#aftermath of incidents au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lowkeyclueless5137 · 8 months

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The JJK mild au! :D

Because I just want to put the skrunklily through the horrors ™.

Will I have comfort? Will I follow Gege's footsteps and crush any hope of your fave ever catching the light of day in this Au? Welp... Only one way to find out. :3c

Again, if you know jjk, you know the absolute mountain of trigger warnings that will follow this Au. If not, I have a short list with the most proeminent: gore, murder, a lot of unhinged and messed up things... Yep. No one is spared. -3-

And we follow our wittle, tiny Jade this time! Man, I sure hope this one doesn't succumb to the horrors. :3c

So with everything outta the way... You get my pure, unfiltered and unedited thoughts with this Au. It's not like it's a difference from other Au Explanations I have. :'3

Also! I'll have to give u a fair warning: there will be brief spoilers for the anime in here, so I advise you to proceed with caution. I won't tag them, but I will mention certain big events. So when you see a mention of the event you last are up with, it's your cue to click off. :3

There will be also spoilers for book 7 in here so ya know... :3

We start off with bg: Jujutsu sorcerers were all around the world, but Japan had the biggest concentration of curses, hence why the most powerful sorcerers were there along with the elders, main Council organ. To exert some sort of order around, on other continents were instaurated sub-councils with other elders in charge of those matters. Only when very world end-level problems occur do these news reach the main elders and action is throughly taken. There are, ofc, student exchanges and a lot of multicultural trading in those continents as they are big areas who have to concentrate on the place with most curses.

That is your bg for now. This Au takes place in parallel with JJK's plot. Like imagine it starts in between JJK 0's Aftermath and Yuji eating the cursed finger events. Doesn't mean things won't get correlated, so you'll get mentions of the anime events.

We follow Jade. Now Jade was someone who lived quite cozy with his parents, following his local high-school. His brother was given a scholarship to a prestigious school in France and for 2 years Jade didn't see him. He did keep in touch via daily calls. His brother was sending him an abundance of messages and photos, but after his first year, he started to slowly lose contact, to the point Jade had no contact with his brother for some good months. It felt like something was wrong, but Jade assumed that things picked up some pace and his brother was trying to keep it up.

It was the start of school tho, when Jade got the news that his parents were coming home from work, when they got in a car accident. None of them survived, as such the news were given to Jade by his homeroom teach.

He was keeping his calm and he did try to reach his brother, but again, no contact. His teacher informed that his only relatives who could take them in were his aunt and uncle in Japan. Jade still asked for him to not be given a grace period to mourn as he will be fine. What he wants tho, is to get in contact with his brother. He was assured that his brother is likely to be informed as well by his school teachers and he will attend the funeral.

Floyd did not attend the funeral. Instead, an old family friend, Azul, attended. He was from France, but did not mention anything about Floyd. Jade's worries start to skyrocket as something clearly was wrong. Still, he kept his usual Demandour, which gained fear from other students, who couldn't believe Jade was acting like normal when his parents just kicked the bucket. And in a car accident too! So it wasn't something that could be pre-derminated and made peace with that easy.

One day, Jade stood after hours, packing some of his things for his imment move to Japan, when he caught glimpse of someone trespassing. Usually he wouldn't mind it.

But the trespasser looked awfully similar to someone that appeared multiple times in Floyd's photos. The latter did talk about the guy and Jade knew that he was supposed to be in France, not in here, in the east. It was on the whole other side of Europe!

So Jade pursues the guy, finding out he's named Jamil. The guy had with him some small thing that he was frantically trying to wrap in some seal bandage. He was hurrying and as such, Jade took him by surprise.

Jamil almost called out to Floyd, looking as if he saw a ghost, to which Jade took as another red flag. He inquired to know why Jamil was here and what was he doing with whatever that was. The latter was all tensed up and clearly ready to attack Jade, but he suddenly halted and rushed inside the school without any warning.

Jade didn't have any idea what was going on, but all he knew was that the school was getting trashed by an invisible force that Jamil apparently could see and could interact with. He seemed eager to protect whatever that thing was, but he dropped it and Jade picked it up.

It was a finger. Jade had a very bad feeling about it, but apparently whatever that invisible force was knocked him into a wall and thus the finger ended up in Jade's mouth. With the need for air, the latter swallowed the finger in an attempt at clearing his throat and taking a breath. He couldn't spit it because his mouth was holded close by the invisible force.

And slowly, Jade saw the invisible thing gaining a figure. It was a monster, looking more like a bunch of formless flesh moving around, with a big mouth darted with fangs, ready to eat Jade up, but thing suddenly went black.

Meanwhile, for Jamil, imagine his horror when he saw the curse blasted from inside out and Jade there, but with marks lining his body. 4 eyes looked at Jamil, which shaped into an all infamous grin as it wasn't Jade anymore, but someone else, someone who immediately butchered that curse.

And Jamil wanted to fight the new guy, but he gets stopped when the marks and 2nd pair of eyes dissappear and Jade finds himself in the middle of the whole mess, absolutely confused about what happened.

To add salt to the wound, Azul shows up. Jamil looks absolutely done with the latter, who apparently, was his teacher. Jade did inquire to know what the actual fuck is going on, because he thought he would die in here, only to find his jacket and tie ripped to shreds and in the middle of a crater made in the school floor.

Azul only inspects a bit Jade, asking very odd questions such as: do you feel wierd? Do your sides feel crammed? Is your teeth hurting? Do you carve meat? Questions which got all a prompt no from Jade. He only says that he feels a need to sleep, to which Azul reassures that he should succumb to it.

The second Jade closes his eyes, the marks reappear, the eye colors switch, an adițional pair of eyes open and nails grow longer. The new person Azul refers to as Floyd, who didn't look happy the slightest at the sight of the latter, accusing him of being a backstabber.

So Azul holds up his point that he was helpless in that situation, all the while dodging Floyd's attacks. Jamil is watching because Azul forbid him from getting into the fight, rather he watched what exactly was a special grade capable of. Floyd seemed more cautious than before, which allowed Azul to easily knock him out.

When Jade wakes up, he's in a very cold room, littered with seals as his hands are tied heavily. In front of him, Azul was standing and clearly found the situation as amusing as Jade did. The younger one asked what in the world is going on, to which Azul replies that Jade is oddly calm for the situation that he is in.

Then he moves aside, revealing that behind him, there was someone else tied up, facing Jade. Unlike Jade tho, the said person was tied by every limb, with heavy chains, their hands sealed in a metal box, impossible to see from inside. What was more or less wierd were the fins the person had on their body, which were quite big and sharp, almost like knives.

Jade tho, recognised the teal hair and the frame. It was Floyd, his very own twin brother.

Before Jade could even sink in the info, Azul explains that Floyd was here because he discovered a forbidden ritual. He achieved something that was believed to be almost impossible: a complete metamorphosis into a curse. Hence why the inhuman appearance.

Azul adds that the European council of elders deemed Floyd as 'the next sukuna' and in fear of him betraying them, they sealed him away and cut his fingers, in hopes they could use them as cursed artefacts and thus use them to keep curses around a bit more tamed, just how Japan used Sukuna's fingers for the exact purpose. So far, Floyd's situation is one of a sealed curse, thus he shouldn't be a problem anymore.

What the council disregarded tho, was Azul, who wanted to know how exactly his student achieved such thing. And Jade was the answer. He tells Jade that now Floyd's consciousness moved into Jade and he could take control any time he deems fit. Jade didn't have enough cursed energy before so Floyd's sudden overtake spiked it up, hence he could see his brother now.

Jade only demands to be freed. For him and his brother to be freed, but Azul denies him of that. He says that if the council finds out that Jade ate a cursed finger and currently is a vessel for Floyd, they will execute him. But, Azul promises that he will free Jade on one condition: Comply with his terms, keep this whole ordeal a secret and help him find out how this metamorphosis was achieved. It was something revolutionary after all. It wasn't a reincarnation, rather something else. And Azul wanted to find out what.

Jade has to accept, but he puts his own condition: that Azul will do anything in his power to free his brother. With these, the deal is made and Azul frees Jade from his imprisonment. Not before knocking him out first. :3

And while knocked out, Jade finds himself on soft sand, in a sort of underwater like place. Everything felt lighter and even fishes and other sea creatures swam around, some even passing through Jade.

And that's also when he hears and sees Floyd again.

The latter had the same marks on his body, but only his ear fins and claws were present. He mentions how this is not what he had in mind for a reunion, but is taken aback when Jade hugs him and tells him that he missed the funeral. That their parents died and now both were supposed to be under their aunt's custody.

Floyd, unlike how Azul warned that curses are quite unfazed by death, tears up at the news and at first tries to play it off as just a very lame joke from his brother. But it was real. And when the confirmation is made, Jade could see how the place darkened and fishes around fleed. Floyd bursted into tears and Jade could do oh so much but to hug him and pat his back. The latter begged for Jade to do anything but get in trouble, but it was too late.

Both were aware of the deal Jade had with Azul and as such, both knew that if they wanted to be back together and safe, they would have to fight against the system.

So while at that, Floyd decides to fill Jade in with everything. He was currently in Floyd's domain: Eden's Abyss. Floyd explains the basics of jujutsu and gives to Jade an insight on what he should expect.

But what Floyd adds is the way the council works here, in Europe. In Japan things were far more straightforward, with bloodlines being preserved for their jujutsu techniques. In here it was a whole amalgam of who has and who doesn't. Since jujutsu is a hereditary trait, Floyd clears out that there one of their ancestors was a jujutsu sorcerer. The gene just wasn't awakened in anyone until Floyd himself.

What Floyd makes clear was that in Europe, the council was made out of the most whealty jujutsu sorcerers. They primarily used their money to establish their own monopoles and as such use them to hide the actual activities of jujutsu sorcerers.

Right now, Floyd gave to Jade 3 important names: The Asims, the Shrouds and Crowley. He adds that unfortunately, the strongest European sorcerer is Malleus Draconia, whose grandma was kicked out of the council, following her daughter's actions years ago.

Floyd made it clear that he hates Crowley especially, since he was the one who gave the decree of sealing him away.

Jade asks what he's supposed to do to free his brother. Floyd admits that it's not that simple, since without his cursed power, which was sealed in the fingers, he would be as good as dead meat the second he's freed from those chains. He doesn't know where fingers are scattered, but if Jade has one, he should search for the rest. Once he gets all of them, Floyd promises he'll 'handle it from there'. He should nudge Azul into searching for the fingers, since he would know most likely where most of them were.

After that plan is devised, the 2 actually do chat and catch up with one another. Until Floyd deems that enough time passed and Jade should wake up. As such Jade is kicked out of the domain and back into consciousness.

Jade wakes up on a couch, in a notably very large living room. Azul notes how he woke up and that his husbands are gone to work now, so Jade will have time to get filled with his chores.

Azul made some mending so that Jade is unofficially participating under his courses as a jujutsu teacher. He is not allowed to go on campus ground, nor is he allowed to have a dorm room, so in the mean time, Jade will be a guest in Azul's penthouse and do chores when the latter has work on the school campus.

For now, Azul presents around and gets Jade to understand that at the moment he's in fricking Paris and since he doesn't know French, it would be a bit of a hard time to do errands outside. Azul was, ofc, prepared for this, saying that he always had his students who don't know French use sum flashcards at first. They were some pretty simple ones, with translation on the back of them.

Jade notes how he talked with Floyd while he was unconscious. At that, Azul perks up, asking if by chance, Floyd could hear them. Jade indeed confirms that his twin can hear what he hears and see what Jade sees. Floyd just chooses not to bother with the latter.

Azul exhales and starts by saying that if Floyd is wondering about the fingers, that is the problem: Azul was denied of knowing anything about the fingers. Jamil, his student, was sly enough to get sum Intel about one and hence his meeting with Jade. Currently the fingers are used to draw in one place curses before they would be properly turned into seals.

But, for the meantime, this is everything Jade shall know about.

That night, Jade caught Azul talking over the phone with his husbands, seemingly being upset over something. Jade doesn't pry as the latter only serves him dinner, opting to not eat too before going to bed. Floyd also seems to not know what's going on with Azul and his love life, but he assumes something was up.

First days were Azul teaching Jade basics in jujutsu control, all the while Jade gets to know Azul's other 2 students: Kalim and Jamil. Kalim is a sunshine and Jamil is just a resting bitch face on main. :'3

Jamil tries to 'educate' Jade on Azul, saying that this guy makes place for owning a restaurant, teaching jujutsu sorcery and also being overly flamboyant and dramatic. He absolutely hates Azul's guts and would rather have been teacher by the other teach at the school: Lilia Vanrogue. Unfortunately that old guy has already 2 pupils under him. And Jamil wholeheartedly believed that he could beat both of the 'elite' students and impress Vanrogue, but Azul still won't give him an opportunity to meet a sorcerer who could promote him to a grade 2 or more.

Kalim tho seemed pretty happy with his grade 3.

At first Jade his hand in trying out to fight curses around. To ensure that Floyd won't go apeshit every fucking time Jade's on a mission, Azul gave to the latter a grade 3 cursed weapon, to have everyone on the same foot somewhat. He would stay with them and always be in a close proximity in case of anything. Afterwards, if they did a good job, the latter would treat them to something nice from his restaurant menu.

One day, Jade is sent to do errands when he stumbles upon a bakery. The guy at the cashier was one year older than Jade, who introduced himself as Trey. He was pretty nice and even gave to Jade a croissant on the house part, saying that he looks awfully similar to a buddy of his friend.

Unfortunately, a curse also was in proximity. And unfortunately, Jade thought it would be short work since it looked weak. It didn't do anything, only move around in the ground and avoiding being stepped on by unsuspecting people.

Jade followed it, getting himself to meet much more stronger curses. Of course, trying to retreat proved futile and Floyd deemed it necessary to take over and finish off the curses in question. Still the fact that he was only at 1 finger power and overnumbered meant he didn't get out unscratched, hence Jade found himself with a much longer stay in the Eden's Abyss.

When Jade wakes up, the first person he sees is a very annoyed Azul, who nags him about getting into danger. The good part was that Floyd took over and stumbled upon another special grade who could heal the body itself.

The good news: they found a finger and the condition they could use to track the others.

Bad news: Riddle found out. And boy is he NOT happy of the whole ordeal.

Jade does inquire to know who tf is Riddle, to which it comes the response: Riddle is the special grade curse who can take on a human form. His job is to act like a healer for the European jujutsu society and in return he's not immediately killed.

Riddle himself was also there and immediately gives a forehead flick to Jade, nagging him for drawing curses near the bakery. The bakery is a place Riddle usually frequents as Trey is his friend as such is a ground 0, where curses rarely gather up. With the lately spike in them, Riddle was more around the place. But Jade's presence itself made the finger to react and thus act like a sort of caller for curses around.

Azul brings up that he will have to bribe some other sorcerers around the aera to not say a thing about the finger missing. He had calls non-stop and he blames Jade for wondering aimlessly after curses.

After that thing, Azul gets an order from the higher-ups to investigate a 'grade 2' curse with his students, which was roaming through the catacombs.

Surprise, surprise, it's a special grade. Now Azul would've been fine if it was just one, but no. There were multiple, all spread through the catacombs. Floyd insisted, multiple times, for his brother to let him take over, but Jade was stubborn, his recent nagging still pushing him to prove that he could deal with things without his brother needing to take over.

Jade almost dies so Floyd forcefully takes over in order to try and preserve what little life was left in the body.

It ends again, with Riddle whining about Jade being even more stubborn than his brother, while Azul clearly paces around and Kalim with Jamil try to calm tf down their teacher.

Meanwhile, Floyd confronts his brother his domain. Really both of them could've been gone for, to which Jade replies that Floyd still had 8 other fingers to use to get free.

Floyd says that he doesn't want to be free if he knows his one and only brother died because of him.

And this is what apparently breaks Jade down enough to sob aloud and cry about the fact that he almost died in there. He didn't want to die. He didn't want Floyd to die. He didn't want anyone in his family to die anymore. Why was that such a hard task?

Floyd really didn't know what to say to comfort his twin. He was blunt: Jade is though, but he shouldn't push to the very end. Leave things to him when it gets overwhelming.

A thing to note about Floyd, now that Jade had 3 out of 10 fingers, was that he was a bit more closer to the form Jade first saw chained up. It was a sign that the latter was growing in power.

And it showed also through other things, such as sometimes popping up on Jade's cheek as an eye with a mouth to speak outloud or sometimes controlling one of Jade's hands to show a sign or smth. It wasn't that drastic, but it was smth.

Meanwhile, Azul got a concerning call, which put him in a quite foul mood for the whole week. It showed in a much harsher training and overall not being his usual dramatic self.

What was the reason? His husbands came back. Jade initially thought it was something to be happy about, since those were his husbands after all. He never saw the 2 up until now.

No, Azul was mad because of WHY these 2 came back.

And it's painfully obvious when Jade sees for the first time Idia and Malleus, both looking quite apologetic. Alas, despite his raging need to scream and let his frustrations loose, Azul forgave them, which was surprising to Jade. Being an old family friend, Jade had his fair share of times where Azul got angry and boy does he not forgive that easy.

Idia was a grade one with his cursed weapon which housed inside Ortho. Malleus was a special grade due to his jujutsu technique and his domain expansion: Fae of Maleficene.

The latter insists on why Jade is here and Azul admits that Jade is Floyd's twin and thus he is taking care of him. Idia does raise a brow at that, but doesn't question, saying that the council found out that he was with Yuuta and helping him with working with Rika. Yuuta had to prepare for a leave when news about Sukuna reincarnating reached around, along with the Shibuya incident. Hence they decided to have Idia train some first years, while Malleus is entrusted with exterminating the 'curses hospots' caused by the fingers. It was supposed to be a secret mission, but clearly Malleus couldn't lie to anyone to save his ass.

As such, for starters, Azul insists for Jade to tag along with Malleus. He isn't actually repartised as any kind of student so him laying off the radar, under Malleus, will be a perfect way to keep at least a worry off.

As for Idia, Azul brought up how he didn't really know about the first years given to the latter. Idia admits that maybe their son did turn over a new leaf and things would be better.

Jade had no fricking idea Azul had a kid to start with.

Entering the first years coming to Paris. Unlike Jade's expectation to be 2 or 3, these mfs were 5 in number. And all were quite a bunch. From the discussion about them, Jade expected that the lavender haired one or the ginger to be the son in question, since they were more rowdy.

No, it was Deuce, the quiet bluenette, who seemed very happy to see again his parents.

Idia did take the first years with him, since they would stay at the dorms and Azul had to bid farewell to Jade for a while as now he had to follow Malleus around.

And it was awkward af. The latter was painfully blunt in everything. The pure truth was always given. As such, Jade took a leap of fate and asked about Deuce.

Malleus admits that Deuce is not a biological child, rather Deuce was found after an incident with a curse. He was small, around 2 or 3 and Azul was the one that found him. His mother was killed by said curse and the child unknowingly thought she fell asleep, so he was trying to wake her up because he was scared of the 'monster' in his room.

Malleus admits that maybe it was his and Idia's skepticism of the situation at start that may have nudged Deuce to grow into a delinquent and thus be sent to a boarding school as a last resort. But Azul missed him dearly and was heartbroken to know that the council was expecting for Deuce to become a jujutsu sorcerer hence why they made the papers in secret to transfer Deuce from the said school. No one is very proud of their status as a sorcerer in here. If you don't have money or the immense luck to be born in a family of the council, any mistake can be fatal.

With that out of the way, Jade is assisting Malleus with dealing with the curses hotspots, but they find no fingers. Something clearly was amiss.

Even Floyd was restless, telling his brother that he is sensing something wrong. He doesn't know what, but his gut is rarely wrong, so he asks of Jade to be on his toes in case of anything.

Things clearly were becoming more weirder. Azul apparently reported an increase in grade 1 curses and so far, the council dispatched Azul's team to all of them, as if expecting 2 grade 3 sorcerers to deal with that. He tried to take it with Lilia, but the latter admits that his students were given awfully simple missions. They were working lately with grade 4s and it was clear with each day that his students had to train separately to keep their skills sharp.

Then Idia comes, with his own report. His students were on a mission with a supposed grade 1. I say supposed, because Idia himself returned with a huge wound across his torso and the rest thankfully escaped with smaller ones, only because Ortho was aiding. Idia concludes that something is amiss with the curses labeling since what they exorcised there was a special grade.

Riddle also had his plate full, as being the only one who could use reverse cursed technique and heal others. He was a curse himself, but he has his limits too, you know?

Now when Jade talked with Jamil and Kalim, the 2 admit that now they know why Azul was so skeptical on a promotion. Jamil remembered that Floyd got himself a promotion to semi-grade 1 back before he became a curse and they were suddenly having a less of a spike in difficulty. It was Azul's scheme of training them without the council intervening too much. Silver and Ruggie, Lilia's students, were currently semi-grade 1 and grade 2 respectively.

It also implies that, for some reason, the council aims to exterminate the lower grades.

And for this, we suddenly get an announcement from the council: the one who kills Jade Leech will get promoted to grade 1 sorcerer and gain a seat in the council itself.

You can imagine Jade's absolute shock upon finding out this. It was a hunt for him of all people and to make matters worse, it was mentioned that currently he has no cursed technique or enough cursed energy to even see curses. The others would see Jade as already dead, a short work of you will.

The problem, clearly was Azul, who was protecting Jade.

And this is made painfully clear when Azul suddenly decides that they have to flee to Italy. They still had 6 fingers to find as Jade and Malleus uncovered 1 during their expeditions together. Idia offered to take Kalim and Jamil under his wing for as long as Azul needs to be gone.

Jade insists tho, that he can manage. He has Floyd by his side and he could deal with those sorcerers who desperately want that place in the council. Azul denies him of going alone, knowing that they are talking about multiple people who chase after the spot. From grade 3 to 1, everyone wants a spot in the council. It's the only way to assure one's future for the rest of their life.

But, they don't even get to leave Paris, that already chaos unleashed. Many sorcerers were simply hunting for each other in order to eliminate competition, which in turn got non-sorcerers to run around in panic and try to flee the sudden wierd disasters. Paris was big and crowded, which only allowed for more calamities to happen and thus more injured.

And that's also when the new decree is made: that Azul is a traitor for protecting Jade and thus he is also on the list for ramson.

It was all an elaborate plan to pin the blame on Azul and get rid of him once and for all.

Up until now, Jade never saw Azul's cursed technique. He only used a special grade weapon: Neptune's wrath, which seemed to do the job. But now, Jade gets to see upclose Azul's actual cursed technique: Replica, a technique which allows Azul to replicate to perfection other cursed techniques he sees. He replicated Riddle's Reverse cursed technique to heal himself and Jade mid battle, along with a bunch of others from different sorcerers.

This is also why Azul was a special grade. If only he sees a technique, he could immediately replicate it. It's an absolute broken ability and Jade wondered why Azul didn't use it so often.

But, with every sorcerer that comes their way, Jade is painfully made aware on why. It's either kill or be killed. Either they finish off the said sorcerer or manage to permanently immobilise them, or they will both die at the hand of the enemy.

Azul insisted for them to head to Italy, because in Rome is situated the council meeting place. They needed to get there and make justice with their own hands.

Unfortunately, people start allying together, which only makes more difficulty to flee the city. The airport was closed off due to the chaos and Paris itself was bordered around to 'keep the supranatural circumstances confined'.

At one moment, the 2 run into Vil, a grade 1 sorcerer with a unique cursed technique: Condition of beauty. He can put a condition on anything in his touch range and if the condition isn't met, Vil entraps the enemy who touched the object into a small charm prison. He can release them at will too, so one knows that Vil has at his disposal some effects, curses and even sorcerers he could summon in battle.

And Vil manages to catch Azul with his technique. Now, Jade expected wholeheartedly to be killed the second he saw Azul gone.

But Vil notes how Jade was able to see his technique. He saw the charms and the curses he released. And this goes against the council's claim that Jade is a normal guy.

As such, Vil gives to Jade, by force, 4 cursed fingers that he was initially told to dispatch. Vil used those to lure out curses, but now he had a pretty good idea that Azul protected Jade because of the finger that went missing in Jade's aera at first. He mentions how the staged accident surely got rid of half the problem for the council.

And something snaps in both of the twins. When Floyd takes over, he's downright rabid over the news that their parents's accident was staged. Why tf didn't Azul tell them that?!

Vil says that Azul is blacklisted from a lot of things. His husbands, students and the bribes he gives around are the only way he gets news of things. If he doesn't suspect something, he doesn't take action to find out.

Floyd does end up pinning Vil to the ground and inquiring why he should even think of sparing his life. The answer is simple: Vil has Azul and if Floyd kills him, all of the living things that were holded hostages in the charms will die.

Floyd does comply and gives the control back to Jade, who asks what does Vil gain out of it. The model says that he is sick and tired of the council and wants to get rid of them. And the only way that is assured, is if they awaken what they feared the most: Floyd. Floyd's main cursed technique: bounce off, is a technique which allows for any attack to ricochet off Floyd himself or something else he places his technique on. Since he became a curse, Floyd developed much more volatile attacks, whom became an actual threat to the council.

As such, Vil promises to only free Azul after Floyd will finish off the council.

Unfortunately, for them, they run into Deuce, who is more than mad over Azul being sealed. Add with the chaos that holds up Idia and others, it's clear that reasoning was hard to reach the latter.

In the end, Deuce dies... Not by Vil, Jade or Floyd, but because Vil unsealed Azul temporarily once an enemy ambushed them and took Deuce hostage. Seeing the special grade, the enemy immediately killed Deuce, using that as an attempt at a distraction, knowing that Azul would mourn his son. And he did do exactly that.

Except that Jade was the one who actually kills the enemy, as to not let them get away. Azul is absolutely devastated and Vil offers to seal him in a charm again, to not witness this. Azul wanted to deny, but Jade accepted for him, reasoning that if the sorcerers see only Jade and Vil keeps sum distance, they would assume Azul was taken care of and thus leave him in an advantage.

When asked where did Vil even bring them, the model says that he will bring them to the execution room, where Floyd's material body is kept. They had 8 fingers already. Vil deemed it enough to free Floyd.

Unfortunately, on the way, we have many others who kicked the bucket: Kalim(he tried to protect Jamil), Ruggie(he used himself as a distraction so the group could proceed), Sebek (sacrificed himself for Silver and Lilia), Ace(died when he fought a grade 1 sorcerer in an attempt at taking them away from the civilians). There were others such as Cater and Rook, whom Jade bearly meet, yet still they died for Vil.

Reaching, finally, the said room, Vil was the one who unsealed Floyd, the latter gaining slowly consciousness, yet he needed much more than that.

Imagine Jade's shock when his own brother stabbed him in order to get back his power. He still missed 2 fingers, thus he wasn't at his full potential, but he knew a bit of reverse curse technique to heal Jade back up.

Unfortunately, this is where Jade's supposed adventure should end. Floyd deemed that his brother did enough and this is now in between him and the council that sealed him away and planned to kill their parents. Jade, tho, denies of this, saying that he wants to avenge his parents too. That he wants to protect Floyd, that he didn't go through all this just to be told to sit back now, when it was clear it's needed any kind of help they could get.

What doesn't help them is that, this time, more sorcerers, the elite ones, were going around for them. Vil was killed, not before releasing everything in his charms with his last breath, thus unleashing a chaos of rampant curses. At least Azul was free, but at the cost of a lot of special grade curses reeking havoc around.

One of those curses was Floyd tho, who still was looking for his last 2 fingers. He felt their presence and demanded that he couldn't hunt down the council is he doesn't get the last 1.

One was hidden among the catacombs, which was an easy grab.

The other was at Lilia. :'3

And Lilia, clearly takes a jab at Azul for helping out the curse. He was always wary of Riddle, for curses have in their nature to feast upon one's suffering. Riddle was a curse on expectations. He thrived in here and he healed people just so he could thrive off their unfulfilled expectations. But Floyd? No one knew what kind of curse Floyd was. He used to be a human, but now he is a curse. A curse on what? What deep negative emotions could possibly Floyd be thriving from?

Unfortunately, Lilia was much more experienced than Azul, a fellow special grade with 1 technique: return to nature. Using that on Azul before he could copy it, immediately made the latter an easy kill.

Which, again, seemed to snap something in Jade. Floyd was leading the attack, but Jade was actually fighting and finishing off Lilia, via a stab in the throat.

Yet, despite their need to move on quick, Floyd allowed for them to stay a few minutes, once he saw Jade's tear full face. Floyd could only offer a hug and summon his domain, knowing that they are overwhelmed in this situation. He was back to his full power, but that was also with a price.

Jade does ask his brother, why did he become a curse in the first place? To look where they are now and tell him why did Floyd to that? Why did he give up on his humanity?

Floyd replies that he became a curse, that is meant to condamn all curses. His hatred of curses took roots and feed on other sorcerers's hatred. Already it was complicated and it only allowed for the whole process to be faster.

And now, Floyd tried feeding off his brother's hatred for this whole situation. He didn't find any hatred for curses, to which came the response: Jade could never hate his brother. He didn't hate curses, rather he hated the council, for the council was responsible for all of this.

And Floyd promises, while still in the hug, that he will do anything in his power to help Jade reach his goal.

And thus, it is born a binding vow in between the 2.

And here we finish off for now :3

With a cliffhanger, for all your hanging needs. :3

At the start, there were a lot of subplots: Azul's restaurant, Jamil wanting a promotion, Trey shenanigans... Then you slowly get even more once other students get introduced, only to have them end up with a halt when the hunt for Jade starts.

Theoretically, the twins doing their binding vow would happen around the time of the culling games arc in cannon JJK, so imagine that it's around that if you wonder what Yuji was up to during that time. :3

Welp... That would be all for now!

Until next time! Buh bye! :3

#twisted wonderland #jjk au #Damn everyone is starting nice and slow #And then half the cast hits the bucket -3-#There are book 7 spoilers #And a few for the Shibuya incident Aftermath #So that's everything to note #Also Jade's an interesting protagonist... :3 #It's fun to throw him through the horrors :3 #He broke down like 2 times in this whole thing

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orionsbelt929 · 1 month

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In case the previous post for this AU didn't make it perfectly clear. The USJ incident was not like it was in canon, and events occurred drastically different in this timeline. While in the three ish days they'd known each other as classmates had allowed them to form their friend groups within the class, the events of the USJ incident changed everything. Nothing more or less than a trial by fire that took everything the students had working together just to survive, and in its aftermath the unbreakable bonds of a companionship forged in the heat of battle and trust earned in giving their all together just to live another day. The USJ incident left a much changed class 1a in its wake

In the aftermath of the terrible events of the USJ incident, principle nezu has the UA dorms constructed far earlier than in the canon timeline. However, in light of the events concerning kyoka's recovery, class 1a made a decision and in light of it a request to principle nezu regarding the construction of their dorms building. The decision they made was to draft up and sign a special permission/release form of legally binding nature (momo's parents had wanted to make sure she knew what to look for to make sure a contract is actually binding), which each of the students (kyoka first among them to sign it) save for izuku signed. Izuku didn't sign it because the permission/release form was a legally binding document that was pretty much just the rest of class 1a declaring that they trusted izuku with their lives and essentially was legally binding document that both allowed and protected him to examine and modify their physiology how ever he wished. The request they made to principle nezu was twofold first was the inclusion of a basement workshop for izuku beneath their dorms building, and second was the inclusion of hidden paths within each of the dorm rooms that could be used to travel from the basement workshop to any of the personal rooms in the floors above. The permission/release form was written partially with the creation of these additions to the dorms in mind. Because it included parts allowing izuku to grab any of them from their room to examine or modify their physiology at any time, and yes that includes even if the classmate in question is asleep at the time.

For example, Tsuyu once went to bed in her room and briefly woke up to find herself held up by a weirdly organic looking mesh, with her tongue extended out some ten to fifteen feet. Roughly halfway down the length of her partially extended tongue Tsuyu could see a section where the outside had somehow been peeled back and where izuku sat examining the inner muscles of her partially vivisected tongue. At which point she relaxed and nodded back off to sleep, because while seeing what the inside of her own tongue was somewhat interesting in a vaguely morbid way, Tsuyu still needed to get enough sleep for class tomorrow

Or the fact that ochako has occasionally come to class with less than 5 full fingers on one hand, because Izuku has wanted to study how her finger pads react to various stimuli and the mechanisms that allows for her quirk zero gravity to activate

#fleshcrafter au #dream dive 1 #my hero academia #early UA dorms #USJ incident aftermath #body horror #technically consensual body horror

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angiemaniac · 2 months

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Durge Companion AU - Bloodbath Aftermath

Sorry this took so long! I had a crazy incident where my tablet died and my computer almost did during a storm. But, we're back on track!!!

Join the Discord and Patreon

Also please thank @predninja for getting me on board with the brushes. It helped me through the background process!

First: Begin here!

Previous: Chapter 7

Next: Chapter 9

#durge #the dark urge #durge companion #durgetav #tav #astarion #lae'zel #shadowheart #wyll #gale #zevlor #bg3 #baldur’s gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #default dark urge #dragonborn #tiefling

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cinnaminsvga · 6 months

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Harana | Jungkook

harana (n.): the act of wooing someone by serenading them

→ summary:

Unwilling to settle down with you after five years of dating, Jeon Jungkook decides to break up to chase after his dreams. In the aftermath, you leave your hometown, desperate to forget your past and relearn what it means to be on your own. Two years later while on your way to work, you pass by a familiar voice singing songs about a girl he had left behind.

{or alternatively: Jungkook still sings the love songs that he wrote for you. He still means them, too.}

→ genre: busker!au, exes to lovers, angst, humor → warnings: jimin is insane and kinda crude (he has some issues going on), jungkook is a pathetic wet bunny but he's trying his best, oc has So Many Problems, so much arguing and yearning, ambiguous ending??? but my god there is hope!! the humanity of it all!! → words: 16.1K → a/n: HOLY SHIT IM BACK (kinda) and happy new year!! yeah ok its march but im relearning how to form coherent sentences so be patient ;w; this is the first installment of my hfoh series that i teased a LONG time ago... i made it a resolution to complete this series by the end of the year before i kms (Keep Myself Safe) so here's to a brand new year :D (oh god @ universe pls be kind)

part of the “heart full of hugot” series

Two days before the incident, your shower nozzle decides to explode.

Okay, you have to admit that statement is a little misleading. Shower nozzles, in all its nonsentience, do not randomly decide to explode no matter how much you try to defend yourself to your landlord. Maybe your grip had been a little too harsh that morning, or maybe hanging 5 pounds of hair products on the handle had been a bit too much for the old sport to handle. Or maybe, just maybe, the universe was warning you about the incident.

Whatever it was, it doesn’t erase the fact that your shower would be out of commission for the next week or so (though your landlord seems adamant about prolonging your suffering as long as possible). Until then, you’re going to have to find some other ways to keep the grease and grime from building on you. Heavens know that you already have a thriving ecosystem living in the back of your couch—you don’t need another one growing under your armpits.

Lucky for you, you have friends. More importantly, you have friends who have showers. There is one problem though—all your friends live on the other side of the country.

It’s been two years since you moved to the Big City™️, but you have done little to grow your social network. Call it introversion or depression, either way, you have no more contacts on your phone than you did when you left your hometown. Well, except for one person, if you could even consider him one. Frankly, you didn’t have a choice.

“Welcome to my humble abode, stinky,” Jimin greets you as you enter his house. Your nose is instantly assaulted by the smell of Bath & Body Works® Sweet Pea, reminding you once more why you didn’t consider him a friend.

“Hey,” you reply gruffly, shucking your ratty shoes near his entrance. Your shoes look incredibly out of place amidst the sea of designer Chelsea boots and a singular pair of thigh-high heels. You take a glance at his living room, already feeling worse about yourself tenfold.

You had met Park Jimin by complete accident, much like how his mother probably felt when she first saw him too. You had never known anyone quite as… interesting as him, to put it lightly.

When you got your job as a hostess for a luxury bar and restaurant, you figured you wouldn’t make many friends with your coworkers. Everyone was so… pretty, but in the shiny, untouchable sort of way. Almost all of the servers were as gorgeous as the models you’d see in magazines. You hadn’t known that the owners only hired a certain “demographic” of people for their restaurant, and you were equal parts flattered and disgusted that you’d somehow made it (though you suppose your bullshitting skills were all to thank).

Unsurprisingly, even the bartenders were gorgeous, including one Park Jimin. He did have an aura to him that screamed “I’m a cut above the rest and I know it,” but that could just be the gold chains dripping down his neck. You almost mistook him as one of the patrons who mistakenly made his way behind the bar, and knowing the sort of clientele you’ve had to deal with so far, you wouldn’t have been surprised. It took a couple of weeks before you finally found out who he was (and what his fucking problem was).

Jimin was a part-time bartender with a full-time job as a bitch a self-made entrepreneur. Which is to say, he sold… tasteful photos of himself on the internet. You had nothing against his line of work. In fact, you would go far as to say you didn’t give a shit what he did outside of your shared workspace. But if there’s one thing Jimin is, it’s that he hates being ignored.

So when you were adamant about not oohing and aahing at everything that makes Park Jimin perfect, he made it his self-appointed mission to befriend you. Or at least that’s what he claims, but given how he treats you lesser than the shit that cakes his cheeks, you have a lot of doubts. Perhaps he’s never made an effort to make a friend, hence his inexperience with being a decent human being. Or perhaps he’s just an asshole, but who is to say? The point is: he’s the only person you knew in this godforsaken city who would likely allow you to use his shower without being awkward about it and that’s that.

The worst part about being an acquaintance with Park Jimin was that he lived in the richest area of Downtown but he wasn’t old money, that’s for sure. His entire essence screamed overconsumption, and his myriad of little trinkets littered across his apartment confirmed your previous assessment. You wouldn’t be surprised if you opened his freezer and found ten types of ice sorted assorted by color and shape like the extra bitch that he was.

He made his money through sheer force, and it would have impressed you if he wasn’t, you know. Him.

“Bathroom is over there. I placed a towel and other shower amenities that you can borrow,” he says pointing to a door with a large “FART ZONE: ENTER WITH CAUTION” sign taped to it. You don’t ask.

“Thanks,” you say flatly. You wait patiently for his out-of-pocket comment.

Like clockwork, Jimin smirks. “Sure thing. I gave you the super heavy-duty stuff. Figured you’d burn a hole through my expensive towels with how stinky you are, with your yeasty cu—”

“Aaaand I’ll be done in a few minutes. Thanks again Jimin,” you interrupt, making your way to the bathroom and slamming the door with as much force as you can muster. You hear something fall as the door shuts, and you vaguely hear Jimin mutter something about his “fart zone” signage.

You begin to prepare your shower routine, humming lowly as you go about your business. You try to ignore the suffocating scent of ten million diffusers entering your nostrils, wondering for the umpteenth time if Jimin is suffering from long-term olfactory dysfunction.

“Focus, Y/N. The quicker you shower, the quicker you can get the fuck out of here,” you whisper to yourself. However, in your haste, you knock over Jimin’s towel by accident. When the towel falls, a sheet of sandpaper slips out from underneath it, and you stare bemusedly until it finally hits you.

“YOU ARE SUCH A LITTLE BITCH!”

From behind the door, you can hear Jimin’s infamous cackle. “Did you find the loofah? I got it just for you, darling!” he shouts back through his laughter, and you just grumble back in response. How on earth no one has strangled him to death, you have no idea.

“Whatever. I’m gonna shower now! Go beat off or whatever the fuck you do in your spare time,” you grouse, stripping as quickly as possible.

When the first droplets of water hit your body, you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. You had both anticipated and dreaded going to Jimin’s house, but you desperately needed the shower. So you go through your routine, trying to find some semblance of relaxation throughout the process. However, it seems that Jimin was yearning for a little bit of attention as he chose to recline on the other side of the door and chat your ear off. Peace was never an option, it seems.

“Hey, Y/N! So why haven’t I seen you at work recently?” Jimin hollers from his living room. Despite the wall separating you, his voice manages to retain its volume.

You squirt a large glob of Jimin’s (expensive) conditioner onto your hands. “What do you mean? I go to work every day. You were the one who hasn’t been clocking in.”

You can hear Jimin scoff. “Um, correction! I went to work last Friday, which so happened to be your day off. If I didn’t know any better, I would have assumed you were avoiding me.”

And right you are, you think. But instead, you say, “Yeah, what a coincidence. I’ll be back to my regular schedule on Monday, though.”

“So that means you didn’t see the Justin Bieber wannabe stationed outside the restaurant then?” Jimin asks, voice miffed. “The guy suddenly sat down by the entrance window and a whole damn crowd started to appear! The absolute nerve of these people—don’t they know Park Jimin was just past the doors?”

This provokes Jimin to go on his long epic soliloquy, which you’ve learned to drown out over the past two years. He could go on hour-long tirades if he wanted, and any interruption from you would just bounce off his nonfunctioning ears. And so, you allow his voice to fall to the back of your mind, similar to white noise if it wasn’t so grating.

However, this was likely your greatest mistake. If you hadn’t been so exhausted, or if Park Jimin hadn’t been so damn annoying all the time, or if the stars had aligned just right… Maybe you would have been forewarned about the incident. It’s as if the universe was screaming at you to pay attention, but alas… You were standing on the proverbial highway, unbeknownst to the incoming traffic because you had your metaphorical AirPods on.

So there you are, completely showered but none the wiser to your impending doom, naively looking to the future with unsuspecting eyes. Even if you had known of what was to come, would avoiding it even be possible? In hindsight, you suppose not, but you still kick yourself for being so blind. If only you’d steeled your heart, then maybe you wouldn’t have felt like vomiting in front of a crowd of innocent bystanders the very next day.

xxx

Monday comes and your shower still isn’t fixed. Jimin makes the benevolent gesture of allowing you to use his shower in the meantime, though you’ll only partake in his offer as minimally as possible. He does mention that he’ll need at least an hour’s notice, warning you about “accidental voyeurism.” You shudder to think of what sort of horror you might find if you did visit him without warning, and you pray for the continued well-being of your retinas.

On your way to work, you’re too busy watching cute videos of animals to notice the unusual flock of people idling close to your workplace. When you get closer, however, the growing commotion is enough to rip your gaze away from your phone, and the sight of the large crowd makes you stop in your tracks.

It is 4 pm and the usual line of waiting patrons should not start piling up for another three hours, so this confuses you more than anything. You shuffle closer, squinting at the crowd until you notice that they aren’t lined up at all; instead, they have congregated into a large circle, but you are too far to see what they are surrounding.

An accident? You worry, wondering if something terrible happened. You tiptoe above the heads of people, subtly moving forward to take a better look. Curse you and your curiosity. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself to see something grotesque or astonishing, but instead…

It’s worse.

Inching closer, you can begin to hear a soft thrumming of a guitar and a gentle singing voice that causes alarm bells to ring in your ears. The warm melody digs up old memories of a time long past: of ballads sung outside your childhood bedroom window, of promises whispered under Spiderman sheets, of tender caresses tucking stray hairs behind your ears… They flood your senses, but all you can feel is dread.

It can’t be who you think it is. You accidentally elbow a guy on your way to get closer, unsteadying his grip on his phone.

“Hey, watch it! I’m filming a totally not-staged TikTok over here!” He yells, but you can hardly pay attention to him when you feel unnaturally drawn to come closer, still.

You’re nearly at the front, with just a couple of teenagers standing between you and the (not-so) mysterious street performer. But the distance is enough, and your breath catches. You can see him—

Black hair partially hidden under a bucket hat. Boots bigger than Pangaea and a pair of eyes equally as large. Dark ink snaking down his arms, peeking out from under oversized sleeves. Piercings that could rival Park Jimin on a good day. He isn’t facing you, but you can still see his big doe eyes, gentle sloping nose, and pretty lips stretched into a handsome smile.

Your heart is thundering in your chest. This can’t be happening, you panic. After two whole years of rebuilding and reshaping yourself, relearning how to be yourself and not… not just his girlfriend.

Jeon Jungkook stands before you, busking in front of your workplace of all locations. The universe could not have been any crueler to you.

You—you had been known as nothing more than Jeon Jungkook’s high school sweetheart. Buried memories of snide comments from jealous teen girls fill your mind, reminding you of the time when you were coined a simple side piece to the main attraction. Decor, as they would call you. Nothing more than a girl who happened to snag Jungkook before people realized he was going to turn… hot. A hot guy who could sing. An inevitable chic magnet, as they would call him.

And now, years later after much therapy and soul searching, your worst nightmare is standing in front of you in the flesh. This is what you will eventually dub the incident.

At that moment, however, there is little to no time to dwell on naming this ongoing core memory. All you can feel is the adrenaline pumping through your veins, as well as the nausea rising up your throat. You stumble backward, blatantly shoving onlookers away as you struggle to find some air to breathe. In hindsight, you probably should have backed away as subtly as possible, but you hope that your dyed hair might be different enough that Jungkook wouldn’t know it was you if he had glanced your way.

Even when you stagger towards your work establishment, the walls cannot perfectly muffle his soothing singing. You can’t make out the lyrics to his song too well, but his unmistakable voice is hard to ignore. Working as a hostess, your station is also coincidentally as close to the door as possible for maximum torture.

This can’t get any worse, you think as your mind races with conflicting emotions. You thought you had moved on, thought you were past the pain and the memories, but seeing Jungkook again, unexpectedly, stirs up a storm of feelings you thought were buried deep. Anger, hurt, betrayal—all rush to the surface, threatening to overwhelm you.

But there is no time to unpack all that baggage right now. Time will continue to march on, and your job is still on the line. How can you have the time to have a mental breakdown when you were still living paycheck to paycheck?

But even as you try to push Jungkook out of your mind, his voice echoes in your ears, his image burned into your memory. It's as if the universe is laughing at your misery, reminding you that despite all your supposed growth, you are still just you.

Painfully and pathetically you.

As you struggle to pull yourself together, a familiarly loud voice rings outside the edge of your consciousness. “Hey, Y/N! Fancy seeing you here…” Jimin greets you, his usual jovial demeanor halting midway when he sees your panicked expression. He clears his throat, perplexed. “Umm… Are you alright there, girl? You’re looking a little pale.”

You do not even have the mental capacity to wonder why Park Jimin was miraculously early to his shift, nor why he seems genuinely worried for you. Rather, all you can do is wave him off and use what little time you have before the restaurant opens to steel yourself for hours of melodious torture.

“I’m fine, Park. You should get to work,” you grit out, wiping your sweaty palms on your uniform. Normally, Jimin would have teased you about the obvious wrinkles on your skirt.

“You’re not the boss of me,” Jimin huffs, always the contrarian. He thinks better of it, however, and softens his tone. “Are you feeling sick or something? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

You freeze, perhaps giving yourself away a little. “I’m fine,” you repeat.

“You know, if you refuse to elaborate, I’m going to have to retract your shower privileges,” Jimin taunts with a smirk.

You feel a migraine growing by your temple, making you wince. God, why must men be the source of all your problems?

“I’m just… a little annoyed by the busker outside the restaurant,” you eventually admit, trying to be vague. Unfortunately for you, Jimin hates beating around the bush and would never take your crap if he knows something is up.

Unable to withstand the weight of his unimpressed stare, you clarify, “He was someone I used to know, that’s all.” You aren’t going to be any more specific than that, though you imagine Jimin gets the picture. You zip your lips, hoping to whoever is causing you pain that Jimin would somehow let the matter drop and leave you to your misery.

You brace yourself for his onslaught of questioning to come, and… it doesn’t happen. Instead, when you glance at Jimin, he is mysteriously stone faced. You wait for him to speak for what feels like a few minutes, but he doesn’t show any signs of wanting to tease or ridicule you. He simply watches you with a pensive expression. You can barely stop yourself from staring back at him, slack-jawed at his silence.

Of course, you aren’t just going to question your luck, or what little you have at least. So, you stay silent back and fidget uncomfortably.

Finally, Jimin seems to snap out of his strange reverie. He fixes you with a bizarrely sympathetic grin, patting you affectionately on the back. “I see… Well, if you ever need a drink tonight, head over to the bar for a little sip. I got you covered,” is all he says in response before sashaying away.

That was so fucking weird. You want to chase after him, perhaps beat the truth out of him. Jimin is nothing but a scheming dick, and you aren’t about to let him roam free with such sensitive information about yourself. Just as you’re about to stomp his ass (perhaps to relieve some of the building tension from your weary soul), your manager pops his head from his office door.

“Y/N! Make sure you’re logged into the booking system. There’s going to be a party of 20 coming in about an hour,” he reminds you, shooting you an apologetic look. You nod back with a sigh, swiping the booking tablet from the hostess desk and scrolling through the logs. Sure enough, it is going to be a busy night despite being a Monday evening. Perhaps a little busier than usual, in fact.

Whatever. You will use whatever distraction you can get, and perhaps the approaching noise from the restaurant patrons will be enough to drown out the sound of his voice.

You aren’t religious by any means, but you pray to whatever higher power exists that Jeon Jungkook doesn’t somehow decide to enter the restaurant. Stay outside, you plead. Outside the restaurant and your life, if possible.

Throughout the evening, you do your best to push aside the memories that threaten to resurface. You greet customers with a smile, lead them to their tables, and ensure their dining experience is pleasant despite the anxiety poisoning your insides. It's a routine you've perfected over time, a shield against the chaos of your emotions.

As the night wears on, you can feel Jimin's eyes on you from across the restaurant. You sneak glances back at him, and you blanch at his pitying gaze. If the restaurant had been slightly less crowded, you would have flipped him off.

He’s probably enjoying my suffering, you think darkly. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction, you straighten up and do your best to appear more unaffected. Just as you do so, you can hear Jungkook perfectly hitting a soulful high note.

“I’m so sorry for thinking I was strong,” you whisper to the universe. “Forgive me for my insolence.” You clench your fist in anguish, ignoring the confused looks from the customers in front of you.

By the time your shift comes to a close, you are completely and utterly drained. You feel like a snail that has been continuously salted over the past eight hours, and you cannot help but cheer in relief when the clock finally strikes two in the morning. You have to wait for the last few diners to make their leave, but otherwise you are ready to let your bed swallow you whole.

You stand by your hostess desk, leaning your head against it with a defeated sigh. Jungkook’s voice had died down only a few minutes ago, and you hope that by this point he has mercifully left the premises. You want to take a peek to make sure, but just as you’re about to make your way to the door, you feel a hand on your shoulder stop you in your tracks.

“‘Sup, bitch.” Jimin still has that weird, pitying gaze pointed at you, though his words don’t match it. “Are you okay to go home alone tonight? I can bring your dumb ass home if you want.”

You shove his hand away, ready to bite his head off when you think better of it. If Jimin drives you home, then that lowers the chances of seeing Jungkook down to pretty much zero.

“You know what? Thanks,” you grouse. Jimin smiles at you winningly, and the image of it brings a shiver down your spine. You hit him, creeped out. “Hey. Stop that, will you? You’re being really weird?”

Jimin scoffs, crossing his arms. “Me? Weird? At least I don’t look like a damn firework ready to explode just because my cringelord ex-boyfriend is singing sappy love songs outside—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you seethe, stomping on his foot. He yelps in pain and slaps your shoulder in retaliation.

“Ouch! Watch your ogre feet! My shoes are worth twice your monthly rent I’ll have you know,” he bristles. He breathes deeply, likely finding his inner calm (which you doubt exists). “But because I’m so nice, I’ll ignore your earlier transgression and blame it on your underdeveloped amygdala.”

You don’t know what’s more surprising: the fact that Jimin knew what an amygdala was or that he was forgiving you in the first place. “Whatever. Let’s finish closing up and then head out. I’m exhausted.”

You make quick work of your task and when you’re ready to head out, Jimin is already waiting by the backdoor. He’s twirling his car keys with a finger and gestures for you to follow him. As you make your way to his car in the back parking lot, you catch sight of a lone figure standing next to a beat-up pickup truck. He’s leaning against it, his hands busy tuning a battered guitar.

Your breath hitches, and you immediately feel nauseous. Of course the incident has yet to end. The night is young, after all.

Jimin accidentally slams the backdoor closed, and the noise wrenches Jungkook’s attention away from his ministrations. Immediately, his eyes lock with Jimin before finally turning to you.

Your heart skips a beat as he gazes at you, your mind racing with a hurricane of emotions. You hadn’t expected to see him again so soon, especially not after the tumultuous encounter earlier in the day. What did you say earlier? That “the chances of seeing Jungkook was down to pretty much zero”?

The chances of seeing Jungkook is low, but never zero, your mind unhelpfully supplies.

There is a long period of awkward silence. Jungkook has his mouth slightly agape, his hand subconsciously lowering his guitar to rest against his truck. To your left, Jimin’s breathing quickens slightly. You, on the other hand, are trying your best not to projectile vomit in this damned parking lot.

Jungkook is the one who decides to break the delicate silence. “Is that you…?” he calls out hesitantly.

Don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my—

“Y/N,” Jimin interjects. His gaze is steel cold, uncharacteristic of the carefree boy. He slings an arm around your shoulders, gently nudging you towards his car. With your view still fixed on Jungkook, you miss the way Jimin shoots the other boy with a playful smirk. “C’mon, babe. Let’s go home.”

His words startle both you and Jungkook. “Wha—? Jimin?” you splutter, flushing at his flirtatious undertone. You want to curse him out for his strange behavior, but all the shock has left you mute.

Jimin all but shoves you into the passenger seat. But just as he’s about to slam the car door, you hear Jungkook call out your name. It’s fleeting and quiet, but you heard him crystal clear.

It breaks your spirit to hear him say your name. For a moment, you feel as though you are floating.

When was the last time he called your name? And so softly, too? If you could replay that moment over and over, would you be able to catch some signs of tenderness in his voice? When you close your eyes later that night, would your dreams show you that he had been gazing at you with yearning? Was any of it true?

As Jimin starts the car and pulls away from the curb, you steal one last glance out the window, only to find Jungkook staring at you with an arm outstretched. You continue to watch him until his figure disappears into the night.

You are quietly immersed in your own thoughts, the whirlwind of emotions intensifying your persistent migraine. Unaccustomed to silence, Jimin decides to give his unsolicited two cents, as per usual.

“Geez. Didn’t know you were into the whole starving artist type. If I’d known, then maybe I’d stop trying to brag about my fortune to you,” Jimin scoffs. “If loser buskers like him impress you, then maybe I should—”

“Would you shut the fuck up for once in your fucking life!” You explode, whirling to face him with a glare. Jimin has the audacity to flinch, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

“What the fuck? Why the hell are you mad at me?”

“What the hell was that back there? ‘C’mon babe.’” You mimic his voice with a sneer. “Why on earth would you do that? Now he thinks that we…”

“Why do you care what he thinks? He’s your ex, remember?” Jimin cuts you off, but you can’t even refute him. He continues, “Figured as much. And judging by how spooked you’ve looked all day, I have to assume that he was an asshole, right? Why else would you accept my offer for a ride home if you really wanted to avoid seeing him?”

You shrink under his accurate assumptions. Damn, were you really that easy to read? “I… I mean, yeah but…” You clear your throat, still feeling wronged by him. “You didn’t have to act like a weird prick in front of him!”

Without warning, the floodgates burst forth. You begin to ramble, the thoughts that have been weighing you down pouring out of you in waves. “Jungkook was my ex, yeah. But he wasn’t an asshole. On the contrary, he was really sweet. The nicest guy in my school, at least. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, that sort of person. I dated him all throughout high school and he was a great partner.”

Jimin hums skeptically. “Then why the messy break-up?”

“It wasn’t messy!” You retort defensively.

“Could’ve fooled me!” Jimin snorts. “I also frequently act like a trembling kitten when I see my exes,” he says sarcastically.

You ignore him. “The reason we broke it off was because he wanted to pursue his dreams to become a singer after high school and I wanted to do other things. It was a mutual break-up! Honestly, I’m glad that we did. Too many girls wanted him and all the unwanted attention was getting on my nerves. I was glad to find a reason to end it all,” you explain, hoping you didn’t sound as shaky as you felt. What you said was mostly true, though you left out the important bits to yourself. Mostly to save some of your dignity intact. (Truthfully, you just didn’t want to admit things you weren’t ready to face.)

“Then if you’re so glad, why do you look like you wanted to shit yourself? It ain’t adding up,” Jimin fires back.

“It’s just—” you stammer, trying to find a reason why you were so bent out of shape after seeing him. “I-I was caught off guard, I guess. I knew he was pursuing his dreams to sing and all, so I expected him to leave the country. I wasn’t expecting to see him outside where I work, of all places,” you mutter lamely. You have your head bowed, biting your lips from the nerves. Again, you weren’t totally lying.

Jimin is silent for a moment, contemplating your admission. When he looks so calm like this, it’s hard to get a read on what he’s thinking. As Jimin speeds down the highway, the street lights illuminate his face in a strange way, and for once, he looks like a stranger. His steely expression makes you nervous, for some reason.

Eventually, he asks you a question you would never have expected. “And he just let you go?”

You pause. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Jimin huffs, irritated. “He just up and left without a fight? If I were him, I would have…” he trails off, his jaw clenching.

You don’t know where this Jimin came from. Under the moonlight, Jimin looks livid, but that can’t be right. Jimin, mad for you? Sure, you’ve seen his anger directed towards you, but this? Everything’s gotten so complicated, and you are just about ready to succumb to sleep and hope to wake from this nightmare.

The rest of the drive to your house is silent, save for the sounds coming from passing cars. Jimin pulls up to your apartment complex, his mysterious anger finally subsiding.

Just as you’re about to reach for the car door handle, Jimin places a hand on your shoulder. “Listen, Y/N. I’ll talk to management tomorrow morning. I know the manager well enough that I can probably convince him to do something about that ex of yours. He’s busking on private property, so it should be easy to get rid of him,” Jimin says, tone serious. He swallows, and for a moment you think he looks a little nervous. “If that’s what you want, I guess.”

His kindness scares you. You want to tease him, ask him where Mr. Bitchy and his $2000 Chelsea boots had gone. Anything to make this air of severe sincerity to abate. This new Jimin feels suffocating. But instead, you nod your head stiffly.

Jimin makes a pained expression for a moment, but it’s quickly replaced by his usual playful smirk. He slaps you upside the head, laughing heartily at your stunned face.

“Get some rest, babe. I’ll see you tomorrow evening,” he chuckles, reaching over to open the door for you. You scramble out into the cold city air, taking one last look back at him through his window.

He rolls it down, leaning forward to flash a toothy grin at you. “Hey, stop with all the angst, pookie. Wouldn’t want my favorite toy to get sick from overthinking. Who else would I bother at work if not you?”

You snort, both endeared and irritated in equal measure. He’s right. Everything was going back to normal tomorrow, you’re sure of it. You flip him off with a cheeky grin before making your way to your apartment.

Everything is going to be okay. Jimin says he’ll do something about it, and for whatever reason, you feel like you can trust him on this. Surely good fortune was soon to be upon you.

xxx

Jimin had texted you while you were still sleeping:

Spoke to Manager Jeong about your little problem. He said he’ll deal with him.

You breathe a sigh of relief, your body feeling significantly lighter. Your sleep last night had been tumultuous and restless. You feel more tired than you did when you went to bed, but all your weariness fades once you read Jimin’s text.

Once you make it to work, you find that management has gotten rid of Jungkook somehow. Added with the fact that your landlord has promised to look into repairing your shower (no guarantees, but you want to stay optimistic), today has been significantly better compared to yesterday. You even catch yourself humming as you set up your workstation, a small smile gracing your lips.

Jimin has a later shift this evening, and you find that you are somewhat disappointed for once. Your overwhelming gratitude is surely the only reason, otherwise you would never admit to wanting to see him at any given time.

You are in the midst of texting Jimin about all the good news when your manager passes by your desk. You are quick to pocket your phone away from his prying eyes, ready to defend that you aren’t slacking off… but his demeanor does not reveal any ire. In fact, he looks rather pleased for once.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Jeong. What’s up?” you ask, suspicious. You instinctively fold your hands behind your back; it is a subconscious effort on your part to keep your distance from him. Something about your manager always gives you a bad feeling when he looks a little too happy.

He grins widely. “Everything is going splendidly, Ms. Y/N. In fact, I think today might just be our lucky day!”

Never during your time working here has his and your luck ever coincided. “Our lucky day?” you echo.

“Why, yes! I spoke with your lovely friend and coworker Jimin this morning,” he starts, and immediately your alarm bells ring. You don’t even bother correcting him about the ‘friend’ part like you normally would. He continues, “He gave me a brilliant idea about the busker who had been performing in front of the restaurant the past two days.”

You nod slowly, not quite understanding. “Yes… The busker has been quite… the spectacle,” you say carefully. Somehow, you know calling Jungkook a ‘nuisance’ would have been the wrong choice in this instance.

Manager Jeong beams. “Exactly! You must have noticed the amount of people we served yesterday despite being a Monday. Additionally, almost all of those new customers requested outdoor seating no less!”

You feel the world tilt on its axis. What is he on abou—?

“What are you talking about?” you exhale.

“Don’t you think it would be even better for business if we got that busker to perform inside the restaurant? Why, it’s a brilliant idea and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it first! Our live band has always been missing something special, and perhaps a vocal accompaniment is the exact answer to our problem! Think about it, the atmosphere would be…”

Manager Jeong continues to prattle animatedly about his plans to your unhearing ears. There must be static or cotton plugging your head because you cannot possibly understand anything he is saying. Jungkook? Inside? Performing at your restaurant? But Jimin said he had spoken to the manager about getting Jungkook away from you! None of this makes sense.

“That makes no sense,” you verbalize, unknowingly cutting Manager Jeong from his monologue. He halts in surprise, as if now just realizing you were standing there (much less capable of interrupting or disagreeing with him). When he snaps out of it, you sense that familiarly sinister aura emerging from him in waves. You belatedly realize he must have mistaken your outburst as antagonistic.

“Well, Ms. Y/N. Whether it makes sense or not, we have hired Mr. Jeon to perform live at the bar stage for the next four weeknights. If, for some unknowable reason, I am incorrect,” he pauses to emphasize his words, “then his services will be promptly terminated. However, judging by his popularity from simply standing out in the cold and singing silly love songs, I am sure that worry is unwarranted.”

Behind you, the telltale sound of the main door swinging open catches you even more off guard. You do not even have the chance to turn to face the newcomer, only managing to register the gust of cold wind that accompanies their entry.

And so, you hear him before you see him.

“Hello?” Jeon Jungkook greets quietly.

Even without turning, you can imagine how he looks, how he stands, how he feels, how he tastes—

Manager Jeong claps his hands gleefully. “Splendid timing! Speak of the devil…” The older man nearly skips towards Jungkook like a youthful school girl, accompanied by his uncharacteristic squeals of excitement.

You can feel his gaze on you, almost tangibly. With nothing but your shreds of dignity left intact, you force yourself to face him.

He’s still so tall, is all your mind can helpfully supply as you stand feet away from your high school sweetheart for the first time in two years. He’s still wearing the same bucket hat from the night before, semi-shielding him from view. Despite that, you catch a small flash of white graze his bottom lip as he chews the soft flesh nervously.

“Hi, Y/N.” He addresses you directly, completely overlooking your manager without a single glance. Despite his hat, he still has his eyes lasered on you, as if not quite believing you were there. You hate how his attention makes you shiver all the same.

Even though he ignored your manager (which would have been a major dispute had you done the same), Jungkook still receives a friendly handshake in return. “Mr. Jeon! I’m surprised you know Ms. Y/N, though I’m sure you must have spoken with her when she was escorting guests to the outdoor seating the other day.”

You had actually gotten your co-hostess to seat all the outdoor seatings yesterday, but you weren’t going to mention that.

Manager Jeong claps him on the back, inadvertently causing Jungkook to stumble forward closer to you. He looks up at you then, eyes bugging out of their sockets like a rabbit caught in a bear trap. You stagger backwards in turn, barely concealing the anxiety on your face. Oh fucking hell.

Your manager is none the wiser, of course. “Well, this makes my job much easier! Since you’re both acquainted, I’ll let Y/N show you the ropes. The band doesn’t start their set until later in the evening, but you’re free to take a look at the stage and other parts of our facility in the meantime,” he says, chuffed. Meanwhile, Jungkook looks like he’s been shot by a freeze ray.

Then, your manager points a sharper gaze at you. “Ms. Y/N, treat our super star well. I know you won’t disappoint me.”

Fucking superstar… You can only nod in defeat. “Y-Yes, sir…” you whisper, clenching your uniform with your fists. It is the only way to keep them from shaking like a leaf. You watch as his figure disappears behind his office door, leaving you to fend for yourself. Powerless, you train your gaze to the floor, unwilling to meet Jungkook’s eyes.

But the nerves are taking control of your body, screaming at you to eject, eject, eject!

“Sorry, I have to go to the toilet,” you splutter quickly, almost tripping over yourself on the way to the restroom. You dimly wonder if Jungkook is going to think you’re leaving to throw up, but you can’t find any self-respect left to care. All you need is air and space to breathe—preferably away from him.

You slam open the stall, hardly checking to see if anyone else is around before locking the door shut. You sit on the toilet, plant your face between your knees, and scream.

Should you go home and use sickness as an excuse? But even if you did, you still had shifts every weeknight. You would have to see him eventually. You can pray all you want that Jungkook will be fired by the end of the week, but even your delusional mind can never fathom the idea that anyone would willingly want to send Jeon Jungkook away. Plus, you remember that the regular band that plays at the restaurant has been wanting to get a singer to accompany them for ages, and you know just how damn affable he can be. They are going to love him, and you hate him for that.

It is clear to you that there is no other option:

You pull out your phone to quickly open up Indeed on your browser, frantically hunting for any openings that might fit your measly qualifications. However, you have to pause in your search to deliberate. Wouldn’t it be better to move out of the country? You had been so naive to think that moving cities was enough distance between you and Jungkook—going across the ocean is the obvious answer. Should you start up your Duolingo lessons again and hope that you can somehow survive in a different continent with only a few dollars to your name?

You shut your phone in despair. Whether or not your plans of escape are feasible or not, in the short term, you are stuck with having to suck it up and just learn to ignore your ex-boyfriend’s presence. Surely you can force out a fake smile or two, especially with how much practice you’ve gotten after working with unbearably entitled customers.

Taking a step outside of the restroom stall, you head to the sink to splash some cold on your face. You stare at the mirror, confronted by a girl who looks two seconds away from having a Netflix Original-esque meltdown. You rake your fingers through your hair, doing your best to look like you aren’t about to rush into incoming traffic. To no one's surprise, it doesn't work.

“Okay, I got this. Just pretend like he’s just some guy, because at the end of the day, he is just some guy,” you mutter to your reflection. She looks back at you unconvinced. “He may have broken my heart into little bite size pieces, but who cares! HE’S JUST A GUY!” You repeat the phrase over and over again like a lunatic, in a desperate attempt to cognitively alter your brain chemistry.

At that moment, one of the other stalls in the restroom creaks open, and a girl you recognize who works as one of the dishwashers walks out. You both have a silent eye conversation as she quietly studies your crazed expression and crumpled work uniform.

Eventually, she awkwardly clears her throat, pointing to the only sink in the restroom. “Uh, sorry to hear about your, uh, guy problem. Could I use the sink please?”

You hastily back away, allowing her to take your spot. You don’t even have the energy to apologize for your spectacle, just bowing sheepishly to her before making your way back to the main hall. If she rats you out to the rest of your coworkers, then that gives you another reason to move out of the country. Maybe you should consider a name change while you’re at it.

When you exit the restroom, you half expect Jungkook to be waiting for you by the door, but find that he isn’t anywhere nearby. He isn’t by your hostess station either, and you thank your lucky stars for once. Even if your manager had asked you to show him around, you’re sure that Jungkook can find his way around just fine. Plus, the stage is at the corner of the restaurant and is sufficiently far enough that you wouldn’t have to make eye contact with him if you were careful.

You don’t know which greater entity has been messing with your sanity these past few days, but you hope that they can show you mercy just once—a brief reprieve, if anything.

You clasp your hands in prayer. I’ll eat more vegetables, I’ll remember to floss, I’ll call my parents from time to time… Just please let me survive tonight.

“Remember, Y/N… He’s just some guy,” you reiterate through gritted teeth. If a passing coworker happens to overhear your demented chanting, then you pay them no mind.

You walk towards the entrance, flipping the sign to open. You feel like a video game character when you glance at the clock, which signals the start of your shift. You can imagine the red bold text hovering above your head: 8 more hours until freedom.

This is just like playing Five Nights at Freddy’s, except you’ve only watched the movie and you suspect your life is probably worse than whatever Josh Hutcherson had to survive through.

You take a couple heaving breaths to brace yourself for what will be the longest eight hours of your life. You’ll show Jungkook just how well-adjusted and mature you’ve become. You are a professional, and not even a boy with angelic vocals will make you crumble. After all, what’s the worst he can do?

xxx

He could, in fact, do a lot worse than you thought.

“I have many regrets being born at all,” you mutter bleakly, three hours into your shift.

Jungkook had started singing only an hour ago, so you had been filled with false confidence at first when the restaurant was filled with nothing but ambient chatter and soothing jazz music. You felt more and more confident as the minutes ticked by and your anxiety slowly melted away. You even forgot that he was somewhere in the back, likely warming up or whatever it is that singers did before a performance.

However, your brief moment of courage shatters almost immediately when Jungkook finally takes the stage.

At first, you did your best to tune out his voice, but it’s especially hard when whoever was in charge of the sound system decided to crank his volume to an excruciating level. You wanted desperately to grab some napkins and shove them in your ears, but you suspected that your customers (and manager) would be unappreciative of that gesture. And so there you lay, forced to wallow in Jungkook’s melodious singing like a criminal strapped to an electric chair.

But how much more pleasant an electric chair would be! Why on earth was Jungkook so adamant to sing sad love songs the entire time? Why couldn’t he be like his other singing contemporaries, who loved to write songs about getting bitches and making money? At the very least, even if he wasn’t quite a platinum selling artist just yet, surely he was constantly sharing beds with anyone he pleases? Couldn’t he sing about that?!

(In the back of your mind, you wonder if it would be less painful to learn that Jungkook has slept with multiple people… Because then, it would mean that he had moved on while you stood alone on your island, stranded and yearning.)

You didn’t want to think too deeply about his lyrics. However, you're only human. So when your mind barrier failed and you caught snippets of his singing, you noticed a pattern. There was always a girl in his songs. She was omnipresent, and Jungkook was always pleading for her. Begging and aching and wanting. But most all… he was always repenting. In every song, he always whispered a pious apology.

You feared what would happen if you turned around in those moments of weakness. You were terrified of admitting something, of letting words spill that had been trapped in your throat for the better part of two years.

Lucky for you, salvation comes in the form of one Park Jimin. Though, can you even count him as your savior when he had also inadvertently caused your demise?

Jimin doesn’t even have a shift today, so you’re more than surprised when his bright blonde head stumbles through the restaurant doors. His expensive coat is askew and his signature designer shades are nowhere to be found. He is panic incarnate—an expression you have never seen on his face before.

“Holy fuck,” he greets, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. His profanity startles the elderly couple waiting to be seated, their glares menacingly sharp. To his credit, Jimin doesn’t even seem phased.

In lieu of an answer, you gesture vaguely behind you. You can imagine how dejected you must look. “Holy fuck indeed,” you sigh.

It takes a moment for Jimin to regain his bearings. He straightens up and pats down his coat, but his hair is still tousled by the wind. If not for the fact that he has a car, you might have thought he had run all the way here.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t know this was going to happen,” he starts, genuinely remorseful. “I texted Manager Jeong this morning and he said he’d get your ex to leave, but I didn’t think he’d offer the damn bastard a job!”

“Mind your language, Park. I’m still at work,” you scold. You try your best to ignore the scrutinizing gaze of the elderly couple. You lower your voice. “And don’t apologize. I know you’re an asshole, but I doubt you’d actually prey on my downfall like this. I know you’re not into public humiliation.”

Jimin brightens slightly at your joke, but he still looks like a guilty puppy who'd been caught shitting on the carpet. “Yeah, well. I happen to enjoy tormenting you and I won’t let some upstart Charlie Puth wannabe ruin your life. That’s my job.”

You smile wryly at him. “Well, that’s too bad. Jungkook’s been singing for a few hours now and I’m pretty sure Manager Jeong is going to keep him long-term. He might have broken my heart, but damn does he have vocals. I'm sure you'll have plenty competition when it comes to 'who can make Y/N's life feel like hell.'”

Jimin doesn't smile back, but instead studies your face for a moment. Then:

“Do you think if I offer to suck Manager Jeong off, he’ll fire him?”

“What the fuck?” You nearly yell out in surprise, your jaw dropping to the floor. Judging by his serious scowl, you know he's actually considering it. By now, the elderly couple waiting to be seated have left the premises.

Jimin continues, unperturbed. “I know he secretly wants me, based on how his wife seems to have a personal vendetta against me. He definitely wants a taste of my bus—.”

“Stop, I get it!” You wave your hands to make him shut up, heat rising up your cheeks. “Never say that string of words to me ever again. You have just inflicted ten years of suffering onto my poor brain.”

“Hey, I’m just offering solutions here!” Jimin pouts.

You stare at him, unimpressed. “Save it. You tried solving my problems already, so let’s just accept the fact that there’s nothing else for me to do but to suck it up. It’s time for me to put on my big girl pants for a change.”

“I mean, I could do all the sucking instead, but you’re being a little bitch about it,” Jimin mumbles. He’s lucky you didn’t hear him this time, lest you give him something to really whine about.

“Anyway, I guess this is my life now. Nothing to do except hope that he never tries to interact with me or I can find another job,” you shrug.

Over your shoulder, Jimin fixes Jungkook with an icy glare that is cold enough to give you the shivers. For the first time that entire night, you hazard a glance back at the stage, finding that Jungkook is already looking back at you.

You whip your head back forward, perspiration forming down your back. For fuck’s sake, this guy.

“Well, let me know if he tries anything. I’ll beat that little freak into the floor if he tries so much as breathing the same air as you.” Jimin huffs, puffing up his chest with false bravado. You can’t help but laugh at his empty threat, knowing that Jungkook could probably bench press Jimin without breaking a sweat. Jimin's muscles are only for aesthetics, after all.

“Don’t worry, he hasn’t actually spoken to me actually. He can keep singing his sad little love songs, I really don’t mind,” you say, like a liar. Jimin snorts, wholly unconvinced.

“Well, if you need me, I’m heading to the bar to grab a drink so I can stare at your ex uncomfortably until he leaves. See you!” Jimin bids you farewell with a cheery grin as he skips a little too happily inside the restaurant.

Why'd you have to befriend the largest lunatic in the city? You massage your forehead with a groan, willing away your growing headache.

The rest of the night trickles away like molasses. Jungkook continues to sing his heart out, save for an hour intermission where he presumably takes a short break. In his absence, you hear Jimin guffaw loudly, his laughter too sharp to be considered happy. You faintly hear Jungkook shy stutters in response, and you momentarily consider running in to interrupt.

Why? Did you want to save Jungkook from Jimin’s unnecessary harassment? It’s not like Jimin is doing it out nowhere, he was just trying to be… a good friend?

You pause to ponder. As much as you hate to admit it, you know why you want to help Jungkook. But Jimin on the other hand? Why did he want to help you? Questions begin flowing through your head like a whirlwind, and your nausea increases. God, when was your next therapy appointment again?

You save those questions for another day. As you look at your watch, there are only thirty minutes left until two in the morning. You tap your foot impatiently, smiling curtly at departing customers as the restaurant slowly emptied. As they left, you overhear some of your regulars giggling amongst themselves, whispering about the cute new singer and his charming demeanor.

The last nail on your coffin has been hammered. Yeah, Jungkook isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

With the restaurant closing soon, it sounds like Jungkook is ready to end his set as well.

Throughout the night, Jungkook rarely made a point to speak. The only time he didn’t sing was when he quietly introduced the title of his next song and the band swiftly began the first opening notes. For his last song, however, Jungkook decided to give a little more backstory for his final song.

“Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for listening to me for the night,” Jungkook says with a soft voice, his tone awfully shy despite his powerful belting throughout the evening. The few customers left give him a warm round of applause, and you hear the familiar sound of his timid giggles spill from the restaurant speakers.

“This will be my final song for the night. Most of the songs I sang today were covers, but this one is an original. I…” He hesitates for a moment, and something pulls you to turn despite the alarm bells ringing in your ears. You face him, and just like earlier in the evening, he is already looking back at you.

This time, you don’t look away; he does. His eyes flit to the ceiling, and he licks his lips from nerves. “I… I wrote this song a long while ago. I’ve never sang it in public before and I never thought it would ever see the light of day. Until, well…”

He stops again. This time, he gestures to the guitarist in the band, silently asking to borrow it. With a guitar in hand, he smiles a little more confidently at the small crowd of people. He begins strumming the first few notes, and your heart stops. “I hope everyone had a pleasant evening. Get home safe and have a great rest of your week. My name is Jungkook, and this last song is called…”

Before he can sing the first line of his song, you make a break for it.

You slam the restaurant doors open, and the stinging cold air immediately pierces their fangs into your skin. Your coat is still inside, but you can’t bring yourself to reenter. You take a long breath, the chill barely registering in your mind with how loudly your heart is pounding in your ears.

Hearing the opening to that song was enough to bring you back in time, three years ago:

You are in his childhood bedroom, his walls littered with concert posters and his floor a mess with unfolded laundry and guitar picks. The afternoon sun is streaming through his windows, bathing him in gold. You have an exam the next day and he has cram school to go to, but you’ve both chucked your books somewhere on his desk, left forgotten.

He has his eyes closed, concentrated. You’re both on his small twin bed, squished together side by side and thighs touching. You have your head on his shoulder and he has his hands on his guitar. He strums a few chords experimentally and sings a melody that only the two of you know.

(Not anymore.)

“Are you writing a new song?” you ask, voice a little scratchy. Neither of you had spoken for the past few hours, just basking in the setting sun and Jungkook’s indistinct strumming. But now, his chords sound more sure, more certain of something.

“Yeah, I just thought of it,” he hums. He opens his eyes a smidge, a smitten smile on his lips. You mirror him.

“What’s it about this time?”

His brows furrow. “I’ve been trying to write about other stuff, you know? Namjoon-hyung tells me it’s important that songs have meaning and impact.” He pauses in his strumming, looking a little conflicted. “And I get what he means. Art is all about saying something, but… I can’t help that there’s only one thing I ever want to talk about. Is that so wrong?”

You chuckle, understanding what he means. You nudge your head against his cheek, grinning from ear to ear. The fluttering in your chest has become routine to you at this point, but he somehow always knows how to increase it tenfold. “God, you’re such a sweet talker. Really, Koo. There’s no need to serenade with love songs—I’m already yours.”

He looks back at you, brimming with tender affection. “I know,” he responds. Then, he takes a pen from his bedside table, and begins writing.

During those years of dating him, you always thought that If he was a waterfall, then you were a teaspoon. You desperately tried to be enough for him, but you’re barely able to fathom the depth of his devotion. Everything about him was excessive, and you could seldom understand how he managed to contain himself. He was born to share himself, to tear bits of his soul so that the world may understand him, love him. His songs were a testament that he was trying to do that, and you always felt so lucky to be able to receive him, wholly and fully.

How cruel was it that Jungkook uses that same song to rip open the barely healed scab on your heart, leaving you bare and stinging and raw all over again.

You have no idea how long you've stood there in the cold. It must have been barely a few minutes when Jimin finds his way to you. He wordlessly shrugs his coat off and places it on your shoulders, but you make no move to acknowledge him.

You hope your silence is enough for Jimin to infer that you are not in a conversational mood, but he’s nothing if not impatient. He forcibly pulls you to face him, his hands warm even through your clothing.

“Hey, you good? Did something happen?” He asks with barely concealed irritation, but it’s not directed at you. Still, you flinch at his scathing tone, shrinking in on yourself. In your daze, you vaguely notice his resemblance to an angry baby chick.

“It’s nothing. Go back inside, I’ll be right there,” you mumble lamely, weakly pushing him back towards the restaurant. Jimin does not budge, instead leveling you with a hard stare. This time, you’re sure his irritation is for you.

“You idiot, you literally ran out like someone was out to get you. Of course it’s not nothing,” he grouses.

You sigh tiredly, shaking your head at him. “We can talk later. It’s almost closing time and I just want to go home and sleep.”

Before Jimin can argue further, the door to the restaurant opens once more, but it isn’t a leaving customer.

“What the fuck? What are you doing out here?” Jimin all but shouts at Jungkook. He holds up an accusatory finger at him and uses his other hand to nudge you behind him as if to shield you.

Jungkook winces, instinctively stepping back. Despite being a few inches taller than Jimin, Jungkook’s timidness makes him look smaller. “I… I was just worried about her—”

“Don’t you have a song to finish in there? Talk about professional,” Jimin spits out. Jimin maneuvers you so that Jungkook can’t see you, but you manage to catch sight of how his gaze follows you unfailingly.

“I finished up my set. It’s closing time.” Jungkook responds coolly. He’s still a little quiet, but you can sense some of his natural composure rising to the surface. When he needs to be, Jungkook has been known to stand his ground—usually when it comes to matters involving you.

At this time of the night and after hours of mental torture, the last thing you need is to watch your two worst nightmares duke it out in front of your work establishment. You are beyond exhausted, and you hardly have the fortitude to withstand another minute of their voices ringing in your ears.

Your eyes well up with tears of frustration, causing the two boys to freeze up in panic. You don’t give them the chance to fuss over you; instead, you haphazardly wipe your cheeks before roughly pushing them back towards the restaurant.

“Get back to work, you idiots.” Your voice sounds warbled even to your own ears, but you push past your overwhelming emotions in favor of getting back inside to close up. Hell, you might even call in sick tomorrow, just so you can cry pathetically into your bowl of cereal in solitude.

“I’m not even on the clock today!” Jimin complains faintly, but you only push him harder.

When you all reenter, you walk back to your desk and pointedly ignore the two of them until they awkwardly float away from your orbit. Despite the distance they give you, their gazes are still fixed plainly on you and they feel like knives digging into your back.

Eventually, all the final customers of the day take their leave, and your remaining coworkers start dimming the lights and bidding their goodbyes. From the corner of your eye, you see Jungkook bowing respectfully to the band, who were giving him friendly pats on the back for a job well done. Jimin walks toward you, his car keys dangling from his left pinky.

“No thanks. I’ll take the bus home today,” you declare before he can offer a ride. Jimin opens his mouth like a goldfish, flapping his lips dumbly as he stares at you in shock. You have no idea why he’s so surprised, given how you’ve been making it obvious that you need some space.

He looks like he wants to argue again, but thinks better of it. A singular moment of restraint from Park Jimin, which is an act you once thought impossible. Maybe he does care about you more than you thought.

He stiffly nods at you, shoving his hands and keys into his pockets. He still has a frown on his face when he tells you to text him when you get home. You flip him off with a shaky smirk in response, a feeble attempt to bring some levity back to your now tense relationship. It works a little, and Jimin brightens up significantly. How simple-minded of him.

With a flippant wave, you leave work and head towards your bus stop. At this hour of the night, the streets are mostly dim, save for some street lamps and bars that stay open longer than your restaurant. There are always some people milling about, enough that you never feel too on edge about how late it is. Still, your bus stop is often empty, leaving you to mull over your thoughts in peace.

You are in the midst of jamming your earbuds into your ear when a presence makes itself known beside you.

Is it possible to go through the five stages of grief in under a second? You suppose not, but it’s hard to tell what sort of emotions swim through you when you come face to face with Jeon Jungkook again.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter under your breath. You pause the song playing on your phone to glare at him with as much venom as you can muster.

Jungkook holds up his hands in surrender, doe eyes wide like prey. “I-I’m heading home too! I’m not following you, I swear!”

You groan internally. Figures that you and Jungkook take the same bus home. But hold on— “Don’t you have a car? I remember you were parked near the restaurant the other night,” you note, squinting at him.

Jungkook looks sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah. That car was my hyung’s. He lets me borrow it sometimes, but he needed it tonight.”

“Sure…” You level him with a skeptical frown. You remember his hyung, but don’t recall him ever owning a car. You aren’t even sure that his Namjoon-hyung is allowed by the country to drive a car, much less own one.

He could be lying, but you don’t want to give him an excuse to continue any conversation. So, you busy yourself with your phone and keep your head bowed away from him.

When the bus arrives, Jungkook makes it a point to sit a few rows behind you. Thankfully, he has a better understanding of social cues than a certain Park that you know. He leaves you alone, but your entire body still feels like a rope pulled taut. You have to convince yourself not to look behind you, your morbid curiosity scratching your insides raw.

You are in the home stretch now, and it’ll only be a few more minutes before you get to your stop and make your way to your safe haven. Hell resumes the next day and the next, but at the very least you’ll have your home to yourself. No one could take that away from you.

Again, this is where you learn that tempting fate is never a good idea.

When you exit the bus at your stop, you can hear his footsteps following you. It’s hard not to notice, especially when his large and distracting boots make such a distinct racket that makes him so Jungkook.

You hasten your pace towards your apartment complex, your shoulders hunched and hands shoved into your coat pockets in an attempt to hinder the bile rising from your stomach. He had promised that he wasn’t following you, but that proclamation seems to be standing on feeble legs with how long he’s been on your tail now.

Your street is filled with rows of low-rise apartment buildings, so you hope that if anything happens, you can yell as loud as you can and alert some compassionate neighbor to come to your aid. (Not that you think he would ever physically harm you, but… You can’t say the same about your mental state.)

Your home is just two buildings away from where you are, but Jungkook still seems determined to follow you to the end. You all but skip the remaining feet to your apartment entrance, your breath coming out in puffs as you finally muster up the courage to face your supposed stalker and give him a piece of your mind.

“If this is some convoluted way for you to find out where I live, then you aren’t being very subtle about it,” you say, your chin held up high despite the growing urge to vomit pathetically in front of your ex-boyfriend. You have your hand rested on the doorknob, just a moment’s notice away from bolting into your house if the need for a quick getaway arises.

To your surprise, Jungkook wasn’t following you as closely as you expected. He had stopped trailing you about two buildings down, his own hand poised on the door with a look of genuine shock.

You both stand there, staring at each other as mutual understanding dawns on the two of you.

Everyday, the universe learns of more creative ways to be cruel.

“Oh…” Jungkook’s voice falters. He looks simultaneously frightened and amazed, as if he too finds this entire situation unbelievably harsh. He swallows thickly, looking at you and back to his door in quick succession. “Well… This is a strange coincidence,” he murmurs.

You want to believe that this was his entire fault, that Jungkook had somehow managed to track you down to haunt you for the rest of your days. You want to believe that he’s a crazed stalker who is willing to find where you work and live so that every hour of your wretched life is filled with nothing but reminders of what-could-have-beens. You just want someone to blame instead of just the cosmos—you want someone tangible to hate so that your suffering can be given some sort of identity. You want to give your mourning and hurt a name so that you can learn how to heal.

You want to believe all of that, but it’s hard to do so when Jungkook looks so incredibly uncomfortable, as if he’d rather melt into the shadows and never be seen again.

In all your memories, you have never seen Jungkook look so small.

You heave a big sigh, your fingers grasping the door knob so tightly that you half-expect it to be dented from the force. You linger for a moment, your mouth opening but nothing spills out.

What is there to say? What do you say to an ex-boyfriend that you haven’t seen in two years, who is suddenly so deeply entwined in your life once more? Do you tell him goodnight? Tell him to stay away? Tell him to come home with you?

Jungkook looks equally as conflicted. His lips are pursed tight with words left unsaid. You aren’t sure whether you want to punch the confession out of his mouth or seal them up forever. It feels like eons before he finally breaks the silence with a mirthless laugh.

“I… I just wanted to say—back at the restaurant. When I sang that last song,” Jungkook begins, and his voice feels loud because of how empty the streets are. For a moment, you are reminded of a cathedral you once visited during a vacation, how sacred silence can be. The world holds its breath, waiting for him to speak.

“I meant it all. Every word. Every lyric. I never stopped…”

He trails off, shrugging his shoulders. He stares at you helplessly, but you don’t know what to say. You don’t want to listen any more, but your feet are planted to the ground. You’re frozen like a deer in headlights, forced to brace against him as he crashes into you.

He continues, “And when we broke up back then… I never wanted that to happen. You broke it off before we could even try something—and I hated how I didn’t fight for you harder. I let you misunderstand me because I was afraid you wouldn’t want to stick around if I didn’t succeed. I convinced myself that I was holding you down, but I never gave you—us—a chance. I never stopped regretting it since.”

“Me? Break up with you?” You echo incredulously. That statement is enough to break you from your trance, the telltale signs of indignation rising up your chest. “How dare you suggest—Me? You were the one who broke up with me, asshole! You were the one who broke my heart and decided to up and leave to god knows where! Only to miraculously respawn right next to me, groveling at my feet with sad love songs as if that’s enough for me to forgive and forget? Fucking entitled bastard,” you seethe.

Somehow, Jungkook manages to shrink more, like a bunny with his tail tucked between his legs. “Yes, you’re right that I broke your heart but… When I told you I was moving away to try and become a singer, it was always with the intention of staying together. I know it would have been difficult, but I wanted you to be with me through thick and thin. But when you misunderstood and took it as a break up, I let you go because, well… I was scared that it would happen eventually. Who wants to date a broke busking fool anyway?”

He laughs, but it sounds watery. He sniffles, and you hope it's only because of the cold. “I tried looking for you, but you blocked me everywhere and no one from back home seemed to know where you went. So I just accepted that we’d never see each other again… Until a few days ago, that is.”

A misunderstanding? Is that what everything boils down to? Years of trying to build yourself back up again, relearning what it means to be happy—all the fallen domino pieces in your life trailing back to a single moment in time? All because Jungkook was scared that you didn't love him enough?

You’ve never felt angrier in your life. You fear what you might say if you continue to stand outside there, face to face with the singular person strong enough to whittle you down to the bone. Jeon Jungkook is all soft smiles and sweet songs, but how come he’s always able to knock you off your axis? Few people on this earth can stitch you up and break you down in equal measure, but somehow, Jungkook manages to do all that and more.

Then, comes the guilt. Had it been all your fault? That you hadn't returned his love in equal measure? Had you secretly given up on the hope of being on his level? Always looking down on yourself: unable to move past your insecurities. Were you terrified of being his side piece, his girlfriend, forever?

Who are you, even? And where do you stand?

(Beside him, is what you want to answer. You don't know if that's the right choice.)

You can’t bear to look at him, least of all answer him. Without another word, you shove your house key into the door before slamming it shut despite the late hour. If you awaken any neighbors, you’ll apologize later. For now, all you require is sleep and hope that this has been all a terrible nightmare.

xxx

Reality is a bitter pill to swallow.

Jeon Jungkook continues to sing at the restaurant, and after only two days of repeat stellar performances, your manager decides to promote him as the official vocalist for the band. It hurts to admit that you're not the least bit surprised; you might have a hard time looking at him, but you can never deny his talent.

His song list has added a larger variety of genres ever since his first performance. That is to say, he isn’t always singing about lost loves and tragic couples every night. Perhaps it is due to some requests from customers or his other bandmates, but it doesn’t stop him from sprinkling one or two love songs into the mix.

He doesn’t sing any original songs ever again. That, at least, is a small mercy. He doesn’t make any moves to speak with you either, despite the daily awkward trips back home after the end of your shifts. Whether that’s because he’s given up on you (again), or he’s waiting for you to make the first move, you don’t know. Frankly, you don’t think you have the energy (nor courage) to do anything about it.

It’s a few weeks after Jungkook’s first performance at the restaurant, and closing time is approaching. You appreciate Friday nights the most because it means you’ll have two consecutive days to relax and avoid your problems. It’s also the busiest night of the week, when white-collar workers decide to drink and eat for as long as the night allows them. Busier nights mean more distractions, and you’re willing to deal with twenty Karens over one Jungkook.

During nights like these, your manager occasionally asks you to fulfill some waitress duties when there aren’t enough hands on deck. Normally you’d hate it, but earning the extra tips is enough to keep your grumbling to a minimum To this day, your landlord has yet to do anything about your broken shower, and you’ve finally conceded to the fact that you’ll have to be the one to do something about it.

As you inform the customers in your area that the last call for orders is approaching, you sneak a glance at the bar to see Jimin dutifully performing his job. That is to say, he’s flirting up a storm, getting women and men alike to blush from head to toe as he serves their drinks with a salacious smirk.

What a swindler, you think to yourself, snorting when he makes eye contact with you. He gives you a cheeky salute, mouthing something as he gestures to the back door.

Despite the semi-fight the two of you had all those weeks ago, Jimin was never one to argue about the same topic two days in a row. When you saw him the next day after your confrontation with Jungkook, Jimin was back to all smiles. You still catch him sending death glares towards Jungkook on most nights, but he doesn’t bring up the matter with you anymore. For that reason, you’ve gratefully settled back into your weird, banterful friendship with him. Even if there’s still a lingering tension between the two of you that you refuse to acknowledge.

You nod thankfully back at him, excited to go to his house and take a much needed shower. At this point, going to his house has become second nature to you, and it gives you an excuse to not see Jungkook at your regular bus stop every day. You have half a mind to never fix your shower for that reason, but of course there is still the problem of having to deal with Jimin every time you need to bathe. You hardly consider yourself an impatient person, but Jimin likes to toe the line far more often than necessary.

You’re down to your last two tables before you can close up shop when your manager suddenly barrels right into your path. You nearly drop your tray of dirty dishes to the floor, holding in a loud yelp as your suspiciously stern-faced manager halts you in place.

“Ms. Y/N, may I have a word with you for a moment? It’s regarding your paycheck for the month,” he barks, lips downturned. He appears disgruntled about something, and it sends a worried shiver down your spine. And here you thought Fridays are meant to be fun. He doesn’t wait for you to reply before he stalks back to his office, an unspoken command for you to follow.

You unload your dishes in the kitchen before making your way to his office. The small, dark room is cramped with overflowing file folders and coupons from multiple take-out places. You accidentally step on a stack of papers, and upon further inspection, seem to be a pile of applications for new hires. You distinctly remember complaining to him months prior about being understaffed and him replying that no inquiries were coming in.

As you approach, your manager shuffles through your coworkers pay stubs, and you notice yours and Jungkook’s on top of the piles.

Manager Jeong clears his throat. “Well, Y/N. It seems to be your lucky day. As you know, we split the tips based on your hours and what sort of duties you fulfill. With the new hire we have as our in-house singer, we’ve had to split it one way more to accommodate his arrival. However, he has recently requested to me that his portion be reallocated… to you, Ms. Y/N.”

Your jaw drops immediately. “I-I don’t understand, Manager Jeong,” you sputter.

Manager Jeong snorts, bemused by your reaction. “Don’t understand? Well, I suppose you’ll have to ask Mr. Jeon if you want his reasoning. Regardless, since we normally deposit your salary straight to your bank account, would it be alright if I hand you his tips in cash for now? He only informed me about his request an hour ago, and the accountant has already clocked out for the week.”

All you can do is nod dumbly back at him. With a huff, your manager presses a white envelope into your hands before promptly ushering you out of his office. “Well, that's settled. Out you go! Have a good weekend, Ms. Y/N. Don’t forget to lock the register before you leave!” He calls out before slamming his door in your face.

It takes you a moment to reanimate back to life. You stare at the white envelope for a long while, unable to fathom the scribbled out name of Jeon Jungkook replaced with your own name. Then, you crumple it into your fist before stomping over to where Jungkook and the rest of the band are in the middle of packing it up for the night.

Jungkook looks up from his guitar case when he senses you fast approaching. For a fleeting second, a smile graces his handsome face before it’s smacked away by your crumpled envelope.

“Keep your fucking cash, Jungkook. What the hell is your problem?” You fume, cheeks heating from agitation. Jungkook splutters for a moment, prying the envelope away from his face and looking at it in bewilderment. When he sees it clearly, recognition dawns on his face, followed by guilt.

“It’s just… my way of saying sorry, I guess.” He answers you meekly, neck flushing red in embarrassment. Behind him, the rest of the band grow silent at the scene before them, and you debate on telling them to mind their own business when they quicken their pace to leave.

“Well, keep your apology to yourself. There’s nothing to apologize for,” you correct him with a frown. To offer an apology is to offer accountability. You aren’t sure if you’re ready to hear him say that.

“No, it’s a sorry for… using you, I suppose.”

“Using me?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “For what?”

Jungkook smiles wryly back at you. “For inspiration?” he clarifies. For being the reason I can sing? He leaves that part unsaid, but you can almost imagine him saying it.

You feel heat rising to your cheeks again, but this time you aren’t quite sure if it’s from embarrassment, anger… or something else.

Unable to conjure up a response to his simple confession, you stomp away from him with a pounding heart and shaking hands. You continue the rest of your closing shift routine instinctually, your body moving on autopilot as Jungkook’s words continue to ring inside your head. When all is said and done, Jimin makes his way to your station with a questioning stare, but you wave him off in favor of stomping ahead of him to the parking lot.

In his car, Jimin rattles off about his latest exploits and purchases, his grating voice a comfort for once. You hum noncommittally during his stories when appropriate, but you suppose your usual indifference feels different, even to Jimin's untrained ears.

At his house, you drift to his bathroom immediately. You already have a shirt button undone by the time you get a handle on the door when Jimin’s hand stops you in place. You can feel his warmth emanating against your back as he slowly pulls the bathroom door close. With a tired sigh, you reluctantly turn to face him and find him standing closer than you expected.

He has an arm resting above your head, effectively caging you. You feel your shoulders sag. Damn, here comes another confrontation. Why can’t everyone just leave you alone?!

“Talk to me,” he says. No, he demands.

You push him away weakly, but he hardly budges. “Nothing to talk about,” you lie. Had you no filter, you’d be word vomiting all over the place ages ago.

Jimin groans, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Enough with the emotional constipation. I’m here to listen, alright? No teasing or anything, I’m all ears and maybe a shoulder to cry on. Just don’t stain my Chanel top too bad,” he jokes.

You puff out a short breath—a sorry excuse for a laugh. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to talk about it, and that’s that.”

“It’ll make you feel a lot better, though,” he offers.

You scoff. “What makes you think that? What if I just want to ignore all my problems forever and never grow from it? Is that so bad?”

Jimin pushes himself away from you, raising his hands in mock defeat. “You’re so fucking annoying. Can you stop running away from your problems and talk to me? Hell, talk to Jungkook for all I care! Just stop being a doormat and speak your mind for once in your damn life!”

“What are you, my therapist?” You brush past him, shower all but forgotten. You begin toeing your shoes back on, ready to head home tired and smelly. At the very least, you won’t have to deal with this stupid annoying asshole any longer.

Jimin strides back towards you, but for once he doesn’t do anything to forcibly stop you. Jimin has always been gruff with you, not afraid to push and pull you in any which direction. It’s part of the reason why you can’t take him seriously, even though you’ve recently realized why he was always being such a prick towards you—

“Yeah, I’m not your therapist. But for better or for worse, I’m your friend and I—I fucking care about you, alright? And it sucks seeing that good-for-nothing stick his nose in your business and act like he can do anything without any repercussions.”

Is Jimin being for real right now? “With how often you look at yourself in the mirror, you’d think you’d be better at introspection,” is all you say to that. You shove your feet into your shoes, not caring that you’ve probably put them on wrong. Maybe it’s because it’s Friday and the fatigue from the week has finally settled deep in your bones, but you can’t help but leave one last scathing remark to drive the final nail in the coffin.

“You know, if you were a little nicer to me, maybe I would talk to you. Hell, maybe I’d like you back. But no, just keep being your domineering, asshole self and I’ll keep being the same fucking doormat bitch you know and love,” you spit, turning towards the door and away from his face. You’re not even curious to see how he reacts. “I don’t need protection, alright? When I tell you to stay out of my business, you stay out of it. So don’t try and pretend to be my knight in shining armor.”

There’s an ocean of silence, enough to hear a pin drop. The urge to apologize surges to the surface, but you stamp it down. He’s petty all the time, so now it’s your turn.

Okay, maybe that’s a little too mean on your part, but you’re exhausted. Perhaps it is true when they say you should never act on your anger when it’s past midnight. But can anyone blame you? You’re only a girl, and girls need to snap too.

When he responds, his voice sounds weak. Park Jimin, weak? It's almost unthinkable. "Why don't you trust me?"

Isn't it obvious? you want to say. But some mercy remains within you. You'll pick up the pieces another time. Instead, you rasp out, “Good night, Park. I’ll see you on Monday.”

The walk of shame back to your house is long and arduous. Your phone dings thrice, likely signaling texts from Jimin, but you turn it off without checking for sure. For once, the weight on your shoulders is slightly lighter. You huff out a dry laugh, realizing belatedly that maybe Jimin is right—maybe speaking your mind has its benefits.

There’s a small park in your neighborhood that you always pass by. You don’t remember the last time you spared it a second glance, but this time you notice a lone figure swinging back and forth, arching dangerously higher than what you would consider safe. From a distance, all you can make out are the person’s comically bright boots, and you have a sinking suspicion you know who it is without seeing their face.

Cosmos, or whoever it is that controls my life, why must you braid our strings of fate so tightly? You ask, but as always, it refuses to reply.

Against your better judgment, your feet bring you closer towards him. He has his back towards you, his feet pumping him higher and higher and you half expect him to swing in a perfect arc like a gymnast on parallel bars. You have to keep your distance a bit, lest you get the wind knocked out of you by his signature stompers.

You clear your throat, and the boy stops mid-swing and nearly catapults himself into the spongey, playground floor. Hunched over and wheezing, Jungkook directs his shocked eyes at you with a comical stare.

You raise a hand in greeting. A peace offering, maybe. “Hello—”

“I swear I’m not stalking you!” Jungkook interrupts as he scrambles to his feet. He bows deeply in remorse, the action so endearingly him. “S-sorry, I’ll make my way home now…”

“I don’t own the park, Jungkook. I was just saying hello…” You snort, wringing your hands uncomfortably. You grind your shoes into the ground, the sound of crunching leaves breaking the still air. “A-and… to say sorry, for earlier.”

“Sorry?” Jungkook repeats, confused. When he realizes what you mean, he waves his hands frantically. “No, no! Don’t be sorry! It was my fault for being so inconsiderate. I understand how you might misconstrue my actions, and I made things more awkward. I’ll consider your feelings more in the future…”

In the future… You cough, unwilling to meet his bright and honest gaze. If you stare too long, you fear you might go blind.

“I come here to the park often, when I feel too cramped inside my apartment,” Jungkook explains, frantic energy radiating off him in waves. He’s gesticulating too much, a clear sign that he’s trying to hide his nerves. You remember how he would do the same thing in high school, whenever he had to present his projects in front of the class.

You hold a hand up, a weak attempt to get him to calm down. “I’m not here to interrogate you. I just wanted to…” What is it that you wanted to do?

The two of you just stand awkwardly like that, similar to a few weeks ago when you discovered you were neighbors. You’re grasping at straws in your head, both conflicted for wanting to tell him something and running away. Even if you were to talk to him, what would you say? There’s a reason you told Jimin you didn’t want to talk—frankly, it’s mostly because you have no idea what to say or feel.

But you do know, the universe responds.

I ask you questions all the time, and this is how you respond?

Either that, or you’re going insane, the universe remarks.

Jungkook pulls out his phone, his fingers fumbling as he unlocks it. He takes a furtive step towards you, but thinks better of it. There’s a few feet of distance between you, but it feels like worlds apart. Close and yet so far. You recall how you’d easily pull him towards you in the past, how being together felt as natural as breathing.

“I know you absolutely hated it the last time I played my original song at the restaurant, so I refrained from performing any ever since that night. But that didn’t stop me from writing them. I was fine with keeping them locked in a vault forever, but…” He hesitates, searching you for any signs of discomfort. When he sees the carefully blank look on your face, he continues with trepidation.

“Can I try a song for you? You don’t have to say yes, and you’re free to tell me to fuck off and I’ll never even look at you ever again. Just…” He flails one last time, a choked sob making its escape from his throat.

Are you hopeless for wanting to say yes? Or were you reverting back to your old self who relied on him and believed in him so heavily? If you wanted him out of your life for good, you would have quit your job at the first sight of him. Maybe you were masochistic. Or maybe were you hopeful for a new start, a chance to rekindle a relationship that you’ve secretly always wanted to repair.

You have so much life ahead of you. Many more mistakes will be made and maybe they’ll haunt you when you’re older. But would it really be such a terrible gamble to take one more chance?

You nod, and seal your fate.

He presses play, and the soft strumming of a guitar fills the empty playground air.

Not for the first time, you wonder how it can be so easy for Jungkook to be so… honest. He spills his heart in every song that he writes, and you know he’s never been a great liar. He can’t help it, being genuine is in his DNA. This crashing waterfall, this boy with overflowing emotions—he sings what he thinks but feels terrified because of it. You might not understand his honesty, but you know that fear. You know it all too well.

He beholds himself to you—raw and unfiltered. A little battered and bruised, but still Jungkook. Behind everything, still the boy you’ve been yearning for.

Maybe this song is what will give you enough confidence to admit everything to him, too. As you stand there, listening to his mellow voice sing confessions to no one but you and the stars, you think you grow a little more courageous that day.

Maybe you won’t be able to tell him tonight. Maybe not tomorrow, nor next week either. But as you gaze back at his hopeful eyes, you know deep in your heart that you’ll find the words you’ve been looking for.

“I’ll keep waiting for you, if you let me.” Jungkook’s voice floats gently to you, and settles in your open palms. This time, you don’t let go

xxx

Months later, Jungkook stops working at the restaurant when an offer from a major record company arrives in his mail. Apparently, a big shot from the local radio station had pitched him to an employee at that company and they were all pleasantly surprised to find a hidden gem at a random bar and restaurant.

In your apartment, you stare outside your window and to where his home is—well, where it was. You wonder if he finished packing his things, ready to make the big move tomorrow. You stand up with a stretch, sparing a glance at your still broken shower. It would be nice to have one more shower at his place… And after that? Maybe you should start looking for a nicer apartment; somewhere far away might be nice.

Your phone rings, and you see his contact photo light up your screen. With a smile, you answer.

“Come over, if you want. I won’t make you,” Jungkook assures you.

You laugh lightly, already halfway out the door.

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ask-kimerako-therapycarpool · 2 years

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Kimera? you mean that temperamental one-time killer gauntlet kid? OVK? you mean that zalgo-wannabe, pink and only pink, bodyless, all bark no bite, insecure, overcompensating, desperate for attention bully made of intrusive thoughts? the one who couldn't think even up his own name, that OVK? Mental Hologram Stevenzilla-esque, OVK? "insults are my entire personality" OVK?

[KO whines at the anons, tears forming from his once again normal eyes.] Please guys...! I'm not temperamental!! And I thought you forgave me over that one time!! Be mean to him, not me...! [He sniffles.] I said I was sorry, just stop, please.....!!!

[OVK watches KO, who is now crying, and then turns his gaze to the anons.]

Y̵o̷u̸ ̸k̵n̷o̷w̵ ̶I̵ ̵s̵a̴i̷d̶ ̸I̷ ̶a̴l̴o̵n̸e̸ ̸w̷a̶s̶ ̴g̷o̷n̴n̶a̶ ̷t̷o̵r̶t̷u̵r̴e̵ ̴h̸i̴m̴,̴ ̸r̶i̴g̸h̵t̴?̷ ̶I̸ ̸d̴i̴d̷n̷'̷t̷ ̸s̴a̴y̷ ̵I̸ ̶n̷e̶e̶d̶e̷d̶ ̴y̴o̶u̴r̴ ̸h̸e̷l̸p̷ ̸t̷o̴ ̴b̸e̷ ̶a̵s̵ ̴b̷a̵d̷ ̶a̵s̷ ̷m̴e̵ ̷a̶n̴d̷ ̶h̸o̸n̴e̷s̸t̷l̴y̵,̶ ̵y̷o̶u̵'̶r̵e̶ ̸b̵u̴m̸m̵i̶n̸g̵ ̴m̷e̸ ̵o̴u̷t̸.̸

#((bold of you to assume that ovk has no bite))#((which i'll show why in a few asks))#ask-kimerako #ask #anon #kimera ko #ovk {kimera's intrusive thoughts nickname}#kimera intrusive thoughts personified #kimera ko's subconscious #kimera ko au #tales from the multiverse #therapy carpool #therapy carpool canon #aftermath of carl episode event #((making this canon to therapy carpool that kimera believes that the anons hold a grudge on him about the session 56 incident))#angst

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lowkeyerror · 7 months

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The Family Business ( Series Masterlist)

WandaNat x Reader [complete]

Mafia Au

The Maximoff’s take you in as one of their own after a night that will forever haunt you. You join the family business and in it you find yourself falling madly in love with your best friend's sister and her wife.

Ch. 1- The passing of your older brother forever changed your relationship with your parents. After a particularly brutal incident with your mother, the Maximoff's welcome you into their home.

Ch.2- Wanda was sent away on important business, by the time she comes back you're all grown up and a part of the family company. Wanda doesn't come back home empty handed in fact she returns with a brand new wife.

Ch.3- Natasha has heard stories of you from Wanda. It has her doubting your current day skill level. With Dragos and Wanda in a meeting, you get the chance to tell her a bit about the person you've become.

Ch.4- Natasha is nervous about finally having some personal time with Wanda’s family. You help her fight through those nerves. Meanwhile Wanda struggles to come to terms with how much of your growth she missed.

Ch.5- The guilt Wanda feels for missing your important milestones boils over and you're left trying to comfort her.

Ch.6- The after math of the fallout between Wanda and her family leads to an all too important business meeting the next day.

Ch.7- Y/n, Wanda, and Pietro are forced to prepare for the worst after learning of the one on one meeting Dragos has set up with Kingpin.

Ch.8- The family copes with the situation revolving Dragos.

Ch.9- After last night's events things only grow more complicated between Wanda, Natasha, and the reader.

Ch.10- Natasha and Wanda have a talk about their feelings for you. After that emotional conversation they meet you at the hospital to visit Dragos.

Ch.11- Fisk is not happy with the way things turned out regarding the docks. He makes his own power play in retaliation that puts everyone on notice.

Ch.12- Natasha and Wanda reveal their feelings.

Ch. 13- Fisk Gains and unexpected new ally.

Ch.14- Things quickly escalate as Fisk tries to end this power struggle once and for all.

Ch.15- After effectively taking care of the Fisk problem, you struggle with the moral reprocussions of that action, while also trying to deal with the truth behind your mother’s death.

Ch.16- The Future of the family business is discussed between Wanda, Natasha, and yourself.

Ch.17- The family has a meeting to discuss the events that happened in Dragos absence. The aftermath of that meeting forever changes the landscape of the business and the family.

#lowkeyerror #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x reader #wandanat #wandanat x reader

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heartludwig · 1 year

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Follow up on my little office au? Anyways this is the aftermath of the “incident”

#fellas is it gay to uhh whatever the hell these two have going on?#prohibitedwish #scarab the god auditor #prismo the wishmaster #adventure time #fionna and cake #scarab #prismo #human au

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uhohdad · 4 months

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THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN

KONIG X READER [HUNGER GAMES AU]

You & Konig have been chosen to participate in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.

18+, NSFW, 144k WORD COUNT, AO3, Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, GentleGiant!Konig, Mentor!JohnPrice, Fem!Reader, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Use, Slow Burn, Sexual Content, First Time, Smut, Fluff, Angst

· THE TRIBUTES I · THE TRIBUTES II · THE GAMES · THE VICTOR I · THE VICTOR II · THE AFTERMATH I · THE AFTERMATH II ·

➤ THE TRIBUTES II

If you’re being honest, the worst part is not knowing why it hurts so much. How could you be stupid enough to give Konig this much control over you? Why do you feel so churned up inside over a boy you’ve known for a mere few days and only exchanged a handful of words? And why, even after recognizing that your anger isn’t rightfully pointed at Konig, are you still so mad at him?

You have to put your face in your pillow and scream to let it all out. All of it, the feelings about Konig, the feelings of inadequacy, the feelings about the games.

Price gives you five minutes, five minutes of stewing in the anger, chewing and splitting and dissecting every contradicting emotion before he knocks on your door.

You ignore the first few knocks, and after a second round of rapping he calls your name through the door.

“Go away!” You yell.

He gives a softer knock, maybe with just a knuckle or two. His voice drops low and persuading, a hint of a playful tease, “C’mon Plucky.”

You let out an overtly-dramatic groan, “I don’t want to talk about it! Just leave me alone!”

“Who said anything about talking?” His gruff voice carries through the door, “Let me pour you a drink.”

That… actually doesn’t sound too bad.

Even after the incident on the train you’re itching to relax, to get that feeling of easiness again. You let out a huff into the sheets, begrudgingly standing and dragging your feet to the door, by no means gently swinging it open.

“There’s my ray of sunshine.”

You try to shut the door in his face, but his shoe shoots out to catch it.

“I’m sorry,” He says, not entirely genuine. He then nudges in the direction of the dining room with his shoulder, “C’mon.”

You let out a heavy sigh and step into the hall.

“‘Atta girl,” He says, leading you into the dining table.

You plop yourself down on the chair, and Price stays true to his word. He fills up a crystal glass with the decanter, and he doesn’t get too close when he sets it next to you, scraping the glass across the table and into your reach.

He takes his place at the head of the table. For a while you both nurse your whiskey in silence. You take in as much as your body allows, eagerly anticipating the warmth that blooms in your chest as it goes down. You stand to get another drink to wash down the offensive taste, and Price has the sense to not make fun of you for it.

When your cheeks are flushed with heat, when you don’t feel quite yourself anymore, your mouth opens to speak and the words slip out without your permission, voice low and fixated on the tabletop.

“I don’t want to die.”

Price presses his lips together, and taps the tabletop with a few fingernails.

“Then don’t.”

You shoot him a glare, “Everyone knows I don’t stand a chance.”

“I don’t know that,” he says.

You face warps in a look that’s begging for him to drop the act.

He rolls his eyes, almost annoyed, and lets out a huff.

“I don’t care for quitters much.”

“Can we be realistic for a second?” You say exasperatedly, “I have nothing. Not the strength, not the skill, and no chance of getting help in that arena. I am not the smart bet.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” He says.

Your words flip from hot to ice cold, eyes narrowing at him, “It means everything.”

“Look, kid, tributes scrappier than you have won the games before. Stop counting yourself out and get your head in the fucking game.”

The harsh tone he ends with makes your lower lip bunch and your eye twitch.

He sighs with a long blink, a slight shake of his head, and when he speaks his voice is much softer.

”I get it. Yeah? I get the disdain. But it’s happening and I need you to get it together.”

It hits you all over again.

Your reality, the mere fact that you are going into that arena. You will have to survive, you will have to defend yourself, and you will most likely have to kill.

The booze seems to amplify the emotion, doubling the weight of the anvil that drops on your chest and steals every last wisp of air from your lungs. A sore lump forms in your throat and your mouth goes dry, tears welling in your eyes.

Price looks almost shocked, and then his forehead wrinkles and his arms cross as he leans in.

The tears are rolling now, big droplets that fall before catching on the height of your cheek, streaking down your face and your neck.

His hand reaches out to give a pat on your forearm before resting there, “Oh, c’mon now, Plucky.”

He sighs again, his voice gentle but persuasive, “I know a feisty girl when I see one. Before you even spoke I knew that you had a fire in ya’.”

You look at him with eyes red and glossed, your sight warped through tears.

He removes the hand on your forearm before giving a point in your direction, “You’re angry and I need you to use that. I need you to be a fighter. This is going to be the hardest thing you’ve ever done but I believe you can do this. I’ve seen a lot of kids come and go but there’s something about you.”

You scoff, voice slightly nasal, “I wouldn’t stand a chance against Konig, let alone any of the other tributes.”

“I know you’re smarter than that,” Price kicks back.

“Smarter than Konig?” You ask with a sniff, wiping your nose.

“No,” he gives a tilt of his head and perks his eyebrows, as if negating the ‘no’ before he continues, “I meant smart enough to realize that everyone else is going to overlook you. You don’t think that boy is going to have a giant target on his back? He’s a huge threat to the others and they know it.”

You hadn’t considered that, actually.

He sighs, “I’m not saying the kid doesn’t have a chance, but you are gonna find some sense, hunker down, and wait it out. They will underestimate you.”

Your eyes flick around his features, trying to decipher if his encouragement is genuine. The tears have stopped flowing, and you give a sniff.

“You’re going to put that fury, that fire, and you are going to channel it into survival. Even if you have to do it out of spite. Just don’t let anyone use it against you, okay?”

You give a shaky nod and take another sip of your whiskey with a wince.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

There’s another pause, Price tapping on the glass table as you both nurse your drinks.

The words come tumbling out one after another without thought.

“The careers want to ally with Konig and he didn’t say no.”

Price raises his brows again and gives one slow nod.

“Ah,” He says in understanding.

You can tell he’s pin-pointed the actual reason for your outburst, not the underlying one.

“He said yes?”

“Well, no,” Your eyes dart away, “He said he wanted to talk to you first.”

He nods again. “I’m not saying that wasn’t the right move, but I can see why you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” You say, your face still puffy from crying.

“Of course,” He says.

You shoot him another look with narrowed eyes.

“I’ll talk to him,” Price says, raising his palm off the table, “But you need to promise me you’ll go back down to training and give it your all. Forget what I said before, learn whatever you want for the rest of the day. And Konig doesn’t have to babysit.”

You nod again.

“Let the whiskey settle first,” He says as he stands, wagging a finger in your direction, “And drink some water, Plucky.”

Price saunters off with his drink, and you follow his advice without pushback. You let your face filter out the evidence of crying, hydrate, and wait until your cheeks drains of the tipsy heat before making your way back to the training center.

Konig’s eyes find you immediately. An instructor is speaking to him, but his head turns and locks on you. You catch a frown before you turn away. You can’t stand to look at him, he’s making all the complex and knotted feelings resurface.

You head to the opposite side of the training area, and find you’re not as intimidated by the weapons anymore. You pick up a handful of knives, following Price’s advice about channeling the anger. Whipping your arm with a grunt as you practice throwing at some dummy’s across the line of fire. Your aim is not great, but for the most part they are sticking into the dummy with satisfying thuds.

Everytime you get lucky and manage to hit the target, you take a step back to throw a few more from a farther distance.

Archery takes you a while to get accustomed to. You’d never used a bow before, you’re not sure how to hold it, and your positioning is all off.

The trainer does step in to help you out, and while initially overbearing he does prove to be quite helpful, guiding your positions and showing you where to pull the string.

You miss more times than not, but the trainer gives his best effort.

The spears are a bit heavy, and you don’t seem to be doing great at long distance throwing, but the short range throws are hard to mess up.

You curiously poke over swords, what remains of the booze in your system giving you the confidence to draw closer to the careers. You follow Price’s instructions on ignoring them. Pretending they’re not even there. The dirt beneath your feet.

“Done with your temper tantrum?”

A career, no doubt, each word knotted with arrogance.

You have to bite your tongue so hard it almost breaks flesh. Your expression goes sour, but you don’t whip around right away.

You so badly want to explode on them, let out your anger on the owner of the voice.

Instead you lick your lips, plaster a face drenched in curiosity, and turn on your heels.

As innocently as possible you ask, “Which of you three do you think is going to die in the arena?”

Their faces immediately fall, the boy from one’s eye twitches and the girl from two gives you a wicked scowl.

“Well, only one of you can win. Have you talked it over?” You shoot back a sweet smile and a shrug.

Titan lets out a maniacal, cackling laugh, actually grabbing his knees and doubling at the core.

His demeanor is enough to shake you, your face falling.

The other careers, with their loathing and hatred, are expected. That you can handle.

It’s clear Titan’s a wildcard, completely unhinged. That laugh is not one of someone who is entirely sane, hysterical enough to trigger the instinctual urge to run, dread knotting up your insides.

“I like you, Nine!” He says with a gulp for air. He lets out a final sigh through his wicked smile, “I think I get it now!”

He claps his hands together with a crack like thunder, and takes a step forward. You don’t have the courage to refrain from taking a step back.

“Funny girl,” Titan coos, his voice suddenly low and silky, eyelids fluttering in your direction, “You want to join the winners?”

Your face immediately twists. You go to speak, but your tongue is frozen.

Are they asking you to ally with them?

No.

“What is this?” You ask, a lot quieter and broken than you would have liked.

When Titan explodes into another fit of laughter, small droplets of his spit fly from his mouth and splatter onto your face. Your eyes close in a flinch, face pinching in a grimace.

“Don’t play shy, Nine!” He says after his fit. He drops his voice again, to an almost sultry tone, as if he was trying to flirt his way into an alliance with you, “We want you on our team.”

“Right,” you say when he confirms your suspicion, wiping his spit off your face. The notion is ridiculous enough for you to regain some of your confidence, “Fuck off, then.”

Titan explodes into laughter once more, and the boy from one sweeps him back with a push of his arm, clearly over the display.

“We can protect you in the arena, Nine,” One says gruffly.

“From who?” You ask, making a show of checking your nails, still dotted with wheat florettes, “From you?”

The girl from one perks up, “You won’t go hungry with us.”

“If you want my opinion,” you start, ignoring their offer as your finger points at the girl from one, “You.”

You point at the girl from District Two.

“You.”

The boy from one.

“And you.”

You hold his stare when you finish, voice taught as you jam your thumb in the direction of a hysterical Titan, “A weeks worth of bread says Hoo-Hah over here stabs you all in the throat while you’re sleeping.”

Titan finds this hilarious, his cackling escalating as his hands clap together.

The boy from one looks over your shoulder, cranes his head, and takes a step backwards.

“Keep your dog on a shorter leash,” He growls.

Your eyes roll and a long breath escapes you. Not at the insult, but at the realization that Konig is standing right behind you, still adhering to Price’s instructions.

Keeping you out of trouble.

Successfully.

The careers’ pointed stares bore into you as they walk away. Titan’s still laughing, and he calls out one final, “I’ll be seeing you, Funny Girl!”

His words send a shudder down your spine, stifling the twitch as you finish picking out a sword. You only turn to face Konig once they’re out of earshot, jaw cocked and head craned to meet his stare, “I talked to Price, and he said you didn’t have to chaperone me anymore.”

You inspect the sword casually in your hand, as if disinterested in his presence, “So, feel free to do your own thing.”

He swallows, eyes darting around your face, “Did- Did I?”

You drop your voice to an icy whisper, running a finger along the flat of the sword’s steel, “I’m not really interested in someone who fraternizes with careers. So.”

As awful as it is, you want to be mad at him. To make him feel how you feel.

His brows pinch and his head lowers, “I didn’t, I’m not!”

His eyes dart around, and he lowers his voice.

“It was on the spot and- I didn’t want to get on their bad side.”

He gives you just about the saddest eyes you’ve ever seen.

“Bitte-”

He cuts himself off, his arms at his sides and slightly lifted, begging for your forgiveness.

You give an annoyed huff, but not at him, at yourself, for immediately being tempted to forgive him. You’re aching to curl up in the arms of his comfort again, you don’t want to finish training all by yourself.

“I won’t do it, I won’t even mention it to Price. It was never-” He cuts himself off with a deep breath.

“It’s okay,” You whisper as you lower the sword and run your thumb over the handle’s crest. A drawn out sigh leaves you, “I’m sorry, it’s me. It’s just been hard.”

“I know,” He says. There’s a pause, and he looks down to the sword in your hand.

“Want to spar?” He asks.

“Uh,” You follow his gaze as you think, “Okay.”

He takes his time looking over the swords, keeping his eye trained carefully on the weapons as he asks under his breath, “What was that about?”

You look over your shoulder and eye the pack that convenes in a huddle, speaking to each other in hushed voices.

You step closer to him in an effort to keep your conversation unheard, “They asked me to ally with them, I think?” You shake your head, “I think they’re just asking everyone. Trying to lure in anyone they can for an easy kill? I have no clue.”

He gives a hum, giving a glance over his shoulder that was probably more discreet in his head than it was in real life, “What’d you say?”

“A lot. The gist was ‘Fuck that and fuck you.’”

Konig draws a sword and holds it at his side. It seems much lighter in Konig’s hand than it does your own.

“Must have been funny,” he says, his eyes lingering on the careers.

You blow out a huff of air, “Easy crowd.”

You make a gesture with your index finger that suggests Titan’s not right in the head, swirling it next to your temple to mimic scrambled brains.

He nods carefully, and ceases his line of questioning.

Sword training is more enjoyable than you thought it would be. The sword is heavy in your hands, and by time you finish your wrists and forearms are more than sore, but it is satisfying to swing and thrust the blade at targets.

You round out the day without disturbance, and you both make your way back to the suite.

Price is less lenient about his questioning. At dinner, he coaxes every word of your interactions with the careers from you and Konig.

He’s less pleased with your responses, “Taunting them? Are you nuts?”

“Not as nutty as the boy from two,” your tone is curved and paired with a flare of your eyelids as your teeth slide a perfectly cooked piece of steak from your fork.

“Even more of a reason to steer clear of them!”

“Hey!” You say, mouth still full of half-chewed steak, “They provoked me.”

“I don’t care, that’s not how you handle it.”

“What happened to being fiesty?” You say, throwing your arms up.

“The last thing you need is attention drawn to you,” Price shoots back.

You roll your eyes, “Whatever, it’s too late for me to fix it. Not like I’m gonna see them again anyway.”

“You’ll see them in the arena,” He says gruffly.

“John’s right,” Ruby interjects.

You blow a dismissive puff of air, but underneath it you wonder if he’s right. Your stomach turns at the thought you made a life-threatening decision by running your big mouth. If even Ruby agrees with Price, maybe he truly does have a point.

“She stood up for herself,” Konig blurts out on your behalf, “She did the right thing.”

Your eyebrows pinch, lips pulling back.

Price wears a matching expression, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening as he looks at Konig with shock and confusion torn through his features.

Konig’s briefly confident façade fades as he takes turns shifting his gaze between you and Price, his posture deflating.

“Well,” Price says, his brows perking for a moment as he returns his attention to his plate, “That’s that then.”

You continue holding Konig’s stare, trying to figure out why he would say that. What he stood to gain for getting Price off your back.

For making you feel better.

Encouraging you to pick fights with the careers to ensure they hunt you down and pick you off in the arena?

You don’t have an answer.

“Tomorrow they’ll be doing individual training,” Price starts, “Now’s the time to pull out all the stops, got it?”

“Aye aye,” You mutter, not at all genuine.

Price points his fork in your direction, “Be good, Plucky.”

“Not likely,” You say.

You’re certain you’ll be unremarkable. Wedged in the tail end in the middle of the pack, destined to be overshadowed by those that come before and after you. There’s nothing notable about you. No size or strength or skill to draw anyone’s attention.

After dinner, Price dismisses you and Konig so he, Ruby, and the stylists can go over strategy.

As you turn to your respective doors, you utter a weak, “Thanks.”

Konig pauses for a moment before nodding his head slowly.

“Of course.”

Ruby lets you sleep in until late morning, and by time you wander in for breakfast, everyone’s nearly completed their meal.

“Morning, Sunshine,” Price says.

You grunt in response, loading your plate and taking a seat.

Training starts at noon, so you have a few hours of free time after you down a hearty breakfast.

You spend it out on the balcony, soaking in the sun and watching the clouds roll by. You nurse a glass of orange juice as you take in the noisy city below.

Just before noon, Ruby collects you, has you change into your training outfit, and leads you and Konig down to the gymnasium.

You and Konig share a look as Ruby shoots back up in the elevator. A Capitol attendant leads you to a sterile, concrete sitting room with rows of benches, half full of tributes waiting to be evaluated. You sit towards the back, Konig following and sitting down next to you. He leaves a generous amount of space between you so he can spread his legs.

The room is quiet aside from the careers, sitting together and rowdily chatting. Every so often you hear Titan’s maniacal laughter, his cackle knotting your insides.

It doesn’t last long. They pull you in order of district, so the careers are drained from the room one by one, and they don’t return. The room goes quiet shortly after Titan is pulled from the room.

It’s a heavy air you all breathe, in a room full of people who will be trying to kill each other in a matter of days.

As the number of tributes dwindle, the air is easier to draw, but the lack of stimulation has your thoughts racing.

So you do what you've been when you find yourself spiraling.

“Did you bring a token?” You ask Konig, voice as low as you can manage in this stiff room.

“No,” He says at a whisper, “I forgot.”

“Y’know, it’s stupid, but I kind of wish I brought one. Something to touch in the arena. I can’t help but feel like a reminder of home will help me keep some sanity in there.”

He nods slow, and you worry you’ve overshared.

“I don’t want to think of home,” he mumbles, scraping his shoe along the concrete floor.

Your brows pinch as you find him.

His elbows are planted on his knees, leaning his weight on them. The pads of his fingers rub together slowly, mesmerizingly, as he fixates on a spot on the floor.

You realize, and it took you longer than it should have, that District Nine is two different places for you and Konig.

District Nine had its glaring problems. The majority of the population poor, overworked and starving. Unjust laws and cruel punishment. A society run primarily on fear.

But to you, it was still home.

Your friends, family, and every good thing that has ever happened you have resides in District Nine.

You knew it was not a place that was kind to him - it is a place that rejects anyone that is different, that does not fit the mold of district expectation.

But did Konig have anything waiting for him back home?

Did District Nine offer Konig any distraction, any love, any shred of light in the dark dismal place it was?

You don’t ask.

When it is your turn, you stand, legs made of jelly and a slight tremor in your body.

“Wait,” Konig blurts, and you turn on your heels. He fumbles through his words, “Be- Be good.”

You blink, not sure what to make of Konig reinforcing Price’s demand. You nod slow, lips parted to release terrified breaths.

Standing in front of the gamemakers with no crowd to hide behind is beyond intimidating.

You announce your name, your district, and they let you begin.

You take an edible plants and bug test, make a makeshift splint, throw short-range tosses with a spear, swing a sword, and throw knives around with about 35 percent accuracy. It’s subpar all around.

Once again, you find yourself in front of Price, grilling you about every detail.

You already know you’re getting a low score, but you’re sure it’s still going to be a blow to your ego.

You all settle in the sitting room for the announcement of the scores.

The careers do well, obviously. Scoring in the 8-10 range.

Everyone else settles on an average of 5-7.

As the boy from eight’s score of ‘7’ fades on the screen, the room draws a collective breath.

You see your solemn headshot, and after a painful few seconds, the number ‘5’ flashes on the screen.

“Others have certainly done worse!” Ruby chimes.

Price gives a light, encouraging bump on your shoulder, “Not bad, kid.”

You rub out your shoulder, which doesn’t actually hurt at all, and stare at the floor with wide eyes. You realize in this moment that Price’s opinion of you might actually mean something to you, because you can tell his compliment is only half genuine, and it stings. You wanted to do better for him. To be a tribute he could be proud of.

Not a five.

Below average.

Your score fades, and Konig’s intimidating headshot flashes on the screen, those hooded eyes staring menacingly at the camera.

“From District Nine we have Konig,” There’s a pause, everyone in the room holding a collective breath, “With a score of ten.”

For a moment, the room is silent, faces made of stone as you all process his score.

Ruby lets out a squeal in excitement, and Price actually lets out a pleased laugh. His pride for Konig twists your gut.

Your lower lip clamps between your teeth with a roll as your thumb rubs circles in your palm.

“Atta’ boy,” Price says, his fist stiffly pumping in the air.

This praise is genuine.

When Konig finally takes his eyes off the screen, he lets out a breathy laugh of relief, his body untensing.

Ruby is behind him, squeezing his shoulders and giving him an excited shake.

You’re happy for him, really.

You are.

You’re also jealous, disheartened, and nauseous.

You have both been evaluated by professionals, and he blew you out of the water. He did twice as well. Ranked superior in every way. You knew he was, but it didn’t ease the blow of seeing the undeniable data.

You hate not excelling. You crave to be above-average, to get a perfect score, to be on the end of the room’s, the country’s, adoration.

Your score was broadcasted to all of Panem, and now everyone knows how average you are. How weak you are compared to all these worthy tributes.

Your confidence has surely taken a hit.

He will be the better bet, he will get the sponsors, and he will get Price’s affection.

It’s fine.

“Congratulations,” You mutter as you meet Konig’s stare.

You can tell he’s noticed your lack of enthusiasm, and for a moment his face wavers, his eyes showing a glint of that unsure look before he looks away with another nervous, relieved laugh.

“We should celebrate!” Ruby says in her high pitched squeal.

Konig nods absentmindedly, staring at the television but not retaining what’s on the screen, wearing the widest grin you’ve ever seen stretched on his face. He’s riding the high of the praise, the joy of receiving the highest score, of being a winner.

It’s pissing you off.

Taking pride in scoring highly in a test designed for a fight to the death.

He should be ashamed.

While everyone’s busy gushing over Konig’s score, you quietly slip out of the room and isolate yourself in your quarters. Face down on the bed and groaning into the soft duvet.

An oblivious Ruby grabs you for dinner. You’re not hungry, and you don’t want to be subjected to Konig’s celebration, but you’d do good to put on a few pounds for the arena.

Konig’s score is all anyone is talking about at dinner, and his accomplishment makes it easy to be disregarded. The only input you offer is the sound of a fork scraping around your plate as you inspect some roasted greens.

You don’t say much of anything, keeping your focus to your meal and doing your best to tune out the team’s adoration for Konig.

You can feel the burn of his stare every so often. You don’t have the ability to decipher the expression he wears from just your peripheral, probably pity, maybe annoyance for the lack of praise.

Now is probably a better time than any to sever this tie. You know the feeling of inadequacy, the jealousy, the anger inside of you - it’s all misdirected. Konig, once again, is just doing what he’s supposed to. A victim of the games and these unfair conditions just as much as you. But the feelings are there, and your introspection does nothing to quell them. Might as well make use of them and take your opportunity to shed the security he blankets over you.

You are officially done with him.

No more reassurance, no more babysitting, no more Konig.

He is the male tribute from your district.

Your opponent.

That’s it.

You excuse yourself before dessert is served, retiring to your room for the night. You take a long shower, steaming yourself under the intense pressure as you stare blankly at the glittery gold swirls in the marble walls.

From outside the bathroom, you can hear someone knocking on your bedroom door, but you make no action to answer it. Eventually the attempted visitor goes away, and after a thorough soaping you let the heated dryers dry you off. You get dressed, climb into bed, and drift off.

Ruby’s voice rouses you early in the morning and instructs you to report for breakfast to go over today’s plan.

You’re slow in doing so, and when you take your place, everyone’s already sat. You avoid meeting anyone’s eyes as you load your plate and dig in.

Ruby claps her hands together, “Tonight is the big interview!” She lets out a squeal, “Very exciting!”

“Very,” Price says sarcastically.

Ruby either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, pushing on, “We’ll each have four hours with you, I’ll be training you on stage presence, and John will be working with you both on content. Konig, you’ll start with me, and then we’ll switch. Your stylists will collect you at the end to get you dressed, and then we’ll head to stage. Sound good?”

There’s a pause before Konig clears his throat, speaking for the both of you when Ruby’s words go ignored, “Yes. Thank you, Ruby.”

She gives him a proud smile, and swirls a glass in her hands, “Such a polite young man you are. It’s surprising someone with as much decorum as you is district.”

You roll your eyes at your plate when you feel her stare.

Ruby’s unsubtle dig at you, casting a light on Konig to make you stand further in his shadow, the way she speaks of the districts as if you’re all just ravenous animals in the jungle - it all sparks a simmering heat under your skin, your eye twitching and lips warping into a snarl.

It makes you want to prove her right. Show her just how ravenous the districts can be.

Your grip on your fork is tight, white knuckles shaking around pure silver.

The mood at the table shifts when Price gives a hearty snort, amused by the snide remark and particularly, your rage.

You don’t contribute to the conversation, angrily stabbing into roasted potatoes, the metal of the fork roughly grating along your teeth with each furious bite.

You get it, okay? Konig is superior in every way. You can’t even beat him at being nice.

You know your place.

He’s their golden boy, their favorite, their victor.

And you are the rude little brat from District Nine who will be dead and forgotten in less than a week.

You don’t speak for the rest of the meal, ignoring the small talk and Konig’s periodic stares in your direction.

Once breakfast is cleared away, the group splits up, Ruby disappearing with her golden boy while Price leads you to the sitting room.

Price sits with a grunt and begins to wordlessly study you.

“What?” You ask, already defensive.

“I’m trying to figure out how to put this,” He sighs, “So far in the competition, you have flown under the radar. And I advise that during this interview, you do the same.”

“Be forgettable,” You say dryly, slicing through to the point he was dancing around with a roll of your eyes, “Got it.”

He sighs again, looking to the ceiling, “You didn’t make an impression at the reaping, the opening ceremony, or with your score. It helps that Konig has been taking the heat off your back.”

“Oh, it helps that I’m overshadowed and forgettable in every way?”

“Yes, it does,” He shoots back impatiently. He rubs his temple before he speaks again, forcing himself to lower his voice, “I want them to underestimate you.”

“I have not been underestimated,” You say with an exasperating swing of your arm, “I have been estimated! I have nothing to offer!”

“Kid, I need you to trust me on this one.”

“So what do you expect me to do, go out there and flop?”

“No,” he says, “You don’t flop, you don’t shine. You will answer the questions honestly, nicely, and humbly.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, “That’s not going to get me sponsors.”

“Neither will the attitude you’re currently peddling,” He stands with a grunt, “I’m not going to bother going over the interview questions with you. In this case - the less preparation the better.”

You raise a brow and suck in an air of superiority, “You really think that’s a good idea?”

You’re met with a shrug, “Probably not.”

“Fine. I’ll wing it. But don’t come crying to me if you don’t like my spontaneous answers.”

He sighs in defeat, “Just be good, will you?”

You narrow your eyes at him, “I’ll be better than good. I’ll be forgettable.”

“Atta girl,” He says, and heads for his quarters, “Enjoy the next three hours and fifty-five minutes of free time.”

“Wait,” You say, too eagerly.

He stops and turns to you, and you immediately shrink in on yourself, eyes darting to the side.

“How’s Konig going to play it?”

The corner of his lip perks up ever so slightly, “Does it matter?”

You look to the floor.

No, it doesn’t.

Konig could spit in Caesar's face and condemn the Capitol entirely and still have sponsors lining up to send him gifts.

Price saunters off, and you stare into the intricate pattern of the carpet long after his door clicks shut.

You wish you hadn’t asked.

You take the opportunity to try and nap, but you can’t. You’re too nervous about the interview. Even more nervous that you have no answers prepared, no idea what the interviewer, Caesar Flickerman, is going to throw at you. You wish you could have pushed back on Price’s lack of preparation, too flared up by his suggestion that you’re forgettable to get your priorities straight at the time. You linger on the thought that maybe Price didn’t prep you for your benefit, but for his own. Spare him the trouble of dealing with his insolent, weak, pitiful tribute.

You’re still embarrassed about him seeing you cry. Bleeding where you shouldn’t, once again.

Ruby comes to collect you once she’s done with Konig, ready to train you for stage manners.

It mostly consists of Ruby having you practice walking in heels and a gown, shredding you on every one of your imperfections.

“Smile - oh, not like that!”

“They’re just high heels, dear, everyone wears them!”

“Shoulders back!”

“Don’t scratch yourself in front of the audience.”

“Don’t sit like that! You look like a shrimp.”

“Keep your legs crossed! It’s unladylike.”

“Stop fidgeting so much.”

“You’re slouching again!”

It’s grueling work, and she’s not as lenient with the free time as Price. You’re suddenly thankful he dismissed you early.

Your lack of stage manners only doubles the weights of inadequacy strapped to your ankles, which is making it difficult to have a confident posture and be agreeable, but you grit your teeth and get through it.

You wonder how Konig’s session with Ruby went.

Probably better than yours.

Once she’s done with you, clearly not happy with the final result, you find yourself face down on your bed again.

Ruby collects you once more to usher you to Mauve and her prep team, who will be completely transforming you for the interview.

Mauve offers little reassurance as she gets you dressed, does your makeup, and styles your hair. She doesn’t look as bored today, much more attentive as she puts on any final touches. You have the feeling her silence is derived from focus more than it is indifference.

Your stomach is bubbling, your insides knotted up and underarms pouring buckets of sweat.

When she pulls away from you, she has you stand, only a slight wobble as you move to the mirror.

Once again, Mauve has transformed you into an entirely new person.

The dress is stunning. A baby blue a-line that brushes against the bottom of your thigh. Layers of tulle gently puff out at the skirt like rolling blue clouds. The bust is decorated with intricate patterns of sparkling silver lace that resemble leaves climbing up your ribcage. Matching baby blue flowers bloom along the dress, each with their own perfect blue pearl stitched directly in the center. The petals sit in patches of the shimmering lace, mostly on the bust of the dress and up the see-through straps that rest delicately on your shoulders, but a few sprout in rare patches along the tulle skirt and on your matching shoes.

Mauve has attached matching jewels to your body, and smaller, daintier flowers that appear to have climbed from the dress and propagated onto your skin. One side of your face is dotted with the blue blossoms in the shape of a crescent, starting just above the end of your brow and curving around your eye, the flowers stopping just below the height of your cheek. They sit in a cloud of sparkling silver glitter that reflect like early morning dew in the moonlight.

A string of blue pearls adorns your neck. Your hair is simple and girlish, but still elegant. Soft curls with more flowers pinned into stands of your hair. Heavy, fluttering eyelashes that partially obscure your vision, accented with a soft peach lip and sparkling silver eyelids.

You look beautiful, no doubt about it. But it’s so soft, so gentle. It seems almost too innocent and pure for you to be wearing it.

While the sensation of jewels and flowers glued to your skin is unusual, it’s a big step up from the wheat dress in terms of comfort.

Mauve arranges your curls, repositioning some of the flowers as she sees fit.

“Thank you, Mauve,” you say, still staring into your own reflection.

She sucks in an audible breath, meeting your eyes in the mirror. This might actually be the first time she’s made eye contact with you other than to evaluate her makeup.

She gives you a shaky nod, and then returns her attention to arranging the tulle on the skirt of your dress.

You’re led backstage, where you’re met with the tributes, waiting impatiently in their refined dresses and sharp suits. Your stomach does somersaults at the sound of the audience, already boisterous before the interviews have even started.

It’s all too real, all too fast, having to be interviewed with every last citizen of Panem hanging on your every word.

You want to run, run and run far but there’s nowhere to go. You shift anxiously on your high heels instead, sweaty hands fidgeting at your sides, trying to quell the nausea.

And then you see him.

Konig was already staring at you when you met his eyes. In his baby blue suit, a silver tie with steel-colored glitter sparkling in the pattern of leaves. Pinned on the lapel of his suit is a boutonniere, perfect blue pearls stitched into the center of each baby blue flower. They’re arranged in a bundle that sits in a tuft of smaller, soft white flowers.

You’re both stunned, lips parted and eyes blown as you soak each other in.

You are the only two tributes dawning matching outfits.

What were they thinking?

Are you supposed to be continuing this act that you and Konig are going to be allies in the arena?

Because that would have been nice to know before, instead of having this strategy sprung on you at the last minute before going live in front of the entire country.

Konig blinks his wide eyes a few times in rapid succession and then looks away to find his dress shoes.

You look away from him quickly, eyes darting around the ceiling as you take a dry swallow.

The rock that’s been sitting in your stomach since you woke up this morning has seemed to double in weight. You’re sweating under layers of makeup and tulle, rubbing the moisture on your dress.

Ruby corrals you both together, giving last minute pointers. You can barely hear her, your heartbeat pumping loudly in your ears. She tells you to stop chewing on your fresh set of nails, which Mauve transformed with strokes of baby blue, accented silver swirls and flower designs.

You’re shaking with fear, your breath catching on each exhale.

A stage crew member claps his hands and announces that the show will be starting soon. He has you line up in order of district, so you’re standing in between the terrifying boy from eight and Konig, both doing little to make you feel better.

You try not to acknowledge him, but his presence is a burning heat behind you. He’s impossible to ignore, towering over you only a few inches behind.

You want to look at him, to share this moment of terror with him, to talk to him.

But you are done with the boy from your district.

You pinch your exaggerated eyelashes shut, thoughts swirling. The frustration of yearning for his comfort but denying yourself the satisfaction, the frustration of even yearning for his comfort in the first place, it makes your cheeks burn and your fists clench.

Caesar Flickerman warms up the crowd, and each cheer that vibrates beneath your feet threatens to make you gag.

The districts tick by one by one.

The girl from one, Sapphire, with District One’s standard blonde hair and eyes that pair with her name. She’s more than charming, but there’s a hint of intensity to her words, a sense of determination.

The words coming from a perfect smile and dimpled cheeks turns your stomach. She is not a competitor to mess with.

The boy from two, Titan, seems to match her charm and determination, but there’s a layer of humor, of thick, chaotic irreverence that projects from him. He punctuates his sick jokes with his killer smile, showing off those canines as he laughs through his own brutality. He’s huge, no doubt one of the monsters in the competition.

The boy from three is awkward, the girl from four a wild card, the boy from six stoic, the girl from seven high-spirited.

The girl from eight is afraid. Terrified.

Not even Caesar’s impressive skill of putting his tributes at ease could relax her, she looked like she was about to throw up during the entirety of her interview.

The boy from eight does not answer any of Caesar's questions, a painful three minutes that offers little to distract you as you shuffle nervously on deck.

You take a deep swallow, looking to your shoes.

“Up next,” Caesar starts, “We have a lovely young lady from District Nine!”

He announces your presence, your name, and the audience screams in anticipation.

A stagehand ushers you onto the stage in front of the crowd.

Dizzy, blinded and sweating, you stumble forward, your own breathy pants deafening you with each step.

Caesar grabs your wet hand once you’re in his range, cupping it in both of his. You’re back to reaping day, standing in front of the crowd with a blank mind, shaking with fear.

“Wow, don’t you look just stunning!” Caesar says, using both his hands to make a dramatic gesture in your direction. “Like a princess!” He adds, eyeing your intricate dress.

You give a shaky laugh with a sheepish, “Thank you, Caesar.”

You blindly reach behind you, not so gracefully sitting on the ornate chair as you eye the crowd, but you do remember to cross your legs.

“So, tell me, are you enjoying your stay at the Capitol?”

You take a deep breath, voice choppy and hitched, barely over a whisper, “It’s certainly extravagant.”

The audience gives a far too generous laugh.

“My dear, I’ve been meaning to ask you, are there any special skills you’re hiding from us that might give you an edge in the arena?”

You look over to the crowd again.

“Um,” You swallow, your mouth dry as you look to Price, “Well, my mentor thinks I’m feisty?”

“Feisty! I love it!” He looks out to the crowd, “Don’t you just love that?”

The crowd gives a cheer, and Caesar continues, “We love a passionate tribute, don’t we folks?”

You give a small smile at his reassurance, eyes genuinely lightening and shoulders relaxing as he works his magic. You know it’s just for show, but Caesar is skilled at instilling confidence in his guests and putting them at ease.

He crosses his legs, using his cue cards to loosely point in your direction, “Speaking of your mentor, I was actually chatting with him backstage earlier, and he shared with me some very eye-opening things about you.”

You don’t even have the sense to hide your blatant confusion and worry at what he’s going to say next.

“You did? Oh no,” Both Caesar and the audience seem to find this funny, though.

“That’s right!” He says with a knowing, cheeky grin. Caesar leans forward in his chair, and his voice goes serious, as if he’s sharing a secret with you.

“He says that you’re a very bright young lady,”

You let out a breath of relief as Caesar continues,

“-and he also shared with me your nickname.”

You let out a laugh, looking down at your lap.

“Would you tell us about that?”

You nod, an embarrassed smile on your face.

“Price calls me Plucky,” Your eyes find Caesar again, who’s listening very intently, “He probably told you it’s because I’m determined, but I think it’s just his way of saying I’m a huge pain in his ass.”

The room explodes into laughter. Caesar’s arm darts out to grab your shoulder when he leans forward, as if you’ve made him nearly fall out of his seat from laughter and he needs you to help him up.

You can’t help the smile that spreads on your face, bunching your cheeks at the audience you’ve put in stitches. The camera cuts to Price, who gives a long, drawn out nod to confirm your statement.

“Language! Language!” Caesar tuts when he’s caught his breath, but it’s clear he’s not the slightest bit serious, “All of Panem is watching, my dear!”

Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, eyes wide and looking around like you’ve been busted. You’re both still giggling like school children, though.

“It’ll be our secret folks,” He says with a wink, “But it’s certainly a nickname you’ve earned, I see.”

He gives you a sly side-eye, and before you can respond he softly hits his cue cards against your arm, “Oh you know I’m just teasing, I’m just teasing.”

“Price isn’t,” You say dryly, and the crowd loses it again.

When they finally lull, Caesar’s shaking his head, pleased, “Very funny! He was right about you being a bright young lady.”

You shrug modestly, “And a pain in the ass.”

He thwaps you with his cue cards again, shaking his head as he joins the chorus of laughter, “You are bad, you are bad!”

You give him a wave of your hand, a cheeky smile on your face, “I hear that a lot, actually.”

“I’m sure!” He gives a quick laugh before his next question, “Do you think your wit will translate well in the arena?”

You think on this a moment, your voice not exactly conveying confidence, “I hope so. Maybe if I make the other tribute’s laugh they’ll be distracted long enough for me to get away.”

The audience responds well to this, another hearty laugh filling the room.

Soft crowd.

He settles the rambunctious crowd with his palms, “Alright, alright we’ve got time for one more question folks.”

He leans close to you, his face serious as he cups both of your sweaty palms in his, “Do you think you’re feisty enough to have what it takes to win this thing?”

You don’t.

You absolutely don’t think you have what it takes to win this thing. You’re not even sure you want to win this thing, let alone have the means to actually do it.

Your stare finds Price, who gives you one more nod, this one nearly indistinguishable.

You find Caesar again, gnawing slightly at your bottom lip. When you speak, your voice is low, serious.

“I do, Caesar.”

He gives the top of your hand a firm pat.

“I think so too,” He says, and gives a slow nod.

He stands, guiding you from your seat. He drops one of your hands and lifts the other up for the crowd, “Give it up for District Nine!”

The crowd goes crazy at the second announcement of your name, whooping and hollering and clapping in a thunderous applause that goes on long after you’ve left the stage.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding after you’ve disappeared behind the curtain. You put a palm to your forehead as you laugh in disbelief. Not only that it was finally over with, but it actually went sort of well.

You hear Ruby before you see her, presence announced by a squeal fit to break glass. “That. Was. Amazing!”

She unclips your mic from your dress, “They loved you, dear, they absolutely loved you. You were fantastic!”

“Thank you,” You’re practically heaving breaths of relief, hands shaking out what remains of your nerves, “Thank you.”

Caesar finishes his segue and announces, “We have another very fierce tribute up next, a young man from District Nine, Konig!”

As the audience erupts, your head swivels over your shoulder to get a look at him. He’s shooting you one last nervous glance before he steps off the stage. You find a screen backstage showing the broadcast and Ruby pokes her nose over your shoulder.

“Woah-ha-ho! You’re even taller in person!” Caesar’s starts with a laugh.

He makes Konig stand back to back so the audience can compare their size, which they adore. Konig gives a polite smile, but he is clearly nervous.

“Haha, alright,” Caesar says when he’s had his fix, prompting them both to settle onto the chairs.

“Tall, handsome guy like you. The girls must throw themselves at you in your district!”

Konig shakes his head, a one-note breathy laugh leaving him, “My district doesn’t care for me much.”

You frown, and you hear the audience give an ‘Awhhh.’

“And why ever not?” Caesar asks with a tightness in his brow, suggesting the very notion is ridiculous.

“They don’t seem to care for my size,” He answers with a shrug.

“Well, it’s a good thing we love that here in the Capitol!” Caesar’s voice gets louder to fight the escalating cheer of the crowd, “A big, strong tribute like him? Isn’t that right? We love it!”

The crowd erupts, and Konig gives a smile, noticeably untensing. Caesar really does try to help the tributes out, he knows how to defuse your anxiety like no other.

“You go out there, you win this thing, and your district will have to change their minds!”

The audience clearly agrees, their shrieks overlapping.

Konig offers a humble smile and a coy nod, and Caesar gives him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

“I think we’re all very eager to talk about this ten you got in training,” Caesar starts as the crowd settles, “A score that high is uncommon for someone in an outlying district. Can you give us some idea of what helped you earn a ten?”

Konig’s arm crosses over his chest to rub out his opposing shoulder, “I guess the gamemakers like a big strong tribute, too.”

Big laugh from the audience, from Caesar as well.

“District Nine seems to have given us a pair of comedians this year!” Caesar says to the audience with a big smile, “C’mon, give us a flex, would you? Let’s see it!”

Konig’s face turns pink, and after a moment he hesitantly obliges, lifting his arms to flex his biceps to the crowd.

He gets more confident as the crowd roars in approval, whooping and blowing kisses in his direction.

You find yourself smiling at the screen, amused huffs of air blowing from your nose.

“Stand up! Stand up!” Caesar hollers.

Konig laughs as he stands, switching up his poses for the crowd. Every time he moves the audience goes nuts. He’s picking up an air of confidence, arrogance almost.

It’s a good look on him.

“Careful now! Careful now! Wouldn’t want that suit to tear at the seams!” Caesar exclaims.

The crowd roars at the very idea. Konig bows his head to the crowd and graciously takes his seat, but he still carries a proud smile.

“Alright, alright,” Caesar says, swinging one of his legs over the other, “I know you’re much more than a nice hunk of meat.”

This brings on another round of cheering and whistles from the audience, and Konig plasters a genuine, cheesy smile on his face.

Caesar waits for the crowd to settle, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about the opening ceremony.”

You such in a sharp inhale through parted lips, eyes wide as your stare locks on to the screen.

He continues, “I think we were all very touched to see you comforting your fellow tribute.”

Your face immediately drops, and suddenly you’re too aware of your breathing. Your stomach triples in weight, its demanding presence dropping low in your abdomen.

They are talking about you.

“I think that speaks to your character, wouldn’t you say?”

The question, directed at the audience, earns overlapping landslide approval.

“Tell us, is there a teddy bear under that grizzly bear exterior?” Caesar asks him, brow raised, his head tilted slightly to the side, and a cheeky smile plastered on his face.

Konig looks as panicked as you, frozen in his chair and muscles stiff.

“I- Well,” He gives a nervous laugh pointed at his lap, “I do what I can.”

“And you do it well! Were you two friends in the districts?” He asks casually.

Your teeth are grit in unease, fists clenched as you swallow each word. Why is Caesar using Konig’s time to talk about you?

Konig’s palms rest on his knees, his fingers tightening around his dress pants. He stumbles through the start of a few sentences, turning pink.

He seems just as caught off guard as you are.

Did Price not prepare either of you for the interview?

Did Price think that’s what was best for you both or did he just want to drink alone in his room, away from the two brats he’s forced to mentor?!

Did he not even bother to know what questions you were going to be asked?!

Konig doesn’t know what to say. The silence has stretched on far too long, your nails are digging into your palms so tight it’s leaving behind crescent-shaped indents on your skin.

“It's okay,” Caesar says with a laugh, “Even I get nervous from time to time.”

He gives a shaky nod, “Äh, no, we weren’t. I knew of her, though.”

You blink in rapid succession as you try to make sense of what’s unfolding before you. You can’t help but feel stunned. It must be a joke, a prank, a dream, because none of this seems real.

“There’s been buzz in the Capitol about a possible alliance,” Caesar says, enunciating carefully, “Are you planning on going at the competition alone, or will we be seeing some teamwork from you?”

“Äh,” His eyes linger backstage before he returns his gaze to Caesar, “It’s up in the air.”

Konig’s fingers are searching for a loose thread to pull, but his suit is brand new and too high in quality to have loose threads.

“I see,” Caesar says, moving on.

“Do you think you’re ready for this competition?”

You look to your shoes and let out a breath of relief that the subject has passed.

He asks a few more questions about his skill, about his strategy to stay alive.

Konig keeps it surface, with minimal fumbling through his answers, but his cheeks remain noticeably flushed, and unease stitches into each sentence.

The crowd doesn’t seem to notice, showering him with adoration.

You’re less jealous. Maybe because you’re still riding the high of doing well enough on your interview.

Caesar has him give one last parting flex to the crowd before he leaves the stage. The moment he’s off screen his hand finds his head, letting out deep exhales through parted lips.

For a moment his wide eyes find you before they flit down to his dress shoes.

Your hands stop shaking somewhere around District Eleven’s tributes, and you’re all dismissed once Caesar closes out the show.

When the elevator deposits the tributes from District Six, you and Konig are left alone in the elevator.

“What the fuck was that?!” You ask, more panicked than angry. He knows it’s not directed at him.

“I- I- I don’t even know,” His hands raise, “Price didn’t tell me they were going to ask that.”

He seems just as frantic as you, but his is swirled with nervousness while yours is engulfed with anger.

“He made us look stupid!” You hiss.

“I froze,” He says, using his palm to rub his face, “I looked weak.”

“Wha-“

You cut yourself off, brows furrowing.

Konig is worried about looking weak? He’s the biggest, strongest tribute out of all twenty-four of you. Looking weak should be the least of his concerns.

Does he regret offering you his comfort on the chariot, now that a spotlight has been placed on it?

You don’t ask.

“You didn’t look weak,” You say, low and quiet to the floor.

You can see him tense from the corner of your eye. After a moment his shoulders relax.

“You didn’t look stupid,” He says, matching your cadence.

Your eyes find him, and for a moment you stare at each other. Caught in this awkward moment as you try to dissect what the other would stand to gain from complimenting an opponent.

The elevator doors parting breaks the stare, and you both make your way into the suite, finding it empty.

You grunt upon the absence of the people who hold the answers you’re looking for.

“Why did they match us?!”

He shrugs when your eyes meet his, palms raised.

You let out another frustrated noise, stepping over to the decanter and helping yourself to a glass.

After the day you’ve had, you’ve earned it.

The metal tray clunks unhappily as you replace the bottle, taking a hearty, painful sip.

Konig hesitantly steps closer, pulling out a chair for himself and sitting at the dining table.

You let out a noise of disgust at the repulsive taste, and then your eyes find Konig. His forearms rest on the table, his fingers stitched together and thumbs circling around each other, watching you intently.

“You want some?” You ask, gesturing the glass in his direction.

He shakes his head, and you go in for another sip. You pace for a while, fuming and dissecting as you nurse your drink.

When the elevator doors open, you don’t hesitate.

“What the hell was that?! What happened to being forgettable?!”

“I could ask you the same thing. You did a little too well, if you ask me,” Price says evenly, unfazed by your outburst.

“Maybe I could have done what you wanted if I’d actually gotten some coaching.”

“It went perfect. You both acted how you needed to,” Price says evenly.

“You call that perfect? Why would Caesar bring attention to me when the whole point was to keep me under the radar?! And why didn’t you tell either of us about it?! We looked stupid!”

“Kid!” Price finally bursts, “I’ve been doing this my whole life, will you just trust me?”

You scoff.

“Oh yeah, how many victors have you mentored again? Because last I checked every last tribute you’ve coached is six feet under!”

It is clear immediately that you went too far.

The room draws a collective sharp inhale, the air gone ice cold.

You can see it, the pain he usually hides behind a generous amount of whiskey and a gruff exterior flooding his features. For a moment he is stunned, his constant squint loosening as he combs through every tribute he’s mentored, all of their faces flashing in front of those sad blue eyes.

He gives a heavy sigh.

His voice is low when he speaks, solemn, pained even, a bit of a crack to it.

“Kid, I did you a favor. If you can’t see that, then, well, I’m sorry.”

Your heart immediately sinks, and you wish you could stuff the words back into your big mouth.

You realize in this moment you have been seeking out a fight. Ever since you got here, all you have wanted to do is let out your anger. To not have your energy matched, to have hurt instead of riled, it wracks you with guilt. It weighs on your shoulders, in your stomach, in the sore ache of your chest.

You pinch your eyes shut, fists clenching at your sides.

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

You meant the apology, but the words feel foreign in your mouth, having to coax them up with force.

His eyes lower back into his signature squint, and he nods slow.

After a beat, a small, sad smile appears on his face, and he offers a wink.

“It’s okay, Plucky.”

You huff through your nose, a faint smile on your face.

A pain in his ass.

Dinner is stiff and awkward, but the room has relaxed by the time you settle in to watch the interview replay.

You have to block it out, you can’t stand to watch yourself being interviewed. It’s too embarrassing, your body folding in on itself at the sound of your own voice.

You’re relieved when your interview is over, and shortly after Konig is announced.

He seems to be having the same problem you did, unable to watch his own interview, staring at the floor as he slips further into the couch’s cushions.

You find yourself pinching back another smile at Caesar and Konig’s bit at the start.

When Konig is asked about you, your face drops when the shot cuts to you. You hadn’t realized there had been a camera trained on you. On screen you can see your genuine stunned reaction, face slack. Your wide eyes glued to the stationary shot of Caesar and Konig, hanging on to every word.

You can feel Price’s stare out of the corner of your eyes, dawning that sly, knowing grin.

The camera cuts back to Konig, flustered and stained pink.

The whole interaction, it just feels off. Uncomfortable, awkward, tripping Konig up on tough questions instead of building on his confidence.

“You both did so well!” Ruby chimes as Konig is dismissed from the stage and Caesar introduces the next tribute.

Neither you nor Konig bother to respond, eyes fixated on the screen but not paying it a lick of attention.

You’re still lingering on Konig’s interview. It’s bothering you, like the interview is implying there’s something between you and Konig. His response, his lack of definitive answer, the shocked features, the lack of preparation, the cut to you.

There’s something so slimy about it all, and your stomach can’t seem to digest it.

When Caesar closes out the show, Price switches the TV off and Ruby skips off to check in with the stylists.

“Tomorrow,” Price starts, “They’ll wake you early. We can’t accompany you to the arena, it’ll just be the stylists.”

You almost managed to make it the entire day without thinking about tomorrow. The interview was a huge distraction, but now there is nothing to worry about except for the games.

“Listen closely,” He snaps his fingers, demanding eye contact from you both, “Do not step off your pedestal until the sixty seconds are up. Do not even think about going into the cornucopia. Turn and run, you understand?”

You press your lips together, pinching your eyes shut, trying to block out his words.

You don’t want to think about this.

After a pause, he drops the stern voice, rubbing the back of his neck, “Look, uh, kids. I’ll be with the other mentors. I’ll still be there for you, every step of the way.”

Your stomach twists in knots. You hate this, you hate how Price is dropping his tough guy act, letting his pity pour out and slosh against your shoes.

“I, uh,” He trails off, clearing his throat, “I know you can do this.”

He goes to say more, but the inhale saved for his words gets freed with a heavy sigh.

“Just-“ He cuts himself off, sitting back from his lean and ripping his hands apart. His feet squirm against the rug, “Be good, kids.”

There’s a million snarky things you think of to say, but you have the sense to hold them back, because it’s not his fault, and he is trying.

You nod, stiff but genuine.

Price stands with a grunt, and points his finger back at you, “I’ll see you tomorrow for breakfast. Go to bed.”

He heads back for his room, but stops without turning around.

“Now.”

He’s trying to execute his authority with a stern tone, but his voice breaks on the word. He waits, back still turned to you both, until he hears you and Konig rise from the couch and move to follow his instruction. Price disappears to his room without looking over his shoulder.

Before Konig and you open your doors, hands lingering on the doorknobs, you share a worried, unsure look.

You give him a forced, assured nod, and you both part.

Being alone in your room, alone with your own thoughts the night before the games, it’s torture.

It’s swallowing you again - the fear, the anger. The thoughts tearing over one another, a hurricane of anxiety meeting a tornado of rage that only strengthen and enable each other.

Mumbling unintelligibly to yourself, trying to deflate the anger, to expel some of the racing thoughts so that they’re not clouding your mind. It’s useless, shoveling out buckets of water from a ship that’s already half submerged.

You pace your room, fists clenched at your sides, fuming to the air. Your hands press to your ears to stop the overwhelming and overlapped trains of thought that barrel at you from any direction.

The tears flow mercilessly and without warning.

Price must be punishing you for your nasty comment by sending you to bed early, because this is unbearable. He had to have known you wouldn’t have been able to sleep tonight regardless.

Long after the tears have stopped, you find yourself sprawled on the bed, the back of your hand supporting your head as you stare at the wall. A knuckle lightly sheened with your spit absentmindedly plays with your lips. You’ve boiled yourself out, exhausted from crying and working yourself into a frenzy.

Numb.

Your eye catches on the line of light shining from underneath your door, interrupted by two evenly sized streaks of darkness.

You instinctively roll your eyes, a movement that makes the space behind your sore eyes ache, waiting for Ruby or Price to call out.

You anticipate the knock, the shout through the thick wood of your door, but it doesn’t come.

The shoes make a light shuffle outside your door, and after the pause goes from awkward to uncomfortable you stand, wiping your spit on your shirt and stepping towards the door.

When you pull the door open, hand still clasped on the doorknob, it’s not Ruby or Price on the other side.

It’s Konig, half-turned like he was just about to leave without making his presence known. At the sight of you his hands pull up with a slight stumble, clearly startled by you.

You raise your brow at him.

“Ach, I-” He looks away, his fingertips rubbing together at his side. He takes a breath, closing his eyes tightly before finding your stare. His mouth is open, primed to say something, but the words won’t come out.

“It’s okay,” You say, giving him permission to relax. Konig doesn’t need to explain himself. It’s the night before the games, and that is the golden excuse for any unusual behavior.

For not wanting to be alone.

You open the door so it��s fully gaped, turning your back to him and crawling into your spot on the bed.

He lingers in the doorway, a slight sway as he watches you.

“You coming in?”

He finally accepts the invitation, stepping a few paces into your room and softly clicking the door shut behind him. He doesn’t dare move closer, standing stiff in his spot a few paces from the door.

The corner of your lip perks up ever so slightly.

“You can sit,” You say, voice both nasally from crying, and somehow still bordering on patronizing. You give a pat toward the other end of the massive bed.

His hand pulls up to his chest again, flicking his gaze between you and the empty space of mattress. It’s the same look he had given you when Price gave him the whiskey on reaping day. As if you were setting a trap for him.

You give him a nod and a roll of your eyes, your ghost of a smirk blooming into a half grin at his coy reservations.

You don’t even feel the bed shift under his weight when he sits down on the Capitol’s extravagant mattress.

You both sit in solemn but comfortable silence, each of you staking your claim on a point in the room to unfocus your eyes, mulling over what tomorrow will look like.

“I wanted to thank you,” He says after a long pause, breaking through the silence with his blurted words to admit the reason for his visit.

“For?” You ask evenly.

“That day,” His eyes quickly shift to the side, “In District Nine.”

You immediately cringe at the memory, “Oh, don’t- I was having a really bad day that day. It was - I’m not usually like that. I can be mean but, not- Not like that

“I needed to say that,” He blurts out over top of your words, “Before tomorrow.”

Your gaze flicks down to the bed.

He continues, his words coming out smushed together, like one long word, “I think about that everyday. You were the only person back home that ever stood up for me.”

You look to him, face soaked in confusion, almost horrified. He thinks of that memory you’re ashamed of everyday? And he thinks fondly of it?

“I’m sorry,” You say with a dry mouth, “For how they treated you. You didn’t deserve it,”

You pause, swallowing hard as you pick at a loose thread on the pulled back covers, “And I’m sorry for now. You don’t deserve this either.”

“Neither do you,” he says.

Another round of silence follows before he rubs the back of his neck, clearing his throat, “I also, äh,”

He pauses for a moment, and you stare at him expectantly.

He gives a shaky laugh, “It’s dumb, sorry.”

“Go on,” You goad with a flick of your hand.

He’s gone pink, features flushed and eyes averted as he retrieves something from the pocket of his lounge pants and shoves it into your hand.

“A token,” He mumbles, “For your sanity.”

You sit up from your sprawled position on the bed, hand sliding along the sheets as you rise.

He’s purposefully avoiding your gaze, worry plastered on his features as he looks to the covers.

Your brows relax as you inspect his gift. It’s a golden locket, a shiny clasped rectangle, about the size of the nail on your thumb. You rub your thumb over the front as you inspect it. It reminds you of a small, thin book. The metal is slightly warmed from living in Konig’s pocket. Your nails pry open the locket, and inside reveals a dried wheat florette, cut from his opening ceremony suit, curled up and sloppily pressed inside.

For a moment you stare blankly into the locket’s insides, even breaths as you process the gift, the intentions behind it, and the cozy warmth that’s blooming throughout your chest.

When you look to him, lips parted in shock and stars in your eyes, he’s shifted his gaze to his fidgeting hands.

“Ruby helped me,” He mumbles, “She let me borrow it.”

You blink at him, looking down to the gift that sits so delicately in your palm.

“This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

Your words come out a lot breathier than you intended.

He finally meets your eyes, both of you wearing matching, stunned expressions.

There’s a tense pause before you utter, “Thank you.”

He scans your face and nods, looking away.

You stare down at the golden token in your hands, trying to figure out why. Why Konig would go out of his way to bring you comfort in the arena. Why Konig would give you such an extravagant and thoughtful gift.

This game you’re playing, it’s killing you. Trying to dissect the underlying strategy in every interaction you have. The bittersweet taste of getting the comfort you crave, while knowing you’re being lured further and further into his trap.

You want to accept it. You want to believe everything. You want to take him at face value, because the act he’s playing is uniquely tailored to your needs, and never in your life have you ever needed so badly.

He knows exactly where to apply pressure, rooting for weak spots and pressing generously. He knows where to slice you to get you bleeding freely, to get you to stop resisting the temptation.

“We could stick together,” Konig says, “In the arena.”

Your head shakes, in the same way it did when you heard his voice for the first time. Taken aback and with an almost horrified look on your face.

“What?”

“We could look out for each other,” He says, a little more sure, a little less lost.

This.

This is why.

He thinks he can buy your trust so that he can trick you with the promise of allyship, only to stab you in the back the moment you turn around.

“I would just hold you back,” you say carefully.

“No. Not at all.”

“What could you possibly gain from teaming up with me?” You gesture at yourself, top to bottom, clearly referencing the lack of athleticism and survival skills.

“We can keep watch for each other, share supplies. You- you’ve always been smarter than me. Braver than me. You can make the plans, and I can be the muscle.”

“I am not brave! You-“ When he recoils, you realize you’re speaking too aggressively, and cut yourself off with a breath before continuing with a softer volume, “You don’t know anything about me.”

He primes to say something but stops himself.

He lets the moment pass, and after another round of mutual brooding he tries again, his words whispered and unsure, “We could still help each other.”

A faint yet dangerous scoff leaves you.

“You- You understand why I can’t do that, right?”

He looks confused, so you continue, one hand moving to emphasize your words.

“Imagine you’re in my shoes. How could you trust someone so much stronger than you, so much bigger than you? As soon as you decide the truce is up you could snap my spine like a twig. I wouldn’t stand a chance against you.”

His face sinks, his body deflates on itself, and instantly you understand your fuck up. That you were counting him out for the exact same reason everyone at home did.

Your fist clenches, and you let out a grunt at yourself, “No, Konig, I didn’t mean- It’s just-” You trail off, searching for the right words but coming up empty, another frustrated grunt leaving you instead.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” He says, in his harsh voice that’s spread thin and quiet, as fragile as glass.

You start over with a hard blink, repositioning yourself so you’re facing him with your legs crossed in front of you, “Okay, try this- What’s the best case scenario, Konig? We manage to protect each other until the end - until it’s just us? And then w

He stays silent, shoulders slumped and gaze finding the stretch of mattress that sits between you.

You press forward, “Have you ever thought about what happens? After the win?”

He doesn’t say anything, but he looks at you with pessimistic expectance.

“The guilt? The memories of gruesome death? Knowing twenty-three have sacrificed themselves so that you could live?”

You sigh again, your voice dropping to a sharp, cold whisper.

“The best case scenario would be for me to die in that bloodbath. Quick and done.”

His muscles tense at your words that fill the room with a chill, but he remains silent.

There’s another long pause, and then you whisper again, your voice devoid of its edge.

“I don’t think I can do it,” You swallow, looking up from the inch of bed you had fixated on, “Kill someone, I mean. I don’t think I’d be able to live with it.”

“Hopefully you won’t have to.”

“Yeah,” You say breathily.

You don’t push back. You don’t remind him that no one wins the games without killing. That refraining from killing ensures your death.

“I could do it for you,” He offers, another bid to get you to be his ally.

You shake your head slowly, eyes weakly half-lidded. Your voice drops to a strained whisper.

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t push, just gives a disappointed nod towards the sheets. You hope that means he understands. Understands that teaming up with someone so powerful is a risk a weakling couldn’t afford. Understands that being allies is an agreement that can only ever be temporary.

There’s another long pause. Your thoughts feel so loud you’re sure Konig could hear them.

“Should I go?” He asks, voice low and broken.

“No,” You say, too quickly.

That ‘No’ is heavy with the weight of many things unsaid.

Please don’t leave me.

I can’t be alone right now.

I am terrified, I am lost, and I am going to die.

I need someone by my side tonight.

Someone just as unsure and just as lost.

He rubs the pads of his fingers together.

You look to him, eyes swelled in a pathetic, desperate plea.

“Would you stay here tonight?”

His brows raise, a sharp inhale as his posture straightens out. He looks surprised, as if that was the last thing he expected to hear from you.

“Of course.”

You wonder if his words are held down by the weight of things unsaid, too.

You slowly lay back down on your side, letting your head rest on the pillow this time.

Konig very gently lays himself down in your wake. He keeps himself right up to the edge of the bed, leaving as much space between you two as possible. He nestles into a pillow, lying with his back flush to the mattress, hands folded over his waist.

You’re not sure how long you lay like that for. Hours maybe, Konig staring up at the ceiling while you switch between the wall on the other side of Konig and the back of your eyelids.

“Do you think you could kill someone? And live with it?” You ask softly.

He thinks on this a moment.

“I’m not sure about living with it, but I would kill if I need to.”

You don’t see the point in telling him he will need to. You’re sure he knows.

“You could win,” You whisper into your pillow.

He doesn’t say anything. Just shakes his head.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s Konig’s broken eyes, maybe it’s the imminent death - but you find your arm dragging across silk, fingers inching over the sheets and towards Konig. Your eyes flutter shut again, and after a long painful pause, a large hand tentatively cups yours.

A spark ignites at your fingertips and shoots up your arm at once, a dizzy heat blooming in your chest and making its way to your cheeks. You don’t dare open your eyes, hoping Konig is oblivious to the warmth.

You’re both still, neither of you daring to move in fear of scaring the other away.

His hand is so warm, his palms and fingers fully encompassing yours. It makes you feel dainty, his hands being nearly twice the size. You don’t pull away when you start to reflect each other’s body heat, a thin layer of sweat forming on laced fingers and palms.

It‘s like he’s grounding you, that if he were to let go you might float away or slip into a dark oblivion.

When you finally dare to open your eyes, you see Konig staring up at the ceiling with blown eyes. You lift your head a couple inches from the pillow and give his hand a light, reassuring squeeze.

Konig tilts his head to you, meeting your gaze as his cheek nestles into his pillow. He looks nervous, more nervous than usual on this night before the games. You’re sure it read on your face, too.

He squeezes back, and even though his strength is unmatched you can tell he’s trying to be as gentle as he can.

Your eyes flutter shut again, a ghost of a smile on your face.

It’s a dizzy warmth. Cozy, but also electric? Exciting but relaxing.

It’s weird, how a simple gesture can feel so contradicting, so extreme.

Maybe it’s because you’re chasing the feeling, or maybe because it’s the night before the games, or maybe it’s because you‘re already in too deep, but without thinking, you slowly pull your intertwined hands closer to you, and give the slightest tug on his arm.

You hear him suck in a taught breath.

He hesitates, and you’re worried you’ve pushed it too far. That you’ve hit the boundary of the level of comfort he was willing to offer, and he was going to withdraw it entirely.

You don’t dare open your eyes, you can’t bear to see his expression.

And then he inches closer. His hand squeezing yours a little tighter as he scoots across the mattress, arm tensing as he slowly makes his way to you.

He stops when there’s only six inches of mattress between you.

The silence in this room is loud, the only thing cutting through is uneasy breaths, the rise and fall of chests on otherwise still bodies.

Minutes pass and you work up the courage to slink closer, resting your head on a strong shoulder. He sucks in another shallow breath but doesn’t object. If he gives you a look, you can’t see it through shut eyes.

Your mouth goes dry, nervous about being so close to a boy like this. His body is radiating an intoxicating heat, you can smell his scent, the remnant of his shower, the laundry detergent used to clean his shirt.

Your head nuzzles into his shoulder, finding a comfortable groove in hard muscles to lay your cheek. Your nose presses right against him, inhaling his scent with each breath. It’s rousing and soothing all in the same, a wave of drowsy euphoria washing over you.

When his shoulder flexes and shifts underneath you and his fingers slip away from yours, you spring up, instantly sobering. Your eyes immediately search Konig’s expression, worried you’ve sufficiently made him uncomfortable.

His face stays even, only a slight plea in his brows as his arm raises and presses against the pillows, inviting you to nuzzle into his side.

You hesitantly accept, closing what little gap remained between you, carefully resting your head on his chest. You don’t put weight on him right away, worried he might pull back and tell you you’ve misunderstood his gestur

When he doesn’t, you let yourself melt into him, let his breaths gently rock you. You can hear his heartbeat under your ear, rapid with nerves this night before the games.

The rest of your body follows shortly after, shifting closer to him and curling up into his side.

When he accepts this, and enough time has passed, a limp, closed fist moves from the tangle of your own limbs, resting on his side. It follows the billows of his ribcage on each breath.

You’re pushing it, you know that, but your arm still snakes over his torso, tentatively resting a forearm over his firm waist.

You gnaw on your bottom lip, waiting for him to scoot away to the other side of the bed. After a careful pause he responds by intertwining his fingers with yours.

His arm brushes against the height of your shoulder before you feel the ghost of fingers, and then a light hand tentatively rests on the middle of your back.

An hour must have passed, from the initial hand holding to now, each of you taking turns deepening the embrace, pressing your bodies closer and closer together.

Long after your eyes have fluttered shut and breathing evened, the hand on your back slowly trails upwards, between your shoulder blades, the pads of his fingers just barely grazing you over your shirt. It sends electricity up your spine and raises goosebumps on your arms, and you have to suppress a shiver.

You can’t help the content hum that leaves you at the light, imperfect but mesmerizing circles he traces over the back of your shirt.

Konig’s scent, his heartbeat, his steady breathing, his gentle touches, it all lulls you into the purgatory between sleep and wake, disconnected from the world but still aware enough to feel him slink his fingers higher, soft touches getting lost in your hair. Combing through the locks, letting strands slide through the gaps in his fingers and sending tingles up your scalp.

You’re already in over your head. Might as well squeeze him for all the comfort he’s worth tonight.

Because tomorrow, all bets are off.

· THE TRIBUTES I · THE TRIBUTES II · THE GAMES · THE VICTOR I · THE VICTOR II · THE AFTERMATH I · THE AFTERMATH II ·

#call of duty #konig #konig cod #konig call of duty #könig #könig cod #x reader #konig fic #konig x reader #john price #captain price #uhohwriting #tgwcm #tgwctm

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madame-fear · 8 months

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*ೃ༄ 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐑𝐔𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏 .ೃ࿐

[ one | two ]

ೀ amira speaks! : Based on this plot. Okay,, I know I said I would write it all in one part, but splitting it in two helps me stay motivated to keep writing. 🙈 Smut will be in part two. This chapter only contains Luke being a bit possesive with you. Enjoy! 💕 ˗ˏˋ ꒰ summary : Prince Lucerys had his eyes set on you ever since you were children, and his affection for you grew stronger when you comforted him after losing his eye at the hands of his Uncle Aemond. But when your time of marrying another Lord comes in your early 20s, the now young Lord of Driftmark isn’t happy at all — though, he plans on making you his, as you were always supposed to be. ˗ˏˋ ꒰ word count : 2.1k

˗ˏˋ ꒰ genre : AU, smut, friends to lovers, a bit of an obsessive Lucerys. ˗ˏˋ ꒰ pairing : One Eyed!Lord!Lucerys x (childhood best friend)!Reader

Lucerys Velaryon, your childhood best friend, had grown to be known as the “One Eyed Prince”; or the “One Eyed Bastard”, as many referred to him.

The loss of his eye had been greatly significant in his early life, having lost it after trying to defend his older brother Jace and his cousins from his uncle Aemond. If anything, it had helped to encourage and fuel the resentment their families felt for one another. And you had been there to witness the tense aftermath of the situation.

Your mere presence was enough to comfort Lucerys when you were just young children; you had a shoulder for him to cry on if he wished to grieve his eye, until he became used to living with it. “The loss of your eye is a symbol of the courage you had to confront your uncle, and defend your loved ones,” you constantly reminded him, embracing him tightly whenever he needed you. And the comfort he so desperately sought for, was always found in you.

You had always been there for the Velaryon prince, before and after the incident with his eye. But, there was something in that constant warming comfort you provided for him, that made Lucerys feel as if he could melt right under your love and attention. Perhaps, it was something he had been feeling deep down inside of him without even admitting it to himself, you were supposed to be just a good friend — but during the aftermath of his eye loss, nothing else mattered to you except his well-being.

You made sure to spend as much time as needed with him, offering comfort and love; which made Luke realise, just how perfect you were in every sense. Hardly any other woman could possibly compare to the inner and outer perfection you so gracefully carried.

The years passed by, and his personality simply grew to be more of a cold, and reserved one; compared to the timid, innocent boy Lucerys used to be. You couldn’t complain — his personality around you remained as endearing and gentle as it always used to be, though a bit more overprotective. You had grown to be as delicate as glass, precious as the petal of a flower; how could Luke not be protective over you? Especially since he was particularly fond of you... In more than just a friendly way.

Every boy, Prince, and Lord had their eyes fixed on you whenever you passed by, occasionally getting to flirt with you and making you laugh. Lucerys was never exactly proud of this, especially when another man tried to flirt with you in front of his face. He always kept a close eye on you, and made sure to advert your attention away from those men with any excuse that came to him. Jealousy ran on his blood like a fiery venom, and it was impossible for him to hide it — yet, you never realised the obvious intentions he had of keeping you away from anyone who wanted to compete against him for your affection.

Lucerys’ efforts where never in vain, they worked just the way he wanted. You always gossiped with Lucerys about whatever man tried to woo you, laughing to yourselves at your own remarks — and it never seemed as if you were interested in anyone else, except Lucerys when his presence was near your own. Compared to him, you weren’t exactly discreet when your gaze was fixed on his features, and to him, that was something to hold great pride for.

As you had always done since childhood, you sat under a large tree that you both considered your secret spot. The weight of his head rested peacefully on your lap, with his eye closed. One of your hands held a book, which you were reading outloud to him, and your other free hand mindlessly played with his dark curly hair. Both of you had managed to find a free space between your duties, deciding to spend some quality time together after quite some time of not having seen each other.

He now might be the Lord of Driftmark, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t visit you, and do the same things you had done since children. After all, the responsabilities that came with being a Lord were exhausting — could he not calmly rest with you, the woman that practically owned his heart, feeling your fingers mess with his hair and your soothing voice reading to him?

Pausing in between your lecture, you softly tilted your head towards him, admiring how peaceful he seemed with his head weighing on your lap. Teasingly, your fingers moved from playing with strands of his hair, and they moved to slowly caress the skin on his cheeks. “Have you fallen asleep already?” you inquired, with an amused voice tone and a growing smile at the corner of your lips.

Like your own, Lucerys couldn’t help but immediatly smile, softly chuckling as he opened his eye. “I am very well awake, love, and attentively listening to you.” his green eye stared at you admiringly, appreciating how the sunlight reflected gracefully on your features. The cold, reserved personality he had grown into, fortunately never affected your relationship.

Yes, Luke might have grown quieter and more kept to himself, but whenever you were near him all of that faded away — being the sweet, gentle boy Lucerys had always been with you. Except that, he might be quite a bit possesive around you; with no other Lord or Prince being allowed to flirt with you, just a mere cold glare with his eye as he stood by your side was enough to frighten them away.

A soft chuckle spurred from you as your fingernails playfully scraped on his skin to caress him. His eye felt heavy, feeling as if he could fall asleep right there at the mere sensation of your warm touch. “I have greatly missed you, Luke.” you began speaking, as his grin grew wider. “I’m quite content having been able to sneak away from our duties to be together. Your duties as the Lord of Driftmark are taking your attention away from me.”

Part of you said that as a jest, with both of you laughing softly at it, and another part of you was being wholeheartedly genuine. And having known you since childhood, he immediatly noticed that. Which left him quietly surprised, to hear suh confession — but Luke wasn’t going to deny the fact that he enjoyed having you clinging to him for his attention and care.

“I could say the same to you, byka jorraelagon.” lazily, he raised his hand. His fingertip lovingly caressed you under your chin, fixing his stare on your delicate features. “But don’t worry too much about it. None of my duties as Lord ever take you off from my mind, I can assure you.” a rosy hue smeared across your cheeks, nearly melting as his digit traced your skin under your chin. It seemed as if he knew exactly what to say, and how to touch you. It was satisfying enough for him to see your reaction, which was just the one he wanted.

Softly, you sighed, allowing him to keep stroking your skin. You had always longed for these private moments between the two of you, where you could do or say anything without caring for anything else. The smile that had grown at the corner of your lips dropped faintly, becoming a grimace as you frowned. Your expressions slowly turned into a despondent one, to which Lucerys immediatly noticed as his eye stared attentively at you.

Your own thoughts about enjoying solitude with him, escaping from your own responsibilities just to feel the warmth of each ofher’s presences, reminded you of your betrothal — and you were afraid such compromise would stand in the way of your meetings with Lucerys, in one way or another.

“What’s the matter?” he cooed calmly, noticing the change in your demeanor. You offered him a frowny smile. “Nothing, Luke. Everything is alright. Why?” as quick as you were in dismissing his concern for you, he wouldn’t leave it just there. “I know you. Your face says otherwise, something happened.” slowly, he stopped caressing you under your chin with his fingertip, just to rest his hands on his chest as Lucerys stared at you attentively.

“What happened? I need to know, (y/n).” Lucerys kept insisting, and you knew he wouldn’t give up so easily — not when he noticed something was troubling you. You huffed at the mere thought of it, beginning to shake your head in disappointment. “It’s just...” the words trailed off, hesitating for a moment before continuing. Your gaze lingered elsewhere, feeling how his eye was fixed on you.

“I have been betrothed— And... I’m afraid our moments together will not be as often as they currently are.” you managed to spill out. The words spurred mumbled, but they escaped from your lips, finally.

Moving your stare back to him, his expression was cold — yet, mixed with other emotions. Luke seemed confused, blankless, and yet... So impotent. Betrothals were a duty that no noble could ever from, it was a fate expected for you. But you should be betrothed to him. He could treat you so much better than any other mediocre, arrogant Lord. No one knew you better, than Lord Lucerys himself.

His head weightened further on your head, before he rapidly moved to sit by your side, instead of resting on your lap. His eyebrows knitted in confusion. “Betrothed?” he inquired in a low tone. “Betrothed to whom, exactly?” both your hands now laid on your lap, fidgeting anxiously with your own fingers. Bewilder was expressed all across his young features. Your eyes stared down at your fingers, nibbling on your lower lip discreetly.

“I have been betrothed into House Lannister.” you mumbled, “Specifically to Loren Lannister.” deciding to stare at him, you noticed his jaw clenched slightly. His hazel eye lowered it’s sight to the vividly green grass, thinking quietly to himself. You stared at him nervously, noticing the silence looming between of you, amidst the faint sounds of the birds chirping.

House Lannister. The Lannisters had quite a reputation of their own — he always thought of them as arrogant, petty, and proud of themselves. Out of all the noble Houses that there were, you had to be betrothed into House Lannister? “Velaryon” suits you better, anyways — the young Lord knew he would eventually get away with what was his. You were not getting married to some cheap Lannister, not under his watch. A pretty little thing such as yourself will not go to waste with the One Eyed Lord.

“I see.” Luke coldly retorted. Despite his clear bemuse at the abrupt news, he felt satisfied with himself — he knew how he would find his way to get you out of that dreadful betrothal of yours. And that way, you’d be entirely free for him once again. Offering a warm smile, the One Eyed Velaryon took your delicate hand lovingly, caressing your skin with his thumb. He felt invitingly soothing, making you mindlessly grin and become flustered at the touch of his digit on your flesh. “But don’t worry, my love. I’m certain your betrothal will not affect our frequent meetings.” His hand raised your own towards his rosy lips, pressing them gently against your knuckles to give them a loving kiss. The rosy hue tainted on your cheeks leisurely became a reddish tone, offering him a sheepish smile to hide away your shyness whenever Luke demonstrated tender affection towards you — an endearing type of affection that he never thought of giving to someone else. Doubt overwhelmed you at hearing his confident statement.

“Are you...” the warmth of his lips on your knuckles lingered, as he pulled away, staring at you with his only eye. Gods, how pretty you were when it was obvious you were melting for him. “Are you quite certain about it? What if... What if my betrothed dislikes the idea of us–” the young Lord shook his head, using his other free hand to place it on your cheek comfortingly. You immediatly gave into it, allowing your head to fall against the palm of his hand.

“Your betrothed will say nothing, because I will find a way of being together— as I always do.”

You meekly smiled at him, softly allowing some chuckles to spur from those beauteous lips of yours; clearly content at his determination.

You were endearingly sweet— so innocent. Of course the One Eyed Lord had everything mapped out to find his way to you, as he had always done ever since you were children. Your lame excuse of a betrothed was no challenge to him, as he had exactly planned out how to get rid of him; having you all for himself, without anyone to possibly disturb your relationship.

You didn’t belong in House Lannister, and much less in Casterly Rock. You beloged in House Velaryon — you belonged in Driftmark. And Lucerys wouldn’t have it any other way.

♡ taglist : ♡

@jacesvelaryons @jjamieberry @anemicroyalcore @countsmoon @beeebo234 @manuholland6 @capellaadara @kyuupidwrites @tchatso @phantasyy @tasty-nutella @mstxdes @valeriecash @cookielovesbook-akie @zzz000eee @bellarkeselection @feliuuuksks @visenya-reigned @maria699669 @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @sweethoneyblossom1 @jamiemydeer @snowprincesa1 @leannathespacewerewolf

#lucerys velaryon x reader #lucerys velaryon x reader smut #still waters run deep #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon smut #house of the dragon x reader smut #hotd smut #hotd x reader smut #one eyed lucerys x reader #lord Lucerys x reader #lord lucerys velaryon x reader

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askfacultystaff · 3 months

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Picrew Pictures

For @neko-sufis-world

Depressed! Funky Funko AU (An inspiration to Depressed! Boboiboy AU)

Funko: ......... N-no....... No!...... Hik...... NO!!!..... Rama!!..... Hik.... 😢

7 years ago, it was Funko's worst memory he'll never forget ever since he's depressed. He was 11 at the time since visit at Scotland. He not only lost his ex-friend, Rama, but he also lost his ex-friend's sisters, parents and Angus. Because they got burned to death by Morag who controls Lela the dragon by using her dragon stone.

Ever since this grieving and unbearable accident, Neko is really devastated to tears for losing her best friend, Usagi was there too, grieving, everyone, especially Neko's (foster) family visiting in graves. But Funko feels worst, he really wished them to come back, but never happen.

As years went by, he now lives in his late ex-friend's bedroom, he'll never forget about him and his family for being most important family he ever described. Boboiboy and Gegergirl are the only ones who are concerned and worried about him due to his depression. Whenever he's around them, he tries his best to pretend to be happy by saying he's fine, but in their eyes, he's lying.

Will Boboiboy and Gegergirl do whatever it takes to change Funko's life for better so he can cope his loss?

Aftermath Of Incident AU

Silent! Rama Raid

Rush and Ambush

(They are just love each other as good friends -v-')

Ramayana while taking a bath

Neko-Sufi wearing Principal's sweater

Rama: .....?? You got something on your hand, (your name)?

#education and learning #basically basics #funky funko #depressed! funky funko #roblox doors #doors rush #doors ambush #rama raid #neko sufi #silent! rama raid #aftermath of incident au #ramayana raid #genderbend au #future au #alternative universe #picrew

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godihatethiswebsite · 2 months

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Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°

✽ Part Two - The aftermath

So many of you came out of the woodwork for this story and I couldn't be more grateful for all the kind words of encouragement! I'm truly flattered by the amount of love this received for being something that randomly popped in my head on a whim ❤️

I'm glad I was able to get this part out so quickly. It might be a tick before part three, but I've already got some of it worked out. I'll still try to keep chipping away at it while I work on my other series~

Trigger warnings: swearing, angst, depression

“I saw them the other day.”

“...saw who?”

“My scent matches.”

There’s a pregnant pause as your therapist of four years takes the information in, caught off guard by the abruptness of the statement but also the further implications behind the words.

Dr. Miranda has been your life raft and confidant ever since you’d first gone to your family with the appalling reality of your newfound situation. An omega like yourself; she specializes in the treatment and rehabilitation of women who've endured abuse at the hands of their packmates and the dredges of society. Highly recommended by the United Designation Resource Center for psychological trauma.

It had taken you over a week following the incident to gather the strength to confront your fathers on the thorny subject - too ashamed of admittance and too anxious of their response. And even then it was done over the phone in the most uncomfortable video call of your life, the dour atmosphere so at odds with that blessedly clear mid-afternoon sky, its temperate climate and soft summer breeze carrying along an enchanting melody of carefree innocence.

Inside, it was raining.

The wretched bond was a gravity well, sucking you down into a chasmic abyss and siphoning your once bountiful vibrancy. Responsibilities fell by the wayside, locked away in your self-imposed prison as if the globe would simply stop moving if you only ignored its rotations. Not until both your fathers made the three hour flight up north did you muster the courage to finally remove the makeshift barricade guarding your front door, talking through the deceptively difficult act with them on the other end of the phone as the two alphas supported you during the twenty five minutes it took to overcome the all-consuming panic and usher them inside.

They stayed with you for the better part of the month, taking over where depression had failed you in your efforts to function alone. Your parents allowed you space to look after yourself, clearing away the physical filth of your living quarters and, in doing so, sweeping away the cobwebs of your teetering sanity. They scrubbed at putrid greasy plates while you scoured tainted flesh under a scalding hot stream, the dead skin cells contaminated by his poisonous touch spiraling down the drain along with your tears.

The harsh truth of the matter is that there is no escape from your own body. You come screaming into this world given one to do with as you will, to mold and shape based on lived experiences with no regard for the decisions and circumstances made outside your control. There is no space to slip between the weaved threads of time, no hands to turn counter clockwise when you make a mistake. Just a grim acceptance that the life you once aspired to was forevermore out of reach.

There was only so much to be done given your situation. As much aid as your family offered, they were as helpless of bystanders as the soul in your meat suit. Chores were completed, accumulated bills paid, a hearty meal piled high on your plate combating the recent gauntness of your face. You were cherished and fussed over like the wee babe found scattered amongst family photos in your childhood home, cradled in their arms when the horrid presence came calling, dragging a hot poker through your insides and causing mental anguish at all hours of the night.

The more time they spent around you, the more apparent it was that you could no longer stay there. The closer the proximity to your bonded alpha the more power he held to disrupt your life.

That's how you landed in Dr. Miranda’s lap. Before you'd even set foot on the tarmac arrangements had been made for a new life in a new city on the other side of the country - spiriting you away on a mission to regain your independence, the distance easing the damage he could do even as the strained bond churned.

Initially dreading having to confess the horrors you’d endured to some random unknown, she’d worked diligently to soothe your broken nerves in both demeanor and environment. A kind omega in her early forties, the subtle crows feet and laugh lines only accentuated her cheerful personality, disarming in her ability to draw out your insecurities and work with you through the trauma in a way that didn’t feel intruding.

Dr. Miranda was a veritable well of understanding, always encouraging of whatever pace you set, careful of the fragile boundaries constructed to guard your heart from further damage.

She operated as part of a larger business that provided therapeutic services and catered to all designations alike. You’d been thrilled to find there was a separate entrance away from the cacophony of the common room, bypassing the headache of having to wait amongst strangers and leading directly to her office in the back right corner of the building.

The space itself was considerably cozy, low lit warmth all plush and homely. The spacious couch against the back wall invited you to stretch out comfortably, decorative pillows available in a colorful assortment of textures - catering to a discerning omega’s personal preferences. A small diffuser wafting light refreshing mists operated as both a handy descenting spray and an emotional pick me up. Every accommodation purposeful, given special care for your emotional easement and wellbeing.

You appreciated the effort she put into making her office feel more like a living room than a sterile setting. It was easier for you to converse when it felt like you were speaking with a friend.

Bit by bit, Dr. Miranda coaxed you from the sheltered recesses in which you’d burrowed; not just a guiding hand through the concrete dust and collapsed rubble, but a mentor recovering your confidence, reminding you of the path you once walked independently and peeling back the suffocating layers that kept you from standing on your own two feet.

In hindsight, you probably could’ve broken the news of your scent match a bit less abrasively - probably should’ve led with it too.

The pair of you had been engrossed in a topic that was moreso a follow up from your last session rather than anything of actual import. Your brain had been functioning on autopilot the past twenty odd minutes, making sounds vaguely human enough to get by without requiring proper attention. Honestly, most of her words had been drowned out by the incessant buzzing in your ear that had been slowly growing in volume, throat clenching and knuckles flexing, more aware of the sweat dripping down the back of your nape than anything she had to proffer.

Eventually the dam just broke. The words slipped out like grease, lubricated in a film of oil too slick to be contained and begging to be addressed.

There’s a struggle on her face to try and maintain some level of professionalism after the sudden revelation. Knitted eyebrows spiked before smoothing back down, jaw almost dropping until she remembered herself and switched it from an ‘o’ to a relaxed flat line. She mirrored your own position on the couch from her velvet wingback chair, sitting cross legged with an air of casualness. Her only remaining tell was her hands fidgeting in her lap as if her fingers itched to shake you down like a coconut tree or pry your brain open like a valuable specimen.

Knowing the scarcity of scent bonding, this may have very well been the first time she’s come across this scenario - whether in her personal life or from her spot opposite you in her seat.

“How are you feeling about the encounter?” A loaded question if ever there was one, giving you plenty of breathing room to start the conversation however you needed and giving her a chance to compartmentalize.

You tried to focus on the initial emotions, remembering that first brush of sweet alpha pheromones on your olfactory senses. The rush of endorphins as your inner omega staked her claim with that first gulp of built up citrus infused drool.

“I didn’t know I could feel like that...” There was a breathy quality to your tone as you visibly brightened, gazing at the plush rug in the center of the room without actually viewing it, a glow to your smile that was soft in your reminiscence. “They don’t prepare you for that first whiff at the Academy. It’s almost like…”

How could you explain in the span of a few sentences what the most ardent poets struggled with over the course of a lifetime?

“It’s like when someone grows up not being able to breathe properly and they don’t even realize it’s a problem. To them it’s normal to be in a constant state of dyspnea because that’s all they’ve ever known. No one else might be complaining about it, but no one’s asked them about it either. They just assume that's how your lungs are supposed to function and carry on none the wiser.”

Dr. Miranda nodded along, ever patient as you attempted to spew out your thoughts in an at least semi-coherent structure.

“But then, one day, they’re walking behind a guy who’s fumbling with his attempt to shove a small object back in his pocket and watches as it falls to the sidewalk. They pick it up off the ground like a good citizen; strike up a conversation. Ask him about the strange contraption the guy calls an inhaler - learns there's another way to breathe. And so they go home and tell their mom what’s been going on with them and she takes them to see the doctor who gets them one of their own. And when that first dose of medicated mist gets sucked into their lungs…”

The image of a wide eyed innocent gasping in a world full of untold possibilities as if reborn from the ashes of their previous life, no longer chained down by the invisible restrictions tethering them to the globe, eyes glistening full of wonderment at how something so small can be something so cosmically life altering.

With each new breath, they soar.

You’re pulled out of your musings and back to reality as your own lungs expand, something weightless shimmering in your gaze, glassy eyed and perfectly at ease. “Now I know why they call it living.”

The words are floated around the space with a sort of reverence akin to hearing a favored childhood fairy tale read aloud at their mother’s knee. Something wistful and longing and filled with effervescent hope.

“Sounds heavenly...” Her own voice was just as breathy, living vicariously through the moment she herself hasn't experienced. Curling her legs up under herself, Dr. Miranda encouraged, “tell me more.”

“There were two of them,” you went on, smile turning playful and newly invigorated. “The first one was just this big bulk of an alpha. I mean, seriously, he was properly huge!” Animated arms opened wide for emphasis, your grin reaching almost the same diameter. “Built like a fucking linebacker or something. I can only imagine what he must do for a living. Kinda gives off scary vibes, but like… in a non sketchy way? He dresses a bit like a drug dealer, but feels more like a gym teacher. Maybe that’s just me being biased ‘cause he smells like a cupcake, I dunno.”

The energy you gave off was infectious. Dr. Miranda couldn’t help but join in with amused laughter, endeared to the way you were lighting up the room. It wasn’t often she got to see you like this, glimpsing the lighthearted woman you were before the accident. It was a welcome sight after so much negativity. “And the other?”

“Fuuuuck me, Doc.” You groaned good naturedly, head falling back to rest against the spine of the couch as your limbs went limp. “Swear to god he was the prettiest guy I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life. Gorgeous smile. Like, I’ve always been a casual fan of coconut, but after that encounter…” You shuddered. “I just wanna roll around in an entire box of fucking samoas.”

“And do these tasty specimens have names?”

Just like that, you wilted.

The temperature shifted rapidly, a violent change that dragged out of your whimsy and back into a world where life didn’t discriminate between those deserving of heaven and those who broke their way in to taint the ghosts at peace.

She picked up on it immediately, back straightening as if you weren’t the only one in the room with a chill suddenly dripping down their spine.

Your admission came from a voice far more fragile than she’d heard in a very long time. “...I never got to ask.”

Recounting the excruciating memory was like shoving needles underneath your nailbeds, bringing up the other person in the room keeping you from wanton bliss, describing the torture you’d endured witnessing them existing with their own omega unaware of the damage she’d inadvertently done. You relayed their moment of recognition and sympathy. The confusion on the poor omega’s face.

How you turned tail and fled like a coward from the scene.

“I panicked,” came the strained confession, stumbled out in a frantic rush that spoke volumes of your frazzled mental state. “I-I didn’t know what else to do! I couldn’t just waltz up to them all willy nilly and throw a wrench in whatever the hell kinda life they’d already built. I mean, she was right there! How was I supposed to fawn over the men who should’ve been mine to keep when they were never mine to begin with?!”

You flinched away from the unwanted flashback of silvery bite marks, the pale white indents plastered on her skin displayed proudly beneath the collar of her coat like an olympic medal. So at odds with the ones mirrored on your own flesh, hidden now under a thick cotton turtleneck that you fought the urge to scratch.

Dr. Miranda listened closely, keen eyes analyzing the familiar body language and monitoring your growing levels of distress. She watched as you picked apart a loose hanging thread with jittery deftness until inevitably too much unwound and fluffy white stuffing poked out between the seams of the pillow clutched like a life jacket to your chest.

“I can only imagine the hurt you must’ve felt in that moment…”

Where once your voice had been full of life, now there was only a grave emptiness. Color had been sucked from your aura the same way it had been from the room. There was no hiding from your devastation in the tiny office, the frayed threads of the cashmere pillow a reflection revealing the true turmoil roiling beneath the skin. It rotted from the inside out, exposing the vulnerable squishy interior and keeping you reliving the same brutal lacerations again and again and again.

“...I hadn’t even considered it a possibility, you know…?”

Hadn’t allowed yourself the concept of hope.

“And suddenly it was right there - the answer to all my problems. For a brief moment, I was shown a glimpse of a better life. A future… one where I didn't wake up with earth shattering headaches and relentless nausea and I’d actually have energy to do more than just be a useless fucking couch potato and there could be laughter and healing and–”

You weren’t sure at which point in your stream of consciousness you’d started crying, nor when you fitfully clawed into the padded fabric, shredding the delicate material as it twisted and stretched in your trembling hands.

“I wish I never ran into them at the store... I wish I could’ve kept living in stupid fucking ignorance. At least then they could’ve just stayed made up characters in my head. Anything would’ve been better than this–” you spat angrily, chucking the mangled remains of the pillow on the ground and gritting your teeth through the onslaught of tears. “Having them ripped away from me like some sick fucking joke! Like the universe hasn’t already crushed my hopes and dreams and laughed in my face for wanting a normal fucking life!? Well guess what, gods? You win! Okay?! You fucking win! Take my heart! I don't want it anymore!”

Consoling arms encapsulated your quivering form, the comforting florals of Dr. Miranda’s airy omega scent projecting like a protective blanket and overpowering the tart bitterness of your once sweetened pear turned ashen in your mouth.

The floodgates opened. They couldn't be stopped.

“I’m just so fucking sick of this!” Your screams of devastation become muffled against the softness of her pink knitted sweater, harsh blubbering sobs broken up by heaving gasps as you mourn the life you’ll never have. “I hate him... I hate him! I don’t wanna do this anymore! I just want my fucking life back!”

There are no words that can fix the lesions of the heart. There’s no comfort of a better tomorrow that she can wax poetic whilst drying your tears. Sometimes grief cannot be mended - only managed. And sometimes that means accepting the bad days with the learned knowledge that not all anger is made of evil.

Holding you close, lulling you into a guarded safety with a placating purr, she grants you reprieve from the mask that you wear.

Not much more was discussed in the aftermath. The remaining time was dedicated to helping you stabilize from the emotional trauma, bringing you down carefully to avoid dropping into a catatonic state. She’d witnessed it with you before - at the start of your visits. When the grief was still too near and your triggers splayed out like a million mouse traps all primed to go off. Avoiding them was all but impossible in those early days. Three hours of your life were forever lost to time, the only proof of its occurrence the foggy aftermath filled memory of cold dampened skin and sweat soaked weighted blankets clutched tight in a dark room, uncontrollable trembles wracking your form and a bone deep exhaustion as if you’d just ran ten miles.

Dr. Miranda never once left your side.

Trudging your way back to your vehicle, the air inside the car was only mildly warmer than its outer counterpart, sinking into the rigid cloth seats and listening to the laboured clicks of the old engine grappling to turn over in the bitter cold. Snowflakes gathered on your coat began to melt as it finally gave way, puttering to life and filling the space with dense heated air.

You huffed out a loaded sigh, absentmindedly scratching at the already abused skin as you felt his presence poking experimentally across the bond. As if you didn’t have enough on your plate without him adding his delightful input, sniffing around your emotions like a trained bloodhound attuned to your melancholic brooding.

He was a spiteful thing; had been since he first opened his eyes the next morning from his drug induced stupor and found the pretty thing he’d coveted had just up and vanished. You never knew when he’d invade the sanctity of your mind. The flicker of amusement from his end was the telltale proof this was all just a sick game.

The bonds didn’t allow any actual communication. There were no words passed back and forth, no sudden powers of telepathy. Just intense sensations - emotions conveyed as though tangible and speaking ideas down an invisible phone line.

The whole point of a mating bite in the first place was to bring a further cohesion to the packs. As an omega, you were the fixed point in space around which all other members orbited. A mediator of sorts; it was your job to smooth the serrated edges of an alpha’s instincts, regulating their emotional needs and nurturing them to achieve a sense of balance - and vice versa.

An omega’s naturally empathetic nature meant you were frequently prone to becoming easily overstimulated. It was an alpha’s duty to soothe your frazzled nerves.

He liked to abuse his privileges.

Sometimes he went days without pestering, others his tiresome machinations seemed unending. The longest reprieve had been just shy of three weeks, lured into a false sense of optimism that just maybe he’d overdosed and freed you from his haunting clutches. His return was a hot knife stabbing into your skull, grinding and drilling like a makeshift lobotomy for the clinically insane.

You were grateful for the miles between now softening the blows. Once he’d begun to feel the strain on the flight to your current city whittling away at the strength of your bond, he’d lashed out in unbridled fury. You’d spent the first leg of the trip huddled on your knees in the airplane stall, his mental punishment sawing into your ribs and expelling the simple breakfast you’d eaten an hour prior.

Sobs of anguish turned to tears of relief as time went on and his reach stretched thin across the continent.

The bond withdrawals came afterwards. His presence still lurked in the tether that binds you, but no more than a casual thought in the back of your mind, the quiet voice that whispers on the edge of a canyon daring you to ‘jump’.

The bond withdrawals were now the worst of your worries. It was hard to function on a day to day basis when the same distance granting you a second chance caused you to become physically - sometimes violently - ill. Instances like that, Zofran was your best friend.

Buckling your seatbelt, you waged an internal battle over whether or not to do the responsible thing of making a second attempt at grocery shopping (despite your best efforts over the past two days, you hadn’t yet figured out how to miraculously will food to materialize in your barren pantry). Statistically speaking you were most likely safe from another encounter… unless they’d pulled a you and hadn’t left with their wares either.

But if you didn’t have the luxury before to keep putting it off then you certainly hadn’t acquired it now.

Math was on your side as you emerged with a full cart of goods and a lack of new therapy material. You’d still been the most skittish paranoid thing ever, scurrying quickly through the aisles like the CIA was out to get you, scanning your periphery and emerging quickly from the self checkout lanes to hurry towards your car. But just because you’d been successful in your venture doesn’t mean you weren’t followed along by fuzzy raised brows and curious - if not judgemental - looks.

It was an odd notion - being terrified of the one thing that should’ve made you feel secure. It was all you could do to distract yourself from the frustrating realization that this was a game you’d be playing for the foreseeable future unless you shelled out the extra cash to bypass doing the chore yourself.

That would have to be a worry for another time. Right now, all you desired was to curl up in your tiny studio apartment with a home cooked microwaved meal and lose yourself in the diversion that was the food network channel.

But first: caffeine.

You ignored the nagging ghost of responsibility tugging at your ear as you pulled into a parking spot alongside the main road, stepping out of the warm confines of your car and hurrying inside the nestled hole in the wall you frequented a few times a week for a caffeinated boost.

Large crowds still bothered you even with the reassurance he wasn't there, as if he could somehow physically slink out of the bond formed between you and hide amongst the chittering rabble waiting for an opportune moment of weakness to strike. Thankfully you’d arrived after the mid afternoon rush - although there were still a few stragglers with the same mindset as you eager to escape the frosty air with something warm on an otherwise picturesque snowy winter’s day.

The chiming bell above the door hailed your arrival, festive drink flavors assaulting your nose and instantly watering your mouth. Smoky chestnut praline, rich peppermint mocha, enticing caramel brulee. Cranberry laden pastries, chewy gingerbread cookies; all folded together in a Christmasy mix laced with the pleasant aroma of freshly ground coffee beans.

Your mind zeroed in on exactly what it wanted, pinpointing the most succulent fragrance amongst the bountiful bouquet, cutting through the sea of heavy pheromones belonging to the other patrons and hitting something raw inside your weary soul.

The veritable nectar of the gods.

A rich shot of bold espresso. Sweetly caramelized with smooth, creamy, chocolatey undertones. It zapped your spine with a jolt of adrenaline, awakening your senses while simultaneously soothing them. The first relaxing sip of a perfectly hot beverage. The golden liquid flowed down the back of your throat and alleviated the tangled knots still keeping you on edge, settling like a sturdy hand on your shoulder and allowing you the chance to breathe easy.

Something about the blend had your inner omega preening, ears perked up and startling a small purr from your chest that had you blinking down at your torso in surprised confusion. You’d barely stepped foot inside the cafe and suddenly the craving had expanded tenfold, something ravenous and feral urging your steps towards the counter that you had to fight to withstand.

Shrugging off the intense hunger as a simple lack of shoving something slightly more substantial in your mouth before leaving this morning, you adjusted the strap of your purse more securely on your shoulder and raised your eyes level to the awaiting interior.

Right into the most alluring shade of brilliant azure - sparkling like sapphires and already fixated on you.

°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°

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aloesarchives · 8 months

Text

Two for the Price of One (JJK Oneshot)

TW/Warnings: Profanity, NOT POLY SATOSUGU X READER, Fem Reader and She/Her pronouns, ANGST, Angst for Satoru and Reader, Bittersweet ending for Suguru and Reader, HIGHKEY MISCOMMUNICATION, Possible OOC Satoru, abandonment issues if you squint really hard, Reader slowly losing herself, Reader feeling depression/hopeless(implicit), Reader's has a healthy dynamic with her clan

Series: Jujutsu Kaisen

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x Fem!Reader/Suguru Geto x Fem!Reader

AU: Canon

Pronouns: She/Her(Reader's clan has a unrealistic healthy and understanding relationship with her)

Word Count: 6.1k words

Summary: Gojo's lack of coping caused you to drift away and eventually depart after Suguru's defection from Jujutsu Society.

(A/N): I know it doesn't make sense and will make many frustrated with how dumb this is. I just wanted to write my emotions out with this one, okay? I know this wouldn't slide but I'm a sucker for these scenarios. Edit: Since I've been getting positive reactions from you guys, I decided to take out the cringe/unrealistic out of the warning/tws lists. I truly love and appreciate you, loves!❤️

[!!Semi-edited & Proofread!!! 2/8/2024 4:04pm CST]

It was hard on all of you.

More so for you and Satoru.

Ever since Geto’s massacre and defection, the higher-ups and Jujutsu society have been scrambling to get the chaos under control. Having a special grade user become a curse user was sounding red alarms as there was an immediate threat to present-day Jujutsu sorcery.

You knew something was up with Suguru. You did; your observation wouldn’t allow things to go unnoticed. It was a bit here and there, but never a significant concern. You tried coaxing him gradually to open up to you, but your efforts were fruitless. No bells were ringing until the post-Plasma Star Vessel incident. You felt the shift in Suguru’s aura; you noticed his lifeless stare—the growing dark circles around his eyes surrounding the tiny flicker of life left inside.

You tried being there for Suguru. You did anything and everything to accompany him and not leave him alone. It was selfish of you. To be desperate for your best friend to lean on you for support and not to go down a destructive path. You became even more worried when Haibara returned cold with a frustrated and traumatized Nanami. It was becoming more evident of Suguru’s deteriorating condition, you to confide in Shoko and even Yaga-sensei.

Grief is like love, a twisted parasitic curse. Even though a year has passed, your grief was a malevolent spirit that latched itself onto your shoulders with a vice grip. A bitter reminder of how Suguru never said goodbye to you. He technically did with Satoru. But it was more of him telling Satoru that he was severing ties with Jujutsu Society by questioning him with his newfound powers. All you got from Suguru was a simple letter Shoko gave you at your dorm. She was with you as you read it. Tear droplets stained the paper, words smeared, and became unreadable. Out of pure frustration, you ripped the paper in half—the tearing of paper cut through the sickening silence. Shoko hugged you as you sobbed in the aftermath. While you were mourning the loss of your friend and your lives together, you were also mourning your life after this would never be the same. It would only get worse from here.

Satoru is tossed onto multiple missions left and right, never catching a break.

And there was you, trying to return to your regular school life. Or how every day can it be now? One of your best friends just murdered an entire village and his parents, and the other one is overworking himself to the very bone. Shoko being there for you was a surprising one, but at the same time, it wasn’t. Given that she was the first one Suguru said goodbye to, she understood his actions.

The problem was trying to tell Satoru about it, but he would brush it off, saying that maybe it was the change in weather or sickness. When you tried to explain there was more to it, Satoru would wave his hand at you, saying,

“You’re overthinking too much, (Y/N)-chan! I’m sure Suguru is fine. We just have to give him some time.”

Though the tone was light-hearted, it provided no comfort. You know Satoru was suffering as well. Individuals process trauma differently, after all. You were seeing this first hand.

Satoru was overcompensating to the world of Jujutsu with his enlightenment, overworking himself and burying his pain through that charismatic mask he now dons. Suguru is the most common one: Insomnia, isolation, and depression. He slowly became a lifeless husk. On the other hand, you were coping by trying to move forward while acting like a rock for them. Despite the hard transition, you didn’t deny your trauma as you slowly worked to process and navigate through it. You had the support of Shoko, your teacher, and even your clan/family stepped in to support your mental health endeavors. They went as far as providing you with a therapist, who was also a sorcerer.

But you all were suffering in silence.

A year has passed since Suguru left, and you were getting by. You, Shoko, and Satoru would graduate in the third year and officially become Jujutsu Sorcerers. Yet, at this point, it felt more like only you and Shoko. Satoru still attended class and hung out, but missions mainly preoccupied his school life. He recently returned from Hokkaido, only to be sent out again. This time, however, it was somewhere in Western Europe. That’s on the other side of the world. It would only be for a week, but still. You wanted him to rest or take a break, as he never did– not since the incident.

He wouldn’t be leaving for another seven days, so you had enough time to be with him. Yet it was challenging because Satoru didn’t let up. The ravine he created kept opening, the distance stretching far and deep, pushing you away.

Just like Suguru.

You didn’t want to lose Satoru. You almost did, becoming a grim reminder of how much you cared for Satoru Suguru. To fall for your best friend was a betrayal. You didn’t mean it, but Satoru did things that made your heart warm and fluttered. Suguru was the first to catch on; he saw your crush a mile away. Confiding in Suguru about it, you found solace in his words– feeding into an enviable delusion.

Unbeknownst to you, Suguru's eyes were able to hide his longing for you as you rambled about Satoru and your latest hangout together. Suguru always thought you and Satoru had a special connection—your two powerful chemistry and how you bounce off each other. He presumed Satoru had mutual feelings, but nothing was said. Once he left, he knew you had his heart. There was no space for anyone else to fill it but you. And Suguru was more than willing to live with reality. If the girl who gave his life light is with his best friend, so be it. He would settle with the heartache as long as you were happy.

But you weren’t happy at all.

Over time, you started questioning whether the life of a Jujutsu Sorcerer was worth it. Yes, you were born into the world of Jujutsu, and it has been your whole life. But the last two years radically changed that. You were already exposed to this life's dangers and cruelty; prepare to face it head-on no matter what. Yet second thoughts became third thoughts. Then, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh. The more you challenge your initial mindset, the more doubts seep into its cracks.

Why should I continue when I am nothing more than a placeholder in this world?

How can I save everyone if I can’t save one person?

Where is the meaning in all of this if I’ll just die alone and be replaced and forgotten?

Was this endless cycle of Jujutsu Sorcery even worth it?

You wondered if Suguru shared the same thoughts to push him to his decision. Now, you don’t blame him for leaving at all. It was grime. It was depravity. It was futile. You only stayed because you had your clan. You had Yaga-sensei and Shoko. But most of all, you had Satoru to shoulder the burdens of the Jujutsu world.

That’s. . .what you thought. . .

You decided to go to Satoru’s dorm to check up on him. Maybe squeeze a hangout in there. Gently knocking, you hope he was there since you couldn’t sense him around the campus. There was faint shuffling on the other side, signaling he was. You softly call out to him as you knock again. Once opened, Satoru greeted you in his school uniform. You found it odd since he’d switched to his comfortable clothes after school hours.

“Hi, Toru! I just came by to see how you’re doing. The mochi store we always go to releases its seasonal flavors today! Why don’t you come with me? I heard one of your favorites returned, so I didn’t want you to miss it.”

“I appreciate the thought, (Y/N). But not today, I’m sorry.” Satoru said with a smile.

You couldn’t pinpoint his smile, tittering on, sad and strained. A tinge of uneasiness settled inside your heart, but you still wore your smile to not let it surface.

“C’mon, Toru! You don’t know if they will sell out today. Plus, the weather is great. I heard some festivals with food stands are opening up because of that. It wouldn’t hurt to go out just this once, Satoru.”

Satoru’s smile disappears at your insistence, replacing it with a fine line. His mood change didn’t sit well with you. You had previous attempts to get Satoru to care for himself. However, this is different from all your others because the band that holds your desperation began to wane itself thin. Your solid composure falters in bits. Your bright aura slowly dimmed as your now chapped lips twitched.

“Satoru, I know that you’re busy. Always on missions, meeting the higher-ups, your clan needing you more than ever, you have your hands tied. But it wouldn’t be too much just to enjoy yourself. Just come with me today before you go to Europe next week. It’s been a while since we hung out together.”

“Look (Y/N), I don’t really have time for this. I need to head out now, or it will get dark. Maybe another time–”

Then something inside of you snaps. You didn’t know whether it was your desperation or uneasiness, but assumed both because your facade crumbles to reveal your emotions.

“You always say later, Satoru, but never do! You haven’t taken a break in months! You’ve gotten paler, and your under-eyes are darker than before! You’re pushing yourself too hard and beginning to neglect yourself. Toru, Please! I’m worried about you! You know I can always help you–”

“For the love of God, (Y/N)! Can you STOP TALKING?! GOD, YOUR VOICE MAKES MY EARS BLEED! LIKE HELL YOU WOULD UNDERSTAND MY RESPONSIBILITIES!”

It was never your intention to snap. But the way Satoru was acting paralleled Suguru. Eat, sleep, and go on missions. It was always those three, the same ones Suguru was subjected to that became a factor in his defection. Satoru was caught in the vicious cycle that pushed Suguru over the edge.

On top of your crippling fear of Satoru sharing the same fate as Suguru, Déjà vu struck you. Desperation emerged from within as you didn’t want to lose him, breaking your resolve before him. Desperation was fear in another form.

You weren’t the only one to reach a breaking point. Satoru snapped as well and at you, of all people. You guessed it was from all the stress and emotions he bottled up that exploded there. What Satoru was experiencing was valid and understandable; you knew this. Yet to blow up at you was uncalled for as you made it clear you’re only helping. Your eyes sting as you feel the formation of tears ready themselves, biting the inside of your bottom lip to keep your voice from breaking.

“B-but. . .Satoru. . .I w-was only trying to–” You stuttered out, forcibly pushing out words to fill the silence.

“Help? You were trying to help, (Y/N)?”

Once saying that Satoru let out a sarcastic laughter that could be mistaken for madness. Horror took over your face. Pain-filled eyes were glossed over, showing your tears could spill at any moment. His laughter abruptly stopped, making it so quiet that only your staggered breathing could be heard. He meets his eyes with yours with the most disdain you have ever seen.

“Do you think you could help when you’re just dead weight? You thought you were on par with Suguru and me. Get that out of your stupid little head of yours (Y/N). You were never strong like us.”

“You don’t mean that, right, Satoru?” You said incredulity as you reached out for him. Only for your hand to freeze before him, not going any further. A chill flashed over you, adding to the aching that enveloped your soul.

Did he– Did he just use his infinity on you?

“Oh, but I do. Now, I need to be somewhere. Do yourself a favor, (Y/N), and don’t bother me with your weak presence.”

And before you knew it, Satoru was already gone. He had used his teleportation to get to where he was needed. Leaving you alone with the door to his dorm wide open. The sounds of the crickets took over. They were paired with your small sniffles, furiously wiping away your nonstop tears.

Were you weak to him?

Have you really been holding everyone back?

Were you that much of a nuisance to him?

Is this how Satoru really felt about you?

Has he always felt this way?

You never saw utter detest and contempt from Satoru. Your previous interactions had him irritated or annoyed, but never like this. This was the first time Satoru had blown up on you, let alone given you such a reaction. Before, you’d repeatedly remind him of your support and help. But it always ends the same way, pushing you away. After what happened, this will be the last time you’d do this for him.

You were once told that you can’t help someone if they aren’t reaching out for help. And this was a bitter example of it. Your efforts in having Satoru lean on you bore nothing. What’s the point in continuing this if nothing changes after multiple attempts?

You were tired, drained, and indifferent. Your tears keep falling as you enter your dorm, not even stopping as the sound of nature lulls you to sleep.

You let two days pass to let Satoru calm down and give him space. No interactions or anything to pass some time. You would try to contact him for the next four days after that. But your texts were left unanswered and on read. When you tried calling, your call went straight to voicemail. He blocked your phone number, too.

The weight of your doubts and Satoru’s words the other day are fueling your impulsivity. If Satoru called you weak and dead weight, other sorcerers would think so, too. If you become a thorn in their side, you’re doing them a favor by pulling yourself out for them. Even if Satoru didn’t mean it, you knew there was some truth to it because he kept his infinity up. You could never forget how his blue eyes lit through his pitch-dark glasses as he spoke down at you. Giving away that he was conscious and level-headed when he said those words.

You were losing the war against your intrusive mind. Your doubts and thoughts gradually solidified in your consciousness. In the course of time, they won and consumed your psyche.

If becoming a jujutsu sorcerer would get in the way of others, then being a sorcerer wasn’t for you.

With your last attempts to contact Satoru, you have made your decision. A day before Satoru departs for Europe, you decide to pay your clan head a visit. It was sudden and unannounced; nonetheless, they allowed an audience with you.

They let you speak your mind, allowing whatever you need to be released and run free without judgment. Thus, you confided in them about everything.

This was too much; all of it was too much for you to bear any longer. You couldn’t see yourself as a sorcerer any longer after dealing with what you had experienced. Every day was a battle for you, and you lost every single one. You admitted you didn’t have what’s left of you it in you to shoulder the responsibilities of the Jujutsu world. You didn’t want the life of a jujutsu sorcerer anymore. You wanted one of peace, not having to fight every day. To enjoy the rest of your days as a regular civilian.

Confiding also in missing Suguru dearly and how his departure left a hole in your heart that could never be healed. You weren’t strong enough to face the horrors and hardships anymore and wish to live a peaceful life.

Although your clan head was shocked at your confession, they were understanding and asked if this was something you truly wanted. An unwavering ‘Yes’ left you, and your clan head nodded. They gave you a choice: to go after graduation in a few weeks or leave now. If you leave now, they will deal with the rest as you finish the important schoolwork. It was just a waiting game with missions sprinkled throughout.

You could wait before leaving, but that’s wasting time. If you weren’t going to continue your life here, you might as well get a headstart now in your new one. You finalize your decision with the head. They said they would have some members pick up your stuff from your dorms tomorrow morning, but you said it wouldn’t be much. As you took your leave, you told them you would keep in touch with the clan.

“What are your plans for what happens next, (Y/N)?” They curiously asked with your back facing them.

“Hmm, I don’t know exactly. But I have an idea, (Clan Head’s Name). Thank you for everything that you’ve done.”

With a reassuring voice, you turn to respectfully bow before leaving their room. Though they never said it out loud, they saw how your eyes were soft, like tremendous pressure was relieved from your body.

Thinking about it as you leave the estate, you never mentioned your fight with Satoru. Though it wouldn’t change anything. That night, you packed your dorm in your suitcase. Only leave your bedsheets, a pillow, and a few desk appliances behind. Your closet and drawers were empty of any clothes you had. By 10 a.m. tomorrow, any trace left of you would be gone. As you write a letter to whoever finds it about your whereabouts, your thoughts return to Suguru. To playfully think he did the exact same thing before his defection.

You looked at your school uniform as it hung on your door. You contemplated taking it with you but decided against it. You wanted no strings left attached when you leave the world of Jujutsu Sorcery.

Morning came as you stared at the room you once called your own. The remainder of your things are packed in cardboard boxes for your clan members to get later. You glance back over to your desk as your school uniform is neatly folded on top of it. Your lips are graced with a sentimental smile as you close the door one last time.

As you walked along the campus, fleeting memories of your days here flooded your mind. You reminisced on the areas and places you spent your youth with your friends and classmates. Now you’re leaving Jujutsu Tech and the Jujutsu World forever. Never to come back. You get to the main entrance of the school.

Before taking another step, you sensed someone behind you.

“So you're leaving, too, (Y/N)?”

It was Shoko.

“Yeah. . . Shoko. I’m going. . .”

She blows out a large smoke cloud from her cigarette, giving you a blank look before sending you a smile.

“At least say goodbye to me. . .I don’t blame you for going. . .” Shoko adds as she holds out her arms. You chuckle at her gesture and give her a hug. By the slight firm grip you felt, she didn’t want you to go, but she couldn’t stop you either.

Once you break away from the hug, you remember something and fish out a folded paper in your bag. You handed it to Shoko, and she eyed it curiously.

“I was going to leave it in my dorm for someone to find, but I thought it would work better if I gave this to you if I ran into it on my way out. My clan is sending members to get the last of my things, so I won’t return to my dorm. Sorry I had to make you the messenger again, Shoko.” You bittersweetly said.

You find it ironic that your departure is similar to Suguru’s. Shoko is the first to see you two go while giving her a letter for the others to read. You laugh as you think this over.

Oh, how history repeats itself.

Shoko tucks away your letter before taking a drag from her smoke.

“Does he know about this?”

You knew she was referring to Satoru. You shook your head no, still have a small smile.

“No, unfortunately. Satoru and I got into a arg– disagreement a few days ago. I don’t know if he’s okay with me to begin with, as cowardly to say. The only ones that know are you and my clan head.”

She hums at your response before going for another drag.

“Your phone number still the same?”

“I don’t really plan on changing my phone number. Even if I do, I’ll text you the new number so you can give it to the others.”

“I see. . .See you around, (Y/N). Keep in touch, will ya?”

“I will. I’ll see you around then. Bye, Shoko.”

Giving Shoko one last hug, you wave goodbye as you leave Jujutsu’s High entrance, disappearing from view. Not daring to look back because regret might come if you did.

Shoko watches from afar, her cigarette being halfway done. She takes one last puff before extinguishing it with the bottom of her shoe. She looks at your letter. The paper was crisp with no wrinkles like it had been fresh from the printer. From this, Shoko knew you had written it recently, no hesitation evident on the page itself. Unlike Suguru’s, her fingers tighten on your letter as she sighs while entering the school.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

“What brings you here? He’s a busy man.”

“I’m just an old acquaintance of his. Just a simple chat. It won’t take long, I promise.”

The pretty attendant raises a brow at you as she guides you to one of the rooms. She looks you up and down before facing forward again.

“You have a substantial amount of curse energy. You have a curse technique then; aren’t you a jujutsu sorcerer?”

“I…used to be…but not anymore…I chose to leave that life. I’m just a civilian that has a curse technique.”

You see the attendant smile out of the corner of your eye at your answer.

“I see. Geto-sama will be happy to take audience with you then.”

You shouldn’t be here. You knew that. Walking in taboo territory could get you hunted down by the very society you were born into. It’s not a secret of Suguru’s position as both a curse user and a cult leader. You remember hearing about him reforming a cult that worshiped Tengan but dissolved after the incident. You found it interesting he hasn’t done collateral damage yet. No incidents or missions revolving around curses terrorizing civilians. Perhaps he was going for something on a larger scale, you thought.

But you missed Suguru dearly. Not in a sentimental reminiscing way. More as in yearning for him entirely. Everyone tells you it’s not the same with Suguru gone, obviously. Yeah, but Suguru plagued your mind after his defection. You want nothing more than to see him again. Yes, things couldn’t go back to the way they were. But you didn’t like the prospects of what your future would hold if you stayed.

You disagreed with Suguru ridding the world of non-sorcerers. But you also understand and agree the current Jujutsu system is a dumpster fire that will never work. At the end of the day, only those the higher-ups favor will get to stay while the rest are sent off to die. You didn’t want to take part in that. You valued your life to know it shouldn’t be tossed around so easily by some dementia geezers who can’t even fight. And yet, you felt a tinge of regret for not staying to fix or break the system. Your only option was to leave and not involve yourself anymore.

The attendant takes you to the room, saying he will arrive shortly. Leaving you alone, you felt your heart race. You hope Suguru doesn’t kill you because he can sense your curse energy. Yet his letter was heartfelt and raw. His apology and the paragraphs after them were for you and you alone, like a confession. Even though you ripped the letter, you keep the two halves. Strangely enough, there was an address and a few words at the bottom of the page.

‘You know where to find me.’

Here you are, waiting for him with the same letter he sent. As you wait, you can feel his energy get closer. You stare down, kneeling, the letter shaking like a leaf in your hands.

Then the door opens.

You let out a small gasp, not daring to look up as the footsteps approach his seat. A soft chuckle fills the room as you keep your head low.

“I thought I was mistaken when I felt your curse energy. But I now know my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me. Please, lift your head so I can see you (Y/N).”

Your gaze meets Suguru’s soft eyes and warm smile. Both genuine and kind. His eyes widen before returning back to soft when he sees the tears trickling down for your lovely eyes he could get lost in. You stumble to stand, practically pouncing at Suguru. His embrace was like gates opening for you and closing once you entered. You softly sob into his robes as he holds you tightly. Comforting you by gently rubbing your back and hair, giving a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“I missed you so much, Suguru!” was all you said before you continued to sniffle and hiccup into him.

Suguru hums as he pulls away to better view your face. You felt self-conscious as he lovingly gazed at you. Your nose and cheeks were raw from crying, and your eyes became an irritated red. Suguru smiles, wiping away your endless tears with his thumb.

“Oh, (Y/N). I’m sorry for leaving you behind. You understand, don’t you? From my letter?”

You nodded to respond. Holding the paper in front of Suguru. He notices the tear stains and ink smudges from the words he wrote down.

“I would’ve told you in person, (Y/N). Believe me. But I couldn't once they announced my charges. You would’ve been questioned as a possible accomplice. I didn’t want that for you. Do you know what it means for you to see me now?”

“Yes, I’m aware. But I left of my own accord; it wasn’t just for you, Suguru. I wouldn’t be able to last long if I stayed. So I decided to go, leaving it behind, all of it.”

He was a bit puzzled by what you meant. But it didn’t take long for him to piece it himself. Suguru figured something happened between you and Satoru but decided to stay silent out of respect. You both stare with relief and tenderness. Suguru gingerly takes your hand and places a light kiss on your knuckles. You set your unoccupied hand on his cheek, quietly giggling as Suguru leans into your delicate touch. He sighed in contentment. Bring your hand up again to kiss it as he wraps his free arm around your waist. His sincere smile radiates down onto you.

“I guess we have some catching up to do then, (Y/N).”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Satoru was in a better mood today than before.

Satoru cooled off his head after a couple of days from when he made that outburst at you. He was stressed and tired of being continuously sent out on missions, and you did make a point that he hasn’t taken a break in months. He remembered what he said to you that evening, which made him feel guilty.

He knows he hasn’t been around because the higher-ups have sent him out like a work dog. It was now you and Shoko with him. The stabilization you two had on him once Suguru left.

You’ve been only trying to help him for a long time. Being there for him in your own way while coaxing him to hang out. Yet he took it for granted and said some vile things because his bucket decided to overflow then out of all the times it shouldn’t. You didn’t deserve that. You also didn’t deserve the silent treatment he gave you. He saw your text messages and listened to the voicemails you left. He did not answer because he was too prideful and stubborn to admit he was stressed and hurt you like that.

But sitting with his emotions and reflecting on how stupid he is for prioritizing his ego, he decided to cut down his pride and make it up to you. He unblocked your number and was going to call you. But he chose to just surprise you instead he chickened out. Satoru knew the European mission was a nuisance to his plans, so he had already taken care of it. By that, Satoru somehow teleported himself to where he needed to be in Europe, slayed the high-level curses, retrieved some curse objects, reported what he did, and teleported back to Japan in four hours.

He did all this at the last minute on the sixth day before Satoru was supposed to leave. He did this to stay and spend the whole week with you, make up for lost time, and give a proper apology.

Now, Satoru was strolling through Jujutsu Tech. He whistles as he holds a bouquet of (favorite flowers), a box with a (favorite color) bracelet with (favorite designs/charms), and a bag of mochi and daifuku for you two to share together. He walks around the grounds, trying to search you. He was told no classes today, so he went to your favorite spots. You weren’t anywhere.

‘Huh, that’s strange. (Y/N) would usually be in those places when class is not in session. I wonder where she could be.’

Satoru thought about dropping by your dorm but figured you were with Shoko. On the other hand, he couldn’t sense Shoko around either until Satoru felt it alongside Yaga-sensei. He sensed them in Yaga’s building, so he headed there.

Blissfully unaware of what would await him.

Satoru clutches your gifts to one side as he opens the door to enter. His six eyes hadn’t kicked in yet, but something in the air felt off. His sun smile hasn’t dropped yet as he scans around, wondering why the two were quiet when he entered.

“Yo, Yaga-sensei, Shoko! I’ve been trying to look for you guys. By any chance know where (Y/N) is so I can give these to her?”

He looks at his teacher, and Satoru’s demeanor instantly changes. There, Yaga stood with his glasses off, clutching a piece of paper with a stern frown. Satoru turns to Shoko, a somber expression replacing her lighthearted one. Satoru just looked back and forth between the two before his eyes settled on the paper in his teacher’s hand. Satoru stands stunned, hearing his heartbeat in his ears grow louder and louder. The air from his lungs disappeared as realization dawned on him.

Satoru clenched his teeth as he teleported to your dorm room, the clap resonating throughout the hall. He burst open your dorm door, and to his horror, your room was empty. The room was stripped of everything that made it yours. The closet and drawers were emptied, and your desk and bed were bare of anything from you. What used to be your dorm is now an empty dorm room, ready for the next person to claim it. He frantically looks around in hopes of finding any reminds of you.

Then, he spotted your old Jujutsu High uniform, laying neatly on top of your old desk. Satoru just stares, not daring to pick it up. Because if he did, he would’ve broken down. He can’t stay there anymore, to which he teleports back. He bears his pearly white teeth as he closes in on his teacher.

“Where the hell is (Y/N)?” Satoru lowly said.

“Gone, Satoru–”

“I know she’s gone! But where?! Why the hell is all her stuff gone?! Her room is completely empty!”

“Satoru,” Yaga tried calmly speaking, but he was clearly frustrated. “I know this is so sudden. But the (L/N)’s clan head said something came up with (Y/N), and they retrieved all her things. Her clan said they were going to deal with everything else.”

Satoru's breathing became staggered. He could hear it growing louder. He tried his best not to let his voice crack, but that made him angrier.

“Everything else? The hell does that mean, sensei? Why would the (L/N) clan withdraw (Y/N) from school?! School ends in a few weeks! She could have graduated with us!”

“It…wasn’t their decision, Satoru…It was (Y/N)’s…”

Suddenly, Satoru became flabbergasted. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This gotta be some twisted, cruel joke that was playing on him. His curse energy was flaring up, and his cerulean eyes lit lightly. The flowers from the bouquet were losing their petals, and his bag full of treats was getting smushed from his intense grip.

“What…?”

“The clan head said it themselves.”

“No…”

“She decided not to be a Jujutsu Sorcerer and leave Jujutsu society.”

“LIKE HELL SHE WOULD!!!” Just like that, everything came crashing down for Satoru. Not being in your usual spots on campus, the empty dorm; hell, he noticed your curse residuals becoming faint. The traces of them becoming weaker and weaker. Your presence here in Jujutsu High was fading faster than he could notice. The anger he built up showed itself as it was on full display. Honestly, Yaga and Shoko don’t blame him for his outburst. Satoru held you close, after all.

“Satoru, please.” Yaga pinches the bridge of his nose as he clenches his teeth. “I’m just as lost as you are. This came out of the blue…Her clan confirmed it, and she said it herself.”

Satoru slightly flinches when Yaga holds the paper out towards him. Gesturing for Satoru to take it.

“I didn’t read far into this because it felt like (Y/N) wanted someone else to read it.”

Satoru’s long fingers snatched the paper out of his teacher’s hands. His hands shake as he opens the paper up to see its contents.

It was a letter–from you.

His eyes slowly followed the words of your neatly written goodbye. His heart rips itself piece by piece as he continues reading. The guilt and shaming grew. He could feel the fatigue and jadedness from your thoughts. But the last paragraph makes Satoru’s heart hurt the worst. Your frustration was transformed into desperation for a new life, a fresh start. Away from the endless curses and scrutiny of the higher-ups, away from the pain and hopelessness, away from it all. You didn’t want to throw your life away. You just wanted to live. Then, you end the letter with an apology. Saying sorry because you couldn’t tell them your honest thoughts, for not facing them in your departure, for not trying hard enough for everyone when it was needed. Then, the last line of your apology made Satoru’s blood run cold.

‘Most of all, I’m sorry for being weak.’

He knew that line was for him 100 percent. You wouldn’t have written it down if he didn’t tell you. To Satoru, you weren’t supposed to be the one apologizing. It should be him. He was the one who yelled at you and said those cruel and discouraging things to you. The one who pushed you away and didn’t allow you a chance to help. Fuck, he had the audacity to use his infinity against you. How dare he do that to you, his best friend the girl he fell in love with. His teeth clenched so hard out of pure anger they could crack. The anger he felt for himself was tremendous. He was angry at Suguru, the higher-ups, and Jujutsu Society. Angry at himself for being so stubborn and prideful, for waiting too long to act and apologize. But above all else, he was angry at what had become of the situation. Fully knowing he could do nothing to change anything as already was set in stone.

If he hadn’t been so prideful, he would’ve apologized to you sooner. If he didn’t blow up at you, you wouldn't become broken and hurt. If only he didn’t push you away, maybe you would have stayed– stayed by his side. But ‘if onlys’ are regrets from the past of the current reality. Now, he is living in it with the consequences of his own actions.

This is the price Satoru had to pay. He lost the only remnant that got him through this world by pushing you away. He lost his only two best friends in the world with no way of fixing it.

The price of becoming the strongest came at the expense of two of his most dearest friends.

Suguru was gone.

You were gone.

Forever with no signs of ever coming back to him.

In the end, Satoru Gojo was, truly, alone.

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butcherlarry · 7 months

Note

you’re doing important work with your recs and i admire you greatly 🫡 i will ask tho if you have any good superbat recs that feature pining (can be mutual or not), angst, enemies to friends to lovers, past relationships, or slow burn?

Let's see what I can dig up for you anon :)

slow dancing in the dark by scarletazure - for your pining request, this was the first fic that came to mind for me. Also a bit a of a slow burn too! Bruce and Clark get temporary amnesia, bone, get their memories back, and then deal with FEELINGS. I remember reading an update to this fic after a 11+ hour car drive home. It was a balm to my SOUL.

Rumor Has It by rotasha - Friends to lovers and pining! Bruce comes out as bi and Clark has to deal with this, especially since he's been pining for Bruce for a while

how to perform an exorcism (five easy steps!) by soetry - Clark confesses his love to Bruce. This obviously means that Clark is possessed.

find someone who will stand between your legs by amosanguis - Pining and a bit of slow burn. Also idiots in love, which I consider a subsect of friends to lovers. Ten incidents where Clark had to stand in between Bruce's legs

over this threshold by orphean - Bruce and Clark get married for tax reasons. Shenanigans ensue :)

The Odyssey of Bryce Wayne series by Tatsumaki_sama - This has a bit of everything, pining, friends to lovers, past relationships, getting back together, slow (ish) burn. With the added bonus of a gender bent Bruce!

push the sky away by bleakmidwinter - Pining and a bit of slow burn, friends to lovers. Batman and Superman come to an agreement to cuddle a certain times to get over some touch starvation :) :) :)

Wham Bam Shang-A-Lang by ShowMeAHero - Pining, slow burn, and not quite enemies to lovers, but more of a grumpy black cat learns to befriend a cheerful golden retriever. No capes AU, Bruce and Clark are university professors.

The Xenomorality Hypothesis, Revisited by MaskoftheRay - Enemies to lovers, a bit of a slow burn too. A canon divergency of Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice.

Love, Conquering by MaskoftheRay - A Krypton survives AU, but Krypton conquers Earth! Some enemies to friends to lovers and bit of a slow burn.

a song came after by susiecarter - The aftermath of Bruce being trapped in a machine where he had a relationship with Clark. So much pining! Especially on Bruce's end!

the cost of being a good dad by Mawiiish - Slow burn! With a side of identity porn and misunderstandings! Bruce's kids thinks he needs to start dating, so they set him up on a date with a hot reporter named Clark without his knowledge. Despite this, Bruce and Clark decide to give this dating thing a shot. Shenanigans (and feelings) ensue.

Happy reading!

#asks #superbat #superman #batman #bruce wayne #clark kent #fic recs #fic rec list #fanfic recs #OH SHIT I MISSED THE WHOLE ANGST THING #but don't worry! there is plenty of angst to be had in most (if not all) of these fics :)

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asdfghjklmals · 1 year

Text

TO BE PRESENT✩༶‧˚

GENRE + T/W: sfw, angst. hurt and comfort. WORD COUNT: 4.6k words. TAGS: satoru gojo x fem!oc. boyfriend!gojo. stsg break up.

SYNOPSIS: suguru geto is sentenced to death by the jujutsu society, and oc gojo girlfriend is left to pick up the broken pieces of satoru gojo's heart, but will she be enough? AUTHOR'S NOTE: lots of dialogue from the actual anime/manga. i tried to shorten the dialogue and add lots of emotion and descriptions. in the manga, gojo actually finds megumi and tsumiki after suguru leaves, but in this au, we found the kids first. the vibe is the song ‘no good’ by dvsn. REMINDER: if you want to imagine yourself in oc gojo girlfriend's character descriptions instead, please do!

suguru geto was the balance to satoru gojo. the yin to his yang. they were vital to each other, mutually complementing each other, needing each other to coexist. there was the calm and rational suguru, and there was the bold and rash satoru. their bond so strong that together, they were known as the strongest.

when you joined the school less than a year ago, it was always 'sashisu'. satoru gojo, shoko ieri, and suguru geto were the three musketeers. they were inseparable. they welcomed you into their little trio with loving arms (it took awhile for satoru, but we're here now).

when you first met suguru, you thought he was the nicest human being you had ever met. you questioned how such a gentle and caring man could be bestfriends with someone like the insolent satoru gojo.

suguru had been acting strange a couple weeks after the incident with toji fushiguro. he looked tired, worn out. almost dissatisfied with how things were going. he questioned himself as if he was going to be left behind in terms of strength and growth as a sorcerer. satoru’s powers were increasing by the day, and if satoru was getting stronger, so were the curses that they had to exorcise. this was draining for suguru, absorbing curses wasn't the most appetizing thing, and it was tiresome to him.

the day that yaga-sensei had brought satoru into his office for a chat was the day you and shoko eavesdropped from outside his office to find out more information about your absent friend. suguru geto had gone missing after his mission in a small village outside of tokyo. the jujutsu society had sent their team to investigate.

“what?” satoru gasped. he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“don’t make me repeat myself, satoru… suguru fled after killing everyone in the village.” yaga-sensei buried his face in his hands. he started to massage his temple.

“i heard you, sensei.” satoru sighed in disbelief. there was no way suguru would do that, he knew his bestfriend. at least, he thought he did.

“his parents’ home is vacant as well. however, from the blood stains and residuals… it seems like he might have killed his family.”

yaga-sensei and satoru had no idea what to think. they were also at a loss for words.

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

suguru’s vile act alone would deem him as a curse user and a death sentence was the punishment from the jujutsu society. he was now the enemy. satoru couldn’t believe it, he didn't want to. he slammed his dorm room door shut after he heard the news, leaving you and shoko alone to deal with the aftermath. you had never seen satoru like this since you joined jujutsu high. (a/n: it’s actually a death sentence that’s the punishment, oops!)

“shoko, i—” you were going to start word vomiting out of nervousness.

“(y/n), it’s okay. you don’t have to say anything.” the medical student put her hand on your shoulder. you pulled her in for a hug. you could hear her sigh. she was the bridge between satoru and suguru.

throughout the years of being their friend, shoko ieri was the middle ground, the center, the happy medium. whenever satoru and suguru fought, she was the mediator. whenever they experienced the best of times together, she got to bare witness and experience it with them too. you could say that shoko ieri was the glue to satoru gojo and suguru geto.

“i know where to find suguru. let’s go meet him.” shoko motioned quietly to you.

“should we let satoru know?” you questioned her. you worried about your boyfriend, would he be okay being left alone? should you go to his side to comfort him instead?

“no, let him brood for a bit. he might bite you if you try to open his door.” she teased.

shinjuku, japan

“how did you know he would be here in shinjuku?” you asked shoko, you both watched as suguru walked towards you both. she just smiled before calling out to him.

“need a light?” she asked the banished sorcerer, holding up her lighter.

“hey you two,” he greeted the both of you as if he didn’t commit mass murder two days ago.

“well, well, well, if it isn’t the culprit himself. are all the accusations about you true?” she interrogated him nonchalantly while lighting a cigarette for him.

“i’m afraid they are. shoko, (y/n), i'm going to create a world of only jujutsu sorcerers. and i don’t need everyone to understand that.”

“sulking because no one understands you… sounds childish if you ask me.” shoko took out her phone and dialed a number, “hey, gojo? geto’s here. yeah, me and (y/n) are in shinjuku.” she hung up the phone and turned to you.

“come on, (y/n), we don’t want to get caught in this crossfire.” she took your hand and started to lead you away from suguru.

“hold on,” you let go of her hand and turned to walk back to suguru.

his face full of surprise, “(y/n), what’s on your mind? i’m surprised you’re not with satoru right now.”

he scratched the back of his head with a smile. he knew that satoru relied on you for comfort and solace. you and satoru we’re always with each other. if satoru wasn’t with suguru, he was most likely with you.

“uhm, i—” you stumbled over your words, “i wanted to thank you, uh, for being so nice to me when i joined jujutsu high. you always had my back during our missions together, and you made sure i was okay... you even defended me when satoru was being a jerk to me when i first started at the school. thank you for being his bestfriend. i’m sorry things turned out this way, suguru.” you reached towards him to hug him. this would most likely be the last time you would see him.

suguru hugged you back. you two were still friends after all. you felt a strong, but familiar cursed energy, it gave you the chills. you let go of suguru and patted his chest, giving him a soft smile. you turned to walk away as you saw the face of your distraught boyfriend looking at you.

you looked into his eyes, he wasn’t wearing his typical circular black sunglasses. his eyes were solemn and dull, the opposite from his standard blazing bright blue. his white hair wisped just below his lashes. he didn’t say a word to you, even though you could feel his all emotions wanting to explode from him. you reached for satoru’s hand and gave him a soft, encouraging squeeze. he swallowed as you patted his shoulder and you walked away with shoko. you knew that this was between satoru and suguru, and no one else.

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

“suguru. explain yourself.” satoru called out to his bestfriend.

“you already heard, didn’t you? that’s all there is to it.” suguru said in a very cordial manner.

“that’s all you needed to convince yourself to kill non-sorcerers and your parents?!” satoru couldn’t believe what he was hearing, couldn't fathom what was coming out of suguru’s mouth.

“it wouldn’t be fair if i made an exception for my parents. besides, my family now consists of more than just them.” suguru had thought about the twin girls he had saved from the village. they were the ones he wanted to protect now.

“that’s not what i’m talking about. you were the one who said pointless killing is useless.” satoru was losing his cool. what had happen to his reasonable bestfriend?

“killing all non-sorcerers to make a world of only sorcerers is impossible.” satoru argued.

“you could do it, satoru. you’re trying to convince me that it’s impossible when you yourself could do it if you wanted to.” suguru believed that his goal of making a world of only jujutsu sorcerers was something he could make happen, which is why he was willing to give up everything to do it.

satoru’s eyes widened. what in the world was suguru talking about?

“are you the strongest because you’re satoru gojo? or are you satoru gojo because you’re the strongest?”

“what the hell are you trying to say?!” satoru shouted in frustration. he still wasn't understanding.

“if i could be you, wouldn’t my impossible ideals become possible? this is the life i’ve chosen, all i can do now is give it all i’ve got. if you want to kill me, kill me. there would be meaning in that too.” suguru turned away to start his journey, without satoru by his side.

and that’s where satoru gojo had to make the decision between killing his bestfriend or letting the curse user walk freely. satoru held out his right hand, slowly connecting his thumb and his middle finger. he’d never successfully used this cursed technique before, it was one of the strongest moves in the gojo clan that only a few clan members knew about. hollow purple.

he couldn’t bring himself to do it. he curled his fist and retreated his hand in defeat as he watched as suguru walked away from him in pursuit of his own goals in life. even if that meant that they wouldn’t be present in each other’s anymore.

tokyo jujutsu high

again, you and shoko stood behind the school's front entrance where satoru and yaga-sensei were talking, listening in on their conversation after satoru had returned from shinjuku.

“why did you let him go?” yaga-sensei asked as satoru grumbled on the cold concrete steps of tokyo jujutsu high school.

“are you really asking me that?” satoru couldn’t tell him that he didn't have the guts to kill his bestfriend.

“no, you’re right. i’m sorry.” he apologized. he knew it would be hard for satoru to cope. suguru was his bestfriend after all, his one and only.

“sensei... i’m strong, right?” he asked his teacher.

“yes, you are. in the impudence department too.” yaga-sensei bantered with him.

“it seems like just me being strong isn’t enough. i can only save those who want to be saved.” satoru said while looking out into the distance. he was tired of being the one who had to do all the saving. he wished he could ask for help. he didn't want to be alone anymore.

later that night

you made sure that megumi and tsumiki were sleeping soundly before you left your dorm room to return to satoru's. it had been three months since satoru brought them home to you, and two weeks since suguru had left the school.

things between you and satoru had felt strained due to the lack of communication. however, he never failed to show you affection in a hug or a kiss, or even just by holding hands. you felt the tension climbing, distance between you both growing. even though you slept next to him in his bed every night, it still felt cold. the warmth from the love you two shared had started to die down.

you understood that suguru meant the world to satoru. he was important to him, he loved him. one of your very first conversations as a couple was about the people he cared about in his life, he mentioned shoko and suguru's name. that was also the night he told you that you were one of them too. someone that he cared about.

"can't sleep?" satoru softly asked. your tossing and turning must have kept him awake.

"i'm worried about you." you knew he was going to deflect in 3... 2... 1—

"well, you don't have to worry about me, babe. i'm fine." satoru downplayed his emotions and you hated it.

"you are not fine, satoru." you argued as you stared at the popcorn ceiling above you.

you could feel his eyes studying you, he shifted his body to face you. "whoa, what's with the government name and attitude?" he joked.

"now's not the time for jokes. i'm being serious. we need to talk." you sat up in his bed abruptly.

he could hear in your tone that something was upsetting you. "what's wrong, (y/n)?"

"everything…” you whispered quietly.

tears started to form in your eyes. satoru sat up in his bed, the tone of your voice alarmed him. his heart started to race as he felt an uncertain feeling in his chest. was this fear he was feeling?

"you aren't okay and you won't admit it. it's distracting you from being present. you missed tsumiki's dance recital at school, you forgot to pick up the kids two days ago, and you aren't all there when we spar at jujutsu practice. i've never been able to land any of my cursed techniques on you before, and you got hurt because of that."

satoru had been so absentminded and distracted that you caught him off guard with his infinity off, your ice shard grazed his arm during the spar. you had to heal him with your reversed cursed energy that day.

"and what hurts the most is that i can feel you shutting me out every time i try to talk to you. i'm supposed to be your partner in life, satoru. i don't want you to push me away. if you’re not okay, i’m not okay.” you expressed as tears streamed down your face.

satoru didn't have any words to say, no excuses to come up with. he acknowledged that you tried to talk to him multiple times since suguru had left, but he didn't want to add more to your plate. you were taking care of the kids, taking on missions alone, all while trying to keep up with your studies to make sure you made it to graduation. he didn't want to burden you any more with his ridiculous bestfriend drama.

"i'm not allowed to be sad or weak. i have to be strong, (y/n). i don't have time to be caught up in my emotions." satoru said. you swear you heard his voice waver even though he was trying to 'be strong'.

"just because people call you the strongest, you think you can’t be sad or weak? satoru, that doesn't mean you can't confide in me. i promised you that i would be there for you. for whatever you need." you wiped your tears.

"satoru..."

"yeah, baby?"

"do you love me?"

"of course i do. i love you so much." satoru replied quietly.

"then can you just tell me what you're feeling right now?" you asked through your quivering voice.

and for the first time in 18 years, satoru gojo did not have any words to say. not a joke. no innappropriate comment. not a speck of sarcasm. nothing. he couldn't tell you how he felt, as much as he wanted to scream and shout and tell you how he was hurting and that he didn't want to be alone. the little voice in the back of his head told him not to, that he didn't deserve to.

you have had enough tonight. you got up from your side of the bed and put on your jujutsu high robe, "i think i should go check up on the kids." tears still streaming down your cheek as you quickly brushed them away. satoru couldn't even watch you leave his room. he knew that once you left his room tonight, you wouldn’t be coming back to it. the door shut behind you and he felt his heart breaking more.

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

you opened the door to your room quietly, trying not wake up the kids, but megumi was a light sleeper. he woke up instantly and looked at you. tsumiki was a heavy sleeper and nothing could wake her up. you sniffled and collected yourself. you didn’t want him to know you were crying.

“(y/n), did you and gojo-sensei fight?” megumi rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand to wake himself up. he shifted his body over to make room for you on your king sized bed.

"that obvious, huh?" you scoffed.

you thanked god that megumi and tsumiki were still tiny and that three people could fit on your bed or you'd be sleeping with shoko right now. you laid down next to megumi and got under the covers. he was the most observant 5 year old ever. megumi was intelligent, calculated, and strong. gojo had a blast training with him. you both knew he was going to be an amazing sorcerer when he grows up.

“there are just some things that we aren’t agreeing on right now, megumi.” you patted his head, his blue hair slipping through your fingers.

“i think he just needs some time alone to think. he's been busy.” the child spoke on behalf of satoru.

“busy enough that he forgot to pick you guys up from school?” you were so angry with him for that. it was his job to pick them up that day because you were on a mission.

“it’s okay, we just called nanami to pick us up.” megumi tried defending him with his own little peculiar statement. you never thought you’d see the day megumi would be defending satoru.

“it’s not okay, megumi. i want him to be there for you and tsumiki. like we promised. i want him to be present.”

the next morning

the next morning was awkward and the air was still filled with tension. satoru always accompanied you to get the kids ready for school. he knocked on your dorm door to find you doing tsumiki’s hair while megumi was sitting patiently, waiting for you two to finish.

“oh… you guys got started already.” he said, trying to hide the hurt. he felt a little betrayed as this was supposed to be your morning routine together.

“here, you finish putting the clips in her hair.” you gave him the jar full of different colored butterfly clips and got up to retreat to your bathroom so you could finish getting ready.

satoru sighed and looked at tsumiki and megumi. they were awfully quiet this morning, their usual selves would be chirping back and forth at each other. laughter was always present in your morning routine, but not today.

“she’s still mad at me, huh?” satoru asked the children.

tsumiki smiled awkwardly at him and nodded while megumi snapped at him, “just tell her how you feel, idiot.”

“whoa, what’s with the attitude, megumi?” satoru asked, he was surprised with the 5 year old’s tone.

“i just don’t like seeing (y/n) cry.” satoru knew that you were megumi's favorite guardian, in fact, everyone knew.

“yeah? me either, kiddo.” satoru frowned. he attached two pink butterfly clips in tsumiki’s hair. he heard you shuffling through your bathroom drawers, afraid to turn around to face you once you exited the bathroom.

he took a deep breath and looked over at you. he could see through your makeup that your eyes were still swollen from crying last night, skin glowing from the flushed cheeks. god, how could you still look so beautiful after crying?

“ready for breakfast?” you asked your unconventional family. tsumiki smiled and nodded, trying her best to brighten up the room. megumi grabbed your hand to hold (and comfort) as he led the way to the dining hall. satoru felt envious that it wasn’t him holding your hand instead. but what could he do?

later that afternoon

after you dropped the kids off at school, you and satoru walked back through the jujutsu high courtyard. the cobblestone walkway felt cold and the surrounding trees felt like they were about to swallow the both of you into a dark abyss. the only thing you could hear was the wind and your soft footsteps.

you and satoru didn’t hold hands. you didn’t even link your arm through his like you usually did. and he sure felt the bitterness from you today. you walked side by side together. the silence was deafening until you broke it.

“satoru… i’m going to take megumi and tsumiki back with me to my clan’s estate for the semester break… and i don’t think i want you to come with us. i’ll tell touya you’re going to see your family instead.” you held back your tears. satoru stopped in his tracks, you were two steps ahead of him.

“but baby, i—” he began to say.

you turned around to face him, “ever since suguru left, you’ve changed. you’ve been distant, you avoid every conversation i try to have with you. and you’re the type of person who always tries to talk things out right away… even though you know i'm usually the one that needs time. so now, i’m giving you the time you need so you can decide what you want to do with your life and where your priorities lie…”

“that’s not fair, (y/n).” satoru snapped at you. how could you take the kids and leave him alone?

“what’s not fair to you?!” you lashed back at him. you saw the defeated and distraught look in his face and it crushed you. it was the same expression he had when he spoke with suguru in shinjuku.

“just—don’t. don’t start crying again.” he mumbled. it was always game over for him when you started crying. seeing you cry was one of the worst feelings next to his favorite kikufuku stand running out of his favorite flavor. it was too late, the tears started to flow again.

satoru took a step closer towards you, testing out the waters on if you would let him approach you or if you would push him away. once he didn’t sense any resistance from you, he pulled you into his arms, hugging you so tightly you couldn’t breathe. he didn't want to let go. everyone knew that you couldn’t be without each other, so why was he feeling like you were leaving him behind, just like suguru did?

when he finally loosened his arms around you, you gently caressed his cheek with your left hand. satoru had finally felt your warmth again. he melted into your hand and closed his eyes. you could see a layer of tears forming on his white lashes.

you kissed his cheek and softly said, “take the time you need to figure things out during the semester break. me and the kids will be here when you get back. i promise.”

two weeks later

satoru had spent two weeks with his own clan during the semester break. it was refreshing for him to speak with his clan elders to get a little insight on what he could work on next, he spent time perfecting his techniques, and just finally relaxed for once. during this time to himself, he was able to combine blue and red to perform a successful hollow purple. he even mastered his long distance teleportation. there was one person who he couldn't wait to tell about his success, it was you.

although he was busy training and enjoying the time with his own clan, he spent a lot of time thinking about suguru's betrayal and how to be present for the kids like you had asked him to. but there was one thing person that wouldn’t leave his mind, it was you.

after a couple days of brooding, satoru came to the conclusion that he would never get over suguru's actions, but he knew that he wanted to be better than suguru. he was going to become a teacher at jujutsu high as soon as his third year was over, and he was going to raise strong and intelligent allies. with no hesitation, he knew who his first ally would be, it was you.

satoru still felt like he was missing something someone in his life, even though he was surrounded by his clan. you, megumi, and tsumiki were 6 hours away in osaka with your clan, but satoru still felt like his heart was 247 miles away (the distance between osaka and tokyo). he knew what his heart was missing, it was you.

satoru gojo didn’t care for many things in life. he kept his circle small, his family was very prominent but low key, and he was pretty private about his own life. he didn’t care about protecting anyone until he met you, (y/n) from the osaka (l/n) clan. the most beautiful water and ice cursed technique user he had ever laid his pretty blue eyes on. satoru was never shy at telling you he loved you, but today was the day he realized just how much he did. satoru called out to his grandparents before he teleported to your clan's estate, "gramps, grams, i'm heading out to (y/n)'s. we'll see you at the next semester break. and we'll bring tsumiki and megumi to meet everyone too!"

satoru gojo knew who he wanted to see, and it was you.

osaka, japan

"(y/n)!" tsumiki cried out for you frantically.

you rushed out of your family's minka to see what the 6 year old was shrieking about. your heart skipped a beat to see a white-haired, blue-eyed sorcerer holding her in his arms as she was hugging him tightly. tsumiki had the biggest smile on her face. she had missed her partner in crime these past two weeks... you and her both.

"(y/n), it's gojo-sensei! he came to see us!" she waved towards you, signaling that satoru was there and for you to come over quickly. satoru was actually here. he was present.

your brother looked at you and smiled, "it looks like someone missed you, sis." he patted your shoulder before standing up from the steps of the minka, "i'll have the housekeepers get a spare room ready for him."

you smiled at your brother as he left your side. you stood on the steps of your family estate. your hand perched on your hip, a laugh breaking through to show your pearly whites, hiding your eyes with your cheeky smile. it had been awhile since satoru saw the smile that he loved so much.

you gave up your solid front and started walking towards satoru. he put tsumiki down and did the same. soft footsteps started to turn into a brisk walk, the brisk walk started to turn into a sprint, the sprint towards each other turned into a colliding embrace.

"what are you doing here, satoru?" you mumbled in his chest as you tried to catch your breath from your sprinting.

"i missed you, (y/n)." satoru said with his eyes closed, inhaling your scent. he missed your nectarine and honey blossom perfume that always lingered around him too.

"i missed you too."

satoru leaned down to kiss your forehead. you smiled softly as his lips trailed down to your temple and then to your cheek. you held his face with your hands and pulled him in for a kiss on his soft pink lips. he broke your kiss to look down at you. he had something he wanted to say.

"babe, the past two weeks i took a lot of time for myself to think. the one common denominator that always came to my mind was you. i'm sorry for the way i acted. i'm going to try my best to communicate with you from now on. i won't leave you in the dark anymore." satoru pledged with his heart.

"thank you, satoru." you whispered. you held him a bit tighter.

"you pinky promise?" megumi asked out of the nowhere. you and satoru looked down at the blue haired child with tsumiki by his side. you both started laughing as your intimate moment was interrupted by your adopted children. (read ‘pinky promises’ here)

satoru flashed his signature grin at megumi, "yeah, i pinky promise, kiddo."

megumi and tsumiki approached you both to join in on the family group hug. you and satoru crouched down to embrace them as you kissed the top of their heads.

satoru softly said to the kids, "from now on, i promise to be present."

DIVIDERS PROVIDED BY @/ANLIAN-AISHANG

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