#and i think that makes people find me easier

[stxrslutrestored]

party girl ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

starring; rafe cameron . sweetie!reader

synopsis; when you somehow end up in the hands of rafe cameron at a party, you find yourself trying all sorts of things that you’d never imagine yourself doing

content; use of cocaine, intox, slight coercion, dry humping, exhibitionism, taking of virginity (depending on how u view virginity), topper and kelce’s existence 

note; trying a new layout to match my new theme

“uhm… I think I’m just gonna go find my friends.” you try to excuse yourself from the conversation you’d find yourself caught up in with rafe cameron, you’d heard from many that he would be very bad news for you. 

he chuckles, “oh, nah,” he shakes his head, smirking down at you, “you don’t even know where your friends are. a girl like you shouldnt be walkin’ around all alone at a party like this, why don’t you come sit with me and my crowd huh?” 

you hesitate for a moment, the more rational side of your head thinking you definitely shouldn’t follow and alleged drug addicted psycho and possible murderer to his second location. the less rational side is thinking that you don’t want to be wondering around for ages looking for your friends, as it would be easier to just go with rafe and hope for the best. 

you eventually nod shyly, “okay, i guess..” you look down as rafe smiles and starts to lead you through the party, you follow him all the way downstairs to a corner where there are multiple chairs and couches placed around a coffee table that is scattered with cups, plastic baggies, pills and powder. 

rafe leads you to one of the couches, sitting down in what was presumably his spot before he went on the detour on which he acquired you. there isn’t any more space on the couch so you make to perch on the arm next to rafe, he smiles up at you. 

one of his friends – you recognise him as kelce – speaks up, “what’chu doin’ here sweetheart?” his voice is loud and yet barely audible over the buzz of the party around you. “didn’t think you were the type for this scene.” 

you shake your head timidly, doing your best to speak up and answer him, “rafe brought me,” you tell him, “i lost my friends.” kelce smirks, so does rafe’s other friend topper and you watch all three of the boys exchange looks you can’t tell the intention of.

you feel quite out of place as the men around you are all completely comfortable. they are loud and rowdy, all of them drinking or doing lines or both. you are drinking a pink fruity cocktail that you didn’t actually want for the alcohol and only asked for because it was cute and you could. 

you feel scared to chime into the conversations, so you end up not speaking until you’re finally spoken to. rafe turns up to you, that same wicked smirk plastered across his lips, “you ever done a line sweetheart?” he asks, voice carrying a suggestive tone. 

you immediately shake your head, “of course not. that stuff is so bad for you… i couldn’t ever destroy my body like that.” you say confidently, but then immediately realise your mistake of criticising the use of drugs, in a room full of people who do drugs, everyone is looking at you now. you smile uncomfortably, “but i don’t mind that you guys do it.. that’s.. just fine.” 

rafe chuckles, patting your shoulder, “no you’re right. shits terrible for the body,” he affirms your point, “feels too good to stop though.” he finishes, before leaning down to snort another line off the table. 

topper looks up to you, “maybe you should try some,” he suggests, “would make you understand us, not be so quick to judge.” he smiles smugly up at you. 

“i’m not sure,” you rush out, “i don’t know if my tolerance will be good enough for coke.” you try to make an excuse. rafe sits up, looking right up to you, his hand comes up to wrap around your shoulder, making it hard for you to not slip off the arm of the couch and land in his lap. 

rafe speaks, “nah it’s not that bad.” he assures, “toppers right. why don’t you try it, to expand your horizons.” 

you shake your head, “I couldn’t possibly—“ but rafe cuts you off, clearly set on his motive now. 

“just a little bit,” he smiles, holding a line on his thumb, right there for you to accept. you feel like you can’t say no. 

“I don’t know how to do it,” you inform him and he chuckles, patting his leg. with everyone watching there’s really not much you can do, so you scoot over to sit on his lap, looking around the room self consciously. 

rafe chuckles, lining his hands up under your nose, “when I say, you just sniff, okay?” he says and you nod timidly. a few seconds pass and then rafe speaks, “go.” you immediately sniff, scrunching your face up as you feel the powder go up your nose. you feel the urge to sneeze but you just about manage to hold it back.

rafe smiles, rubbing your back as the others around the table cheer just a little. it’s already starting to hit you, the high, its weird, like everything is a bit distorted, sounds muffled, faces blurred, you feel good. 

soon you’re the highest in the room, despite probably being the one on the least substance. you’re now completely comfortable in rafe’s lap, leaning against his chest and almost constantly giggling at something in passing. 

something else is happening too, you’re starting to shed, that means you are beginning to want to get more comfortable, first taking your hair down and then removing your coat, now you want to take off the tights under your dress. with no social awareness due to the fact that well, youre up in the clouds, you stand from rafe’s lap and begin to pull them down as if undressing yourself. 

“woah there,” topper laughs, “bit forward don’t you think.” he jokes, looking to kelce as they both laugh at your behaviour. rafe smiles up at you, a different look in his eyes. 

“getting hot there?” he asks and you nod, assuming he’s referring to temperature. “need somethin’ to calm you down a little bit? i think you do.” 

you frown, “like what?” 

rafe smiles and leans back on the couch, spreading his legs and patting his leg, “come here and get yourself off.” he says, it’s blunt and forward and surprising. but in your drug addled mind, it just doesn’t take you aback.

almost without hesitation you start to approach, the only thing that makes you stop and think is topper and kelce in the back, laughing and saying something about ‘oh shit she’s really about to do it,’ and ‘didn’t think his plan would really work.’ 

you only look back for a second though, you decide fuck it! you climb into rafe’s lap, straddling him. you lean into his chest and without second thought you start to grind against his crotch. the material of his pants is rough against your pussy that is only covered by your thin little panties.

but you allow yourself to forget that, and soon you’re losing yourself in the feeling of deep, pleasurable stimulation. your head is thrown back and you’re moaning out loud, uncaring of the looks you get from all over the room. 

its minutes of total bliss for you until you finally reach an orgasm, you nearly scream in pleasure. you’re so high and happy that you don’t even register the fact that this is the first ever orgasm you’ve experienced. 

when you’re done with your moment of bliss you flop into rafe’s chest, completely spent and ready to crash from your high. the last thing you hear before basically passing out is something from toppers mouth, “guess she really is a party girl.” 

[demonic0angel]

Just saw your phantom family in uniform art (looks as majestic as usual) can we have some wraith x nightwing?? Just them flirting and kicking ass together <33

(Hell yeah >:D Glad you enjoy it!)

Wraith hummed cheerfully as he sat on the edge of the roof overlooking the alley where Nightwing was pummeling some gang members. He seemed to be in a bad mood with how curt his one-liners were, but he was still ridiculously flamboyant as he flipped and somersaulted to beat people up.

Yes, it would be a good day today.

When he noticed Wraith, he paused before calling out in a snappy tone, “Are you going to sit there all night? Or come down and give me a hand?”

Wraith smirked. Their relationship used to be frosty, with Wraith uncharacteristically reaching out over and over to poke at Nightwing’s buttons, but now it seemed amicable. Sometimes, Nightwing stared at him with an unreadable look that Wraith didn’t know how to react to, but over all, he had fun when he was around him.

“Ohh? Well, what are you going to give me in exchange, little hero? My help isn’t cheap.”

That indecipherable look was back on Nightwing’s face before he said, “I’ll buy you dinner at the new restaurant on XXX street.”

“Hmm… deal.” Wraith did not ask for much. If anyone else asked for his help, he would’ve refused or probably extorted every single penny in their bank accounts before even considering the ask, but Nightwing was not just anybody and he was so pleasant to be around that even when he used to try to drive him away in the beginning, he had still stayed.

Wraith dropped down and blasted an opponent with a weak ray to slam them against the wall. Realizing that Nightwing had a helper, the gang members burst into a run and escaped.

Nightwing watched them as he caught his breath and Wraith turned to look at him. “So? Shall we follow them?”

“Yeah. You can sense them right? And lead us to them?”

Wraith nodded with a sharp smile and Nightwing grinned at him. It made him feel pleasant. In this world full of disgusting humans, only Nightwing and his sisters were people who he liked. (The rating on his brother/younger self was still pending.)

They waited for a few moments, tying up the knocked down criminals for the police to find before Nightwing looked at Wraith with an easy smile. “Ready to sniff ‘em out?”

“Hmph. This’ll be easy. You could’ve brought out a nose-blind cat and they’d still be able to find them in an instant,” Wraith said with a sigh, thinking of the smell of the criminals.

Nightwing laughed though, so all was well.

Wraith then went off to find the escapees. The scent of their souls were uninteresting, unappealing, and even disgusting in their blandness. Their general smell was just nasty. Wraith, however, disliked disappointing Nightwing and so he persisted and led them right to the criminal’s hideout.

“No killing,” Nightwing said absentmindedly, as he took out his escrima sticks. They crackled with energy, lighting up the blue that lined Nightwing’s suit.

Wraith huffed. “Fine. You’re boring.”

“Ohh? If I’m so boring, then let’s make a bet. If I defeat more people than you, then you’ll pay for dessert, alright?” Nightwing smirked. “And I get to order double.”

Wraith perked up with the incentive. “You can’t beat me,” he said, but Nightwing was rarely so playful with him. He seemed to be in a good mood now. “I’ll win.”

“We’ll see,” Nightwing said pleasantly, and then they both kicked down the doors, startling the gang members.

“Crap! It’s Nightwing and Wraith!”

Wraith frowned for a moment, wondering why they seemed to fit together too well, but Nightwing threw himself into the fray and Wraith was quick to follow with a feral grin.

Fighting side by side with Nightwing was an amazing experience. Wraith loved it. It felt better than being alone with only Fright Knight by his side, killing whoever he wanted and terrorizing the masses just because he could. With Nightwing, it was easier to remember how he used to be a hero.

Wraith’s eyes caught the bright blue that flashed out of the corner of his vision, and for a moment, he couldn’t help but think that his sisters would’ve been proud of him for finding such a kind, gentle, and powerful soul.

Yes, it would be another good night with Nightwing.

[x-necromantic-x]

(reblogging w/ my comments under op’s post to have it on one of my blogs)

hi!! this was my post that you're talking about! and wow haha i did not think it would strike this much of a nerve with some people, but it's always a good thing to see other people passionate about things i'm passionate about also.

a few things–

the post overall was meant to be lighthearted in nature, as someone who enjoys both the musical and the poem it wasn't really an us vs them thing. moreso a playful jab at people who made assumptions about the myth based off the musical (which, in my comments there were a lot of) and if you don't do that, the post doesn't apply to you!

in the pinned comment under the post i talk about how a conversation can definitely happen over the ethics of the situation, i'm all for interpretations of the story and enjoyed the people discussing the myth from the perspective of actually having read the myth or of being aware of it. whenever i corrected people in the comments, it was about things they got wrong about the material specifically, such as people saying circe used her magic to force him to bed or arguing about things a simple google search could tell you whether it did or didn't happen. If you interpret the text as being non-consensual, it was never the point of the post to say that your interpretation is incorrect! me personally though, i don't like the optics of circe being turned into a supporting/positive character if she was a rapist in the original.

I wasn't defending hamilton lmao!!! it was a joke!!! it was a bit!!!!

i also never said homer!odysseus was a horrible person! i very much don't think he is! to me, the point of the story is it's exploration of the human condition, and that even if he had faltered in his resolve to get home, that he still wouldn't have been a horrible person because any normal person in his shoes would have done similarly! i dunno where you got this bit but yk, js for the record.

your interpretation of book 10 in the odyssey is fine, if not a little lost on me. odysseus was certainly not initiative in the task of going home. of course, you can read and take away from it whatever you like, but– and i'm not trying to sound pretentious here– in my analysis class for the odyssey specifically we talked about how this section of the odyssey goes into the nature of human temptation when faced with luxury or an easier way out. Odysseus intentionally spends longer than he has to, a full year, and doesn't make the decision to leave until his crew bugs him and calls his delays “madness”. That doesn't read to me as them being like let's leave and he's like alr bet, it reads as odysseus finding reasons to remain on the island even after his crew is ready to go. you can find all of this in the text.

i never mentioned being fixated on the telegony either, all of my rebuttals have been centered around text and examples found in the odyssey itself. it wasn't really a gotcha moment with circe either, there's no debate that odysseus’ is one of history's great morally ambiguous figures in fiction, with or without her.

lastly, i think the odyssey is sooo romantic! a lot of your post seems to have misunderstood the point of mine fundamentally, and that's ok, i probably could have phrased it better! i think epic is romantic, i think the odyssey is romantic, the point i was trying to get at when seriously debating the storytelling of epic is that i think a lot of people miss the nuance that went into the storytelling of the odyssey in favor of a more sanitized, more easy to swallow protagonist. again, how i studied it, and how i believe the odyssey was meant to be read, is as a critical analysis of the human condition. Myths are reflective of the societies they come from, and i want people to be aware that the myths we read are a glimpse into what sorts of things people back then valued and strove for, how they're different from us, and how they're not. you mentioned having wished you’d studied the literature, and i think if you had, you would have come to a similar conclusion.

while i don’t think op misinterpreted my points intentionally in bad faith, calling me an asshole or saying i’m illiterate definitely made me raise an eyebrow. i tried my best to keep the conversations in my own comments respectful and productive, and hostility was definitely not the tone of my original shitpost. i think most people were able to talk about their perspectives and interpretations of the odyssey without going there. i’m attaching my pinned comments below for more context about the post itself

Some assholes on Instagram saying that Epic fans are "gaslighting" themselves about Odysseus being faithful to Penelope because of the Circe part and being pretentious about it and how we are stupid for considering The Odyssey romantic

Motherfucker

1. The Odyssey is an epic poem we all fucking know that? That it's a tragedy, technically comedy (comedy in ancient literature used to mean "happy ending", not funny stuff)

2. The Circe bit can be interpreted in different ways, as if it was fully consensual or not or just a transaction. There was still a difference in power dynamics, which was 100% mentioned by Calypso in the beginning, but if you choose to ignore that part if the same as saying some of Zeus' kids were ok to be conceived because the women agreeded to what A GOD wanted.

3. Obviously Epic!Odysseus is differente from Homer!Odysseus, but trying to say Homer! Odysseus is a horrible person that fully wanted to cheat on Penelope just because you want to defend ALEXANDER HAMILTON, i have bad news about you.

4. "The crew had to beg to go back!" I read the Odyssey too. As a child and a few days ago. They stayed on Circe's island to rest so Odysseus job as a captain was literally wait until his crew told him they were ready to leave, specially after what they have lived. Odysseus didnt force anyone to stay in that island, when the crew went "oh, sir, we miss our families, please lets go back now, yes?" Odysseus immediately said "ok". It literally felt like a father waiting for the kids to stop playing in the playground.

5. Homer!Odysseus is not perfect, at all (man killed his disloyal maids because he didnt want to deal with shit anymore, even if they also were coerced/raped by the suitors), but come with a better gotcha than Circe. You are just fixiated on the Telegony and it shows.

6. Idk what to tell you, but if you think renouncing a life with two inmortal godesses (one of whom offered you immortality), traveling for 10 years defying a God's rage, killing 108 men who wanted to marry your wife (and ruined your house), almost killed yourself when said wife rejected you only for her to go "haha i was just testing you, silly :)", have your literally marriage have a word created for you two specifically is not romantic... Idk go read Bridgerton

[chaotic-archaeologist]

So to make a long story semi short; during fall term a couple unknowing found a set of mastodon teeth and brought to my anthropology professor at the college, since then they conducted some field work and found more bone. They obviously stopped because of winter but in summer the college will be offering a field work class to go help at the site. I want to do that, but as mentioned before I have Cerebral Palsy which means I don't have a lot of upper body strength or flexibility. But I can still do a lot. My I guess problem is my Professors respect me and that's hard for me to get with all the ableism and I worked hard these last two semesters to break out of my shell to get here , I guess I just don't want to 1. make a fool of myself 2. be a hindrance and/or mess something up

any advice?

This sounds like an incredible opportunity, and I would definitely encourage you to pursue it! I hear your concerns about embarrassing yourself and being a hindrance, but I think you should reframe your thinking around facts that 1) everybody deserves learning experiences regardless of their physical ability, and 2) there are things you can do that will be an asset to the excavation.

Some of these things include taking notes and photographs, documenting and storing finds, and working with any digital tools like GPS units. You may also be able to do lab work and different kinds of analysis, depending on what they find and how they run the program. A good supervisor (although not all are created equal) will be willing to work with you to come up with a plan for how you can participate and what that will look like.

Usually, classes like this have applications where students list their relevant coursework and write a brief personal statement about why they want to participate. There are a couple of ways you could go about this in regards to disclosing your disability and seeking accommodations. You can either:

Disclose early: this would entail including something about your disability in your personal statement, in an email to the professor running the dig, etc.

Disclose later: submit your application without mentioning your disability. Feel free to mention how hard you've worked to get where you are, and if you want to talk about vague challenges with your health as part of that, it's up to you. If you are accepted to the dig, ask for a meeting with the supervisor where you can then explain your needs and what you are able to do.

Generally, I advise erring on the side of disclosing later rather than earlier. As I'm sure you're aware, prejudice and implicit bias are unfortunately a thing, and sometimes the only way to protect yourself from those impeding your application is to withhold information (although obviously this isn't an option if the professor already knows you). Additionally, you have legal protections against discrimination that are much easier to enforce after you have been accepted.

That being said, I've been heartened to see that more and more people in archaeology spaces are thinking about what accessibility means in field settings and how to include people with disabilities.—perhaps this is also the case with whoever is running this dig. Archaeology is for everyone, and there are many roles in an excavation for someone who can't do physical labor.

Finally, I'll close with some resources that might be helpful.

The Disabled Archaeologists Network: while I don't think they have a ton of programming for undergraduates (yet), membership is free and can put you in touch with

Field Tested: an article about a disabled student who was able to participate in a geology field school (similar levels of work to an archaeology one). It discusses some of the accommodations the student needed, and what they were able to do.

Here's an article by Dr. Anita Marshall, the professor who ran that accessible field school. Its content isn't substantially different from the one I linked above, but at the end it also cites some good literature about accessibility in field work. You should be able to access a lot of those publications through your institution's library or @jstor's free (or institutional) service.

Good luck, -Reid

[so-i-did-this-thing]

im sorry this might not be the place to ask for advice/help but im doomscrolling about the news and the soon to be president and im seeing so much to be scared shitless about, invasions, removal of vaccines, cost of living increases, revoking of trans rights and how it might make it all the more impossible to get the surgeries i wanted... its just too fucking scary to breathe right now what do i do with myself

Hey, Anon. I'm here. A lot of us are here right with you.

It's scary, to be sure. And I'm not going to sugarcoat the possibilities of things going south very quickly. So, let's jump into some survival tactics.

This post on burnout is a great place to start. There is a lot of overlap with burnout and the anxiety you're feeling.

Allow yourself to slow down and unplug. You are allowed to step away from the news cycle -- events out of your control will unfold regardless.

Don't feel guilty by letting yourself relax. I find it especially helpful to do activities that don't involve the internet -- I've been decorating my house, mending broken crockery, and sketching some embroidery ideas. I try to take the time to get dressed and groomed every day, to remind myself that I matter. I spend more time outdoors.

As you find the ability to relax, you'll be able to focus better on the things you can do to be resilient. Things I have been doing to improve myself and make me a better helper:

Staying on top of my medical appointments and any preventive care I can do

Working to be physically healthier overall to mitigate future medical issues

Getting all my paperwork in order, including passports

Tweaking my financial budget

Researching what estate & family documentation needs to be done to protect my relationship in case my marriage gets dissolved

Brushing up on job skills, getting new certifications to stay competitively employable

Stocking up on my medical and general emergency supplies, especially for bad weather events

Getting in the habit of mindful purchases, curbing my habit of impulse shopping

Selling things I don't want or need anymore to have a little extra money and be able to move house easier, if need be

Building a habit of fixing/maintaining my possessions instead of trashing broken things

Canceling online subscriptions and quitting social networks that make me feel in danger

Getting my personal and any queer-related files out of the cloud and onto redundant solid state drives

Downloading / printing out queer resources and buying queer art that may be banned or monitored in the future

Enjoying physical media again and hunting for old favorites

Keeping in touch with queer friends and allies and making plans in case people (even myself) need to flee

Being visible when I can and knowing when it's best to lay low

Allowing myself the luxury to dig into things Old Me would have saved for "special" events -- aka, wearing the nice clothes and eating off the fine china as an everyday thing

Shutting the fuck up, especially online, when I think my words could be used against me

In a way, I am trying to simply become a better version of myself, one who is calm & self-sufficient, mindful about his actions, and available to help those in need. It sucks that the driving factor is fear, but I intend to use that fear as a catalyst to be stronger and survive.

There is a lot to be done, but there was always going to be work, new regime or not. But please, start with that burnout article so you can jump into your own plans with new hope and energy. ❤️

[jemmo]

I don’t think I’m gonna be able to put it into the right words, but I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to watch that final episode of miseinen. bc it is one thing to mention marriage in a show about two men in a country where that’s not legal; it’s one thing to mention it as an inevitable, as just a waiting game, and leave it there, just as it’s one thing to mention it as a fantasy, or as something a couple doesn’t need to prove or certify their feelings. it’s another thing to show, even for just a short 30 minute episode, what that waiting actually feels like, and the kind of feelings being in that no man’s land of wanting but not being able to have can bring up. bc i can’t think when ive ever seen a bl touch on it so explicitly, at least not off the top of my head, or at least not to the extent of dedicating a whole episode to that feeling. bc you really feel how complex and indescribable that feeling is for jin in that episode, and while it’s mixed with that still lingering fear of haruki leaving and one day suddenly not being there, you feel that it’s not just for that certainty that he wants to be married. he wants the whole package of it, because he truly loves haruki. he sees his friends have relationships and talk about marriage, he feels the pressure from his mom and the rest of the people around him to think about marriage. and that’s exactly the thing of it. it’s not just that he can’t get married, it’s the fact that he has to hide the fact he wants it, and hide his relationship altogether. it’s not simply just marriage, it fits into a wider thing of him initially accepting his queerness and now not knowing if or how he wants to share that with other people. it’s just like- i really don’t want to gush but holy fuck it’s just so excellently done. bc you feel how different it is from haruki too, and it goes back to their differences in upbringing, bc haruki, after the difficulties he’s gone through, now finds it easier to accept and share these things bc he’s never exactly had anyone that would be impacted by this, but not only does jin have people to tell, he’s also been raised to follow a very traditional path in life, the one with least resistance, which very much means marrying a woman and having children and all of that. and it’s not that he can’t accept that he won’t do that, bc we’ve seen throughout the show how he has always faced what he’s been told is right with the open mindedness to question whether it is right, or right to him. but we’ve also seen through the show that the people around him do not have that same openmindedness, it’s why he never shared his friendship with haruki with anyone and now doesn’t want to share his relationship. but what i want to stress most is that the show perfectly shows that it’s not black and white. he is not choosing not to say anything, but he’s also not forced to stay silent. you see the greyness not just bc the situation is nuanced, but also bc at the end of the day it’s a human making this decision, and a human does not simply take in inputs and output the right decision and stick by that. you see him want to say something, you see him pull back, you see him be resentful of the way things are but also learn to accept that that’s how they are at the moment. you just… you see him live through having that in his head and what it feels like on any particular day and it’s just so incredibly amazing and important to see that in a character. it feels so fucking human. and i didn’t expect to get so emotional over a special ep about marriage, esp bc ive never much cared for marriage, ive never found it necessary, but when you take the time to show that it’s what 2 characters want, dedicate a whole ep to showing it, instead of just using it as a default happy ending, well… it’s just the cherry on top to a show that’s been absolutely fucking phenomenal. i will stan this show till i die thank you very much.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Not a Word 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You live a life in hiding, away from your father and the world, until a man decides to drag you into the light. (non-verbal reader)

Characters: Captain Syverson

Note: 😻.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You hear your father in the garage. It’s a comfort knowing he isn’t in the house. You’ve learned to navigate so that you rarely run into him. The fact of your existence only ever seems to irk him. 

That day, there’s a low rumble between the clank and clunk of his tools. You’re not sure it’s the engine or something else. The last time you glimpsed inside the garage, the engine wasn’t even in that old Bronco he’s worked on for seven years. 

You rub smooth the lines in your forehead and give a long blink. You’ve been squinting at the diamond art for much too long. You sit up and roll your shoulders. You need a break. 

As you emerge from your room, you feel guilty. A break from what? Doing nothing. That’s what your dad always says. Then he laughs and finds something to throw at you. 

You take his lunch box from the floor by the shoe mat and bring it to the kitchen. You open it up and clean out all the containers. Those things you do, as small as they are, like cleaning and making his meals, aren’t enough. He doesn’t fail to remind you of that. 

You dump the uneaten crust from his ham and cheese sandwich as the door from the garage clatters open and lets in the smell of oil and dirt. You turn your attention to the sink as you put the container with the rest. It’s only as you flip the faucet on that you realise the steps aren’t your dad’s. 

“Scuse me,” Sy says. “Don’t mean to bother, but, uh, had a bit of an accident.” 

You face him as he holds out the front of his tee shirt. You gulp. There’s a smear of shiny oil across it, ready to drip onto the floor. Your eyes round. 

“I can clean it in the bathroom, I see you’re busy.” 

He goes to turn away and you put your hands up. The oil won’t come out if he just wipes it into the shirt. You would know since you deal with your dad’s stained jeans.  

He nears as you sidle down to grab the baking soda from the cupboard. He looms, his shadow moving in your peripheral, and you shift the faucet to off. You grab a paper towel and turn to him. You hesitate to reach for him, that seems too much but before you can make a move, he peels his shirt off. 

You flutter your lashes and point to the counter. He lays the shirt out and you open the box of baking soda. He stands back and watches. Heat trickles down your back as you focus on the task. You sprinkle the powder over his shirt. 

You let it soak up as much as it can then blot daintily. 

“You’re clever,” he muses. “Helpful.” 

You shrug. 

“How lucky’s that daddy of yours, huh? You out here cleaning all his mess. You make his lunch?” He peeks over at the sink and you follow his gaze. You nod. “Hm, think he’d be nicer then, wouldn’t ya? Well, I know him, he ain’t a nice fella.” 

You return your attention to his shirt. If your daddy isn’t so nice, why does he come around? You wouldn’t ask even if you could. You can barely concentrate with him exposed like that. 

Your eyes dart over in a fleeting peek. His chest is hair and his stomach thick, his arms too. You’re always aware of how big he is but at that moment, he seems even larger. You look at his shirt. It’ll need more time to soak and wash. 

“Could wash it with the hose, don’t wanna ruin your machine,” he offers as if reading your mind. 

You frown and shake your head. You hold up your finger and flit away with his shirt. You put stain remover on it and dump it in the machine. You set the cycle then hesitate. What will he wear now? 

Your dad isn’t as big. He’s a pretty small guy. He might have something... 

You hurry into the closet of old things and search around. There’s one of those tees he got from a case of Labatts. They always pack the XLs and nothing else. It has some sports team logo on it. 

You go back to the kitchen and offer it to Sy. He crosses to you and accepts it with a smile, “thanks, sugar. That’s mighty nice.” His fingertips brush yours.  

He unfolds the shirt and shakes it out. He pulls it over his head and your eyes crawl down his torso unintentionally. You back up a step as he tugs down the hem, though it hangs short of his belt. Even that is too small for him. 

“You’re not scared of me, are ya?” He asks as he curls his shoulders as if to make himself smaller. 

You shake your head. Shy is all. You’re not eager to mingle with anyone. Nor they, you. 

“You know, I might have a word with your daddy. He shouldn’t be so nasty to ya. ‘Specially all the work you put in.” 

You shake your head frantically and clasp your hands. You know better than that. Even if he’s trying to be nice, it’s the worst thing he can do. 

“What’s wrong? Huh? Just wanna tell him what a good girl ya are,” he crosses his arms and seems to double in size. 

You pout and press your hands together. You cower and takes another step back. His expression turns dire. 

“Sorry, sugar, hope I didn’t upset ya there. I was only... only bein’ nice, ya know? Seems you’re not used to all that.” He drops his hands to his hips. “Fine then, I’ll just have to save them sweet words for you, huh?” 

You look down and chew your lip. You’re not used to the attention. Your dad’s other friends, if you can call them that, just ignore you or laugh at his jokes about you. You nod and turn, gesturing to the sink. You walk up to it, clinging to the excuse to get away. 

“Yeah, I know, you workin’ hard,” he praises. “I’ll be outta ya way now.” 

You bob your head and turn the tap on again. You work at scrubbing the containers, waiting and listening for him to go. When he does, you can breathe again. You’re not so sure why he’s being nice. Not like you can do much but stare. 

💘

When your dad’s at work, you’re as close to peace as you’ve ever been. There’s still that constant restlessness that follows you. The gnawing reality that time is passing you by. That you have no purpose. No direction. 

You envy others. That they have a reason. That they have everything you don’t. They have other people, ones that care, not those burdened with them; they have important work to do; they have fun things to celebrate; graduations, new jobs, marriages. They have voices and you remain unheard. 

You busy yourself with the tidying when he isn’t there. If you try to clean with him around, he only antagonizes you. There’s a roast out for dinner. It will last a few days. Most times, you lose your appetite. You spend all day craving and making the food then lose all desire the moment it’s before you. 

The small pleasures you once treasured fade with each day that starts and ends the same. You can’t feel too bad for yourself. Your dad doesn’t have to keep you. You’re an adult now. Maybe he’ll never say so, or even show it, but he must care, right? 

You finish mopping and start on chopping up the potatoes. You arrange them in the roasting pan around the slab of beef. Then carrots and celery. You save the onions for last because they make you cry. You’re saved from tears by the rumble of thunder on the horizon. 

Curiously, you set the knife down and go to the window. Would your dad be home early? Some days, they shut down the shop when business is slow. 

It’s not him but you recognise the grating on the truck’s nose. The large truck sends up dirt and gravel as it cuts across the worn roadway. Your confusion floods to panic and you rush out the front door.

Is your father hurt? Why else would Sy be here? 

You hover on the top step as he grinds to a stop and shuts the behemoth truck off. The driver’s door creaks as it opens and Sy jumps down. Instead of his usual camo cargo shorts and sweat-dampened tee, he wears a button-up with short sleeves and a pair of brown slacks. It even looks like he combed his beard. 

Your face twists in a grimace. What’s going on? Why is he here? 

He reaches back into the truck and brings out something behind his back. You can’t see it as he keeps his arm bent behind him and shuts the door. He grins and walks up to the house as you watch. 

“How’s it goin’?” He asks brightly. 

You blink. You look at his collar, the top button straining against his thick neck. You lower your gaze to your loose blue tee and barrel jeans. You’re dressed like a laundry line. Your clothes offer no shape, nothing. They just do the job. 

“I, uh, I wanted to surprise ya, and uh, I was thinkin’ ya know, this place deserves a bit of colour,” he chuckles then clears his throat, “and you deserve good things, so, uh, here.” 

He reveals the flowers from behind his back and you blanch. You stare at the dainty petals, white with violet edges. They are pretty. Too pretty for this place or for you. Besides, why would he do that? 

“You don’t like em? Should I have got roses?” He asks. 

You flinch. You don’t want to hurt his feelings. You come down the steps and cautiously reach for the paper cone. He hands it over and you stare at him. Then you smell them. You think that’s what you’re supposed to do. 

“Smell good?” He asks. 

You peer over the petals at him and nod. You’re not sure how to react. What do you do now? You can’t just leave him out in the yard. You raise your thumb and point it over your shoulder and tilt your head. 

“Sure, I’ll come in,” he accepts. 

He steps forward, a bit too close, and you hop backward up the step. You barely keep from tripping. You get onto the porch and spin around, scurrying to the door. You open the door and step to the side to hold it for him. 

He laughs again, “now, I’m a gentleman, sugar.” 

He grabs the door and gestures you through. You take his directive without pause. You hurry inside and he follows. As he stops to take off his shoes, you continue on into the kitchen. 

You search for an adequate holder for the flowers. You find an old canister and set them in it with some water. His presence lurks behind you. You put the bouquet on the table as he looks around. 

“You cookin’ a fine dinner, huh?” He says. “Like I tell your daddy, he’s a lucky man. Any man’d be lucky to have that waitin’.” 

You shrug. He shifts. 

“I don’t mean to take advantage of your kindness but I was gonna ask ya a favour.” 

You look at him blankly. He reaches in his pocket. He pulls a length of silk. A tie. 

“Couldn’t figure this out,” he explains. “Thought maybe you might...” 

You stare at the tie. You remember tying your daddy’s for your grandma’s funeral. That was a long time ago but you think you could remember. 

You swallow down your nerves and approach him. You take the tie and he glances around. He pushes a chair out and sits. He leans his head back. 

“Just wanna make sure I look good for ya,” he says. 

You flip up his collar and bring the silk around his neck. As you do, your thumb brushes his coarse beard. He hums. 

“Don’t worry bout pullin’ my hair,” he scoffs. “Won’t bother me none.” 

You line up his tie, knuckles brushing his shirt as you go through the steps in your hand. You pull the tie snug and fix hit collar. You step back and he sets his head straight. You hug yourself and give him a questioning look. 

“Ya like your surprise?” He asks. 

You look at the flower then nod. 

“And what about the other?” 

You face him again and your brows draw together. 

“Me,” he snorts. 

You purse your lips and shrug. What does he mean? 

“We’ll wait for your daddy, huh? Then I’ll ask his blessing.” He rests his elbow on the table, “and you’ll have dinner all ready, won’t ya?” 

[astracora]

Turning Point - Part 5

Characters: Poly!LADs x gn!mc

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Injuries, Angst, Loss of Arm, Lots of emotional struggle with disability, mentions for Rafayel stories, and myths, violent imagery and arguments.

Word Count: 5456

Written: 9th January 2025

Notes: Pre-relationship with gn!MC with all LADs, with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in. Unnamed MC, but using my personal MC's basic appearance and adjusted backstory. I take some liberties with what the game offers me. Rafayel is so hard to write for a lot of reasons, but also is one of my favourite characters in any story because he's just... contains multitudes. I also feel like he's the one who struggles most with all these other people in MC's life. I also feel like he's so fixated on pain, and struggle, that he forgets kindness can be offered to him with no price. Anyway, I enjoyed working on this bit a lot even though it was hard. Enjoy! Also as a side note, the song of choice I can only partially explain, Rafayel out of all the boys makes me think of regency romance on a level I truly cannot explain. (even though he doesn't have a dancing scene... YET!!)

Now Playing: All I Want, by Kris Bowers

Masterlist AO3

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Rafayel loves you. That is never in doubt. He finds himself bitter and aching that there is so much you have shared that only he remembers.

Sometimes it comes out in harsh words or lies. Even though he knows it is unfair to punish you, when you can't control it.

Mostly, however, he tries to enjoy moments with you. Hoping that something will spark, and you will look at him and see long years of history.

Remember his longing and his love in all its forms.

Remember all the facets that make him up. Perhaps it's cowardice to want your memories to fill in the blanks that he is too scared to tell you. Blood on his hands, heart offered up. He does not want to see your expression change. For you to fear or hate who he is… who he can become.

He thinks about beautiful blue seas, and the breath stolen underwater.

When he finds himself thinking of the beach he waited at, every year, he pushes himself into his work.

Now, he spends most of his days at your side. In case you need him. He watches closely, because he's used to you hiding your struggle from him. When you're sick, you've hidden it, he's reminded you that you're not a superhero. As much as you put on a brave front for every kid that sees your hunter reels.

Rafayel has watched this version of you for a long time, before he finally met you again. Properly.

He has seen so many renditions of you, no matter who you have been… he has loved you. He has and will love you for eternity and beyond, even if it might be easier not to.

Rafayel has finished most of his work for his exhibit, as he stares at the final piece that is missing something that he cannot find.

Sun blends with sea, as the tides recede. As silver bones are left behind to bleach.

He stares and stares and nothing comes. Just that vague, irritating feeling of incompletion.

"You're going to burn a hole in it, fish."

"Sylus, leave the man alone, he's actually working."

Rafayel huffs… and therein lies his other problem. Your consortium of bizarre attachments. If he were less observant, he could pretend they see you as a friend only.

But he is a man who can kill another, who can plan his revenge, who can hide in plain sight. Who is capable of sneaking up even on the N109 Zone Leader.

So he can see and he can't ignore. He also can't ignore that they comfort you as well.

You have teased him for being childish, and he thinks the irritating feeling in his gut, that demands he steal all of your time, that you are his bonded partner, confirms such a claim. He is not possessive of a lot… your heart is his.

He tries to ignore the doctor and the crow. Staring straight ahead, hoping that answers will come to him, but he cannot. He can feel their presence and it is on the edge of his consciousness. Poking at it.

Like he is a crab on the beach and a child wants to watch his pincers clasp.

"Maybe you should take a walk, get some fresh air."

"Do you want the fish to suffocate, Doctor?"

"Truly, you are incapable of not prodding at others aren't you?"

He huffs this time, turning his face to look at the two. Zayne is typing on his laptop, barely looking up to converse, while Sylus is on his tablet, glasses on the end of his nose.

The two look eerily similar like this.

Rafayel tries not to compare the doctor to the crow, it's unflattering. At least the doctor can heal your wounds.

When he speaks though, his irritation comes out in the snippy tone he takes, "Your opinions are noted, dumb crow. Then swiftly discarded."

The man does that irritating little laugh he does, that is more a puff of air than a real laugh. Like it's too much effort to feel anything, and Rafayel wants to pluck his feathers.

How you can tolerate him, he'll never know.

At least the hunter is quiet…

Still, he wants to get out of here, they make it harder for him to think, and he can't make progress like this. So he stands, shrugging at them and heads towards the door, as he goes to make through he almost collides with you and Xavier returning from the hospital. He isn't surprised when you move out the way just in time, you're a hunter and your training has made you capable. Still as he greets you, you hesitate, before tugging at his shirt before he can leave.

He looks down, your hand holding onto the fabric, not tough enough to tear, but enough to halt his movements.

"Are you alright, Raffy?" 

It shouldn't surprise him that you notice the tick in his jaw, or the stress under his skin. It isn't the first time, and you've shown many times to have been able to pick out when his mood has dropped. You're observant as part of being a hunter, you're careful, you pay attention. You're smart.

You care.

About him, about his mood… about his life. His irritation settles, soothes at the edges, and his smile is easier, "I need some fresh air. Want to come with?"

You hesitate and he watches the fear enter your eyes. Wavering. You walk between the hospital and the apartment when you don't take Zayne's car, but that's the extent of your journeys. He wants to pull you by the hand… make you see the sea with him.

"Where are you going?"

"Whitesands."

It's far enough removed, very few people visit it, and he will get a walk somewhere familiar. Perhaps it's familiar enough for you to follow him.

He extends his hand, carefully, trying to keep the need from bubbling to the surface. If he could take you away far from here, he would. Take you to everything he's ever seen, so he can see it with new eyes. Yours.

Your hand stretches out, and your fingers tremble, before you finally take his, "Alright, if it's quiet." Your request is one he'll happily grant. Both of you alone, he can't think of a better way to spend his time.

The walk is kind to him, as they head towards Whitesand Bay, he gets to keep your hand in his, listen to the song of the world, and watch as your steps become lighter. You stop staring down at your arm and checking around you, eventually focusing on the sky and him.

As feet crunch on white sand, and approach the edge of tides. You let go of his hand to walk a little further out, and he watches. As you crouch, as you reach fingers to the water.

Rafayel paints everything he thinks is beautiful, tragic, or brings pain to his soul. You hurt him too, in ways he aches for. Like he is placing his hand in a burning flame, and holding it there, because the longer he holds it, the closer he gets to what he craves.

Like there is an answer there, waiting over the edge of agony. If he tumbles after it, he'll find what eludes him.

There's a feeling in him that wants to drown you with him. He could swim out, with you in his arms, and pull you under. On the edge of the question of life, before he gives you the means to breathe alongside him. He's warned you of the nature of sirens, and you've looked him in the eye and told him you don't fear him.

You should, though, he knows. You should fear the ocean's grasp as well as his own, because he wants your heart for his.

As you turn your eyes back to him, soft smile tugging the scar on your face, his heart thunders and then stills. Flames and agony. The need to touch and hold it in his hand… Lit against the contours of your face, and the glimmer in your eyes.

His inspiration is always closer than he thinks.

—-----

Rafayel dislikes your companions.

The prince gets to spend all of his time with you, working together, protecting each other. Where Rafayel had to convince you to be his bodyguard, just for a fraction of that time.

The doctor is who you trust with your injuries and your wounds, he is who you go to when something hurts. You hid your sickness from Rafayel before now, so he didn't doubt your capabilities.

The crow… the crow gets under his scales. Like a tick. Biting and bleeding and ruining his skin. Yet you trust him, a man who built all his life on violence. Who has blood on his hands. Who is open about his sins… While he cannot tell you for fear of the look in your eye changing.

It is safe to say the crow is his least favourite. The one who grinds at him most, who plucks and pulls. Like a hook in his upper lip. He dreams of drowning the man… he would if the look in your eyes didn't stop him.

So he hates them, he thinks. The anger and irritation and the childish petulance. He wants your attention and he fights for it, he wants you to trust him most. It took too long to gain entrance into your home, reminding himself that time builds strong bonds. That he should be patient. He did not want to scare you, to startle you. Like you are a small fish and he is a bigger… hungrier beast.

There is no peace when they are around, and normally pain brings him inspiration, an answer on the end of a paintbrush. A vision in the agony.

Whatever feeling they inspire is not pain, and it brings him no art to create, no feelings to share in blues and greens. Nothing to show for it.

He has thankfully, however, finished his final piece. So there is a relief in him, even as the crow looks down at him, eyebrow raised.

Rafayel ignores the man, looking straight ahead, signing his work. Paintbrush steady. Steadier than the racing heart in his chest.

He will not lose a game of chicken with an overgrown bird.

So when the crow turns to walk away, he is relieved, and so smug, until he hears a crunch. Looking over quickly, and staring down at the floor.

"Ah, what a shame."

One of Rafayel's paintbrushes snapped in half by the stupid crow's foot.

He levels a glare at the man, "Are stupid crows clumsy too?"

"Are all fish messy? Your things have spread across the apartment."

"I'm working!"

"Quite diligently I see, despite galavanting off to the beach. Inspiration was it?"

The look on the crow's face is too level. It's too calm. He does not respond to the rise of Rafayel's voice. He does not flinch at the glare in his eyes. He does not move, from where his foot is still on his brush.

It is a feeling of irritation that burns and scorches where it stands.

He has to tolerate and bite his tongue. He has to think and be careful. He has to share, where he does not want to share.

You are his heart, why does he have to look at the eyesore in his vision, and think about his hands on you too.

His anger bubbles and froths and overflows. A pot that has been left, and forgotten. You will forget him too, in favour of a crow! A stupid. Foolish. Irritating crow.

He stands and presses forwards, fangs bared and sharp. He is a predator of the seas. This man is nothing. He is a god of the tides. This man is a petty criminal.

Rafayel knows you better, he has seen more incarnations than this man can even comprehend, and he dares to play at favour?

"If you wish to be drowned, crow, I am happy to oblige."

Eyebrow quirks at him, a look in his eyes that Rafayel can't make out, but it glitters and twinkles, "I'd love to see you try, fish, but I'm afraid you couldn't hope to kill me."

"I am more than willing to try."

"Then you'll simply be hurting your 'beloved bride', wouldn't you?"

He snarls, a low noise in the back of his throat, hand reaching out to grab at the man's throat. To snap it, bite through it, to cut his voice permanently, he isn't sure. It will hurt, and he will deserve it. For calling you what he cannot. Too many memories that you cannot hold in your heart.

The crow steps forwards, as if daring him to try. To wrap his hands around his throat and twist. To slice his throat open with a dagger. To see. To show him if it's true.

"Raffy?" Your call comes from the side, stumbling in, voice wary.

His hand hovers, he debates. Thinks for a moment. Stares at the crow's adam apple as the man swallows his laughter down. The dare is there, waiting for him to take… and they both know he won't.

So he rips his hand back, offers you the kind of smile that shakes at the foundations, "Hey cutie, I was just going out for the exhibit."

You open your mouth to speak, and he shakes his head, grabbing his canvas. Lifting it far too quickly to be safe, and turns on a heel, "I'll see you later."

The speed he leaves the apartment leaves the door frame shaking behind him. Heading out, running from the place. From the crow's dare, from the wary look in your eyes.

From the inadequacy… the guilt… the irritation. The pain.

What lurks over the abyss could just be nothingness. A world where you don't want him, or need him. Where without your memories you do not look at him, hear him call you his beloved bride, and love him as you once did. Where his bond with you is not enough, and he simply has to experience the heart that cannot beat for anyone but you.

That he has lied and hidden and kept from you for too long, that a criminal with blood on his hands who does not hide… claims your heart for his.

His heart…

There is pain behind his art and in his soul. A reminder that he cannot always be with you in every life, and he prays this is not one of them. An alter of suffering that he would cut his chest open at, if you would always look at him.

—--

You cannot stop thinking about the look on Rafayel's face.The agony in his eyes as he'd darted from the room. You'd asked Sylus who had shrugged, "I broke his paintbrush." But not explained further.

You'd seen Rafayel break his own paintbrushes in his studio, stepping on them, falling over them. Resulting in a trip to the hospital because of how messy things were.

You help Sylus clean up some of the mess, containing it in a corner with the rest of Raffy's things, hoping it would alleviate some of the feeling you can't seem to shake in the air. A stagnation. It feels like decay, and you can't open enough windows to air it out.

If Sylus decides not to share, he won't. You've known him long enough, pried at his secrets enough, that you don't waste the strength anymore. He shares what he wants, when he wants to.

So you abandon the effort and go about your day. It drags. Waiting for time to pass, working through your exercises, before you have to leave.

As the time approaches, the clock hand moving, it begins to click harder. The sound impending.

You think about other exhibits, the amount of people, the noise…

It cuts through the excitement, the peace of the wait, the boredom.

You pause as you're getting ready, staring at the prosthetic arm flexing in front of you. The movement of metal fingers, the clear indication of your injury… your failure.

You're going to see Rafayel. A man who people will be looking at. Commending.

Taking photos of.

Do you really want to be stood next to him like this? To draw attention to yourself and him?

An icy chill runs up your spine, and you stop. You have to get these clothes off. You have to cancel. You can't go.

You can't be there.

You feel the chain on your ankle, it tugs and it pulls, and it drags you back. The beast that settled, has woken up. It is hungry and it is angry, and it is laughing at you for trying.

A mistake, this was a mistake. You made a promise to someone you care about, and now you're going to hurt him. Either way, you're going to hurt him. Make him look stupid. Make him hate you.

You're going to break this fragile peace. Bring that agonised look into his eyes again.

Take from a man who gives you so much. Love, affection, kindness, warmth, acceptance, joy.

You are ripping all those things from his hands, and returning nothing.

"Kitten?" You stumble, when the voice startles you out of your thoughts. Falling back onto the bed, looking up as Sylus enters, not bothering to wait for an answer. Ever since your mission had gone wrong, he has been far less hesitant. If he could ever be said to be hesitant.

When he sees you sitting, tears in your eyes, he approaches you, kneels in front of you. Hands on your knees. Soothing your skin. His skin is so warm, it's like a brand. You almost pull away. On fire, itching, hurting. He notices your flinch and pulls his hands away. The relief of the cool is intense, and you choke on the feeling.

You're the mistake. Too fragile to be touched. Too useless to be helpful. Too much work.

He takes in your rumbled clothing. The shirt half pulled off, the jacket thrown away from you, the trousers unclasped. You are shivering, and shaking, and while you can see his hands twitching. Yearning, needing to soothe, he knows he can't. So he tries to speak, hesitant now, "Don't you like them?" You think about the time he spent, finding things with Rafayel that are easier to wear. Clasps that can be done easier with one hand, or buttons bigger for your unsteady metal fingers.

Things that require the least amount of struggle. If he could not find them, he had them made.

The two of them, you think as you try to fight through the fog, are dangerous.

You shake your head numbly. "I can't go."

It doesn't require much more from you, even without his eye, Sylus reads people. He reads you. He's said sometimes he cannot understand the workings of your mind, but he improves everyday. It is terrifying to be seen by him. Terrifying for him to look under the rough exterior, to the rougher interior.

You wait for the moment that he realises you're not worth it.

"You'll be with us." He starts, and you look down at where his hand twitches towards you, then back. "You won't be alone."

You haven't been alone, you think. In all the time you've spent with this. This weight, first on your back, then on your ankle. They have come to find you. Looking.

Just like Caleb did.

Is it enough? This could be that wakeup call.

"Rafayel wants you there, he's excited to see you." It is odd. It is hearing Sylus say 'Rafayel' and not 'fish', that jolts you back. Just like the moment you saw them in your kitchen, arguing. Just like when you saw them all walk through that door when the blanket was your only defence.

It is a realisation of how odd this is. How bizarre they are.

It almost makes you hiccup a laugh. The idea of Sylus speaking for Rafayel. You think about how warm he is to you, how he takes your hand easily.

I will always want to look at you.

"What if it's too much work?" You finally manage, the agony lightening so you can speak, no longer tearing at you. Though you can feel the creature on your ankle. Tugging. Like a dog with a chew toy.

"The important things are worth it."

Important.

Learning to use your prosthetic is hard. Learning to trust is hard.

It was with Caleb, it is with all of them. It is a constant struggle. A constant weight. To try.

They catch you, with a security net. Give you space to breathe, so you can stand back up again.

You think about what you want, think about what will make you happy… what is worth living for.

It is the reason to keep getting up.

You want to see Rafayel's work, you want to see the people you care about. You want to keep your promise to a man who values you. A hesitant shaky hand takes Sylus' where it hovers. The way you can watch him heave a sigh, the tension in him easing, as he clasps yours between both of his. Tight, but not suffocating. He grounds you, and it doesn't burn.

"What do you think, Kitten? Do you want to try?"

Sylus has never belittled you for tears, or made you feel your emotions are a mistake. When you are drowning, he offers a hand. When you anger and hurt, he is there, either to join you in your hurt, or to help appease it.

He offers you a choice, and he means it. If you truly do not want to, you know he will accept it. If you want to, he will help.

"I want to try."

He nods, pulling you up with him, to stand, straight into his chest. So that you can feel his uneven heart beating against you. "Then let's get you ready."

—-----

He should never have left so early. He should have stayed with you.

Rafayel left the apartment in frustration and anger and now he stares at his phone, hoping to see your name pop up.

It is an agitating feeling. To be stood on the edge of the cliff and not know if there's water below.

He has forced himself to listen to Thomas, to go through the motions, to ensure his exhibit is set up correctly. He has sat under too bright lights, feeling himself drying up, as he waits. As the clock hand moves, as he thinks, and he struggles.

If he keeps running, will you stop chasing him?

As his exhibit starts, he checks again, only to see a message from the doctor, 'Good luck today'. He doesn't respond. He stares at it. It's unsettling. He doesn't want the doctor to wish him good luck. He doesn't want his comfort.

He doesn't need it.

Even when his agitation settles a moment, and he hides it from Thomas who asks him why he's smiling. He's not.

That doesn't mean anything.

He does not wave at Xavier as he walks through the door, milling around the paintings quietly. Avoiding the bigger crowds. He tries not to think about the fact that he's come to see.

It doesn't matter.

As time passes, Rafayel fidgets.

Stares at the door.

Fidgets.

Stares at the door.

He walks around the room, passes Xavier, who hands him water quietly, then walks off. He stares down at it, but he's parched, the crowds are tiring him out, the people are talking like they understand him, and he just wants to be somewhere else. So he downs it, and lets the relief of the chill settle in his throat.

He talks absently to people he doesn't really care to listen to. Thomas gives him a talk about doing his duties.

Irritation settles in his stomach. He doesn't care about his duties. He cares about seeing you.

He checks his phone, and is relieved, though irritated, when he gets a message from the crow, 'We're on our way'. He sends back a thumbs up, though it is through a shaky hand. Excitement makes it unsteady.

It is when he is not staring at the door, when he hears your voice behind him. "Raffy?" Pulling away from where he is avoiding Thomas' lectures, he takes you in. Your hand is grasped in the crow's, eyes darting around the room. You're wearing your prosthetic, a dark blue jacket over your shoulders, painted with green and blue flowers. Flared trousers and a light shirt. He absently thinks that the crow's style isn't too ridiculous, if it means you visit his exhibits like this. Like one of the flowers in a garden he wants to take you.

"Cutie!" It is relief and it is the weight of hundreds of years that shed. He waited, he waited, and you came. He takes your hand away from the crow, not without giving a smug little smile, which receives him a smirk, and kisses the back of it. "You made it."

He watches your eyes glisten, he can feel the heat off your cheeks. Not all embarrassment, he knows some of it is stress, but it is enough. "You don't have to stay long." He promises, it doesn't matter how long you stay. You came. You came, no matter what.

You came, and he knows it wasn't easy.

The laugh you release, it trembles, like your hand, but it is accompanied by the small smile he is learning to draw with his eyes closed. "Show me your work?"

"I'll go find the prince, call me if you need me." The crow offers, he leans, kissing your temple, before he leaves. You blink after him a bit, touching where he kissed with your hand, pulling it from Rafayel's grasp, and then look at him. He glares after the man, but doesn't offer much of a response.

"Come on then cutie, you're mine." He doesn't look as he grabs your hand, and he knows he is grinning at you. Pulling you forwards with him, darting to where his art calls for you.

He doesn't notice the chill in your hand, until he eases his fingers over it. Feeling grooves and edges. He almost releases when he realises he has grabbed your prosthetic, you are staring down at it with him.

Rafayel looks at you, tries to read the look in your eyes. It is soft, and awed and gentle. So he raises it to his lips, kissing the wrist. You tremble, blinking, before tightening your grip just a little.

It is the soft, warm look in your eyes, as you tug him forward a little bit more, a laugh bubbling out of you. "Come on Raffy."

He takes you around all of his paintings, and just watches you.

You don't offer him opinions or thoughts often, he has learned if he gives you space to look, you can tell him how you feel. What his art brings out in you. If he looks closely at your face, he can watch it. Trembling in your eyes.

As you flit amongst paintings, like a butterfly amongst flowers, tugging him along with you. He follows willingly.

There are moments when you stop, and your hand twitches out. Like you are holding back the urge to run your fingers over the paint. Tracing shapes, touching at his heart directly.

He wants to tell you that you can do as you please. That you are the one who he wants to understand him most. That his art, and his soul are yours to do with as you like. That you could tear images from his canvas, and he would still paint more for you.

Finally you find yourself in front of his struggle. Bleached bones on the beach, tides easing out. Leaving scars behind.

At the edges of the horizon, the sun rises again. Painting the once dreary sky in a rainbow.

You are the sunrise that greets him, that reminds him that time moves forwards. That there is something to see after the night.

That tomorrow has a chance for better than today.

You bloom like a flower before his eyes, a sight he could never have seen beneath the waves. A reminder of why he came to visit the surface every year. A reminder of all the wonders of land that he idolised as a child.

"Beautiful." Is exhaled, and he is unsure if it was you or him. The twinkling in your eyes, perhaps it was both.

Eventually he feels the strain in your countenance, the exhaustion, so he sneaks with you out of the exhibit. Escaping into gardens that are quiet, and closed to others. A locked gate has never kept him out of anywhere, however.

It is the quiet that settles you, and he settles alongside you. No longer wearing a mask he does not want for people who come to stare at his work. He pulls you amongst flowers, fields of lilies, and whispers of petals.

Secluded and alone. The way he feels best with you.

Lying down in the grass, to look up at the sky, stars twinkling.

It is with the view of the stars that you speak, voice tinged in a guilt he wishes to chase away, "I almost didn't come. I'm sorry Raffy."

His eyes turn to you, to read the draw of your lips, the pain in your eyes, the way you tighten your grip on his hand. Cool metal against skin that reacts to you more than any other. Sensitive, aware.

Your touch will always alight his senses.

He knows the hesitation, he thinks about the way you wavered on the edge, hand extended to you as you feared to take it. He knows that you are adjusting. He regrets asking you to promise, to put that weight on your shoulders.

He is relieved you came. To see him, to stare at the workings of his heart, and yearn to trace it with fingers.

His patience and his need fight often. His awareness of pushing, his desperation. It is hard to balance.

"What changed your mind?"

You edge a little closer on the grass, so that the heat of him spreads over the sensors of your prosthetic. Alongside the gentle stroking of his thumb over your hand. "Sy told me you wanted me to be here… and I wanted to be here for you."

Rafayel's first instinct is the kind of reaction he's seen cats get to water. Hissing and jumping up. Shaking himself furiously.

There is great dissatisfaction at comparing himself to the demons.

There is greater dissatisfaction at the crow, helping him. In any way.

It is a feeling of being pulled back by the scruff of his neck, away from the abyss he seeks out. The fall into the ocean.

The agony on the edge of the conscious.

You poke his cheek with your other hand, then brush hair back and his heart settles its seething. "I'm glad."

"Glad?"

"That they care for you." It is whispered, and it is tentative, and he sees the worry in your eyes.

The fear at his arguments before. The anxiety that you are causing distress.

Forcing them. Making them clash in enclosed spaces. Like caged beasts.

It is the wary voice that calls out to him, tries to ask the question about the pain in him, the voices and the agony ripping and pulling and hurting. The pain that grants him no inspiration.

They care.

A message sent to wish him luck. A quiet presence bringing him water when he dries. A fool giving you the push to move forwards to lead your feet to him.

You have not stopped looking for him and at him, and he has been holding you like a toy he does not wish to share…

It is a feeling he isn't ready to digest or question, not when the stars are bright and you are safe next to him. It is one he will think about in days to come, as he watches the doctor help him clean. As he is offered a pillow the prince favours in order to sleep better.

When the crow argues with him, but gives him food that satisfies a hunger he forgets to appease for himself.

When you do not look at him any less. That he has not lost anything, he is not lesser.

It is a feeling for later.

To help paint canvas he wants to share one day, though pain is absent, and something else glimmers in the sea.

[slimybeth69]

Girl Dinner

@pedrospookie made the cutest fucking mood board for this fic, she also gave me so much inspiration for this! Let's all thank her for her perfect brain.

Part 1 of 4- Knocked Loose

Rating: explicit -

kidnapped!Joel x isolated&unhinged&potentially crazy!reader (no use of y/n, no physical descriptions besides having hair long enough to hold and fall into your face, the reader is actually crazy, talks to herself- hears little voices in her head. You gotta know this going into it)

thanks to @bonezone44 for this idea.

w/c : 9k (whoops)

Summary: After the civilized world you once knew came to an end-- the men that survived... well they just take, take, take. Growing tired of having things taken from you-- you have a hankerin' to take somethin' for yourself... and make him perfect.

warnings/tags: non-con/dub-con/ altered mental state(?) throughout the entire thing. stockholm syndrome, violence (reader and Joel both get hurt) Joel is an unwilling participant... or is he? cockwarming, unprotected P in V, dirty talk- more to come.

authors note: Hey! I know a lot people get icked out by the idea of non-con or dub con, and that's fine, but I like it, so I'm gonna write this. I don't think any of this should be acted out ITRL. DON'T KIDNAP PEOPLE!! This is your last and final warning just so everyone is aware of what's going on. this is unbeta'd, poorly proofread and probably incoherent. I love you all so, so, so much.

The weather is finally starting to change, it's not as hot as a pigs asshole anymore, and you wake up feeling refreshed, rather than sticky and sour from sleeping in a pool of your own sweat all night long.

The first thought that comes to your head though isn't the changing weather, or how you'll eventually need to break out your warmer clothes soon, nope— you don't give a shit about any of that.

It's just Mister-man that you're thinking about.

He might be the most pretty thing you've ever seen. With his shoulder length, brown and gray curls, and his patchy facial hair that matches so nicely. The thought of how rough and scratchy it would feel against your tongue makes your spine tingle.

Mister-man is a big boy. Hefty, broad, and looked so strong whenever he came into the mall.

You've been watching him for a while. He comes around every three or four days snooping in all the stores for supplies.

It's like he doesn't even know you're here…or if he does, he doesn't care. Rude! You're a pretty girl!

He's just coming to take our stuff, just like the rest of the monster-men out there. If he finds us, he might wanna take-

"Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop!" You put your hands over your ears, even though those voices just get louder when you do that.

Mister-man wouldn't hurt'chya…

Yes, he would. He's a man.

"It's too early for this," You grumble, sitting up in your bed.

The mattress store is nice and clean, just how you left it last night before you crawled into bed. You think about how it would be alarming if it wasn't exactly how you left it before you went to bed. You did your nightly walk-through to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be, and that there weren't any extras hanging about.

As you get dressed, you think about what the dark voice was about to say. You know exactly what Mister-man would try and take from you if he found you. What all the other men in this fucking place want from you.

It's hard to make any of that matter as you skip to your hiding spot in the rafters above the food court. That's where he always enters from, even though the easier entrance with less glass and boards to climb through is on the other side of the mall.

It's a good thing you set up a trap there too, if he comes in through that entrance, at least you'll hear the snare go off and hopefully get to him in time to get his gun and knife.

Mister-man is a creature of habit, he doesn't like to switch things up, Sug. He'll come through this door.

He might. He might not. Mister-man might be playing your game better than you, kid.

"Well then, it's a good thing I thought of everything," you murmur, climbing up the discarded scaffolding to get into the rafters.

It's not scary up here, you like the thrill of knowing if you made one mistake—

Goner!

Splat!

"I've never fallen though!" You giggle, settling in to the perch just above the now blown out glass doors. It's a comfortable little spot, and you've arranged some blankets and pillows from the mattress store up here so you can nap if you want. There are some snacks, and bottles of water in case you have to stay up here for more than just a couple hours, keeping an eye out for Mister-man.

People must have stayed here in the mall during the outbreak, or right after because the doors are boarded up the best they can be, and the tables and chairs from the food court are set up all around like a barricade.

It was perfect, less work for you to have to do, and no one else bothers to come in here anymore— it's either too far, too hard to get too, or not worth the pay out.

Not for our lovely, handsome, soon to be perfect, Mister-man; the reason he comes every week is so sweet.

You wondered why he kept coming back when there really isn't much to scavenge anymore: every single store had been picked through before you got here, and you went and took the last of whatever anyone else didn't want or need and squirreled it away in a nice hiding spot.

Mister-man came every three or four days-- so that he could sit his ass in a comfortable recliner for a couple hours.

Remember that time he took a nap?

"Of course I do! How could I forget?!"

It's the cutest thing, and you love to watch him relax. Rest. Let his guard down for a little while.

"Slept like a lil baby that day," you mumble, feeling the heat spread up your neck and behind your cheeks. It's impossible to not smile at the memory of Mister sleeping in his chair, arms behind his head, snoring loudly.

His hair was real soft...'n he smelled so..

Why does he let us get so close? It's gotta be a trap.

Oh shut up, maybe he wants us to get close!

"I don't think he can hear me too good," you breathe out to the empty mall. The sun is starting to shine directly in your eyes— which means Mister-man will be here soon. "Always lookin' over his left shoulder. He never looks over his right, me thinks he can't hear outta that ear."

Mister has been coming for a couple months. He first started when the snow started to melt. And he kept coming through the spring when everything was wet and soggy, and he'd traipse mud through the mall like this wasn't your house!

That's how you knew he had been there though, so you waited to see if he'd come back-- and he did.

Mister-Man kept coming, even when the summer got so hot it was almost unbearable. Venturing outside was almost dangerous, but Mister always came.

Just to sit in his chair.

The air is filled with the sounds of birds singing, and insects buzzing in the lazy, summer heat. The mornings aren't too bad anymore, but the afternoon is still sweltering.

The late afternoon's are even worse when the heat finally settles, and everything gets sticky, and feeling all wet even though it's not wet outside! It's hot, but the air feels thick and damp somehow.

Awh, looks like he ain't coming today, Sug.

Good-fucking-riddance.

"He'll show up. If not today… tomorrow…or the next day. Or next week! He always comes, sillies. Gettin' me all nervous for nothin—"

Shhhhhh!!!! He's coming.

Mister-man is coming. You can hear him before he even crawls through the hole in one of the boards. He has to slide the table he sets up every time he comes and goes.

Once he's upright, brushing himself clean of any debris that he might have picked up on his crawl into the mall, he starts to walk.

It's not hard to stay quiet, you know exactly where the spots that creak are, and where things might break and fall apart if you were to put too much weight on them.

It's easier to follow him around as he slinks through the abandoned shopping center than you thought, as long as you stay on his right side. You've been watching and learning, and had a long time to figure him out.

Mister is so cute, walking real slow with his back to the wall, his head on a constant swivel. You wanna call out to him and tell him it's just the three of you in the mall.

He continues to sneak very quietly.

Can't hide from us.

"He sure can't," you giggle, almost silently.

Mister-man pauses, and looks over his left shoulder, as if something caught his attention. He looks all around, head twisting in either and all directions. At one point, he looks right up at where you're standing.

It's like he's looking right at you, like he can see you flitting through the rafters right above him.

Mister-man just shakes his head, as if he was hearing things, and continues onward towards the furniture store.

Fuck, he really can't hear for shit.

"He sure can't."

Mister doesn't make it inside the furniture store today, unfortunately for him.

When Joel wakes up, his head is fucking pounding and— he's upside down. Shit.

Not again.

"What the fuck?" Joel croaks, his hands feel like they weigh a thousand pounds as he tries to lift them from where they're dangling over his head. His shoulders hurt, and his back aches. His ankles feel like they're on fire.

There isn't much he can do but hang here, waiting for his vision to un-blur and for the throbbing in his head to go away.

Probably get gutted like a pig.

Finally, after blinking a million times, Joel can see things clearly.

You- a young woman- with a gun in your hand, another strapped to the outside of your thigh, and a fucking machete strapped across your back.

"What the fuck are you doing!?" Joel shouts, his hands now easily flying to the holster—It's empty. The pack he had been carrying on his back is gone too.

Joel watches as you look at him like he should already know what you're doing: a half smile plastered onto your pretty lips, the crinkle at the corners of your eyes, your head tilted to the side ever so slightly, couching in front of his pack.

"Lookin' through your stuff," you croon to him.

Joel's blood boils. What the fuck are you doing? Who the fuck are you? How did you manage to get him all strung up, hanging from the ceiling?

He says nothing as you stay picking through his backpack, taking out every single thing he has in there. His map, compass, the backup flashlight, the gas-mask— which you're putting on?

Why? There weren't any spores in here— were there?

"This thing is fuckin' cool!" Your voice is muffled, and you stand up straight. Then you hold your hands out at your sides, and spin in a circle.

"Hey!" Joel barks at you, flinching away from the revolving barrel of your pistol with each rotation you make. "Stop swinging that thing around, would ya'!?" Joel shouts as you continue to spin.

You stop suddenly, and stare at him through the big, dark lenses of his gas mask. "You know all about swinging around, don'tchya?" You giggle at him.

Joel literally swings back and forth as you say this, very slowly spinning around as he sways, and the throbbing in his head only makes him more angry.

"Cut me the fuck down, keep what'chya want— I don't got time for all this," Joel grumbles, lifting his head so he can look at the rope tied around his ankles. It's a good knot, and without a knife, Joel isn't going to get down on his own, not without his knife.

He reaches behind him to feel for it on his belt—

"Lookin' for this?" Your still muffled voice questions Joel as his fingers brush across the empty space on his waist where his knife would be.

He tips his head almost all the way back, and then to the side so he can see you— and is greeted by the sight of you, still in the gas mask, and now, holding his knife by the blade with your thumb and index finger. All he can do is sigh, close his eyes and wonder how a trip to sit in his favorite recliner led to this.

"Now, I ain't really wanna hurt'chya— I was hopin' you was gunna say knocked out long enough for me to cut'cya down and—"

Joel doesn't wanna hear anymore. "Just cut me the fuck down— people are gon' come lookin' for me if you—"

You apparently don't wanna hear what Joel has to say anymore either, because you start to talk over him. "—we're just gunna go—"

Joel doesn't care, doesn't want to listen to your muffled voice— he wishes you would take his stupid, fucking gas mask off and talk to him like a normal person. He's gotta be able to barter with you somehow. "—don't let me go. If it's food 'n water ya' want, I can get ya' some—"

The two of you are just talking louder, and louder, until the both of you are shouting over the other, neither one of you actually hearing what the other is saying.

"—let me go!"

"—stay forever!"

The two of you stop and stare at each other in silence for a moment. Joel can't really comprehend what you just said, "Stay forever?"

"Yep!" You exclaim happily.

Did he say that aloud?

"You 'n me, together forever, Mister-man," you sigh dreamily at him.

It's not what you say, it's how you say it— like you really believe what you've just said. Like…it was something you had been thinking about, for a while.

"Huh?" Is all he can say, still slowly swaying and spinning. He has to turn his head almost completely around before he whips it to the other side, he wants to keep his eyes on you at all times. You seem un-fucking-predictable.

"Ain't'chya so excited!?" You squeal, and it makes Joel's head ache.

"Gon' fuckin' strangle you once I get down from here," Joel half grumbles, half chuckles under his breath. He crosses his arms over his chest, watching you rummage around for something in his bag.

"That's why I gotta do this," your muffled voice sounds sad as you pull something out and whip it behind your back, hiding it, and that makes Joel nervous.

"Do what?" Joel tries to see what you pulled out of his backpack.

"Gotta close your eyes," you shrug your shoulders, and rock back and forth on the balls of your feet.

Joel blinks at you, just staring at him through the gas mask. He's not completely unsettled by the sight of you in a gas mask, he's seen women wearing them plenty— it's the fact that you have him completely at your mercy and he can barely see your fucking eyes.

He's so fucking stupid for coming out here alone all the time, Tommy and Ellie both warned him- both told him that something would happen to him out here. He'd hurt his back— or worse. And no one would know where to find him- because this was his secret hideaway. A place to escape the responsibilities of being a dad, a grandpa, and a big brother.

Joel loves Ellie, JJ and Tommy more than he ever thought possible— and loves that he got to be around them everyday— it was just starting to be a lot.

If Joel had the means to move that recliner into his house in Jackson, he would have— but it's too big, too heavy and way too fucking far.

Now look at him, upside down!

"Ya' ain't gunna wanna see it comin'." You give Joel a small warning. "Please just close them," you whine, starting to nervously dance on your tip toes.

"No." Joel growls, arms still crossed over his chest.

"'Kay!" You exclaim, running over to Joel. "Warned ya'!" You pull the brick Joel had put in his pack for emergencies.

"Wait! Wait—"

Cripes-all-mighty, Mister-Man is heavy as hell!

It takes everything you have inside of you to drag him to the mattress store. By the time you get there, your shirt is soaked through with sweat, your hair clings to your forehead and the side of your face. Every muscle aches and feels as if it's being torn from the bone it's clinging to.

Huffing and puffing, you drag him through the sea of mattresses until you get to the staircase that leads into the basement office.

"Sorry, Mister-Man," you grunt and push him down the stairs—

He's fine! You lined the stairs, and the bottom where he landed with mattresses a couple days ago-- after you brought his favorite recliner down here. All by yourself. Did it just for Mister-Man, because you want him to be comfortable! You want him to feel nice, and relaxed, and safe here with you.

Once you have him nice and secure to his chair— you wait.

He hit his head pretty hard when you snared him— you didn't think of that part. Then he had to go and wake up! Like a dumb idiot! He could have just stayed asleep, then you wouldn't have had to hit him again!

Thank goodness for that brick he keeps in his backpack, which, what the fuck is that about? It's a good weapon, but it's heavy, and made his backpack harder to carry than you would like to admit.

You were also lugging that giant of a man around, ya' did good, Sugar.

Yeah, ya' did good, kid.

You wrap your arms around yourself and sigh, "Thanks."

You wanna tell the voices in your head that you love them, but you don't really always love them. Sometimes you hate them, and wish they would shut up, and sometimes they don't talk when you need them to— finicky fuckers! And they almost never see eye to eye, and it's exhausting. So you just say thanks.

Mister-man is so pretty up close. Even more pretty than you could have ever thought or dreamed of. He doesn't look like he's shaved or cleaned up his beard in the last couple days, and his hair was combed back away from his face when he got here today— but now it's a mess, matted to his forehead in drying blood, falling into his eyes.

"Shit," you whisper, taking in the sight of him all beat up—

Sug, you gotta clean him up— make him pretty again.

The sweet voice is right!

Mister-man looks so sad all bloody and a mess.

"I'll be right back," you murmur and press a gentle kiss to his forehead through his blood stained hair, and then double check all of the ropes around his wrists and ankles. 

He's secure, time to go get him lookin' nice again. 

When you come back, your bag is filled to the brim with supplies from the the multiple stores that still have things inside them. You got him a comb, and a spray bottle that you already filled with clean water. You were able to find some clean clothes that look like they'll fit him. 

He's also awake. 

"Hi, Mist—"

"Let me go." 

"—er-man!" You finish through the interruption. "I'm gunna clean you up now, and then we can have dinner. 'Kay?"

Mister-man stares at you.

"Oh!" You rip the gas mask off and place it on his lap. "Sorry, I wasn't trying to steal it. I promise." You cross your heart with one index finger. 

"Let. Me. Go." 

You wince with each barked word. "I. Don't. Wanna." 

"If I ever get outta here, m'gon' fuckin' kill ya'," he growls. 

You frown, pinch your eyebrows together and mock his thick, country twang. "M'gon' fuckin' clean ya' up real good, 'n then me 'n ya' can have fuckin' dinner." You growl back at him. 

"Shut th'fuck up, untie me—"

"Why!? So you can kill me?" You shake your head at him, giving him a small smirk. "Not gunna happen, Mister." 

His eyes go wider than you've ever seen them, as if he might be nervous. "What th'fuck you gon' do to me then, huh?" 

"Clean. You. Up. Then. Have. Dinner. Did I say it too fast the first time, or can you really not hear too good?" You cock your head to one side, and look at him quizzically.

"Th'fuck did ya' just ask me?" Joel feels his chest going tight-- this hasn't happened in fucking years. It can't be happening right now.

"I talk real fast sometimes, and I don't realize it, and so sometimes all my words come out real jumbled to--"

"'Bout my hearin'?" Joel's working overtime to suck the air in, to bring precious oxygen to his brain. His head is still pounding, and now he can't fucking breathe, and he can't even imagine what kind of sick, twisted shit you're going to do to him.

Joel watches your eyes drop to the ground by his feet, and it's almost like you pull your body in on itself somehow, retreating into a place where you're trying to hide from him in plain sight. "I been watchin' you when you come in here... just act like you can't hear all that good outta your right ear," you say in a voice so small Joel can barely hear it.

"Watchin' me?" Joel scoffs.

Who the fuck are you? How long have you been watching him? How come he's never seen you before? Never even seen a trace of another person around here, just the stray raccoon or possum.

Joel's blood boils when you nod your head at him, still unable to look him in the eye. "Ya' should be ashamed. Whatever it is ya' wanna do to me is probably fucked--"

"I'm not ashamed," your voice snaps, and finally you lift your head to meet Joel's gaze. "Not even a little."

"Actin' like it," Joel's voice is snappier, and louder, and it makes you flinch.

"Maybe a little embarrassed--"

"Ashamed, fuckin' embarrassed, same fuckin' thing." Joel rolls his eyes at you.

"Not really," you shake your head from side to side and raise both of your eyebrows at him. "Not at all, actually."

"Would you shut th'fuck up?!"

"Would you shut th'fuck up..." You mock Joel. "I'm tryin' to do somethin' nice for you, and you keep telling me to shut the fuck up!"

"Do somethin' nice f'me?!" If this wasn't almost thirty years after the fucking apocalypse happened, Joel would think he was on some hidden camera show.

"Yeah!" You hold out the supplies you had brought back from wherever the fuck you had run off too while Joel was unconscious.

"Doin' somethin' nice would be lettin' me go, sweetheart." Joel switches his tone- does something he wouldn't normally do in a situation like this.

Your eyes light up. They crinkle in the corners a little, like they did the first time he saw you, but you're not upside down this time. The corners of your lips are trying to curl up, but you're actively trying to stop them.

"Don't call me that, 'less you mean it."

With the comb, water bottle and first-aid kit in hand, you take your place behind him and inspect the wound. 

It's a surface wound, but dirty from the brick and still very bloody. 

It's a painstaking process, because you don't want to be the cause of his pain anymore. Not ever again if you can help it.

Really, that's up to Mister, but he'll find out on his own soon enough! He just has to play nice, be sweet and kind— be the Mister you want him to be, and he'll be perfectly happy here with you. Life here with you in the mall could be perfect! He just needs to be perfect. He's almost there, he just has to keep his mouth shut. 

He's not quiet, not at all. He hoots and hollers at you to stop, to let him go, that he's gonna gut you like a fish if he ever gets free from here.

The way he talks, his voice feels like the deepest note on a piano, or the thickest string being plucked on a guitar. It vibrates in the spaces between your ribs, and forces all the air out of your lungs when he talks.

He's taking your breath away... how romantic.

The sweet and airy voice in your head is right, he is taking your breath away. You wish he would stop saying those mean and terrible things to you-- they're making you hurt inside, where your stomach is.

Guilt. You should just kill him right now--

"Hurt him?"

Mister stops shouting, and raises one eyebrow at you.

Look'it those big brown eyes. Like a baby cow. All wet 'n big, kinda scared lookin'.

Ugh, shoot him right between those beautiful brown eyes, kid. You can do it.

He ain't hurt you yet, Sug...

Because she tied him up--

As she should, she's gotta feel him out a little, make sure he's really not gonna hurt her.

How is he ever going to hurt her if he's tied up?

"Okay, enough!" You almost shout-- there they go! Never seeing eye to eye, making things harder than they needed to be!

"I'll yell all I fuckin' want," Joel does holler, loudly. So loud. He's going to draw attention.

"Do I need to get the brick again?"

Joel stops shouting.

He really can't hold back the pained sounds coming from his throat as you attend to his wound.

You're being so, so gentle!

He's acting like a giant baby.

"M'hurtin' you?" You mumble as you drag the damp cloth along his forehead carefully, cleaning the moderately large gash you left there with the brick. It's swollen, and bruised now... you feel so terrible.

He'll forgive you, Sugar.

Mister-man doesn't say anything, he just flinches away from your touch for the millionth time.

"M'sorry, didn't mean t'hurt you this bad." You slowly start to work the comb through his hair, spraying it down with water when you needed to. You're careful to never pull on his hair too hard, and work the tangles out meticulously so you don't bring him any more discomfort.

"Got'chu some medicine." You reach into your pocket and pull out two white pills.

"I ain't takin' nothin' y'give me, fuckin' crazy bitch." He grumbles.

Mister watches you walk around to the front of him, and kneel between his legs.

"S'just regular," you hold your hand up to his face so he can inspect the pill on his own. "Nothin' strong like they had in the QZ's," it's a gentle explanation as he studies the medicine in your palm. "Can find some for ya' if you wanted me to, m'real good at findin' stuff."

"Find it in your heart t'let me outta here," Joel gives you the sweetest, crookedest smile that makes you stomach feel like it grows ten sizes, and your heart feels like it's racing something else inside of you.

There are sweet wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, and the lines on his forehead deepen, and he has the softest dimple on his left cheek.

Sug, he's so pretty.

Kill. Him. Before. He. Kills. You.

"So pretty," you catch your bottom lip between your teeth, and rest one of your elbows on his knee, propping your head up on the heel of your hand. The pills are still right in front of Joel's face, and his eyes flash between them, and your face.

"Not takin' them" he grumbles, twisting his head away from your hand.

"Suit yourself," you put the pills back into your pocket, dipping your head down to press a soft kiss to his knee. "M'gunna go get us dinner, I'll be back."

Joel stares at the tray of food you set down on the table you dragged over to be directly in front of him.

"Where's the protein?" Joel looks up at you from the plate of crackers with peanut butter, a small bowl of raspberries, two packets of expired pretzels you would get on an airplane, and a full bottle of labelless whiskey.

"S'in the peanut butter," you say through a mouthful of your own cracker.

Begrudgingly, Joel opens his mouth when you hold a cracker up to his lips. "Where's the meat?"

The crackers are dry, and kind of stale somehow? The peanut butter is still nice and creamy, just the way Joel remembered it before the outbreak.

"Where would I find meat?"

Joel pinches his brows together and blinks at you. "Ya' live in the woods, got a gun or two-- fuckin' know how to set a snare--"

You gasp softly, and rest one elbow on the table and point at him with a lazy index finger, "You 'spect me to go out there and kill an innocent lil friend? They ain't ever done nothin' t'me. Why would I go out 'n hurt 'em when I ain't got no reason to?"

Joel continues to blink, trying so hard to keep his eyes on you and not the ropes you have him tied down with so tightly they're starting to dig into the skin on his forearms-- painfully.

"Ya' kiddin', right?" He watches as you place a raspberry directly into the peanut butter on the cracker and hold it out for him.

"Issa good combo, try it." You nod your head at him, urging him to open his mouth.

Joel doesn't want to, doesn't want to give you the satisfaction of knowing he needs you, and is going to keep needing you until you decide to kill him, or set him free.

He opens his mouth though, because Joel hasn't had a raspberry in years and he loves them, and the sight of that plump, juicy berry sitting so comfortably in that pillow of delicious, creamy peanut butter is making his stomach rumble. Loudly.

"Want some?" You hold up the bottle of whiskey, screw off the cap and take a swig. "See, it's safe," you look at him through your lashes, and give him a one-corner-of-your-mouth-smile.

Joel nods his head, because what else was there to do if he was going to be a prisoner here? He tried so hard to free himself of the restraints while you were gone, but you know how to tie a knot, and Joel just ended up giving himself rope burn.

An hour later, Joel feels pretty good, but not good enough to forget the situation he's in, but the booze is making you very chatty, and he might actually be enjoying the conversation.

"'N I get power from the solar things up on the roof, I think."

"Ya' think?" Joel smirks at you, he can't help it.

"I dunno how the solar works," you exclaim, holding one hand towards the ceiling. "It's the sun and black screens," you give the ceiling the middle finger and groan. "Barely works when the sun is out-- I just wanna watch my movies--"

"What kinda movies ya' got?"

He wishes he never asked.

You're sitting between his legs on the floor-- reaching behind you to feed him raspberries, never taking your eyes off the screen.

Joel thing's about biting your fingers off, thinks about taking the tips right off with his front teeth.

What would you do if he did that? Joel is still tied up, and he would just have raspberries and bloodied fingertips in his mouth, and then possibly a crazy, unpredictable, angry woman who would try and kill him.

Joel has seen angry people every day for close to thirty years... he knows what they look like, what they sound and act like--- you don't sound or act angry.

"Love this part," you sigh, leaning back into him, and resting your head on his knee.

Joel looks up to the screen, watching Cinderella transform into her beautiful ball gown.

Joel wishes he could reach out and run his fingers through your hair.

No he fucking doesn't? What the actual fuck? What did you put in the food, or the whiskey to make him feel this way?

Joel clenches his hands to fists on the arms of the recliner, and tenses his jaw-- grinding his teeth in the process.

You continue to drink throughout the movie, and when the credits are rolling-- you stumble to your feet, and then into his lap.

"Get off'a me," Joel gripes as you nuzzle your nose against the side of his face.

"Just wanna cuddle," you murmur, curling yourself up into his chest, yawning sleepily. "F'just a lil bit."

"Get off'a me, ya' fuckin' nut!" Joel shouts, and regretfully, tries to headbutt you.

His cheekbone, the side of his nose and part of his forehead connect with the top of your skull in a dull, aching thud.

You scramble off his lap, and fall to the floor, one hand holding the top of your head where Joel had just whacked you. The right side of his face is throbbing, and he thinks his nose might be bleeding, or he's crying- he doesn't know- he doesn't care. He just wants to go home.

"What the fuck!?" You shout back at him. "Mister, I ain't been mean to you at all, minus the brick- okay? What the hell is your problem!?"

Joel can't help but laugh, it starts off as a chuckle, but quickly matures into full on guffawing. "Y'fuckin' insane, ya' know that?" Joel rumbles through his fit.

Through the tears in his eyes, Joel can see you glaring at him.

Okay, he hurt her, can she kill him now?

Sugar, he ain't mean it... not really... he just needs some time to adjust.

He could have really hurt her, are you serious?

He's just nervous! Give the man a break--

Tired of giving men breaks- tired of letting them get away-

"Both of you, knock it off." It's a stern warning to the voice as you glare at Mister.

He stops laughing and blinks at you. "Huh?" He cocks one eyebrow up high, "Both o' ya?"

His question doesn't register, all you can think about is how disappointed you are in him.

"I was gunna let'chya sleep in the big bed with me," you huff, climbing to your feet. "Ain't gonna do that no more."

"I ain't wanna sleep in the big bed with y'crazy fuckin' ass, anyway!" He screams at you.

"What're ya' bein' so fuckin' mean for? I cleaned ya' up, made ya' pretty again-- fed you dinner 'n shared my drink with you!"

Do not cry! What're you doing!? Don't let him see you cry! Get out of here, right now!

The dark voice is right, the burn in your nose and the sting in your eyes are tell tale signs of tears- and you hate them. Hate the way they make your face wet and sticky, hate how they make your heart hurt, hate how your head feels like it's ten pounds heavier when you get done crying.

He'll come around, Sug. Gotta give him some time. If ya' stay nice-- it'll happen sooner than you think.

"I like bein' nice," you murmur, not taking your eyes off Mister.

"Th'fuck are you talkin' about!?" He exclaims, eyes wide, almost obsidian with rage and confusion.

"G'night, Mister. We'll try again t'morow."

Mister doesn't rest, doesn't relax, doesn't settle down at all.

When you open the door to his room, he's still screaming his head off.

"Hey!" You shout back at him, grabbing his attention. "We got raiders 'round here. We got infected movin' in and outta here all the time-- you know how fuckin' loud you are?"

"Hopefully they all hear 'n come runnin'. I'd love to see you get torn to shred-"

"'Kay, m'real sorry ya' feel that way. Even sorrier that I gotta do this."

Mister doesn't stop fighting you the entire time you shove the bandanna into his mouth. He even bites down on your index and middle finger as you stuff the last corner of fabric between his teeth.

Hit him.

It happens so fast, you don't have time to stop yourself from the back of your hand connecting with his cheek.

"Now, you gunna play that game? I can play, too," you inspect your finger and the deep indentation he left that's already starting to bruise.

The duct tape is hard to rip, and you need to use your teeth to cut a strip to go over his mouth.

Mister is mumbling something around the bandanna, but you can't understand him, and honestly are still mad about your fingers-- they hurt! Really bad!

"Glad I still got that medicine... I'm gunna fuckin' need it!" You dig around in your pockets and look for the two white pills. Your fingers throb while you look, the sensitive skin; tender to the touch as it brushes against the fabric inside your pockets.

Mister glares at you with his almost black eyes.

"I'm sorry!" You find the pills, throw them into your mouth and swallow dry. "I'm sorry for hurtin' you. I do not like doin' it, I mean it." You take a couple steps towards him, and drop to your knees between his legs again.

Mister watches, his whole body still as you rest your head on his knee again.

"Just want ya' 'round. M'sorry," you close your eyes, not wanting him to see them fill with those traitorous tears. "Jus' real lonely out here. Miss havin' someone t'talk with...'n snuggle up to at night."

The fuckin' duct tape makes it impossible for Mister to say anything--which is the worst. You wanted someone to talk with, not at.

"I'll take the tape off in the mornin', and we can try again over breakfast, 'kay?"

Mister doesn't make a single sound for the rest of the night.

Joel is drunk again. Fuck, this is never good.

You're in his lap, knees on either side of his thighs with one arm around his neck, your head resting on his shoulder. There is something about the way your fingers twirl around in his hair at the nape of his neck that feels good. Too good.

"C'mon, get off'a me," Joel groans, but there's no passion in his voice. It's been almost three weeks of just this, and he doesn't hate it. Not when he's drunk.

Honestly, he barely dislikes it when he's sober, but he's better at acting like he doesn't want you on his lap when he hasn't had a drink that night.

How can he not like it just a little bit? You're soft, and warm, and fit so perfectly on his lap it's like you were made to be there.

"Couple more minutes, Mister. Please?" You fucking whimper,

The sound floating through Joel's ear canal sends a shiver down his spine, and directly into his cock. It twitches in his jeans. He's got to start thinking about baseball, and carpentry work, and how he's probably going to die soon.

Nothing works. Joel can feel the heat from your cunt through the thin fabric of your shorts, and his hands have been tied down to this chair every time you're not around. The only time you let him up is to use the bathroom-- and you have a gun while you wait for him the entire time, so he's never horny then!

And, as thankful as Joel is for this- you've never even looked at him like that. You look at him like you're in love with him all the time, but you've never once looked at him like you wanna touch him.

Joel tries to push his hips further into the chair, away from the perfect, searing heat of your middle.

"Where'ya goin?" Your voice purrs in his ear, your fingernails ghost across the skin on his neck and he shivers again, his cock feels it tenfold.

You feel it now, too.

"What're ya'--" you pause to look between your bodies, and then your eyes flash up to his. "That f'me?" You're whispering, and your glassy eyes are wide, and look so flattered.

"Ain't for nobody, stop lookin' at 'em," Joel grumbles, again, not really meaning any of it even though he should mean every single word.

"'Em?" you question him with your big, wet eyes and his cock twitches again.

Joel swallows hard, his eyes falling to your bottom lip clutched between your teeth, and nods. "Him, yeah, whatever you wanna call it-- ain't for you." He sighs softly.

"Why not?" you sink down further into his lap. The thin shorts you have on to wear to bed do nothing to keep your warmth contained. It's almost like Joel can feel what it would be like if you just whipped him out and sat-

He's never drinking with you again. Never again.

"Get off'a me," Joel leans forward gently as you lean into him, the tips of your noses touch softly.

"Gunna bite me if I kiss ya'?"

Joel is a goner, your breath smells sweet like raspberries and whiskey and every single thing about you is warm and soft-- Joel knows that if he wasn't fucking drunk he'd be fighting you tooth and nail, but he cannot right now.

He can't think about anything but what you'd feel like wrapped around him, milking him.

"Take'em out," Joel is the one to lean into the kiss, his lips aren't hesitant, or tentative at all when they meet yours. He is going to try and bite you- and he does, he nips at your bottom lip, but gently. He pulls back with it still bitten, and listens to you moan softly.

The quickness of your fingers isn't your friend, you struggle with his belt for what feels like an eternity as you push back against his kiss, eagerly slipping your tongue into Joel's waiting mouth.

Joel groans low in his throat when you wrap your hands around his girth, and then chuckles at your shocked gasp when you pull away to get a good look at him.

"He ain't gon' bite'chya," Joel teases, leaning forward, searching for your lips again.

"Might split me in half," you moan, presumably at the thought of Joel stretching you open.

Joel can't contain his own moan as you put the image in his head. "Fuuck, sit on him-- lemme feel ya'."

The sound that leaves you makes Joel throb in your hand, "Ya' want me t'put 'em inside?" You whisper, the silky smoothness of your hands on him, stroking him so slowly is making his head spin.

"Jeeesus, yes-- fuckin' c'mon- do it," Joel lets his head fall back against the recliner, and watches as you pull your shorts to the side, and lift yourself to hover over him. "C'mon..." Joel eggs you on in a whisper. "Y'can do it, crazy girl."

"Don't call--" you pause when you notch the head of him at your entrance. "--me crazy."

Joel groans loudly as you sink down and let every wet, soft part of you engulf him. He throbs again when you whimper and whine, eyes clenched shut, your hands grasping at his shoulders as you inch your way down his length.

"Ow, ow, ow," you whine, leaning forward to rest your head on Joel's.

He could headbutt the shit out of you right now, but fuck, the way you're looking at him, with real tears in your eyes, not just from drinking.

"Hey, ya' doin' real good, sweetheart, keep goin'-- nice 'n slow," Joel encourages you, because he doesn't want it to stop either. "Jus' like that, crazy girl."

God damn, is crazy pussy always this good? He wouldn't fucking know, he wouldn't ever get involved with you if he knew you back in Jackson- but out here, after almost three weeks with you... it's hard to deny the physical needs of a man. And you're so fucking soft and wet.

The two of you groan in unison when you fully seated. The velvet walls of your pussy are fluttering, and clenching around him as you adjust to his length.

"You're so big," you hum, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips. "Didn't think ya'd wanna do this," you whisper into his mouth. "Wasn't gon' take it from ya-- don't like that."

"Take what'chya need from me, whenever ya want it, shit," Joel tries to buck his hips up into yours to give you what you want but you whine in protest.

"Still hurts."

Joel settles his hips and leans into the best he can being tied down, his fingers grip the armrests of the chair tightly, groping it like he would be groping you if he could.

"Untie me," he murmurs while grinding up against you, not pulling out of you at all, just letting you feel him, letting you open up around him so it'll start to feel good.

"No," you nip at his bottom lip now, but you suck it into your mouth and tease him with your tongue as your walls start to rhythmically clench around him.

"Fuck, ya' doin' that on -ur-ose?" Joel groans with his bottom lip still being lapped at, The feeling of your tight, wet sucking him in deeper somehow- like it's fucking bottomless almost makes him come right then.

You pull back, his lip slips from between your with a wet pop "Mhm, ya' like it?" You clench harder around him and then release, and then do that over, and over again.

"Fuckin' untie me, wanna touch you- gotta feel how soft ya' are all over, c'mon," he's begging, he needs to feel the swell of your ass in his palm, or one of your tits spilling between his fingers as he grips you.

"No, you'll just try 'n leave me-"

"No, no, no-- I'll stay 'n... uh.. I'll... um- uh--oh, I'll play nice wit'chya" Joel racks his brain with anything that he could say that would possibly give him a chance at being able to really touch you.

"Lyin' t'me," you moan, and Joel throbs inside of you.

"Not lyin'-"

You pull back from his face at an alarming rate, and you scan his face slowly, as if you were drinking in every feature, savoring the flavor-- Joel watches you swallow hard and imagines that it's his load you just took down--

"Untie me, let me touch ya' a lil bit," Joel whispers, keeping his eyes locked on to yours. "Make ya' feel real good, promise." Joel licks his lips as he watches you struggle internally with the decision. "C'mon... gotta feel how soft ya' are, crazy girl. Just one hand."

"Fine."

You stay seated in his lap, his cock still throbbing inside of you as you work on the knot that will free his right hand. He's trembling in the anticipation of it all.

As soon as the pressure is gone off his wrist, Joel reels his arm back as far as he can, and sends it flying forward with as much force as he can muster after not eating meat for almost an entire month.

You scream as his fist connects with your right eye, and go flying to the floor.

Joel might be completely sober right now, and he knows he needs to move fast before you get up and probably shoot him for lying to you, and then punching you.

Yep. Shoot him. Shoot him right between his perfect, brow, baby-cow eyes. End it.

The dark voice in your head is right, but it's almost impossible to think about anything else but the pain shooting into your brain from your right eye socket.

"You motherfucker," you sob. The pain is electrifying- and you can't even see out of your right eye anymore!

That was your least favorite eye!

Kill. Him.

When you sit up, Joel is working on the knot around his left wrist.

You stumble to your feet, holding your hand over your eye trying to keep the actual ball in, in case it falls out, and walk over to the table with his book bag on it. You rummage around until your fingers wrap around the item you're looking for.

When Joel sees what you're carrying, not even attempting to hide it behind your back, he quickens his efforts on the knot.

Your left hand isn't your dominant one, but your right is busy keeping your eyeball in your head because it most surely got knocked loose or something.

You have to whack Joel twice before he goes unconcious.

"S'what ya' get for almost takin' my eye out!"

While he's still asleep, you take this opportunity to cut the jeans he's wearing off of him. You carefully unbutton the green and red flannel he was wearing and slip that off of him fully intact.

Once he's fully secure, with a new restraint around his chest to keep him fully pinned down to the chair, and the bandanna and tape back around his mouth-- you shut all the lights off, every single one, and leave him down there to think about what he did.

He's gonna learn to play nice, and if he wants to play rough first... so can you.

The air is thick with tension and stench of his sweat and fear.

The big-guy should be kind of scared- you didn't want it to come to this, but he just cannot participate nicely!

You circle your Mister-man slowly, drinking in every detail of him. His broad chest heaves with ragged breaths, muscles taut and straining as he fights against the restraints for the thousandth time.

No matter how hard he struggles, he cannot break free. Oh boy. Mister-man has some big feelings about it, and he's trying to let you know.

He is struggling— like, so fucking hard, against his bonds that tether him to the chair, that are cutting deep into the skin on his wrists. It's unfortunate, but he keeps wriggling around! If he just stopped, it'd all be fine!

You lean in close, pointing to your right eye, which is still black and blue, but thankfully not as swollen anymore, and frown at him. "This hurt!" You exclaim. "It hurt so bad, and you said you were gunna play nice. Why'd ya' lie t'me?"

His eyes are blown wide with fury and desperation. But he cannot respond, not really, his voice is saying things, but it's muffled by the duct tape stretched tight across his mouth.

He's still clad in only boxer shorts, a thin gray t-shirt, and socks, he looks vulnerable and exposed.

It really shouldn't be so hot-- but it is. You can't stop thinking about what he said the other night.

"Take what'cya want from me, sweetheart. Whenever you want it."

You wonder if he really meant that, because he punched you in the face right after.

But... he got excited! He wanted it, Mister-man kissed you first.

Oh Sug, he's down bad.

Please kill him. Shoot him right now, then you can just move to a different part of the mall. It's very simple.

He's really mad; which makes no sense! He punched you right in the eye! What is he mad for!?

"I thought after three weeks you'd be begging me to take you upstairs, Mister," you purr seductively, taking a step behind him, out of his line of sight. "Instead you hit me!?" You give Joel a good thwack against the side of his head with your open hand.

Not enough to really hurt him— that's coming soon— but enough to let him know to cut the shit. It's getting old, and now you want a fun, willing participant to play with you… and not someone who is going to act like they don't like… all this.

The perfect basement office of an old mattress store in an abandoned mall about a two hour hike outside of what used to be Jackson, Wyoming?

There's no spores, there's no mildew or stink! It's clean, you make sure to keep everything so clean for him.

Despite his insessant pestering about meat for some reason, he's well fed! He gets to drink whenever he wants!

Why is he so upset!?

Joel grumbles something from behind the duct tape and it's honestly lost of deaf ears because you don't care for what he has to say right now, it's never nice or sweet. It's always mean— that's why he's got the duct tape on.

Soon.

Soon the big-dumb-idiot will be singing your name, happily, and without restraints.

He's just gotta wear something else first.

You slip the shock collar around his thick neck while you're still behind him.

He doesn't like it, at all. He thrashes and writhes, and makes a desperate, pleading groan from behind deep in his throat.

"Well, you wanna act like all them other dogs out there, you're gon' get treated like one," you press a kiss to the top of his skull, and pull back before he can rear his head forward and smash it against your nose.

He's going to try-- he always does.

Slowly, you wind your way around him, trailing a finger along his sweat-slick forehead and crawl into his lap. He struggles at first, until he sees the remote in your hand.

"Gonna zap all the bad outta you… make you perfect for me." You sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Have an idea...for how you can hug me-- and not hit me."

Joel mumbles something else, muffled through the duct tape. It doesn't really matter what he's saying, all that matters is how warm he is. How he makes you feel so safe and comfortable.

It's easy now, with the threat of being zapped, to rest your forehead against his, and nuzzle the tips of your noses together.

"You gunna be good for me, Mister-man?" It's a purr as you press a kiss to the duct tape covering his mouth. "Or am I gunna have to train you how to be good?"

omg this might be the longest tag list i've ever done let me know if you want me to take you off, add you, if I forgot you-- I'm SORRY!!!

TAG LIST: @pedrospookie @gothcsz @joelmillerisapunk @sp00kymulderr @paleidiot @goodvampykitten @rosebuds-and-moonlight @diabaroxa @zhazy-blog2 @almostempty @xdaddysprincessxx @tobethlehem @lilac-boo @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @rav3n-pascal22

[highoctanegem]

[pm] Well, have you considered making good points? Just a thought! Maybe I wouldn't be missing them if that was the case. Cause one thing about me, I love good points. LOL, that's very generous of you, babe. And look, we all need to cry sometimes. Or you'll end up emotionally constipated. Do you want that? No wayyy that makes it sound like I'm being totally unfair and biased when, pft... I would never. Um... I'm pretty sure she's spent almost as much on you as she's spent on me. Not that much that I should be jealous of you, but... a decent amount.

Wowww, skill issue then? Imo, being short is always better anyway. Life's great down here.

I dunno, have you met all the people in the world? I think you'll find it hard to find someone as big brained as me. Let's just say, if I was as good at... stuff as I am at throwing parties, my parents would love a whole lotta issues would be solved. But also, I wouldn't be the funniest person you know so. You win some, lose some. Who's to say! Maybe I know professional axe throwers that I'll invite to this party. It would sooo embarrassing to lose at your own party.

The one with the cars and the bikes! Personally more of a bike girly, for obvious reasons. I mean if I don't choose Yoshi and a bike am I even bisexual? I did not cheat, you just can't handle my skills [user wasn't much better either]

[...] Yeah? I guess... things would be easier if How can I How can I tell my I don't think I wanna do it their way anym They're not gonna unders [user types and retypes the same question several times before dropping it]

[pm] You miss points all the time. You're always missing points when I make them. Gotta give back somehow, I guess. I am very sure. I don't need onions, and I don't need to cry. You're always making some excuse for things I say not to count. I say something that's right and you say it doesn't count, every time. I don't miss points. Are you asking me? Regan has never paid me. [user has scammed regan out of thousands of dollars.]

I think they can probably help it.

I am being serious, and you are not the smartest person in the world. I'm not making a resolution. [user isn't entirely sure what this tradition is.] We'll see how good you are at throwing parties. I don't need to see who wins at the axe throwing, because I know it will be me. [user is, in fact, getting excited via competitiveness.]

Wait, is that the one with the cars? You cheated at that. [...] I wish it were different, too.

[lost-in-fandoms]

Just because it’s the most unexpected promoted on the list….max is ella enchanted (28), maxiel. Have no preference as to if it’s angsty/fluffy/kinky/funny/dramatic. Just interested to see where you take this.

From here Hello thank you!!! I'm also interested to see where I take this! (I have no idea let's find out).

cw: possible implied non-con. it's not, but for a bit Daniel thinks it is.

Max is very well behaved.

It's one of the first things Daniel learns about him, even before Max becomes his teammate.

He can be a bit bitchy sometimes, sass a little, be rebellious, but as soon as someone tells him to behave, he does. He listens well, he is great at following orders, seems to thrive on being given clear instructions. And Daniel can confirm that all of that is true.

It's seems to be even more true in the bedroom.

When Daniel says kiss me, Max does. When Daniel says get on your knees for me, Max does. When Daniel says let me hear you, Max does.

It's not that Max doesn't argue, he isn't afraid of letting his opinion be loudly known, but he's just. Good at following orders. That's all. It's easy, and it makes life easier for everyone around him.

Or at least, it does until it turns Daniel's world upside down.

"Hey," Lando greets him, sitting down next to him and offering his fist to bump.

The meeting room is still mostly empty, everyone loves to run late to drivers meetings, and Daniel is comfortably lounging in one of the chairs in the back, idly kicking the seat in front of him, making the chair shift more and more forward with a screech.

"Have you heard?" Lando asks, looking at him with his eyes twinkling. Daniel knows that face. It's his I have been trusted with a secret that I am immediately going to spill face.

"Have I heard what?" Daniel asks, bored enough to not care about trying to ensure someone's trust doesn't get broken.

"Apparently, Max is cursed!"

Daniel stops kicking the chair.

"What?"

He thinks back to the morning, when Max had slipped out of his room looking very much normal, trying to imagine what might have happened in between, and why would Max not text him about it.

"Is he okay?" he asks, already pulling out his phone to get into their message thread.

More drivers are starting to trickle in, but no Max, so Daniel thoroughly ignores them all. He can apologise later. Maybe.

"No no, it's not new!" Lando still sounds gleeful about sharing the gossip, and it's possible Daniel is going to punch him.

"What the fuck do you mean, it's not new? And who told you this?" he snaps, maybe too harshly. His text to Max isn't even getting delivered, meaning that either Max's phone is off or that someone truly hates Daniel's guts and wants him to suffer.

"I don't know, people are saying! And it's since birth!"

Daniel relaxes slightly. If it's since birth it can't be something too serious, or it would have been picked up already. He still wishes he could reach Max, or that Max would just show up, but he's not as desperate as ten seconds ago.

"Okay, fine," he relents, when it's clear that Lando knows more but won't talk unless he gets asked. "What's the curse?"

"It's incredible, mate! He has to follow orders!"

And then Lando laughs. As if it's funny, maybe already thinking about all the prank opportunities this could turn into.

While Daniel's brain slowly collapses.

"Any order?" he asks, voice faint to his own ears.

Any order means any order. It means tell me the race strategy. It means shunt your car.

It means be a good boy and suck me off.

Daniel doesn't even apologise when he throws up on Lando's shoes.

--

"Max, Max, fucking pick up."

Daniel paces around the room, phone pressed to his ear, trying to call Max for what feels the hundredth time.

He can't stop shaking.

Max hadn't been in the drivers meeting. Not that Daniel had been either, he'd run out as soon as he had stopped puking on Lando, but he hadn't been in the Red Bull garage either. He hadn't been in Daniel's hotel room, or in his own.

And he wasn't answering his phone.

Daniel can't stop thinking about it. Max is well behaved. Max is well behaved. Max likes orders. Max is well behaved.

He feels like throwing up again.

The call rings out, and Daniel simply presses the call button again, fisting his hand in his hair.

"Fuck, fuck, fu..."

The door beeps as a card is used, and then swings open, letting a very tired looking Max Verstappen in.

Daniel drops his phone on the floor.

"Fucking hell, Max, what the fuck!"

Max jumps, taken aback, his eyes widening at Daniel's wild appearance.

"Daniel? Are you okay?" he asks, taking a step forward, hesitant.

Daniel laughs, feeling crazed, stomach rolling. Is he okay? Is he fucking okay?

"I am great, mate! My boyfriend is cursed, didn't tell me about it, and then fucking disappeared! I am great!" he snaps, laughing again, hysterical.

"Daniel," Max says, in that soft voice he uses for his cats, walking forward with his hands slightly raised. "I am of course okay. I am sorry if I worried you, but we had an emergency meeting about it, and..."

"Did you even want it?" Daniel interrupts, unable to keep it inside anymore.

Max frowns, confused.

"Want it?"

"All the times I..." Daniel swallows, feeling the taste of vomit in the back of his throat. "Did I force you? Ever? Into something you didn't want?"

It takes a second for Max to understand, but then his face softens, and he comes closer, settling his hands on Daniel's arms and then, when he doesn't fight it, dragging him into a hug.

"Do you remember the first time that we kissed?" he asks, lips brushing against Daniel's messy hair.

Daniel would prefer if Max just answered the fucking question, but he'll be damned if he ordered it to him. He just shakes his head, too distressed to think about it properly.

"I kissed you," Max tells him, half a smile in his voice. "And I asked you if I could suck you off."

Daniel remembers now. How bold and shy Max had been, flushed cheeks and wandering hands.

"I have never felt forced with you," Max says, and Daniel almost collapses into him, the weight on his shoulders partially lifting.

"How can I be sure?" he asks instead, voice choked with tears.

When Max pulls back there's a twinkle in his eyes, a smirk on his lips.

"You can order me to tell you, of course. I cannot lie."

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

extremely unpopular ship but. marc/luca with 24 + 21

marc/luca: 21 (biting) + 24 (dacryphilia)

Luca braces for it like he braces for hitting the ground after being highsided off his bike. Marc saying you’re nothing like Valentino or you’re just like Valentino. Or—God fucking forbid—being sorry about how shit the Honda is. Poor boy, wasting his career on a comeback that won’t deliver.

He never does. Which is half the reason that they’re doing this, in the first place.

It’s not an accident, is the thing. Luca enjoys making mistakes with his eyes wide open.

He grinds up into Marc, dirty, slow sweeps, right against his prostate. The wet squelch of lube echoes gunshot loud between them, accusatory—as does Marc’s breathless little gasp. Luca keeps at it, again, again, again, so he’ll get another one of those noises, but Marc only throws his head back, puts it against his shoulder, miles of smooth, tanned skin in his bobbing throat.

Pretty, Luca thinks, a hysterical little laugh stuck behind his teeth, shaking when he runs a forcibly idle touch over Marc’s waxed, soft thighs.

“More?” He asks, careful.

Marc nods—open-mouthed, greedy—and drags him to hold his cock. Luca’s hands are calloused, bony, dry. Probably doesn’t feel that good, in retrospect. Marc bucks into his grip anyway, fucks into his slightly unsteady fist with abandon, like he’s bending a bad bike to take a tricky corner.

Luca bites into the soft insides of his cheek. Focus.

So he leaves a bite on Marc’s throat next. Mean, deep—it’s right there, after all. Presses down hard on the imprint of his teeth he left on the swell of Marc’s pec, on his nipple, on the knob of his hipbone. They’re growing dark already, a splotchy purple-red on gold, ugly, round lines.

He keens, jolts, legs falling open, hooked over Luca’s skinny knees. It’s like pressing on the keys of a baby grand at random, only to find out everything sounds fantastic. His cock twitches in his hand, leaks. Each slide is wetter and easier than the last.

Christ. Luca sucks in a breath, tucked against the corded muscle of Marc’s neck.

But Marc is allergic to breaks or something like that. Twists his head around and tugs him up by his hair. They’re looking at each other—which should technically be sobering, a cold wash of reality, but only makes Luca ache to press a kiss on the corner of his shiv-quick smile.

In a bit, maybe.

“You really are mean,” he says, winded, in this dangerous, wild delight.

Luca arches an eyebrow, immaculate through the hell press of Marc’s ass around his cock, how it rakes over him like an electric shock. “You asked me to.”

“People don’t usually—ah, shit, see—first fuck is usually a warm-up. Very polite.”

Luca debates for a split second, five lights and off they go, prying the words from the bottom of his throat. I actually get off on making people cry, just like that. Decides against it at Marc’s dark, cutting stare, his open-mouthed, shameless hunger. Too much like feeding a shark.

Makes himself grin, instead. “I’m very polite. You always say that.”

“Asshole,” he says—in Spanish. Putilla, like Luca doesn’t know what it means. And he laughs through it too, this ugly, honking laugh.

It’s not what you call someone doing a favor, sort of. Luca keeps smiling.

Squeezes Marc’s cock hard, drags his nails all the way to his flushed, wet head. Marc chokes on whatever noise he was making, scrambles to scratch him back, at his wrist, legs twitching to cover himself up on instinct.

He lets them fall limp, though. Stares wide-eyed, expectant. Challenging. Luca croons something sweet-sounding, backs off just a little. His grip is too tight, cruel, but more pleasure now, working him over in quick, rough twists of his palm.

Nothing about it is pretty, exactly—except Marc crumbling against him, Luca is at his strings. Except Marc whining, high-pitched and raw, when he shivers and comes with Luca running a nail over his slit and biting down on his nape.

Luca grunts, muffled through Marc tightening up around his cock, through the pound of blood in his ears.

It’s probably the funniest—most absurd—consequence of going to an engineer’s birthday party, he thinks, nerves in overdrive, about to giggle or moan or come, same fucking difference, heart drumming against his ribcage, thoughts hitting every corner.

Marc hisses out a thick noise, holds his arm. There’s no real strength behind it. Luca gets back on with what could be called his meanness, smears Marc’s come over his own dick. Jerks him only a fraction gentler than he was.

He isn’t crying, yet.

Not like he asked to, not like Luca wants to see.

But maybe soon, he thinks, perverse and not caring all that much about it, heat prickling under his skin, spit pooling over his tongue. Luca gives him a light nibble on his earlobe as a reward, more intent than actual pressure.

“More?” Luca breathes out, barely a whisper.

Marc—lashes wet, fluttering, almost there—nods.

[junplusone]

i'll always say it's you ; yoon jeonghan

summary: you always used to think that even the end of the world couldn’t keep you and yoon jeonghan apart; you’d find your way back to each other somehow. ten years later, you start to wonder if that’s such a good thing after all.

contains: childhood best friends to ??? to ???, swearing, drinking (+ underage), talk of joshua and cheol's arm muscles, mention of drugs in a joke like once i think, caffeine addiction, peak delusion, jeonghan cheating in games as always, hella yearning

word count: 12.98k

a/n: this is lowkey a mess and probably kind of inaccurate loll but i hope u enjoy! feedback always appreciated xx

the me of today hopes for the you of tomorrow

“What about you, Y/N? Have you ever been in love?”

Hearing your own name slowly zones you back into the conversation at the table. You pause at the question, a drop of soju splashing out of the glass in your hand.

“What?”

“Come on, it’s just a silly question,” the young intern says, rolling his eyes. “You’re no fun, Y/N. We’re off work right now! It’s fine,” he drawls, swaying a little in his chair.

You can’t really remember his name right now, downing the glass in one go, but his bold innocence bothers you. Maybe his demeanor, full of life and promise, is what gets on your nerves. 

Were you like that when you were fresh out of college, too? It’s so unthinkable to you now, at twenty-nine. It feels like ages in the past.

“So? Are you —”

“I hardly think this is an appropriate conversation,” you say quietly, zipping your bag shut. “I think I’m going to head out, anyways. It’s quite late already.”

“But —”

“Chan, just stop asking questions and drink this, okay?” His friends try and calm him down with a glass of water. Amidst the chatter, you decide to slip away, silently pushing in your chair and leaving the bustling restaurant. 

Dinners like this always end up making you feel worse, anyways, like an outlier at a table of people with fervent hopes and dreams of their own. 

You make it two blocks until your phone begins to buzz in your pocket, and you fumble to answer it, knowing there’s only one person who would call you at nine o’clock on a Friday night.

“Hello?”

“Oh, you answered,” Yeonju says, evidently surprised. “I thought you’d still be at work.”

“I’m on my way home now,” you tell her. “Why, did something happen?”

“Kind of,” you hear rustling on her end of the line. “Jeonghan called.”

“Huh?” 

You had stopped abruptly at Yeonju’s words— foolishly in the middle of the road, and you rush to the sidewalk, still reeling. It’s been so long since you’ve even heard his name that it sends your mind into a tailspin when she says it again.

“I thought you knew,” she says, “He said he tried calling you first, but you wouldn’t pick up.”

“I don’t answer calls from numbers I don’t have saved,” you remind her. You haven’t had Jeonghan’s number saved on your phone in a long time. There was no need to keep it if you never used it anymore.

“I think you should talk to him.”

“Yeonju,” you shake your head. “Why would I? There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There is, and you know it, too,” she doubles down. “You won’t say it, but I know you agree with me.”

She’s right, as much as you want to pretend otherwise. When has Choi Yeonju ever been wrong about you? Sometimes it scares you how good she is at reading your mind, but as always, she delivers reality checks right when she feels like you need them.

“Maybe,” you admit begrudgingly. “But things are just easier without him.”

“Yeah, well, nothing is ever easy,” she points out, “but take your own time, no rush. And take care of yourself, Y/N.”

“I will,” you say with a faint smile.

“OK, perfect. Call if you need anything else, yeah? I gotta go now.”

“Okay, Yeonju, take care.”

“Bye!”

She hangs up just as you unlock your front door, shutting it behind you and kicking off your shoes. The peace and quiet of your apartment welcomes you, and you sigh in relief as you sink into your couch.

Pulling out your phone again, you scroll through your call log. There are a few unsaved numbers, likely just spam calls, but when you see the same number four times in a row, there’s no doubt about who it might have been. Your finger hovers over the screen; should you? Shouldn’t you?

No, it’s easier to just stay angry. It’s easier to pretend his name means nothing to you anymore. 

But even as you toss your phone to the side, Chan’s question still haunts you, like it’s a reminder that maybe you need to retrace your steps and do something different this time. 

God, you had finally been able to go a few days without thinking about him, but today just took you right back to square one.

“Have you ever been in love?”

When you close your eyes, all you see is him.

first time feeling my heart race, never thought it'd beat so fast

TEN YEARS AGO

“Yoon Jeonghan, delete that right now or I’m going to kill you.”

Jeonghan shakes his head vehemently, still cackling at the picture of you on his phone. This is nothing new to you; over the years you’ve gotten used to him finding the absolute worst angles of you whenever you fall asleep in class, or on the bus, and it never fails to get you fuming. 

In fact, if Jeonghan has one talent, it’s probably pissing you off.

“Not my fault you dozed off like that during lecture! Even Yeonju would have bullied you if she was there,” he teases. “I’ve been collecting bad Y/N photos since we were sixteen and in high school, why would I stop now?”

“You’re evil.”

“Thanks, I know.”

“Dinner’s on you, by the way.”

“What?!”

“Do you want to keep that horrendous picture or not?”

“Okay, fine,” he concedes immediately, slipping his phone into his pocket. “But we’re going back to my dorm first because I left my wallet on my desk.”

"Why would you not have that with you? Dumbass," you scold. 

To anyone else, you might sound angry, but somewhere in the unspoken words, you and Jeonghan have already reconciled. 

The weather is chilly and perfectly November-esque, and if not for the thick scarf around your neck you’d be shivering by now. Having Jeonghan by your side adds to the warmth spreading throughout your body, a little piece of happiness found in his company. 

You’ve never needed to explain yourself to him. Somehow, whatever you’re feeling, whatever’s going on, he just knows, and it’s perfect. You couldn’t ask for anything more.

Not much to your surprise, Jeonghan’s roommate is there when the two of you walk in, blankets piled over him as he hunches over his laptop. 

“Hey, Josh,” you greet him. “Everything okay?”

“No,” he frowns, rubbing his eyes, “I may have procrastinated a little too hard on this paper and now it’s due in a couple of hours and I’m totally fucked.”

“This is why I told you to drop that philosophy class at the beginning of the semester,” Jeonghan says, pocketing his wallet. “You don’t even need to take it.”

“Just trying to knock off my humanities electives, but honestly, this one kind of backfired on me,” Joshua admits, defeated. “Where are you guys headed?”

Jeonghan points at you accusingly. “This one tricked me into buying her dinner earlier.”

“I did not!” you gasp. “You walked into that one, stop blaming me for the consequences of your actions! Also, I want ramen, which means we’re going off campus, so you’re driving.”

He narrows his eyes at you as he reaches for his car keys. “You are so evil.”

"Takes one to know one, Hannie."

What throws you off is the way Joshua’s eyes flit between the both of you as you bicker, the way he tells you to have fun in that singsong voice of his as you step back out into the cold, like he knows something you don’t. 

You still remember the day you first met him, when Jeonghan left to go grab something after introducing the two of you, and the question that immediately followed.

“Are you guys together or something?”

And of course, Joshua meant no harm — nobody ever does, when they ask something like that. You and Jeonghan have been fielding questions like that since the start of your friendship. Everyone’s wanted to know exactly what it is that you are to each other, and the answer has always come without missing a beat.

Friends, you’ve always said. 

Friends in the way that you can’t go anywhere alone in your hometown without being asked where the other one is, the way that your parents always set out an extra plate and ask if he’s joining for dinner as usual.

The right word for it would be ‘inseparable’. Sometimes, though, you wonder if that’s all that it is. 

Like now, as you notice the cold has Jeonghan trembling next to you. His teeth are chattering, long lashes framing his eyes that are now narrowed in displeasure. 

When you unravel your scarf from around your neck and reach to drape it around his, they go wide in surprise. 

“What are you doing?”

“You never wear enough layers, idiot.” You tuck the ends into his jacket and the way he’s staring at you steals the breath out of your lungs. 

You can’t run from the fact; your best friend is undeniably attractive. It’s a simple truth, down to his soft but sharp features, the slope of his cheeks, and the hair that frames his face so perfectly. It’s dark out, but Jeonghan’s eyes are lit up like stars. You don’t even realize it until you start to hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

“Thanks,” he says with a faint smile. “What would I do without you?”

“Freeze, probably,” you reply flippantly, but you look away, unable to take the intensity of his gaze on you.

Just think about the way he looks at you, Y/N.

Was Yeonju right? You have no way of knowing, and you don’t want to tip the scales by bringing any of it up now.

“Alright, let’s go,” you say instead, tugging him along to the parking lot. “It’s late, I’m hungry, and you promised.”

“Why do you always seem so excited to drain my bank account?”

“It’s my favorite hobby,” you quip. “Shall we go?”

“We shall, m’lady,” he says as you get to his car, pulling open the door for you with a wink. Your cheeks burn as you get in, his defined features etched into your brain.

Yes, he’s your dearest, oldest friend, but Yoon Jeonghan has a certain way of making your head spin that throws that very title into question.

when half of me is gone, how can i live as one?

PRESENT DAY

It’s been exactly three days since Jeonghan called you, and you haven’t heard from him since then. You don’t know what you were expecting. Another call? A text? 

No, it would be quite stupid to hope for such things after everything that’s happened.

It’s a quiet Monday night, and your brain decides to take an involuntary trip down memory lane. Ten years ago today, you’d probably be doing homework frantically, most definitely an assignment you’d put off until the night of. Ten years ago today, Jeonghan would be by your side. 

Oh, how some things change over time. 

After another hour of mindless TV and doing whatnot on your phone, your conscience finally wins the moral battle against your pride, and you scroll down through your call log again. Taking a deep breath, you decide to call him back before your brain can convince you otherwise.

All the words evaporate out of your mouth when he picks up on the first ring. 

“Y/N?”

God, it’s been so long since you’ve heard his voice. Just the sound of your name from him is enough to make you tear up.

“... Jeonghan?”

Silence. After a few seconds your heart sinks, thinking maybe he’s hung up on you and gone radio silent yet again. 

Then you hear it, just barely whispered into the phone: “I’ve missed you.”

Those words tug at your heart so badly you press your eyes closed to prevent your tears from welling up. “Jeonghan, don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“I haven’t heard from you in over a year,” you cut him off. “A year, Jeonghan. Do you really think you can just ‘I miss you’ your way back into my life whenever you want?” 

“Don’t say that,” he implores. “You’re my best friend.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s true. I mean it.”

“I’ve heard the exact same line from you so many times,” you tell him, the rest of your words dying in your throat. 

You have many more things to say to him, so many unspoken feelings, but now doesn’t feel like the time. Instead, you swallow your anger like you’ve done every time he finds his way back into your life.

“How… how have you been?”

“I’m okay. I wrote a new song,” he says lightly. “Shows have been pretty alright, things are looking up… just the usual.”

“Oh, I see.”

“What about you?”

“I’m okay, too.” A blatant lie. “Jeonghan… why’d you call me on Friday?”

“Oh,” he starts, like he’s surprised you even asked. “Um, I’m actually in town for a bit, so… I was just wondering if you wanted to meet and catch up again. Y’know, like old times.”

It’s the flippant edge in his voice that stings more than anything else, as if he doesn’t care that your friendship hasn’t been the same for years. Do you mean that little to him now?

But, like always, you have a hard time saying no to Yoon Jeonghan.

“Okay,” you agree. “Just tell me where, I guess. And when.”

“Okay.”

It’s not for a few seconds that you realize your cheeks are wet. Jeonghan feels so far away now, the distance hurts like a piercing pain and you have to slap a hand over your mouth so he doesn’t hear you sob against your couch, the stoic wall you put up crumbling away with every passing moment.

“Y/N,” his voice is shaky now. “Y/N, please don’t cry.”

Feeling caught and cornered, your brain enters fight or flight mode, and promptly chooses the latter. “I’m not,” you blurt out, and immediately end the call, tossing your phone across the room so you aren’t tempted to call him again.

If time traveling was an option, you’d go back to a decade in the past without a question. For some reason it hurts more that after all this time, Yoon Jeonghan is still the one that knows you the best.

You wake up the next morning horribly late for work, with a blinding headache and a notification from Jeonghan on your phone.

xxx-xxx-xxxx: is tonight @ semicolon cafe ok with you? after you get off work?

xxx-xxx-xxxx: i won’t take up too much of ur time, i promise

xxx-xxx-xxxx: i’m so sorry y/n

you: its ok. that works, see u then

It’s well past nine o’clock when you finally enter the office. You almost make it to your desk unnoticed until your boss glances at you sneaking in.

“You’re very late,” Seungcheol observes, leaning back in his chair. His gaze is always stern, and today it makes you even more anxious than usual.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize. “Things just… everything kind of worked against me today. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“I believe you,” he says, casting another concerned look at you as you nearly drop your laptop going to your desk. “Is everything okay, Y/N? This really isn’t like you.”

“Yeah,” you lie through a tight smile. Damn Yoon Jeonghan and his stupid face for ruining your whole day. “Everything’s fine.”

Looking back, it’s quite impressive how you manage to keep your composure throughout your whole workday. You know you’ve accomplished a feat when even Junhui doesn’t really notice anything’s wrong. 

Despite how oblivious he comes across at first, your colleague is easily one of the most perceptive people you’ve ever met, as you’ve learned in the past five years you’ve spent at this company.

“Long day?” Junhui swivels around in his chair as he catches you taking a break from your screen.

“Yeah,” you admit, glancing at the clock. Almost five. “Even longer when we get asked to fix all of the intern’s mistakes. How do you just forget to write a whole method?!”

“God, I hope Lee Chan never gets hired as a backend developer. Love the kid, but I’m not sure how he got through college with his code looking like this.”

“Hard agree.”

“Hey, do you have plans after? Me and the rest of the team are probably gonna get dinner together. None of the interns,” he clarifies with a grin. “We need some peace and quiet. I think Wonwoo’s genuinely at his final straw, he’s been downstairs with them all day.”

As tempting as that sounds — Junhui has a knack for finding the best spots in Seoul — you have something more important on your plate for the day.

“Maybe next time,” you decline. “I have to meet someone after work.”

“Oh?” A sly grin spreads across his face. “Someone special?”

“It’s not a date,” you insist, face heating up.

“I never asked if it was, Y/N, you’re just outing yourself at this point.”

“It’s not!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he teases, turning back around. “Keep me posted!”

You roll your eyes.

The end of the day couldn’t have come any slower. Usually, you’d get so engrossed in whatever you were working on that you’d end up staying late, but today you shock everyone by packing up when the clock hits five, bidding Junhui a good night as you almost run to leave the building.

(“Someone’s in a rush,” he remarks when you turn your computer off. “Don’t be late on a first date, it’s not very polite!”

“Fuck off,” you respond, when Seungcheol is safely out of earshot.)

The walk home almost freezes your fingertips, and you have to shove your hands deep into your pockets to keep them from going numb. You make a note to dress accordingly for the biting cold later.

At least the weather matches your mood today.

The idea of a hot shower turns out to be a little too inviting, though, because when you finally step out, hair wrapped in a towel, it’s 6:28, and you have a text from Jeonghan waiting to be opened.

xxx-xxx-xxxx: i’m here, i snagged a table in the back

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath, pulling on an old sweater and some jeans. You don’t have time to fully dry your hair, so you just run your round brush through it a couple of times, hope for the best, and throw it into a claw clip, praying it stays up.

You’re officially twenty minutes late when you finally get to the cafe — it’s not too far from your apartment, thankfully, but you still had to book it — and you approach Jeonghan slightly panting and out of breath. 

(If Junhui was right and this was actually a date, you would be royally screwed.)

“Here, sit,” he pulls out your chair, a little alarmed by your flushed face. “Were you running?”

“Yeah. Sorry I’m late,” you answer, and then you look up at him and the air is knocked out of your lungs as if you weren’t already winded from getting there. He’s even more beautiful than the last time you saw him. “Wow, you…”

“I?”

You’re not even sure what the rest of that sentence was going to be, the words slipping out before you could even think about them. Snap out of it. 

“Nothing,” you say quietly.

“How have you been?”

“You already asked me that.”

“I want to know more.” He’s looking at you like he’s trying to memorize your features; it’s hard to ignore. 

“I don’t have anything interesting going on,” you deflect. “Tell me about what’s going on with you. You said you wrote a new song?”

Jeonghan’s face lights up when you say it. “I did. I spent around nine months rewriting and perfecting it. It’s kind of like my child, in a way.”

“Yoon Jeonghan, a father. I never thought I’d see the day.”

He laughs, and it feels like a part of your old selves is back. “Want to listen?”

You nod, and he passes you an AirPod and his phone. “Imperfect Love,” you read out loud. “That’s deep.”

“It came from a pretty raw place,” he confesses. “Something that’s kind of been on my mind for a while.”

“Something or someone?”

Jeonghan’s face reflects something akin to panic. “What are you talking about?”

“This seems like a song about unrequited love,” you deadpan. “Doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

“Well, it’s not,” he huffs. “Don’t assume things.”

“This is the kind of update I was waiting for. You didn’t tell me you’d found someone!”

“I didn’t!” he insists, concealing a smile. “Will you just stop asking questions and listen already?”

“Alright, Mr. Unlucky in Love,” you tease, securing the AirPod in your ear and pressing play.

The instrumentals are beautiful, and Jeonghan’s angelic voice fills your ears a few seconds later. You haven’t heard him sing in a long time, and you’d forgotten just how ethereal he sounds when he’s pouring his heart into the mic.

The sunlight that happily illuminates this dark world 

Becomes a star when night comes

Come down to me

There are many, many things shining in this world

But among them, you’re the only one that’s precious to me

Jeonghan is watching you nervously, like he’s anxious for what you will say. You make the mistake of catching his eyes, because immediately you falter — they are gorgeous, he is gorgeous, and it feels like you lose time with every second you spend admiring him.

Even if I can’t be the perfect weather for you

Will you still love me like this?

It feels like a silent plea — you wonder what kinds of things have happened to him in the past year that you missed, all the things you don’t know about. 

Together we become old and worn out

Even if you come to me, who’s useless

At the end of a shining day

I’m happy that it’s you every day

The song comes to an end, and you hand Jeonghan’s phone back to him. His eyebrows raise, like a question.

“Did you like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” you tell him honestly. “I love it.”

A smile breaks out on his face. “That’s good to hear.”

“I’m still convinced you have a secret crush that you’re not telling me about.”

“Oh, not with that again,” he grumbles, waving off your curious questions. 

What you don’t tell him is that you’ve missed hearing him sing and watching him perform, that the look in his eyes when he’s doing what he loves most is something you adore. There are a lot of things like that you want to say to him, and as good as the both of you are at acting like nothing’s wrong, the situation feels awfully different this time.

“Hey.” Jeonghan has a glint in his eye, the one he usually has when he’s up to something. “Do you wanna leave and go get tteokbokki and fried dumplings at the night market stands instead?”

Your favorites, from when you were a broke college student and couldn’t afford anything nicer. How did he still remember that?

“Yeah,” you say, already grabbing your things and standing. “Let’s go.”

You had forgotten that it was cold as fuck outside.

You had also forgotten that the food stalls were in the opposite direction of your house, so now you’re stuck walking twice the distance in the freezing weather. 

“Are you warm enough?” Jeonghan asks, a bit worried. Stop looking out for me, you want to scream at him. Stop caring. Stop making such a fool out of me.

“I am, but I know you’re not,” you scold instead. “I’ve been telling you for years to dress for the weather.”

“Eh, what’s a little bit of cold?” he jokes, but you catch him shivering violently out of the corner of your eye, and you can’t just watch as he suffers.

“Here.” You pull your scarf off of your neck and hold it out to him. “Wear it.”

“Are you su—”

“Wear it before I take it back.”

You wait until Jeonghan’s listened to you, the warm fabric wrapped around his neck. A part of you thinks you’ll always feel the urge to look after him.

Stop it.

“You still haven’t told me about yourself,” Jeonghan starts hesitantly. “I know I’ve probably missed a lot of things in the past few years.”

“Eight years,” you correct him. “We graduated and then you disappeared.”

“I didn’t disappear, things just got really hectic,” he tries to explain. “Like, all of a sudden everything was on my shoulders, and I had to spend all my time working towards what I wanted. That or it was all just gonna go to waste.”

“Right,” you leave it at that, not wanting to start an argument on the road. This always happens — you’ll run into Jeonghan somehow, you’ll somewhat reconcile, fight, make up, and then it’s radio silence from him again. A year after you graduated college, you stopped looking for news articles on him entirely, actively avoiding any headlines with his name in them. It hurt a little too much to bear. “Well, what do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

You suck in a breath at the quick response. 

“Yeonju’s doing well,” you start, even though he probably knows that already. “She has a cat now, actually. She adopted him a couple of months ago.”

“Really? What’s his name?”

“Mandu, because she says he’s round and fat like a dumpling.”

Jeonghan snorts. “That’s like when Josh told us his dog’s name was Bingsu.”

“Oh, I remember that,” you say, faintly reminded of his college roommate. “Um, there’s not much else, honestly. Junhui is still a major pain in my ass, that definitely hasn’t changed.”

“Your work friend, right? I thought you two got along pretty well?”

“Yeah, we do,” you admit. You don’t need to explain any further, because Jeonghan knows that your sarcastic remarks are reserved for those you cherish the most.

“It’s been a really long time since you introduced us,” he muses. “But I still remember him pretty clearly.”

He remembers you, too, you think to yourself, recounting all the times you’ve ranted to Junhui about all the times Jeonghan got on your very last nerve. Just not as fondly.

“Oh! Wonwoo actually joined the same company two years ago. I think I told you this already,” Jeonghan confirms with a nod, “But it’s really nice getting to see him again, I missed when we used to hang out in college.”

“Aw, that must be really nice.”

“And the three of us still work for Seungcheol,” you conclude.

“I remember him, too. The one with the huge ass biceps,” Jeonghan says, a bit miffed. “I don’t think he liked me very much.”

“He doesn’t like randoms coming in during work hours, which is what you did, Han.”

“Oh. Right.”

Despite his short response, you know Jeonghan is smiling to himself right now, and you kick yourself mentally for letting the decades-old nickname slip. The two of you may be on a truce right now, but that doesn’t mean you’ve forgiven him.

A few minutes later, the lanterns and lights of the night market come into view. A little piece of childhood memory burrows its way into your heart. The vendors and stalls may have changed, but you used to love visiting this street with Jeonghan when you were still students. 

“I really feel so old right now,” Jeonghan remarks as he follows you through the narrow walkways. “I feel like the last time I’ve been here was when we were eighteen.”

“It probably was,” you say. “Oh! Tteokbokki!”

You don’t even realize the way you’re holding on to the sleeve of Jeonghan’s sweater as you pull him along with you in excitement. He doesn’t say anything, just chuckles to himself as he walks behind you.

“Two cups, please,” you request the vendor when you finally get to the cart, and reach for your wallet. Jeonghan stops you before you can get to your pocket.

“No way,” he says firmly. “This one’s on me.”

“Jeonghan.”

“That voice isn’t working on me this time.” He hands the vendor a couple of bills with a friendly smile. “Just let me buy dinner tonight.”

You cross your arms. “No.”

“Why not? You had no problem doing it back in college.”

“Don’t bring that up now,” you say sharply, stung by the familiar memory. Jeonghan senses the shift in your attitude and drops the subject immediately.

“Wait here,” he tells you. “I’ll be back in a second.”

What are you supposed to do with yourself? Oh, you’re a mess, you realize, the way your feelings haven’t been in check for the entire evening. You were supposed to be so calm and collected, and now you’re anything but.

“Here you go,” the vendor hands you two steaming cups of the spicy rice cakes. “One for you, one for your friend.”

“Thank you.”

The man nods towards Jeonghan, making his way back through the sea of people. “Never let go of someone who cherishes you that much,” he says offhandedly, stirring the tteok in the pot.

You just blink, confused. “What?”

Before the vendor can answer, Jeonghan’s already caught up to you again. “There was nobody in line for fried dumplings,” he tells you excitedly. “Here, have some.”

“Thanks,” you say as you exchange with him for the tteokbokki, ignoring the awkward encounter you’ve just had. “We should probably get out of the way and find somewhere to sit down.”

“Yeah, we should.”

There are a few benches at the corner of the street, and you pick the empty one under one of the streetlamps, a hazy yellow glow cast over it. Sitting down, you bite into the first dumpling, the flavor flooding into your mouth.

“Jeonghan.”

“Yes?”

“Is this shrimp?”

“Yes?” He looks adorably confused in the dim light. “You prefer seafood over pork, right?”

Your heart feels like it’s beating at double the pace. “I do,” you reassure him. “It’s really good. Thank you.”

“Try the tteokbokki, too, it’s just the right level of spicy.”

“I will.”

Just being there and enjoying the food in silence reminds you of how easy it is to just be around Jeonghan. There’s no pressure to break the quiet; it’s comforting and peaceful. 

You watch him savor the tteokbokki sauce and smile to yourself when he winces slightly. He’s always had less of a spice tolerance than you.

“Jeonghan?”

“Hm?”

“Are you going to vanish on me again when you leave Seoul?”

The question stops him in his tracks. He doesn’t seem to have the words to answer, and the lack of a response makes your heart sink.

“Why are you thinking about that right now?” he says instead, chiding you gently. “Did you finish eating?”

The way you’re looking at him now, your eyes are imploring him. Please don’t make me empty promises again. 

“It’s rude to answer a question with another question.”

Jeonghan rakes a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “I’ve never vanished, Y/N, it’s just hard for me to leave my work that often,” he insists, “and besides, you’ve got Junhui and Yeonju and Wonwoo to entertain you in the meantime —”

“None of them are you!” Several people passing by glance over at you, but you can’t help that your voice is rising when you feel the anger bubbling up. “You’re my best friend, Jeonghan, do you have any idea how hard it’s been doing life without you?”

“Y/N, we’re past our youth,” he tries reasoning with you. “We don’t have to be attached at the hip all the time.”

Every word he says is like a knife to your chest. “You shouldn’t have asked to meet up today, then.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Jeonghan shuts his eyes, trying to think of the right words. “I just can’t be there for you all the time in the way that you want anymore. You’re stable, you have a solid job, but my livelihood depends on my music and whether people like me or not. That’s the harsh truth of it. And I’m not getting any younger, either.”

“I’m not asking you to be there for me all the time,” you snap. “All I ever wanted was the occasional message. A few updates. Whether you’re doing okay, how your life is going, things like that. Don’t give me bullshit excuses. I know you have thirty seconds to text me back letting me know that you’re alive.”

And stop playing with my heart, you want to add. Whether you’re aware of it or not.

“Fuck,” Jeonghan swears under his breath. “Y/N, let’s calm down and talk about this inside —”

“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down, Yoon Jeonghan.” Your fists are clenched right now. Jeonghan knows this about you; you don’t get angry quite often, but when you do, you are a force to be reckoned with. “It’s always a goddamn cycle with you. You show up, make all these promises, and then abandon me again. What am I supposed to do with that?”

You’re on the verge of tears, but you can’t cry in front of him. Anywhere but here.

“Y/N, I’m sorry,” he pleads with you. “I don’t know what more to say other than I’ve been trying my best, I really have been.”

You’re not having any of it. “Yeah, right,” you scoff, averting your eyes so you have time to blink the tears away. 

“I mean it. I want to be there for you, but…” he trails off, voice shaky. “It’s just been so difficult.”

“Save it, Jeonghan.” You don’t think you can be here for a minute longer without totally breaking down. “I should really get going now.”

“Y/N, wait —”

“If you took the subway, there’s a station down that street if you keep walking for a few minutes.”

“Wait,” Jeonghan insists, standing. “Let me at least walk you home.”

“No need,” you retort, turning around and setting off towards your apartment. It’s even colder now that it’s completely dark out, and you start to regret your choice of coat as your teeth chatter quietly. All you can do is thug it out for the remaining three blocks to your apartment building.

The wind stings your eyes and you tear up anyway, despite your attempts to keep it down for now. Why did you think today was going to go any better than every other time this has happened? 

Stupid. Your fault for thinking anything would have changed in eight years. 

It’s not until you approach the entrance to your building that you hear the quiet shuffling of footsteps. You whirl around, ready to fight, but you stop short when you see Jeonghan standing several feet behind you.

“Just to make sure you got back okay,” he says quietly, walking over to you. You accept gingerly when he places your scarf back in your hands. “It’s late.”

You don’t even know how to feel; you’re too high-strung with too many lines of thought in your brain at the same time. “Thank you.”

“One more thing.” Jeonghan hands you a small plastic bag. You peer inside.

“What is this?”

“Tiramisu,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly.

“Oh,” you’re confused. “Why?”

It should make you even more furious that he has the audacity to give you a soft smile, but for some reason it doesn’t.

“Happy birthday, Y/N.”

The realization hits you belatedly — how did you manage to forget? — that you were so swamped with work commitments, it had totally slipped your mind today. (So that was why your phone had been constantly buzzing with notifications from Yeonju before you’d put it on silent.) 

Jeonghan’s gesture, though, comes as a complete surprise, and it starts to dissipate the irritation from earlier.

“You remembered.”

“Of course,” he says simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I never forgot.”

just friends, that's not enough for me

EIGHT YEARS AGO

Normally, you are not someone who is criminally inclined. 

However, it’s currently five in the morning on a day where you don’t have class until noon, so whoever is calling you at this time is most definitely going to end up six feet under.

You answer without checking who it is first, eyes still closed. “Hello?” 

“Happy birthday!”

“Huh?” You lift your head just to be sure you heard correctly. “Yoon Jeonghan, it’s five a.m!”

“I know!”

“Why are you awake?”

“To tell you happy birthday?”

“Thank you, but cut the crap,” you tell him.

“I pulled an all-nighter to finish a project,” he admits. “Worth it, though. I’m the first person who told you, right?”

“You keep forgetting I live with Yeonju,” you point out, glancing over at your sleeping roommate.

“Damn it, Choi Yeonju!”

You grimace at his loud exclamation. “Jeonghan?”

“Yeah?”

“Do me a favor and let me go back to sleep.”

“Okay, but I’m waking you up at ten so you don’t skip your linear algebra class.”

“That class is at noon!”

“Yeah, and you take centuries to get ready, dumbass.”

When ten o’clock does roll around, you’re wide awake already. Yeonju is still fast asleep, so you try to get ready for class as quietly as possible.

jeonghan: i’m outside ur building

jeonghan: hurry up i’m hungry

you: ??? when u said u were gonna wake me up i thought u meant u would call

jeonghan: uhh surprise?

“Are you serious,” you mutter under your breath, haphazardly throwing an outfit on and rushing downstairs. Quickly, you press your key card against the reader and push the door open to the sight of Jeonghan leaning against the side wall.

“How long were you waiting?” 

“Long enough. God, you really take forever, but I guess you get a pass because it’s your birthday,” he says begrudgingly, gesturing for you to walk with him.

The weather is quite bleak, but the slight smile on Jeonghan’s face is enough to chase the dreary atmosphere away, like your very own sun.

“Did you sleep at all?” you question, noticing the dark circles under his eyes.

“I tried, but by the time I finished the project it was already seven and Joshua was up, so I just didn’t bother. That guy’s a freak, I’m telling you. I don’t know anybody else who wakes up that early just to go to the gym.”

“Well, you don’t go at all. Maybe that’s why he has those nice muscles and you don’t.”

Jeonghan’s mouth drops open in surprise. “Are you kidding? Is this why you keep coming over? To ogle Joshua Hong’s arms?”

“Yeah, cause Joshua Hong is my best friend,” you deadpan. “Is it such a crime to just appreciate a nice set of muscles?”

“Okay, okay, stop talking about Josh when you’re with me and get in the car,” he urges, fishing out his keys. “Or we’ll be late and you won’t make it to that class.”

“I don’t even go half the time,” you point out. “And you still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“What I can do is promise you will be happy and fed by approximately half past eleven.” Jeonghan starts the car, adjusting his mirrors. “Is that good enough for you?”

“Deal.”

It strikes you then, beneath the dim sunshine, how good he looks when he’s driving. His eyebrows are furrowed as he focuses on the road, humming along to the song playing through Bluetooth. For all the jokes you throw at him for never being seen at the gym, his arms are quite toned, subtly flexed as he makes a turn with one hand on the wheel.

God, you are so done for.

A few minutes later, Jeonghan pulls into a relatively empty lot. The building is quite unassuming, but you recognize this cafe as the one you frequent during exam season for your coffee fix.

“I love this place!” you exclaim, beaming at him. “How did you know?”

“‘Cause you never shut up about it,” he quips back, grinning.. “Stay here, I’ll just be a minute.”

You hum quietly to yourself as you wait for him to come back, content where you are. There couldn’t have been a better start to your day, aside from Jeonghan’s early morning call, and you think you’d be happy to spend the day just like this, peacefully with him and your closest friends.

In truth, you aren’t really sure how to navigate things with Jeonghan at the moment. Your relationship has always been labeled as strictly platonic, but lately there have been things that make you want to think otherwise. A few stolen glances, the way he looks out for you a little extra… you think you’re going insane. 

That, and the way your heart has been reacting when you make eye contact with him lately has been a bit unsettling.

(“Don’t be so delusional,” Yeonju had told you a week ago. “You have a lot to lose here if anything happens. Plus, it’s Yoon Jeonghan, everyone thinks he’s flirting with them.”

“Yeah,” you’d replied flatly. “You’re right.”)

But maybe you’re allowed to be a little selfish. Maybe those sunlit smiles and most vulnerable moments are memories reserved just for you.

The car door opens again, and Jeonghan pokes his head in, handing you a plastic bag as he gets in. 

“Sustenance,” is all he says. “Eat before you go to class or I’ll have to deal with your hangry whining after.”

His words sound annoyed, but his tone is soft with you, like it usually is. You flash him a grateful smile before pulling the boxes out.

“What’s this?”

“Avocado toast, but yours has egg on it.” He wrinkles his nose with displeasure at the combination. “Plus a little sweet treat for your caffeine addiction.”

“This is beautiful,” you hold up the tiramisu box. “The caffeine is speaking to me, Hannie. We are one and the same.”

“One would think you’re on drugs.”

“One would think living with a chemistry major would teach you that caffeine is a drug,” you tease, sinking your teeth into the golden toast. You hadn’t realized just how hungry you were until now — maybe you shouldn’t have skipped dinner last night. “Wow, this is good.”

“It is,” Jeonghan agrees, “but I’ll stick with no eggs for now.”

“You’re just ignorant and have bad taste.”

“Again, free pass only because it’s your birthday.” Jeonghan waits for you to swallow, then asks, “So, does twenty-one feel any different?”

“Nope,” you say decidedly. “Why would it? The only thing that’s changed is that drinking is legal now.”

“Oh, and you can gamble.”

“Right, but I don’t have enough savings to do that.”

Jeonghan laughs to himself at a stray memory. “Remember when I turned twenty-one? I’ve never had a night more disastrous than that one.”

“I do remember! Anyone would assume you were a raging alcoholic,” you snicker. “Even Soonyoung felt the need to sober up and help me get you back to your place. Do you know how impossible that is for him?”

Jeonghan looks like he’s questioning his whole life. “Yeah, that is pretty bad,” he admits. “Good thing it hasn’t happened since and I’m a responsible alcohol enjoyer now.”

“You drank a whole bottle of soju before your exam last week because you ‘needed to pregame’ or you’d fail it.”

“... Right.”

The two of you eat in silence, careful not to drop crumbs in his car, enjoying the midday quiet with each other’s company and nothing else. It’s moments like these with him that you cherish the most.

Yeonju’s Don’t be so delusional echoes in your head, like a silent rebuke.

“Hey, we should start heading back,” Jeonghan says, glancing at the time. “Let this be the day that Y/N graces the lecture hall with her presence.”

You groan, not wanting to spend another hour and a half trying not to doze off listening to who is possibly the most boring professor at your entire university. Jeonghan pats your back empathetically.

“It’s okay,” he consoles you, “Just think about how you’ll feel later when it’s all over and done with.”

“I’ll feel like it was a huge waste of time and I could have just asked Wonwoo to catch me up,” you grumble. 

Jeonghan’s smile falters a little bit at the mention of your classmate, one of Soonyoung’s friends and therefore a part of the friend group. You still can’t figure out why Jeonghan isn’t too fond of him, but you  just assume they haven’t had the opportunity to connect as much and brush it off.

“He got me through data structures last semester,” you offer, trying to defend your point. “Or I’d probably have failed.”

“Right, I remember,” Jeonghan says absentmindedly. You don’t say anything more until you’re back on campus again, picking up on his sensitive mood. When you start making your way to your lecture hall, he follows you, and you let him.

“I’ll walk you to class, I have to print something out at the student center, anyways,” he explains, bag on one shoulder. “Also, you left this in the car. Eat it after class, or whenever.”

You take the plastic bag he hands you, the faint scent of coffee filling your nose. “Thanks.”

Jeonghan fills your ears with silly stories about his friends over the short walk and you listen carefully, always happy to hear about the boys. It’s been a while since you’ve seen them anyways; you’ve been swamped with work, and time that all of you have free together is quite rare.

“I should go in now,” you tell him when you reach the hall. You wish you didn’t have to be here, but you might as well, and Jeonghan can easily read the annoyance written on your face. He pats your shoulder gently.

“It’s okay,” he consoles you. “Come over later so we can all eat cake and listen to you rant about your god-awful professor.”

“Okay.”

“And so you can get an eyeful of Joshua’s arms, you freaking pervert.”

You gasp. “Am not!” you screech, punching his arm.

“Ow!”

“Take it back!”

“Not afraid to speak my truth,” Jeonghan says instead, feigning injury. “This is literally abuse.”

You roll your eyes. “Get out.”

“Go in.”

“Fine,” you huff, pulling open the double doors, but you look back over your shoulder before you let them close behind you. “See you later?”

Jeonghan nods, a twinkle in his eye. 

(You won’t know it now, but this is the look on his face that you’ll remember for the rest of your life.) 

 “See you later.”

Choi Yeonju is, you discover, the lightweight of all lightweights.

That title had belonged to Soonyoung up until now, but tonight even he’s watching her in disbelief from where he’s perched on Joshua and Jeonghan’s couch.

“I only gave her a shot,” he promises you, eyes big and pleading. “I swear on my life.”

“I know,” you sigh, grabbing her sleeve and pulling her away from the wall she’s about to faceplant into. “It’s okay, I’ve got an eye on her.”

“Sorry,” Soonyoung offers sheepishly. “I know you were planning on getting wasted tonight.”

You were not, in fact, planning on that at all. “Who told you that?”

“Jeonghan?”

“That evil bastard.”

The evil bastard in question is currently deeply immersed in a card game with a couple of others at the small kitchen table. The subtle flush on his face tells you he’s a couple of drinks in, and if you squint enough, you can see the silhouette of cards hidden in the sleeve of his jacket. Typical.

“Y/N!” Yeonju taps your shoulder urgently. “I need to tell you something.”

“Yeah? What’s up?”

She grins. “I wanna go to the bathroom.”

“Alright, come on. You gotta stand up,” you inform her gently when she doesn’t budge from her spot on the sofa.

“Comfy,” is all she says, mumbling into the furniture.

“Do you still need to go to the bathroom?”

“No.”

Soonyoung just looks at you in total confusion and shrugs. 

“Nothing to do about it until she asks again,” he says before sinking into the couch beside her. He still looks relatively sober — sober enough to handle the situation if Yeonju decides to walk into a wall again — so you tell him you’ll be right back and decide to check in on the game going on.

You walk in on a crime scene.

“You!” Seungkwan throws an accusing finger at Jeonghan, who you can tell is playing innocent through his surprised expression. “You rigged the game!”

“I didn’t do anything! I won fair and square!”

“Count the cards,” Seungkwan tells Wonwoo vengefully. “There won’t be fifty-two, I’m telling you!”

Jeonghan stands suddenly, laying his hand on the table. Everyone else is too busy yelling amongst themselves, and Wonwoo seems to be content with watching them argue, but you catch the way Jeonghan slips the cards in his sleeve into the pile unassumingly.

“Excuse me, boys,” he says smugly, “but I’m going to go on a little victory walk. Don’t mind me, enjoy!”

Seungkwan grumbles, but lets him go in favor of helping Seokmin back into the chair he’s just fallen off of. In the meantime, Jeonghan sidles up to you, faintly smelling of tequila.

“You seem very sober,” he observes.

“I am,” you laugh. “Not entirely, but sober enough to notice the cards you stashed during the game.”

Jeonghan’s face morphs into one of surprise, then mirth. “Shh,” he winks, placing a finger on your lips. That alone short-circuits your brain, so you nearly miss his next words. “It can be our little secret.”

“Oh, you are tipsy tipsy,” you murmur, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know if you’re up for that victory walk you were talking about.”

“I am! I’m so up for it,” he announces, tucking his arm in yours. “Let’s go take a walk outside.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very.”

“What’s four plus four?”

He rolls his eyes. “Ninety-two,” he says sarcastically. “Please, I’m not a lightweight like the rest of our friends.”

You cast a glance at the couch; Soonyoung has been roped into listening into whatever story Yeonju’s telling him very animatedly, sitting attentively with his back unnaturally straight. He looks a little scared of her energetic narration, which is a first for someone like him.

They should be fine, right? You don’t plan on being gone for long — usually you wouldn’t think twice about leaving Soonyoung and Yeonju together, but in their current state you’re not sure how chaotic they’ll get.

“They’ll be fine.” Jeonghan mirrors your thoughts as if he’s read your mind. His voice feels a little too close, like his lips are right by your ear. Too close, too close — you’re faintly aware of your breathing accelerating, heart running on sheer adrenaline.

By the time you snap out of it, he’s already at the door, turning to find you when he realizes you’re not next to him. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah,” is all you can manage before you grab your coat off the hook and follow him out the door. A part of you wishes Yeonju was sober so she could slap the delusion out of you.

Jeonghan opts for the stairs — “We’re only on the second floor!” — and is waiting patiently at the main door for you. The smile he greets you with is blinding, and his eyes crinkle a little more when you return it. 

“Did you bring your keys?”

“Right here.” Jeonghan pats his pocket reassuringly and pulls the door open. “After you, m’lady.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” you laugh, reveling in the moment. 

It’s windy outside, and you glance over at Jeonghan, satisfied to see that he’s dressed warmly for once. His hands are stuffed in his pockets and for a man his size, his thick sweater is draped over his body in a way that makes him look a little smaller. It’s adorable, and it just makes you want to reach over and squish his cheeks.

“You’re awfully quiet for a man who just won a game against Boo Seungkwan,” you tease gently. Jeonghan chuckles, rubbing his hands together to warm them up.

“Nothing new,” he says. “Seungkwan just has bad strategy and won’t admit it.”

“Or you just enjoy cheating a little too much.”

He gives you a knowing smile. “Touché.”

You’re not exactly sure where you’re going; you don’t think Jeonghan does, either, but the two of you fall in step together perfectly on the sidewalk. It’s not too late yet, maybe nine or ten, and the streets are relatively crowded, as expected for a college city.

“Do you think we’ll be really different when we’re thirty?”

You look at Jeonghan, a bit surprised at the question. “What do you mean?”

“Like, we’re twenty-one now,” he explains, “Remember when we were sixteen? We had so many ideas about what we were gonna be, and we’re already there. Five years passed so quickly.”

You nod, reminiscent of your childhood days. “We’re gonna hit thirty before we know it.”

“Do you think I’ll be bald by thirty?”

“If you are, I’ll take lots of pictures of you and your shiny head,” you joke. “For memories.”

“Noo, not my hair,” Jeonghan laments theatrically. “My gorgeous, gorgeous hair.”

You can’t even counter that, because it’s true: Jeonghan must have won the gene pool because his hair has always been soft and silky. It’s longer now than it used to be, curling a little bit just under his ears and brushing the back of his neck.

“Soonyoung’s been campaigning for you to go platinum blond,” you inform him. “He keeps saying if you do it, he’ll dye his whole head bright yellow.”

“Highlighter Soonyoung is really not something I want to see.”

The more the wind picks up, the tighter Jeonghan has his arm looped around yours. His lips are pursed, like he’s preoccupied with something else.

“Y/N.”

“Yes?”

“Are we still gonna be friends when we’re thirty years old?”

The subtle, vulnerable tone in his voice surprises you a little bit. Drunk words are sober thoughts, you suppose.

You try to cheer him up, saying, “Why, did you think you could get rid of me that easily?”

“No,” he shakes his head firmly. “Everything is so much easier with you.”

Don’t be delusional, don’t be delusional, is the mantra in your head as you attempt to ignore your rapid heartbeat. The truth is that you agree — the way Jeonghan just gets you makes things so uncomplicated and free.

It’s been this way since middle school, when twelve-year-old you found home in the boy who always helped you sneak snacks from your desk during class when the teacher wasn’t watching. 

Jeonghan has always been the first person you think of in a sticky situation; he’s always been reliable, above all, because he knows you would do the same for him without even needing to think about it. He’s been by your side for so long, you can’t even picture what a life without him would look like now.

Your next words would never see the light of day had Jeonghan been sober, but you suppose you can get away with erring on the side of honesty.

“Me too,” you tell him quietly, holding onto him just a little bit tighter. “I like life a little better when it’s with you.”

because i love you, because saying i love you isn't enough

PRESENT DAY

The office is quiet when it’s late at night; there aren’t many people who enjoy staying past their stated hours, but you figure it can’t hurt to finish some additional tasks when you don’t really have much to go home to. You can’t remember the last time you had a day to yourself without worrying about deadlines; the lines of code haunt you in your sleep and fill every waking hour. Every night spent working overtime is a testament to your determination, though it crumbles it a little each time.

Today, though, you’re joined by Junhui and Wonwoo, the three of you working under the dim light. The rest of your team packed up and left hours ago, so it’s just you on this floor of the building.

“I feel like my eyes are melting in their sockets,” Junhui complains, stretching for the first time in what you think is a solid eight hours. “I don’t know how Wonwoo does it.”

“He’s a machine,” you joke. He’s got headphones on, most probably noise canceling, so you know he can’t hear you two. (Or he’s choosing not to.) “I just don’t want to go home with this stuff unfinished because I know I won’t stop thinking about it all night.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve pulled an all-nighter in the office.”

“Unfortunately.”

Junhui frowns. “You need to take time for yourself,” he expresses. You let him lecture you, even though he’s younger. “Do stuff that you enjoy that doesn’t involve writing code. You know, enrich your personal life.”

“Maybe,” you sigh, putting your head in your hands. “There’s barely any time as of now.”

“Speaking of personal lives, I still can’t believe you won’t tell me about your date,” he sulks. “You’ve always come back with stories about your dates.”

“There haven’t even been that many,” you say at the same time Wonwoo turns around with his headphones off of one ear, asking, “Date? Really?”

You give the man a look. “You didn’t hear us say your name, but that was what caught your attention?”

“Well, Jun’s always talking, but the last time you went on a date was two years ago, so this is news to me.”

“It couldn’t have been that bad,” Junhui reasons. “Everyone has bad dates. It’s a universal experience.”

“Okay, first of all, it was not a date,” you clarify. “I just met up with a friend from college.”

This piques Wonwoo’s interest. “Wait, really? Who?”

“Right, I keep forgetting you guys went to college together,” Junhui mutters under his breath.

“Did you see Yeonju again?”

“It was nobody,” you lie through your teeth, kicking yourself internally for your choice of words. As much as both men know about your ongoing tug-of-war situation with Jeonghan, you don’t really want to bring it up in conversation, and definitely not now of all times. “It went fine, just some catching up.”

“So it wasn’t a date?”

“You really need to stop believing everything Junhui tells you without fact checking it first.”

“Damn,” he says. “And we thought you were finally getting some action.”

“Wonwoo!”

The conversation is interrupted by the low rumble of your stomach in the few seconds of silence that pass afterwards. Both men turn to look at you expectantly.

“I haven’t eaten all day,” you admit, a little embarrassed. “I’m starving.”

“I’ll order takeout,” Wonwoo volunteers, already reaching for his phone. “Is kimchi fried rice okay with you guys?”

“Fine by me.”

“With pork?” Junhui asks hopefully.

“Done.”

The three of you promptly get back to work, aiming to maximize the amount of work you get done before the food arrives and you inevitably break focus. By the time the delivery notification goes off on Wonwoo’s phone, you’ve knocked off about three quarters of your to-do list for the day.

Good enough, you reassure yourself, pulling the sticky note off of your desk and flicking it into the trash can. 

Junhui eats in a record time of ten minutes — you swear you’ve never seen him scarf down food this fast before — and starts packing up at his desk, dropping off a couple of notes on Seungcheol’s desk for tomorrow morning’s meeting.

“My girlfriend is going to be so upset if I’m not home soon,” he says ruefully, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “Take care, guys! And thanks for dinner, Wonwoo, I owe you one.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

You and Wonwoo finish not too long after, and you take your time cleaning up the place, making sure everything is thrown away and in its place. 

“Are you ready to lock up and go?”

“Yeah, let’s head out.”

It’s not until you’re in the elevator, heading to the parking garage, that Wonwoo speaks up again. A little hesitantly at first, but the concern in his tone is still evident.

“Hey, has everything been good with you lately?”

“Hm?” You look at him curiously, wondering what it was that made him ask. “Yeah, why?”

He shrugs, looking down at you through thick-rimmed glasses. “Just haven’t checked in with you in a bit. Seungcheol’s needed me all over the place lately, so it’s been a while since I caught up with you guys.”

“Right, you’ve been in back to back meetings with the design team,” you muse. “Seolhwa was talking about how chaotic it’s been in the restroom earlier.”

“Yeah, it’s been pretty tough.”

The elevator opens with a ding! and you follow him out, fishing for your keys that are probably somewhere in one of your pockets.

“I parked a little far,” you tell him, “so I’ll get going now. But I’ll see you at tomorrow’s meeting, right?”

Wonwoo just looks at you gently, like he’s seeing right through you. 

“Jeonghan’s the one you met up with, isn’t he?”

You freeze. “What?”

“I had a feeling, but it was a little more obvious when you started getting defensive,” he chuckles. “Plus, I think you forget I’ve known you for nearly a decade now.”

You allow yourself to breathe, relaxing the taut muscles in your neck. “I didn’t want to make it awkward,” you admit. “I know you said you guys still keep in touch sometimes. I don’t want to make it weird.”

Wonwoo raises his eyebrows. “Just for birthdays and things like that. We weren’t really that close in college, either.”

Not really knowing what to say, you stay silent, eyes glued to the ground. He seems to sense this and drops the matter, reaching over to pat your shoulder.

“I won’t pry,” he says lightly, “But if you ever want to talk about it, just know you can always call up an old friend.”

You smile. “Thanks, Wonwoo.”

“Take care, Y/N. Get home safe.”

The drive home is numbing. The playlist you have on dulls into background noise as you focus on the road, fighting the urge to yawn. It’s nearly eleven o’clock at night, and all you want is to be back in your bed.

At the back of your mind, all you can think about is the text you woke up to this morning.

yoon jeonghan: hey, i just wanted to tell you tomorrow is my last day in seoul 

yoon jeonghan: i don’t know if you want to see me or not, but i’ll be at semicolon cafe working for most of the day. pls drop by if you have some free time. i really miss you.

So typical of him, to leave it up to you to go find him. And yet, you would — if it came down to it, you would go to the ends of the earth if he asked you to. 

Yeonju would be furious if you told her you were even considering it, you scold yourself. After all, she’d only told you to speak to him once for your own peace of mind. Last week should have given you all the closure you needed. 

Still, your conscience is swayed at the idea of being able to see him again. 

You shake the thoughts out of your head, as if the subtle action could erase the pain and longing you’ve felt for the past eight years. 

The traffic light turns green. You step on the gas and don’t look back.

even if i can't be the perfect weather for you, will you still love me like this?

SIX YEARS AGO

Jeonghan has been in the studio for hours.

Nothing seems to sound right, and the frustration makes him want to pull his hair out. He can’t even remember the last time he got out of the chair, but he doesn’t want to lose even a little bit of whatever workflow he’s managed to maintain while he’s been in here.

Occasionally, when the weather is just a little dull and time seems to tick by too slowly, he wonders if he made the right choice. Maybe he should have stuck with his career, actually put his degree to use, instead of setting it aside in the name of passion.

He’s vocalized these thoughts to his manager many times, and Jihoon is awfully good at raising his spirits, but the self doubt seeping into his soul is very hard to ignore.

Reluctantly, he presses the play button again, whatever he’s conjured up in the last couple of hours playing in his headphones again. It doesn’t sound any better this time. 

Yes, he could swallow his pride and ask Jihoon for help, but after a year and a half of unsuccessful ventures in the music industry, he wants to be able to do something on his own.

Prove himself; to Jihoon, the world, and you.

Jeonghan will never forget your only words to him when he’d first revealed his plan to switch career paths, just a month or two before graduation. 

(“I always believe in you,” you’d said, following it up with a comforting hug. 

“Always?”

“Always.”)

And when you said that with such conviction, placing all of that trust and belief in his hands, he knew there was no way he could turn back on what he’d set his sights on. In truth, on days where things just seem so bleak, you are his strength, and he wishes he could tell you that.

But when your name comes through on his phone, he falters.

What is he supposed to say? All he can give is excuses, that nothing’s really worked, nothing has panned out in his favor yet. As it is, the two of you haven’t spoken that much since graduating, both of you occupied with your own goals and careers, and at times like these he feels your absence a little extra.

Is this what it means to grow up and grow apart?

For now, he ignores the buzzing, telling himself he’ll come back when he’s snagged his first real achievement. You’ll be proud of him, and he’ll finally make something of himself.

Jihoon walks into the room, closing the door quietly, right when he’s about to listen to the track for maybe the hundredth time.

“Oh, hey.” Jeonghan can hear the exhaustion in his own voice. “What’s up?”

“Wondering when the last time you slept was.” Jihoon sinks into the chair beside him, trying to lighten the mood. “You look like a zombie.”

“Yeah, I feel like one.”

“You need to spend less time in here,” Jihoon advises gently. “Or you’re going to lose your mind. Trust me, I’ve been there.”

“I just can’t figure out what it is I’m missing,” Jeonghan sighs, evidently frustrated. “It’s like, almost there, but not really. It’s been killing me for days.”

“You know, these things do take time.”

“Or maybe I’m just not cut out for this and I should just go work for a news channel instead.”

Jihoon watches him carefully, picking up on his slumped shoulders and tired eyes. “And then you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what would have happened if you held on just a little bit longer. Do you really want that?”

Jeonghan doesn’t really know what else to say. He’s been hearing the same things from everyone around him — his parents, his sister; everyone talks of a future where he’s already succeeded, but that isn’t set in stone. Nothing is promised, he knows.

“I need a miracle,” he mumbles instead.

“You need to eat,” Jihoon corrects. “I just placed an order for dinner, and I know you like sundubu-jjigae, so you have no excuse to bail on me this time.”

Jeonghan considers this for a moment, then gives in. “Fine,” he says, “but I can’t stay too long.”

“Good.” Jihoon rises, and then places a hand on his shoulder reassuringly. “I’m proud of you. You’ve been working really hard.”

“Thank you.”

He’s alone again, when the door closes behind the shorter man. It’s something he’s had to get used to; he’s learned to rely on himself over the past year or so, but when the reality of loneliness sinks in, it breaks his heart just a little. 

Even more so knowing that it’s his fault that he’s pushed everyone away, including you.

Your name is still burned into Jeonghan’s brain, and his fingers itch to respond, but he ignores the urge. His phone is left forgotten as he slips his headphones on again, tinkering with the unfinished track.

And the thought of you dissolves into the music.

we used to be best friends, i remember you said you can be yourself when i'm around

PRESENT DAY

Today is the day that Choi Seungcheol learns that you are full of surprises.

In all your five years of working for him, he’s never once had you call in sick for work or ask for a day off. You’ve always been hard-working, maybe too much at times, but he sounds like he definitely didn’t anticipate this.

“Oh,” is all he says when you request the morning off. “Yeah, sure. Are you feeling alright?”

“Not really, but I will be before the client meeting at three, so I’ll be present for that.”

“Oh, all right. We’ll see you then.”

“See you.”

It weighs on your conscience that the first time you request time off also happens to be the first time you blatantly lie to your boss, but you’ve already deliberated this enough with Yeonju over call last night.

(“I’ve been such an honest worker,” you said dramatically, “and now I’m running all that to the ground.”

“Don’t be so theatrical. Choi Seungcheol can afford to give you half a day of paid leave.”)

Now that you’ve settled that, you grab your heavy winter coat, setting out into the morning cold. Damn Yoon Jeonghan for making you move your whole day around for him. You had predicted correctly that Yeonju would berate you for it — you sat through a lecture over the phone last night — but that hadn’t deterred your resolve to see him again.

Who knows? His behavior is so erratic that even you, who knew him like the back of your hand at one point, can’t predict him anymore. Today could very well be the last time you see him for another few years until he decides he has the time for you again.

Whatever, you huff to yourself as you walk briskly, knowing that as upset as you get, the soft spot you harbor for him will never go away.

You had worried that it would be a little too early, since it’s only eight in the morning, but you have no problem finding Jeonghan in the sea of caffeine-deprived corporate workers getting their fix in the small establishment. He’s engrossed in his laptop, and he doesn’t realize you’re there until you take the seat across from him, waiting for him to look up.

“Oh,” is all he says, pushing his screen down. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

You sigh. “Yeah, I didn’t think I would, either.”

Jeonghan gives you a sorrowful look, hair fluffy like a halo around his face. “I’m trying, I really am.”

“Jeonghan —”

“I’m juggling so many things at once,” he says quietly. “And I never wanted you to think any less of me. I wanted you to be proud of me..”

“I was. I still am.”

“But I still haven’t done anything.” He sounds more agitated as he speaks. “I haven’t gotten anywhere, I’ve barely made a name for myself. Nothing I do is paying off.”

“You’re trying, though,” you tell him. It saddens you to see him like this. It’s not often that Jeonghan talks about how he feels, especially not now that you’ve grown so distant. “And you don’t have to go off and accomplish great things for me to be proud of you. I already am.”

He’s quiet, like he’s dwelling on something.

“I’m sorry,” he says a few seconds later. “It’s just all been such a mess.”

“That’s okay.”

In the silence between those two words are many more that don’t need to be spoken for him to understand. You’re doing okay. Everything will turn out okay.

“I wish things could go back to the way they were,” he says again, eyes a little shiny when he looks back at you. 

Nostalgia fills your brain, all of those treasured memories with him resting in a well-lit corner of your heart. 

“You know, it really hurts, Han, to keep doing this push and pull with you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

“Don’t apologize,” he laughs wistfully, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Shit, I never meant to hurt you, Y/N, honestly. And I’m really trying to be better about it. Things are looking up now, I think. It’s getting a little easier than before.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” You offer him a reassuring smile. “I knew you could do it.”

“How…” Jeonghan starts tentatively. “How long are you here for?”

“I’m not sure,” you reply, fidgeting with one of your bracelets. “Not too long.”

“Are you going to have something to eat?” An olive branch.

“I have food I meal-prepped at home.” A subtle denial.

The silence is loud. You try to think of something, anything to say to fill it, but you come up blank. There’s not much else to be said in the fraught air between the two of you. Not now, anyways.

“I’m sorry, I should let you get back to work,” you say suddenly, eyes landing on his half shut laptop. “I didn’t mean to take time out of your day.”

“That’s okay,” he says softly. “I’m really glad I got to see you.”

“Have a safe trip to… wherever you’re going.”

He chuckles. “Just Jeju, but thank you.”

Before you leave, you reach for the scarf loosely wrapped around your neck — your favorite one you’ve had since college, the plaid cream-colored one — and you set it down on the table. He just looks at you questioningly.

“Why…?”

“It’s cold,” you say with a faint smile. “You haven’t changed, Yoon Jeonghan.”

“Thank you.”

You take the time to memorize him — the curve of his face, the soft look in his eyes, the one reserved for you and the ones he holds close. If you could etch his features in your brain here and now, you would.

“Well,” you start, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Don’t be a stranger, Han. The next time I see your name, it better be a call from you instead of another news headline.”

Jeonghan nods, eyes forming crescents. “I’ll do my best.”

And there is something to be said about the love in looking back, for sure, but there is also love in not looking back, in choosing to keep your eyes trained on the path before you. There is love in knowing your weaknesses, that if you turn around you might not be able to walk away after all. 

You don’t release the breath you’re holding until you walk out the door. It’s raining, you realize with a start, the previously clear sky clouded over. It seems that your overcast heart has been mirrored by the earth.

The rhythmic droplets provide a strange sense of comfort as you let yourself get soaked, for lack of an umbrella. It works in your favor, anyway, because nobody will assume anything’s amiss if your face is already drenched.

Pit, pat. The smell of wet soil rises in your nostrils, and you let the tears fall.

no matter where i am in the world, i'll say it's you

FOUR YEARS LATER

The lights are blinding, and the sounds of the camera shutters are incessant. But this is the life Jeonghan has always dreamed of, so he doesn’t dare complain.

In truth, he doesn’t care for a lot of the interviews he’s been asked to do — he can’t be bothered by the mundane, mind-numbing questions he gets asked over and over again. Nothing ticks him off like the insensitive digs into his personal life they always ask him, searching for information he doesn’t wish to disclose.

But he does it, anyway, because what choice does he really have? It’s good for your image, Jihoon always tells him, adding another event to his schedule. It’s for your public platform.

“So, you’ve come out with another hit single,” the interviewer starts, beaming at him. His teeth are so artificially white, they seem to reflect the bright studio lights. “How does it feel to accomplish such a success yet again?”

“It’s really great,” Jeonghan answers honestly. “I’m very grateful to my manager, producer, and my beloved family. And, of course, all of the wonderful fans. I couldn’t have done any of this without them.”

“A touching answer as always, Jeonghan-ssi.” The man flashes a smile at the cameras. “Your new single To You was really well received by fans, especially for its fresh and passionate take on what it feels like to be in love.”

The blazer feels stiff now, under the heat of the lights. Jeonghan tries not to dwell too deeply on the true inspiration for the song he’d written late at night a couple years ago, overcome by his own heart.

“I’m really glad that everyone’s been enjoying it so much. That really was the intention,” he says, “to have a song that makes you feel like you’re floating.”

“And it does!” the interviewer laughs. “A lot of viewers really appreciated the sincerity of feelings that was conveyed through the song. Which raised the question; have you ever been in love before?”

Something akin to a late realization suddenly hits Jeonghan right there in the hot seat, under all those lights and cameras. His hand comes up to toy with the end of the scarf he’s wearing, a keepsake of treasured memories.

“Maybe,” he says with a wistful smile.

Wherever you are in the world right now, there’s a small part of him that dares to hope you’re watching.

“Maybe I have.”

thank you for reading! if you have any feedback, i'd love to hear it :) much love, ashi xx

[chanranghaeys]

🐸 “come here, hold my hand.”

request from my og @tusswrites! "come here, hold my hand.” “you’re washing the dishes.” “…i can do both…” with minghao? please i love this man and I’ll crumble if he says this to me 😭

pairing: minghao x gn!reader word count: 1k+ genre: fluff, slice of life (HELLO IT'S ME) rating: pg tags: pure fluff, physical touch as the love language, mundane stuff, household chores, request prompted washing the dishes so you will have washing the dishes, i try to make up a song warnings: none

a/n: finally found the random inspiration for this drabble that ended up with more than 1k words. purely self-indulgent. bear with me. as someone who always washes the dishes, i want this. bow.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ masterlist . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Minghao is a strong believer in physical touch as a love language.

Popular media doesn’t showcase this all too well because of the image and concept that has been formed around him. Still, physical touch is the love language that remains superior in his opinion. This means being able to reach out to the other person and hold them in any manner, being in proximity to them to express how you feel, and being in the same room with each other regardless of what you are doing.

He says it’s about having something tangible to hold—tactile in his hand and palpable on his body—and how he appreciates having the people around him to physically ground his thoughts and dreams that can soar as high as the heavens allow. It reminds him that he doesn’t just have his rational mind anchoring him down but also something and someone to help make sense of things.

Minghao, contrary to popular belief then, is actually a very clingy person.

Words are not and will never be his strong suit. Yes, he can write. Yes, his words are like poetry, like water flowing through the rough in cascades of emotion, but they only come out when the cup is full. On a day-to-day basis, Minghao expresses his love which can be felt even through the slightest brush of hands.

This is a fact that you learned almost immediately.

He comes home, wordless, whether to his place or your place, and the first thing he does is go in for a hug. No matter where you are or what you are doing, he forces you to stop so he can hug you for who knows how long, deeply, fully, and wholeheartedly—not that half-assed wraparound from the side that people excuse for a hug.

It’s a habit he started during a particularly trying time in his life. He would pull you closer and engulf you in his arms, burying you in his scent as he buries himself in the crook of your neck or the crown of your head.

Naturally, during a particularly trying time in your life this time, you picked up his habit easily and did the same to him.

Scientific studies show that a 20-second hug is enough to release oxytocin that can lower stress levels and improve quality of life. Whatever the research says, you and Minghao do agree that this little practice has made your lives easier and more bearable than they used to be.

Recently though, you always end up missing each other at home. He would come home late nights and early mornings after schedules to find you sound asleep in your bed, while you would wake up a few hours later to his sleeping form recovering from the previous day’s demands. You’d come home one too many days to a space devoid of his comforting presence, and the same could be said for him.

It happens, you think. It’s absolutely normal. Being this busy just means that both your lives are taking a turn for the better, right?

But still, you miss him, despite coming home to each other every day. You miss the simple act of sharing your silence together and you miss the way his touches would simultaneously calm you down but also keep you on your toes.

Today, you couldn’t help but feel lonelier than usual as you set your jacket and bag down to be greeted by a dark apartment room. Based on his last message a few hours ago, Minghao was still in the studio practicing. He sent a selca with the other performance unit boys and you don’t deny how you stared at his sweaty hair and bare smiling face for a minute longer than you thought you did.

But you had a good day at work, where everything just worked out the way you wish every day would, and you absolutely will not let anything rain on your small moment of happiness. No, not even the mess of a room you left this morning and not the pile of dishes you didn't realize remained unwashed this morning.

So you turn on the speakers and press play on a song that has Minghao’s voice fill the empty space. It was one of his unreleased demos for his recent solo EP. It was a shame because this was your favorite from his endless roster of songs—a song where the lyrics talked about how the most mundane of moments could be the most special if you had your love’s hand to hold.

You started on the dishes and got lost in the process almost meditatively in the menial task. It was enough to startle you when you heard your name from behind you. You see him in fresh clothes and slightly damp hair, a clean scent emanating from his presence.

“When did you get home?” You asked in reply to your most favorite voice in the world.

“Just now,” Minghao instinctively reached out to latch onto your waist, easily letting your gravity pull him to you in your natural ritual of finding purchase in each other's nooks and crannies. As if you were two puzzle pieces fitting perfectly, he molds his body against yours with his chest flush to your back and his hands folding on the flat of your stomach.

He breathed in your scent and you felt his smile against your temple. Instantaneously, you relax against his touch as he says against your ear, “I missed you.”

You turn to find his lips, softly pressing yours against them and repeating his words to him. With a smile, you continue your reply with a melody to your voice. “Come here, hold my hand.”

You feel his chuckles with his cheek pressed on yours when he says, “But you’re washing the dishes.”

“I can do both.”

So he does, intertwining one of his hands with yours—albeit awkwardly—and helping you finish the chore in front of you. His soft giggles mingle with yours as you two find a rhythm to washing the dishes among four working hands.

You two stay in this position for a while with the song still playing in the background, the lyrics resounding as you sway in time with the rhythm.

“Come here, hold my hand, pull me in, and let me orbit around your gravity…”

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

post a/n: still from my little drabble request game and still accepting requests! all you gotta do is shoot an ask <3

[jovieinramshackle]

I always try to not be shy about the fact Pio does not pass as a man at all, and that he is in a situation where he cannot take the steps to do so (medically transitioning basically)— not just financially, but mentally too.

He hates his chest, his private parts and the fact they cause hin extreme dysphoria once a month from his period, his voice is audibly feminine, he even has very "soft feminine" features, he is often mistaken for a butch woman and misgendered a lot (he's also very anxious about correcting people, since he's afraid of how they'll react).

And I feel it's important from me to showcase these features, because they’re part of a realty many transmasc/guys/men like me go through.

The thing about Pio is that he has an extremely hard time believing he's a "real man". Almost everything in his life is an active reminder that society does not see him as a man, and he has internalised it. He is happy the people close to him (his father, Chris and his family) confirm they see him as a man, but he has a hard time genuinely believing they actually do, because he can't possibly say the same about himself.

He's on the verge of giving up sometimes, to detransition, to go back being [REDACTED] and be a woman again. He thinks it will make life easier. After all, it'll be easier to socialise, talk to people, and even find a partner. Pio is gay after all, but what gay man would love a "woman," right? Straight men must be his only option, right?

But it won't be easier, it will outright kill.

And this is why his relationship with Fellow is so crucial to him. For all his faults, the fox did one very important thing right in the relationship— love Pio for the man that he is.

Fellow didn't always have the right words, but he knew words weren't really gonna help such a dysphoric person like Pio. The constant and consistent love and support over time was what made Pio realise how genuine Fellow was with him.

Intimacy felt less uncomfortable, it actually became enjoyable. He could actually bare his features, even if a little. He actually grow to like his voice a little, even if he's fine with it changing. Everything just became a little easier when he was with Fellow, he could actually see himself as desirable, to an other queer man no less.

He began thinking that perhaps he is a man, regardless of everything. This reduction of his dysphoria was what made him more motivated to seek medical transition later one, as he finally could think to himself, "this isn't pointless." He realised nothing can stop him from being the man that he is.

Even after their falling out during their work in Playful Land, Pio still had this drive in him. He went back to his father and started working, slowly saving up to seek a way to get his hands on HRT. And although he has a long way to go, he is for once finally determined to do what he must do for his well being.

He kinda spiralled for a while because of the falling out. He even began relying on alcohol for a bit. But this new profound drive carried him every day and kept him alive.

So basically, as angry as he is with Fellow, he will always be grateful for all the genuine love and desire he was given. It, quite literally, saved his life.

So yeah ofc they make up in the end, what did you expect, to not give them a happy ending? Poser./j

@sunnysidesevenup @theolivetree123 tagging you two cuz...Pio Lore....heh....<3

tag list : @ramshacklerumble @thehollowwriter @summerspook @scint1llat3 @skriblee-ksk

@cyanide-latte @twistedwonderlandshenanigans @oya-oya-okay @viperbunnies @jadelover69

@twsted-void @lallopsyou (lmk/dm if you wanna be added)

[thecourtjester-e]

Do You Have to Let it Linger? Part 4

A/N: y’all wanted a twist? (Short chapter the end is near)

CW: substance abuse, angst, yearning, depression, anger issues

SCHLATT POV

“GOD, you can be so STUPID.”

As soon as he said it he froze. He tossed the phone onto the table and put his head in his hands. As he heard the phone hangup from the table he felt like he couldn’t move. His face started to burn as anger rose up in his chest. He looked for the nearest victim to aim this mindless rage at. He picked up a controller and chucked it as hard as he could across the room. He could feel the tightness in his chest rise and tears threaten their way into his eyes. God, he hated that he let himself do that. Why the FUCK did he do that???? Schlatt’s frustration from the week all culminated into this moment. The confusion of why y/n had ignored him for a whole week, racking his brain to remember every little thing he did and said to you at the wedding for some explanation. And all to find out it was because you like him and you think he doesn’t like you back. It made him mad. You couldn’t be further off.

In the beginning of your friendship the flirting had been for fun. He did think you were stunning, but it was all in jest, at first. It slowly grew into a real blooming friendship beyond the clicks and views he genuinely grew fond of you. Your personality, your quirks, and little traits. He would watch to boost numbers, but then he found himself tuning into your streams on his second account to just watch. He found your voice entrancing and the way you moved and danced hypnotizing.

He couldn’t believe that you thought he didn’t feel the same. The fact that you had a “big fat crush” on him was enough to make his heart jump, do a backflip, and fall out of his ass. He was so dumbfounded that you couldn’t see how crazy he is about you.

At first he grappled with his own fear and uncertainty, could he let someone in in this way? Was it worth it? You guys lived so far apart. Not to mention how public it could all get and the bombardment from the fans. He was terrified. As the days turned to a week his fear turned into intense longing and pain. Pain knowing how he had hurt you. He missed your constant communication that he had grown to rely on in a way. He just missed hearing you and seeing you. How your smile lights up rooms and your raw charisma enchants all who watch. He couldn't stop seeing you up there singing at the wedding. And how you smiled at him while laughing and dancing. The memories practically uncorked the bottle themselves. Minimal resistance was found when lifting it to his mouth. Each sip felt easier and easier.

Ted called sometime during the second week while the bottle was half drunk. Interrupting his quiet stalking of your stream.

“Schlatt.”

“What.”

“You gotta tell her man,” Ted pleads. He had been bothering Schlatt to spill his heart since the wedding. Then, even more so after this whole ordeal. It tired and aggravated him.

“No dude.”

“Jared Schlathew,” Schlatt scowled at the nickname as Ted continued, “I know we’ve known each other a while, but I’ve known Y/N longer. I’m going to have to tell her soon man I can’t keep listening to her heart break like this.”

“Ted, I sweartgod, if you tell her you won’t hear from me again. Ever,” he slurred and sipped.

“I don’t understand the big deal!”

Schlatt cuts him off, “I can’t, Ted, I fucking can’t! I already hurt her man, who’s to say I won’t just hurt her further or… I don’t know! I’m no good for her. She deserves someone better. She deserves to get over me…”

Ted sighs, “Schlatt, genuinely, you are one of the most kind hearted individuals I've had the pleasure of meeting-” Schlatt scoffs, “You have a rough exterior, yes, but I’ve seen how she melts your icy shell. I wouldn’t allow you anywhere near Y/N if I didn't think you deserved her, man. But I truly do think you are one of the greatest people I get to call a friend. So please, skip the angst, and get on a plane.”

As he hung up he turned your stream back on. Your presence was much duller than your normal effervescent self. He studied at the screen while you absentmindedly answered the chat.

“Ok, well I have another cover I’ve been working on so,” you sit up with your guitar a little better and begin to play “High and Dry” by Radiohead. Through his drunken haze, Schlatt sat and listened to you sing as if you were speaking directly to him.

“Fuck it.” Schlatt opened his phone and booked a flight.

———