrely well on Twitter so I’m bringing it over here.

6,071 notes - Posted October 30, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Blackbeard: I’m bored as fuck and no one understands me.

Stede: *appears in a silk nightie. Is weird as all fuck* Do you want to talk about fabrics?

Blackbeard: *under breath* Fuck yes

6,280 notes - Posted April 3, 2022

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