#THE WAY THE TIMELINE SPLITS OFF JUST WITH THOSE LAST WORDS

[lotus-pear]

do you ever think about the tragic fact that odasaku's dying words to dazai were to become a good man, to be on the side that saves people.....which leads to the creation of the beast universe as dazai, in his grief and denial, finds the book and alters reality with the mentality "then....that means saving you too, right?"

[hypnagogics]

how soon is now? | part one

READ THIS FIRST 🇵🇸

teasers: one. two. series masterlist. next part here!!

♡: hallway crush!ellie x uni student!reader

☆: listen, i know this timeline is kind of ridiculous, but i’ve organized it all best as i can! this is the expanded story based on those first little blurbs introducing the au (reads fine on its own though), and this part specifically was originally going to be one huge fic, but i've ultimately decided to split it up and drop the first part now, because i feel like it ends in a convenient enough space where i can make a separation not so jarring. so that means this will have a direct continuation (how soon is now? 2 ? lol this is so stupid-), and that will be posted soon enough once i finish it! but yes that means after so much waiting, it's finally here for y’all. i literally thought up this silly idea right before i passed out on new years, and never expected y’all to love it so much…but i keep my promises, so here. also love the smiths and felt the title sort of fit. i feel like not too much happens but eh anyway, thank you for waiting, thank you for reading, and please enjoy!

♧:4.6k word count

◇:suggestive but not explicit - horny descriptions and tension, however no smut (for now?….BUT DON'T HOLD ME TO THAT.) no descriptions of reader’s physical appearance, no use of “y/n”, slow-burn construction and loooooads of pining, a lot of build up but stay with me, attempts at occasional foreshadowing, smau elements(text messages lmao), savage starlight is a plot point lol, hallwaycrush!ellie is sort of a mix of loser/modern/university au/dorky-ish ellie I DON'T EVEN KNOW. abby is your bestie, girl what else do i put here- this is just kinda plot, plot, and more plot progression about the whole ordeal, and me indulging my obsession with modern!ellie. (lmk if there's anything to be added!)

“Abbyyyyyyyyyy.” 

You rolled around your lifelong best friend’s bed, babbling her ear off while she studied away at her desk, or tried to at least. This situation has been a daily occurrence for weeks at this point.

Laying on your stomach facing away from her, you could hear her scoff in annoyance. “What?” “Please give me some advice..I don't know what I'm even supposed to do. She's driving me up the wall." This crush was the sole thing occupying your poor mind, so naturally, you had to drown your bestie with your troubles as well. That's what friends do. Abby spun around on her chair to face you, with a clearly fed up expression on her face, and leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees. 

“Well I don’t fucking know man, I’ve already given you my best advice, and that's either introduce yourself, or suffer.” She said coolly. You sat up and groaned. Wasn't there an easier way? One that didn't involve actually taking initiative and doing something? Maybe, hypothetically, you ace a test, and the professor announces it in front of everyone as he emotionally congratulates his star student, and she bounds over, beaming. Then tearfully confesses her love and admiration for you- hold on, where the fuck is this going?

“Oh come on, you know I can’t do that..” You gulped a burning bundle of anxiety down as you replayed the scenarios with your obsession for the thousandth time that day, the mere crumbs you were forced to fixate on until you saw her next, the first sighting that started this whole fiasco,  and shook your head to clear it and listen to what your best friend had to say. She sighed and rubbed her eyes, slamming her textbook shut and making her way over to sit next to you.

“Listen babe, I love you, but you really gotta get ahold of yourself, alright?” She spoke sternly, looking you straight in the eyes to make sure you understood and absorbed every last word she said. “Listen, here's what you're gonna do. when you pass her in the hall, smile, it's simple but it's a classic, okay? And then you listen to the lecturer as normal, right? I have no idea what you nerds do in astrophysics, but that's besides my point. Make sure to pay attention and not stare only at her like a stalker or something, I cannot stress enough how normal you gotta be. But here's where it gets good, you still with me?” 

You're listening to her for sure, and nod vigorously. Crystal clear. She continues, “Okay you said you sit as far as possible from her? Sheesh, why'd you do that? When the class is over I want you to go over to her, and introduce yourself. Catch her on her way out, tap her on the shoulder if you're feeling bold. Ask for some of her contact details, play it cool. Just don't shit yourself, got it? All you gotta do." 

Abby finishes her speech, smirking and looking smug. She's positive she got through to you this time. On the surface you're totally chill, confident even, ready to snatch this ethereal being for yourself, however underneath all that you knew you didn't have an ounce of the courage that was required for this seemingly impossible task. 

Breathing deeply to calm yourself and try to take in her helpful words as best as possible, you give Abby a hug. “Thank you Abs, really. I'll do my best. Oh, but what if I freak out and start stuttering- or what if I trip and fall on her…I can't do this what the hell.” Swarmed with worry, you start doubting yourself yet again. Burying your face in your palms, you feel two strong hands on either side of your upper arms and you look back at Abby, who's really not playing around anymore. 

She was so serious about this it almost scared you. Either she cared about you more than anything, or she wanted to hear the end of these pathetic, lovestruck rambles. You prayed it was the former. 

“Suck it up. You can do this. You've had crushes before haven't you? This should be a piece of cake c’mon, I believe in you. Make sure to keep me updated every step of the way! I need to hear every last detail.” She lightens up at the end and releases you from her grip once she sees you've relaxed. 

Unsurprisingly, your best friend always knew what to say to snap you out of your spirals. Maybe most would disagree with her methods, say she was being rough, but they worked for you. Heart rate returning to a normal pace, you reply genuinely. 

“Okay, okay I got this. Yeah, it'll be fine.” She was getting through to you, this time you felt sure of it. “Good, good. Now will you let me finish this stupid assignment? Then we can watch something or do whatever." Abby chatted as she got up and sat back at her desk, resuming her studious endeavor as she left you with your thoughts. 

Immediately you heard her mutter, “All this and you don't even know her goddamn name…good grief.” For the sake of preserving the peace you chose to graciously ignore that one. She said she wanted some quiet, didn't she? 

Drifting away into a sea of daydreams, your thoughts inevitably returned to being clouded by this cryptic figure. It was like she'd cast a love spell on you. Did she even know who you were? Or did she shoot everyone those insufferably charming looks of hers. Was she even aware of how fucking cool she was? 

Dressed in that deliciously grungy style, you yearned to know what floated behind her greener-than-grass eyes. Her hair looked so smooth and soft, the wispy auburnette strands framing her refined features, intriguing fern tattoo decorating her lean forearm…. You felt your cheeks begin to heat up as a portrait of her materialized in your mind's eye. Nestling into the comfortable atmosphere of your best friend's room, you sunk deeper into your thoughts.

Like Abby had mentioned, it certainly wasn't as if you've never had crushes before, you've certainly had your fair share of them, like most people. But that was a sort of flaky, surface level interest, whether it be for their looks, their little quirks, or ways they treated you. Maybe it has been a while since you'd had a proper crush, but you couldn't recall a time when the infatuation, the pure limerence, had hit you this hard before. You almost felt helpless, just besotted by her.

You simply needed to act on this. Right then and there you steeled yourself, and decided you were going to follow Abby's advice after all, and go after this hallway crush. Worst comes to worst, she turns you down, you get over it eventually, bla bla end of story. It wasn't going to be too complicated, right?

You and Abby had stayed up all night, dusk till dawn, gossiping about things other than your hallway crush, shocking, and you were greatly regretting that decision the very moment it was time to gather your books and get to class.

You really did not feel like stunning everyone around you with a gorgeous outfit today, you were just trying to make it through the day in one piece to be honest with yourself. 

With a pounding headache you threw on some mismatched sweats, and ran out the door to be on time. Your bag felt unreasonably heavy as you made your way down your apartment stairs, and you cursed your past self for choosing a building without an elevator. Sure, exercise is healthy, but it can’t be when you’re feeling like a zombie, and wish for nothing more than a good, long nap.

Luckily the lecture hall was a comfortable distance away from your place, not far enough to make it a pain, but enough so you could get a much needed breath of fresh air. The tiredness had pushed all plans of action you and Abby had discussed the previous night to the back of your head, and you weren't thinking of your crush at all. At least for now. 

Walking slowly with your gaze pointed downward, you eventually made it to the hall. Completely dazed and zoned out, you made a mental note to never pull an all nighter again, gross, who’s idea was that- thump. 

Out of nowhere you're rudely jolted from your silent sulking by colliding with something, or someone? It takes a moment to register what happened, and you quickly look up from staring at the ground to sort the situation out. “Oh my gosh I am so sorry..” 

Profusely apologizing while simultaneously being smacked across the face with the realization of who this was. Her. Your words trail off as you’re suddenly winded, and you feel your blood run cold. You’re transfixed by the intense eye contact, and it feels like time has stopped. Goodness, this is dramatic. 

In the time it takes for you to briefly die and come back to life, the young woman has lowered her chunky headphones so they rest around her neck, Morissey’s vocals faintly floating out of them, and is looking at your stunned state with an indiscernible sneer playing on her face. Was this actually happening? Holy shit you and Abby did not discuss this scenario…you weren’t looking where you were going and had collided with an actual Earth angel. Great.

Still gawking at her like an absolute buffoon, akin to a deer in headlights, she breaks the tension first, with a smooth voice that you would obey virtually any command for. 

“Nah, you’re good.” And a wink. Your heart skipped a beat, or four, when you witnessed her wink at you. Did you imagine it? Was she being suave on purpose or did she have an eyelash in her eye…Was your life a literal rom-com or what? 

“Um..” Your mouth opens and closes in an attempt to form a coherent sentence, but your brain is much too fried to do so because, well, you had just made physical contact with the literal girl of your dreams. And gods did she smell good…while you’re unable to tear your eyes away from hers, she keeps talking as if nothing happened.

“I think the prof had an emergency or fuckin’, I dunno.” She stops to gesture around the two of you at the crowd that had formed in front of the auditorium’s double doors with elegant, ring adorned fingers..holy fuck you needed those inside you right fucking now- WHAT. 

Briskly shoving those thoughts down to the deepest depths of your subconscious back to where they belong, you turned your attention back to her, and put on a brave front. Hyper aware of how searing hot your face felt, her pretty self didn't show a hint of caring that you were making a fool of yourself. They say that any situation is always worse in your head than it was in actuality, well you hoped so. 

“So, what are we supposed to do now?” Clearing your throat you managed a sentence back, hooray. You were doing this. Good job. Although, of course, before the gorgeous nymph before you had a chance to respond with her own assumptions, a substitute lecturer you had never seen before pushes his way through the crowd and unlocks the door while people file in, separating you from her. You felt like Rose, viciously torn away from Jack from Titanic, what a cruel, cruel world this was.

And once again you didn't get to ask her name. Re-slinging her bag with one arm, she looks back at you one final time and throws you a “cya around.” Before disappearing into the auditorium with everyone else. You meekly nod at her and force a lopsided smile, before leaning against the wall to steady yourself after that fiasco in the now empty hallway.

Wasting virtually not a moment of time, you pulled your phone out and began furiously texting Abby with a recount of the events at a speed faster than the speed of light. 

Once that excruciatingly torturous class was over, you applauded yourself for containing the stares in her direction and keeping your eyes fixated on the professor. Whether you actually retained any information, now that was a different story. Picking up your bags and laptop, you stay behind for a moment as everyone else files out, no need to crowd and suffocate amongst the other students, and you had nowhere to be except catch up on your favorite shows and relax all by yourself. 

Filing out the auditorium with everyone else, you see a familiar face pass by you, and vaguely hear Abby’s voice in your head urging you to seize the moment. Now’s your chance, go! And so you gather every little bit of strength you possess to do just that. 

After a couple deep breaths you jog up to her. “Uh, hey.” She turns around and gives you a warm smile, making your legs instantly turn to jelly. You subtly checked her out and took in her outfit, another bulky jacket and lightly distressed jeans. Fingers studded with layered silver rings, and those big ole headphones seemed to be magnetically attached to her, she always had them on her. Note to self: ask for some music recommendations.

She was even hotter up close…with a beautiful galaxy of freckles scattered across her fair skin, you wanted to place a kiss on every single of them. “I, um, never caught your name.” “It's Ellie.” She sticks out her hand for a handshake and you accepted it, you finally had a name to the face you've been pining over so intensely for so long. Abby was going to lose it once you tell her about this. You steady your voice and hide the glee that was likely evident from this interaction going so smoothly, and introduce yourself to her as well.

After some time of idle chit chat and standing there, neither one of you knowing really what to say, Ellie pipes up, facepalming, tsking, and furrowing her brows. “Oh yeah, I don’t mean to spring this on you outta nowhere, but would you wanna study sometime?” She flushes a dusty pink, “I don't know anyone else taking this course and am having kind of a hard time with it...when I chose it, I expected it to be more about space and the planets, and less about numbers and math, my head hurts.”

Her demeanor was making you feel rather comfortable with her, even though the two of you had just formally met a few minutes prior. “I would love to, yeah!” Maybe you were being a little too enthusiastic, but at this point you were operating on pure instinct and not thinking critically of what was coming out of your mouth. “I actually don't have any plans now, or today at all, so if you want to, we can get a head start before the next class?” Well that just slipped out. Go you, blurting things out. 

You had no idea why you'd said that because your place was an absolute mess, clothes strewn everywhere, trash can still full, you'd been too preoccupied with your studies, and well her, to do much about it. To your horror, Ellie exclaims, “Hey, that's perfect! I don't have anything to do right now either, and it would be good to act on it while it's still fresh in my mind, y’know?” Her face morphs into an adorable toothy grin as she taps on her skull comically, you were becoming more obsessed by the second, if that was even possible.

Every little sliver of her personality you got to see under the stoic one you had assumed she had just grasped at your heartstrings. You smiled back at her so hard you almost pulled a muscle in your cheeks, “Awesome! Follow me, then, my dorm isn't far.”

The walk there was mostly fine as the two of you made it to your place, Ellie occasionally making comments about how she hates the class even though she adores outer space and learning about it on her own time, and you were nodding and acting as if you're listening, agreeing with her robotically while she rambled away and you daydreamed about what her lush lips would feel like on yours. You wondered if she was gentle with it, or if she’d kiss you hungrily, devour you like her very last meal….gulp.

Leading her to your place was an automatic task, not much navigation needed, and when the journey was done you had to legitimately stop short for a moment in an attempt to soothe the pounding in your chest. 

The crush that has plagued your mind for ages, who you've just met formally today, was about to be in your room. The two of you were about to be alone. That was totally fine, yeah, she can't be a murderer…..right?

“You good?” She asked sweetly, why did she have to be so nice, “Those stairs were killer, I totally get it, phew.” “Oh for sure, gets me every time.” Covering up your panic smoothly, you unlocked the door and went inside with her. When she walked inside, Ellie took a glance around your room and set herself down at the edge of your bed, immediately making herself comfortable, while you still lingered in the doorway, awkwardly swaying and staring at her, unsure of what to do with yourself. 

Suddenly you had completely forgotten why she was here in the first place. “No way, you read Savage Starlight too???” She spotted the figurine on your desk and snatched it up in her hands to inspect it thoroughly, with a childlike wonder in her eyes. “Wow, this one was a limited edition and it sold out in like an hour, I'm so jealous you got this!! How much you want for it, I'm serious.” She was so excited, and you couldn't believe it. Savage Starlight has always been one of your favorite comics ever, you've loved it since you were a young teen, and now this seemingly perfect human before you, who you're hopelessly obsessed with says she loves it too? Could she get any more flawless, is all you could wonder.

Her happiness because of this little thing you two bonded over was infectious, and some of your nerves slowly began to go away.  Grinning genuinely, you sheepishly said, “I've never met anyone else who likes it, that story has helped me through lots of phases in my life, and Daniela was my gay awakening.” Ellie gaped at you for a beat, making you almost doubt revealing that information.

“No. Fuckin’. Way. Mine too! Her suit was just- damn. And those action scenes in the third volume had my thirteen year old self’s brain just mush for, I don't even know for how long. This is crazy, I can already see we’re gonna get along so well.”

You wanted to talk to her about everything and anything forever, and her glee made you want to squish her, but there was unfortunately work to be done first. “There’s so much we have to discuss, but we gotta get some studying done first if we wanna make it out of this course alive.”

You were sitting at your desk, hunched over the sprawled out textbooks and messy notes, as you drew the graphs and talked to her about the concepts she was struggling with. Your desk was so small and you only had one chair, and you were the one using it, so Ellie was forced to hover over you to see all you were doing.

Focusing solely on the subject before you was proving to be more difficult as studying time went by, because you were a little too aware of the way she had caged you in against the desk to watch, her oversized shirt grazing your upper back. You gripped your pen ever so tightly to minimize any trembling, and kept a steady voice as best you could while explaining it all.

She was so, so close, the tension in the tiny room was palpable, she didn't seem to notice your nervous tremors or the proximity she’d created, and the low murmurs of, “ohhh, mhm, yeah,” as you embarrassingly stammered over your explanations made you flushed and to be frank, needy. You could feel her warmth radiating off of her, could faintly hear her breathing just above you. You didn't dare move a muscle. Was she feeling this too?

At this point you swore the delicious gravelly vibrations from her voice this close to you would be plenty enough to make you cream your pants. The air in the enclosed space was getting hotter and thicker by every passing moment, it took everything you had to keep yourself from losing your mind right now. If you moved back a petty few inches, you’d be pressed flush with her front. What would that be like, you wondered. Oh, no. Your throat felt drier than the desert when you swallowed, the thought of that making you weak.

Since your focus on the work was lapsing, you were beginning to make some little mistakes and blunders, compelling her to take the pen right from your hand and fix them herself. “No, no, this one’s supposed to be like this instead, see? Then you're able to get the right answer which is…” She stretches over you further, you nearly whined, someone save you, and grabs the textbook to review the solution. “Like this, yeah, I was right. Honest mistake though, don’t worry about it.”

You nod your head and make a pathetic murmur of approval, ignoring the fiery tingles spreading all the way up your arm when her hand bumps yours to return the writing utensil, and the blistering coil of want forming in your stomach. This all had to be deliberate, right? She couldn't lack that much spatial awareness, could she? Well, it wasn’t that you minded, she could get as close as she damn wanted to, you'd let her throw you around like a ragdoll even- you were just afraid your heart was going to give out if she kept it up. “Could you show me this work you guys did? Of course the one day I'm late, the prof talks about something new and I miss it.” 

What feels like an eternity later, you hear her groan above you and she returns to her earlier spot on your bed. You can finally breathe properly. Glancing at the clock, your own headache begins to set in. Crap it was late, how time flies. 

“We’ve been studying for so long, it’s getting late.” “Shit, you’re right, I’ve definitely overstayed my welcome. Sorry about that, and hey, thanks for this. I understand it all a lot better now, see you tomorrow.”

She stands up abruptly and ushers herself out of your door in a flash, to which you clumsily stand up, knock your chair over, and hastily run after her, not wanting her to go just yet. “Wait, Ellie!” “What's up, did I forget something?”

She pats her pockets and looks at you with concern. Round puppy dog eyes, and lips in a miniscule pout, so cute. You were in front of her now, but did not process what you actually wanted to say. Just ran after her like the smitten nincompoop you are. Upon feeling your face go hot, you look at the ground to mutter, “Uh- nothing. See you later.” Realistically, what were you planning on saying, or doing?

After stumbling over your words you two finally part ways and you slump down against your door, missing her presence already. You simultaneously wanted to jump around or open your bedside table drawer to release the energy you'd accumulated, and wanted to fall into the deepest sleep of your life to recuperate from the experience. This was just, a lot. You wanted to scream and screech like there's no tomorrow, but did not want to deal with noise complaints from the others living on your floor. Gosh she was so close, she shares your niche interest, your hands touched, albeit accidentally, lo and behold you were in love with her.

Maybe it was early to call it that, but you were going to plan out your future together. Preferably a quaint, peaceful farmhouse, the one you two lovebirds renovated together exactly how you envisioned, where you could ogle her doing the farmwork. Ugh. Cook all her favorite meals, make sweet, sweet love under the moonlight. Take strolls through the flower gardens you two planted, receive her curated bouquets as gifts, you two are going to have such a tender, domestic life. 

You had to mull it over some more, and didn’t dare wish to forget how close she was to you, you were still buzzing from her essence. You were pointlessly pacing around your room now, unable to stop looping the study session's events in your head. The simplicity, the eroticism of the encounter. One-sided or not, you had yet to find out more about her, the impatience was going to take over. The day almost seemed too good to be true, but for now you had to force yourself to relax and think about something other than her. Time to browse Pinterest with striking kitchen ideas for your beautiful future. 

What were you going to say to her the next time you see her? You were eager to know how, or if at all, this new friendship was going to progress. Part of you was dying of impatience, but the rest of you wanted to take it all as slow as possible, savoring every little moment and making the most of it. 

You sighed, this was going to be a long, long, year.

lovely taggies: @amiorca @mostlyhornyandsad @lasting-lover @radioheadfan699 @sophie-thefrog8 @machetegirl109 @ellieschair @aouiaa @wavesgocrash @tangerinngi @elliesbitchvenus @dinaissoprettyoml @rxreaqia @camicocom1a @elliesexual @ellslvr @boobdrug @writing-on-a-bathroom-stall @bready101 @yourelliewillms

.......really hoping this doesn't flop because it isn't smutty, yall wanted more fics that are plot soooo

[chocosvt]

HER | part three (m).

✧✎ synopsis: wonwoo, a heartbroken and burnt out writer nearing the end of his math degree, wants nothing to do with the seemingly perfect, intimidating girl who has everyone under her thumb. you. unfortunately, his literary talent has got him shoved him between a rock and a hard place when you want to write a book and require his expertise. you two are the furthest from compatible. wonwoo can’t see this going well. at all.

pairing: wonwoo x fem!reader word count: 24.8k genres/tropes: writer!wonwoo, university!au, plug!vernon + boyfriend!mingyu as prominent side characters, SLOWBURN (i am not fucking around this is my slowest burn yet), relationship drama, soul searching, strong angst/hurt (i’m coming for the jugular), comfort, romance, smut, a smoothie of every emotion on earth.

(!) warnings: drug use (weed, cocaine, ecstasy), wonwoo has anxiety + anxiety attacks + fairly dark thoughts, prescribed medication, gambling, intense language, infidelity, throwing up.

✧✎ a/n: just some quick things i want to make apparent!

the fic is told from wonwoo’s pov, not the reader’s! 

all major timeline events are organized through chronological dates

any smut or potentially triggering scenes are NOT MARKED bc the content is already quite mature, so just plz be aware of that! 

bolded and italicized text implies the characters are conversing in korean, tho it doesn’t happen often!

the fic in its entirety is 140k, so it has been split into 6 parts.

THE MIDWAY POINT 🎉 now i've just gotta prepare the last 3 parts! this is a chunkier chapter. it contains one of the longest scenes i've ever written (not even the full thing lol, it had to be split). but you'll see why, a lot had to "occur" :p

happy reading!! 💕

⇢ part one | part two | part four | part five | part six ⇢ soundtrack for those curious! ⇢ read at ur own pace! :)

“Holy fuck—you really did lose your shoe.”

He hadn’t actually noticed until you were both inside his dim apartment, puddles of water now forming on the floorboards.

“I told you!”

Looking down, you had on just a black, sodden sock. With a suctioning and uncomfortably wet squelch, you managed to toe off your remaining sneaker, flinging it carefully onto the shoe mat.

Wonwoo did the same.

Thunder continued rumbling outside, with lightning hitting no more than a few seconds after. The strikes were like white knives in the sky, ripping and shearing apart the storm clouds of summer humidity.

“Jesus,” you huffed, hands moulding down your face to wipe away all the droplets, “I can’t believe you got me to run, first of all. Second of all, I can’t tell if I absolutely hated or thoroughly enjoyed that.”

“I liked it,” Wonwoo said.

“Of course you did.”

He walked into the kitchen and grabbed a dish towel to begin cleaning off his glasses and phone, not caring about all the water he was dragging so liberally everywhere. Once Wonwoo fit the frames back to his face, he was able to clearly see you still standing by the door, and he appreciated that you didn’t want to make a mess of his living room even though it wouldn’t matter to him one teensy tiny bit.

Your fingers picked in a distracted manner at the clusters of your dripping hair, meanwhile soft, watery mascara dappled down your arched cheeks, framing you akin to a detailed and evocative painting. That hemmed, white t-shirt was clinging in soaked wrinkles to your heaving torso and chest, revealing subtle imprints of all the bare skin underneath. And Wonwoo found himself looking. Not in a lecherous, tainted way, but in the simple fact that you were…

He suddenly bit down on his inner cheek, curled his hand into a fist where he could easily dig at the scars on his thumb.

To Wonwoo, you were so indescribably beautiful, standing near his doorway, soaked to the bone in the rebirth of rainfall.

He had always thought you were pretty, but in that moment, he knew it was more than just that—it was a realization that stopped the breath in his lungs and the heavy beats his heart was just barely making. At least, that was how it felt. Wonwoo sensed his panic flare up for a split second, and then it simmered away into casual nervousness. Before his eyes could linger long enough to get caught, he remembered to take a deep inhale and reground his thoughts. You stopped fiddling with your hair and sniffled.

“Um, is it okay if I jump in your shower? I mean—well, it’s your place, so if you want to get yourself sorted first, that’s fine.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s okay. I don’t mind at all.”

You smiled back at him, adjusting the small leather bag strewn over your shoulder. He hoped your journal wasn’t soaked.

“Are you sure?”

“Well—okay, let me just run into my room and grab some clothes. I’ll dry off real quick in the washroom and change. I promise it’ll take me less than like, five minutes.”

“That’s probably best. I’ll just keep standing here.”

Hopping his way across the apartment, Wonwoo made it into his bedroom where he began ripping open the dresser drawers, pulling out some basic clothes like sweatpants and a hoodie. Then, he slipped into the washroom, peeling all the sopping, disgustingly sticky articles from his body and throwing them into the sink. Once he rubbed off with a towel, Wonwoo quickly got dressed—probably the fastest he’d ever put on clothes in his entire life. You were still standing patiently by the door when Wonwoo returned to the living room, having dumped his wet outfit into the laundry hamper.

“I’m making a colossal sized puddle right now.” You laughed.

“Ha—that’s okay,” Wonwoo answered, handing you a clean towel he’d pulled from his toiletries closet. “I’ll take care of it.”

You started walking toward the corridor, and then stopped.

“Do you think you have any clothes that might fit me? It’s just—I obviously don’t want to wear this again," you said, gesturing to the t-shirt and long skirt damply flush to your figure.

“Oh, yeah. I’ll look through my dresser and closet and pick out some stuff—you can see which fits best. I’ll throw your clothes and mine into the laundry as well—get it all clean and warmed up.”

“I’d love that, thank you.”

While you started undressing in his washroom, Wonwoo began sorting through all the clothes he had, pulling out older t-shirts and even some shorts, though he knew they most likely wouldn’t fit you. He heard you turn on the shower and wait for it to start heating.

Once Wonwoo was satisfied with all the options he’d picked, he knocked a few times on the washroom door. It was pulled open rather quickly, and he saw you standing in the threshold of thickening, hot steam, holding the spare towel closed at your chest.

“For you. There’s a whole bunch of sizes.”

“Okay, thank you so much. Do you want my clothes?”

“Yeah—that’s all of it?”

“Mmhm.”

“Okay. Take your time. I’m gonna run to the basement and get these in the laundry. I’ll probably be back up in like, five minutes. If you need anything else, just shout. I’ll be able to hear it.”

Wonwoo wasn’t sure how long it took you to shower, mostly because he was too occupied with looking out the windowpanes from his seat at the couch, watching the downpour continue, the evening dimness that flooded the room, and the liquified twinkling of city lights flickering behind all the rain. However, once you emerged from his bedroom and padded into the living area, dressed in a dark blue, logoed shirt from the neatly folded pile he’d handed you, Wonwoo had snapped back to the present. You smiled at him, and he saw that your face was now cleaned of the runny mascara and makeup.

“Oh—uh, our clothes are still in the laundry.”

“That’s okay,” you answered while walking around the coffee table. “I knew they wouldn’t be done right away. I’m fine to wait.”

Wonwoo proceeded to sit up straighter against the couch, rather than his slouched, wide spread position that he’d unconsciously sunk into before when staring vacantly into the rain.

“And, uh—just so you know, I’m wearing an embarrassing lack of clothes right now,” you admitted through your teeth, taking a ginger seat beside him. “So, like, not that I’m saying you’re going to be weird about it ‘cause I know you won’t be, but, do you have a blanket or something that I can toss over my lap?”

Immediately, Wonwoo got up from the couch.

“Yeah, there’s one in my room. I’ll grab it.”

He saw that your bag was also left in his bedroom, so he took it out with him, a few remaining droplets still bulbed on the surface.

“It’s probably not as soft as the one at your place.”

“Doesn’t matter.” You flapped the blanket out and settled it primly over your legs. “And thanks for grabbing my bag, too.”

Wonwoo collapsed back onto the sofa.

“I hope your journal’s not ruined.”

After fishing around inside the pouch, you pulled out your phone, and then the leather notebook, which was completely dry.

“Oh, thank God. I’d actually be so pissed if it was wet, probably more so than my phone.” You flipped through the pages, feeling for any splotches or tears. “I prevail, after all.”

Wonwoo smiled, and fluffed a hand through his hair.

“If you decide to stay longer because the rain won’t let up, I can always try to make you supper, or something. I can’t promise that it will be the best meal of your life, but I’m not that incompetent.”

“Oh—but what if I want something extravagant?” You smirked while flitting through your text messages. “Like buttery lobster with garlic mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables?”

He scratched under the pad of his glasses.

“Is that what you usually eat?”

“No. Only when I’m feeling super fancy. I force Mingyu to cook it for me because he’s good at that stuff. Really, I shouldn’t have to ask him—” you glanced at Wonwoo, smiling, “—he should just do it.”

“Well, if you decide to stay, I can make the next best thing.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

Looking into his kitchen, Wonwoo laughed at himself.

“Ramen.”

“Oh! I actually love ramen,” you exclaimed, shuffling up your legs under the blanket. “And I would totally stay, but I promised Princess that I’d come to her new place at six o’clock-ish to help do some unpacking. Once my clothes are all done, I’ll probably get her to come pick me up. I don't know when the rain's gonna stop."

“That’s fine,” Wonwoo replied with an accepting, warm expression, even though on the inside, he was rotting in disappointment because he would have given anything for you to stay and eat supper, maybe watch a movie afterward, order ice cream.

He hated when you would leave. It left him to swim alone with his own thoughts—mostly consumed by you—and dreadfully wait until he could see or hear from you again. As Wonwoo stared off into space, he felt the phone in his pocket buzz.

It was a text from Vernon.

[ Vernon | 5:05 pm ]: hey sir-dork-a-lot

[ Vernon | 5:05 pm ]:  you asked her about the party yet?!

Fuck. The stupid party. The Solar Pop incident with Mingyu.

Wonwoo had completely forgot that was somehow supposed to wedge his way into receiving an invite, when he didn’t even want to go in the first place. Parties genuinely weren’t his scene.

Especially the kind that Mingyu and his friend, Seungcheol, would throw. But, at the same time, there was this very small seed of curiosity planted in his stomach—that, maybe, Wonwoo should just shoulder off his hatred of loud, cramped spaces and obnoxious university students chugging all their drinks straight from the bottle. If he just tried his best to stay calm, stay level-headed, breathe, then perhaps Wonwoo could survive a night partying with Vernon, as fucking ridiculous and deluded as it sounded.

He glanced over at you, who was texting someone.

God. Did he really want to ruin this calm, comfortable moment right now to ask about your boyfriend’s big slosh-fest?

“So, I noticed in your schedule, like, two weeks into June, you’re gonna be off the call for three days, I think.”

You scratched your cheek, continuing to text.

“Oh, yeah. I thought I already brought that up, but maybe I’m thinking of a conversation with someone else.” Shutting off your phone, you started sliding it around the blanket while talking. “It’s this big party that Mingyu’s helping to host with his friend from basketball, Seungcheol. I don't know if you're familiar with him. They do it every summer. It’s always so much fun, but I get so fucked up that I need at least two days recovery.”

Wonwoo swallowed, feeling how dry his throat was.

“Yeah. I know Mingyu’s trying to get coke from Vernon.”

You stopped playing with the phone, instead looking immediately to Wonwoo through the rays of gradual light that began easing past the gentler rain. He held his breath.

“Right, Vernon.” You almost shuddered.

“Yeah…”

“If he can get his hands on it, then, fuck, I’m fine with that. Whatever. Mingyu invited him, of course. As long as he doesn’t slink up to me and try to convince me the ten different ways he can give me the best orgasm I’ve ever had, I guess I shouldn’t whine.”

Wonwoo was embarrassed for his friend—it was a pretty rough situation, he would imagine. Not his most shining moment.

“I know he’s your bestie,” you said, stretching your legs out onto the coffee table, “and I’m not going to judge you to your face, but I will be judging you, silently, in the recesses of my own mind.”

Snickering, Wonwoo rubbed a hand down his neck.

“The transparency’s nice, I suppose. But, yeah. I understand why you’d have a gripe with him. To be fair, he’s not that bad. He’s a good guy that’s wrapped up in some shitty habits. I’m sure you taught him a lesson that night. It gave him a serious degree of humbling.”

“Pfft. Did it, now?”

Wonwoo opened his mouth, but he didn’t speak, and it was then you doubled over in laughter at him, patting a hand on his knee.

“No, no. It’s okay. I’ll just deal.”

“I know you will… and, like, be safe and stuff.”

You grinned, shaking your head.

“Oh, yeah. No need to worry. I know my limits… okay—well, actually, I shouldn’t say that—I have a vaguely good idea of where my limits are, and sometimes I happen to surpass them. Not by ignorance, though. My mind is just too mushy at that point to care.”

“How incredibly rambunctious,” Wonwoo replied. “You’re probably blacklisted everywhere; a walking threat, actually.

“Oh, shut up,” you chuckled, folding your arms. “If you were trying to wiggle your way into being invited, I’m revoking it now.”

“Well, that soils my next question.”

You raised your eyebrows, “… which is?”

For a moment, Wonwoo couldn’t process that he was about to ask such a pathetic question. He tried thinking about it more as an out-of-body experience, where it wasn’t really his true conscience taking the sails. You kept watching him, waiting for his response.

Thankfully, you didn’t grant him the breadth to speak, and he was certain a lively hue of colour had just flushed back to his face.

“Oh, you’re being serious. You want to go?”

“Not really,” Wonwoo admitted, pushing up his glasses. “But, uh, I don’t know. It helps that Vernon will be there. I’m sure you can tell, I’m not a party person—not at all. Just, it could be a good opportunity for… um… well, I really can’t explain why, actually.”

“Hm.” Your eyes narrowed. “I assume it’s Vernon pushing you into it for some stupid reason… I mean, I have no issues with you going, of course!” He watched you adjust your legs under the blanket, tucking them back beneath you. “But just so you know, these parties are kinda intense and can be a major sensory overload—even for me! And I know that you don’t like talking about it but I’m not sure how well it bodes to put you in a position where you might have… uh, never mind, actually. I shouldn’t speak on stuff that doesn’t concern me. I just care about your wellbeing.”

Wonwoo pushed his lips together. A slight rush of something warm and tingly flowered at his core and he couldn’t tell if he absolutely loved it or wanted the feeling to wither up and die. More light streamed through his windows as the rain weaned off and the sky morphed from grey back to a softer, evening powder blue.

“I appreciate your concern,” he answered after an almost questionable silence, “I’m sure it will be fine.”

“Oh, sorry—I just wanted to be sure.”

“It’s okay.”

Neither of you spoke for a moment. Wonwoo twiddled his thumbs while you stared down at the blanket, presumably thinking.

“I would love for you to come, then.”

He caught you smiling at him after extending the offer in a quiet voice. The outside light filled up your eyes like a glass of swirling gold and Wonwoo believed your earnesty. And while he knew Vernon would be elated that he was able to come, Wonwoo was fighting to understand if he felt more relieved or terrified.

—JUNE 15TH.

Coming home from his long shift at the pharmacy, it was some time past eleven at night. The day hadn’t been extremely busy, but Wonwoo found it always slowed down the most dramatically when he was absolutely itching to leave. He tried his best to get relaxed, jumping into a warm but short shower, making himself a cup of chamomile tea, looking back on some favourite excerpts from the journal he kept buried away in the first drawer on his nightstand.

Wonwoo willed himself not to look at any screens. And, yet, as he sat in his bed, drinking the last few sips of tea from his hot, porcelain cup, Wonwoo’s eyes flickered across the room to his desk where his laptop was placed, and he felt this ticking urge to write.

At first, he wasn’t sure what to do.

After all, he’d been putting in a significant effort to fix that godawful, nightmarish sleep schedule of his, and while his ventures weren’t always the most successful, Wonwoo was making notable strides. To throw that all away—just to pick open his laptop and most likely end up staring straight into a lurid, white screen, while nothing of actual substance came to his fingertips—it was fruitless, and perhaps a bit stupid. He knew he needed to let that story die.

The longer it sat, collecting pixelated dust on his desktop, the more it made sense to simply delete it. Move on. Acknowledge the fact that this relationship he once perceived as so perfect and glimmering had ended, and trying to find some wisps of closure in forcing himself to complete a fizzled romance was pointless. It made so much sense. Besides, Wonwoo was happier now than he had been back in March, April, May. And, he could attribute much of that to someone he once feared and poorly understood—you.

It was hard to describe, but you had been this flare—a comet more like—that kind of blazed with an uncontrolled fire into his very bleak life. And while he’d definitely felt your scorching, uncomfortable sting more than once, he was able to realize there was something so unique and enriching about you. Because you weren’t just an uncontrollable fire, you were a full body laugh that made it hard to breath, but in the best, most treasured way. You were the quiet stillness of a pond, deep in the woods, listening to all the sounds that thrived around you, even though it didn’t always seem like it.

And you were this very soft, caressing breeze that always found Wonwoo, even when he was at his lowest valleys, giving him that sensation of a shiver to let him know that he was still alive and breathing and not so horribly numb as he thought himself to be.

That was something he’d never experienced before.

It scared him somewhat, but there was comfort in the thought, nonetheless. True, warm, and pure comfort.

Wonwoo sighed, blinking away from his laptop.

He should probably just go to bed.

Once he washed his teacup out in the kitchen, Wonwoo started brushing his teeth. That big summer party he was supposed to attend with Vernon was tomorrow night, and to call him nervous was a complete understatement. Wonwoo wouldn’t be surprised if he threw up. He would probably have to smoke a bit before leaving, just to mellow out. Of course, Vernon was overflowing with excitation, and maybe that was a good thing—he could be Wonwoo’s buffer.

Since your day together at the museum, Wonwoo had revisited your apartment twice to help with further proofreading and editing. He would be downright lying if he claimed that having to read through a memoire of your fulgurant love for Mingyu wasn’t disheartening or turning him occasionally bitter. Wonwoo wanted to be happy that you were so devoted to him, you could write an entire book detailing all your sweetest moments and fondest memories and the overall history of your love. But he wasn’t happy in the slightest.

You made him happy—not you, plus Mingyu

Continuing to brush his teeth, Wonwoo heard his phone ding once, and then again from his bedroom. And while he hadn’t wanted to look at any screens tonight, he figured that responding to a couple texts wouldn’t thwart all his progress. With the toothbrush still hanging from the corner of his mouth, Wonwoo flopped backward onto the bed and yanked his phone off the charger. While he was expecting the messages to be from Vernon due to their late sending, he was quite surprised to see they were actually from you.

[ Her | 11:50 pm ]: IMG.2102

[ Her | 11:50 pm ]: do I look pretty?

Immediately, Wonwoo shuffled up onto his elbows, tapping at the picture you had sent him. When he nearly choked on the excess of minty foam stuck in his mouth, Wonwoo quickly ran into the washroom to spit it all out. He recognized the outfit you were wearing in the photo—it was that white two-piece from the boutique in the mall that you had tried on, with the high-waisted, short, tight skirt and the strapped top that wrapped around the back of your neck and criss-crossed over your chest. Coming back to his bed to sit down, Wonwoo leaned over with an elbow digging into his knee.

Did you mean to send that to him?

For a moment, his thumbs just hovered above the keyboard, attempting to concoct a coherent thought in his mind. He recognized the large, silver-bordered mirror from your bedroom. And while the phone was slightly covering your face, you had this leg crooked up in a sweet, almost delicate pose despite the open and revealing nature of the outfit. Wonwoo rubbed under his glasses, huffing out deeply.

[ Wonwoo | 11:55 pm ]: Did you mean to send this?

He prayed you didn’t take his text the wrong way.

[ Her | 11:55 pm ]: um yes

[ Her | 11:55 pm ]: ur wonwoo, aren’t u?

[ Her | 11:55 pm ]: I just wanted to know what u thought of the outfit I’m gonna wear. I know u have already seen it. but just in case u forgot I wanted to send another pic lol

[ Her | 11:56 pm ]: u think it’s bad? :(

Sitting back against his pillows, Wonwoo completely forgot all about his ‘no screens’ rule, texting you as quickly as possible.

[ Wonwoo | 11:56 pm ]: No, it doesn’t look bad at all.

[ Wonwoo | 11:56 pm ]: You look gorgeous.

[ Her | 11:57 pm ]: and ur not just saying that?

[ Wonwoo | 11:57 pm ]: No, of course not.

[ Wonwoo | 11:57 pm ]: You’ll be the prettiest there.

[ Her | 11:57 pm ]: omgg thxx <3 okay I feel better now

[ Wonwoo | 11:57 pm ]: Why? What happened?

At that moment, Wonwoo actually received a text from Seokmin, but he rapidly flicked it away. Another text followed, and Wonwoo swore he flicked it away even faster, as though Seokmin was actually talking into his ear despite the quietness of his bedroom.

[ Her | 11:59 pm ]: Mingyu told me he doesn’t really like it bc the skirt part is too short and he doesn’t like the top. he says it’s too revealing and that everyone will just be looking at my boobs lol. but I don’t want to change it :/ I like how it fits and it’s not like i’m going to be doing cartwheels or gymnastics

[ Her | 11:59 pm ]: idk he just made me feel bad about it

Wonwoo proceeded to rub a hand through his locks of clean, black hair, pulling them messily all over his head as he thought.

[ Wonwoo | 12:00 am ]: Hm. Well I do agree that it’s revealing and you probably will have people staring at you. I mean, if you’re not uncomfortable by that it’s fine. You’ll just have to be careful if you bend over or dance around, that’s all :) But I’m sure you already know that. You look beautiful. Don’t worry too much.

[ Her | 12:00 am ]: okayy thank you so much! :)

[ Wonwoo | 12:00 am ]: No problem.

[ Her | 12:01 am ]: I’m so glad that ur coming

[ Her | 12:01 am ]: it makes me feel better

[ Wonwoo | 12:01 am ]: Hopefully I can find you.

[ Her | 12:02 am ]: I’ll text you, no worries

[ Her | 12:02 am ]: mkay well I should go to bed now!

[ Her | 12:02 am ]: goodnight <3

[ Wonwoo | 12:02 am ]: Goodnight.

At last, Wonwoo clicked off the bright glare from his phone, setting it down against his chest. For at least five minutes, he did nothing but lay remarkably still in his bed and stare up at the ceiling, thinking—as he usually did—about why he was feeling that way.

That very certain, specific way that was so demanding in his heartbeat to be acknowledged, except for the fact Wonwoo wouldn’t acknowledge it because then he’d throw up and probably lose himself entirely as he panicked.

Eventually, his thoughts were becoming too loud for his liking, and Wonwoo promptly tossed his phone aside and crawled underneath the covers before turning off the bedside lamp.

Even then, Wonwoo was restless. When he tried rolling onto his side, the uncomfortable poking against his nose reminded him he hadn’t even removed his glasses. At first it was too hot, and Wonwoo pointed his leg out from beneath the blankets, pushing all the sheets down to rumple at his waist. But then it was notably cold after a few more minutes, and Wonwoo angrily stirred all his blankets back up to mask over his face. No matter what he did or how he positioned himself or what limb he decided to sacrifice to the hot-cold air, he wasn’t going to fall asleep. Wonwoo’s eyes popped open again.

Patting around the surface of the bed, his fingers eventually brushing the phone and glasses he’d discarded, Wonwoo decided he didn’t care about going to sleep anymore if that was how his body was going to so painfully treat him. He shuffled up more against the pillows splayed at his back and checked the messages sent by Seokmin about half an hour ago—the two boys hadn’t spoken in a while, almost since their exams ended in May, and while Wonwoo would have ideally liked to keep in touch with his friend, he was laughably horrible at it. At least Seokmin seemed chipper.

[ Seokmin | 11:57 pm ]: Hey Wonwoo!

[ Seokmin | 11:57 pm ]: I heard you were going to Mingyu and Seungcheol’s party! I didn’t think that would be something you’re into but I’ll also be there, probably for a couple hours

Wonwoo swiped out from the texts, not really feeling anything or thinking much about their content, and opened some messages from Vernon that he’d received at work but forgot to read.

[ Vernon |  9:55 pm ]: need a drive 4 the party?

[ Vernon | 9:55 pm ]: let me know beautiful xo

He couldn’t help but muster a chuckle at the teasing nature of his friend’s texts, though Wonwoo didn’t respond, making a mental note to answer the next day, instead. For another moment or two, he continued sitting in the dark shadows of his room, staring down at the only light which caught the reflection in his glasses. Wonwoo’s thumb at first hesitated, but then he was reopening his earlier conversation with you, and with a few upward flicks, he was back on that cute photo you’d sent him. It hadn’t left his mind at all.

This huge lump of guilt had come to sit in his gut like an anchor for a reason that Wonwoo didn’t begin recognizing, that is until he finally felt the pull from somewhere deep inside him—the thought had entered his mind and he knew if he just ignored it for even a second it would dissipate. But then, Wonwoo didn’t ignore it, because he didn’t truly want that. He was going to be selfish in that instance and sink into the pull, the heat—not dismissing the thought but the guilt he would later drown in—the shame of it all.

Wonwoo kicked off his mask of bedsheets, letting them settle in a slow puff around his ankles.

In the beginning, all of it felt so bizarre. The hand that twisted underneath his sweatpants, and then his boxers, coming to softly graze fingertips along his hardening shaft—he hadn’t done this in weeks. Wonwoo rarely experienced sexual frustration. It just wasn’t something that bothered him. But the absent tendency would always build up and inevitably break at some point and he hated that you were the cool, breathtaking breeze to push him over that cliff.

With the edges of his fingers, Wonwoo continued to stroke along himself, up and down, just barely touching. It would make his knee jolt or his thigh twitch, but the longer he teased, the more each touch transformed. The pleasure was soaking through and leading him in deeper until Wonwoo tilted up his hips in order to shove down the elastic waist of his sweatpants and underwear. The air was so cold but dually welcomed against his erection that he began pumping to full length in his hand, feeling it throb and grow and stiffen.

Wonwoo let his eyes flutter toward the phone he was holding at his stomach, examining your figure from head to toe. It was wrong and he fucking knew it, but as he rubbed a palm at his most sensitive head and felt the cum start to leak down his cock, Wonwoo couldn’t bring himself to scale the acceptableness of his actions.

In that moment, Wonwoo looked at you in all the ways he shouldn’t. He pressed his head back into the pillow, eyes falling shut while he lubricated himself in squeezing, slow strokes with his own arousal. His fingers gripped the phone tighter, refusing to drop it.

You were bright and flashing in his mind and Wonwoo wanted to know all of it—he wanted to know the feeling of your silk, swollen lips leaving warm kisses up his shaft. He wanted to know the sensation of your tongue laving messy circles around his tip, teasing him, purring at him, staring up at him with those intimidating, sharp eyes that had always seemed beyond frightening. He wanted to know the sounds you would make if you ever so kindly allowed him to settle between your thighs. He knew how fucking beautiful your cunt would be and he could only imagine your taste would utterly melt him.

His fist wrapped tighter, pumped faster, and despite his usual quiet temperament in bed, a throaty, deep whine caught in Wonwoo’s throat. He took another look at your picture, and somewhere amongst the smog of pleasure that thickly hazed his logic, Wonwoo felt this transient, selfish anger, because in that moment, he wanted you. He needed you. He would do fucking anything you asked him and more because there was so much weight you held in his life. Wonwoo just wanted to make you happy and he couldn’t help but burn with the desperation to treat you better than anyone else ever had.

Knowing he was going to shatter soon, Wonwoo braced himself through the torture that was removing his hand and letting the intense, throbbing accumulation of pleasure ebb from his cock.

He gritted his teeth at the frustrating feeling.

But there was a reason for his decision. Looking back to the phone still aglow, Wonwoo swiped out from your picture and began scrolling higher up in the conversation, seeking out something particular that had jumped into his memory. And once he found it, there was an even denser feeling of guilt he had to ignore.

Last week, you ended up sending him a voice note because you were too exhausted to even bother typing. It wasn’t that the audio contained anything even relatively lascivious, since you were mostly just rambling about your day and never quite finishing a thought.

However, Wonwoo loved your voice. He loved hearing it in person and through his phone’s crappy speakers, especially when you sounded so sleepy, and your tone would soften, the occasional sigh or gentle breath hitting his ear just perfectly. Placing his hand back around his erection, Wonwoo hit play on your voice note and laid the phone beside his head on the pillow. He managed to smile through the pleasure that was rebuilding inside him as he intently listened.

“Um, hi, so—ah! Sorry, my phone just fucking slid under the covers, oh my God. But, yeah, I’m sending a voice note ‘cause I’m drop dead exhausted from today. It was the worst. My legs hurt so bad that I could hardly carry myself to bed. Ugh. Anyway… okay, sorry, I forgot what I was gonna say… oh yeah! So—”

It all felt too euphoric—too warm and overwhelming and the more Wonwoo listened to your sweet voice the more he felt himself pulsate with how badly he needed you. He planted one foot to his mattress, using it for stability and leverage as his hips thrust upward and he began unbridled fucking into his own hand. More than anything in the universe he wanted it to be your cunt—your pretty, wet, soft cunt cushioning him in and gushing all over him. He was going to drive himself fucking crazy at the thought, so much that Wonwoo began begging for you in his husky, deep, quivering voice.

Most was complete incoherency, dipping into confusing, jumbled whimpers of his English and native Korean tongue. Your voice was right there by his ear, though he was hardly processing a word. His orgasm was going to collapse over him like a tidal wave and all Wonwoo could do was succumb as he continued pumping his strained cock. His breathing was laboured, heavy. He kept stuttering and pleading for you into the sheer darkness of his bedroom.

Lots of “pl-please” and “f-ffuck, fuck, fuck!” and “m’gonna cc-cum for you, I want t’cum for you, I need it all inside of you, put it all so deep in your p-perfect cunt”—and plenty more tainted things he would take to his grave before he would ever confess to uttering.

As the voice note came to its end, Wonwoo had slammed his fist down for the last time. He immediately turned his cheek to the pillow, ignoring how the rounded glasses dug into his face, simply because his moan was too broken and shamefully loud. His cock started throbbing with the most intense pleasure he’d ever felt against his palm. The cum dribbled down his ghost-white knuckles. Wonwoo refused to even glance at the mess he was making. With a few more shaky pumps of his fist, he’d milked out all he possibly could, some spurts landing on his rumpled t-shirt. At last, he could exhale.

Lifting himself up with his clean hand, Wonwoo took a few moments to simply breathe. His entire body was still racing with adrenaline and hormones and the pure rush of his self-orchestrated ecstasy. But, pushing between all the energy was his guilt—the fact of what he’d just done and how he’d so blatantly used you to make himself feel good. Wonwoo glanced back at his phone and the voice note in the conversation. Immediately, he clicked the device off, and there was strictly still, shapeless blackness that surrounded him.

What the fuck had he just done?

How was he supposed to text you, look at you, talk to you, knowing he’d officially jerked off to your picture and your voice. Even worse—it was probably the best his masturbation had ever felt. It was all so fucking heavenly in the moment that he thought he might die.

Wonwoo had no idea what to make of his actions.

His feelings for you.

But he thought he should at least tidy himself up.

—JUNE 16TH

Before Vernon had come by in his car, Wonwoo was caught in an exhausting and sickening guessing game of whether or not he needed to throw up. His lower stomach was in complete knots, prompting him to pace back and forth outside the washroom door, because sitting down was going to make him ruminate even more over how terribly nervous he was. Thankfully, however, Wonwoo never threw up, and he was able to calm himself a bit by rolling a blunt, sparking it while sat at the open windowsill in his bedroom.

There was also help from the nighttime breeze that touched against his warm face, a sensation he had always found so soothing.

Just before ten at night, Wonwoo received the critical text from Vernon—he was parked outside on the street. He’d fully smoked his blunt at the time of the message, and he pathetically prayed to himself that his nerves wouldn’t sizzle back up at the worst possible time as he locked his apartment door. Once Wonwoo had stepped outside, he spotted Vernon’s old vanilla Camry stalled beside the postal box across the street. He was kind enough to reach over and push the door open for Wonwoo, who quickly shuffled into his seat.

Immediately, Wonwoo received his usual greeting.

“Hey, Glasses.”

He gave a nod back in response, buckling on the seatbelt.

“So, you smell like confusin’ mix of straight cannabis and a fuckin’ breezy Caribbean Ocean tide. How the fuck does that work?”

“Uh, I put on cologne. And then I smoked?”

“You nervous, then?” Vernon asked through his trademark conniving smirk, meanwhile he began steering out onto the street.

“Of course I’m fucking nervous,” Wonwoo almost laughed back at the obvious nature of the question and habitually checked his friend’s blind spot. “I don’t even go to like, dinner parties.”

“Pfft, I’m sure you’ll be fine. The good thing about parties like these—everyone gets so fucked it’s unlikely they’ll remember some nervous dweeb like yourself. Amongst all that chaos, you’ll blend straight in. There’s nothin’ to be shaked up about. I promise ‘ya.”

Wonwoo merely huffed in response, opting to let Vernon focus on driving and working the car’s outdated stereo while he checked his phone. Actually, Wonwoo had wanted to text you before he left the apartment, but he was still stomaching all the rigid guilt that came with jerking himself off to your pretty picture and voice note the night before. It was a stupid, stupid choice.

All those thoughts that had been stampeding through his head—wanting you and needing you and craving to belong with you in a way that could never reach true fruition—Wonwoo had to convince himself it was all meaningless. His mind had conjured those ridiculous sentiments when his logic was razor thin and overcome by the deception of his lust, and, therefore, he refused to accept those urges were even close to his actual feelings for you. He clicked his phone back off, not meaning to sigh aloud but doing so anyway.

Vernon then shot him a speculative glance through the rear-view mirror, though Wonwoo barely caught it. He looked out the window instead, at all the passing lights and people who were eager to spend their Friday night doing something stimulating.

“So, I know you’re probably just thinkin’ to yourself over there, as you usually do,” his friend said, fiddling with the radio until the static noise died back into music, “but I think it’s all too funny.”

Wonwoo scrunched his nose, continuing to watch the nightlife slip by his tracing eyes outside the window.

“Hm? What’s funny?”

Vernon chuckled. “All that shit you said to me, like, over a month ago. We’re not friends. And now, you n’Her hang out all the time. I think she’s pumpin’ some actual life back into you. You’re not like you were before, y’know? Which is good to see. So, what I wanna know now is—would you say the same? Or is she your friend?”

Right, Wonwoo remembered the conversation Vernon was referring to—the night his friend drove him home after a tiresome shift at the pharmacy. With his entire chest, Wonwoo had claimed you two weren’t friends. There had been a lot of truth to it, at least from his perspective. Or, maybe, he’d crushed down the prospect of it so vehemently because Wonwoo had just assumed someone like you would have no interest in honestly befriending him.

He could offer you something, and that was it.

But, now…

“You’d have to ask her,” Wonwoo answered, shrugging.

Instantly, Vernon groaned.

“God, that’s such a fuckin’ cop-out answer, Glasses.”

“Well, what the fuck should I say? Yes, we’re friends, but then you might go and ask her, and she’ll say otherwise.”

“So what?” Vernon engaged, raising his hand partially off the steering wheel in a half-gesture. “So fuckin’ what if she says that? If you think of her as a friend then commit to that. There’s nothin’ wrong with it.” His voice became firmer, more convictional.

Wonwoo tilted his head back against the seat. It’s not that he didn’t think you were friends—it was more so that he might to admit it, and then the relationship could all fall apart, crash like a burning, charred asteroid at his feet. And then Wonwoo would be back in the same self-inflicted crater he was before, thinking he had a genuine connection in his life only to have the rug pulled out from under him.

“… I don’t know.”

“No, you do know. But I see you wanna be all secretive about it and keep your cards close to the chest. So, whatever.”

Rubbing at the edge of his nose, Wonwoo took a quiet moment for himself to muse. He wanted another blunt.

“I don’t think she’ll be that excited to see me.” Vernon said.

Turning his head, Wonwoo looked to his friend and laughed.

“Yeah, can’t imagine why.”

“Think she’ll rip my head off?” Vernon joked with a big, gummy grin, relaxing back into his seat. “That might be kinda hot.”

“No—it would be traumatizing, actually.”

“She better not,” his friend answered, slapping his glove compartment and smirking pridefully. “I’ve got her goddamn coke.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ… I’ve never seen a street this packed…”

Vernon couldn’t help his awe from spilling out as he navigated at a snail’s pace down the road, each and every available spot that lined the curb being occupied by a vehicle. Wonwoo spotted a few groups making their way up the sidewalks, toward the colossal sized house to the distant right of the street. Seungcheol lived in Hill Crest, just like your parents, but he seemed poised at the neighbourhood’s opposite end—probably ideal for throwing an outrageous party that would otherwise magnetize the entire police task force to the door.

Wonwoo glanced down at his phone.

Seokmin had sent him a text a few minutes ago, inquiring if him and Vernon were close by or at the house. He sent a message back about the worrying lack of parking spaces, and then continued to help Vernon search through the overcrowd for a hopeful pocket.

“Fuck… this isn’t lookin’ good…” Vernon lamented.

“I doubt there will be anything close to the house,” Wonwoo sighed, folding his arms in doubt. “It could be best to make a turn or go around the block? We might just have to take a hike.”

“Hansol Vernon Chwe doesn’t take fuckin’ hikes,” his friend jabbed, antsy fingers sculpting into his bitten lip while the other hand catered to steering the wheel. “I have this dude’s blow. Doesn’t that earn me a VIP-guest-list-skip-the-line type plot?”

Wonwoo scoffed. “Should’ve sorted that out earlier, man.”

“Shut your dorky ass up. I’ll figure somethin’ out.”

At that moment, the phone slid between his thighs vibrated with another text from Seokmin. His eyes widened at the invite.

[ Seokmin | 10:40 pm ]: Oh dw about street parking!

[ Seokmin | 10:40 pm ]: Use the gate at the house

“I think you’re right. I might have to turn,” Vernon announced in a defeated breath, brushing a hand through his dust black hair. “Get ready to see the best three-point turn that’s ever been turnt.”

“Just wait one minute,” Wonwoo then answered, leaning forward in his seat as he began to text Seokmin for more details.

[ Wonwoo | 10:41 pm ]: Gate?

[ Seokmin | 10:41 pm ]: Seungcheol’s got a gate that leads to this little underground parking thing. Some of his and Mingyu’s close friends are using it. Her’s friends, too

[ Wonwoo | 10:42 pm ]: Uh… I don’t know haha.

[ Seokmin | 10:42 pm ]: I asked Seungcheol, it’s fine!

[ Wonwoo | 10:42 pm ]: You sure?

[ Seokmin | 10:42 pm ]: Yup

[ Seokmin | 10:42 pm ]: Gate code is #1142!

“Don’t turn around, go up to the driveway and look for a gate,” Wonwoo instructed. “Apparently, this dude’s got an underground parking space. Seokmin gave me the code for it.”

“Jesus Christ,” disbelieving laughter swelled up from Vernon’s chest as he proceeded along the street. “This guy’s like, rich-rich. I wanna see all that fuckin’ cash up front. Bills in every colour.”

Wonwoo was just relieved that Seokmin was telling the truth, though he was nonetheless extremely anxious about using the parking space, and something sharp in his abdomen tightened upon reaching that bronze gate. Vernon had to roll down his window and partially lean outside to press in the code read from Wonwoo’s phone.

They both cast each other a bewildered glance when the gate separated automatically, allowing them access down the slant.

“Rich people can just do whatever they fuck they want, can’t they?” Vernon laughed, shaking his head. “Remind me not to steal anything while we’re wanderin’ around in there.”

But Wonwoo couldn’t say anything even half-conscious in response to his friend’s lazy joke. He was too busy focusing his breathing.

“Jeez, it's about time, huh?” Vernon’s words sounded rife with electricity as they approached the main entryway to the house, the brisk, nighttime air blowing back against their heated faces.

They had already witnessed several people slipping inside and out, to which the shuddering, clear blurt of the music would escape the doorway—not that they couldn’t hear it already. The deep and rhythmic bass was emanating from within Seungcheol’s house like a growl caught in a beast’s belly, and Wonwoo could only fathom what kind of damage his eardrums might sustain after the night was over.

Right before Vernon could touch the handle, the doors abruptly burst open with an aggressive swing, revealing two girls who were latched hand in hand, giggling to each other. The distinct stench of marijuana clouded after them down the steps.

Vernon opted to catch the left door before it could close.

“After you, Glasses,” he invited with an almost glimmering smirk, then gesturing inward at the practical void that awaited him—auroras of flashing light, loud conversation, and pounding music.

It seemed like stepping into another universe.

“Thanks for the chivalry,” Wonwoo answered.

He then forced himself into the mansion, not allowing the empty space in his mind to concoct ample regret or doubt. Vernon followed suit, the large door slamming shut in a forbidding manner behind the two boys, akin to a shoving a cork on a glass bottle and capturing all the sand grains inside. Wonwoo knew he could leave, though it didn’t feel like it. However, he didn’t want to act defeated before even starting the night. Maybe some of Seokmin’s miraculous optimism gloss would rub off on him before it was too late.

The thing was, Wonwoo had no idea what to think or do nor could he develop one sensible, sound thought that he might express to Vernon—the house was alive with what seemed to be a mighty sea of people. Some were mingling with their drinks loosely held in an attempt to feign casualness, pitching conversation despite the unrelenting music. Others were clashed together, dirty dancing, hands carnally wandering, probably thinking nothing other than how good it felt to be a part of the moment. Everything was so dim and dark. Lights blotched around the room in deep purples and blues.

Wonwoo had suddenly forgotten how to even move.

Until Vernon’s hand slapped his shoulder.

“Hey, what should we start with?!” His friend had practically shouted over the music and its hypnotizing synths. “Do you wanna get a drink? Smoke one out? Or should we find Seokmin?”

For a moment, Wonwoo just stared at him, trying hard through the murkiness and heat to match the words he was hearing with Vernon’s lips. The environment would take a bit getting used to.

“Also—,” he then grabbed Wonwoo’s shoulder, “—let’s move away from the door before we get fuckin’ trampled, yeah?”

Vernon helped guide Wonwoo further into the main living area, down a few stairs and toward the large square of couches. There was hardly any room to sit without being uncomfortably close to someone else—they were either in another person’s lap, swapping a disgusting amount of liquored spit, or completely faded and about as coherent as a rock. Wonwoo didn’t want to sit, anyway. He looked down at his phone, noticing that Seokmin had texted him again.

“Um, what do you want to do?” He decided to flip the question on Vernon, not wanting to be tasked with the decision.

Besides, he assumed his friend would know better.

“Me? I want a fuckin’ drink!” Vernon began to look around, though the air was notably veiled with a thin smoke and all the bodies were obstructing much view of anything. “Oh—I told you already, didn’t I?! That I’m definitely intendin’ to get shitfaced?! Did you figure out a ride in case you wanted t’go home later on?”

As Vernon began his quest to find a drink, Wonwoo was right behind him, remembering that Vernon had mentioned it already.

“I know!” He called out while reading Seokmin’s text.

[ Seokmin | 11:00 pm ]: There’s like two big living spaces

[ Seokmin | 11:00 pm ]: We’re not in the main one tho, easiest way is to go through the kitchen and out the other side!

Wonwoo had thought you would text him, and he couldn’t evade his disappointment at the expectation. He decided to assume that maybe you just didn’t know he was there yet. At most, he hoped you weren’t too blasted and at least cognizant enough to hold a conversation with him. Though, Wonwoo had not one inkling as to what you were like at parties. He could only imagine from the scattered bits and pieces he’d heard from yourself and Vernon. 

As Wonwoo followed Vernon down a foggy corridor, he suddenly bumped into the boy’s hard back with a bothered grunt. A girl had stepped out from a threshold that led into the kitchen and he realized that Vernon was only letting her leave before they entered.

She leaned in rather close to Vernon’s face, stroking a quick, flirtatious hand along the divots in his defined chest as she lilted aloud, “thanks, gorgeous.”

Her gaze switched to linger on Wonwoo for what felt like a long, excruciating eternity before proceeding past them in a confident stride down the dark and narrow hallway. Vernon kissed his teeth, staring back at Wonwoo with that hedonistic twinkle in his eyes.

“Okay—she was fine, not gonna lie.”

“Mmhm,” Wonwoo mumbled, adjusting his glasses, “can we at least get a drink first before you decide to start fucking people?”

“Why do you think we’re at the kitchen, smart ass?”

Shaking his head in dismissal at Vernon’s snarky comment, he urged the boy impatiently into the kitchen area (which was admittedly larger than Wonwoo’s entire living space).

One side of the room was lined with arrays of salty snacks, while the opposite contained big, rounded punch bowls of pre-mixed alcohol that people were dipping into with ladles. Vernon had noticed the option to mix your own drink, and thus Wonwoo was dragged toward the kitchen island where the boys waited to pick from the various bottles of alcohol and soft drinks left scattered about.

Wonwoo peeped down at his phone again while Vernon got easily caught up in conversation with a girl preparing a lemon shot.

He finally answered Seokmin’s texts.

“Hey, Glasses!” Vernon’s hand latched onto his shoulder, giving it a shake. “This is Sierra! She’s gonna make us our drinks!”

It took him a moment to properly decipher the girl Vernon had been speaking to, though, the longer he squinted through the shifty kitchen lighting, the more he could separate her silhouette and features from the dimness. She had a comfortable smile, full and warm, trustworthy, and so Wonwoo merely shrugged his agreement.

“Don’t worry,” the girl shouted, pulling aside two solo cups and then twizzling off the bottlecap to the rum, “I’m a bartender, actually. I used to work Room 319. Now I’m at Honeymoon.”

Vernon leaned his elbows on the granite, watching with intrigue as she sloshed a decent amount of alcohol into each cup.

“Room 319? You’ve definitely seen some shit,” he cackled.

“Oh, yeah. One-hundred percent.”

“Y’know, I tried getting this cunt to go—” Vernon jabbed an accusing thumb back at Wonwoo, “—but he’s such a flake!”

Sierra proceeded to grin quite demurely, flashing a quick, barely detectable glance toward Wonwoo, who had just managed to catch it while shoving the phone back into his pocket. She then grabbed a sweetener from amongst the clutter, tucking a short tuft of hair behind her ear before adding a small drizzle to each solo cup.

“Hey, it’s not for everybody!” Her cheeks flushed in the galactic, purplish light that flickered around the kitchen. “And, uh, this may sound weird, actually. But I recognize you, I think.”

“Oh, me?” Wonwoo was finally forced to speak.

“Yeah, uh—” she stumbled over her words a bit as she swirled the sweetener around inside the cups, “—from Bradbrook’s calculus. I think you sat a few rows ahead of me, or something. I just know because I, um—I was really close to failing the class. When I went to her for help, she gave me a ton of resources, even said I could try asking you about tutoring. She said you’re like, her best student.”

“Hm,” Wonwoo hummed, cracking his neck, “I’ve never tutored anyone—don’t know why she’d think to recommend me.”

“It’s okay! I never asked because you seemed like the type who didn’t want to be bothered,” Sierra responded, beginning to top off the drinks with some bubbling soda. “I figured it out, anyway.”

“Good for you,” Wonwoo commended.

“Yeah, I wasn’t sure if it was you, ‘cause your hair would always be down over your forehead in class. But you’ve got it all brushed and styled and stuff. It looks super nice!”

He smiled at her and mumbled, “thanks.”

“Well, I’m gonna get running! No matter where I end up, I always seem to be everyone’s mixologist at some point.”

Vernon dragged the alcohol over, maintaining his slouched position onto the island granite. Upon taking an experimental sip to taste the flavours and potency, his face momentarily soured, and then all his features relaxed. He was glowing like an ember, almost.

“No, that’s good. Tastes a bit like a… gummy bear?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s so delicious,” she agreed, shoving hands into her back pockets. “Tastes even better kissing it off someone.”

As Wonwoo stared down at his fizzling drink, debating his first sip, he again felt the transient flittering of her eyes ghost him.

“Go figure,” Vernon rasped, smiling, “appreciate it, player.”

“M’kay,” Sierra chirped and waved, ”bye!”

Not even a few seconds after she left, and someone else swooped in like an eagle to clasp the bottle of rum she’d once been handling, Vernon turned his head to Wonwoo with a raised brow.

“She was DTF for you, holy shit.”

“Hm?” Wonwoo sounded muffled with the solo cup now perched at his lips, allowing the drink to seep into his mouth, tasting the smoothness of the rum, and then the sweet. “What’s that mean?”

“DTF?” Vernon echoed. “Down to fuck!” He smacked his arm.

“That’s stupid and absurd.”

“Well, Glasses, you’re fuckin’ stupid and absurd if you didn’t see it. I mean, if you’re not gonna get a chance with Her, mine as well start seekin’ out what you can. Might make you less uptight.”

“No—that’s what makes you less uptight, not me.”

“I’m just sayin’, man—you’re hot and you don’t even take advantage of it. In no shapes or figures… forms? Whatever the stupid sayin’ is. You’ve got to live a little. But, whatever. Where’s Seokmin?”

“Through there, I think?” Wonwoo nodded toward a high-arched exit opposite to the side they entered the kitchen from. “That’s what he texted me. But I’ll double check anyway, to be sure.”

Flashing on his phone, Wonwoo finally saw your messages.

[ Her | 11:11 pm ]: wonwooooooo

[ Her | 11:11 pm ]: LIVING ROOM! I'm waiting!!!!

And just like that—like a splitting snap of the fingers—he felt everything all over again, and those nerves steamrolled him in the most pathetic way possible.

He stared down at his phone, moonfaced.

Wonwoo was happy you had remembered to message him, embarrassingly giddy at the thought, even. But he was also downright nauseous to reunite with your inquisitive friends, to meet Seungcheol, to again push through the intangible, brooding weight of seeing Mingyu. He took a gulp from the red cup, swishing the tart but sugared concoction between his cheeks before swallowing, hoping the rum burned down all his nerves in the throaty sting it left behind.

“Yeah,” Wonwoo rediscovered his voice, “through there.”

At first, he couldn’t identify you anywhere. The room was even bigger than the kitchen, just as poorly lit, with a high, pointed ceiling that somehow reminded him of the church he attended when he was too little to even properly grasp religion. But Wonwoo continued squinting through the jumbled crowd, making slow steps and surveiling the room each time alongside Vernon.

“I don’t see ‘em!” He shouted overtop the music, grabbing Wonwoo’s elbow to stop him from moulding into all the warm bodies.

“He said they’re in here!” Wonwoo raised his voice, checking his phone for another text, but seeing nothing. “Fuck, I don’t know.”

Sensing that fluttering, unsteady wind in his chest, Wonwoo was eager to indulge in another sip from his cup, desperately yearning for the alcohol to fucking hurry up and take its floating effect. Yet, as the taste subdued on his tongue, Wonwoo was able to notice a slight fissure that formed in between the congregation of people—a rather perfect alignment that revealed a home bar across the room, with familiar faces seated at the stools and more laughing behind the counter. That was when Wonwoo saw you, captured in a brush stroke of sweeping, amethyst light that dappled down your body.

You were leaned leisurely against Mingyu’s chest, holding onto his arm that draped like a protective sling over your shoulder, and Wonwoo supposed it was laid there with a not-so-subtle purpose.

Mingyu was speaking to his friend and co-host, Seungcheol, who was on the other side of the home bar, his lower back digging against the counter while he had quirked his head to still see Mingyu.

One face that Wonwoo had yet to discern was Seokmin, though, in all his honestly, Wonwoo wasn’t that fixated on further searching the low dusk and marijuana plumes hanging tacky in the air. He’d found you. All those nerves dissolved into comfort.

Maybe it was shallow, but that’s what he cared about most.

“Oh!’ Vernon piped up. “Damn. They’re right down there.”

And, before the crowd could readjust themselves to drown the slivered space between yourself and Wonwoo, your head turned.

In the nick of time, you seemed to recognize him, because that hazy, unfocused nature about your countenance shifted in a mere second, and he saw a smile pick its way along your mouth, like a springtime garden at last twirling abloom. You proceeded to nudge Mingyu’s arm aside, whispering something into his ear that he didn’t quite seem to hear correctly as he maintained his lengthy talk with Seungcheol.

Wonwoo knew he was smiling, too, bigger and bigger.

You wove your way through the crowd, to which Wonwoo couldn’t help himself from the short chuckle he spat out as you impatiently shoved aside the guy that had stepped into your way.

“Move! Oh my fucking God—”

But your flash of contempt didn’t last long.

A second later, you were buckling into Wonwoo.

Your arms reached up to curl tightly around his neck, and he felt the grooves of your warm, soft body press firm against him for the first time. Wonwoo was scared at the proximity, though his pounding heart ever so gradually calmed as he took in a deep breath and smelled that faint, fresh scent—strawberries. While it was undoubtedly integrated with some sort of spicy liquor, Wonwoo didn’t care. He pulled himself into the moment—realized how fucking badly he wanted to drop the solo cup and splay his hands at the open, revealing back of your outfit and feel your bare, supple skin.

But he couldn’t. Because Wonwoo wasn’t your boyfriend.

And you weren’t his to so unabashedly touch.

“I’m so fucking happy you made it!” He heard you squeal into his ear, his smile somehow widening at your animated voice.

“Yeah? Bit of a hassle, not gonna lie," Wonwoo answered.

“Parking? I’m sorry! I should have texted you about the gate!”

“No, no,” he laughed, trying his best and gentlest way to somehow ease some space in between you, “it’s okay. Everything worked out perfectly fine in the end. Don’t worry about it, alright?”

“You sure?”

Wonwoo looked into your eyes, so enchantingly bright and glistering as you blinked at him sympathetically, wearing a tiny pout.

Fuck—he wanted to kiss you.

It was such a blatant, jarring thought that Wonwoo couldn’t respond to your worry straight away, instead pushing down his urges.

“… I’m sure.”

“Well,” you then hummed, at last relaxing your hold around his neck and making some very unwanted but necessary space between your bodies, “is it still true?” You bit your lip afterward.

“Hm? Is what still true?”

Upon Wonwoo furrowing his brow, you pressed into him again, reaching up to his ear where you could comfortably talk and not worry about whether the music would muffle every syllable.

He felt the warmth of your breath tickle at his skin. And then—shivers, everywhere. Trickling down his spine. His nape. Not the kind from chilly, cold weather, or a scary movie, but a different kind that prompted his sense to disintegrate in a simple second.

“Do you still think I’m the prettiest here?”

Wonwoo sensed the grin paint his face, as easy as melting butter, though he hid it well in your sweet-scented hair.

“Mmhm, ‘course you are,” he answered, purposefully deepening his already deep voice. “You’re always the prettiest.”

One of your charming, seraphic giggles feathered at his ear and Wonwoo had never been so convinced that he would exchange just about anything in his life to call you his for the entire night.

“Um, hey, so… I don’t want to fuckin’ ruin your guys’ little reunion or nothin’, but I am still here, unfortunately!”

Damn—Wonwoo had kind of forgotten that Vernon was even there, and hearing his gruff voice break through the room’s drumming bass had quickly removed him from his fantasy. In a way, he was relieved, because Wonwoo knew he’d been thinking with unprecedented delusion and he needed something to draw a ripple through his thoughts before he became too meek to ignore them.

You then slotted yourself against Wonwoo’s side, adjusting the white strap grooving around the back of your neck. One arm remained around his wideset shoulders, latching him into place.

“Well, that’s an immaculate face I haven’t seen in a while,” you deadpanned at poor Vernon, sculpting him up and down with shameless judgement. “And what have you been up to? Selling MDMA from behind porta-potties to dumb, gullible first years?”

But Vernon took it well, as he was most likely expecting it.

“So, I won’t say no or yes to that.”

“Hm. Figures.”

Vernon shook his head, mustering up a husky laugh. “Should I assume you haven’t gotten over our incident, yet?”

Wonwoo felt your ovaled, sharp fingernails dig into his shoulder, and he settled his hand on your upper back to relax you.

“I’ll get over it when I want to get over it.”

“Okay, okay." A smile bled across Vernon’s face. “And I respect that, yeah? How ‘bout we both agree to keep it lax? That work at all?”

Despite your narrowed, seething eyes, you agreed.

“It works, for now.” You were in the midst of turning around, as though to begin pulling Wonwoo toward the bar, but you suddenly stopped on a dime, returning your glared focus back toward an unsuspecting, more lenient Vernon. “By the way, Princess is in a relationship with Seungcheol, so paws off. And don’t even think about trying to fuck Clara or Bells again or else you’ll need to take every single pill you fucking own in order to feel even a fraction of anything after I’m done beating your breaks off. Understand?”

“Uh, yes. I do. I understand.”

And then you grinned, though it was colder than outer space, and Wonwoo was more than pleased he wasn’t on the receiving end.

“Perfect! Now, let’s get everyone all introduced. I promise, though, there’s not many strangers. I guess just Seungcheol? Some of his friends are around here somewhere, I don’t know where.”

You curled an arm around Wonwoo’s elbow and began tugging him into the barricade of people, most stepping aside for you without request, like you were a princess or some other type of respected royalty. Wonwoo glanced back at Vernon who was already giving him a wide-eyed, skeptical expression, and so he made sure to dip his head close to Vernon’s ear to murmur some encouragement.

“At least your head isn’t ripped off.”

However, it might have not been the most thoughtful.

“Yeah, meta-fuckin’-phorically it is,” Vernon laughed back. “I forgot how scary the chick is. How have you not pissed your pants yet?”

“You get used to it after a while. N’hey—when the hell did you have sex with Clara and Bells?" Wonwoo couldn’t help himself from asking over his shoulder as he was further pulled along by your persistent guide.

“It was before you got to know Her, alright? But—” Vernon had suddenly leaned closer, his breath at Wonwoo’s ear, “—Bells is a fuckin’ homie hopper. Guaranteed she’ll try to get into your pants. I know she’s tried it with Seungcheol, Seokmin, probably you, tonight.”

“Well, you two sound like a match made in heaven.”

“Ha! Funny, man,” Vernon cackled, shoving his friend’s back in a teasing way. “No—she’s actually crazy. Gives good head, though.”

Wonwoo opted to ignore the last comment. He was soon at the bar alongside you, Vernon, and all the others, to which he noted your arm was still clasped around his elbow, a gesture that Wonwoo found himself greatly appreciating as everyone began pausing their own conversations to acknowledge the two newcomers. He didn’t know who to look at or greet first as his heartbeat thundered, though he recognized Clara and Bells seated together on two leather stools, a few emptied shot glasses aligned before them like dominos.

Princess, the friend Wonwoo always thought you were closest to, was behind the counter with Seungcheol, staring Wonwoo down through her hooded and smooth brown eyes. He felt Mingyu watching him too, though it discomforted him much more than Princess.

“Hey, nice to meet you guys, finally.” Seungcheol was leaning over the luminated countertop, bumping his fist against Wonwoo’s, and then Vernon’s. “Hope you’re finding it alright.”

Wonwoo had never met Seungcheol despite hearing his name frequently throughout campus, especially during the prime months for partying. The consensus was that everyone seemed to like and respect him for his cordial, easygoing attitude and sportsmanship, since he played a lot of basketball for the university’s principal varsity team. Wonwoo had never once heard anything concerning or relatively malicious about the guy. He was almost akin to a celebrity.

“We got in not too long ago,” Vernon explained, and Wonwoo was grateful he took the conversating initiative, “seems crazy. And thanks for lettin’ us use your garage! Street parkin’ was ass.”

“Shit, yeah. I get it.” Seungcheol shrugged in agreement, meanwhile drawing a shallow glass over to himself. “It’s no problem, man. You did us a favour with the blow. I’ll pay upstairs, yeah?”

“Hey, it’s all good. What’re you pourin’ up?’

Princess suddenly reached around Seungcheol’s shoulder, removing the large, maple bottle he was about to twist open.

“He’s not pouring up anything,” she smiled, placing the alcohol on a shelf behind her, “because whiskey gets him beyond hammered, and I need him coherent for at least another hour.”

Seungcheol turned around, his mouth hung open.

“Okay—I was gonna pour out a splash.”

The girl grabbed his sharp jaw, giving Seungcheol’s face a tender shake before pushing her lips against his. His previous objection suddenly disappeared like morning dew. For a couple that had recently started dating according to your allegory, they seemed remarkably comfortable with each other.

“Okay—shot, shot!” Bells yelped excitedly, slapping her hand against the polished countertop as Clara grabbed a tequila bottle.

“Oh, god.” Your eyes rolled, and Wonwoo heard the exhaustion in your tone. “Have fun getting alcohol poisoning.”

Mingyu scoffed, crossing his broad, buff arms. “They’ll be blackout in less than an hour.”

“What for?” Vernon asked.

You finally let go of Wonwoo, grabbing your own solo cup off the countertop and taking a fast swig before answering.

“Whenever Seungcheol and Princess kiss, they take a shot.”

“And they kiss a lot—" Clara hiccupped, a very inebriated fog cast across her gaze, “— even more than Her n’ Mingyu!”

“Oh, don’t bring us into this,” you snapped from behind your drink, leaning an elbow onto the bar, “take your shot and can it.”

“I’m starting to not even taste it!”

The giggling spilled from Bells’ mouth like a waterspout, to which both her and Clara leaned in close to each other’s faces, their expressions warping with breathless, dry gulps of laughter.

“Excuse them,” Princess then muttered, resting an arm along Seungcheol’s firm back, waves of moonlit blue dancing across her dark skin while she eyed her cackling friends with bits of judgement and concern. “I’m starting to believe they have an alcohol problem.”

“So, if I lose you later, should I assume you’re in the washroom holding back their hair?” Seungcheol then huffed into his clasped hands, flicking soft eyes up toward his sighing girlfriend.

She pulled at a long braid of her hair, nodding.

“If I’m not, I’ll buy you dinner.”

“Fuck, I like those odds, baby," he rasped, leaning back.

Princess smiled, squeezing his shoulder.

“No, you absolutely don’t, sweetheart.”

Wonwoo smiled at them, exercising his best effort to follow all the conversation even though his brain was whirring on overdrive. He was in the midst of sipping from the sweetened rum when Clara’s eyes snapped akin to a locket with his own, and she immediately squealed.

“Oh! You! From Spring Street! Mr. Deep Voice!”

Lowering the cup from his face, Wonwoo’s heart dropped.

He was more than perfectly okay with sitting on the sidelines and contributing nothing to the flow of conversation other than trivial nods and agreeable half-smiles. But Clara had singled him out, and now Bells was at last squirming around in her seat, her eyes patted with a popping, brilliant lime green as opposed to shimmery blue.

You tilted your head in questioning at Clara. “Yes, yes, we’ve been over this, girl. He’s been standing here the past five minutes.”

“Wonwoo!” Bells shrieked. “Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“He doesn’t need to say anything.” Wonwoo heard the irritable grit rub through your voice as you straightened your posture and propped a hand to your hip, glaring at your friends. “Why don’t you let him enjoy his drink instead of shouting at him?”

From behind, Mingyu’s large hand slid around your waist and stopped at your lower stomach, pulling you a step back into his chest.

“Relax. She’s drunk as fuck, alright?” He murmured by your temple, planting a reassuring kiss.

“Nah, it’s okay.” Princess was quick to diffuse any degree of tension before it could morph into a terrifying flame. “He’s just quiet, that’s all. Nothing wrong with it. I like your hair, Wonwoo.”

He clenched his fist tight, nodding at her.

“Thanks.”

It was only one goddamn word, but he’d choked it out with all the strength harboured in his chest and lungs. Princess smiled at him.

“Glasses is cool. All his jokes will come out later.” Vernon teased despite the instant, needling stare Wonwoo shot his way.

“Hey, no pressure,” Seungcheol laughed, swiping his phone off the bar countertop. “Should we all head upstairs? I’ve got a nice little room set up for us—can smoke and mellow out a bit, play some cards, finally get to that blow—whatever you guys think is best.”

“Fuck, I’m down.” Sliding off the leather stool, Mingyu came to his feet and agreed, his hand still settled at your stomach.

His utterance was met with a chorus of likewise answers.

Wonwoo suddenly felt your fingertips graze his hand.

“Are you okay with that?” You asked him personally, smiling in a reassuring, nonchalant manner that helped ease his stiltedness.

“Yeah,” he answered, delighted to see the sparks that jumped into your eyes through the shadows and nebulas of lavender light.

The room Seungcheol had referred to was quite separated from the party booming onward downstairs, though he claimed not to be worried about it much since his other friends were keeping tabs on all the action. Wonwoo appreciated the quieter, more laidback atmosphere that allowed him to actually think and analyze his situation, which he unfortunately could not help himself from doing.

It was a cozy and personally developed space—probably the room Seungcheol spent most of his time in. Large, pristine movie posters were perfectly tapered to covering an entire wall, with stringed, dull-glowing lights swooped around the wooden infrastructure of the ceiling. A billiard ball table was toward the left, and then a circular table to the right, stacked with miscellaneous things such as playing cards, textbooks, and poker chips.

There were some shelves by the windows, mostly to hold decorative items, though Wonwoo saw a number of trophies from what he assumed to be Seungcheol’s past sports competitions. 

Everyone began to settle.

As Vernon waltzed over to the couch by the cluttered table, he’d suddenly looked down at the cushions with a gruff shout.

“Fuck! Jesus Christ, Seokmin! What the fuck are you doin’?”

“Oh, yeah—the poor baby got a headache,” you crooned, walking toward the couch with a teasing smirk. “He thought he’d try and avoid all of us by coming up here and taking a nap.”

“I wasn’t napping,” Seokmin grumbled while pushing himself to sit up, swatting back your hand that rifled through his dark brown tresses disarrayed in every direction, “I was relaxing, that’s all.”

“Dude, you looked like you were dead,” Vernon laughed, stepping around from behind the couch to sit on the arm.

Leaning against a desk with two large speakers on it, Mingyu folded his arms, smiling at Seokmin whose face was beginning to tint red from all the attention. “That’s just how he looks when he sleeps.”

“Thanks…” Seokmin answered, standing up and dusting himself off. “Guess I’m never staying the night at your place again.”

“Well, if you’re not going to take the couch, I think these two should simmer down for a hot minute,” Princess said, shuffling the stumbling, giggling duo, Bells and Clara, to take a much needed seat.

“Okay, yeah. Mingyu, throw on some music. Give everyone a chance to get nice n’ comfy.” Seungcheol then beckoned toward Vernon. “Over here, man. Let’s get this shit sorted out.”

“Ah, right, right.”

His friend was quick to rise from the couch and meet Seungcheol in the corner of the room, by the billiard table as well as a small black safe. Mingyu pulled out his phone, linking up his Bluetooth with Seungcheol’s expensive sound system, and music soon replaced the empty air in the room. He then joined Seungcheol and Vernon in the corner. Wonwoo opted not to sleuth and glanced elsewhere.

He saw that you were already talking to Princess, the two of you pulling out some beers and other drinks from a fridge he hadn’t noticed before, and while he positively wanted to make time for a conversation with you, Wonwoo thought he should bother Seokmin first. The boy was shoving open a windowpane across the room.

“Hey, liar,” he announced in a dragging but not overly serious tone. “Not downstairs like you said you were, huh?”

Seokmin turned around, rubbing his face.

“I know, I know. I got a headache at the last minute. But I knew everyone would come upstairs. Glad you could make it!”

“Well then, how much of a headache should I be expecting?”

“Eh, depends,” his friend answered.

Wonwoo shrugged. “Depends on what?”

“I can’t imagine you jumping around on a countertop with your shirt off and a whippet in your hand.”

He snorted. “Is that what you were doing?”

“No—I was the one trying to get them off the counter.”

“Fair.”

 “I think you’ll be fine. At most, you’ll step outside for some air and get a nice breeze in your hair. No biggie… what’s that?”

“Uh, just a drink this girl whipped up. Sierra.”

“Oh.” Seokmin’s eyes brightened. “You mean Sierra Gomez?”

Wonwoo shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Did she have like, chin length, sort of coarse and frizzy brown hair? Freckles all over her cheeks? ‘Cause that’s Sierra Gomez. She works at the… the, um… Honeymoon! Yeah. The Honeymoon. She’s nice—used to stare at the back of your head all the time in calculus.”

“Hm.”

“Anyway—whatever—random thought.”

“Who used to stare at the back of your head in calculus?”

Turning around, Wonwoo noticed that you had approached their conversation at the open window, an abrupt flourish of wind sweeping back unto your inquisitive yet slightly firm expression. A bottle was in your hand, and you took a quick, easy sip from it.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Seokmin dismissed.

“No, tell me.”

Your eyes then flitted between himself and Seokmin. There was an innocent smile on your face that nursed the beer bottle.

“A girl who used to look at Wonwoo all the time during calculus with Bradbrook. She made him his drink, that’s all.”

“Really? Is that so?”

Wonwoo shrugged. “Apparently.”

“Who?” You asked, still maintaining that polished smile.

Seokmin chuckled, “nah, you wouldn’t know her.”

“Maybe I do.”

“No,” he was persistent on convincing you, pulling at the flushed cusp of his ear, “I know you don’t. It’s not a big deal.”

Your focused gaze then lasered into Seokmin, and much of the airy politeness to your voice had gradually sharpened out.

“If it’s not a big deal then tell me.”

Music from the speaker system atop the nearby desk drowned the momentary silence that lasted between the three. Wonwoo concentrated on the lyrics and the depth of the sensual beat, trying his hardest to mentally escape the odd tension smouldering up.

Seokmin was biting his lip, hard.

“Tell me.” You now were demanding rather than asking.

“It’s not—”

“Seokmin!”

“Okay, okay! Sierra Gomez. That’s the girl.”

Wonwoo shifted his eyes to you, observing the manner in which you quirked your head, pursed your bottom lip, and began staring around the room in an honest attempt to place the name that Seokmin had so frighteningly blurted, almost like a suspect under interrogation. And then you were shrugging, sipping from your cold drink.

“Hm, don’t know her.”

“Like I said...” his friend sighed, leaning backward into the cool breeze and settling his hands against the windowsill.

“She’s here? And she made you that?” You asked.

Wonwoo looked down at his cup, almost completely emptied.

“… Um, yeah.”

There was a nearly imperceptible falter that spilt across your face, though it travelled so quickly, like a blink of light, and Wonwoo was starting to think that maybe he hadn’t even seen it at all.

“Well, that was really nice of her.” A strange breathiness lingered in your tone. “I mean, I don’t know her but she sounds really… nice. I’ll have to chat with her someday. I don’t know what we’ll talk about… something nice, probably. Yeah. We’ll do that.”

Upon sensing your very unusual discomfort, Wonwoo thought he might try to quell whatever series of emotions must be taking shape behind those glassy eyes. But almost from thin air, Mingyu was at your side, sliding an arm around your waist and his head poking down to kiss your cheek. Wonwoo ate his words right back up.

“Sorry to bite the conversation,” Mingyu excused himself, removing the arm from your waist to hang off your shoulder instead, where it covered the same revealing patch of your cleavage. “But I like keeping an eye on this one—” he pecked your temple, “—one sip she’s normal, the next she’s on top of the damn table giving everyone a fuckin’ show they don’t deserve. Hard to tell what she’s gonna do.”

Your uptight posture melted habitually against Mingyu’s chest, meanwhile a slight snarl forged across your lips.

Wonwoo knew that his drink was getting empty, and he didn’t want to waste the remainder on trying to survive the unfortunate conversation he’d been whisked into. He realized how much he hated talking to Mingyu, especially now that Wonwoo was closer to you.

“Alright, you don’t need to overembellish.”

“Ha! Overembellish?” A heavy laugh flew off Mingyu’s tongue as he gave your shoulder a soft shake, staring down at you with his curious, twinkling eyes. “What am I overembellishing, pretty girl? Huh? You don’t remember that dance with Clara? Kicking that dude’s drink off the table? High out of your fuckin’ mind, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I remember. My problem is that you’re painting me out to be a mindless slut just waiting to show off. It’s not like I go into these situations, intending to get on a table and kick people’s drinks and shit. I’m just going with what I feel in the moment. I mean, I’m sure it gets a bit slutty. But that’s part of the fun. At least, I think.”

Okay—Wonwoo didn’t give a fuck about preserving his drink any more. He immediately dove in to take a generous sip, staring down the cup like there was something profoundly captivating scribbled on the bottom. Now that he was thinking about it, Wonwoo realized this is his first time witnessing your dynamic with Mingyu.

Mingyu sighed, tongue prodding against his inner cheek.

“Can’t make it easy, can you?”

At that, you cackled, tipping your head against his neck.

“Never. You should know that by now.”

“The important thing is, everyone has a good time.” Seokmin decided to add his two cents, not seeming as stiffened by the conversation as Wonwoo, probably since he was accustomed to it.

Nonetheless, it prompted your signature eye roll.

“Hey everyone! Seokmin thinks the most important part of a party is that everyone has a good time!” You mockingly chided, proceeding to raise the bottle to your mouth for another sip while Mingyu rubbed his nose, laughing. “Did that really need to be said?”

Partially closing the window, Seokmin chuckled. “I’m just saying it ‘cause you guys always bicker and bring the mood down.”

Your grip around the beer bottle visibly tightened.

“Bicker?! We don’t bicker!”

“Are you serious?” Seokmin folded his arms, a disbelieving smile mixed with puzzlement carving his mouth. “You just did!”

“No, that wasn’t bickering," you stated. “That was Mingyu saying something stupid and me correcting it. Purely factual.”

Shaking his head, Mingyu merely smirked. “Mmhm. Let’s go with that.” Though, it was quite obvious he was holding back what he actually wanted to say, but didn’t want to prove Seokmin’s point.

“Anyways, I’m not trying to make you look bad,” Seokmin mumbled, brushing a hand along an itch on his arm. “So, whatever you see here, Wonwoo, take it with a grain of salt, I guess.”

God, no.

He’d wanted so desperately to remain invisible—to not be summoned into the conversation in any way, shape, or form.

“Please,” you sounded exasperated, messing about with your hair, “I’m sure Wonwoo’d be the last person to care, anyway.”

At the worst possible time, he’d completely exhausted his soda and rum, and there was not even a single drop for him to make a lame show of sipping up. Wonwoo didn’t know whether or not to say anything. Maybe, if he just smiled genuinely, nodded his head, then everything would keep moving and he could somehow escape the burdensome pressure. However, what he failed to realize was that his overthinking gave him a very dazed expression that made it seem as though he wasn’t listening at all. Seokmin suddenly slapped his arm.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Dude’s not even paying attention. Mentally checked out ‘cause of your arguing.”

“No. I’m listening,” Wonwoo answered, knowing the longer he stayed quiet the more guilty and strange he’d appear. “I just figure it’s better to let you guys hash it out. I’d rather not get involved.”

“Smart,” Mingyu huffed, to which Wonwoo found himself in the crosshairs of his intimidating gaze. “Best not to pick sides, right?”

“Oh my gosh, there are no sides.” Elbowing the tall, dark-haired boy gently in his rib, you shook your head. “And even if there were, I’m forcing him to take my side. You obviously have Seokmin.”

“When you are going to stop saying that?” Mingyu sounded notably annoyed at your comment, though you merely shrugged it off, instead wrapping a small hand with his in a successful attempt to pull him away from the conversation at the breezy window.

“Don’t whine, Gyu. Let’s go talk to Princess.”

Once you were gone, Wonwoo looked to Seokmin with some vague hope that he would share his astonishment at the situation. He couldn’t tell if you and Mingyu just clashed so naturally because your relationship was the long lasting, weathered kind where there were lots of little quips due to your shared comfortability. Or, maybe there was something else he was missing. But Seokmin didn’t seem even relatively phased, which lead Wonwoo into thinking that it was his overanalyzing brain picking things apart unnecessarily.

“Oh, I’ve gotta talk with Vernon for a sec.” His friend remembered, pointing out the tattooed boy who was closely admiring all the expensively framed film posters. “Nice to see you, though!”

The second Seokmin had slipped away, Wonwoo occupied his old position against the windowsill, letting his head tilt back until it bumped with the glass. A timidly building sickness ached in his stomach at the worry of all his conversations feeling like that—so agonizing, uncomfortable, with his mind racing a mile a minute.

He sighed aloud, attempting to steady his breathing.

Things would get better. They had to.

“Hey, Wonwoo! You wanna sit?”

Following the abrupt voice over to the now organized, tidied table, Wonwoo saw that it was Seungcheol who called his name. He tilted his head at an empty seat and Wonwoo decided to take the boy up on the offer rather than stumble into the undertow of his self-inflicted panic. Besides, Seungcheol was fairly relaxed and seemed easy to converse with—a much needed repose from Mingyu. As he sat down, setting his empty cup aside, Seungcheol leaned forward with his chin pressing down between his thumb and index finger.

“You okay?” He asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Wonwoo nodded. “I’m good.”

Relaxing back into his seat, Seungcheol smiled.

“Just making sure. I know it’s not always the easiest trying to make it through a Her-Mingyu-Seokmin three-way—pause—ignore how weirdly I phrased that,” he laughed, rubbing along his jaw.

The air around Wonwoo tinged with an immediate sense of relief, and he found himself relaxing, too, stretching out his legs.

“Yeah,” he then breathed out deeply, the tension in his chest loosening up. “I assume it’s best to just shut the fuck up.”

“Mmhm.” Seungcheol was eager to nod in agreement. “Yeah, exactly. Shut the fuck up, and give the most neutral answers if needed. It’s honestly a skill. You’ve gotta be a world class fence sitter.”

“So it seems.”

“Anyway, I’m curious—what’re you studying?”

“Nothing exciting. Mathematics, specifically calculus. I like a bit of data and statistics, too. I don’t know. Just, analyzing stuff.”

“Hm,” Seungcheol crossed his arms, grinning, “can’t say I’d be very good at all that. You want to be a data analyst or something?”

Wonwoo shrugged. “Maybe. I’ve thought about teaching, too.”

“University?”

“Yeah… I heard you’re in biomedical now.”

“Mmhm—switched my whole degree—can thank Junhui for that. He’s around here, somewhere. I like it, though. No regrets about it or anything. Besides—” Seungcheol turned his head toward the billiard ball table where Princess was chatting with you and Mingyu, a fond, amorous expression softening his face, “—that’s how I met Princess. I mean, she’s so intelligent, level-headed, thoughtful. Finally worked up the courage to ask her out, like… two months ago, now? Things have been smooth sailing since.”

“I can see that. You guys mesh together well,” Wonwoo answered, at first staring at Princess, but sensing his eyes naturally drift toward you and that tight hold Mingyu had at your bare waist.

“Thanks, man. Hey—I should say congrats, by the way.”

“Hm?” Wonwoo mumbled, spreading his legs. “What for?”

“Frontiers. You got a super good score.”

“Oh, that… uh, thanks. I mean, it was last year.”

Seungcheol’s face immediately scrunched with laughter.

“What?”

“Shit. It’s nothing.” Seungcheol was still chuckling a bit between his breathy words. “I love how you shrug it off. Like, whenever your name comes up, it’s always next to how smart you are, man. I love that you don’t even fucking care. If that were me, I’d be the most pretentious piece of shit—it’s actually insane.”

Wonwoo paused for a second to think, looking at his sneakers, and then back at Seungcheol, the cogs in his mind beginning to whirr.

“I didn’t think my name would come up much. If at all.”

“No, no, it does,” he answered, bouncing his fist off the table with another chuckle. “Hey—you get around more than you think.”

Maybe Seungcheol’s words were supposed to be uplifting, or rewarding to hear, but Wonwoo felt his stomach drop and a horrible, papery dryness spread throughout his mouth. He absolutely hated the thought of people talking about him, discussing him, perceiving him.

“Oh, yeah! Shit, I’ve been meaning to ask—” Seungcheol brightened and shuffled further up in his seat, “—Mingyu says you speak Korean? Were you born there, or from your parents, maybe?”

Wonwoo picked at his thumb slightly.

“Uh, yeah, I do. I was born there.”

“Same. Daegu.”

“Changwon.”

Seungcheol smiled, and when he switched so fluidly from his English to Korean, Wonwoo needed a moment to comprehend the different syllables and speech patterns hitting his ear. It was almost like a glitch, but it was infinitesimal, and Wonwoo processed it quick.

“Mingyu didn’t know where you were born. He just said he’d spoken Korean with you. It’s nice to hear, right?”

“It is. My parents still live in Changwon. Though their English is limited so I hardly ever use it with them.”

Nodding his head in understanding, Seungcheol then propped a leg onto his knee and began to grin. “It’s the same for me. I don’t know if Mingyu’s told you—he wasn’t born there but his parents spoke it around him growing up.”

“I’ve heard…”

“So Seokmin says you like to write?”

“Yes. Reading and writing.”

“I’m not much of a writer. I used to love reading. I still do, actually. But it’s difficult to make time for it.”

Wonwoo agreed. He would have never pegged Seungcheol as someone who enjoyed reading, mostly due to his reputation and his plethora of outlandish, jock friends, though he was pleasantly surprised to hear it.

“I haven’t been reading much myself. Or writing. I’m in a burnout, I suppose.” A sigh fell defeatedly from Wonwoo’s mouth. “It’s frustrating. What kind of books did you read?”

“Nothing unique. Lord of the Rings. I went through a period of really liking Goosebumps, too.” He  then bit his inner cheek in contemplation as he thought harder about his catalogue. “The weirdest book I remember reading was Walking Practice by Dolki Min. It gave me nightmares.”

“I’ve heard lots of mixed opinions about it.”

“It’s a book you read once, somehow manage to enjoy, but know you’ll never revisit… hm, it’s got me thinking…” Seungcheol was suddenly leaning forward, an arm dangling off the table as his forehead wrinkled with effort at placing a certain memory. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you used to date that girl who worked at the university library? I think her name was… shit—” he snapped his fingers a few times, bit down hard on his rosy lip while his dark brow furrowed, “—Jeanie? I believe that’s it. She always wore a little pin on her pullovers. Didn’t really talk much. At least not to me. She was shy but seemed sweet.”

For a second, Wonwoo thought he misheard Seungcheol—that the music from the speaker system was blaring much too loud and he somehow misinterpreted a word or sentence. He even dug into his ear for a second, sat up in his chair instead of casually leaning backward.

“What?”

Wonwoo hadn’t even realized he’d dropped his Korean.

“Oh, I was asking about that girl you used to date. It was Jeanie, right? She worked at the university library.” When Wonwoo kept staring at him without so much as a sound, blink, or even a tiny twitch, Seungcheol waved his hand in the air dismissively. “Fuck, my bad. I’m probably confusing you with someone else.”

“No... you’re not.”

It had felt like a gunshot—realizing the specific pronunciation and shaping of Seungcheol’s lips hadn’t been misinterpreted at all. He was in fact saying what Wonwoo dreaded, feared, like the ghost stories from his childhood that his brother would utter through a white, dying flashlight until Wonwoo uncontrollably wept. Like the last step at his parents’ house he used to constantly miss, his heart practically jamming into his throat each and every time. It was that slow, nauseating accumulation of anxiety in his stomach, coming to buzz and rumble akin to a beehive. It was all those stupid mistakes.

Jeanie. To hear her name in another person’s mouth was almost sickening. To think about her again was pure heartache.

“That’s what I figured,” Seungcheol said. “She was nice, but I don’t think she came back in the fall… I don’t want to assume anything. Just a memory.” He reeled back on the topic as Wonwoo sat adjacent to him, paler than an alabaster pearl.

“Yeah…” he managed to croak out, feeling a rasp develop somewhere deep in his throat, “we’re not together anymore.”

“Hey, it is what it is,” Seungcheol affirmed, putting on a sincere smile that Wonwoo found a pinch of solace in. “We don’t have to fuckin’ mull over it or anything. All that shit’s in the past, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Right. You’re here now, amongst friends, I hope.”

Wonwoo swallowed, thinking about what Seungcheol said.

He then shifted his head toward the billiard ball table. Vernon was now involved in a very passionate conversation with Mingyu that Wonwoo was unable to hear from his distance. The two boys were bouncing back and forth, animated in their hand motions and expressions, meanwhile you and Princess were passing the most subtly judgmental looks between each other. For a moment, Wonwoo’s gaze caught your own, to which you shot him an innocuous eye roll paired with a small but tenderly growing smile. That thick uneasiness in his chest pulled back like a receding ocean tide and Wonwoo knew he was okay again.

Seungcheol took note of the glance, and he grinned.

“It seems you’re pretty close with Her.”

Turning his attention back to Seungcheol, Wonwoo nodded.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. She’s… um…”

“Hard to describe, isn’t she?” Seungcheol answered for him, now observing the scene at the billiard ball table as well.

Wonwoo almost hesitated asking his next question, but before his brain could make much sense of it, he was already speaking.

“Does Mingyu always do that?”

Seungcheol chuckled, “do what?”

“He’s on her like a fucking sticker.”

Undoubtedly, his heart sank in at the predictable answer.

“Yeah, Gyu’s always got his eye on her. I understand where he’s coming from. She attracts a lot of attention. He straight up socked this dude in the face last year for hitting on her. I mean, to be fair, he was drunk and Her can tend to be a little… well, she likes to push his buttons. It was high tension all night. Bound to explode.”

Remembering his meal at Solar Pop with Vernon a few weeks ago, Wonwoo knew how anxious his friend had been at the thought of getting ungracefully decked in the face by Mingyu’s knuckles. While it never happened—and Wonwoo was certain then that it wouldn’t—he would hate to be on the receiving end of whatever power Mingyu did pack behind a serious punch. Wonwoo despised fighting and conflict. There was often a cutting, wolfish nature wading about Mingyu’s dark gold eyes that quite frankly petrified him enough.

Considering how fearful Vernon had seemed, Wonwoo was surprised the boy was even talking with Mingyu so freely. But that forgiving, never-take-anything-too-seriously gene was just embedded straight into Vernon’s core. He could get along with anybody.

“Hm,” was all Wonwoo hummed in response.

Since he had been laser-focused analyzing the cordial, humorous conversation between Vernon and Mingyu, he failed to note that Princess had joined her boyfriend at the table. Upon turning his head out of worry he might be caught staring, Wonwoo finally saw the beautiful girl leaning against Seungcheol’s back from behind; her arms draped comfortably around his neck and her cheek pressed to his midnight black hair. Wonwoo flashed an awkward half-smile.

“You guys getting to know each other?” She asked.

Seungcheol exchanged an agreeing glance with Wonwoo.

“Mmhm. We’re basically two peas in a pod now,” the boy proceeded to joke while Princess grinned down at him, her eyes gleaming. “Yeah, he’s pretty cool. One smart cookie, y’know?”

“Wow. Smarter than you, yeah?” She laughed, now straightening up and resting just a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, can’t be a winner in everything.”

“Oh. Maybe you can’t.”

“Shit—watch yourself, missy.”

Seungcheol quickly twisted around in his chair, managing to catch Princess by the waist and playfully wrestle her onto his lap. She hardly fought in retaliation against him, a huge, warm smile glowing from her face as she let herself get wrapped in his squeezing arms.

Wonwoo wasn’t sure if he wanted to throw up. It’s not that he was some spiteful, self-loathing recluse who couldn’t stand seeing others in healthy relationships—it wasn’t that at all. What he despised was the loneliness it reflected unto himself, and the deeply unsettling thought that he was just too damaged, insecure, and unlovable to ever truly warrant the pure trust of another. He feared he could never bring his inner self to fruitfully open in such vulnerable ways.

“Hey, Wonwoo. I just noticed your cup’s empty.”

When he connected with the earnest gaze of Princess, he realized she was pointing at the red cup left untouched by his elbow.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Do you want a beer? Or a chaser?” She offered in a polite tone as Seungcheol gently moved her long braids aside to drape over her far shoulder. “We have lots of stuff in the fridge over there.”

He bit into his lip, thinking.

“Doesn’t have to be a drink,” Seungcheol said, shrugging. “If you smoke, I’ve got some stuff already crushed up. Uh, I’ve got a bong around here somewhere. I think it’s on the shelf. Rolling papers, too. Don’t know how you prefer to smoke it.”

“Papers, usually,” Wonwoo answered.

“Cool. I’ve got that.”

With two soft, careful hands gliding up her waist, Seungcheol sweetly urged Princess to her feet and then pitched an announcement that anyone interested in smoking could come to the table.

Princess swiped the blue bong from Seungcheol’s shelf.

“I’m going for a bowl,” she said, clicking her tongue.

“Ou, me too!” Clara chirped, using Bells’ arm to help shove herself off the sofa, ignoring the way her friend whined.

“I’ll come sit with you guys,” Princess added, “just make a little room. And try not to throw up on me if you can help it.”

Wonwoo was in the midst of being accompanied at the table, with Vernon dragging out the chair to his left while Mingyu occupied the seat across from him. He watched the boy’s arm stretch out to accommodate you onto his lap, and Wonwoo assumed the hand he couldn’t see was groping your thigh underneath the table. In the pit of his stomach, Wonwoo knew what that slimy, bitter feeling was, though he refused to acknowledge it—he wouldn’t even look at you.

Seungcheol tossed a ziplock bag filled with weed onto the table and spread out an array of thin, dull, white rectangular papers.

Immediately, Vernon was tugging on Wonwoo’s sleeve.

“Can you roll mine, dude?”

“Hm?” Mingyu grunted, seeming amused. “You’re asking Wonwoo to roll your joint? You're a fucking drug dealer.”

“I’ve never met anyone who can roll as good as him,” his friend complimented, leaning back in the wooden chair and firmly shaking Wonwoo’s shoulder. “If he’s in the room, I’m gettin’ him to roll. He’s got nice, talented, dexterous fingers. Isn’t that right?”

Reaching for a translucent paper and smoothing out the crinkles, a suspect arch made its way to Wonwoo’s brow, meanwhile the tips of his ears burned with all the eyeballs examining his every fucking move. Wonwoo opened the baggie, beginning to shake out the pre-grinded bud as he held the paper in a curled shape.

“Please don’t talk about my fingers like that,” he muttered, pushing up his glasses. “Check that. You want a little more or less?”

“Nah, leave it at that,” Vernon answered.

Brushing a hand through his hair, Seungcheol then crossed his arms, smirking. “I wanna see it when you’re done rolling.”

“Me too,” Mingyu agreed, staring Wonwoo down like a hawk.

“Great. Why don’t we pass the joint around the table when he’s done with it, and we can all grade it. How fun,” you mumbled sarcastically, slumping forward and resting your chin against a palm.

“You gonna smoke or not, sweetheart?” Mingyu asked.

“I don’t know yet…”

Wonwoo knew you were staring at him while he fiddled with removing a crease in the partially rolled paper, because there was an itch crawling along him, like a sunburn, but not quite. Though, he opted to continue focusing on the joint, even with your eyes breathing him in from across the table, craving his acknowledgement.

“Lick there,” he instructed, holding the paper for Vernon.

From the couch, Wonwoo heard a bubbly laugh. It was Bells, her legs kicked up onto Princess’ lap without a care in the world while Princess sparked a lighter to help Clara ignite the sapphire bowl.

“Wonwoo, if you make one for me, can you lick it?”

He simply ignored her while carefully tucking at the joint.

Wonwoo turned to Vernon again. “Lick.”

After some finely tuned adjustments that required his utmost focus, Wonwoo was at last satisfied with the roll, then handing the joint off to Vernon for him to further pack and twist up. Once his friend finished the job, he passed the joint back to Wonwoo, who further gave it down to Seungcheol. The boy glanced over it closely.

“Damn… that’s pretty fuckin’ good, can’t lie.”

“Let me see," Mingyu practically demanded, granting Seungcheol the slimmest opportunity to even pass the joint along.

He’d snatched it up and settled back in his seat—nearly sliding you straight off his lap in the process—squinting to find some stupid imperfection or mistake he could point out, though, there was nothing. Without a word, he passed the smoke to Vernon.

“See? Told ‘ya. Glasses never fails me.”

“If you don’t mind—” Seungcheol rubbed at his bottom lip, staring at Wonwoo with a quirked eyebrow, “—could I get one?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Mingyu won’t say it but you should roll one for him, too.”

As Wonwoo pulled another paper toward him, he managed to look at you, and the little spark that jumped into your pretty eye. He smiled because you were smiling, and that always made him feel so inexplicably warm inside, like the soft melting of browned caramel.

“I can do that,” he said, to which Mingyu nodded his head.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll roll one for you, too, Her. I mean, if you want it.”

“Okay. That’s sweet. Maybe later.”

You smiled at him again.

He smiled back.

Wonwoo wasn’t sure how it happened or who initially decided the idea, but someone had suggested poker, and now the entire table was cleared off with the exception of Seungcheol’s playing cards and the multi-coloured chip stacks. They decided on classic Texas Hold’em because everyone who’d decided to join was most familiar with the style, though Wonwoo cared to dabble more in Blackjack as there was a mathematical basis to it that scratched a satisfying itch in his brain. Nonetheless, he was fairly good at Texas Hold’em, too.

Vernon hated playing with him, and he made that extremely apparent through his moaning while Princess shuffled the card deck. There was a decent number of people playing—only you, Clara, and Bells chose to sit on the sidelines and observe. Wonwoo had wanted you to play, but you kept declining, even without a concrete reason.

“Okay, everyone’s familiar with the rules, right?” Princess asked for clarification, at first burning the top card off the deck. “I’ll play dealer first round. That makes Seungcheol the small blind and Wonwoo the big blind. N'remember, you guys signed up for this, so if you can't afford to blow some money then you better be good.”

Everyone collectively agreed, and Princess began dealing the cards to all contenders until there was two before each person. Wonwoo wasn't exactly in the best position to be owing people cash, but he was a pretty solid player in his experience, though he was most comfortable going against Vernon and Seokmin. They had done a few poker nights at the random houses Vernon always claimed he was looking after for a friend. He had no idea what Seungcheol or Mingyu would be like as players. It did scare him a little.

Seungcheol made his move first—just a dollar, the equivalent of a single white-coloured chip. Wonwoo had to double the bet, so he moved out two white chips instead. Vernon decided to raise the amount to four chips, and Seokmin called the bet, matching it. Mingyu went next, his figure appearing foggy from across the table as the air became increasingly tinged with ruffles of smoke.

He called.

Seungcheol and Wonwoo both called at their turns, and thus, the first round of betting had ended. Everyone pushed forward their chips for Princess to collect, creating their small, measly looking pot.

Wonwoo kept the joint poised between his pointer and middle finger as he slyly gleaned the suit and ranks of his hand, keeping both cards flush against the table, just lifting their corners.

It didn’t seem like much and would probably result in little reward—an eight of clovers and a three of spades—but Wonwoo wasn’t looking to show out in the very first game, anyway.

He glanced toward the couch, where you were squished almost shoulder to shoulder against Clara and Bells. The bong was sat in your lap as you leaned down over the mouthpiece and sparked at the cannabis packed into the bowl. Bells curled at her long, black hair, heels dug into the edge of the coffee table, eyes glazed as pastries.

“I didn’t get anything from that,” she mumbled.

“That’s ‘cause you don’t know how to play,” Princess chuckled, again burning another card off the deck before setting down three more at the centre of the table, creating the flop.

Nine of diamonds, seven of hearts, and six of clovers.

Everyone took a minute to examine the flop, comparing it with the cards they had stowed close to their chests. Wonwoo, however, didn’t even bother comparing, as he already knew his move.

“Hm…” Seungcheol paused, rubbing at his chin and sucking in his bottom lip. “I think I’ll check.” He then leaned back, placing forth no bet at all, and instead looked to Wonwoo for his decision.

“Fold.”

“Ha!” Vernon practically choked beside him, the joint almost spat from his mouth, and Wonwoo felt the boy’s hand push in a teasing pressure at his shoulder. “You’re such a piece of shit, man.”

“Why is he a piece of shit?” Bells wondered.

“Just, uh—ah, never mind,” Vernon capitulated, still somewhat chuckling under his breath as Wonwoo smiled at him. “I’m gonna bet. I’ll put out some of these.” He slid out the required chips, forest-green in colour, each valued at twenty-five dollars.

Nibbling on his fingertip, Seokmin shook his head.

“I’m sorry, I’m folding.”

Princess smiled. “No, it’s okay! Mingyu next.”

“Hm, call,” he responded, matching Vernon's dare.

The attention returned to Seungcheol, who was rooted in his indecisiveness, pressed fingers masking half his face as he stared down at the three community cards, brow furrowed with thought.

Eventually, he shrugged. “Fuck it. I’m folding too.”

“Not feeling lucky, babe?” Princess grinned, collecting the bets placed by Vernon and Mingyu to the growing pot.

“I’m treading cautiously, let’s just say that.” He smirked.

After revealing the fourth community card, another round ensued between Vernon and Mingyu. Wonwoo relaxed back into his seat, an analyzing eye shifting from his tattooed, face-pierced friend to the stoic and collected Mingyu who was awaiting Vernon’s turn.

Wonwoo held his bottom lip between sharp teeth, then staring down at his lap in an attempt to smother that prying, wide smile, knowing the exact move his friend would make. It was Vernon, after all. And he always played big, even when he shouldn’t.

“Bet. Here you go.”

More of those green chips were moved out.

Mingyu huffed, tongue curling against his pronounced canine. “I don’t believe you, dude.”

Vernon cackled, propping up his knee and setting the heel of his sneaker onto the chair. He exhaled a smooth hit from his joint.

“Okay. Raise, then.”

Seungcheol chuckled, sharing a laugh with Seokmin who was sipping at a beer bottle from across the table.

“Fine—have it your way.”

"I’ll call.”

“Not feeling so confident, yeah?” Mingyu proceeded to laugh, eyeing Vernon closely with a testing, intrigued expression.

“I’ll let the showdown speak for itself,” Vernon pitted back.

Again, Princess collected their chips and rid the deck of its top card, and then placed down the fifth and final community card, establishing the river and the arrangement from which Vernon and Mingyu would need to create the most powerful hand. Each boy at last turned over their deck, and it was clear cut who was the winner.

“Mingyu’s got a full house,” Princess explained, standing up and leaning forward to swivel the card combination into place. “Take these three from the river, plus his nine of hearts and seven of clovers—that’s a three of a kind and a pair. Vernon can at most make a straight.” She then sat back down, pushing the entire pot to Mingyu.

“Did you win, baby?” After remaining silent for the entire game, you had finally perked up from the couch, admittedly buzzed.

Brushing back his hair, he smirked. “I won. Mr. Drug Dealer owes me about three-hundred dollars. But I guess you've just got that laying around somewhere? Stuffed up your pillow case?”

Vernon laughed, then took a deep, long drag from his joint. "If you're not sleepin' against a pillow case full of cash, I'm happy to officially give you the opportunity. Takes away all your stress."

“Congratulations,” you flashed a hazy smile at your boyfriend, courtesy of the smoke wafting through the air, like you were caught in a reverie, “I'm glad all those Sundays were well spent.”

“Okay, we’ll move down now,” Princess announced, reorganizing the cards into a deck. “Seungcheol’s the dealer, Wonwoo is the small blind, and Vernon’s the big blind this time.”

They continued to play until everyone at the table had a chance at being the blinds and the dealer. Wonwoo folded every round. He knew it might've been ignorant and distrustful, but to him, it was the perfect opportunity to see inside everyone's bag of tricks.

He’d developed a fairly foolproof inkling toward their tactics and gives. Seokmin was by far the easiest player to make fold, though Wonwoo was already well aware—he would only hold his ground if there was confidence in his hand, but even then, anyone else calling Seokmin’s bet always engendered him to squirm. And while Vernon was still a more seasoned player by comparison, his brashness and tentative nature toward folding was often his downfall.

Seungcheol and Princess were a bit harder to read.

They were alike in their more cautious, calculating style of play, and Princess clearly had experience with orchestrating poker matches. Seungcheol, however, would routinely make the same mistake that Wonwoo had noticed straight away—touching or covering his face. When he was most confident, his fingers would sit more around his chin, or jaw, and when he was dealt a shitty hand with little to no promise of creating something notable from the community cards, those fingers etched further toward his lips.

You had still refused to join the match when offered by Princess, though you were paying greater attention to the game—even stopping by to hover with interest at Mingyu’s shoulder.

Princess was back to being the dealer.

Seungcheol was again the small blind. “I’ll put up twenty.”

Wonwoo grabbed two stacks of his chips and slid them outward to double the boy’s forced bet. “Forty.”

Everyone called.

Since the pot had gone unraised, Wonwoo decided to push forth more of his chips, adding on another twenty in small stacks. “Raise.”

The eagerness to increase the bet had drained. Again, all parties at the table simply called, and Wonwoo was feeling quite confident.

“Flop time,” Princess said with a smile, neatly setting out three cards at the table’s centre for everyone to glean.

Seungcheol checked. So did Wonwoo.

“Raise.” Vernon was persistent in his choice.

Everyone matched the increased bet, now sitting at eighty chips, until it fell upon Wonwoo’s turn. Expectant eyes were drilling holes into him like he was plywood at a construction site. Under normal circumstances, Wonwoo would abhor it more than anything else, but he was otherwise relaxed and in tune with his decisions as the joint smoke warmly fluttered around him. Coughing out a tickle from his throat, he grabbed another stack of his chips.

“It’s at eighty, so I’ll push to a hundred.”

“Cunt,” Vernon coughed, though he matched the raise without so much as a leg shake or a bite at his glinting lip ring.

“Fold,” Seokmin sighed, forfeiting his hand to Princess.

Wonwoo looked across the table, watching your fingertips squeeze into Mingyu’s thick shoulders as he pondered his choice.

“Call.” He eventually decided with a shrug.

Seungcheol agreed.

By the fifth community card, Wonwoo, Mingyu, Seungcheol, and Vernon were still engaged in the match. From his analysis, Wonwoo was sure he would take the pot. Seungcheol was rubbing just below his lip using a slow thumb—there was uncertainty and doubt in the gesture. Vernon’s willingness to raise was merely intended to pressure out the others, but it hadn’t worked, and his quietness suggested there might be regret, and still, confidence, that he could somehow get away with it. Finally, Wonwoo saw Mingyu.

He'd played a handful of poker—specifically Texas Hold’em—with Mingyu when they had taken that probability elective last year.

The thing was, Mingyu had this gold-plated guise of believing his casual, unbothered demeanour couldn’t be disrupted under any circumstance—that no one would catch that transient slip of credence in those molten brown eyes or note the way he cracked the wood in the chair from fidgeting when the silence was too heavy and all-encompassing. But Wonwoo would notice. He could see it clearer than glass. The more Mingyu disguised it, the easier it poured out.

“Alright, showdown. Let’s see your hands.”

Everyone flipped their cards.

A moment of silence ensued, and then—

“Fuck you, Wonwoo,” Vernon grunted, jabbing his side.

Both him and Seungcheol could make a straight flush, but since the rank of Wonwoo’s cards were higher, he took the win.

Not to mention the rather large, admirable pot. He was pretty pleased to see those colourful bills being forked out from the losers' wallets. It truly did pay off to play with rich people, and Mingyu and Seungcheol's pockets seemed endless.

By Wonwoo's third joint of the night, he’d won more rounds than anyone sitting at the table. Vernon had cursed at him a fair amount, Seokmin hardly wanted to play anymore amongst the serious tycoons that surrounded him, and wallets were running drier than any desert. The effects of all that smoke wafting through the air and meddling with his senses was starting to take effect.

He could potentially last another round before his most concrete thinking would get whittled down to thoughtless guesses.

Before the final round had started, Wonwoo glanced down at his phone to check the time. Holy shit—one in the morning. He’d been at the party for almost three fucking hours and he was miraculously still functioning and somehow not crawling with the desperation to leave. You were seated back at the couch, head leaning on Clara’s shoulder as you waited, misty-eyed, for the final game to start. Wonwoo decided to text you even though you were sitting no less than five feet away.

[ Wonwoo | 1:02 am ]: Play the final round.

He watched as you picked up the phone from your lap to read the text message, and then, you were squinting at him in judgement.

[ Her | 1:02 am ]: um no

His thumbs fired back a response.

[ Wonwoo | 1:02 am ]: Why?

[ Her | 1:02 am ]: bc I don’t want to

[ Wonwoo | 1:03 am ]: You don’t know how to play?

[ Her | 1:03 am ]: ik how to play

[ Wonwoo | 1:03 am ]: So play.

[ Wonwoo | 1:03 am ]: Take Seokmin’s place.

[ Wonwoo | 1:03 am ]: Please? Should I beg for it?

Your scoff could be heard from the couch, and Wonwoo had to remind himself to steam out the smile twitching on his lips.

[ Her | 1:04 am ]: is it really that important to u?

[ Wonwoo | 1:04 am ]: Yes.

[ Her | 1:04 am ]: fine

[ Her | 1:04 am ]: just don’t come crying to me when u lose

Feeling especially triumphant that he was able to convince you, Wonwoo observed with a pleased smirk your quest to Seokmin’s place at the table, where you tapped his shoulder and told him to take five. The boy didn’t need to be told twice, allowing you his seat almost gratefully.

“Awe, you’re not gonna stay for the finale?” Princess asked in a crooning voice while shuffling the card deck between her hands.

Seokmin grabbed his skinny bottle of beer off the table and shook his head, his face glowing and his eyes beginning to hood.

“I’ve learned my lesson about this game: I’m not good at it, I don’t have the money, and that I should never play with Wonwoo.”

“Or me?” Vernon gestured, turning out a palm expectantly.

“Uh, right. And Vernon.”

Picking a fluff from Seokmin’s shirt and flicking it into the air, you merely shrugged, flashing him a comforting smile.

“Y’know, it’s a good thing you suck,” you said, then leaning back in the chair and folding your arms. “It means you’re a bad liar.”

“Nice to play with you, alright?” Seungcheol added, grabbing onto the boy’s hand and giving it a firm clasp as he walked by.

“Thanks. I think I’ll go back downstairs and see if I can find more people I know. Enjoy the game, guys! Tell me who wins!”

“Probably me,” you answered, waving him goodbye.

“Hm, I didn’t think you’d play at all,” Mingyu remarked while Princess began sorting out cards to everyone, and Wonwoo noted the boy's leg jostling underneath the table. “Feeling confident, are you?”

Poking out your tongue playfully at Mingyu, you smiled. “Yes. Don’t even think about trying to riddle me. I’ll see right through it.”

The game started out as usual. Seungcheol and Wonwoo offered the blind bets, and everyone at the table called. No one seemed keen to fold, even when Princess revealed the flop and his heart smacked in another resounding thump. An eight of spades, a king of spades, and an eight of clovers. Wonwoo then slipped his gaze around the table, particularly studying you, who hadn’t stopped grinning since the game started. Of course you would be grinning. There was nothing very coy or subtle about you upon any first glance.

Wonwoo discreetly lifted the corners to his playing cards. He caught the wind in his chest. There was an ace of spades, his very first all night, paired with a nine of spades. It took all his self-control to remain muted on the outside and let his joint continue burning.

At the fourth community card, the pressure was starting to seep through, and the intimidating, stacked size of the pot collected before Princess was only making the fold especially tempting.

Every time it seemed like a call was in order, someone would raise, and the bets kept climbing until the glass ceiling was at last hit.

Seungcheol brushed antsy hands down the back of his head, scattering his hair and puffing out his chest in a large, accepting sigh.

“I’ve gotta fold. There’s no way.”

Balancing a joint at the corner of his mouth, Wonwoo grabbed another stack from his chips and slid it outward, knowing there was little to no chance he would lose the round.

“Raise,” he announced, exhaling a deep breath.

“Oh my God,” Vernon mumbled into his palm, taking a moment to tap his fingers against the wood, “… I have to fold. Yeah, I’ve gotta. A smart man like myself knows when to quit. You got me. Fucker.”

Unphased by the hopeless, daunting feeling that swelled around the table, you merely crossed a leg and dared to not only match, but raise the amount of chips that Wonwoo had audaciously put forth. Mingyu was slumped in his chair with a musing expression, eyes stung red and the thick fronds of his hair messily strewn about from how often his fingers dug through them. He eventually cleared his throat from the hot prickle and shook his head in conviction.

“No, you’re lying. I don’t believe it.”

But you just smirked and fluttered your lashes.

“What’s your move then, babe?”

“I’ll check.” Mingyu shrugged, agitated by his own response.

And to that, Wonwoo poured more gasoline on the fire.

“Raise.”

“There is no fuckin’ way your cards are that good,” Vernon grumbled between half-sealed lips, attempting to hold the joint still with his mouth while he sparked the end using his lighter.

“I’m raising your raise,” you challenged, “one-hundred.”

As his hand fell onto the table with a loud rattle, Vernon started to cackle. “There’s no way your cards are that good, either.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You lilted.

“Mingyu?” Seungcheol hummed to get the boy’s attention. “It’s your move, man. What’re you gonna do?”

Wonwoo could see it scribbled all over Mingyu’s face. He didn’t want to get caught in the intense bidding flare between you, because he obviously knew his cards weren’t high enough rank to claim the pot at showdown. Wonwoo wasn’t planning to fold because the community cards were aligned in his favour. That steely, brash façade of the golden boy across from him was wearing increasingly thinner and Mingyu had seemed to realize it himself. After an almost agonizing silence, he pushed his cards away from him, forfeiting.

“Yeah, I can’t do it. Fuck you guys.”

“Oh, that’s too bad, sweetheart. That’s too bad, ” you giggled, leaning over to sling an arm around his shoulders and stipple his cheek in small kisses that Mingyu wriggled from.

“Alright, just fuckin’ get to the showdown already,” he tutted.

Wonwoo couldn’t have been happier that Mingyu removed himself from the game. It was solely between him and you, now.

“You raised to one-hundred?” He asked for clarification.

Nodding your head, you agreed. “Yes. One-hundred.”

The thing was, Wonwoo knew he was going to win. Even without Princess revealing the final community card, there was an opportunity for him to make a straight flush. Unless an unprecedented stroke of luck had fallen into your own hand and you could somehow make a royal flush, the game was already decided.

Unless Wonwoo folded.

“I’ll raise,” he answered, wanting to test your limits.

“Jesus, this is gonna take all fuckin’ night, isn’t it?” Vernon proceeded to groan while exercising his stiff shoulder.

You smiled, and a glint illuminated in your eyes like a fallen star the size of a perfect sand grain.

 “Should I make it more interesting?”

Uncrossing your leg, you sat up straight, pressing tight against the table as you braced an arm behind your remaining chips and shoved them forward slowly, right into the table’s centre. Everyone began to mumble excitedly at the brazen act, though Wonwoo could only focus on you and that mischievous but beautiful curve to your lips, ignoring everything else in the room.

“All in.”

He felt a fist lightly strike his chest.

“Glasses! You’ve gotta match that!”

Seungcheol was rubbing along his chin, grinning.

“That’s gonna make a huge pot… lotta money…”

“He’s been making moves all game,” Princess laughed. “Not that I’m pressuring you, Wonwoo. I mean, it’s your call.”

Mingyu shook his head. “She’s so bluffing.”

“Hush up so he can think!” Vernon cackled.

There was so much sound and noise and voices. But, through the cacophony and haze of all those distractions, Wonwoo could see into you so clearly it was like you had become magically transparent. In turn, you were staring at him, awaiting his response, and he felt those sharp eyes shearing at his fabricated thoughts, picking them all apart into little corners and strips and threads. It was impossibly subtle, and only Wonwoo caught it—your head just beginning to shake in disagreement.

However, Wonwoo had already made his decision.

“I’m folding.”

Vernon’s fists struck down on the table like a thunderous clap, and the tension nailed into the atmosphere suddenly burst.

Before Wonwoo could even make sense of the exploding conversation, his cards were pulled away from him by Princess. She flipped over both yours and his hand.

“Wonwoo, you stupid fuck!” Vernon practically leapt from his chair, wriggling at the boy’s shoulder. “That’s a straight fl—oh my god! I’m actually so—you could have easily won that!”

“Okay, okay. She’s got a straight flush, too!” Princess called, pointing down at your cards. “But Wonwoo’s rank is higher.”

“Doesn’t matter, anyway,” Mingyu said, pushing back in his chair and stretching out his muscular arms. “He folded. Her wins.”

Seungcheol sifted through the colourful chips.

“Looks like he owes you about five-hundred bucks.”

Continuing to smile at you, Wonwoo picked the joint back between his lips, borrowing Vernon’s lighter to fizzle the end and keep the paper burning. Your arms were crossed, hardly pleased.

“Looks like I do.” Wonwoo accepted through a wispy exhale of smoke, rolling out his shoulders and further quirking his lips.

After the final poker match, everyone decided to disseminate and take about half an hour to excuse themselves. Mingyu went back downstairs with Seungcheol so they could keep an eye on the general rowdiness, making sure people hadn’t started rioting or smashing vases, swinging from chandeliers and drinking questionable concoctions out of high-heeled boots.

Vernon wandered off in search for a washroom since Princess had occupied the nearest one down the staircase, at first helping nurse Clara through her incoming bout of alcohol sickness, with Bells joining them a few minutes afterward when that last sip decided to lurch back up her throat.

Only you and Wonwoo remained in the attic.

He was sat widespread at the sofa, slumped down, eyes closed, attempting to appreciate the high that could be attributed to the third joint he was now halfway through smoking. But then he felt the cushion beside him dip, and there was a pinch sinking rather harshly into the flesh on his hand that made his eyes fling back open.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Wonwoo moaned, rubbing over the small, crescent shaped branding dug by your fingernail.

Settling down notably close to Wonwoo, your knee prodded into his thigh while your one leg folded over the other. That scowl had yet to be ironed out from your countenance, and he could only suspect you were about to come down hard in regards to his stunt.

“Boo hoo. You’re such a lying liar who lies.”

Wonwoo stretched out a hand to his face, massaging slow against his temples while he sighed, “lying’s part of the game...”

“No—” the retort shot out with an electrifying quickness, “—not your type of lying. Your double-crossed lying. You’re a fraud.”

“A fraud?” He echoed, letting the hand fall into his lap. “Okay, that’s a bit accusatory. I wouldn’t call what I did fraudulent.”

Shifting his elbow off the arm of the couch, the joint was poised back at his lips, and Wonwoo couldn’t help but chuckle at your glaring, stiff face. He swiftly blew out his hit, smirking hard.

“I hate you for what you did. I mean, you should have gone all in and matched me. But, no! You took the wuss route and made me look stupid! It taints everything. And you better wipe away that jovial curl in your lip before I sock it off your face and steal your cig.”

Wonwoo tilted his head at you, perking an eyebrow.

“How’d you know my cards were better?”

At first, the question visibly stumped you. There was a lag in your response—an open mouth but not a single word to follow.

Then, it seemed as though you breathed out all your rage.

“Don’t ask such a dumb question,” sounded your calm sigh, with a leg bobbing up and down, “you made it so obvious.”

“I did? Hm.”

“Yeah…I know your tactic. You make everyone feel and nice and comfortable playing with you. Then, you totally flip the script and pull out the rug.” Your shoulder was digging into his and you two were now squished together so closely that he could feel your radiating warmth and smell the fragrance in your hair. “For someone who’s so damn quiet, your eyes are like a book. They just swim and trash with everything you’re thinking. So, don’t think you’re all that.”

Wonwoo switched the joint to his other hand, instead leaning against his fist and peering aside at you who seemed so certain of everything. Admittedly, he’d never heard that before, and if he weren’t beyond drowned in the watery red glowing behind his hooded gaze, your spiel would have downright terrified him.

It wasn’t that you just knew Wonwoo, it was that you were beginning to understand him and the way his mind operated.

No—if he were sober, that thought would obliterate him.

He shrugged. “I don’t think I’m all that.”

“Blah, blah. Y’know, the one thing about you that bothers me—you’re actually not a loser. People like you Wonwoo. People are impressed by you. They want to know you. And you just keep them at bay with your stinging hot fireplace poker, jabbing at them in case they get too close. I see it. And—I don’t know, maybe you’re right to keep all those people out. Maybe it gives you more control.”

Wonwoo dragged a hand along his face, laughing. “I think I’m a little too high to be having that conversation with you.”

“No, you’re not. You just don’t want to talk about it as usual. I don't suppose you've got five-hundred big ones in your wallet, do you?”

He shot you an obvious glance while chuckling, "absolutely fucking not. But sit tight, though. I can get it to you somehow."

Your head shook. "I don't care about the money."

He stared down at the joint aglow in his hand.

And then he was holding it out in front of you.

“Hit?”

You hesitated, but ultimately grabbed it, positioning the joint between your index and middle finger akin to a cigarette. Wonwoo watched intently at the soft inhale you breathed in, and the gradual relaxing of your chest as the smoke was gently puffed outward.

“Not so tough, is it?” He hummed in his deep, velvet-smooth voice, to which you squinted at him and scrunched your nose.

“I just studied how you did it, that’s all.”

Your knee was now pressed atop his lap. Wonwoo felt that momentary, passionate itch to settle his palm flat against your warm skin—ignore all boundaries that existed between you as well as their scalding consequences just for the sake of sweetly touching you, the one visible hope in his life. Still, Wonwoo was too afraid. As much as he wanted all your light and love to himself, it could never be true.

“We’re doing lines next,” you said, “… are you gonna do it?”

“Oh, no.” Wonwoo shook his head. “I tried it once and it went fucking terribly. I’m not gonna bother messing with it again.”

You looked relieved.

“That’s good. It’s so weird for me. Like, when it first enters my system, everything feels strange and I get this spinning, nauseating sensation. But it always passes. And then I let everything go.”

Wonwoo quirked at you a barely-there smile.

“I know it’s obvious—just be careful, alright?”

You puffed out another hit.

“I will.”

It was a bit strange—to just stand there, off to the side, as an observer of someone who was lining up a perfect streak of white powder using their credit card. And yet, that’s what Wonwoo had found himself doing, staring without much shame as you, Mingyu, Vernon, and Seungcheol began pressing shut one nostril and inhaling the cocaine through the other. Wonwoo never bothered to ask Vernon how he acquired the coke, or what he paid for it, or how he even knew someone that could baggie it up for him so nicely—Wonwoo didn’t ask anything of the sort because he’d rather avoid prison.

Though, that might be inevitable in the bigger picture. His closest friend was a drug dealer. By nature, he was already associated.

Princess had walked over to him, dropping off some bottled water from the fridge that he immediately uncapped and gulped down. It seemed his efforts to mend that broken circadian rhythm of his had done some actual good, because Wonwoo was feeling the tire spread over his eyes and the energy deplete from his body like an inflatable with an air leak. You had snorted the coke almost a little too naturally. He remembered an old conversation with Vernon—she takes that shit like it’s pixie dust—and he supposed it made sense.

He helped Princess shove the window open again to let some freshness back into the warm attic space. She spent a moment or so staring down at the driveway, watching the people come and go.

“How are Bells and Clara?” Wonwoo asked.

She glanced at him, though her brown eyes eventually wandered back to the ongoing buzz outside and below.

“Clara is totalled,” Princess sighed. “She’s lying down in one of the spare bedrooms. A friend is looking after her. Bells on the other hand...” she glimpsed over her shoulder, scanning the room, “I’m not sure where she went. I thought she came back upstairs, but it’s likely she wandered down to the living room. That girl is all gas, no breaks. Throws up one second, back to sloshing the next.”

Wonwoo swallowed more of his cold water.

“I take it Seungcheol owes you a dinner?”

“Ha—yeah, he owes it to me big time,” she muttered, at last turning her back to the breeze. “Good thing I didn’t let him drink that fucking whiskey. Holy shit. It would be worse than Clara.”

“Hm…” Wonwoo hummed, suddenly wondering aloud as he watched you cough into your fist at the table while Mingyu rubbed his nose and patted your cheek. “He doesn’t do it all the time, though?”

Princess folded her arms and smiled.

“No, she doesn’t.”

“She?”

“Her.”

“Oh. I was asking—”

“I know what you were asking. You don’t have to hide it.”

Wonwoo thought about further countering Princess’ assumption, but the way she was watching him—head knowingly tilted with that smitten crook so rightfully framed on her glossed, shiny lips—he knew it would be futile to even try. He felt relief at the confirmation, too. As long as you were careful. Really fucking careful.

“Sorry,” he answered, shrugging.

“Nah, apology not needed.” Princess shook her head.

The girl proceeded to look down at her feet, remaining silent and pensive—toying with the idea of saying something important but ultimately weighing its consequence before involving Wonwoo.

He was sipping from his water again when Princess at last cleared her throat, then holding the swig between his cheeks.

“Um, I don’t know, exactly, what it is you and Her talk about, or what you write about, or what you two do, ever. Just, uh, whatever it is—and maybe it’s best I don’t know—she’s really… happy. Not that she wasn’t happy before. But… it’s different, y’know? The energy is different. And I see this really, really beautiful light in her that I’ve never seen before. So, yeah. I’m glad you two are friends. And that you listen to her and stick by her and help her with this new craft even when she’s not the most cooperative, or… well… y’know… it’s Her after all. You don’t really know which version you’ll get.”

Wonwoo still hadn’t swallowed. The water was becoming uncomfortably lukewarm in his mouth but he held it there.

Princess dusted off her shirt, smiling again. “Anyway, I’ll go check on Seungcheol. Probably try to find Bells. Ah, later.”

Only when the girl had left him alone at the windowsill did he finally choke down that large sip, bracing through it as though he’d just downed some especially bitter cough syrup. His mind was replaying pieces of Princess’ speech in addition to that appreciative, even admirable look she had been giving him. He didn’t know what to take from it. He didn’t even know what he was feeling. All his emotions were cooking in one big heap at the pit of his gut like a disproportioned stew. Wonwoo rubbed a hand along his face in partial confusion and agony, hearing a giggle from you somewhere across the room, as he attempted to sort everything out.

Wanting to move somewhere a bit quieter, Wonwoo thought he might try his luck with the rooms down the staircase, and hopefully not waltz into anything he so clearly shouldn’t have. Yet, just as his hand ghosted along the wood railing, Wonwoo was suddenly colliding with someone and the rapidly permeating, muddled scent of daisies, cannabis, and fireball was filling his nose.

His water bottle dropped to the floor and rolled to the base of the stairs. Fingers scraped deep into his shirt. He grabbed onto the person’s waist with instinct, helping to steady them.

“Fuck—holy shit. Thanks, Wonwoo.”

But then the realization had metaphorically slapped him.

“My bad. Sorry.”

It was Bells who’d been stumbling up the stairs and plowed straight into his chest. She didn’t seem the most present, either.

“No, no, no. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

The last thing he wanted on planet Earth was to get sucked into a conversation with her—not that he had any sort of grudge or concrete reason to dislike the girl—but his head was starting to ache and he craved peace and quiet for just five fucking minutes.

Her fingers were still wound into his shirt, almost holding him there, against the banister of the stairs, and Wonwoo couldn’t help but stare straight into her intensely dilated eyes that studied him like a shark.

“Uh, all good...”

Wonwoo honestly wanted to grab the girl by her shoulders and physically set her aside. At the same time, he didn’t think it was the best protocol to act so uncouth with one of your close friends.

“Oh, sorry!” It seemed to dawn on her that she was pinning him against the handrailing. “I just didn’t want to fall.”

She at last loosened her fingers, though Wonwoo noted how she somewhat dragged her hands along his chest in the process of doing so, like that girl had done earlier to Vernon. It was unnecessary, but she was drunk, and Wonwoo thought he could end the conversation quicker if he remained pleasant. Stood at the top of the stairs, Wonwoo smiled at her, knowing how exhausted he was inside.

“I hope you’re feeling okay.”

Bells smiled, swaying her shoulders, “I’ve never felt better.”

“… Are you… sure about that?”

“Mmhm.”

“Do you need water or anything?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Uh, alright, cool. Well, I’m gonna go—”

“Wonwoo, wait.” She latched onto his arm, fast and sharp.

He paused, not so much because of her grip but mostly from shock, as she had suddenly moved in closer and he could now feel her strength squeezing against his bicep. She batted her eyelashes up at him demurely, and there was nothing he stomached but discomfort.

“What are you doing after this?” The girl hummed, lowering her voice and intentionally smoothing it to add a sultry effect.

Dry swallowing, he debated whether or not he should even respond and instead simply peel her unwanted hand off his arm.

“… Going to bed?” He croaked, shifting in his place.

“Would you want to do something with me?” She bit her lip. “My apartment’s in South Elm. Have you ever been there?”

“It’s not a good idea.” Wonwoo was losing his patience.

“Awe, not a good idea? Why’s that?” She giggled, slowly massaging her hand down the length of his bicep and nibbling on her inner cheek. “We can do anything you want at my place… I live alone… so, I’m up for it. Anything at all.”

“Okay, uh, look. I don’t want to be—”

All of a sudden, Bells was ripped from Wonwoo like a sticky bandage, and while he was more than confused at the situation, he was nonetheless relieved. He assumed it was Princess who’d done the deed, and thus Wonwoo was very surprised to learn that it had been you—you, who did not appear happy in the slightest, and his relief was starting to transform into thick concern because it seemed as though you were going to ricochet Bells head off the banister.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” You shouted, shoving a belittling hand against Bells' shoulder and tugging her away. “Why are you fucking cornering him like that?!”

“Uh—what? Cornering him? Her, I’m so confused.”

“Confused? About what, Bells? You’re fucking harassing him! Like, why are you in his face and putting your hands on him?!”

“Woah, woah, woah. What’s your fucking problem? I wasn’t in his face; I’m talking to him. Just talking. You’re jumped up again.”

“Jumped up?! You're one to talk!”

Wonwoo at first tried to intervene, mostly out of serious worry for Bells safety, because you were steaming. However, every time he attempted to speak up, his words would drown out in the echo of your squabbling. It didn’t help that you two were both mentally degraded in your own right—all that anger was shooting straight from your chest to your mouth with no thought involved.

“Just leave him alone!” You jabbed a finger at her chest.

Bells slapped your hand away. “Don’t touch me!”

“Oh, why? Does it make you uncomfortable, having someone in your fucking face, touching you without permission? Does that make you upset, Bells? Hm, wow. So funny you would say that.”

Wonwoo settled a hand at your shoulder, tugging at you once, then twice, wanting to pull you back without being too forceful.

“It’s okay,” he assured, though his heart was pounding and he wished someone else would help or even take note of what was happening, “it’s not a big deal, alright? Nothing worth all this.”

Again, he was completely ignored.

“So, that’s it?” Bells laughed, throwing up her arms. “Only you can talk to him, and look at him, and breathe around him? That’s all you? No one else is allowed to like, have a conversation with him?!”

“You don’t want to have a conversation with him!” Your fists balled up tight as you screamed at her. “You want him to fuck you!”

“Okay, okay—!” Wonwoo jolted with panic when you pushed the drunken girl, immediately coiling his arms around your waist and lurching you backward before a flailing hand could strike Bells’ face.

Bells stumbled for no less than second until she regained her balance and looked to you with the most seething, nettled eyes.

The situation seemed on the precipice of exploding beyond control, with you wriggling and thrashing against his arms, employing a strength he couldn’t have expected amidst your sluggish state. You were shouting at him to stop intervening, though, he knew letting go meant you would most likely beat the girl’s breaks off.

Thankfully, at the nick of time, Mingyu had sprinted across the room, catching Bells' arm just before it lashed out in a strike.

“What the fuck is going on?!” Mingyu grunted while wrestling the smaller, feisty girl away despite all her manic squirming.

Wonwoo almost got nipped by the unbridled swinging of your elbow as he gritted through his teeth, “I wish I knew.”

He did know. However, it wasn’t the time to discuss it.

“Fuck! Just take Her downstairs!” The boy shouted.

Jesus Christ—that was easier said than done. Trying to haul you backward down a staircase as you twisted, kicked, and screamed a very colourful litany of profanities at your friend was the exact nightmare it sounded like. Vernon’s head had suddenly popped over the banister, staring down at you and Wonwoo, his eyes blown wide with pure befuddlement, as though he wasn’t sure if it was real life or a narcotic delusion. Princess had gone to help Mingyu calm down Bells. Seungcheol had joined the commotion, too, though he didn’t come across the most intelligible. His mind was all fog.  

And yet, somehow, Wonwoo managed to ply you away from the stairs and into the corridor with hardly a breath to spare.

—END OF PART III.

[minustwofingers]

cool about it teaser

pairing: closetedfem!reader x ellie

request? yes, by @gold-dustwomxn (:

summary: life in the apocalypse is hard enough. the last thing you need is unrequited feelings for your best friend—who is very much off limits. so you'll just be cool about it. really cool about it. set in a loose interpretation of canon where i toy around with the timeline and storyline just the slightest and this is also a bit of a slowburn

warnings: ur closeted asf, queer angst, gross men, explicit language, substance use

a/n: hey guys i haven't really been posting much recently, but i wanted to at least post two scenes from this series so u guys have an idea of what to expect...also so u guys can tell me which one you want me to work on more (love is a laserquest or this one). i hope u enjoy...sorry this one is a little disjointed! (there are many events that happen between the two scenes im sharing w u as a little treat)

I. (opening scene)

The revelation that your feelings towards your best friend had become complicated arrives with the dead of winter. It’s strange, really, how something within you came to life just as the rest of the world began to die. 

If you were wiser, you’d find ways to explain it away, to rationalize all the weird thoughts in your head. You’d cite the chill in the air. The holiday spirit running through Jackson. The desolation that came with your only outdoor companions being the brown corpses of deciduous trees and infected that hadn’t frozen in the winter storms that kept battering Wyoming. 

But with age came wisdom, and both of those virtues were in short supply in a post-apocalyptic world. So, you resign yourself to cataloging away these feelings and pretending like everything was absolutely normal and cool. 

The bad thing about having good things, you think to yourself bitterly one day as you watch Ellie’s eyes light up as she rambles in her room as you sit on her bed about a comic book Joel had found her, is that they’re risky. High risk—high reward. Ellie was special to you in a way that no one else was. And using this logic, losing her would bring such an unforeseen devastation that you weren’t sure that you could go on. 

So, normal. Cool. Chill. Because you cannot afford to fuck this one up. 

“I love when you tell me about your comics,” you tell her in a way that’s definitely not sappy sweet and gooey. 

She smiles crookedly back at you. “You’re such a fucking liar. I know you couldn’t give a shit about these.” 

“Am not!” You throw a punch at her arm, feeling your heart twist as she just grins wider. “For the record, I do give a shit. Many, actually.”

“That sounds gross.” 

“Your words, not mine.” 

And it’s absolutely gut wrenching how she can just smile at you like that, like she’s not holding your heart in her fist.

“So, uh, Cat,” you blurt out. You’d been staring at her for too long. “Dina said that you two were—uh…” 

You wave your hand around in the air like you’re sifting through thousands of possible word combinations. In reality, you know exactly what you need to say to get the answer you’re searching for. You just don’t want to ask. 

“Well…” She blushes. Her eyes drop to her hands, where her fingers are toying with the bits of cuticle she hasn’t already torn off. 

“I knew it!” you croon, hoping that the boatload of dread that just dropped in your stomach isn’t as obvious as it feels. “Tell me everything.”

“Nothing to tell,” she says. “Nothing yet, at least. It’s stupid but—I just noticed that she hangs around me a lot, you know? And, like, touches me more than she needs to. Shit like that. I dunno.”

The wound deep inside you splits like the fake grin on your lips. “Wowwwww. Look at you!” 

Ellie rolls her eyes. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I mean,” she says, her eyes twinkling conspiratorially, “What about Eddie? Jesse told me that you spend a lot of time with him.”

“We’re patrol partners,” you offer. It’s not a lie. You’re just choosing to omit the part where Eddie spends half his patrol staring longingly in your direction while you pretend not to notice. 

“I know that.”

“It’s…” You gnaw on your bottom lip. “I don’t know how I feel about that right now.” 

That’s not a lie either. Eddie is…nice. All the other girls like him, except for Dina (she has Jesse) and Ellie (she has another very obvious reason). He’s attractive. At least, that’s what Bonnie tells you. Apparently the buzzed hair and heavy bluntness found in all of his features is considered hot. 

But just because you’re not into him now doesn’t mean you could never be. That’s what your mother used to say about your father—she hadn’t liked him upon their first meeting. But it changed with time, and you’d rather have someone than be all alone. 

Ellie hums, picking at the cuticle of her thumb. “He likes you.”

“So I’ve heard.” 

“Well,” she says, “I heard Jesse’s putting on another bonfire tonight. Want to walk there together after dinner?” 

You spend another evening staring across the fire at your best friend, watching the warm glow of the flames warp and distort the shape of her and Cat, pressed up against each other and smiling wide. You aren’t sure why it makes you so uncomfortable to see them together. Homophobia? No. Maybe? You recently learned that that was a thing, but you don’t consider yourself bigoted, and being a homophobe is more of an opt-in situation, right? 

But when you try to reach deep inside to find a more plausible answer, there’s nothing. 

It’s your detachment from reality that lets Eddie drape a heavy, hard arm over your shoulder. 

“Hey,” he whispers into your ear. His breath is hot and warm. 

“Hey,” you whisper back, wanting nothing more than to get away. Thankfully, Ellie is too preoccupied with Cat to even look your way. You’re sure that you’d die if she saw Eddie touching you like this. 

“You look really pretty tonight.”

“Thank you.”

It’s like someone shone a spotlight on you, hung a sign on your neck that said, I am perceived and desired by men. You don’t know why this makes your skin crawl so much. 

Eddie’s fingers are tracing patterns on the flesh of your arm. You find that you’re grateful for the extra layer your sweatshirt sleeve provides. You don’t want him to touch you—don’t want to know what it’s like for him to deliberately make contact with your skin. 

The next time he speaks to you, it’s in a murmur that you suppose is meant to sound seductive. “You’re quiet today.”

“Just a little tired.” And now you feel guilty, because Eddie really hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s you who has an issue with a boy who’s perfectly nice and clearly likes you. 

He laughs like you’d said something funny, tightening his arm so you press into his side. His body is blazing hot like a furnace, and it feels hard and foreign.

II. (scene from somewhere in the middle )

“Sorry!” You titter at the crowd of your friends who formed at the sliding glass door. “Um—sorry.” 

It seems to be the only thing you can say. 

“Cat,” Ellie says, an edge of desperation in her voice. “Cat, please, it’s not like—”

“I’m pretty fucking sure of what I saw,” snaps Cat. She turns to Eddie, a vicious glint in her eyes. “Didn’t know your girl swung that way.” 

And then she shoves past the mass of people, Ellie kicking off from the deck railing with a stream of apologies falling from her lips as she follows behind. 

Eddie walks forward, confusion the dominant emotion in his wide face.

“Uh—I didn’t—”

“I’m really drunk,” you say to him, feeling the tears begin to spill down your cheeks. “It’s not like that. I promise it’s not like that. I don’t know why I did that.”

“Hey,” he says, opening his arms. “Come here. Why are you crying?” 

“I don’t know,” you sputter, stepping into him and pressing your snotty face into his shirt. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Fuck.”

“It’s really okay.” His hand finds the flat part of your back between your shoulder blade and rubs circles. “It’s just a chick. If it were, like, I dunno, Jesse, I would’ve been angry.”

“You’re not mad?” you ask, pulling away to look up at him. Maybe there’s something tonight you didn’t ruin. 

He smiles down at you. “‘Course not. Some guys find that shit hot, you know. Two girls kissing like that.”

The smile that seemed so innocent at first sends a sharp, chilling pang through your chest. He doesn’t seem to notice your hesitation in the way your face falls as his head dips to kiss you, doesn’t seem to register the disgust you exhibit until you have to shove yourself away.

“I’m really drunk,” you repeat, looking anywhere but his face. “I want to go to bed.” 

“I can come—”

“No.”

final a/n: like i said so sorry about how disjointed this is. i just want to get a feel for what my readers are more interested in for now!!

[thecreelhouse]

I’ll see you in my dreams

Eddie Munson x platonic!reader / Steve Harrington x platonic!reader (this is more Eddie centric though)

WC: 3K+

CW: canon character death, grief, hurt/little comfort, angst, some dark humor, mentions of the afterlife, and the like.

A/N: I started this a while ago to kinda cope with too many losses between last year and this one. I’m not fussing over editing this one, bc it was cathartic to just… get out. Sharing this for the few that were interested, but I get not everyone’s up for a sad fic these days. If you do decide to read this, thank you <3 Tell and show your friends you love them, as much as life allows you.

Title is from I’ll see you in my dreams - Bruce Springsteen (but the live version bc it makes me cry like a baby lmao)

—————

You got the call, while hundreds of miles from home.

It’s not like you knew— not really; this was the one time you weren’t home with whatever latest disaster unfolded in Hawkins. You didn’t know the danger that tried to swallow everyone whole.

You didn’t know someone you loved dearly wouldn’t make it back.

A somber tone weighs heavily on those five words: “Did you hear the news?”

In brighter circumstances, different context in a more pleasant timeline, that question could lead to something good, something worth celebrating.

Instead, those words landed on the opposite end of the emotional spectrum; even with lack of context, your heart dropped as they hit your ears.

Maybe to an outsider, that could’ve seemed like a drastic, overnight change, but deep down you knew that this had been building for much longer than one night.

You knew hearing those words on the other end of a line could send everything spiraling, no matter who broke the news, no matter who it involved, your heart would splinter apart. Nothing would ever be the same again.

Especially not after losing Eddie.

—————

A funeral— a traditional, open casket funeral— wasn’t possible, not when Eddie’s body lay rotting away in the Upside Down. Even if he was brought home, it’s not like Hawkins would welcome a funeral for who they saw to be a murderer; it’d be no celebration of his life, or mourning the good person he was, not with the entirety of Hawkins believing he was practically the devil himself.

Even so, you couldn’t make it home in time for the very hush-hush memorial service, only among close friends, and family, being only Wayne, of course.

Everyone in the party were grieving in their own ways, as people do when losing someone they love, but the loss of Eddie had a twisted spin on it. 

While your friends here saw him shortly before he was killed, before he gave up his life to try helping everyone else, you had no visual closure. That’d be unbearable, probably more-so than how you’re grieving.

Steve, Robin and Nancy saw him before they split ways with Eddie and Dustin; a plan set in motion to take out Vecna required the separation. Dustin might’ve been the one hit hardest, having to watch Eddie run off to do what he believed was right. The kid, who found one of his older brother figures, bleeding out on the ground once the bats were gone.

Dustin, too young to witness such horrors, too young to face such grief over Eddie, too young to lose his life over something no one could wrap their heads around.

Though not a competition in mourning, that kid had to have the worst grief of them all.  

You wondered if the kids on the other side of the country felt such strange, empty “closure” as you did. Though, Mike was the only one out of that group to have any connection with Eddie, being in Hellfire and all.

Then everyone else here, the kids, the older teens— one way or another, little or large, everyone had some kind of connection to Eddie. They all had faced the same living nightmare, even if on different levels, it was all in the same realm of suffering.

Steve, who called you to deliver the bad news, knew very little about Eddie before all of this. Once skeptical of Eddie— and honestly, a little jealous over the way Dustin looked up to him, feeling replaced— towards the end, had hoped if they all made it out alive, maybe the two could be friends. Maybe they weren’t so different after all.

That hope was long gone, now.

And you, what a strange plane of grief you existed on. You left to start life over elsewhere, reluctant to leave your friends, but in need of change. Being away for almost one year, away from your friends, made this loss harder to comprehend.

Eddie would never be home when you’d return. Your mind took that as a “see you soon”, not a “goodbye”; you’ll never see your best friend again, but the distance warped your thoughts into “this is temporary.”

Death is certain, death is final, and you were well aware of that. You often had to remind yourself, though, that he wasn’t just absent because of the miles between you two, but absent forever.

Maybe that’s nowhere near as heavy as the grief everyone else has carried, and will carry until the end of time, but it certainly didn’t make this any easier to cope with.

—————

The quarry seemed like a good, quiet place to cry it out, for some reason.

Lost in your thoughts, daylight slips away; you turn to Steve, who was watching you closely, like you were too fragile to be left alone.

“Hey… you don’t have to stay,” You kick at an empty beer can by your feet, unable to look him in the eye. 

You couldn’t look anyone in the eye since coming home.

“I want to.”

You sigh heavily, “Steve—“

“I mean it. We don’t have to talk, or anything.” His voice is gentle, calm, even through the moments it threatens to break. “I— I’m here for you. We all are. You know that, right?”

You nod, pulling your knees to your chest, staring out at the quarry’s water.

“M’here for you too.”

It comes and goes, fluxes and flows; grief is funny like that. Things you’d expect to weigh so heavily on your heart, don’t; instead, the tiniest details of loss engulf you in what feels like a bottomless lake of dread.

“He did this… really stupid thing, always shoving straw wrappers in my glovebox when we’d grab food somewhere.” You chuckled, already bracing yourself for the inevitable. “On the drive back here, I opened the glovebox for my lighter, and all of these— these fucking straw wrappers, all crumpled up in like… like some damn accordion—“ Laugh wavering by the threat of a sob tightening your throat, you shake your head. “Fucking goofball would say he folded them like that so they’d spring out like confetti. And the fucker was right.”

Steve laughs with you, but it’s somber, and before you realize you’re crumbling again, his arm winds around your shoulders, cradling you into his side. 

“I cried more over that than when you called me with the news.”

He keeps silent, because right now there are no words to bring comfort, not without forcing a positivity neither of you can or want to carry currently. Sometimes having someone to listen is a little more soothing than screaming into the void.

“I keep— I tried calling him. Took a few rings to realize it’d only be his uncle that’d answer. Can’t listen to the mixtapes he’s made me, ‘cause I can’t bring myself to hear his voice on them with his silly intros. But I tried calling him to hear his voice again anyway. My brain feels… broken.”

The sun is fully set now, with a pink-orange hue lingering in the sky, mismatched to your emotions.

“He never got to fucking graduate. This is so wrong. My best friend is—“ A sob slips out as the force of a bleak reality settles in all over again; it gets cozy, makes itself at home in the walls of your shattered heart, when you never invited it in.

Steve’s rubbing your back softly, signaling quietly to continue, if you need. That’s when the shattered debris of your heart crumble further; at this rate, there’ll be nothing left. 

Maybe it’s not so bad being heartless. It’s gotta be easier than feeling … this. 

A double edged sword is the human experience, with it’s cruel lesson of grief, whichever path you take. You could be cold, bitter, but lonely, by not allowing anyone in; it’d save you the heartache of losing anyone you love. But you could also love, and be loved, experience this nightmare of life together, rather than stumbling alone; final goodbyes and a hole in your heart are the price to pay.

Maybe, it’s worth living a life rich in love and community, even if the payoff is a grim one.

“I’ll never see him again. None of us will. I kept staring at the door, expecting he’d walk through the door now that I’m home… use the spare key like he always did, waltz right in like everything’s fine. He was the only friend I had that liked going to concerts, or skipping out on a good night’s sleep to take last minute road trips in that janky-ass van of his.

“Now all we have of him are blurry, out of focus pictures, and notes with his goddamned chicken scratch handwriting. Everything in that DnD notebook he kept, all the campaigns and drawings… all his music, his battle vests—“ You glance up at Steve, finally. “The vest he let you wear, you know how many fucking times he stabbed his thumb sewing those patches? I finally got him a thimble so he’d stop jabbing himself with those whip stitches… for what? Now he can’t even fucking use it.”

The tiniest of details of loss really are the culprit of heartbreak.

It pains Steve that this is just one of those things where he can’t protect his friends from the hurt. He can’t shield you or anyone else from the inevitable heartbreak and unpredictable mourning this has and will continue to bring.

“It kills me the two of you didn’t have more time to get to know each other. You’re both Dustin’s favorites, you were so much more alike than either of you realized.” Rubbing your eyes, you murmur, “You’re both my favorite people, too. And I- I should’ve been here, I never should’ve left—“

“No, we all wanted you to be happy, wherever you went. I’m sure Eddie would’ve kept pushing for you to follow your dreams if you tried to stay.” Steve rests his head on yours; the position is a little awkward, with how you hold one another, but it’s a closeness you need, all the same. “I would’ve, too.”

For a few moments, you sit on unspoken words that come to mind; maybe they’re too bold to speak aloud, but your mouth’s always one to be miles ahead from your thoughts.

“You’re not allowed to die before me.”

It’s almost a silly demand, one that makes him snort a little, pulling back with a confused expression.

“What?”

“I mean it. You, everyone, I can’t handle this right now, how the hell would I handle losing anyone else? I could never handle losing you.”

“I’d never be able to handle losing you, either.”

“Well, I said it first, so wait your fucking turn.”

You glare at Steve, bleary-eyed and appearing just as bad as you feel, falling into a stare-off with him. It doesn’t last long; the two of you burst into laughter, real laughter, over how damn ridiculous that exchange was.

“This— this is fucked up to even joke about.”

“Oh, like dark humor’s not up Eddie’s alley? Please.” Your grins, short-lived, fizzle out, leaving the two of you in heavy silence. You don’t mean to break it, especially with such a naive thought, but you do. “He’s really gone… isn’t he?”

Steve nods with a sniffle, not bothering to pull tissues out of his pocket anymore— if there’s any even left to begin with.

“Y’know… back when my parents were around more, my mom told me something kinda comforting when my grandma died.” With a deep breath, his stare falls to the ground beneath the two of you. “I don’t know if it’s true, but she said that people visit you in your dreams after they pass. Kinda like… like, they’re telling you they’re okay on the other side.”

“Did you see your grandma?”

“Yeah, that night, actually. Maybe it’s some weird, psychological thing, ‘cause that’s kinda what dreams are anyway. Just your subconscious trying to tell you shit.”

You lean back, brow quirked in skepticism. “Since when did you become a dream expert?”

He huffs a laugh, “I got desperate trying to cope with the nightmares. Anyway— point is, I think you’ll see Eddie again. Dustin already saw him in his dreams, said he thanked him for trying to help…” Steve hesitates for a second, finishing, “… and for not allowing him to die alone.”

That just feels like a sucker punch straight to the gut.

“What if it’s just a way to cope?” The brain does some fucked up shit when you’re neck deep in pain; you and the others in the group are all too familiar with that. 

“If it is, so what? You have to grieve, or it won’t get easier. And Eddie might’ve beat himself up for running away, but he wasn’t the kind of guy to leave without saying goodbye. Not to his friends, at least.”

—————

There’s a full moon tonight, with only its light guiding you through the woods, but you don’t feel unsafe. There’s no sense of threats, or danger. Just calm, like you’re supposed to be here. The clearing of the trees reveal Lovers’ Lake, with Eddie’s van parked right at the edge of the water.

Hope floods through you, overflows into unshed tears and a pace picking up, closing the distance. You round one of the open doors of the van, finding your best friend. He strums lazily along the strings of his guitar, worn notebook laying open, with his famous chicken-scratch penmanship, chaotically covering the pages.

Eddie glances up, warmly smiling at you.

“Hey, punk.”

It’s a voice your heart’s been both aching to hear again, and not ready for, not yet. The sight is even harder to take in, overwhelming as you race through emotions rapidly.

But it’s like nothing’s changed. Nothing is different, not for now, at least.

You greet him like you always have, “Hey, freak.” Climbing into the back of the van, muscle memory almost leads you to your usual spot, a mountain of pillows in the van; this isn’t a casual hang out, though, so you settle next to him, legs dangling over the bumper. “You’re really here.”

“Harrington was right, y’know. I had to say goodbye the way we’d both want.”

There’s a light mist that dances along the lake’s surface, blanketing the entirety of it, but it’s soothing to see. The stars above, brighter than you’ve ever seen in your entire life, shimmer and glitter above.

“Yeah, guess we’re not getting stoned though, huh?”

Eddie sets his guitar behind him, sighing heavily.

“Maybe later, way later, when you make it to this side someday.” He throws an arm around your shoulders, giving a squeeze. “It’s not so bad here… but it’s not like I wanted to be here so soon.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t really get to see you before— before—“ Even here, it’s far too painful to say aloud. “I should’ve been here with you, with everyone—“

“You can’t plan your life around death, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, but it’s— I know it sounds silly, but not seeing you… not being here before you l- left… my mind refuses to believe it. I’m never gonna see you again, and my stubborn brain keeps trying to convince itself you’re still here.”

“That’d be denial, I believe.” He tries coming off lighthearted, but it falls flat. “Y’know I’m always gonna be with you, right? All that corny shit, in your heart and stuff, among the stars— whatever you wanna believe, I’m there.” He pinches his thumb and forefinger together, scrunching his face up as he adds, “I’ll even be in the teeny, tiny, little straw wrappers I hid everywhere in your car.”

“Oh my god, there’s more?!” You laugh through your tears, but it fades out fast. “Well I’m a selfish prick and want you here, with all of us.”  Kicking at a pebble, you watch it break the lake’s glassy surface. “How the hell do I keep going without you?”

“I don’t have an answer, but you just… do. Just know it’s not easy for me, either.” Eddie sniffles, then chuckles, “It’s gonna be boring as hell waiting on this side for you guys.”

That finally tugs a hint of a laugh out of you; he squeezes your shoulders again, hand shaking against you. 

“I am okay, though. There’s no angry mob ready to burn me at the stake, and no injuries, no pain. No Upside-Down bullshit, like, at all. And, as a wandering soul in the afterlife, I get to watch all the concerts I want, for free. So there’s a perk at least.” He rolls his eyes with a reassuring smile. “Aside from that… you’re gonna be okay, too.”

Eddie pulls away, reaching in his vest pocket— out fly old, crumpled receipts, loose change, some safety pins and dice; it’s a soothing sight, to see nothing changes one’s character when they make it to the other side.

“Aha!” He pulls out necklace cord, with a guitar pick dangling at the end, showing signs of wear, tear, and love over time. Sliding it into your hand, he pushes your fingers to roll into a fist. “Want you to have this.”

“Wh— but your uncle—“

“Dustin gave him the good one,” He snorts, “but my best friend gets the one with history.”

“Is this gonna be like winning the lottery in a dream, only to wake up, still broke?”

Eddie only laughs harder, smile fond, glassy gaze, a sight you take in, hoping you never forget it after waking up. He tugs you back into a bear hug, grip trembling as you mirror the hug. 

“See you later, punk.” He whispers, voice wavering. “Live a good life for me, alright?”

“Wait, Eddie, don’t— I’m not ready to say goodbye yet!” The world around you dissipates into the mist floating in, taking Eddie with it. 

You jolt up with a gasp, eyes darting around the room for some sort of sign or proof that Eddie never left, that it was all just a bad dream.

But was it really a bad dream? All things considered, even if it’s just a coping mechanism, it gives some closure.

Closure. For your dead best friend.

Sobbing, you place your hands over your face, already anticipating the pounding headache this will give you. Something pokes into your cheek, interrupting your tears.

Unfurling your hand, Eddie’s guitar pick necklace lays in your palm, just as it did in your dream.

“No fucking way…”

Holding it up against the moonlight, sneaking between the blinds, it’s the well-loved pick, scratches, worn edges and all. The way it gleams against the moon’s glow, seeing it clearly, feeling it in your hands, it’s real. And you have no idea how it could’ve wound up here, in your hand, but here it is.

This necklace won’t ease your grief, nor will recollecting the dream with Eddie, but you have the closure you needed to begin properly grieving.

Flicking on the lamp on your nightstand, you reach in the drawer for your journal, scribbling down as much of the dream as you can recall, before it fades away as consciousness settles in.

Steve was right; as shitty as this entire situation is, Eddie is okay.

He may not be here, but he’s okay. And in time, you will be, too.

[copperbadge]

Royals/Ramblers is DONE. I split the difference and made two epilogues from the five, and one of them just looks like it's part of another chapter. I am devious in my ways.

I'm letting it marinate for the rest of the day; I'll give it a quick pass tomorrow, then let go of it for a few days so when I come back I'll be ready for slightly deeper editing. Aiming to post it perhaps October or November, we'll see how life goes.

It meant I could finalize a lot of dates in the timeline that I've been building. I've had to shift some things around, so now the trick is to figure out timing for the stories now in the pipeline, based on my notes. There's ten, more or less, and whether I end up writing them all is dubious; it reminds me of plotting out Laocoon's Children, an extremely ambitious task, but unlike Laocoon's Children, I control the canon and I don't have to deal with anyone's stupidity but my own. And I'm really only focused on five of the ten right now. Which, given I wrote four of these books in fifteen months, plus three books' worth (Royals/Ramblers) for a total of "seven" books in less than two years....I guess we'll find out. Might take a break at some point to write something more literary, that's up to the ADHD I think.

Anyway, it's not necessarily the order in which I'd like to write the stories, but I've been holding off on some of these for a year already, they'll keep. I think the slate coming up is:

2023 Autumn - The Football Novel, which is already 2/3 written; it will run through spring 2024.

2024 Spring - The Chicken Salad Wars, Simon's novel, pushed out from this year to next; it has to end in August, because of Plot.

2024 Autumn - The Roman Ruin story, aka Classics Nerds In Love; this has to come relatively soon because it's prior to Jerry finalizing the dissolution of his estate. There's no set ending for this one, but it will likely need to cover at least until late spring 2025.

2025 Spring - The Let's Legalize Psychedelic Davzda story. Not ideal to push this one so far, but it's possible when I get there I could swap it with the Roman Ruin story, though that could make certain plotlines awkward.

2025 Summer - Ofelia's story, which culminates in Galian elections in early fall.

Fortunately most of them should be less work and words than Royals/Ramblers, which is a bit of a sweeping familial epic. Those five are all more-or-less unrelated to the royals directly.

The rest of them are either barely conceptions or can be set at any time (like the Quaker Whaler novel that happens in the past anyway). Which is kind of nice; I now have both a specific agenda for the immediate future and resources that I can build out once I get closer to the end of that agenda.

Phew. What a ride, and I'm still in the middle of it.

(I'd post a bit of story from Royals/Ramblers but for the last 4-5 chapters it's all spoilery.)

[theboywithburninghands]

Morning guys, or afternoon/evening depending on where you are. So, I know I said the @rottentricks story was only gonna be three chapters, but chapter two has gotten so big I wouldn’t feel right slapping a giant wall of text onto your timeline. So, it’s being split into two parts. Here you are, hope you like it!

T/W: Blood, discussions of suicide/murder, fantasy racism

Animals Ch. 2: Sheep, Part 1

What do you get for pretending the danger’s not real?

—

Pomni fell out of bed with a jolt at the sound of her telephone ringing. She hurriedly detangled her quilt from around her foot as the phone rang again, followed by the caller ID loudly and robotically blurting out:

“CALL FROM- PRIVATE CALLER.”

“Gee, thanks…” Pomni mumbled. She had no idea why her parents got her a phone with caller ID. It almost never worked unless the person had a private cell, and the only people she knew who could afford one of those were her parents… Hm, she might have just answered her own question.

She grabbed the phone off the charging dock and hit talk before it could ring again.

“Hello…?” she said sleepily.

“Hey Pomni, it’s Ragatha! Did I wake you up?”

Pomni cleared her throat. She checked her watch. 12:47 PM… sweet Jesus. How embarrassing.

“Uh- n-no, you didn’t… what’s up? You okay?”

“Oh yeah, I’m fine, hun, but have you seen what’s going on downtown?” Ragatha asked, her tone hushed. A faint susurrus could be heard in the background of the phone call.

“Uh… no. I’ve been at my apartment since I got steak from Kingston’s Charcuterie yesterday morning… Working on stuff for school, you know? What’s happening?”

“You were at Kingston’s yesterday…? You know Jax then?” Ragatha’s tone turned much more serious.

“Uh, yeah..?”

“Honey, he was arrested.”

Pomni covered up the mouthpiece of the phone and loudly swore. She uncovered it and kept talking.

“Are you serious..? Why?” she asked. Her concern was quite genuine, but her surprise was not. She knew why.

“They’re saying that it looks like someone killed Kaufmo with a knife and hung him up a tree to make it look like a suicide… oh god, it’s horrible. But they found a knife from Jax’s store in the woods nearby, and they said that was good enough evidence to arrest him. They took him in last night around 6 PM…”

Pomni sighed. She knew it would happen… Those stupid cops already had him pegged for the murderer. There was some evidence sure, but-

Well… maybe she was wrong. Maybe they did find some evidence incriminating him that came up, fingerprints (like she demanded they look for), a piece of purple fur or something… Maybe she really was just letting her biases get in the way.

“…all over Main Street. …Pomni, baby, you there?”

Pomni blinked back into her apartment, and realized that Ragatha had been talking the entire time she’d been arguing with herself.

“Uh- s-sorry you broke up for a minute, what did you say?”

“I said that someone must have said something, because there’s a huge protest going on outside the station, saying it was an unfair arrest! There’s out-of-towners, some locals, they’re all over Main Street! I think I see a news van out there..! You can probably hear ‘em right now!”

“Oh god, is that what that background noise is? Holy shit. Are… you okay, Ragatha?” Pomni asked.

“Me? I’m a little shaken up. Jax has been providing supplies for the café for years! He gives us our steak, our burgers, our bacon, our sausages… and he’s my friend. He can be a bit rude and he’s scary looking, but… I don’t think he’s capable of…killing people.” Ragatha whispered the last two words.

“I don’t think he is either,” Pomni said. “And-And I only met him for a few minutes yesterday. Sure, it’s suspicious about the knife, but he sells knives! Someone could have used one they already bought or stole one. And-And I was there when those cops showed up, and I saw how they acted! They looked ready to shoot him and one of them said something really nasty…”

Ragatha sighed. “You wanna know the sad part, honey? That doesn’t surprise me even a little. Autumnvale is a nice place, but some people around here like things in their place, and if you fall outta that place… It can be hard for you. But I hope you don’t think our whole town is like that.”

“Oh- No- No, not at all! I love the friends I’ve made here. You’ve been amazing…” Pomni said. She meant it. Ragatha had basically taken on the role of her big sister here.

“Aww… That’s so sweet of you, Pomni. You’ve got enough to eat, right? I’m sorry I closed the café yesterday…”

“No, Ragatha, don’t worry. I was fine, and you needed the day off. But I can come see you now if you want? I haven’t had breakfast yet and I ate my whole steak yesterday…”

She could practically feel Ragatha’s luminous smile through the phone. “Well sure, hun, come and visit! I’ll make you something special. Just be careful, okay? These protesters are making me nervous…”

“I will. See you in a bit, okay?” Pomni said with a smile.

“Bye.~” Ragatha said, and there was a click at the other end.

Pomni hopped off her bed and got herself dressed. Fresh underwear, then shirt, then pants, then fleece, then puffer, then purse. She looked out her window, saw it was snowing, and added a pair of black gloves and a white scarf, topped with her gray university beanie. It didn’t match her outfit, but maybe with this on, the protestors wouldn’t yell at her. She was on their side, after all, she thought something was fishy about the whole thing too…

She stepped outside, looking around at the falling snow. Big, fat flakes that looked like wisps of cotton. She held out a black-gloved hand and caught one. The flake remained on her palm for a moment before the heat from her hand caused the fluff to recede into water on her glove. She smiled.

She put her glove back on the strap of her purse, then turned to look at the stairs. They were dusted with snow, and no doubt slippery.

She huffed and gripped the railing tight. One step at a time, never let go. Repeat for all thirteen steps.

An excruciating minute later and she was at the bottom, panting and sending up plumes of steam. She appreciated being on the second floor to avoid the rats and bugs, but having to climb up and especially down these icy stairs was brutal… One of these days she was going to slip and fall and it was gonna suck.

“You okay, Miss?”

Pomni looked up at the unfamiliar voice. An abstract person sat atop a horse. They had a triangular head, bright pink, with no visible mouth and a shiny metal hook for a left hand. They wore a heavy poncho, colored dark green with yellow diamonds, and a brown cowboy hat. They sat atop a horse with an unusual coat, a nearly perfect split between black and white stripes and plain white fur.

“Um… hi. Yeah, I’m fine, just… uh… stairs.” Pomni pointed to the offending structure, still out of breath.

“Mmm. You headed into town?” the person on the horse asked.

“Yeah. You heading there too? Have you heard about the protests..?” Pomni asked.

“Yeah. I’m close friends with the guy that got arrested. I’m gonna see if I can post his bail.” they said.

Pomni perked up a bit. “Oh, great! Uh, I’m a friend of his as well! I saw the way the cops treated him…”

“Really? Tell me about it, I’ll give you a lift into town.”

The person on the horse turned their mount around the opposite direction, offering their non-hook hand. Pomni took it, carefully sliding her feet into the stirrups and climbing up onto the horse, sitting herself a bit clumsily behind the rider. The horse shook their head and snorted in annoyance.

“I’m Zooble. This is ZigZag.”

Zooble patted the side of their horse, gently tugging on their reins so they turned back towards town, then flicked the reins with a soft “giddyup.” ZigZag chuffed and trotted forward, leaving horseshoe prints in the new fallen snow.

“Hi, I’m Pomni. I’m here on an art scholarship.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot Mayor Mason started doing that. You’re here a full year, then?” Zooble asked without turning around.

“Yeah. Until I get my Master’s in May… I really love it here though… Well I love most of here. Winter has been pretty rough.” Pomni admitted.

Zooble chuckled. “Yeah, we have harsh winters. Our nights are especially bad. You’ve been staying inside after dark, right?”

“Mhm, always. If I die, my parents will have wasted money. Worse still, the college will have to liquidate my loans.” Pomni replied, putting her gloves to her cheeks in mock horror.

Zooble chuckled once again. “I’m not surprised you fit in here, you came pre-fit with small-town snark.”

“Thanks. Oh, so, yeah, I saw Jax yesterday. The cops were already gung-ho about arresting him… You’re his friend, right? You don't think he would do something like that, right…?”

Zooble was silent for a moment. “To someone like Kaufmo? No.”

“Wait- what do you mean?” Pomni asked, leaning a ways off of ZigZag to get a better look at the rider’s face.

“What I mean is that… He would never hurt anyone that didn’t really have it coming. I don’t know if you know, but the other kids made his life hell growing up. They called him a freak and said his parents abandoned him ‘cause he was so ugly and a half-breed. But… he fought back one day. It was bad. And ever since then, he hasn’t taken shit from anybody. I bet the only reason he even went with the cops is because if he put out one of their eyes or snapped one of their arms, he’d get his brains blown out or thrown away to rot. He’s got a temper, and he’s capable of a lot when you push the right buttons… but no. He wouldn’t hurt Kaufmo. Or me, or Gangle, or Rags.”

“…Or me?” Pomni asked.

“…I dunno. Are you a good person?” Zooble retorted.

“I’d like to think so…” Pomni replied meekly. “He seems to like me okay. He let me have a steak yesterday.”

“Really? He almost never gives anyone free food. He mumbles and grumbles about just giving me enough beef chuck to make stew.”

“Is that right..?” Pomni felt her face warm up again.

As they approached the town, they faintly heard the chanting of a good-sized crowd.

“AUTUMNVALE ISN’T FAIR! RACIST PEOPLE EVERYWHERE! AUTUMNVALE ISN’T FAIR! RACIST PEOPLE EVERYWHERE!”

Zooble tugged gently on ZigZag’s reins, slowing her to a stop. ZigZag nickered uneasily at the commotion up ahead, Zooble putting a hand out to pet her neck.

“Yeah, I know it’s loud, princess. Don’t worry, we’ll tie you off right here, okay?” they soothed.

Zooble then hopped down off the horse, landing firmly on both feet. They looked up at Pomni.

“Need help, city girl?”

Pomni bristled a tiny bit at that comment. Sure, it wasn’t a lie or anything, but it always made her feel… inexperienced. Sheltered.

“I got it,” Pomni replied. She looked down at the snowy ground. It was a drop for sure, especially for someone her size. Well, what did she have to lose other than the use of her ankles?

She slid off the horse, hitting the snow with both feet a bit too hard and fast, buckling and being forced to catch herself with her hands. She stood up immediately and dusted the snow off her gloves.

“You go on ahead. I gotta tie her off and put on her blanket.” Zooble said.

“Okay, thanks for the ride… Do you really think you can cover Jax’s bail?” Pomni asked, looking down at the snow.

Zooble sighed. Their breath steamed.

“Hope so. I’m just one person, and the bail for suspicion of murder is gonna be a small fortune. But I got a lot in savings. You didn’t hear it from me though.”

“I… don’t have much money, but I can try and help.” Pomni said. She desperately needed that money for groceries and art supplies, truth be told… She wasn’t sure why she even offered.

“Nah. Thanks, but nah.” Zooble said, tying ZigZag’s halter to a wooden perimeter fence nearby. “Do have a quick question, though.”

“Yeah?”

Zooble opened one of the saddle bags and looked at Pomni. Even though they had no visible mouth, looking at their eyes made it clear that they were smiling.

“You said you only met Jax yesterday, and you’re dead-set on helping him out. Why’s that?” Zooble asked, removing a green and yellow horse blanket.

“Because…” Pomni swallowed and felt her already rosy cheeks darken. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“Yup, that is true…” Zooble replied expectantly, shaking out the blanket.

“Y-Yeah. I’m… I’ll see you up ahead. Thanks again.”

“Be seeing you.” Zooble said, a laugh on the edge of their voice.

Pomni put her hands in her jacket pockets and crunched her way towards town. The roar of emotions in her belly distracted her long enough for her to reach the hubbub on Main Street.

A crowd of around four dozen people had gathered outside the Autumnvale police station, some familiar faces from around town, some people Pomni didn’t recognize that must have come from neighboring towns, maybe even her city. A few people held signs written on bright yellow or green poster paper, a few having opted for foam boards instead. They read things such as:

“DIFFERENT MAKES NO DIFFERENCE”

“YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN BLACK AND BLUE”

“AUTUMN-FAIL”

“WHERE’S THE EVIDENCE?”

“JUSTICE FOR JAX!”

An older chickadee birdman in an orangish-brown leather jacket and black toque stood at the head of the crowd. Pomni recognized him as the town doctor. She’d seen him a few times. He seemed to be the leader of the group, but that could be because he was the only one that had a bullhorn. He turned it on and spoke into it.

“We aren’t going to lay down and let the police continue to treat crossbreeds like second-class citizens! Not here, not in any other city!”

He then led the crowd in another chant of “AUTUMNVALE ISN’T FAIR, RACIST PEOPLE EVERYWHERE!”

Nearby, a news anchor and her cameraman interviewed a chess piece shaped fellow in a red flannel jacket and a fishing hat, who wrung his hands nervously.

“And you raised him, Mr. Kingston?” the anchor asked into her mic before offering it to the man.

“Y-Yes my wife and I raised Jax, the mayor found him abandoned in a cabin in the woods and brought him to us when he was just bite-sized.”

Pomni tried to walk a little closer inconspicuously.

“And you believe he’s innocent?” The anchor asked.

“Of course. Jax is a good boy. People around town have treated him so rotten.” Mr. Kingston said adamantly.

“You think that there’s bias in the arrest?” The reporter asked.

“Definitely, definitely. Some people around here still call him a cannibal, can you believe that? Just because he’s part wolf and needs meat in his diet, they call him a cannibal.” Mr. Kingston said, wounded.

“And what do you have to say about the knife that was found near the crime scene, Mr. Kingston?” The anchor asked.

“I say ‘malarkey.’ Jax sells those knives in his shop, anyone could have taken one and put it there. They probably picked him on purpose!”

Pomni listened a while longer before looking out amongst the crowd again. A few of the same cops from the crime scene the previous day stood in front of the station behind sawhorses, along with some new ones. Autumnvale must have brought in other precincts to keep the situation under control. One particular officer, a human with a gold badge and in a wide brimmed white cowboy hat and aviator shades, stood along with them, hands on his hips. Probably the sheriff.

The protest leader spoke into his bullhorn again.

“The detectives who made the arrest are nowhere to be seen! Isn’t that intriguing, everyone?”

The crowd booed.

“It seems that they feel perfectly comfortable bullying a man when they outnumber him, but once we show up, they go missing! Isn’t that intriguing?!”

Another round of booing and hissing from the crowd, one person shouting “Fuckin’ cowards!”

“Yes, these enforcers of justice seem to only bother enforcing said justice if it’s against people they don’t like!”

He continued on as Pomni slipped behind the crowd. The café was located just beyond the protest. No doubt, they were all going to head there after the demonstrations finished. Although from the amount of fervor in the crowd, it didn’t seem to be losing momentum anytime soon.

As she crossed to the other side of the road to the café, she spotted Trevor leaning against the post office next door. He locked eyes with her, a cigarette smoldering in his teeth, and grinned spitefully. Pomni hurried into the café.

“Hey! Good afternoon hun!” Ragatha waved. Pomni couldn’t help but smile and wave back. That sunny smile could cure sickness if someone could figure out how to bottle it.

“Good afternoon to you, miss.” another voice chimed in. A woman composed of a white mask and red ribbons sat at the counter, a black beret on her head and a cup of coffee in her hands. Er… ribbons.

“Come and sit, Pomni! You’ve met Gangle, right?” Ragatha poured another cup of coffee for the art student.

She stomped the snow off of her boots before going to sit at the counter, taking off her puffer jacket and hanging it over the back of her usual chair before climbing up into it.

“Um, I don’t think in person, but I saw your production of A Streetcar Named Desire. You were an amazing Stella!” Pomni said.

Gangle gave a worried smile. “Oh no, you weren’t there the night I forgot my lines, were you?”

“I don’t think so, I don’t remember any mistakes. Um, the guy who played Stanley was amazing too, so intense… Thank you.” Pomni accepted her mug from Ragatha.

“Ahh, yeah, Gummigoo. You know he’s actually a complete sweetheart in real life? We had to practice the scene where his character hits mine over and over with the stunt coordinator since he didn’t even want to pretend to hit me.”

Pomni added sugar and cream to her coffee, two blue packets and one little plastic cup, and stirred it.

“So how are you holding up this morning, baby? You said you saw those detectives get onto Jax, right?” Ragatha asked, leaning both her hands on the counter.

“Oh. Yeah, I did. I hid for a bit because I didn’t want to get in trouble just for being there… but then one of them said something really horrible and I yelled at them.” Pomni sipped her coffee. Bitter stuff, but it had a pleasant chocolatey taste on the edge of the flavor.

“What did they say? They didn’t call him a… you know…” Gangle whispered.

“No. They weren’t that blatant, but one guy, I think his name was Wexley, basically said Jax lived by himself ‘cause he’s a crossbreed. Said it was ‘understandable.’”

Ragatha made a disgusted noise as she went over to the griddle, pouring batter onto it. “I don’t understand how people that pea-brained are allowed to carry badges. Well it’s no wonder they’re not showing their faces right now. Probably got sent back to the big city with their tails between their legs. Buncha bullies…”

“Yeah… I’ve been meaning to ask, how did they find out so quickly..? The-The demonstrators, I mean. I thought Jax only got arrested last night…” Pomni inquired.

“It was probably Dr. Wren that found out,” Gangle replied, pointing out the window. Her ribbon pointed towards the older bird fellow with the megaphone. “Our town doctor. He’s always been about issues like this. You know, institutional racism and stuff? My guess is he jumped at the chance to get a crowd together. And look at the turnout!”

Pomni hummed. “Well, I’m glad he did.”

“Hm, I dunno,” Ragatha replied from over at the griddle. “Personally, I wish he’d have just waited a day or two so we could at least lay Kaufmo to rest. So many people here in town are still processing the fact that he might have been murdered, and he’s out there hollering his lungs out, disturbing everyone’s grieving.”

“B-But what about Jax? Doesn’t he deserve justice?” Pomni replied.

“Well of course he does, baby, but if he’s really done nothing wrong, he’ll be out of the jailhouse in 72 hours..” Ragatha flipped a pancake.

“He’ll- huh?” Pomni tilted her head.

“She’s right, I almost forgot…” Gangle chimed in. “This town has a Speedy Trial law. Since we’re such a small community, there’s not many trials. So there’s a 72-hour limit in place for someone being held in custody without substantial evidence… If Jax really didn’t do anything, and I don’t think he did, they’ll have to let him go in a couple days.

“And I’ll betcha the only people that are itching to find evidence on him are those detectives, and who knows where they went? With that protest out there, all our cops are busy keeping that under control. No time to be sniffing around for clues.” Ragatha added, testing the firmness of her pancakes with her spatula.

Pomni felt herself relax. That was… good news.. There was a pretty decent chance that they’d let Jax go tonight. Maybe she’d wait for him if the crowd had died down by then…

“W-Wait, so that means that the knife..?”

“Unless it had his DNA or prints on it, it’s not good enough. It’s like people have been saying, anyone could have bought it and hid it out there.” Gangle explained.

Ragatha gave a surprised smile over her shoulder at Gangle as she stacked the pancakes on a plate. “Well, look at you, Nancy Drew! Who taught you all this detective stuff?”

Gangle gained red blush marks under her eyes and looked down at the counter. “Oh, you know… I do a lot of research for my roles. We did an Agatha Christie play once…”

Ragatha brought over a short stack of pancakes, dusted with powdered sugar and topped with whipped cream and some fresh strawberry slices. She set the plate down in front of Pomni, along with a boat of maple syrup.

“Eat it while it’s warm, honey.” Ragatha cooed, pecking the art student on the cheek.

“Thank you Ragatha…” Pomni sighed. How this absolute peach of a woman remained single was a mystery to her. Wasn’t any of her business, anyway. She dug into the food. It was delicious, fluffy and moist cake mixed in with rich, hand churned cream and the bright flavor of strawberry. She could eat this every day for the rest of her life and never get tired of it.

The door to the café swung open, and a person in a yellow and green poncho stepped inside, stomping off their boots chasing snowflakes from their hat.

“Zooble! I was wondering when you’d show up! You want the regular… Zooble?”

Ragatha’s sunny voice darkened with worry as she saw a stain of red on their hand, which they were currently wiping off on their poncho.

“Zooble, are you bleeding?!” Pomni cried out.

“No, it’s not my blood. I punched Trevor in the nose. Might’ve busted it.” Zooble’s voice sounded hollow and distant. Their hand reasonably clean, they sank down into a chair by the window, resting their arms on top of the table.

“Trevor? The wolf?” Pomni asked. No, Trevor the marmoset, stupid.

“Yeah. He laughed at me when the sheriff turned me away. ‘Tough luck, pizza-head.’ I heard a crunch.” Zooble looked at their hand and clenched it a few times. “Anyway. Couldn’t post his bail. The Sheriff told me it was 500 thousand. ‘Possible homicide.’ I don’t even have half of that.”

“Oh, Zooble…” Ragatha opened the counter hatch and went around to see them. “Honey, I’m so sorry… But, we were just talking about the speedy trial law. If all they have is a knife that came from his store-”

“Horseshit…” Zooble mumbled.

“If there’s no DNA on the knife, then-”

“HORSESHIT!” Zooble bellowed, banging on the table with their fist. The sound rattled the glass salt and pepper shakers. Everyone jumped.

“Zooble, I’m sorry-” Ragatha began, but Zooble cut her off.

“You know how the system is! It doesn’t matter how many angry people wave signs around out there, or if the doctor gives some nice speeches on a megaphone! Jax is a crossbreed, and they’re gonna find some ‘new evidence’ or dig up some old law that makes it so he gets put away for good! Don’t you get it?! Those sheep big city detectives they hired took one look at Jax and saw he was a freak, so he must’ve done it! And our redneck-ass, no-brain FUCK of a sheriff agrees with them! They’ve been waiting to do this- they…”

Tears beaded in Zooble’s eyes, and they collapsed into their chair, shoulders shaking.

“They’ve been waiting…” they moaned.

For a while, there were no sounds other than the faint din outside and Zooble’s soft sobbing. Pomni couldn’t blame them… if her best friend was being put away on flimsy evidence based on prejudice alone, she’d have cried like a baby. Hell, she felt a little bit like crying now…

She pushed her half-eaten plate of food away and shyly walked over to Zooble. The cowboy looked at her through red, puffy eyes.

“What?” they spat.

“…I… I want to help.” Pomni said.

“I just told you there’s nothing we can do, kid… unless your mommy and daddy have $500,000 sitting around the house, this is the end of the line…” Zooble wiped their eyes on the non-bloodied parts of their poncho.

“Don’t say that. We can look for more evidence.”

“How? They’ve got the crime scene cordoned off… we’ll get in huge trouble if we go there…” Gangle said.

“What about Jax’s sales log? That’s like a list of suspects!” Pomni proposed.

“Cops already took it. I saw ‘em carrying it out of the shop when they hauled him away in cuffs…”

“Dammit…” Pomni chewed on her thumbnail. “Okay. Okay, what about this? Does anyone know where Kaufmo lived?”

“He lived not far from here,” Ragatha said. “His house was over near Gangle’s theater.”

“Do you think we could get a look inside it?”

“What? Pomni, what for?” Gangle asked.

“I dunno… anything! Clues about who might have it out for him!”

“Look, city girl. I appreciate your enthusiasm… I do. But the cops-” Zooble began.

“Are all busy, dealing with that.” Pomni pointed out the window at the crowd. “All we have to do is see if those three asshole detectives aren’t sniffing around the place, and we can look inside, right?”

“Pomni…”

“Look, Zooble’s right. Unless a miracle happens, the system is gonna do what it can to get Jax put behind bars for good. We need to at least try. Right?”

“I… But… Pomni, what about you? Aren’t you worried about losing your scholarship?” Gangle asked.

“Yeah. But… I think I… I want to make a difference in this town more than I want to just use it to further myself. You guys… this place has done so much for me, and I… I want to give something back.”

Zooble used a napkin to wipe their eyes. “It helps she also has a crush on Jax.”

Pomni turned bright red. “Hey! That’s not-”

“Aw, Pomni… that’s so romantic. A lover, wrongly imprisoned... It’s like a Carolinian play!” Gangle said, looping her ribbons together as though she was clasping her hands.

“Wh- He’s not my lover! We only met for like five minutes!” Pomni grabbed her beanie and tugged it down over her face.

“And yet you’re willing to risk your higher education to save him. Yup, you’ve totally got it bad, honey.” Ragatha added, crossing her arms and smiling.

“Sh-Shut uuuuuuuup!” Pomni whined.

“Well… I wouldn’t be much of a best friend if I didn’t do something incredibly stupid for him. Alright, let’s go, kid.” Zooble got to their feet, drying their eyes one more time.

“I’m twenty-fiiiiiiive!”

“You’re twenty-five? Jeez, you coulda fooled me. What are you, four foot two?”

“Four foot NINE!” Pomni snapped, shuffling out the door as Zooble held it open for her. Zooble said their goodbyes to Ragatha and Gangle before following after Pomni.

“Do you think they’ll find anything?” Gangle asked.

“Honey, I hope so. I… doubt it. But I hope so.” Ragatha replied.

[spectacled-renegade-writes]

An Early Start - Danny Phantom

Description: The accident that turns Danny half-ghost happens when he is four years old and leaves him trapped in the Ghost Zone. Clockwork finds him and takes him in to raise. But what happens when Clockwork sends Danny back to the human-world ten years later when a permanent portal appears?

Notes: Good news y'all! This story is COMPLETELY finished! The only thing I need to do is edit each chapter so that is what you will be waiting for! But I promise it will stick through to the end. Have a lovely day or night and thank you so much for reading!

Ao3: Here | Chapter 1

Part 1: Strings of Fate

Clockwork can see timelines. He can see the possible futures and the past which led to those points. He can see each decision and the webs they weave. Each crack, crease, and string. He knew all of it.

Clockwork can see Danny Fenton. He can see the lives the boy leads. Each choice splitting into timelines both similar or so different. He can see a world in which he is feared, revered, or never existed at all. Danny has always been an enigma in Clockwork’s eye since the moment the ancient ghost formed. Yes, Clockwork knew Danny Fenton. The boy who would save the world or destroy it. The boy that does so in some worlds and doesn’t in others. But, in this world, he gets an earlier start than most.

-

Young Danny is four years old and he is hungry. His big sister fed him breakfast this morning while she got ready for school. But, it’s lunchtime now, and Jazzy is not here. Danny wishes she was but she told him she has to go learn. She told him he would start learning too, next year. But right now is not next year and right now she is not home. So, Danny opens the fridge to find the lunch she made him. Jazzy knows Mommy and Daddy forget about him sometimes, so she takes good care of him for them.

But today, when Danny opens the fridge, there is no lunch. Today there is nothing. Today has been off to begin with.

For the first time ever, Danny woke up before his sister. This was confusing because she woke him up every morning. So, Danny stumbled out of bed in his spaceship pajamas and made his way to his sister’s room across the hall. She was still asleep. She shouldn’t be. Danny decided to wake her up.

He crawled up on her bed, little stuffed astronaut under one arm, and shook her shoulder. She did not stir. Danny tried again. Nothing. So, desperate times called for desperate measures and he raised his toy in the air… then proceeded to bring it down on her face. It did the trick and Jazz shot up in her bed. “Wah!”

“Jazzy?”

Jazz gathered her bearings and grimaced at her little brother. “Danny, why would you do that?” She demanded. Danny pointed to the digital clock on her night stand. Jazz looked over to the device and found, to her horror, that no numbers shone. She quickly picked it up and shook it, frantically pressing buttons. “The battery must’ve died! What time is it?” She missed Danny’s casual shrug as she threw her blankets back and rushed out of bed. “Come on!” She urged, grabbing his hand and dragging him out of her room. The following morning was just as frantic as her awakening as she hurried to get ready for school and take care of Danny at the same time. In her rush, she forgot to make lunch.

Now, here Danny stood. Hungry. No lunch. No Jazzy. Too small to help himself. He glanced toward the basement. Danny knew well that he is not supposed to go down there. Every morning, the last thing Jazzy always says to him before the school bus picks her up is, “Remember, don’t go in the basement. Be safe. I love you!” Danny wanted to listen to her. So, he walked to entrance instead, leaned against the doorway.

“Mommy?” He called. Nothing. “Daddy?” Just the same. Hesitantly, Danny took a single step down a single stair. “Mommy? I’m hungry!” He hoped yelling would get her attention but still he received no response. Jazzy’s words echoed in his small mind but moments later so did the rumble in his stomach. He decided, just this once, to go downstairs.

Carefully, holding tight to the hand rail, Danny made the steep trek down each stair, careful to watch his feet as he went. One, two. One, two. One, two. He left his toy at the top of the stairs where he could retrieve it upon his return. One, two. One, two. One, two. Danny wished he didn’t do that. The basement scared him a little and his astronaut made him feel safe. One, two. One, two. One… two. Finally, Danny reached the bottom floor.

He saw his mommy and daddy turned away from him. They stood hunched over a table reading something that Danny could not see. To their left, on that very same table, sat a small device they called a “Proto-portal”. Danny didn’t really know what that means but he did know his parents have talked about it for as long as his young mind could remember. Since he was in diapers his parents would say things like, “Today. Today is the day we perfect that portal!” or “I completely overhauled the filtration system. Good as new!” or even, “What if it never works?” But still, they pressed on.

Danny took a tentative step forward and spoke again. “Mommy?”

The thing about his parents, the thing Jazz knew since Danny was born, is that when they were focused on their work, nothing in the world could pull them out of it. But Jazz protected Danny. So Danny didn’t know this. “Daddy?” He took another step forward.

“I really think we cracked it this time, Jack!”

Danny reached the table and looked up at them. “I’m hungry.”

“I think so too, Maddie! Shall we do this together?”

Next to them, in front of the little portal, was a metal stool which belonged to his parents that they sat on when they tinkered away at the device. Danny climbed up on it.

“On three, Jack. One.”

Danny climbed his way to the seat.

“Two.”

He reached out for his mom’s lab coat.

“Three!”

In the same moment his parents flipped the switch for the portal, they finally turned so they could see their years hard work finally come together.

The moment they turned their smiles fell. The moment they turned horror dawned their expressions. The moment they turned, they watched their little boy reaching out to them. The portal sputtered and sprang to life. A ringing in their ears when they watched, before they could even move, as the vortex which appeared within the small portal began to swallow their son whole.

The only time one should hear a four year old scream is when they’re throwing a tantrum, or squealing with delight. One should never hear a four year old screaming, at the top of his lungs, from overwhelming and unfiltered pain. At the same moment Jack made to turn off the device, Maddie lunged forward to grab her son. But she was too late. They were too late. It felt like forever. It felt like an eternity. But, it was only seconds. Moments. A few precious moments which would change their lives forever.

The portal shut off, and their son was gone. Obliterated.

-

Yes, Clockwork can see timelines. But this timeline… it was so infinitesimal, so unlikely. It intrigued him that it came to pass.

~~~~~

Notes: This story will have 25 chapters and be split into 3 distinct parts. The first part, "Strings of Fate", will start at chapter 1 and end at chapter 7. Title of next part will release upon chapter 8! :)

[multicolour-ink]

From the Depths of Despair

A oneshot for the Split Timeline AU. More angst! And Mario and Spike get along (sort of!).

- - -

"SPIIIIIIKKKKKEEEEE!", cried Mario as he burst into Punch-Up Pizzeria.

"Mario?!", Spike exclaimed, as he looked up from his mouthful of pizza.

He was startled as the plump man strode up and slammed his fists on the table with tremendous ferocity.

"We need to evacuate the city!", said Mario.

"Wait what?", Spike hesitated.

"I mean it!", Mario flustered. "There's something coming that will destroy us all! You all need to get away so me and -"

"OK woah slow down Mario!", Spike cut in. Quite a number of customers were turning to stare at them. "You're making a scene."

"Spike, I know that we haven't always got along", said Mario, completely ignoring Spike's words. "But you need to trust me just this once."

"What are you talking about?!", Spike exasperated. His arms thrown up in the air. "You come and interrupt my dinner and start spouting nonsense about a danger!"

"Please!", Mario was practically begging now. "If we don't then he-"

He suddenly cut himself off. Mario stepped away from the table a little, one hand still pressed into the counter. His other hand drifted over his heart.

"I...can't remember his name...."

"What....?", Spike trembled. It was like Mario had become possessed.

"His name! The person I need to stop all this with. I can't remember his name!"

"Mario stop!", Spike yelled.

"I need to save him!"

"You're acting weird! Why do you care so much?! Why is this guy so important-"

"BECAUSE WE WERE BORN TOGETHER!"

Spike took a step back. Mario looked demented. His fists were clenched, his chest tight, and his eyes looked so fiery Spike wondered if he was going to be roasted on the spot just from that glare alone.

Mario on the other hand felt exhausted. A continuous ache in his chest had been plaguing him since he had run all the way down here from the hill. And it was still there, growing. And the worst part was the dreaded feeling that this person, this person he didn't even know the name of, was going to die.

He had no idea why he worded his outburst that way. Words were escaping his fragile mind, and (despite how bizarre it sounded) it still felt right to say.

"I...shared a womb with him..."

Mario clutched at his chest. The ache felt like it had grown some more with those words. Everything hurt.

Spike was taken aback.

Shared the same...Then that meant...

"Mario...", Spike came over and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're just dreaming man."

"I AM NOT DREAMING!", Mario screamed.

And then he did something that was very unlike him. He let out a passionate wail and sank to his knees.

By this point the entire Pizzeria was looking at them. Even the chefs had stopped in the kitchen.

Spike looked around for a moment, trying to smile awkwardly at the curious eyes, convincing them that everything was fine, that he could handle this.

"Mario", Spike said quietly. He crouched down as well so he was (almost) at eye level with the plumber.

"Who is this guy?"

Mario looked up, and Spike nearly drew back from fear. The red plumber's hair under his cap was dishevelled, his fingers dug into his chest, and his eyes were wild. He really looked crazy.

"I...I don't know...", said Mario. And immediately those words felt so wrong. "I know...he's very important to me..."

He closed his eyes, trying to hang onto those last words he'd screamed out. An image came to him of floating. Swimming in the dark. Alone.

Except he was not alone. He felt like...someone was with him. Another person, sharing that space, that darkness together.

And when he had finally come into the world, even before he had finished taking in those first breaths of life, they had been right there.

Crying. Cuddles. Warmth.

Mario sobbed harder.

It was all a dream, right?! It was absurd! And yet, Mario felt as sure about it all as he was sure about breathing. He felt it deep in his heart. This continuous ache was trying to tell him that.

By this time the Pizzeria had gone back to business, though there were some still staring. Spike had managed to get them both to a table, right in the corner for more privacy, although Mario hadn't even registered it.

Spike was fully aware that perhaps he ought to try and take Mario home, or at least to somewhere quieter. But the poor man was shaken up so bad that it didn't look like he would even get passed the door.

"So", said Spike, sitting opposite from the red plumber and trying to keep his demeanor as calm as possible. "You know about another guy?"

Mario looked up at him.

"He's not just a guy!", Mario said fiercely. "He's my..."

He trailed off. The ache was back in his chest again.

"You said you shared a...", Spike said trailing off. He gestured to his stomach area.

Just say the proper word, Mario thought. It's not that hard!

"So if that's the case...", Spike continued. "That means he's your-"

Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't say it.

"Brother!"

And all at once the ache in Mario's chest came back in full force. A pit of despair that opened up and threatened to pull him in.

"I...think so", Mario gasped. His hand gripped tighter at his chest again. "It feels the logical answer."

"So there's this other guy, who you're dreaming of, is your twin brother?"

"It's not a dream!", Mario snapped at him. He said it so fiercely that others in the Pizzeria turned to stare at them again.

"Ok, ok", Spike said, waving his hands down in an attempt to restore some calm. "Sorry I didn't mean it. So what's the deal with him?"

"He's...trapped in another timeline", replied Mario.

Spike sat back, eyebrows knitted in a frown.

"I went to Lookout Hill", said Mario turning to face Spike. "I had a feeling, that I needed to go up there. You know those weird dreams I kept mentioning?"

"The ones where you're living another life?", asked Spike.

"Living HIS life", said Mario. "His life. This other guy. We've been swapping places and leaving notes for each other."

Spike took a slow sip of his coffee.

"He's in another world as well. A world that's also about to be destroyed."

"But how do you know all this", asked Spike. He was still holding his coffee cup, as if that was grounding him to any sense of reality.

"Because...The connection just suddenly stopped."

Mario choked out that sentence.

"I needed to find him. All I had was this sketch."

He pulled it out and placed it on the table. Spike peered at it.

"That's the Brooklyn sewer system!", he exclaimed, recognising the layout of the pipes.

"But what's that?", he frowned, his finger stabbing at the obvious larger pipe in the middle.

"That's the entrance to the other world", said Mario. "To the Mushroom Kingdom."

"Jeez Mario!", Spike now laughed falling back in his seat. "You sure know how to pull a good prank!"

"I'm not making it up!", said Mario teeth gritted. "If you don't care to take me seriously then I'll just leave. And find someone else to help me."

Spike side-eyed him a moment, as if he was almost considering it. Then he sighed and turned back to him.

"Alright", he said. "Humour me some more. How did you come to be up on Lookout Hill?"

"That's...a long story...", Mario hesitated. "But I went up to Lookout Hill to look for him. There's a belief that twilight allows other worlds, timelines, to cross. And that happened. And that's when I saw...him."

Mario leaned his head forward.

"I remembered everything. We remembered, me and the other guy. We hugged...and it felt so right. Like we were never meant to be apart and we were...whole again."

Mario started getting antsy again.

"But now I can't remember anything!", he cried throwing his hands up. "We were so close. So close. I held him. He was real. He held me back too - I can still feel it - and I just...."

"Mario", said Spike quietly. "What's that on your hand?"

Mario looked down, and then stared. Somehow in all the time he had run down the hill and been in the Pizzeria, he hadn't taken any notice of his hands.

And there, written on the palm of his left hand, was one word.

Lu.

It looked like a hasty scrawl, as if someone was in the middle of writing it, then realised something and stopped halfway.

A change suddenly came over Mario. It was as if someone had thrown a light switch inside him. His eyes went bluer. His face flushed with colour. A huge smile crept across his face.

Mario let out a gasp of joy.

"This is it!", he cried. "I remember! We agreed to write each other's names on our hands so we wouldn't forget! But we lost each other when twilight ended."

He cradled his hand. Joy and warmth rushed over him like a tidal wave. He'd never felt such euphoria.

"Lu...", Mario choked out through tears. "I'm so sorry Lu! I forgot you, but you're so clever! So clever. My brother. I'll find you again. I'll save you. I swear..."

He pressed a kiss to the still clear ink, before curling the hand up and held it close to his face.

"My Lu....."

"You sure this guy's really worth it?", asked Spike uncertainly.

And Mario flashed him such a look full of anger and revulsion that it was a wonder Spike didn't disintegrate on the spot.

"Sorry, sorry! It was a joke!", Spike held up his hands.

The two stared at each other for a moment.

"I think....", said Spike. "You're gonna need to tell me everything, on the way back to my office."

Mario nodded in agreement.

And with that, they left the Pizzeria into Brooklyn's streets.

Don't worry Lu...I'll save you....

Author's notes under the cut

So for context, this AU is inspired by key events in "Your Name"

In the movie - the main characters through circumstances find themselves swapping bodies. They leave notes for each other to follow, but over time (due to circumstances I won't spoil here) the connection stops, and any messages - including their own names - fade away and they find they are forgetting each other.

Soon after, the characters find themselves meeting each other at twilight, and agree to write their names down on each other so they won't forget.

However (and here's a major spoiler for the movie!) any names would've actually been erased when twilight ended. So instead, one of the characters writes "I love you" on the other's hand - which not only gets across their feelings, but also ensures that it leaves a clue to their identity for the other to figure out. It's pretty clever!

So in the context of the AU, Luigi writing down "Lu" instead of his full name reflects that cleverness. He knew that writing down his full name would end up erasing it, so he chose a nickname to make sure it would stick around. And Mario realises this and gets emotional because his little brother is so clever and he's so lucky to have him and oh my heart ❤💚

- - -

The vision of the womb was inspired by the scene in "Your Name" when Taki sees a vision from key moments of Mitsuha's life - conception, birth, and everything leading up to the present.

- - -

Lookout Hill is a real place in Brooklyn.

- - -

I really want to write more for this AU. Not sure when that will be, as I actually wrote this today in a spur of the moment! But I hope you all look forward to it 👍🏻

[inklingofadream]

Ink's 2023 Fic

It’s the end of another year, and you know what that means! Or you joined me this year and don’t, one of the two. At the end of every year I post a list of everything I wrote to become my blog’s pinned post for the upcoming year. However, this year, it’s a bit different. We’ll get to that in a minute.

According to my AO3 stats, I posted 709,908 words of fic in 2023, across 8 fandoms and spread over 64 individual works. That’s a 765.784% increase in word count from last year! I’m unwell!

Normally, I post everything I wrote, split up by fandom and in chronological order, with basic stats and descriptions that vary between synopsis, liner notes, excerpts, or all of the above. However, 45 of those 64 works were written for Whumptober this year. Since they’re mostly for The Magnus Archives (dominating the list as usual) and many of them are very short, I’m not going to list all the TMA fics. I’ll list my favorites and ones I think got less attention than they deserved, as well as all fics for other fandoms, and since that’s my most popular stuff I’m listing it last/under the cut. Wordcount and relationships (romantic or platonic, healthy or not) are listed, but check the AO3 tags, warnings, and notes, as I won’t be including the content warnings here.

Batman

Mom’s Been On a Parenting Kick Lately- 9k, WIP, Talia/Bruce, Talia & Batkids;This is still getting off the ground (I need to get back to it), but I’m excited about the future of this fic! It’s my take on Jason’s post-resurrection time with the League of Assassins, but with timelines turned into spaghetti to facilitate bonding. Talia is currently in possession of 3 batkids, but she isn’t done stealing Bruce’s kids yet :)

i'd walk a wire, jump through a fire for you- 800, complete; literally just just shy of 1k about Dick have feelings about falling and parents

The Locked Tomb

lyin’ on our backs and countin’ the stars- 900, complete, John&Gideon; I’m actually shocked there aren’t way more John and Gideon “bonding” fics out there. This one also has a backstory for Gideon and Ianthe’s friendship bracelets!

The Adventure Zone- Balance

old worn out suit and shoes- 600, complete, Taako&Lup; Post-finale nightmares for Taako, now that he can remember he has a sister to lose

Malevolent

Please Come Back To Me- 2.9k, complete, Parker&Arthur; Parker lives and goes to hunt down and kill whatever used Arthur to try to kill him.

You’re here. That’s all I need to know.- 300 complete; Arthur finds Faroe in the bath.

Living, Dead, or Undecided?- 1.7k, complete; Arthur is sacrificed to the King in Yellow as punishment for what happened to Faroe.

His head and limbs were heavy with ornaments, much of his flesh left unprotected from the elements. It was far too mild a summer evening for that; he deserved to freeze or burn at the freedom of open air. His thoughts were fuzzy with the overpowering cacophony of scented oils and chanting. He was deposited at the top of the hill, too gentle in slope to burn at his atrophied muscles, on a stone slab. They chained him in place, the seeping stone finally sapping enough warmth from his bones to feel appropriate.

Dracula

i still see your ghost- 200, complete, Jonathan/Mina; Some fill-in angst about Jonathan seeing Dracula on September 22… which I did actually write on September 22.

Hannibal

I can’t remember if I cried- 1.7k, complete, Abigail/Marissa; This is actually a concept I came up with in high school lol. Hopefully, someday I’ll write a fic expanding on the shipping kernel of the concept.

Hench

The Kind of World Where We Belong- 1k, complete, Anna/Quantum; AU where Leviathan dies and femslash ensues.

The Magnus Archives

The Vampire Saga- 68k, 6 works, Jon/Martin; The first of several shared universes with @suttttton on this list. Vampire!Elias snacks on Jon until Vampire!Martin gets hold of him instead, fluff and romance ensue. The new works this year both feature Gerry!

The Vampire Saga Route 2- 38k, 7 works, Jon/Martin, Jon/Elias, Jon/suffering; Shares a few fics with its predecessor, up to Martin entering the picture, this is the darker version. Fic this year mostly focuses on Jon meeting Tim and Sasha, and the gang rescuing Danny from the Circus. And the aftermath thereof. I’m really proud of the Circus stuff I wrote!

Bird-Verse- 37k, 7 works, Jon/Beholding, Jon/Martin;Spin-off of cult au, also with Sutton, featuring a happier resolution to many of Jon’s problems, so he gets to live with all his friends and marry Martin. Except for how this year’s additions are about him dealing with the lingering cult intrusions and trauma :)

Indent AU- 50k, 2 works, Jon/everyone;My first foray into writing smut. I’m very proud of it, and I’d say it deserved more love than it got, but I’m realistic about the content being very much not for everyone.

Cult AU Bad Ending- 9k, 2 works, Jon/Beholding, Jon/Jonah; This is a good time to mention that, as I have 10,000 Cult AU derivatives, they have their own AO3 Collection now. This one is a far future fic where Jon is immortal with Jonah and sad about it. It’s a crier.

Interesting- 3.7k, complete, Jon/Elias, Jon/Martin; This is an old fic of Jon and Elias in the Panopticon that got a new chapter for Whumptober! It took about 2 years to get that draft to publication…

restless soul who always skips town- 900, complete, Jon/Peter; This is the one I most wish got more attention. Peter keeps Jon in the Lonely.

When Peter comes, it's wonderful. Peter is a person in a way the Archivist isn't and, he knows, Peter even sometimes leaves the fog. He knows it because Peter gives him journals that are red and gold and violet, so different from the limited palette of the fog and the Archivist and Peter that they make the Archivist's eyes hurt.

dead if they knew- 6k, complete, Elias/Jon/Tim; I had SO much fun fiddling to differentiate the four POVs from each other!

Familiar AU- 16k, 4 works, complete; Jon is kidnapped by Elias and turned into his familiar; for Sasha, Tim, and Martin, it’s a long, hard road to rescuing him.

no beat, no melody- 600, complete; Canon-compliant fic in between Jon getting the tape of the birthday party from MAG161 and the episode itself, hanging around the safehouse in the Depression Zone.

welcomed you with open doors- 1.6k, complete, Martin/Jon; Spiral!Martin in a role reversal au that swaps him and Michael. Martin is much more proactive as the Distortion (and more liable to fall in love with nearby Archivists)

save some face (you know you’ve only got one)- 1.4k, complete; Sasha is altered by the NotThem instead of killed. Half body horror, half giving her my fibromyalgia, all bad times!

somebody once broke me- 2.7k, complete, Jon&Gerry; Gerry lives! Visibly monstery Avatars! Jon gets kidnapped from a kidnapping! It’s all the hits for my body of work ;)

remember this moment- 3.8k, complete, Jon&Daisy; I initially planned this fic for, I think, Februwhump 2021. It’s been slated for every Februwhump and Whumptober since, and FINALLY finished!

Take Me Through the Darkness- 15k, complete; Superhero AU, ft. epistolary interludes! Several more of my greatest hits! (And also Jon getting kidnapped from another kidnapping.) My personal favorite is Jon thinking Tim is a hallucination and crying.

look upon your greatness (and she’ll send the call out)- 8k, complete; Cult AU AU where Georgie tracks Jon down a few months after his kidnapping.

The chances of Jon being abducted, held somewhere, and still alive are so narrow that they might as well not exist. Checking the resources the charity sent, Georgie realized it's even grimmer than that. She struggles to picture Jon doing anything to appease his captors. It's extremely easy, however, to picture him literally or figuratively daring them to kill him.

Something Wretched About This- 2.9k, complete, Jon&Tim; Jon returns from the Circus without vocal cords, and he and Tim have a moment of peace, if not reconciliation.

just like a real-life thelma and louise- 6.6k, complete, Sasha/Annabelle; Sasha and Annabelle have superpowers and escape from the lab experimenting on them.

Kinky Polychives AU- 70k, 2 works, WIP, Polychives; My second, much fluffier smut verse. I tagged Jon as “horny for predicaments instead of people” and I think it’s the thing that’s been commented on specifically by the most people lol

til the veins run red and blue- 200, complete, Jon/Martin; I really like the Lonely, and I don’t know why I don’t write it more. This one is a little Somewhere Else coda with Jmart

come home (to my heart)- 8.7k, complete, Jon&Gerry; a fusion of Little Archive and cult au where Jon is the specialest boy in the whole Cult of Beholding, and Gerry grew up with Mary. If anything I wrote this year gets a sequel, I think it’s this. The fic is all Gerry POV, but I had a chunk written in Jon POV I cut, ft. Jon convincing Beholding that he can definitely wander London solo and it’s FINE, he won’t disappear in the house of a murderer or anything… ;)

Extras- 18k, Jon/Martin; My fae au is complete, but this is a bunch of little bits that inspired me beyond the bounds of the main story, like meeting Melanie, Martin proposing, and so on.

sitting pretty on the throne, nothing more i want (except to be alone)- 217k, WIP, Jon/Beholding; Cult au wraps up another year! Hopefully, by this time next year, it’ll be complete at LAST!

Beneath the Stains of Time- 98k, WIP; Also a contender for longfic that I hope to finish in 2024! This year, we FINALLY got to the gang figuring out Jon’s identity and now it’s all unraveling…

Little Archive- 85k, WIP; Last but certainly not least! I’ve been so happy to see the warm reception for Cecile and Anika this year 💗

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Day 11: Split

(Disclaimer: the characters here do not belong to me. Both Wilford Warfstache and William J. Barnum/The Colonel belong to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe.)

(Please note that the concept this story revolves around isn’t something I originally came up with. That honor goes to @ghiertor-the-gigapeen, who posted this amazing piece of art last October! Please check out their blog and show them some love!!!)

(Trigger Warnings: descriptions of body horror, blood/gore, fear/panic, trauma/flashbacks, pain and suffering, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7 Day 8 Day 9 Day 10 Day 12 Day 13

“Say, have you ever tried your hand at writing?” Wilford casually inquires, titling his head and pressing his index finger against his temple. 

You hum at the question, wracking your brain. “I’m. . .not sure, honestly. I mean, I probably have at some point, but all the conflicting timelines make it hard to tell.” There’s a generous amount of sarcasm in your voice. So much, in fact, that you have to concentrate on emphasizing the right words.

Of course, Wilford’s response is an overexaggerated quirk of his lips, his eyes as thoughtful as they are mischievous. “True, true, very true. Sometimes you wish those pesky timelines would just fit in your hands so you could organize them to your taste.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” you reply, tone dry enough to make Death Valley look rather lush. 

“BUT,” Wilford, never to not have the last word, continues. “If you could do that, then you wouldn’t really be able to have any more adventures. You wouldn’t get to be surprised or horrified! Things would go from challenging and unforgettable to. . .thoughtless and predictable. Sooner or later, you wouldn’t be able to appreciate whatever comes to grip at your mind or heart!”

His hands are a blur as he throws out one dramatic gesture after another. His expressions follow suite, obviously. Even so, the conniving ember in his eyes never completely fades away. In fact, that ember seems to glow a bit brighter as he finally returns to sitting still and staring at you. “True beauty really lies in thrill, my friend. There’s just no two ways about it!”

You don’t bother trying to suppress an eye-roll. . .and yet a small, genuine smile still manages to fight its way onto your face. Wilford’s statement is partially undeniable. Sure, you’ve been through hell and back, but you saw so many things along the way. You’ve met all sorts of people. The scenarios you keep finding yourself in are literally anything and everything but boring. 

Yes, your existence and abilities have proven to be a curse. . .but that curse has still shaped itself into a gift more times than you can count. 

That’s why you rang that little call-bell: to be taken here to this studio in order to see this insane, frustrating, omnipotent journalist who you (somehow) still have a soft spot for.

“. . .Y’know, I can’t remember the last time you were so specific with your questions,” you point out, leaning back in your provided chair. “What made you bring up writing, of all things?” 

Wilford tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk-tsks at you, raising an eyebrow so high that it could potentially need a drug test. “Sounds like someone has forgotten who’s the interviewer and who’s the interviewee.” 

You spread your arms in a small lame gesture, making sure that your eyes help your incredulousness to be palpable. “Hey, listen. One of these days, the roles are gonna be reversed. MARK my words. I’ll be damned if that doesn’t happen at least once.”

“You make a good argument; there’s a chance something like that has already happened,” Wilford admits. He drags out a conspiratory hum for about ten seconds or so, slipping off his pink afro and fidgeting with it. “Well, writers can be a bit of a rare breed nowadays. They’re plentiful if you’re exploring the right circles, but even then, many are still so shy about their work.” 

“Can’t really blame them for that,” you reply. “Not with how unfair the industries have gotten.”

“Oh, don’t I know it!” Wilford huffs a mirthless laugh. “I used to write for the odd column and blog or two. The readers were lovely, but lemme tell you—”

“The higher-ups were not?” You guess with an empathetic smile, just barely noticing how he’s started to squirm in his seat. 

Wilford groans in exasperation. “Don’t even get me started. They turned their noses up at so many things, you’d think they were each three tapirs in a trenchcoat! I remember thinking, ‘If they’re so desperate for cookie-cut stories to have complete control over, then why don’t they just write these goddamn stories themselves?!’’’

You don’t blink: partially because your eyes aren’t dry, and partially because, if you had, you would’ve missed the mixture of sadness and frustration that just flickered on Wilford’s face. It was a tiny amount, and it’s already been beaten into submission by his trademark coyness. 

But it was genuine. 

“. . .I can tell you why,” you declare. “Because writing requires patience and effort and thought. Heart, too. And in my experience, it’d be a miracle for an employer to have at least one of those things.”

Wilford’s eyes ever-so-slightly widen as your words sink in. Something warm and appreciative etches its way into the smile he’s wearing. 

“Words to live by,” he announces with a proud nod. “I don’t think I ever saw anything like that in my old head-honchos. It was always, ‘ThErE’s No WaY wE cAn PuBlIsH tHiS wItHoUt CeNsOrInG hAlF oF iT.’ ‘jUsT bEcAuSe ThE rEaDeRs LeAvE fEeDbAcK DoEsN’t MeAn YoU cAn InTeRaCt WiTh ThEm.’ ‘OuR sHaReHoLdErS wIlL bE oFfEnDeD bY tHiS.’ ‘rEaDeRs DoN’t NeEd To KnOw AbOuT tHaT.’ ‘wHeRe DiD yOu GeT tHaT kNiFe?’ ‘WhAt ThE hElL aRe YoU dOiNg?’ ‘I’m CaLlInG tHe PoLiCe YoU mAnIaC!’”

The droning pitch he’d put on falls away as he collapses into a fit of chuckling.

You, meanwhile, force out an awkward cough to try and hide the nervous grimace that has crawled into your features.

Even if Wilford is an old friend, even if his heart is sometimes in the right place, you can’t afford to forget that his brain is not. That it hasn’t been for a long time now. And it will probably never be anywhere near the right place again.

Not only that, but the longer you listen to Wilford’s giggling, the more you realize just how. . .off it sounds. As though Wilford’s voice is layered; like something else is trying to worm its way up through his bubbly tone.

“And those trials were just in the world of journalism,” Wilford continues once the hilarity finally dies down. “I can hardly imagine what writers in more creative circles have to go through.”

For seemingly no reason, that statement prompts a tidal wave of adrenaline to come rushing through you. 

“Simply taking notes of things in reality can be so difficult. Just think about how long it’s taken for us to make some actual progress with this interview,” Wilford muses, gesturing to all the twinkling lights that decorate his studio. “But how could that struggle even compare to someone creating an entire world of their own? Birth is already one of the most traumatic things a person is capable of, and that’s just when it happens on the outside. So it’s astounding that anyone can survive birthing so many things inside their little head!” 

Perhaps to drive the point home, he lightly raps his knuckles against his forehead as he returns his pink afro to its rightful place. 

“Could’ve gone my whole life without hearing that analogy,” you blurt. 

“No, I don’t think you could’ve,” Wilford whispers. 

You glare at him as an uncomfortable, oily energy slithers along your ribcage. The fact that Wilford is now visibly shaking doesn’t help. 

“Are. . .are you okay, Wil?” You wonder aloud, your irritation slowly but surely leaning toward paranoia. 

“Peachy!” Wilford answers, gesturing toward his face with a flourish. “Why, does this not look like the face of someone who’s peachy?”

You attempt not to cringe too hard as you offer one of those nod-shrugs, gingerly poking the skin beneath your eyes.

Wilford’s expression contorts with confusion. He rises to stand on the seat of his chair, reaching up toward the ceiling. After producing a hand mirror from somewhere you can’t see, he sits back down and peers at his reflection.

Of course, he doesn’t react to the sight of blood oozing down his cheeks from his tear ducts like most people would. Instead of screaming or fainting or trying to pluck his eyes out in order to keep whatever curse they may or may not be harboring from infecting the rest of his body, Wilford casually tosses the mirror over his shoulder, not acknowledging the sound of glass shattering as he fishes a handkerchief from one of his pockets. 

“Meh, it’s a wednesday. You know how wednesdays are,” Wilford mentions as he begins scrubbing at the small, dark red rivers. 

“I’m not so sure I do,” you murmur. 

You consider suggesting to pause the interview here with an oath to resume it some other day. . .but that consideration evaporates when you remember exactly what happened the last time this interview was interrupted. Gunshots echo between your ears, and your heart more or less threatens to start palpitating. 

Hell, you’re already expecting this interview to be cut short sooner or later; it’s had to be delayed at least sixty-nine thousand, four-hundred-twenty times by now, if memory serves (though, let’s be honest, it probably doesn’t). 

But despite everything you’ve gone through up until this point, you still trust your instincts.

Which are currently screaming at you to not be the thing that prompts the inevitable next raincheck.

Plus, while one part of you is worried for Wilford’s wellbeing, the other part of you knows that it doesn’t matter. This is Wilford Warfstache we’re talking about. Even if he got mauled by a hippopotamus fueled by copious amount of acid and maliciously-intended vibes, he’d still find a way to continue existing with a chipper, knowing smile. 

“Now, where were we?” Wilford inquires. You don’t know why, because he immediately snaps his fingers. “Ah, yes! Writing!”

Seeing that his face is clean once again, he throws the now bloodstained handkerchief into the air, where it quickly flutters down to join the broken mirror somewhere on the floor behind his chair. 

“Well, I’ve already rambled on about my adventures with that. Please, tell me more about your thoughts on writing. You know I’d love to hear them!”

“Is that why you booked me for this? And here I was, thinking you just wanted me to sit here and look handsome and/or beautiful!” You joke, hoping to distract yourself from the dread that’s just started festering in your stomach.

Wilford chortles at that. And although the sound almost unveils some happy memories, you can still tell that he’s acutely aware of aforementioned dread.

You chew your lip, thinking.

By the time you’re able to predict what that question could lead to, it’ll probably be too late.

Might as well be honest with your answer, then. 

“I think writing is pretty incredible,” you pronounce. “Some people try to say it isn’t a real type of art, and I’ll never be able to understand why. Like you just said: it’s always so much harder and scarier to do than it’s given credit for. It takes the same amount of energy and care to write as it does to sculpt or paint or sew.”

The words seem to make Wilford grow more excited. “Speaking of which: don’t you just love it when different types of artists work together? I’m always seeing writers basing plot elements off of drawings and drafters sketching out scenes from stories. That camaraderie is one of the best kinds, I think. Reminds me of how wolves and crows help each other hunt.”

“Exactly!” You reply. “Writers and other artists do wonderful stuff like that all the time! Just because they can! And—”

You abruptly trail off, the chemicals in your brain rerouting themselves before they even have a chance to signal more happiness. 

“And. . ?” Wilford prompts, watching you curiously.

“. . .And they barely get any appreciation,” you eventually resume, feeling your face drop. “It’s just so. . .depressing that creative people can’t rely on their craft. Don’t get me wrong, some of them get lucky, but most. . .no matter how hard they practice or research, no matter how much time they spend polishing their projects. . .they still end up having so little to show for it.”

“Such a damn shame,” Wilford agrees, his voice uncharacteristically soft. 

Your gaze wandered down to the floor during your little monologue, so you can’t help but flinch when Wilford pats you on the shoulder. 

The gesture isn’t forceful—it’s not like he’s digging his nails through your shirt—but nothing could’ve prepared you for how hot the skin of his palm feels. Wilford’s hand retracts quickly enough, but the heat lingers, racing down your arm as though some invisible person accidentally spilled a translucent cup of fresh-outta-the-pot, wraithlike coffee onto you.

(I’ve read/heard plenty of symbolism that involves boiling blood, but this is ridiculous.)

A gasp catches in your throat as you return your attention to Wilford. 

He almost resembles a celebrity who, thanks to the power of hubris and a little too much xanax, drowned in their backyard swimming pool. . .Well, really, that’s just because of his clothes; if he wasn’t dressed in a bowtie and button-down (which looks suspiciously like silk), he’d probably look like the average corpse that was just pulled out of a river. Minus the awful bloating that always comes with underwater decay, that is. 

You’d only looked away from him for a moment.

How the hell could someone’s skin turn so sickly pale in such short time?

“If there are any artists watching tonight, I’m sure you’ve made them get a little misty,” Wilford reMARKs, reaching up to wipe a single tear from the corner of his left eye. “But that doesn’t mean they have to worry. One way or another, the arts will get more respect in the future.”

“. . .You think so?” You’re not exactly sure where that question came from, but you know better than to stay silent. Besides, you can’t be blamed for having let a mite of pessimism creep into your attitude over the years.

“I know so!” Wilford promises. “So long as a virtuoso shows off what they can do, there’ll always, always be a number of admirers in their corner.” 

You nod without hesitation. It’s impossible to disagree with that sentiment. In fact, you almost start to wonder if whatever the hell has been happening to Wilford throughout this conversation is about to reverse itself. . .

“Though, I have to wonder,” Wilford maintains, glancing over at nothing in particular with a wry, thoughtful smirk. “Could what you just talked about be the reason for the current shift in creative circles?”

(Aaaaannnd that’s why you almost got hopeful.)

“‘Shift?’” You echo. “What do you mean by that?”

You already know, of course. But you also know that Wilford is nothing if not a theatrical bastard. You’ve already played along with whatever has been building up for the past few minutes, so why stop now?

“Well, it seems like the majority of artists celebrate Halloween all year ‘round,” Wilford explains. “Drawings and sculptures of monsters, stories full of insanity, the whole shebang. I’m certainly not complaining, and neither are all those admirers I mentioned. But. . .do you think an artist’s frustration is what causes them to serve muses on the darker side of the spectrum?”

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the fact that someone out there is probably rolling their eyes and muttering, “i’M fOuRtEeN aNd ThIs Is DeEp.”

(Then again, everything you and Wilford just said is completely valid, so that judgemental prick can just fuck off.)

“I guess it can, in a lot of cases,” you answer. “It’s amazing how many unique ways artists can go about symbolizing those struggles. Even so, a lot of artists focus on twisted aspects just because they see things in ways that other people might not. Just because of their individual personalities.”

“Of course, of course,” Wilford subscribes. “And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that!”

A sharp, muffled pop called from somewhere in his chest. It’s followed by another. . .and another. . .and another, until a chorus of organic cracking and stretching and clicking threatens to drown out Wilford’s voice. 

Wilford doesn’t seem unbothered perse, but to his credit, he doesn’t let the cacophony stop him. 

“I suppose my instincts as a journalist drove that question,” Wilford muses. “I’ve found myself working with the whole ‘If it bleeds, it leads,’ shtick so many times. But only because. . .”

A violent twitch—the same type that so many people experience in their sleep, and the same type that would render those people unable to ever sleep again if they managed to see a recording of it—wracks his body.

“. . .it works. . .”

He barely had enough time to give you a wink before his eyes practically bulge from their sockets and roll into the back of his head, one after the other. 

“. . .so damn well!”

The skin of his cheeks neatly tears as his smile stretches wider than humanly possible, to the point where he’s quite literally grinning from ear-to-ear.

A strange outline appears in his shirt, trying to push out from underneath the fabric.

Except, it’s not underneath the fabric. 

You can do nothing but watch as the shape moves upward, causing Wilford’s neck to distend. His skin ripples in a way that reminds you of a sea krait swimming close to the surface without actually breaking it. As it gathers in Wilford’s head, the silhouette starts writhing. The movement is frantic. Desperate. Like an animal caught in some kind of trap.

All the while, Wilford’s new, eerie simper never falls away. 

Not even when his features are forced to swell and quiver, as though his skull is tearing itself apart.

Plltk-Sssquiiwrrrlrlct!

One half of Wilford’s face pulls away from the other, like a seam running down the center has burst. 

In a matter of seconds, the rift races down, splitting Wilford’s throat and torso open. 

Gravity attempts to drag the fleshy fractions even farther apart, but by some odd miracle, both Wilford’s afro and bowtie staunchly refuse to be divided like the rest of him. 

So, that means the two halves of Warfstache are hanging in place, only connected by thick, glistening strands of dark pink blood. 

You jerk away so aggressively that it’s a wonder your chair doesn’t tip over. Your stomach roils in a painful way, and a shuddering, terrified cry slithers up your throat and out between your teeth. You automatically fight to close your gaping mouth for fear that something much more solid than a scream might spill out next.

Surprisingly enough, nothing like that happens. 

But perhaps that’s because you haven’t seen the worst of this yet.

(Don’t hold your breath. You’re about to.)

As you stare and scream, you finally realize that. . .you can’t see through the gory chasm of Wilford. 

There’s something caught between the awful ratios of Wilford.

. . .No, not something.

Someone.

Someone who’s dressed in a tan military uniform, along with a pair of spectacles that boast dual loupes on that right lens. 

Someone whose screams make it clear that he speaks with an accent similar to Wilford’s.

Someone who you recognize. . .and, who seems to recognize you as well.

“H-Help me! PLEASE, HELP ME!” The Colonel wails, the fingers of his right hand curling around Wilford’s lower jaw, struggling for purpose. “I CAN’T GO BACK! DON’T MAKE ME GO BACK!”

You don’t respond. 

How the hell could you respond?

It’s one thing to watch a friend’s body spontaneously split itself apart like their skeleton is a bloodsoaked butterfly emerging from a horrific meat-chrysalis.

It’s another thing entirely to watch a friend’s former self shriek and thrash and beg via an unnecessarily brutal rebirthing process for no actual reason. 

“I-I’M SORRY! I’M SO SORRY!” The Colonel howls—if it wasn’t for his volume, the words would have leaked out in a choked sob. “I DIDN’T WANT TO DO IT! I DIDN’T MEAN TO DO IT! I SWEAR—!”

Wilford, meanwhile, is still grinning that sly, too-wide grin. He isn’t showing any signs of pain. You can’t tell whether or not he’d known that this was going to happen.

The Colonel manages to free his left arm from its organic confines. He frantically claws at the air, obviously trying to reach out to you, pleading for you to take his hand and pull him out.

The way your eyes are burning nearly rivals the searing ache in your chest.

You want to help him.

The voices in your head are demanding that you help him.

But you can’t. 

To put it simply, what’s done is done. Even Wilford’s bizarre powers are incapable of reversing what happened in that godforsaken manor all those years ago. 

The Colonel does not exist anymore.

You know that. . .

He knows that. . .

. . .And Wilford knows that.

Still grinning, Wilford raises his arms. With a loud criIiIiIck, they grow. In a manner of seconds, they boast a similar appearance to long, narrow tree branches. Each of his fingers follow suite—now it’s difficult to see them as anything other than talons. 

Wilford’s left hand is a blur as it snatches The Colonel’s wrist in a vice-like grip. His right hand reaches around to clamp down on The Colonel’s head.

Understandably, The Colonel isn’t having it. He writhes with twice as much panic as before. “DAMIEN! CELINE! WHERE ARE THEY?! I NEED TO FIND THEM!”

Wilford’s grin spasms. His knuckles turn white as he digs his nails into The Colonel’s scalp. When that doesn’t seem to work, he does what he does best: up the ante with no regard for anything. 

It’s hard to believe that you can hear the sound of glass splintering through The Colonel’s shouting, as Wilford’s index finger jabs through the left lens of his spectacles. 

In comparison, the squelching noise The Colonel’s eye makes as Wilford’s finger is driven into it is almost deafening. 

The Colonel buckles under the new, white-hot pain he must be feeling. His screams reach a truly heart-stopping octave as blood oozes down his cheek.

Instinct seems to take over, seeing as The Colonel’s arm finally retracts, as he attempts to apply pressure to his punctured eye.

There’s really no point, though. It’s not like he has time to stop the bleeding. 

To a chorus of snapping bones, Wilford shoves The Colonel down.

The Colonel’s torso as a whole seems to cave in.

All this time, Wilford’s hot-pink blood has been fountaining onto the floor—you’ve had to cross your legs on your chair to keep your shoes from getting drenched—but as you glance down, you notice that the puddle has stopped spreading. It stays still for a second or two. . .and then it starts rolling back in the direction it came. It glides up Wilford’s legs, and back into his chest, your eyes following it all the while. 

And now the blood seems to be more than just a liquid. It’s coiling around The Colonel like a nest of snakes, binding his arms, encircling his neck. It drags him deeper, obscuring his form until you can barely see his face.

“NO! NO!” The Colonel screams. He can’t struggle anymore, but you know better than anyone just how much of a bitch adrenaline can be. “I CAN’T—!”

It looks like the two halves of Warfstache have finally worked out their differences, because they meet one another with a sickening Ssshlift-pop. 

Wilford’s skin trembles. 

The line running down the center of his face, his throat, his chest. . .it just. . .seals itself shut. As though it’s a new type of magnetic clay. 

After a millisecond, that line itself disappears. It doesn’t even scar over. 

It’s just gone.

Just like that, a whole Wilford Warfstache is sitting before you once again. 

Like nothing even happened.

The next moment feels like several hours as you stare at Wilford, bracing yourself for something else to happen as hot, fat tears stream down your features. 

Wilford’s eyes roll back into place, milky white scleras finally being replaced by his warm, dark brown irises. 

That damn grin finally wavers as he blinks, shaking his head like he’s just woken up from a fever dream.

“Ah—I’m sorry,” Wilford announces, carefully kneading at his forehead. “I must’ve zoned out for a bit.” He glances at his wristwatch, raising an eyebrow. “Strange. . .the longer daydreams usually only happen on the thirteenth. Perhaps something else will be going on then? I know I had a lot of things lined up for the thirteenth in January, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I got around to them. . .unless I did, of course. In which case we might have a few problems.”

Wilford trails off as he finally notices that you’re still here. 

“. . .Are we going to have to reschedule again? No offense, but you’re looking a bit green around the gills.”

You collapse against the back of your chair, not even registering how the world spins. Not that registering is an option; darkness is quick to swallow up everything within eyesight.

(Really? You’re fainting now?)

Somehow, you still manage to hear Wilford’s voice, which seems to echo as he concludes, “I’ll take that as a yes,” with a melodramatic sigh.

@sammys-magical-au

[nice2meetu]

Memories from another timeline

„Welcome home, Allfather.“

His wife’s words charmingly rang in his head even before he could actually hear her wings soaring trough the sky.

She could project her gentle voice in the minds of those she deemed worthy of it, a skill he sometimes envied, since he had to change his appearance into the form of the species he wanted to communicate with.

Just a moment ago he had to transform into a man, so he could give the human workers instructions on how to rebuild and paint the palace ceiling. He wished for another, glorious, depiction of his family, since his 'electrifying' son hatched.

Frigga’s white scales shimmered golden in the light reflected by the statues when she gracefully landed beside him.

„Who did that to you?“ Her demanding question appeared as a threatening growl to everyone standing in hearing range, so the men started to back off slowly, fearing the dragon could be displeased with any of them.

„A foolish creature whose name shall not be remembered, my beloved. Be assured it paid with its life for taking my eye.“

While listening to his answer, the queen lowered her head a few inches and started to lick his wounded face. An intrigued „Good“ was the only response Odin received. He smiled looking at her nostrils, which tried to identify the unfamiliar scent they seemingly already had caught. It wasn't just his enemy's blood she could smell, but also a hint of earth and rotting plants that escaped from the Allfather's baggage; and something else.

„Please follow me to our chambers. I want to show you something I acquired for my collection in the lair.“

Several bags filled with all kinds of riches were given to servants to store away at their destined places, except one, which the king held onto, even after he returned to his true self; a winged beast whose formerly anthracite scales had been faded through centuries under the sun and now gleamed silvery.

He was getting old and became aware that this was probably the last time he had lead the swarm into battle.

Since he was still tired from the fight a few hours ago, he remained on the ground, so the royal pair trotted sublimely in the direction of the palace's entrance and shortly after disappeared from the view of those who worshipped them.

______________________________________________________

Frigga watched her husband laying down on his pile of treasures and trinkets in anticipation. As they hadn't talked during their way up here, she could hear the small chirps coming from the little sack.

„Victory was upon us,“ the Allfather started, „so I decided to roam the battlefield. I was looking for something of value for us and stumbled over nothing lesser than Laufey's nest!“ The dragon's voice resembled what humans might call a triumphant laughter.

„It was destroyed and abandoned. But one of the eggs remained unharmed. See for yourself.“

Odin opened the pouch he had kept by his side and gently let a tiny object roll out of it.

The queen came closer to examine the egg that rested between some emeralds and a serpentine figurine, quiet and unmoving.

„Poor little thing. Couldn't you come out on your own?“

Before the king was able to process what was going on, he bewildered observed how his wife opened her maw and bit into the white eggshell.

„I didn't transport that thing unscathed all the long way here for you to break and devour it in a split second!“ lamented Odin, but Frigga was unconcerned by his thundering demeanor.

„I'm just helping him to take a look at his new home,“ he heard her voice whispering to his mind.

Her looming eyes locked his gaze on her and he knew he shouldn't protest whatever was going on at the moment.

The silence between them was only interrupted by some teasing chirps echoing out from the queen's half opened muzzle.

Odin first caught a glance at greenish scales behind her teeth and then observed the smallest alligator he had ever seen crawling out and on top of Frigga’s snout.

„Oh Allfather, hasn't our son the sweetest little smile? He will charm everyone in Asgard!“

With these words she turned gently around so that the newborn wouldn't fall off and strolled to the chamber's gates.

„Hmm,“ the king grumbled.

„I will bring him to Thor,“ the queen paused for a second, „Loki will be enamored with his big brother!“

„Loki?“ Odin repeated sceptically. „May I have a say in the matter?“

His wife was almost out of the room.

„Oh sure, you can announce the hatching of the second prince. And order a big feast in celebration of this lucky day. Just the best for Asgard's heirs!“

After the proud mother had left, the Allfather stayed behind for a little longer and brooded.

„Well, it seems I have to reinstruct the painters, too.“

[deathfavor]

@kyukicho said: “Talk to me. That’s all I want. Just talk to me, please!” - KakuIza any timeline

confrontational starters

Izana knows Kakucho's coming even before Kakucho makes his way to his side. His dearest servant is unyielding in that; he faithfully follows Izana no matter where the king treds. His eyes squeeze shut as he tips his head back and swallows down the last of his colorful drink and sets the empty glass back onto the bar. It's just in time too as Kakucho arrives by where he's seated.

" Kakucho - " Izana starts and stops in a split second as he hears Kakucho's words. That's all I want. Please!

Izana looks to the side, watching drunk people stumble over themselves in a sea of music and moving bodies. Izana's only had one drink so far, and nothing strong enough to make him feel anything other than a tad bit relaxed. Kakucho's words make something vile raise in his throat. Kakucho. Far too sweet Kakucho, who'd followed his King's orders without hesitation. He wants to reject Kakucho's request because it doesn't feel like anything good can come from this.

" Fine. " He hears his own voice fill the air over the music and he tosses a bill that's too much for the drink he just consumed. It doesn't matter ; Tenjiku's drawn in plenty of money as they've overtaken the underworld. Izana grabs his jacket and heads out into the night with Kakucho by his side. He doesn't say anything for the first few minutes, just stares ahead while they walk with no destination in mind.

" Sometimes I just want to escape from everything. Even though I'll regret it when the drinks and everything else has worn off. Or during it. " Kakucho's been present for both. " It helps for a little bit. " But the downfall always inevitably comes, one way or another, sooner or later. When Izana is at his ugliest sometimes, like a live grenade, but also the most truthful, less steel and ice. " I know you don't enjoy those parties Tenjiku has, or back with Black Dragon. " He knows, and despite his fall, he'd always been careful to make sure Kakucho didn't drink something he shouldn't or swat away bad temptations offered to his servant. " Yeah, that's what I was planning on tonight. " He says before Kakucho can ask, and his head turns a fraction more away, to help conceal in the shadows.

Kings weren't supposed to admit that. That they wanted to escape sometimes, that he wasn't as untouchable and godlike as he presented himself to the world and everyone in it. He doesn't think he meant to share that, but somehow it slipped past him. Maybe he did have something stronger than he thought.

[liliallowed]

Been thinking about Y/N as a character recently and I've been thinking out some parallels they have to Slay the Princess. I know we are technically them, but the relationship we have with them as voices reminds me of the long quiet and the princess. We have shaped Y/N to be this way with our questions and asks. What little individuality they have is either multipled and made larger or erased by us. If we don't believe in their abilities they won't do it. If we believe they will. If they are slightly interested in Dust we shape them mold them to like him, like how the long quiet shapes the princess to love him the damsel route. We caused their curiosity that would ruin their life and yet molded them to a people pleasing pacifist that does little about it. We make insecurities from our own about how the other two feel about them and make them obsessed with the idea of being loved. They are lonely and isolated and have no experience because they technically have barley existed in this world without us and our word. We are the bugs in their head the grow and split and make new till the end of time whispering and molding them to our liking splitting their brain in two with our heavy words and comments. They have slight agency without us, but after a while they'll seem to realize they have no other purpose, and our will makes them whole. We are two separate creatures so close and yet so far on the plane of the power of knowing and existing, we are something they will never comprehend; and yet we whisper in their ear. This got very off topic lol sorry for rambling.

:D

yes! but unlike long quiet there is a limit on how much you can boost y/n's determination.

they won't become all powerful if they just believe in themselves. they will just be able to barely keep up with those two and then collapse out of exhaustion. they are still human. unlike crimson they have limits. (so does dust but LV boosts his magic)

and while they have potential, on a power scaling level they're considerably weaker than both dust and crimson. two trained killers with fast reflexes and a LOT of combat experience.

as for them not having other purposes... well? you're kinda right? but also y/n does have their own agency. they will react unprompted based on previous choices.

but yeah you did kinda shape them into this on a meta level. but I said it before. your asks aren't technically a seperate entity from y/n's own intrusive thoughts. they are conflicted but that doesn't mean they wont ignore some urges or be more keen on listening to others.

it is kinda funny since crimson also is an anomaly in that world that orbits around dust constantly wanting more excitement, but since I refuse to break the fourth wall (only cracks or only vague mentions) that's as far as I'll go. y/n is just a regular human with some problems. sure. you are technically whispering to them and changing the world. but how do you know it's not because you're controling them, but your choices happens to align with y/n's? they're still responsible for their actions. even if you willed it, they thought of it and acted on it.

y/n isn't a blank slate. y/n WILL make your choices even without your input. you just happen to go into a timeline where their choice was yours. in another timeline y/n never made that choice to free crimson and left dust.

in another timeline they clung to dust and they ended up together and dust finally could let down his gaurd and be at peace now that crimson was safety contained. no resets. no more killing... it was over.

another possibility is that y/n dies to dust and it doesn't reset, leaving dust alone.

those happy experience you think you've deprived y/n? yeah they're still there. but they're only accessable to readers. not the in-world characters. y/n can never do a true reset and have no lasting consequences. dust will KNOW it from their expression. but YOU technically can. you can jump between worlds. explore other stuff. the concept of lv triangle is extremely open to creative ideas! you can even plop in your self insert and like, think of choices YOU would make.

(of course it's hard to not know dust and not react accordingly. so just imagine some shady ass dude walks up to you with pretty eyes-)

(and yeah! feel free to make fluff or send small requests about those happy timelines! I'll see if I have time and write them!)

but unlike the other timelines this timeline seems to be going in a direction that both crimson and dust would be attached to you.

you're not controling fate you're just JUMPING to your desired outcome.

since this is an interactive fic, unlike a prewritten reader fic this one can take many turns! but like, poor dust. he's an anomaly magnet 😔/j

[darsynia]

Trust Fall | Ch 11b

ARC image by Eury Escodero | image from neverfeltbetter at Wordpress

Story Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Tony/OC, ‘terrorists made us fall in love;’ IM1 timeline. In this chapter, Emory and Tony fight over the concept of selfishness, which leads Emory to confess something-- right as the terrorists come in to demand their Jericho.

Length: 3,011

Tags (please don’t hesitate to ask!): @starryeyes2000 @raith-way @arrthurpendragon @starksbf @themaradaniels @chickensarentcheap @tiny-anne

Excerpt:

The man rests his thumb on her chin and turns her head towards Tony with an inexorable grip. Tony’s eyes are fierce and angry, but the rest of his expression is neutral. In a way, she’s proud of him; Tony’s not mindlessly angry in response to this man’s touch on her, he’s focused on the end goal.

He is possessive though, and everyone in the room knows it.

That knowledge triples the power she’s manifesting, and now Emory has a dilemma. She’s going to start shedding power, soon, and there won’t be a discernible reason for it. Is there a way she can send some of it to circle at her feet, splitting it off into the depths of the cave? She has no idea how long she has before she’ll be forced to find out.

The terrorist leader releases her chin and dips his hand down toward her chest, pulling the unbuttoned collar down just as he’d done with Tony’s, as if to check to see if she too has a glowing disc to observe.

Tony’s hands both tighten into fists. His jaw bulges as he clenches his teeth, but he stays silent, his face impassive, eyes full of fury. Emory twitches her hand, meaning it to look like a motion borne of fear, but in reality, she sends a tiny burst of power over to Tony. It lightly moves the fabric of his pants before fluttering the hem of his shirt as it flies up along his back. 

For a split second, Tony’s eyes shut, and one corner of his lip turns up. It means the world to her.

Chapter Eleven: د لمر وړانګې

“All that’s left is the helmet,” Tony announces to her the following day, as they eat. “Well, and then I’ll need to put the arms and legs onto the body, and hook up the wiring.”

“I’ve built a winch to help get it onto you, but I think we’ll need some lead time, because that will be difficult to conceal,” Yinsen reminds him. “Screws cannot be hurried.”

“One of my favorite sayings,” Tony says, grinning.

Emory doesn’t know whether to laugh or blush, and does both. To cover her reaction, she says, “Will you show me the schematic so I know where the screws are? In case you need me?”

“The two of you are just lobbing over the net here. I’d love to need you, sure,” Tony says, leaning back and stretching his arms up. He seems relaxed and confident, as if the dirtier and more disconnected from his flashy former life, the more he discovers he doesn’t need those trappings to be himself. Emory snorts inwardly at her rosy view, recognizing it for what it is: the distorted lens of infatuation. It doesn’t help that his phrasing is basically her ideal situation. She’s pretty sure she’s well on her way to needing him.

“Got some cuts to practice this afternoon, but maybe I can start the helmet at sundown. I’ll get the last of the welding out of the way first,” Tony says. “I still think you should let me at least make you a faceplate,” he says, directing his words toward Yinsen.

Yinsen shoots her a look as he shakes his head. “Don’t waste your time. The two of you will protect me in your various ways.”

Tony leans his head over to Emory’s as if relaying a secret. “Did you see him being Peak Dad with the implied responsibilities? On top of subtly implying that it’s you I should be building armor for, if there’s time?”

“Yep,” she says, turning his head her way so she can drop a quick kiss on his lips. “Don’t you dare.”

She stands up before he can stop her, but Tony doesn’t give up easily. He never does.

“First of all, don’t tell me what to do,” Tony says. It sounds good natured, but she can hear the testy undercurrent. “Second of all, I can’t stop bullets with that thing, and you’re going to need to see who you’re trying to airbend into pretzels, Auntie Anne. It only makes sense to protect you.”

Tony gets up and follows her as she walks over to rinse the dishes before setting them up to soak as usual. They don’t get hot water unless they boil it themselves. She doesn’t know what to say to him that doesn’t sound lovesick, but he keeps trying to persuade her to let him make her something until finally Emory can’t take it anymore.

“Tony!” she says, spinning around and grabbing handfuls of his shirt to get his attention. “I am asking you to finish your own armor first! You’re too important not to, too important to our escape not to,” she amends, feeling her cheeks heat up with the slip.

Tony looks down at her and scoffs. “So, what, you’ve traded allegiances now? Swapped Rory out for a newer model? Same doormat act, same lack of care for your own needs?” She’s so shocked she lets go and staggers back.

“No!”

“It’s either that or naivete.” Tony points at the door. “As soon as they can see what I’ve made, we’re done. We’ll be hit by overwhelming force, unless we have the element of surprise. I can’t finish the suit without putting it together, and once I put it together, they’re going to see it. I either make you something now, or I don’t get the chance,” he says, his voice harsh and angry. “And, not for nothing? But I thought we were both making progress on the ‘spectrum of selfishness’ thing. Looks like I was wrong. You’re right back where you were, you just switched who you’re doing all that self-sacrificing for!” He shakes his head in derision and pushes off from the table they’re standing beside to go over to his fake Jericho, slamming around the pieces.

Emory’s hand had flown to her throat when he’d referred to her behavior as naivete, but by the time he’s done speaking, she’s clawing at her chest to try to stop her heart’s aching pain from obstructing her lungs any further.

“It’s not the same,” she chokes out. It’s a pathetic refutation of his diatribe.

“Looks the same to me.”

“Yeah, well, trust me, it’s different. For one thing, I wasn’t in love with Rory!” she snaps back without thinking.

The thing that Tony had in his hand falls to the ground. Before she can take it back, before he can turn around and let her see what his reaction is, the door slams open, and a large group of armed men storm inside, followed by a clean-shaven man with a commanding demeanor. They order all three of them to step back.

Emory puts her hands up, sees that Tony and Yinsen have done the same, but she feels exposed, the tears from her argument with Tony still streaked across her face. She’s usually able to drape a blanket around herself when they have visitors, but there’s no chance for that, now. Her shirt is one of the ones that had shrunk in the wash. It’s small and tight, a concession to the hot temperature in the cave on days like today where Tony’s got the fire stoked to be hotter than normal.

The man who walks in has a sardonic look on his face as he takes in the state of disarray in the room. He looks first at Yinsen, then at her, then at Tony. “Relax,” he says. There’s an upward lilt to his tone, as if it’s a bit extreme of them to react with such fear to his sudden arrival.

Emory can see Tony and Yinsen from where she’s standing (so close she could grab one of the men’s guns, though she would have no idea what to do with it besides just die, if she reached out for one). She sees that Tony’s trying to take his cues from Yinsen, who looks like he’s going to be sick. The terrorist walks over and reaches out with a finger to pull Tony’s open shirt collar down, to better see the ARC reactor.

“The bow and arrow once was the pinnacle of weapons technology,” he says in a gruff, lightly accented voice, releasing Tony’s shirt and walking toward her. “It allowed the great Genghis Khan to collect territory from the Pacific to the Ukraine. His strength and strategy placed many people under his absolute authority.” He’s speaking about weapons, and as she listens, Emory’s own weapon starts to manifest itself in a light coating of power she can feel on her exposed skin.

The terrorist reaches out toward her, and for a frightening second, she wonders if he’ll be able to feel the power that’s gathering there. He seems not to, though, lifting her chin so she is forced to look up at him. In her peripheral vision, Emory sees Yinsen make a ‘settle’ gesture, and knows it’s to Tony.

The man rests his thumb on her chin and turns her head towards Tony with an inexorable grip. Tony’s eyes are fierce and angry, but the rest of his expression is neutral. In a way, she’s proud of him; Tony’s not mindlessly angry in response to this man’s touch on her, he’s focused on the end goal.

He is possessive though, and everyone in the room knows it.

That knowledge triples the power she’s manifesting, and now Emory has a dilemma. She’s going to start shedding power, soon, and there won’t be a discernible reason for it. Is there a way she can send some of it to circle at her feet, splitting it off into the depths of the cave? She has no idea how long she has before she’ll be forced to find out.

The terrorist leader releases her chin and dips his hand down toward her chest, pulling the unbuttoned collar down just as he’d done with Tony’s, as if to check to see if she too has a glowing disc to observe.

Tony’s hands both tighten into fists. His jaw bulges as he clenches his teeth, but he stays silent, his face impassive, eyes full of fury. Emory twitches her hand, meaning it to look like a motion borne of fear, but in reality, she sends a tiny burst of power over to Tony. It lightly moves the fabric of his pants before fluttering the hem of his shirt as it flies up along his back. 

For a split second, Tony’s eyes shut, and one corner of his lip turns up. It means the world to her.

The truth is that she had wanted to reassure him, but she also had wanted to know if she could send small, directed bursts like that to bleed off some of the energy she’s suffused with. Emory can feel her hair start to lift at the back of her neck.

Having made his point, the terrorist moves over to Tony’s worktable, speaking about the size of Khan’s army as he reaches out and lifts some schematics. “These days, whoever holds the latest Stark weapons rules these lands. Soon, it will be my turn,” he says, moving back over to stand tall and expectant in front of Tony. Emory’s sent about six bursts off to the back of the cave. She wishes she could send another to Tony, but knows that would be a very bad idea.

Their tormentor’s next words are in a foreign tongue. Yinsen responds, anxious and placating. At the beginning of the exchange, the terrorist glares at Tony, while Yinsen begs him with his eyes to remain calm. Halfway through, the man turns toward Yinsen, and the men trade roles, with Tony widening his eyes, looking around at the men whose guns are trained on them. Her heart in her throat, Emory starts to slowly sidestep toward Tony, hoping the movement will distract him from any foolish moves he might be considering making.

Suddenly, the terrorist barks a command, and two groups of men step forward. Tony reaches his arm out and pulls Emory over in front of him, clasping his hands at her chest. She realizes too late that her movement has achieved the opposite of her intention.

Three men have grabbed Yinsen to thrust him down to his knees. The other three hover near where Tony has her crushed against his chest, looking to their leader for guidance.

The terrorist actually smiles. It’s chilling. He gestures to the others to fall back, and strolls casually to the fire, speaking that foreign language to Yinsen as he does so. Emory wishes she could turn and bury her chest against Tony’s, but his grasp of her is tight and desperate. She doesn’t dare draw attention back to them, even as tears form in her eyes again at the pleading note in Yinsen’s voice. Tony’s arms start to shake, and she can do nothing to comfort him, not with so many eyes on the two of them.

As the man comes back from the fire, Emory gasps. He’s got a burning hot coal trapped in a pair of tongs.

“Don’t,” Tony whispers to her, the words barely more than a breath. 

She understands why, even before she watches the terrorist blow on the coal in between his threatening words. The coal pulses hotter with every burst of air blown against it. 

“What does he want?” Tony asks Yinsen. Emory lets out a small noise of protest, and Tony kisses the top of her head. She hadn’t been prepared for that, and in her surprise, Emory releases her grip on her powers for just a second. When she realizes what’s going to happen, she leans into it, directs the energy into as natural an occurrence as she can muster.

A gust of wind blows around the room, hitting the men and their automatic weapons over by the cave entrance first, fluttering everyone’s clothing and hair, and sending Tony’s schematics sailing off of the table and onto the floor, skidding out of sight into the back of the cave.

Tony coughs, a sharp stutter of utter shock and awe.

Unfortunately, this new, frightening leader who has just made himself known to them is completely unphased by the unexpected display. He nods to the men who have their hands all over Yinsen, and they press the older man’s head down onto the anvil that Tony had requested all those weeks ago. With the tongs mere inches away from Yinsen, the terrorist asks him something. Yinsen’s answer has the word ‘Jericho’ in it. They repeat the question and answer, each becoming more heated.

Tony’s grip on her has become very uncomfortable, and Emory can tell a split second before he acts that he’s about to. He moves so swiftly and smoothly that she isn’t quite sure how she has ended up behind him, her wrist held in his tight grip. Tony holds up his other hand just barely where she can see it, using a tone that’s part desperate, part arrogant.

“What do you want, a delivery date? I can--”

Every single weapon lifts, and all of them are pointed at Tony.

If she wanted to, Emory is certain that she could sweep all the terrorists into a vortex that might even suck their breath away. That plan isn’t as certain as Tony’s ironmonger suit, though, so she maintains her tenuous grip on her powers, sending two more desperate skips of energy behind her into the back of the cave.

She hears her cot hop and realizes that she needs to adjust her percentages. Ten percent of two layers of power on her skin is small. Ten percent of ten layers of power on her skin is not.

“I need him,” Tony says. It’s not placating. It shouldn’t work. But Tony Stark has a worldwide reputation, not just for genius, but for arrogance and conceit. Tony shrugs and mutters, “Good assistant.”

It seems like this just enough of a nod to his own lack of agency. The terrorist drops the glowing coal onto the anvil two inches from where Yinsen’s head is being pressed to the metal.

“Very well. You have until tomorrow to assemble my missle.” With the tongs held aloft, he rests a heavy hand on Tony’s shoulder, and steps around him. 

“If you fail…” the terrorist dangles, looking at Tony before turning to face Emory. The man smiles, a creepy, threatening gesture, then nods to her as if to say ‘hold still.’ 

“I have every confiden--” Tony starts to say, but as if to interrupt him, the terrorist reaches out and snags her shirt collar with the tongs.

The sizzle of singed fabric is very loud.

Tony groans, a low, agonized sound that hurts her to hear. Even though all eyes are on her and Tony, even though the terrorist himself is standing within a foot and a half of her, Emory sends another burst of energy to Tony, as small as she can slice off. She can see it ruffle his hair as it glides up; he must be sweating so much the shirt is clinging to his back, now.

“Please,” Tony says quietly. Gone is the arrogance that had colored his voice earlier when intervening to save Yinsen.

“We gave her to you, and you haven’t even fucked her,” the terrorist says conversationally, turning his head to look at Tony. His hand does not stay steady without his gaze on the tongs, and Emory can hear her own heartbeat as fear being burned, being branded races through her veins. Her powers can’t really help, even if they would cool the metal, as there would be no explanation for them except to give this ruthless, terrifying man another way to exploit them.

“Blame your spokesman,” Tony says, with too much insolence in his voice. The terrorist turns his wrist without looking at her, and more of the shirt fabric comes into contact with the hot tongs. There’s a hissing sound. Tony stops talking, his whole body going rigid.

“Go on.”

“He-- He suggested she might become pregnant, give you another hostage,” Tony says.

Emory’s hair starts to lift at the back of her head thanks to the sheer power she’s clinging to with no possible outlet. If she were standing by herself, she could send it in chunks swirling around herself, but they’d collide with her captor and risk him discovering her abilities. Desperately, Emory sends some of it behind her, and seconds later the fire starts to crackle and spit.

Tony’s still talking, his voice growing in strength, but not arrogance. “I didn’t inherit my father’s hard-earned money to father a child with a complete stranger, only for the kid to end up your pawn.”

“So close to being a genius,” the terrorist says, opening the tongs. He closes them with a click, then trails them down her shirt, across her breasts. The metal is still warm but nowhere near the level it had been just minutes before. Her collar is warmer, now that it’s in contact with her skin. “You’ve lost your chance. Stay away from her until you deliver my missile tomorrow.”

The man lifts his hand from Tony’s shoulder and reaches into his clothing to pull out a pair of handcuffs. Before Emory can do anything, he’s clasped one to her left arm, and is dragging her back to her cot. The amused nobleman demeanor he’d spoken to them with is gone, replaced with cold indifference as he shoves her down onto her side and fastens the handcuff to the right front leg of the cot.

“Twenty-four hours,” he reiterates, before leading his retinue of armed henchmen out of the double metal doors, closing them with a clang.

Next chapter, Emory's forced to cheer from the 'sidelines' of her cot as Tony and Yinsen get the last parts of the suit finished.

[wiseatom]

hi, here’s an update!

as i am sure you have gathered from my posts over the last week, i am. simply not having the best time right now, which is fine! it’s the busiest time of the year where i work, and so i came back from my time off and just got Slammed, and it’s been a lot. i am mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted, and it’s not creating a great atmosphere when it comes to writing certain fics — or, specifically, the second part of call my bluff, call you babe.

i am trying really hard, but i keep overestimating myself. i’ll write 2,000 words and be like cool 😎 i can get this done on my day off tomorrow 😎 and then my day off comes and i just lie in bed for hours and catch up on the sleep i’m not getting. i am just not in the right headspace for it right now, and if i force it, i know it’s going to come out bad, and i already feel that way about the first chapter. i really, really appreciate how much love everyone has shown this fic, and how many excited messages i’ve received, and i’m sorry to disappoint with the constant delays, but i really need to put my energy into things that make sense for me, and this fic doesn’t fit there right now! and that’s okay!

my current plan is to split the second chapter in half, so there will actually be 3 total chapters of cmbcyb instead of 2 (the reoccurring theme for this fic is Thea Bit Off More Than She Could Chew, lol). i will get those chapters up as soon as possible, but i’m not going to give any timeline on when, bc idk if u’ve noticed, but timelines are sometimes my downfall lol. all i will say is hopefully soon :’)

i still want to write, so i will probably work on the next fic in my lineup of ideas, just so you’re aware that i might post that before posting any more of cmbcyb. thank you for your continued patience as always! i promise i Will finish this fic, just not now. love u <3