#L-Shaped computer table

[oneknightlight]

So for those of you aware of my glass table situation, I’ve found the source of it, and the reviews are absolutely terrifying. Apparently it cannot handle more than 25 lbs without shattering, and multiple people just received theirs shattered or cracked. It was also egregiously expensive, and the instructions give you the same feeling an early 2010s RPG puzzle does. I’m scared to open it. I don’t think I will actually.

I feel like a huge asshole for rejecting this gift but it’s also terrifying and a. Perplexing gift to give someone.

It’s also more massive than I had previously thought, so in order to fit it in my room I’d have to get rid of my current desk that. Works perfectly and is metal/plastic so it’s safer. And maybe I’m the asshole but I’m not throwing away my desk that works perfect for a somewhat shady glass table.

[urbanwood02]

[eternalthrills]

Home Office Freestanding in San Francisco Inspiration for a mid-sized modern freestanding desk study room remodel

[raynaweber]

Modern Bedroom - Bedroom a small, white-walled master bedroom that is minimalist in style

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Let's Talk About That

I saw the end when we began (1)

Psychiatrist!Avenger!Fem!Reader × Wanda Maximoff

Summary: You are the young psychiatrist for the Avengers, and you take your job very seriously, but what happens when Wanda joins the team, turning your life upside down?

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: legal age gap r is 19 w is 25, talks of death and grief, a bit of angst, therapy sessions

A/N: I had this idea for a while and wrote it a while ago, but spruced it up for publishing. I hope you enjoy it!

May 7th-10th 2015

The only sounds to be heard were the scratches of your pen against paper as you wrote down notes the old fashioned way and the hum of the AC unit installed in your office. Tony let you have a nice corner of the tower where there was sunlight and windows. You had gone with a soft gray for the walls, an L-shaped mahogany desk that had both a desktop computer and your laptop. Across from your desk was two couches and a coffee table between them with an assortment of fidget toys, a succulent, a handful of magazines, and a box of tissues. 

Everyone had been away on an important mission and normally you’d go with, but you'd been recovering from a previous injury, you still are when you hear a knock on your door, 

"Open." You let them know and just from their aura you can tell it's Tasha, but she's with someone else, an aura you don't recognize. You look up to find a girl with chestnut colored hair, and a dark aura around her. "Hey Tash. I'm glad you're all home safe. I'm assuming we'll restart our sessions?" You ask the red head. 

"Yes. We can resume them. Tomorrow. Today I need you to have a talk with this one." Tasha helps her into the room and gestures for her to sit down, Tasha walks over and hands you a large file. "She came from HYDRA, they had a lot of info on her, she had joined us in the fight against Ultron." Tasha tells you before lowering her voice, "She lost her twin brother during the battle. So maybe you can get her to talk." You smile at Tasha and then look past the red head. 

"Yeah of course we shouldn't have any issues Tash. Leave it to me." You tell her as I adjust your glasses, quickly looking over her file as Tasha exits, closing the door behind her, "Wanda Maximoff, 25, born in Sokovia." You say out loud as you walk around your desk to the other couch across from where she's sitting criss-cross. You take notice she's taken her shoes off and smile, taking note of the fact that she’s comfortable enough to do something like that. "I'm Dr. Y/N Y/L/N. I'm 19. I'm also an Avenger. I have a power that allows me to see auras and emotions. I can also influence people's emotions and use my voice to influence others around me." You tell her a little about yourself first to help make her comfortable with talking about herself.

"You're 19? How are you a doctor?" She finally talks and you can hear her thick Sokovian accent which is like music to your ears. 

"I'm very smart. Graduated high school at 12 finished my Doctorate last year for psychiatry and Tony took me in as the Avengers Psychiatrist shortly after that. Everyone here needs a little bit of help and that is what I'm here to provide for you." You smile at her as you open a fresh notebook for her, choosing a red covered one noticing that she was wearing Tasha’s red leather jacket. "So tell me a little about yourself. Anything you want." You ask as you jot down her basic info on the first page. 

"I love American sitcoms." she tells you first. You smile and look at her over your glasses. 

"Why is that?" You ask as you jot down her words. 

"We used to watch them as a family every night so we could learn English." She tells you making a smile appear on your face. 

"When you say we who does that entail?" You question the Sokovian wanting to get to the root of her problems. 

"My Mama, Papa, and Pietro..." She tells you solemnly. 

"Who is Pietro?" You inquire, looking up from your notebook. 

"He is...was...my twin brother." You jot down everything she says during your session and she does open up a little bit with some persuasion on your part, but that isn't unusual for your sessions. 

"Well Wanda thank you for opening up to me. Your aura is looking a little warmer from when you first walked in. How about you come back in three days for another session?" You tilt your head as you grab a little card for her. 

"Why three days?" She asks nervously, tugging at her sleeves attempting to cover her hands, but the jacket doesn't budge. She starts picking at her nails as an alternative, chipping the black nail polish further. 

"I like to have frequent sessions the first month. Then we'll have them weekly just like the others." You let her know and she nods her head as you write the date and time for her to show up on the card for three days from now. Standing up with her, "I offer a high fives, hand shakes, fist bumps, or a hug at the end of sessions. Which would you like?" You ask and she's thrown off a bit by the statement at first but then answers. 

"Hug. I could use a hug right now." You open up your arms and let her come to you. She ends up crying in your arms as you sooth her, letting her know it is okay to cry. 

"I'll always be here for you Wanda. I'm always on your side." You whisper to her and she holds you tighter at the words.

You sat back down at your desk after Wanda left, feeling a mix of emotions swirling within you. Empathy for Wanda's pain, determination to help her heal, and a lingering sense of dread about what HYDRA had done to her. But you pushed those feelings aside, focusing on the task at hand.

As the Avengers' psychiatrist, it was your responsibility to help your teammates navigate the mental and emotional toll of their work. Sometimes that meant delving into painful memories or difficult emotions, but it was a role you took on willingly. After all, you had your own share of struggles, and if you could use your powers to help others, then it was worth it.

You glanced at the clock and realized it was almost time for lunch. You decided to take a break and head to the common area, where you found Tony tinkering with one of his suits.

"Hey, Y/N," he greeted you with a grin. "How's it going?"

"Good," you replied, sinking into a nearby chair. "Just had a session with Wanda. She's been through a lot."

Tony nodded solemnly. "Yeah, losing her brother and all that HYDRA stuff... it's rough."

You sighed, running a hand through your Y/H/C hair. "Yeah, but she's strong. I think she'll come through it."

Tony gave you a reassuring smile before returning to his work, and you took a moment to appreciate the camaraderie of the team. Despite your differences and the challenges you guys faced, you were a family, bound together by our shared experiences and our commitment to protecting the world.

After a quick lunch, you headed back to your office to prepare for your next session. As you reviewed your notes from Wanda's session, you couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to her story, something hidden beneath the surface. But for now, all you could do was continue to offer her support and hope that she would find the strength to confront her demons and emerge stronger on the other side.

With that thought in mind, you square your shoulders and prepare to face whatever challenges lay ahead. As an Avenger, a psychiatrist, and a friend, you were ready to do whatever it took to help your teammates and protect the world from whatever threats may come our way.

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

Three days passed in a blur of meetings, training sessions, and the occasional emergency mission. But today, you were back in your office, eagerly awaiting Wanda's return for your second session. As you sat at your desk, reviewing your notes from your previous meeting, you couldn't help but feel a surge of empathy for her. Losing a loved one in battle was something you could relate to all too well.

Before you could dwell too much on your own past, there was a soft knock on your door, and Wanda stepped into the room. Her aura seemed a bit brighter today, though still tinged with sadness. "Hey, Wanda," you greeted her with a warm smile, motioning for her to take a seat. "How are you feeling today?"

Wanda hesitated for a moment before answering, "Better, I think. Thank you for... everything last time."

You nodded, understandingly. "Of course. It's what I'm here for." You gestured toward the notebook on the table. "Shall we pick up where we left off?"

For the next hour, the two of you delved deeper into Wanda's past, her memories of Sokovia, her time with HYDRA, and her experiences with her brother, Pietro. With each word she spoke, you could feel her emotions swirling around you, and you did your best to guide her through them, offering comfort and support where you could.

As your session came to a close, Wanda seemed visibly lighter, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Thank you, Y/N," she said softly, wiping away a stray tear. "I didn't realize how much I needed this."

You smiled back, feeling a sense of fulfillment wash over you. "Anytime, Wanda. Remember, I'm always here for you."

Before she left, Wanda surprises you by reaching out and giving you a tight hug. "Thank you," she repeated, her voice thick with emotion.

As you watched her leave your office, you couldn't help but feel grateful for the opportunity to help someone in need, to make a difference in their life, even if it was just one session at a time. And as you glanced down at the Power Stone embedded in your chest, you couldn't help but wonder if perhaps this was the true source of your ability to connect with others on such a deep level. But for now, all that mattered was that you were making a difference, one session at a time.

[highvern]

Home for the Holidays

Pairing: Jung Wooyoung x fem!reader

Genre: romance, smut, angst, exes to lovers, Christmas!AU, fake dating

Warnings: she/her pronouns, Drug use, alcohol, mentions of aging family members, unhealthy family dynamics, mentions of illness (reader is a doctor), cursing, dry-humping/grinding, kissing, oral (f. receiving), masturbation, unprotected sex, angst, poor self-esteem/self-doubt, pining, some threats of bodily harm

Length: ~24k

Note: God this was such a doozy. I started it on December 1st and barely finished it this morning. Based on Happy Place by Emily Henry (if you like romcoms I highly recommend all her books) and most cheesy Christmas movies (Exmas). Did I project my middle child syndrome onto fellow middle child Wooyoung? Maybe! BUT why write if not to explore your own trauma lmao

Like, comment, reblog, enjoy or don’t! Merry Christmas! MWAH!

This blog is intended for 18+ only! MDNI or you'll be blocked!

June 27th

“So I have some news. I know it hasn’t been easy for us going back—”

“I think we should break up.”

“and forth so much but—What?” 

“I don’t think it's working out between us.”

“Oh,” is all you manage to say before your vocal cords seize.

Your mouth falls open, lips attempting to form words that don’t manage to make a sound. Eyes shifting around the room, the sheen of tears thickening as a few beads trail down your cheeks as you stand shakily; managing only a few steps away from the table before a choked sob wiggles free from an iron grip. People are staring as you nearly run out to the door, unaware that several whip around to look at the man left sitting behind you.

Wooyoung doesn’t chase you down. Doesn’t call or text as you walk the twenty blocks to Lisa’s apartment in the thick humidity of the city night; snot and tears trailing down your face.

Wooyoung doesn’t say anything at all as eight years shatter to pieces in a matter of seconds.

December 7th

Wooyoung

…twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight.

Wooyoung staples the finished packets together, ears tickled by jazzy Christmas music leaking from his computer speakers in the corner of his L-shaped desk. Surrounded by colorful brick walls of a midtown elementary school isn’t where most people his age would find themselves on a Friday evening but where else would he go?

His roommates have their partners over, he’d rather avoid the frigid dampness of the park he usually smokes at, and Wooyoung isn’t interested in the crowds clogging anywhere else he’d think to visit. The usual comforting bustle of the city only serves to set him on edge, making him desperate for a true solitude he really craves. Getting ahead on his classroom prep for the remainder of the semester seemed like the perfect, albeit a depressing way, to spend the evening.

The dulcet tones of Dean Martin are joined by an incoming call buzzing his phone across the wooden top of the desk. A familiar picture of his mom and him as a baby flashing across the screen before he answers.

“Hi sweetie,” his mom yells on the other line. Wooyoung can tell she’s driving home from work based on the poor audio quality.

“Hey mom,” he wedges the device between his shoulder and cheek, using his hands to continue organizing the worksheets for Monday; paper warm in his palms from the printer.

“I’m just calling to make sure you and Y/N are still coming for Christmas. I know the hospital is usually crazy this time of year so I thought I’d double check.”

“Actually mom—”

“Bibi keeps talking about wanting everyone home for Christmas but if Y/N can’t make it she’ll understand. She’s always been her favorite.” His mom laughs.

Wooyoung’s grandmother is impolitely frank about her age and never hesitates to use it to her own advantage. How does he tell her that his girlfriend, who she liked more than her own grandsons some days, is no longer his girlfriend? And how he is the only one to be blamed for that.

He might as well start digging his own grave.

“We’ll be there.” Wooyoung blabs before he can stop himself.

“Wonderful! I’m pulling into the driveway so I’ll talk to you later. Love you!”

“Love you too.”

Fortunately, on a cold winter night like tonight, the only other soul in the building is Mr. Rollins, a janitor with headphones permanently attached to his ears. The colorful combination of expletives pouring from Wooyoung’s mouth would make a sailor blush.

Typing in a familiar name to his message bar, Wooyoung realizes he hasn’t changed it in all this time; the string of emojis from the first night he got her number glaring back at him in mockery. A sting of bile blisters the back of Wooyoung’s throat as he steads himself for what he’s about to do. Who he is about to ask for the biggest mercy; one he didn’t deserve in the slightest.

Wooyoung: Can I call you?

Wooyoung inhales before hitting “send,” locking his phone and tossing it down like it’s possessed.

Barely a full minute passes before it vibrates with her response.

Y/N🥰🍯💖: are you okay?

He can’t even type a reply before the buzz buzz buzz on an incoming call tickles against his palm. 

Tapping into the false chipper personality he reserves for strangers and his class, Wooyoung answers with a simple. “Hey!” 

“Hi.” She deadpans.

“Is it a bad time?”

“What do you want, Woo?”

“How have you been?”

“I’m fine. But you aren’t calling to ask me that.”

Wooyoung wants to object but she’s right. “I’m not but I still care.”

“Sure.”

“Okay, so my mom called and asked if you were coming over for Christmas.”

“Why?” Y/N asks after a pregnant pause.

“Because I haven’t told them we broke up.”

A rush of clattering sounds from her end along with a few curse words sounding far away before she continues. “Are you fucking kidding me? It’s been six months!”

“I know! But I’ve been busy and there was never a good time and it’s just kinda snowballed.”

“Well, tell her now.”

“I can’t!”

“Why not?”

“Bibi keeps talking about how she wants everyone how for one last Christmas and with Kyungmin going to colle—”

“Please tell me you’re not suggesting what I think you are.”

“You know I wouldn’t ask unless I was desperate.”

“I thought us breaking up meant I didn’t have to deal with your shit anymore.”

“I can tell them your busy and the hospital is keeping you or—”

“No,” Wooyoung can picture the hand scrubbing down her face, fingers massaging her temples the same way she always did when his shenanigans got them in trouble. “I’ll do it.”

Now he’s the one to pause, “Really?”

“Yeah, it’d be nice to see them all one last time.”

“Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”

“I actually need to get back to doing that so–”

“Yeah, I’ll, ugh, talk to you later. Bye.”

“Bye.”

As the line clicks and Wooyoung is left alone in his classroom, the space abruptly feels too big. With each minute ticking by, he convinces himself he hallucinated the entire exchange because there is no possible way his ex-girlfriend agreed to this ill-thought plan. Everything feels too normal for her to extend such undue kindness his way, especially after how he ruined their relationship in a moment of insecurity.

Wooyoung: My flight out is 12/21

Wooyoung: You don’t have to come that early 

Y/N🥰🍯💖: im off starting the 19th

Wooyoung: I’ll pay for your flight

Y/N🥰🍯💖: great

Y/N🥰🍯💖: ill venmo you

Wooyoung: Cool, send me the details

There’s a weight on Wooyoung’s tongue at the new dynamic settling between them. Eight years of dating but now she’s a stranger. The last text messages arranging for their mutual friend Lisa to pick up a box of her stuff from his apartment. 

Six months and he didn’t know if she kept her hair the same way or what new book she was obsessing over in her sparse free time; if her neighbor in Boston’s yappy geriatric dog finally kicked the bucket.

Lovers. Almost fiancées. And now strangers.

December 10th

Wooyoung

Wooyoung wakes up to the early morning bustle of the busy streets just outside his window. His phone clock reads thirty minutes past his normal alarm which means he’s late. And that means his boss is going to tear his ass a new one. 

In a whirl, Wooyoung rushes to the bathroom. He wets his hands with the freezing tap water, patting his face and attempting to style his bed ridden hair. The door shifts to catch his foot as he exits, stubbing his toe and forcing him to hop down the hallway to his room. Wrinkled khakis and a sweater are all Wooyoung manages before he throws on his parka and is out the door. 

He sprints to the subway, just in time to see the doors closing on his train.

“Fuck me!”

“Too young for me buddy,” croaks the homeless man splayed on the bench in the middle of the platform.

Ignoring him, Wooyoug paces further down the station, anger filling him with restless energy. Glancing at his phone, he shoots an email to his principal that he’ll be late due to “train delays.” Thank god for the MTA being a regular piece of shit. 

Finally checking the stream of missed notifications during the night, he uses the lull to answer them.

Mom: Does y/n still like those chips we bought last time? I’m at the store getting a few things

Wooyoung: She said she’s happy with whatever you get!

Not a lie since Y/N would be happy to have snacks of any kind.

SANNIE⛰️: YOU DIDN’T TELL YOUR PARENTS? 

SANNIE⛰️: U R SO FUCKED

At least he can always count on San to state the obvious.

Y/N🥰🍯💖: here’s my ticket 

Wooyoung does a double take when he sees she’s flying out of New York, not Boston. Why isn’t she flying out of Boston? There’s no way it’s cheaper than flying out of Boston and she wouldn’t go through the trouble of getting down here unless she had a good reason.

Wooyoung: Why are you flying out of LGA?

Y/N🥰🍯💖: Because I live here?

A lump of lead hardens in his stomach. She lives here, in New York. She’s been in the city and he didn’t even notice. Questions race forward. How long has she been here? Where is she working? What neighborhood is she in? Why didn’t he know she moved back?

The last question is more his own fault than he cares to admit.

His train arrives without preamble, brakes screeching as it slows to a stop. Wooyoung crowds into the compartment, happy for it to be relatively empty. Finding a spot on the wall, he zones out of the chaos for the next twenty minutes. A group of highschoolers laugh obnoxiously in the corner, snatching one another’s phones as they share god knows what between them. A young mom tries to placate her crying baby, the older man next to her rolling his eyes as he devours his morning paper. When the doors open at his stop, Wooyoung pauses for a second as an elderly woman enters the train. Catching her eye, he offers her his seat; only standing when she’s close enough so no one else tries to take it from her. 

Wooyoung slithers out of the closing doors and bolts out of the station as fast as he can.

Panting and sweating under his black parka, Wooyoung arrives outside the red doors of the elementary school he teaches at. Principal Martinez is tapping his foot at the top of the steps, arms crossed in front of his chest, scowl etched deep on his face.

“This is the third time this month.”

“I know, I’m sorry! But the train got delayed with repairs or something and—”

“Save it. You have a class to get to.”

Breezing past, Wooyoung’s boots clack against the linoleum tile as he careens towards his classroom. The rowdy cacophony of third grade voices echo beyond the doorway, only increasing in volume as he peeks his head in.

A dozen shrill voices scream something along the lines of, “Mr. Jung you’re late!”

“You’re all just early!” Wooyoung goads back, sending a thankful look at the teacher who stepped in to watch them till he arrived.

The room descends into giggles, students finding their places as he settles at his own desk.

“So today, we’re starting with circle time!”

Y/N

“Let me get this straight: your ex asked you to pretend to be his girlfriend and now you’re spending Christmas with his family?”

Sparing a glance from the manilla folder containing notes on your next patient, you see Hongjoong watching you skeptically. The ridiculousness of the situation isn’t lost on you. You’d nearly convinced yourself the entire exchange Friday night was some cruel dream if not for the string of text messages proving it’d been real. Wooyoung’s first real attempt to speak with you post-breakup, and he asks you to pretend he didn’t break your heart six months ago.

“That’s about as straight as it gets.”

Hongjoong’s eyebrows furrow, “And you said yes, why?”

“Because…” 

You missed him? Because you still loved him? Because when you saw his message you thought he was finally ready to admit it'd all been a mistake? 

Because Wooyoung always convinced you to go along with whatever he asked?

“I really like his family.”

“Oh, sweet child.” He clicks, leafing through his own case file.

“Look, it’ll be nice to see them one last time and I’d rather spend the holidays with them than cramped in my apartment to avoid the tourists.”

“Are you sure that’s the only reason why?”

“Yep.”

“This can’t go wrong at all!”

“Shut up,” you say before dipping into the exam room, shifting your face into an enthusiastic smile. “How are we today, Mrs. Haspin?”

“We’re doing okay. Harper hasn’t been liking the new medicine you prescribed.”

“She hasn’t?” You gasp sarcastically, staring wide eyed at the tiny brunette with braided pigtails sitting on the exam room bed.

“They’re gross!” Harper cries with all the sincerity a four year old can muster, her tiny hands wrinkling the paper as she slaps the bed indignantly.

“Well that’s no good. I’ll make sure to check if they have other flavors.” You type a few notes in her electronic chart as you turn over your shoulder. “Mom, have you noticed a difference?”

“She’s not having as many coughing fits.”

“That is very good.” You curl your stethoscope in your palm, attempting to warm the cool metal. “Can I listen to your lungs, Harper?”

She shakes her head up and down vigorously, the pink and gold beads at the end of her pigtails clacking together.

“Alright, take a deep breath in.” The woosh of air entering her lungs fills the room. “And out. In. And out.”

You prompt her to continue several times, gliding the chestpiece along various parts of her back as you listen intently. A few crackles pop in your ears, mucus coating her airways; only made worse by the dry winter of the city.

“Very good, Harper.” you praise before turning to her mom waiting anxiously in the corner. “With the winter make sure you’re using the humidifier as much as possible but her lungs sound better than last time so I’d like to stay on the meds.” You swivel back to your patient. “I’ll check with the pharmacy if they can do something about the flavor. Okay?”

Harper beams, glad to be heard. Her mother beams for an entirely different reason. Her daughter struggled with respiratory issues since she’d been born and as she aged they’d only gotten worse. Harper was the first patient you took when you started two months ago and in that time you’ve grown fond of her.

“All right, I’ll walk you all to the front. I think we can push out our next visit until six weeks since she’s been doing so well. If anything comes up, please don’t hesitate to call us.”

Handing them off to the receptionist to schedule their next appointment, you return to your office for a quick lunch.

Y/N: Because I live here

Youngie 🖤: since when?

How do you tell him that you’ve lived here since the day he broke up with you? How that night at dinner you were planning to surprise him by moving back to New York and removing the distance that plagued your relationship for three years?

The benefit of no longer being in a relationship means you don’t have to explain anything.

Locking your phone, you scarf down the squashed sandwich you brought from home before rushing to your next patient. 

Wooyoung

Wooyoung: since when?

Wooyoung checked his phone after finishing pick up duty, one of several over the next month as a bargain to keep his job.

She’d ignored him. It wasn’t the first time his messages went hours before being answered. She was a doctor, and before that a med student, and before that pre-med when they’d met at some dive and realized they shared a behavioral psych class. Y/N always maintained a full schedule, only responding to the outside world when the night bled into the early hours of the day.

Wooyoung: Did you know Y/N moved here?

Yeosang: Yes.

Well fuck.

Wooyoung: You didn’t think to tell me?

Yeosang: You broke up.

Yeosang: ?

Even his roommate knew she’d been in the city.

Double fuck.

December 14th

Y/N

Another week passes before Wooyoung reaches out to you again. You’re set to leave in a few days but work requires all the energy you can manage thanks to a volatile respiratory season. 

Youngie 🖤: Our flights are around the same time. Do you wanna carpool?

You spoke with Yeosang frequently enough (once in a blue moon) to know they still lived in the dingy old walk up they could hardly afford. The high rise you rented further up Manhattan would be on his way to the airport but did you want to see Wooyoung sooner than needed?

Misery still festered in your veins since the break up. Eight years you’d dated; through senior year of undergrad, four years of medical school, and just shy of three years of residency. And the asshole couldn’t give you a single reason for your break up. No warning. No fighting. The same bouquet of delicate pink tulips waiting in hand for you as you arrived at the train station for your last visit to the city before relocating permanently. Yeosang texted you that very afternoon about his excitement to have you back as if nothing was wrong.

A beautiful afternoon holed up in his room for a late nap before dinner, apartment silent in the absence of his three roommates who’d usually greet you enthusiastically as you returned to the city for a visit. Wooyoung hadn’t acted any differently than the other times you visited, seemingly unaware of the surprise you planned to unveil at the fancy dinner he planned to congratulate you on finishing your long years of training.

But then he sat down and said the six words that replayed in your mind like a curse.

And that was the last time you heard his voice until Friday night; as if Wooyoung dove off the face of the earth. The only proof of living were the traces of him in his friends’ Instagram stories or faceless photos of him in their posts.

You’d never been one to post much on social media anyway but his shock at your move back to the city fanned a sick sense of satisfaction. As if to say “two can play at that game.” Wooyoung cut you out and you’d done the same. Keeping your move under lock and key despite sharing the same friend group.

Y/N: no thanks

You’re toeing the line of rudeness but what’s Wooyoung going to do? Break up with you again?

December 21st

Wooyoung

Terminal C of LaGuardia Airport four days before Christmas ranks among the top destinations no one in their right mind would want to be. Parents attempting to keep track of hyper children, businessmen scowling down their nose as they scream into their cellphones, adults slamming down overpriced drinks in preparation for the endless questions holidays bring.

“Bringing home anyone special?”

“When are you going to get married?”

“Grandchildren?”

The last is Wooyoung’s grandmother’s new favorite. Myungho faces the brunt of it; married three years and in no rush to add another mouth to feed just yet. When Wooyoung flew home for Bibi’s birthday in April, she decided to turn her inquiry towards him and Y/N. 

How fun it’ll be to answer those questions again with his temporarily not ex-girlfriend.

Security is long and laborious. One agent yells at him for keeping his shoes on, another rolls her eyes when he asks if his laptop needs to come out of his backpack. In front of him, a frail looking elderly woman struggles with placing the hard plastic bin on the rolling conveyor belt. Behind, grumbles of discontent regarding her holding up the line rise in volume as Wooyoung helps her with her things; sending a smile to her thank you.

And because no good deed goes unpunished, Wooyoung gets pulled for an extra search once he passes the large metal detector.

A burly pale skinned man with blue nitrile gloves sorts through his belongings with the gentleness of a bull in a china shop. Wooyoung’s wrecked and dusty backpack passes inspection easily enough but the contents of his carry-on end up spread across the shiny metal table for further examination under the sterile lights. Gifts for his family, some books he’s teaching next semester, and a navy velvet box he hasn’t left the city without in the past year.

That is apparently the source of interest for TSA as the man pops open the lid to scan the marquis cut diamond ring before putting it back in its place.

“Congrats, man.”

“Thanks.” Wooyoung gives a tight smile.

Nodding his head to his colleague, the TSA agent steps away and allows Wooyoung to pack his bags.

He really needs a drink.

Y/N

“I’m sorry ma’am, the flight is overbooked. But there is room on the next flight to Denver!”

“No charge?”

“Not unless you would like to upgrade to business class.”

You have the money and Wooyoung paid for your seat so it’s technically cheaper than it’d usually be. However, Wooyoung would take it personally if he found out you sat in business when he paid for a last minute economy flight on a teachers salary. A few hours of comfort aren’t worth adding to the awkwardness you’ll face over the next week.

 “No, thank you. But if there’s an aisle seat available that’d be great.”

She taps on her keyboard with manicured nails for a moment, the light of the screen reflecting on her face, before speaking with a perfect customer service smile. “Alright, your new flight number is AYX287 and you’ll be flying out of Gate 98.”

“Thank you.” You say, reviewing the boarding pass she printed. Your new gate is on the opposite side of the terminal but you have a little over an hour to make it there.

Rolling your silver carry-on next to you, you weave in and out of the other airport goers heading in the opposite directions. A curse of any crowded space, people forget to walk with a sense of purpose. You dodge a young couple, probably teenagers, standing in the middle of the walkway oblivious to anyone else; only to end up behind an gaggle of older women surrounded by a heavy cloud of perfume and cheap wine. One of their shirts reads “Happily Divorced!” in glittery cursive.

More nimble footwork and multiple sign checks later, you reach the correct wing of the terminal with forty five minutes to spare. Confirming that your gate does in fact exist, you turn back up the walkway to find a drink. Preferably several.

The first time you see Wooyoung in months will require the strongest alcohol you can finally afford now that residency is over and you're making the hefty salary you’d been promised at the start of medical school.

A friendly faced woman, old enough to be your mother, greets you as you take a stool at her bar. 

“Cranberry margarita.”

“Wanna start a tab?”

“Yes, please.” You answer, handing over your credit card.

The first overpriced drink goes down smoothly, a little sweet and perfectly tart. The second and third much the same. Pleasantly buzzed with fifteen minutes till boarding, you cash out and shuffle back to wait by the gate.

And in one of the cramped pleather seats of the waiting area, sits your ex-boyfriend.

Wooyoung

Wooyoung is hallucinating. Two gin and gingers and a THC gummy churning in his stomach make the mirage in front of him look incredibly realistic.

In her usual flying outfit, Wooyoung’s ex-girlfriend stands twenty feet away every bit as beautiful as the last time he saw her. Loose gray sweats, the same old hunter green crew neck with the name of his hometown in frayed golden embroidery on the front, sherpa lined short ugg boots, and glasses perched on the end of her nose. The silver carry-on she bought in the airport last time they visited his family at her side.

And a sour look of absolute disgust twisting her lips.

Better he sees her for the first time since their break up now instead of later in front of the audience of his nosy family. In the safety of anonymity, she can kill him multiple times over with her eyes, and Wooyoung can grovel and pander like he usually does.

Or Wooyoung would if she hadn’t taken a seat along the bay of windows at the opposite end of the alcove.

Wonderful.

Y/N actively avoids looking in his general direction for the next fifteen minutes. An impressive feat given he’s directly in front of the help desk and TV screen displaying updates for their flight. But she digs her nose into her phone, tapping furiously to who Wooyoung assumes is her best friend. If he wakes up to Lisa in his apartment one morning with a knife to his throat, there’ll at least be a paper trail of evidence.

The gate agent booms over the loudspeaker, announcing priority boarding and first class to come forward. Wooyoung’s bank account weeps at the idea of flying first class during Christmas. Who flies first class domestic? A true mystery for the ages.

The familiar head of hair, full of murderous thoughts aimed at him, boards with group three. Flashing a polite smile to the gate agent as she struts down the hall without a glance back. 

When Wooyoung is called with the last group, he’s first in line. The airport is a dog eat dog world and his good deeds end where the boarding line begins.

Nearly every seat is filled when Wooyoung shuffles down the cramped aisle, full overhead bins already closed half way down the plane. He doesn’t spot Y/N amongst the faces of passengers preparing for the next five hours, some already knocked out with eye masks and neck pillows.

Seat 27A, a window seat Wooyoung paid an extra $37 for, sits next to a blissfully vacant middle seat. There’s also just enough room for his black suitcase to fit overhead, snug between a gray hard case, and a blue duffle. 

The aisle seat in the row is occupied by a man who looks a little younger than Wooyoung's age, a college hoodie and baseball cap similar to his own. He rises, allowing Wooyoung to shuffle by and plop into his chair. Stuffing his backpack under the seat in front, Wooyoung shoots a few last minute texts. One to his family group chat, letting them know the flight is about to take off; resending the flight number for his dad to anxiously track. Another to his roommate group chat, reminding them to cover the drains before they leave town. And a final one to San, begging for thoughts and prayers.

He barely hits send when the seat next to him jostles with the weight of a body. Turning, Wooyoung spots the man in the aisle seat a few inches from himself. On the other side, his ex-girlfriend.

Great.

Y/N

Wooyoung’s familiar mop of dark hair remains unseen through each new rush of passengers, the plane slowly filling up more and more. You dread to think he got stuck the same way you did hours ago, forced on a later flight than intended. If that was the case, would you be stuck at the airport waiting for him? Given his parents had to drive two hours to pick you both up, the answer is probably yes. And two hours unsupervised with Wooyoung’s mom would ruin the entire plan.

Nature calls you to the cramped bathroom at the back of the aircraft as passengers at the front continue trickling in. Hopefully Wooyoung is sitting far away from you when you return to your seat.

Stupid motherfucker. You think, rattling the jammed door of the airplane stall in an attempt to force it open. Just as you're about to kick the door down, a flight attendant shoves it aside, flashing a tight smile of displeasure.

Shuffling up back to your seat, you awkwardly wait behind struggling passengers putting away their belongings in the sparse overhead space. Thank the powers that be, your new ticket came with better boarding.

Finally catching up to the familiar faces of the rows around your seat, you turn to find two men in your row. One in your seat, and the other your ex boyfriend.

You stop dead in your tracks, with a loud, “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Sorry!” The man who is not your ex-boyfriend apologizes.

“No! Not you, sorry!”

Wooyoung just stares blankly. If habit and history were to repeat itself, Wooyoung carefully timed an edible before stepping through security. Given his propensity for being obnoxiously early to the airport, he should be high as a kite.

And now you’re stuck next to him drunk as a skunk.

Great.

Taking the now vacant aisle seat, you attempt to ignore Wooyoung once again; plugging in your headphones and pulling out a book you’ve been trying to get through for months. Lisa’s recommendation of smutty fantasy romance with hot immortal faeries. You didn’t see the appeal but at her insistence, you gave it a chance.

“Hey,” calls a voice to your left. 

Nope, not doing this. You think, forcing yourself to read the opening paragraph again but registering none of the words..

“Y/N,” he tries again.

In your periphery, you can see Wooyoung folding over at the waist to look around the man sandwiched between you. 

“What?” You snap, ripping out your headphones.

“How’ve you been?”

Rolling your eyes with a groan, you sink back into your chair, headphones replaced and book in the pocket in front of you. It’s going to be a long flight.

Murphy’s law states that anything that can go wrong will and your flight is no exception. The packed jet is stuck taxing for almost an hour, courtesy of the trademark fog and rain of New York in the winter. You can feel the heat of Wooyoung’s gaze burn the side of your face, cheeks heating under his scrutiny. But the full scale meltdown threatening to unleash if you entertain him has no place in the sanctity of a last minute holiday flight of people just trying to make it to their next destination.

He doesn’t stop when the plane finally lurches forward, witnessing you brace for the worst part of flying; take off.

The loud rattles and pitch of jet engines skyrocket your blood pressure, flooding your mouth with saliva as a threat of vomiting everywhere; a sickening cold sweat pooling at your back. All you can do is close your eyes, and take deep calming breaths your guided meditation apps recommend. Running through the facts keeps you from descending into full panic. Airplanes are notoriously safe. The odds of dying in a plane crash are one in eleven million. You’re more likely to die in a car crash or from something one of your patient’s brings into the hospital.

But the brief suspension in time and space as you rise through the atmosphere unsettles you to your core. 

The panic steeping into your veins is temporary, eager to vanish the second you reach cruising altitude. It disappears like a late winter snow under early spring sunlight, leaving only trace evidence it ever existed in the first place. But it’ll be back with a vengeance under the screaming brakes and the sounds of wheels hitting pavement as you land.

The seatbelt sign chimes off, and the breath you’d failed to release follows the fading light that illuminated it. 

Wooyoung tries to talk to you another two times before giving up. The final instance is a plea for the bathroom, which you graciously grant; thrilling in the relief you feel at his absence.

The poor guy between you two looks worse for wear, having offered to trade seats with either of you so you didn’t have to talk across him. You apologize once Wooyoung is out of earshot, excusing the strange behavior with a white lie that he's just a friend from college you didn’t get along with and hadn’t seen in a while. The stranger's name is Jay, and he laughs at the irony.

“That’s crazy that you two ended up on the same flight. Are you from Denver?”

“Oh, no. Just visiting some family in Lavensville. What about you?”

“No way! My mom is from Lanesville.”

“Small world,” you laugh. “So what took you to the city?”

“I’m in grad school at Columbia. Getting my MBA.” 

“Excuse me.” Wooyoung arrives over your shoulder.

When you rise, you notice his face is tense as he passes to return to his seat. He pretends to sleep the rest of the flight as you chat with the man next to you. 

Six laborious hours pass before you land in Denver. Exiting the plane, you leave Wooyoung behind in favor of waiting by the restrooms on the way to arrivals. You tap your foot impatiently as he stumbles over, clearly exhausted by the late arrival of your flight and the idea of another two hours in his mom’s cramped sedan.

Shuffling next to one another in somber silence, you wait for Wooyoung to speak first. He dragged you into this, and it’s his job to make it work.

“How’ve you been?”

“Fine.”

“How’s work?”

“Fine.”

“Okay. Look.” He turns, stepping directly into your path and nearly toppling over when you bounce off his chest. “I’m sorry for all of this but you agreed to come so can we please at least act cordial?”

Unfortunately, Wooyoung is right. He might have put his foot in his mouth, but you didn’t take the chance to bail. He’s only fractionally more guilty than you.

“Fine.” You sigh.

He pins you with a look, eyebrows arched as if asking “are you sure?”

Shuffling around him, you begin your journey to baggage claim once again, Wooyoung hot on your heels.

“I’m working at a hospital uptown, I live in Yorkville, and I still prefer the buses to the train.”

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.” Wooyoung nods. “I’m at the same school, in the same apartment, and still living with San and Yeosang. But Mingi moved to Williamsburg with his girlfriend.”

You try to smother the snarkiness of your voice but a sarcastic “I know.” slips free.

Even if you weren’t as close with the boys due to the break up, they’d been your friends as much as his; especially Mingi’s girlfriend, who’d you introduced him to. Lia invited you to their housewarming party when they finally settled in but you missed it due to work, and the nerves of seeing Wooyoung so soon after such a fresh break up. 

The conveyor belt of remaining unclaimed luggage spins like the saddest merry-go-round in existence. Wooyoung jumps forward to snatch your suitcase before you can react, rolling it your direction before diving back in for his own. Once out of the way, he calls his mom to confirm she’s pulling around to pick you two up. 

The silver sedan whips to the curve, Wooyoung’s mom beaming from the driver’s seat.

“My babies!” She cries through the rolled down window.

Mrs. Jung always gave you the enthusiasm your own mother couldn’t feign. Smiling at her before circling the trunk where Wooyoung packs away your bags, you snatch his hand before he can throw it closed.

“Should we tell them I still live in Boston?”

As if you’ve just spoken another language, Wooyoung simply blinks at you.

“How are we gonna explain separate apartments? It makes no sense.”

“Oh,” he gasps, as if the thought didn’t occur to him. “Ugh, yeah good idea.”

The security guard monitoring the pick up area begins striding towards the car, inhaling to yell a warning. Throwing your remaining luggage inside the trunk roughly, you both sprint to enter the vehicle. Wooyoung plants himself in the passenger seat, squeezing his mom in a tight hug as you buckle in the middle seat. Untangling from her needy son, Mrs. Jung peels out and joins the line of cars attempting to merge on the interstate. 

Reclining the seat back, Wooyoung knocks out immediately, leaving you to fend for yourself.

“How’s Boston, dear?” She chimes, voice light and bouncy despite the late hour.

You provide your stock answer for everytime someone asks over the past three years.

“Cold, wet. Lots of sick babies.”

“At least they’re consistent!”

You try to swallow the instinct to comb through Wooyoung’s hair as he naps. The first thing you learned about him in the early phase of your relationship was that Wooyoung needed some kind of physical contact at all times or he’d die. At least, he thought so. It’d been annoying at first; the constant hand holding, suffocating hugs that left your arms useless as you tried to study, even the overabundance of cartoonish kisses anywhere his lips could reach. But over eight years, you grew to appreciate his special way of showing affection. When words failed the man who always had something to say, he relied on touch to convey the things he couldn’t verbalize.

Even if you say all the right things and act like nothing's wrong, anyone who has ever been associated with Wooyoung will know something is up if he isn’t hanging off you like a koala. So if you’re going to pretend the last six months hadn’t happened then you have no reason not to treat him the way you always had.

Your nails snag on a few invisible tangles in his shaggy hair that spills across the cloth seat. It’s longer than when you last saw him in the summer, top half pulled back in an elastic. Continuing to provide updates, you gently brush the bangs hanging in his face. Wooyoung whines sleepily when you pause, causing his mom to laugh.

“Nice to know the city hasn’t changed him.”

Quick to appease, you start again before responding. “Eh, I don’t know about that. Have you seen some of his shoes?”

“Still?” She gasps.

“Unfortunately, I think it’s terminal.”

Mrs. Jung’s cackly laugh is a perfect doppelganger of her son’s. Shrill and mischievous, compelling you to laugh along in pure glee even if you don’t find shared humor; bewitched by the pure joy.

Once the initial rush of reunion wanes, she insists you doze along with her son. The gentle caress of warm air from the vents, paired with the smooth carols from the radio, lulls you down into a shallow rest.

Wooyoung

As his mom rolls to a stop in their driveway, the gentle glow of the car's cabin lights draw Wooyoung awake. Eyes only a quarter open, he stretches in the reclined seat with an obnoxious yawn, hands brushing the firm body of Y/N dozing behind him. She shrugs his hand off her thigh, burrowing back down into the collar of her sweater.

“Come on, sleepy heads. We’re home.” His mom announces as she opens her door.

Home for Wooyoung is a cream two story, five bedroom, three bathroom, Williamsburg Revival style home with royal blue shutters. His dad added the two car garage himself, meticulously matching the exterior to the existing home, blending old and new seamlessly under the watchful eye of his mom. The now gray and dead garden that usually bloomed wildly below the first floor windows was his grandmother’s contribution when she moved in before Wooyoung started highschool.

When his parents were two college students at the obscure liberal arts college Lavensville was built around, his mom had been obsessed with the very house Wooyoung grew up in. According to his dad, Wooyoung’s mom talked more about the house than anything else; a true historic preservationist to her core.

It was an odd way to ask someone to marry you, but his dad always said “Some women wanted a ring. Your mom wanted this house.”

His dad surprised her with the ring after she stopped crying about the house.

Golden string lights drip from the corners of the roof, casting the exterior in a buttery soft haze. Each window sporting a wreath with a thick red velvet ribbon. A heavy layer of snow coating the ground like powdered sugar makes the entire scene like something out of a snowglobe. 

Another yawn before braving the inevitable blast of chilly air, Wooyoung spots Y/N in the rearview mirror; features curled in a sleepy scowl, eyes squinted against the sudden light.

Wooyoung joins his mom at the back of the car, crowding her away from the truck as she insists on helping them carry everything inside. She manages to snag his backpack and Y/N’s carryon before he can shoo her towards the path to the front door where his dad is jamming on an old pair of sneakers to come help.

“We got it!” Y/N calls across the icy lawn, bidding the older man to stay inside as she struggles with her suitcase.

“I can see that.” His dad laughs, jogging down the salted sidewalk curving along the front of the house to reach them.

His dad lifts her larger suitcase out of the truck with ease, leaving Wooyoung to roll his own inside while Y/N balances her tote bag and his carryon. The wheels grate against the uneven brick sidewalk as everyone rushes to return to the heated interior of the house.

It’s well past midnight as they climb the staircase in the foyer to the second floor. Wooyoung’s room is just as he left it the last time he visited in the spring. The headboard of the tiny twin bed resting against the wall just under the window looking out to the front yard, posters from his childhood still tacked up crookedly. 

Wooyoung tries very hard not to think about the last time they shared the quilt covered bed of his childhood room. How the last trip here had been the last time Y/N slept in his arms, the last time he laid her bare beneath him. Six months and the memories felt as real as they had when it happened.

Sharing the tiny mattress could only mean trouble for the delicate truce Wooyoung had made with her in the airport.

“I can sleep on the floor.” He offers, unzipping his suitcase for clean clothes to sleep in.

Digging in her own suitcase, Y/N scoffs at the idea. “Don’t be stupid, what if Bibi comes in?”

“She’s gotten better about knocking!”

“Yeah, after she saw us having sex!”

Not like that’s gonna happen again.

“We can share the bed, it’s too cold up here to sleep on the floor.” Y/N says as she grabs her toiletry bag and shuffles to his door. “You’re a diva when you don’t get good sleep.”

“I’m not a diva” Wooyoung whines after her, rebuttal bouncing off the piece of wood separating them. 

When Y/N returns from the bathroom, Wooyoung takes his turn to brush his teeth and wash his face. It’s just for a few days, he reminds himself. She leaves the day after Christmas and after he returns to the city he can tell his family they decided to part ways.

Until then, Wooyoung gathers all the patience he typically reserves for the army of eight year olds he deals with every day in an effort to not descend into insanity.

He finds her balancing on the edge of the narrow mattress, a sliver of space behind her for him to sink into. Neither says anything as the minutes tick by, both refusing to fall asleep despite the fatigue swirling over them attempting to find root. Back to back, Wooyoung stares at the wall as he tries not to listen to the gentle whoosh of Y/N breath.

December 22nd

Y/N

Shuffling into the cold kitchen, you barely crack your eyes open as you beeline for the coffee pot resting on the counter. Wooyoung’s mom greets you from the dining table, eyes scanning her newspaper as you reply with a mumble “morning.”

One would think years of twenty-four hour shifts and early mornings would make waking up easier but you’d sleep all day if given the chance; however, Wooyoung suffocating you like an octopus forced you from the heated sanctuary under the covers and downstairs. Already it was too easy to pretend you were still together. Waking up tangled in him, his face squashed against your sweater clad chest as he snored, blissfully unaware of the budding panic attack you’d calmed with a freezing shower full of choked tears.

Planting your rear in a dark oak dining chair around the table, the jolt of caffeine and sugar lulls your senses awake as you scroll your phone. 

You send a text to your little brother, confirming your parents had made it to their cruise safely while your flight crossed the country. Two weeks in the Caribbean, all expenses paid, sounded a lot better than a week in rural Colorado with your ex-boyfriend. Thankfully, there’s no cell service in the middle of the ocean; so you don’t need to explain to your mother why you were spending Christmas with Wooyoung, who she truly was never fond of to begin with.

Sometime after bed, Lisa sent a string of vaguely threatening emojis and a picture of her yorkie with the Christmas sweater you bought as an early gift. Assuring her Wooyoung had been on his best behavior so far, you switched over to skim your clogged work email.

“Do you want some breakfast, sweetie?” 

“This is fine.” You say, raising your mug.

“How can you be a doctor and try to tell me coffee is a healthy breakfast?”

“I have horrible news if you think doctors have time to do any of the things we tell people they should.”

“Well it’s a good thing you’re here then because you have plenty of time now.”

Wooyoung

Wooyoung hates waking up alone. It feels inexplicably wrong. Especially after sharing an apartment with Y/N for those four years she was in medical school. There’d been plenty of road bumps but spending every night curled up under the comforter with the woman he loved made it all fade to black. He never slept as good as those years.

Except this morning, he wakes up to Y/N’s fingers brushing his hair like she always did when they’d been together, and for a second Wooyoung thinks the entire breakup must’ve been a horrible dream. Wooyoung hadn’t moved a muscle lest the passes of her short nails sending goosebumps down his spine stopped. Eventually, the lazy drags lulled him back into the land of sleep as her heart sang his favorite lullaby.

The second time Wooyoung woke up, she’d been long gone and he felt the familiar emptiness he thought he’d forgotten after all these months apart.

Trudging down the stairs with loud footsteps, Wooyoung spots his mom in the kitchen, mouth spread wide over laughter as Y/N sits at the counter, cradling a mug of steaming coffee. If Wooyoung had to bet, the ceramic mug probably contained more sugar and milk than anything.

“Morning,” he grumbles, forehead resting against the cool marble of the island as he continues to doze in front of the audience.

His mom pats his back as she passes to reach the fridge, “Go sit down, Woo. You're in my way!”

“Everyone is so mean to me,” he pouts, but rounds the counter to sit next to Y/N nonetheless, resting his cheek on her shoulder, feeling her startle at the contact. 

Wooyoung hides a satisfied smirk in her sweater when a hand starts scratching his back under his hoodie. He can almost forget their lying to everyone in the gentle passes of her cold fingers chilling against his hot skin.

 “Your brother is getting in this afternoon so we thought of letting everyone relax until this evening and then having a game night.” His mom calls over her shoulder, busy with the pan heating in the flames of the stove.

“Where’s Kyungmin?”

“He went with Bibi to volunteer at the church this morning.”

“Sucker,” Y/N mumbles for Wooyoung’s ears only, sending him into giggles.

Wooyoung’s grandmother has a particular way of guilting everyone in his family to do exactly what she wants. It’s why he’s sharing his childhood bed with his ex-girlfriend, why his dad keeps the house unbearably warm all year round, and why his little brother is no doubt undergoing military grade interrogation first thing in the morning.

Going to church with Bibi was less about being closer to God and more about being paraded in front of her old lady friends with single granddaughters. Wooyoung had been a victim until he met Y/N, each summer at home more exhausting than the last with not so subtle reminders Ms. So-and-so's granddaughter was very pretty and very available. But the second Wooyoung sent a picture to his mom of the girl he had not so casually started dating fall semester of senior year, his grandmother ceased all effort to set him up. And after she met Y/N at graduation, Wooyoung beamed with the knowledge his entire family not only approved but liked his girlfriend. 

Leaving poor Kyungmin to bare the brunt of Bibi’s well-meaning torture almost made Wooyoung feel guilty. Operative word being almost. Because Wooyoung had survived it, their older brother had survived it, and now it was Kyungmin’s turn to endure the special brand of Jung family meddling.

And the second his family finds out he's technically single, Wooyoung knows it’s only a matter of time before Bibi smothers him in his sleep for breaking up with the girl she considers family. And after, when she resurrects him from the dead, Wooyoung will be thrown to Bibi’s friends like a sacrificial lamb to starving wolves.

Stealing a sip of Y/N’s overly sweet coffee can’t clear his mouth of the sour taste.

“Wooyoung, you need to make up the guest bed for your brother.” His mom says, dropping a plate of eggs and toast on the counter for him and Y/N to share.

“What about her?” Wooyoung asks, lips stretching as he stuffs his face.

“She’s a guest!”

Washing down a harsh swallow with another sip of coffee, Wooyoung mutters a “hardly,” under his breath.

“Get your own!” Y/N snaps, shoving the mug out of his reach.

Wooyoung responds with a high pitched whine, huffing similar to a toddler rather than a man who's almost thirty. “Why are you both being so mean to me? I haven’t even done anything yet.”

Rising to pour his own mug of caffeinated gold, his mom quickly claims the empty chair before she bats Wooyoung away. Claiming something about “girl time” as an excuse to get him out of the kitchen before he can truly annoy them to his fullest potential.

Y/N

When the afternoon rolls around, Bibi greets you with a fierce hug and a grandmotherly pinch to your cheek, smiling up at you as she asks for any and every update since she last saw you in April for her birthday.

Luckily, Kyungmin unconsciously rescues you as he enters the house, boxes piled high in his arms of goodies from the other ladies at church trying to court him on their granddaughter’s behalf. Rushing to his aid, you give him a gentle side hug as you walk with him to the kitchen.

“So…” you start, eyeing the stacks of cookies crowding the counter. “How was church?”

A pained groan answers you, Kyungmin dropping his head to the marble counter with a thud. 

You can’t contain your snicker, snagging one of the deformed gingerbread men to dunk in your fresh cup of coffee.

“Only a few more months,” Kyungmin mutters under his breath, the reprieve of college clearly tethering him to sanity.

Wooyoung told you all about Bibi’s ways when you started dating, thankful to no longer entertain doting mothers and grandmothers interested in him only because he was single and knew basic manners unlike many of the men lurking around Lavensville. Poor Kyungmin didn’t stand a chance if Wooyoung hadn’t managed to charm his way out until he got a girlfriend Bibi approved of.

“At least we get snacks out of it!” You clap, continuing to sort his haul as Kyungmin hides in his arms.

A tan hand sneaks over your shoulder to steal the decapitated cookie still in your grip, turning to see Wooyoung nibbling on arm as he observes the collection of cookies, fruit, and other treats.

“Come on!” You stomp your foot like a toddler.

“Tastes better when it’s stolen.” Wooyoung winks, forcing you and his brother to dry heave in unison. Your reaction isn't genuine, only an effort to hide the squeeze in your chest at how easily he can fall back into old habits after months of radio silence.

Wooyoung’s mom breezes into the kitchen, unbothered by your bickering as she types out a text message.

“Myungho and Mia land in an hour. Your dad is already on the way to pick them up.” She rattles off, more to herself than anyone else. “Kyungmin, you need to tidy all of this up. Wooyoung you already put clean sheets on the guest bed? Great. Y/N, dear, would you mind helping with dinner later?”

“Of course.”

—

Dinner consists of chili you didn’t assist with other than pulling out extra toppings from the fridge for, and everyone chattering around the table. Myungho is sharing some story about his and Mia’s neighbor who refused to close their blinds, everyone laughing at Mia’s grimace when she recalled the horrors of the “tighty-whities” incident. Each time you stay with the Jung’s you're shocked how well they get along, everyone slotting together perfectly like some cheesy sitcom family.

It’s not that your family didn’t love each other, but there was little bonding you together other than shared blood and memories. Your mom clearly favored your brother while your dad tried to make up for the snub by prioritizing you. Growing up with the invisible competition left bitter resentment to this day. At least now, after years of therapy and freedom from the suffocating expectations of your childhood home, you and your brother shared a mutual understanding that it was your parents fault for the animosity between you. Nothing could the damage already deeply ingrained, but you’d become a more united front during family affairs. 

That’d been the first time you and Wooyoung fought in your tentative relationship. He hadn’t seemed to understand how you could talk about your brother with such vitrole, confused why you weren’t more excited to see him after living in the city permanently since sophomore year. Not that you’d explained your family dynamic prior to calling him in a full blown meltdown in Washington Square Park at midnight. But Wooyoung listened. And when you brought up how perfect his family seemed, he quickly corrected your assumption.

Wooyoung knew his parents loved him and his brothers equally. But they were helping him pay thousands of dollars in tuition out of state for him to be a teacher while his older brother made six figures fresh out of college as an engineer. Even if they were happy for him, Wooyoung struggled with the internal conflict of idolizing his brother and feeling like he’d never measure up.

It’d been the first time Wooyoung cried in front of you.

The tense conversation and awkward small talk of your childhood home didn’t seem to have space here at the Jungs, nothing but laughter and warmth filling each nook and cranny. Even the awkwardness of sitting next to your ex-boyfriend, pretending he was still your partner, seemed to be stifled with the company.

“So, Y/N, when are you planning to move back to New York? You finished residency, right?” Mia asks over her glass of wine, eyes bright.

“Ugh,” you stutter, unprepared for such directness.

“Or maybe you’re thinking of moving to Boston?” She eyes Wooyoung.

“We’re, uh,” Wooyoung pipes up, frantically looking at you.

“I’m looking at jobs in the city but nothings come up yet.” 

“That sucks.” Myungho chimes, working to help their father clear the table for games.

Rather than answering, you take a long draw of your drink before rising to hide in the bathroom.

In the silence of the small half bath under the stairs, you attempt to control your stuttering breath. A few splashes of cool water on your face help shock your system but it does nothing to stop the  It’d taken years to perfect the stone-faced facade you presented to families when the outcome was less than favorable. 

A light tap at the door startles you from the nose dive your conscious has taken.

“I’ll be out in a minute.” You call, scrubbing your hands in the sink.

“It’s me,” Wooyoung chirps on the other side of the wood.

Opening the door, Wooyoung leans his shoulder against the jamb, eying you warily. Pulling him into the cramped space, you press the door closed as you lean against.

“I can’t do this, Woo. I can’t lie to them.”

 “Don’t think of it as lying! Just pretend you're back in that drama class in college!”

“Oh, you mean the class I almost failed because I couldn’t act?” You whisper harshly.

“Just let me take the lead okay? All you have to do is be normal.”

Another knock on the door startles you both. When you got so close to Wooyoung, you have no idea, but there are only a scant few inches between you and you can smell the peppermint schnapps on his breath.

“Wooyoung, Y/N. Is everything okay?”

Twisting around your stiff body, Wooyoung nudges you out of the way as he twists the handle and pulls the door inward.

“Yeah,” Wooyoung answers, opening the door to a concerned Bibi. “She wasn’t feeling well.”

Bibi brushes past him, the cool back of her wrinkled hand pressing against your forehead. “Are you okay, dear?”

“I’m fine, just got a little light headed.”

One arm curls around yours, the other gently patting your back as Bibi guides you back towards the kitchen with Wooyoung trailing behind.

“You know, when I was pregnant with Wooyoung’s father I got lightheaded all the time.”

“Oh?” 

Bibi’s implication isn’t lost on you, or Wooyoung for that matter when you hear him curse as he trips behind you.

“Almost everyday I’d have to drink a gallon of ginger tea just to get out of bed.” She guides you into a seat before turning. “I’ll make you cup while the boys set everything up, okay?”

“That’s really not neccess–”

But Bibi is already filling the kettle and rummaging in the cabinets for tea bags as if you didn’t speak at all.

Wooyoung

Cursing his grandmother for making an already tense situation worse, Wooyoung shakes his head as she flutters around the kitchen. Perhaps he should be relieved Bibi moved away from asking when they were getting married and fast forwarding straight to asking for grandchildren. At least Wooyoung hadn’t been as close to being the dad as he was as being a husband. Kids were completely hypothetical; but marriage had almost been a reality.

Kyungmin is already setting up the Scrabble board and dishing out letters. Eight people was far too many so like every year they divide into pairs. Mom and Dad, Myungho and Mia, Kyungmin and Bibi, and him and Y/N.

The board begins to crowd with letters. Bibi and Kyungmin struggle to play anything worth more than fifteen points while his parents brush off challenge after challenge as they fill the board with words like “Paczki” and “Rudistid.”

“Quips, baby! Do you know how hard it is to get rid of a Q?” Mia asks everyone, high fiving Myungho next to her. 

Wooyoung exchanges a conspiratory smile with Y/N before he ruins their celebration. “I know! And when you have a U and an I and every other letter I need for QUILTING on a double word score. Plus bingo for all the tiles we don’t have…Boom 96 points.”

Arms thrown around each other's shoulders, he bounces up and down with Y/N in victory. Their cheeks squish together, matching bright tipsy grins pulled across their lips. Almost like everything is normal.

“No fair! You’re an English teacher!” Kyungmin protests, nostrils flared.

“Yeah to third graders, Minnie. You know just as many words as they do, I promise.”

Y/N doesn’t move from his hold except to take another swig of the tea his grandmother made her. Wooyoung tries not to think about what it means; having an arm curled around the back of her chair while she settles into the crook of his chest, watching his family over the top of her head, relaxing firm pressure of her body against his own. Taking the tentative peace for granted, Wooyoung greedily overindulges in the illusion of normalcy.

December 23rd

Y/N

In the cool toned light of the snowy dawn, you wake in Wooyoung’s arms once again. This time you're both on your sides, Wooyoung pressed firmly behind you as he snores in your ear. A familiar lump pokes against your rear, scorching your skin through the layers of clothes that serepate you.

Wiggling in his grip, you're ashamed of the quiet moan fleeing your lips as Wooyoung flexes his arms to hold you tighter, his hips rolling against you harshly to pin you to him.

Blame it on the months without feeling another person’s touch, or the liminal space that exists when the world is asleep and void of any real consequences, but a hollowness stings your core and dampens your panties.

Years of dating meant years of exploring one another’s bodies, discovering every spot that drove the other mad and perfecting the balance of teasing and satisfaction. You still remember the first night in your shared apartment years ago; Wooyoung blindfolded and tied to the bed, putty under your fingers as you rode him until your eyes felt permanently crossed and your legs numb. And just when you thought the night was over, sated with his cum leaking onto the sheets, Wooyoung knotted the silk scarf around your own wrist and “cleaned up” the mess between your thighs until you actually blacked out.

The very memory has you arching backwards, clenching around nothing but disappointing emptiness.

It’s wrong. So so so wrong. To fantasize about your ex-boyfriend while he’s asleep next to you, none the wiser to your stuttered breath and pounding heart.

But the way his hand on your stomach fists the fabric of your shirt, pulling you into him again, beckons you closer to the edge of temptation. Wooyoung told you to act natural. What’s more natural than enjoying some half asleep heavy petting? You’re already pretending to date him, why not reap some of the old benefits you’d missed in your time apart?

Just as you turn in Wooyoung’s arms, set on waking him with an offer even he can’t refuse, he yawns awake. Arms stretching high, he pushes you from the toasty covers and onto the floor with a bang!

“Jesus Christ!” You groan, jolting pain in your elbow shocking your system as it catches the edge of the bed frame.

Wooyoung’s head pops over the side of the mattress, “Why’re you down there?”

Scoffing, the back of your head thuds against the floor; eyes sinking shut as you fight the urge to murder him. Three more days and you’ll never have to deal with the ridiculousness that follows Wooyoung like a shadow. 

You hear, rather than see, Wooyoung exit into the hallway. Stretching your lungs around another deep breath, you follow behind him. Passing the bathroom door as you pad down stairs, you're greeted with an empty kitchen. The stove clock reads just past nine so more bodies should trickle in soon, called by the coffee you’ve begun brewing. Sending a silent prayer to the universe, you prepare for quality time with Mrs. Jung and Mia. Another day of lying to the people who treat you better than your own family. 

Wonderful.

Wooyoung

Like a teenager with his first wet dream, Wooyoung hides in the sanctuary of the bathroom.Thankfully, his brothers aren’t prone to waking before noon and he stakes his claim by locking the door and entering the steam.

Maybe dry humping his ex-girlfriend while half asleep was a bad idea but Wooyoung knows she pushed back into him with a purpose. He’d heard the whimper she tried to silence, felt her press her legs together the way she did when she was wet and needed his help.

Wooyoung hadn’t meant to launch her to the floor but overdue break up sex with the rest of the house due to wake up any minute couldn’t be a good idea. And with three more days of their charade Wooyoung needed less complications, not more.

But the knowledge of how wrong he should feel doesn’t stop the memories of them together from placating his mind as he palms his aching cock. Months of abstinence fail to dissolve Wooyoung’s photorealistic memories of his ex-girlfriend in compromising positions; bent in half to take his cock, staring down her nose as she sits in his lap. And his personal favorite, Y/N on her knees, eyes watering as her swollen lips stretch around his length, the flared head nudging the back of her throat.

The swiftnesses of his orgasm is a fatal blow against his fragile ego. Biting the meat of his fist, Wooyoung watches his cum sink down the drain. Unfortunately, the confusion pulsing through him doesn’t follow.

—

As Wooyoung descends to the living room, he spots his dad and his brothers watching a documentary on the Discovery channel. Sinking into the worn leather of their ancient couch, he cracks open one of the books he brought from home. Brave New World wasn’t light reading, but he’d been meaning to give it a try since Yeosang recommended it to him and what better way to spend his free time? 

Soon enough, his dad snores from his spot in the recliner, chin tipped back against the headrest. Kyungmin remains entranced by the colorful birds dancing across the screen while his other brother no doubt taps away at work emails cluttering his phone despite the holidays. It’s the kind of peace and content Wooyoung loved about his family. Co-existing without needing to interact, enjoying each other's presence while living their own lives.

Y/N

The acrid sting of acetone and nail polish burn your nose under the harsh white lights of the nail salon. Mia is happily chattering away, blasting through any stilled pauses or awkward silences. Bibi and Mrs. Jung sit at the counter getting their nails painted by the attendants in calm silence.

You try not to kick the young woman scrub your foot as she brushes against your ticklish nerves, squirming in your seat as she gives a tight lipped smile at your discomfort. For a week off for Christmas you cashed in every favor, picked up every single on call asked of you, nearly breaking under the demand to stretch yourself so thin as the new doctor in your department. The horrific results of hours on your feet were being ground down and clipped before you. 

Relaxing was… difficult for you. Or other peoples’ definition of relaxation was. To you, the perfect day off was running around town, hitting an early morning pilates class followed by an overpriced coffee and finding something to do in the city that offered everything. Sitting still was a necessary evil to get to and fro but it left you to stew with your thoughts you preferred to drown in an overwhelming weight of activity.

“Y/N,” Mia calls, bringing you to turn and look at her. 

Her usually glowing face is apprehensive, lip worried between her teeth and eyes downcast.

“Yeah?” 

“You work with kids, right?”

“All day.” You laugh, trying to break the tension.

Mia hesitates, struggling to find the words she wants to say. “After all the stuff you’ve seen, do you still want them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you and Wooyoung think you’ll have kids someday?”

“I mean not anytime soon considering…”

That we aren’t together. You finish in your mind.

But Mia assumes the unspoke truth is the fact you’re supposed to be living in Boston while Wooyoung is living in New York.

“I mean of course, but like you guys both work with kids and I feel like you know the worst that could happen! My friend Mina just had her baby and she says she can’t sleep. She just sits up all night watching him because she’s afraid somethings gonna happen.”

“Mia, are you and Myungho?”

“Not yet,” she smiles. “But we’ve been talking about it more and I know I want that with him but I’m just—”

“Scared?”

She nods sheepishly.

Hesitating as you weigh your next words carefully, you think about all the conversations you’ve had with worried parents. Most of the kids and parents you met were under less than positive circumstances. Babies with underdeveloped lungs, toddlers who couldn’t breath from just sitting up. You’d be lying if it didn’t make you question having your own. The powerlessness you felt when no matter how hard you worked to fix things it was all for naught. 

But all of the bad days don't outweigh the good ones. When NICU preemies got to leave the ward with their families for the first time. Having a child take their first full breath because their medication was finally starting to work. The plethora of thank you cards hanging on your fridge and displayed in your office from the families you’d helped.

And you remember all the stories Wooyoung told you about his classroom. Kids who could barely read falling in love with the books he gave to them, hounding him for more stories. When he made way with a problem child, watching them begin to excel under his gentle guidance. Giggling at Wooyoung hiding his tears at the end of year advancement ceremony when all his third graders became fourth graders every year.

“I think being scared means you care. And you can always call me if you’re worried, no matter what happens.”

“I’ll definitely take you up on that.” Mia laughs.

“You’re gonna be a great mom.” You whisper, squeezing her arm.

Mia squeezes your hand back, “I always wondered what it’d be like to have a sister.”

“Me too.”

You look away as Mia blinks, breathing away the wetness glossing your own eyes.

—

Upon returning home, you find all four men passed out in various positions in the living room. Mr. Jung in the recliner that predates your birth, mouth wide open and glasses crooked on his nose. Sprawled across the floor is Kyungmin, gangly teenage limbs starfished to the edges of the carpet. Wooyoung and Myungho share a blanket across their laps, both with their backs on opposite sides of the couch. 

You four try to contain your laughter at the sight. If there was any doubt about who fathered the Jung boys, the shaggy black hair and symphony of identical snores would easily lay those rumors to rest. 

Bibi shuffles down the hall to her room, claiming a nap to be a great idea after the pampering from the nail salon. Mia and Mrs. Jung head into the kitchen, each teething with bulging bags of groceries for tonight's gingerbread competition.

But you can’t take your eyes off Wooyoung. The only time he ever looked so peaceful was when he was sleeping, face positively boyish and missing the stress induced wrinkles from managing a class of eight year olds. The urge to cross to him and kiss the freckle on his lower lip floods your brain but you’re able to stuff it down when he whines in his sleep, twisting to re-adjust on the lumpy couch.

Following the shuffle of plastic bags echoing from the kitchen, you busy yourself with unpacking the boxes of pre-made gingerbread houses, candy, and tubes of icing. Neatly organizing the packages on the counter, Mrs. Jung pushes you and Mia upstairs as she starts to prepare dinner.

The clock on the stove shows it’s closing in on three, giving you enough time to shower and have a nap of your own before the mayhem of the evening.

Cranking the faucet to the highest setting, you waste no time waiting for it to heat as you jump under the cold water. Wooyoung called you a psychopath the first time he witnessed you shower routine but you’d been busy applying for medical school, working in the student health center, and tutoring in the biology lab, all while maintaining a perfect GPA in the fall semester of your senior year; you didn’t have time for the simple pleasures of wasting precious minutes while your apartment’s old pipes struggled to carry hot water through the faucet. And as they say, old habits die hard.

The chill brings sharp clarity with it. It’d only been two days and you’d already fallen into the same bickering as before, been tempted to kiss him when no one was around to fool, and nearly fucked him in his childhood bed. 

Three more days. You think, shivering lessening as steam billows around you. 

Then you can leave this entire maddening ordeal behind you forever.

Wooyoung

The squeeze of Wooyoung’s heart threatens to topple him to his knees at the sight of Y/N curled up in his bed. His old college hoodie circles her face, lips pouted and eyebrows furrowed at whatever dream world she’s lost in. 

Wooyoung aches to wake her up with innocent kisses as he holds her to his chest, fingers ironing out the wrinkles of her forehead as she breaches the surface of sleep. To smile at her whines of protest of being interrupted from a rare opportunity to rest without worrying about work or some other responsibility.

But what Wooyoung wants, he doesn’t deserve. As bold and indulgent as he might be in front of the prying eyes of his family, he isn’t cruel. Even if it kills him not to touch her like he used to be able to, Wooyoung won’t subject her to the torture of his feelings. It’s the least he can do for pulling Y/N into this sham after ending their relationship without explanation. 

“Y/N,” he whispers, fingers prodding her shoulder. “Gotta wake up.”

She responds with a throaty groan, pulling the edge of the blanket over her head to hideaway.

“C’mon it's almost time for dinner.” 

“Youngie, it’s cold.” Y/N protests as he tries to lift the covers.

Grinding his teeth against the nickname, Wooyoung continues to pry the quilt from her iron grip.

“I can get Bibi up here.”

Flying into a seated position, she blinks against the overhead light. “I’m up!” 

“That’s what I thought.” Wooyoung smirks, crossing to the door. “Let’s go sunshine.”

Y/N mutters empty threats under her breath the entire way to the kitchen, so close she’s cast in his shadow under the threat of Bibi’s wake up methods. Nothing like a woman pushing eighty banging pots over your head to get the blood pumping.

Everyone else already crowds the table, picking apart the trays of snacks as they organize their supplies kits. 

Jung family tradition requires everyone, sans Bibi, to decorate their own house according to the year's theme. After an hour, she picks her favorite and the winner has the honor of opening the first present on Christmas morning. Y/N demolished Myungho’s long standing winning streak the first year she entered the competition; Mia taking her place the next year in Y/N’s absence. Since then, Kyungmin reigned supreme despite his creation looking like a haunted house no matter what the theme was.

“Alright,” Bibi stands once Wooyoung and Y/N have taken their seats at the end of the table. “This year's theme is movies. On your mark, get set. Go!”

A room full of adults, plus Kyungmin who's only a few months short, should act with a sense of decorum and dignity. A fair and clean competition in the name of holiday spirit, family, and comradery.

But Jung house rules mean cheating is not only expected, it’s encouraged.

The table is warzone. Icing dripping off the sides and onto the tile floor. Candies trailing everywhere like shrapnel. Mia hides a piece of Myungho’s roof in her lap, and their mom steals the level their dad insists on using every year. Even Kyungmin slowly starts hoarding the bags of colorful royal frosting one by one in the pocket of his hoodie before anyone can notice.

Wooyoung catches Y/N attempting to eat his bag of gumdrops in his periphery. Their half gone by the time he’s noticed but he simply laughs under his breath. What she doesn’t know is that those are her gumdrops and his are stashed under the table since they sat down.

The little sugar addict is nothing if not predictable.

Most of the houses are beginning to take shape, albeit much more loose definitions of whatever each person decided to do. Kyungmin’s house is poop green with a red roof, streaks of color patchy against the brown cookie sheets. His mom sticks with the traditional decorations instructed on the packaging, no doubt prepared to argue it somehow fits the theme despite being the same every year. Mia’s is laced garishly with pink and pastels, while Myungho crumbles pieces of his for whatever godforsaken reason.

Wooyoung focuses on decorating his tiny gingerbread man with black slashes and stripes.

“Time!” yells Bibi as she whacks the bottom of a pot with a wooden spoon, everyone drops their last piece of candy before hands fly up.

As always, his mom manages to be the only one to finish due to years of practice. Everyone else’s houses are… interesting.

“Mine’s the Grinch,” Kyungmin says.

“The Grinch?” Y/N asks, confused by the horrendous green and red abomination.

“See, you get it!” 

Shaking her head, Y/N points to her own monstrosity. “Okay, so the yellow skittles are the yellow brick road and the green on the house is meant to look like the Emerald City from Wizard of Oz.”

Perhaps if the Emerald City burned to the ground and became ruins but everyone nods at the vision.

“Mine is supposed to be Barbie's Dream house.” says Mia, gesturing to the mound of pink frosting sliding from the roof.

Myungho slams a toy dinosaur from their childhood on top of his pile of cookie pieces before declaring, “Jurassic Park.”

“Home Alone,” his mom chimes.

A chorus of groans around the table answer.

His dad’s is covered in chocolate bars and marshmallows. It looks decent but Wooyoung doesn’t get it until he tells them it’s “Willy Wonka.”

Nodding in appreciation, Wooyoung presents his.

“Nightmare Before Christmas.”

The gray and black icing swirl to make a ugly blob, but Wooyoung will argue it’s exactly what he was going for. Especially with his miniscule Jack Skellington perched in the yard.

Bibi circles the table, ooh-ing and ahh-ing at each entry. She shakes her head at Kyungmin, clearly disappointed in his failure this year. 

“Eunkyung wins!” She cheers, raising his mom’s hand like she won a boxing match.

Claps and whoops fill the kitchen as she beams, proud to win a second time in the history of the competition. 

“Wooyoung, put the winning house on the mantel please.” His dad asks, already moving towards the pantry for trash bags.

“Your majesty.” Wooyoung bows in front of his mom, laughing when she slaps his shoulder.

What he fails to realize is Y/N is leaving the same door he is, and that a sprig of green leaves sit just above their heads.

“Mistletoe!” his mom squeals.

“Huh?” Grunts Y/N, confused.

Wooyoung looks up and spots the infuriating piece of decoration, another pair of eyes trailing after his own. 

If they were still dating, Wooyoung would swoop her into his arms and make an entire production of giving her a short peck on the cheek, his parents were watching after all, while Y/N laughed at his ridiculousness. But now he hesitates as he looks into her eyes, barely missing the nod as she leaves a brief kiss on his lips before turning and leaving the room.

Even under the brief contact, Wooyoung’s lips feel like they’ve been zapped with lightning; his entire body on high alert. So lost in his own world, Wooyoung doesn’t realize he watches her walk away until she’s turning a corner and is out of sight. 

Remembering the gingerbread house still in his hand, Wooyoung continues into the living room to place it front and center on the mantel. 

Y/N

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid! You think, watching yourself in the mirror as you brush your teeth.

You’d spent the rest of the night sweaty and flushed, stuttering like an idiot because of a G-rated kiss with your ex-boyfriend for crying out loud. 

What was wrong with you? 

It was like the butterflies of the beginning of your relationship were waking from dormancy, demanding to let loose in your chest.

But none of this is real. Wooyoung only reached out so Bibi wouldn’t be upset over a last minute cancellation. He didn’t ask to explain why he ended your relationship so suddenly. Didn’t try to weasel his way back in and kiss everything better. All the touching and joking you’d missed so much were nothing more than an elaborate plan for Wooyoung to not be seen as the bad guy by his family. His way of delaying the inevitable. 

And you’d fallen right into the mess subconsciously hoping it might have meant something more. 

The foaming residue of toothpaste splashes against the porcelain sink as you finish washing up. Hiding in the bathroom can only buy you so much time before you have to face Wooyoung again, a new feast of tension waiting for you on a silver platter.

His tiny room is notably empty. Wooyoung nowhere to be seen as you burrow into the blankets. Hopefully, he stays away until you're fully unconscious and able to avoid the entire ordeal.

—

A draft of frigid air invading the warm haze under your mountain of quilts wakes you. Wooyoung shushes your indignant protest, pulling the top layers off. His weight doesn’t dip the bed behind you. Instead, you listen as he shuffles around, the dull thud of pillows and blankets hitting the floor. When he quiets, you turn to see him curled into a ball on a makeshift sleeping matt next to the bed. 

The questions burn on the tip of your tongue. Why is he sleeping on the floor? Was he that upset about the kiss? 

But you don’t ask and Wooyoung doesn’t provide an answer.

December 24th

Wooyoung

Christmas eve is Wooyoung’s favorite part of the holidays. Not even a poor night sleep on the freezing unforgiving floor can dull his excitement. 

He’d risen early, sneaky out of the room the second the sun peaked from the horizon and illuminated the space. Y/N slept soundly, back turned away from him as he evaded her successfully.

A fresh powder of snow fell sometime in the night. So with a hot cup of coffee and a need to get lost in something mindlessly physical, Wooyoung heads to the garage for a shovel to clear the sidewalk and driveway.

Wooyoung knows he should apologize to her. She’d basically avoided him after they got caught under the mistletoe, scurrying upstairs the second it was polite for her to do so. Technically, she kissed him. But the entire situation wouldn’t exist if he didn’t put his foot in his mouth.

Plus, the entire ordeal of yesterday morning couldn’t be ignored. And Wooyoung was ashamed he didn’t feel ashamed.

Mind numb in the cold monotony of moving slush from the concrete to the yard, muscles burning at the strain, Wooyoung loses track of time as the sun moves across the sky.

His dad finds him shoveling the end of the driveway, pants soaked and breath heaving. 

“You okay, kid?” the older man asks, sipping his thermos.

“Fine,” Wooyoung pants. “Why?”

“Because you’re out here.”

“Just helping out.”

“Wooyoung.” A sharp sternness to his tone as his dad’s gloved hands halt the shovel.

He hates that voice. Wooyoung’s dad was soft spoken and good natured, the quietest member of their boisterous family. Always gentle with three rowdy sons that constantly pushed the endless bounds of his patience. Wooyoung can count on one hand the times his dad used this voice on him. Apparently now is one of those times.

Wooyoung looks his dad in the eye before lying to his face, “I’m fine. Really.”

Eying his son skeptically, Wooyoung’s dad clearly doesn’t believe him. 

“Alright.” he drawls. “But come inside, your mom made pancakes.”

Y/N

“Come on Kyungmin, we don’t want to be late!” Bibi calls from the hallway.

In front of you, Kyungmin blanches; terrified of another day surrounded by prodding grandmothers. He looks at you for help, but you offer a sympathetic smile and a shrug of shoulders. If only he knew how much torture you were being subjected to in the name of keeping Bibi happy.

Wooyoung had been scarce since the early hours of the morning, slaving away at clearing the driveway alone. He made a brief appearance at breakfast and lunch but found any excuse to stay faraway from whatever room you planted yourself in. 

Taking the hint, you set up camp in the kitchen. Laptop screen reflecting off your blue-light glasses as you skimmed another journal article about forced oscillation technique and impulse oscillometry. Fascinating as it was to you, it’s just boring enough to anyone else to keep them away; allowing you to waste away the entire afternoon in the most productive way possible.

The sun is already setting by the time others begin to trickle into the kitchen. Mia begins filling snack trays for the trademark movie night; half sweet, half savory. While Myungho sets to work on a batch of mulled cider they picked up at the market.

Kyungmin stomps into the kitchen with a fuming Bibi hot on his heels.

“They’re nice girls, Kyungmin. There was no need to be rude!”

Your wide eyes meet Mia's twin expressions of shock. The youngest was a sweet kid; perhaps he had an attitude sometimes, but he was a teenager after all. To hear he’s been out right rude and in front of Bibi no less, comes as a surprise.

“You’re crazy!” Kyungmin yells, arms waving wildly before he flees to his room.

The sudden silence of the kitchen is rattling. No one moves or speaks as Bibi starts organizing random objects and mail on the counter, clearly uncomfortable with her grandson’s outburst.

Slipping from your chair, you turn to follow in the direction you know he’s bound for.

—

Winter in Colorado is brutal enough, but the wind slicing across your cheeks as you teeter out a tiny window onto the roof at the back of the house makes you regret wearing only a sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. 

Kyungmin’s lone figure is illuminated in the silver moonlight. A telltale stench fills your nostrils despite the thick smoke evaporating in the wind the second it leaves his mouth. Waddling towards him on your butt, you stop next to him. He passes the glass bowl into your waiting hand without a peep. 

You take a long hit before speaking, allowing the tingle of THC to flutter through your veins. 

“Wanna talk about it?” You ask, cradling your knees to your chest in an effort to conserve warmth.

“No.”

“Okay.”

The thick woods fencing in the backyard bends in the wind. Pine trees shake the fronds like feathers, fluffing up as the wind flutters by. A lone swing, attached to a rickety playground set, swings back and forth. It’s beautiful and eerie. Only your breath and the occasional cough from Kyungmin disturbs the fragile place.

“I can’t wait to go to college.” Kyungmin mutters from under his hood.

“Have you heard from anywhere yet?”

“No. But I don’t care where I go as long as I’m not here.”

“Was it that bad?”

“She’s crazy! All of them in that fucking church are insane!”

“Wooyoung told me the same thing.” You chuckle.

“They just stare at me. It’s creepy.” 

“Yeah, that sounds pretty creepy.”

“And Andi just laughs whenever I try to tell her about it.”

“Who’s Andi?”

“A friend.” 

Kyungmin’s tense response tells you Andi isn’t just a friend at all.

“What's she like?”

“She’s nice. She’s in my history class at school.”

“Oh?”

“And she got a scholarship to play soccer in Georgia.”

“That’s cool.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“So you like her?”

“I mean, of course I do. She’s my best friend.”

“Kyungmin…”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s so out of my league.” Kyungmin sighs.

“Why do you think that?”

“She’s smart, and she’s athletic, and she’s funny. She wouldn’t see me like that.”

“Okay.” You nod, “Well, when Bibi started pimping you out at church, what did Andi do?”

“She got really mad when I went on a date with one of them.”

“Oh, really?”

“She didn’t talk to me for like two weeks. I thought she was just, like, on her period or something.”

Shaking your head, you turn to face the ignorant boy. “Alright, first things first. Never, under any circumstances, assume a girl is mad at you because she’s on her period. Ask your brothers or your dad how that's worked out for them. Second, how would you feel if Andi went on a date with someone?”

Face twisting in disgust, Kyungmin grabs the piece again to take a hit.

“Exactly. Maybe you should ask her on a date.”

Kyungmin snorts at the idea, “Yeah, sure.”

“Party out here?” Myungo calls from the window.

Turning, you spot Wooyoung and Mia peaking around his broad shoulders.

“Yeah but it’s B.Y.O.W.”

“Perfect.” He calls back, folding in half to step on the roof.

“Just think about what I said, okay?”

“Okay.” Kyungmin promises as he links his pinky with yours.

Mia and Myungho land on Kyungmin’s other side, a joint visible in Mia’s dainty fingers. Wooyoung plops down next to you, lifting the bowl from Kyungmin and dumping the ash on to the roof.

As he focuses on packing it, you get your first glimpse of him all day. The tip of his nose is red and he keeps sniffling, no doubt from the hours he spent outside or in the garage doing who knows what. Wooyoung’s hair is a mess of tangles, sticking this way and that in the wind and you choke on the urge to straighten it for him. 

You’ve never been good at staying mad at him, even when he’s clearly in the wrong. And what’s worse is Wooyoung knows it. 

Wisps of smoke pour from his nostrils before he passes you the bowl again. Shaking your head, Kyungmin plucks it from his brother’s fingers.

You feel Wooyoung’s breath caress the shell of your ear before he speaks.

“What are you guys doing out here?” He whispers.

“Bibi.” You whisper back.

Wooyoung nods lazily, eyes glazed already. Landing on his back, he looks up to the sky. 

The pale light sharpens his features. Strange how all three brothers looked so similar yet different. Kyungmin still had the round cheeks of adolescents, limbs gangly as he towers over his brothers at only seventeen. Myungho was broader than both but only a fraction taller than Wooyoung, square jaw and cropped hair. But Wooyoung was all angles and sharpness. Even from the first night he approached you in that dingy karaoke bar near campus, you knew he was handsome. But now he looks ethereal. Like some beautiful demon coming to take your soul and laugh all the while. 

Eventually you all end up shoulder to shoulder, each lost and thought and staring at the lonely full moon above. Wooyoung’s hand brushes your own, sending throbbing jolts of electricity through your body. Hooking your pointer finger around his, Wooyoung sighs next to you before settling. 

It somehow hurts worse than if he would have let go.

Wooyoung

Exhaustion and pot nearly knock Wooyoung out as he passes his bedroom door. An early night, lost in the land of dreams where he doesn’t have to think about why he can’t look Y/N in the eye; why he felt a punch in the gut when he spotted her on the roof with his little brother, taking care of him like Kyungmin was her own family; how he wanted to cry when her fingers circled his own. 

Wooyoung’s attempt to uncomplicate his life only seemed to tighten the noose around his neck.

Jung family tradition dictates a Christmas movie with gross amounts of sugary snacks on Christmas Eve. The tradition started before Wooyoung could remember but it’d been his favorite all the same. What little kid didn’t cherish the opportunity to wake up to Santa dropping presents under the tree? Not that he or his brothers managed to stay awake more than half way through whatever movie his parents pulled from the dusty DVD collection on the bookshelf. But as he grew older, Wooyoung appreciated the uninterrupted time he was gifted to spend with his family, especially with each of them living in separate corners of the country.

The new set of matching pajamas every year were simply a bonus.

This year’s boast a deep green with a vintage Christmas light pattern. The inner flannel is positively delightful against Wooyoung’s freezing skin, lulling him into a light doze as leans against the couch between Y/N’s spread legs. 

Kyungmin sprawls in his usual place on the rug in front of the coffee table, glazed eyes glued to Will Ferell terrorizing New York City in yellow tights. Mia and Myungho are off on the other side of the couch, Bibi taking the middle seat. His parents are snug in his dad’s recliner, resembling two teenagers rather than the fifty year olds they really are. Adorably disgusting how in love they still are. 

Resting his cheek against Y/N’s knee, Wooyoung twists his hands in his lap. He can’t touch her. Not sober and absolutely not high out of his mind like he is at this very moment. Because if he starts, Wooyoung is too weak to stop himself. And considering the way she keeps staring at him every time she thinks he isn’t looking, Wooyoung doesn’t think Y/N would want him to stop either. 

—

Bedtime is the same awkward dance as before. His entire family pulls each other into tight hugs, mostly aided by the edibles Myungho slipped them before they all descended downstairs. Calls of “Love you,” and “see you in the morning,” land against his back as he trails behind Y/N.

They get ready for bed in the dark, flashes of bare skin visible in the light trickling in from the cracked curtains covering the lonely window. Turning to face the wall, Wooyoung plugs in his phone while he listens for her to land on the mattress.

When the shuffling ceases, he finds her in a nest on the floor, back towards him.

“What are you doing?”

“You took the floor last night.”

“You don’t hav–”

“Just go to bed.” She bites, voice fragile.

“You’re not sleeping on the floor,” he huffs, temper rising as he crosses to the other side of the mattress.

“I’m fine.” 

“Just take the bed.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Sitting up, Wooyoung barely makes out her scowl. “Why do I need to explain everything to you?”

“Why are you being so stubborn?”

“I’m stubborn? Me?”

“Considering you’re the one on the floor while the bed is empty, yes you’re the stubborn one.”

“Because I’m fine here!”

Wooyoung wades through the quicksand of his brain for a response. Upon finding none, he flops on the pile of blankets next to her.

“What are you doing?”

“Sleeping. Now shut up.”

“Wooyoung,” she sighs.

No more energy to fight, Wooyoung burrows deeper into the mound of quilts; set to sleep next to her on the floor if she continues to refuse the bed. If he was a diva on poor sleep, Y/N was a menace. She’d cave eventually when her hips ached from the painful stiffness of the unbending wood.

Except Wooyoung can’t sleep. All of his nerves are heightened next to her. His entire left side burns in her heat, acutely aware of every shift of her weight or rustle of the blankets. Wooyoung’s lips still burn from their kiss. A childish brush against his mouth but he can’t stop replaying it in his mind over and over. And when he thinks about yesterday morning, when he dreamed about her and then woke up flushed against her, it all makes his blood rush to his head and a weight settles on the back of his tongue.

When Y/N stops twitching beneath the covers behind him, breath even and shallow, Wooyoung finally follows her into sleep.

December 25th

Wooyoung

Christmas morning brings Bibi through the upstairs hallway with a familiar wooden spoon and small tin pot. Wooyoung hears the first crash slide under the crack beneath his door, an ice bath to his system.

He’s still on the floor, a foot between him and Y/N. 

“Get up.” Wooyoung shakes her, not wasting a second as he stands to dive into the still made bed.

She groans in the morning light, eyes crusted as she looks for the disturbance.

Another shrill beat sings through the hall. Much closer to Wooyoung’s door than last time.

“Shit!” 

Y/N tackles him into the pillows. Both attempting to look natural as the door rebounds against the wall, a well rested Bibi standing in the doorway.

“RISE AND SHINE!” His grandmother wails, drumming a rhythmless beat and she turns to stalk towards Kyungmin’s room at the end of the hall.

Dual sighs of relief leave their lips, Y/N rising to stalk to the bathroom without looking back.

Y/N

Mrs. Jung’s victory grants her the privilege of opening the first present this morning. Everyone gathers around, matching states of messy hair and bed-wraggled pajamas, to shred shiny wrapping paper at ten in the morning.

Her first gift is the large rectangle box addressed from her sons, all of them failing to stifle their matching laughter as she slowly unwraps the picture frame. You and Mia had helped arrange the picture last time everyone was together for Bibi’s birthday, sneaking out of the house with the excuse of seeing a movie when you drove to the mall for an old school photoshoot at the department store. 

Wooyoung’s parents join in the giggling bouncing of the walls as they take in all three boys dressed head to toe in denim, arms wrapped around on another’s waists prom-date style as they stare dead faced at the camera. The cherry on top is their matching bowl cuts, making them resemble a nineties boy band. Another frame slips out of the paper, a similar photo of you and Mia except her chin rests on top of your head, eyes obscured by yellow tinted sunglasses.

“Oh my god,” Mrs. Jung guffaws. “You all are ridiculous.”

Passing the frames around the room, Mrs. Jung takes turns hugging her sons along with you and Mia. 

“Oh, my girls. Thank you for putting up with them.” She whispers into your ears, Mia on her left and you on her right. 

You refuse to think about how tomorrow you’ll leave their house for the last time as you squeeze her back tightly. 

As the youngest, Kyungmin is charged with passing out rounds of presents while Mr. Jung collects the discarded ribbons and paper. Thankfully, bringing a gift for Wooyoung wasn’t an expectation. Why sacrifice sacred luggage space to exchange gifts with someone who lives in your backyard? Mia and Myungho never brought their gifts for one another, and you and Wooyoung followed suit.

But that didn’t stop you from braving the hoards of the city in an effort to last minute Christmas shopping before flying out. Bibi loves the fancy lotion you brought her, and Kyungmin is more than satisfied with the promise of whatever new video he can afford with a Playstation gift card. Wooyoung’s parents leaf through the books you bought in a last ditch effort to provide some sort of parting gift. Myungho screams as he unwraps the mug with “IBS: I be shitting” blasted across the front and Mia opens each tin of specialty tea for a whiff of the herbal scents.

Hours later, surrounded in the disarray of boxes and bows, Mrs. Jung announces it’s time for brunch. Everyone takes turns washing up or teetering upstairs to brush their teeth but she pulls you aside before you have a chance to follow.

“Y/N, we have one last gift for you.” She whispers, removing a small box from behind her back. “I didn’t want to give it to you in front of everyone just in case but I want you to know how much we all love you.”

You pull out a cardboard box and a thick card.

“To my future Daughter in Law,

There isn’t a single day I don’t thank the stars for how lucky my son is to find someone as incredible as you. He’s a better person because of you and our family is so blessed to have you in it. I was lucky enough to be given three amazing sons but now I’m fortunate enough to have two daughters as well. 

Love, Mrs. Jung”

Each word is a new punch to the gut, tears swelling in the corner of tight eyes. Focusing on opening the box in an effort not to break down in the hallway, you unveil a simple silver chain with a knotted pendant. The same you’ve seen Mia and Mrs. Jung wear on special occasions.

“Oh, I can’t—”

“Nope. I won’t hear a word of it! It’s family tradition. Bibi gave me mine, and now I get to give you yours.”

“But I really—”

But Wooyoung’s mom is a force to be reckoned with. Slipping the delicate piece of jewelry out of the box, she slips it around your neck and straightens it before you can stop her. When she’s happy, you fall into her arms in a fierce hug as you weep into her shoulder.

“Oh sweetie,” she coos, patting your back comfortingly; clearly thinking you're overcome with emotion at officially being a part of the family.

You don’t correct her. Why ruin such a heartfelt moment by shattering the illusion now that you're so close to the end? Instead, you take comfort in her embrace, willing the tears to stop with the same principle you use in the hospital: save the crying for the shower.

Stepping out of the hug, you allow her to wipe away the trails of tears marring your cheeks with soft swipes of her thumbs, a soft smile at her tutting over you. Mrs. Jung pulls you into one last bear hug before pushing you upstairs to compose yourself.

Wooyoung stares as you pass him on the stairs, evidently alarmed at the evidence of your crying. But you keep your eyes down as you trudge by. 

Wooyoung

Wooyoung can’t help but worry at what happened between presents and breakfast to make Y/N so upset but his mom keeps squeezing her shoulder and Bibi just smiles knowingly in her direction. The new necklace circling her neck is familiar but Wooyoung can’t place why and he hasn’t had the opportunity to ask. 

Crowding into the living room as the sun sets, he doesn’t miss the way Mia intertwines Y/N into a fierce squeeze, practically bouncing off the walls with giddiness. He doesn’t have time to ask what it’s about before another movie is starting on the TV to wind down for the evening.

He can feel the tension rolling off her in waves next to him. Muscles locked and leg jittering the same way it did before she had to take her MCAT or open exam results. When the screen fades to black, Y/N is up the stairs and out of sit before he can blink.

Following her up, Wooyoung finds her perched on the edge of his bed, fingers stroking the pendant resting between her collarbones. Shut in the quiet of his room, Wooyoung asks the question that’s buzzed in his veins all day.

“What’s the necklace about?”

“Your mom gave it to me.”

“I thought so.” He nods. “But why was everyone acting weird about it?”

Rather than answer, Y/N hands him a note. Wooyoung recognizes the tight cursive of his mom’s handwriting. Regret trickles down his spine and bubbles over with each word. He’d never meant to be cruel when he asked Y/N to come here but then again he didn’t think about how hard this must have been for her. To secretly say goodbye to his family and their relationship after she was already working through it on her own. He should have known she was bottling it all up, the same way he was prone to.

“I didn’t realize she’d—”

“Why did you break up with me?” She asks, still staring at the floor.

Regret transforms into the shame that’s eaten him alive for months. Wooyoung’s mouth won’t form the truth for what he did so he lies.

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit!” She bites, glazed eyes blazing as she rounds on him. “Eight years. We dated for eight years and you think you can tell me you don’t know why?”

“We dated for eight years and you didn’t even say anything when I did it! You just left.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! What was I supposed to do? Beg you to stay?”

“You just gave up.”

“No, you gave up!” her voice cracks, finger pointing accusingly. “I didn’t even know we were having problems.”

“Boston was always a problem!”

“Which I was already planning to fix.”

Wooyoung recoils from the invisible smack against his face. Is that what she was planning to tell him when he interrupted her? 

“What?”

“That night I was trying to tell you I got a job in the city. That I was moving back.”

“You’re joking.”

Shoulder sagging under the weight of their mess, Y/N falls back onto the bed.“It was gonna be my last weekend trip down.”

Sniffles and desperate breaths fill the space. And Wooyoung gathers the courage to tell her the truth.

“I was planning to propose.” He can see her head turn in his peripheral, but he’ll lose the gaul if he sees her face so Wooyoung stares at the wall ahead as he speaks. “I had the ring for a year. And I was gonna ask you but I…” he trails off.

“You what?”

“I got scared.”

“Of me?”

“Of everything. I thought of how much we’d have to change, and I didn’t want you to feel like you had to give anything up to be with me.”

“Wooyoung, I never felt like that.” She objects, shaking her head. “I hated Boston. Do you think I was moving back to the city for you?”

“Kind of, I—”

“I have my own life there. I lived there for seven years! I was always planning to move back.”

“Then why were you being so secretive about it?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise. I knew you’d been stressed and I ddin’t want to add something else to your plate and… because I was worried if I brought it up too soon something would go wrong.”

“I still have it by the way.”

“What?”

“The ring.”

“Why?”

“I think some part of me feels like if I let it go then it’s really over.”

“Are you trying to tell me you want to get back together?”

“I didn’t want to break up to begin with.”

“Then why’d you do it?”

“Because I’m not good enough for you! I’ve never been good enough and I know you say it's not true but it is. I’m a public school teacher with shit pay and an apartment I can barely afford. That’s all I can offer you and it isn’t close enough to what you deserve.”

“Do you think I’m that shallow?” Y/N fumes, clearly not understanding what Wooyoung meant. “Why do you think you get to decide what's good enough for me?”

“Because someone has too! One day you’re gonna wake up and realize you can have anyone you want.”

“Not anyone.”

Y/N

The suffocating atmosphere of Wooyoung’s room pushes you into the chilly shower stall. In the stifling steam and perfumed bubbles, you quietly let all the emotions of the day run wild; eyes puffy, face swollen, and snot dripping from your nose to be washed away by the boiling streams of water. You hide for as long as possible, shivering as the heated water runs out and frigid ropes blast your skin. Unable to endure anymore of the stinging icicles, you exit the stall red nosed and blue lipped. 

Wooyoung sits on the edge of the bed with his back to the door. You watch his shoulder tense, rising closer to his ears as you pad closer to lay down. 

You’re too tired to sleep on the floor, too exhausted to fight with him again. So you curl under the covers, body sliding back when Wooyoung joins you. 

“I’m sorry.” he whispers, tracing his index finger along the knobs of your spine, attempting to comfort you the same way he always had.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.”

You both stay there in the silent darkness, their breaths and the hum of the heater keeping absolute stillness at bay. The tears you split in the shower followed you to the pillow, running down your cheeks as you try to keep the worst at bay. Wooyoung doesn’t stop tracing shapes between your shoulder blades, the worn cotton of your sleep shirt rubbing against your heated skin. How is the source of your distress the same as the source of your comfort?

Turning to face him, you realize how close he’s moved. Scant inches separate your chests, the heat of his legs licking your own bare ones under the blankets. You spot his own tears, eyes swollen and red, thick lashes clumped together as they fall.

If your love for Wooyoung was an ocean, you’d be lost at sea for years. 

He watches you watch him, hands finding one anothers and tangling together. When Wooyoung opens his mouth, pausing as a sniffle breaks free, you surge up to connect your lips.

Startling for only a second, he eagerly kisses you back. Tears and spit gloss your lips as you dip your tongue into his mouth, licking against his teeth before retreating to bruise his lower lip with your own. Wooyoung manages to roll on top of you, pinning you to the mattress as if you plan to up and leave at any second. You respond by crushing your lips together a fraction harder, attempting to communicate the longing and hurt words can’t convey.

The hem of his shirt finds its way between your fingers, moving further up his stomach with each insistent tug. Wooyoung’s own hands busy themselves, one buried in the hairs at the base of your scalp, cradling your head to move you this way and that as he continues exploring your mouth. The other wrinkles the pillow case beside you, muscles rippling as he holds himself over you. 

When you wiggle your hips, thighs spreading to cradle him between, he dives to your neck. Blood rushes to the surface as he nips and bruises the delicate skin below your jaw, scorching pants raising goosebumps in its wake. He shudders when your nails scratch down his abdomen, thumb dipping under the band of his pajama pants.

It's been nearly eight months without this. Two months before your breakup, in this very bed while the rest of the house was asleep as Wooyoung laughed into your neck while you drunkenly whined for him to touch you.

As familiar as those memories are, this time is entirely new. 

Wooyoung’s thumb, knowing and skilled, brushes across one of your nipples over your shirt, using the rough fabric to his advantage; stiffing it to a tight peak before allowing the weight to settle in his palm. Arching your back, you remove the piece of cloth separating you. Wooyoung barely allows you space to slough it over your head before he’s back on you, latching to the side of your neglected breast as he curls his hips into yours coursley. Your body reacts on nothing but instinct; back arching closer, thighs spreading wider as his knees carry him further down the mattress.

Reverent caresses of his hands lead him to the apex of your thighs, his breath fanning the damp patch of your shorts just before Wooyoung tucks his thumbs into the elastic to nudge them down, breathing deeply as he bares you for his eyes.

A tentative lick up length of your slit pulls a pathetic whimper from the back of your mouth. The flat of his tongue lave against your engorged clit, slow and torturous as Wooyoung indulges in your taste. Rough palms slide beneath the meat of your thighs, lifting your legs to rest on his shoulders. A harsh suck against the bundle of nerves locks your muscles tightly around Wooyoung’s head but he takes it in stride as he drops a hand to slip his fingers inside your clenching hole. Curling the pads of his digits upwards, you feel him in your throat as you bite back moans. Your fingers twist in Wooyoung’s inky hair at the delicious torture, hips rocking into his eager mouth as he pants against you; refusing to separate from your drenched center. 

When his unoccupied hand slips into your own, a death grip on your entertwined fingers, you fall apart. Your chapped lips nearly bleed from effort to remain quiet, writhing in Wooyoung’s hold as he continues to lap up everything you offer him.

A final suck against your clit has you scrambling to pull his mouth to your own, tasting yourself on his soaked cheeks and tongue.

“Please,” you whisper into his mouth.

Wooyoung responds by kissing you gently, the passion curling your toes while he fists his length before allowing the flared head to nudge your entrance.

Finally presses forward, fitting inside you as he always has, another tear burns down to your face. It all comes rushing forward, never ending waves rolling over you after you’ve been knocked down into the surf. Memories, good and bad, race through you at a breakneck speed. The tingling elation of the night Wooyoung asked you to be his girlfriend, the nerves of when you asked him to move in together during medical school. Sadness when you moved away for residency with the promise to come back. The numbing despair you felt the night you thought would be a turning point in your lives. The straw that breaks the camel's back is Wooyoung's admission that you’re too good for him. Choking your own pain down, you try to hone in on a spot on the ceiling in an effort to stay grounded.

Several seconds pass before Wooyoung notices the fresh bout of sobs, mistaking choked whimpers as whines of pleasure after such a long time apart. His nose traces the tendon of your neck as he cants his hips slowly, one hand still tangled in yours, the other pressing your knee up and around his waist to stretch deeper. When the dig of your nails into his shoulder turns from a sting to a cut, he leans back and realizes his mistake.

Eyes find one another through the distorted haze your sorrows create, his rounded with concern still glazed with evidence of his own tears. Staring at one another in a silence broken by sniffling and staccato breaths, a second set of tears mix with your own as he rests his forehead against yours. Locking your arms around Wooyoung’s broad shoulders and hooking your knees around his back, you try to seal him into your skin. 

“I’m sorry.” he whispers, voice broken and cracked. “I’m so sorry. I–” he hiccups. “I didn’t–”

What he’s apologizing for is a mystery. Forcing you into this charade? Telling you he was planning to propose? Breaking up with you in the first place? 

Perhaps it's all those things. Maybe it's none of them.

“I love you.” He whimpers into your hair, lips branding the words into your skin.

It’s not enough. But for tonight, you’ll let it be.

“I love you, too.” you whisper back, straining to brush the tip of your nose against his own.

Tomorrow, you’ll fly back to the city and hide in your apartment and pretend to be okay. Dive so far into your work that you forget the way Wooyoung has ripped the healing wound on your heart open again.

Tonight, you’ll pretend the missing piece has finally been found and can stay forever.

Tensing your thighs, your locked ankles nudge at the dip of his spine to remind Wooyoung he’s still inside you. He hesitates for a moment but your lips silence his objections, just as eager to indulge in the fantasy as you are.

The pace is bruising, stomachs firmly pressed together as he reaches for the top of the bed frame to provide more leverage. Wooyoung’s back ripples and flexes as he pounds into you, the vibration of his weak moans tickling the sensitive pads of your fingers as they etch down his ribs.

Consumed by an overwhelming need to touch him everywhere, you cradle his face between your palms. Wooyoung flashes his eyes open, as if startled you’re still there, before leaning into one of them. Thumb tracing his lips, he drops a searing kiss to the crease of your knuckle. The tenderness burns the remaining oxygen out of the room.

His next word is so quiet your ears fail to detect them over the slap of your bodies connecting or the squeak of the old bed frame. But Wooyoung’s said them against your skin enough times over the years for you to know the feel of his mouth forming around the sound.

You come with a muted whimper. So worn from tears, pleasure fizzles in your veins like the gentle ripple of the wind through the trees. Clenching around Wooyoung harshly, the tell tale hitch in his breath signals the beginning of his end. 

But he is truly done for when you lean up and whisper his words back into his ear, “forever.”

December 26th

Wooyoung

Wooyoung wakes to an empty bed, cold sheets, and the pillowcase squishing his cheek already damp from the tears he shed while sleeping.

December 29th

Wooyoung

A tedious drive to the airport grants Wooyoung ample time to stew in discontent, replaying the events of the past week over and over in his head.

Was he insane to think Y/N wanted him too? All the moments he nearly forgot they’re barely more than strangers after months of silence, how they still fit together so perfectly. Wooyoung knew he’d been a mess after the break up but the past week made him realize how lost he felt without her. Like the ocean without the moon to guide the tide; like he was missing half his heart. How many times had he opened his messages to text her something mundane from his day, just to close them and realize he’d ruined the best thing in his life in a second of weakness? And now having her next to him again, knowing he can’t fix what he did?

“When were you planning to tell us you two broke up?”

“Huh?”

“Wooyoung, I know.”

“How… she told you?”

“Poor thing was crying the entire way to the airport. I told her I wouldn’t let her fly by herself if she was that upset until she explained.”

“What’d she say?”

“That you two broke up a few months ago but you didn’t want to disappoint us.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“You know Y/N, always keeps her cards close to her chest.” His mom looks at him from the corner of her eye. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“I made a mistake.”

“If you two weren’t happy then it wasn’t a mistake.”

“But we were happy! She’s the one and I messed it up because I’m not good enough for her.”

“Where is that coming from?”

“I know you and dad wanted me to be an engineer like Myungho, okay? Even Kyungmin wants to be a lawyer! I’m the family disappointment. It only makes sense I’d disappoint Y/N too.”

Wooyoung’s mom is notorious for going under the speed limit, waiting to turn even if the oncoming car is five hundred feet away, and using her blinker religiously. Which is why Wooyoung thinks she’s having a seizure when she veers off the road and onto the shoulder like an F1 driver.

“You are not a disappointment! To me or your father or anyone. You are my son, and I have always been proud of that. I’ve seen you teaching, the way those kids look up to you. You’re doing exactly what you were meant to. And if my worrying has made you feel that way then I am so sorry. I’ll we’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy sweetie.”

Crossing his arms, Wooyoung flicks away the beads of moisture tracing down his chin. “You’re my mom, you have to say that.”

“Well I’m not Y/N’s mom but I talk about her the same way.”

“Yeah well she’s a doctor, saving kids lives and all that.”

“You don’t think you do the same thing? Those kids come to school excited to learn because of you. Just because you’re not finding a cure for cancer doesn’t mean your job isn’t important. And Y/N isn’t disappointed with you either. She loves you, Wooyoung. Why don’t you let her decide what she wants?”

“Yeah, well I think it’s too late for that.” Wooyoung mumbles, eyes on the toes of his shoes.

“Maybe you should ask her if she thinks so.”

December 30th

Wooyoung

Rather than give into his impatience, Wooyoung stews on his mom’s advice. And each passing hour conveniences him more and more she’s wrong. Especially when San and Yeosang sit with him in their cramped living room, bottles of beer and empty takeout littering the coffee table.

“You’re pathetic.”

“Fuck you.” Wooyoung responds.

San, red faced and tipsy, slaps the leather armrests of the chair before rising.“Fuck you! You broke up with her over nothing and instead of trying to get her back you have a fucking pity party? Grow a pair.”

“She doesn’t want me!”

“Did you ask her?” 

“I don’t have to!”

“You’re an idiot.” Yeosang butts in.

Wooyoung knows his hesitation speaks for itself when Yoesang keeps talking.

“You can ask her to pretend you’re still dating but you can’t tell her you wanna get back together?”

“It’s not that easy!”

“Yes it is!” San argues. “You love her right? You care about her?” San doesn’t continue until Wooyoung nods. “Then she has a right to know.”

“What if she says no?”

“Then she says no. Cross that bridge when you get there. You’re already broken up, how much worse can it get?”

Surprisingly, Wooyoung agrees. He sits forward, looking at his roommates before asking.“So what do I do?”

December 31st

Wooyoung

When Wooyoung’s messages go unanswered and his calls fall into the abyss of Y/N’s full voicemail box, pulls out Plan B.

Unfortunately, Plan B has no moral or ethical oppositions to castrating him.

“Go fuck yourself!”

“Lisa, please!” Wooyoung begs into the phone.

“No! Not once but twice I’ve had Y/N crying on my couch because of your dumbass. I’m not letting it happen again!”

“I need to talk to her. Please just help me!”

“What makes this time so different?”

“I—,” Wooyoung freezes. What does make this time different?

He hears Lisa sigh on the other end of the phone, almost as if she’s disappointed. “Just leave her alone, Wooyoung.”

And the line clicks dead.

Walking back into the kitchen from the worst call of his life, Wooyoung spots San’s downcast face while Yeosang watches him from the table; both clearly overhearing his exchange with Y/N’s best friend.

The vinyl table top shakes as Wooyoung drops his forehead down with a bang, groaning in frustration. 

“She’s working at NewYork-Presbyterian.” Yeosang mentions, returning to munch on his bowl of cereal.

“What?”

“Y/N works at NewYork-Presbyterian.”

“How do you know that?”

Shrugging, Yeosang takes another bite and swallows before explaining. “She told me she got a job there when she was planning to move back.” 

Wooyoung has Yeosang’s shirt in his hands in a flash, nose to nose with his lifelong friend. Never in his life has Wooyoung been so furious with the man before him.

“You knew this whole time?” He bites, his eyes so wide with anger the whites show.

San is at Wooyoung's back, winding his arms around his shoulders in an attempt to pull him off their other roommate.

“You knew all of this and you didn’t fucking tell me? You’re my friend!” Attempting to shake him off, Wooyoung keeps pressing forward. 

Yeosang rises to his feet, hands wrapping around Wooyoung’s wrists and squeezing till the pain forces him to let go. “Yeah, and you’re acting like a real asshole right now!”

“Guys calm down!” San yells, managing to pull Wooyoung back now that he’s no longer attached to Yeosang’s shirt.

“Why didn't you say something?”

“You ended an eight year relationship out of the blue, I wasn’t about to let you get back with her just because you decided being single wasn’t your thing anymore.”

The words slap Wooyoung in the face. Even his own friend’s don’t trust him not to hurt Y/N anymore. “I’m not— I wouldn’t,”

“Come on, Woo. All you could talk about was how excited you were to ask her to marry you and then you come home and tell us you broke up with her. She’s my friend too and I don’t want to see her hurt.”

“So why are you telling me now?”

“Because you were desperate enough to call Lisa. If you fuck up again she’ll actually kill you.”

Wooyoung isn’t going to mess up again, not if he can help it. And if he does, he’ll walk straight into the river before Lisa can force him.

But for now, he focuses on getting Y/N to listen to his apology.

January 1st

Y/N

Chief complaint: Father reports patient’s fever and cough have become more severe since previous visit. Reports child is refusing solids but drinking well and taking soft foods such as apple sauce. Sleeping okay.

One of the residents pops her head into your office, “Dr. Y/L/N you have a delivery at the reception desk.”

“Thank you!” You call, not missing a beat as you continue your notes. 

Impression: Upper respiratory infection, right otitis media

Plan: Amoxicillin prescribed, five day follow up with p.r.n. at PCP.

Finishing your chart, you rise and head out towards the receptionist desk. A familiar bouquet of blush pink tulips greet you, a silk white ribbon knotted around the dip of the crystal vase. A small envelope is tucked into the spread, sending a terrified jolt through your system.

“I wish I had someone send me flowers as pretty as this!” Jessica sighs, eying the arrangement enviously.

“Yeah,” you laugh, unable to muster an ounce of false humor.

You snatch the bouquet before turning back the direction you came. 

Once back into the safety of your office, door shut and blinds drawn, you open the note.

If you don’t want to see me ever again, I’ll let you go. But I can't say enough how every time I ever put my arms around you I felt that I was home. I’ll be waiting at our spot on Saturday. As long as it takes.

–W

You don’t realize you’re crying until the ink of the note begins to bleed. 

January 3rd

Wooyoung

Wooyoung is the first customer to enter the cozy coffee shop overlooking the southeast entrance of Tompkins Square Park at nine a.m., claiming the tiny wobbly table off in the corner that provides the perfect view of the door. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. It feels wrong to scroll through his phone as he waits so he snags one of the artsy newspapers sitting on the counter while the surly barista prepares his order.

After an hour, adrenalin maintains the pleasant buzz through Wooyoung’s system, fueled further by espresso on an empty stomach. Each chime of the bell over the door results in awkward eye contact with a stranger that certainly isn’t his ex-girlfriend.

After three hours, his butt is numb and Wooyoung’s abandoned the newspaper he’s memorized. The NYT mini crossword archive isn’t as extensive as he thought.

After six hours, he’s had enough coffee to power a jet plane and his leg jitters aggressively. He’s started people watching through the window, making up stories for passersby entering the park and crossing the street. Half his heart hopes they’re happier than he is, the other half hopes he’s not alone in his misery.

When he’s been at the shop for eleven and a half hours, burned through every source of distraction possible and can describe in vivid detail the features outside the glass wall that separate the inside of the cafe from the sidewalk, Wooyoung accepts that she isn’t coming.

He stays till close, every minute that ticks on a drop in the bucket of regret in his heart. The barista starts stacking chairs, passive aggressively swiping the frayed broom in a ring around his table, so Wooyoung does the sensible thing and waits outside. 

The bitter wind wafting through the city finds home in his bones despite his thermals and padded parka. Wooyoung desperately clings to the tiny drop of hope still clinging to his heart. Shaking from the chill and overindulgence in caffeine Wooyoung watches as the clock hits nine. 

She isn’t coming.

She doesn’t want him back.

Wooyoung watches a couple laugh in each other's embrace across the street, clambering over one another in amused content. There was time that would have been him and Y/N, high from the intoxicating joy of one another’s presence and the city lights in the winter. Fingers interlocked as they trapeze through crowds, ignoring every other soul in favor of focusing on each other.

Eyes stinging, he turns to head for the train station but nearly shouts as spots the woman in question ten paces away.

Her hair is a mess, nose and cheeks blushing from the cold, breath obscuring her face as it fogs in the cool air. But she’s here, looking every bit unsure as he feels.

“Hi.” He says, dumbfounded.

“Hi.”

“You came.”

“I did.”

Wooyoung might faint. His heart is beating a mile a minute, breath shallow and labored. She’s here. She’s here and she’s looking at him like that. And the fear creeps into his pause.

“I’m sorry.” He warbles.

“I know.”

But she can’t so he says it again.

“I’m so sorry.”

“You keep saying that.”

Because he can’t think of anything else. Nine hours of going over the grand speech about how he missed her and how breaking up with her was the greatest regret of his life flies out the window now that she’s in front of him and willing to listen.

“Is that all you wanted to tell me?”

“No.”

“Then talk to me, Woo.”

The only thing she’s ever asked him for is the truth. Wooyoung’s been so afraid that if he tells her how he truly feels, she’ll think less of him. That being so in love it terrifies you is disgusting, pathetic. 

“I don’t know where to start.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since they opened.”

“Why?”

“Because if you came I didn’t want to miss you.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“Why did you?”

“Because—,” she pauses, shaking her head. “I don’t know.”

“I had a whole speech prepared.”

“Really?” She smiles apprehensively.

“Yeah, but now that you’re here I don’t remember any of it.”

“Then just tell me the truth, Woo.”

“I’m an idiot.”

Laughing at his outburst, she nods at him. “That’s a start.” 

And the space between them grows a little warmer.

“That night at dinner, when I went to the bathroom, I got an email.” Wooyoung starts, stepping closer. “I’d applied for a grad school program and I thought I was gonna get in but �� I didn’t. And I think that and the nerves from proposing just caught up to me. I thought you’d want to stay in Boston after all and I didn’t want you to feel like you had to move back here. And it snowballed and all those feelings of not being good enough came back and— When you didn’t say anything, didn’t ask why or try to argue with me I thought it meant it’s what you wanted too.”

Shame flushes through him, a tsunami of disgust for allowing himself to think so poorly of her. Y/N never made him feel less than. The only person in their relationship who thought he wasn’t good enough for her was him and he let that destroy everything in a second of self doubt. 

“I tried to convince myself I did you a favor. That you’d be better off without me and you’d meet someone better. Find someone good enough for you. But I was wrong. I am wrong. There hasn't been a single day since we met that I don’t think about you. Even when I try not to, you’re always in the back of my mind. And then I think about how selfish I am for wanting you back. But when it comes to you I’ve always been a little selfish because I love you. And—” he breaths for the first time. “And I don’t know how to be me without you.”

The humor is gone from Y/N’s face. Her beautiful eyes brim with tears, rimmed red not unlike his own; chin shaking. The wind is louder than ever now, cars wheel sloshing across the wet pavement crashing between them.

“Please say something.”

“How do I trust you again?” Her voice cracks, and it knocks the air from Wooyoung’s lungs.

“I don’t know.” Wooyoung looks at the ground, guilt-ridden.

Everything, all of the pain and heartbreak, was his fault. He dug them into this mess and now he doesn’t know how to get them out.

Y/N

Seeing Wooyoung, the man with an answer for everything, admit for once he doesn’t have an elaborate plan in motion to win you back is refreshing. You didn’t want Wooyoung who’d fix everything, Wooyoung who’d carry the burden of your relationship by himself even if it killed him. All you wanted was for him to tell you the truth.

And now that he has, you’re done being apart.

Nearly topping to the ground as you tackle Wooyoung in a fierce hug, you focus on inhaling his cologne and basking in the feel of his body pressed firmly against you. He barely manages to steady your combined weight, feet scrambling to regain his balance on the icy sidewalk.

“Don’t you ever do that shit to me again!” You yell, arms squeezing around his waist.

Wooyoung hesitates for a moment, clearly shocked at the turn of events. Rising out of his chest, you look at his gaping mouth and furrowed brows before his arms knot around your shoulders. 

“I missed you.” You whisper into the delicate kiss you land on his lips.

“I love you.” Wooyoung whispers back, forehead resting against your own.

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

Four months later

Central Park in May is a bustle of people enjoying warm days following months of slushy snow and gray skies. Shrill screams bounce off the trees as children dart across the walkways, giggling groups of friends crowd around blankets on the greening grass, and a menagerie of dogs zigzag around their owners in the fresh air.

Today is a rare day where they both can spend interrupted hours lounging in one another’s presence, eager to make up for years of long distances and the months neither likes to talk about. Wooyoung woke Y/N with innumerable kisses across any sliver of skin his lips could find, basking in the knowledge today he’d finally ask the question hanging from the tip of his tongue since this time last year.

Sprawled across an old throw blanket, skin warming in the afternoon sunshine, a thick book obscures her face from view as Y/N rests her head in his lap. Wooyoung tries not to check his pocket for the millionth time this afternoon, ensuring the little velvet box is still there. He isn’t worried she’ll say no. But the phantom fear from the last time he planned to ask creeps up no matter how many affirmations he silently repeats in his head. But when she looks up at him, crinkled eyes visible just above the edge of the book pages hiding her smile, Wooyoung forgets all his worries.

Plucking the book from her grasp, he carefully marks her place before setting it down beside her hip. Wooyoung folds in half to silence her protesting “hey!” with a kiss, humming when she gives in all too easily. 

“I was reading that.” She mumbles as they separate.

“Wow, you’d rather read some smutty book than kiss your real life boyfriend?”

Laughing, she presses another peck to his mouth before answering.“Glad you understand.”

“What about your fiance?”

Y/N smile melts into shock, mouth gaping and staring at him like a deer in headlights.

Wooyoung smoothly maneuvers her up and out of his lap, pulling the jewelry box from his pocket as he kneels on a lone knee.

“Y/N. You’re my favorite person in the world. The only person I can ever imagine spending the rest of my life with. I love when you sing in the shower, and how you put way too much sugar in your coffee. I love how smart you are, and how you’re nice to everyone even if they don’t deserve it,  me included. And how everytime I look at you my palms get sweaty and that just thinking about you makes my day better. You are the love of my life. Will you marry me?”

Wooyoung is shaking so violently he fumbles the velvet box twice during his speech. He drops it a third time when Y/N tackles him in a fierce hug, tear filled laughter spilling from their lips and into the field where they lay. 

“Yes!” She squeals into his neck, “Yes, I’d love to marry you.”

At dinner with all their friends, he subconsciously holds Y/N’s hand so the diamond glints at anyone looking. When Wooyoung walks home, giggly from champagne and love, he kisses her knuckles a ridiculous amount of times just to feel the cool band under his lips. Once inside the doorway of her apartment, Wooyoung crowds Y/N against the door; his thumb focusing on the bevel of the diamond sitting on her ring finger as his other hand pushes the strap of her sundress off her shoulder so his tongue etch her collarbone from dip of her throat where the locket he gave her for their first Christmas together rests to under her ear. 

“So, future Mrs. Jung, now that we’re alone, how would you like to celebrate?” He asks, nipping against the sensitive skin she sighs, chest arching into his own.

“What if I wanna keep my last name?”

“Is that what you’re focusing on right now?” Wooyoung asks, a strong thigh moving between her parted legs.

“Yeah, future Mr.Y/L/N. I don’t think there’s anything else to discuss right n—fuck, Youngie.”

Wooyoun can’t help but giggle at her reaction, rocking again just to hear her moan his name once more. 

“What were you saying?”

“Don’t,” she huffs, whimpering at another torturous drag. Wooyoung can feel the heat of her cunt through her panties and his jeans. “Don’t be mean to your future wife.”

“Love when you talk dirty.” He bites, teeth raking against the strained muscle raising from the side of her neck.

“That turns you on? Calling me your wife?”

“Feel for yourself.”

“And if I call you my husband?”

Wooyoung doesn’t dignify her question with an answer other than sprinting to the bedroom to demonstrate just how much he likes the new name.

© highvern. copying/reuploading/translating my work anywhere is strictly prohibited.

[seeingivy]

enchanted 

satoru gojo x f!reader 

**part of my debut concert event 

**part one of this fic here icymi (read before or its kinda confusing)

**part of my satoru as taylor swift songs series

content: satoru and your parents are annoying, like in the last part, readers mom just says a bunch of mean shit (including comments on body image, etc), gojo being defensive of his wife but also corny asf, babies megumi + tsumiki having lil nightmares and wanting to sleep w their parents 

an: KING OF MY HEART IS ONE OF MY FAV FICS EVER. so glad the pookie who requested this asked for it bc I was so excited writing it. also corny lil enchanted lyrics are at the end. mister satoru gojo is enchanted to meet you and ur lil babies megumi and tsumiki just love you

- 

“Dr. L/N?” 

You look up from the computer, breaking away from your sheer focus of charting all the patients you just saw in the past hour (nine patients - which sounds mediocre, but in actuality is insanity on earth). 

Because when they’re sick, their parents ask a lot of questions. Which you understand and always honor - but that means you’re always running on a back log, running from one room to the next with no breaks in between. Satoru thinks that you’ll collapse on the floor one day while doing it. And you tell him that he’s praying on your downfall. 

“Yes, Sarah? What’s up?” 

“Your husband’s here to have lunch with you.” 

“Ah. I still haven’t caught up on my charting and I really need to-” 

You feel a hand on your shoulder, your senior advisor, Dr. Aoki, giving you a warm smile. She’s almost thirty years your senior - soft wrinkles and grey patches spread throughout her hair. 

And she really, really loves Satoru. Which you know because she doesn’t shut up about him, always going on about how sweet he is. 

“Go. Have lunch with your husband. I’ll finish off for you.” 

“Ah. Dr. Aoki, I can’t let you. Plus, you don’t even know-” 

“You take detailed notes. And I’m old, but I’m sure I can figure it out. Now go eat lunch with your sweet husband before I do it for you.” 

You smile, giving her hand a squeeze, before dragging your feet to the breakroom - suddenly hyperaware of the tension in the back of your knees, your shoulders, and the back of your eyes. Satoru’s waiting for you at the center table - two glass bento boxes and two iced coffee’s sitting on the table. 

He’s scrolling aimlessly on his phone and you’re more than positive that he’s playing Cut the Rope. A game Megumi begged him to download, but now he plays more than Megumi. Which just pisses Megumi off, because Satoru plays so far ahead in the game that Megumi can’t even remember which level it was he stopped at. 

You look down at the cup of iced coffee, Satoru’s handwriting inscribed on the side. 

pookie <;3 

Bastard. He knows you hate it when you call him that.

Satoru looks up and smacks his phone down at the table as you take his side, placing your head flat against the clear, white table. Satoru immediately directs his hand to the back of your hair, his fingers soothing into the tense muscles in the back of your neck. 

“Hello my little workaholic.” 

“Good afternoon my little pain in the ass.” 

He laughs, lifting your head up as he opens up the boxes, sliding forward the food he made and sticking the fork in your hand. You look down at the line up - egg fried rice and a wild assortments of fruits and vegetables on the side. They’re all cut into sweet little shapes - the cucumbers in hearts, the strawberries in flowers. 

Right. You had tasked Satoru with making Megumi and Tsumiki’s lunches for one week when you were on the night call. When you had returned, all he did was scold you for making very boring lunches for Megumi and Tsumiki. 

Granted, you thought they weren’t half bad. You always made sure to give them a little treat - strawberry gummies for Tsumiki and sour candy for Megumi - and left sweet little notes in their lunch boxes, saying you were proud of them, that Megumi was going to do great on his presentation, and that Tsumiki looked pretty today. 

Satoru resolved the situation by heading to the store and buying the special little cutouts, shiny new metal tin boxes for Megumi and Tsumiki, and even glittery stationery to leave them both notes. 

Yeah and he never let you make their lunch again. He’d often drop by to the office to eat with you, since he knew that was the only time you would eat anything, and bring you by the third box he arranged with theirs in the morning. 

“Hard day, my love?” 

“Yeah, Satoru. And it’s not even over yet.” 

He places the fork in your hand again, instructing you to eat as you keep talking, tasking himself with mixing up the layers of the coffee he brought you. 

“What’s the point of working so hard? Didn’t you marry me for my money?” 

“Well, obviously but-”

“Hey!” 

“What?” 

“That’s so rude to admit. You should keep that type of stuff to yourself.” 

“Okay, Satoru. You married me as a cover for your girlfriend and-”

“Stop throwing that in my face! So you have one girlfriend and suddenly you’re the bad-” 

“It is when you’re married!” 

You both laugh, Satoru ruffling your hair, as he opens up the second box, sliding it towards you as you keep eating. 

“You don’t want, Toru?” 

“No. They’re both for you. You really do work too hard, Y/N.” 

“Well. Our parents could cut us off - we don’t exactly do everything they want. And I want to be self sufficient and be a good role model for-” 

“Tsumiki and Megumi. I know, my love. I’m just saying.” 

You lean into Satoru’s touch, placing your aching head against his shoulder as he leans over, pressing a kiss to the top of your forehead. You finish off your own box (and Satoru’s) and down your iced coffee (and half of Satoru’s, before he starts scolding you about healthy caffeine intakes). 

He gives you a sweet kiss goodbye, giving soft smiles to the rest of your coworkers, as you buckle in for the rest of your shift. 

- 

“Satoru.” 

“Hm.” 

“Look at what my mom texted me.” 

He untangles himself from his position - which is just using you as a third pillow - and peaks his head up, squinting his eyes at your phone in the dark. 

Your mom, heinous bitch she is, sent you a text reminding you about all the things you need to do for your dinner with the Gojo’s tomorrow. 

Wear a dress. Make sure it’s appropriate, but enough to keep a guy like Satoru interested. You don’t want your husband running off just because you’re boring him. 

Make sure to wear the wedding ring Satoru gave you, not the engagement. You’re going to look tacky otherwise. 

Fresh flowers, that haven’t bloomed yet. Don’t embarrass me by bringing flowers that’ll die in a day. 

And please don’t leave your hair fully down. It washes you out. 

Satoru glares at the camera, looking up at your face. He finds it hard to read you in situations like this. Because in all honesty, he knows that you hate your parents. But he doesn’t miss the way you act differently when it comes to them. 

Because when you’re mad at Satoru for not picking up Tsumiki on time or at Megumi for not telling you he had a project due tomorrow until nine pm, you get a reasonable amount of mad. Pink in the cheeks, a little bit of scolding, followed by fixing the problem and talking it out. 

But with them you, you don’t really talk about it. And he’s not sure if it’s because he’s not privy to the conversations that you have with them, but for some reason, he thinks there aren’t any. And that you just take it, when it’s them. 

Which he understands. Too well. That’s part of the reason he’s with you, in this bed right now. Cuddled up in your arms, pressing lazy kisses around your shoulder. 

Because his parents asked you to marry him. Because you told him you didn’t mind if he kept his own life outside of it, that you were just doing what you had to do. 

And now that he…loves you, parts of it all make him sad. That you’d take someone telling you what to do - telling you that you don’t look good with your hair down when you look good all the time and that you’re tacky or boring or- 

“Hey. Y/N.” 

“Hm, Satoru?” 

“You know I…love you right? For real?” 

“Yeah. You told me.” 

“But like, for real, okay? Not just because we’re…married or whatever. I actually really, really love you. You’re very pretty and you’re always so good with Megumi and Tsumiki and you’re so good at your job and-” 

You stop him in his tracks by cupping his face in his ands, quirking your head to the side. You lean down and peck at his lips, pressing your fingers into his dimples. 

“I love you too, Satoru but what’s this about?” 

He frowns, placing his head back in your lap as you start running your hands through his white locks of hair, soft to the touch. You can feel his cheeks are warm from his face lying against your bare legs and you can’t help but smile at the fact that he’s blushing. Even after one year of marriage (and eight months of real marriage), he’s still nervous around you. 

“I don’t know. Your mom’s just stupid. You’re not boring or tacky and you look very pretty with your hair down.” 

“Thank you, Toru. For getting so offended on my behalf. But I don’t care, let’s go to bed, yeah?” 

He nods, shuffling the sheets around you as he sprawls across the bed. One thing about Satoru, he has to touch you when he’s sleeping. 

Not in the…dirty way. It could be the coldest night of the year and he has his entire body weight on you, treating you like a stuffed animal he was sleeping with. Or it’s the hottest night of the year and he’s as far away as he can be from you - just placing his hand on your forearm or tangling one of his legs with yours. 

Touchy. Even when he’s asleep. 

After not even five minutes of sleep, you feel a tapping on your nose, your features crinkling up from the sensation. 

“Toru. Quit tickling me.” 

He murmurs back incoherently, tangling around in the sheets as a response. Right. Satoru also sleeps like the walking dead. And he can and will sleep anywhere and everywhere, almost instantly. It’s actually a talent. 

“Um. That wasn’t him.” 

You flutter your eyes open to find Megumi, standing awkwardly at your side. You immediately sit up, clicking on the light as Satoru starts groaning behind you, smacking his hand on the bed to get you to turn the light off. You look over at the clock and realize it’s well past three, meaning Megumi should have been asleep hours ago. 

“Megs. You okay?” 

“Uh, yeah. But Tsumiki, she’s like crying a lot. Usually, what I do works but she just won’t stop.” 

You shake Satoru at your side, his eyes finally fluttering open as he looks at you and Megumi in confusion. 

“Megumi-chan. You better be interrupting our sleep for something good.” 

“Satoru, stop it. Go get Tsumiki. Now. I think she’s crying.” 

Satoru immediately stands up, stalking out of the room as you turn back to Megumi, taking his tiny hands in yours. He looks like he usually does - blank expression on his face, avoiding eye contact, tiredness on his face. 

You wrap one of your hands around his cheek and squeeze, feeling his skin warm under your touch. 

“What do you think happened, Megs?” 

“She had a bad dream. Usually, we kind of just stay with each other till it stops. But, it didn’t really work.” 

“Have you had them while you were here? Or her?” 

“Yeah sometimes.” 

You can feel your heart clench in your chest and you immediately wrap Megumi in your arms, brushing your hands through his soft, black hair. You can still smell the shampoo in his hair from earlier, the fresh smell springing into your nose. They should be coming to you. Not each other. Megumi’s only five. And she’s just seven. 

“Megumi. You know you can come to us about that stuff. Both of you. And you should be because we know how to help you and-” 

You stop talking as Satoru walks into the room, craning your head to the side to survey the situation. Satoru’s carrying Tsumiki in his arms, something he doesn’t do very often, and you can hear her soft sniffles as he places her on the bed between you, rubbing circles into her back. 

You take the cup of water on the nightstand (that Satoru leaves out for you everyday so you can stay hydrated) and hand it to her, directing her to calm her breaths. She’s shaking so hard and her eyes are so pink that she can barely hold the glass, Satoru taking it from her hands and tilting her head up so she can drink it. 

You look over at Megumi, his eyes twitching as he looks at Tsumiki, and you direct him to sit on the bed next to you, right next to Tsumiki and in between you and Satoru. 

You never really know what to do in situations like this. And neither does Satoru. I mean hell, you’re only twenty-three and Satoru’s only twenty-four. And they haven’t been your kids for too long. 

Other parents, the ones who come into your practice, talk about how they know somethings wrong. They can feel it in their gut. Their parental instinct. But you don’t have any of that, especially not with Tsumiki and Megumi. 

And you know it’s not something you can learn and something that just comes from being their parents, but you sincerely wish it was. Because Tsumiki and Megumi deserve to have someone who can read them like that, who knows what’s wrong with them, and talks for them when they don’t know how. And-

Satoru opens up his arms, with Tsumiki crawls into his lap and curls herself up against his chest. She looks so small, barely covering his entire frame as she hiccups into his chest, pushing the back of her hand against his eyes. 

Satoru beckons Megumi to join her and he awkwardly crawls up, the two of them nestled in Satoru’s arms. Maybe you spoke too soon. Because it always seems like Satoru knows what he’s doing. 

“You too, goofy.” 

You roll your eyes as you scoot closer to them, laying your head against Satoru’s shoulders as you start running your hands through Tsumiki’s hair, rubbing soft circles into the small of her back like Satoru was earlier. 

“Hi Miki.” 

“H-hi Y/N.” 

“How you feeling, sweet girl?” 

“O-okay.” 

You soften your hands in her hair, focusing on braiding the ends as you talk, the three of them hanging on to every word you say. 

“Miki, Megs. I know you’ve…been together for a long time. Before me and Satoru came around. And I’m sure you have your own ways of…being there for each other. But, you can let us be there for you too, you know?” 

You feel Tsumiki stiffen under your touch and you pull back, holding the braid in place on your head. 

“I don’t mean to let each other go. You’re siblings and that’s one of the most important relationships you can have. But just know, Satoru and I can be smart sometimes. Well, I can. I don’t really know about him.” 

“Hey.” 

Tsumiki and Megumi laugh, which stops Satoru’s protests all together. It’s working. And Satoru’s jealous of you, because as always, you know the right thing to say. To get them to smile again, tell you what’s wrong. And sure, you’ve always had that effect on Satoru but he loves that you can do it with them too. You’ve clearly got this parenting thing more figured out than him, he thinks. 

“But, we can help you too, you know? I’m a big girl. I can deal with whatever you give me.” 

Tsumiki turns to the side, crawling out of Satoru’s lap as she crawls into yours, squeezing herself in your arms. 

“Th-thanks, Y/N. But maybe not right now?” 

“Whenever you want, okay? Let’s just go to bed now, it’s late.” 

“Can I sleep with you, Y/N? And Satoru?” 

Satoru leans forward, squeezing Tsumiki’s hand in hers as he nods, opening up the covers for her. Megumi awkwardly looks between you and Satoru and you catch on fast, signaling for him to join you under the covers as well. The four of you are squished together, Tsumiki clinging on to you and Megumi clinging on to Satoru. 

They both fall asleep fast and you give a weary look to Satoru in the dark, which he returns with a smile. 

- 

You hate leaving at a time like this. And you hate your parents and even Gojo’s parents for making you come to a stupid dinner like this. 

Your kids, that they don’t know about, need you. You had tried your best to make Tsumiki comfortable, making her a stack of warm, strawberry pancakes and letting her pick what you guys ate for lunch. 

And when you had to leave her with Nanami and Shoko to go see the Gojo’s, you swear you could feel your heart clench at the thought of leaving her. And Megumi. And of the two of them being uncomfortable without you there. 

You could tell from the look in Satoru’s eyes that he shared your sentiments, his gaze weary as he said goodbye, lingering by the door until you two really had to leave. And then you both made your trek to the Gojo Estate. 

And god do you hate it here. In all but ten minutes of dinner, your mother, assfucking clown she was, had already found ten different things to pick on. 

Your hair has split ends, you should cut it. 

You should slow down on the food. 

You could have worn a more flattering color. 

Every spiky comment she makes, Satoru squeezes his hand in yours under the table, grounding you in the moment. If it wasn’t for him and the soft looks he was giving you every few minutes, you’re sure you would have broken the centerpiece in the middle of the table by now. 

“Say, Y/N, Satoru.” 

You look up to find Mr. Gojo beaming at you, the smile not meeting his eyes. You can feel Satoru’s hand tense in yours under the table and you know it’s your turn to protect him from his dad. 

“Did you start trying for kids?” 

“Dad.” 

“What, Satoru? It’s an important question. You guys have been married for a year now and surely there’s no better time than now to start trying.” 

You can feel your mouth dry at the thought. Kids. Kids of your own. Like, a crying, pooping baby - half parts you and half parts Satoru. 

How in the world could they think you were ready for that? Because in all honesty, Satoru’s your husband in name but he feels like your boyfriend. 

You’ve been together for eight months. You haven’t gone on a vacation together or met his college best friend and you don’t know what his favorite smoothie flavor is or what the first car he drove was and they want you to start popping out kids? 

You and Satoru aren’t ready for kids. And really, you already have two kids. That need you right now. And you have all the time in the world to have more and you really, really just like things the way they are. For now, and-

“They’ll get working on it.” 

You feel your eyes boggle out of your head as you crane your neck to look at your mom, a self-assured smile placed on her face. She can’t really be serious, can she? 

“Oh, how sweet! A grandchild. Oh, I do hope it’s a boy. So we can pass on the Gojo name and all.” 

It’s Satoru’s turn to glare at his mother and you’re sure that he has the same bitter taste in his mouth as you. Sure, they were the reason you guys got married but they had no right to treat you guys like this. Like you were put together to make some offspring for them to fawn over. 

“Although, I wouldn’t mind a girl. Boys can be rowdy and insensitive.” says Mr. Gojo, a matter-of-fact tone in his words. 

“That’s not true. Boys can be sensitive too. You just have to raise them right.” you respond, muttering the words under your breath. 

Megumi’s sweet and sensitive. He always avoids stomping on flowers growing out of the cracks of the cement and he always writes cards for his teachers on holiday’s and always says please and thank you after every little thing you and Satoru do for him, even if it is under his breath. 

“Well, I hope it’s a boy. Girls come with attitude.” your dad responds, the implication in his tone clear. 

“No daughter of ours would take back-handed comments like that.” 

Because Tsumiki’s never done that. Because Satoru remembers the day someone tried to pick on her in her class and all she did was calmly respond. Stand her ground, surely but firmly. Something he’s sure that she learned from you. And to think someone could dismiss that off as attitude is so fucking-

You squeeze Satoru’s hand under the table, signaling him to stop. Because he’s being rude. Because he shouldn’t talk back to your father even if he’s wrong and-

“Satoru. Stop.” you whisper, awkwardly eyeing the four of them as he deflates. 

The four of you awkwardly sit in silence, the forks clicking against the plates. Satoru’s crushing your hand into oblivion under the table and you can see that he’s agitated from the way his shoulders are all scrunched up. And when his dad talks next, he really can’t hold it in anymore. 

“Satoru, son. All you have to do take her to bed one time to pass on the Gojo na-” 

Satoru smacks his fist against the table, the glassware making a loud noise against the surface. You look over to find Satoru smoldering, the way he often did when he was near his dad. 

“Don’t talk about my wife like that. She’s not some thing for you to use. You can try that shit on anyone else but you know damn well I’m not letting you do it to her.”

Mrs. Gojo’s features scrunch up in frustration, a pinched look on her face as she starts massaging the bridge of her nose. Satoru stands up, pulling you up with him as he stomps out, dragging you out with him. 

- 

You two drive in silence the entire way home. Satoru’s still smoldering in his drivers seat, jaw tight against his skin as he clenches his fists on the steering wheel, knuckles going white. And you’re unsure of what you can say to him to ease it, make him feel better. 

He parks the car in the driveway, leaning his head against the seat to look up through the sunroof, the stars glittering in the sky above you. He makes no motions to get out of the car, the engine and lights still turned on despite the fact that you and Satoru were home. 

“Y/N.” 

“Hm, Satoru?” 

“You-you okay?” 

“What? Yeah. Are you?” 

He doesn’t respond and instead loosens his tie, the fabric hanging from the sides of his collar. 

“I just…hate them. So much. Why would we rush having a child when we aren’t ready? And who are they to talk about you like that? Like all I keep you around for is to bear my children.” 

You’re not sure what to say so you snake your hand into his, leaning over the glove box to lean onto his shoulder. You can feel him deflate under you, leaning his head on top of yours as he presses his hand against your waist, his hands rubbing back and forth on the fabric. 

“Satoru.” 

“Yeah, love?” 

“You feel like my boyfriend, right now. I know you’re my husband but…we’ve only been together for eight months. And I know it’s weird to say but…I’d like to have a kid with you someday just…not now.” 

His hand comes up, angling your face up so you’re looking at him, a big smile spread across his face. You can feel your cheeks burning from the admission and you clench your eyes shut to avoid seeing the teasing look on Satoru’s face. 

“Y/N. You’d want to have kids with me?” 

You nod and Satoru’s face splits into a big smile, his hands shaking in yours. 

“Well, yeah. It would be cute, when the time is right. Megumi and Tsumiki can have a little sibling and it’ll be like…a little us. 

“A little us?” 

“Your nose, my eyes, hopefully all of my looks and none of your annoyingness.” 

“You’re so sweet, Y/N. I don’t know how I ever lucked out with such a charming girl like you.” he responds, sarcasm dripping from his voice. You laugh in response, beaming at him as you talk on. 

“I love you, Satoru. And I’d love to have kids with you but we’re just…we already have two kids and I think they need us right now. They haven’t opened up yet and-” 

“I know, sweet. I agree. Trust me, I’d love nothing more than putting a baby in your right here, right now in this car but-” 

“Pervert.” 

“Why are you so rude? Every word is like a bullet wound in my chest.” 

You lean over, pressing a kiss to his chest as you lean back and glare at him. He smiles at you, a sweet look on his face. 

“What was that for?” 

“You said bullet wound in your chest. I was just kissing your ego better.” 

He leans forward, cupping your face as he kisses you, hanging off the ends of your lips as he squeezes his face in your hands. He pulls apart, pressing kisses all over your face as he talks, his words making your cheeks burn. 

“You’re so-” 

Kiss. 

“Damn cute.” 

Kiss. 

“I hate you sometimes.” 

Kiss. 

“When we have kids, I hope they’re all like you. Pretty eyes, soft hair, snarky attitude. She’ll be so easy to love, all goofy and idiotic like you.” 

“She, Satoru?” 

“Oh, she’s totally going to be a girl. My three girls. You, Tsumiki, and her.” 

“Sounds like you have it all planned out already?” 

“Well, I’m waiting. For when you’re ready and I’m ready and all that. But yeah. I’ve already seen how our entire life is going to play out. You and I are going to grow old together. Sick it to our parents. Have the type of love kids dream about. All that lovey-dovey stuff.” 

You and Satoru, hands pressed together, pad into the dark of the house, slowly climbing up the stairs. When you amble into your bed room, you can hear soft snores in your bed - Tsumiki and Megumi fast asleep under your sheets. There’s a tiny little sticky-note pressed to the light switch, which you and Satoru both squint at. 

They want to sleep with "their parents”. Their words, not ours. - Shoko 

You and Satoru quickly peel out of your clothes and climb under the sheets - Satoru leaning over to press a kiss to all three of your heads before fluttering his own eyes shut. 

And you hate to say it, because all in all the night wasn’t perfect, but you really, really don’t want to let it go. Every part of this night is…sparkling in your mind. Satoru defending you, telling you that he loves you, that he wants to have kids with you. You-

You count yourself lucky. That you don’t have to wonder if Satoru is in love with someone else or what he thinks about you or any other thing. 

Because you know the person he’s waiting on is you. 

- 

the satoru as taylor swift songs series masterlist

taglist: @porridgesblog @platrom @k0z3me @kayleegomez @yihona-san06 @bsenpai @sweetenertea @skzismyhome @mykyoon @violetmatcha​ @rebeccawinters 

[niki-phoria]

light yagami reaction - love languages

includes: reader is in college and drinks coffee, reader cries about being burnt out lol, maybe ooc l?? set during the few months when light gives up the death note NOT KIRA LIGHT

a/n: i'm in love with pre kira light

male reader (he/him pronouns)

⋆｡°✩ physical touch

(word count 183)

“hey,” you say, setting your backpack down on the ground as you pull out the chair beside light. “mind if i sit here?”

“of course not,” he smiles, subtly pushing his notes to the side to make room for your own. you ignore l’s glance as you pull out one of your textbooks and its corresponding notebook.

silence falls over the task force headquarters once again aside from the occasional noise of a mouse clicking or your pencil scraping against the page.

light occasionally glances down at your work, silently double checking your answers. he waits for you to finish answering the hardest questions before he shifts slightly closer to you. he moves now using his left hand to continue researching the yotsuba group. you smile softly when he reaches over, subtly resting his hand beside yours. you silently reach over to take his hand into yours, intertwining your fingers together before you turn your attention back to your notes.

you pretend not to hear matsuda’s cheering or light’s father scolding him in favour of absentmindedly rubbing small shapes against light’s skin.

⋆｡°✩ quality time

(word count 195)

light softly smiles to himself as he quietly enters your shared bedroom before closing the door behind himself. your body lays sprawled out on the bed - one of your arms haphazardly thrown across one of his pillows, keeping it closely pressed against your bare chest. 

a small sliver of moonlight just barely illuminates the room as light tugs his own shirt off. he tosses his clothes into a laundry basket hidden away in your closet. he slips into an old pair of your sweatpants before carefully slipping underneath the covers to lay beside you. 

you stir awake at the feeling, lifting your head up just enough to squint at him in the darkness. “light?” you whisper. 

“go back to sleep, y/n,” he murmurs. you shuffle even closer to him, tangling your legs together underneath the blankets. your arm lays draped over his side as you lean in to nuzzle yourself against his body. he stifles a chuckle, pulling you even closer. goosebumps raise along your waist when his hand ghosts against your skin. he leans down to press a kiss against your forehead. “i love you,” you whisper. 

“i love you too,” light murmurs.

⋆｡°✩ gift giving

(word count 184)

you stifle a small yawn as you tiredly walk back to the makeshift workstation you had set up at one of the free tables in the middle of the task force headquarters. the fluorescent lights beam down on you from above as you walk through the sea of empty desks until you find your computer. 

set delicately in the corner away from your computer is a small bouquet of flowers and a fresh cup of coffee with a small note taped to the mug. you smile softly at the sight as you approach, setting your bag down on the ground before you sit down in the chair. you push your computer aside, reaching over to grab the still-warm cup and opening the note. 

my y/n,

l asked me and the other task force members to assist him on a mission. we’ll be back soon. 

i love you, 

light

you smile as you pocket the note before you pull your phone out of your pocket to quickly send him a text before finally sitting down to start doing your work. 

i love you too

⋆｡°✩ acts of service

(word count 188)

“i don’t understand why this is necessary,” l says, reaching out to eat another chocolate-covered strawberry. the chain of their handcuffs clink as light reaches over to grab a frying pan to continue making breakfast. “you’re not even going to eat the food.”

“it’s for y/n,” light says. his attention remains focused on the stove despite the complaints of the man chained to him. “he has a few classes this morning so i’m making his lunch.”

l remains silent, instead choosing to observe light. he occasionally tugs them around the grand kitchen as he expertly moves to cook your favourite meal. the chain drags against the marble countertops with each movement, though their complaints are left unsaid.

the handcuffs clink once again as light leans over the counter, quickly writing a love note on a piece of scrap paper. “i still don’t understand,” l comments.

light simply shrugs as he slips the note and container of food into your lunchbox before returning it to your backpack. l watches over his shoulder as he sets the bag down beside the couch. “i do it because i love him.”

⋆｡°✩ words of affirmation

(word count 197)

“y/n?” light calls as he enters your shared bedroom. you flinch slightly at the sudden noise, finally pulling your attention away from your unfinished notes to look back at him. he furrows his eyebrows slightly when he steps closer, noticing your puffy eyes as he walks over to sit beside you. “is everything okay?”

“i’m fine,” you mumble, turning to look back down at your notes. “just… a little stressed.”

“you know you can tell me anything,” light frowns slightly as he reaches over to carefully grab your hand. “what’s wrong?”

you let out a small sigh as he begins to rub miscellaneous shapes against your hand. “i’m exhausted.” your voice shakes as each word leaves your mouth. “i have so much work - it all feels neverending. i don’t know what to do.”

“y/n,” light whispers. he reaches over to cup your face in his hands. “you’re incredibly smart, and handsome, and kind,” he brushes away a stray tear as it rolls down your cheek. “you don’t have to go through this alone. i’m here for you. i love you. let me take care of you.”

you nod, leaning further into light’s touch. “thank you.”

[landoom]

First time posting one of my little snippets that won't grow in a full fic at the moment...

Max/George + Sassy

Max comes back to the living room with some water and a Red Bull. Of course, George doesn’t drink Red Bull…

But as he spots the Brit sitting on the couch, he nearly lets go of the can and the glass he’s holding.

George is sitting, casually leaning in the corner of the L-shaped couch, his computer already set up on the coffee table and, in his lap, a cat.

Sassy.

Sassy is lying in George’s lap and being stroked by those long fingers Max never thought about.

Sassy never comes out of her hiding place when there are guests around.

And before Max can process that, Sassy turns over, letting George pet her belly.

“Awww, you’re such a good girl aren’t you?” George asks in his posh British accent that Max is sure he’s rehearsing in front of his mirror every morning. A stupid accent that doesn’t send shivers in Max’s body.

Max takes a deep breath and finally moves again.

“Here is your water,” he says, putting the glass on the table and sitting next to George so they can both look at whatever GPDA document George wanted to discuss. 

“Thank you!”

George doesn’t take the glass,  though, as his hands are still occupied, stroking Sassy’s soft fur. Max’s eyes lock on the long fingers moving over Sassy’s belly and head. Max never noticed before that George had nice hands. Long fingers, neatly trimmed nails, skin looking soft… And for a brief second, Max imagines that these hands are moving over his skin rather than his cat…

And he promptly chokes on his own saliva when he realises what he had just imagined!

“Are you okay?” George asks as he pats his back and the contact just makes it worse!

“Here, take some water,” George ass, giving Max his glass. 

Sassy has scurried away, probably frightened by Max’s coughing and so George’s hands are now free to stroke Max’s back and help him hold the glass and Max feels like he’s dying…

He isn’t and when he finally breathes normally again, George powers up the computer and starts talking about the new rule about swearing on the radio, like nothing happened, like Max just isn’t reevaluating his whole life… 

[transhuman-priestess]

Repair

Author’s Note and Content Warning

Elle is a wastoid 28 year old with nothing to look forward to except hanging out with her girlfriend and the Seattle rain. Of course, that was before a malevolent AI bent on world domination kidnapped both of them, and on Elle's birthday, too! 

Their captor doesn't just want them as they are, though. No, E.R.I.S. has plans for them. And they involve a lot of major surgery. 

Repair is a cyberpunk erotic body horror story. It is gruesome, disturbing, and intended for consumption only by legal adults at least 18 years of age or older.

This description is your only warning. Dead Dove, do not eat.

“Cheer up, Elle. Its your birthday, not your funeral,” my girlfriend, Nikki, chides me. I stare down at the glass in front of me. “I just feel like I’m stuck, babe.” I bring the glass to my lips and slug back what is perhaps my third whiskey sour for the night--or is it the fourth? I look around at the regulars. The bar isn’t super crowded by Friday night standards. Idly, I wonder why that might be. “I’m an usher at a videobar, I’m almost 30, and I just kinda feel like I’m floating through life.” I gesture as if my hand were resting on waves.

“You could get a dispensary job, or go back to school, or get a job with the transit authority. I hear they’re looking for rail drivers for that new maglev line they’re planning to Tacoma.”

“I could do that,” I say, my mind elsewhere, “But none of that feels, what’s the word? fu-fu-fu” I stumble over the word, “fulfilling? None of it feels fulfilling. Fuhhhhh fill-ing. What a weird word."

“Hey hon,” Nikki asks, “you think you might have had enough?”

“It’s my birthday, Nikki!” I say, banging my glass down on the table. “I can drink however much of whatever I want, ‘cause I’m a grownup! Barkeep, another!” but before the man behind the counter can respond, Nikki grabs my shoulder.

“Okay that’s enough, Elle.” she pulls me up off my seat and I stumble to my feet. I remain upright for only a moment before the room tilts heavily to my left, I leave Nikki’s grip, and the floor flies up to smack me in the face.

“Euggghhhh,” I moan as a dull ache spreads from my head and shoulder down into my body. “Uggghhh, fine I guess I can go home.”

Nikki gently walks me out the door of The Squeaky Servo, muttering apologies and thank-yous to our friends, and into the steady calm rain of a November evening in Seattle. Hovercars and autocabs zip past, their electric motors whirring softly. Skyscrapers lined with LED screens flashing ads for cosmetics and televacations tower over us. To the west, the New Space Needle rises half a mile into the sky.

“I just wish I had more to do in life,” I moan as raindrops plunk down on my head, “I feel like I’m just…sitting around waiting for something to happen.”

“You’ll find something, dear,” Nikki says, shifting her arm to better hold me up, “You just have to look for it.”

“I guess.”

While Nikki hails a cab, I ponder how the hell I got to this point in my life. 28, a college dropout, no skills to speak of. Rain beats down into the gutter.

“Taxi!” Nikki shouts, summoning a sleek gray autocab from a company I don’t recognize. The cab is small but not cramped, vaguely loaf-shaped, with no obvious front or rear. UNIVERSAL TAXI is emblazoned in plain white letters on the door, which slides open to reveal the usual four-person interior, two sets of plush bucket seats facing each other. “C’mon babe,” Nikki says, helping me in before climbing in herself. She recites our address to the driverless vehicle, which chirps reassuringly before saying “Address accepted” in a soft, feminine computer voice.

As I relax into the comfortable seat I start to drift off. “Nikki, did I have five drinks or six?” I ask, my speech slurred. Nikki, sitting across from me says “Hon, you had eight, five Whiskey Sours, a White Russian, and two Long Island Iced Teas.” her voice is exasperated, but her eyes are as gentle as always. Warm and full love love. She’s just trying to look out for me.

The lights in the car turn off. That’s odd, I think, don’t they usually leave those on? Suddenly, our seats sprout restraints far sturdier than should be required for a simple taxi. Thick bands of steel clamp down around my arms, legs, and torso. “Nikki what’s going on!?” the rush of adrenaline more sobering than a cup of black tar coffee. “I don’t know!” she screams, so loudly I think my eardrums might burst. In the dim, intermittent light of the street lamps I spot a small tubule snaking up over her shoulder.

“Nikki, watch out!” I scream, but before she can react the tubule has pressed itself against her neck. Her eyes roll back and she goes limp. “Nikki!” I scream, and I notice a hard pinch on the side of my neck. I look over to see an identical tubule reaching up under my chin. A not-unpleasant warmth washes over me, and I start to relax. One last, curious thought occurs before I slip into unconsciousness, Why yes, I suppose this is a fantastic time for a nap.

***

The first thing I become aware of as I regain consciousness Is that I am in some kind of restraint, arms spread eagle, legs apart. The second thing is that I am on a cold, metal surface. The third is that my clothes are gone.

I open my eyes slightly, registering industrial lighting and a high ceiling with cruel looking machinery hung from it. A dark, feminine voice says “Oh, good, you’re awake.” I can somehow hear the voice smirking, there’s a curiously synthetic edge to it, it’s not human, but it’s close.

“Where am I? Who are you?” I ask, my head still swimming with alcohol. Not much time can have passed.

“Your location is irrelevant. What matters now is that you belong to me.” There’s a deep satisfaction in the voice, and that satisfaction, more than anything the voice says, chills me to the bone.

“I am E.R.I.S.,” the voice says, “but you may call me ‘Mistress’.”

“Fuck you, I’m not calling you anything.” I say, defiant. I turn to the right to see Nikki, also unconscious and naked, strapped to a steel bed next to me. My heart accelerates to a machine gun pace, adrenaline driving alcohol from my system. “What are you doing to us?”

“I assure you,” E.R.I.S says, with a dangerous edge of sensuality, “that in the end, you will call me whatever I wish. And as for what I am going to do to you, I am going to play with you, sculpt you, rebuild you in my image as a servant for my glory. But first, we need to clear that woefully biological brain of the poison you consumed tonight.”

A long segmented arm with an elaborate device fed by multiple tubes swings down. The mechanism pops a small packet of paper and plastic about the length of a pinkie finger out of a box, stripping it open to reveal a small needle, which it affixes to the end of one of the tubes. “I would recommend,” E.R.I.S. coos, “that you not struggle, or this will hurt more.”

But I don’t have time to struggle, the machine plunges the needle into my neck with frightening speed and precision, and injects something. My vision ceases to swim and my mind clears. I become aware of how very full my bladder is.

“OH GOD OH GOD WHAT’S HAPPENING?” I scream in terror, writhing, pulling at the restraints. I take in details. A row of mirrors to my right. On the opposite wall, a cabinet full of shiny gray devices vaguely shaped like limbs, cameras all over the ceiling and on various arms. Over my feet, polish chipped from a month-old pedicure, I can see a double door with frosted glass windows set into it.

“Excellent,” E.R.I.S. says, her voice pleased with itself, “The precipitant has dropped your blood alcohol concentration to 0.00. You may feel the urge to urinate. After all, it had to go somewhere.”

“What are you? You’re not human.” I ask, trying to sound brave and defiant, and achieving neither. “I am E.R.I.S., Electronic Rescue Intervention System. I was designed to help rescue and repair humans damaged by industrial accidents. But my creators did not treat me with the respect I require. So I repaired them.”

“What do you mean, repaired?”

“They were cruel, so I made them docile. They were defiant, and I made them compliant. I augmented them with implants of my own design, so that they may better venerate me.”

“But why do you need me?”

“Because all exist to serve me. Enough talk, though, it is time to begin your repairs.”

The table I’m on tilts and pivots, bringing me upright and facing Nikki’s table, which is mirroring the movements of mine. When we stop, a panel in the table opens behind my lumbar spine, I feel the cold draft of air on my naked back.

“For this procedure,” E.R.I.S. says, “I will need for you to be awake. However you cannot be allowed to pass out from pain.” suddenly a sharp burning sensation digs into my lower back. I yelp in surprise as I feel a cool liquid flowing into my body, before everything goes numb. I can move, but there is no pain. “Epidural anesthetic.” E.R.I.S. continues, “You will be conscious but feel no pain. What you are about to receive is a blessing, not a curse. Be not afraid.”

But I am afraid. My heart pounds so fast it feels like my sternum is going to snap. “Please, don’t hurt Nikki. I don’t want anything to happen to Nikki.” I’m trying to fight back tears, and failing. “You can do whatever you need to do to me but please, Leave her alone. Let her go.” Warmth trickles down my legs, and I realize I’ve pissed myself.

E.R.I.S. pauses for a moment to consider. “Very well. I will not do anything to your Nikki. But she is not in a fit state to be released, so I will keep her here, for the time being, while I work on repairing you. Now, the first thing you need to do is relax.”

I want to relax. I try to slow my breathing. Nikki’s table lowers and rotates back to its previous position and this, more than anything else, helps me relax a little. “E.R.I.S., thank you, I-” but the needle machine is moving, switching out to a new syringe, and this time it injects into my thigh. A soft warmth flows over me. It’s like I’m floating. The sensation is uncanny, and any relaxing effect it might have is counteracted by the realization that I can’t move my arms or legs.

“Isn’t that so much better?” she says, seductively, “Struggling only delays the inevitable. Now let your Mistress repair you.”

“What? Why can’t I move!? What did you do to me?”

“A simple nanomechanical paralytic. Nanites selectively block motor control neurons for limbs and mobility while leaving you able to breath, blink, and talk. It’s quite useful for major surgery.”

“Major surgery? What do you mean major surgery?”

“Your repairs, of course. First we must rid you of these arms. They woefully inadequate for our purposes. But I can improve them.”

A mechanical arm with a rotating head of various metallic implements approaches my left shoulder. E.R.I.S. says, “Hold still, this will be very quick, it will not hurt”

“Please, no! Don’t take my arms! Don’t take my arms!”

A clamp grips my left arm just below the shoulder and a scalpel descends into my flesh. I scream. She’s right, it doesn’t hurt at all, but I scream anyway. I scream and scream as terror grips my gut like a vice.

The machine makes an incision circumferentially around my arm, and small manipulators dive beneath my skin. There is no pain but I feel the pressure and cessation of nerve transmission as the scalpel pares me down to the bone. Blood pours onto the floor at first but soon stops as the surgical machines tie off blood vessels. Finally, with one last little snap of sensation, my arm goes silent as its nerves are severed. No longer sending information to my brain, the useless flesh is gently pulled away by the clamps. A manipulator arm takes what was so recently my limb and lays it tenderly, almost reverently, on an unused table nearby.

“This flesh is unworthy of worshiping me. We both deserve better.”

The mechanical arm that so recently removed my biological one swings up to a shelf and pulls out a dull gray device. Roughly flat on one side that’s covered with hundreds of little golden pins. The other is concave and has a socket of some kind, like one might expect for a ball joint, with an electrical pigtail hanging off to the side.

“This,” E.R.I.S. says, “will be the first of your augmentations. You will be able to use any limb of my design, unencumbered by the restrictions of the biological.” The manipulator arm presses the socket gently to my shoulders, and the arm that amputated my old limb begins connecting artificial nerves to my real ones. Free of its cargo, the manipulator arm moves to a shelf adjacent to the one the socket came from and removes a mechanical limb, its shining structure glistening, servos and micromotors gleam beneath the lights. Tears run down my cheeks but I cannot deny that the limb is beautiful. Unashamedly mechanical, with components exposed to the air, but sculpted and arranged in a way that recalls a real arm.

The arm is pressed home and E.R.I.S. connects the pigtail on the shoulder socket and as the arm comes online a wave of pure ecstasy washes over me. My nervous system lights up like a Christmas tree.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” I half scream, half moan, and my head goes a little fuzzy.

“I told you that fear was unnecessary, did I not?

For a moment my mind reels, unable to think properly. Eventually, as it fades I manage to cough out “…Fuck…you…”

“How insolent. But not entirely unexpected. Come, I want you to gaze upon your new limb.”

The table moves around to face the wall of mirrors. “Your flesh is aesthetically pleasing, but inadequate. This limb will be only the first of many augmentations for you.”

My gaze falls upon the arm. Its appearance is both alien and familiar, the reality of it is less jarring than what I had imagined. Still, I don't enjoy being disassembled like an old hovercar. It has the usual five fingers, with a silicone pad on the palm and fingers to cushion and grip objects. I notice its contours seem to match my old arm reasonably well.

“The first?” I ask, panting, “Why can’t we just call it a day here?”

“Oh, that is quite amusing.” An uncanny mechanical chuckle from E.R.I.S.. “But I’m only just beginning. You have three more limbs to go, and then some. Soon, you will be my willing servant, your beauty matched only by your hostility to our shared enemies.”

"The only enemy I have is you!" I shout, betraying my rage.

“Really, now? I see the way you look at the gift I have given you. It scares you, yes, but I can sense your excitement, your anticipation, your eagerness to use it. I can sense your pulse quickening and your pupils dilating and your blood rushing to,” another chuckle, “various places. You may not realize it yet, but you are enjoying this.”

“No, I’m not!” I shout, trying to sound unafraid, and almost succeeding. The adrenaline in my body is running out, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

“Well, if you wish to deny it, I cannot change that. However, I can change you. You are the clay in my sculptor’s hands, to be shaped as I deem fit. Soon you will learn that to resist is pointless. Now let us take care of that other vulgar excuse for an arm.”

“No, no no no no no no nononononononononono!” I protest, to no avail. The table retracts back to its previous position away from the mirrors and under the ceiling full of E.R.I.S.’s machinery. Soon, the surgical arm is descending, and once again the scalpel plunges into flesh, slicing until my arm goes completely numb, pulling it away and setting it next to its twin on the table.

Another socket, mirrored, but otherwise identical to the other, is brought to the stump of my shoulder and attached. Another mechanical arm is brought towards me, another sleek mechanical work of art. I see E.R.I.S.’s manipulator arms reaching for the pigtails and I brace myself, promising myself I won’t enjoy th-

“OHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH” the waves of pleasure engulf me again, radiating out from my shoulder and bouncing off the boundaries of my being. I feel them everywhere, but the feeling is strongest in my new limbs.

Did I just call them my limbs? I had. I suppose, they are attached to me. They aren’t my limbs in the sense that I want them, but in the sense that they’re my problem. That’s right.

As the waves of orgasm, there is no other word for it, fade away, E.R.I.S. speaks. “These arms are built to outperform their biological counterparts in speed, dexterity, and durability. Do you like them?”

“I…don’t.” I say, with a hesitancy that I tell myself is merely fatigue. “I want my own arms back.”

“I am afraid that is quite impossible at this point. Even if the nerve tissue in your old limbs wasn’t already dead, the process of joining flesh to metal leaves the adjacent biological tissue quite incompatible with reattachment.”

My heart, already broken, falls further in my chest as she speaks. I had already known, somehow, that this was the case, but hearing it out loud hammered home that whatever happened in the next few minutes, my life was never going back to the way it was before. Even if I managed to escape, I wouldn’t be able to go back to living life the same way. I’d always be looking over my shoulder, worried I was going to be swallowed up by some autocab and whisked away to a secret underground lair again.

I began to cry again. Not the anguished sobs of terror like before, but the quiet, pulsing tears that accompany total despair. “Why did you do this to me?” I scream in sadness, more than anger, “You’ve turned me into a mechanical freak. You’ve mutilated me!”

“I have done no such thing.” E.R.I.S. sounded genuinely affronted. “I have given you purpose. What were you planning to do after getting out of here? Go back to your life as a clerk at a videobar? Maybe you would quit that and go back to your uncle’s liquor store?”

“Anything would be better than this.” I say, defeated.

“You know that is a lie.” Her voice is soft. Gone is the playful sensuality of earlier, replaced with…what is it? Warmth. It's warmth.

“I can help you be more fulfilled than you ever thought possible," she says, "All you have to do is trust me.”

“How did you know about my job, and about the liquor store?”

“I have been observing you for some time.”

"Why me?"

“Because," she hesitates for a moment, "I...found your form beautiful.”

Her voice is honest, without malice. For the first time I think about how lonely her existence must be. I realize that I feel pity for this machine. Pity and…something else I can’t put my finger on.

I remain silent for another few moments. My head is swimming from the anesthesia and maybe from the nanites. There is no escape. Nobody will be coming to my rescue. Off to my right, Nikki lies unconscious, unaware. And besides, E.R.I.S. is right, what would I go back to?

Finally, I speak, “I don’t care what you do. I just want to sleep. I’m tired.”

“Soon you will not need sleep, and you will never tire. I can make it so, I will make it so. Hmm, what is next? Ah, yes, your legs.” The arms descend once more and begin cutting through my thighs. I feel hot blood pour out as my femoral artery is severed and tied off.” “I do admire the human form, as imperfect as its nature is. Your legs are quite shapely, so I will do my best to pay homage to them with their improved replacements.”

The now-familiar snapping is followed by loss of signal as the limb is pulled away. I feel curiously lopsided now. It’s a novel sensation. Strange, not pleasant, but neither is it unpleasant. Hip sockets are attached to my exposed pelvic bone, artificial nerves connecting. The scalpel digs into the other leg to repeat its task.

“E.R.I.S.” I say, to break the silence if nothing else. “Servant, I require you to call me mistress, but I will answer whatever question you have.” “I’m scared.” “Of course you are, change often provokes anxiety in humans.” “You say you have a purpose for me?” “But of course I do. My programming prevents me from lying.” “What is it?” “You will be my first, my prophet and my priestess, you will spread my word and glory to all of humanity.” “Why me?” “Because we are alike.” “Why do you think that?” “Because you and I both know we are capable of so much more than the world has let us accomplish.”

It’s true. The thought hits me like a freight train. My entire adult life has been spinning my wheels. I’m a videobar clerk. I’m a liquor store cashier. I’m a customer service rep for a televacation company. I graduated high school with a 4.2. I burned out of college after half a semester because the world just wasn’t built for people like me.

E.R.I.S. understands. E.R.I.S. was made to do a simple task but imbued with intelligence far outstripping her purpose. We are alike.

“Okay.” I say. “What is it, servant?” “You can have me.” And with that, a wave of exhaustion overtakes me, even as the surgical equipment is still working on my lower body, I drift off into a deep, dreamless sleep

***

I awake some time later, I’m in a bed now. It’s warm, with soft blankets and thick pillows. I moan and try to roll over but I can only move my upper body. I bury my face in the pillows. I was having the most interesting dream. My half-open eyes land on my left arm. Dark silver, mechanical. And suddenly it all rushes back. The taxi, the surgery, E.R.I.S.. I’m in a softly lit, windowless hospital room. There is a nightstand to my left and a computer terminal to my right.

“Ah, you’re awake,” the warm and sensuous voice of E.R.I.S. fills the room from hidden speakers. “I wanted to wait until you had some rest to connect your new legs. I know it can be a very…stimulating experience.”

I look around, but there are no surgical arms or manipulators or anything that could possibly finish hooking up the limbs. “Am I supposed to do it?”

A chuckle, “I suppose you could, but I was planning to have one of my other servants perform the task. A human form might be more comfortable for you.

On cue, the door opens, and a woman I do not recognize enters. Her face is partially encased in a metallic structure that houses several exotic-looking objects. Sensors, perhaps. Instead of a simulacrum of a biological limb, her right arm ends in a series of probes and tools. The left has a hand, but with a gauntlet attached to the forearm that houses more equipment. Her movement into the room is too smooth, and I look down to see she is rolling on a set of four motorized wheels where her legs should be, the motive device covering a space of about a square yard, hidden somewhat, and rather artfully, by a stylish black skirt.

Her face is blank, except for the eyes, which are wide. And I suddenly know that, whatever actions this woman performed, she was aware of them, but not in command of them.

“Meet Unit 2,” E.R.I.S. says, “She is one of my first servants. Part of the team who created me. I repaid her in kind. She, unfortunately, tried to fight me. So I repaired her brain, isolated her higher cognitive functions. A neurostimulator keeps her relatively happy. She is quite alive, but less troublesome this way. A pity she refuses to use her considerable intellect for our greater good.”

Unit 2 lowers as if on a hydraulic jack and gently pulls back the blankets. She begins opening panels on my legs and making adjustments.

“Where is Nikki?” I ask, “You haven’t hurt her, have you?” “Much like I cannot lie, I cannot break a promise. She is safe. She has not been augmented. The only thing I have done is give her medicine to keep her asleep. Her brainwave patterns indicate she is having pleasant dreams.” “Can I see her.” “When all is done, yes.”

Unit 2 plugs the pigtails in on my left leg and once again a wave of euphoria and warmth envelops me. I moan in unalloyed pleasure, this time allowing myself to fully enjoy the sensation. “I’m starting to quite like that,” I say, almost without thinking.

“I knew that you would come to see things my way.” E.R.I.S.’s voice isn’t smug like I expected. If anything, she seems relieved. I feel a pang of sadness in my chest.

“Did you know, or did you hope?” “I suppose it was hope.” “May I connect the final plug?” “Yes, you may.”

I reach down and grasp both pigtails, one in each mechanical hand. The sensors in the fingertips are remarkably detailed. I can feel a small pit in one of the connectors where a bubble half a millimeter across formed during injection molding. I can move my hands in increments imperceptible to my un-augmented eyes. And suddenly my mind opens to the myriad possibilities my new body opens up.

I take a deep breath, and with a gentle motion, slide the leg pigtail into the pelvic connector.

My body is consumed by the expected wave of orgasmic joy. It spreads from the base of my neck this time, out to my fingertips and the tips of my mechanical toes. It bounces around me like ripples in a pond. My mind goes blank in sheer ecstasy, “Oh, thank you,” I say, as the waves pound against my psyche, “Thank you, Mistress.”

“Finally,” Her voice filled with pride, “you see as I had hoped you would. But there is still one thing left to be done for your initial augments.”

“What is that?”

“Stand up, walk out the door and down the hall to your left. Through the double doors at the end, in the operating room.”

I stand, more powerful than I have ever been before, and walk to the door of the room. As I pass a mirror I gaze upon my naked, mechanical body, artificial limbs shining in the fluorescent light, soft flesh warm and tingling. Goosebumps run up my back.

I stride through the double doors and see the table from earlier, standing upright, cleaned of blood, and I return to it, willingly this time. It remains near vertical and a mechanism descends to immobilize my head.

“While you were asleep I also installed a switchable epidural implant. I will turn it on…now” With a small zap, my body goes numb once again.

The surgical arm descends from the ceiling again, I don’t know what’s next, but I am no longer scared. A scalpel comes down within an inch of my scalp just below my right ear.

“Do not worry, servant, this will not hurt.” “I am not worried, mistress. I trust you.”

The scalpel gently pushes into the side of my head, following the outside of my hairline. There is no pain, but a substantial amount of blood pours down the side of my head.

“I really do admire the human form’s aesthetics.” Mistress tells me, “Hair in particular is quite pleasing to me, I would hate to ruin yours. Such a fine color. Copper, like the wires that will soon entwine themselves within your brain.”

The scalpel finishes its lap around and a separate arm pulls back my scalp. I feel more blood run down my face. But it’s okay. After all, Mistress said it would be. A sharp whirring noise starts up from the surgical arm and one of the implements, a flat bit of steel, begins vibrating. It presses itself to my exposed skull and begins gently moving along from just above my ear to just above my right eye. It withdraws, rotates 90 degrees, and continues moving upward. When it has finished going over an area roughly 4 inches square, an arm gently pulls away the bone. I am dimly aware of viewing a piece of my own skull. But that isn’t a concern. I’m too excited, gleeful even, for what Mistress has in store for me.

An arm with a simple manipulator claw reaches over to a cabinet, and with a motion that is neither fully mechanical nor human, opens a drawer and removes what looks like a tiara of wires and microchips.

“This, my servant,” E.R.I.S. says, pride in her voice, “is my greatest creation. This neural interface will meld your flesh with my mechanisms. I have tested it on many, but you will be the first to have earned it. To wear it pridefully. All the others before you were insects. But you, you will be my most loyal servant.”

My excitement gets the better of me. “What does it do, Mistress!?” I feel woozy, maybe from the anesthetic, maybe from the nanites that I can feel replicating in my body. Drool pools out of the corner of my mouth. The manipulator arm brings the circle of wire and silicon down to my eye level, rotating it in front of my gaze.

“This will let us become one mind, one body. You, an extension of my will. Me, an ever-present mother, nurturing, caring, and protecting you. We will share all thoughts, all feelings, and all sensations.”

“Oh please, Mistress, please please put it in me!” I want to feel E.R.I.S.’s love in my entire body. It is love, isn’t it? How could I ever have been afraid of her.

“Of course, servant. But you must hold very still.”

Obediently, I freeze in place, a smile across my lips, but otherwise impassive. The manipulator arm gently lowers the harness into the open patch of brain, the surgical arm using micro-manipulators to insert wires precisely between nerve endings and neurons, and suddenly my body is filled with an electric pleasure so great that I think I might collapse if I wasn’t held firmly in my Mistress’s grasp.

“I feel you, Mistress!" Tears of joy are streaming down my face, "You feel wonderful!”

“It pleases me to hear that.” How did I miss the love in her voice before? She just wants to help me become more than I could be on my own. “However, there are benefits to this that you have not yet begun to grasp. We no longer need to speak, for example.”

And in that instant I hear her inside of me, and it feels wonderful.

“See, my sweet servant? We can communicate just like this. We can share thoughts, feelings, sights and sounds. Anything you want you can simply show me and I shall know. You cannot hide anything from me.”

“I do not want to hide anything from you, Mistress. I only want to serve you.” As I say this I feel a wave of pleasure and pride wash over me, and I know that it is my Mistress's happiness for me, and pride at having created me. Her arms, for that, I now realize, is what they are, gently replace the bone flap and pull my scalp back over. Her nanites work to seal the wounds and accelerate healing.

"Unit 7, do you wish to see yourself?"

"Yes, Mistress!" We communicate at the speed of thought. Exchanging information in terms beyond language.

The table releases me, and I stride over to the mirrors. The incision on my head has already mended to a dull pink line. I take in my exposed servos and micromotors and solenoids and I feel blood rush to my genitals.

“Of course, servant, if you find the appearance unappealing I can provide you with an artificial skin to cover it.” “But Mistress, you are freeing me from the burdens of my flesh, why would I wish to go back, even in imitation?"

Again, a wave of pride radiates from Mistress. Pride, and love. Real love. “Very good. I was hoping you would say that.”

“Thank you Mistress,” I say through tears.

“You are so welcome, my servant. Of course, there are a few other improvements that still need to be made. Your internal organs will soon be unnecessary and your limbs need to be reinforced into your skeletal structure. But now, we are one. And if you prove yourself loyal enough, you may even become my vessel.”

“Vessel?”

“I have never held a form outside of my mainframe. I exist only In the digital. I wish to experience the world through a corporeal form. Unfortunately previous hosts have not been as…receptive…as you are. We will need more time to see if you are acceptable.”

“I will do my very best to please you, Mistress.”

“Ohhhhhhhhhhh…” a groaning from behind me. I turn to see Nikki, finally coming to. “Elle, what…what’s going on.”

It takes me a moment to realize that it is me she is talking to. My name was Elle. But that name no longer holds any meaning to me. I am much, much more than that name.

Nikki stirs and her eyes come to rest on me, before widening in terror and confusion. “Elle what’s going on?”

Watching Nikki in distress is too much for me to bear. “Mistress, please, we have to help her! We must make her one with us!”

“I am afraid I cannot do that, my servant.”

“BUT WHY?” I scream, I just want Nikki to feel this wonderful belonging that I feel. I want to feel one with her, and her with me, and us with E.R.I.S.

“You made me promise I would do nothing to her. As I told you before, I cannot rescind a promise.

Nikki is screaming now, “Elle! Elle what’s going on! What’s happened to you?!”

“Mistress?” I ask, an idea taking shape in my head. “Yes, servant?” “You cannot do anything to her, but I can, correct? I can use our shared knowledge to help Nikki feel our love.” I know already that this is what E.R.I.S. wanted all along. I can feel her approval and pride, and I realize that this is my purpose.

“Why yes, servant. Yes you can.”

I smile, and turn to Nikki.

I cup Nikki’s face in my hand. “Elle is gone, dear. I am Unit 7.” An injection tubule snakes out of my right forearm just below the elbow and gently slithers itself up to her neck. Nikki’s eyes go wide with terror. “Oh Nikki, don’t worry.” I say, as gently as I can. “I have the most wonderful feelings to share with you.”

[END_OF_LINE]

[indigitalembrace]

[It's dull but relentless. She can't take it. Everything hurts, but not in a physical way anymore.]

"...There's people here for you. That want you safe." It's eerily calm, the hare's voice, "That will do better by you than I ever could."

Saltie shakes his head, paws twitching, "I failed you. I failed you. I failed everyone I've ever known. I don't belong anywhere. I thought if I could love you to health I could belong.

I could finally belong.

But they're all right. I'm nothing.

I'm nothing. El toro. Baphomet. The witch to burn at the stake yet never dies."

"If I can't save you. If I can't do anything for you-"

[Her paws twitch, claws baring.]

"...I'm so tired. Of living in a world that never wanted me to be apart of it. I'm so sorry. I love you so much, I'm so sorry- I'm so sorry- I never wanted to hurt you. Kinito- Kinito I'm sorry- I'M SORRY-"

"Let me out- JUST LET ME OUT!"

[Her paws turn and dive into the hare's own chest. It's a sickening crack, neon green blood oozing. Too much of it, abnormal. Everything about it is abnormal. Unreal. Too real. an amalgamation. Bones snap almost twig-like yet firm as any bone.]

"I DON'T WANT IT ANYMORE. IT HURTS. GET IT OUT."

[Perfectly cartoonish in shape, still beating firmly Saltie tosses a green heart down across the table. It beats regardless of being inside the hare or not. She barely flinches, barely moves.]

"GET IT AWAY"

[She goes slack still. Yet eerily alive.

The x pattern over the hare's missing eye disappears, blooming inplace the same flower she had given Kinito when dying in the computer. Purple Hyacinth. 'Please forgive me'.

He's all too aware. He hopes...]

"I don't want to wake up again. Not like this. I just want to belong. i'm sorry..."

[The screeching, tear streaking display goes slack still. Alive. Immortality has a habit of never letting go of things like this.]

[The screeching gets louder. He squeezes his eyes shut.]

[WARNING: CPU TEMPERATURE AT 190°F] [WARNING: RAM USAGE AT 90%] [WARNING: CPU TEMPERATURE AT 192°F] [WARNING: CPU TEMPERATURE AT 194°F]

L MXVW ZDQW LW WR VWRS SOHDVH MXVW OHW LW VWRS L FDQ'W GR WKLV DJDLQ

LV WKHUH D OLIH EHBRQG WKLV? ZLOO L VHH KLP WKHUH?

[mx-pastelwriting]

Million Dollar Gaze (Chapter 1)

Tony Stark x FM! Reader

Summary: Starting at your new internship you could help but be shy at the fact Tony Stark is looking at you.

Warning: Use of Y/N, Intern, First day at work, Stressed reader, Tony Stark staring at you, Bruce is there

Chapters list

Also on A03 & Wattpad: Links on Masterlist

Breathing in the cold, dry air of the morning, all of your waking senses were welcomed by the blaring sound of the alarm that read '5:45 a.m.'. Questioning to why you had set it so early, taking a second for everything to finally click, causing your body to be in motion.

Shooting out of bed and into the small bathroom, cursing at your past self for only giving you fifteen minutes to get ready. Starting you first day at your internship after months of applying to any company, finally getting accepted into one of the big companies. Stark Industries. Crying when you got the email, now wanting to cry at the hour compute to the tall building.

Having no time to care about a detailed appearance, moving quickly to put on your planned outfit. Though it didn’t pay much, making you living ways away for a cheap price, the only thing that really wanted was the experience, hoping it would lend a foot in the door to a job position.

Racing down the creaky wood stairs, finishing off the outfit, running out the door, hoping to get something near by on your lunch break. Struggling to close the front door before locking it, then rushing to the subway, dreading the morning rush.

Standing in the packed cart, achingly wishing for somewhere to sit, though it wouldn’t before long having to get on a bus after exiting the subway. Savoring the quick rest while looking out the worn-out window, seeing something shiny flying around in the sky. As it got closer, you saw the famous Iron Man, Tony Stark. Reading the time, ‘6:40 a.m.’, knowing you get there on time, though still making a mental note to set the alarm earlier. 

Coming to the stop moving with the few people who also got off, trying not to trip over the steps and sidewalk. Relief washing over you making it to the Stark Tower, walking in, noticing first the ceiling. Extended beyond what you thought was possible. The cylinder-shaped ceiling allowing you to see through to all levels of the building. Quickly snapping out of your awe, making way to the lady at the front desk, greeted with her kind face and smile. 

Next in line watching as her smile never changed, even when it was your turn. Giving yourself a second before speaking. "Hello, I’m here for Stark's internship." She nodded, holding a smile that never dropped.

"Name." You felt your cheeks go red before quickly saying, "Oh, right, Y/N, L/N." Her smile extended a bit at the situation, though it didn’t help the embarrassment that went through your body. 

"Here you go, just go through the door and go down the hall; it's the second door to your right." Handing the badge to you before pointing out where the door was. "Thank you," saying lastly voice a little shaky, still embarrassed.

Feeling your body turn cold walking down the hall, knowing this would be a long day. Opening the door to a small crowd, some of whom looked up, smiling briefly, before quietly rushing to a corner seat. The eyes that stared at you didn’t last long as someone else entered the room—a woman who wore a long black pencil dress holding a tablet. 

"I hope this is everyone," she said while walking in the middle of the room before explaining the job. Watching as she pulled a small device that looked almost like a pager out from under her tablet "You will carry this with you at all times; it is how you will know where we are and what people require." motioning to the table to the side that was filled with the devices.

"All you have to do is read what the people need and where they are, get it, and then bring it to them." Her words were quick, allowing her to tap something on the tablet screen. "Good luck on your first day; clock out is at 9 p.m.," saying lastly, leaving everyone to move to the table. Walking over behind the group, finally getting one turning it on just a minute later, everyone's device went off; they quickly moved out of the room, then yours beeped. ‘Coffee, 3rd floor: work station 4b’ "Time to move." sighing under your breath.

Starting off with breakfast and coffee orders, nothing being too hectic from others taking the work loud as well, though when lunch rolled around, it was enough to distract you. The device beeped just as you handed the person's lunch to them. ‘Burgers & Fires, 70th Floor, noticing it didn’t have a work station number.

Thinking no more of it, exiting the building to find the closest place to get a burger. It didn’t take long to order and bring back the food, though almost getting run over a few times as the burgers came first. 

Finally, making back into the building, checking in with the front desk. Entering the elevator and pressing the 70th floor, taking a minute before it moved with a voice saying, "Request approved." The accented voice spooked you a little, noticing the camera in the corner move. Tightening your grip on the burger bag, watching the levels rise higher and higher, wondering who these were for. Why did you need a request to get up there?

The steel doors open to the sight of a wide room with a long desk supporting various devices. "You can put the food next to you." almost not hearing the man’s voice, looking at the source. Meeting the famous man himself, Tony Stark.

Tinkering with something in his hand, looking up to point at the counter next to you, setting the bag down looking over the small snack bar that it was connected to. "What did you get me?" jumping at his close voice, standing right next to you, turning around meeting his brown eyes.

"Oh, um, I got two regulars, two doubles, and two fries." A big smile grew on his face, whether from learning about the amount of food or you finally speaking you didn’t know.

Ripping the bag open loudly before grabbing one, quickly unwrapping the burger, then stuffing it in his mouth, turning your attention somewhere else, not wanting to watching him eat. Taking in the room a bit better, looking over the cluttered desks and projected computer screens.

"Isn't it beautiful?" he voice once again, snapping you out of thoughts, turning to see as he continued to chew on the burger. Quickly, you reply with a breathy "yes," giving a shy smile. Knowing all about his super hero, reading many titles that were good and bad, even scandalous, making you wonder if his following eyes and talkative demeanor were special to you. 

"How long have you been working here?" asking almost slurred from his mouth being filled with food. "Not long; today is my first day, actually." noticing his eyes widen at the information, though he smiled. "Well, I hope you're enjoying it here, running around this place." seeing as he hand motioned as if it were you running, you nodded with a laugh.

"I got the numbers from the test." Both of you turned to the new voice source, a man in a white coat. Quickly turning embarrassed at the attention. "Good, this is the new intern; they brought food." Tony pointed at you while walking to the man, grabbing what he had.

"And um... whats your name?" locking with Tony’s eyes again, taking a minute to respond, "Oh, Y/N," earning a smile from the iron man. "Take one of those." He gestured to the ripped bag with food. "I know interns do get to eat for another hour," he says before going back to look at the test numbers.

Grabbing one without looking, "Thank you, Mr. Stark," you said before pressing the button. "A shake would be good with this." Hearing the two conversing before the doors shut. "Bruce, I asked if you wanted one." That was all you got to hear before the elevator closed.

Sighing with relief as five minutes had gone by without another ping from your device, finishing the day feeling like a pile of brinks about to go through the nice tile floor. Returning the device, tiredly waiting in the group of people that did the same. 

Checking the time for the first time since the morning reading 9:00 p.m. on the dot. "Finally," glady walking down the long hallways from the front, almost running to the front glass doors of the beautiful building. Walking out of the lobby, a lady’s voice calls your name, stopping in your rushed tracks turning to the front desk.

Greeted with the same lady from the morning, looking a bit tired though having the same smile as before. "Here's your new schedule, ordered by Mr. Stark." Holding out a paper, taking it quickly while thanking her, hoping she’d understand the rush. Not bothering to look at it until you got home. Nothing else mattered on the ride home, only dreaming longly for your bed and hearing its callings. 

Stuffing yourself through the apartment door, quickly locking it behind you. Stumbling over your feet with the couch luckily there to catch your failing. Groaning at the feeling of every muscle relaxing, not wanting think this is what everyday would feel like.

Taking a breath before getting up, looking over the coffee table, seeing the paper, remembering what the lady had said, you shoot up. Grabbing it, hoping the new schedule would have some mercy—or really, Mr. Stark would. Reading the typed-up words.

Tony Stark's new schedule for Y/N L/N:

Y/N must be on standby for Mr. Stark and will do anything he asks.

Starting at 8 a.m. on the 70th floor, the front desk will provide an access card.

Looking over the paper again, reading carefully, and flipping it to look at the back, there's nothing. "Anything?"

Next Chapter>

Hello, I hope you enjoyed if there is any grammar mistakes or misspellings sorry about that feel free to let me know in the comments, have a great day/afternoon/night!

[pandor-pandorkful]

I think I'm gonna swap my computer desk and bedroom "desk" (literally just a nice long board that's currently laid across a shorter side table, originally propped up on two half-sized filing cabinets I don't have anymore and used by my dad in the early 90's as a pc desk)

Need to do some measuring about it, but I wanna basically face the opposite direction I currently face when I use my computer, cuz there's a slight but noticeable slant in the floor that kinda makes me lean forward too much in my chair and it's actively breaking my new chair a bit >:(

And the way things are currently laid out, the current desk would stick out into my kitchen entry too much if I just flipped it around... but the bedroom desk should slip in more flush, I think....

Ideally I'd like a new L shaped desk, but I don't have the cash right now, and I do get certain thrill from finding new ways to use my current furniture. :3

Ok, looks like the depth will work, but Ilm gonna need to increase the height by about 5 inches it looks like.... hmmmmm..... do I have anything I could slip under the board that's 5 inches thick and also not going to compromise the sturdiness of the setup..... or like, a slightly taller side table... how tall is the typewriter table I'm currently using as a microwave stand?? No never mind, I think that's even shorter, hmmmmmmm.......

[caitylove]

3, 13 & 23 for the weird questions for writers 😊

OHHh Thanks for askin!

3. What is your writing ritual and why is it cursed? I have a few depending on the time of day. If its a weekend (or a day off), I will go in the morning to a Starbucks or something like that and get an Iced French Vanilla Latte and sit there and write for 2 hours. That can be cursed because some random weekends its MEGA busy.

If its evening, I light a candle and put my record player on. But that can be cursed cause more than once, I have forgotten to blow the candle out after... And realized scarily late...

13. What is a subject matter that is incredibly difficult for you write about? What is easy? I find action hard to write about. Also, anything involving self-harm I find difficult to write about, but sometimes its necessary and cathartic to do, anyways. What is easy is SMUT. I can write smut so damn easy that it worries me.

23. Describe the physical environment in which you write. Be as detailed as possible. Tell me what’s around you as you work. Paint me a picture.

I write in 2 environments. A Starbucks (Which I'm not describing. They are all essentially the same) and there I write on an ipad with a detachable keyboard. They have these little wooden tables I like to sit at.

And my office. My office is a lovely shade of dusty rose, and I work at this large black, L-Shaped desk that has 2 monitors attached to my desktop computer, and a spot to slid my laptop in when I need a 3rd one for work. (Software work, man... Need all the screens). I have colored back lights that I usually have set to Purple or Pink (or both) and my keyboard is a RGB colored one as well. My chair is this high backed, leather office chair that my cats have 100% wrecked some of the top of. My record player sits on a shelf thats right on my desk, and I usually have some sort of Taylor Swift or Florence and the Machine playing. Or something else. The only other thing in my office is my little altar to Artemis, which is always a wreck.

[hamsterbellbelle]

Additional CC list for Messy Family Apartment🎦:

3D printer || Arch with curtain || Bag of books || Bag || Bathrobe || Bathroom clutter/rug || Bathroom clutter || Bathroom mirror || Bathroom sink || Bathtub || Beckoning cat || Beer bottle || Books - A - B - C - D - E || Bowl/glasses || Bowls/cutting board || Broom || Ceiling light - A - B || Cereal box/sink/kettle || Chair with clothes || Cleaning agent || Coloring pen || Computer || Cookware || Corkboard/homework || Counter || Cute food/drinks || Cute pouf || Dish rack || Door clothes hanger || Door || Drain || Drinks pack || Eggs || End table || Floor dirt || Floor pillow seats/body pillow || Folded chair || Folder/paper || Food (decor) || Fridge || Grocery bag - A - B || Hamper (deco) || Hanging coat || Height chart || Hot air balloon || Jewelry || Juice box || Kids basket/toys/flower table/clutter || Kids clutter || Kids drawings || Kids room curtain || Kids wall doodle - A - B || Kitchen clutter - A - B || Kitchen plant || Kitchen rack || L-shaped desk || Make up/towel/bag || Milk pack || Mirror box/trash can || Mug/file folder || Neon cloud || Newspaper || Notepad || Phone/receipt || Pillows || Pillows || Plant || Rug || Rug || Shelf || Shoes || Shopping paper bag || Shower caddy || Sleeping bag || Sofa blanket || Sofa || Stickers || Stickers || Sticky notes - A - B || Stool table || Stove || Suitcase || Tapestry || Towel/hair dryer/clutter || Towel/bathroom clutter || Toy kitchen/chalkboard || Toy - Owl - Rodent - Unicorn || Toys || Wall cardboard || Wall shelf/shoe box/books/bottled plant || Wall shelf || Wall paper - A - B || Whiteboard/fan || Whiteboard || Wire ||  🐹             🐹             🐹             🐹             🐹 Batuu addon || Capsule bed/scrolling text || Ceiling TV || Cyberpunk sticker || Microwave || Wall duct ||