#and even if it were its not possible to repress that emotion

[wthphe1n]

Then Why Didn’t You Say Anything?

Pairing: Kwon Hyuk x fem!reader

Genre: Slow-burn, psychological tension, dry humor, possessive undertone, flirtation, possessiveness under the surface

Rating: T+

TW: partial shirtlessness, emotional repression, casual sexual tension

A/N: This chaotic little idea was birthed thanks to my menace of a bestie @kuchisabishiiiii So here’s what happened: I stumbled across this blessed shirtless pic of Hyuk, right? And my brain just went: Fic. Now. So I hit her up like and she IMMEDIATELY starts throwing spicy ideas at me. And me? Ate it up. No crumbs. For the sake of thirst, for the sake of abs. So YES. I’m slapping that damn pic in the fic as a giant frame. Centerpiece. Monument. Whatever you call it. Also—credit where credit’s due: the pic’s from the legendary @iiiyyyeee on X, go follow them and send hearts

A/N: You have a hopeless crush on Hyuk. Hyuk isn’t playing fair anymore. He wants your attention. He’s going to take it.

(@kuchisabishiiiii @dzvelinaskebiyars @zyart-jpg @shintaru @i-nssomniia @sylith)

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You hadn’t meant to walk into the kitchen and see that.

Really, it wasn't your fault. The Sabbath penthouse kitchen was practically a public thoroughfare, a magnetic north for anyone drawn by the tantalizing aroma of anything beyond instant ramen.

And a magnetic north it was, especially when you, the designated Korean food supplier, were about to unleash a culinary storm.

And it certainly wasn't your fault that your arms were piled high with plastic bags from the convenience store down the road. Gochujang, kimchi, thinly sliced pork belly, a mountain of green onions-a complete emergency dinner kit, destined to rescue the perpetually hungry (and one particularly infuriatingly silent) boys from another round of… whatever Vinny had foraged or Wooin had sleepwalked into.

Your brain was still a hazy fog from an all-nighter spent wrestling a particularly stubborn differential equation. But the promise of hot Korean food, delivered to your talented and perpetually famished crew, was enough to propel you forward.

You adjusted the precarious bags in your arms, nudging the kitchen door open with your hip.

"Alright, boys!" you called out, the plastic rustling like a startled bird around you.

"Dinner's here, unless I trip over something and spill kimchi all over the floor, which, honestly, is a distinct possibility at this point—“

…you didn’t mean to freeze mid-sentence.

Didn't mean to let a rogue bunch of green onions tumble from an overstuffed bag, rolling silently across the gleaming clean countertop.

And definitely didn't mean for that strange, electric thrill to ripple down your spine.

But to be fair—

You weren't expecting Kwon Hyuk. Shirtless.

He stood by the stove, a clear glass, half-full of water, raised to his lips. The stark fluorescent light from above, unforgiving in its brightness, did nothing to diminish the sharp lines of his physique.

His black t-shirt, presumably just taken off, was pulled up high. It was bunched carelessly above his left shoulder, the fabric clinging to the very top of his bicep. This exposed his entire torso: a meticulously sculpted landscape of sharp, defined abdominal muscles, rippling subtly with the slight tension of his arm as he drank.

A light sheen of sweat glistened on his taut skin, catching the light, especially across his prominent collarbones and the deep, chiseled ridges of his obliques. His dark hair was damp, slightly messy, falling across his forehead in a way that should have looked disheveled but somehow only made him look… dangerous, And incredibly, impossibly casual.

One hand was casually tucked into the pocket of his loose grey Nike sweatpants, the drawstring dangling. It was such a relaxed, comfortable pose, the very picture of unbothered masculinity, yet the sight of him made every single nerve ending in your body shriek.

He didn't even flinch. Not when you walked in, not when your green onions went rogue, not when your breath caught in your throat. He simply lowered the glass slowly from his lips, his gaze calm and unwavering.

"…You're back," he murmured, his voice a low, even tone that seemed to vibrate through the small kitchen space, somehow managing to make your sleep-deprived confusion even heavier.

The composure you'd desperately tried to maintain shattered. You stammered, frantically trying to recall if you'd even offered a coherent greeting. Both your arms suddenly felt impossibly heavy.

"Y-yeah just got back—so, uh, making… you know…" You vaguely gestured with a bag of gochujang, feeling incredibly clumsy. "Food."

Hyuk raised a single eyebrow, that tiny, controlled movement conveying volumes of unsaid thought.

Then, he simply turned back to the stove, as if your arrival was merely a minor footnote in his ongoing activity.

Just. Turned. Away.

As if you hadn't just been assaulted by the sheer raw image of his bare torso in the intimate setting of the kitchen-the casualness of the display felt even more potent than that accidental dorm room encounter weeks ago.

As if you hadn't just noted the intriguing, faint scar curling under his ribs, a tiny, barely visible imperfection on an otherwise perfectly sculpted canvas. As if the sharp lines of his hips, riding low under his grey sweatpants, weren't currently scrambling your already frayed nerves.

"Need any help?" Vinny’s sleepy voice drifted from the living room doorway. He appeared a few seconds later, hair adorably tousled, eyes half-lidded, reaching for the kettle.

"Nah, Vinny, I'm good," you managed, trying to inject more cheer into your voice than you felt. You set the bags down on the counter with a relieved thud, the plastic rustling exaggeratedly loud in the sudden quiet.

"Smells… spicy-good," Joker drawled, strolling into the kitchen. He leaned against the kitchen entrance.

Hyuk remained a silent, unmoving presence by the stove, slowly sipping his water.

"For all of us, actually," you replied, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. You began unpacking the bags, the vibrant red of the gochujang seeming to take on a significant meaning all its own now.

Wooin burst into the kitchen like a whirlwind, snatching a bottle of water from the fridge. "Anything I can do? Need someone to chop vegetables at light speed?"

"I think I've got it covered, Wooin, thanks," you said, offering a weak smile. The familiar chaos of the Sabbath crew in their communal space should have been comforting. Yet, with Hyuk's silent, shirtless presence seemingly dominating the small kitchen, it felt… different. Strangely tense.

Hyuk placed his empty glass in the sink, his movements deliberate and quiet. He turned back, now leaning against the counter, his dark eyes meeting yours across the small space. That unsettling, unreadable calm had settled back onto his face.

“Anything… you wanted to say?" His voice was even lower now, barely a murmur, yet it carried a weight that made you pause, a half-peeled onion in your hand.

Your heart thumped again.

What exactly was that supposed to mean? (T–T)

LATER THAT WEEK

That memory still haunted you, strangely persistent. Every time you caught a glimpse of Hyuk in the hallway, or at the cafeteria, or even just heard the low rumble of his voice, a fresh wave of mortification would wash over you. He acted as if nothing had happened, which somehow made it worse. His unreadable expression was a constant, infuriating reminder that he knew, and he either didn't care, or perhaps he did, which was even more terrifying. His calm seemed like a personal challenge, a silent dare.

You were sprawled out on one of Vinny's ridiculously oversized and somewhat stained beanbags in the Sabbath common room. It was a rare quiet afternoon, a lull between intense practice sessions. You were trying to distract yourself by indulging in the time-honored tradition of collectively analyzing the physiques of your fellow gang members.

Wooin was scrolling on his phone, occasionally grunting at something he saw, while Joker was attempting a futile nap on the worn-out sofa, one arm thrown over his eyes as if trying to block out even the concept of consciousness. Vinny, of course, was nowhere to be seen, likely off engaged in some ridiculously competitive athletic endeavor, or napping up a tree somewhere only he knew.

"So anyway," you said, poking your straw at your now-watery drink, mimicking the one that had met a tragic end earlier that week. "Vinny’s abs? Like. How is he that cut? Does he even eat real food? I swear I saw him chuggin like 4 cans of CocaCola. It makes no sense. He's like a finely tuned aerodynamic machine."

Joker barely glancing up from his phone. "He bikes like a madman…”

Wooin groaned, shifting on the sofa. "Yeah, weird metabolism. Vinny eats nothing but ramen and still looks like a K-drama prison escapee. He's ripped, and probably outruns police cars."

You laughed, picturing Vinny's impossibly lean yet strong build, made for speed and endurance, always in motion. "Joker’s no slouch either. I mean-damn. I walked in on him shirtless once, just doing pull-ups in his dorm room—“

"You walked in on me too."

You blinked.

Everyone blinked.

You turned.

Kwon Hyuk was leaning against the doorway, unreadable as always, eyes sharp. But there was something off in his tone. Something almost-

Petulant.

"W—What?" you whispered, your voice suddenly dry.

His voice was low. Barely above a murmur.

"You saw mine."

"Why no comment?"

Your stomach dropped faster than your green onions had that day. Your cheeks flushed a furious red.

Wooin, meanwhile, buried his face deeper into a pillow, muttering "Oh no, he's spiraling. He's definitely spiraling. Someone stop him, please."

You, meanwhile, stared wide-eyed at Hyuk, who now stepped forward with terrifying calm, closing the distance between you and the beanbag.

"You keep talking about Joker this, Vinny that-abs here, abs there-how ripped and god-like they are.”

You gaped. "I—it's not—“

"But not a word about mine."

Was he sulking?

Was the Grim Reaper of Sabbath Crew sulking over ab-related validation?!

You coughed. "Well, I didn't w–wanna be a…a–”

"You were red for a week." He deadpanned, ignoring your flimsy excuse. His voice was flat, as if stating a simple fact he'd observed, noted, and now presented as evidence.

"Shut up!" you hissed, feeling your cheeks burn even hotter, a fresh wave of mortification washing over you.

"You didn't look away."

"I WAS IN SHOCK." you practically shrieked, your voice trembling with suppressed panic. It wasn't a lie, not entirely. You were in shock. A very specific kind of shock involving perfectly sculpted abs and a complete loss of dignity.

He leaned in slightly. Too close. Too knowing. His clean, masculine scent-freshly showered, with a hint of his subtle, unique cologne-suddenly filled your senses. Too close. Too perceptive.

His eyes dropped to your lips for a fleeting second, lingered, then snapped back up to meet your wide, panicked gaze. There was a dangerous glint in his dark eyes, a challenge, a subtle accusation.

"If you liked what you saw…" his voice dropped even lower, a dangerous rumble that vibrated deep in your chest, rattling your very bones. The unspoken challenge hung heavy between you two, daring you to admit the truth. "…You should've said something."

You slapped both hands over your face and groaned a long, drawn-out sound of utter defeat and profound mortification.

This was it. This was your life now. You were going to die of embarrassment, right here, in the Sabbath common room, with Wooin's pillow-muffled despair as your witness.

"Hyuk," you mumbled through your hands, your voice hoarse with exasperation.

"Yes?" His voice was still low, deceptively calm, now laced with an unnerving triumph.

"You're insane!" you finally blurted out, muffled by your hands, frustration clear. (But I like you, you frustrating, possessive man, you thought despairingly.)

He grinned. Grinned.

Not his usual slight quirk of the lips, but a full, slow, triumphant grin, revealing sharp, white teeth that sent a strange shiver down your spine-a confusing mix of intense annoyance, uttar disbelief, and something undeniably thrilling.

It was as if he'd planned this all along, a carefully laid trap, and he was finally seeing his efforts bear fruit.

The Grim Reaper, known for his relentless pursuit on the track, had decided to play a different game, and you were clearly his favorite target.

LATER THAT NIGHT.

You get a message.

KH

next time just ask if you want to see again i don’t mind :)

You scream into your pillow.

He’s evil.

You like him anyway.

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[sugarcherris]

Headcanon: Captain Price’s Pathetic Pillow

Captain price x fem! reader, suggestive theme, 18+, mentions of uterus and cum, and the whole team clowning price.

Everyone thinks Captain John Price is a hardened man of taste—cigars, whiskey, and tactical brilliance.

Cigars? Expensive.

Whiskey? Aged and neat.

Tactics? Lethal.

Beard? National treasure.

And yet… behind closed doors… lies a secret so devastating, so shameful, so soul-flattening…the single most disturbing artifact known to Task Force 141.

His pillow is the saddest object in the entire United Kingdom. Possible Europe. Maybe the entire NATO alliance.

And not just any pillow.

No.

It’s not just flat. It’s deflated. Like it gave up sometime in 80s and never recovered.

This pillow has seen wars, sweat, spit, cigar crumbs, cum, and the weight of an emotionally repressed British forehead night after night. It’s yellowed. It crunches a bit when you press it. There’s one suspicious bullet hole no one asks about.

The first sighting

Gaz stumbled on it once and physically recoiled like it bit him.

“Cap— what the hell is that?”

“My pillow.”

“…Is it… alive?”

“It’s broken in.”

“IT’S BROKEN DOWN.”

Soap tried to surprise him with a brand-new orthopedic memory foam one. Price took one look at it, gave it one half hearted squeeze it, and muttered

“Too soft. Doesn’t smell like mine.”

Then flopped face-first back onto his tattered parchment of despair.. the war-torn crêpe he calls a pillow with the weight of a thousand suppressed emotions and let out a groan so guttural it summoned ghosts from WWI.

Laswell once compared it to a flattened Yorkshire pudding left out in the rain.

Ghost swears it whispered something to him once. He won’t say what.

That pillow has no bounce. It’s a sock filled with despair.

But he won’t replace it.

Because in his heart, Price believes if his pillow can survive everything it’s been through…

So can he.

You

You tried.

God knows you tried.

But after three nights of waking up with your spine curved like a question mark and your neck sounding like a glow stick every time you turned your head, you snapped. (Somehow all his pillows were deflated flat and soggy. His remarkable pillow is the worse one, the founder, the disease spreader)

Price, meanwhile, is sleeping like some half-naked forest bear—shirtless, sprawled on his war relic of a pillow, beard glinting like wet oak in the moonlight.

“John,” you hiss. “I swear on your beard—if I have to sleep on any more of this limp, moist rectangle one more night, I will summon God Himself to smite this pillow.”

Price rolls over, glowing in the moonlight like a Michelangelo statue who drinks whiskey and shaves with a knife, He shifts lazily, one thick arm draping over your waist, eyes half-lidded with that glint as he murmurs, voice deep and rough like thunder rolling through and just goes.

“Careful, love. That attitude’ll have you face-down ‘n beggin’ before you even touch the sheets.”

Sir. No.

Your uterus shrieked.

Your spine whimpered.

And the pillow—the goddamn pillow grinned.

The Battle Begins

You steal the pillow.

You tossed the pillow in the bin.

It crunched on the way down

You pray over its resting place like a sacrificial offering.

He came home. Sniffed the air once like a bloodhound.

He finds it. In the goddamn trash.

Washes it. Rescues it.

Holds it like a cradled child. Looks you dead in the eye and says,

“This pillow’s older than half the squad. Show some bloody respect.”

He sleeps like a WWII veteran with his hands gently gripping the corners like a parachute cord.

You’re convinced it’s not a pillow.

It’s a coping mechanism.

Eventually everyone started taking action

Soap starts a betting pool. He names it Operation Flat Bastard.

Gaz calls it Flatline. He salutes it sarcastically every time he passes the room.

Ghost adds it to a list of “Top 5 Unholy Objects I’ve Seen.” (It ranks above a haunted mask from Karachi.)

Laswell mails you a care package with six memory foam pillows. No note.

Price tries one of them once—after you begged. The next morning, he stares into space, grumbling:

“Had a vivid dream about paying council taxes. Didn’t like it.”

New plan

You surrender to fate.

But you plan.

One day, when he’s gone again, you’ll hold a funeral.

Full military honors.

You’ll bury Flatline under a crooked rock in the backyard. Light a cigar. Tap the gravestone twice. Whisper, “Rest now, soldier.”

And when he comes home?

He’ll lie down on a new pillow—one you’ve secretly been punching nightly, stomping with boots, smearing it with your cum, and ironing flat to simulate three decades of war.

He’ll grunt once.

Press his face into it. Inhales it.

And murmur:

“…Finally. Feels just right.”

[sh4nksslvt]

Doctor Trafalgar, Love Expert?

Law gives terrible love advice to Penguin while clearly ignoring his own painfully obvious crush on you.

Law X gn! reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, friends-to-lovers typeshi(?) law being timid a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe word count: 1.1k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

If there was one thing Trafalgar Law wasn’t qualified to do, it was give romantic advice.

Sure, he was a brilliant surgeon, a pirate captain, and had a smirk that could make a nun sin, but when it came to feelings—specifically his own—he was a flaming shipwreck in a storm of emotional denial.

And yet, here he was, arms crossed, giving unsolicited love advice to Penguin like he was the therapist from a soap opera.

“Just tell her she’s inefficient,” Law said with a straight face. “It’s a compliment.”

Bepo blinked up at him. “...Captain, I don’t think calling Penguin’s crush inefficient is going to help his chances.”

“You asked for honesty,” Law muttered, flipping through his medical journal like it was more interesting than this disaster in progress. “Efficiency is attractive.”

“To you, maybe!”

You, meanwhile, were watching this entire trainwreck from the galley door with a cup of tea and the kind of secondhand embarrassment that deserved its own trauma counseling.

“Law,” you called. “Did you just say ‘inefficient’ as a flirting tactic?”

He didn’t even look up. “It’s a practical compliment.”

You snorted. “What’s next? ‘Your presence improves my survival odds by 6.4%’?”

“…Depending on the environment, that’s a generous estimate.”

You and Bepo shared a look. A look that screamed, Why is this our captain?

The whole thing had started that morning when Penguin had walked into the common area in a flurry of nerves and confessed, “I think I like someone.”

Law, who’d been reading while pretending not to be listening to music in one earbud (yes, he still used wired ones, don’t ask), barely lifted his gaze. “Then tell them.”

Penguin shuffled. “It’s not that easy.”

“It’s the truth.”

“And what if they don’t like me back?”

Law gave the emotional equivalent of a shrug. “Then adapt. Rejection is survivable.”

Penguin groaned from the couch. “Cap, you can’t treat love like it’s battle tactics.”

“It’s a high-risk operation involving fragile variables and potential bloodshed. Sounds pretty accurate.”

Shachi nodded. “Okay, that’s fair, but also incredibly bleak.”

And that’s when Law was voluntold by everyone that if he was going to act like he knew how love worked, he had to give actual advice.

Hence: Doctor Trafalgar, Love Expert?

“Okay,” you said, taking the empty seat beside him and plucking the journal from his hands. “If you’re so good at giving advice, help me out.”

Law narrowed his eyes. “With what?”

“I think someone likes me,” you said casually, leaning back like you weren’t about to stir up the most delicious chaos. “But I can’t tell if they’re just awkward or trying to be subtle.”

His jaw tightened. “Who is it?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s why I need your expert opinion.”

Law closed the journal and set it down very deliberately.

Everyone in the room went very still. Bepo, Penguin, and Shachi exchanged silent screams with their eyebrows.

“Well,” Law said coolly. “What are the signs?”

“Hmm,” you hummed. “They hover a lot. Make excuses to talk to me. Kind of avoid eye contact but also stare when they think I’m not looking.”

His eye twitched. “Stare?”

“Yeah. And once, they brought me extra rice even though I didn’t ask.”

Silence.

Law stood up. “That’s suspicious.”

“Oh?”

“Sounds like they’re trying too hard.”

“Ohhh?” you said, biting back a smile.

“They’re probably nervous. Emotionally constipated. Bad at expressing feelings.” He said all this like he wasn’t describing himself to an absurdly accurate degree. “Possibly repressed.”

“Should I confront them?”

“No,” he said quickly, a little too quickly. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“It might scare them away.”

“But if they like me…”

“Then wait for them to say something first.”

Bepo coughed. “So… basically just let them suffer in silence?”

“It builds character,” Law said.

You covered your mouth to hide your grin. “You’re such a romantic.”

Law’s ears turned pink. “Shut up.”

Later that day, Shachi cornered you near the engine room with a look of deep judgment.

“You’re torturing him.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

He pointed a wrench at you. “You know he likes you.”

“Do I?”

“You’ve been fake-flirting with a ghost for the last week just to get him to react!”

You smirked. “It’s good cardio.”

Shachi groaned. “He’s gonna combust. I saw him look up love confession rituals on his snail phone last night.”

Your eyes widened. “No.”

“Yes! And he accidentally joined a forum for single dads in North Blue.”

You wheezed. “He’s going through it.”

“So help him out!”

“…Fine.”

The opportunity came the next morning when you walked into the kitchen and found Law staring at a mug of coffee like it had personally betrayed him.

He didn’t look up when you entered, just mumbled, “Morning.”

“Morning,” you said, walking over. “Sleep okay?”

He made a grunt of vague disapproval.

You sat beside him. “Thinking about your crush?”

He choked on his coffee.

“I mean,” you said, oh-so-innocently. “That mystery person you gave advice about.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re very nosy.”

“You’re very obvious.”

He gave you a look. “I don’t have a crush.”

You tilted your head. “Are you sure? Because everyone on this ship seems to think you do.”

“Everyone on this ship is bored.”

“Bored enough to notice how you go quiet when I talk, how you walk into rooms I’m in and pretend it’s for unrelated reasons, or how you stare at my lips when I eat dessert?”

He went dead silent.

You leaned closer. “So. Doctor Trafalgar. Any prescriptions for yourself?”

“…Shut up,” he muttered, face flushed.

You blinked. “Wait. That was a confession.”

He got up.

You grabbed his wrist.

He froze.

“Hey,” you said, suddenly softer. “I like you too, dumbass.”

He blinked.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out a little red candy. “I was going to make you say it first, but you looked like you were about to diagnose yourself with heartbreak.”

He blinked again.

“…You like me?”

“God, yes. Even when you’re being a brick wall with nice tattoos.”

“…I have more than just tattoos,” he muttered.

You grinned. “Yeah, you’ve also got a charming inability to express affection. It’s cute.”

He shook his head. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m leaving.”

“You’re still holding my hand.”

Pause.

He looked down.

He was.

“…Tch.”

You laughed and tugged him back down. “Stay.”

“…Fine.”

Later, Penguin came in to find the two of you sitting shoulder to shoulder, quietly sharing a plate of snacks.

“Captain?” Penguin said, tilting his head. “Did you take your own advice?”

Law didn’t look up. “No.”

You grinned. “He took mine.”

[yojeongin]

this night has opened my eyes | j.jh

→sister’s fiancé!jaehyun x f!reader

genre: smut, angst, close proximity attraction, forbidden affairs, 80s au, and familial relationships study

synopsis: grief hits everyone differently, especially when so close to a major "once in a lifetime" event. you try to not judge everyone's character but how can you not when emotions are conflicting and it doesn't help that your sister's fiancé is the only one helping you cope.

warning(s): ADULTS ONLY, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! generational trauma, mentions of child emotional neglect, grief, cheating, smoking, alcohol consumption, emotional repression (minor memory loss), some fingering, semi-handjob, unprotected and rough sex, creampie, jaehyun a lil ooc, somewhat one-sided, lack of chemistry (their lonelyness tries to say otherwise), this one is for the eldest daughters with mommy issues

wc: 21.1k+ || anthology masterlist || soundtrack || ao3

© 2025 YOJEONGIN all rights reserved — please DO NOT translate, take, nor repost any of my works on other platforms. reblogs are HIGHLY appreciated and preferred!

disclaimer: this is purely fictional; in no way am I condoning this behavior, trying to offend anyone, nor is it meant to place such image on the idol, these are only characters. read at your own discretion.

an: well I lied about posting last week. I'm fond of lying and worst scenario did happen and I'm posting in may. anyways, tried hard to make them lack chemistry so you guys tell me how that turned out.

This is your punishment. It must be. Why is it that when you’re finally at ease with life, something has to ruin your stable comfort? You swore you wouldn't come back to this town unless a major celebration or an emergency would occur. Unfortunately, it so happens that both had transpired at the same time. In the worst way possible.

A year and a half ago your sister had met someone. It only took nine months of being together for them to get engaged and your entire family knew besides you. Chances are you would have remained in the dark even after the event if the pyramid schemer of your cousin hadn't called you about the possibility of lending her money to pay for the items she was supposed to sell. 

Merciless enough and with no regard for your sister, she spilled it all to you along with ridicule laced in each word. Reveling and laughing at the theory of your sister possibly being pregnant. Interlaced jealousy for obtaining a “great catch”.

You don't entertain it, humming with faux excitement despite dreading the fact that you're now expected to send a letter to your sister letting her know how happy you are for her. Whether you truly were or didn't care, did not matter. You expected nothing out of it, nothing was supposed to happen after all, per usual. It was all courtesy. 

Silence from your sister was always a better reward than having her talk your ear off about anything she was fairly interested in. The matter becomes worse knowing she dreaded talking to you overall, therefore it was a waste of time for you both.

Unfortunately, days later you received a phone call where she, in fact, talked your ear off about the guy she was engaged to and what she had in mind for her celebration. It’s not like she was having fun telling you about it, she didn’t plan for you to find out to begin with. But again, it was all courtesy. Hoping that this would make you feel included enough to send her a gift without invitation.

The call extended for longer despite the long periods of silence on both ends. She had waited and waited, with no signs of you asking what she wanted, leading her to hang up feigning a dinner with her fiance. Truth is she scoffed rolling her eyes and petulantly stomping around knowing she would have to invite you now if she wanted a gift.

Two months later a wedding invitation was sent to your apartment. Reading over the script typeface with all of its coiled swashes, embossed flowers, and the underlying inked words that scream at you to not go, to not entertain this and just send the damn gift. Courtesy, it's all about courtesy.

You didn’t hear from any of your family members again after receiving that piece of cardstock. Not until a week before the wedding day. Merciless Friday. By Friday, life has killed you.

You had planned on leaving a day before the date. You were in no rush to visit anyone in that town nor did you plan to stay long after the ceremony. Like a business trip, that’s what you were treating it as.

Simply, your plan was to get a round trip ticket. The departing flight back home after the ceremony, possibly at the middle of it, or worst case scenario: the following morning. All to avoid being berated by your mother or aunts; with no plan to overstay your visit.

That was the plan, yet again the universe was so humorous that when you picked up the phone to hear your father talk to you casually with long gaps in between his words, you knew something was awfully wrong. He didn’t specify the reason for his call nor did he give you much information about how his fig tree wasn’t looking too good and most likely would not make it for fig season. 

It was quick and brief, that should have been telling. Your mother would have called you selfish for not noticing the small things but those words were customary for her so you didn’t take them to heart. You haven’t in years, you would like to think. 

Now you look at those same trees, nodding to yourself about how correct he was. Branches too frail and crackly, snapping with a swipe of a finger. They used to be so strong, even in these winter temperatures with biting and prickling coldness. The one your mother often caused within you and now it’s odd knowing that’s what she must have felt last night. 

It’s strange to come back and notice the state of the weather. A town usually disgustingly humid, scaldingly hot, and sunny was now replicating your current city. Gloomy and rainy, the humidity never leaves but the disgust clings to the feeling in your chest as cousins, uncles, and aunts rush out of your childhood home with box sets of silverware, easy and light furniture, and china that had not been locked away. 

A cheery smile on their faces, patting you as a welcome while stuffing their rickety cars with your parents’ belongings. You don’t question it, you always expected this from them. The best you can do now, is close the door in their faces when the youngest of your cousins walks out with your father’s broken Atari in his grimy hands.

So young and already so rotten.

It’s not the fact that they are taking the things, it’s more so that none of them bothered to let you know your mother had died Friday morning or looked to be mourning. Or how she had been battling a nasty infection due to the thorns in her rose bushes. How rapidly the fungus had consumed her cells.

The house is eerie and cold; silence was never this stiff. Biting and dull, but never static. The large portraits of your mother scattered around the walls feeling more patronizing than ever before. You can already imagine what she must be thinking about you all the way from purgatory. “Typical, you could not even bother to show before my last breaths.” A scoff, turning up her nose with a shake of her head to avoid looking at you. 

Disgust, disgust, disgust.

It doesn’t take long to find your father in their shared bedroom. Sitting idly on the edge of the bed looking out the window. A usual position, now enveloped with grief and despair. Not his ordinary nonchalance and comfort. He was a shell of a man from when you last saw him. Then again, that was two years ago for their silver anniversary where your mother scolded you for not helping or for not doing things the way she wanted them.

You remember clearly ending that night in the train station with your suitcase. Your father dropping you off while affirming that they loved you despite all your mother had spewed the entire visit. You both smiled fondly before hugging and patting each other’s cheeks. He knew you well enough to leave before your train arrived, giving you a breather and letting out all your grievances, leaving them here and not taking them back home. 

“Hey…” Your meek voice causes his hand to twitch, not turning to look at you. “How are you holding up?” You question, hand sliding down his shoulder to rub comfortingly. You feel his chest rumble, your fingers thrumming against his wool sweater. “I told you the fig tree was not going to hold on until spring.” He answers slowly, eyeing how the branches snapped with the breeze.

“You did.”

Silence befalls, it’s uncomfortable yet comfortable. The contradiction makes it far more confusing on your end. You’re not too sure how he feels. Perhaps you should say something, something stupid or mundane but something. These days you're far more unaware of what to do or think. 

“Hey, dad?” “Hey, dad!”

There’s a clear difference in the way those words are uttered. In the way the voices sound and how they roll off each other’s tongues but ultimately both of you turn towards the door, seeing your sister stand with a cheery smile – a tad duller when her eyes fall on you. The most she gives you besides a hum, unphased by your presence. 

“The morgue is on the line.” She utters, chin turning to point towards the phone on your mother’s nightstand. Your father makes no effort to answer, leaving it to both of you to decide. Ultimately, you reach for the device, the cold plastic uncomfortable against your ear. 

“Hello?” “With the family of Mrs. Y/l/n?” “Yes…”

Taken aback by your lack of warmth, the mortuary technician hums, “We wanted to inform you that we got results back from the police station and after the autopsy, Mrs. Y/l/n is ready to be transferred to the services you’ve chosen. Since she is an identified body, we can only keep her for a week at best. She does have to be transferred for burial or a different mortuary by the time frame.” 

Confused, you turn to your father. His lack of response makes you turn to your sister who looks at you like you’re crazy for whatever you haven’t told them. “What?— I thought you guys handled funeral services as well?” You answer, clutching the hard plastic in your hand.

“Unfortunately, no. Not yet at least, but there are multiple funeral homes around the area that you can contact and we can transfer the body to them for the burial or their own morgue. It just has to be before the week ends. Fortunately, it’s a busy season– Unfortunately, I mean! Sorry… We will need the space.” Catching his mistake he laughs nervously, pulling the last remaining hair strand on his balding head.

“Give me a second.” You grumble, your mother’s lipstick still plastered against the bottom half of the phone. “Have you looked into funeral home services?” You whisper, looking at your standing sister who shakes her head vigorously. There’s no way your father had the will to do so and you don’t ask him but the gnawing feeling of the lack of organization is eating at you already.

With a sigh you pick up the phone from your lap, taking your time to answer. “We don’t yet have a plan… Is there no way we can get more time?” You almost beg, was it not for his disinterested whiny voice while twirling the spiral cord around his finger. “Yeah, no… That’s quite unfortunate, yeah.” He hums, patronizing. It irritates you beyond belief. To the point where you hang up before even giving him a definitive answer.

“A week! That’s all we get to find any funeral services or she’ll get tossed out like a butchery carcass!” You’re not sure if you’re more irritated from the call, your sister’s nonchalance, or the fact that you care more than you allowed yourself on the flight back.

"A week?!" Your sister screeches, "My wedding is a week! We can't possibly do that!" Her hands come to her head, distress covering her face like a wedding being pushed back would be the bigger tragedy out of this. Your slow turn of head and slotting eyes don't phase her but your words do irk her.

"Mom just died and you're more worried about a wedding?...”

 "It's not that! It's just that— the wedding is already planned. Mom's funeral isn't, we don't have anything to look for and especially in this short amount of time." She covers up, nodding like it was the best excuse she has ever come with. Was it not for your father's voice catching both of your attention and his slow monotone tone, you would have finally slapped the sense into her that you should've done years ago if allowed.

"Your mother began saving up for this, months ago. I don't think it's much but we will find out when her lawyer arrives tomorrow to read her will." He pauses, "We will make do." He concludes with a nod to himself.

It's not enough for you. That goes to say there's virtually nothing when funerals cost an arm and a leg. You don't even know how much her payment plan was so what gave you the reassurance that you could do anything with that. No, you had to think for the three of you. Like — fucking — usual.

"Aren't you paying for the wedding too?" You turn to him. He nods, "We will make do."

No. No, it's not that simple.

"Your wedding is in a week, there's no reason for you to spend anymore. How about we cut that off already and you can help with the funeral preparations." You speak sternly to your sister. That desperation and anger lacing every single one of your words.

"What?! No, you can't just cut me off! I still have to pay the catering and flower vendors. That doesn't go into action until Tuesday." It's crazy to see how maniac she became in an instant. Her hair disheveled the further her fingers threaded through it. "You can't have me present my guests beautiful decor just to serve their food on paper plates, can you? That's tacky!" She groans, petulantly turning to your father for back up.

"We will make do."

Are you satisfied? No, but you're exhausted and quite honestly jet lagged. This has been enough interacting with your sister and your father's enabling that you decide to throw the towel and shake your head.

"Fine. But you'll have to help me with the funeral services and finding an adequate funeral home."

She's pushed her luck already, and she knows it. "Fine."

It should have been an obvious sign that normal days were left behind when you arrived. What used to be quaint mornings in this town were now loud and obnoxious. Things were different in a sense that you had not expected. The blaring of a nightstand alarm transformed into an irritating screech of the fire alarm calling your name over and over to turn it off. Bike bells from the paperboy calling for the daily paper were now incessant honks tattle-telling on the neighborhood boys that kicked balls at whatever car was left outside the garage.

Whether your body wanted it or not, you pushed off the mattress that was once your safe haven. Now it was hard as rock and the cause of your aching muscles that wept with every step down the stairs. Your mother’s penetrative glare through all those portraits adding onto your pain. 

Upon hearing your steps, your father turns with a blank look on his face but an apology in his eyes. You let out a sigh and a reassuring smile on your lips, turning off the stove and moving the pan away. “I burnt the eggs.” He utters monotonously, each word spoken with every step you take towards the fire alarm. “A coward egg. Preferring to burn than to be eaten. It’s okay, the next one will be brave.” You think you can see a smile on his face although blocked by the fabric of your pajamas and sprawled hair. 

“Those damn kids, running around the street when cars are leaving for church.” Your sister had interrupted any sense of tranquility (if any) with complaints. Her eyebrows furrowed and a frown on her face that becomes teasing when she sees you on a chair, mangling the fire alarm. 

It’s mocking you think, the way she looks at you. “What did you do? You’ve only been here for a few hours.” And your glare gives her the response she was looking for. Receiving you with a teasing scoff, almost turned into a giggle while she swivels towards your dad, kissing his cheek good morning. 

“Geez, relax. I was just kidding.” She huffs, “Look who woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” Usually comments as such warranted extensive berating from her and  your mother. Your aunts if they were visiting but now it’s just you two and your dad. Your catatonic dad that can only give her the same blank look and words he’s given you: “I burnt the eggs.”

She kisses his head, smiles reassuringly, reaching for the pan to toss out the now cold eggs. “It’s okay, I’ll make you some.” It’s similar enough, you’re sisters after all. 

You manage to silence the fire alarm, bringing tranquility for a second before three rhythmic knocks are heard at the front door. Your sister and you share a glance, questioning with an indication for you to open the door. It’s something menial that you won’t fight her over, rather you just do it to let the starch pressed suit wearing lawyer inside the house. 

He’s roughly a head taller than you, lankier and awkward but in a way that makes him seem snooty. He gives you a glance and a muted greeting smile. He attempts to share some pleasantries but you don’t let him, leading him to the living room where the other two had gathered already. Eggs and stove long forgotten. 

“Good morning,” he utters, “Only you three will join us?” He asks, fingers threading through the cuff links of his suit. They’re rusted, staining his dress shirt with every move. He knows it and hates that others do too but he can’t be bothered to change them. Rather they’re his only ones. 

“Yes, morning.” You answer with a nod, sitting besides him. “Right.” He mutters, clearing his throat, fumbling to open his briefcase. “I’ve brought copies for you all and given the quantity, I consider it best we get straight to it, yes?” The lawyer — who you later learned his name was Mr. Chop, called pork chop by your sister whenever he said something she didn’t like — handed you each a thin packet. Swivel designs on each corner, customary of your mother who most likely brought in her own paper for him to print on whenever the time came. She probably did not expect it to be this early. 

Your father makes no effort to touch it, your sister only flips through it, but you focus on every word and the tone everything is dictated in. Mr. Chop reads in a lousy voice that he’s forced to sound vigorous but his constant voice cracks give out his experience. Not that much.

“For my dear husband,” He fixes the stiff paper under his fingers. “You will find yourself flooded by life insurances all to your name. Enjoy them while you remain, it is your call what you do when you think your time will come.” Mr. Chop clears his throat, turning to you before continuing. “As long as you’re wise if you dare leave anything to Y/n…” 

Typical. It doesn’t make it any less frustrating.

“To my youngest daughter, you’ve always loved the eccentricity of your mother and grandmother. For that, I leave you our jewelry. I know you will do the right thing when it comes to these and you will take good care as I have all these years.” 

You could swear your mother’s doting voice projected through his weak mouth. Sweet when looking at your sister but patronizing and mocking when he turned to you. Just the way the old hag intended. 

Take that back, pinch yourself under the thigh for thinking of your mother as an old hag. No matter how much she’s impacted you, remorse and guilt will always flood you when it comes to her. 

Fuck. 

“Lastly, Y/n. Consider yourself lucky for this letter and your grandmother’s cookbook. Lord knows you could benefit from it. I will not offer you more for you know what you’ve done and you shall live with that your entire life.” 

The paper doesn’t feel heavy under your fingertips. It’s light, translucent, and from the sunlight peeking through the sliding doors leading to the backyard, you can see she did not write much. 

“What about the funeral plan she began? How much is there?” 

Mr. Chop knows there’s urgency in your voice. Desperation and frustration etching themselves across your face while he takes his time to flip through some papers he had not yet taken out. “Yes… it seems your mother did not begin this plan until three months ago that leaves with only—“ he hums, holding his tongue to not sigh and give more pity remarks than he’s already given. “$169 to be exact, not discounting taxes depending on the company. Some funeral plans tend to take out taxes when the money is put to use.” He drops his professional act momentarily to look at you. 

“These insurances… they can cover it, surely. Yes?” It’s the first time your father spoke since the lawyer arrived. Grievance written all over his face, in the way his eyebrows knit like a begging hungry child. His fingers twitch, itching to look for answers in the packet but hold back. As if touching the decorative paper ought to burn his fingers.

Mr. Chop hums for an exaggerated amount, head tilting to ultimately click his tongue. His pen hits his forehead, leaving a tiny blob of ink that you fixate on. “Well, yes… the thing is that insurances take a month to three after the claim. Unfortunately — for some reason — February is high in mortality and it’s going to take longer than that to hear back from the insurance companies.” 

It’s a dead end. A dead end and it seems only your father and you feel the weight of your mother’s body crushing the both. It’s typically you whose hands were freezing cold but now they’re warm against your father’s. Taking them in a tight and reassuring grip, forcing belief into both. He glances at you, apologies flooding his eyes and threatening to escape his lips. Those that you shut with a smile and another squeeze.

“We will make do.” And now you’re fully convinced that he’s smiling. Believing you with no proof or witness, just the fatherly love and remnants of hope he has. He squeezes your hands in return, a sign of compliance.

Mr. Chop doesn’t extend his invite. As soon as it’s settled he makes his exit, leaving the three of you to wonder what should be done. Your father reverted to small talk, managing to nod at some questions and stare blankly at others. That left you and your sister to make calls to funeral homes all day. Alternating between landlines while one of you wrote, analyzed, and organized the price points and deals. All flukes and robberies. 

To say frustration wasn’t getting the best of you was an understatement. How is it that death is perceived as an eternal slumber where you feel no more, yet it leaves those behind you in perpetual suffering. 

Your father won’t explain what he feels but everyone can read it in the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. You’re not too sure how you feel besides uncertainty that makes you scribble harshly against the notepad. Eraser shavings get between the lead and paper, forcing large gaps between words. It bothers you enough to rewrite the words just for another piece to be erased. A cycle that you know you should end but the bubbling ache in your chest makes you continue your angry scribbles until you touch the fresh page underneath.

Faith lets it survive for longer. Intervening through an ecstatic screech that leaves your sister. It gives you hope, seeing her stomp around in a happy dance. Telephone cord wrapping around her body the way her fiance will do in a few days to come. She’s so happy. Your mother is dead, your father is bordering on joining her and your sister is happy. 

“Found a funeral service?” Your voice breaks her out of it. Her wide smile, not flattering as she turns to look at you with faux confusion. That stupid midline diastema was growing but it made her look far more charming than before. Her giggle doesn’t help and for a second you think she’s that same little girl that would pity you when mother scolded for her wrong doings before she joined in on the mockery. 

“What? No!” She unravels the cord, some of it stuck against the buttons of her overalls. “The caterer called back and said they could work with the budget you're forcing me into! I can make this wedding work, Y/n!” If she was to ever touch you it would leave a reminder of her disdain and faux affection. This one, she’s genuinely happy and with no intention to mock you but even when she doesn’t want to, she manages to plague you with that poison your mother created and taught her to inject into you. 

She jumps around, holding your hands with no intention to seize her excited giggles. How can someone be so happy in times like these? Is this what being full of love creates?

“You’re fucking kidding, right?” The words leave your mouth in waves. Lips quiver with every letter and your hold on her hands turn crushing. Her eyebrows furrow, pulling away like a child that’s been zapped with prank gum. She scowls at the ruined moment, “Have you seriously been working on your wedding all this time?!” 

“No…” A scolded child answers, tucking her hands in the denim pockets. “I was making calls too, I just… took a break to answer the caterer.” she murmurs, swinging her body the way she does when consequences attempt to reach her.

“A break… We can’t take fucking breaks, sissy! We have to find a funeral home now or else who knows where mom will end up!” You don’t try to sound so angry or sad. The whine and fire in your voice will betray you the way it always does. “We can’t afford them if you're too fucking worried about your stupid wedding!” 

“Stupid?! Mom was looking forward to it! You would know if you checked in often and didn’t think you’re too good for us! Doesn't your job pay you well? You could possibly pay for this by yourself and leave dad alone.” A leach and a burden is what they’ll always see you as. It’s obvious through the gaps of invisible words she doesn’t spew. 

Despite the scratch created over your soul, you’ve only ever known to cover it with electric tape. It’s sticky and temporary, leaves a disgusting residue if you ever try to remove it but that doesn’t come until you’re ready to fix it. Which you won't, you never do. You never will.

“I am going to pay for it at this rate because you are more worried about a wedding with a guy you met not even a year ago and God trust no one believes it will last.” Condescension and it’s not yet Wednesday. It’s spilled in the same tone she utilizes with you, the difference is she’s never been strong enough to reap what she sews.

There’s fire in her eyes. The same fire she looked at your mother the few times she was reprimanded. The kind that tells you she loathes you with her entire soul and wants nothing but the worst for you. It translates perfectly through her words, ones that make you forget she’s the town sweetheart. 

“You know what your problem is, Y/n? That I’ve always been able to find someone and you haven’t. You’re lonely. A lonely, bitter spinstress. Bitter overall and that’s how you’ll end if you keep acting like this. Mom was right about you. She always has been.” She gives you no time to rebuttal with your own venom. Taking her belongings and slamming the kitchen door behind her while the words ‘naive’ and ‘dumb-fuck’ flood your brain knowing they’re far less offensive than bitter and lonely.

Without trying to dwell, you exit the kitchen as well. Rolling your eyes with a huff as the scene replays. Your mother is gone, there’s no reason for you to hold your tongue, doing that for years has stunted your ability to defend yourself. Your little sister will always have the upper hand the longer you keep your mother’s image etched inside your brain. 

She has no power over you. Not anymore. Free yourself. Try…

You can’t, you probably won’t. Because behind your disappointed father that sits on the steps of the stairs, your mother’s portrait bores holes into you. Engraving every word your sister spat out with far more volition.

Monday: Humiliation

Maybe you were brash with your outburst yesterday. Perhaps you could have handled the discontent better but the longer the argument plays in your head the more and more you think there’s no way you’re going to apologize to your sister for that. Not even when said argument led to you making your way to the first funeral home by foot because she refused to pick up the phone. 

You couldn’t ask your father to drive you there nor were you going to ask anyone else in your family. Those leeches had only made an effort to contact you to ask for more things they could take and when turned down they’d drop their sugar bowls and act as sour as you remember them. It’s laughable. How high and mighty they act but turn into grimy beggars attempting to slither their way into the home for more and more things to steal.

It’s happened a handful of times since your arrival. All ending with you slamming the door in their faces and them calling you the same names your mother used to. Disguising their visit as a form to check on your father without waiting for him to come down the stairs before acting like debt collectors. By now he knows not to come down, he’s always left panting and huffing on the last step when they leave. 

There’s been a few times they’ve been able to fool you. Their appreciation for taking over the funeral plans soothing your soul and causing you to release a content sigh, all to come crumbling when they mention how this was a nice gift for your sister. 

“So kind of you to take this off your sister’s hands. She’s already stressed enough with the wedding, you’re truly an angel, Y/n.” It’s so cut throat, fictitious, and treated like a burden. Each word pierces your jugular and is brought down to your chest, carving a cross over your skin. “God bless you.” The concluding words to whatever game they want to play at. 

“God bless you.”

A laugh leaves your mouth, covering it with your gloved hand as your head shakes. Oh, Y/n… What can you expect from your family? All so selfish and conceited. Spoiled and rotten. Rotten to the core.

The headphones on the Walkman threaten you to stop moving so much, inching closer to snapping off your head and leave you with the sound of cars driving past. Some, confused on why you would walk in this weather and lack of sidewalks. There’s no time to explain that your sister and family are petty. Enough to not take care of your father while you’re gone and the only person you trust to look after him is the neighbor, Mrs. Mimi and her dog Rek. At least with them you know your father’s belongings won’t be gone within minutes. 

Usually you’re not against walking to places. It’s the only thing you can do back in the city where everything is within walking distance and at least the view is pretty. As pretty as skyscrapers and tourists are but it’s better than cracked pavement, rickety old homes with old men sitting on the porch nearly naked despite the freezing temperatures, and roadkill almost every day. Anyhow, you hate to admit that you’d rather see this than the horrendous interior design of this first funeral home.

You can blame the lighting and the textures of every surface. Despite this, nothing justifies how horrendous acid yellow carpeting and neon purple wood paneling look together. Obnoxious in the way that forces your brain to transmit the message of hurling your guts out and nothing would show on the carpet. Perhaps it’s happened before according to the stench — discarding the cadavers below ground.

“Shit show.” You huff under your breath, taking out a notepad from your purse. 

“What was that?” It comes out friendly, playful despite the chill it forces all over your body. Swiveling on your heel to turn to two men emerging from the backroom. They smile acknowledging your presence but don’t press the matter. “Sorry, how may I help you?” The shorter one smiles. It’s scarily similar to Pee-wee Herman’s, far more disturbing. You chalk it up to his growing bald spot, making him look like an aging uncle despite most likely being around your age.

“Hello…” Nervously, your hand waves. “I’m Y/n, I called yesterday about funeral plans.” His ankles click with each other, knees straightening up as his face lights up comically. As if a light bulb actually lit before his eyes. “Right! Ms. Y/l/n, I was just showing Mr. Jung what the plan consists of. Would you want to see it too or do I leave you two to discuss it?” His ominous and strained smile returns, blinking too fast for his own liking and it makes him look frightening but perhaps that uneasiness is what keeps the place in business. 

He doesn’t seem to catch onto your confusion on why you’d talk with the taller stranger beside him. In comparison to the funeral director, the other man is relaxed. His hands remain inside his wool coat, dark as his hair that makes his skin seem brighter. He was a little too pale for this area, even in the winter the sun shines bright. 

You’re within seconds of concluding that he’s an attendant until he speaks up, hands coming out of the coat pockets. “Mr. Holmes, would you mind giving Ms. Y/l/n and I, a minute alone to discuss?” And that only manages to furrow your eyebrows further to the point your eyes may be bulging out. You’ve never been good at hiding your emotions. Your mother made sure to take full advantage of that.

The funeral director isn’t told twice. Leaving a packet with the stranger that thanks him before releasing a heavy sigh and rocking in his heels as his eyes mimic yours. He shakes his head, making an odd expression with his mouth that tells you something you know already.

“Shit show.”

And it bothers you how easy it was for him to knock down your defensiveness to snicker along with him. 

When both seem to calm down, he clears his throat, extending his hand for you to shake. Skeptically you take it, never removing your gloves and clutching the pen in your other hand. “Y/n…” He smiles fondly, his other hand coming to clutch yours as well. It feels odd and it confuses you, enough to bubble up an upset.

“Y/n Y/l/n, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you.” An airy chuckle of finality escapes him, his head dips as he smiles widely like you’ve known each other for ages while the only thing that crosses your mind is: “Who the fuck is this guy?” It’s obvious in the way you’re giving him that same reserved look from seconds ago. One he chalks up to the distance and he shakes his head to relax.

“From your AP world history and APUSH classes… Remember me?” His voice lilts, eyebrow twitching as he recalls. You truly don’t know what he’s talking about and while his expressions are soft, yours are in perpetual incertitude. “Well, we went to the same middle and high school but- I don’t know, I thought high school would be easier for you to recall. You remember me, right?” 

His tone doesn’t falter, he’s still as joyous as you’ve first heard him. He’s trying his darn best but if you’re being honest to yourself, you have no idea who this man is. Your body betrays you though, faux laugh escaping your lips as you nod. “Yeah! Yeah… AP Biology, right?” Your eyebrows don’t unknit and there is when he begins to question himself. He hums but shakes his head despite his smile slowly falling. 

“No, no… We only had the same AP humanities classes.” “Ah… Yeah, APUSH.”

It’s difficult to understand how easily discomfort settles.

“Victor Asuel, right?” While you smile, he replicates it uncomfortably. “The one that got a perm and had to go bald when it burnt the scalp, yeah?” Jaehyun joins you in an uneasy laugh, shaking his head to awkwardly correct you. “No, Jaehyun. Jung. I sat next to you in world history and well… APUSH.” He chuckles uncomfortably, his hands finally leaving yours to shove them in his coat pockets. Hurt, you’re aware of that.

“Sorry…” It’s a dead end you don’t think you’re able to get out of. Charismatic as he is, he smiles shaking his head. “Forget about it, it’s fine. It’s been a while, yeah.” He nods, looking at your face to memorize all expressions. “It’s been over ten years anyways.” 

Jaehyun sucks in his teeth, sighing afterwards. “I’m also your sister's fiance if that helps.” It’s muted and less exciting than the original topic. It doesn’t help, you had no care of who she was marrying if you’re being sincere but at least you know there’s another reason for him to talk to you. 

“Oh. Okay.” 

“Thoughts on the plan?” This time you try to break the silence. “Shit show.” He repeats, shaking his head with that same nice smile of his. He’s comfortable and that’s good enough for you. “On three we run out?” You suggest and that smile widens showing his pearly whites. The likes, emphasizing the lines around his nose, the type that tells you he’s smiling genuinely hard. 

“Now!” His hand takes a hold of your arm pulling you out of the funeral home while the entrance bell blares for the funeral director that you’re running out without sealing the deal. Mr. Holmes must have smelt the rejection from down the mortuary that he runs upstairs with a bloodied apron still on, stumbling on the disgusting carpet that stains his polished shoes. 

He yells something that sounds like begging whines, intermixed with growls. All fading when he covers his mouth with his fist, the other clutching his disgusting apron. Jaehyun had learned that this funeral home was the most successful one. Not a single decline for the past two years – of course all due to their pushiness. This will be the first time. You make sure to annotate that on the pocket notebook you’ve been clutching since entering.

That initiated your journey of looking through funeral homes with him. Jaehyun wasn’t quiet, he liked to talk a lot. If the dog was pissing on the side of the road he’d laugh then become concerned for its safety but wouldn’t stop the car to help it onto the sidewalk. 

He talked about how horrible the paneling in the second funeral home was. How the humidity had sunk in and now the walls were swollen. He talked about the light fixtures in the second funeral home. The light bulbs were foggy and therefore made the place look disgusting. It reminded you eerily of your mother. Word for word and it made you resent him without trying. Jaehyun talked a lot about everything but mostly about a past that you don’t recall.

“Do you remember Dorcas Reus.” He animatedly questions. “No.” You respond, scowling at how the whipped cream on his milkshake clung to his cheek. “No, I don’t either.” He nods to himself without looking at you. This time he hesitates, lips twisting to the side as he contemplates his next words.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Y/n.” There it is. Took him long enough considering the nature of your time together this day. You reassure him with a smile, nodding while the words slowly process in your brain and your mouth agrees to let them out. It doesn’t want to but your tongue force them out. “Thank you.” He shares a quizzical look, one that tells you that maybe your answer is too cold and simple for people’s liking but it’s the best you can do.

If he had anything to say about it, he ignores it. “Truly, she was like a second mom to me.” There’s sincerity in each word that curdles the milk in your own milkshake, etching a scowl in your face as you push the glass away. 

It’s rich, coming from a stranger. 

It’s rich, of course anything associated with your sister will receive your mother’s love more than you’ve ever felt. 

It’s rich.

“Right.” 

He purses his lips, halting whatever words he had said afterwards from hearing you interject. He breathes through his nose, back firm against the cold backrest of the diner’s booth. It’s easy to sense what he feels, at least in that subject you can relate to him.

“Why isn’t my sister here by the way?”

“Right!” It’s more joyous coming from his mouth. Dwindling when the nature of reality comes back to him and it presents itself as a deep blush across his face and scorching warmth at the back of his neck. He rubs at it to cool it down but your steady gaze makes it unbearable. “You see, we had dinner with some others in your family.” Almost everyone. “And they’re all busy with the wedding, she’s busy with the wedding… I offered, it’s the least I can do for your mom.” 

Words are heavy in his mouth, thumping against the vinyl tabletop and bouncing your way. You know he’s sincere and that makes you hate him a bit more. He has more love for your mother than you and that bothers you. Because while you’re doing it out of self prescribed guilt and obligation he’s doing it because he actually likes her. 

Tuesday: Suffocation 

Jaehyun was much quieter the following day. That’s not to say he didn’t squabble at any given chance. Who knew he was highly passionate about tap shoes. All stemming from you giggling at how ugly some tap shoes in a garbage bin were. He scolded you like you’ve known each other for years. That may be true in his reality but in yours, you have no idea who this man is. 

He fears you’ve suffered from memory loss. Recalling almost every single event that you two went through in your early academic years but when you hum with a nod and he can tell you’re lying about remembering he sighs and nods, giving you a name of a classmate that he hasn’t talked to in years but recalls for some odd reason.

He was highly passionate about paneling as well. Yesterday, that was an important factor that made him discard all the other funeral homes. Today it was the flooring and after touring two other ones that expected you to give them your first born, here he was conversing with the funeral home director the same age as your father about how horrible things have become since Reagan entered. In the short span you’ve been with him, you’ve learned that he’s comfortable and decided. 

Mr. Nix was no better than Jaehyun, jumping from interest to interest like the fleas on the stray cat. He feeds it tuna and deli meats, the only things he will eat, Mr. Nix claims, emerging from the backroom with a packet and a bag of cookies in his other hand. Jaehyun chuckles along with him and you’re thankful that he’s here for the poor old man would be nothing but uncomfortable if it was just you.

He truly has a beautiful funeral home. The walls resemble your grandmother’s. Pristine white but clean with rinceau scrolls wrapping around the bottom and top of each wall. There’s no carpet, thankfully. Beautiful mosaic flooring with spring colors replacing it and form an image of an angel in the center where the body will be seen. It’s too expensive from sight alone and you fear what it will come to but this is for your mother. Even in death you try to please her.

“I’ve circled the pain points and the discounts amounted. We can handle a payment plan. I don’t usually do that but I can trust you folks.” He completes his chuckle, placing the packet on the marble counter. He turns somber, looking at the cookies as if they contain his soul. “Here,” he addresses you after all this time with a smile. “I’m sorry for your loss, dear. Lavender lemon cookies, they were your mom’s favorite… Your dad’s too.” 

The sincerity in his expression makes your chest ache. He knows your parents, he knows what your mother likes and what your father does too. He knows them and is making an effort to acknowledge your dad… unlike the rest of the world. It’s uncharacteristic of you but you sigh with a wide smile, taking the older man into an embrace. 

It takes him by surprise, though, he’s the wiser to know this is a confused little girl that needs some comfort. He pats your head — throwing a look at Jaehyun, one which means more to the younger than intended — while wrapping his own arms around you before you ease out of it within seconds. Embarrassed by yet another public humiliation ritual of your own. 

“Thank you, Mr. Nix… we’ll see you soon.” 

He nods, perplexed by your response. A sheer layer of horror from what Jaehyun’s eyes tell him and for a second he could be confused with clairvoyant if he was to speak his mind. 

Too much affection in one gaze. Too much affection for too little time.

You attempt to flip through the package in the car while he drives to the flower shop you were meant to meet your sister. Albeit, the weight of the cookies in your palm is uncomfortable. The clear bag prickles your skin, unbearable like the touch of microfiber cloth with the exception in which you feel this ten times worse. They smell divinely, you’ll give them that but your mind gnaws with memories you’ve pushed away with this confection in particular. 

Jaehyun is considerate enough to not question it. While he loves to talk, he knows you don’t. The most he utters is: “We’re here.” while he parks the car, a pathetic side smile attempting to comfort you. You thank him regardless, he’s been good enough to sweet talk the directors while you examine what the plans included. 

He’s been company. Good enough company.

There’s only three times you’ve been inside of the flower shop. Once to buy your mother a bouquet for mother’s day that she hated with her entire soul. Second, for your parent’s fifteenth anniversary. And most recently for your mother’s funeral preparations. It’s comforting how nothing has changed besides seasonal flowers and plants.

Your sister doesn’t hesitate to greet him with a kiss when the threshold is crossed. Pushing you aside like any obstacle in her way. Lord only knows your state of mind for this act was comforting and familiar enough that you smile to yourself, something Jaehyun doesn’t miss.

They converse for the time being, you don’t waste time on flipping through the mangled pieces of funeral arrangement catalogs and looking around to find flowers. Some look too old and battered for the price and others are simply to ugly for an arrangement. Well… maybe your mom does deserve those.

You’re not too sure when Jaehyun had joined your side. You only recall your eyebrows knitting when he pointed at something in your pocket notebook. “You misspelled that.” He utters playfully and it bothers you beyond belief that you ripped off the page and begin from the top again while listing all the flowers you thought were good. He responds with nods and hums, similar to the ones you give your sister when she shows you flowers instead of her soon to be husband.

She doesn’t trust him. She doesn’t trust her soon to be husband.

The grating voice in the back of your head keeps gnawing at your brain, reaching your eye sockets and forcing your eyelids to bunch up together the louder your sister laughs with the clerk and Jaehyun’s voice rumbles against your ear drums. Incessant and miserable, yet, not comparable to the twinging screech of the credit card imprinter laughing at you for another failed attempt at maintaining the peace. 

Eyes wide open, your body abrasively turns to your sister and the clerk. Reaching them with three long strides while your eyes bore holes into the imprinter that’s full to the max with your father’s credit card. “What the hell?” It’s raw and vulnerable and so pathetic that you want to rip your hair out when all she musters is a pitiful mocking-faux-confused grin. 

“Why did you ask to meet here if you’re not even helping in finding flower arrangements for mom’s funeral?” Good, less whiny but still pathetic in everyone’s eyes. “Jaehyun is here for that.” She shrugs nonchalantly all the while she signs the receipt the clerk hands her. 

“What’s that for?” Jaehyun interjects in the conversation. His lips are puckered in a way you’ve never seen and his features are sharper than you’d ever imagine they could become. She dismisses him too. With a scoff this time to express her discontent and it makes you question many menial things that shouldn’t matter in this second. “Last minute additions, don’t worry.”

Jaehyun felt far more bothered than you’d think he’d be. Frustration carves itself on his face and for a second you believe the words spewing from his mouth would tattoo themselves onto his face. “We came to a deal that you’d stop spending on the wedding. It’s too near for you to spend willy-nilly when you should worry about your mother!” He does not intend to bawl, obvious by the red that tinges his ears. 

You don’t fall too behind, taking advantage of Jaehyun’s generosity knowing he’d back you up if things worsen. “We had a deal too. You can’t just spend dad’s money on things you don’t need anymore. The caterer was enough, Jesus Christ!” Her name teeters near the precipice of your tongue but that would humanize her too much. 

Bewilderment becomes her new acquaintance. Visibly upset at the turn of events that hold her words off in the back of her throat with a net of saliva too thick to swallow. Airy protests, the best she can utter before her body has mercy on her and she screeches, offendedly at the gang up she’s never experienced before. Only witnessed through your disadvantage.

“Well fucking sue me!” Her arms flail animatedly, harsh when they grace against both your arms ‘accidentally’. Her mouth is still puckered in offended disbelief showing more than her teeth— those gums she’s not fond of. “Fucking sue me for wanting a pretty wedding as a way to cope over mom being fucking dead!” And so bratty. “Cancel it! Cancel the transaction and take the stupid card if I’m such a burden to you two!”

How familiar, how comforting. It brings a smile to your face and your eyes close for a second. She truly is your mother’s daughter. Even in the way she runs out of the flower shop, crocodile tears staining her tulle scarf. 

Her theatrics force your head to shake with an eye roll as you sign the canceling transaction forms. The clerk is upset at the loss but very much entertained with Jaehyun’s dilemma. The man standing in the middle of the store with hands on his hips looking at the crystal door and seeing your sister hop inside the car. 

You don’t hear any crying, that’s something she still needs to learn to do. Cry loud enough to be heard from miles away to get her tantrum through. That’s what mom would do. 

“Lilies or peonies?” You ask the clerk, a contemplative look on her face. She thinks both are horrid but will offer you both to make up for the loss you caused. “Lavender,” Jaehyun answers for her. It shocks you that he’s still in here and not with your sister. No, it upsets you that he’s still here. With you and not her. 

“She hated lavender.” You deny confidently, that is the one thing you’re sure about your mother. He’s kind and gentle, at least his smile is when he attempts to correct you. “She always bought lavender stocks. Said they were the most delicious thing she’s ever known to exist.” It’s a fond memory of his. “Mr. Nix is right. She loved lavender lemon cookies.” 

His stupid chuckle was the lowest blow, not even the way his eyes narrowed pissed you off more than his stupid affectionate tone. And if he had doubts that you were your mothers daughter and his fiancee's sister, he’d be reassured you are with the way you shut the dingy catalogs and shove your pocket notebook into your purse. Brashly walking out of that overbearing floral shop. 

Jaehyun is sweet. He’s kind and patient. He’s understanding, putting his incessant vice of speaking behind to let you think in peace. His glances don’t go unnoticed by you and you don’t know how to take it. His presence annoys you but it’s also very comforting that you don’t know how you’d handle these preparations without his support. It’s a game of push and pull where you’re the only one playing at his expense and he’s still there. Stuck with nostalgia over things you don’t recall.

“Do you remember Karla Morris?” “That’s not a real person.” “I know.” Jaehyun turns to you at a stop light, laughing at your attempt to emulate him. You smile at him flatly which is good enough for him to know you’re feeling better. 

“I want to eat dinner with my dad tonight.” Jaehyun nods, taking a right. “I do too. We’ll pick something up on the way.” He quickly adds before you push him away. So little time and he knows your habits already. Allowing the word ‘alone’ to die in the cavity of your mouth and expel through a sigh that draws you towards the lavender lemon cookies on your lap. Your fingers shiver with a need to crush each one inside the bag.

“She hated lavender lemon cookies. She made it a mission to remind me every day after she spat out the ones I made for her.” A frown tugs at your lips, received with neutral understanding. “Said it tasted like stale soap.” Your chuckle must’ve been so bitter that his hand lands on yours, letting one of the cookies crack underneath the weight.

“How long ago was that?” “I was twelve.” “How old are you now?”

Like clockwork, your neck cranes slowly. Eyes narrowed in a mix of disdain and playfulness. “I know what you’re doing.” You crack a smile, annoyed but amused. Irritated but surprisingly endeared. He laughs louder than before, his smile as big as when you first met him. 

“Minds change, people change, taste buds too… maybe consider it.” It’s so easy for him to say that it reminds you why his presence irritates you so much. He’s sweet, kind, and patient. Then he speaks and it’s a giveaway that he doesn’t understand. Not the way you want him to. 

Your mother never changes. She was adamant in drilling that through everyone's head. Boasting and celebrating when she had heard a song the previous year that resonated with her about nothing being able to change her.

“Who cares what I do and say. I’m this way and I’ll never change.”

Your mother is two sides of the same coin that you and Jaehyun share with the exception that you’ll always be on the losing end when it comes to flipping it. Jaehyun understands when to step down but he doesn’t understand what it is to be your mother’s child. Let alone her oldest daughter.

Wednesday: Condescension

“Hey! Settle in, dad is watching TV. I’ll be in the kitchen with Mrs. Mimi for a bit.” 

The house is livelier than Jaehyun recalls. His last visit was the day your mother was taken away and the color had been drained from every wall in this vicinity. Now it’s warm and homey again like Christmas Eve. You as well, he blindly believes. Your inviting smile lures him into a reality where nothing life altering has happened. A smile he remembers vividly on a thirteen year old Y/n, as foreign it is to you now.

He knows this house like the back of his hand and when he reaches your father there’s a serenity to his face that calms Jaehyun further. Your mother’s portraits are soft again and there’s noise in the house. So much noise that makes Jaehyun want to sigh in relief. Things are normal again! Please be normal again…

Rek is next to your dad’s recliner chair, grumbling when he smells Jaehyun. He wasn’t familiar with Mrs. Mimi nor her dog but he often left treats for it outside the front door per request from your dad. Your mother hated it and through the pet, Jaehyun could taste the demise you’ve known for longer. One crack on the wall doesn’t always bring it down.

Catalogs are scattered across the rug, TV’s reflection on the worn out glossy covers. Neither speak for what feels like an eternity after greetings, entertained with their own fixations. Your father mimicked the dog’s complaints with everything wrong from last year's F1 championship results. He hated every single driver and team but his hate watch was more entertaining.

“Y/n, your boyfriend is on screen.” He calls over when the rerun for the Portugal Grand Prix began. “Y/n likes Nigel Mansell.” Your father clears it with Jaehyun as if it was meant to bother the younger. Jaehyun smiles cluelessly, “He’s not very good.” Your dad whispers, you still hear him. “He lost the championship by two points, don’t be like that.” You defend in a whine and Jaehyun understands now why your father would try to clear things up with him.

“He’s too old for you.” “He’s only five years older.” “Well he looks too old.”

Your dad’s quibble is comedic and protective; Jaehyun scowls, confused on how this man was anywhere near both your ages when he looked to be nearing your father’s age. Happy on the podium with his trophy and champagne on hand looking in his 40s, only thirty-three.

It’s all forgotten when you lie besides him on the floor, flipping through worn out catalog pages and jotting down notes. It’s a different notebook now. This one is in brown leather and binder rings in the middle. Loose pages of paper, cards, and receipts in every pocket. Occasionally you’ll make a wrong move that makes many of those scrap pages slip out. From that he’s seen a few words that he doesn’t think he’s meant to see. It’s the most he’s received to be filled in on your life. 

Now he knows you like a daily Dunkin’. You frequent the movie theater six times a week (one singular ticket with a large drink), spend too much at Tower Records, and hate going to the mall but love to watch people. "Pathetic, solitary, weird, but real.” as it read from the back of a dirty Pretzel Peddler receipt.

You don’t ask him for input on the flower arrangements. Both of you working in silence with a few glances from your dad here and there. Jaehyun himself flips through catalogs, reading everything you jot down without finding your notes useful. 

While prices and deals claim your focus, Jaehyun’s is taken by the symbolism of even the smallest flower he can find. You’ve chosen pre-made arrangements and wreaths, all white and boring. His lips twist in a disappointed scowl that lets it pass while he circles the things he likes. 

He doesn’t stop your robotics until you pull out the order form. Sliding closer to you with urgency, gripping your hand to not continue. “Those are nice, yeah. But… here,” he points at the first flowers he marked. “Your mom got a kick out of pulling little pranks. Laughing when the kids that set off car alarms were zapped every time they attempted to ding-dong-ditch. Geraniums, for happiness, joy.” 

There, that fondness is again. The one that laughs at you for not knowing small things. Reinforced when your dad lets out a sly chuckle himself, shaking his head at a memory you’re fabricating in your head. 

“I think if we add purple Morning Glories for happiness, blue Day lilies that have represented mothers since the Tang Dynasty and white Lilies and Roses like you originally planned then we’d have good arrangements with a message.” 

Jaehyun is ecstatic, the twinkle in his eyes tell you he means no malice but the seed that your mother planted whispers in your ear that he’s doing it for the same reasons little kids that like to gloat speak about their vacation trips and birthday presents.

Words tussle among themselves in your mouth, fighting to see in which tone they will leave and whether they’ll be harsh or not. Shaky as they come, rattling every tooth in your mouth, “Too colorful, no? She hated blue.” So matter-of-factly that makes Jaehyun smile politely knowing he’s going to correct you.

“She loved blue. Wore it daily after that blue dress you had for our silver anniversary.” Your dad kindly recalls the memory. 

The same blue dress she called you a doxy for. 

Jaehyun’s twinkle dies when he turns to you. He can’t see your eyes but feels the heat from your body radiate. “Okay, write them down.” You push the form and pen his way, taking the unopened catalogs. “And add Petunias in there.” He doesn’t question the finality, not the significance. It’s the least he can do.

Mrs. Mimi calls for everyone, dinner was ready despite it being four in the afternoon. Your father is the most eager, cackling like he hasn’t since the doomed day. It’s nice enough to kill it with your questions. 

“Dad? Did mom really like lavender?” Sheepish and childlike, memories that are not strong enough to dwindle the ache in his chest. He turns to you, forcing a smile with his nod. “Yes… everyone that wanted her knew lavenders were her favorites. They’d give these huge bouquets that would make her sneeze. I always gave her the smallest ones, she said it was the perfect amount every time.” He laughs, ignoring your stare to let the fond memories flow. “She would make lavender lemon cookies with them. Your grandma, though, hated them. Spat them out every time there was any and called them soap.” He shakes his head frantically, more so to avoid the guilt from your glazing eyes.

Forsaken with the clicking of keys when your sister opens the front door. 

Dinner goes as expected, silent besides the blaring voice of your sister talking about her wedding. Mrs. Mimi is the only one to ask questions and Jaehyun gives polite smiles and nods to your sister for reassurance. He doesn’t know what she’s talking about but this makes her happy.

Your dad on the other hand had reverted to the state you saw him when you first arrived. Eating slowly while you flip through JCPenny catalogs for the outfit your mother was to choose. Everything is horrendous and overpriced, choosing whatever looks the most appropriate. 

“That’s hideous, Y/n. Don’t do that.” Your sister cuts off her wedding talk, projecting a disgusted face at the white dress you had circled. You had drowned out her voice for the past hour that it startled you to be acknowledged. The deer-in-headlights look like you gave her only forcing a scoff to leave. Snatching the catalog from your hands and sliding it her way. 

Disgusted, she’s not shy about it with every flip of the page. Sly comments here and there while Jaehyun whispers that it’s unnecessary. “No, mom would rather die again than be seen wearing these.” She pettishly wails, the same offended look from yesterday. When Jaehyun turns quiet and your dad stops eating, she halts her own actions knowing it may have been tone deaf.

“Silly sis…” She giggles. “I’m just saying that if you had stayed you’d know she wasn’t a fan of simple but not quite flashy.” No matter how sugar sweet her voice is, the patronizing doesn’t quaver. She gives you the smile she uses to calm down Jaehyun with no effect at all on you. 

“Fine, you choose that and let me choose the jewelry from her box before you keep them, yeah?” You try to reason, sighing exhaustively with your fingers raking through your tousled hair. And if the clothes were bad, the mention of jewelry was far worse. 

“What?! No! No, no.” She laughs off her feelings, nervous with the confused looks that even Mrs. Mimi is giving her now. It’s awkward and tense but she can’t believe this is being said to her. “No, I just think it’s dangerous. It’s going to be an open casket service and with how the family has been acting…” Her head bobbles with the insinuation. She’s right but you also know her and you know she’s full of shit. “I think it’s best that she doesn’t take anything. Free of worry for everyone and she can rest without having to think of grave thieves as well.” 

You’d think she made a great point with the self reassured nod she gives, looking at her fiance to make sure he’s following her drift but turns to your father angrily when Jaehyun glares at her. Something she hasn’t seen since you arrived. Your dad on the other hand avoids her gaze the way he avoided yours.

He’s always been cowardly.

“You won’t even let her take her daily wear? Not her ring and earrings, at least?” The disbelief in your voice irks her, annoyed that your voice sounds as patronizing as hers when addressing you. You’ve overstayed your time and if it wasn’t for the funeral planning she would’ve kicked you out like your mother times past. No, she simply sighs, and shakes her head with a faux pensive look on her face.

“I want to wear them for my wedding—” “You have two large jewelry boxes for that.” “Something borrowed… something old, something new, something blue. The daily fits all the marks.”

No she wasn’t going to give her jewelry to be buried six feet underground. Who is she to let good jewelry corrode for no one to see?

Your mother’s favorite daughter.

“If you see fit…” Your father answers before you can, eyes glued to the dog that silently wails in pain for reasons unknown to you all. “Dad… she loved those earrings.” You try to reason, begging in silence for him to look at you. To look at you when you’re speaking, for fucks sake!

He’s not strong enough for that. He’s never been strong for anything related to your mother. Mustering only the art of shaking his hand to settle things down. “It would be lovely to see either of you wear them… It so happens your mother wants her to have them. They are hers now to decide their faith.” The heaviness of his voice is heartbreaking and it turns your mind to sludge. The toxic kind that evaporates and poisons the entire universe if it’s let out. Like fungal spores.

“Even dad knows best.” Your sister throws the rock that decidedly let out that venom and for their own good you shake your own thoughts away, fingernails clinging to the cushion as you push your chair away. Your father’s disappointment on your sister matters no more, he still made his choice to enable her choices. He’s a coward as much as Jaehyun that only offers apologetic looks.

“Yes… Excuse me then, I’ll go make some calls.” You utter with your father’s monotonous voice. He winces hearing the similarities and the sound of your steps. A coward. He knows he’s a coward but will do nothing about it. He’s lived too long this way.

You don’t know how long time passes, all you know is your nose won’t stop being stuffy and your eyes are trying to force out tears that won’t come. Making you feel like the worst daughter to ever exist. 

It’s useless to try to cry, groaning out of frustration and taking the pack of cigarettes you bought a few days ago when you felt the same way. Making your way out your room to chip a piece of paint from your mother’s hallway portraits on the way downstairs towards the backyard. 

A fluorescent blue that was always calming as a child illuminates the pool. Moonlight makes it more soothing and it reminds you of the times you spent your summers as toddlers swimming with your sister and father at night because that’s the only times you'd see him in those days. 

The days when your sister inherently loved you. 

The memory fades away with the smoke you exhale, trying to cling with no avail after the sigh that follows right after.

“Mind if I have one?” Jaehyun’s soothingly grating voice cranes your neck. The sound of the sliding doors keeps you grounded. Tossing the box his way to catch, with a box of matches. He manages to catch the larger box while the matches recoil in his grasp, jumping into the pool. 

A bummer, you really liked the iconography in the back.

“Sorry…” He sighs, scolded with the look you give him when you stand up from your crouching position. Connecting your lit cigarette with his. The proximity to his face lets you see the small details you hadn’t noticed this entire time. His eyes are darker than you remember. They’re nice, they’re warm. You like them…

Jaehyun had been inhaling deeply during the transaction, heavily letting it out in the form of smoke when he thanked you. A good distance between you both that transcends into a comfortable silence; cigarettes racing among each other to see which one burns the fastest. 

Ironically, his does, leaving him with nothing else to concentrate on besides what he has been thinking about telling you all afternoon. He licks his lower lip, looking between you, the conch shell ashtray that looks too familiar, the pool, and you again. His eyes tracing over that pattern to put off the remaining bud. 

“I’ll talk to her. About the jewelry. Don’t worry.” He nods like he’s doing you a favor. The last bit of cigarette burning away with the stare you give him. Exuding energy that makes your cigarette burn faster and force the smoke to frantically leave. 

“Can we not?” Irritated was the tone of your voice that made him wince and cower away. “I’m sorry.” He offers and he truly is but the awkwardness eats him away. He’s like a child trying to bond with their cool older neighbor that pays them no mind and finds them annoying.

“Everyone just seems to know her more than I do, it’s pathetic.” You derail, it’s whiny and peevish like your sister’s tone. “Does it fully bother you?” He questions, weighing the similarities. “It does for now but I think once I go back, I won’t care again.” Your lips purse, humming contemplatively. He mimics yours expressions and sounds, nodding as a difference. “Count your days then.”

Not much has made you laugh but this does, showing him a smile he hasn’t seen in days. “It sounds like a threat.” You joke, he follows with a chuckle and a grin, “It is. But a threat to not think too much about it.” 

He knows how to kill the mood.

“It’s my mom’s funeral, how can I not?” You’re irked. He knows he’s irked you once again and he yearns to know when he should stop. It’s overbearing and tiring for him to keep fucking up but he doesn’t know when to stop talking. 

“I didn't mean it like that, I’m sorry… That was too aloof on my part, I'm sorry.” He begs, eyebrows knitted looking at you. His eyes are still dark but hurt unlike earlier.

“I don't know how to take it either, Jaehyun.” You grumble, standing up from your spot, putting the cigarette bud off on the delicate shell that cracks with the heat. The silence surrounding both isn’t comfortable like it was only a few minutes ago. It’s tense and intoxicating, filling his lungs with tar making them heavy and he knows he can’t stay here for longer.

“Her wedding outfit. What she was going to wear for our wedding. You should choose that.” It sounds strange, ‘our wedding’ like he’s talking about his and your wedding not his and your sister’s wedding. You go stiff at the thought, it’s too intimate and immoral. It’s you now that needs to get out of there before you let the repression do or say anything stupid. 

Your hands tingle when they clasp onto the sliding door handle, his gaze on your turned back holding you in place. You’re sure neither of you know what either want but whatever you’re feeling shouldn’t be there. A goodnight is polite, better than bye yet neither wants to leave your cold lips aching for warmth. No, rather you slide the door open leaving him behind.

Between your own, your mother’s ghost’s, and your father’s judgment the heaviness persists the longer the older man looks at you without speaking. He’s looking at you. He’s finally looking at you directly in the eyes with a distraught disappointment as if he knows what you’re thinking. There he knew you’re also your father’s daughter. Cowering away from anything remotely complicated. The words evident in the harsh smoke of your father’s own cigar when walking past him.

Thursday: Pathetic

Jaehyun hadn’t mentioned anything from the previous night when he came around to pick you up. Your father hadn’t either, not like he would anyways. Mrs. Mimi had let Jaehyun in, forcing him to eat breakfast with the rest of you while Rek growled at him anytime he got near you to speak. The dog truly was not fond of him for whatever reason which wounded Jaehyun and confused you. Your father didn’t voice it but thought the dog was too perspective for either of you. The boundary that separates it all.

But Rek wasn’t here with you two at the funeral home, listening to the radio that gets drawn out by Mr. Nix and Jaehyun as they speak about the weather while you flip through the order forms to make sure everything is correct. 

You nitpick at everything. From Jaehyun’s horrible chicken scratch handwriting to the awkward paint chips on the decor. Similar enough and in places that resemble the ones you’ve made on your mother’s portraits around the house these past days.

“Lavender and Lilies… that’s lovely… your mother would’ve loved it.” Mr. Nix’s soothing voice attracts your attention, craning your neck to see him reading the order form still in your hands. 

He smiles widely, laughing quietly until it turns into a sob upon sensing your eyes on him. It’s startling, feeling like a bubble for only you two being created. Jaehyun was no longer anywhere in sight and the doorbells by the backdoor kept ringing melodiously. You’ve never been great in these situations. 

Comfort was only granted by coworkers after you got scolded for a mistake, none very genuine. Or by strangers who wanted the feel of one night with you. Mr. Nix wants nothing of that sort from you, you’re not even sure if he wants comfort with the way his smile tries to not seize. 

“I loved your mother, you know. She was my first love and I want to think I was hers too.” He sniffles, a handkerchief in his hand that you never saw him take out. “Of course she would say your father was but she had been choosing between the two before going steady with either.” He nods as if it was common sense. You knew your mother loved your father but she could have loved him as much as you with the way she took her hatred out on him when you weren’t around.

“Your grandmother never liked me. Not sure why but she just didn't.” He shrugs, lips pursed in surrender. “Your mother would say it was because I made her happy and it’s something your grandmother didn't like. I could see that.”

Oh.

The apple was rotten right to the core from all those that came before. 

“I don’t know when it happened but suddenly the next thing I knew about your mother was that she was getting married to your father. That sent me into a spiral and when I returned from my breakdown trip, you were already here.” Melancholy floods those poor foggy eyes, cataracts forming from pain. He looks at you for longer than you’d like, sensing his desire to know what floods your mind but you’re as hard to read as your mother was, eliciting a chuckle. 

“I gave her one last call to ask how labor had been, to make sure she was fine and when you cried, we both said our goodbyes. We knew that was it. Y/n, that’s the name we’d give a girl if we ever had one.” 

There’s no more wonder why Jaehyun and Mr. Nix get along so well, both are horrendous at keeping to themselves and both know how to irk your nerves beyond belief. 

Maybe this is why your mother chose your mousy father rather than this chatterbox.

Regret floods Mr. Nix at your perpetual silence and where he hadn’t been able to tell what you were feeling earlier, he could feel your frustrated disgust concentrated in the blank look. It’s warm, piercing, and as painful as the ones your mother would give him. 

You’re just like her.

Mr. Nix sighs, gaze dropping with a final sigh, “Congratulations on your wedding, dear. Jaehyun cares for you deeply. Trust me…” It dawns upon you that Mr. Nix thought you’re the one marrying Jaehyun. It brings that similar pit in your stomach from last night. 

‘Our wedding.’

Yours and Jaehyun’s. Not your sisters and Jaehyun’s.

Every bone in your body attempts to not combust into powder. Neurons arguing among themselves on how to respond or if to ignore him. He’s added damage to your perception of your mother, you’re not too sure he’s deserving of any more socially appropriate politeness.

The backdoor bells ring, blaring content for what is being brewed in this room. It’s uncomfortable, disgustingly sticky tension the while you look at Mr. Nix and he looks back at you with confusion and somewhat freight. Eerie how similar you resemble your mother. 

“Ready to go? Apparently your sister wants me to pick up the veil.” Jaehyun sighs looking at his pager, the TV guide in his hand crumpled with burnt edges. He had been clenching to it as he smoked one of your cigarettes.

“Yes,” You tear your gaze from the older of the three, he releases a breath he didn’t know he had been holding in. Glad this easy solution rids him of the painstaking sharp stab in his chest. “Mr. Nix wanted to congratulate us.” You add, turning back to him.

“On?” Jaehyun quizzically questions, “Your wedding, consider all of this my wedding gift for you both and… for your mother.” Mr. Nix turns back to you, a polite apologetic smile for what he has dumped. 

Neither you or Jaehyun correct him, the latter thanking him with a hug while you wait by the door for him. He doesn’t speak to you the entirety of the car ride to the bridal shop. Perhaps he’s angry you didn’t correct Mr. Nix but neither did he so it’s much his fault as it is yours. Or perhaps he’s grown tired of your hot and cold behavior with the slightest inconvenience. 

Regardless, it’s not for him to care how you react nor do you care.

“Why didn’t you correct him?” He sighs, looking forward. He has that same sunken look he had given your sister last night. You don’t think it’s comparable. In no form is your sister priving your mother of the luxury she grew to know to you not correcting your mother’s old flame about who Jaehyun was to marry. If it mattered that much to him, then he shouldn’t have enabled the old man with a cheery smile and a hug. 

You still can’t fathom that he thought you and Jaehyun were the ones getting married. Are you not obvious with how little comfort you find in Jaehyun? Is it not obvious that you can barely stand him? Or is your solitude too grand that people find it a breath of fresh air that someone like Jaehyun floods your vicinity with his polite affection and caring nagging? As if he’s doing you a favor.

Pathetic is what you are seen as in everyone’s eyes. Even Jaehyun's, it seems.

“I’m not the one getting married. You are.”

Friday: Has killed you

It’s filthy, disgusting, and shameful. The wake, everything is beautifully decorated, making you forget it's a funeral, save for the countless pictures of your mother and weeping crowd. You're not sure they're sincere but it makes your father feel calm seeing the masses of people approach the casket. "She's loved." He fondly claims, a sadden smile plastered on his face.

You don't have the heart nor will to remind him that they're all here for appearances and in hopes of taking more things once home. Maybe that's the pessimist in you who cannot fathom your mother being genuinely adored. The words affection and mother are foreign to each other in your mind.

Besides your aunts, sister — surprising despite her indifference this entire week—, and Mr. Nix, you don't hear much wailing. Your father is holding his breath to not shatter in front of all these people.

Chatter from one end to the other, mostly prayer. A part of you feels envious of their ability to let everything out. Why is it that you have to suffer with the weight of your unexplored emotions? Leaving you to dry heave or tear at your hair when nothing expels. Why is it so easy for everyone else to let things go?

Jaehyun's persistent staring doesn't make it any easier. He's made it a mission to fly around you like a hungry vulture waiting for its prey to finally give out and then consume.

Surely, he's not. He's making sure you're doing fine, keeping an eye on you but Lord, do you fucking loathe it. You don't understand it, would be a better descriptor, but it irritates you that he cares so much that you can't fathom any other emotion but dislike.

Perhaps what makes it worse is that your sister is there by his side, every second. You reckon you could handle it if it was just him. After all, this isn't the first time he's kept a watchful eye on you. He's done it the entire week, it just feels too real today out of all days.

Everything is felt too deeply. Today.

Tomorrow is your sister's wedding. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. Tomorrow is meant to be happy and full of love. But today has killed you. Today has killed any positive perception of those around. It has killed your sensibility and everything is nothing but a shit show. A shit show like Jaehyun described when reconnecting.

Fuck, even that bothers you.

He talks and talks and talks about something that happened before college that you have no prior memory of. The people he mentions, the events, the laughter, the year. You don't remember anything prior to getting a bachelors, how is it that this stranger that is marrying your sister knows more about your life than you do?

How does he know more about your mother than you?

"Y/n!"

Embarrassing. Zoning out in your mother's funeral service.

Mrs. Mimi, the much perceptive, gives you a pitiful smile, hand to your shoulder to hand you a warm Dixie cup. Your head's attempt to shake is futile, the muscles of your neck refuse to move. 

"You look tired,"

"More like sickly." Your sister interrupts. Jaehyun looks down at her with furrowed eyebrows to scold. "Drink it, ‘should give you some energy." Mrs. Mimi pushes the cup further into your hand. It's warm and comforting in a sense you haven't experienced.

Despite the bitter taste of ginger and apples in the tea, you drink it. It brings no energy boost, rather it makes you more sleepy but she had all the intention to make you feel better and that keeps you up for longer.

A mother. At least that is what you think a mother should do and Mrs. Mimi was a wonderful mother. Even to those she did not birth.

"Do you remember Jo Josephine?" Jaehyun utters, leaning into you. You hadn't realized when he had sat beside you or when you had been ushered onto a chair.

"No." "No? Really?"

The surprise in his tone doesn't go overlooked. He tends to hum when you respond as such but not this time.

"She was your friend. Always wore a huge gardener hat and gloves with bee print." He chuckles, a surprised chuckle. "Yeah?" You hum, dazed. Well maybe the tea was effective in relaxing your senses. "No, I don't remember any of my friends. It's been too long since I saw any of them." You shrug, the nonchalance in your tone worrying Jaehyun.

Per usual, Jaehyun goes on a tangent about something you don't recall. You've learned to drown his voice out. Muffled in the sea of weeps, his laughter the only outlier that doesn't last long. Another voice joins him but you're too busy with the liquid in your cup to care for what they ought to say.

There's some liquid in the cup. Enough to submerge the small cubes of ginger and apples but cold against your tongue. You swivel around the cup, making it colder. For a part of you longs to be in their place than here. Swimming in a pool of cold water with no preoccupation of the outside world. Being inanimate sounds desirable.

"Y/n!"

It's that same incessant call from earlier. This time you're able to pin it to your sister that looks at you far more annoyed. She grumbles under her breath about something you don't care to hear as Mr. Nix gives you that same pitiful smile Mrs. Mimi had given you. It'd be ironic if he was to give you some tea as well.

"Carriage and burial space is ready to transfer your mother's body." He meekly comments, he's as stuffy as your sister had been. Mustering a nod, you stand up from your spot, not noticing Jaehyun's help when standing up. His hand feels warm against the small of your back.

A huge part of you wants to blame your disconnect with whatever Mrs. Mimi had given you. One second you were standing up at the funeral home giving Jaehyun a long look that for once made your sister quizzical and upset while his hand remained on you and the next you're watching how roses are being tossed over your mother’s casket as Jaehyun ushers you into Mrs. Mimi's car.

The priest's prayer had been the only thing you remember vividly. Reciting every word in hushed murmurs — drowned by the cackling and chattering in the other rooms of the house — while serving coffee into Dixie cups. Mrs. Mimi often tries to take the tray away from your hands and Rek to absorb all of your attention. Both fail miserably.

Jaehyun hadn't stopped looking your way. He tries what Mrs. Mimi and her dog do but he's received harshly. Rather, you send him to make sure no one tries to take anything else or go upstairs to bother your exhausted father, hidden away in his bedroom. The masses of people downstairs and their brewing questions had kept him awake all night.

Your sister? Doing what your mother would have done. Entertain and please the guests. She's your mother's favorite for a reason.

By 20:00 when your mother had passed, she led the novena prayer. The only moment of silence and unity you felt among your extended family and for a second you believed there could be some good in these people.

Of course by 21:03 when prayer was done and they reverted to their constant chatter about stories of old regarding your mother, that serenity left your body once more.

It's outstanding how these memories sound so loving and nurturing. Something you can't recall from your mother. They laugh and cackle about her scoldings. How she'd yell at them for running inside the house, wet from the pool. But it was you that had to clean the entire house right after. It was you that had to make sure there was no chlorine smell left behind.

Your cousins laugh about the time they had attempted to smash your face on your 8th birthday cake but she had told them to not be rude. She had done it. She had smashed your face on that cake and it was difficult to rid away the smell of artificial strawberries from your nose after the jam had gone too far up. The cake was destroyed and they had all gotten upset at you. You never had a party after that. It's been twenty years.

Or the story your aunt is on and on about now. She had gotten so upset at your mother for not letting her borrow grandma's gold bangles for clubbing that she bent them without anyone knowing. Your mom had blamed you for it a week later after making you get them for her in hopes to wear them for a PTA meeting. Your sister's pet at the time had gotten in your way and to avoid stepping on it, you fell. She chalked it up to that and left you to do chores for your aunt an entire week.

There's no way your sensibility can return when all these funny and fond memories of your mother came at your expense and none of them care. None of them will ever care.

You can't take it anymore, rushing upstairs into your room to hide away. You can't say you feel saddened. You do feel a raging heat in your chest that attempts for you to bring your fists hard at your thighs to release it.

The intruder in your room doesn't let that happen. It surprises and annoys you at the same time seeing them there. On your bed with hands on their head while weeping harder than the wailing in public earlier today.

"I'm sorry, my room was locked." Your sister sniffles, slowly turning to look at you. There's a horrific sincerity in her voice that you're not used to. A frame rests on her lap, jittering with her legs.

Your silence draws her attention, handing you the frame while tears flood her waterline. It's a picture of your mother with the both of you. Quite honestly, you don't remember this. It's surprising to see your mother this affectionate with you. Arms encircling your waist and kissing your face.

"Grandma's funeral trip. We went to the lake on the way home, remember?" She questions, blowing her nose. You shake your head, standing straight. You hadn't attempted to take the frame from her hand. You're sure it would leave a branding on your palm, there's no way this is real.

The look in her eye is similar to the one Jaehyun gives you when you don't remember what he's talking about. Although, his is more comprehensive and patient.

"You don't remember this at all?" She asks, taken aback. You want to lie and say you do but knowing who she's marrying, she will just ask follow up questions too. "No." She scoffs in disbelief, swallows it before blinking rapidly. Patient, that's new.

"Mom was ecstatic that week. Rejoicing that the witch was dead and no one would torment her anymore. She treated you better than me for an entire month. Do you not remember that?" She prods, placing the frame on your bed.

You shake your head, she can only laugh. "What has she done to you…" She sighs to herself. She had heard in college about trauma causing memory loss but she had never guessed your mother had been that harsh for you to repress everything. Maybe she just hadn't seen her worse but you can't tell her either. You don't remember, after all.

"Would you be a stand-in for her tomorrow?" She questions meekly. You want to say no, to tell her you would rather miss the wedding at this point but she gives you no chance. "Please?" Her voice wavers, lips quiver. Here come the waterworks.

"I don't know about you, Y/n. But I miss mom so dearly and not having her on the day she was looking forward to is—" She sobs, covering her mouth with the frame, lips falling over your mother.

"Why not ask one of our aunts?" Your voice is hoarse. She shakes her head, pursed lips in disgust. "I'm not letting those hags get their hands on mom's jewelry. You heard them, yeah? Worms for brains all of them." She scoffs before releasing a forlorn sigh.

"Dad doesn't want to look at you because you look so much like mom today." She confesses. It would explain why he's avoided you. "You're even wearing the dress she wore for grandma's funeral." She tries to laugh yet it comes out as a shaky sob. 

"Mrs. Mimi left it out for me…" You defend, she shrugs. "I told her to." She shrugs again like it was the most sane thing to do. You're not sure how to take this. On one hand it seems like psychological warfare on your father — cruel on her part even if she doesn't see it — and on the other, it's the closest you'll be to your mother.

"You look so much like her. More than I do… It would bring peace to me if you were her stand in." She breathes deeply and exhales heavily. She's trying to seem relaxed before breaking into yet another sob. The one that makes her entire body shake and fall onto your bed, clutching onto the frame that's now against her chest.

"I didn't want her to take her daily stack so you could wear it… Not because I'm that much of a heartless bitch, Y/n. I loved mom." She cries some more. 

It’s rich, considering she said she wanted to wear it for her wedding. Whether you believe either version or not, doesn’t matter. Not when she hugs you in hopes it digs your heels deeper. It's stale and awkward but she revels in it, hiding in the crook of your neck as she cries harder.

"You smell like mom too." She wants to confess, but she knows it would drive you away. She'll take what she can get before you leave them all once again.

"Will you?" She voices, pulling away. "I don't w— don’t know." You don't want to. She knows it. 

"Why are you like this?" The question everyone has meant to ask. "Like?" Your indifferent confusion bothers her further.

"You're like a doll that gains consciousness for a certain amount of time and then you're… a doll again. Quiet, clueless, awkward. No offense, sissy. It's just… not what I remember you as at all." There's a sigh stuck in her chest, it clamps around her lungs but it refuses to leave. There's a sincere worry in her voice that makes your own set beliefs waver but you won't break that wall just yet.

You shrug. Slow and unsure of what to say. "It worries Jaehyun more than it should." The bite in her words will go ignored, you're having a relatively nice talk with her to let any animosity return.

"You don't remember him at all." Your head shakes as confirmation. "You don't even remember the projects you did with him." You shake your head again and it makes her want to hit it for the memories to return.

"I pray you learn to trust, have faith in both of us." She hugs you again. It's warm but empty. Mayhaps it's just you, unused to the affection and love of a sibling. Of a family member and if she meant trust in Jaehyun too, then you'll give it a chance for the warm feeling brewing in your heart.

"I'll do it… I'll be mom's stand-in." You relent. She smiles and cheers like there isn't a post burial get together downstairs. Like your mother isn't gone but everyone copes differently. You cope by not being able to cry and allowing everyone to walk all over you. 

On the way downstairs she rambles about what you can wear and the jewelry she had chosen. Nothing seems ideal nor your taste. It sounds redundant and weird in a sense that she's making you be so much like your mother.

Although, that's the whole point. Having your mother be at her wedding one way or another, no matter that your identity is being wiped. Like it would have been if your cousin hadn't opened her mouth about the wedding. You later found your mother had gotten that stinking infection from picking flowers with her. It's bizarre how a domino effect works.

It all muddles with the laughter of the guests, “Well to my sister! And to her lovely daughter, for juggling the stress of a wedding and grief to organize a beautiful burial for her mother.” The crowd turns to your sister as if they knew where she was immediately. Despite the streaks and puffiness she still looks ethereal and content with the recognition.

Right. Foolish of you to trust too easily.

She thanks them, hands to her heart and ignoring the side eye you give her. A look that begs her to correct them because truly she did jackshit for this funeral. This was so in character for her and you still fell. She'll cry and throw a tantrum until she gets what she wants while pretending like she did nothing for it.

She's your mother's daughter.

Unsure of when but the slight grin on your face unsettles her and it worsens when Jaehyun calls for the floor. He smiles and giggles, he's already so loved by the family.

"Thank you uncle, Carlo. Thank you as well my love for the suggestions but I do want to thank Y/n most of all for every single detail she gave into organizing this funeral." My love… so cold and unloving. It soothes you.

"For her delicacy in detail, to the meaning of the flowers, all the way down to her last outfit. Mrs. Y/l/n was a woman with a strong attitude who never took anything that did not cater to her. Therefore, knowing her, I'm sure she would love how today and the entire week was held in her honor. She would be proud."

Jaehyun's voice is so reassuring that it bothers you how much he believes it. It bothers you that everyone seems so surprised and taken aback. It bothers you that your sister seems slightly upset and weary. It bothers you that he thinks he did you a favor.

Yet it soothes you once more and your grin does not go overlooked. You're being recognized.

Guests leave shortly after. Jaehyun had made sure to kill their mood with mentions of you and for once you're openly thankful for his help despite knowing all he mentioned was thanks to him.

Mrs. Mimi and you had stayed to clean the house while your father had fallen asleep hours ago. Your sister made sure to give him his medication before she left. Despite the severity of this day's events, she was still going to celebrate her bachelorette party. Something some of your cousins and her friends threw on her behalf to rid of the sadness experienced. Of course, you don't receive an invitation.

It was just Mrs. Mimi, your father, you, and Jaehyun.

Jaehyun?

"You don't have a bachelor party or something?" You don't intend for it to come out irritated but Rek's wheezing seals the blow. "Ouch." Jaehyun laughs, attempting to pet the dog that growls at him to stay away. He frowns, furrowing his eyebrows before huffing.

"I'd rather make sure you— you're all doing good." Mrs. Mimi halts her scrubbing, sighing to herself before returning to the final dishes. "We're fine." You answer, aiding the older woman.

"Why aren't you with your sister? I thought you had left with them." "Wasn't invited."

Jaehyun stops drying the dishes you rinse, slowly turning to look at you. Musing similarly to when your sister refused to bury your mother in her daily wear jewelry.

"Mrs. Mimi, we got it from here. You should rest for tomorrow." Jaehyun diverts, upset settled in his voice despite his sweetness. The older of the three chuckles, shaking her head, handing the soap lathered cup to you. It's crowded near the sink and fairly humid but none of you would rather be anywhere else.

"Baby, I wasn't invited." It's infinitely hilarious to her. The angered looks and disgust in your faces. She's amused while Jaehyun tries to process it. "What? I asked her and she said she made sure to drop off your invite." He huffs and scoffs like a steam whistle from disbelief.

"You'll be my plus one, in that case!" It's so childlike that it makes Mrs. Mimi continue her laughter, scrubbing the last remaining plates. She shakes her head, wiping her hands on the tea towel. "No, don't worry. This week made me reflect and I'm going to visit my mother…" She sighs, nodding to herself before looking at you both.

Jaehyun wants to say something but he is not one to get between someone and their family so he relents as you do. "Sleep well then." He pouts, hugging her goodbye. She thanks him, patting his cheek to then hug you as well. It lingers and it's comforting to the point that you feel something stir in the pit of your stomach.

Her gaze travels between you and Jaehyun and you both know there are words lingering in mind that she dares not utter. Ultimately she sighs, nodding again before patting both your cheeks, struggling to get Rek out of the house due to his resistance.

Dogs are perspective and they can smell the dangers of the world miles away. He knows nothing good will brew tonight. He knew nothing good would come from you returning. Yet he still loves you more than anyone besides Mrs. Mimi. Just like your father.

Mrs. Mimi leaves with a whaling Rek trailing behind her. His cries are cautionary and she knows it. Uttering silent: "There's so much one can do, Rek." here and there. There's so many things amiss but like usual, you'll ignore anything perturbing you.

It's awkward for the remainder of the clean up. Jaehyun and you share some words but not full sentences. His glances are lesser than earlier but you can still feel them on you when he's not besides you. They're far more penetrating than your mothers and when midnight rolls around and you're both done, the only way to thank him is with a cold glass of wine on your mother's white rug.

You stumble taking a seat before him. Resting against the feet of the couch allows your muscles to relax and scream at you for all the tension you ignored this past week. It's painful to move and your lower back aches as it did when Jaehyun touched it earlier.

"Mom never allowed me to be here in fear of dirtying this rug." You smile fondly, you remember that much. "Now you're drinking red wine on it." He humors you, "Now I'm drinking red wine on it." You repeat, clinking your glasses so hard some wine does splatter onto your hands and the rug.

A rush of freight floods you but remembering where your mother was makes you relax, sharing a silent laugh with Jaehyun who's body shakes along yours with every sip. This is the most you've given him and he won't take it for granted.

"Why do you love my mom so much, Jaehyun?" You ask, the moonlight coming through the sliding doors. That beautiful blue reflecting off the pool into the living room, making you forget that the rug is not blue but white.

He swivels his glass much like you had in the morning. "I told you she's like a second mother to me. She was very nurturing and inviting when we first started dating. Always made me feel like I belonged and it reminded me of my mom." He smiles fondly, "My mom lives too far and I'm not even sure if she'll be here for the wedding." He laughs, "I hope she’s not..."

Huh?...

"Why are you even getting married on Valentine's Day anyway? Isn't it corny?" You attempt to steer the conversation astray. If you think too much about your mother and his words, you may turn into her and wreak havoc on Jaehyun. He doesn't deserve it despite your (un)justly targeted rage.

"It's my birthday." He smiles fondly, his lips stained red. "We met on Valentine's Day." He laughs quietly; his neck must ache from resting against the coffee table. You yourself don't find any humor in the statement. "I guess it was meant for you and her to get married." A horrible despondency in your voice that you regret.

"I meant you and I, Y/n."

You look up at him, confused and somewhat appalled. How corny.

"You don't have to tell me you don't remember, I get it now." He laughs, "Year seven, had just moved here and we had that awful arts class. The one with the loony teacher that spoke about health while smoking cigarettes behind the gym."

You laugh, yet you don't remember.

"Our task was to make Valentine's Day cards for our desk mates. I told you it was my birthday too and you wrote: ‘Happy lover boy day. Love was meant to be in your life.’" There's a certain fondness in his voice that makes you believe it. The detail to his description sounds cliche, something you most definitely had in mind back then.

"Now I illustrate greeting cards for a living." Your laughter fuels Jaehyun's sooner than you thought, his body was next to yours now. His neck resting on the cushion of the couch. "I know. Your dad has a great collection of them. I do too..." Truly, Jaehyun confuses you. You won't dwell on that now, it's not worth it.

Whether it's only a second or an hour, neither of you tear each other's gaze away. His eyes intent on your own, examining every speck of color and the way your pupils dilate, as his do.

"Why don't you remember anything I tell you about?" He questions sincerely, no judgment in comparison to your sister. You shrug, "I don't know. I… don't remember anything from then or you." Jaehyun doesn't respond, staring at you for an answer he won't get. "And you? What do you remember of me?" 

He hesitates, sighing deeply. "You used to be much more jolly than you are now."

That is not what you expected.

"Why do you dislike your mom, Y/n?" He gets comfortable beside you. His glass knocking against your empty one. You can smell the sweet tones of wine in his breath, signaling how uncomfortably close he is.

"I… I don't know…" It's meek and raw, the child in you coming out. "I don't know why she hated me." His expression doesn't change, only do his fingers come to comb away your hair.

"Ever since I can remember she cared more for others and my sister than me. She treated my cousins like hers but me like a beggar." Your grip on the glass tightens, knocking it against Jaehyun's this time.

"One mistake and I was yelled at or she'd ignore me for weeks on end. Then I left for college when she didn't want me to and it became worse… The last time I saw her was for her and dad's anniversary two years ago and she—" The words get stuck in your throat, as if you're to cry.

"She woke me up in the middle of the night, on grandma's birthday — she had been dead for years now — to tell me she hated me… Never knew why… But, yesterday Mr. Nix confessed him and mom dated. That grandma hated him for making mom happy and it clicked. I guess, it's hereditary to hate your first born daughter… Grandma always complained about mom while doting on me."

Your brain attempts to piece it all together but your heart doesn't want to. While you've scratched the surface you don't want to delve into the implication of what it means for your future (if any) or what it means for that inner child of yours.

You just don't want to think anymore.

'Please… Please, Jaehyun, help me not think anymore.'

"You reckon?" He questions, pinky caressing your knuckles. "When I proposed to your sister, she approached me right after. She looked at me, hugged me, and looked at me again with that sunken look she has when she thinks too deep. "Are you sure?" She asked seriously, almost confused. I told her I was, that I loved her with my entire heart and she laughed, shaking her head. She said she was a nice girl but hollow at heart."

Odiously, you know what she meant. "I reaffirmed I loved her, I did… We were looking at family pictures and she kept looking over yours. She said you hated her so much that you left, it was admirable in her eyes." He sighs, more of his fingers on your skin and like a fool you let him.

"She knew you’d always be there but not your sister. You give all to one and they become hollow, shallow, and entitled. You don't give anything to the other and they'll always be there... yearning. They don't expect anything but would love something.”

"That sounds horrible." "It is." "And unfortunately she always knew what I wanted." "I fear so."

You relent, looking directly at him again. "I don't hate her. I just… dislike my mother." The confession is not shocking, it's a given known fact but it's relieving to speak out loud.

"And… I fear she saw through me all those months ago. I was not sure nor in love with your sister."

His confession is shocking. Not because you don't believe him but it was far too late for this statement. "It's fucked, I know. But after this week, I can't marry into this family."

It's too late. It's too late.

"They've indoctrinated you by now." Is the best you can muster. It's not any better than the mantra in your brain.

"The countless meals without you and your father. The conversations: soulless and mean spirited, shallow, egotistical… Everyone’s worry over the wedding rather than their grief – if any. How many people I stopped from trying to pick the locks today... Y/n, only you and your dad are worth it.” He breaths out, an ache in his voice that feels familiar. As if he had been picking at your brain to consume it himself but it's only intoxicating him.

He's so close, far more close than earlier and the wine is stronger. A part of you wants to be sane and stop this madness. Righteous in the sense to not make matters worse but his mewls when you pull at his hair to get him off drive you closer. "Don't do this to me…" You plead with no real intent or sorrow.

“Maybe you were right about the universe being cruel because it was you I was meant to see first. It was you and your mom knew all along.” He whines against your lips, tongue wetting his but you can taste the sweetness of him and that wine. That damn wine.

Your fingers clasp around his hair harder, eliciting more of those pretty sounds he makes and it takes everything in your power to not cry from how beautiful he sounds and looks. Red and needy all for you. "It was you. It has always been you." He confesses, bringing his lips against yours and it's not your will nor your bodies to push him off. Reciprocating that indulgence you've been craving.

His mouth is fairly warm, sweet and dangerous as the wine. The kiss is anything but clean. Mostly tongue and some teeth.

The semi-full glasses of wine are long forgotten, staining the rug as proof of your immorality. Jaehyun doesn't seem to remember them, you on the other hand, don't care. It's not like your mother can scold you anymore.

His hands feel significantly scalding under your dress, rugged fingers working at the clasps to remove it like a robe. Nothing is soft or tender, it's all rushed and hungry. Animalistic almost, save for the soft touches he gives you when a sliver of skin reaches him.

"You're no better than them." You kiss him, his hands on your hips, dragging you onto his lap. He's painfully hard that any move of yours makes him writhe, sinking his teeth onto your lower lip. It's fine, you deserve it and you like it. You'll take what he gives…

Jaehyun nods, tongue seeking yours. He seems to savor the sweet fruity notes of the wine as well. "I know." He hums against your lips, "I'm not denying that." A moan leaves his mouth, swallowed by you. Your hands working on his belt.

"What will you do tomorrow? What will you do standing before God and Christ, promising eternal love and faithfulness? Does that not mean anything to you? Won't shame burn your feet and eat your soul away as you walk though that arch?"

It's rhetorical, he still answers. "It won't." He kisses your jaw. "It will." Tongue laps at your neck where your sister — his fiancee — had cried earlier. "I haven't decided if I want faith to run my future." The indifference in his voice makes you laugh, one that is drowned when he nips at your skin.

Jaehyun isn't particularly soft, his hands knead at your skin and grasp harshly when on your ass. The fabric that made the dress is long tossed to the side and his shirt had been off for seconds now. Ripped from the neck, the restriction bothering him.

It's not a struggle for him to remove your bra, tossing that to the pile of clothes as well. It's his mouth that shows you he can be delicate if he wants to. The way in which his lips wrap around your swollen tit feel like healing pads. Tongue softly lapping at the aching nipples.

You can hear and feel his soft moans around each, rotating after nearly a minute of attention. His tongue is what you love most at the moment. So velvety, warm, and moist. Plush and gentle with every lick to soothe the ache his teeth cause when he wants to be funny and nip at them.

"Don't be a dick." You scold, pulling at his hair like that doesn't turn him on furthermore. He laughs against your chest, the rumble felt so deep against your sternum. "Sorry," He pouts like nothing before kissing a path up your neck to feel your lips against his again.

He wants to speak with no avail, rather you swallow any breath he takes in an attempt to utter a word. Ravishing his lips to distract him from how near you are to taking him out of his trousers. That is until he takes your hands into his, intertwining your fingers with his and leaning further into you. Hard on pressing against the thin cotton of your panties.

"You're being a tease." You joke, mimicking the pout he gave you earlier. He grins, apologizing insincerely once again while pressing into you. The harsh fabric of his trousers was stimulating.

He attempts to reward you by massaging circles on your clit over the cotton of your panties but you swat his hand away, taking his face into your hands for another hungry kiss. He stifles his chuckle, letting you explore his mouth with your tongue. As a reward, he connects his with yours, allowing both muscles to enjoy the ecstasy.

Your hips take his distraction as an opportunity to swivel against him. Eliciting those pretty sounds you love to consume and forcing you to go faster, a wet spot already seeping into any remaining fabric. Jaehyun doesn't take lightly to this, pushing your panties away to let his fingers roam. It's stimulating and overly enjoyable.

How easy the digits slip in, stretching you deliciously to then piston at a set speed that has you hunching over, begging to feel his mouth on yours again. Jaehyun enjoys it, a cheeky grin on his face when your eyes meet his and as a reward, he buries his fingers deeper, curling and thrusting fast enough to make you wail from pleasure you haven't allowed yourself in god knows how long.

It's irritating to be the only one like this. Triumphantly, you finally manage to sneak him out of his trousers, the fabric had been so restraining that he lets out a guttural moan when freed. Throwing his head back onto the couch and wincing with every squeeze and jerk of your soft hand on his sensitive cock.

It's your turn to taunt him. Sneering and laughing quietly when he writhes and cries about how good your hand feels, how he'd love to feel your mouth over it or have you impaled on him. Jaehyun is far weaker than he lets out – nothing new to you.

Was it not for your own desperation and need for release, you'd elongate the sadism. Let him cry for longer about how your hand is not enough despite the pool of pre-come already soiling your hand and his cock.

There's no need for lube, not when his fingers slip out of you and the sea of fluids stain his trousers before pushing them fully off. His pre-come doesn't fall short of a stimulant, so much for such a simple tact. There's nothing grand about this transaction but your bodies know what they want and each other has been written in the stars.

"I don't have a condom…" He pants, a faux attempt at letting morality stop you both. "I'm clean. Abstaining, actually…" You confess, it had not been long since you last had gone to the gyno anyway. Jaehyun's fingers are soft against your lips, his chest slowing down as he hears the meekness in your voice.

"We never have sex without protection and… the last time was months ago." The vulnerability in his voice makes you trust him. Nodding as a response before kissing him again, guiding him for penetration.

He toys with you for seconds, letting his tip graze your folds and slap your clit playfully. Reveling in the hisses you let out. He's so greedy to the point that this isn't enough.

Sheathing himself within you to acquire the pleasure he desires most. It had been so long since you felt this way. The feeling of fullness and completeness. Jaehyun does not fall short with the whines, rather he buries them in your hair, shaking underneath you.

"You feel so good…" He mentions, leaving open mouth kisses along your shoulder while attempting to thrust. His hands reach behind you for stability while you shift in his lap to get comfortable. When he finds a pace you both can work with, Jaehyun throws a thin piece of fabric over you both.

It dawns upon you much later when the tulle feels stuffy and the lacing scratchy that it's your sister's veil. You know it should bother you more, that you should question why it's still here and not with her when the wedding is tomorrow but you don't find it in yourself to care. Not when he's looking at you with an adoration you've never seen and a smile aimed at you and only you.

"You look beautiful." He whispers against your lips, tongue prodding to enter your mouth in one of many kisses he gives you. It's enough to evacuate your head of all these nuisances, focusing on the feel of his cock fucking into you at a steady pace, hips gyrating to allow stimulation to your clit from his pelvic bone.

Whether it's the lack of experience, allowing your body to feel the delicacy of immorality, or he's simply that good, the words cascade from your lips like a mantra. "I'm so close… Fuck, so very closer." You whine against his lips, eyes screwing shut like you're about to cry while holding onto his own shoulders for support.

He smiles, easily wiped away when your hips pick up the pace. Moving up and down his shaft, gyrating as well to follow his lead. From feeling delicious, now he feels like he could come if you did this once more. "I need to feel you coming around me… Y/n, do that for me, please." Jaehyun curses incoherently, his hands holding onto your waist, kneading at the skin but his hands can't stay steady. Rummaging upwards to take your tits into them.

They're softer than earlier. Rubbing circular motions and squeezing when they feel too hot under his touch. Scalding. Thankfully his hips don't fall short in pace. It quickens, his thighs harden under you and it feels like he could give out any second. The sounds he makes surely say so.

"I can feel you ready to explode, Jaehyun." You taunt, seeking his lips and pulling away when he wants to give what you've asked for. His whines turn petulant by the third time. Hand coming off your tit to take a hold of your neck and pulling you in for a kiss. The warmth is gone and your nipple perks from the cold and his determination.

"Let me explode… please…" Jaehyun wanted to be more straightforward yet it came out like begging. It's not like you mind, not when you feel yourself three thrusts away from finishing. He drags it on when you don't give him what you want. Thrusting slowly upwards to bury himself completely and pull away to leave the gaping to turn cold before he's back to bottoming out.

He swats your hand away when he feels your nimble fingers attempt to rub at your clit, hissing disapprovingly. "Is my cock not enough?" He scolds, frowning when you shake your head, teasing. His thrusts turn harsher by then, forcing you to throw your head back in pleasure.

"You're too easy to tease." You jest, taking his hands to perch upon your breasts again. "Don't be mean." He winces, bucking upwards at a faster pace. His tongue not missing a single crevice of your neck before nipping the skin. His own form of protest to your mocking.

You giggle at his words, pressing to get his lips near yours. "Make me come, then. Finish me off for good…" Hushedly and deeper, looking directly into his eyes while processing the words. Jaehyun looks at you with every thrust. They're harder by the point you're done speaking and his eyes never peel from yours.

This is far more intimate than any of you had expected or wanted. The feeling of his cock fitting snugly within you is felt ten times more and the friction feels like your nerves are going to burst if he keeps going.

It causes your legs to spasm, arms flailing and weak around him. Every sense overstimulated when you feel him at the hilt, pressing harshly one thrust at a time.

"Jaehyun, Jaehyun, Jaehyun…"

You cry out, pleasure flooding your entire body that it manifests itself into tears. Louder and harder when you feel him release his warm fluid within your walls. It's a scorching feeling, deliciously overstimulated. Your body is weak and frail against his own, every neuron tingling that it stresses and overwhelms you beyond belief.

But you're crying. You're crying and crying, finally after a week of not being able to let it all out. It's a relief and you can fully understand why your sister is less sad about the reality of your lives.

"Y/n… Y/n! Y/n, are you alright?"

The sincere worry in Jaehyun's voice does not fall short to make you weep even more. You muster a nod, holding his face in your hands while pushing off your sister's veil. It's soiled in sweat, tears, and the smell of sex but it doesn't matter to you right now.

"Are you alright?" He asks again, this time peppering kisses all over your face, holding your body against his for comfort. It's sticky and messy, the sweat reminding you that no matter it being winter, humidity and physical activities don't mix well.

And while your crying doesn't seize, you nod, kissing him instead. "Happy lover boy day. Love was meant to be in your life." You mutter against his lips, your salty tears present with every kiss. Jaehyun sighs, rubbing soothingly against your exposed back before holding you flush against him.

"Than—" and before he can thank you, those same portraits you've been chipping paint from remind you of where you are and who the house belongs to.

It's a horrible crash, the form in which your mother's largest portrait slides down the stairs. Banging against the banisters and breaking the frame into pieces. Wood chips ripping the canvas into large chunks. The last tumble allows it to sway mere feet away from you, glaring for the disgrace you've just committed.

Against your parents, against this sacred home, against the sanctity of a veil, and against your sister. Even in death, your mother's watchful eyes will remain to belittle and judge you.

"Thank you." Jaehyun finishes off, turning your gaze to him and taking your lips into a thankful kiss. Your mother won’t continue to haunt you.

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[goofygubegubler]

𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

You’re trapped with the one person who always gets under your skin. And this time, there’s no escape—just options.

wc: 4.8k |F!Reader (Intern) x Spencer Reid (BAU) | cw: enemies-to-lovers, mutual pining, locked-room tension, flirty office chaos, bratty reader x repressed Spencer, slow-burn heat, heavy innuendo, power play lite, Gen Z banter, Hotch is so done.

A/n: This is a pick-your-ending fic — at a certain point, you’ll choose between smut or fluff, each in its own post with separate warnings and word counts. If you’re into this format, let me know! It just fits certain stories, y’know? Love and chaos—MWAH 💋

The BAU was supposed to be a serious, elite unit. You had envisioned it as a whirlwind of case files, high-stakes chases, and brooding men in bulletproof vests. What you hadn’t expected was for it to be filled with this many attractive people—or for the most infuriating one to be Spencer freaking Reid.

He was unbearable. All logic and statistics and that smug little way he corrected people, like a walking, talking Wikipedia page you wanted to shove into a filing cabinet. And, of course, he always had to insert himself at the worst possible moments.

Like now.

You were halfway up the stairs to Hotch’s office, arms full of paperwork, when Spencer materialized beside you, keeping pace effortlessly.

"You look focused," he mused, sipping from his stupid World’s Best Genius mug. The Caltech logo gleamed mockingly under the fluorescent lights.

You ignored him.

"Or frustrated," he added, tilting his head like he was observing something under a microscope. "Maybe both."

Your grip on the files tightened. "Do you ever shut up?"

"I do. Statistically speaking, though, you tend to provoke responses, so the probability of silence is low."

You stopped dead in your tracks, turned to glare at him, and exhaled sharply. "Do you hear yourself when you talk?"

Spencer blinked. "Yes. That’s how hearing works."

Your nails dug into the folder. "I hate you."

"That seems like a misdirected use of emotional energy," he replied smoothly.

You inhaled sharply, clenching your jaw so tightly it could crack. Ah, yes, self-control. A beautiful, fleeting thing. Before you could hurl something at him—your files, your shoe, your entire existence—you flipped your hair with deliberate defiance and kept walking, your heels clicking a little louder than necessary against the steps.

Truth be told, you weren’t just frustrated—you were livid. Not just because of the mountain of paperwork threatening to bury you alive, though that was bad enough. Deadlines loomed, your patience was nonexistent, and apparently, the BAU believed in torturing interns via bureaucracy. But no, the universe wasn’t content with that level of suffering. No, you had to be ovulating, too.

And your body? Oh, your body had decided to make that fact impossible to ignore. Every brush of fabric, every deep inhale around a particularly nice-smelling coworker—hell, even the way Derek Morgan smiled at people was suddenly a personal attack. And then, as if the gods of humiliation weren’t done with you, there was Spencer Reid.

Unbearably smug. Infuriatingly brilliant. And, much to your horror, the hottest of them all. It was an objective fact, but one you would sooner choke on a case file than admit.

You stomped into Hotch’s office like a woman on a mission, dropping the stack of paperwork onto his desk with a satisfying thud.

Hotch barely glanced up. "Not so easy."

You groaned. "Hotch, please."

"All intern paperwork has to be proofread and signed by a superior agent," he said, sliding the files right back toward you without even looking.

You narrowed your eyes. "You didn't even check."

Hotch finally glanced up, unimpressed. "You think I don't know when something’s unfinished? The weight is off. The stack isn’t dense enough. And if that weren’t enough, you wouldn’t have dropped it like it burned you."

You inhaled sharply, then exhaled through your nose like a bull about to charge. "I know, but every time I try, they’re too busy, and besides, Hotch, you know me—"

"Reid’s not busy," Hotch cut in. "He does paperwork the fastest. Morgan even pays him to do his, not that I officially acknowledge that particular rule-breaking."

Your soul left your body. "You cannot be serious."

"It wasn’t a question." His expression remained unreadable, but you swore there was amusement in his eyes. "Reid is your assigned agent from now on."

Your hands are clenched at your sides. "Hotch, you don’t understand. That’s cruel. That’s a human rights violation. That’s—"

"Efficient," he interrupted smoothly. "And unavoidable. Unless, of course, you’d rather I reassign you to Rossi. He loves a good mentoring opportunity, and I hear he enjoys dictation."

Your mouth snapped shut. That was how he won. Every. Single. Time. He had a way of shutting you up with a perfectly placed, completely infuriating threat that left you with no choice but to storm out with whatever dignity you had left. You inhaled, exhaled, and bit back the thousand things you wanted to say.

But, of course, Hotch wasn’t done. He leaned back slightly, fixing you with that assessing stare that made your spine straighten. "And," he added, "we talked about the skirts."

You smirked, tilting your head, letting your inner party girl out for just a second. "Yeah, yeah, you’re required to say that, but let’s be real—HR only cares if it’s disruptive, and last I checked, no one’s tripped and fallen into a scandal because of my legs."

Hotch’s lips pressed into a flat line, his patience visibly thinning. "I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that."

You grinned, victorious. "Good choice, bossman."

His stare didn’t waver. "Leave."

And because you valued your job (and, fine, maybe because getting the last word on Aaron Hotchner was a dangerous game), you spun on your heel and strutted out, thoroughly pleased with yourself.

God, if you didn’t have a massive, wildly inappropriate crush on Spencer, you’d bounce on Hotch in a heartbeat. Even if he was divorced. Even if he had a kid. Even if he was old enough to be your father. Domineering, dangerously competent men were simply your type, and unfortunately, you were surrounded by them.

As you made your way back to your desk, you let yourself fantasize—just a little. Maybe, in another life, you could have both. A little Eiffel Tower moment, if you will—

"Hey, you in?"

Penelope’s voice pulled you from your wildly inappropriate thoughts. You blinked, turning to her just as she plopped down in the chair beside you. "In?"

"For going out tonight. Drinks, dancing, chaos—our usual."

You hesitated, your attention snagged by movement across the bullpen. Hotch stood by Spencer’s desk, speaking in that low, measured tone of his. Spencer, ever the picture of unbothered intellect, nodded along, his fingers idly drumming against a case file. Hotch’s brow furrowed, and something about the intensity of his gaze made your stomach twist.

"Okay, now I know you’re distracted." Penelope snapped her fingers in front of your face, making you jolt. "What’s got you zoning out like a lovesick teenager?"

You tore your gaze away and cleared your throat. "Hotch just told me I have to start running my paperwork through Spencer."

Penelope’s eyes widened. "Oof. Condolences. What did you do to deserve that?"

"Apparently, Hotch thinks I’m not cutting the ropes as a newbie," you deadpanned. "But he likes me otherwise, y’know."

Penelope snorted. "Oh, sweetheart. That is the most delusional thing I’ve ever heard—and I’ve been in a fandom war."

Before you could respond, movement caught your eye. Hotch and Spencer were walking toward you, Hotch balancing a precarious stack of files in his arms. You barely had time to brace yourself before he stopped beside Penelope, giving her a pointed look.

"Garcia. Back to work."

Penelope pouted dramatically. "Ugh, you are such a buzzkill, you know that?"

"And yet, here I am, still insisting," Hotch replied dryly. He barely glanced at her. "Garcia. Work."

Penelope gasped, clutching her chest like he’d personally wounded her. "Rude. And here I was, ready to offer my radiant presence for a night of fun. But nooo, crushed by the oppressive fist of bureaucracy once again." With a theatrical sigh, she stood, smoothing out her skirt. "Fine, fine, I’m going. But if my sparkle dims, Hotchner, just know it’s on your conscience."

"And yet, somehow, the world survives," Hotch replied flatly. Then, without another word, he plopped a massive stack of files onto your lap. "You and Reid need to redo this entire stack before you leave."

"Oh, fantastic," you drawled, shifting the weight of the folders in your arms. "Because nothing gets me hotter than redoing paperwork with my favorite human encyclopedia."

"That’s between you and HR," Hotch deadpanned before turning on his heel and walking away.

You scowled after him. "I hate this place."

"And yet, you continue to show up," Spencer mused, already pulling a file from the stack in your hands. "Let’s see how much damage you’ve done this time."

"Oh, bite me," you shot back, dropping the rest of the files onto your desk with a dramatic sigh. "Before you start spewing unsolicited critiques, just know that I put my heart and soul into those."

Spencer flipped through a few pages, his lips twitching. "You used gel pens again."

"So?"

"So, it smudged everywhere."

You rolled your eyes. "Forgive me for wanting my bureaucratic misery to sparkle a little."

"And your phrasing," he continued, ignoring your defense. "This is meant to be objective. What is ‘a concerning amount of eyebrow waggling’ supposed to quantify exactly?"

"It means the guy was sketchy!"

Spencer gave you a long, suffering look. "You are the worst intern in FBI history."

You smirked, tilting your head just enough to be insufferable. "Aw, Doctor, you say that like it’s a bad thing."

Spencer just exhaled through his nose and turned back to the files, flipping a page with unnecessary force. "If we ever have to testify based on your notes, the jury’s going to think we’re making it up."

"Oh, please," you scoffed, leaning back in your chair. "Eyebrow waggling is a known intimidation tactic."

"According to whom?"

"Me. Obviously."

Spencer pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about the downfall of modern law enforcement before refocusing on the paperwork. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking the slow exodus of the office. First, Morgan and Emily strolled out, offering half-hearted goodbyes that suggested they were thrilled not to be stuck with this nightmare. Then JJ, then Rossi—each departure leaving the bullpen quieter, the fluorescent lights humming louder.

By 6:30, even Penelope had fled, but not before dramatically sighing, "Ugh, this is so unfair! We were supposed to have a girls' night. Or at least get you drunk enough to make some questionable decisions!"

"Oh, trust me, I am questioning every decision that led me here," you deadpanned, glaring at the endless stack of papers.

Pen just pouted. "Well, hurry up and get it done so we can still salvage the night! I have snacks, face masks, and enough gossip to fill an entire season of reality TV."

"Maybe if someone would stop talking, we could actually finish this," Spencer cut in, not even looking up from his work.

The clock ticked on, relentless and unsympathetic. 7:15. Then 7:45. Then, somehow, 8:30. The bullpen had long since emptied, the low murmur of voices replaced with nothing but the scratch of pens and the faint hum of fluorescent lights.

And, of course, the sound of your own pulse hammering in your ears every time he shifted, every time he exhaled a little too sharply. The air between you crackled with something neither of you would dare acknowledge—something electric, infuriating, and impossible to ignore. Spencer was always irritating, but tonight, the sharp edges of his voice sent heat straight to your spine. His rolled-up sleeves, the furrow in his brow, the way his fingers tapped impatiently against the desk—it was too much. And he had no idea.

You shifted in your chair, pressing your thighs together, as another agonizing minute crawled by. The warmth pooling deep in your stomach was getting harder to ignore, bleeding into every impatient twitch of your fingers, every sharp inhale you tried to steady. It was making you reckless. Every movement he made—every flicker of irritation tightening his jaw, every absent tap of his fingers against the desk—sent another unwanted jolt through your system.

And you were nowhere near done.

You propped your chin in your palm, elbow sinking into the desk, twirling a pen between your fingers in a half-hearted attempt at distraction. But the numbers on the page swam uselessly in and out of focus, blurring into meaningless symbols. How were you supposed to concentrate when the biggest source of your frustration was sitting just feet away—close enough to feel, close enough to rile you up with nothing more than his presence?

Spencer’s voice was sharp, his presence sharper, and despite the fact that you supposedly couldn’t stand him, your body clearly hadn’t gotten the memo. You were existing in a frustrating limbo—exhaustion pressing at your skull, attraction setting fire to your nerves. Your skin felt too hot, too tight, hypersensitive to every minute movement across the desk. You could feel the weight of his eyes even when he wasn’t looking at you. If you weren’t careful, this night was about to get a whole lot longer in more ways than one.

It took exactly one sharp exhale from across the desk for your tenuous grasp on focus to fully snap. Spencer, who had been nothing but an irritatingly efficient machine for the past two hours, finally looked up. And oh, he was irritated. The pen in his hand hit the desk with a clatter, and he leveled you with something caught between exasperation and begrudging patience.

“Are you even paying attention?”

You blinked slowly, head tilting. “Hmm?”

Spencer sighed, dragging a hand through his already slightly tousled hair. “Your lack of attention to detail has ensured that we need the regional case file, not this—a duplicate copy.” He gestured at the offending document like it had personally insulted him. “Which means, thanks to this mistake, we need the actual original file.”

You stretched your arms over your head, arching your back slightly just for the principle of it all. His eyes flickered downward before snapping back up, his jaw tightening, but you pretended not to notice.

“And?”

“And,” Spencer said tightly, voice teetering on the edge of patience, “Garcia’s already gone for the night, so we can’t just pull it from the digital archives. That means I have to go to the file room and physically retrieve it.”

You raised an eyebrow, lazily dragging your gaze back to him. "Cool. Have fun."

His expression darkened. "The file room is in the basement."

“Sounds like a you problem.”

His jaw flexed. "The file room is on sublevel two—buried under concrete, terrible ventilation, not a single camera, and if that door shuts behind you? You're stuck until someone remembers to check."

You blinked at him, unimpressed. "So, what I’m hearing is: a perfect setting for a horror movie."

Spencer's lips pressed into a thin line. "It’s a security feature."

"It’s an oversight. The FBI, an organization that prides itself on preparedness, has a room where someone could just get stuck until an unsuspecting soul wanders down there?"

He exhaled, slow and measured. "Yes."

You grinned. "That’s insane."

Spencer, to no one’s surprise, did not grin back. "That’s protocol."

You sighed dramatically, leaning back in your chair, stretching deliberately slow. His gaze flickered downward for the briefest second before he forcibly dragged his eyes back to your face. Oh, he noticed. And that little detail sent something devious curling inside you.

“Well, since you’re the one so concerned with protocol, go get the file."

His stare was unimpressed. "You made the mistake. You go."

You scoffed. "Oh, please. If I hadn’t made a mistake, you’d have found another reason to be insufferable. You were just waiting for an excuse."

Spencer inhaled sharply, like he was holding something back. "That’s not true."

You smirked. "No? Then what was that little lecture just now? Don’t tell me you just enjoy talking down to me. That’s kind of kinky, Doctor."

His fingers flexed against the desk, a telltale sign of irritation but also something else. His voice came out quieter, a touch too taut. “The file name is ACB-714. Basement archives, second cabinet on the left."

You gave him a lazy salute. “Consider it handled."

Truthfully, you needed an excuse to step away. The way he’d spoken to you—sharp, clipped, just on the edge of losing control—had sent your brain spiraling into places you did not need to be right now. It was bad enough working alongside him when your body was already betraying you, but the fact that he sounded that good when he was frustrated was unbelievable. Unnecessary. Unfair.

And the way he looked at you? Like he was barely keeping himself in check? Like he was two seconds from saying something neither of you could take back? That was dangerous.

You pushed back from your desk, the sharp click of your heels against the tile the only indication of certainty when everything inside you was anything but. Maybe the basement’s clinical chill would help, its walls lined with forgotten case files and the ghosts of bureaucratic neglect grounding you back into something solid. Maybe the hum of the fluorescents, cold and impersonal, would smother the slow, insidious heat crawling beneath your skin—the heat fed by too many lingering glances, too many tension-laced arguments that never seemed to resolve.

The door groaned as you stepped inside, its weight swinging shut behind you with an eerie finality, unnoticed in your distraction. The file room stretched ahead, a silent graveyard of paperwork, thick with dust and the acrid bite of industrial-strength cleaner. Overhead, the fluorescents flickered erratically, their jittery glow casting restless shadows against the endless rows of filing cabinets standing like sentinels in the dim light.

Your mission was simple—retrieve one file, ACB-714, and get out. But the second you stepped into the file room, your focus was already shot to hell.

Spencer Reid was ruining your life.

Okay, maybe that was dramatic, but at the very least, he was ruining your concentration. He had rattled off instructions with that sharp, impatient cadence, his fingers pressing into the bridge of his nose like he was physically restraining himself from strangling you. The worst part? It wasn't just the irritation that got to you. It was the way he watched you, the way he always seemed locked in on you, even in exasperation.

You wanted to be annoyed. You wanted to let it roll off your back. But your body betrayed you, heat curling at the base of your spine in a way that was neither productive nor appropriate for a professional setting.

Your fingertips skimmed over the metal cabinet labels, your eyes skimming but not really seeing. Was he always like this? So insufferably exacting? So unwilling to let anything slide? It wasn’t just the way he corrected you—it was how he did it. Precise and controlled, like he knew exactly how to get under your skin and lived for it.

It was honestly impressive.

You blew out a breath, pushing your hair out of your face as you rolled your shoulders back. Focus. Find the file. Get out. But instead, you leaned lazily against a filing cabinet, barely noticing how the movement nudged the doorstop at the threshold.

The sharp click of metal shifting barely registered before it was too late.

Your stomach dropped.

The door.

Oh, you had to be kidding.

Panic didn’t hit immediately. No, it crept in slow, slinking up your spine like a cold hand tracing your vertebrae. You turned on your heel, already knowing what you’d see before you even reached for the handle.

Locked.

Of course it was fucking locked. Because why wouldn’t the government’s precious archive room operate like a goddamn haunted house? You stared at the heavy metal door, willing it to magically swing back open. It didn’t.

Your hand flew to your face, pinching the bridge of your nose as you exhaled. This was just perfect. You had let your brain wander off into Spencer Reid–induced nonsense, and now you were locked in an FBI basement because you couldn’t be bothered to properly secure a doorstop.

And you weren’t just trapped. You were trapped while ovulating, which meant your body was already in a state of desperate, hormone-fueled hysteria. Which meant you had spent the last fifteen minutes alternating between rolling your eyes at Spencer’s condescending attitude and staring at his hands. His long, unnecessarily pretty hands, which had absolutely no business looking that good while shuffling through case files.

Great. Now you were locked in a basement, overthinking, and horny.

You slid down against the filing cabinet with a groan, head thumping back against the metal. How long would it take for someone to notice? Would Penelope come looking for you, or would she just assume you finally gave in and quit? Maybe Spencer would realize something was off. Maybe he’d put the pieces together, retrace your steps, and...

No. No way. If anything, he’d think you were just slacking off. He’d probably roll his eyes, make some condescending remark about how you were the worst intern in FBI history, and move on with his night. Because that’s what he did—he got under your skin, poked and prodded and found every little thing that made you tick.

And the worst part? You let him.

You sighed, staring up at the ceiling, determined to push him out of your head.

Then, just as you started to resign yourself to a long, embarrassing night of solitude, a noise broke through the thick silence.

Footsteps. Slow. Purposeful.

Then—finally—the sound of the door handle turning.

The door swung open, and there he was, framed by the dim hallway light, looking every bit as exasperated as you knew he would. His gaze flicked over you, arms crossed, mouth already pulling into a disapproving frown.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, stepping inside with an exasperated shake of his head. "You, of all people, got yourself locked in a room that explicitly warns you not to let the door close behind you. I even told you."

You scoffed, pushing up from the floor. "Wow, Spence. So good to see you, too. Did you miss me?"

"Not particularly," he deadpanned, but his eyes betrayed him, lingering on you for half a second too long. Then, with the same distracted precision he applied to everything, he grabbed the doorstop and wedged it beneath the heavy metal frame.

"There. Now, let's get—"

The sharp, metallic click of the door lock echoed through the room.

Silence.

Spencer froze.

You blinked.

Then, slowly, terribly, you turned to face each other.

"Reid," you started, voice calm in a way that meant you were absolutely about to lose it. "Did you just—"

"No," he said immediately, but his voice had gone slightly higher. "No, I didn't."

Your arms crossed, mirroring his stance. "Then what was that noise, genius?"

Spencer inhaled sharply through his nose, then reached for the handle, twisting it once, twice, then yanking with just enough force to confirm the worst.

Locked.

You stared at him. He stared at you.

"You," you said, pointing an accusatory finger. "Just locked us both in."

He opened his mouth, then shut it, jaw tightening. "Technically—"

"Oh, no. No, technically, Spencer. You just pulled a me."

His eyes narrowed. "Pulled a you? I think not."

"Oh, I think so!" You threw your arms up. "Because last I checked, I was the one who got us into this mess and you were supposed to be the responsible one!"

Spencer let out a long breath, adjusting his stance like he was physically restraining himself from escalating. "Okay, well, panicking isn’t going to fix anything."

"Who’s panicking? I’m not panicking." You were definitely panicking. Not because you were locked in—no, you could handle that. But because it meant you were stuck here. Alone. With Spencer. For God knows how long.

And you were already on edge.

Already warm, restless, caught in some ridiculous hormone-induced haze that had made your brain hyperfocus on things you had no business noticing. Like the way Spencer’s shirt sleeves were pushed up, revealing the lean, tense muscles of his forearms. Or how his hair was just slightly mussed, like he’d been running his hands through it in frustration. Or the way he smelled—like old books and something subtly sharp, like cedarwood and coffee grounds.

God, you needed to get out of here.

"This is your fault," you muttered, pacing a tight circle.

"Oh, so it’s my fault you got distracted and let the door close on you?" His voice had that smug edge again, laced with something else—something almost amused, like he’d warned you this would happen and was now relishing in being right. It made you whirl on him, irritation flaring hot beneath your skin.

"Yes, actually! If you hadn't been hovering over me like some insufferable know-it-all, I wouldn't have lost my train of thought."

Spencer scoffed. "Hovering? I was doing my job. You were the one lost in your own head, probably thinking about something ridiculous like—I don’t know—lip gloss flavors or whatever occupies that overly cluttered brain of yours."

You gasped, shoving at his chest. "Oh, bite me, Doctor Condescension! Not all of us have an eidetic memory to store every single useless fact known to man. Some of us have normal human brains that get distracted when we’re trying to multitask!"

Spencer barely budged from your shove, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smirk. "Right. Multitasking. You mean twirling your pen and zoning out?"

You opened your mouth, ready to snap back, but the reality of the situation hit you again like a truck. The file room. Locked. No way out. You groaned, dragging your hands down your face.

"Okay, genius, how do we get out? Since you're so brilliant and never make mistakes?"

Spencer crossed his arms, the smugness practically radiating off of him. "We wait. Someone will come looking."

You threw up your hands. "Oh, great! Because getting caught in a locked basement with you is exactly how I wanted to end my night."

He rolled his eyes. "You act like this is some unbearable torture."

"It is!" You gestured wildly. "I could be out right now, drinking with Penelope, having a girls' night, doing literally anything else but this! But no, I’m stuck in here with you, arguing over whose fault this is when we both know it’s yours."

Spencer let out a sharp breath, tilting his head. "You’re exhausting."

"You’re infuriating!"

"You’re impossible."

"You—" You jabbed a finger into his chest. "—are the bane of my existence!"

"And yet," he said, voice dropping just enough to send something shivering down your spine, "you can’t seem to stop talking to me."

You faltered for half a second before scoffing. "Oh, please, don’t flatter yourself. If I had any other option, I wouldn’t waste my breath on you."

Spencer stepped closer, his presence suddenly suffocating in the small, stale room. "Funny. Because despite all your complaining, you never actually walk away."

Your heart slammed against your ribs. This was new. This was dangerous. The air shifted, tension curling like a live wire between you, and you hated that some deep, embarrassing part of you liked it. Too much.

You swallowed, forcing out a breathless laugh. "What, and let you think you’ve won? Not a chance."

Spencer studied you, his gaze flickering down to your lips so fast you might have imagined it. Then, just as quickly, he scoffed, a deliberate shift in his expression that screamed of warning more than dismissal. "See? Impossible. I told you."

Something inside you snapped. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was the sheer absurdity of this situation. Maybe it was the fact that you were ovulating, and his stupid smug face was the only thing in your line of sight. But before you could even process the words spilling from your lips, you blurted out, "God, I hate how much I like you."

The silence that followed was deafening. You barely even registered what you’d said at first, not until Spencer’s entire expression shifted—his usual composure cracking just enough to reveal something startled, something unguarded. His lips parted slightly, his breath hitching just enough for you to catch it.

And then, like a freight train hitting you at full speed, the realization crashed down.

You panicked. "I mean—not like like, obviously. Just, you know, tolerate. Barely. In a work acquaintance kind of way. Like an annoying gnat I’ve learned to ignore, except I can’t ignore you because you never shut up, and—"

Spencer surged forward and kissed you.

The force of it backed you against the filing cabinets, steel biting into your spine as his hands found your waist, gripping just hard enough to steal whatever breath you had left. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was months of pent-up frustration, sharp and heated and all-consuming.

You barely had time to process it before you were kissing him back, fingers tangling in his shirt like you needed something to hold onto. Like letting go meant losing whatever the hell this was.

Spencer pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, "Shut up, for once."

You would’ve argued. You really would have. But then he kissed you again, and suddenly, there was nothing left to say.

PICK YOUR ENDING

➤ [Ending 1 – Smut]

➤ [Ending 2 – Fluff]

[lockeswoodss]

The Crimson Glow: Chapter 3 Part I

Taglist: @nocturnalro , @silas-aeiou , @mischiefsemimanaged , @wolfbc97 , @pocket-of-possibilities , @midnight-dixon , @li22ie2017 , @qardasngan , @chaostwinsofdestruction , @thedamnqueenofhell

Word Count: 2,961

A/N: This chapter is going to be a two-parter since it's close to 9,000 words (I know I promised more condensed chapters, then wrote more than the first two chapters combined😅 lol). I will have the second part published as soon as I edit it. I edit it on AO3 with Grammarly because it's easiest for me, and then cross-post it to Tumblr.

WARNINGS (for both parts): Attempted assault (no one gets hurt), food mentioned, emotional repressed men (you can guess who), both soft and angsty Jack, conflicted Robby, horny reader (in part II), masturbation, mention of injuries, lost child, medical inaccuracy and medical administrative inaccuracies

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You groaned, burying your face deeper into a warm chest at the sound of alarms on either side of you- wait.

Your head jerked up and away from the warmth you were clinging to. You blinked, bleary-eyed up at Robby. Okay, okay, your sense of ease returned once the memories of the nights before rushed through you. Your face warmed as you shifted back, realizing you had at some point gotten overheated and kicked off your shorts, leaving you in an oversized sleep shirt and panties. Before you could even process the emotion of embarrassment, Robby’s hands pulled you back flush with him, as he grumbled into the crown of your head, still half asleep. The scale of his hands now only dawning on you as you felt his hand span from your ribs to your hip. The warmth to your face doubled at the feeling of hardness pressed against you, right above your belly button. A spark shooting through your core, you panic and opt to ignore it. Gently, you unraveled yourself, pressing a soft kiss on Robby’s cheek before he could register his hardness against you, saving you both from an embarrassing talk. It was too early for that anyway; you could overanalyze that sensation later.

You shifted to Jack’s cold, empty side and sat up, wrestling with the alarm on his bedside table. Through hazy eyes, you finally, hopefully, had figured it out; you pressed two small buttons on its underbelly to silence his alarm. You smiled down at the large physical alarm in your hands, the cuteness of them using actual alarms wasn’t lost on you. They were such old men, and you loved it. Robby groaned to your left as he flopped on his back, before rolling to his side to silence his phone alarm. You unplugged your phone from Jack’s side-unsure of when he had time to find/plug it in, before slipping out of bed to leave Robby to deal with his not-so-little problem. You thankfully found your sleep shorts crumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed.

You heard Robby let out a deep sigh as you crept out of their bedroom and down the hall to their common area. You were met with the sight of Jack’s back, his crutches leaning against an armchair in their living room. You could smell bacon in the air as you rounded the corner and took in the sight of Jack. He was shirtless, wearing blue plaid pajama pants, his prosthetic peeking out of his right pants leg.

“How do you like your eggs?” he asked, not turning around as he slid the bacon out of the pan onto a paper towel-lined plate to his left.

“Dippy,” you responded, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

“How many?” He followed up, gaze still locked on the pan.

“Two,” you answered after a moment of contemplation. It was early, but you weren’t sure when you’d be able to eat next. He hummed in acknowledgment as you slid onto one of the stools at their kitchen island, which divided the cooking area from their living space. It mirrored your apartment. The pan hissed as he cracked in two eggs. You could faintly hear their shower turning on behind you.

You glanced down at your phone; it was only 0545, you guesstimated you’d have another 45 minutes before you and Robby had to leave. According to Google Maps, it was only a 15-minute walk max, depending on the traffic lights. You let out a huffed laugh through your nose at the 20-plus spam messages Ben had sent you since you talked late yesterday afternoon.

The first half consisted of your normal type of texts, random things like memes and TikTok’s that reminded him of you, before he realized that there may be a reason for you not responding, so he tapped into your location to confirm your silence. If you had to pick someone who knew you best, despite being an ocean away, it’d be him. He knew if you hadn’t met your soulmates, you’d be up and scrolling online. You’d always been a nervous wreck before your first day, whether at school or work. If you hadn’t met your soulmates, you would most likely be up, stomach in knots, as your anxiety came on in waves, manifesting as self-doubt and fear of the unknown. You’d been so distracted by Jack and Robby that the nerves never came. This may be the first time you have ever slept soundly before a first day.

The second half of his messages were screen grabs of various appearances of your soulmates online, ranging from the hospital’s personnel files to some references of Jack’s military service, and comments on their financial portfolios (thankfully not screenshotted). As much as you loved your brother, he was a little shit who, much like a child, was dangerous when left alone to his own devices. Your focus was broken as a plate of bacon, buttered toast, and 2 over-easy eggs were placed in front of you.

“Thanks”, you smiled up at Jack, his gaze already locked on you, or rather your phone screen. You glanced down and saw a tiny image of him in his military uniform from one of Ben’s proddings of their online presence.

“How,” he paused, quirking a brow.

“When I didn’t respond to his texts last night, Ben started to poke/prod at your guy’s online footprint.” You said, before backtracking. “He works in cybersecurity. Specifically, on the encryption of financial information. He looked you both up on his break at work.”

“He was able to find photos of me from my first tour?” Jack said, leaning over your shoulder slightly, clearly recognizing the photo, heat radiating off his bare chest.

“Mhm,” you hummed, “He also said to tell you that he’s impressed with your financial portfolio, apparently,” you paused quoting his text, “Robby’s needs work.”

Jack’s lips quirked at your comment.

“Should I be concerned?” Jack asked, his tone thankfully amused and not angry at Ben’s nosiness.

“No, he basically did a full background check and didn’t find anything sketchy.” You answered simply.

“Okay,” he nodded curtly, “Good, to know if I get pinged.”

“Oh, you won’t,” you responded, “He’s got multiple patents on his encryptions. I’d never admit it to his face, but he is that good.”

You paused your conversation as you followed Jack’s vision that was now locked on your collarbone, before you could question him, he tugged the collar of your sleep top back into place. Your once exposed shoulder is now covered.

“Wearing clothing correctly isn’t your strong suit. Is it?” he asked, raising a brow at you. While his tone was serious, his eyes betrayed the fact that he was teasing you.

“If that’s your reaction to a shoulder, I’m gonna have to give you a day’s notice before I wear a 15%-er.” You joked.

“If it’s less than half a shirt, it’s no longer a top.” Jack declared as he turned around, pouring himself a mug of black coffee.

“Strongly disagree,” you said, salt and peppering your eggs, “It’s called a bandeau.”

“A What?” he asked, turning to look at you over his shoulder.

“A bandeau.” You repeated.

“Never heard of it.” He said, shaking his head.

“Gimme a sec,” you said, picking up your phone.

“Coffee?” he asked, as you scrolled for a good example.

 “Please, black,” you responded, pulling up a photo of a bandeau for Jack. 

“See,” you said, flipping your phone to him. He squinted down at it.

“That’s a strapless bra” he said, cocking an eyebrow at you, placing a mug in front of you.

“No, it’s a top. It’s French.” You argued.

“If that’s your justification, you’ve lost the argument,” he dismissed, leaning back against the counter. You both take a sip of some much-needed caffeine.

“I normally wear it with a high-waisted, maxi skirt. Together, it’s not even that much skin exposed.” You argued, breaking the yoke with your toast.

“I’m not concerned about how much skin you got exposed, you can wear whatever you want, that is categorically not a shirt.” He spoke. You rolled your eyes at him as you dug into your breakfast. A content silence washed over you.

You were almost done when Robby emerged from the bedroom, in scrubs, freshly showered, slipping on a lightweight gray hoodie.

He met Jack with a quick peck while Jack handed him a mug of black coffee. The machine gurgled to life again as he put on a fresh pot for a large, awaiting thermos. Jack turns away again and begins to crack eggs. He pours them into a hot pan and began to scramble them as you hop off the stool and walk over to the sink. His hand envelops yours as you reach for the sponge, your glowing threads overlap.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll clean ‘em up when I wash the pan.” He said, before turning his attention back to the eggs.

“Oh, okay.” You nod, pausing for a moment, before pressing up on your toes and pressing a kiss to his cheek, before you lose your nerve.

“Thanks for breakfast,” you said, before walking past him, Robby now perched on the stool you had been occupying.

“How much time do we have til we have to leave?” you asked, looking up at Robby.

“About half an hour.” He answered.

“K,” you yawned, “I’m gonna rinse off quick, and get dressed.”  You grabbed your keys from the bowl and slipped out, not before hearing Robby ribbing Jack.

“You’re blushing,” Robby teased,

Jack gruffed, “Shut up,” as the door closed behind you. You smiled to yourself as you hurried down the hall to your apartment. You made quick work of showering and unpacking the outfit you had picked out last week for yourself before everything was boxed up. It was a simple pair of black slacks, a fitted white button-down shirt with a Peter Pan collar, black loafers, and a warm, deep yellow cardigan. The cardigan was a knitted present from your late grandmother. While its soft appearance was great for working with kids and those who, in many cases, were seeking comfort from you, it also held the memory of a woman with immense strength and confidence you wished to emulate. She had been a naval nurse during WWII and served in the Pacific theater. She had always been your personal hero.

You only gave yourself a cursory glance before rushing back out the door. Not before grabbing your pre-packed leather messenger bag. It held a pad of paper, colored pencils, crayons (of varying sizes), and an adult and child’s coloring book. Since you’d be filtering through a few different departments today, you wanted to be prepared for any level of patient interaction. It’d been less than 20 minutes, but you were already feeling a loss from not being in your soulmate’s vicinity. You knew logically the feeling would begin to dwindle as the day went on. From what you know, it was most intense for the first twelve hours after the meeting. You were past that point but had witnessed the side effects of leaving your soulmate(s) for the first time. Emotional distress was common that could be anywhere from feelings of anxiety to full-blown panic attacks. Physical symptoms were less common but still should be expected. Light-headedness, heart palpitations, or hand tremors were all reasonable symptoms.

You slowly creaked their door open, and they both paused, heads instantly moving in your direction. Jack was leaning next to the coffee maker, arms crossed, while Robby’s still where you left him at the breakfast bar. You fully open the door and slip in, closing it behind you. You felt warm under their sole attention, as both your soulmates blatantly looked you over.

“How long do you think you’ll be at the hospital for?” Jack asked, breaking the silence.

“I’m not sure, but definitely no more than 4ish hours?” you started, “I’m getting a general overview of orientation, and then I’m going to be shown around the different departments I’ll be interfacing with. Tomorrow I’ll have a full 8-hour shift.”

He nodded in response, taking another sip of coffee. A silence once again enveloped you.

“Are you going to be okay?” you asked softly, looking up at Jack. He stiffened, looking away as he placed his mug down.

“I’ll be fine,” he quipped, like it was obvious. To the extent that he made you feel a little silly for asking it to begin with. They exchanged a look, Robby looking at Jack pointedly, while Jack kept his gaze unwavering, steady. At least that was your interpretation.

“K,” you nodded, reflexively holding the strap of your messenger bag out of comfort, “Oh,” you said suddenly, pulling both of their attentions.

“I don’t have your phone numbers.” You said, rushing, pulling your phone out. You quickly typed out their numbers as they recited them off, before putting you all in a group chat. A smile quirked on your lips as you put a golden heart next to Robby’s name and a royal purple heart next to Jack’s.

“Are you ready?” Robby asks, pulling your focus from your phone, and downing the last bit of his coffee.

“Yeah,” you nodded. Jack passed him a thermos before stepping towards you, two protein bars in his hand.

“I’m only gonna be there for 4 hours,” you said, quirking a brow, but still taking the bars.

“Just in case things don’t go as planned,” Jack responded, standing openly in front of you. You nodded before hesitantly stepping into his embrace, hoping you had read him right. Your relief came instantaneously as Jack wrapped you up in his arms in a firm hug. He pecked the crown of your head.

“I work tonight, but could I pick you up when you’re done?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you responded, softly pulling back, knowing it’d only be harder to leave the longer you stayed in his embrace. As you stepped back, you were suddenly surrounded by Robby’s warmth, causing you to laugh lightly. You gave him a firm squeeze as well when it dawned on you that he’ll only be able to wave to you at most when you parted at the hospital. Jack and Robby shared one last kiss before you left, striding towards the elevators.

You sat in a comfortable silence for a moment before your nerves began to eat away at you. You felt your stomach turn in on itself. You almost regret eating a heavier breakfast than your normal cereal, if it weren’t for the loving preparation from your soulmate. You could already predict having difficulty telling either of these men no.

“Nervous?” Robby asked as the elevator dinged. You subconsciously bit your lip as you began to make your way to the hospital; Robby adjusted his pace to match your shorter strides.

“A bit,” you confess, glancing up at Robby’s sunglasses-clad face.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” he reassured, pressing the button on the traffic light as you stop at your first intersection.

“Yeah, no,” you sighed, trying to school your thoughts to the conversation at hand and not the way Robby’s hands were so big even compared to everyday things like the stoplight’s crosswalk button. He only needed to press two knuckles to it, where you would’ve needed your entire palm.

“How long have you been a practicing therapist?” he asked, drawing your attention back to his face.

“I’ve been in the field since the internships I had in my junior and senior year of college. I got my master’s when I was 24, so it’s been like over ten years?” you said more asking than telling, before following up, “But, to be honest, I’ve only really felt confident in my skills for the past 5. While I’m incredibly proud of getting my master’s so young, I also retrospectively think that it wouldn’t have been the worst thing to take a few years off to get more real-life experience. I still don’t know what my mentors saw in me that made them think I knew enough to guide people.”

Robby hummed in thought as the light changed, and you were finally able to cross the street.

“Well, coming from someone who is a mentor, I never expected any of those whom I am teaching to know everything, it’s more about nurturing their natural growth. Whatever they saw in you was more than enough to convince them to take a chance on you.” He answered thoughtfully.

“You sure you aren’t just saying that because of your soulmate bias? You teased.

“Eh, I’d say 70-30 percent,” he replied lightly,

“Hey,” you laughed, playfully slapping his arm, pulling a laugh from him as PTMC came into view.

“They do say it takes what? 10,000 hours to master something.” Robby asked.

“So, you’ve mastered being a doctor a few times over, then, huh?” you teased.

“Wow,” Robby laughed in response, “The old man jokes are starting early.”

“Always,” you smirked up at him, “At least until I run out of materiel, but I don’t predict that happening anytime soon between the two of you.”

“You’re lucky Jack’s not here.” He warned, a smile spreading across his face.

“What’s he gonna do, punish me?” you joked.

“Sweetheart, that’s exactly what he’d do,” Robby confirmed.

“Oh, cuz I’d hate that.” You replied sarcastically, walking ahead towards the main entrance of the hospital. You could see Robby shaking his head to himself in the reflection of the automatic doors, before he gave you one last look and headed towards the ED entrance, smile on his face. You relished his closeness, already craving it as you crossed the threshold into the hospital.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N:

Thanks for taking the time to read! Part 2 should be up as soon as I finish editing it tonight. Imma take a break before starting it since it's a bit of a behemoth.

Hope you're doing well wherever you are 💛

Chapter 3 Part II: here

Back To Chapter 2: here

[thestarstoasun]

Possibly a hot take, but I think the Tartarus trip actually helped Will a lot. Obviously I have my disappointments with the book, but we do not only see Nico healing from the copious amount of trauma Rick fit into him; we get to see Will come to terms with darker parts of himself.

It's canon/very heavily implied (I can't remember and don't feel like looking it up) he came to camp at a very young age, younger than campers that aren't deemed "powerful" or have a strong scent. Despite Will thinking he isn't strong, he is the best healer Camp Half Blood has seen in, what we can assume, at least a century. He's a year-rounder, so he hasn't experienced life on the outside in years. Hell, until Trials of Apollo, his godly parent hardly took notice of him.

His older brothers and other siblings were his biggest supporters and motivators. They looked out for him and took care of him in place of a parent, specifically the older kids (Lee and Michael.) And he lost them during the Dark Prophecy - less than 2 years apart from each other. He didn't even get to search for Michael because Percy took him for a joyride across Manhattan on a motorcycle to help Annabeth.

Even after all of that, its implied/seen that he's someone who is always looking on the bright side of things, never making anything about himself, always helping others, etc. He's a ray of sunshine in everyone's life, never allowing himself to show anyone that he's hurting or suffering because he feels like he just can't. After all, he's Will Solace. He is the head medic, the infirmary can't just stop running. He's the counselor for cabin, his siblings need him to be strong.

He represses his negative emotions, even admits to it in Trials of Apollo. I think he represses them to a point he can avoid/ignore them or pretend they aren't his. It's easier to be a ray of sunshine in people's lives if the negativity and darkness you feel are projected onto someone else.

These tendencies are also something that causes strain in Nico and Will's relationship, because Nico doesn't understand how Will can't see how hypocritical he is. When in reality, Will does know, but it's easier if he avoids it. Ignorance is bliss after all. This doesn't mean Will doesn't work on trying to let Nico in, because he does, sort of.

On bad days, the days when he wakes up and wants nothing more than to curl up in the arms of his older brothers, he would go to Nico's cabin. However, his only explanation would ever be, "im tired." It frustrated him just as much as it upset Nico. He wasn't even sure if his boyfriend could tell. (Nico could, but that didn't mean it hurt any less.)

In Persephone's garden, he was forced to face the fact that there is darkness/negativity/hurt inside of him. He can't deny it when it's right in front of him, so he finally has to stop repressing everything, stop running away, and face his pains.

[replacementcodeau]

Es un concepto

esto es parte de un "especial" del au que se me ocurrio mientras iba a comprar pan hace 1 año XD

la llame Hologram pomni

pomni holograma: su cuerpo esta en trance y suspensión en la zona mas alta de todo ese desastre ella es pomni o específicamente su conciencia, sin las restricciones por su condición como ringmaster no es corpórea, es como lo dice su nombre un holograma o proyección, ella es físicamente inestable, pues aunque hay veces pueden tocarla en otras no será posible (aunque eso no parece ser un problema para ella)

conserva una pequeña fracción de sus poderes, y esta bastante aliviada, es como dar finalmente un respiro segun ella aunque el mundo este en trizas a su alrededor, no le importaria vivir asi, mientras que no tenga que volver a como estaba antes

contexto:

el estado emocional y mental de pomni afectan al circo y su entorno, podria ser un desastre si llegara a descontrolarse, ella a aprendido a reprimir sus emociones con tal de evitar el caos, pero este "especial" respondería la pregunta de que pasaría si ella tuviera un colapso mental (la forma en la que esto se podría presentar es bastante impredecible) en este caso ella no pudo con la presión y todo se rompio literalmente, podria llamarse realidad rota, puesto que seria todo rodeado por un vacio/abismo negro con escombros, pasillos y cuartos flotando y al fondo estaría el sotano

es un ambiente no muy habitable especialmente si quieres pasar de una "isla" a otra pomni puede pasar sin problemas, ella solo salta y su caida seria como estar en el espacio hasta llegar a suelo firme

pero con los otros, la gravedad es normal hasta que intentan ir a otro escombro, en el abismo serán jalados a lo mas profundo hasta llegar al sótano (es una idea que tengo aunque dudo que lo vean pronto xd, aun asi espero que les gustara <3)

English

This is part of a "special" of my AU that occurred to me while I was going to buy bread a year ago XD

I called her Hologram Pomni

Pomni Hologram: Her body is in a trance and suspended in the highest zone of all that disaster She is Pomni or specifically her consciousness, without the restrictions of her status as ringmaster She is not corporeal, she is, as her name suggests, a hologram or projection. She is physically unstable, because although there are times when they can touch her, at other times it will not be possible (although that doesn't seem to be a problem for her)

She retains a small fraction of her powers, and she is quite relieved, it is like finally taking a break according to her Even if the world is in tatters around her, she wouldn't mind living like this, as long as she doesn't have to go back to how she was before

Context:

Pomni's emotional and mental state affects the circus and its surroundings. It could be a disaster if it were to get out of control. She has learned to repress her emotions in order to avoid the Chaos, but this "special" would answer the question of what would happen if she had a mental breakdown (how this could present itself is quite unpredictable). In this case, she couldn't handle the pressure and everything literally shattered. It could be called a broken reality, since everything would be surrounded by a black void/abyss with debris, floating hallways and rooms, and at the bottom would be the basement.

It's not a very habitable environment, especially if you want to go from one "island" to another. Pomni can cross without problems; she just jumps, and her fall would be like being in space until she reaches solid ground.

But with the others, gravity is normal until they try to go to another piece of debris. In the abyss, they will be pulled deeper until they reach the basement.

(It's an idea I have, although I doubt you'll see it soon, lol. I still hope you like it <3)

[venuszn]

☆ : Open When

Summary / In which Bada writes you letters to read whenever you miss her presence

Cw / Angst, Fluff, Smut, Dom!Bada, Fem!Reader, Phone sex, ummm probably missed some, MDNI

Wc / 5.3K words

Open when you’re sad

“Hi princess,

I’m sorry that you’re feeling this way right now and that I'm not there to hold you and tell you that everything will be okay. But I can and will tell you that with the words in this letter. You know that I love you and I will keep saying it till the words dry up my throat.

I wish nothing but happiness for you but I’m also aware that bad days are inevitable and that sadness is a human emotion, which like happiness, you should be allowed to feel in all its entirety. I know it's hard right now, but allow yourself to feel sad. You’re allowed to cry, you're allowed to scream and maybe even throw something (like a pillow or teddy - don't hurt yourself). You’re feeling down and that's ok, you’re human.

I know I always say that you're perfect (to me you are, you’re literally heaven sent you’re my angel) but to the rest of the cruel world perfection isn’t possible and so you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself. I like to remind myself that sadness is an emotion. Its power is not absolute. It will come and it will go making room for other emotions such as relief, happiness, hope . . .

There will always be hope.

You are strong and you can take back control of your emotions. But allow yourself to feel them first, it doesn’t make you weak. It takes a lot of courage to face the raw and uncomfy feelings we have and I know you can do it. Go at your own pace and remember that your feelings are valid and that you are loved.

Especially by me, your loving and maybe a little bit obsessed girlfriend.

Lots of love,

Bada.”

A tear dropped onto the paper. You blinked and quickly wiped your eyes, not realising that your girlfriend's heartfelt expressions had triggered an earthquake of emotions within you. Bada knew that you had a tendency to repress your emotions. She knew that when you were sad you skillfully put on a facade, a mask, and played the ideal role of the happy easy going girlfriend. You didn't want to burden anyone with how you felt. You were used to dealing with it alone and so you always did.

But Bada showed you that it was ok to not always be ok. That you didn’t have to bear it all alone. You weren’t perfect, some days you fell back into old habits and distanced yourself from her as the exhaustion from faking happiness would overwhelm you. But she was always patient and waited for you.

She showed you that you could still be loved even on your bad days.

Sobs thundered in your chest. You gripped the letter as if the words themselves would slip between the cracks of your fingers and drift away into the night. Your face grew hot with tears and you allowed yourself to be. To simply be.

Bada wasn’t here with you right now but you knew her love was.

Open when you miss me

Gentle rays of sun shine through your curtains. It illuminates your skin as it kisses it with its warmth. You sit up and raise a tired hand, attempting to shield your eyes as a loud and unflattering yawn rolls from the back of your mouth. Your hazy eyes drift towards the empty space beside you. If you stare long enough you can still see the outline of her presence, hear the whispers of her slow words thick with sleep as she would pull you closer by the waist and join her lips to yours - the sweetest of good mornings.

But now those mornings were not a reality but a memory.

Mornings like this weren’t foreign to you. It had been a couple months now and you had grown used to waking up alone. You missed Bada and this was the first time you were both spending months apart from each other. You were caught between sadness and pride. Of course you were sad but at the same time you couldn’t help but admire the achievements of your girlfriend. Bada’s popularity had skyrocketed beyond the heavens themselves and many artists and idols were reaching out to her for collaborations and such alike. You had never seen Bada glow the way she did. Joy seemed to radiate from her and your chest could barely contain the swell of your heart as it pumped in pride for her.

That is why you smiled and swallowed the lump in your throat as Bada said she was leaving behind her favourite sweatshirt, “because I know it’s your favourite too”. It is why you insisted on driving Bada to the airport and it is why the both of you held each other a little tighter that day and allowed your lips to linger a second more. Bada knew you were trying to be brave for her but that wasn’t what she wanted.

“I’ll see you real soon. Four months will fly by.” Bada said as she gently rubbed your cheek with her thumb.

“I know it will. Have the best time won’t you ? I mean, you’re touring with an idol. That's amazing.” Your voice betrayed you as a slight quiver slipped through.

Bada’s gaze saddened. “I’ll try. You know I'll miss you right ?”

A sob threatened to rise from your throat and you tried to swallow it once more.

“I’ll miss - I’ll miss you more . . .” You choked out.

Bada wrapped her arms around you and brought you to her chest, your arms locked around her sides and you swore you would need to be pried away from her. Her head rested comfortably on top of yours and she squeezed you gently.

“I’ve left you something.”

You pull back and look up at her, confusion knitted your brows. “What do you mean you’ve left me something ?”

“It’s under the bed in a shoebox. And no, it's not shoes.” She smiled down at you.

When you got back to your shared apartment you searched under the bed and immediately found the shoebox. You scoff lightly with a small smile, not believing that you didn’t notice it earlier.

You remove the top and your breath catches in your throat.

A library of letters sat in two neat rows, filling the four walls of the box. You gently run your fingers over the edge of them, sneaking glimpses of the words written on the envelopes.

‘Open when you’re sad.’

‘Open when you need reassurance.’

‘Open when you want to punch your annoying coworker.’

You choke out a laugh mixed sob and tears threaten to spill. You wondered how you got so lucky to have someone like Bada in your life.

The morning sun had shifted slightly, its rays now painted your room walls a warm golden. Bada’s words stared back at you on the envelope as you traced the curves of her letters with your finger, following the path of ink as it journeyed into words.

‘Open when you miss me.’

And so you did.

“Hello my princess,

I miss you too. Very much. I know you’ll see me on social media smiling and dancing but just know that I'm always thinking of you. I wish I could be there with you right now, to hold you and kiss you. I’m writing this before I leave but I just know that I’ll miss your kisses. Of course I will. Kissing you feels like home and I’ll miss my home. Even now as I’m writing this I’m wishing that I was kissing you. But they say absence makes the heart grow fonder. My heart will probably explode from the overflow of fondness. However, I want to apologise in advance for how busy I might get. But I promise I will do my best to talk to you. I have no idea what to expect but I imagine there will be days where our communication is sparse. But always remember that I still love you and miss you.

Please take care of your health, make sure to eat your meals and go to sleep on time. I need you to be happy and healthy when I get back.

I love you and I am counting down the days till I see my baby again.

Lots of Love,

Bada.”

Open when you’re happy

The chime of the doorbell danced through the air and you perked up.

Your lips stretched into a smile as you bounced toward the front door, almost running. You were expecting this as it had become a weekly routine and truthfully, you were near enough befriending the delivery man who you were now seeing more frequently than some of your friends.

You swiftly swing open the door and your eager eyes meet the familiar smile of the old man but you couldn’t stop your gaze from jumping to the brightly coloured item that sat in his arms.

“Good afternoon to you.” He greeted warmly.

You smiled and returned his warmth, “Good afternoon to you too.”

He chuckled and outstretched the item toward you and you took it from his hold.

“Today's flowers are pink asters.” The man said with enthusiasm.

“They represent love and sensitivity. They're also the emblem of Venus - the goddess of love. Your girlfriend is putting all of us to shame.” The man chuckles and you watch as his crows feet deepen. You remember the way he praised Bada, saying that he has never seen such heartfelt dedication from a person.

Bada had scheduled flower deliveries each Monday because she knew that you loved flowers and also because she knew that you loathed Mondays - the man was slightly speechless. He called it young love and made a comment about how some people go through their entire lives unable to find love and that if you find it with someone - anyone - then that's a blessing you should cherish.

And you truly did. You now sit in front of the vase of flowers and you admire its beauty. If the stars themselves fell to the earth and sprouted seed this is what the result would be - vibrant hues and an explosion of petals. They were truly beautiful and your heart pulsed with love for Bada. She was your happiness.

Your gaze shifted back to the opened letter on the side and you read it once more.

“Hi baby :) Happiness looks beautiful on you.

You’re always beautiful but I love the way you gleam and radiate when you’re happy. I especially love your smile. I feel like everytime you smile a fairy is born. I hope to one day meet one of your many fairies.

But I digress, I’m happy that you’re happy. I wish I could see you and be happy right there with you. But feel free to send me pictures of your smile (many of them) and tell me in detail about what made you happy ! You know I'd love to hear all about it. I hope you continue smiling and I know that there are more happy days ahead for you. There definitely will be - you are an attractor of everything pure and joyful (and of me).

I love you lots my angel,

Bada.”

Open when you’re in the mood

You remember when you first saw those words on the envelope. You remember scoffing at your girlfriend, not taking it seriously. She was oceans apart from you, there’s not really much that she could do when you were feeling needy and missing her touches.

You thought wrong.

You also remember the way your brows twitched in curiosity and how you felt a subtle rise of intrigue within you at the two words written on the paper.

“Ring me.”

Though you never thought that you would find yourself in this position. The position being your legs spread apart, your two fingers stretching out your dripping cunt and Bada - on speaker phone listening to the entire thing.

“Keep touching yourself for me, princess.” Bada breathed through the phone. She had been instructing you on what to do, how fast and how slow, ordering you to not hold back your moans because she ‘wants to hear your pretty sounds’.

“Add a third finger.”

You’re not sure if its because of her words or because of how fucked out you were but you nearly come right then. You let out a shaky breath and slide your free hand down in between your legs, you spread yourself a little more, giving your third finger room to enter. The dull sting mixes with the sensitivity and pleasure and you hesitate.

“It only feels good when you do it.” You whine as you slowly push further, your tight hole sucking your fingers in.

“Imagine that those are my fingers. You like it when I finger fuck you, don’t you ? The way you cry out my name and grip onto me as I pound your hole.”

You grew wetter at Bada’s words.

Your fingers slide in and you begin thrusting in and out. A thin layer of sweat glistened your skin as you lay half naked on the bed with your eyes fluttering up at the ceiling. You did as Bada said. You shut your eyes and imagined that your girlfriend was there - above you with her slender fingers stroking your pussy walls. You imagined her kissing the side of your neck as she usually did, and then slowly making her way down to your chest. You imagined her taking your hardened nipple into her warm mouth, her tongue sliding against it as she licked and tasted your tits. Her free hand would then join, playing with your other mound of flesh as her mouth busied itself with the other. She would start off by teasing your nipple by ghosting over it with her thumb. She would then gently tug at it before rolling it between her fingers. You imagined her hushed words, saying something about how beautiful you were and about how good you were being for her before she would mercilessly thrust her three fingers into your cunt, her thumb teasingly brushing over your swollen clit ever so often.

The tightening of the knot in your stomach pulls you out of your fantasy and a loud moan falls from your lips. Your breaths pick up speed and a chorus of whines and whimpers flow from you as you begin to chase your climax. Your back arches and your fingers move faster, curling up as they rub against the top of your walls.

“Fuck - Fuck, Bada.” You cry out as you feel your legs begin to shake.

Bada lets out a breathless curse and you hear shuffling in the background and then a door shut.

“You coming, princess ? I wanna hear you moan my name.”

You nod your head, forgetting that she can't see you, coherent words fail to leave your mouth. Your body tenses and your walls contract around your fingers. Pleasure rushes through you and for a moment you swear you see stars. Your body trembles and your legs shake as cries and moans for your girlfriend fall from your tongue.

“You’re so hot. Fuck. I wanna see you, princess.” Bada says, voice dripping with want.

You lay breathless, fingers still nested in your aching hole as you slowly guide yourself down from your high with slow thrusts. “But you’re not - you're not in your hotel room.” You breathe out.

“I’m farther away from everyone now.” Bada said as she reassured you. “ I’m in an empty room. It's okay baby . . . Plus, this makes it hotter.”

You let out a light breathy laugh, “You’re such an exhibitionist.”

Bada chuckles, “So are you. Now let me see you, princess.”

You reach for your phone and accept the video call request. Bada emerges onto your screen and your heart flutters. You smile and bite your lip slightly. She was wearing her glasses and you had always had a thing for her in her specs. You gazed at her and the lazy smirk that sat on her pink lips.

“Hi baby.”

“Hey princess.”

Your cheeks grew warm and you looked away for a moment.

“Now don’t get shy on me. We’re just getting started.” Bada says with a slight raise of her brow.

“Prop your phone up against something. I wanna see you properly.”

You obeyed and you positioned your phone on top of the bedside table, angling it toward you as you sat with your knees together on the bed.

Bada drank in the sight of you, she licked her lips and you saw her gaze deepen.

“Fuck, you’re wearing my shirt. You fingered yourself in my clothes ?” Bada said as she leaned into the camera slightly. “You’re so dirty aren't you princess, such a slut for me.”

You nod and fiddle with your fingers in your lap. Your body burned with both desire and slight humiliation.

“Go and get my strap.”

Your breath caught and your eyes widened. “What ?” You say, unsure of if you were now experiencing auditory hallucinations.

“I want you to fuck yourself with my strap. Go get it.” Bada stated coolly.

You now found yourself in another position. That position being your legs spread apart, once again, but now with Bada’s thick strap rubbing against your pussy lips, your wetness coating its length. And Bada sat watching through the camera as she once again instructed you on how she wanted you to touch yourself.

Bada stared at you hungrily with pupils blown.

“Keep rubbing your clit with it. Just like that princess. Don’t stop until you’re dripping and desperate, just how I like you.”

Your mouth hung open as you sang soft moans. You guided Bada’s strap against your clit, now swollen, as you rubbed yourself along the length of it in desperate motions.

“Bada - Bada, fuck.” You whine. “I’m close - gonna come . . .”

Bada’s smirk stretches. “Stop.”

Your eyes snap to the screen and you blink furiously. “Pleas-”

“I said stop, princess. Be a good girl for me, hm ?”

You reluctantly come to a stop, your hips slow its pace and you remove the strap from in between your legs.

“As much as I love seeing you touch yourself in my clothes, I want to see your pretty tits. Take your shirt off.”

You do as she says and pull the shirt over your head, your chest now on full display to Bada’s eager eyes.

Bada lets out a breathless curse as her eyes roam your body. “You’re heavenly.”

Your heart flutters at your girlfriend's words.

“Now spread your legs for me and fuck yourself with my strap.”

You moved closer to the camera and positioned yourself in front of Bada’s waiting gaze. You leaned back on one arm and parted your legs, your aching cunt now on show. You guided her strap along your pussy lips coating it with your juices. You hum slightly and a whimper leaves your lips as you gently push in the tip of the strap.

Your eyes flicker back to the screen and you swear you've never seen Bada’s gaze as intense as it was.

“Just like that. Stretch yourself out good for me.”

You sink onto Bada’s strap and your cunt clenches around it. You begin slow motions of gentle thrusting and then throw your head back as you feel the tip hit a particular spot within you walls - cries falling from your lips.

“Fuck. I wish I was there, baby. Gonna fuck you into the mattress when I get back.”

And you knew that was a promise she intended to keep.

Open when we fight

It had been nearly a week since your last proper conversation with Bada. You were both busy and had been adjusting to the constant changes of time zone differences. It was becoming a little draining for the both of you but the daily little check ups and good morning and night messages cushioned the pain. It was the little things that kept you going all this time but you were beginning to crave a little more attention from your girlfriend.

Bada, on the other hand, was becoming stressed. Rehearsals were tough and the jetlag exhausted her. Simultaneously, Bada was also worried about you. She was aware that the communication between the both of you had dwindled recently and she knew you did your best to work with her schedule but she also knew that deep down you were hurting because of it. Bada was beginning to feel inadequate and she carried the blame.

That is why she regretted it as intensely as she did when those harsh words flew from her mouth that one evening.

“You’re suffocating me. You know how busy I am and honestly right now I need some space.”

Bada’s words were like ice to your ears and you felt the frost of her tone bite and sting you. You shivered, slightly taken aback by her words.

“Oh . . . Okay then. No worries, see you.”

You hang up the phone.

You stared into space for a moment. Numbness spreading over you as you swallow your sorrow.

Your phone vibrates and you force your heavy eyes to look over to it. You see Bada’s contact flash on your screen. You scoff and deny the call before putting your phone on do not disturb.

The moon peers at you through your window and you only hope that she’s gazing at you with empathy. She too was worlds apart from her lover, unable to meet. Tears brim in your eyes and you blink them away.

The sun rises and you soon follow. You turn on your phone and then turn off do not disturb only to find countless missed calls and messages from Bada pleading for your forgiveness. Your heart pangs and you decide to respond.

“I just woke up. Went to bed early last night.” You type and hit send before tossing your phone onto the bed.

You were still a little sad. You felt dejected and you felt unwanted. Perhaps you were a little pushy, but all you wanted was to speak to your girlfriend. You sigh as you stare into the mirror at your deflated reflection. A small box under your bed then catches your attention and you find yourself kneeling to pick it up.

Bada’s letters.

You had gone though nearly half of them by now but you had yet to open this particular one.

“I’m sorry.

I don’t know what we fought about but that doesn’t matter because I apologise for making you upset. I would never intentionally hurt you but sometimes I can be a dummy and I make mistakes. So I'm sorry baby. I hate seeing you upset or angry and especially if I'm the cause. I want to thank you for still staying with me all this time regardless. Everyday I'm still learning and growing and everyday I'm thankful that I get to do that by your side. We are two imperfect people but we make a perfect pair if you ask me. I know sometimes you also make mistakes but I forgive you. I will always forgive you. When we fight we showcase our room for growth as a couple and as individuals. We disagree sometimes but that is normal. There’s nothing wrong with you and nothing wrong with us. I still love you baby. I always will.

Lots of love,

Bada.”

Just as you finish reading your phone vibrates and you look to see Bada's name on the screen.

“Good morning baby. I’m sorry about last night. You’re not suffocating. I'm just really stressed right now but I promise it’s not because of you. It will never be you.” Her message read.

Your lips pouted slightly and you typed back, “I'm sorry too. I know I can be extra clingy sometimes. But please don’t feel pressured to always respond. Take out time for yourself too, it’s okay. I’ll always be here.”

On the other end Bada let out a small breath of relief and finally allowed her body to relax. She read over your words and her heart yearned for you.

Another message pings through and Bada breaks out in the first genuine smile that week.

“Btw your letter was cute. I’ll always love you too.”

Open when it’s our anniversary

The chime of the doorbell rang through the apartment and your brows twitched in puzzlement. You double checked the day - it wasn’t a Monday - so weren't expecting any deliveries. You also were not expecting any visitors. Regardless, you make your way over to open the door.

Before you stood none other than the delivery man. Who boasted the widest of grins as he held out a wonderful arrangement of flowers toward you.

You stand, mouth slightly agape as you take in the beauty of the blossoms before you. The sweet aromas danced through the air.

Today was your anniversary with Bada and you had both planned to video call later that night. You knew Bada was busy and that she was gearing up for the finale of the tour later that week, so you were grateful that she cleared out a few hours of her schedule to spend with you. But you had not expected anything like this.

“Your girlfriend really outdid herself with this one.” He chuckled as you took the bouquet into your arms, its sheer size competed with the top half of your body. You poke your head around the bouquet and you smile back. “It’s our anniversary. I had no idea she scheduled flowers for today - and flowers this big. I’m so sorry you had to carry this.” You say with a meek laugh.

“Nonsense. It's my pleasure.” The old man waves his hand, swatting away your words. “You have grown to become me and my wife's favourite customers - both you and your girlfriend. We’re honoured that she chose our small flower store and made all those orders. So please, it’s not a problem my dear. I hope to see you both around sometime and feel free to stop by, my wife would love to meet the lovely lady that she picks flowers for.”

Your heart warms and you nod your head, “Of course. I’d love to stop by. But I'll see you on Monday won’t I ?”

The man shakes his head, “This is my last delivery dear.”

You frown slightly and you feel your mood dampen. “But why ?”

“Because I’m back.”

That voice.

You step out into the hallway and your head spins to the direction it came from.

Bada Lee.

Bada walked toward you. Your eyes scanned her tall frame, her oversized shirt that draped around her body, her grey baggy sweatpants that hung from her hips and her wide and comforting smile that plastered her face.

That was your girlfriend. And she was home.

You ran towards her and she met you halfway, scooping you and the large bouquet into her arms before spinning you around. You laugh and you cry. Trails of tears fall as happiness overtakes you.

“You’re back ?!” You exclaim as you hastily wipe your face.

Bada gazes down at you with the fondest of eyes. “For now, yes. Happy anniversary baby.”

She leans down to gently press her lips to yours.

The old man chuckles in delight, “Congratulations to the both of you. I expect to see you both at my shop very soon.”

You and Bada grin and you wish him well after agreeing to pay him and his wife a visit.

Your head remains in a daze and you squint your eyes at Bada, unsure of if you were now experiencing visual hallucinations.

Bada laughs as she puts down her suitcase, “What ?”

You fold your arms, “You’re really here ?”

“I am.”

“You said next week.”

“I might have told a little white lie . . .”

You whine and gently smack her arm causing her to laugh even more.

“And all those flowers you’ve been sending . . . and the letters ?” You pout slightly. “I don’t deserve you.”

Bada steps closer and takes your chin between her thumb and index. “You deserve everything and more. There was no way I wasn’t going to see you on our two year anniversary. I planned to be here from the very start.”

You look up at her and you hold her gaze. “You did ?”

Bada hums. “I did. However, I'll be catching a flight back tomorrow but by the end of the week I'll be home for good.”

You nod your head in understanding and Bada smiles down at you before leaning in to bridge the gap between your lips. Your arms rest around her shoulders and hers on your waist, her grip firm as she gently caresses your skin with her thumb. You part your lips and tilt your head, Bada hums against your mouth before slipping her tongue through your lips - deepening the kiss.

Moments pass and you are forced to come up for air. Bada then rests her forehead against yours.

“You read today's letter yet ?” She mutters softly.

You gently shake your head, “Not yet. I was about to but then the doorbell rang.”

Bada smiled and took your hand into hers.

“Perfect.”

Bada now sat beside you on the bed with the letter in hand.

She began to read.

“To my princess, my baby, my best friend and to the love of my life,

Happy Second Anniversary <3

Happy 730 days of us and of our love. These 730 days are just the beginning because I know that we have a lifetime ahead of us. Thank you for staying with me, for being with me despite my shortcomings. Thank you for being my best friend, my confidant and thank you for loving me back.

You truly are an angel walking this earth and I sometimes wonder if heaven misses you. I’m prepared to put up a fight because now that I have you - not even Zeus himself could pry me away from you. Nothing on earth nor in the heavens above could taint the love that I have for you. Know that my heart belongs to you and that I am ready to cross whatever seas that may lie between us.

I’ll see you soon my love.

Bada.”

You were at a loss for words and watched as Bada neatly folded the letter and placed it back into its envelope. She then looked at you and gently took your hand intertwining your fingers.

“I love you so much.” You whisper, afraid that your voice would fail you.

“I love you more my princess.” Bada pulled you closer and then set you on her lap.

You gaze down at her and she peers up at you, her fingers ghost over your thigh, tracing lazy shapes over the fabric covering your skin. Sparks of electricity shoot through you and you lick your lips slightly. Bada’s gaze intensifies. Her hands now slowly creep up your shirt, your warm skin under her fingertips.

“I’ve missed you.” You breathe out, gravity pulling you in.

“I’ve missed you too.” Bada’s hands lingered as they explored the familiar territory that was your curves.

You shudder and your breath picks up.

“Wanna show me how much ?” You say softly.

Bada’s lips stretched into a slight smirk but her eyes overflowed with love.

“Of course baby. I’m gonna take my time with you . . . Missed you so much.”

Bada kept her promise and she took her time with you, exploring the work of art that she swore had no price.

Your body, your soul - you.

Author’s note / Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed <3 Feel free to send me requests of letters that you’d like to see Bada write . . . Totally down to do more of those :3

Tag list / @princhii , @lil-elliesgf , @wiselight , @nimxie , [Open]

[bowieandqueen11]

Buggy Falling In Love With You Would Include...

Request: hi there~ would it be possible to get buggy x reader headcanons of their time growing from friends to lovers? buggy is completely thrown for a loop when it comes to reader because they're polar opposites, but he grows to love how genuinely nice she is. she's able to bring out a more softer side of himself, which terrifies and frustrates him, but eventually buggy learns to accept it.

P.S. good luck on your surgery! i'll be wishing you a speedy recovery!

I genuinely love this clown way too much like Jeff Ward had no right to look as good in this role for real - also thank you so much sweetie!! I'm very nervous right now but getting back into writing such sweet requests is helping :3

Warning: slightly NSFW although nothing explicit, mentions of knives and cannons and slightly strong language!

(I do not own One Piece or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @goodsirs.)

☆.��.:・°☆.。.:・°

Look, I love this man, but he is a full on idiot. He would not deal with these emotions well. Perhaps it was because of the thorn Shanks had left in his side that he refused to allow his heart to entrust itself into someone else's hands again: to be left disappointed once again. Perhaps, it was even the deep rooted, long-suffering repressed fear that he would lose you; the life of a pirate was an ugly one, full of bloodshed and tenuous treaties. Of a life lived from moment to moment, of foiled plans and devastating lows. There was no place for kindness, or selflessness, or care. Tenderness. The last time he had left himself concern for another flood his brain, he had been left bawling in front of Gol D. Roger's execution tower. He vowed then, he vowed that he would never allow himself to feel that weakness for another person again.

Tenderness. Yuck. Even the word still made him shiver in his boots.

And then you had to come along, and ruin every. single. one. of his incredibly well thought out plans. He was going to be King of the Pirates. He was going to kill that little Strawhat brat and take back his map to the Grand Line. And he wasn't, most definitely not, going to fall head over heels in love with you.

Speaking of, your entire relationship didn't exactly get off to a great start; during the practice for the Grand Entry of performers into the ring, Buggy was far too busy glancing his eyes sideways to notice where he was walking. He was far, far too busy trying to swipe the dopey look of his usually stony face, replacing it with a melodramatic frown as he tried to figure out, why oh why, his heart was striking his chest in tune to the marching band every time he dared steal a look in your direction. Far, far too busy growing more and more petrified about how stifling a presence you had on the tent as a whole, that this man dead-ass hit the toe of his boot off the striped edge of the ring and fell arse over teakettle into the sand. It would have maybe... *maybe* been a little less mortifying for Buggy if you hadn't rushed over to help him while he was trying to spit out grains of sand and smudged lipstick from his tongue with a disgusted splutter. The absolute derision in his curled fist as he swung his head away from your offering hand was the final blow to his already delicate pride.

You were getting in the way, and it was starting to infuriate the clamorous clown.

As soon as you would enter the tent, every crew member's head would swivel round towards you like five seesawing spotlights. Being so kind and attentive to the different members of the crew and their varying personalities: dreams, fears and wants, it seemed only natural that each member would gravitate towards you. Plus, it was an added bonus dumping their ropes and wonkily written cue cards to instead lumber over to your corner and escape Buggy's rant about the 'brightness of the spotlight being so dark it would make the sun look black!'

Since this man is genuinely such an attention hoe (mood), seeing everyone completely turn their asses to him and ignore every stamp of his foot and seething word from his curled lips would immediately set him firmly on edge. Queue the theatrical man folding his arms and huffing like a steam boat when he watches Cabaji offer you his hand to stop you from falling over some scattered wrist chains still left on the floor after the Buggy Pirates' last village destruction.

Buggy snaps everyone back to work with a brusk yell, the sound of your giggle as another member of the crew shows you how to use the red flares tipping his anger straight over into the abyss. His teeth grind harshly enough to leave a trail of dust behind his feet as he slaps the tent flaps open; he immediately flops down on one of the stacked crates by the entrance, thumping his head onto his folded arms as he tries to calm himself down. He swats everyone that comes his way away, pretending he's busy counting how many knives he has left stored away so he could bury his head into the wood and hope that no one would notice how devastated he looked.

The worst part of it all? Buggy, if he was being truly honest with himself, was unsure if he was so jealous over you stealing the spotlight, or by the way his whole body had bristled seeing you place your fingers so delicately against a palm that wasn't his.

Bless your heart, you make it a point to try and cheer him up the next chance you get, feeling so guilty about the fact that his whole face was nearly as red as his nose for the entire day, and he refused to enter the tent again. Once you're all safely back on the Big Top, you try your damn hardest to try and soften the captain to you a bit: or even better, to try and figure out why he seemed so antagonised by you. It was exceptionally hard: when you waved to him on the deck, Buggy's eyes fell as wide as saucers as he nearly fell to the ground trying to duck down behind Mohji, waddling away behind him like a duck. Or you would try and knock on his quarters' door, only to see an arm... and then a leg... and then the stupid man's grimacing head fly past the port windows and out of his room. One time, as you were heading down to the galley, you swore you heard a gaudy exhale and a sigh of relief come from one of the shaking barrels up by the railings.

This man was a tough shell to crack, but you were determined to finally win the great Pirate Buggy over.

After about three days of constantly trying, you managed to make him yell and nearly jump out of his coat up on the deck; he swivelled round when he felt a soft triple tap on his shoulder, and there you stood: hands tucked nervously behind your back, a kind smile brightening your face as you noticed him gaping at you.

'Good morning, Captain Buggy!', you swing a little from side to side, noticing the thick swallow he gave at the sound of your voice. Did he really despise you so much, that just four simple words could make the bile rise in his throat?

Inside, Buggy was burning. By all the seas, did the sound of your wind-rushing voice make him want to do nothing more than grab onto your face with an clad-iron grip and do nothing but kiss you silly until the saccharine saffron sun dawned. His gloves clenched at his sides, will-power winning out as he threw you a shit-eating grin and raised one leg comically, as if he were about to run over the edge of the ship.

'I'm a little busy right now Y/n. See?' He pointed a finger towards the ocean, and then held them up by his shoulders and shrugged.

'But-', you started, grabbing onto his collar and nearly toppling the man over with how shocked he was. 'I just wanted to ask you about your battle with the Golden Lion Pirates!'

His eyebrows raised, and his head tilted slowly to the side. 'You... you know about that?'

'Of course! That's why I joined your crew! Only a talented and clever pirate could have sailed with Gol D. Roger - that's why I respected you and your crew so much! And don't forget devilishly handsome!'

You... you respected him? Oh no. Oh no no no. This was worse than kindness. Far worse than tenderness. The words fall on short-circuiting ears: the branding pain of your fingers brushing over the bare skin on his wrist as you held tightly onto his sleeve forgotten as his brain worked overtime trying to figure out what you had just said. ...Handsome?

He cocks his head back to you, blinking rhythmically, as if he were a wound up spring toy rather than a man. But he looking at you: really looking at you for the first time. His face softened a little - the cracks finally beginning to show through his gaudy façade. As you reached up on your tippy toes to press a chaste kiss against the skull-and-crossbones lying over his left eyebrow, little could you know that no one had shown Buggy that much care since he was thirteen years old.

Oh noooo. He was falling in love with you, and it terrified him. But damn it all if he doesn't want to feel this flash of lightening strike through every nerve ending in his body every chance he got: if he didn't want to feel his breath stick in the back of his throat at the slightly sticky feel of your lips pulling away from his forehead. If he didn't want to be greedy, and steal away the flushed smile you gave him before scurrying off, hoarding it all for himself.

Buggy comes to practice his new jokes on you every chance he gets after that encounter, the feeling of being near you so addictive it almost swings round from love and back to annoyance again. He stands awkwardly at the swing door of the galley: a nervous shadow creeping around the fringes of your scintillating smile. Everyone on the crew just pretends they can't see him lmao, even when they can hear his impatient 'oh, come onnn' and 'how long does it take to eat a bologna sandwich?', moaning and muttering and spluttering from the corridor. Was it so hard for the poor man to get a minute *coincidentally* alone with you? Considering he had done nothing the last week but try and do the exact opposite oops Buggy I love you but you're a straight up histrionic dumbass-

He literally grabs people by the collar and hurls them out the door like a cannonball if they walk past him too slowly.

When he comes sliding up on the bench beside you, elbow on the table and head resting nonchalantly on his fist like a slipping squid nearly knocking itself into your torso head-first, you can't say you're too surprised by his antics. Bless, he looks so proud of himself for fooling you into thinking he was here so candidly that you can't help but giggle, which turns into rip-roaring laughs once he starts up his routine. Truth is, as he spends hours and hours telling you terrible, cheesy ass jokes, he just wants to hear your laughter. Wants to feel your knee knock against with each shake of your belly his until his whole body jolts. Wants to admire you up close, to mark down in the depths of his mind the way the corners of your eyes crinkle when you're especially happy.

He wants to outline it all in his head: memorise it, lay it out so it covered every inch and crevice and recesses of his vindictive brain. All he wanted in that moment, as you tried to choke back your laughter with a spluttering cough, was to frame the most important map he would ever find: the intricacies of you.

When he slaps his hand down on the table at a particularly rib-tickling crack, and you accidentally bring yours down to settle on top of his glove, he starts so suddenly you're worried he's going to start avoiding you again. And although he stops giggling, and although his face falls to gravely stare at your skin resting on top of the white leather, he surprises you both by twisting his hand so he could grip loosely onto the tips of your fingers. He's so embarrassed when you start knitting your pinky finger between his larger, slender one that he tucks his left hand between his knee and has to turn his head to face the wall, still trying to swallow down his pride and allow himself to indulge in that disgusting word... tenderness again.

One time, while you were pouring over some old maps the crew had stolen from a Marine base a couple of weeks ago, you absentmindedly reached over to where Buggy was sewing up his coat on the sand and began twirling the surprisingly soft strands of his hair between your fingers. Thank goodness the two of you were alone, because the uncomfortable tent that grew between his shuffling thighs, and the gasping splutters that blew out of his mouth mortified the clown to his core.

He was still getting used to all this. Just give him some time. And a whole lot of reassurance.

You're the only other person that Buggy will allow to sit on his make-shift throne. When your Captain had asked you to come help chart out a path to whichever small village you thought was best to steal restock supplies from, you imagined you'd be standing by his armrest like his right hand man does. Surprise surprise to the both of you when you end up nearly glowing, puffs of steam escaping both your ears by how maroon you both turned.

When he had faux-confidently clapped his knees and beckoned you over to him with a wave of his hand, he was only, like, 30% certain you would take him up on his offer. When you slid onto his lap, he was nearly as gobsmacked as you were. He tried, he really did - he tried to hide his curling smile and wonderstruck widening eyes behind your neck, but his warm breath grazing over your collar bone kept making you squirm. Which, of course, with each shove backwards of your hips, and well... your buttocks against his pelvis, he kept having to moan internally and grit his teeth to stop himself ripping off your clothes right there and then.

It really doesn't help that he starts tapping the heel of his boot against the floor as if to expel all of his nervous energy, making his knee bop up constantly against your inseam, making it hard for you to concentrate on anything but holding onto his forearm for dear life to try and settle yourself.

Buggy's own grip on the chair was tight enough to chip off wood when you shakily pulled the crumpled map out of your back pocket, the feeling of the back of your hand brushing innocently against his inner thigh making Buggy throw his head back and close his eye in intense concentration.

Oops, too bad you had to go back since you'd forgotten your compass; wrestling deeper into the pocket, your hand accidentally brushed over the most sensitive Buggy's crotch, making him buck his hips up and nearly sending you flying across the room.

It's when he gently places the side of his head against your cheek and reads almost absentmindedly over your shoulder, despite how hard he was pretending not to be breathlessly glancing at you through his thick lashes intently enough to burn a hole through the hull of the ship that you finally realise.

Oh. He doesn't hate me. He likes me.

His nose bumps against the edge of your Cupid's Bow, and you take a chance. You lean forward, both your breaths frozen as Buggy follows the trail of your lips until he goes almost cross-eyed, finally computing that you had just pressed a sweet kiss on his nose.

For a moment, he's stock still. He just gawks harshly at the inner seam of your bottom lip, as if lost adrift a tumultuous sea of thought. And then when I say this man pounces, I mean he pounces.

All the rest of the crew are too afraid to come in and disturb Buggy about the small three-manned boat encroaching on the horizon, though, because of the absolutely ringing, frantic noises coming out of Buggy's throne room.

Let's just say, although they were incredibly glad you brought out a softer, mushier side of their Captain, they all now had another problem on their hands: his raging protectiveness. Now, not only were they getting yelled at for messing up his entrances, they were getting honked at and prodded with his dismembered hand anytime someone dared to even look at you for a second too long.

[legrzybek]

I am the angstling and I feed on angst,,, jk jk, but could I possibly request to see some more of your ideas for forsakened azuretime? ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿

mY BAD FOR TAKING SO LONG TO ANSWER THIS I GOT SIDETRACKED SO MANY TIMES I WAS STRUGGLINF

THIS IS SUCH A MESSY RAMBLE MB IM JUST TYPING WHATEVER COMES TO MIND

so hmmm. how they are in combat,..,

in my mind, two time is very sneaky and stealthy, relying on that element of surprise to attack, then retreating back into the shadows,, upfront combat is a bit of a problem for them, however they're quite good at dodging. when a hit lands on them for the first time though,,, that's when it goes downhill and they're rather easy to take out by then.

meanwhile azure is straight up brute force, his movements uncoordinated and unpredictable, pummeling at the opponent with whatever he can like a violent beast. however, he sometimes hesitates or suddenly stops in his tracks, before lashing out again and continuing the chase with even more vigor.

azure is very VERY unstable due to constantly trying to fight for control within his own mind. iM having a hard time trying to describe it but his emotions are greatly amplified and fluctuate constantly, his thoughts clash with eachother so hard, every word that he tries to speak is twisted by the spectre's influence, and he's fully aware of everything andjust going insane with every moment. it's actual torture for him dude fuck the specshit

also. both pre-rework and reworked two time are canon in my interp

its kind of hard to describe bc their mental state is like. a weird mix between self-awareness and delusion buT after everything that happened, i feel like two time isn't just blindly devoted to spawn, as much as they try to desperately believe that,, they feel like a disgrace for even having any kind of doubt, even hatred, towards their god, quickly trying to push those thoughts away, yet they endlessly creep up again.

if it truly loved them, would it really want to make them suffer like this? no, no, they've been blessed unlike any other. everything they had to do, have to go through now, is necessary to see if they're truly worthy of that blessing. it will have its payoff. they just need to prove themselves. the almighty knows what's best for them, after all. it loves them. it's all because it loves them. right??? right???????????

before killer azure came into the mix i feel like they were leaning more towards that delusional state, primarily focusing on the spawn, somewhat repressing some memories regarding azure etc etc buT it all came crashing down when he appeared, their true self coming to light,, they couldn't repress shit anymore, unable to keep up that facade of an ideal follower, became a lot more prone to breakdowns etc

the spectre took notice of that overall crisis and was like hey i can make this even worse LMFAO

they recieved their dagger, and ok yeah that alone was enough to make rhem feel uneasy and they were reluctant to use it but then. the second life stopped activating. AND THAT RLY FUCKED WITH THEM,., they were convinced it was due to that doubt and dwindling faith, they weren't worthy in the eyes of spawn anymore, all that stuff,,,

but even then. i think they avoided stabbing azure like the plague. i REFUSE to believe they'd just mindlessly keep doing that 💔💔 the one time they deliberately did it was bc they felt pressured to do it,, they have to help their team like this now, and if they don't everyone will have a problem with them and scold them (which no thats just what their own paranoia believed would happen but in reality i imagine the other survivors actually like understanding why they'd react the way they do after learning what happened between those two,, ofc yeah theyre still unsettled by them esPECIALLY BC THEY NOW KNOW THAT THEY KILLED A MAN but dawg theyre clearly struggling why would they actively add more salt to the wound they genuinely dgaf if they stab the killer or not)

other than that, they only did it in some cases when they were backed into a corner and/or close to dying as some kind of instinctual self defense, their body acting against their will essentially. but either way they always felt fucking AWFUL afterwards, usually accepting their death atp. they rly don't want to hurt him again but they still did it so they're the scum of the earth and they never changed - that's what they think

sometimes in rounds with azure they just. hide away in a corner somewhere,, because they can't bring themselves to go out there and face him they think theyre a coward and a disgrace for it but they just can't,, they wallow in shame and pray until either the round ends or they reach lms (orr rarely azure finds them before lms)

i also definitely imagine azure holding their corpse and crying over it before hes forced to get up and throw them to the ground again whoopsies

this has been sittinng in my drafts for WAY TOO LONG so that.s all

[genericpuff]

Who is your favorite LO character? Who is your favorite LR character?

i feeeeel like my answers change every time i get asked this question JFDSKLAFJSDALK but that's okay because it just means i'm constantly finding new ways to analyze and explore these characters >:3

LO faves: Minthe and Hephaestus.

Minthe because she obviously gets such shit treatment in the comic and subsequently from the fanbase, but she's a lot more relatable than 99% of the characters in the plot, she feels like she has actual depth and a real character arc, even if that arc ended with an unceremonious whisper. It goes to show how great of a character she was that Rachel practically had to nerf her out of the plot, because it was often only ever at its best when she was present. Funny how as soon as she was written out, there was nothing interesting going on with Hades or Persephone anymore - the plot was literally so boring without her that Rachel literally tried to create a Minthe 2.0 through Leuce, and we all know how well that went /s

As for Hephaestus, nothing super specific, I just like his vibes. Maybe it's just my absent older brother issues, but I would love to just like, hang out with him, game in the same room as him, just autistic parallel play stuff, I think he would be into that. Only complaint is the design flaw of giving him running blades as the default prosthetic, that can't be comfortable for his hips and joints. But that's not his fault u.u and that's basically my only complaint about him which makes him a winner in my book, esp compared to the rest of the cast. He might not be in the comic all that much, but that was clearly to his benefit because it seems the more attention Rachel pays to a character, the worse they wind up being in the long run due to poor writing. Hephaestus is in the comic just enough, not too little, not too often.

So yeah, Minthe and Hephaestus are both 10/10 characters written by a 0/10 writer. They did the best they could... not Rachel of course, she did literally the bare minimum of "representation" which often came across as ignorant white knighting at best and blatant stereotyping / stigmatizing at worst, I mean that Hephaestus and Minthe did the best they could as genuinely interesting characters with unique circumstances and disabilities who were being written by an amateur Wattpad-level writer with a privileged white guilt complex lmao

LR faves (within the cast that's currently been introduced): Persephone and Dionysus.

I know, very different from my LO choices, esp considering Persephone herself within LO is literally one of the most insufferable characters by the end, but I'm frankly having a great time rewriting her in my own way, especially in regards to her specific role as the "wrathful side" of Kore. I know I've gotten questions regarding the interpretation of Kore as a DID system, and while that interpretation is totally valid, the angle I always approached it from was that repressed trauma and emotional bottlenecking. Obviously those two things are, in and of themselves, contributing factors to DID, so far be it from me to tell people they can't identify with Kore / Persephone as DID representation. It just motivates me even more to give her the character arc she deserves and never got. It's gonna be messy. It's even gonna be downright ugly at times.

But I hope, in the end, that anyone who identifies with her struggles will find closure and comfort in the resolution of her story. It's certainly a challenging tightrope to walk, between honoring the themes of her original myth, retelling a version of her that almost existed in LO (a version that I was hoping for and never got), and dissecting the implications of my own version of her throughout LR's narrative, but it's a challenge that I've been having a great time undertaking and all I can hope for is that I can meet and possibly exceed my own expectations - as well as the readers - in the end. This is Kore's story - it's also Persephone's.

As for Dionysus... he's just a very, very fun character to write, and someone who I had the advantage of introducing before he was depicted in LO. It wasn't intentional but it sure as shit paid off because even though I'm sure some will assume that this is my own re-interpretation of Rachel's version of the character, myself and anyone else who was there at the time can vouch that Dionysus was aaaalllll me, baby LMAO

All that said, we're obviously going at it from a VERY different angle than how he was tackled in LO, but I'm hoping people enjoy his presence in the story, especially as he becomes more involved (which is very, very soon wink wink) The roles have definitely reversed here with Dionysus taking on more of a "parental" role to Kore rather than the other way around. I feel like his characterization has only grown stronger in hindsight compared to what we got in LO, especially where he's one of the only characters who beat LO to the punch and wound up being in a sort of arms race with Rachel's depiction ─=≡Σ((( つ•̀ω•́)つ

[meatgrinder-0]

i believe ive said this before but i dont think its often acknowledged by people (and not too much in the text itself though it is brought up a couple of times but tbf i think that is par for the course with an autobiographical point of view of ford) but ford's isolation from other people really affected him a lot more then is given due credit

its pretty obvious to point out that social isolation contributes a lot to mental health issues, but it also typically has effects on memory, decision making, and emotional processing. as for memory, apart from some inferences i could make from a couple things (such as the fact that ford keeps information about his personal life in his Scientific Journal TM as well as bill's usage of his memory to psychologically abuse him) it's not clear how much the possibility of fords memory being faulty affects him or makes him paranoid but the contributions to emotional dysregulation, decision making, and overall depression and mental health issues are a significant effect on ford. and also a big contender to why everything went the way it did with bill.

isolation and loneliness lead to desperate behavior especially when it comes with the promise of company--really that wasn't even a thing to ford when he initially summoned bill despite the warnings as he had no promise of social company with it, but as stated before social isolation is associated with impaired decision making and it does contribute to why he'd take this risk when it's directly associated with the only thing he currently has to cling to for any sort of respite--his success. and regardless of this whole thing his previous experiences with abuse via filbrick and bills emulation of filbrick's treatment of him (conditional love and attention hinged on ford's ability to perform well for bill's benefit) it was very comforting for him at the time to fall into a relationship where ford had little to no boundaries with bill. not only was there not much to compare to in terms of friends ford had in the past to inform whether bill was a good one or not, but bill was filling a hole in his life that had been left gaping for about five years at the time of meeting him. ford was likely severely depressed by the time bill came across from him and had been working nonstop to cope with it, he had no real emotional skills apart from repressing and ignoring so bill became someone he could trust with them and eventually became reliant on to help with his emotional regulation issues.

his theoretical obsession with him and somewhat worshipful tendencies make sense within the context of his complete absence of social life outside of him. it's quite easy to grow so deeply attached to someone in this kind of position regardless of the nature of said relationship.

really in the end isolation is what often leads people to fall into abusive situations and relationships, not just because nobody is present to help them out of it, but because they need people in their lives to feel better mentally and function. and really even someone who could help them out of the abusive relationship showing up with support doesn't confirm they'll actually leave it before things get too bad whether they have an inkling that things aren't right or not--fiddleford shows up and tries to encourage ford in a healthier direction but ford doesn't listen to this. it's of course fed into with the desperate need for success that he views his social capital hinging on to an extent, but also because bill was there for him when he was desperate. he relies on bill. he's learned to be dependent on him, and really even if fiddleford had known exactly how bill was and exactly how he was treating ford, i don't believe he could've convinced ford that things were wrong in time. it was always just going to be too late when ford finally woke up and saw it for what it was.

[meisaer]

i think we gloss over the fact that mavuika knew she was going to die, was prepared to die, may have wanted to die, and capitano took that from her, too much.

personal take incoming, but i do think that Past Mavuika really believed the plan in the upcoming future would end up with her dead, and she counted on that. She didn't want to live in a reality without Hine, her friends, family, etc. She resurrected 500 years later thinking to just get it done, die, and be with everyone else again.

Yeah, Natlan's safety and endurance were her top priority (that's how she got into this mess in the first place). Did she ever think about forming relationships at all? No. Because she knew she was going to say goodbye anyway. She can put on a cheery face and sling an arm around a shoulder, but she's so moulded into being this perfect, non-human leader that she cannot open up. At this point, I think she's repressed her own emotions so much that they hardly exist anymore.

"she did not need to" yeah even she doesn't believe shes human everyone act surprised when she boils over and has a mental breakdown.

that's pretty much what's she missing for now. a breakdown. because as much as she tries to hide it, mavuika is human. or at least, that's what we're aware of. if we make it to endgame and there's no story quest, interlude, event, whatever that has her having to face her emotions i think i will have to sit down and say, she died alongside her friends those 500 years ago. this mavuika? the one who nearly killed herself and drinks beer every festival and can lift weights five times her size? yeah, shes actually not a human anymore. lifespan does not equal species. the reason everyone calls her mary sue/perfect/no-personality-archon is because up until this point we have NOT seen her fail or show much indication that things were out of (her) control*. we've seen her lose things (lose a lot of things), go through horrors, but because she's successfully managed to shove them all down, she doesn't seem like a normal, emotion-regulating human. because it should not be possible to have a mask so perfect that there is not a single crack on its surface. i do think this is intentional, if not only to contrast with furina but also with the other archons, but it also contradicts what makes her different from them. the fact that she is human. i think the irony was purposeful. the only human archon is flawless, perfect, completely non-human, where the actual non-humans have humanity. i like the idea**. i also understand why others would not. *this honestly could also be mavuika hiding her true thoughts/emotions from even the player's view as well. i mean, we know the devs are capable of hiding vital information (furina, many story quests, ect.). **it'd be sick if they reveal mavuika isnt really a human OR elaborate on how dying once and being resurrected with no one around her, changed her psyche.

also just a quick observation, she quite literally compares her heart to an "empty haversack" (bag). she outright feels nothing (?) and doesn't feel the need to tell anyone about it (but her denial/repetition also kinda implies that she knows it's not normal).

im interested to see further natlan events after the AQ. the ones we've gotten so far, do show mavuika slowly getting more comfortable with the cast and start getting more involved. very slowly. we'll have to see more from here.

[i-need-of-a-hobby]

~tdp season 6 spoilers for anyone who cares~

ok WOW. i have so many thoughts on this season but im gonna start with the IMPLICATIONS OF RUNAAN BEING BACK

there are so many ways this can go, i really hope the next season gives this the weight it deserves since the possibilities are ENDLESS

callum and ezran dealing with the fact that this is the man who killed their dad, and after everything thats happened and everything they've learned about elves/xadia and how nothing is as black and white as 'elves are evil monsters', it doesnt change the fact that runaan has harrow's blood on his hands

also, runaan is not unlike harrow for rayla, kinda like the dad that stepped up to take care of these kids that weren't theirs. its not the same of course, raylas parents chose to leave her for the greater good, whereas callum's dad passed away, but after they introduced what callum does know about his father this season, i would love to see this get explored

and runaans relationship with rayla??? shes such a different person than she was at the beginning of the show/the last time he saw her. season one rayla was angry and repressed and down with murder if she thought it was justified, and of course she was, she was still grieving the loss of her parents and dealing with her whole "they were cowards" complex, trying to redeem herself and it shapes so many of her early show decisions. hell, she spent two years alone because of her issues and tendency to self isolate but she's grown so much, she's so much more comfortable expressing her emotions and showing kindness instead of giving everyone the cold shoulder.

and on that note, runaan was one of the key figures in teaching rayla all the ideas that cloud her early show judgement, all of the "hide your emotions," "you're too soft for this" stuff that lead to him actually fighting her during the full moon. how's he going to react to her having spent almost 3 years unlearning all of that. even if he does turn out to have been pulling a 2019 shadowsan "i was doing this to protect you" thing, that doesn't undo everything rayla put herself through

the return of ethari>>>>>>

[its-no-biggie]

okay you know what. ive been thinking about the time between chuuya shooting dazai and dazai revealing himself to fyodor. and ive decided that we were ROBBED. cause like. dazai comes out with a splint on his leg and his shoulder wound *not* bleeding through his shirt. and like, chuuya was RIGHT THERE. he followed right behind dazai when dazai confronted fyodor. so surely. SURELY chuuya helped patch up dazais injuries. at the very least he got the splint for him. and holyyyyy shit does that have potential. like

chuuya visibly dropping the ruse and asking in a panic if dazai is okay. dazai sits up and makes fun of him for being worried and then whines dramatically about the wound in his shoulder. chuuyas like "youre such a pain, i shouldve killed you right then and there" and then settles down next to him to help fix him up.

chuuya is talking while he bandages dazais shoulder (definitely not to distract dazai from the pain. definitely not because he likes talking to dazai. definitely not because hes dealing with a lot of strong emotions and doesnt want to think about any of it. hes doing it to annoy dazai, obviously). probably complaining about having to pretend to be a vampire and how annoying it was, and then dazai makes fun of him for like. his vampire teeth or something, so chuuya scowls and aggressively tightens the bandage to get him to stop laughing (it only partially works, because dazai does stop laughing to yell at him to ease up, but hes still got that glint in his eye. asshole).

chuuya asking if dazai can walk (but not like "omg are you okay???" more like "if you ask me to carry you ill shoot you again") and dazai makes a comment about how he WOULD but SOMEONE was too rough when stopping the elevator and chuuya yells that its not as easy as it looks and maybe next time he'll just let the elevator crash. he still asks him what he needs to do for it though. bonus points if he like. rips a hole in the wall to make the splint. you know he fucking would

they both know they should be hurrying- even without the fyodor thing, they should want to be done with this and get away from each other as quickly as possible, since they /hate each other so much/. but its their first quiet moment in a while (well. not really quiet because theyre literally always bickering. but quiet because neither of them are fighting or dying) and, while they would never admit it, theyre savouring the time together. and if either of them notices how unhurried the other person is, they dont bring it up.

do you get me???? i wanna see them argue like children i wanna see the comforting familiarity of being alone together i wanna see a hint of affection buried under no less than 20 layers of repression GIVE ME THE SOUKOKU CONTENT YOU COWARDS. sigh...... *opens ao3*